by Paul A. Rice
It was one of the wildest nights of my life, and I was only standing by the car and watching it. What it must have been like for those who celebrated so hard is beyond understanding. Gaddafi had ruled for more than forty, brutal years. But, now they had liberated themselves from his corrupt, iron grasp upon their lives, it must have been an enormous release of emotions, to say the least.
I stayed for about an hour, mainly because Wahid was busy trying to get some sort of decent direction from the crazed people who came past, whooping loudly and shooting their weapons next to his car. Then, once we had a rough idea where we were going, he and I took our leave of the madness and headed out into the darkness of the surrounding suburbs. It was a dangerous time, I was unarmed, my phones didn’t work… too many people on the network, or Gadaffi’s lot had chopped the signal, is what I guessed… and no-one really knew where I was. I took some coordinates from my GPS and tried to use the satellite-phone, it too just wasn’t playing on that night. Every few hundred metres or so we would be stopped at a checkpoint, I prayed that they were actually rebels as I knew that government forces had started disguising themselves as such, and that some bad shit had happened as a result.
Luck was on my side. We never had any issues with the checkpoints and after about an hour, having stopped various people along the way to ask directions, Wahid and I finally found ourselves bouncing down a dirt track in the middle of nowhere. The track was lined with huge cacti and seemed to be almost unused; staring into the blaze of light caused by our headlights I could make out what appeared to be fresh tyre-tracks in the dust. At least I now knew that others had been this way before me and that eased my mind somewhat. Then, out of the gloom we saw the lights of the farmhouse. Wahid cruised up to the building and I was very glad to see the familiar sight of some press technicians, fiddling with their satellite dishes and laying out wires in the courtyard of the farm.
We had arrived.
During that evening I finally managed to get some communications back to London, and although the line was intermittent, at least they knew where I was and that I had inked-up with the rest of the crew already in-country. All we had to do now was wait on the rest of them getting here safely.
There were two other security guys there, I hadn’t met either of them before, but after having a chat for an hour I could tell that they were good guys and knew the score. I hoped they felt the same way about me. We had a hasty meal of sardines and bread, the rest of the team were over the moon that I had brought some fresh supplies with me and didn’t hesitate to tuck-in to some of the chocolate bars. The farm was a good place and suited our needs perfectly. It had a decent water-supply and most of the appliances, cooker, fridge and the suchlike, worked fine. The techs had fired-up one of their generators and so we had plenty of light and they had also managed to get their broadcasting equipment up and running, which kept them and their bosses back in London and the States happy. All we had to do was to wait for Andy to get here and then it would be game on.
I tried ringing Rory on the number that London had given me, but it was of no use as the lines seemed to be jammed again. It was something that a person just had to get use to whilst working in Libya back then. I hoped that he was getting through all the checkpoints safely and also knew that if he wasn’t, then there would be nothing I could do about it anyway. So, with those thoughts sliding through my head, I said goodnight and headed for the room where a mattress on the floor awaited me.
The night was hot, very hot, and there was definitely no need for any blankets. I could hear various people coming and going and fiddling about with their equipment outside. The odd, rasping snore of someone asleep in the corner of my room kept me wide-awake for a while – I just switched off my mind and tried to let the events of the day slowly trickle their way through of their own accord, laying there half comatose, hoping that I didn’t dream of anything bad.
Fat chance…
5
New Faces – New Places
I was awakened by the sound of a vehicle pulling onto the courtyard outside, someone shouted an overly-loud ‘Hello the house!’ Then the sound of doors slamming and more people talking finally dragged me from my bed. I headed for the shower, wearing only my boxer shorts and carrying a towel draped across my shoulders. The water was cold and that suited me just fine. Last night had been sweltering; I still felt tired from the long journey and knew that five minutes under a cold shower would set me up for the day.
