by Geoff Wolak
‘All solid,’ Robby assured me. ‘And if they’re not they soon will be.’
‘Will we go forwards?’ Maggy asked.
‘No, you’ll protect the border area, which is dangerous enough for you for now. Don’t be keen to get yourselves killed, get some experience first.’
Ginger called at 1.06am, out of breath. ‘We heard the Hercules, then saw flares fired, missiles fired up at them, say … three miles northeast of where we are now – which is up a hill. Then we heard a screech, a massive blast, then two more, F18s screeching past.’
‘Where were the missiles?’
‘Directly east of where you figured the fighters making camp on the strip, say four miles east. Right in the flight path.’
‘Any movement on the strip?’
‘We saw lights, then nothing.’
‘OK, keep looking.’
In the HQ room I told the night staff, ‘Fighters were waiting for the Hercules with heat-seeking missiles, right in the flight path.’
‘Planes shot down?’
‘Don’t know, but Echo men reported flares fired and then F18s attacking ground units of fighters.’
I paced up and down, then sat in the ATC and listened to the occasional crackle on the radio. It was half an hour before radio contact was made, two Hercules still in one piece.
They landed fifteen minutes, later, and I was on the apron to greet the crews. Those crews grouped together and walked to me. As they reached me they blew out.
‘A close call,’ the first pilot reported. ‘We had contact with the American AWACS much of the way, and asked that they look for missiles. As we neared the target area the AWACS said they had ground contacts, metal objects in the sand, jeeps, and then we saw a flash so we fired flares and turned, at least three heat-seeking missiles fired.’
I told them, ‘After you turned away the F18s bombed those jeeps.’
‘We got the chatter, yes.’
A pilot noted, ‘They were expecting us...’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘For now … just call it … magic. But I’ll deal with it. Tomorrow they won’t be expecting us.’
‘Magic radar … somewhere one the ground, eh?’
‘Somewhere, yes. Get some rest, and well done, but you’ve used up one of your nine lives.’
My phone trilled. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Miller, can you talk?’
‘Mister Miller, long time no hear,’ I said as I slowly walked towards the HQ room.
‘I don’t like to call when you’re doing the soldering bit, unless it’s relevant.’
‘Got something relevant for me?’
‘You had a visit from Saudi General Mullah.’
‘Yeah, and he was not very polite.’
‘He’s on our radar.’
‘I think I’m on his radar, literally.’
‘He’s the son of a prince, 8th in line, so someone that can’t be touched.’
‘Everyone can be touched, Mister Miller,’ I coldly stated.
‘Well we’re not about to shoot the guy, but he is connected to al-Qaeda donors.’
‘And you don’t want those donors to stop donating because al-Qaeda help to justify your budgets…’
‘You know how it works.’
‘Unfortunately … yes. And how it works is … we nearly lost two Hercules aircraft tonight.’
‘I’m sure you’ll come up with another brilliant plan, but the reason for the call, we got an intercept about hostages.’
‘They’re holding Western hostages?’
‘Mostly Houthi government workers, people fixing the roadside lighting, no big fish. But I figured you may be able to use the intel.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ I quipped. ‘Can you get a fix on them?’
‘All we know is that they’re near some dirt strip, north of the main camps.’
‘In which case it’ll be no great inconvenience if I go have a look for them. How’s Carlos the Jackal?’
‘He’s doing well by all accounts.’
‘No ill will..?’
‘Some, but I’m past it, and now more careful – being transported in a crate is no fun; dehydration, pissing your pants. It is overrated.’
‘Indeed. If you want to make yourself useful, Mister Miller, look for intercepts about a big bomb in Oman aimed at officers.’
‘Whose officers?’
‘I’d assume ours, in particular … little old me. Israelis got some intercepts, but not enough detail to pinpoint the bomb.’
‘If something had come up it would have been flagged for you, but I’ll look anyhow.’
