We were out on the run, in freezing cold shit weather, hunted by tireless marines, dogs and endless searchlights which appeared from every angle, cutting off every route and track we had chosen. Eventually we were surrounded and well and truly captured. Interrogation followed, with a three-day sleepless nightmare unfolding before me but one that the training teams in Wales had more than prepared me for. Before long we were back in the bar in Poole laughing about the whole deal. Cheesy had been one of my interrogators and was pretty cool in my mind after that. It was a double mindfuck well played out. My earlier training had definitely set it all up to be more of a recap than anything new. Cheesy became quite close to me after the interrogation. I’ve no idea what he had asked me but whatever had been revealed seemed to appease him in some way as to me being on the team.
Arctic Training
Now, contrary to what I ever thought I knew about the SBS, they fucking love submarines. I on the other hand hate the fucking things. We were all set to practise a range of launch and recovery methods from surfaced and submerged subs in the North Western Approaches and complete the training by boarding HMS Triton in Devonport, sail under the ice flows in the North Pole region and then conduct Arctic training.
We boxed up all our kit in the hangar at Poole and headed off to Portsmouth to undertake ‘tank’ training. I couldn’t go to sea on a sub until I had completed the tank. The facility, which was located at Fort Blockhouse, Gosport, opposite HMNB Portsmouth, consisted of a water column with a single escape chamber (as fitted to some classes of RN submarines) mounted at the base, through which students can conduct a fully representative escape cycle from 100 feet (30m), closely replicating actions which would be required if forced to abandon a distressed submarine from depth. The ‘tank’ has been a rite of passage for all RN submariners and anyone wanting to go to sea on a sub, which included us crazy motherfuckers. Training includes ascents from increasing depths, but in addition is underpinned by lectures and practical training in how to survive within a disabled submarine, operation of emergency equipment and survival techniques on reaching the surface – a package of potentially lifesaving skills that had my attention right from the very start.
I remember that first time in the lower chamber waiting to be drowned. I was undertaking the training with four others who were potential ‘sludge mariners’, all looking equally terrified. You’re hooked up to an air supply simulating the onboard life-support system whilst the chamber is slowly filled with water. It’s just as the water level reaches your neck that the panic hits, but for the sake of appearance you give a thumbs-up out the window toward the instructor as the water goes over your head and then exit the chamber and ascend the tower. Once released from the lower chamber you need to be breathing out at a steady flow to avoid your lungs exploding. You do a test in a compression chamber equal to a depth of 200ft, then to the tank. Two ascents from 30ft and one from 60ft and finally one from the submarine simulation at 100ft. On reaching the surface you had to remain standing for four minutes to ensure you hadn’t developed an air embolism, but it was comforting to know there was a decompression chamber on site.
Training for ‘sludge mariners’ as we called them was two days; my training was compressed into a day as I had to complete the BOSIET (Basic Offshore Safety Induction and Emergency Training) training as well, which was a civilian ticket allowing transit to offshore platforms. It’s basically a good dunking in a swimming pool simulating a helicopter ditch scenario at sea, followed by more sea survival training. The SBS are responsible for the security of Britain’s offshore interests so I guess I got the whole package. We enjoyed a night out in old Pompey in what became one of my favourite pubs, The Dolphin, before heading off to Guz to pick up our boat.
It was a cold wet morning in Plymouth and we arrived at the dockyard gates at Camels Head in two Ford Transit vans and were welcomed aboard by the XO who was waiting at the security checkpoint. Driving past various frigates moored in Weston Mill, I remembered my time at sea on the Gainsborough, the Berwick and the Deptford. This would be an entirely different experience. Boarding the boat was achieved by descending a long gangway onto the exposed outer casing through which watertight hatches took us through the outer casing and into the pressure hull. It was like descending into a motorised coffin. We were met by the captain and then allocated our bunks, which were all fibreglass cradles in the forward torpedo room. I was gonna be sleeping on top of a fucking live torpedo, which didn’t make for a good night’s sleep in any way, shape or form but it was my own bunk and one I didn’t have to share, unlike so many of the crew. The Triton was a T-Class nuclear hunter killer sub, carrying Spearfish torpedoes and Tomahawk cruise missiles.
