Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  With that thought, Sam couldn’t get Kurt Manning’s face out of her mind. When she had been at her most vulnerable in Kenema, in Sierra Leone, Manning had spoken to her. She couldn’t recall it word for word, but it was something along the lines of, “So you’re Sam Green. It’s a shame we haven’t been able to get to know each other better.” He’d then drugged her—and Henry—and set the hostel alight to make their deaths look like an accident.

  She shivered at the thought.

  Now, here on the Saudi peninsula, Kurt Manning and Ralph Bell were helping to train Islamic militants. After Sierra Leone, the collective view was that these rogue CIA agents had orchestrated a plan to release Ebola within the confines of St. Paul’s underground station. The plan had failed. But if it had been successful, the blame would have fallen to Daesh or Al-Qaeda. The outcome would have been a sharp rise of intolerance toward Muslims and the Islamic faith in UK and western Europe—a dramatic rise. The present, reasonably quick march to an all-out religious war between Islam and Christianity would pick up its pace.

  Their appearance in Captain Tony James’s photos indicated that they might be pursuing the same agenda. But who was funding them? Were they operating on their own? Critically for now, were they providing the details of the US military satellite passes to the Daesh militants in the Hajjah compound?

  Possibly. It really didn’t bear thinking about.

  She sighed and closed the folder on the satellite photos. She opened a second set—marked “Terrestrial.”

  The SIS team in Sana’a had taken some good-quality and revealing images of the safe house in the Yemeni capital. There was a photo of one man entering through the big wooden gates. Sam didn’t recognise him, but would certainly match him if his face ever turned up again. The photos of the house would give the military planners a good choice of entrances and exits, if they were ever needed. Other details of the busy street added further important intelligence. The safe house occupied a corner plot. On the main street side, it was terraced to another similarly constructed house. They were both made of sand-coloured blocks, with a flat castellated roof. The large arched opening, where Sam had seen the men entering and exiting, was secured with two big wooden doors. On either side of the front door were two windows, which were matched upstairs.

  Down the side street, the house was about ten metres long, followed by a two-metre-high sand-block wall, which seemed to protect a large yard. The yard extended the plot by a further fifteen metres. The side wall of the house had another four windows—two up and two down—and you could enter the yard by way of a large, sliding metal gate. The gate looked new.

  Sam couldn’t make out any guards, but she did see two poorly hidden remote cameras, high up on the walls, looking up and down both the main and side street. Sam noted all of these details, plus many more, and added them to the report for the Op Glasshouse team.

  If only they had the same detail for the Hajjah compound.

  She knew from the briefing notes that the SAS was sending in a recce party before the main assault. This team would be able to get some images of the compound, but it would be at night and from only one or two vantage points. They couldn’t afford to give the game away by moving about too much, or getting too close.

  To provide the best support, Sam needed to be at her desk to view and manipulate the videos and photos. I have to get going. But, before she closed up and got driving again, she had a quick look at the “open” source images that the team hadn’t culled from what had been deposited by Mervin overnight.

  She quickly filtered anything that wasn’t labelled Saudi or Yemen. That left thirteen photos. These were mostly from freelance journalists who had published images on their own or other websites. There were also two videos: one from KSA1, the Saudi equivalent of BBC1, and one from Al Jazeera. Both were short news clips of the latest fighting in ‘Amran, northwest of the Yemeni capital, Sana’a.

  The two video clips gave nothing away. Yemeni police and army chasing up and down the streets, firing randomly at rebels.

  She looked at the photos. She was just about to write them off when one caught her eye. It was dated 8-10-15. That’s yesterday. It was taken by an American journalist, Kevin Pavey. She’d come across his work before. Most of his photos were war images, but Sam remembered that, a couple of years ago, he had taken some really atmospheric shots in Patagonia for National Geographic. He was a talented photographer and currently working in the Middle East. The last time she had seen one of his photos, it was from Karbala in Iraq: a young woman being summarily executed with a pistol. The perpetrators were unknown.

