Immediate Action (51 page)

    "There's a problem with refueling. We're just trying to work it out. We hope we can get in with the Chinook because they've got internal fuel tanks on board. If it's Pumas, we might have to refuel in Beirut, but again, that's being organized at the moment. Another possibility is that the Americans will refuel us at sea.

    "So that's the first and most ideal option-a straightforward, hard-hitting, quick attack: Get in there, get them, and get out. But until we know where they are, it's one for the back burner.

    "The next option is again to go in by heli. There's normal helicopter traffic going in and out, so no problem there-landing and moving covertly in vehicles.

    "The way we're looking at it at the moment is that the boys already there will get us on target; we don't even have. e to know where we're going. It would be a green option [in normal army uniform]. The vans stop at the target; we go straight in and do it.

    Then back in the vans and go for it back to the nearest safety area and organize the helis to get us out. At the moment that's not our problem; that doesn't interest us. All we want to know is where the target is so we can hit it and get these people out.

    "The last option is a covert entry and covert exfil.

    How we'd do that I don't know: whether we go over by boat and get picked up by the boys from the embassy, I just don't know."

    James said, "There's nothing I like more than taking over a well-organized job. Good one, G Squadron!"

    "Well, that's all we know," Sean said. "The one and only thing we do know for sure is that we've been sent here. There might or might not be a job on in Beirut, but if there is, it's to rescue the hostages. You four," he said, pointing to us, "get your weapons, go down the range, and rezero and check them out. I then want you to see Tony; he'll show you the four G Squadron blokes who are leaving, and they'll start handing over the medical kit and HE."

    Still in jeans and trainers, we drove down to the range. We zeroed G3s, .203s, MP5s and tested all the magazines. Everybody was fairly nonchalant and bored.

    We knew our weapons were zeroed, but we had to check them.

    We cleaned the weapons and went over to G Squadron for the equipment handover. We 'Checked all the hemocell, all the giving sets, the fold-up nylon stretchers, first field dressings, oxygen sets. We also had little miner's lights to wear around our heads for working on somebody at night, and inflatable antishock trousers, an excellent bit of American kit, which are wrapped around the lower body and then pumped up to restrict the flood of blood and keep fluids in the top half of the body; the basic aim of trauma management is to stop the loss of blood and replace fluids, and that'll keep them alive. If we can keep them screaming, they're breathing.

    The blokes from G Squadron were well pleased to be off. Later in the day, as they boarded the aircraft, they thought they'd got away with not giving their Ray - Bans over. But Sean appeared from nowhere and said,

    "And don't forget the glasses; they're squadron property."

    For the next couple of days we were hanging around again. If we weren't eating, we were going for a run around the compound, and if we weren't doing that, we were training. We had to practice all the different options because we still didn't know how we were going to get in, and at that stage we didn't even know exactly where the hostages were being held or the layout of the buildings.

    Everything was getting in motion. All we had to do was jump in the aircraft and go in and do the option that had been decided on. The objective never changed; that had to be to drag them out of there as quickly as we could and get away. We had no idea of the condition they were going to be in. They might need stabilizing; they might be in shit state; they might be drugged; they might be totally exhausted and incapable of moving. So we'd have to take the lotyen down to bolt cutters so we could cut them away from whatever they were chained to.

    We had computer-enhanced pictures of what they might look like now-with beards, without beards, having lost weight, lost some hair, some with graying hair, some with scarred faces or wearing glasses.

    We would be going into a hostile environment quickly, so it very much had to be a matter of speed, aggression, and surprise. By the time they were starting to react, we'd be gone. For ten minutes of work, it might take ten weeks of preparation to get it right. We were practicing, practicing, practicing, but as soon as we got the okay, we would be ready to go.

    We practiced going in by helicopter, then moving into vehicles and dropping off at different points around the location and all walking in at the same time. We'd done it plenty of times over the water; everybody just casually walks in and bang! It then goes overt as soon as everybody's in the area. You're banging and crashing,.you're getting through to the target, and there's either vehicles or a helicopter coming in to get you out.

    We also practiced going in by boat. We'd meet somebody at the beachhead, who would then put us in vehicles and drive us off to the target. At the same time a helicopter would be holding off; as soon as we went bang, crash, the helis would come in; they would either lift us direct or get into the embassy and wait for us to arrive by vehicle.

    Another version we tried was for the heli to go straight in.

    People already on the ground would have marked the area. We'd fast-rope down, take the building out, and while that was happening, the heli either still airborne, waiting, or it goes and sets down.

    The people on the ground covered the helicopter, and that became part of the exfiltration.

    Eventually it looked as though it was going to be a helicopter going into the embassy; from there we would sort ourselves and go in on target by vehicle. We'd get in there, get McCarthy, Waite, and anybody else who wanted a free ticket out of town, and come back in vehicles to the embassy. As soon as the first heli lifted off, there would be another one holding up to come in. The priority would be to get the hostages out on the first heli, with any other civilian personnel that were there.

    The assaulters would get on the last helicopter.

    It looked as if we were going to go in on a green option with body armor, and then over that we'd have coat for the covert infil. We were going to drive up to the building and do an explosive entry. We'd need information on the doors; we didn't know what was on the other side. We didn't want to start killing the people we were supposed to be saving.

    The charges for that were all made up. We were going to drive along three different routes, and everybody would have personal comms, on one frequency.

    Then it was a question-as so often-Of hurry up and wait, and check and test, check and test-and yet another six hours of Basil, Sybil, and Manuel.

    Finally we were told by Sean, "Okay, they're going in tomorrow night; the pilot's going to practice going in on NVGs. So if you want to go along for the ride, away you go. You've got to go in uniform, no weapons. Carry an ID card with you, and ID tags."

