At this point in time, I think it’s safe to say that the world, and Europe in particular, needs to accept that Donald Trump is deadly serious about his threat to take Greenland as a territory of the United States. I’m sure a lot of politicians and ministers have been writing it off as just another example of Trump’s bluster and belligerence but they need to realise that this time, it’s different.
Media coverage has reported the motivation for Trump’s current obsession as being the oil and minerals which lie beneath the Arctic island’s frozen plateaux. While this is true, it is really only the headline that misses the key information which, when one reads it, explains why Trump’s statements about taking Greenland should be treated as intention rather than aspiration.
To understand why his administration is determined to ‘own’ Greenland for national security reasons, we need to turn our attention back to the US/China trade disputes at the end of 2025. In amongst the noise of tariffs and supply chain breakage, there was a further issue with immediate and future ramifications for the USA. This was China’s restriction, then suspension, of rare earth elements (REEs) to the USA. For people who even registered these actions at the time, the perception was probably that this meant problems for iPhones, Androids, laptops and computers.
Think bigger. Think about weapon systems. Defence shields. Early Warning apparatus. Advanced fighter aircraft. Submarine sonar. As much as our electronic consumables need these rare earth elements, the weapons and defence systems we rely upon to protect our nations and deter hostile actors rely heavily upon these elements. And at the tail end of 2025 China slowed then halted the supply of these to the USA. With the sudden realisation that their main adversary had a monopoly on these elements, the implications were terrifying to the Pentagon. The supply of elements essential to the production of advanced weapons and defence systems was reliant on relations with China. And at the end of 2025 when China suspended the supply of rare earth elements to the USA, the harsh reality hit home:
China could directly control the quantity and quality of America’s future security and defence.
This, of course, is unacceptable. To any nation. But particularly to one with new imperialist ambitions and an open claim to controlling the Western Hemisphere. So the first response on identifying this reliance on Chinese rare earth minerals was, of course, where else do you source them?
Enter Greenland.
Greenland holds significant deposits of the key rare earth elements utilised in the production of advanced weapons and defence systems. And it’s right on America’s doorstep. Right on it.
And this is why Trump doesn’t push for an increased US presence in Greenland, which, under the current treaty he doesn’t even have to ask for he is actually allowed to just do. It’s why he doesn’t ask for a multinational task force to step up and increase Greenland’s security against the Russian and Chinese aggressions he claims are happening.
It’s why he talks of ownership. Of Greenland as an integral part of the continental United States. Because owning Greenland means owning the rare earth elements that his country needs to produce the advanced weapons and defence systems essential to keeping it safe. No pact, treaty or agreement can provide this so there’s no point even looking at any of these as a potential solution. The US needs to own Greenland to safeguard its national security. Now, I’m no geologist and I’ve read conflicting reports about how easy or not it will be to extract these elements from Greenland soil. But remember that even when the Trump administration knew that the oil in Venezuela was a thick, heavy crude that none of the major oil companies wanted anything to do with, he still went ahead. So, easy extraction or not, he is determined to own the lands where these elements are found.
And that’s why Europe and the rest of the world need to understand that Trump isn’t kidding. He is going to take Greenland, one way or another. He doesn’t care if it breaks NATO, fractures the established world order, encourages multiple new conflicts to erupt. He only cares about securing a supply of rare earth elements for his country’s security and defence and severing the reliance on China.
And here’s an interesting wrinkle for those watching American and world current affairs. With the protests against the ICE raids in Minneapolis making national news in the US every night, the Trump administration has stated that troops from the US Army’s 11th Airborne Division will be sent to the state of Minnesota to assist in quelling the ‘civil unrest’. Why is this interesting or relevant to an article about Greenland, I hear you ask?
The photo above shows soldiers from the 11th Airborne Division on a training exercise in their home base state of Alaska. It’s cold and snowing but they seem well-equipped and confident. And that would be because they are the US Army’s specialist cold weather fighting force. Their nickname is ‘The Arctic Angels’. When the Trump administration could have sent thousands of troops from a state away, why drag these specialist troops all the way down from Alaska to stand on streets and intimidate protestors? My theory? They’re not going anywhere near Minneapolis.
They’re preparing to deploy to Greenland.
Think about it this way. There are already US special forces, NSA, and CIA assets in Greenland, of that there can be no doubt. They will have been working the region for months, covertly preparing the conditions for when the trigger is pulled to take the island. What they need next is boots on the ground in numbers to secure and hold key installations in preparation for the occupying forces to arrive. These would need to be cold weather warfare troops comfortable with fighting and operating in an Arctic environment. Troops like the 11th Airborne Division.
To me, the White House statement about deploying these troops to Minneapolis is actually a clever cover story to mask the operational reason for bringing the troops out of Alaska and into the lower 48. The Trump administration couldn’t risk flying the 11th Airborne Division directly from Alaska to Greenland as they would have to cross Canadian airspace. And Canada is on very high alert to all things American military going on near their borders. The US would quickly have lost the element of surprise. But bringing them south and redeploying from the US? Problem solved.
