No Fear: The True Story of My Deadly Life After the SAS

by Devereux, Steve

  'Can I have a glass of water, too, please?' I said.

  'Yes, of course. Sparkling or still?'

  'Still please, thanks.'

  She was nice. Two minutes later she was back with my request.

  On leaving the Emirates the aircraft was relatively empty, so I had a row of three seats to stretch out on. But a one-hour stopover in Dammam, Saudi Arabia, put a stop to that. There the plane filled up to capacity: mostly ex-pats, mainly Brits who had stayed as long as they dared in Saudi before they decided to put their sensible heads on and bug out of Saddam's main 'target area' pretty sharpish. Then a guy sat next to me. About 60-something, with a half-moon rump at least ten sizes too big for the seat, he was a huge man with thick red hair, sporting a rather large pimply boozer's nose on a face full of freckles.

  'Alright, matey?'

  'Yeah, fine thanks,' I replied, not sounding too distant.

  As he sat down he cut one, a loud fart, without even batting an eyelid.

  'Sorry, matey, it's all that lamb curry I had earlier.'

  'No problems,' I muttered.

  You dirty bastard , I thought. As I turned and look out of the window into the pitch black trying to hold my breath, he stuck a hand out to introduce himself.

  'I'm Charlie but everyone calls me Geordie — from Newcastle, you see.'

  'Steve. Pleased to meet you, Geordie.' As I took his hand, Geordie gave me a bear's grip of a handshake. It was an obvious macho move, to see who had the stronger grip. I let my hand go slack in his and with one last squeeze he let go. 'A man thing' for sure, it probably meant he felt he'd won this strength competition.

  Geordie was alright for the first couple of minutes but soon I just wanted to tell him to 'wind his neck in'. He wouldn't stop talking. We hadn't even levelled out from our ascent, before I already knew his life story. I didn't think I could stand eight hours of this, it was worse than the interrogation phase of SAS selection.

  I tried to nod in the right places as he droned on and then pretended to go to sleep but he kept nudging my elbow, not hard but in a friendly way; one of these 'touchy-feely' types. He had to be in your face all the time to make his point.

  'Where have you come from, Steve?'

  'Oh, err, all over.' Trying to sound bored.

  'I've been all round the Emirates, fuckin' arse of a place. What business you in?'

  'Contracts —'

  He cut me short. 'Me, I'm in the construction industry. Put that fuckin' road in by Abu Dhabi airport, you know, the one that runs into the city, a while back. Shit, that was good money!'

  You clever bastard, I thought, and all by yourself, I bet! He must have seen the dull look I gave him, because he grunted and changed the subject. I picked up the in-flight magazine, flicked through it and closed my eyes.

  'A tax-free income was not worth getting a Scud up the jacksy for, and anyway, fuck the Arabs — I've had enough of 'em, dirty stinking ragheads …' Geordie muttered to himself.

  Flying has never been my favourite mode of transport and especially when the flight is packed solid. With not a spare seat to be had, and with 300 or so passengers on board and, from what I could see, a limited crew, this one had the makings of another flight from hell. We were five minutes into the flight when suddenly a voice came on the intercom. It was in Arabic at first, then the voice changed to English.

  'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking …'

  Then it went back to Arabic. Although the aircraft had levelled out and we seemed to have reached our cruising altitude, it was still quite noisy with the sounds of engine thrust, not to mention the racket of anxious passengers debating the Saddam situation. Suddenly those who understood Arabic gave loud sighs and the odd cry, which immediately heightened my and Geordie's awareness. This was obviously not the usual 'Have a safe trip' spiel from the captain. As I watched the air crew reassuring passengers, the aircraft's engines gave a final whine and it banked sharply to our left. My stomach dropped as we lost height, and I felt for my safety belt, making sure the buckle was fastened securely. The only thing I could understand from the captain's second address was the word moshkleh , Arabic for 'problem'. Not reassuring, given the circumstances.

  'What the fuck's goin' on, man?' Geordie asked.

  'Shush! Listen out, it's in English again!'

