Immediate Action

by Andy McNab

  That wasn't a shoot-to-kill policy; that was reacting to a perceived threat and saving your own life and the lives of those around you that you had a responsibility for.

  My roommate Steve, also an embassy and Falklands veteran, was originally from the airborne Ordnance Corps, heavy drop, which were based in Aldershot.

  Married with a couple of kids, he was a local lad from Gloucester; the first words I'd hear every morning were, "All roight, boy?" Steve was slightly shorter than I was but much stockier, and he played rugby for the army; as a result, all his front teeth were false. He was one of the original bone shirt people, one of the four drug smugglers who'd come back with us on the British Caledonian flight from Hong Kong. He shared the passion of most of the troop for watching Blockbusters, but had one annoying habit that was all his own. Every time he saw an aircraft he'd say, "See that aircraft? The distance we're oing to walk today, he's just traveled with one sip of his gin and tonic."

  Clive was a singley who'd been a Royal Engineer and was another old embassy and Falklands hand. He kept himself to himself but was very much into cycling and running; he had all the cycling stuff and bone T-shirts.

  Clive's nightly ritual was a pint of beer and a cigar. He was an excellent long-distance runner despite his height; he looked too tall and gangly to move fast. It was very annoying; he looked like this uncoordinated mess on the run, but - he really motored. One New Year's Day Bulmer's had organized a ten-kilometer race. Clive and I turned up with a couple of runners from A Squadron, and I thought it would be really good to beat him, just for once. I'd been doing a lot of training and was feeling really fit; off we went, and for the whole race there was no sign of Clive. I was chuffed to bits that he was behind me and was looking forward to stagging him when he got in.

  Then, as I was running down the hill toward the finish line, I spotted him. He was on his bike all wrapped up in his Belly Hansen, having finished the race and already on his way home.

  Ken was the staff sergeant, the troop head boy, and had been away during Malaya. A southerner from the Intelligence Corps, he was a fellow jap-slapper of Mick's. The two of them had known each other for donkey's years, even when Mick was a civvy; when Mick was shivering in his council flat in Wales after everything had gone bust, half a ton of coal had turned up. Mick had run outside shouting, "No, no, no, don't deliver. I can't afford this!" but the driver had shown him the chit, paid for by a "Ken" in Hereford. It was something that Mick had never forgotten, and he still talked about Ken as the one who had saved him.

  Ken was an excellent troop head shed, always very honest about his capabilities; rather than bluff he wouldn't be afraid to say, "I don't know about this.

  Anybody got any ideas?" He was tall and toothless, having lost his front teeth while jap-slapping for Britain; you'd know when Ken was pissed because his jaw would sag and his falsies would clatter out onto the table. He talked very rapidly and aggressively; somebody would ask,

  "Hey, Ken, give us that newspaper a minute," and he'd say, "Fight you for it." Joking but meaning it. Sade was doing well in the charts and he drooled over her. We used to slag her down all the time and call her Sadie, then wonder why we were walking around with black eyes.

  Ken had brought his dog over with him, a big Doberman. When he went away on operations, he'd say, "Don't overfeed this dog. It gets one scoff a day and that's it." Tiny -used to get trays of sausages and feed this dog stupid until it couldn't move; it would be splayed out all over the place. It would get so exhausted with the amount of food it had eaten that we'd get it into Ken's bed and tuck it in. Ken would come back to find the dog fast asleep in his bed, farting and severely overweight.

  Fraser was the troop sergeant and very experienced, which was good when it came to working with other organizations-communicating with helicopters, for example, if they were going to come in. It was his job to have the overall picture. He had been part of the training wing when I did my first Selection; then he went back to the squadron and I caught sight of him again in Malaya.

  Everybody was after stitching Fraser up. Like Steve, he had been in heavy drop before transferring to Para Reg, and the easiest way to spark him up was to say, "Fraser, when you were in the Ordnance Corps.