‘Thanks.’ I called GL4, getting the nice lady captain.
‘How’s the weather?’ she asked.
‘Cold at night. How’s it there?’
‘Cold in the day, cold at night, wet, grey and dark,’ she complained.
‘At least we have the sun here in the daytime. Listen, get the fat bastard and the crew looking for hostages in Yemen.’
‘There are hundreds of them! Where the hell do we start?’
‘Recent ones, Westerners, high value.’
She sighed. ‘OK, I’ll make a start, something to do for the night shift.’
‘They don’t have enough to do?’ I teased.
‘Not every day, no, but we get regular reports from the team, files to update here. Be nice to get a call from you sometimes, some detail to add to the files.’
‘I often think of you late at night.’
‘Me personally..?
‘Absolutely. When I’m a cold damp hole in the ground, you and your neat handwriting comes to mind. That and perky nipples.’
‘Don’t mention that,’ she hissed. ‘Not a mistake I’ll make again.’
‘Relax, perky nipples are fun for us guys who aren’t getting any.’
‘And Salome..?’
‘Why do people always ask about her? She’s a deadly Mossad agent, and not to be trusted.’
‘Ha.’
‘Go fill in a form with your neat handwriting, Captain Perky.’
In the morning we made ready for the arrival of the Crown Prince, the HALO teams all moaning about the delay in launching the insert, at least they were till I mentioned the trap laid for them and the heat-seeking missiles. Then they were complaining about the risks.
Before the Crown Prince arrived, two RAF Hercules landed - neither painted brown, their cabins full of support staff and technicians – in brow uniforms, the Cement Bombers loudly welcomed – then greatly worried by the missiles. An hour later two RAF Chinook landed, also not painted brown, and they also had a cabin full of technicians in brown.
Both Chinooks and Hercules had flare dispensers fitted, so at least that was one less worry, till they told me they had no flares and would need to get more. Urgent calls were made, the Omani Air Force in stock of them.
Admiral Jacobs set down in his Hawkeye, his small team running from the runway as the Hawkeye departed, no turn onto a busy apron witnessed. I saluted and welcomed him.
‘RAF here?’ he queried, a glance at the Hercules.
‘They were on exercise in Qatar, sir.’
‘That was last week,’ he puzzled.
‘Maybe they’ve been getting a tan, visiting the beaches.’
‘Another big meet in Muscat, tomorrow.’
I stopped dead. ‘Meet, sir?’ His team halted, and they could see my look.
‘Regional Security Conference.’ He could also see my look. ‘What?’
‘How many people at this conference, and who’s coming?’ I loudly asked, now worried.
‘NATO officers, regional officers, security consultants…’
My eyes widened. ‘We got intel that a group of al-Qaeda men travelled through Saudi to here a month ago and did something, got back and got well paid for their efforts, then we get intel about a bomb, then that its targeted at fucking officers!’
His face fell. ‘Shit…’
‘Make a call and cancel that fucking meet, sir!’ I took ou
t my phone and called SIS London as his team huddled, phones out. ‘It’s Wilco in Oman, emergency call. Regional Security Conference in Muscat, Oman, will be the target of a big bomb, alert everyone, and fucking cancel it or you’ll be knee deep in dead officers!’
‘Can’t cancel it, the officers will already be landing or in the air, it starts today. Security is always tight -’
‘How many Western officers?’
‘Over three hundred.’
‘Three hundred! Jesus! Pass my warning on now, MOD and Cabinet Office! You got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And next time, tell me about something like that! I’m here fighting terrorists in Oman, and there’s a fucking meeting of Western officers up the road! I want to know want cunt failed to inform me!’
I cut the call, now gravely worried – as well as fucking annoyed, the Crown Prince’s Learjet on approach. I stood with the large welcome party – Admiral Jacobs still on the phone, hoping for no rockets, the apron now hosting Hercules and Chinook, not much space for the Learjet.
