by Matt Johnson
Some of the lads were in the ‘killing house’ going through drills and practising their skills; others were preparing to leave for an exercise. Many were off base: on-call but off-duty. Colin bleeped them.
I made a few friends that day. As Tom had predicted, Colin struggled to locate the numbers that the CO had ordered to be called in. With all the overseas deployments, the initial ‘live-op’ transmission via the squadron pagers didn’t produce enough men to create two teams. I called in some lads from A and D squadrons to make up the numbers. To my surprise, a few treated the calls I made with some cynicism, believing it to be ‘just another exercise’. They changed their tune on learning it was a live operation.
All through the day we kept the televisions on and the radios tuned in to London channels.
Tom Crayston telephoned with sufficient information to enable me to do an initial briefing in the camp hangar. After that, the lads were to load up and head to the Education Corps barracks at Beaconsfield, just outside London. The regimental Sergeant Major created the two teams, red and blue, and allocated men to them.
The two p.m. target for departure soon slipped, but, by six that evening, once we’d obtained the right governmental approvals and prepared fifty men with what they needed, the Range Rovers and transit vans were loaded with enough kit to start a small war.
I was kept so busy I didn’t have time to dwell on the sense of disappointment I was feeling. Like everyone else, I was champing at the bit to get involved in the kind of incident that seemed to be unfolding.
But at seven-thirty, just as the first Range Rover was about to head out through the gates to the camp, I had a stroke of luck. The hostage negotiator the Met had appointed to speak to the Arabs at the embassy turned out to be one of the instructors from the course I had just been on. He suggested to Tom Crayston that it would be a good idea to bring me along.
I had my boots on, my kit packed and my personal weapon booked out of the armoury within ten minutes of receiving the news from Colin that I was being ordered to join the convoy. I threw my kit into the back of the last remaining Range Rover and climbed into the front passenger seat. As I slid my walking stick beneath the seat and turned to the driver, I almost laughed. Driving the car was the very same soldier that had handed me a sweetened tea at the end of the Fan Dance exercise during selection.
‘Scraped inside the time again eh, boss?’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.
It was during that long drive up to London that I had my first real introduction to Sergeant Kevin Jones. He had just been posted to our squadron on promotion from corporal. Although I had seen him around the camp on several occasions, we hadn’t had the chance to speak. We made up for lost time and I discovered we had much in common. Kevin was from the Welsh Valleys, my mother was from Swansea. We soon bored the two lads in the back with our stories of mis-spent youth: holidays on the South Wales Gower, the local discos, and both of us, coincidentally, losing our virginities at a caravan park in a village called Oxwich. That day marked the beginning of a long and important friendship.
Chapter 9
On the final leg of our journey, from Beaconsfield to London, we were accompanied by a police escort, which took us right to the gates at Regent’s Park Barracks in Albany Street. We were expected.
That didn’t mean we were provided with decent accommodation, though. Regent’s Park barracks is a nineteenth-century building that had once been home to the Household Cavalry. Most of the buildings were derelict, running water was erratic, the electricity was unreliable and the toilets were nearly all blocked. It wasn’t exactly five star, but then it wasn’t supposed to be.
The CO was waiting to brief us. Red team was to take on responsibility for ‘Immediate Action’ and, to that end, was to spend the night in several furniture vans positioned at a forward holding area next door to the embassy. Immediate Action was the ultra-violent, breaking-down-doors option that would be implemented if the shit hit the fan before we were ready with a properly considered assault plan.
When the CO asked me to speak, I took the opportunity to tell the lads what I knew about the terrorists. If the news reports were right, the men we were facing were from the Democratic Revolutionary Movement for the Liberation of Arabistan. As all officers do, I’d attended a number of classes on subjects that included military history and world politics. Not all of the lectures were relevant or interesting but I had learned enough about Iran to know it had its own form of home-grown terrorism.
I explained that, in the south-west of Iran, the predominant population were Arabs, in an area referred to by them as Arabistan and by Iran, as Khuzistan. Once independent of Iran, the area was taken over in the late 1920s and rule imposed from Tehran.
The previous year, supporters of the DRMLA had carried out a sustained campaign of sabotage against Iranian oil pipelines and installations, which are mainly situated in Arabistan. Tehran hit back ruthlessly, and many young Arab men were rounded up, accused of treason and then executed.
The briefing room fell silent when I explained the danger that we would be facing. The DRMLA were ruthless and not afraid to die for their cause. They had been known to employ suicide bombers and, should they decide to booby-trap the embassy with explosives, would not hesitate to use such devices, even if it meant killing themselves.
They presented a very different threat from the IRA.
As the briefing came to an end, the lads headed off. I was given the role of liaison officer and was allocated an unmarked car with a police driver to make sure I could move easily between the barracks and the embassy.