I would love to be wrong on this assessment but I don’t think I am. All the evidence is already out there in separate pieces but it’s only when you put them together that a full picture emerges. Anyway, we will see sooner rather than later I believe. I don’t see anything that will hold Trump back on this one, buoyed as he is by his recent success in Venezuela.
But don’t take my word for it. Take Canada’s.
Canadian troops on a training exercise
In a ‘I never thought I’d see this in my lifetime’ moment, Canada has just concluded a war-game simulation where the aggressors are, you guessed it, The United States. This wasn’t done on a whim but on the grounds that Canada is integral to Trump’s doctrine of owning or controlling the Western Hemisphere. After Greenland, Canada is under no illusions that Trump will be coming for them next. The simulation showed that Canada could probably hold the might of the US military at bay for no more than two days. Thereafter, organised resistance and insurgency tactics would be implemented to make the cost of occupation too high for the invaders to accept. That in itself is a staggering but very realistic conclusion. That the big bad bully and his gang might overrun Canada initially but they will pay a such heavy toll in the long run that they will be forced to abandon their imperialist northern venture.
So, Greenland is a definite for Trump and for America’s national security, at least as his administration sees it. And sooner rather than later, judging by the increase in the rhetoric and vitriol he is pumping out on his personal social media platform. Today sees Trump scheduled to arrive at the Davos World Economic Forum where he has already lit the blue touch paper by insulting European leaders and publishing personal messages between them and him. As I write this, Trump has just arrived in Davos to a suitably cold reception and it will be interesting to see what impact his personal presence has.
But one thing is certain; he is not going to be dissuaded by anyone, to back off on his claim to Greenland.
Nothing says Christmas abroad like a chad jumper and a Glock on the hip!
I recently attended a reunion with some former colleagues from a specialist unit we were all once members of. Most of us don’t see one another for years at a time, some for over a decade and some, well, some have passed on and are remembered in the stories and tales we recall and regale them with. One of my friends had begun working with another agency, still very much in the same vein of his former employment but with far more reasonable working hours, which got us to discussing how much time we’d spent away from family in the name of dedication to the work we did. Which in turn made me think about the Christmases I’d missed or been deployed far from home and how that had made me feel at the time and how I felt about it now, all these years later.
I won’t moan about being deployed away from home for so many Christmases, after all, most of that was down to my choice of wanting to be operational, doing the job for real. And back way back when, we didn’t have the connectivity of instant communications with friends and family. Actual letters, a phone call from a landline telephone (if you had access to one), or, in some cases, a radio call patched through to a UK landline. The latter still makes me chuckle at how archaic that sounds in this day and age. And how frustrating it was trying to teach my partner at the time to say ‘Over’ when she had finished her sentence. So, I think maybe back then, there was an element of not missing Christmas so much as we didn’t have immediate access to be able to watch in real time, our loved ones enjoying their day.
Me as a young Royal Marine in Northern Ireland
My first Christmas away from home was spent as a young Royal Marine in South Armagh, Northern Ireland. Bandit Country, as it was referred to. At the time I was single and not much of a homebody so the impact upon me was minimal. A Christmas dinner was cooked and those of us who weren’t on guard in the sangars sat down to enjoy the turkey, potatoes, and veg our Royal Marine chefs had cooked for us. The officers, as was the tradition, served the Christmas meal to us common types and I remember thinking at the time that it showed them in a more human light, rather than just our leaders and superiors. Good banter and high morale had by all but immediately after, it was back to work as usual, switching with the guys on guard to let them come and have their meal. I didn’t think too deeply about things at the time but when I look back now at my peer group of 19 – 25 year olds sleeping in a single man room with six bunks in each, donning helmet, radio, weapon and ammunition and looking at a rain drenched village in South Armagh where locals went about their own Christmas, visiting family, exchanging gifts, cooking the dinner, the contrast between our experience and the general public couldn’t have been more stark.
A very different Christmas view!
Another Christmas some years later, again as a Royal Marine, and again in the lashing, horizontal rain, saw me standing yards from a nuclear submarine guarding it against intruders. Faslane Naval Base, Helensburgh, Scotland, home to the UK’s nuclear deterrent and a target for CND protesters, Russian spies, and intrusive media. As a single man posted to Commachio Group Royal Marines, it was inevitable that I would pick up the Christmas deployment to stand in the driving rain for hours at a time while the rest of the country sat with swollen bellies snoozing through The Queen’s Speech. I came off my stint on the jetty just after four in the morning and was rudely awakened at six in the morning by pounding on our accommodation door. Bleary eyed, exhausted, and a tad ill-tempered, I opened the door and blurted out ‘What the f*** do you want?’ Before realising that the damp, uniform-clad individual before me was my Commanding Officer; the CO, a Lieutenant Colonel and about the highest rank a young Royal Marine would ever be exposed to. Before I could stammer out an apology and retract my words, he held out two bags and in the most joyful, plummy, posh accent bellowed ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS ROYAL MARINES!’ He deposited the bags into my hands, spun on his heel and departed, leaving me bewildered as I stared at a bag of tangerines and a net of walnuts. I recall shaking my head as the realisation came to me that the upper class were well and truly different from the rest of us.