Although a nuclear submarine is significantly bigger than its diesel electric predecessors, make no mistake, it felt just as claustrophobic in that nuclear cigar tube as it probably did on the old diesel boats. The passageways were very narrow, hindered by electrical boxes, damage-control gear, BA lockers and fire reels, with any headroom significantly lowered by the endless cabling and systems pipework. Submarines are without doubt man’s singular most destructive masterpiece of high-tech technology, delivered silently by stealth. The very fact that the boat itself is only limited by the endurance of the crew demonstrates the full intention of its designers. I was fascinated.
We sailed mid-afternoon to a pre-determined set of coordinates to submerge the boat. I can’t begin to describe what it is like; it’s best left to those who have earned their dolphins to describe how it feels to go under the water with a nuclear reactor burning away just metres from the open ocean. There are a lot of new sounds and motions that accompany the descent into the abyss; it’s like flying an aircraft blindfolded, as the plainsmen react to the coxswain’s orders to give a down bubble as the boat descends like an aircraft searching for the runway. Submarines glide and bank around corners, and once deep enough are relatively free from the effects of the ocean waves above, giving relief from any seasickness. I remember standing in the control room with the captain and asking how deep we would go, and he replied simply, “Very deep.” To demonstrate the depth we were to descend to, he ordered a rope to be attached to each watertight door fore and aft of the control room and made taut by way of a Spanish windlass. That rope was as tight as a solid pole but by the time we reached the ordered depth was so slack the rope was actually touching the deck. Fuck, we were deep.
The captain put the boat through many drills on that voyage, some tedious and some very interesting, simulating any and every malfunction and failure that was possible. The drills became more and more complex and ran progressively, making life aboard unpredictable and very tiring. I spent almost all of my spare time with the engineers in the control room learning everything I possibly could from the chief of the watch and all the available manuals and operating procedures for the nuclear reactor. The chief of the boat was brilliant and spent many, many hours teaching me all the background theory and knowledge that I needed in order to pass the theory exams towards a Cat 1 licence and to hopefully be able to hold a valid conversation with either Alex or Anatoly when we next met. Once I had completed the Cat 1 theory I was put through my paces as COW (chief of the watch) to complete a series of multiple breakdown and emergency drills, operating the reactor, its control systems and all the auxiliary machinery. It was incredibly draining learning all the operating procedures and SOPs (standard operating procedures) which had to be executed exactly as in the operating BRs (books of reference). It included complete failure of the plant, testing my ability to restart the entire systems from a near dead critical state. Additionally, we as a standalone team had our own drills and exercises to run which were very carefully planned into the boat’s otherwise hectic regime through the XO and approved by the captain. It made for a very busy and challenging transit to our exit point.
HMS Triton and USS Portland rendezvoused at the North Pole. It was quite an historic event by all accounts for both the US and the United Kingdom to have two
subs rendezvous at the North Pole. The team and I went over to the USS Portland to meet with Paul who had decided to meet us in theatre, so to speak, and we enjoyed a smoke and a brandy on the conning tower of the Portland, almost free from the world beneath us. Looking over at the Triton we noticed how many acoustic tiles she had lost on the voyage, probably due to the cold or scraping on the ice. The submarines remained on the surface for 24 hours during which the crews played a cricket match which was simply a ridiculous thing to witness. There were some complaints from the Yanks about the failing light which was hindering their game, but it was soon pointed out that the sun hadn’t actually set in months so the complaints were very politely overturned. The team and I left the subs and headed out onto the ice to our rendezvous point to complete my Arctic training, including an ice-hole plunge, before flying out on a US supply plane back to Brize Norton via Norway.
