Personal Protection (A Spider Shepherd Short Story)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘What’s it weigh?’ Shepherd asked.

  The signaller frowned, not understanding the point of the question. ‘Just under one hundred pounds,’ he said.

  ‘Then the system’s fine,’ Shepherd said, ‘and we can make good use of it, but if that’s all it weighs and it operates semi-automatically, why do we need a five-man team of Scalies to run it?’ He saw a couple of them bridle at the use of the semi-derogatory nickname the SAS used for signallers but he was in no mood to be sparing feelings.

  ‘Because,’ Parker said, with exaggerated patience, ‘you need them available 24-7 and working the same hours that you do.’

  ‘Exactly. And we’ll only need one man for that. We work hard and he can do the same. Having too many guys lying around with nothing to do is just a recipe for problems in-country. He glanced across at the signallers. ‘So which one of you Scalies is the most experienced?’ he asked.

  ‘That would be me,’ said the one who had spoken before. ‘Mike Smith. They call me Beebop’.

  ‘And if I tell you that we will be working all the hours God sends and maybe a few more on top, Beebop, would that put you off?’

  Beebop grinned. ‘No, it’ll keep the boredom at bay.’

  ‘Good, you’ll do then,’ said Shepherd. He looked at Parker. ‘You can send the rest packing. Beebop’s all we need. ‘ Parker nodded at the remaining signallers and gestured at the door with his chin. Shepherd waited until the other four had filed out of the room before continuing. ‘Okay, so a five-man team then: me Jock, Geordie, Jimbo and Beebop.’

  ‘And I’ll be there from time to time to liaise with the Sheikh on behalf of HMG,’ Parker said.

  Jimbo’s hackles were up straightaway. ‘I’m guessing you’ll be doing your liaising from the comfort of a five-star hotel in the capital, not in a tent in the middle of the desert with us,’ he said.

  ‘I’d sooner he was in a hotel anyway,’ Shepherd said, heading off Jock, whose short fuse was legendary. ‘That way he won’t be getting under our feet. Right, let’s get on with the planning. Usual rules: if you don’t speak up at the planning stage, you don’t get to complain about anything afterwards.’

  ‘Just before you start,’ Rusty said. ‘I may be talking out of turn here but, correct me if I’m wrong, none of you guys speak Arabic, do you?’

  ‘No, we’ll be using translators,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Well, like I told you before, I speak fluent Arabic and I’ve worked extensively in the Middle East. Make me part of the team and I can run the admin for you.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘At this rate, we’re going to be up to battalion strength before we even get out there.’

  ‘But it makes sense to take Rusty,’ Jock said. ‘He’s up to speed on admin, right?’

  Rusty nodded. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said,

  ‘It’ll make the training a whole lot easier with an admin guy who can anticipate our needs,’ said Jock. ‘If the ammo is on the firing point before we arrive we can get straight into the training. If the vehicles are filled up and serviceable when we need them, that saves hours if not days out in the desert. And don’t forget the daily grind of making sure we’re properly fed and watered allows us to get on with the job in hand.’

  ‘I’m your man for that,’ agreed Rusty. ‘Plus you won’t find a better Arabic speaker.’

  As Shepherd still hesitated, Rusty added, ‘Plus if I’m on the ground in the Middle East, I’ll be in a much better position to latch on to some work for when I leave the regiment.’ He grinned. ‘You’d be doing me a big favour.’

  ‘What about the admin here?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘My oppo can cover it,’ said Rusty. ‘There’s not enough work for one, let alone two of us here anyway.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Shepherd said. ‘All agreed?’ He looked around the circle of faces. Jimbo, Jock and Geordie all nodded. ‘Then you’re in, Rusty. Welcome aboard. You can start by giving us the Intel brief.’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks,’ said Rusty. ‘There’s little to add to what Mr Parker has already told you. We’re monitoring the ruler’s cousin and his group and they have been flagged as top priority, but there’s not much sigint, electronic chatter or any other sign of immediate concern.’

