by Damien Lewis
“Bullshit!” I countered. “Give me the car keys and I’ll go on my own.” I knew all the routes, as we’d driven them for weeks and weeks together. Massoud handed me the car keys. “Where’s the AK?” I demanded.
“On the backseat with two hundred rounds.”
“Right, I’m off. See you later.”
“Fucking hell! This is bullshit, Morgan! All you will do is die!”
“I don’t give a fuck. I’m going anyway.”
Massoud turned away from me and started cursing in Arabic, his fist slamming onto the roof of the car. “Fuck it! All right, I will come with you! But I have two children at home and I do not want to get killed up there.”
“Mate, I’m not hanging around. Jump in or stay here. You’ve got ten seconds.”
Massoud told me to move over to the passenger seat. His face was set in a rigid death mask as he slid in behind the wheel. He held out his hand. “Keys.”
I passed them back to him. He fired up the Nissan, floored the accelerator, and we were on our way.
I could hear an unbroken stream of yelling and screaming in Arabic coming over his VHF radio. Massoud started to give me a running commentary as he drove.
“Okay, so they are reporting a major firefight is in progress up there. They say RPGs, Dushkas, and PKMs are all being used.”
Jesus, all of that kind of hardware had been brought to bear! That was rocket-propelled grenades, Dushka heavy machine guns, plus PKM 7.62mm belt-fed general-purpose machine guns. The Embassy was getting hosed down by a serious amount of firepower, and against all of that Dave, Scotty, and the others had a handful of M4 assault rifles. If only the State Department desk jockeys had listened to us, and given us the .50-cals we’d asked for, plus a QRF of Marines . . .
But it was too late for all of that now.
It was normally a fifteen-minute night drive to the Embassy. As we tore through the streets I kept yelling at Massoud to get a move on, but it was clear he was going as fast as he could. I was running through my plan of attack over and over, wondering if there was any better way of doing this. I tried calling Robert. With his wealth of Special Forces experience maybe he’d think of a better way of going in. But I couldn’t get the call through.
With two hundred bad guys on the ground up there I figured I stood just about zero chance of avoiding them. If I blundered into a mass of the enemy I’d simply let rip with the AK and keep unloading mags into them until either I was killed or wounded or down to my final rounds. I’d save the last few for when I turned the AK on myself and put a bullet in my head. Keep it simple, stupid: that was the plan.
My phone rang. It was Omar, my guard force commander. I snatched it up, demanding of him how many of the guards had escaped. He told me two. I asked where the three others were. He told me the attackers had got them.
“What the fuck d’you mean, got them?”
“The attackers, they captured three, Mr. Michael. They made them kneel and shot them. In the head. They shot them in the head. With guns right up to their heads . . .”
Omar was close to tears. He’d escaped the attack by the skin of his teeth, dashing into the cover of the nearby orchard. From there he’d watched as the bad guys had forced the three captured guards to kneel. Yelling and screaming obscenities they’d put guns to the guards’ foreheads and pulled triggers, at which moment Omar had made a run for it and got out of there.
I was seething with rage now. Burning up. I’d known many of my guards for six months. I’d trained them and nurtured them and shaped them into an impressive force. In the process any number had become my friends. My brothers. I told Omar to take the surviving guards home and lie low.
“Do not go back there,” I told him. “There’s nothing more you can do. Go home to the safety of your family. And do not go back to that place until you hear from me.”
“Okay, I go home. But where are you, Mr. Michael?”
“On my way to the Mission.”
“No!” he yelled. “No, no, no! Mr. Michael, you mustn’t go there! They will kill you! There are hundreds of them! There is nothing you can do!”
“I don’t care. I’m on my way.”
We were two miles out from the Embassy. The sky over the compound was awash with a halo of flame. Fiery tracer rounds arced high into the sky, like a fearsome fireworks display. Any doubts I had about the ferocity of the battle were gone now. I’d been in numerous firefights before—the most ferocious ones being in northern Iraq and in Helmand Province, Afghanistan—but I’d never seen anything like this before in terms of the sheer concentrated volume of fire.