  It started with putting a kipper in the little portable radiator in his room so it was stinking for weeks, and got worse from there. He was a big-time boxer with a broken nose and cauliflower ears, spending hours in the gym punching the bag. He used to love watching bouts on the TV.

  A fight that he particularly wanted to watch was coming up one evening, so to stop himself getting stitched up, he locked himself in his room with a sixpack of beer and a pile of sandwiches. Poor bloke, he spent the whole fight wondering why the channels kept hopping. He got more and more irate. He didn't cotton on to the fact that all the television sets in the building were exactly the same, and each one had an identical remote control. We'd spent the evening outside his window, flicking the channel button and tittering like schoolgirls.

  Purple in the face, he was so angry, Fraser deciaea to salvage a bit of the evening by going out for a pint. He went to have a shave, only to discover that as he was lathering his face with his shaving stick, a prawn gradually materialized. Somebody had cut the stick in half, grooved out the center, inserted an old prawn, and then soaped it all up again. Fraser stormed around the compound throwing a major eppie scoppie, while even the innocent hid behind locked doors, giggling.

  "Solid Shot" was there from the Signals. He came from somewhere up north and annoyed the hell out of all of us, being a big old boy and one of life's natural good lookers. He had all his own teeth, and they were white; he did the weights and a bit of running, and his only physical imperfection was that he sometimes found it hard to walk because there were so many women hanging around his feet. He had also got in on the Selection before me. He was very experienced, having done the Falklands and been over the water before; he was also very funny and confident.

  His nickname had come about because his favorite weapon was a Remington pump-action shotgun. There were different kinds of ammunition that we used for shotguns, including a round called solid shot-basically a big lump of lead. He was always running around with his favorite Remington pump action, so he came to be called Solid Shot.

  But really it had a secret meaning; it also meant that he was thick as shit. And he must have been because he never switched on to it.

  Eddie's motto was: All work and no play keeps you alive to fight another day. He was ex-Para Reg, ex-embassy, ex-Falklands. He shared a room with Al Slater, who was still as I remembered him from the jungle: very straightforward and very serious about everything. His nickname was Mr.

  Grumpy, and somebody managed to find the appropriate Mister Men sticker to put on his door.

  Jock and Johnny Two-Combs shared a room. Somebody had had a notice printed and put up on their door that said: "Johnny and jock's Hairdressing SaloonMince and a rinse, L2.50-Johnny's famous blue rinse, kl.50," and so on, complete with two bone hair models from the sixties with styles like Engelbert Humperdinck.

  Boredom's a terrible thing.

  That was the troop, apart from the Boss. His job was not so much on the ground but liaison between us and all the other organizations that we dealt with. He left quite early during the tour; we didn't know if it was a new job, promotion, or the number of times he found prawns in his shaving kit.

  A job came up. We took mugs of tea with us to the briefing room, Nosh still honking because Solid Shot had solved the conundrum on Blockbusters. We sat on a mixture of plastic chairs and armchairs; on the walls were maps of the province, close-up maps of different areas, blackboards, Magic Marker boards.

  Nosh and Eno filled the place with smoke. Ken walked in with the Boss, carrying armfuls of paper.

  "It looks like there's a job on," Ken said. "It's going to be a hit, just outside of Portadown, on a U.D.R major.

  As far as he's concerned, the players are on to him and are going to take him do
wn. From what he says he's seen, its going to be on the way to work. TCG [Tasking and Coordination Group] obviously want to confirm this; he's being debriefed at the moment to confirm what he' seen and to make sure he isn't just flapping.

  "If the job goes down, what we're looking at is having someone in the car with him. Al, do you fancy it? Have a think about it; it's up to you."

  We all looked at Mr. Grumpy. Without batting an eyelid, he said,

  "Yeah, that's all right, I'll do that."

  "We're going to be covering him from midnight tomorrow. What I want you to do is get down there tomorrow morning, have a look around, get yourself familiarized, and be back here for two o'clock. Liaise with Fraser; he'll sort it out, stagger you down there.