  ‘Okay,’ Shepherd said, ‘Let’s get the kit sorted. Weaponry?’

  ‘Just one point on that,’ Rusty said, ‘unlike bodyguards in Western countries, it’s normal for BG’s in the Middle East to carry their weapons openly, so there’s no need for the usual worries about concealment. You can have whatever you want.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Shepherd said, ‘you’re proving your worth already. So, what do you reckon Jock?’

  The Scotsman thought about it for a moment. ‘I think we’d be best with the Heckler and Koch MP5K,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s nothing better for close quarter work. And for shorts we’ll use the Browning 9mm pistol. They use the same ammunition and I’m assuming there’ll be no shortage here?’ He looked over at Rusty and Rusty nodded. ‘Anyone disagree?’ asked Jock. There were no objections; everyone could see the sense of his suggestions.

  ‘Now, let’s talk training,’ said Shepherd. ‘Geordie?’

  ‘I’m assuming that most of the guys we’ll be training won’t be university educated,’ Geordie said. He glanced at Rusty for confirmation.

  ‘They’ll probably be illiterate,’ said Rusty. ‘But that doesn’t mean they’re unintelligent and their powers of recall may surprise you. Because they don’t write anything down, their memories are generally pretty good. They’ll speak very little English, though.’

  ‘Okay, so we’re best sticking to an uncomplicated syllabus,’ Geordie said, ‘with much of the normal intellectual content removed. We can take out the complicated large convoy drills and keep it simple, with just the three vehicle drills. We don’t need to do any visiting Heads of State planning now; we can do that later when the internal security situation has stabilized, and we can cut out the counter-bombardment and anti-sniper training completely.’

  They spent the next two days planning the training, assembling the equipment and stores they would need and loading them on to an RAF Hercules. On the evening of the second day they took off and flew due south over the waters of the Mediterranean before turning east to cross the desolate, desert wastes of Saudi Arabia. They followed the old pre-jet age route of pipelines and pumping stations before entering the target country covertly, flying at low level without navigation lights. In the distance they could see the glare from the capital’s glass and steel skyscrapers piercing the night, lit up like an Arab Las Vegas. But as they flew on into the ink black night, the vast emptiness of the desert was broken only by the occasional tiny flicker of a Bedu camp fire.

  The Hercules landed at an air strip deep in the desert and they unloaded their stores and equipment under the curious gaze of the men they would soon be training. Rusty took charge of the stores and having seen them stowed to his satisfaction he began sorting out the camp routine, planning training sessions and meals around the regular Muslim calls to prayer.

  The training base was a tented camp with rudimentary facilities and, like all desert locations, it was burning hot by day, and bitterly cold as soon as night fell. The SAS men shared two tents while the Arabs slept in a large communal marquee. There were a couple of showers, one for the Brits and the other for the Arabs, which were topped up daily by a municipal water bowser that trundled in across the desert each morning. The same vehicle also supplied the water for all of the other camp requirements.

  The Sheikh arrived early the next morning in a convoy of vehicles that raised a dust trail that could be seen from miles away. Armoured vehicles and troop trucks travelled at the head and tail of the convoy, with three armoured Mercedes limousines with blacked out windows in the centre.

  Geordie laughed out loud at the convoy. ‘All we’re missing are marching bands and fireworks. Is there no Arabic word for covert?’

  ‘He’s a Sheik,’ said Rusty. ‘
That’s how he travels.’

  ‘How do I address him, Rusty?’ Shepherd said as they watched the convoy rumbling towards them.

  ‘When you first greet him you should call him “Ya Sheikh min al Shayookh” which means “Oh Sheikh of the Sheikhs”. The Ya always precedes the greeting and makes it more respectful. After that you should call him “Ya Sheikh” unless you’re talking to him later on a private, one to one basis, then you should call him “Ya Seedee” which means “Oh Sir” But he’s Western educated, just calling him “Sir” will probably be just fine.’