    All four of us met the aircrew near the Puma.

    "How's it going?" I said.

    "Boring as usual," was the reply. "These luxury hotels all look the same to me."

    "Fuck you."

    "Right, we'll go in about three-quarters of an hour.

    Basically all we're trying to do is practice going in on NVGs and do some time checks. We'll land on a new LS."

    They were in flying suits and life jackets, pens and bits of paper dangling off all over them. We put on life jackets and sat in the back.

    The flight was uneventful. There was nothing to see as we flew over the Mediterranean. Then, as we approached Beirut, I craned my neck to look out of the window. Disappointingly it looked like any other Middle East city. There were lights in houses, car headlights carving their way through dark areas. What we couldn't see with the naked eye was the infrared flash of the Firefly equipment that was guiding the pilot into the middle of the city.

    I heard the rotors slowing down, and we lost height.

    Minutes later we were on the ground; the rotors kept turning as the loadie opened the door and two blokes from G Squadron came running toward us. Their job was to be liaison and mark the LS for us and bring the aircraft in. The loadie waved for two other boys to come forward.

    They, too, were G Squadron, and what they were after was the mailbag we were carrying. They grabbed it and ran hunched double into the darkness. I saw a vehicle's headlights go on and watched it drive off.

    At almost the same time the heli lifted; we did a big circuit and flew on to our refuel point.

    I turned to James and said, "Er, so that was us in Beirut then?"

    "Never mind," he said, "at least we know the flying times."

    Everybody slagged us off the next morning about our big sortie.

    "How was Terry then? Any messages for the archbishop?"

    There was a cross section of people who were feeling sorry for the hostages and those who simply didn't care.

    "What the fuck was Waite doing there anyway? He didn't have to be a brain surgeon to know that he was going to get caught."

    Then, at about four o'clock one morning, one of the scaleys on stag on the radio net came screaming in. He threw all the lights on and shouted, 'We've got a standby! It's on! They want you in the briefing room now!"

    Good news!

    We pulled some kit on and ran down to the briefing room. Simon was there to greet us with the words "It's on: we're going in at oh-eight-hundred."

    He was standing there in running shorts, flip-flops, and a big baggy T-shirt, and his glasses were on wonky from all the rushing around.

    "They've got the location.

    We're just waiting for it to be confirmed. It's coming to us now."

    Sean stood up and said, "Everybody, listen in. What we're going to do is a smash and grab. The aircrew are coming in now. As soon as we know the location, we'll have a look at it. No time to fuck around.

    If we can get on target in the helis, we're just going to go straight in.

    "I want to go through the rules of engagement before we start. Do not shoot at anybody unless he's firing at you or putting someone else's life in danger. I repeat, do not shoot unless there's somebody putting your life or someone else's life in danger. We don't want the fucking OK Corral down there, all right? just get in there, get it done, and get on the aircraft. The mission is to get the hostages. As soon as we know the location, we're going to run through a quick set of orders.

    We've been told it must be done today. Okay, sort yourselves out.

    It'll be a green option."

    There wasn't an air of excitement or tension. After so many weeks of practice we just wanted to get it done. I put on my green DPM and smock and the lightweight boots I used on the team. We wouldn't be tabbing great distances; we were only going to be on the ground for maybe half an hour. Over my smock I put my chest harness with ten magazines of 7.62. I took the G3 with a folding stock because it had more firepower than anything else. In a bag I took an MP5. If things changed while we were in the air, I had to make sure I'd catered for it.

    On my back I had a small day sack containing. two liters of hemocell plasma replacement and four giving sets. The rest was packed out with field dressings and a nylon fold-up stretcher.

    Around my neck I had my dog tags and my ID card, through which I had burned a small hole and put some string, and two Syrettes of morphine.

    The drugs were unlikely to be used; it's not good to use morphine for gunshot wounds to the chest, stomach, or head. In any event, we should be back drinking tea and ordering our duty-frees before it was needed.

    We came back over to the briefing room.

    "Still waiting," Sean said.

    By now all the air crews had arrived and I could hear rotors turning.

    The air crews came in, flying suits, pistols tucked in their harness, maps and chinographs and bits of paper and radios all over them.

    We sat there. After ten minutes somebody said, "Let's get a cup of tea."

    Sean said, "Yep, fuck off. But the only places I want You to be are in the cookhouse, the living accommodation, or here."

    The scaleys said, "Let's sort out these radios while we're waiting for the brief."

    We checked that our radios between us and the helicopter were working.

    The helicopter would be relaying everything. On the ground we'd only need comms between us personally, working one to one with an earpiece.

    We sat there and waited, cups of tea in hand. It was now six o'clock.

    The start time was eight o'clock. Sean let us go to the cookhouse. A couple of people wandered back to the living accommodation, had a wash, brushed their teeth.

    Then what we got from Sean was: "Bin it. It's canceled."

    Oh, for fuck's sake. So near and yet so far.

    We kept all the kit in the o.ps room, went for a run, watched more -tv, read the newspapers. Later that afternoon we went for another briefing.

    We were told, "It's finished. It's binnedWe don't know why, so don't ask."

    We packed all our own kit and handed the other stuff in to the stores.

    We had two days off, so the most important thing, now that the weather was hotter, was getting the wagons and having a couple of days on the beach.

    At the end of the day we weren't that particularly fussed about it. It was just another job that we'd got pretty bored practicing for.

    Soon afterward and article appeared in the Times, accusing the government of "squandering chances" to rescue the hostages. A Foreign Office spokesman was quoted as saying, "We have vigorously followed up the many approaches which have been made to us. All of these have, sadly, run into sand for a variety of reasons."