The Siege

by Damien Lewis

  With his crew-cut dark hair and contemplative manner I figured Dave was maybe an ex–Army officer, but it turned out that he was, like me, a sergeant. Not only that, he’d served for nine years and completed multiple tours of Iraq and Afghanistan, and he absolutely knew his stuff. From the get-go I liked Dave, but it was clear that he didn’t seem to know what to make of me. It was fair enough, really: I was the Brit with the bad attitude that they’d all been warned about.

  Scotty was a whole lot different from Dave. He was six feet tall and of a lithe build, with brown spiky hair. He was an ex–Army sergeant of six years’ service, with several tours behind him, but he was far more voluble and chatty. As with Dave, I figured Scotty was the kind of guy who’d be absolutely unshakable when the bullets started to fly. In fact, with Jeff, Scotty, and Dave I figured we’d landed ourselves the A-Team here at the Benghazi Mission.

  The QRF were still refusing to do any form of work “due to Ramadan,” and I warned Jeff there was some three weeks of this to go. Jeff was visibly shocked at their attitude, and as for Silvio, the top diplomat at the Benghazi Mission, he was spitting blood. In fact, Silvio only had a couple more weeks to work here, and I could tell he was counting down the days until he could get himself gone.

  Jeff, Dave, and Scotty had been on the ground just a matter of days when there was yet another security incident in Benghazi. A seven-man delegation from the Red Crescent (the Islamic counterpart of the Red Cross) was kidnapped, right outside the place where they were staying—the Tibesti Hotel. The Red Crescent guys were all Iranians, and their convoy was hit as it returned to the hotel. They were forced into the bad guys’ vehicles and driven away, and nothing was heard of them. To all intents and purposes they had disappeared.

  Massoud was driving me to work and I made a passing comment. “You heard about the Iranian Red Crescent guys? Poor fuckers.”

  He nodded to a compound that we happened to be passing—an old Libyan Army camp. “Morgan, they are in there.”

  “They’re in there? What, so they’re all okay?”

  “Yes. They are getting fed; they have their own beds even. They are fine.”

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “I was in there yesterday on my own business. I saw them—all seven of them.”

  “So who’s holding ’em and why?”

  Massoud shrugged. “Same old same-old. It is a Shia–Sunni thing. There are some who think those Iranian Shias are not welcome here. But they are all perfectly okay.”

  I was in the canteen having lunch later that day when Jeff, Dave, and Scotty came in. Jeff made some passing comment about the kidnapping, and how frustrating it was that no one could get any leads on who was holding the Red Crescent guys.

  I popped my head up. “The seven Iranians? They’re in the old Libyan Army camp on the Tripoli Road. That’s where they’re being held.”

  The three of them stopped eating and just stared at me. “You fucking serious? You know where they are?”

  “Yeah, I just told you where they are.”

  Jeff went outside to make a radio call. It was obviously to the Annex. Moments later he was back.

  “You absolutely sure about this?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Massoud told me this morning. He was in there yesterday and had eyes on them.”

  “It’s reliable,” Jeff confirmed into his radio, as he stepped outside again.

  He was back a few minutes later. He sat down laughing. “Fucking unbelievable. Everyone’s been looking for those guys—and the goddamned Brit here knew where they were all along. What the fuck?”

  Scotty piped up with a wiseass remark in an awful imitation English gentleman’s accent. “I say, old chap, the name’s Bond. James Bond . . . Jolly good show, y’all.”

  “You know your problem, Scotty—you’ve been watching too many Hugh Grant movies,” I shot back. “Anyway, what point are you trying to make exactly? Like I told you, I’m Welsh. James Bond is English. It’s about as different as Americans and Canadians . . . But then again, what would you know about it? English: we invented the language—you just buggered it up. I mean ‘y’all.’ Y’all. What kind of word is that?”

  Scotty and Jeff were laughing fit to burst. Dave was shaking his head and smiling. He didn’t join in that kind of back-and-forth much, but in his own laid-back way he loved it.

  We quieted down a bit as Dave and Scotty said a short grace over their meals. Once they were done praying, I threw a question at Scotty.

