Thursday, 28th July 2011

Kisweh

10 km from Damascus

Syria

Staff Sergeant Victor Bryson was tucked into an observation post (OP) on the edge of woodland. He’d been updated earlier via a brief, timed satellite link about a convoy of Toyota 4×4 pick-up trucks carrying armed fighters. His job involved an activity much closer to his location, and he expected to be long gone by the time the rebels arrived.

Four hundred metres away, in a massive walled compound, stood a large, luxurious house, complete with the trappings of a palace: a tennis court, a swimming pool, and a multi-vehicle garage. 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 mansion.

Victor had three jobs. Observation was the primary task, so that using his suppressed 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 if the primary target survived the initial attack and tried to escape in a vehicle. If performing cut-off duties, Victor would initially use a grenade to stop a vehicle before firing on the occupants. It was important in this situation because this was the route away from the compound, which was only three kilometres from the airport. The third job for the special forces soldier was to ensure that the other team members were able to get away from the palace on completion of the objective. When Victor saw a particular upstairs room light being switched on and off three times, he would ensure that only his three associates left the palace.

A helicopter was scheduled to land at a remote location 5 kilometres west of the international airport, but would remain at the exfiltration point only briefly. The aircraft would land at 20.00hrs, and leave without the men if there were no show by 20.15hrs. The window for the rendezvous to remove the team from the scene was narrow, but had been agreed by the team and the aircrew.

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 quickly, 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 aimed his rifle slightly to the right and watched his three colleagues sprint the short distance from the perimeter wall to the side of the mansion. One of them moved forward along the east side of the house with stealth and gained access to a door. He disappeared inside, rapidly followed by the other two.

Captain ‘Mac’ MacKenzie, an experienced thirty-year-old, would be 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 Corporal (Cpl) Pete Lennard and Cpl Richie Tiernan, both in their mid-twenties and on their third covert mission with the Special Air Service (SAS). The three men had gained entry to the compound and the house without engaging any 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 in pairs ran forward to assemble at the front gate. Simultaneously, a military truck rolled quietly past Victor’s location without lights and stopped briefly at the gates of the presidential house and compound. It departed when the sentries were aboard, and when the vehicle passed Victor’s hiding place again, the engine revs were low, and no lights were showing.

“What the fuck—” Victor’s whispered expletive stopped short as he parted his lips and listened for any recognisable sounds. He knew that at this distance, he wouldn’t hear the sound of his team’s suppressed weapons within the building, but he might discern something out of the ordinary.

He saw one man run along the front of the building, and then a dark-coloured vehicle creep forward from the west side of the building, which is where he knew a spacious garage was situated. His next thought was that the team had decided to head for the exfiltration rendezvous in style, but no, surely Mac wouldn’t allow it.

The vehicle was a 4×4 pickup that moved slowly along the inside of the compound wall, with no lights showing. It stopped briefly at the gate, and three men ran the short distance from the front of the house to board the vehicle. They were not Victor’s colleagues. Like the military truck before it, the 4×4 drove quietly away from the compound, still without lights, 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, draped across his front, and he wore a sidearm in a holster.

Victor squinted as he stared at the man, but he failed to recognise him, and his head buzzed with possible scenarios. As confusion gave way to realisation, the night filled with flashes of light and the sound of 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 into which debris was still splashing.

“Fuck—no,” Victor murmured under his breath, his eyes wide open, his body trembling with rage, as he fought the urge to get up and empty his magazine into the nearby vehicle. Training and good sense prevented him from making such a rash move. At best, he would kill all aboard the 4×4, but if he didn’t, he would draw attention to his existence.

The armed passenger said, “Job done, guys,” betraying an American accent from the Deep South. As he jumped into the vehicle again, he said, “Hit it, Canon.”

The surviving member of the SAS team panted rapidly, his body shook, and his fingers gripped his weapon tightly as blind anger continued to threaten a loss of control. “Keep it together … deal with it.” 

Nobody would be walking away from the devastation caused by the explosions.

“Fucking Canon … and a Texan bastard,” Victor whispered. There had been four men in the vehicle, and their leader had unwittingly offered Victor clues to investigate. “You’re all dead men … and so is every other bastard who’s involved.”