  This photo had been lifted from his website; it was taken in ‘Amran, in Yemen. The image was of two young boys cradling a baby girl in their arms. The backdrop was the ruins of a single-storey building with a sandy-green armoured personnel carrier (APC) camped unceremoniously behind one of the broken walls. From the angle of the photo, the APC appeared to be parked in the kids’ living room.

  The ridiculously young family looked lifeless, sapped of any energy—gaunt and afraid. Their clothes had probably once been brightly coloured, but any vibrancy had been washed out by the detergent of war. Blues and reds becoming greys and browns. Kevin had called the image “Our house is now the police’s garage.” It was heartbreaking.

  But Sam’s interest was wider than the context of the shock of another Middle Eastern family torn apart by unrest. She had spotted something else.

  The house, the family, and the APC were the story. To give them some perspective, Kevin had widened the view to include, in the far distance, a crossroads. It had also suffered from the ravages of the civil war: black-and-white striped traffic lights positioned at jaunty angles, no longer controlling anything. On closer inspection, crossing from left to right and not quite fully in focus, was a black pickup. She was confident it was a modern Toyota Hilux.

  Sam’s pulse rate quickened.

  Quickly crosschecking Kevin Pavey’s image against Tony James’s original Yemeni photos, she was pretty sure it was the same vehicle that Manning and Bell had driven into the camp. Unfortunately, without the benefit of decent image processing, she couldn’t make out the driver. But she was pretty certain it was the same vehicle.

  What made it possibly a very special find was that there were a couple of signposts that not been destroyed by the fighting. One, in the direction of travel of the black Hilux, pointed toward Harad—thankfully, some signs were still written in both Arabic and English. Her geographical knowledge of Yemen wasn’t perfect, but she thought she might be onto something.

  She opened Google Maps and honed in on western Yemen. She did have something. If you were in ‘Amran and wanted to get to Hajjah—where the Daesh compound was—you would take the N5, following the signposts to Harad.

  Black Hilux following directions to Harad. Therefore heading toward the compound in Hajjah. Manning and Bell? Yesterday?

  If she’d been on her machine in the office she could have used the software to sharpen the images. But she was in Hanover. Bugger.

  With the photo still open on her tablet, she found the appropriate tab and pressed “Forward.” An e-mail box opened up. Sam typed in Frank’s address and cc’d Jane. She scribbled down her thoughts, suggesting to Frank that he do the work for her. She then pressed “Send.”

  She so needed to get back to the office.

  The JIC, Whitehall, London

  David checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It was 21.40. H-Hour was in just under two hours. The senior JIC staff had decided to gather in the conference room for the duration of the operation. Their separate teams manned their desks back in their offices. If anything new came in, the seven of them could make a quick, collective decision. They’d been joined by the secretary of state for defence, Simon Bradshaw. He, unlike the PM, wasn’t at a black-tie event in the city with some important bankers.

  The conference room had all of the comms they needed. Joe Public probably thought that they could speak to the soldier
s on the ground, watch their every move remotely via multiple satellites and roving cameras. The truth was that the best they could do was to follow team leaders on an electronic map and hear some of the radio traffic between key men on the ground and their headquarters in Saudi.

  They could also pick up calls between the aircraft and the ground. The technology enabled them to listen to the Hercules transport plane that would drop in the eight-man recce party. David looked up at the electronic map; that had happened about ten minutes ago. They could also listen to the two SF Chinook helicopters, which would fly the main assault party into position, about two clicks from the compound. And return to pick them all up about twenty minutes after H-Hour.

  That all assumed the comms and satellite links worked. Which they often didn’t.

  The map on the wall at the end of the long desk showed a returning Hercules and a blue spot with “30B” next to it: the designation of the recce party that had just parachuted in. To David, looking at the scale of the map, it appeared that they were a long way away from the target.