The Famous Christmas Food Fight of Four-Five Commando: I had the ‘opportunity’ to spend another Christmas working rather than being at home with my partner. On this occasion, the Christmas dinner was scheduled for several days before the big day to allow the entire unit to enjoy it en masse before breaking up for Christmas Leave. I was a bit older and wiser by now and knew that so many reprobates attending a dinner in one place at the same time was a recipe for disaster. Again, as tradition directed, the meal was to be served by the Sergeants and Officers. Even as we paraded in single file into the galley, the mood of mischievous intent was palpable as small groups of Marines schemed and plotted while giggling like naughty schoolboys. As we took our seats, the RSM, a tall, glowering figure of a man with a fearsome reputation, stood on a table and growled at us. This was a Christmas dinner and would be eaten with respect for the food and the officers and senior serving it. A food fight was NOT a tradition and anyone thinking it was would soon find out the hard way that it wasn’t . . . That last statement had barely concluded when a spectacularly large Granny Smith apple shot across the room and smacked the RSM straight in his right eye. His bellow of rage was cut short as he toppled from the table and disappeared behind it as he crashed to the floor. Then it was as if someone had pressed a button that said ‘Wild West fight now’. The entire massive dining hall erupted into chaos as every type of food became a projectile and the air filled with shouts, screams, and cackles of laughter. I watched a Colour Sergeant whose nickname was ‘The White Rat’ sprint for the safety of the solid metal serving area only to be felled at the last moment by a fast-travelling roast potato which exploded on his head, tearing his little paper crown off and causing him to drop to his knees, mouth wide in rage and shock as he yelled his displeasure. An unfortunate young Captain almost made it to the hard cover of the kitchen before he was stopped in his tracks by a turkey drumstick to his cheek, the offending item somersaulting across the room before striking its target with a satisfying smack of flesh on flesh. Bread rolls filled the air as the most abundant ammunition source, followed by the roast potatoes, chosen for their optimum weight and pleasing range, finding their targets the entire length of the room. I’m not sure when exactly the first plate was frisbeed across the battlefield but having up to this point sustained no serious injuries, I decided discretion was the better part of valour and conducted a fighting withdrawal towards the fire exit. Even as I hard-targeted between tables, the scenes of carnage all around me told me I was doing the right thing: A marine I knew from Zulu Company caught my eye and was laughing from behind the cover of a table until an entire jug of gravy was poured over his head, cutting short his guffaws. A furtive scurrying drew my attention and I watched as a lance corporal from Support Company darted on all fours between the tables, avoiding the mayhem above him until a large hairy hand shot down and stabbed a fork into his arse cheek. His back arched and his scream of shock and pain dominated the room as he threw his hand behind him to remove the offending item from his buttocks. The smashing of plates grew louder as the acceptance of this escalation of weaponry was embraced by all and I’d just kicked the fire exit door open when a barrage of china exploded against it, my escape having now been compromised. I made it outside, doubled over with laughter at the chaos and carnage I had just witnessed, then moved swiftly away from the scene of the crime. The next morning there was a half-hearted attempt by several Sergeants to identify the main miscreants and bring them to justice but with every man involved in the fracas in one way or another, it was a futile task. I would find myself breaking into giggles days later when I would encounter one of the seniors or officers with a spectacular black eye, the battle scars from the Famous Christmas Food Fight of Four-Five Commando.
In a completely different vein from the story above, while working in a special operations role in a European country, I was covering the Christmas period as part of a small standby team. At the time, I was living in a Safe House in a rural community away from our area of operations. It had been snowing heavily but the good kind of snow; that dry, soft powder you can just shake off your jacket or kick off your boots. The snow also seemed to fall mainly at night, leaving the days cold, crisp, and clear. I’d also adopted a dog at that time and she was my constant companion and as we had a lot of free time, we’d spend the days in silent forests, the only sounds the crunching of our feet and paws in the freshly fallen snow. I didn’t engage much with the locals, a nod and wave to those I passed on the road pretty much the limit. As this was a counter-insurgency situation, it wasn’t always apparent who the bad guys were or who supported them. Add to that the fact that I wasn’t fluent in the language, I would be immediately identified as ‘not local’. Of course, I had a solid cover story to explain all that but the thing with a cover story is that you want to deploy it as little as possible. One afternoon however, I returned to my house and saw a tractor sitting in the road outside with a man I recognised as a neighbour from a mile or so up the road. I already knew from research his whole background, affiliations, family etc so knew that he wasn’t a threat. As I approached, he waved at me to come over and I made my way to him. He was older than me and had the craggy, tanned complexion of someone who spends most of their life outdoors. Even though he was no threat, I was covertly armed, very well trained, and confident that I could get myself out of any difficulties that might arise. I also had to appear natural, behave as any other individual would in these circumstances. As I approached, he climbed down from the tractor and ruffled my dog’s fur, grinning as he did so. He then addressed me in English, heavily accented but very clear.