Five minutes after the destruction of the house, and having seen no movement, Victor broke radio silence to contact the team, but his whispered calls went unanswered. He had to accept that they had been killed, so following the procedure for such an outcome, he set off, jogging on a bearing to the pick-up point 10 kilometres across undulating, arid countryside. As the rest of the team had done, he wore minimal webbing to carry ammunition, a simple first-aid kit, water, and basic dry rations in case of an emergency. His conscience was heavy, but he breathed easily, carrying his rifle across his chest as he progressed. Using no more than the light from the moon, 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 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 his life should end 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, and also the loss of Pete and Richie, two young men who’d made the grade to wear the winged dagger cap badge, but had died on only their third mission abroad.

As the minutes ticked away, Victor considered the name he’d heard earlier. He recalled a man called Canon in ‘The Regiment’ as the SAS was known to its members. Sgt Billy ‘Canon’ Ball had been a good man on many missions but had been ousted from the unit six months earlier for bringing the name of the SAS into disrepute. He was a muscular man of average height, and after starting a brawl in a bar, he 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. Could it have been the same Canon, now working for a rogue outfit of mercenaries?

Victor had difficulty trying to focus because his thoughts continually returned to how the ground had shaken under him when the huge building and wall disappeared amidst smoke and flame. The mission had been straightforward, so how could it have ended so tragically?

One thing was certain in Victor’s mind. The ambush wasn’t a spontaneous act, so someone had orchestrated it, and whoever was involved, at whatever level, would pay the ultimate price.

Before fleeing his country, Bashar al-Assad II, Syria’s dictatorial president, was reported to have secretly evacuated his royal palace with his family and a select handful of bodyguards to live in a mansion a few kilometres from the capital. The Arab Spring, as the regional rebellion was named, had arrived in his country, and he’d recognised his long reign of terror was over. His greatest support since his own father’s death had been from Moscow, so it was a foregone conclusion that he’d escape to Russia for protection when things looked bad for him.

The SAS team were to be dropped the night before their attack, to remain in the woodland location, observe for twelve hours and then go in and eliminate the dictator before he could flee the country in a chartered jet, avoiding any subsequent trial for the genocide of thousands of his own people.

Two aspects of the mission that none of the team liked were the short notice and the need to rely on local intel about the target and its location. The men had performed a rehearsal under the cover of darkness but could not confirm the target’s presence with a sighting. They only knew he apparently slept upstairs in a central room, keeping away from any corners of the building.

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 mystery men in the pick-up taken from the garage.

Was the Syrian president and his family ever in the building, or was this all part of some deeper deception plan?

The lives of an SAS team were a high price as a decoy, but it seemed that someone had condoned it. Before leaving the UK, Captain MacKenzie had suggested that all four of them enter the compound. It was only when they were on the ground and performed a recce that the men discussed the scenario again. Mac revised his earlier decision and asked Victor to take on the external support and observation role. The change of plan had saved Victor’s life, and crucially, had left a witness.

As tough as the man was, it was heartbreaking to see Mac, Pete, and Richie killed that way—a fine officer, and two young men with bright futures ahead of them in The Regiment. Each time Victor tried to marshal his thoughts, the loss of the team came to the surface.

“Those mercenary bastards are gonna beg me to kill them.” Victor was known for not allowing his emotions to show during missions, but the murder of his colleagues continued to gnaw at him.

The sound of a plane taking off caught his attention, and he turned toward the airport only a couple of kilometres away. Given the proximity of the navigation lights, it was a small aircraft, possibly a private jet. It was the first aircraft he’d seen for nearly two hours.

He 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 concern regarding the mission, although Victor had broken that rule immediately after the explosions. The brief message earlier, via satellite, before the assault had been agreed to keep the team abreast of the rebels’ advance, because they would likely capture, torture and kill anyone they found. 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 15-minute window, the helicopter would depart, leaving the men to their own devices to get out of the country. The operation should have been straightforward.

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. Turkey was over 400 km north, so while a valid option, not ideal 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, looked around, and set off.