  “Alasdair, isn’t the recce party a bit further from the target than intended?”

  The director of Special Forces was already on his feet and up at the map. He was using his hands to judge the distances.

  “About five clicks too far south, but out of danger. I’ve no idea why that’s happened. Jumping is more of an art than a skill, especially if there’s a strong wind, which there is tonight.” He stopped for a second, staring at the map intently, calculating. “They’ll still be at the target before the assault team and will get eyes on as well as marking the FUP.” Alasdair had the confidence of a man who had commanded 22 SAS for two and a half years, as well as leading an SF troop and a squadron before that.

  He was facing the team now.

  David didn’t get the jargon. He raised both his hands in a “what are you talking about?” way.

  “Eh, sorry. FUP. Forming-up place. It’s the location where the assault group will form up before they attack. The recce party will mark it with directional LEDs that are activated when the assault group is within five hundred metres. It allows them to attack without having to do their own reconnaissance. That’s one of the reasons why the recce party goes in early: to get everyone to the right place.”

  That was clearer?

  David hadn’t joined the army’s University Officer Training Corps whilst he was at Bristol. He’d been too busy rowing and drinking. Although he had managed to get to grips with a good deal of the military terminology over the past thirty years, there was still a lot that was mumbo-jumbo.

  Alasdair walked across to the refreshment table and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Fill-up, anyone?”

  A murmur of “no thanks” percolated round the room.

  The extra miles the recce party now had to tab heightened the tension in the room. On a positive note, for his part David was now more confident that the SRR soldiers were being held in the compound at Hajjah. Jane’s team’s work with the black pickup had helped. It seemed likely that either Kurt Manning or Ralph Bell, or both, had been heading up to Hajjah yesterday. Langley was clear that neither had current CIA credentials. Manning, who had worked all his life as a CIA operative until three years ago, would still have residual information, such as US military satellite orbits and timings. That might explain why all of the overheads of the target showed no life at all. Insider knowledge of satellite trajectories would also allow vehicle movement into and out of the compound when the satellites weren’t overhead. Manning and Bell could be in the compound now, their truck snuck in during a satellite blackout.

  Yes, the intelligence pointed toward Hajjah.

  David stood up and paced up and down. He went to one of the windows and looked down Whitehall toward the Cenotaph. It was a huge night. He’d only been on hand once before to witness an SAS raid to release British nationals. That had gone well, and two journalists held in northern Iraq had been pulled out unharmed. There had been no ceremony attached to it—indeed, all of the plaudits had been given to the Iraqi Army, which had provided two liaison officers for the assault. He’d also been party to plenty of botched rescues undertaken by other nations—along with some notable successes.

  He had followed a good number of search-and-destroy operations by the British SF when there were no hostages involved. Those were less complex, slightly less sensitive.

  Tonight was very different; it was complex and edgy. It lacked conclusive intelligence on the number of enemy, their weaponry, and their locations. That made it complicated when planning the attack—you didn’t need to be a tactician to see that. And they didn’t even know if Tony James and Ted Rogers were in the compound.

  A wing and a prayer.

  A mobile rang. The director of Defence Intelligence, Lieutenant General Jack Downs, picked it up from the table in front of him.

  “Hi, Steve. Yep. What can I do for you?”

  There was a long silence, interspersed with the odd high-pitched sound of the tiny speaker on Jack’s phone. He was on his feet, walking to where David was by the outside wall, but he chose to look out of a different window.

  “I see. I see. And is there any feedback?”

  More quiet, punctuated by the squealing speaker.

  “And the DA was clear that the assaults should have been simultaneous?”

  Quiet. Squeal.

  “OK. Thanks. We’ll mull that over here now. I’ll let you know if there is a change of plan.”

  Jack turned away from the window. The secretary of state and all six members of the JIC stared at him.

  “The Saudis went in early. An hour ago. They’ve cleaned the place out. No casualties and no sign of the SRR.”