We were back in Poole exhausted but also exhilarated by our time on the sub and all aware and carefully watching the events unfolding in Kuwait, but it was after a regular day of fucking around down the hard with the RIBs that I was called into the adjutant’s office and given the official deployment notice from London. I would deploy with the guys and an RM detachment to Diego Garcia (DG) for insertion into Dubai. The planets had aligned and it was all set. I was gonna have a two-week holiday in Dubai with Alex and Evgeny on my ‘gap’ year and hopefully set up the team for a successful elimination of the top two on the Steering Group list: Mohammed bin Shaban Al Zidjali and Ahmed Haddad. Alex’s trips to Dubai were becoming so frequent that it was obvious to all in the doughnut that there were more than just holidays occurring. I needed to reinstate my presence within the family and then ensure Alex had no need of a return trip to the Middle East.
Before we departed Poole, the mess had arranged a regimental dinner. This was my first and only true mess dinner with all the guys, including a few guests from overseas and London. A mess dinner is a truly grand affair and is conducted with the utmost respect and detail to tradition. Best mess silver, battle honours, flags, finest linen tablecloths and napkins, bone china and fine crystal glasses. Each placement is perfectly measured as if all the regiment were royalty, and on each place a name plate with your medals and commendations copied for a souvenir of the dinner. There is always a master of ceremonies, two VIP guests, usually one member of the Royal Family (or the PM) and a guest from another service.
Mess dinners always came with beautiful menus, equally amazing food (usually five courses) and impeccable white-glove service, followed by slurred speeches and toasts to Her Majesty. There is no leaving the table, you are simply not allowed a bathroom break unless the adjutant or the VIP decides they need to go. It can get messy. Port is passed and the decanter NEVER leaves the table, and if you are caught breaking any protocol or tradition you are fined a bottle of port or a barrel of beer for the men. Once all the courses are served, you are finally allowed to ‘ease springs’ and get slaughtered. The rest I’ll leave to your imagination.
These social occasions just highlight the brotherhood and comradery of it all. The drinking and the socialising are a glue that holds and binds a team together. It allows all the team to be as one. That’s why if you’re ever fortunate enough to attend a mess dinner you’ll see some ridiculous sights. Grown men naked, dressed up as women, singing, dancing together or even fighting. It’s not because they’re gay or fucked up, it’s because they are a family of impregnable brothers closed off to outsiders. Hidden in the silliness or weirdness of this bonding is a fight that lives inside each and every one of us. It can spill out because all of the guys have a battle inside them that is like a demon which they love and tend to. They keep it in a cage, prod and annoy it, like to hear it and fight it. The demon is a loud and annoying motherfucker. But we save the demon for the loudest of fights, the ones that attract gunfire, explosions and death. We all invite that demon to those fights because we want to know we can take our demon into the depths of hell, a place we cannot go alone, in order to know we can return; it’s our own demons within that take us and bring us back from war.
The Steering Group
Chapter 7
Operation Segment
So, there I was ready to go on the ‘holiday’ and a mission which would be entirely dependent upon my reintegration and successful acceptance back into the family after such a long period of absence. Adding to this were the complexities of a lengthy, very detailed and carefully choreographed training and correspondence period which I was glad was over and which had changed me, a change I needed to be personally aware of when I met Anatoly again. To write by hand and have mail, postcards and gifts sent from countries I had never even set foot in had been a mission in itself; the teams had worked long and hard with me, and I think the support teams in Wales and all those at GCHQ were more accepting of me now that the Russian sector was getting more serious. The stage had been set, rehearsals completed and the pantomime was ready for its audience. My passport looked pretty impressive and I hadn’t even left Blighty yet. I just remember getting my No. 2 passport in the orders envelope and just smiling as I flicked through the well-travelled pages.