After having finished with my ablutions and donning some clean clothes, I made my way into the kitchen where, by the smell of things, there was some toast on the go. My nose was proved correct and in short-order I was busily helping myself to two pieces of toast, some boiled eggs, a tin of sardines – which were set to become a staple – and a nice big mug of steaming-hot tea. Life was good, I decided. As long as there was a hot brew going, then this old soldier would be as happy as a pig in the proverbial. Grabbing my breakfast, I made my way out onto the patio where the rest of the crew were gathered – those that were awake.
There were six of us outside now, three of the crew and three security guys, including big Jimbo, a huge Glaswegian who had served in an infantry regiment of the British Army for more than twenty years. Then there was Rick, a small, wirey Londoner who had been in this game for quite a while now. He was also ex-British forces. When Rory arrived that would be another ex-SF guy – he and I had served together for many a year and on many a dodgy deal, too. I was pretty sure that between the four of us we had enough experience to deal with most problems that would arise during this little jaunt into Libya.
When I mentioned Rory to the others, Jimbo looked at me and said: ‘Yeah, we’ve already met Rory – he arrived about twenty minutes ago. I think that he’s on the bog, getting rid of the trots he’s had since yesterday!’
Right on cue, Rory came around the corner and joined us on the veranda. ‘Hi, mate!’ I said. ‘How’s the stomach?’ I rose to my feet and extended my hand. Rory looked at me and grimaced. He didn’t look too good at all.
‘I’ve got the shits – big-time!’ he said, grabbing my hand. ‘And since I haven’t washed my hands yet, now so have you!’ He laughed and gave my hand a good pumping, saying: ‘Good to see you, JC – it’s been a long time, mate!’
We soon got past the man-love, and after giving Rory some tablets from the med-kit, I made a set of fresh brews for everyone, which we sat and drank whilst discussing what we knew so far. We were soon joined by Gracie, she was the senior producer for the team we were looking after, and was their boss when it came to all things logistical. I figured straight away that she wasn’t so keen on us security types, you could tell by the way she didn’t make eye-contact when she spoke, and also in the way she spoke – short, sharp sentences without any warmth or humour in them.
It started looking as though this trip was going to be a long one.
In a few minutes we had organised our day’s activities. The entire crew would be split into two-halves, each half containing a correspondent, a producer, a cameraman and two technicians. We security guys should split ourselves up between the two teams. Everyone would be on the road to Tripoli within the hour, and that was that. Gracie didn’t give us any chance of having a quick security briefing with the crew, and by the way she hurriedly rose to her feet and turned away after she had finished speaking, it didn’t look as though she wanted one, either.
Rory raised his eyebrows, murmuring: ‘Nice… this should be fun!’
The rest of us nodded in silence – we’d all been in this situation before and knew exactly what we needed to do. Quite simply, we would give the crew a briefing as we drove along. That way they couldn’t sneak off, inside the vehicle they were a captive audience and whether Gracie wanted a briefing or not, the whole lot of ‘em would be told the things we wanted to tell them, before we rolled into Tripoli.
We swopped notes, to ensure that we were all singing off the same song-sheet, and then went to sort our gear out in readin
ess for the move. I tried ringing London again, but none of the phones would work. Still, it didn’t worry me too much as they knew we were together, and where we were – I decided that I’d call-in once we were underway and as soon as I could get a decent signal.
That turned out to be a very optimistic assumption.
Unbeknownst to us, NATO had just started bombing Gadaffi’s compound. Under the cover of this fierce, aerial attack the rebel forces were beginning to probe through Tripoli, enroute towards their final, major objective. Bab al-Aziziya, Colonel Gadaffi’s fortress in the centre of Tripoli, was about to endure a massive assault. All of these things would ensure that our telephone communications were going to be very intermittent, to say the least.
Today, the 23rd of August 2011, was going to be a very big day in Libyan history, the biggest day, and we were going to be right, smack-bang in the middle of it.
After much angry cajoling from Gracie, the two teams began to load themselves into the four vehicles that we had available for our use. We had one Toyota Land Cruiser and one, double-cab, pickup truck for each half of the crew. The technicians had an extraordinarily large amount of gear with them because they were going to ‘go live’ whenever we stopped. Their satellite equipment and all that came with it easily filled the back of a pickup. We waited until they were done with their loading and then sat in silence whilst the crews proceeded to have a nice little argument about who was going to sit with whom. It was crazy, like watching a school outing.
