by Shaun Clarke
The siege had commenced.
1
The wind was howling over the Brecon Beacons as Staff-Sergeant Bill Harrison, huddled behind a rock for protection, surveyed the vast slopes of the Pen-y-Fan to find his four-man CRW (Counter Revolutionary Warfare) team. The men, he knew, would be feeling disgruntled because the tab he was making them undergo they had all endured before, during Initial Selection and Training, with all the horrors of Sickeners One and Two. The four men now climbing the steep, rocky slope were experienced SAS troopers who had fought in Aden, Oman or Belfast, and none required a second dose of the ‘Long Drag’ or ‘Fan Dance’ across this most inhospitable of mountain ranges – or, at least, would not have done so had they been asked to do it while carrying an Ingram 9mm sub-machine-gun and a 55lb bergen rucksack.
This time, however, there was a slight but diabolical turning of the screw: they were making the same arduous tab while wearing heavy CRW body armour, including ceramic plates front and back, and while breathing through a respirator mask fixed to a ballistic helmet. In short, they were being forced to endure hell on earth.
That was only part of it. Staff-Sergeant Harrison had not only ordered them to climb to the summit of the mountain, but had then informed them that he would be giving them a thirty-minute head start, then following them to simulate pursuit by a real enemy. Thus, even as they would be fighting against exhaustion caused by the heavy body armour and murderous climb, as well as possible claustrophobia or disorientation caused by the cumbersome helmet and respirator mask, they would be compelled to concentrate on keeping out of Harrison’s sub-machine-gun sight. This would place an even greater strain on them.
In fact, they had already failed in their task. Even though wearing his own body armour and head gear to ensure that his men would not feel he was asking them to do what he could not, the tough-as-nails staff-sergeant had taken another route up the mountain – to ensure that he was unseen by his men while they were always in his sight – and circled around them to take up this position above them, just below the rocky, wind-blown summit. The men would be broken up when they found him blocking their path, emulating an enemy sniper; but that, also, was part of this lesson in endurance.
Harrison had been a member of the ‘Keeni Meeni’ assassination squads in Aden in 1966, survived the incredible SAS hike up the mighty Jebel Dhofar in Oman in 1971 and, in 1976, spent days on end in freezing observation posts in the ‘bandit country’ of south Armagh, sweating it out, waiting to ambush IRA terrorists. For this reason he knew all about endurance and insisted that his men be prepared for it.
They had already lost this one, but they were still good men. Hiding behind his rock, one hand resting lightly on his PRC 319 radio, the other on his Ingram 9mm sub-machine-gun, which was loaded with live ammunition, Harrison watched the men advancing arduously up the slope and recalled how their work in Northern Ireland and led to their induction into the CRW.
All four men – Lance-Corporal Philip McArthur and Troopers Danny ‘Baby Face’ Porter, Alan Pyle and Ken Passmore – had been shipped in civilian clothing to Belfast immediately after being ‘badged’ in 1976. There they had specialized in intelligence gathering and ambush operations, working both in unmarked ‘Q’ cars in the streets and in OPs on the green hills of Armagh. By the end of their tour of duty in Northern Ireland, they were widely experienced in intelligence operations and therefore ideal material for special training in the ‘killing house’ in Hereford and subsequent transfer from their individual squadrons – B and D – to the Counter Revolutionary Warfare Wing.
Once in the CRW Wing, they were given more Close Quarters Battle (CQB) training in the ‘killing house’, then sent for various periods to train even more intensively with West Germany’s CSG-9 border police and France’s Groupement d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale (GIGN) paramilitary counter-terrorist units, the Bizondere Bystand Eenheid (BBE) counter-terrorist arm of the Royal Netherlands Marine Corps, Italy’s Nucleo Operativo di Sicurezza (NOCS), Spain’s Grupo Especial de Operaciones (GEO), and the US 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, created specially for CRW operations.
