Thursday, 28th July 2011
Damascus
Syria
The Arab Spring as it became known had begun in 2010 and was the culmination of civil unrest across various North African countries. Dictatorships crumbled, and once-powerful men lost their footing in the face of massive civil unrest which led to uprisings. The writing was on the wall when police and military leaders changed their allegiance to support the people they’d once been ordered to suppress. Tunisia, Egypt, and Yemen had succumbed to the will of the people, and it appeared that Syria and Bahrain would follow suit.
As Syrian rebel forces grew and advanced steadily from multiple directions towards Damascus, their country’s capital, there was a sense among the population that freedom and democracy would finally be theirs to enjoy. The towns of Aleppo and Homs to the north had already been overrun and secured by the freedom fighters, and there were many to the south waiting for the order to move. The majority of the people viewed the rebels as liberators as they advanced, and any resistance by forces loyal to the government was rapidly quelled.
On this evening, a large group of rebels closed on the presidential palace of Dashir al-Kamud II. The country’s president was guilty of the mass murder of whole village populations. He chose to slaughter those who were, in his view, of the wrong political or religious persuasion. President Kamud had retained power for twenty years by rigging elections, just as his father, the former president, had done during his thirty-year reign. Although Dashir al-Kamud II was known to have used any means at his disposal to massacre people within their homeland’s borders, international condemnation never resulted in arrest. Kamud’s only international travel was to Iran, Russia, North Korea, and China, where he knew he’d be safe from any attempt at arrest and being brought to justice.
*
Staff Sergeant Victor Bryson was tucked into an observation post on the edge of woodland 5 km to the south of the presidential palace. He was aware of the not-so-distant convoys of 4×4 trucks full of armed fighters, but his job was related to activity much closer to his location.
Four hundred metres away in a large walled compound stood a large, luxurious house, complete with a tennis court and a swimming pool. As Victor watched through his night-scope, his three colleagues from Bravo Two Four scaled the perimeter wall at the southeast corner and crept along the inner wall towards the massive house.
Victor had three jobs. Observation was the primary task, so that using his sniper rifle, if necessary, he could remove the threat of any sentries that looked like they’d interfere with the team’s objective. Secondly, he was the cut-off should the target survive the initial attack and try to escape in a vehicle. As the cut-off, Victor could initially use a grenade to stop a vehicle before firing on the occupants. It was important in this situation because this was the only route away from the compound which was three kilometres from the airport. The third job for the special forces soldier was to get in rapidly with the team’s 4×4 and get all of them away from the area rapidly. The signal would be an upstairs room light being switched on and off twice.
A helicopter would land at a remote location 10 km east of the international airport but would only remain at the exfiltration point for a short time. The aircraft would land at 20.00hrs, and leave without the men if there were no show by 20.15hrs. The window for their exfiltration, to remove the team from the scene, was narrow, but the timings had been agreed by the team, and the helicopter crew.
During the final briefing only a short while before the mission began, Mac, the team leader, had joked, “I don’t want you fuckers sweating in that chopper, so if we get the job done quick, we can walk to the RV.”
“It’s ten fucking clicks, boss,” Richie had said.
Pete had winked at the officer and turned to his mate. “Don’t worry, Richie, we’ll walk briskly.”
As always, squaddie humour was near the surface, whatever the mission or the dangers.
Victor focused on an upstairs room where a light had just been switched on, but the curtains were drawn, just as they were in two illuminated downstairs rooms. He eased his rifle slightly to the right and watched his three colleagues sprint the short distance from the high perimeter wall to the side of the house. One of them moved forward along the side of the house with stealth and gained access to a door. He disappeared inside, rapidly followed by the other two.
Captain ‘Mac’ McKenzie, an experienced thirty-year-old would have been the first man in, leading from the front. He’d completed several successful covert operations since joining the elite unit. Mac’s support men were Cpl Pete Lennard and Cpl Richie Tiernan, both in their mid-twenties and on their first covert mission with the Special Air Service. The three men had gained entry to the compound and the house without tackling any of the sentries, so hopefully, any who were indoors would be easily overcome.
Thirty seconds after the side door closed, the six sentries who’d been casually patrolling the grounds ran forward to assemble at the front gate. Simultaneously, a military truck rolled quietly past Victor’s location without lights, stopped briefly at the gates of the compound, and departed quietly when the men were aboard. The vehicle passed Victor’s hiding place again, the engine revs low and still showing no lights.
“What the fuck—” Victor’s whispered expletive stopped short when he saw a dark-coloured vehicle creep forward out of the forest close to the perimeter wall without lights showing. It stopped briefly at the gate, and three men ran from the front of the house to board the vehicle. The three men were not Victor’s teammates. Like the military truck before it, the 4×4 drove quietly away from the compound along the road to pass Victor’s location. It stopped a few metres away, the engine idling, while the front passenger got out holding a small illuminated device, possibly a mobile phone. He had a machine gun slung from his shoulder and wore a sidearm in a holster.