There was a massive emphasis from the Steering Group for me to get further under the skin of the Russian organisation and into the Middle Eastern connections, linking them to the developing Bosnian crisis, and to go deeper into their confidence. The possibilities of potential terrorist activity and involvement between the government transactions and the illegal piggy-backed transactions to support the Bosnian War were becoming more evident, especially due to the Russian support to the Serbs. The Steering Group was keen to link Russia with such illegal activities and transgressions against the UN and identify movements, travel details, new associates and what was being purchased or exchanged, particularly information exchanges, before termination of any targets. Details, details was what I was continuously hearing from London. We had some prep to do and we needed to plan the whole mission, from insertion to extraction, meticulously. Additionally, I had to re-rehearse my cover story for a two-year gap ensuring there were no holes in my story. The guys had their support systems all worked out, just a few minor adjustments. I was already very close to my team now and we were as one, sharp and focused for the mission ahead.
The whole team flew British Airways business class London to Singapore and had two nights enjoying the city before we needed to pick up our transport to Paya Lebar Air Base, from which we departed on a long flight in cargo nets aboard a C-141 Starlifter out to Diego Garcia. We arrived in the heat of the day and, as we circled the island, I caught a glimpse of the beautiful atolls that made up the archipelago. It’s like the Maldives but much more pristine and completely unspoilt because there are no civilians allowed within the whole BIOT (British Indian Ocean Territory), and most of the islands, including over 50% of DG, are a marine reserve. What an amazing staging point for ops in the Middle East. The airbase aprons were littered with B52 bombers, P-3 Orion search aircraft, C-5 Galaxy transports and a complete US aircraft carrier detachment.
We were met and driven to the base accommodation, or downtown Diego, and allocated ‘bungalows’ which we expected to be home for the next 12 to 18 months. The whole base was like a military holiday resort. Swimming pools, bars, restaurants, the Brit Club (run by the Royal Marines), the seaman’s mission for the guys off the merchant ship transports, and a beach club. Fucking paradise. It certainly didn’t feel like work. For about a month we all just settled down into the routine of it all. We supported and helped out the local detachment and naval party, including undertaking security ops around the islands. Fishing trips, BBQs and long lazy days at the beach were the norm. It has to be the most beautiful beach resort on the planet – the film The Beach doesn’t come close. We were getting totally off grid. No one knew we were here and there were no unwanted eyes to see us, and with no security issues to worry about we were utterly detached from the world and able to be ghosts when we made our insertion, without any fear of ever be
ing tracked, identified or followed in any way. It totally allowed the team to bond, relax and prepare with no distractions.
Each team member integrated into the island community seamlessly with additional roles and functions in order to remain autonomous and to keep the boredom to a minimum before our insertion. I spent quite a lot of time working at the satellite station with the commercial guys from Cable & Wireless, as well as working customs at the airport, which was only really needed once when a civilian airliner needed to make an emergency landing. It was a bizarre experience to see unfold. As soon as the aircraft landed it was marshalled to a holding area while all the windows were covered over so the passengers couldn’t see out. It was quite a security issue and I remember the passengers getting very upset when they learned they would not be allowed off the flight. They remained on that plane for five days whilst the mechanical issues were resolved, sometimes without air conditioning. It must have been terrifying, but on that airfield where everything from stealth fighters, B52 bombers, P-3 Orions, Galaxys, were unloading or loading every military appliance known to man, none of it was for public viewing.
However busy we were with either running island customs, police or simply running one of the bars, we usually ended up in some sort of trouble. My favourite pissed-up release was to go to the MT section with Cheesy and ‘rent’ (borrow without asking) an earth mover or small tank for the evening and go for a spin around the island. All the military hardware was left with the keys in, so to speak, as there was no risk of it actually going anywhere, except it’s a bit obvious you were up to no good when you woke the next day to find a tank or Humvee parked outside your bungalow full of empty beer bottles. Apart from such shenanigans due to boredom, my claim to fame for island time would have to be my success at learning the guitar and singing ‘Hotel California’ in the island wide band. I was a hit – well, to the happy off-duty crowds for just a few gigs I was the base entertainer.
The Steering Group Page 23