The overseas postings had been designed to place a special emphasis on physical training and marksmanship. These included advanced, highly dangerous practice at indoor firing with live ammunition in other kinds of ‘killing houses’, such as mock-up aircraft, ships and public streets; abseiling and parachuting onto rooftops, parked aircraft and boats; hostage rescue in a variety of circumstances (which had the cross-over element of training in skiing, mountaineering and scuba diving); and the handling of CS gas canisters, and stun, fire and smoke grenades. Finally, they were taught how to deal with the hostages, physically and psychologically, once they had been rescued.
So, Harrison thought, those four hiking up the last yards to the summit of this mountain are going to be bitterly surprised at having lost – but they’re still good men.
By now the four men were only about 20 yards below him, fifty from the summit, and obviously thinking they had managed to make it to the top without being caught. Wearing their all-black CRW overalls, respirator masks and NBC hoods, they looked frightening, but that did not deter Harrison. Smiling grimly, he raised his Ingram 9mm sub-machine-gun with its thirty-two-round magazine, pressed the extended stock into his shoulder, aimed at the marching men through his sight, then fired a short burst.
The noise broke the silence brutally. Harrison moved the gun steadily from left to right, tearing up soil and stones in an arc that curved mere inches in front of the marching men. Knowing that the bullets were real, they scuttled off the track in opposite directions, hurling themselves to the ground behind the shelter of rocks and screaming for Harrison to stop firing. Grinning more broadly, the staff-sergeant lowered his Ingram, put the safety-catch back on, then used the PRC 319 radio to call the leader of the four-man team, Lance-Corporal Philip McArthur.
‘You dumb bastards. You’re all dead meat,’ the message said.
Lying behind the rocks lower down the windswept slope, the four men received the message with incredulity, then, almost instinctively, turned their surprised gaze to the exploded soil that had cut an arc just a short distance in front of where they had been walking, practically up to their feet.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Trooper Alan Pyle exclaimed, removing his respirator mask from his face as the others did the same, all relieved to be breathing pure, freezing air. ‘That daft bastard was using live ammo and nearly shot our fucking toes off.’
‘He’s too good for that,’ Trooper Danny ‘Baby Face’ Porter said. ‘If he’d wanted to shoot your toes off, you can be sure he’d have done it.’
‘Just like you, eh?’ said the third trooper, Ken Passmore, grinning admiringly. ‘A real crack shot.’
‘Yeah,’ Baby Face replied with modest pride. ‘I suppose you could say that.’
‘All right, all right,’ snapped Lance-Corporal Phil McArthur. ‘Stop the backslapping. We’ve nothing to be proud of. After all, we were as good as dead. Now let’s pick up our gear and go and face the great man.’
Breathing more easily without the masks, but crushed by being ‘killed’ by Harrison, the men picked up their weapons and other kit and advanced up the hill until they reached the staff-sergeant. Squatting behind the rock with a big grin on his face, Harrison was strapping the PRC 319 to his shoulders and picking up his Ingram.
‘Nice try, men,’ he said, ‘but if this had been a real operation you’d all be belly up by now. Are you SAS men or not?’
‘Fucking ’ell, Sarge,’ Phil McArthur protested as he glanced back down the mountain at the broad sweep of the Brecon Beacons far below. ‘We could hardly breathe in these bloody masks. And that hike was a killer.’
‘Piece of piss,’ Harrison replied. ‘I got this far without taking a deep breath. I think you need some more exercise.’
The men stared warily at him. All of them were breathing heavily and still bathed in sweat, even though the win
d was howling across the mountain, slapping icily at them.
‘No more exercise, please,’ Ken Passmore said, already drained. ‘I can’t move another inch.’
Harrison grinned with sly malice. ‘What were your instructions, Trooper?’
‘To get to the summit of the mountain,’ Ken replied, ‘without being shot or captured by you.’
‘Which you were.’
‘Right.’
‘Which doesn’t mean it’s over, you daft prat. You’ve still got to get to the summit, so get up and go, all of you.’
In disbelief the breathless men glanced up to the summit, which was 50 yards higher up, though the distance seemed far greater and the steepness of the climb was horrendous.
‘Jesus, Sarge,’ Alan complained. ‘After the climb we’ve just made, that last leg is going to be impossible.’
