Soldier I

by Kennedy, Michael

  Earlier in the evening, as, feeling remote and out of touch, he sweated and fussed over the squadron ration indent, Del, one of the assault-team leaders, and I had approached him. 'Malcolm, one of the lads is in a bad way. The doc has diagnosed lepto. He must have caught it in Belize earlier in the year. That leaves us a man short in one of the assault teams. We're on standby. We haven't time to get a replacement down and brief him. Do you think you can stand in?'

  The cheap stationery-office pen came to an abrupt halt on the ration-roll, and for a split second Malcolm looked as though he had been asked to partake in a bank robbery. A strange, tortured look flashed across his boyish features, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He had led a tedious and mediocre life and had been resigned to his daily mountain of paperwork. Now, with this unusual offer, he had a chance to achieve something out of the ordinary, a chance to be above average, a chance to dare and to win. His decision was made.

  He concentrated his attention on the plywood section of the Embassy's second floor. His hands, resting across the front of his body, held his S6 respirator and his fingers shook visibly as he attempted to adjust the securing straps.

  'You will be my number two.' Del's voice was precise and to the point as he gave Malcolm his assault pre-brief. 'Once I've gained entry, you will take out targets to my left and right. Remember, if you get hit I will have to leave you. The medics should find you within half an hour.' Del's voice tailed off as he withdrew the hand-held pointer from the plywood corridors and returned it to the briefing pack.

  The respirator now shook violently, but there was no look of fear in Malcolm's eyes. For the first time in his life he was doing something positive, and his mind was in overdrive, leaving behind any weak thoughts. He was pumped full of adrenaline, punching the air, shouting, 'Yeah, let's do it!'

  I was wondering exactly what kind of psychopath we'd let out of the stationery cupboard.

  A creaking door and a muffled cough at the rear of the room interrupted the tense, businesslike briefing. 'From Crocker. The Colonel's main briefing in five minutes.' It was Rusty. He was now thirdin-command of the operation. With a final request for any questions, and an extremely efficient 'Synchronize your watches,' Malcolm's assault pre-brief was complete and he was now fully operational.

  The large main briefing room in the holding area was buzzing with rumour and gossip as Malcolm, Del and I took our seats. The Colonel launched into his badged-personnel-only briefing, which covered such gory details as the removal of the dead bodies from the Embassy. Malcolm avoided his hawkish gaze by staring intently at the eyepiece of the respirator resting on his knees, as though he were looking for signs of weakness and fear in the reflected image of his face in the small glass lenses. As the Colonel continued, Malcolm shifted uncomfortably in his seat. By the time the Colonel had finished his brief and left the room, Malcolm had developed severe facial flushes. His head sagged forward as if he was carrying some huge invisible burden on his shoulders, and his fingers twitched feverishly as he worried and fussed over the tightness of the filtering canister on his respirator.

  I was just about to suggest that Malcolm should take part in a daylight raid on the Embassy via the skylight entry point, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Jester, one of the team leaders, making a rapid cutting motion with the tips of his fingers across his neck. 'Malcolm,' I said quietly, 'you're on Candid Camera.'

  For a moment, nothing registered on Malcolm's flushed face. He was on his feet, clumsily readjusting the equipment that hung on his slight frame. His hands jerked uncontrollably as his fingers travelled like a spider over belt, holster and pistol grip.

  'You're on Candid Camera,' I repeated.

  As the situation began to register, Malcolm shook his head and slowly straightened his sagging shoulders. A look of total bewilderment spread across his face and his eyes began to blink violently. 'You mean it was a stitch?'

  'Yes, Malcolm, it was a stitch, a rubber dick.' For just a split second a look of disappointment seemed to hang heavily on his face, then his eyes stopped blinking. The taut muscles in his neck and jaw seemed to relax and his mouth broke into a huge grin. For Malcolm it was the end of a great adventure.