  I was feeling as restless as the the rest of the passengers and there was bugger all I could do about it. I remember thinking, given all the different aircraft I've flown in, it's only a matter of time before one of them drops out of the sky. After all, it's a percentage game, isn't it? Aircraft do drop out of the skies, especially in this part of the world.

  'We have a problem …' The voice spoke good English with the calm you would expect from a professional, but 'problem' wasn't a word I would choose to use when addressing a plane full of passengers leaving a war zone. As he spoke, I tried to guess what he was going to say by the tone he used, but it was impossible. Suddenly, I remembered being in the last Gulf War, the one between Iran and Iraq. I was on board a supertanker steaming up the Persian Gulf when my mate (on another ship) was targeted by an Iraqi warship. I heard his May Day call on Channel 16 and listened to him giving his 'situation report' to a nearby American warship as he was actually being attacked. He'd been as cool as a cucumber and you wouldn't have known he was in a genuine life-threatening situation. He, too, was a professional.

  'The Coalition Forces have started their attack for the liberation of Kuwait,' the captain's voice went on, instantly dragging me back to the here and now, 'so air traffic control has ordered us to turn back and fly south to Nairobi International Airport, Kenya.'

  More panic filled the aircraft as the news sank into the English-speaking passengers. Geordie began to fidget even more as he adjusted his huge bulk around the two square feet of chair he was perched on.

  'Christ! I thought for one minute we had a real problem and we were going to crash or somethin',' Geordie said.

  'Yeah! I thought it was gonna be worse than that, but, shit, you know what the Yanks are like! I don't fancy being accidentally shot out of the sky by some triggerhappy F-16 sky jockey, either,' I said.

  I left Geordie with a headful of possible scenarios to get on with, so he would pester one of the air crew for more information. I turned and pulled the shade up over the window to see the new day arriving. It was just turning light (we were well above the clouds at 30,000 feet, so the pilot said) and all I can remember was the sun disappearing out of sight as the aircraft was put on its new heading. It was an eerie feeling, knowing that six miles or so below me, the largest collection of Armed Forces of modern times had just been unleashed. It was the first and the last time I have ever flown over a war, usually I flew into them. I really didn't know if I felt envious of the experience I was missing out on or just plain scared of that F16 pilot.

  Within a couple of hours, I was unexpectedly in Africa. We were some of the lucky ones. I was on the first diverted commercial aircraft to land in Nairobi that morning, but it was only by a matter of minutes — all other diverted Gulf flights were stacked up, waiting their turn to taxi and get allocated a parking place. As many as 20 could be seen in the distance. Besides the obvious killing and destruction in the Middle East, I thought of the more distant ripple effect on people's lives that this particular conflict would be causing all around the world. Not only the political repercussions, but how it would affect the day-to-day lives of, say, the locals in Nairobi who tout their wares in and around the airport. Certainly the ice cream and cold drinks businesses would profit from this unexpected deluge of foreigners.

  We were shuttled off and into Customs. For sure, the Nairobi Airport Authorities had no idea what was about to descend on them. They were not geared up for thousands of unexpected arrivals. It was a nightmare sorting us all out, just those on our flight. Once again, I was grateful that I held a UK passport, it made my life getting through the red tape a lot easier. Eventually I made it out to the allocated co
urtesy bus which quickly filled up and drove off, leaving the airport in total chaos. Our flight was put up at the Nairobi Intercontinental Hotel for the night.

  It was there, in the privacy of my room, that I watched this incredible war unfolding, courtesy of Emirates Airways and CNN satellite broadcasting. I say incredible for this reason: it was so visual. Apart from my Falklands experience, the last time I had seen anything remotely like what was being beamed into my hotel room that night was when I sat through the 'Ten Thousand Day War' video about the air war in Vietnam. But to see it actually happening in real time was awesome. We were given an almost minute-by-minute account. Teams of news crews stationed everywhere in the war zone (apart from Kuwait City) were each given a slot to report on what they thought was happening, mostly filmed against a backdrop of troops and tanks heading north, or the roar of fighter aircraft taking off with another load of bombs to drop on Saddam.