‘Right,’ Ken said. ‘That slope is a killer.’
‘Either you make that climb,’ Harrison told them, ‘or I have you RTU’d and standing by dusk on Platform 4, Hereford Station, outward bound. Get the message?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Come on,’ Baby Face shouted. ‘Let’s get up and go.’
Though still trying to get their breath back, the weary men covered their heads and faces again with the respirator masks and ballistic helmets, humped their bergens onto their backs, picked up their Ingrams and reluctantly began the steep climb to the summit.
Within a few yards they were already gasping for breath, their feet slipping on smooth rocks, bodies tensed against the wind, the sweat soon dripping from their foreheads into their eyes. Twenty yards on, where the wind was even more fierce, the slope rose at an angle so steep it was almost vertical. Holding their sub-machine-guns in one hand and clinging to rocks with the other, they laboriously hauled themselves up until, about 20 yards from the summit, all of them except Baby Face decided to give in. Falling behind, they just leaned against high rocks, fighting to regain their breath, about to call it a day.
Harrison’s Ingram roared into life as he fired a short burst in an arc that tore up earth and pieces of splintered rock mere inches from the feet of the men who had given up. Shocked, they lurched away from the spitting soil and scrambled with a strength they had felt had been drained out of them up the last, cruel section of the slope. Each time they fell back, another roar from the Ingram, ripping up the soil and rocks just behind the men, forced them to move hastily higher, finally following Baby Face off the sheer slope and onto the more even summit.
When the last of them had clambered onto the highest point, gasping but still surprised at their hitherto untapped stamina, Harrison followed them up and told them to remove the masks and breathe proper air. When the men had done so, they were able to look down on the fabulous panorama of the Brecon Beacons, spread out all around them, wreathed in mist, streaked with sunshine, thousands of feet below. Lying there, now completely exhausted, they gulped the fresh, freezing air, grateful that they would at last be able to take a good break.
Just as they were about to have a brew-up, a message came through on the radio. Harrison listened intently, then said: ‘Got it, boss. Over and out.’ Replacing the microphone on its hook, he turned to his weary men. ‘Sorry, lads, no brew-up yet. We’ve got to return straight away. The Iranian Embassy in London has been seized and we’re being put on stand-by. This isn’t a mock exercise. It’s the real thing. So pack your kit and let’s hike back to the RV.’
Recharged by the prospect of real action, the men hurriedly packed up and began the hazardous descent.
2
By three p.m. on the first day, in a basement office in Whitehall a top-level crisis management team known as COBR, representing the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, was having a tense discussion about the raid on the Iranian Embassy. Presiding over the meeting was a man of some eminence, addressed as the ‘Secretary’, Junior Defence and Foreign Affairs ministers, representatives of MI5 and the Metropolitan Police, including the Police Commissioner, and the overall commander of the SAS CBQ team, addressed as the ‘Controller’, though in fact he was much more than that when it came to issues involving international politics and the defence of the realm.
‘The function of this meeting,’ the surprisingly genial and unruffled Secretary said, ‘is to lay down guidelines for the police and, if necessary, the Army. First, however, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police will fill us in on the general situation.’
The Commissioner cleared his throat and sized up his audience before speaking. ‘The Embassy is being held by a six-man team of Iranians who were trained in Iraq, issued with Iraqi passports, and supplied with weapons brought in by diplomatic bag from Baghdad. We now know that they all visited the British Embassy in Baghdad last February to pick up individual visas to visit the UK. When asked how they would live in the UK, they each produced the same amount of cash: £275. In each case the purpose of the visit was recorded as being for medical treatment. Once in London, they were placed under the command of an Iraqi army officer, Sami Muhammad Ali, who flew home the day the siege began.’
‘Who’s leading them now?’ the Secretary asked.
