Soldier I

by Kennedy, Michael

  The plane taxied to a halt and my pulse started beating faster. My body was telling me it was time to rest. My mind was telling me to stay hyper-alert. I stretched my legs out, fully enjoying the luxury of space in First Class. SAS soldiers come in all shapes and sizes. I come in the extra-large variety.

  Off the plane and our footsteps echoed down endless gleaming corridors. We tried not to quicken our pace, though the temptation was great. I gripped the handle of the briefcase a bit harder, though what good that would do with a villain's Beretta poking me in the mouth and threatening to give me some urgent dental treatment I'm not sure.

  We reached the main concourse and were hit with a cacophony of sound. It was as if it was purpose-built to maximize the volume. Indoor palm trees reached up to high, vaulted ceilings. Glass, marble and stainless steel everywhere. Bright lights and booming loudspeakers. Cafés, restaurants, currency exchange kiosks and glittering shops jostled against each other. A hubbub of humanity scurrying about like ants. The din, the confusion, the late hour, stacks of suitcases – any one of which could be rammed into our legs to force us to the ground. If you had to invent a worst-case security scenario this was it. The very things that made this a palace of delights for the average passenger combined to make it a hazardfilled madhouse for the travel-weary close protection operative.

  Tak whispered an urgent, 'Take a left here.' He'd done a reconnaissance run prior to the real thing. He knew the ropes. He knew every corridor, every door. Before I knew it, we were in the haven of the VIP lounge. Processed in no time at all by hushed and discreet officials, we headed for a nondescript exit on the side of the building.

  I took a deep breath and stepped out into the hot night-time air. The heat and humidity clutched at my already-tense chest. The adrenaline was pumping overtime. As any seasoned traveller will know, those first few moments after leaving the airport terminal are the point of maximum disorientation. Jet lag, culture shock, climate differences, and the lack of familiar bearings all combine to play havoc with your internal guidance system. Maximum disorientation means maximum vulnerability. Mercifully, a limo and driver were waiting. Well done, Tak. Going like clockwork so far. Already drenched in sweat due to the extreme humidity, I threw myself into the front seat and stashed the briefcase underneath and out of sight. We quickly locked the doors and glided away.

  No sign of a tail, but I wasn't about to lower my guard. Because of the darkness, I'd have to use Plan B and carry out standard antisurveillance tactics en route to where we staying. I reeled off the instructions to the driver. Stop frequently and suddenly. Speed up then slow down. Jump a red light to see if anyone else does. At a junction, indicate to turn left then move off to the right. On the motorway, come off at an exit and immediately rejoin by the same slip road. Make three turns to box three sides of a square. For the next one I looked for the right place. There it was, a large roundabout with nothing growing on it to obstruct my vision. I instructed the driver to drive twice round the roundabout, two 360-degree manoeuvres. As we went round for the second time, I had a good look across the central reservation. The roundabout was deserted. So was the road that hit the roundabout from the airport. We were lucky. It was late at night and the roads were quiet. We couldn't have chosen a better time.

  So far so good. I was more or less satisfied that we were not being followed. But not quite. I decided to carry out one last manoeuvre for final confirmation. I checked the road ahead for a suitable spot. As we came round a sharp bend I saw the ideal place. 'Pull in,' I shouted. The driver acknowledged and pulled sharply into the approaching lay-by. There was a grating sound and a small cloud of dust as the tyres bit into the gravel. Everything was still. We waited. The occupants of any car tailing us would not see us until the last moment as they came round the steep bend. The only option open to them would be to overtake. We waited some more. Nothing. The minutes ticked by, the road was empty. 'Drive on,' I instructed. By this time, our driver must have been really dizzy. He must have thought he'd picked up three madmen from the airport. That's enough anti-surveillance, I decided. Let's get to the hotel.

  We pulled up outside the Sheraton Utama and hit the pavement, moving fast. I felt switched-on, alert. We were exposed here. I was ready for trouble. As we approached the doorman in his smart uniform I checked out his body language. I looked for the usual signs. It was a sixth sense you develop through years of dealing with dangerous men. This guy might be a trigger. He was ideally placed to report back to any waiting gang. The key thing I was looking for was his eye-line. Was he looking at us or did he have laser eyes zapping into the briefcases to ID them? Nothing. Just the usual smiling face and white-gloved hand holding the door open. No problems here. He was looking for dollars, not diamonds. He was only after a tip.

