Andy McNab: Bravo Two Zero

“Not really,” Vince said. “But you’re still a remf.”

The B Squadron room was about 15 feet square. The ceiling was very high, with a slit device at the top that gave the only ventilation. Four tables had been put together in the center. Silk escape maps and compasses were laid out on top.

“Freebies, let’s have them,” Dinger said.

“Never mind the quality, feel the width,” said Bob, one of Vince’s gang.

Bob, all 5’2” of him, was of Swiss-Italian extraction and known as the Mumbling Midget. He’d been in the Royal Marines but wanted to better himself, and had quit and taken a gamble on passing Selection. Despite his size he was immensely strong, both physically and in character. He always insisted on carrying the same load as everybody else, which at times could be very funny-all you could see was a big bergen (backpack) and two little legs going at it like pistons underneath. At home, he was a big fan of old black-and-white comedies, of which he owned a vast collection. When he was out on the town, his great hobbies were dancing and chatting up women a foot taller than himself. On the day we left for the Gulf, he’d had to be rounded up from the camp club in the early hours of the morning.

We looked at the maps, which dated back to the -1950s. On one side was Baghdad and surroundings, on the other Basra.

“What do you reckon, boys?” said Chris, another from Vince’s team, in his broad Geordie accent. “Baghdad or Basra?”

A spook came in. I knew Bert as part of our own intelligence organization in Hereford.

“Got any more of these?” Mark asked. “They’re fucking nice.”

Typical Regiment mentality: if it’s shiny, I want it. You don’t even know what a piece of equipment does sometimes, but if it looks good you take it. You never know when you might need it.

There were no chairs in the room, so we just sat with our backs against the wall. Chris produced his flask and offered it around. Good-looking and soft spoken Chris had been involved with the Territorial SAS as a civilian when he decided he wanted to join the Regiment proper. For Chris, if a job was worth doing it was worth doing excellently, so in typical fashion he signed up first with the Paras because he wanted a solid infantry background. He moved to Hereford from Aldershot as soon as he’d reached his intended rank of lance corporal and had passed Selection.

If Chris had a plan, he’d see it through. He was one of the most determined, purposeful men I’d ever met. As strong physically as he was mentally, he was a fanatical bodybuilder, cyclist, and skier. In the field he liked to wear an old Afrika Korps peaked cap. Off duty he was a real victim for the latest bit of biking or skiing technology, and wore all the Gucci kit. He was very quiet when he joined the Regiment, but after about three months his strength of character started to emerge. Chris was the man with the voice of reason. He’d always be the one to intervene and sort out a fight, and what he said always sounded good even when he was bullshitting.

“Let’s get down to business,” the OC said. “Bert’s going to tell you the situation.”

Bert perched on the edge of a table. He was a good spook because he was brief, and the briefer they are the easier it is to understand and remember what they’re telling you.

“As you know, Saddam Hussein has finally carried out an attack on Israel by firing modified Scud missiles at Tel Aviv and Haifa. The actual damage done is very small, but thousands of residents are fleeing the cities for safer parts of the country. The country has come to a standstill. Their prime minister is not impressed.

“The rag heads, however, are well pleased. As far as they’re concerned, Saddam has hit Tel Aviv, the recognized capital of Israel, and shown that the heart of the Jewish state is no longer impregnable.

“Saddam obviously wants Israel to retaliate, at whatever cost, because that will almost certainly cause a split in the anti-Iraqi Coalition, and probably even draw Iran into the war on the Iraqi side to join the fight against Israel.

“We knew this was a danger, and have been trying from day one to locate and destroy the Scud launchers. Stealth bombers have attacked the six bridges in central Baghdad that cross the river Tigris. These bridges connect the two halves of the city, and they also carry the landlines along which Baghdad is communicating with the rest of the country and its army in Kuwait-and with the Scud units operating against Israel. Since Iraq’s microwave transmitters are already bombed to buggery and its radio signals are being intercepted by Allied intelligence, the landlines are Saddam’s last link. For the air planners, they have become a priority target.

“Unfortunately, London and Washington want the attacks to stop. They think the news footage of kids playing next to bombed-out bridges is bad PR. But gents, Saddam has got to be denied access to those cables. And if Israel and Iran are to be kept out of the war, the Scuds have to be immobilized,” Bert got up from the table and went over to a large scale map of Iraq, Iran, Saudi, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, and Kuwait that was tacked to the wall. He jabbed his finger at northwest Iraq.

“Here,” he said, “be Scuds.”

We all knew what was coming next.

“From Baghdad there are three MSRs (main supply routes) running east to west,” he went on, “mostly into Jordan. These MSRs are used for the transportation of fuel or whatever-and for moving Scuds. Now, it appears the Iraqis are firing the Scuds in two ways. From fixed-launcher sites, which are pre surveyed and from unfixed sites where they have to stop and survey before they fire. These are more tactical. We have hosed down most of the pre surveyed sites. But the mobiles.”

We had even more of an idea now.

“Landlines are giving information to these mobile launchers, because all other com ms are down. And I doubt there are that many people left in the country who can repair these things. And that, basically, is the situation.”

“Your task is in two parts,” said the boss. “One, to locate and destroy the landlines in the area of the northern MSR. Two, to find and destroy Scud.”

He repeated the tasking statement, as is standard tasking procedure. His task now became our mission.

“We’re not really bothered how you do it, as long as it gets done,” he went on. “Your area of operation is along about 150 miles of this MSR. The duration of task will be fourteen days before resupply. Has anybody got any questions?”

We didn’t at this stage.

“Right, Bert here will get you everything you want. I’ll be coming back during the daytime anyway, but any problems, just come and get us. Andy, once you’ve got a plan sorted out, give me a shout and I’ll have a look at it.”

Rather than dive straight in, we took time out to have a breather and a brew. If you fancy a drink, you take one from the nearest available source. We emptied Mark’s flask, then looked at the map.

“We’ll need as much mapping as you’ve got,” I said to Bert. “All the topographical information. And any photography, including satellite pictures.”

“All I’ve got for you is one-in-a-half-million air navigation charts.

Otherwise, there’s jack shit.”

“What can you tell us about weather conditions and the going?” Chris said.

“I’m getting that squared away. I’ll go and see if it’s ready.”

“We also need to know a lot more about the fiber optics, how they actually operate,” said Legs. “And Scuds.”

I liked Legs. He was still establishing himself in the Regiment, having come from Para Reg just six months before. Like all newcomers he was still a bit on the quiet side, but had become firm friends with Dinger. He was very confident in himself and his ability as patrol signaler, and having started his army life in the engineers, he was also an excellent motor mechanic. He got his name from being a real racing snake over the ground.