The Commissioner showed them a picture of a well-built Arab with frizzy hair, a bushy beard and long sideburns. ‘The ringleader, Oan-Ali,’ he said. ‘Real name Salim Towfigh. Twenty-seven years old. Records show that he comes from Al Muhammara in the Khuzistan province of Iran, just across the Shatt-al-Arab river border with Iraq. Studied languages and law at Tehran University, where he became politically active and eventually militant. Fluent in four languages: Farsi, Arabic, German and English. He’s believed to be one of those who took part in the riots that occurred there on 29 May last year, when 220 men and women in the crowd were reported killed and approximately 600 wounded. Certainly he was imprisoned and tortured by SAVAK, which only made him more militant. On 31 March this year he turned up with four other Arabs in Earls Court Road, where they took two flats at 20 Nevern Place. One of the flats was on the second floor, the other in the basement. Only three of the men signed the register: Oan-Ali, Makki Hounoun Ali, and Shakir Abdullah Fadhil. The caretaker was an Iraqi student studying computer engineering. He says he didn’t examine their passports thoroughly, though he noted that they were issued in Iraq. The men told him they had just flown in from Baghdad. Apart from that, the caretaker learnt little about them. They claimed to have met each other by chance on the plane to London. One said he was a farmer, the other a student, the third a mechanic. The group is particularly remembered by the caretaker and other members of the household because, though Muslims, they came in late at night, invariably drunk and often with local prostitutes. Eventually, when they became embroiled in an argument over prices with one of the ladies in the basement flat, the caretaker, a devout Muslim, threw them out of the house.’
‘Sounds like they weren’t particularly sophisticated,’ the Secretary said. ‘Muslims seduced instantly by Western ways: alcohol and sex. Certainly not very disciplined.’
‘That’s worth bearing in mind,’ the Controller said. ‘A lack of discipline in a siege situation could go either way: either helping us to succeed or leading to mayhem and slaughter.’
Deliberately pausing to let the Controller’s words sink in, the Commissioner then continued reading from his notes: ‘After being thrown out of the house in Nevern Place, the terrorists dropped into the Tehar Service Agency, an accommodation agency run by a Jordanian named David Arafat and specializing in Arab clients with plenty of money and often dubious intentions. Arafat rarely asked questions of his clients, but claims that Oan-Ali told him he had left his previous accommodation because his group had been joined by two other friends and they needed larger accommodation. Subsequently, Arafat fixed them up with Flat 3, 105 Lexham Gardens, just a few hundred yards north of his Earls Court Road office.’
‘And were there more men at this point?’ the Controller asked.
‘No,’ the Commissioner replied. ‘It was the same five who had been in Ne
vern Place who took over the flat in Lexham Gardens. However, the flat has three bedrooms, two sitting-rooms, two bathrooms and a kitchen, and according to the Egyptian caretaker, the five-man group grew to seven over the next few days. After that, there were times when as many as a dozen men would be there at the same time.’
‘Do we know who the others were?’ the Controller asked.
‘No. We do know, however, that some of the others in his group are former members of the Democratic Revolutionary Front for the Liberation of Arabistan and that one of them, Fa’ad, broadcasts for the Arabic and Farsi sections of Radio Baghdad, exhorting the people of Iran to rise up against the regime of the Ayatollahs.’
As the Controller nodded and wrote in his notebook, the Commissioner concentrated once more on the file opened on the table before him. ‘Intelligence has reason to believe that though Oan-Ali led the raid, he didn’t actually plan it himself. One of those who moved into 105 Lexham Gardens was Sami Muhammad Ali, an Iraqi army officer described in his passport as an official of the Iraqi Ministry of Industry. Other meetings which Ali was known to have attended took place at 55 and 24 Queens Gate, the latter only two doors up from the office of the Iraqi military attaché.’
‘How ironic!’ the Secretary purred, smiling like a Cheshire cat.
‘Finally,’ the Commissioner continued reading, ‘on 29 April, the day before the seizure of the Embassy, it was Oan-Ali who visited David Arafat, the property agent, to tell him that his friends were leaving Lexham Gardens – supposedly going to Bristol for a week, then returning to Iraq. He asked Arafat to crate their baggage and air-freight it back to Baghdad. The address he gave was a post-box number. By the following morning, when the rest of the group seized the Embassy, Oan-Ali had disappeared.’
‘How many hostages?’ the Controller asked.