  The convoy swept into the compound and after a pause to allow some of the dust cloud to dissipate, the sheikh emerged from his Mercedes, followed by his retinue. He wore traditional dress - a thobe in dazzling white cotton decorated with gold thread, and a light sandy brown bisht also with elaborate gold trimming - and his skin colour and features were unmistakably Arab, but when he spoke, his accent was pure Eton and Oxbridge. ‘Gentlemen, I bid you welcome,’ he said, ‘you are honoured guests in my country.’

  ‘Ya Sheikh min al Shayookh,’ Shepherd said, hoping he was pronouncing it right, ‘we are proud to be of service to you.’

  He introduced himself and his team and the sheikh then led them into a marquee, spread with a huge Persian carpet. The sheikh’s servant served mint tea and then withdrew leaving them to talk. ‘I walk a tightrope in my country,’ the sheikh said. ‘I try to do enough to keep happy those who, like me, want to see our country modernise and play the part in the world that our wealth and our destiny requires. But it also has to be slow enough to take with us as many as possible of the more traditional and conservative elements of our society.’ He sipped his tea. ‘It is necessarily a slow process but we are winning, though there are those such as my cousin who would seek to set the country on a different path.’ He sipped his tea again. ‘I assume that, once trained by you, the bodyguard teams will work in very close proximity to myself?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Yes, Ya Sheikh,’ he said.

  ‘And how would you select those men?’ asked the sheikh.

  ‘We would normally use a process based on the physical fitness regime of the SAS to select the most suitable candidates,’ said Shepherd. ‘Fitness and skill with weapons. They would be our main criteria.’ Jock, Geordie and Rusty nodded in agreement.

  ‘I’m sure that will often be the correct approach, but not in this case,’ the sheikh said. ‘These bodyguards will be working cheek by jowl with me, will they not? And they will be armed with a round in the breech, so they could kill me in a heartbeat.’ He waited for Shepherd’s agreement before continuing. ‘So the men you will train as my bodyguards, will be selected not on the basis of their physical fitness but purely on their loyalty to me. The men outside are all Bedu, of my own tribe. Their loyalty to me is absolute and unquestioning. These are the men you will train.’

  Shepherd could see that it was an order, not a request. But he knew that the sheikh was talking sense. Loyalty was the prime concern. He nodded in agreement. ‘I’m sure that’s the most sensible option,’ he said. ‘Sacrificing expertise for absolute loyalty makes perfect sense, but rest assured, Ya Sheikh, that after we have trained them they will all have the skills they need to protect you.’

  The sheikh smiled. ‘That is good to hear,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me exactly what will you be teaching them?’

  ‘Body protection and some explosive recognition, but the main effort will be devoted to teaching them a simplified version of a Presidential Escort group,’ said Shepherd. ‘A PEG as we call it. I’m afraid acronyms are an occupational hazard in the forces.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the sheikh said. ‘I trained at Sandhurst myself, and I’m quite used to them, but please explain how a PEG operates.’

  ‘Well, a PEG consists of three Presidential Escort Sections,’ explained Shepherd. ‘Each section is four cars and crews with any associated support. Car One, with a driver and four crew, travels in advance of you to check the routes and search the venues that you will be visiting. Car Two, with a driver and another four crew, travels immediately in front of your vehicle to protect you in case of ambush or attack. Car Three, with a driver and four more crew travels immediately behind your vehicle, ready to respond in the event of an ambush or attack. And the Team Leader travels with you in your vehicle and will protect you with his body in the event of an attack. The three sections work one day on duty, one day stand-by and one day rest.’

  The sheikh nodded, satisfied. He asked a few more questions and then began preparing to leave, but Shepherd had one further request to make. ‘Forgive me, Ya Sheikh, but we would also want you to wear a PLB - a personal location beacon - at all times so that, in the unlikely event of you ever being kidnapped or going missing, your bodyguard team will be able to locate you using their communications system.’ He saw the sheikh hesitate and reached into his pocket to pull out a tiny PLB, not much bigger than a penny. ‘As you see, it is very small and discreet,’ he glanced at the sheikh’s hand, ‘and could be fitted, for example, inside the gold signet ring you wear on your little finger. If you’re ever required to activate it, just a sharp tap on a solid object will start it transmitting.’

