by Damien Lewis
“Can you change fifty euros? I need some Libyan dinar so I can buy my wife one of those silk scarves the locals sell around here. You know the things I mean? She’ll look great wearing one of those around The Hague.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get Laura one,” I replied. “No worries. I’ll get it changed for you.”
I stuffed his fifty-euro note—the equivalent of sixty-five U.S. dollars—into my wallet, then headed for the canteen. En route I ran into Alex, the new head RSO. There was a flagpole right out front of the canteen block, and I noticed the flag was flying at half-mast.
I shaded my eyes. “Why’s the flag down? Why at half-mast?”
Alex glanced at it. “It’s Nine-Eleven.”
God, so it was. “Sorry, of course it is, mate. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
Alex grinned a little sheepishly. “Tell the truth, so did I.”
Dave and Scotty were in the canteen, but they were mad busy.
“I’ll be around for the next few hours then back at the villa,” I told them. “If you need me call me and I’ll be over. How’re my guards?”
“More than happy,” Dave replied. “They’re doing great work. Gotta go, buddy. Laters.”
Ambassador Stevens had a packed schedule for the day, but he wasn’t going to take any meetings outside of the Embassy. It being the eleventh anniversary of the 9/11 terror attacks on America, the RSOs figured there was a heightened threat level right now. As a result, the Ambassador would take all of today’s meetings here in the compound.
I ate lunch, after which I checked the guards and hung around with them for a few hours, by which time it was the boiling heat of late afternoon. I got Massoud to take me back to the villa. I went for a dip in the sea to cool down, then settled down to do some paperwork—checking the guard roster, when their next wages were due, that kind of thing. I got my evening barbecued chicken delivery and settled down to eat it in front of the TV.
It was half past nine when my cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Omar, my guard force commander.
“Morgan here. Anything to report?”
“Morgan, we are under attack! We need help!”
Omar sounded extremely distressed, but I was used to him being a bit high-strung. I figured it was probably a hand grenade over the wall or maybe another IED.
“Calm down,” I told him. “We’ve been attacked before. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Morgan, you don’t understand! There are armed men attacking the compound!”
“What d’you mean, armed men? Who are they? How many?”
As I said those words I detected the sharp crack of gunfire in the background to Omar’s call. With a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach I recognized it as the distinctive sound of AK-47s firing off long bursts on automatic. I could hear Omar panting now, as clearly he had started to run.
“I said—Who is it and how many?”
I could hear real fear in Omar’s voice as he gasped out a reply. “Maybe one hundred! Maybe more!” Omar’s voice was shaking. “Bad men, Morgan, really bad men.”
I was on my feet now, yelling into my cell phone. “Omar, listen to me: make sure the duck-and-cover alarm has been pressed! Hit the alarm, okay! Then gather the guard force and get them the hell out of there!”
I didn’t hear a reply. The phone clicked dead.
I was left staring at the handset, my heart thumping like a machine gun, and wondering what the fuck I was to do next.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the seconds after Omar’s call I tried to keep a grip on things, to force my mind to think logically. Omar exaggerated all the time. One hundred bad guys probably meant half that number. It was more likely fifty, but even that was too many. I’d seen no other CP guys with the Ambassador other than the two black dudes. That plus Dave, Scotty, and Alex meant we had five guys total. The CP guys would be with the Ambo, and Alex would be on the comms calling for help.
That left two guys—Dave and Scotty—on the guns.
Two against fifty: those kind of odds were pretty close to hopeless.
The next thought that struck me was this: Ambassador Stevens had been here less than forty-eight hours; we’d had a recce done of the front gate of the Mission; it was the anniversary of 9/11—and the Embassy had been hit big-time. It was too many coincidences. Who the hell were the guys who’d hit us? How long had they been watching us? And for how long had this been in the planning?