‘Why you not go home for Christmas?’
I explained that my work needed me here as a response guy for any problems and that I had gotten home the year before when I worked in a different part of the country so it was my turn this year.
‘My wife, she worry for you. You alone, only with dog. Dog okay, but people better at Christmas.’
I started to speak but he held up his hand as he smiled.
‘No. She send me to get you. You come, dog come, you eat, you drink, get fat, and sleep. You do this in UK also, yes?’
I laughed and nodded, forming the polite refusal in my head, getting the words right so as not to cause offence. The offence part didn’t really concern me as much as being remembered for rudeness and being spoken about and brought up in conversations, highlighting me as opposed to me blending into the background as Mr Uninteresting. But the bigger part of me didn’t want to turn down an offer of genuine charity from what I assessed to be good people. The silence stretched on for a moment before I broke it with a smile and a nod.
‘Thank you so much, I accept your generous offer, just let me grab a few things.’
He returned my smile and clapped my shoulder before leaping back on his tractor and turning it around in a slow circle through the snow. I made my way quickly into the house and retrieved a couple of bottles of single malts that I had, dumped them in a bag and made my way back outside. I waved and began to walk but my neighbour beckoned me to bring the dog and jump up on the tractor. After coaxing my trusty hound up, I followed and squeezed into the cab as we made our way the mile or so to his farm. Without going into great detail, I hold this memory dear to me as one of the most lovely Christmas memories I have of being deployed abroad. His wife and children were wonderful, all spoke some level of English so communication was a lot easier than I’d thought. The kids were rapt with my pooch who in turn, was absolutely lapping up the attention and the scraps of meat being discreetly passed to her under the table by her new-found friends. The meal was incredible with a lot of local dishes which I’d come to enjoy already while in-country. We spoke of family, friends, food, customs, exchanged stories and for four or so hours I experienced a Christmas as I think it was always meant to be. Camaraderie trumping consumerism with no extravagant gifts or presents. Wholesome food and just the right amount of alcohol to encourage rather than embarrass. Conversation and engagement replacing the standard focus on what’s on the television screen.
I realise how idyllic that last story sounds but that’s how it happened. A stranger identified as being alone and far from home, welcomed and cared for by a family to whom such a thing was unthinkable. That they would have felt uncomfortable with themselves had they not at least attempted to invite the stranger to share Christmas with them. And by share, I really mean in the vein of ‘what’s ours is yours’, such was their genuine generosity. I’ve since had many other times when I wasn’t at home for Christmas, some of them okay, some of them downright miserable, but none of them even close to my experience with my farmer neighbour and his family. It taught me several lessons which I’ve always held close to me, the key one being the actual spirit of Christmas itself, which I know can sometimes be lost in the cavalcade of consumerism we embark upon each year. It also taught me to appreciate each Christmas I had at home as, in many places around the globe and in far harsher circumstances, there are men and women deployed who aren’t so fortunate as to be experiencing a day such as I had.
So, Merry Christmas to all and I hope you have a terrific day surrounded by friends and family with as much laughter as the Famous Four-Five Commando Food Fight!
The Mist, The Moor, and a Man who didn’t belong . . .
Over the years, as well as the usual stuff I write and talk about, I’ve relayed a few weird tales from both my own and my colleagues’ experiences. A friend of mine once joked that as well as the thrillers and spy fiction I write, I should pen something along the lines of Strange Things Soldiers Have Seen. To be fair, I don’t really have the time to devote to such a venture but I still tell the odd story of strange goings on not easily explained. So, nothing too serious here, just a tale I have relayed from personal experience and, weird as it may seem, this did actually happen. Even all these years later, I still don’t have a rational explanation for it. And, well, it’s Halloween so please enjoy it in the manner in which it is meant.
***
Many moons ago, when I was a young Royal Marine Commando, I was attending a promotion course to achieve the rank of Corporal. This was a tough, 3-month evolution with a lot of emphasis on operational-focussed exercises in the field and, as one would expect, leadership of troops in battle. The exercises were both physically demanding and mentally testing, pushing candidates to their limits and often beyond. One of these exercises was a night navigation test, a NAVEX, conducted as the name suggests, overnight in order to increase the difficulty of the test. While not quite as long or as taxing as the 30 Miler completed during our Commando training, this was still a long slog carrying kit, heavy radio and batteries, and weapons over the wild, rough terrain of Dartmoor. The start time was around eleven o’clock at night with the cut-off time being around five in the morning. My NAVEX took place, rather fittingly, in late October. Wet, cold autumnal weather from the west dominating our experiences in the field. When we arrived at the start of the NAVEX, we were met by members of the DS, the Directing Staff, who ensured we were carrying the correct kit, weight, and had at least a rough idea of where we were going. We were split into eight-man sections and despatched off in fifteen-minute intervals in different directions to ensure we wouldn’t just follow each other. My section was particularly strong with a couple of SBS (Special Boat Service) operators, two guys from Brigade Patrol Troop (BPT), and some of the course’s best performers.