  David didn’t know who should speak first, not that there was a lot to say other than, “What the hell were the Saudis playing at?”

  It was the defence secretary who spoke first.

  “What does this mean for the attack on Hajjah?”

  David wanted to say something, but Alasdair beat him to it.

  “Go ahead. Daesh will struggle to connect attacks in Saudi with locations in Yemen. We have troops in the air”—he pointed toward two blue dots moving south, about to cross the Saudi border—“And even if the news of an attack got to Sana’a and even Hajjah, we should still have an element of surprise.”

  “David?” Simon had turned to him.

  “Let me get in touch with our team that is keeping an eye on the safe house in Sana’a. If there is any movement at that location, it might mean that the message has got around. And, Melvin—what about GCHQ?”

  Melvin Hoare looked up. He had his mobile to his ear, his spare hand tapping away on the conference table. He pointed at his phone.

  “I’m on to my team now. We’ll know within ten minutes if there’s been any increased signals traffic at either locations.”

  “Jon. You lead the JIC. What’s your view?”

  Jon Trent, the JIC’s chairman, looked at each of his colleagues individually.

  “Let’s do it.” He looked at the director of SF. “Alasdair, I’m guessing the recce party should be able to give some indication as to whether the compound has been spooked?”

  Alasdair glanced across at the screen. The recce party’s blue dot was closer to Hajjah than the last time they had looked, but still some distance away from the target.

  “I’ll get a message to them and tell them that time’s of the essence. Rough estimate says they’ll be in location no more than fifteen minutes before the assault group arrives.” He paused. “And, before you ask, the last thing we want to do is to amend H-Hour.”

  The last words from the Alasdair hung in the tense air.

  David let the atmosphere envelop him, his mind racing through all the possible permutations.

  “What happens if the terrorists bug out? When’s the next satellite pass?” David didn’t think either was a stupid question.

  “Then the boys will have a field day demolishing a wort
hless compound in deepest Yemen.” Alasdair smiled. But David could see that his army friend’s confidence had taken a hit.

  Five Hundred Metres Short of the Daesh Compound, Hajjah, Yemen

  Sergeant Mitch Riles looked through his Gen 2 thermal imaging sight that sat on a small tripod on the ridge in front of him. He was used to the inverted colours of the display. Hot was yellow; cold was dark blue. With no moonlight, he had the best seat in the house.

  Just off the hill in front of him, the Daesh compound was a medium blue silhouette against a dark blue sky, the buildings still emitting a small bit of yellow heat from the earlier baking by the sun. The windows were a blackish blue, the glass reflecting any heat. Apart from that, it was pretty much one colour: navy blue. What surprised Mitch was that there were no hot spots. There was nothing warm-bodied in the compound that gave a spike of yellow heat. You would have thought there might have been some guards. Or a dog.

  While his boss’s team had laid out the FUP and marked it with guide lights, his team had quickly recce’d the compound from three sides. It had been a very short overview; they’d arrived late on task. The eight of them had dropped four clicks short of the planned DZ, mainly because the wind had changed direction and strengthened from the initial prediction. Making a full recovery whilst in the air wasn’t possible, although with some skilful gliding, they had managed to reduce the error from six to four kilometres.

  The good news was that the compound looked like the model they had knocked up out of wood and cardboard at Akrotiri the day before. His team had picked out some more details, like five windows and a couple of drainpipes. Of note, they had found two “pooh” holes, small openings at ground level on the outside of the building where excrement came out. Inside, there would be a basic wooden and brick toilet. It was a simple contraption: people did their business as usual inside and the pooh ended up on the street. Simple, but disgusting if you were walking nearby.

  From his perspective, they had their uses. Like windows and doors, these were points of weakness where an attacker had to work less hard to breach a wall. From a hostage point of view, they were also perfect entry points. The enemy never held their hostages in the toilet. So you could blow a hole in the wall and be fairly certain that you wouldn’t damage your cargo.