There were scores of Libyan Army vehicles heading in the same direction as us, plus dozens of Toyota gun trucks with armed men in the rear.
“Who the fuck’re they?” I asked Massoud. “Are they the Seventeenth February lot?”
He hunched over the wheel. “Yeah, probably. But I’m not sure. It is dark. It might be people going to help the Americans.”
“That militia—will they give it everything?” I asked him. “Will they fight tooth and nail to get the Americans out? Will they shoot the fucking attackers?”
Massoud shook his head. “Truthfully, Morgan, shoot their Muslim brothers . . . No, I do not think they will.”
Just as I’d suspected—the 17th February Militia would never engage in a full-on firefight with the Shariah Brigade, who were only one step removed from Al Qaeda, to rescue the Americans, who were guests in their country. All of these 17th February Militia gun trucks—they were here just for show.
We were less than a mile out when Massoud slowed. More and more vehicles were ahead of us, part blocking the way. I asked him what was going on. He told me that the Shariah Brigade had placed blocking groups—roadblocks—on all the approach roads to the Embassy. They’d done so to stop any forces going to the Americans’ aid, and the blocking groups would likely prevent any QRF from the Annex from getting to the Embassy.
The dark and bitter truth was starting to sink in now: this was a well-orchestrated, carefully planned attack, one that they’d very likely rehearsed and trained for exhaustively. In my experience only hard-core jihadi fighters from Iraq and Afghanistan could organize an assault of the scale and complexity of this one. Maybe it was even an inside job, and I was certain that the Libyan “policeman” had been doing a recce.
I knew now how organized and deadly serious these sons of bitches were. The voice was screaming in my head again—Turn back, turn back, you can’t help! You’re one man alone and you can’t do anything. They’re all dead! They’re all dead!
But I was fucked if I was going to.
We approached a left-hand turn that led to the Embassy front gate. There was a pickup parked sideways on to the road with a Dushka gunner blocking the way. Anyone who’s ever been under fire from a Dushka knows how fearsome the weapon is: it has a distinctive deep, throaty boom, and the rounds can cut through trees and walls and blow your limbs clean off.
I told Massoud to keep going. “Keep driving. Keep driving. We’ll try going around the back. Don’t fucking turn, mate—just keep going.”
As we shot past the gun truck I stole a glance down the road leading to the Embassy front gate. There was a seething mass of gunmen around the main entrance and all were heavily armed. I saw muzzles sparking in the compound’s interior, and I could hear peals of gunfire rolling back across to us. It was maybe twenty minutes into the battle by now, and by the rate of fire pounding through the compound I knew for sure our guys were still fighting.
I had to get in there and help.
The Dushka gunner spotted us and spun his weapon around to follow our vehicle, its gaping muzzle tracking us as we went. His eyes were bugging out, for there wasn’t another vehicle on the road now but him and us. His figure was half hidden by the massive machine gun, but I could see that he was dressed half in combats, and half in traditional-style Islamic robes.
I tried to avoid looking in his direction. I sensed Massoud tense for the searing
blasts as the Dushka gunner opened fire. Massoud’s was a thin-skinned sedan, and the Dushka’s 12.7mm armor-piercing rounds would chew it to pieces in seconds. I could hear my heart pounding in my head, beating away like a drum. No doubt about it, I was shit scared and the adrenaline was pumping in bucket loads.
How the fuck was I going to get in there, with so many bad guys swarming the place? Where was the darkest point? Or was it going to be game over before it had even started? Was I going to get shot as I tried getting out of Massoud’s vehicle?
One thing was for sure: I was going to have to do this last bit on foot, and no way was I letting Massoud come with me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We were nearing the end of the road, whereupon we’d hang a left to get onto the main highway that ran the length of the rear of the compound. I planned to dismount near the tall building where I’d always feared the enemy would place a sniper. Right now that was the least of my worries: what did they need a sniper for when they’d surged the compound with two hundred Shariah Brigade fighters? From there I’d sneak back east on foot, turn north on the side road, and head for the point where I figured I could climb onto the roof of the gym.