When we set off just after 2300h, the weather had calmed somewhat but the damp remained in the air as we set the bearing on the compass and trotted off into the bleak Dartmoor night. We took it in turns to lead a leg of the exercise, each man assuming the responsibility for the accuracy of his map-reading and pace-counting as we couldn’t see any features to guide us in the dark. Within a couple of hours, we were well into the middle of Dartmoor itself, all signs of civilisation many miles behind us as we ran through swollen streams and panted up steep hills, balancing speed of progress with accurate navigation, determined not to screw up and fail the test. It was well into the wee hours when we decided to stop, take on some water and swap over lead navigators. We all gathered around the maps to make sure we knew where we were and where we were going. We noticed that the thick mist that had been collecting in the hollows and valleys was now everywhere, reducing visibility to a few metres. We joked that the DS had engineered this in order to add a further testing element to the exercise. Happy with our position and new bearing, the lead navigator folded the map and stowed it away as we finished off our drinking and shoved some snacks down our throats to keep our energy levels up. Once everyone was ready, we set off again in single file along a small game trail and over a hill, monitoring our bearing to ensure we didn’t veer off and become disoriented in the fog. We had just crested the hill when the front man stopped and we closed up behind him, looking up to see what was wrong.
Still in single file, we watched in silence as a man appeared from the fog, walking towards us a couple of metres from the small track we were following. He had a pale, pinched face, long, dark curly hair, was slight of build, and dressed in a suit and black, slip-on leather shoes with white socks. His suit was grey or silver and you could see it was a very thin material covering a white shirt and skinny black tie. He looked, for all intents and purposes, as though he had just stepped out of a pub after last orders. Except there were no pubs for around 20 miles, no houses or even farms for at least 10 miles. Not even a definitive track or road that led to either or that it could be argued that he was following. He was literally in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of thick fog and going to who the hell knew where. The man didn’t acknowledge us. Didn’t look up, turn his head or comment. Didn’t seem to notice eight armed Commandos stood only metres from him. He merely continued walking with his hands rammed into the pockets of his tight suit trousers, shoulders hunched and eyes locked on the ground to his front. As he passed us, we all turned to follow his progress until he melted into the fog and was out of sight. Nobody moved or said a word for almost a minute until one of the SBS operators spoke.
“Well, that was f**king weird.”
This broke our silent spell and we were soon discussing the odd encounter. Maps were brought out as we tried to identify where our strange visitor had come from and where he was going but nothing to explain this realistically could be found. Someone joked that based on his clothing, he looked like he’d left a crap 1980’s nightclub and we laughed but also recognised the accuracy of this description. We were just about to move off and continue with the task at hand when one of the BPT lads stepped off the track, turned on his torch and examined the ground where the stranger had been walking. Curious, we paused again then joined our colleague when he called us over. He looked up at us while highlighting the bracken and heather around him.
“There was something bugging me about that bloke other than the obvious weirdness. I couldn’t quite work it out at first but then it hit me; he was walking along like he was on a road or a track but look.”
With that, our colleague began walking where our strange visitor had walked, but having to lift his legs high to avoid entanglement in the dense foliage and even at that, encountering difficulties when trying to maintain a forward momentum. I could see exactly what he meant; nobody could walk through that thickness of scrub without staggering or stumbling, yet our nocturnal walker had ambled along as casually as if he was on a pavement in Plymouth. Our colleague spoke again.
“The other mad thing I can’t wrap my head around? I could see his shoes and socks. As clear as day. But how is that possible?”
He was right: Where the stranger had been walking was thick foliage to almost knee height. Yet I had also seen the stranger’s feet clearly. Again, we were silent for several moments as we digested this until the lead navigator suggested we get back to the business of completing the NAVEX and deal with our weird encounter after that. We were, as he reminded us, still on a clock.
With that, we returned to the mud of the thin game trail, confirmed our bearing, adjusted our loads, and jogged off once again into the fog. While I was running, I thought long and hard about our strange visitor and tried in vain to come up with a valid reason for his appearance in that location and his completely inadequate dress for the weather. It also bugged me that he hadn’t acknowledged us, not even a sideways glance. But the walking demonstration my colleague had shown us was what bothered me most. It was completely at odds with how our weird walker had ambled past us, smooth and steady with not even a hint of resistance. And the impossibility of seeing the stranger’s shoes bothered me a lot and try as I might, I couldn’t explain it. But, like the rest of the section, I put it to one side and focussed on our current task. Between the fog and the dark, the navigation was challenging and took all our collective skills to ensure we didn’t stray too far off course. But we were a strong section and confident in our abilities and made good progress through the night.
We finally closed in to the finish point of our NAVEX and had completed it with a little time to spare, checking in with the DS then changing into dry clothing before wolfing down a massive, greasy breakfast in one of the derelict stone barns of the old farm complex. Over huge mugs of steaming tea and coffee, we discussed our weird occurrence with each other and guys from the other sections but by then the oddity had worn off and it was treated as an amusing rather than spooky encounter with many jokes and outlandish theories bandied around.