Such thoughts rushed through my head in a matter of instants. In the next moment I was overcome by the fear I felt for my American brothers—Scotty, Dave, Sean, and the others. Even at this moment my guards would be running for their lives—just as they’d been trained to do. But the Americans—they would stand firm. From everything I knew about Dave and Scotty they’d remain resolute, and fight until the very last round.
What I had dreaded for so long was now upon us: the U.S. Embassy in Benghazi was being hit by a massive force of gunmen . . . What chance did five stand against fifty? A voice was screaming in my head: Get over there, Morgan, and help! Get over there now! But what could I do? I was alone, I was unarmed, and I had no vehicle.
Then I knew what I had to do: fucking call Massoud.
I dialed his number and thank God he answered. “Massoud, get over here now! As soon as you can! Bring your AK and as many mags as you can get your hands on.”
“Yes, I will be there. But what—”
“Just get over here!”
I cut the line. As soon as I stopped talking horrific images flooded into my mind. I’d bonded with Dave and Scotty over war stories from Iraq, plus all the kidding around and the shared joy of fatherhood. I sensed the fear they had to be feeling right now as the enemy surged through the gates, and I had visions of them getting captured alive and paraded around the city by their captors. I’d promised to stand shoulder to shoulder with those guys, if ever the shit went down.
I had to get in there and help.
But how?
I’d been in countless firefights before—against the Taliban, Iraqi insurgents, and Al Qaeda. I’d always been happy to lead from the front and make decisions on the fly. War demands it. Difference was, back then I’d had my team around me. I’d had guys with me with whom to throw ideas about before making any decisions. Now I was one hundred percent on my own. My head was spinning out of control. I was sick with worry for Scotty, Dave, and the others, but at the same time I couldn’t think how I could get in there to the guys’ aid.
I could hardly charge through the front gate: I knew from what Omar had said that it had been surged. With fifty-plus bad guys flooding the compound, the side and rear gates were also very likely to have been taken. I couldn’t scale the wall, for the simple reason that I had no ladder. Then I hit upon something: the gym.
How many times had I gazed absentmindedly at our makeshift gym’s flat room, which abutted the fence and the wall, and thought: If the bad guys ever want to slip over the perimeter and into this place, that’s their easiest way in. I’d never once thought: If I need to slip unseen into the Embassy, that’s my route in. But that was exactly the thought that struck me all of a sudden, right now.
Last time I’d bothered to check, the construction materials were still piled against the outside of the perimeter wall. In fact, I’d made a mental note to add that to the long list of security improvements to be made at the Embassy: Get rid of that heap of building materials. Of course, it was way down on the list of priorities when compared to getting rid of the QRF, and right now I was glad I’d never managed to get it actioned—for that was going to be my way in.
I started tearing around the villa snatching up my gear. I gathered the essentials I always carry with me on a private security job that’s likely to go bad: six hundred dollars in cash, for paying my way out of trouble; British passport, in case I had to run for the border; my out-of-date British Embassy ID card, in case I needed to bluff anyone; knife—because it was the only weapon I had right now; plu
s my cell phone, for comms between Massoud and me.
As I stared at my phone for an instant, a thought struck me: I hadn’t tried calling Scotty or Dave. The protocol was that they’d phone me if ever they were in trouble. Well, tonight trouble had come in bucket loads, and I guessed the guys hadn’t had the chance to make the call—and most likely because they were up to their eyeballs in the shit and getting down the fire on their attackers.
I tried calling Dave’s cell phone. It wasn’t as hopeless a gesture as it might sound. If Dave and Scotty had moved fast, they could have bundled the Ambassador out the rear of the Embassy as the attackers came in the front. We had the armored escape vehicle parked by the rear gate, for just such an emergency. Even now they might be tearing through the streets of Benghazi, making for the Annex, the nearest place of sanctuary.
I heard Dave’s ringtone. I willed him to answer. Come on. No reply.
I tried Scotty. No reply.