The pilot managed to weave through with enough clearance and halt near us, door open and steps down as the engines whined. The Crown Prince stepped down in a smart grey suit, the Omani honour guard stamping to attention and saluting, but I walked boldly over and rudely waved the surprised Prince to one side.
‘There’s a fucking security conference in Muscat?’
‘Yes?’
‘No one told me, and for days now we’ve been getting intel about a big bomb planted a month ago – to kill officers.’ His face fell. ‘Cancel the venue, have it searched right now, or you’ll be held responsible for five hundred dead officers!’
He took out his phone and barked at his aides. They grabbed phones as well, the assembled officers here puzzling what the hell was going on.
I stepped back towards them, Clifford appearing concerned. With stern features and a loud voice, I began, ‘What no one told me … was that today or tomorrow, five hundred officers will meet in Muscat, the regional security conference, three hundred Western officers in the one fucking building.’
‘My god, I had forgotten,’ Clifford began. ‘I have friends there, dozens of them.’
‘They may be dead real soon,’ I told him. ‘That’s where the fucking bomb is, been there a month!’
Kovsky asked, worried, ‘They’ll cancel it?’
‘It may have already started,’ I told him, looks exchanged.
The Prince finally walked over, officers brought to attention and saluting, but he did not have his happy face on, neither did I. ‘They are searching the building and grounds.’
‘Have them look for something buried under it, a very big bomb.’
‘I have shouted at the security chiefs, and threatened to hang a few people if they don’t find the bomb.’
‘When does the meeting start?’
‘Opening address is tonight, 9pm, they would assemble at 8pm.’
‘So we have time. Is there an alternate venue?’
‘Yes, they are looking at that now.’
I sighed, and led him to the ATC and out onto the roof, pointing out the features and detailing what had happened here, the timeline. That done, I told him, ‘My friends in American Deep State tell me that the Saudi General, Mullah, is linked to men sending money to al-Qaeda.’
‘He is known to us, but there is little we can do with our very large neighbour next door. We walk a fine line.’
‘I worry that al-Qaeda will target your country after this is over.’
He considered that. ‘We don’t want them to sit in those camps and make plans, and talk to tribesmen here, so … we agreed to take this course of action, and to live with consequences, but it gives me an excuse to tighten security here and keep the army busy. All the various army units want to come here and get some experience.’
‘We even have your coastguard here.’
I led him down, and he spoke to the Omani major, the police, to Moran and Slider, ten minutes with the French teams, a chat to the SEALs HALO team. Driving over to the Lynx, he spoke to Colonel Mush and his team and thanked them for their assistance with the injured Lynx crew.
Back on the ATC side of the base, outside the HQ room, he took a call and his face fell; he looked like he was about to keel over. He finally turned to me. ‘The building has blown up, and collapsed, as the bomb disposal team found something. Twenty bomb disposal men killed, thirty police officers killed or wounded, catering staff killed … the building collapsed in on them.’
‘And how many officers would have survived the blast?’ I pressed.
‘None,’ finally came back.
I led him inside, the senior staff assembling, the HQ room gaining space from desks upturned and chairs removed. They could see my mood, and the face of the Prince.
I took in their expectant faces, and with my death-mask of a scowl displayed. ‘Gentlemen, an Omani bomb disposal team found the bomb in time, but … the team were all killed, twenty of them, along with thirty police officers, plus catering staff getting the building ready. The building … was totally destroyed, there … would have been no survivors if the conference had gone ahead.’
They exchanged shocked looks.
Admiral Jacobs quietly put in, ‘I was due to be there, the final day.’
‘I made a call, and a handful of my close friends and colleagues are here in Muscat,’ Colonel Clifford solemnly informed me.
I told him, ‘You would have been explaining it to their wives and children, this … this almighty fuck-up. We had the warnings, three of them, yet no one informed me of the meeting. If that meeting had gone ahead it would have been the worst loss of life of our officers since … since records began.