  Hopefully by two o'clock we'll have some more information and a set of orders before we shoot off."

  Back in our room, Steve said, in a serious voice, "As soon as the boys start hosing thlose two down, Al and his mate are going to be severely in the shit. We'll have to be right up Grumpy's arse on this one."

  Ken, Fraser, and the Boss would be going through the options.

  There were many considerations when providing protection. To start with, what sort of threat was it?

  Did it mean that somebody was going to blow the boy up? Did it mean a close-quarter shoot? Were they likely to threaten his family?

  Then how much cover did the man want? Did he want to cut himself totally away from everyday life, or did he want to carry on as if nothing had happened' A lot of people choose just to carry on; they might have kids and want them to have a normal existence.

  Fraser got us together the next morning, and we left ',n pairs, driving around the area. We drove past the U.D.R man's house, then took the route that he normally took to work, which was downhill from the house, down what was known as the old Dungannon road. There wasn't that much to look at; we just oriented ourselves to the area, turning down all the roads. Fraser had it staggered so there weren't loads of cars screaming around the place at the same time.

  At two o'clock we arrived for another briefing. Ken and the Boss came in, straight from TCG in Armagh. en sai, "Right, it's on. The boy's no hyper dickhead; he's switched on, and he knows what he's seen. As far as TCG is concerned, the boys are going to hit him on the way to work, just as he reckoned.

  So the plan still stands. Al, you still on for it?"

  "No problems."

  "Good news. Okay, we're going to insert at about four o'clock in the morning. Al's going to go to the house and sort all the shit out for the drive to work.

  We're going to have three groups. I want one group that's going to be on the roundabout on the old Dungannon road.

  They'll be dropped off by a two-man car team, who'll then stay out of the area backing up the two blokes on the roundabout. Your names are up on the board with the vehicles.

  "Then there's going to be two cars to back Al in the Saab.

  There's going to be my car, the Lancia, call sign Bravo, and we'll take the maroon Renault, call sign India. My car will be three up, including me; the Renaults going to be four up."

  As I looked on the board, I could see my name down as the driver of the Renault.

  "Bravo and India are going to move down to the area, and I'll drop off Al. Al will go into the house and stay.

  We'll then support Al from the outside. About an hour later I want the ground call sign to insert. I reckon that the hit's got to be around that area anyway, because once he gets on the old Dungannon road it's quite a good run all the way to work. The dodgy area is the slow patch where there's all the junctions going up to Henderson's."

  I knew the roundabout he was talking about. It was where the Mi met the Coalisland and Dungannon road.

  The U.D.R major was always running down the old road, which was smaller and with less traffic. Everything converged at this roundabout. From there it became a faster road.

  "Ground call sign, you will be in uniform. Your job is to give us early warning of anything that you see. If we're really going for it, your job is to get out on the road and act as a cutoff. India, when Al starts moving in the Saab, I want you to back him. Al will give a running commentary of what's going on. I'm going to be floating around.

  I just want you to stay static, backing up Al all the time.

  If there's any hijackings in the area, hopefully we'll know straightaway, and we should get a list of recent stolen vehicles as well."

  It would have to be a van or truck, so they could get in a good fire position to take out the Saab- Even if they were looking at ramming it, the Saab was a big heavy machine, so they'd need something really big.

  "It's a matter of keeping flexible," Ken said, "and keeping on Al's arse, making sure you back him up."

  If nothing happened on the way down, we'd then cover him on the way back. All he was going to do was drive the route to work, turn around, and drive back to the house.

  "Any questions?"

  Eno said, "Do we know how many players are involved?

  "Not a clue. It's got to be at least three men-two firing, one driving.

  It might be a hit as soon as he comes out of the house, but it's our job to make sure that doesn't happen." He turned to Al and said, "If you want to try some body armor on, it's up to you, mate.