  “What did he say? God. Did he say anything about me?”

  Scotty was trying not to laugh. “You’re an asshole, man.”

  As for Dave, he was staring at me like he couldn’t believe what I’d said. I’d dug my grave already, so I figured I might as well dig it real deep.

  “Did he say Morgan says hello?”

  Jeff spluttered into his food. He’d been trying to keep the laughter in but he’d lost it completely. Jeff didn’t pray before his meals, so I guessed he like me was a searcher. In truth, I loved seeing those guys saying their grace, for it gave me a strange sense of peace in the chaos and crap that was Benghazi. I had no faith in my life, but I often wished I had. I just couldn’t ever seem to get my head around it.

  The following morning Jeff told me that a force was readying itself to go rescue the Iranian Red Crescent guys. I guessed the boys from the Annex were poised to go in. Great news. I told Massoud that evening during the drive to my beachside villa that there was going to be a rescue mission.

  He glanced at me, a faint smile playing across his lips. “It is too late, my friend. They left yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “The Iranians. They left Benghazi and flew to Tripoli en route to Tehran.”

  The first thing I did when I got to the villa was call Jeff. “Mate, cancel the cavalry. Whoever is going in to get the Iranians—stand ’em down. They left yesterday on a flight to Tehran.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Buddy, tell me you are shitting me.”

  “No. No messing—they’re on their way home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. Massoud’s cousin works at the airport. He saw all seven of ’em fly out of here.”

  “You are one hundred percent?”

  “Yeah. He just told me. Massoud doesn’t lie. They are definitely gone.”

  “Okay.”

  I went in the next morning and as soon as Jeff saw me a smile split his face from ear to ear.

  “What is it?” I demanded. “What?”

  “You know, you were right. About the Iranians. They had left. And those who were going in to get them—they got stood down.”

  “So what’s so funny?”

  “The word that came back to me was: Where the hell does that goddamned Brit get his int? Who the hell is he talking to? He knows stuff before we do!”

  Jeff left the rest unsaid, but I knew what he was driving at. I wasn’t the Annex, but sometimes I knew more than the Annex—thanks to Massoud and the wider network. Someone somewhere had to be thinking: Does that Brit know more than he’s letting on? Is he playing both sides? Or is he just doing whatever he has to do to keep himself safe out there?

  From all their perspectives—of the RSOs and those at the Annex—I was feral. I was living on the streets and mixing in with the locals. I was billeted in the heart of Ramadan party town, now I was in my beachside chalet, and I was often out walking the streets doing my various chores. And after five months working the Embassy contract I’d grown the kind of beard that would make any jihadist proud. Some of them had to be thinking, just who the hell is that guy?

  Jeff was constantly asking me for guidance on how to make a road move, whenever they had to drive Silvio or some of the other Embassy staff anywhere. He’d ask which areas in particular to avoid and I’d advise. I told him to remove the red diplomatic plates from their vehicles, for they were recognizable a mile away, and it was because of the red plates that the British Embassy’s convoy had been identifie
d and hit. But once again the word came back from Jeff that they couldn’t, because it was against the rules.

  We were maybe ten days into Jeff and his team’s time here when Dave and I were having a quiet chat. Gradually Dave was opening up to me, and he chose today to pop the million-dollar question.

  “Say, the only time I see you animated is when we’re talking the QRF. So what exactly is the root of the problem? What happened?”

  “Nothing specific. But I’m convinced they will not protect you when the shit goes down. They don’t even have the skills: their weapons-handling skills and tactical knowledge are zero. Mate, they are gonna really let you down one day,” I added. “That’s my biggest fear of all.”

  I could see Dave’s mind whirring as he processed what I’d just said. The more I got to know him, the more I realized that when Dave spoke, people listened. He didn’t say much, but what he did say was well thought through and pertinent. He was a still-waters-run-deep kind of guy with very much his own mind.

  “Okay, buddy, then this is what we’ll do,” Dave announced, quietly. “After lunch, me and Scotty will go up and test them on basic weapons handling and drills.”