* * *

Saturday 30th July

Az Zarqa, near Amman

Jordan

To reach the border had taken two long night marches, lying up under cover during daylight hours. On several occasions during the day, Victor had seen Syrian mobile patrols, and he was confident they were after him. Whether or not the president had been terminated, someone had tried to kill him and had blown up the secret hideaway.

On the Jordanian side of the border, Victor crept into a backyard and relieved the washing line of a white dish-dash robe and a red-and-white dogtooth-design shemagh. There was no agal to keep the shemagh in place, but Victor had often seen them worn without one. He used a short piece of knotted rope. Confident that the household was sleeping soundly, he gained entry and wrapped some cheese and fruit in a tea towel, ‘to go’.

Outside again, and in the shadows, he rapidly removed his combat kit and put his webbed pouches with integral holster back on. His feet were blistered after the long trek, even though he’d massaged them when he’d stopped to rest. Apart from being slightly uncomfortable now, his desert boots would be hidden from view, like his other equipment, under the dish-dash. After briefly massaging his feet one last time, he put the boots back on. Already concealed under the long Middle Eastern robe was his rifle, slung from his shoulder, but easy to release if needed. He ate the cheese, two oranges and an apple as he set off during the next stage of his trip. His light desert combat uniform was rolled into a bundle, ready for disposal in the next reasonably full rubbish container.

It was 06.00hrs when he arrived on the outskirts of Az Zarqa. In this part of town, several foreign diplomats, military advisors and embassy staff lived. A brief visit two years earlier gave Victor confidence in his surroundings. He paused across the road from a large house and studied the garage. Five minutes later, he was inside and comfortable in the back of a white Toyota Land Cruiser.

Victor woke from his catnap 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 ‘Jinx’ Jenkins struggled to rapidly 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 talking of the brown stuff, I’m in it deep and need help. Is there somewhere I can get a bite to eat, and I’ll explain?”

“Hang on, mate. I know just the place.” Jinx, sufficiently reassured, 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 remained crouched behind the front seats, briefly explaining his situation 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, mate. That sounds like it was a suicide mission for your team, but the participants weren’t told. There’s a rotten apple somewhere in the system.”

“I know this is a big ask, 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 is going on?”

“I do, but covertly. I was hoping you could help me find a way home, but not through 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 on the BBC World Service.

‘… and in the Middle East, the presidential palace in Damascus has been overrun by rebels. There are unconfirmed reports that President Bashar al-Assad, the Second … Syria’s president, was not in the building. It’s believed he was living in a remote, non-governmental mansion guarded by a trusted team of elite soldiers. There are also unconfirmed reports that rebels destroyed that building, but the president had already been flown to Moscow late last night. He had been secretly accommodated at the local airport overnight, and he will not be the first Middle Eastern dictator to seek asylum in a much colder climate. We’ll bring you more as soon as ….’

Jinx turned to see his friend glaring at the radio after he turned it off.

Victor said, “I bet that was his fucking private plane I saw taking off.”

Jinx was lost for words as the brief news report confirmed Victor’s earlier theories. He parked side-on outside the garage, then opened 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 visits the garage.” Jinx paused with his hand on the garage door. “She thinks all these people are suicidal on the road, so she won’t drive here. 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?”

“As I said earlier, 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.”

“Got it. I’ll see you later.” He dropped and locked the garage door.

In the evening, when Jinx parked the car in the garage, he opened the tailgate.

“I’ve brought you a few supplies to help you get underway.” He lifted a camouflaged Bergen. “In here are a new combat smock, a Norwegian (Norgie) jumper, a woolly hat, a pair of Chinos, a decent pair of boots, socks, skiddies, and foot powder. I’ve also brought you some nosh and a couple of beers. I’ll sneak out with a good quality sleeping bag (maggot) later, so you can have a decent kip before the next phase of your journey.”

Victor nodded to his friend. “Any luck on transport, mate?”

“It’s all sorted. I’ve entered a bogus appointment in my diary for tomorrow so I can take you to the coast.”

“You’re a star, Jinx.”

“I wish I could do more, and I don’t like the idea of you going solo with retribution in mind.”

“I’d rather do it alone, mate, but as in all things, I’ll adapt as necessary.”

***