  * * *

  6.30am, Monday 5 May. Just when things seemed to be going well, the situation worsened.

  In the cold light of dawn, Oan and the rest of the gunmen seemed to be nervous and jittery as they woke the hostages in Room 9. Oan complained to Trevor Lock that during the night he had heard strange noises, and he was convinced that the police had gained access to the Embassy. He ordered Lock to search the building while he woke the rest of the hostages. The strangeness of this order was a reflection of Oan's agitated state of mind.

  Sim Harris and Ron Morris wiped the sleep from their eyes, struggled to their feet and set about the usual early-morning chores. They washed the cups from the previous evening and prepared the Spartan breakfast of biscuits and tea. As Morris passed round the biscuit tin to the women in Room 9A, Trevor Lock returned from the recce of the building. He could be overheard telling Oan that he must be mistaken and that apart from themselves the Embassy was empty.

  10.00am. A telegram arrived from Iran's Foreign Minister, Sadegh Ghotzbadeh. It was addressed to the hostages, and it declared that Iran was proud of their steadfastness and forbearance over the situation and that tens of thousands of Iranians were just ready to enter the Embassy with cries of 'Allah Akbar,' bringing final judgement to the mercenaries of Ba'athist Iraq. The final line reduced the hostages to a shocked silence: 'We feel certain that you are all ready for martyrdom alongside your nation.'

  11.00am. Oan, enraged and extremely suspicious, called for Trevor Lock to join him on the first-floor landing. 'What is this? Are your British police trying to break in?' he shouted, pointing to the unmistakable bulge in the wall separating the Iranian Embassy from the Ethiopian Embassy next door.

  'Of course not,' replied Lock.

  'I do not believe you. Your police are up to some trickery.'

  'Don't worry, Oan, the police won't break in here.'

  'What do you mean, the police won't break in here? Where will they break in?'

  'What I meant was, if the police were planning an attack, it would not be imminent,' replied Lock, trying to retrieve the situation.

  'Your police, they are up to something, I am convinced. I'm going to make new arrangements for the hostages.' And with that, Oan stormed off upstairs to the second floor to organize the movement of the hostages.

  The gunmen now looked alert and extremely agitated. Their weapons at the ready, chequered shamags pulled tight about their heads, they moved the male hostages from their room along the corridor to Room 10, the telex room. Oan and his comrades could sense that something was happening. The whole situation was as taut as a piano wire. They were all tired, tired of this psychological game. The operation had been planned to last only forty-eight hours at the most. They couldn't go on forever sheltering under this political umbrella. They had to break out. They had to play the final scene.

  12.00 noon. Lock, tired, resigned, his face haggard with exhaustion, continued his efforts to pacify the terrorists. 'Oan, we must talk to the police.' 'Why should I?' 'The situation is serious. We must have a chance to talk to them.' 'OK. I give you five minutes with them.' Lock and Harris made their way to the first-floor front balcony and made contact with the police negotiator. 'Now listen to me,' said Harris urgently. 'Lives are at risk, time is running out.'

  'We are doing all we can,' replied the police negotiator, his voice sounding calm amidst the rising drama.

  'Something has got to be done,' urged Harris. 'The Foreign Office is not moving.'

  'It all takes time,' said the negotiator.

  'I told you, time is running out. Where is the Arab ambassador who is going to mediate? We've got to have answers.'

  'Things are moving along as quickly as possible. The Foreign Office is still in discussion with the ambassadors, and if you listen
to the BBC World Service you will get your confirmation,' said the negotiator finally.

  1.00pm. The news bulletin provoked a response that effectively drove the final nail into Oan's coffin. He was infuriated by the fact that the meeting between Cobra and the Arab ambassadors was still continuing and that a final decision as to who would mediate had not been taken. Incensed and expressionless, his mind clouded with frustration and loathing, he put the telephone receiver to his ear. His lips formed the words that would seal his destiny: 'You have run out of time. There will be no more talking. Bring the ambassador to the phone or I will kill a hostage in forty-five minutes.'