  “Fine—that’s if you can get them out of bed.” I wasn’t joking. From all that I’d seen of the QRF during Ramadan they seemed to be sleeping 24/7.

  Dave leveled his gaze at me. “No, we’ll get ’em out of bed all right.”

  I didn’t doubt that he would. “Make sure you wear your body armor when you go over to test ’em.”

  Dave grinned.

  “No, mate, don’t laugh. I am serious. If they’ve going to be handling live rounds anywhere near you when you go up there, put your body armor on.”

  A while later I saw Dave and Scotty heading over to the QRF Villa, and sure enough they were both wearing their body armor. I guessed my warnings had hit home.

  Jeff sidled up to me to have a word. He nodded in Dave and Scotty’s direction. “So what d’you reckon?”

  “I don’t reckon anything. I know what will happen.”

  “What happens if they both come back saying they’re like ninjas?”

  I snorted, derisively. “Yeah, mate, whatever.”

  A couple of hours later Dave and Scotty were back, and their faces said it all. In fact Scotty was so angry he couldn’t talk.

  “That bad, huh?” Jeff asked.

  “Morgan is one hundred percent right,” Dave replied, evenly. “They are totally fuckin’ inept and should not be allowed to carry a weapon, whether in the compound or the vehicles. They can’t even strip down an AK properly.”

  Jeff was ashen with shock. He had his head in his hands. “Oh Jesus . . . Is it that bad?”

  Dave nodded. “Yeah. It’s fuckin’ scary. In fact, it’s unbelievable they’ve been around the clients this long and have not been found out. It’s a miracle no one’s been injured or worse.”

  Scotty still hadn’t said a word, but it was clear from his face that he was boiling. Dave nodded in his direction. “Mutasim got upset ’cause his drills were so shit. He shoved Scotty really aggressively in the chest. He said Scotty had no experience and couldn’t tell him what to do.”

  “That’s Mutasim,” I remarked. “He’s always right and hates being questioned on anything. The guy’s a worm.”

  “He said he’d been trained by U.S. Special Operations forces,” Dave continued, “so who were we to teach him anything.”

  Scotty had served as an RSO at the U.S. Embassy in Burma. He was fluent in Mandarin, and it took a real towering intellect to grasp that language. I’d worked several security contracts with the Chinese, and I’d never managed to learn more than a few words. But aside from Scotty’s intellect, I could tell that he was hard as nails. To take that kind of crap off a fool like Mutasim must have rankled.

  Jeff glanced at me. “Morgan, I owe you an apology. I’m only sorry we didn’t take what you said at face value and sooner.”

  I shrugged. “No worries. No harm done. I’m just happy you’ve proved it for yourselves and before any Americans got hurt. But it needs to be rectified. Let’s get the QRF out and the Marines in. Then we’re laughing.”

  Jeff ran his hand over his scalp. “It’s August, so the vacation season . . . I dunno how quickly I can get anything done. But you’re right—we need rid of those clowns and pronto. I’ll start drafting the email to go to Washington.”

  Considering what he was tasked with here, Jeff was one of the coolest customers I’d ever met. He was also terrific at his job. But he knew now what an absolutely shit situation we were in. Apart from those in the Annex, we were basically the last good guys in Benghazi. And now the brutal truth had hit home: this mouthy, grumpy Welsh idiot is right—the QRF are worse than useless. Until now the QRF had at least offered some kind of reassurance: they were a visible presence carrying weapons. But now Jeff knew the truth about them: they did not know how to fire their guns.

  For two days Jeff practically disappeared. He was in his office crafting an urgent email to Washington, alerting State to all that he now knew. He worked on it ceaselessly, sharing drafts with Silvio and getting advice and input. Jeff knew the score. He knew that this was his gig, and if the bad guys came for us we were all going to end up either dead or in orange jumpsuits. He was carrying some heavy responsibility on his shoulders.

  Jeff was deep in the email-drafting process when he came to have words with me. “Tell me, again, buddy, what can we do to sort this place out?” There was none of the normal joking now. “What are your recommendations?”