As we neared the left-hand turn Massoud flicked his eyes across to me. “Morgan, you know if we get out of the car we will be killed.”
“I don’t expect you to get out. Just wait in the car somewhere safe. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
I knew Massoud well by now and I knew his nature. He was a straight shooter who did everything by the book. I’d once asked him to buy me a water filter. I’d given him the hundred dollars it would cost, plus thirty dollars on top for getting it for me. He’d handed the thirty back. “You pay me a monthly wage. This is my job. It is enough.” He was unbending on what was right and wrong and the rule of law. Whenever he saw something that was bad, he’d say: “This is wrong. We cannot move on if people keep doing such things.”
I liked and respected him and I did not want to get him killed. Anyway, I needed someone to stay with the getaway vehicle and he was absolutely to be trusted in that role. If I went in there and found all the Americans dead, or that they’d evacuated already, I needed a way to get myself out of here. Or if I found them alive I might even have some of them with me, so I’d need Massoud waiting with his car.
We took the turn leading into the road that ran the length of the rear of the Embassy compound. I breathed a momentary sigh of relief. It appeared to be totally deserted. Then I saw it. Halfway down the main drag there was a vehicle parked across the highway, acting as a roadblock. It was yet another gun truck, the stark silhouette of a Dushka menacing the way ahead.
“Pull in quick, and kill the lights,” I told Massoud.
He did as I’d said, the Nissan going dark. We sat there for a second in the comparative stillness, but still the pounding percussions of gunfire from the far end of the compound reached us clearly. The roar of battle punched through the vehicle, each staccato burst reminding me that my friends were in there and in mortal danger.
Massoud glanced at me, inquiringly: What next?
“Just give me a second,” I told him. “I’ve got to think about the next move.”
My mind was racing. Had the Dushka gunner spotted us? If so and I got out, would he open fire? There was the sidewalk and a patch of open grass for me to cross so as to get to the cover of the Embassy wall. The highway was deserted apart from our vehicle and the gun truck, which was maybe one hundred yards away. Surely they must have seen us? So how did I get from here to the wall?
Every way I looked at it I couldn’t see how I could cross that open space without being blown apart by a storm of 12.7mm armor-piercing rounds. But then my words to Dave from the phone call back at the villa flashed through my mind: Keep fighting. Just keep fighting. I’m on my way. I had made a promise. I had to try to get to them. I could feel Massoud staring at me. Fair enough: this was decision time.
“Morgan, what are you going to do, my friend? We cannot stay here.”
“Give me a second.”
I dialed Dave’s number. I was going to give him a heads-up. Having seen the strength of the forces positioned around the compound, I was going to have to try to make it over the wall pretty much where I was. There was no way I could make it from here to the gym on foot. It was at the opposite end of the compound, and the streets were crawling with bad guys. After my daily beach runs and gym sessions I’d never been fitter or stronger, and I was going to try to scale the wall using whatever handholds I could find.
Dave’s number rang and rang. No answer. Were they even alive still? Even worse was the idea that the poor bastards might have been captured.
“Morgan, what are we going to do?” Massoud’s voice was laced with urgency now.
“Like I said, I’m not expecting you to do anything. Just wait in the car somewhere safe but nearby.”
I reached for the door handle and got out of the vehicle. I squatted in the cover of the Nissan and glanced up the road: still no sign of lights or movement from the gun truck. I got into a crouch and made a move for the wall. But I’d barely taken a first step when there was the bark of a weapon firing and fiery tracer rounds punched through the air above my head. At the same moment I heard the roar of an engine and the screech of tires spinning, and the gun truck surged forward and came tearing toward us.
The truck’s lights flashed on, full beam, and instantly I was pinned in the blinding light of their glare. The Dushka gunner had the gaping barrel of the weapon aimed right at us. He’d clearly been waiting for someone to do exactly as I had done—to dismount from the vehicle. The truck skidded to a halt barely ten yards away, the dry dirt swirling in the headlights like gold dust.