I’d almost forgotten about the encounter until a former colleague and I got back in touch a couple of years ago and he reminded me of it and the memories came flooding back. He now lives in Southwest England and regularly visits Dartmoor, recalling the memory of the occurrence every time he visits. For those, like me, who rarely make it to the region let alone Dartmoor itself, the memory faded with time and age as day-to-day life took precedence. Odd though, that as soon as I was reminded of it, the details were immediately as clear as they had been on the night in question, right down to the cheap fabric of the suit. And I found myself once again, stood on a slim, muddy trail in fog-bound Dartmoor watching a man dressed for a 1980’s nightclub glide past a section of armed Commandos without so much as a glance. And again, I was completely unable to determine a realistic explanation for this encounter.
So, there you have it, a wee Halloween-related tale appropriate for the time of year. Hope you enjoyed it!
The morning walk with Kota. A time when he gets to run free along beaches or among woods and tracks and I get to think about the days, weeks, and months ahead and what I need to be doing to achieve my aims.
There is, as always, the writing. The editorial requests from Penguin and the deadlines they have given for my latest novel The Kill Chain. The ongoing work on some other fiction that I’m also in the process of writing. A series of short stories I’m actually racing through, enjoying the difference in pace and production this new-to-me format provides. Then there’s the posts, articles, and updates that I promulgate on various platforms. I’m also helping other people who are writing books of their own, providing tips and suggestions gained from my own experiences to help them on their own writing journey.
I still also keep my hand in with a bit of consulting work for specialist intelligence or military organisations and have several periods coming up where I’ll be conducting these. It’s quite flattering that, even as I approach official ‘old fartdom’, my skills and experience are still valued enough to attract interest from aforementioned organisations.
Earlier this year I secured a business mentorship program, whereby I have access to key professionals in all fields of business development with an aim to building my current writing business bigger and better. This is a lot of hard work but an absolute privilege to be a part of. And what it’s also identified is areas where I should be expanding and offering far more to people interested in my writing than I currently have been. Admittedly, this has mostly been down to time constraints with most of the international work I have been involved with in recent years lending very little free time with which to concentrate on other matters. But having scaled back on these deployments, I now have the opportunity to focus more on this issue. And that’s where this business development program comes in.
My mentors are all individuals at the top of their game and, as such, are not only excellent at delivering instruction and training, but in ensuring I have challenging assignments to complete, all aimed at growing and expanding my current writing platform. And, while I’ve never not completed any of the tasks or assignments, a dim view would be taken if I hadn’t bothered to apply myself. Like I said earlier, I feel very privileged to have access to such a program and never take it for granted. So, in a nutshell, I will now be providing far more content than I ever have before and, particularly as I’m now under the Penguin Random House umbrella, will also have a far bigger international exposure.
Cloak & Dagger is just one of the new initiatives I’m developing with my mentors. Entertaining and interactive presentations from myself and individuals from across the spectrum of clandestine operations in the military, police, and private sector arenas. Think undercover police officers, former intelligence operatives, former special forces, kidnap & ransom negotiators, hostage rescue etc, etc . . .
We’ve been working hard to pull all this together and I’m pleased to be able to say that we have the first trial run next month to an audience of business professionals. Intimidating? A bit, considering the audience demographic. But intimidating in a good way. I’m a process driven individual by and large, plan everything out, assemble all the parts and elements required for the task. But if things don’t progress fast enough, I also need for things to just get going, kick the project off and work out the kinks along the way. Which is how I initially thought about this venture. Book a venue, advertise it, see who shows up, deliver the presentation, learn from it, rinse and repeat. And that might have worked. Might have. But having been guided by these mentors for the best part of the year, I now have no reservations and know that it will work. And work well.
And that’s what was filling my brain on this morning’s walk with my trusty canine companion. Writing, writing, writing, consulting, and presentations. Platform building, marketing, advertising, venue hire, reviews integration, interactive media, content management, and delivery. I’m a very busy bee at the moment and will be for the foreseeable future. Which is good, for me and for anyone interested in my books and writing.
So my morning walks with Kota have a twofold benefit really. One, of course, is the enjoyment of the coastal walks and happy companionship of my canine buddy. The other is that hour or so of coordinating everything in my head, so that once I’m back in my office, it’s head down and crack on with the plan. A plan that now, is moving from theory to reality and is as exciting to me as the day I dedicated myself to writing that first novel all those years ago.
Are we as close as we’ve ever been to a new world war?
A world preparing for war.
That’s literally all I see going on right now.
The Baltic states and Northern Europe firmly believe physical Russian incursions to occur at any time now after sightings of ‘little green men’ on the border of Estonia this week. This is a serious revision on the previous estimates of this happening in 2029. The ‘little green men’ refers to armed soldiers without insignia or identifying badges, famously deployed prior to the physical invasions of Ukraine. The Russian drones over European countries, the cyber-attacks against government IT infrastructure, the sabotage and assassinations, the massive increase in Russian intelligence officers operating in European countries have all been going on for some time but the presence of the anonymous armed troops has analysts predicting physical conflict sooner rather than later. To that end, war preparations are in full swing with every element from weapon production and procurement to mobilisation of Reserve Forces currently increasing at pace. An interesting thing I noted yesterday was a repeated statement from both Russian government representatives and the Russian media that the United Kingdom was behind the bombing of Russian airfields by Ukraine. This was a very clear statement, no ambiguity, and seemed to me to have more weight to it than I think was given at the time. I believe that this is Russia framing the narrative – sowing the seeds for justification for future reprisals against UK interests. A very common and oft-used page of the Russian playbook for hostile international interventions.