  “Well, every RSO before you has asked for more manpower and we’ve been denied. So presumably that’s not going to change. If you can’t get more men, your only alternative is more firepower. So, imagine you site a .50-caliber on top of Villa C, mounted on a tripod. From there you can hit the front gate, but also swivel it around to hit the rear. A .50-cal will make even your most die-hard jihadi stop and think twice about trying to get in. A round from one of those can kill you even if it doesn’t hit, simply by the pressure wave thrown off.” I paused. “Get one of those on the roof of Villa C. At least it’ll buy you enough time to get the principal into one of the armored SUVs and out of here.”

  “It’s a great idea, but I’m not convinced we’ll get one. They’ll say it’ll look too aggressive.”

  “Trust me, mate, it’s nowhere near as aggressive as a bunch of Shariah Brigade gun trucks storming into the compound. Anyhow, you can lay it down covered by a tarpaulin. No one will ever know it’s there. You pull it up and unleash it only when required. And it needs an RSO—Dave or Scotty—on it, not the QRF.”

  Jeff shook his head, worriedly. “They’ll never go for it. It’ll look too aggressive. A heavy machine gun on a tripod . . . we’ll just never get it through. How do we stop a large body of men getting in the gate without it?”

  I shrugged. “Like I said, you need more men or a .50-cal. Without one or the other you’re buggered.”

  Jeff rubbed his hands worriedly across his face. It was well out of character to see him this apprehensive. “There’s nothing else we can do?” he queried. “No alternatives?”

  “No. It’s either more men with guns or more firepower.” I paused. “You heard anything specific? Any specific threat?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You seem different. Nervous.” I wondered whether it was just the realization of how utterly shitty the QRF were that had got to Jeff. “You know, mate, I’ll fight with you. I’ll be here, shoulder to shoulder with you guys. You know that, don’t you.”

  “I know,” Jeff confirmed. “But still, the four of us . . . Tell me honestly: a full frontal attack—what’ll happen?”

  “Honestly, you will get fucked. Or rather we will. The guard force are unarmed. The QRF are useless. There’s three of you and one of me. Say you’ve got two of you securing the clients, and two of us putting down the rounds with a couple of M4s. It doesn’t add up, does it? If you’re gonna get hit it’ll be the main entrance. That�
�s where I’d come in. A guy with an RPG on his shoulder hits that, they’re in.”

  “So, there’s nothing else we can do?”

  “Guard dogs. They’d give you an early, early warning, buy you some extra time. Plus Arabs hate dogs. Would it put them off? Would it stop them? It might do. But not like a dozen Marines and a .50-cal.”

  “I’ll draft an email to my bosses in Washington,” Jeff told me. “I’ll tell them what we need, and I’ll warn them that if the compound comes under a sustained, organized attack it will be overrun.” Jeff shrugged. “That’s the best I can do . . .”

  Dave, Scotty, and I started to drill the guard force now, to double-check they were totally up to speed. They were all the backup we’d got. The RSOs started standing a 24/7 sentry rotation, so one of them was always awake and on watch. But the long hours and the constant stress were taking their toll. The guys looked as if they were getting precious little sleep, and they were wired.

  It was partly because of that that I figured we needed a DVD Night. I purchased a load of nonalcoholic beers—all I could get—at the beachside complex shop, and put it in Massoud’s car. I added a bunch of war movies on DVD and headed over to the Embassy. The guys had said they didn’t like the idea of me being out in the city on my own at night, and that I was always welcome at the Mission—so tonight was time for some poolside beers and a clutch of movies.

  I’d also scored a bunch of sticky, honey-filled Ramadan cakes. They were tonight’s big temptation, and I was keen to see which of the Americans would crack. Dave was big into fitness and I didn’t figure it would be him. With my early morning beach runs and my weights regime I was in peak physical condition. There wasn’t an inch of fat on me. But I also have an incurable sweet tooth, so I knew for sure I’d munch the cakes. Jeff had a ripped surfer’s physique, and he’d even talked about trying to ride some of the waves out on Benghazi’s coastline. It was Scotty who was the wild card.