It had come to a stop with its side facing us, so the Dushka gunner could bring his weapon to bear, for there wasn’t the clearance to do so over the vehicle’s cab. One round unleashed from that weapon would likely smash the both of us. This is it, I thought. I’ve just got us both killed.
An instant after the gun truck halted I saw Massoud step down from the driver’s side, hands very much above his head. The gunner began to scream at us in Arabic. I could tell how pumped up and on edge he was, and while I couldn’t understand most of what he was saying I knew he was on the verge of opening fire. To either side of him, perched in the rear of the pickup, were more Shariah fighters, and I could feel their guns and their dark eyes upon us.
Massoud yelled something back at him. I understood only the one word: Inglesi—English. The vicious shouting went back and forth some more, as the gunner swiveled the massive barrel from Massoud to me and back again, its flared muzzle gaping at me like the mouth of some alien predator.
Finally Massoud turned his head my way: “Morgan, get your passport out; nice and slow.”
I reached down to my cargo pants pocket and pulled out my passport.
“Show it to them,” Massoud grunted. “But everything very slow.”
I took two steps forward so I was away from the car and fully into the light. I held the passport up, so it was illuminated in the gun truck’s headlamps. The emblem on the front of a British passport is a gold-embossed coat of arms, depicting a lion and a unicorn fighting over a crown. Below the crown is the French motto: “Honi soit qui mal y pense”—Shame on him who thinks evil.
The emblem and the words glistened in the headlamps of the Shariah Brigade gun truck as the Dushka gunner stared at it for a moment. The seconds ticked by, each one feeling like a lifetime. Then I saw him twitch the gun barrel toward the east—back the way we had come—and he snarled out a few words in Arabic.
Massoud didn’t so much as look at me. “Morgan, get back in the vehicle. But everything very slow.”
I inched back toward the Nissan, Massoud doing likewise, and we slid inside. Massoud fired up the engine, did a very careful U-turn, and we started to drive out of there, Massoud making no sudden moves with the vehicle. The Dushka gunner followed our every move until we were able to turn the
corner back the way we had come . . . and finally we were out of his line of fire.
I heard Massoud breathe a strangled sigh of relief. His eyes were glued to the front as he drove, his voice tight with adrenaline and fear. “He said if they see us again tonight . . . they will kill us.”
“I thought we were dead . . . Why the fuck did they let us go?”
Massoud fixed me with this look. “Morgan, these people are Al Qaeda. Mostly, they are not Libyans. They are Somalis, Afghans, Pakistanis, and Saudis . . . They came here for one reason only tonight: to kill the Americans.”
Fuck me, it was as direct as that. Tonight’s attack was about one thing and one thing only: spilling American blood. So much so that the very fact I carried a British passport meant that the Shariah mob had let me live, and even though I’d been trying to go to my American brothers’ aid. They have come here for one thing only: to kill Americans. It was that simple, that dark, and that chilling.
As we headed north parallel to the compound I could see savage bursts of tracer fire arcing into the night sky. I was certain the boys were still fighting in there, and against those who I now knew had come here with the specific aim of spilling their blood. Yet here were Massoud and me sneaking away, like cowards. I had promised to get to them. I had promised Dave, Scotty, and the others help. Instead, I had lost my nerve, or at least that’s how it felt to me.
“Honi soit qui mal y pense”—Shame on him who thinks evil. That was the motto on the crest on the passport that had just saved my life. But right now the shame felt like it was all upon me.
Only a few days back I’d been having beers with the guys and I’d vowed to Scotty and Dave that I would fight alongside them no matter what. In return they’d promised me they had my back. And now this. I’d done nothing. I’d failed them. I had never felt anything remotely like this before. I had never left a man behind, and I had never been so alone or so out there. I felt like a complete coward.
Massoud kept driving and a few moments later we were heading away from the Mission. Almost as if in a daze—I was close to tears, or maybe I was crying even; I don’t know—I dialed the only number I could think of, that of Robert, my boss. It was late in Britain but I needed to speak to someone, and right now he was all that I had. He answered and I blurted out all that had happened.