  We headed for the reception desk where it quickly became obvious that we were expected. We were given the full VIP treatment with an express check-in, and in a matter of minutes we were whooshing up to our floor in the lift accompanied by an exquisite Malayan girl who was in possession of our room keys. That's good, I thought, she's going to escort us to our rooms. No confusion when we emerge from the lift, no working out whether to go right or left, no potentially fatal hesitation in the lift lobby area where someone might – just might – be waiting.

  The girl took us straight to our wing of the hotel. She opened the doors, let us in and handed me the keys. We had two suites side by side – Tak and myself sharing one, our client in the other. The rooms were connected by an internal door. Excellent! That was a real asset. It would simplify liaison and planning of each day's tasks. The 'Do Not Disturb' sign went immediately onto the outside of the door and stayed on for the whole of the five days we were there. Tak briefed me. He wanted me to do three things – familiarize myself with the fire arrangements, find out the location of the hotel doctor, and get the phone number of the head of security. As I checked out the fire escape door, memories of Ward 11 and the visit to the Mirbat gun came flooding back. With my tasks done, I reported back to Tak, ordered room service, and then settled down for the night in what was one of the top suites in the hotel. I soaked up the luxury that surrounded me and broke into a smile. All memories of Ward 11 had disappeared.

  Istana Nural Iman, located on a hillside just a few miles from the city centre, is not only the largest residential palace in the world, but the largest residence of any type in the world. The statistics are bewildering – over two million square feet of floor space, nearly two thousand rooms, and a banqueting hall bigger than Wembley stadium. Tak stood in the centre of the suite with the briefcases at his feet, briefing me on the layout like a Fijian property developer. For a development that size, we couldn't take it for granted that even once inside the gates the threat level would be zero.

  We weren't taking any chances. The drill was that Tak and our client would go over to the palace each day, taking different samples of the jewellery in one bag, and I would stay behind guarding the rest. This would be the order of the day until the deal was concluded. Divide and rule – always a good principle.

  The phone rang. The Sultan's limousine had arrived. Our client wandered in wearing an ultra-sharp Savile Row suit and looking every inch the diamond merchant. He glanced at his watch. 'Let's go.' Tak picked up his briefcase and the two of them disappeared off down the hotel corridor. I closed the door behind them, secured the safety chain and sat down to wait. And wait. The next few days passed by without incident. This was getting more like life in the Regiment all the time. Ninety-nine per cent monotonous routine, one per cent adrenaline-fuelled action.

  On the Thursday Tak phoned. The Sultan and his wives had decided to purchase all the diamonds. Job done! Thank fuck we don't have to transport the gems back to London, I thought. Relief surged over me. I could relax now. I went to the bar to celebrate. Tak joined me an hour or so later. He had a surprise for me. He'd been talking to the palace officials. 'You'll never guess who's staying on the tenth floor.' He broke into a wide grin. 'Alfie Tasker, ex
-D Squadron.' At first this seemed like a huge coincidence, but over the coming years I would get used to bumping into former members of the SAS working in the world of security. There were so many of us that we jokingly called ourselves 'C' (Civvy) Squadron 24 SAS (21 and 23 SAS being the Territorials and 22 'A', 'B', 'D' and 'G' Squadrons being the regulars.)

  The mini-Regimental reunion was soon underway. Alfie explained that he was over from the UK on a liaison visit. He was working with the Sultan's family to beef up security on their expensive portfolio of properties in the south of England after thieves had plundered £20 million of valuables from the Sultan's mansion on Billionaire's Row in Hampstead.

  As the drink flowed, Alfie began reminiscing about his time with the ill-fated Edward's Patrol in Aden's Radfan Mountains, near the Yemeni border, in 1964. Russian-backed Communists in North Yemen sneaking across the border and down the wadis into Aden were threatening not only British interests in the region but also the stability of the whole of the oil-rich Arabian peninsula itself. Captain Edwards was in charge, with Alfie as second-in-command. The object of the patrol was to mark out a DZ with Aldis lamps for a night descent by the Paras in the mountains sixty miles north of Aden. Reaching the area in the morning, the patrol had to take cover and lie up in two ancient stone sangars to await nightfall. Things did not go to plan.