  The sheikh frowned for a second or two but then he nodded. ‘Very well, if you feel it is essential, give it to me and I shall have it done.’

  The sheikh and his convoy set off back to the capital a few minutes later in another cloud of dust. As soon as he had left, Shepherd and the team started work. The Bedu tribesmen were indeed all illiterate, but far from stupid. They had no problems memorising instructions and were quick learners.

  Training began at five-thirty each morning, shortly after the Bedu had finished their dawn prayers. Throughout the day the men broke off to pray together, facing Mecca. They broke off training at midday and sunset to eat. The cooking facilities consisted of two Pakistani cooks using brushwood fires to cook Bedu food in large aluminium vats. The SAS men joined the trainees, eating together from enormous aluminium platters about six feet in diameter. The ate with their right hands, either rice with vegetables or goat, and naan bread.

  The weapons training involved a lot of range work and the first session was a vivid demonstration of how much there was to do. When the first batch of trainees were issued with their weapons they immediately began firing them into the air.

  Shepherd yelled at them to cease firing. ‘You know what we say?’ Shepherd said, when he’d brought the firing to a stop. ‘When people start firing upwards, it’s time to get indoors because every round is going to obey the laws of gravity and come down again. If it hits you, it’ll kill you just as dead as if it had been aimed at you in the first place. It’s also a waste of ammunition, so that was your first and your last burst of celebration gunfire - understood?’

  Rusty translated and the men looked at the ground guiltily.

  There was more wild firing over on the range, with rounds spraying all over the hillside behind the targets. This time Shepherd let them fire away because there was no danger of them hurting anyone. Once they had emptied their weapons, Shepherd gave them the lecture they needed. ‘That was terrible,’ he said. ‘You can see that from the fact that most of the targets are untouched.’ He waited for Rusty to translate before continuing. ‘You will almost certainly be operating these weapons at close quarters in what will often be crowded areas, because where the sheikh goes a crowd will gather. So the aim is to kill the terrorist, not the innocent bystanders and that means aimed shots, double-taps, not bursts.’ Rusty translated again.

  Once the ground rules had been established, the Bedu proved quick and able pupils. Jock, Geordie and Jimbo had built a Close Quarter Battle area, dug out of the face of a sand dune and divided into sections with baulks of timber, in which they trained the bodyguards relentlessly, firing off thousands of rounds until every man could put a double tap into a target in the blinking of an eye. Jock had given up the lead role when it became clear that none of the translators could understand h
is Glaswegian accent, and instead Geordie led the sessions.

  The bodyguards also had to learn explosive recognition and body protection drills, and vehicle convoy drills. That took a great deal of patience and time to perfect because there were no tarmac roads anywhere near the training camp and the Bedu trainees were not the best drivers in the world.

  As soon as the first Presidential Escort Section was trained up, Shepherd took them up to the capital for on-site familiarisation training. Rusty went with him, since the bulk of his admin work was finished and with the systems he’d put in place the camp practically ran itself. They had developed an excellent working relationship and Shepherd found Rusty’s local knowledge and his extensive understanding of Arab culture a great help.

  After a few weeks the other two sections were also fully trained and arrived in the capital to begin their work with the sheikh. There had been no sign of the rumoured threat from the sheikh’s cousin, but Shepherd was relieved that his team was back together. After observing their trainees in action for a further couple of weeks, they were ready to complete the formal handover to the Bedu team leaders, and then return to the UK, unless the Head Shed chose to send them somewhere else.

  They were unwinding with a beer after the day’s practice drills when Jonathan Parker appeared. Jock gave a snort of disgust when he caught sight of him. ‘How is it that every time I’m relaxing with a beer in my hand, you seem to appear?’ growled the Scotsman.

  ‘Sheer good luck, old chap,’ Parker said, with a mirthless smile. He was carrying a battered leather briefcase.