Despite the theatrics of the much-lauded Gaza peace deal brokered by the USA, Hamas refuses to disarm and Israel stands firm in its position to defeat the terrorist organisation totally. The ceasefire wasn’t event 48 hours old and already had over 30 violations from each side. Hamas immediately executed individuals they deemed as being rivals for power in the region and President Trump posted on social media that if Hamas didn’t stop killing people, America would start killing Hamas. Which seems a little hyperbolic given that both Israel’s intelligence apparatus and kinetic capabilities in this area are second to none. Far, far better than anything the US could offer up. But still, it’s the thought that counts, I suppose.
In the past week, Pakistan has been bombing targets in Afghanistan, including an airstrike in the capital Kabul. Their new alignment with the US has emboldened Pakistan to carry out such actions without worrying about condemnation or consequence. The fact that the US has also made it clear that they want Bagram airfield in Afghanistan ‘back’, perhaps explains why Pakistan has had complete freedom to carry out these bombings. No doubt some kind of accord or agreement has been reached in securing Pakistan’s assistance in the ‘recovery’ of Bagram.
As a result of this alignment, and having been stiffed by Donald Trump’s trade tariffs, India has pivoted completely and aligned itself with Russia and China in a snub to its former ally and trading partner. India’s hand, in many ways, was forced here. Its constant conflict with Pakistan almost reached full-on war earlier this year and would take little for it to escalate once again so with Pakistan now aligned with the USA, India needed to secure powerful allies to hedge against any future Pakistan aggression.
Russia has begun supplying North Korea with sophisticated weaponry including intercontinental ballistic missiles and tactical submarine technology, greatly enhancing the pariah nation’s military capability. In return, Russia is receiving tens of thousands of North Korean troops to feed into the meat grinder of Ukraine, possibly anticipating freeing up some troops from the region to be redeployed to northern Europe. South Korea is naturally alarmed at this rapid capacity building by its hostile neighbour to the north, particularly as the US, historically the main security blanket for South Korea, seems to be disengaging from much of the protections it previously provided.
The president of the USA has been ordering unilateral strikes against boats off the coast of Venezuela, claiming without any evidence or even credible intelligence that they are part of the drugs invasion of the USA. Yesterday, a boat that was struck by a missile from a US drone was reported to have been Colombian and not Venezuelan, and that, for the first time there were survivors. Also yesterday, after a leak to the Washington Post, the American president admitted that he had authorised the CIA to conduct operations in Venezuela and that they have been ‘boots on the ground’ for some time now. Nearly 10,000 American troops in one guise or another are forward positioned in Puerto Rico and other areas of the Caribbean. American B-52 bombers were spotted in the skies above Caracas, the capital yesterday. A US special operations ‘mother ship’ has been in the area for close to a month now. One doesn’t need to be Nostradamus to predict American troops entering Venezuela at some point in the near future unless the Maduro regime rolls over beforehand or buys their way out of the problem.
Ukraine has been putting Russia under severe pressure by targeting Russian energy production facilities. A smart move that has destroyed around 25 – 30% of Russian petrochemical production and refining. Severe fuel shortages causing queues kilometres long are very public spectacles that show the Russian population that the narrative they are being fed from the Kremlin regarding the ‘special operation’ in Ukraine is perhaps not as rosy as their leaders are making it out to be. According to informed sources, the success of this initiative has surprised many in The White House and the assessment made that, actually, Ukraine can win this war. The tone of the American interactions with Ukraine changed almost immediately with President Trump even mooting about supplying (selling) Tomahawk missiles to Ukraine. Cue Vladimir Putin calling President Trump and congratulating him on the peace deal in the middle east that only Trump could have achieved. An amazing achievement that has ended thousands of years of brutal killings and suffering. That only Trump had the ability to carry this off . . . This flattery, of course worked and there was a 2-hour phone call between Trump and Putin after which the bromance seems to be back on. The pair have arranged to meet face to face at a later date in Hungary, one of the few countries Putin feels comfortable entering without risk of the ICC arrest warrant being implemented against him. It will be interesting to see what today’s meeting between Trump and President Zelensky brings out with Zelensky anticipating Tomahawks but maybe having to settle for another forced ‘ceasefire’ period while Putin deploys his next initiative.