I was also given another job. It turned into a real blessing. Almost every officer that joins the regiment gets a nickname. Not all were complimentary and you could be sure that, one day, you would either do or say something that would result in you being ‘tagged’. In the weeks prior to the embassy siege, I had come in for quite a bit of stick from the lads due to the nature of my admin work. They had invented several nicknames for me and to my dismay, the name ‘Clip-Board’ was starting to become popular. My role at the embassy changed things slightly for the better. After spending a great deal of time with the caretaker from the embassy, creating a life-size mock-up of the building to assist with the attack plan, I was given the nickname ‘Bob the Builder’. I was happy with that, some of my peers having been called a lot worse.
When I wasn’t spending my time with a hammer and nails, knocking together various sheets of plywood, I took my turn with the police hierarchy as we listened to negotiations in the Police Forward Control. The police had been quick to cut off all telephone links to the embassy and then feed just one secure phone line in through a front embassy window back to an empty nursery school we were using in Prince’s Gate.
Although most of the talking was the responsibility of Mike, a Chief Inspector, the support team that worked with him was incredibly professional. Fortunately, the lead terrorist spoke good English and, although an interpreter was always available, she was not often called upon for help. My job, when in the control room, was fairly simple: if the police gave me the word, I was to send the lads into action.
Although I was glad to be involved, the atmosphere in the nursery school was often tense. Amongst the negotiators, there were several strong personalities who clearly didn’t always agree on the best way to progress talks with the terrorists. Conversation near to the lead negotiator was banned and, although the other members of the team had headsets that they could use to listen in, they were not permitted to speak until they were in another room. Many times, written notes would be passed from one member of the team to another. Often the recipient of the message would simply nod, but occasionally the result was very different – sometimes a glare, sometimes a thumb up or thumb down to register agreement or otherwise.
I kept out of it. Although I had done the same course as these men and women, it was clear to me that their experience placed them a league above me in terms of ability.
On 5th May, shortl
y after one in the afternoon, Salim, the lead terrorist, made a decision that would irrevocably change the course of events. Mike, the lead negotiator was talking to one of the hostages, PC Trevor Lock, when three shots rang out. Mike winced as the sound hit his ears. Everyone else in the room heard it as well. One of the hostages had been shot.
Within a short while, senior officers from the Met started to arrive through the back door to the nursery. Our CO joined them, as did Tom Crayston.
On the military radio network, I heard instructions being given to both red and blue troops to move into attack positions.
Even then, the political machine moved slowly. As Mike continued talking to Salim, it appeared that arrangements were being made to bring a bus to Prince’s Gate and park it in front of the embassy. It was a stalling manoeuvre, to buy us some time. I still wasn’t certain, though, that we were going to be given the authority to attack. Then, at a quarter to seven, three more shots were heard, Four minutes later, the body of a murdered hostage was pushed through the front door of the embassy onto the steps outside.
Mike took off his headset, threw it on the desk and switched off the microphone. ‘Well, that’s it,’ he said.
He looked at me. I knew I had a confused expression on my face.
‘I’ve spent five bloody days talking to these men and in five bloody minutes it’s all changed. Have you any idea how disappointed I feel?’ he said.
I didn’t know how to respond. I looked around the room at the other members of the negotiating team. They all looked tired. A feeling of intense sadness dominated the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But we’ll need you to keep Salim occupied while our lads get into their final assault positions.’
‘I know … just give me a moment. There are twenty people in there and in the next few minutes they might all be dead.’
I was just about to answer when Tom Crayston walked in. Everyone turned to look at him.
‘What’s the news from upstairs?’ I asked.
Tom’s lips were tight. ‘The Met have just signed things over to us. It took a while as the Home Secretary had to agree.’
I turned to Mike. ‘Can you get back on the line to Salim and start arranging their bus ride to the airport?’
‘You’re going in then?’
‘Not me, personally.’
‘Nor me,’ said Tom. ‘Are you comfortable with what you need to do, Mike?’
‘As best I can be. It’s alright for you guys. I’ve spent days making friends with these people. We’re here to save lives – not just the hostages but everyone in that building.’
‘And so you would have,’ said Tom, ‘but they decided to start killing people. What is important now is that they don’t kill anyone else, don’t succeed in any of their aims, and that our government isn’t seen to give in to terrorists.’
‘Is that what is comes down to?’ said Mike. ‘Being seen to do the right thing?’
‘It’s about making this country safe, Mike,’ I said. ‘Putting fear back in the minds of the terrorists.’
Mike turned back to his desk and placed the headset back over his ears. The conversation was over.
‘One other thing, Finlay,’ said Tom. ‘There’s to be no smoke.’
For a moment, I didn’t reply. During the preparations for the attack phase of the operation, it had always been stressed that the operating methods of the regiment would be hidden by using smoke machines to conceal the embassy from watching cameras.
‘What happened to change that decision?’ I asked.
‘It’s come from the highest levels, apparently. Not only are we to make sure the attack is a success, we are to make sure the world gets to see it.’
I felt my temper rise. ‘That’s bollocks and you know it. Without smoke the whole world will know our entry methods.’
‘Not our decision,’ Tom replied and, as he did, the CO appeared in the doorway.