  This sort of reporting, cut with actual footage of laser-guided aircraft bombs and SMART bombs meeting their targets with pinpoint accuracy, was extraordinary. I think all of us who watched the first few hours of that war could not help but be mesmerised by it. Certainly it kept me out of the bar that night.

  10

  THE WAITING GAME

  B ack in London, I found that the office was not the best working environment. We had little or no business, apart from waiting for the UAE contract. The days had now gone into weeks, and it was looking more like a protracted situation, which I'd dreaded from the onset.

  It was inevitable that the allies were bound to win this particular Gulf war, now nearing its end. All the ground troops had to do was a mopping-up operation after the world's biggest barbecue. This might just get the UAE Government interested in anti-terrorist planning again, as they had been before Saddam moved on its neighbours. Meanwhile, though, Forester was having problems: with the company shareholders; with getting more credit from the bank; and on the home front. The stress was really beginning to build up. The UAE project had taken up a lot of my time preparing the 60-page contractual document — three months, in fact — and the flights and hotel bills for the three-week stay came to a small fortune.

  We'd really stuck our necks out on this UAE contract and now we were paying the price. It was a recipe for disaster, with bankruptcy looming! However, there was one small deal that I closed during this period, a £30,500 project brought to us by Nassar. It was a small deal compared to what we were waiting for, but it was welcome money. It was to supply a couple of desperately needed bits of military software to the Kuwait MOD, which could not be sourced through the Allies. Nassar said that it was a 'thank you' deal for my hospitality during his and his family's most difficult of times.

  The deal was struck in the Green Park Hotel, Mayfair. It was three days after the Liberation of Kuwait, a dark and rainy evening in London. I remember it all too well. I was running late for the meeting. Still, a cab would trim five minutes off my time. But I couldn't find one, so I had to speed-walk the distance. When I got there I looked like a drowned rat. I spotted Nassar up at the bar, with a group of other Arabs. Everyone was dressed in suits and was either standing or seated round small tables watching TV. Their Amir was on and they were listening intently to what he was saying. No one noticed my arrival so I found the gents, wiped myself down, stuck my head under the hand drier, squared myself away in the mirror, had a quick spray of the complimentary aftershave and walked back into the bar. The Amir was still speaking. I approached Nassar, who saw me and held out his hand.

  'Ah, my dear friend Steve. So you have found us at last.'

  He summoned a waiter.

  'Yes, sir, would you like the same again?'

  'Tut, please get my friend a Black Label, and change this ashtray, will you?' said Nassar.

  'No ice, thank you,' I added as the waiter left.

  The waiter responded immediately. He knew the Kuwaitis were on good form tonight, and his tips over the next few hours would probably amount to his weekly wage.

  'Nice to see you, Mr Nassar. It looks like I've walked in on a bit of a party.'

  'Yes, quite true. Come, come, let me introduce you to the General and to some of my friends.'

  As he led me through the crowd I let him know that Forester would be joining us within the hour.

  Nassar introduced me to many Kuwaitis, but he let me know that only two of them were part of the deal. They were government men and I could see from the respect the other men were giving them that they were 'big cheeses'.

  There was a feeling of euphoria in the air. Quite natural — their country had just been liberated from a madman. The Kuwaiti spirits were really high and the Johnny Walker Black Label was taking a hammering, so the rest hardly noticed the four of us slip away into the lounge.

  The three of them spoke in Arabic for about five minutes before the General — the older of the two men, a small, rotund man with a well-advanced receding hairline in his mid-50s — turned to me and gave a bit of a smile.

  'Ah, Mr Steve, you were one of those SAS men, Nassar tells me.'

  'Yes, sir,' I smiled. I didn't really know what to say.

  'Your men did a great job for our country as indeed all the Coalition Forces did. It was a great victory and I thank you.'

  I attempted to bring a bit of humour into the conversation because I didn't know exactly what Nassar had actually said. He might have said that I was on the ground fighting, or anything like that to make the General feel comfortable. I couldn't be too smart and say that I was, because I wasn't — but, on the other hand I didn't want to embarrass Nassar if he'd said that I was. I boxed clever.