I gave the other security guys a nod and we all disappeared around the corner for a smoke and a chat whilst the crew sorted their act out. People like me don’t ever let themselves get involved with any arguments that their clients may be having. Just stay clear and wait until the dust has settled.
The arguments were eventually silenced by Gracie – with a deafening screech, she yelled out: ‘Just get the fuck into the Goddamned, fucking vehicles, you fucking morons – move it!’ Two-seconds later and doors were slamming. Within five minutes we were underway. Sometimes, being a Grade-A bitch had its uses, I guessed.
My vehicle took the lead, with me sitting in the front passenger seat and two of my crew sitting in the rear. I’d not spoken to or seen either of the two people that now sat behind me. The guy was heavily-built and sported a nicely-trimmed beard. The woman had a full headscarf on, in typical Arabic fashion, and was wearing a set of very dark sunglasses. When I asked if they were all-set, the pair of them nodded. I asked them to put their seatbelts on, which they did without complaint. I clicked mine on, too. Not being armed meant the only thing I would be doing in the event of a drama would be telling the driver to get us the hell out of there, and fast.
Jimbo was in the pickup behind me, and he would be taking care of the personnel in that vehicle – the cameraman and the technicians. Altogether we were a self-sufficient broadcasting team. Rory and Rick were doing exactly the same in the vehicles that were following.
I asked our driver, Raouf, if he was Okay – he nodded and smiled. Raouf was cool and I’d already spent a good half-an-hour talking with him before the others had loaded. He was an experienced driver and knew his way around Tripoli like he knew the back of his hand. He also knew exactly what I wanted – good, safe driving and to make sure that he never left the vehicle unattended. If we needed to get out of somewhere in a hurry, then I wanted him there. I’d been caught out before by a driver who had suddenly decided to disappear, and it was never good.
I turned away from Raouf to introduce myself to the others.
‘Hi, guys – I’m Jake Collins,’ I said, to my two passengers. ‘Most people just call me ‘JC’, but I’m no relation to the Big Man…’ I grinned and raised my eyes in reference to the heavens.
The man laughed and the woman did likewise.
Reaching forward to shake hands, she said, ‘Nice to meet you, Jake - or do you prefer JC?’ I took her hand; it was cool to the touch and had a firm grip.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘JC’s fine, but I don’t mind either way. How about you guys, what should I call you?’ I let go of the woman’s hand and turned to the man, saying: ‘Andy, isn’t it? We were supposed to meet in Tunisia, better late than never, I guess?’
He smiled and said, ‘No, I’m Bill, Andy’s producer – this is Andy.’ Bill turned his head a looked at the women.
I felt like a fool – what is they say about the assumption?
Damn it! I hadn’t even considered that Andy might be a woman, and nowhere in any emails had it ever said anything that led me to believe that was the case. I hadn’t even thought of checking.
‘Oh,’ I said, smiling desperately whilst trying to avoid looking like the idiot that I was. ‘Good to meet you, Andy – sorry about the mix-up, I just…’
What happened next, simply stole my words away.
The woman raised her sunglasses and gave me a long, blue-eyed stare. ‘That’s fine, Jake,’ she said. ‘It’s a common mistake. I’m Andi, spelt with an ‘i’ not a ‘y’. It was my Dad’s idea of making sure that some part of me was the boy he really wanted… Perhaps I should have introduced myself at the airport in Dubai, but I was in a rush and anyway, I didn’t know it was you.’
Andi smiled and slid the scarf of her head.
And there she was, the woman of my airport love-affair.
My thoughts had a little fit. ‘Jesus Christ! It’s the blonde from the airport – she’s sitting here in the car with me, in Libya... she’s the fucking client!’ Using my life-long ability to disguise my thoughts, I smiled calmly and pushed my own sunglasses up onto my head.