I guessed both were busy under fire. I knew neither would take a step back in protecting the small slice of America that was the Embassy, or Ambassador Stevens for that matter. Scotty was the more hotheaded and gung-ho of the two, but Dave was solid as a rock and unshakable, and they’d both be smashing out the rounds.
Yet sometimes it was exactly that which got you killed. When you were as outnumbered as this—ten to one, for God’s sake—sometimes you had to simply evacuate while you still had the chance. But would they know the numbers they were up against in the confusion and the darkness? It was a massive compound, after all.
I tried calling every number I had for guys at the mission: Sean’s, Alex’s, Dave and Scotty again, but still no answers. Time seemed to stand still. I had to get in there and help.
I phoned Massoud. “Where the fuck are you?” I screamed. “FUCKING HURRY UP AND GET HERE!”
Massoud told me to calm down. “I have only been five minutes. I am being as quick as I can. I am on my way.”
He knew that something had to be badly wrong. He’d worked with me for long enough now to realize that this wasn’t me. I’d never been like this before. Never once had I raised my voice at him. I didn’t get like this without good reason.
The voices were back in my head now, almost as if there were two of me arguing with each other. One voice was going: You’re out of your depth! What can you do? You’re one bloke alone, Morgan, that’s all. But at the same time the other voice—my voice—was raging: How dare they try to take the compound? Who the hell do they think they are?
I paced the villa. At one moment I realized I was yelling at myself in Welsh: “Come on, Morgan, pull yourself together! You’ve got to get up there and help!”
Christ, I was losing it.
I tried phoning Dave again. To my utter amazement a voice answered. I could hear fierce gunfire crackling in the background, half drowning out whatever words he was saying.
“Dave? Fuck! What’s going on, mate? Are you okay?”
“We’re under attack. They’ve penetrated the perimeter. They’re all over the compound.”
I couldn’t believe how calm and collected he sounded. I had images in my head of him crouched in some cover as he took my call, Scotty beside him hammering out the fire with his M4.
“Where are you, mate, and how many are they?”
“There’s fucking loads of ’em. Too many. They’re everywhere. We’re surrounded. We ain’t gonna make it, buddy.”
I told him to hold on. “Keep fighting, mate. Keep fighting. Just keep fighting. I’m on my way.”
“Okay, buddy, I hear ya.” He cut the call.
Dave had sounded so incredibly cool, just like he always was. It reminded me of when we’d been eating lunch in the canteen and I’d been jabbing him with the outrageous comments, and he’d be cool as the Fonz. Yet here was I close to losing it. It was almost as if Dave had accepted his fate already—that he wasn’t getting out of there and would go down fighting—and he was at peace with it.
But I didn’t want him—or any of them—to die. I wanted us to win this one, and at least now I had a good idea of where they were. They had to be mounting their defense from the roof of the VIP Villa, which was the agreed fallback option if the perimeter was breached. If they could hold off the bad guys for long enough, maybe there was still just a chance.
From the roof they’d be able to see nearly all of the compound, which was how I guessed they’d realized the numbers they were up against. I’d never seen Americans back down from a fight, not ever. With their prior experience from Iraq, I knew neither Dave nor Scotty would ever give ground. They’d fight to protect the clients—Ambassador Stevens and the others—at all costs. Anything else was anathema.
In a way, Dave’s ultimate coolness during that phone call was only what I’d expected of him. I had absolute respect for these guys. I knew they would not falter or bend. They might hail from different walks of life but they were united under their patriotism—their love of America—and their beliefs. They took their duties to God, flag, and country very seriously, and right now I feared it would get them killed. But for guys like them there was no other way.
My mind flipped to thoughts of my one-year-old son, Lewis. Having grown up without a father, I’d always promised Lewis that he’d never be without me—that he’d never have to be the same as I was as a kid: fatherless. But I told myself if that was what happened tonight, then so be it. Dave, Scotty, and Sean all had young kids. Fatherhood: it was a big part of what had united us.