  1.40pm. The duty negotiator seated by the field telephone in Alpha Control drummed his fingers on the table serving as a desk and glanced nervously at the clock on the wall. The minutes since the last conversation with Oan had flown by, and there was still no news from Cobra, still nothing positive to bargain with. Intuition based on years of experience of dealing with criminals told him something was wrong, something had changed. It was as if he had been sitting dozing by a fire and had suddenly awakened to see the last flickering flames die away, just as a chill wind outside began to rattle the window panes.

  A moment later the shrill tone of the telephone buzzer cut through the silence. The negotiator lifted the phone off the cradle and in a voice filled with a calm he did not feel spoke into the receiver. 'Hello, it's Stuart here.'

  'Stuart, they have a hostage and they are going to kill him.' It was Trevor Lock. 'They have him at the bottom of the stairs. Something terrible is going to happen. They are tying his hands behind his back. They are tying him to the banister.' Lock's voice still sounded calm, he still seemed in control; only his rapid breathing betrayed him.

  'If you don't accept my demand, I will shoot him.' The voice had changed; it was more urgent, more threatening. It was Oan.

  'Oan, this is Stuart. Don't do anything that could be counterproductive.'

  'I told you, I have waited long enough. You have deceived me. Someone will die.'

  A whole minute passed.

  'I am one of the hostages.' The voice came in short, rapid gasps. It was inarticulate, as though the owner was fighting for control. 'I am one of the hostages. My name is Lavasani.'

  Another pause, another tortured moment.

  The voice that cut in next was high-pitched, immediate and threatening. 'No names. No names.'

  At that moment, the whole tense atmosphere dissolved into the distinct, unmistakable sound of three low-velocity shots. It was precisely 1.45pm.

  * * *

  1.46pm. After four days of restless inactivity, the holding area was becoming decidedly claustrophobic. Even the monotonous routines of the Killing House began to seem appealing: at least back at base there was noise, movement and action – and the chance of decent food and a few pints afterwards. I was lounging on my camp bed, bored, uninterested, aware of a cynical resignation creeping in. All this effort. All this activity. All this waiting. All for nothing. I could see that we would soon be packing our bags and heading back to Hereford.

  Suddenly there was a shout. The news of the hostage's death hurricaned through the room. I reach for my MP5, removed the magazine, cocked the action and caught the ejected 9-milly round. I then stripped the weapon and began to clean the working parts meticulously. This is it, I thought as I lightly oiled the breechblock. There could be no going back now. A hostage had been murdered. Direct action would have to be taken. As I threaded the metal beads of the Heckler & Koch pull-through down the barrel of the machine pistol, I let my mind wander through the problems of attacking a building with over fifty rooms. We would need speed, we would need surprise, we would need aggression. I thought of the words of advice from Paddy Mayne, one of the founders of the SAS: 'When you enter a room full of armed men, shoot the first person who makes a move, hostile or otherwise. He has started to think and is therefore dangerous…'

  With one final smooth tug on the pull-through, I finished cleaning the MP5. I reassembled the weapon and replaced the magazine of thirty rounds. There was the usual reassuring metallic click as I snapped home the cocking handle. I applied the safety-catch and returned the MP5 to the chair next to my assault waistcoat, then cast a quick glance over the rest of my kit. Satisfied with its condition, I picked up the copy of Colonel Paddy, the biography of the late Lieutenant-Colonel R. Blair Mayne DSO (3 Bars), that I had been reading earlier, and settled down to wait for the final orders before movement into assault positions. I knew from experience they would not be long in coming.

  * * *

  7.00pm. 'We put the body on the doorstep. You come and collect it. You have forty-five minutes. Then I give you another one.' Oan's chilling message rippled over the airwaves in Alpha Control. The atmosphere was electric. A short while before, a second burst of shots had been heard, and now all eyes were glued to the television screens relaying the growing drama to a worldwide audience. The main Embassy door swung open and the police watched as a lifeless bundle was dumped on the steps.