‘Well, that’s a small world, isn’t it, Andi? I’m pleased to meet you, at last!’ I said, as coolly as I could.
She looked at me and grinned. Then, sliding her sunglasses back down, Andi went back to fiddling with her phone. That’s the thing with journos; they just can’t leave their damned phones alone, the paranoia of missing out on something must be overwhelming.
I supposed that Andi would soon get over the fact that the unreliable signal in Libya was going to mean that she was about to miss out on a whole heap of news.
We soon hit the main highway that lead to Tripoli, the traffic was sparse and the checkpoints were anything but. Once again we were stopped by the rebel-held checkpoints every mile or so. One flash of the big camera and away we were sent, accompanied by the usual cries of victory and freedom from those guarding the way.
The outskirts of Zawiyah were shot to shit, the detritus of battle lay everywhere – burnt-out vehicles and bullet-riddled buildings lay on all sides. Rebel flags flew from ever possible flag-pole and rooftop. Just as we exited the town we came across a heavily-guarded checkpoint. There were two captured tanks either side of the road and a huge pile of packing materials, which are used to store tank-rounds, laid piled in-between the tanks. Somebody somewhere must have made a hell of a noise firing all those shells. There were about fifty rebel soldiers guarding the checkpoint and when they saw that we were press, they gathered around our little convoy for the obligatory photo-shoot. Arm-in-arm they danced and cheered, shortly followed by a prolonged demonstration of their firepower. Once more the air crackled to the sound of their weapons being discharged.
As the crew packed the camera back into the pickup, one of the rebels then informed us that there had been some trouble on the road ahead – by his account there had been an incident involving government forces and some other journalists. The upshot of the whole story was that there were now five of the crew missing and at least two of their local drivers and helpers killed at the side of the road. No-one knew where the missing journalists had been taken and it was strongly suggested that we take extreme care.
‘There’s lots of bad stuff happening in front of you,’ the rebel soldier said, in perfect English. ‘Be careful of who is stopping you on the road, because they are not always rebels!’ By the look on his face, the guy wasn’t joking.
Then, as if to underline his warning, we all heard the sound of gunfire comi
ng from up ahead. It wasn’t celebratory, you can tell by the sound. The sound of weapons firing in anger is a different thing altogether, you can hear the shorter bursts of outgoing fire and then a different noise as return fire is given.
With a more serious attitude, we clambered back into the vehicles and headed off towards the sound of firing. We had to go that way, Tripoli lay on the other side. For us there was no other choice but to go straight up the middle – that’s where the story lay.
Fifteen minutes later, the shit hit the fan.
6
In Deep
Our convoy was nicely spread-out, my Land Cruiser leading with two hundred metres between it and Jimbo’s pickup. Rory’s mob followed behind in much the same manner, but kept a good three hundred metres behind Jimbo. I made sure that Raouf kept the speed steady and that Andi and Bill put their Kevlar helmets on. We’d already donned our body armour before leaving, but hadn’t bothered with the helmets. They’re an encumbrance when used in a low-roofed car and generally get discarded until things heat-up a bit. Things were heating-up, and so the dark-blue helmets were soon clamped onto our sweating heads.
After about five kilometres we started to round a tight bend in the road – it was supposed to be a dual carriageway, but one side had been almost completely blocked with huge piles of concrete sea-barriers, so now everyone was just using one side of the highway – as we navigated our way through a pile of sandbags, we came across the sight of an enormous building.
Well, it had been enormous right up and until NATO had flattened it. The sight of a multi-story building reduced to rubble and dust is not one that a person can ever quite get used to seeing. The force of the explosion that had caused such devastation must have been immense. It was easily identifiable as NATO’s work – rebel fire would have only left bullet-holes and rocket marks. When a specialised, multi-million dollar missile strikes a building there’s no mistaking the results. The walls were blown out; the ceilings and floors collapsed, steel concrete-reinforcing bars poked out like dead-men’s fingers, and everywhere was covered in a thick layer of pulverised dust. Rubble lay in a wide arc all around.