‘Right Major Crayston,’ he said, gruffly. ‘We have fifteen minutes to get the lads into position.’
A senior police officer appeared in the hallway. I recognised him immediately. It was the Met Commissioner. As Tom and the CO headed out the back door of the nursery school, I heard his final words to them: ‘And don’t forget that PC Lock is in there in uniform.’
Chapter 10
When the attack went in, I watched it live on BBC television in the police control room at the rear of the nursery school.
At the same time, I listened as best I could to the radio communication on the military network. As the first assaulters started to abseil down from the embassy roof, I could actually feel the rope running through my hands as if I was taking part myself. I felt my grip tighten as if holding onto an imaginary locking brake that would bring my tumbling figure to a halt on one of the balconies, ready to put the frame charge in place.
It wasn’t a question of envy, as I knew that even if I had been fit I wouldn’t have been on the assault team. That privilege was the reserve of the men who practised such skills day in, day out. Blades, we called them. Men who fought at the sharp end.
Officers were trained in the necessary skills but, with all the other responsibilities we had, we could never match the expertise of the blades. It was what they trained for and lived in hope of doing.
That said, I did experience an incredible surge of pride. As the first frame charges exploded, the nursery school building shook and people around me reached for hand holds to try and maintain their balance. Even the Police Commissioner was nearly thrown off his feet. I was glued to the television. I saw black-clad figures; I must have known them all, but their gas masks prevented me from picking them out.
There was only one fleeting moment where my confidence in their ability suffered a lapse: one assaulter appeared to be trapped on a rope and was caught by flames emerging from a smashed window. I held my breath for a second as the soldier broke free, dropped to the balcony and entered through the window to join in the attack.
Less than twenty minutes later, Operation Nimrod was over.
Only one of the twenty hostages for whom Mike had feared the worst was killed during the attack. And there was not a single SAS fatality; no soldier was even badly wounded.
However, all the terrorists bar one were killed. That sole survivor managed to sneak out the back door with the evacuating hostages. He was arrested when they identified him to the police.
At seven-fifty, just as the CO was handing responsibility for the embassy building back to the police, I headed back to Regent’s Park barracks.
Later that evening, I stood watching something I would never have dreamed possible.
We had laid on a few cans of beer for the lads to enjoy as they returned from Prince’s Gate. A large television in the corner of the main hall was tuned to the news channel. Highlights of the attack were being played and re-played as TV experts analysed and commented on the assault as seen from in front and behind the embassy. Nearly all the lads were sat around, picking each other out from the television footage and there was a lot of high-spirited banter about entry skills, or the lack of, and who had been the best or the quickest to enter the building. The air smelt of the cordite and CS gas that had permeated the assaulter’s overalls.
At the front of the group stood two civilians who were enjoying the moment, seemingly totally relaxed with the men that surrounded them.
One of the lads at the back shouted out to the civilians: ‘Sit down, Maggie. I can’t see myself on the telly.’
Margaret Thatcher turned around, smiled and did as she was asked. A black-clad soldier stood up from another chair so that her husband, Denis, could also be seated.
Next to me, Tom Crayston was supping on one of the luke-warm cans of lager as we watched the surreal scene of our prime minister at ease with soldiers who had just a couple of hours before been involved in a fight to the death.
‘You do realise that things will never be the same for us, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Why do
you say that?’ I asked.
‘Because up until today, most people in this country had never heard of the SAS, let alone had any idea what we are capable of. The politicians may have wanted to send out a message, but the knock-on effect could be disastrous.’
‘Did they think of that when they decided not to use the smoke machines?’
‘I doubt it very much. So far as they are concerned, today wasn’t just about saving lives, it was about winning votes.’
‘You sound cynical,’ I said.
‘If I do, it’s because I am. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. See those men in front of you?’
‘Of course.’
As we chatted a roar of laughter burst out from the front of the group watching television. It sounded like Denis Thatcher was living up to his reputation as a teller of jokes.
‘Every one of them is a hero,’ said Tom. ‘You know that, I know that. But until today nobody had any idea who they were. From now on they will be lauded like gods. Every newspaper and TV reporter in the country will want to talk to them, every publisher will be courting them for memoires and stories. They are the James Bonds of the 1980s.’
‘Is that an entirely bad thing?’ I asked.
‘Would you want all your friends and neighbours knowing that you shot and killed three IRA members a few short months ago? Would you want friends of the terrorists that were killed today learning your identity and where to find you?’
‘I wouldn’t … not at all,’ I said. ‘That’s why we’re given anonymity in court proceedings and the like, isn’t it?’
‘It is … it is. But money talks and the media will pay well. I’ll wager that inside of a year, one of the lads in front of you will have a book deal. I’ll even bet that the book will be called Nimrod.’
‘So how do we stop it?’
‘We can’t. We can only look after ourselves.’
‘And how do we do that?’ I asked. Tom had raised a subject I had never considered: what happened after the regiment and whether I kept it a secret or not.
