The Steering Group

by M. J. Laurence

  Kuwait’s refusal to decrease its oil production was viewed by Iraq as an act of aggression against it, and now Iraq had employed our man Ahmed Haddad and his frontman Rashid Asadi to help arrange/finance arms from the Soviet Union through Yugoslavia to then be shipped to Syria or Lebanon, the complexities of which seemed to be interlinked with further deals made with Leon Antunovich and Otto Meiser for the safe transit of arms through Yugoslavia in return for a percentage of the arms being retained by Serbian generals. Ahmed Haddad was the central bank for all the transactions but his right-hand man Rashid Mohamed Asadi was the frontman in both the Soviet Union and in Yugoslavia. We would go across country, track Rashid and remove the threat either in Jordan or Israel but using Saudi Arabia as our springboard and first-choice escape route. Saudi was and remains a solid ally in such matters but had to deal with internal issues flying under their own radar. My task was simply to positively ID Rashid Asadi, then eliminate him utilising the support team under Spud’s command. David Crowle had got the all-clear from Saudi so we had ‘white cards’ (it’s a phrase used to indicate we had carte blanche to do what was required but/and is an actual engagement card) sanctioned by the Saudis for insertion and travel as they were just as nervous about the threat from Iraq given the recent intel regarding chemical weapons being positioned near their borders in the form of Soviet-built Scud missile assemblies, possibly from the same source.

  That took some time to sink in, two days to be exact, and I had time to think it through as we hiked it overland in Land Cruisers down to Medina, a rotten seven-hour drive, and then on to Tubuk. I don’t know what we looked like – a cross between tourists, a piss-take at looking like an Arab with one of those fucking Arab black and white checked scarfs, baseball cap, combat trousers with hidden webbing for a sidearm and other shit. I had grown a beard, which had been good advice as it helps keep the sunburn down. I guess with all the fancy dress we must have looked almost like real sand people. We all had either an HK G36 assault rifle made by Heckler & Koch or an M203, which is basically a standard M16 adapted to accept an underslung M203 40mm grenade launcher, and of course the old favourite, a Browning 9mm sidearm.

  However, ‘Guns’ had an L119A1 or CQB fitted with a sound suppressor, laser pointer/illuminators, fore grips and Trijicon ACOG scope topped with mini red dot reflex sight as backup to his main sniper rifle which was undoubtedly the widow-maker of the entire arsenal – an A3, or long range sniper rifle featuring a detachable sound suppressor, all-weather day sights with improved magnification, with an ‘aim and forget’ reputation in the right hands. Yes, you could say we were well equipped for the trip. I’ve no fucking idea why we were given rat packs but there you go; in my backpack was a NATO B ration pack which I ripped apart and reorganised with my escape pack, which consisted of 200 cigarettes, my No.2 passport, a sign in Arabic that simply stated ‘I am not an American’ and a change of clothes should it all go tits up.

  I think it’s desert sickness or something but looking at sand, rocks and brown shit all day makes you fucking miserable, tired and, yeah, want to shoot some cunt. It’s just tediously boring and very tiring on the eyes. It’s like being on Mars or something, the ultimate moonscape, rocks, rocks, more rocks and sand. I think the reason why there is so much conflict in the Middle East is due to the fact that everything is so damn difficult. There is nothing green for the most part and everyone is irritable, hot, tired and fucking thirsty, and everything gets covered in dust and sand. It’s an instant childhood reminder for me, all that sand; after playing on the beach you’d have to have your feet rubbed down with a towel by your mum, which made it like sandpaper, before you were allowed back in the car to go home. The whole experience is painful. It’s like being in hell. No one gives a fuck about the place really, it’s all about the oil – there’s nothing else out in the Middle East worth a damn, including human life – everyone is fighting over every last drop of the black stuff. However, I always took time to soak in the sights as we drove through the oil fields, just miles and miles of pipework simply disappearing into the brown burnt horizon, with the skeletal steel horse like silhouettes of the pumpjacks littering the desert like lost herds of wild steel horses endlessly bowing up and down to slurp up the oil from beneath the sand.