Victor’s head was buzzing with possible scenarios, and when the correct one occurred to him, the night was illuminated with flashes of rapid, massive explosions. For a few seconds, he stared in disbelief at the remnants of the perimeter wall, the pile of rubble that had once been a mansion, and the large outdoor pool in which debris was still falling.
“Let’s go, boys,” the armed passenger said, returning to the vehicle. “Hit it, Hannibal.”
Victor immediately thought to climb out from his hiding place and empty his magazine into the back of the fleeing vehicle, but training and good sense prevented him from making a rash move. In such a situation, at best, he would kill all aboard the 4×4, but if he didn’t, all he would succeed in doing was draw attention to his existence. He lay with gritted teeth and gazed at the devastation not far away to his front. Nobody would be walking away from that bomb site, and for a few more minutes, the seasoned soldier rode a rollercoaster of emotions.
“Fucking Hannibal … and a Texan bastard,” Victor whispered.
There had been four men in the vehicle, and with his two brief statements, their leader had unwittingly offered clues for Victor to investigate—and he would in due course.
Five minutes after the destruction of the house, Victor was jogging on a bearing to the pick-up point 10 kilometres away. As all of the team had done, he wore minimal webbing to carry ammunition, a simple first aid kit, water, and basic dry rations. His conscience was heavy, but he breathed easily, carrying his rifle across his chest as he progressed in the undulating countryside. Using no more than the light from the moon and stars, he recognised the rendezvous and ran on until he was within a few hundred metres. He dropped to one knee and caught his breath as he looked around—no activity.
Victor avoided settling near any of the small and obvious rock formations and instead lay down, and burrowed under low scrub. From there, his profile would be too low for anyone to see him, but he could be up and running as soon as the helicopter began its descent.
He next checked his watch—19.38hrs. It would be twenty-two more minutes before the exfiltration chopper would arrive, but at least he’d be ready to run forward so they could get airborne again rapidly. Anger and frustration were building steadily within him as he waited. He had been on other dangerous missions with Mac, and the man had proved worthy of respect. It was gut-wrenching that the man should end his time in such a way. Mac had often said he wasn’t afraid of dying in action, as long as he was firing his weapon at the enemy.
“Bastards!” Victor whispered, grieving the loss of such a fine soldier, colleague, and friend.
As the minutes ticked away, Victor considered the name he’d heard earlier. He recalled a man called Hannibal in ‘The Regiment’ as the SAS was known to its members. Sgt Hannibal Hayes had been a good man on many missions but had been ousted six months earlier for bringing the name of the Special Air Service into disrepute. He was a big man, and after starting a brawl in a bar, he’d next tackled the police officers who’d attended the incident. There was no place in The Regiment for a hothead, however good he might be at the job.
Victor had difficulty trying to focus because his thoughts continually returned to the ground shaking under him when the building disappeared amidst smoke and flame. The mission had been straightforward. The Syrian president had been reported to have secretly evacuated his palace with his family to live in the big house a few kilometres away, guarded by a small group of his elite household guards. The SAS team were to be dropped the night before, go into a hide location, observe for twenty-four hours and then go in and eliminate the dictator before he could flee the country and any subsequent trial for genocide against his own people.
Two aspects of the mission that none of the team liked were the short notice, and having to depend on local intel regarding the target and the location. The men had performed a rehearsal under cover of darkness but could not confirm the target’s presence with a sighting. They only knew he’d sleep upstairs in a corner room.
As the sequence of events replayed in Victor’s mind, the scenario still made no sense. The Bravo Two Four members had evaded the president’s close security team and gained access. Those same elite guards had left quickly and quietly, to be followed soon after by the three mystery men and their waiting driver, and then the explosion had occurred.
Was the Syrian president and his family ever in the building, or was this all part of some deeper deception plan?
The lives of the SAS team were too high a price for such a plan, but it seemed that someone had condoned it. In the original plan before leaving the UK, Captain McKenzie had suggested that all four of them would go into the compound. It was only when they were on the ground that the men discussed the scenario, Mac revised his decision and asked Victor to perform the external support role.
Apart from the loss of Mac, it was heart-breaking on a personal level to see Pete and Richie killed that way–two young men with brilliant futures ahead of them in The Regiment.
“When I find them, those four bastards are gonna beg me to kill them.” Victor wasn’t known for allowing his emotions to show while on operations like this, but the loss of the three men was gnawing at him.
The sound of a plane taking off caught Victor’s attention, and he turned toward the airport only a couple of kilometres away. Judging by the proximity of the navigation lights to each other, it was a small aircraft, so possibly a private jet. Victor checked his watch. 20.03hrs. The exfiltration helicopter was late.
“Come on guys, for fuck’s sake.” He half-turned and looked around the horizon, not thinking he’d see navigation lights, but possibly the silhouette of a helicopter at low altitude, or he’d hear the low-frequency beat of rotor blades. As the minutes passed, a bad feeling was creeping into Victor’s thoughts. Strict radio silence had been another of the concerns regarding the mission. That was the reason the timings were tight and had to be strictly observed. On successful mission completion, if the team failed to reach the RV within the fifteen-minute window, the helicopter would leave and the the men would be left to their own devices to get out of the country.