  Twenty minutes later, the field telephone rang on the first-floor landing. Oan picked up the receiver. 'Yes, what do you want? The time is running out.'

  'Yes, we know that,' replied the duty negotiator. 'That's why we want to discuss the arrangements.'

  'What arrangements? What are you talking about?' snapped Oan.

  'The arrangements for the coach to take you to the airport. How big do you want the coach? How many hostages will be going to the airport? What sort of guarantee do you require?'

  There was a brief pause. The negotiator could almost sense the questions running through Oan's mind.

  'I require a coach big enough for twenty-five people, and Mr Trevor will drive it.' Oan's voice was still cautious, but it had a more confident tone.

  'Shall we park the coach at the front of the Embassy?'

  'That will be fine. But I want a guarantee this is no trick.'

  'Oan, this is not a trick.'

  'I want the guarantee from your police chief.'

  'Oan, I repeat, this is not…'

  Booooooom!

  7.23pm. The deafening explosion of the diversion charge was like a thousand wind-slammed doors. It rocked the Iranian Embassy and shattered the eerie silence. Two call signs from Zero Delta located behind the high wall at the front of the building began pumping CS gas through the broken windows. Orange-yellow flames burst through the windows and licked into the mellowing gold of the early-evening sun which layered the Roman columns and ornate balustrades with a soft coat of creamy light.

  My troop was waiting, counting the microseconds, in the Royal College of General Practitioners next door to the Embassy. Shortly before, I had stared in disbelief as John Mac – ex-Royal Engineers and as tough a Jock as they come – had been making his way to his final assault position on the front balcony when he held up a novelty cardboard frog suspended on two pieces of string. As the black-clad figure pulled on the ends of the string, the frog's green-coloured legs made a ridiculous leaping motion. This act of pure pantomime cut through the tension like a hot knife.

  Now, the voice in my earpiece screamed, 'Go. Go. Go.' There was no turning back. We were on our way. I was number one in the crocodile. The rest of the call signs were strung out behind me. Hell, I thought, what am I doing at number one? The new boys should be at number one. I've done my time under fire. I should be at the rear with Tak, my Mirbat mate with whom I have a sixth-sense intuitive understanding in the operational field. Damn the RTU! Damn the demotion! I was pushing open the French windows at the rear of No. 14. As I led the crocodile out of No. 14 towards the rear of No. 16, I glanced up at the block of flats to our left. It was bristling with snipers.

  We took up a position behind a low wall as the demolition call sign ran forward and placed the explosive charge on the Embassy's French windows. It was then that I saw the abseiler swinging in the flames coming from the second-floor balcony window. It was all noise, confusion, bursts of submachine-gun fire. I could he
ar women screaming. Christ! It's all going wrong, I thought. There's no way we can blow that charge without injuring the abseiler. Instant change of plans. The sledge-man ran forward and lifted the sledgehammer. One blow, just above the lock, was sufficient to open the door. They say luck shines on the brave. We were certainly lucky. If that door had been bolted or barricaded, we would have had big problems.

  'Go. Go. Go. Get in at the rear.' The voice was screaming in my ear. The eight call signs rose to their feet as one and then we were sweeping in through the splintered door. All feelings of doubt and fear had now disappeared. I was blasted. The adrenaline was bursting through my bloodstream. Fearsome! I got a fearsome rush, the best one of my life. I had the heavy body armour on, with high-velocity plates front and back. During training it weighs a ton. Now it felt like a T-shirt. Search and destroy! We were in the library. There were thousands of books. As I adjusted my eyes to the eyepieces, the thought occurred to me that if we had blown that explosive charge we might have set fire to the books. Then we would really have had big problems: the whole Embassy would have been ablaze in seconds.