  'Thank you, sir. I believe that Baghdad is very nice this time of the year!'

  Everyone laughed, so I laughed, too. The ice was broken, then all three went back to talking Arabic whilst I fondled the thick glass tumbler of whiskey. Every now and then I heard my name being mentioned by Nassar; the General would turn and acknowledge me. The younger of the two, a captain or possibly a major, about 40 with the standard goatee beard, to whom I was never formally introduced, kept a very low profile and hardly acknowledged me. This didn't worry me. I showed him the same respect as I had Nassar and the General and if there was a reason I was not aware of for his reticence, well, that was fine by me as long as the deal went through.

  As Nassar continued giving the background of the equipment, the General turned to me.

  'Good, good, very well done,' he said.

  I took this to be an acknowledgment of my assistance in quickly sourcing the equipment they so urgently needed. It was now in a bonded warehouse at Heathrow awaiting the arrival of its owners to ship it out. At the time I had this strange feeling that I was involved in some kind of shady dealings. Of course, it wasn't, it was strictly above board, but the way the meeting was turning out, I felt as though I was some kind of black-marketeer, and that any moment the police would storm through the entrance of the hotel and arrest all four of us.

  For another 20 minutes I sat patiently waiting, on two accounts. One, for the payment — Nassar had said that it was to be cash — and two, for the arrival of Forester. Then I was asked to accompany the younger of the men upstairs to his room. I wasn't too sure about that. I trusted Nassar, but the situation had a sinister feel. It was still raining heavily, it was dark outside and I was around a bunch of people I didn't know. I'd worked with the Arabs in many countries, I even spoke and understood a little of their language, but all this mingling with powerful foreign government officials, plus the tone in which they spoke to each other (rather erratic, and sometimes sounding offensive to the English ear) created a very dodgy atmosphere.

  Luckily the lift up to the room was big enough for ten men, so body contact was not a problem. I wasn't sure the 'Major' understood English all that well so I left out the small talk. When the lift stopped, the room was facing us. The 'Major' used his key-card to swipe the lock and opened the door, I could see that it was a grand-a-night suite, minimum.

  'Please w
ait here.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  That's all he said as he disappeared into a back room, a bedroom. The main room was very well furnished with light oak-coloured cupboards and wall-panelling with a pair of large, heavy-looking gold curtains draped across two sets of windows and enough comfy chairs for ten visitors. The two large-screen televisions at opposite ends of the room looked out of place. A bowl of fresh fruit, mangoes, dates, grapes and oranges took my fancy, but I resisted it.

  I looked around for any signs or clues as to who this guy actually was, but there weren't any. No uniforms or suits hanging up, no briefcases or papers lying around. The room was so tidy it didn't look as if anyone had used it. Maybe they'd rented it for just a couple of hours. That was possible, but Nassar had said that they were staying in the hotel, and there was no reason for me to think any different.

  The 'Major' then appeared again carrying a brown envelope. With no messing I was handed the money for my part of the deal as he broke out in a bit of pidgin English.

  'Please. Please check.'

  'Thank you, sir,' I said.

  Realising there wasn't going to be a sensible dialogue between us, I sat at a table and started to count. It was all there, in used notes, and as far as I could detect they were all pukka. I was unsure whether I was expected to give the odd £500 to the man standing over me or not. There was a pregnant pause which suggested so, but I didn't. A slightly tense moment followed as I put all the money back into the envelope and indicated that we should join the other two downstairs.

  'Nassar and the General?' I said.

  'Yes, let us go.'

  During this time, Forester had arrived, as drenched as I had been. His grey suit was wrinkled and his face was red and puffy, like he was about to keel over. He looked well out of place and very much on edge. The 'Major' sat back down with no introduction. We shook hands.

  'Hello, Forester, still raining out there?' I said.

  'It hasn't stopped, old boy. I was just saying to the General about our typical English weather, it always rains.'