Victor delayed any move until 20.30hrs, fifteen minutes after the cut-off time, but as the minutes had dragged, he’d considered his situation and options. He was alone and on foot. Lebanon was 80 km west, and Iraq was 140 km east, but neither option was acceptable anyway. Turkey was over 400 km north, so again, not ideal but because of the distance. Israel and Jordan were equidistant at 50 km to the southwest and south, respectively.
He mused aloud, “I wonder if Jinx is still in Amman ….”
It would mean crossing the Jordanian border and trekking a further 40 km to the capital, but it was the safest option. He sipped water, fixed his compass bearing, and set off.
*
Saturday 30th July
Az Zarqa, near Amman
Jordan
To reach the border had taken two long night marches, laying up under cover during daylight hours. On the Jordanian side, Victor crept into a backyard and relieved the washing line of a white dishdashah robe and a red and white print shemagh headdress. There was no agal for keeping the shemagh in place, but Victor had often seen them worn without. Confident that the household was sleeping soundly, he gained entry and wrapped some cheese and fruit in a tea towel ‘to go’. Outside again, he rapidly removed his combat kit and put his webbed pouches with integral holster back on. Apart from being comfortable, his desert boots were hidden from view under the low hem of the dishdashah, so after massaging his feet briefly, he put the boots on again. His rifle was slung over one shoulder and concealed under the long middle-eastern robe. He ate the cheese, two oranges and an apple as he set off during the next stage of his trip.
It was six o’clock in the morning when he arrived at a fancy house on the outskirts of Az Zarqa. In this town, several foreign diplomats, military advisors and embassy staff lived. A brief visit two years earlier gave Victor confidence in where he was going. He paused across the road from a particular house and studied the large garage. Five minutes later, he was inside and comfortable in the back of a white Toyota Land Cruiser.
Victor woke from his cat nap when he heard the indoor garage door open and close. He sat up and looked from between the front seats, relieved to see that it was the man of the house raising the main garage door. He waited until the man climbed into the car before he spoke.
“Hi, Jinx—”
“Fucking hell,” Major Jenkins shouted and struggled to undo his seatbelt. “Who the fuck—”
“It’s Victor.” He paused and removed the red and white headdress to allow recognition.
“Jesus, Victor—I nearly fucking shit myself.”
“I’m sorry, mate, but I’m in deep shit and I need help. Is there somewhere I can get a bite to eat, and I’ll explain?”
“Hang on, I know just the place.” Major ‘Jinx’ Jenkins pulled out of the garage, closed the door and set off. Ten minutes later, he parked a short distance from a small line of shops, left the car and returned with bottled water and a sizeable snack for his friend.
Victor explained his situation briefly as he ate and drank. He didn’t mention the personal details he’d recognised within the small mercenary group in the 4×4.
Jinx said, “I have to agree, Victor. That sounds like it was a suicide mission for your team, but the participants weren’t told.”
“I know this is a big ask, mate, but I need you to keep the whole shit show under your hat.”
“If that’s what you want, consider it done, but surely you want to get back to the UK quickly and find out what the fuck was going on?”
“I do, but covertly. I hoped you could help me find a way home but not through the usual channels.”
“Of course I will. When somebody saves your life it’s difficult to refuse them a favour when the time comes.” He laughed briefly and set off back to his house turning on the car radio in time to catch a news bulletin.
‘… and in the Middle East, the presidential palace in Damascus has been overrun by rebels. There are unconfirmed reports that President Dashir al-Kamud, the second … Syria’s president, was flown to Moscow late last night where he is seeking asylum. We’ll bring you more as soon as ….’
Jinx turned to see his friend glaring at the radio after turning it off.
Victor said, “I bet that was his fucking private plane I saw taking off.”
Jinx was lost for words as Victor’s earlier theories were confirmed by the brief news report. He parked side-on outside the garage before opening the garage door and the rear passenger door to let Victor sneak inside.
Victor said, “I’ll keep these water bottles to piss in, and hope your missus doesn’t come in here.”
“Don’t worry, she never comes in the garage.” Jinx paused with his hand on the garage door, ready to close it. “Today, I’ll try to organise a replacement passport for you and—”
“You don’t need to do that, mate, because Staff Sergeant Victor Bryson was killed with the team in the explosions.”
“What?”
“I want to get into the UK under the radar. When I set foot on British soil I’ll be using a different name. I’ve got enquiries to make, and scores to settle, so it’s best nobody knows about my survival.”
In the evening, Jinx parked the car in the garage and opened the tailgate.
“I’ve brought you a few supplies to help you get underway.” He lifted a camouflaged bergen. “There’s a new combat smock, a Norgie jumper, a woolly hat, a pair of Chinos, a decent pair of boots, socks and skiddies. I’ve also brought you some nosh and a couple of beers. I’ll bring you out a maggot later tonight so you can have a good kip, and I’ve set up your next trip.”
Victor nodded to his friend, knowing no words were necessary in such circumstances.
***