‘We would have suffered our worst defeat ever, and at the hands of terrorists, the men we came to fight, and we – the men in this room – would have gotten the blame. We’re here, we have the intel teams here, we got the warnings in time, yet we completely fucked it up.
‘When the colonels and generals and admirals find out about that … they’ll be screaming for blood and wanting heads, our fucking heads, all the so-called talent in this room. We have British Intel, we have the CIA, we have the best special forces operators in the world and the entire fucking US Navy offshore, and we still screwed up.
‘You may argue that we found the bomb in time, but defusing a bomb by accident with one second to go is not much of a fucking strategy to go forwards with. The senior staff will be finding out in an hour how close they came to being killed, and they’ll be relieved – for a while, soon followed by being really fucking mad about how close they came.
‘You may argue that we’re busy fighting the terrorists five hundred miles from Muscat, but the folks back home, the politicians and the senators, they don’t have a fucking map, and they see us as being in Oman, the bomb in Oman, the screw-up in Oman.’
I pointed at Hicks. ‘He was in Somalia in ’93, nowhere near the fighting and not his concern, yet people always ask: where were you … and what went wrong? It’s no good telling people that it was not your concern, because they never understand. We’re here, this is our fight, and I warned you all that they would hit soft targets, and we all missed the obvious.
‘This would have been the greatest victory the terrorists ever achieved, a rallying call to others, the greatest defeat to date for us – the Western powers and our elite special forces.
‘Nothing we’ve done so far would have been remembered, just the loss of those senior officers, the operation here seen as a screw-up, and those advising the man in the White House would advise him that boots on the ground in foreign lands is a bad idea.
‘Gentlemen, if that bomb had caught our officers it would have set us back years, and we’d be starting again – the war in the media. As I keep telling people, the only place to win a war is in the media, and we’re about to get a tonne of shit from the media unless we can spin this somehow.
‘We can at least claim to have gotte
n the intel and passed it on in time, just unfortunate that fifty Omanis were killed. Not to lessen the value of their lives, what matters is how we move forwards in the fight against people like al-Qaeda, and that means winning the war in the media so that the White House keeps sending you.
‘So as far as the outside world is concerned … we stopped the bomb in time, and – Your Highness – bomb disposal broke your orders and attempted to defuse it instead of clearing the building and waiting.’ I held my stare on him.
He lowered his head and nodded.
I continued, ‘They were brave men, yet made a mistake, and the teams here made no mistakes. That may seem self-serving, but we have to beat the terrorists, and the only way to do that is with the White House on our side, and for that we need good results in the media, so we play the media game, even if we’re less than accurate in our reporting.’
‘What do we do next?’ the Crown Prince asked, no energy in his voice.
‘I’ll insert my men, plus the Wolves, and we’ll kill every last one of the fighters, we’ll get the intel and the paperwork – the job we came to do, then we leave. Five days or so. I’ll also make sure that the other teams get some exposure for limited risks, no bitching from the media about casualties here.’
‘My boss is in Muscat, due to attend that meeting,’ Admiral Jacobs noted. He shook his head. ‘That’s going to be a hard conversation to have.’
‘My boss also,’ Liban put in. ‘I met his family a week ago.’ He shook his head. ‘Aiyah, I would have had to face them.’
‘We dodged the bullet,’ Clifford noted. ‘Regardless of how many seconds left on the clock, and right now my legs are jelly considering what might have happened.’ He faced me squarely. ‘Bombs aside, how have the teams here done – in the eyes of the media?’
‘Fine, sir, no issues, all good stories, more to come. The teams work well together, no bitching or competing.’
‘Then we keep talking up the successes to the media,’ he encouraged, heads nodding.
I straightened. ‘Everyone, take a break, have a coffee, breathe, then we get back to the war. But learn from this.’ I faced Harris. ‘If there’s a detailed post mortem, some in the MOD may want your balls cut off.’