  Another five hours of miserable tedious desert driving and Tubuk was on the horizon. Tubuk is a weird as fuck place and stands alone in the middle of nowhere like most Arabian towns. Don’t be fooled; although it can get pretty warm in Tubuk it can also fucking snow. It’s not a bad place, and to be fair there’s even some grass and an abundance of water. There was some modern architecture and it seemed like a reasonably well-kept place, with Western hotels and shopping areas. It had a huge air base and I guess that’s because of its proximity to the nearby borders of Iraq, Israel and Jordan. So, I guess it’s what you’d call strategic. We were supposed to pick up the stench trails of our friends Rashid and possibly Ahmed here. I don’t remember being anything other than tired. I wasn’t excited or nervous, just preparing myself mentally, I guess.

  We stayed in a hotel and acted like tourists for two nights. Now, Saudi may be dry but it’s the biggest importer of Jack Daniel’s in the world. It’s all horseshit – every fucking dry country I have been to I’ve found a bar and it’s full of Arabs. The SF guys had already been and done the reconnaissance of the whole border crossing area into Jordan and the route back before we had made our transit of the Suez Canal six months earlier so they were real relaxed about the whole deal – just a clean insertion, quick delivery and invisible extraction were required. It was anticipated that our friends would be exiting Saudi and we would engage in Israel rather than Saudi as it would be less politically sensitive. The guys seemed unperturbed, that is until they saw me talking to some businessmen in the hotel lounge. I was asking if they knew where to get a cold beer. They were Arabic businessmen from over the border who happened to be waiting for a beer train – this is an organised trip out into the desert in 4x4 SUVs beyond the sight of civilisation into the dunes to consume some alcohol away from prying eyes. I agreed to go and join in the fun, jumping into a van, with Guns leaping in behind.

  I got the evil stares all the way but the whole thing was innocent enough, and after an hour we arrived at a camp amongst the dunes. It was well lit, with Western music coming from the main tent arrangement. US$100 to get in and it was well worth it. Inside there was a full BBQ at the far end, no restrictions, plenty of beef, pork sausages, anything you wanted, with the tent opening out to a collapsible pool with a few well-placed girls in bikinis. The bar ran the length of the tent, with Arabian-style seating forming booths around the entire internal perimeter. I casually parked myself at the food end of the bar and was greeted by a very American-sounding Arabic barman. It was Owen from DECAF! Fuck me, it was gonna be a good night. Guns was displaced and didn’t know whether to have a drink or shoot me. I explained who Owen was and Guns and I both lied that we were working for an oil company.

  Owen was making it rich selling illegal alcohol to the Arabs and anyone they invited along. I remember it being a fucking good night but don’t really remember getting back to the hotel or saying goodbye to Owen, although my hangover was reminder enough of the entire evening. It had been good to see Owen, and I had got hold of his address and phone number in Saudi. Spud was fucking furious about our little excursion but Guns brought it all under control by stepping in and claiming it had been his idea, which somehow made the whole thing more acceptable, especially after he revealed that Owen had told us they had closed the eastern access road to the Jordanian border. He only knew this because Owen was smuggling in alcohol from Jordan. Guns had seen Ahmed and Rashid’s names on the guest list for the two previous nights so the chance meeting had proven to be quite worthwhile in more than one respect. The other guys were pissed that Guns and I hadn’t invited them along for a night out so it was all sort of diffused into a bit of a joke.

  It was nothing special. The scene was set in a peaceful hotel
just south of Eilat Harbour in Israel, just over the Jordanian border. I had checked in for one night, with Spud in the room next to me. It hadn’t been hard to follow Rashid Asadi and Ahmed Haddad; their scent was soon picked up by utilising simple tracking methods, access into some satellite activity, telephone and internet usage, and some banking activity that UK intelligence had kindly passed on to us. We pinpointed Rashid using a credit card for a hire car from Tubuk and then the hotel into which we had booked a few days ahead of him to do our prep work. The boys camped out in the desert and Guns set himself up in the confines of the harbour, utilising a vantage point from on top of a warehouse. The coverage was excellent to the front and side of the hotel.