  You can wear it or not. Make sure the U.D.R boy's got so much body armor on the fucker can only just about get in the car!"

  Al said, "I'll try it on and see what it looks like. If it looks shit, I'll take it off."

  "I want you with comms, and I want you to give us a running commentary as you're going along the road.

  You can hear what we're doing, so if we say to get out of the way, just fuck off out of it and we'll take over. If the van comes up in front of you, act on it. just ram the fucker," and we'll be straight in and climbing aboard them."

  That was it; there wasn't much else to say. "There'll be no move before two o'clock."

  This was where, as much as the training and the skills that we'd learned, the relationships between people came into the equation: Al had to have total and utter trust in the people who were covering him.

  He also had to make sure the U.D.R man was calm and feeling secure because he might have to control him if the shit hit the fan. Al's job was twice as hard as ours; not only would he have to react to the incident, but he'd also have to get to grips with the man he was protecting.

  During all the planning and preparation, the head shed and the troop worked out together the way we could best protect, these two. We worked through our "actions on" for all the possibilities-whether they were going to come and ram the car or come up behind it, overtake, and then start shooting at him as they drove past and got in front of him; whether they were going to force his vehicle to stop and then shoot him or wait until he got out of his house and into the car, or vice versa.

  Ken said to Al, "When you come out of the house, we'll have you covered, so don't worry about that. Let him ' do the normal checks that he does under the vehicle, get in, and away you go."

  "No drama."

  We all knew that the highest risk times of any hit were (a) when coming out of the house, (b) driving to and from work, and (c) coming out of the place of work.

  Terrorists studied routines. There was nearly always a time frame, say, between eight or eight-thirty, when the target would go out, kiss his wife and kids good-bye, get in the car, and go; people always drov set routes if they were unaware. At the other end of the day they'd always leave work at the same time. A professional terrorist would always go for the most predictable timings.

  That's when kidnappers, struck, too.

  Al tried on some of the different body armors, but he just didn't look right. He decided to bin it. It was a personal choice. Had he wanted to look like the Michelin man, that would have been his prerogative; he was the boy who was going to get shot at.

  At two o'clock we were ready to go. All the weapons were loaded and in the cars. I took an HK53, the 5.56 assault rifle
. Most people were taking 9MM MP5s or 5.56 to give a combination of concealment in the car and a good amount of firepower.

  The other weapon I had was the car itself; I could use it to ram.

  Fraser was going to be running the desk with a couple of the scaleys. We had the two boys in uniform, who had M16s. The cars were loaded up with flasks, pies, and sandwiches; it looked like it could b'e a long night and a long day.

  We sat in the briefing room again, our 9MM pistols in holsters on our belts. We had magazines strapped all around us, we had body comms, and each man had a pair of thin leather gloves and industrial glasses, so that if the windows went in, at least we could still drive and protect ourselves.

  Ken said, "Before we go, any questions? No right, let's crack on and get it done."

  I got into the driver's seat and put my HK53 across the bottom of the footwell with the muzzle sticking UP by the gearstick. I checked the comms: "Bravo, India, check?"

  "India, okay."

  From the ground call sign dropoff car we heard: "Delta, check?"

  "Bravo, okay."

  We drove along and kept Fraser informed of our location. We were the first ones in position; I drove past the house and got on the net:

  "Bravo, India, that's the house clear."

  Ken came on the net: "Bravo, roger that, going for the drop now."

  The car pulled up, and Al got out casually and walked to the door.

  The door opened and he walked in. As the car drove away, Ken said:

  "Bravo, that's dropoff complete.

  "Delta, roger that."

  "India, roger."

  It was Just a matter of hanging around now. After about five minutes we heard Al doing his radio check on his personal comms. We were ready to go.

  We were parked up in a little alleyway about three hundred meters from the house, drinking coffee and eating biscuits. There was a pocket scope NVA (night viewing) in the car and occasionally somebody would pick it up and have a look around.

  Everything was fine.

  We sat in darkness.