The one thing I was not willing to let happen was to get taken alive. During the years I’d served on the U.S. ACE contract, two Americans, Jack Hensley and Eugene Armstrong, plus the Brit Ken Bigley had been kidnapped by Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, then leader of Al Qaeda in Iraq. All three were engineers working on Iraqi reconstruction projects, but that hadn’t stopped Zarqawi from beheading them and parading their sick killings on the Internet. The videos of the orange-jumpsuited victims’ executions were chilling, sickening, and vile.
We’d made a pact among all the operators on that U.S. ACE contract that none of us was ever going out like that. “I ain’t going out in a boiler suit begging for Blair and Bush to save me,” was how the guys put it. If one of us was so badly injured as to not be able to shoot himself, and about to fall into enemy hands, one of his fellow operators would shoot him. That was the deal we had struck.
Having made my promise to Dave, I now had to get up there and get to them. I was going over the wall at the makeshift gym, and I’d link up with the guys at Villa C, whereupon we’d stand shoulder to shoulder and take the fight to the bad guys. Having a plan of action gave me focus, and I started trying to scope out the risk factors.
I had to presume the guys had got a call through to the Annex, asking for their help. It’s a maxim of the Navy SEALs that they never leave a man behind, and I knew there were several ex-SEALs at the Annex. I had to presume that some kind of rescue mission was going to be launched from there, in which case I’d need to watch out for those guys as much as I did the enemy. I’d be one lone individual with a beard and a suntan going over the wall: to the Annex boys I’d most definitely resemble one of the bad guys.
In fact, Dave and Scotty might see the silhouette of my AK-47 in the darkness and they might try to shoot me, too. By now I had a good seven weeks’ growth of beard and I really did blend in. The way things would be in there right now no one was about to say: hang on a minute, don’t fire—isn’t that Morgan?
I’d need to keep my eyes peeled for any rescue force from the Annex, and I’d need to somehow signal to Dave and Scotty that I was coming in. Easiest way would be to phone Dave and tell him from what direction to expect me. I didn’t know exactly what I would do if that failed, but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
I decided to wear whatever I could to make myself more recognizable to the friendlies. Then I countermanded that. The greatest danger had to come from the enemy, and the one factor I had in my favor was that I could pass as a local when out and abo
ut in Benghazi. I needed to use that to the max now. I’d need to flit through the streets sneaking past the bad guys, and to do that I needed to look as much as possible like one of their own.
I pulled on my blue Chicago Cubs baseball cap, one that I’d picked up on a recent visit to the United States. It was sun-bleached and faded, and as most Libyan men wore such baseball caps it should help me blend in. They’d see that and the bushy beard and hopefully they’d think I was a fellow bad guy. I’d been lounging around the villa in flip-flops, but I pulled on my worn desert boots so I had something solid to climb, jump, and run in.
I was good to go. Come on, Massoud, come on.
My phone rang and I snatched it up. “Where the fuck are you? You’re taking fucking forever.”
I was venting on Massoud and he didn’t deserve it.
“Morgan, I am waiting for you outside.”
I took one last look around the villa, then closed the door. I wondered if I’d ever be back here. Fuck it, I was going anyway. I scanned the area, saw Massoud’s beat-up old Nissan, and checked that there was no one else around menacing the place. I hurried over. Massoud jumped out and stepped forward to meet me, hands held out as if to stop me from getting into the vehicle.
“Calm down,” he urged me. “Calm down, Morgan. Don’t even think about it. We are not going up there.”
“Fuck are you talking about?” I snarled.
“I fucking heard it all on the radio,” Massoud fired back at me. He rarely swore, so to hear such expletives on his lips had to mean that this was bad. “I have heard all the chatter from the soldiers who are up there, trying to get some help to the Mission. There is no way, Morgan. There are two hundred Shariah Brigade fighters at the Mission. We can’t get anywhere near. No one will know who we are and we won’t get through. And even if we do, it will be suicide.”