  Spud and I went to the restaurant in the evening and enjoyed a dinner waiting patiently as we systematically recorded all the staff movements, access and egress routes and security cameras. We were keenly aware that the other guests might be involved in the arms deals that were planned for tomorrow’s scheduled meeting with Ahmed. Everyone was photographed. The one great thing about mid- to high-end Middle Eastern hotels is the food. There is always an endless selection of hot dishes displayed in a kind of mini food court where you can walk around aimlessly trying to choose a dish. There are happy-to-help smiling chefs on hand to serve and to cook up speciality orders. There was a cold buffet that included crab and lobster, with mountains of greens and other cold meats. Of course, the dessert counter would have any woman weak-kneed at the endless opportunity to satisfy any chocolate or sweet craving they may have. Inevitably, such meals always ended up being a five or six course affair – eats and treats before business, however legitimate or sinister that turned out to be.

  We kept checking in with Guns to see where the best positions were for clear lines of sight not interfering with blast routes and casualty minimisation issues. It was about 9pm local time before we finished our dinner, and then Spud briefed Tricks and Bombs who were already in the grounds to set up the diversions and the explosives that would be initiated at kill + five seconds. Spud and I then disappeared into our hotel accommodation for the evening, but that wasn’t to sleep. We were attaching detonators to an explosive string on the camera network, recording and cabling feeds before calmly checking out at 7am after enjoying Arabian coffee and dates in the lobby. We then calmly sat waiting for our ride out of there, which was facilitated by Engines in the Toyota Land Cruiser freshly embellished with oil company logos. He even helped us with our bags, nice and calm like a well-organised business trip.

  I was on top of the warehouse now at about 10am with Guns. I had a spotter scope scouring the hotel, waiting, waiting, waiting as if time had slowed like some kind of space-time continuum. The temperature was rising now and it’s just fucking inconvenient when your target package is running late. We just had to lie calmly and wait for him to show. There was no movement now on our part, but the harbour was fully awake and alive with activity. I caught a glimpse of Guns out my left eye, absolute concentration through the scope, eyes like lasers, a bead of sweat running down from his temple and a fly desperately trying to get his attention but to no avail. I could hear the seconds ticking, no wind or breeze just the heat and the time to accompany us. Just as I was starting to feel the first drops of sweat rolling down the small of my back, a car passed the warehouse on the way to the hotel – nice ride, Mercedes, black AMG – Arab, business suit, well dressed, possibly Ahmed, couldn’t confirm, photographed.

  False alarm.

  Waiting, time ticking.

  Waiting, breathing.

  Waiting, time ticking.

  Hot, cramps.

  Concentrating.

  The heat was rising unbearably, really hot now, uncomfortable, and we just lay there under a canvas peering through our scopes through the heat haze toward the hotel foyer drop-off area. A sea of heatwaves rose up to meet me and my expectant heartbeat as we waited on our warehouse roof, patiently waiting, expectant, hungry for the kill. The radio earpiece crackled into life: “ETA 15 mins” – this meant the package was now on Route 90 south of Eilat, headed in our direction. I allowed myself a small shuffle of my legs. Guns was just stone. Then he handed me the rifle in exchange for the spotter scope. Total composure, no conversation, no eye contact, it was clear to me this was my sign-off. It was all my responsibility now. I calmly changed the sights to my settings and relocated the target area. I had a solid team behind me, nothing to worry about, all in position to take it all down if I fucked up. Don’t fuck up. For fuck’s sake, don’t fuck this up. A split second of thought about getting captured, then silence. I was zoned in now. The noise from the harbour muted, my eyes focused and my mind was totally clear. It’s just like just dipping your head under the surface of the water in a swimming pool. No sound, but perfect vision from your goggles, and no distractions.

  The Range Rover pulled up to the lobby and there he was, clear as day, Rashid Asadi, long, pristine, sharply pressed white Arab thobe and headdress, holding a soft tan leather suitcase. He had three companions – one I think I recognised and two unknowns, not Mohammed or Ahmed. Looking into his face through the scope now, I recalled the Russian hunting holiday briefly, the cars waiting to take us on holiday. A brief moment of pause. Then Rashid was out of the car, well-groomed, ready for business, perfect Arabian beard, could almost smell the barber’s aftershave, confident for a business deal but unaware of the business at hand, finger on the trigger, safety off. Permission to engage. Execute.