  In mid-morning they were compromised by a herd of goats, followed by a man and a woman – an eerie echo of what would happen years later to the famous Bravo Two Zero patrol in Iraq. Within minutes a large band of heavily armed tribesmen were on the scene. What followed was a vicious, day-long sniping duel, a struggle that left Captain Edwards and his signaller, Trooper Warburton, dead and two others badly wounded. Under cover of darkness, they decided they had no option other than to abort the mission and make a run for it to try and get the casualties to safety before the enemy, vastly outnumbering them, had a chance to storm their position. With shock and fatigue setting in, they finally reached safety at first light the next day. Seven patrol members had survived, but for Alfie and the others, the worst shock of the mission was yet to come. News filtered through that the heads of two British soldiers had been put on display, skewered on stakes in the main square of the mountain city of Ta'izz. A patrol later found the decapitated bodies of Edwards and Warburton.

  As Alfie finished talking, it occurred to me that this could well have been the fate that awaited Tak and myself had we lost the battle of Mirbat. I shuddered at the very thought of it, and ordered a menu and another bottle of champagne. Nah, I thought, I've moved on from all that now. I've had enough of patrols in hostile terrain, hexamine stoves, hard-routine rations, incoming fire zipping millimetres from my head, not knowing if I'll survive from one second to the next. This was the life for me now. Five-star hotels, champagne and steak, first-class VIP travel. I could get used to this. Civvy Street's not so bad after all.

  But before I knew it, I was back in a war zone.

  22

  Aid Convoy

  Bosnia. The stench of death, the merciless crimes, the rape, mutilation, theft and murder, the madness of war, proud buildings reduced to rubble, ethnic cleansing, starving refugees with wailing children trudging barefoot and ill-clad across harsh and freezing mountain terrain, and all, unbelievably, right in the heart of Europe. Ten cruel years of conflict, 1991–2001. The former Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, held together by Tito and communism since 1945, was falling apart under an upsurge of nationalism. The Balkan federation was crumbling. Like some great iceberg, huge chunks were tumbling away. First Slovenia. Crash! Then Croatia. Crash! Then the rest followed in turn, leaving the patchwork quilt of federations and republics that is south-eastern Europe today.

  My job? To escort and advise a humanitarian convoy of 150 tons of supplies to north-eastern Bosnia. Mission statement: 'To relieve the besieged city of Tuzla.' Just my luck! Right up to the front line, no less. The aid consisted of medicines, pasta, sugar, yeast, and tinned fish, meat and fruit. Tuzla was in dire straits. Serbia had isolated and besieged the city despite it having been declared a UN 'safe haven'. It was under constant bombardment. Normally home to 130,000 residents, its population had swelled to 400,000 desperate souls with the influx of wave upon wave of bedraggled and penniless Bosnian Muslims, forced to flee from their homes elsewhere in Bosnia by ruthless Serb gunmen. In theory our convoy was to travel under the auspices of the UN High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR), protected by the British contingent of the UN Protection Force (UNPROFOR2), and with the support of the Bosnian Government and the municipal authorities of Tuzla. In practice, we were on our own.

  Our convoy was being organized by the great and the good of London society. A worthy or a witless venture? A raw and deeply felt humanitarian impulse, or a cause célèbre for rich kids with nothing better to do, a chance to play boy soldiers and go on a romantic mission? I know what my first impressions were.

  The main mover and shaker was Orlando Fraser. His family tree was like a page out of Who's Who. Son of writer and historian Lady Antonia Fraser, stepson of playwright Harold Pinter, grandson of social reformer Lord Longford. An impressive dynasty. Would his organizing abilities be equally impressive? Other high-profile patrons and supporters included Eric Clapton, Mick Jagger, Bruce Oldfield, Dave Gilmour of Pink Floyd, William Stirling (great-nephew of Sir David Stirling), South African actor Jamie Bartlett (who would later play the role of Ray in the film of Bravo Two Zero), and diplomat, soldier, adventurer, writer and politician Sir Fitzroy MacLean – another relative of Orlando's and supposedly the real-life inspiration for James Bond.

  As it turned out, I could have done with James Bond to help me out on the trip to Tuzla. Impressive as the list of supporters might be, it was a convoy organized by civilians, funded by civilians and manned by civilians. Not a professional in sight. Apart from me. We were going to a war zone. How could I possibly guarantee the safety of a bunch of civilians on the front line? In war, anything can happen. Any time. Anywhere.

  They didn't even have shell dressings! I remember asking Orlando, 'Where's the medical pack?' He handed me a plastic bag full of Elastoplasts, safety pins and a sling straight off the shelves of Boots! Not remotely good enough for a war zone. I decided to give 21 SAS (TA) a ring. They were only a short hop away in the King's Road. By a stroke of luck, an old B Squadron mate of mine answered the phone. He was a permanent Staff Instructor there. He said he'd leave me a full trauma kit and a box of shell dressings in the MoD Police lodge at the main gate.

  As the atrocities mounted and the icy grip of winter made life even more intolerable for the sick, the wounded, the starving and the homeless, London was gripped by a wave of humanitarian concern bordering on hysteria. Understandable. This crisis wasn't unfolding in some far-flung country nobody had heard of. This was happening in Yugoslavia, right on our doorstep. An emotive logo was designed, press releases issued, old favours called in. A benefit evening was held to raise funds. At the event, Sandhurst-trained Prince Khalid bin Sultan, the son of a Saudi Crown Prince and Joint Allied Commander in the Gulf War, set the ball rolling by donating £50,000. The cash came pouring in after that and the target was reached. We were on our way.

  Rendezvous Dover. That's where the trouble first started. Four of us were travelling together – Orlando, Willie Stirling, Jamie Bartlett and myself. We'd trundled down from London in one of five articulated trucks, ready to pick up the pallets of scoff being assembled in a dockside warehouse. The plan was to drive down through Europe from Calais to Trieste in Italy, then cross the border into Croatia, through Croatia and into Bosnia. We'd only been going a few hours and Orlando was kicking up a fuss already. The artic's suspension was not to his liking. He'd been shaken and rattled about enough. The prospect of several more days rolling across Europe was too much for him. He got on the phone direct to Mick Jagger and explained his predicament. The next moment we were at the Avis office in Dover hiring a brand new Jagger-funded saloon with a smile on Orlando's face. I wasn't sm
iling though. You get to know people pretty quickly in my game and I was having serious doubts about Orlando already. The fact that he was related to Fitzroy MacLean who had liberated Yugoslavia in the Second World War could really open doors for us. But I was starting to think that he was a bit too impatient for my liking.

  Orlando, Willie, Jamie and myself drove eighteen hours non-stop through Europe and ditched the hire car in Trieste. No breaks. No sleepovers. Orlando was in a hurry. He always seemed to be in a hurry.

  In Trieste, he busied himself making last-minute arrangements. We dumped the hire car and had an overnight stay. The next morning our expense account turned up – a briefcase stuffed full of dollars. Grease money. Oh no! For me it was an instant hit of déjà vu – another case full of valuables to protect. Another security headache. Mind you, that cash would come in pretty handy on the road ahead.

  The plan was for the four of us to catch the bus across the border into Croatia to await the arrival of the artics at a UN warehouse on the outskirts of a town called Rijeka. We climbed aboard this ramshackle bus to head for the border. It was rammed full with locals, a scattering of journalists and ourselves. We rattled along and the terrain got steeper as we headed south. To our right we got spectacular views over the Gulf of Venice glinting in the distance. After a few hours we reached the entry point into Croatia and were waved down to stop. A heavily armed, mean piece of work got on the bus. Dressed head to toe in a black leather coat with huge lapels, he had a peaked cap, gloves and a pistol in a holster. I had to stifle a smile. He looked just like a member of the Gestapo. I half-expected to see David Niven or Anthony Quinn lurking in the shadows. He worked his way slowly down the bus growling in a heavy accent, 'Papers! Papers!'