  Then he was gone, sharp recoil, then reload and that was that. The target area was now engulfed by the timed explosions. I was in the Land Cruiser heading for the border in under five minutes, chaos in the other direction. It was a two-part elimination: sniper shot x 3, followed immediately by controlled explosions. There was nothing left of the target and nothing to see; a clean finish and nothing to come back to. A confirmed kill. And later the photograph of the Arab emerging from the Mercedes was confirmed as Ahmed Haddad.

  We then had to rendezvous with Spud in Eilat and then change immediately into new cars – a new plan switched at the last minute by Spud for security purposes – and we were pretty much silent all the way to Haifa, a long drive. Spud had the binmen arranged but I don’t think anything came of the mess; all they had to do was clear away the equipment from a drop point in the desert, just a grid ref nothing more, and get the hire cars back. I was back home within 24 hours as if nothing had happened. I flew out of Tel Aviv airport as a tourist, and I guess all the boys were happy with the result. No goodbyes or anything emotional, just a handshake that meant so much more. It was a confidence mission for the Steering Group. I had seen it through under the watchful eyes of Spud and his SBS (Special Boat Service) support team and made the metamorphosis from intelligence agency student to active SIS (Special Intelligence Service) field operative for the Steering Group. I guess this assignment was relatively low risk, but a success nonetheless, and the first is the fucking hardest despite having Spud and his team with me all the way. I still can’t separate the picture of Rashid in Israel next to the Range Rover from the picture in my mind of him in Moscow, outside, ready to get in that car for a hunting trip with the family.

  I had late leave at home and did nothing except feel the pointlessness of civilian life. The walls in my mind just closed in an inch more on my little life before I was once again released and flew out to the USA to join the Berwick in the Caribbean with Spud and a few others from the crew of the Berwick. We were now on a Standing Naval Force Atlantic deployment, which translated into a very carefully orchestrated safe and controlled decompression for us. This included an unforgettable tour of all the islands in the Caribbean, including Antigua, Tortola, St Thomas, Cuba, Jamaica, St Lucia and of course Bermuda, with stops in mainland North and South America. It all ended with a trip to Disney World in Florida which was just the most ridiculous place to be after a Middle East op. Spud and I drank a lot and talked a lot on those long five months in the sun away from the circus and where it would take us next. It was perfec
t decompression, perfectly safe, with Spud carefully watching me process that first kill, conversations not allowed to spin out of control, just Spud’s uncompromising positivity to keep me on balance and ready to go do it all again when the time came.

  I managed to take some station leave in the States and met a girl call Vicky from Estonia. She was a fat cow really but great fun. Downtime is rare and we drove her Mustang all the way from Baltimore to Key West with a couple of friends, Wally and Buster. Shagged all the way and stayed in shit hotels and drank way too much Yank beer and took in the sights. Life was great; it was like I had it all worked out and managed to erase Israel from my mind. I spent all my wages and then some on ensuring that I had enough good regrets to try and outweigh any future mission regrets, or something like that. I needed a justification for life, and pulling that trigger with a familiar face in the crosshairs makes you see life differently – there’s no going back and you can’t tell a single soul.

  It was whilst we were deployed across the Atlantic that Operation Desert Shield commenced and then quickly developed into Desert Storm in January ’91. The ship, myself, Spud and the support team were all on standby for possible deployments, but I wasn’t fully trained at that point to go it all alone, so to speak. I remember Spud and I watching the invasion of Kuwait later in August 1991 on CNN from the safety of HMS Berwick now steaming full speed back across the Atlantic. I think I was beginning to see the picture side of the jigsaw pieces come together as the arms build-up in Iraq seemed to then gather pace and intensity as intel from the Steering Group went viral. However, it wouldn’t be until the Iraq War in 2003 with the invasion of Iraq by a United States-led coalition that overthrew the government of Saddam Hussein that the sheer size of what I had become involved in trying to stop in the Middle East became apparent, not to mention the transfer of arms to Serbia prior to the Bosnian War between 1992 and 1995; it was all much bigger than any individual could have possibly identified at the time.