In another, completely out of the blue geopolitical development, after Israel bombed Hamas targets in Qatar, Donald Trump publicly stated that he had signed an agreement with Qatar that, should anyone attack Qatar, then the USA would fight on Qatar’s behalf. This strange commitment led to much head scratching among analysts as to why such a public declaration, particularly from a man who campaigned on a platform of ‘no foreign wars’. The White House also stated it has approved the establishment of a Qatari Emiri Air Force facility in Idaho, a move that has enraged much of the Republican party’s support base and left the rest of the US puzzled as to why. Of course, the cynic might note the ‘gift’ of the $400 million jet to the president of the USA some months before or the murky, billions of dollars in financial deals between Qatar and extended members of the Trump family and friends circle as perhaps the agreed ‘something’ in the something for something arrangement. As a result of this, in yet another knee-jerk reaction, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan have signed an accord whereby one will defend the other against any attack. A ‘lite’, middle eastern NATO Article 5 if you will. Considering the antipathy between Saudi Arabia and Qatar over the years, maybe someone should have seen the Saudi pivot coming as an inevitable self-protection measure.
And there you have it. A world preparing for war. Now, as I’ve been telling anybody interested in the matter, the world has already been at war for decades really. It’s just that because there’s been no traditional peer to peer fighting in western European countries or the USA, much of it goes unnoticed by citizens going about their daily lives. But wars by proxy have been and are being fought, the difference now being that the ‘by proxy’ part is being dropped, the charade of plausible deniability by a nation or state now seen as unimportant or superfluous.
Which is concerning. When countries and nations no longer care to have an ‘off ramp’ in the manner of plausible deniability, they can soon be boxed into a corner and trapped in an escalating spiral of response reprisals and retributions.
What’s interesting to me is that some months ago a friend asked me if we were heading into World War 3. It was around the time of the Israel/US threats against Iran, before the actual airstrikes themselves. At the time I said no; Iran would bluster and rattle their sabres but there would be no real retaliation. On that front I was correct. Unfortunately, between then and now a new world order is emerging based not upon the standard trade agreements but of war and preparation for war. And it’s emerging fast. Really fast.But don’t take my word for it. I know watching international news and current affairs these days can feel like nothing more than doomscrolling. But take a little time to pay a bit more attention to some of the reports and articles mentioning the events I’ve highlighted above. I think you’ll be surprised at just how much is going on and what the knock-on effects are or are likely to be.
Photograph from the movie Extraction: Jason Boland/Netflix
As I mentioned before, we have just moved house down the coast a tad and, even two months in, are still unpacking the various bits and pieces that weren’t regarded as a priority. A while back, after finding them in a box, I did a small piece on the various ID cards and permits I have had over the years and some stories associated with these. Today, while sorting out some of the last unpacked boxes in my office, I came across a box where I’ve kept a lot of my old notebooks. To say it was a trip down memory lane would be an understatement, as incidents and operations long consigned to the mouldy basement area of my brain were suddenly brought back into the sunlight for a retelling. Case in point – a few pages I found in one of the notebooks which I thought I’d share with you, just to give you some idea of how things work for real as opposed to the Hollywood version we’re often presented with.
This story begins several years back with a phone call out of the blue from my friend ‘Mark’ with whom I’d done some pretty intense work with in Africa the year before. A quick hello from Mark followed by an ‘are you busy just now?‘ Then straight into it. Was I up for an immediate deployment to Ukraine? I must admit, I took pause at that, having been watching the Russian invasion the previous few days on the news. But I’d also done a bit of work in Ukraine over the years so had both familiarity and fondness for the country and its people. So, I was definitely interested and asked for more details.
What’s the team? Just me and Mark. Who are we working for? A former special forces chap we’d done some work for before and whom we both regarded as a great guy. What are we doing? Not sure, just get on the ground, get the lay of the land, and see where we can be of best use. Okay, a bit of a fuzzy brief but I’ve had worse, and, like I say, I genuinely liked working for this guy, as did Mark. When do we go? Day after tomorrow. So, a day and a half to square stuff away and get on a flight to the world’s latest war zone. Cutting short a visit to friends and family in England, my wife and I headed back north.
Some quick research on the hoof and I’d sketched out a basic plan of getting to Eastern Poland and working things out from there. A flurry of phone calls and VTCs in between packing and booking flights, rental cars etc, fleshed out some more of the detail. We also got a steer to prepare for journalists and reporters wanting to be taken to the front lines as some had already approached our employer with this request. With an idea of at least one of the tasks we’d be conducting, we decided to rendezvous near London and grab some body armour, helmets, comms, and other equipment for our media clients.
Just outside London, we took possession of the heavy kit and packed it in preparation for our onward flights. It was then we both had to make a very important, and very personal decision: Do we want to be armed? This might sound like an easy decision to make but it’s not as simple as it appears at first glance. The pros of being armed are obvious; protection for yourself and your clients. A useful intimidation tool if required. The cons, however, are also significant. For one, you are carrying weapons in a war zone and as such, you will be defined as a combatant, no quarter asked or given, particularly from the Russians. Second, the minute it’s discovered that you are carrying guns, you’re not going to be able to talk or bribe your way out of trouble, physical confrontation an almost given. Third, once you make the decision to use a gun, it’s all or nothing, no half measures and no going back.
Credit: Oleksandr Ratushniak
Also, we’d now been given another role; Extraction. Rescuing civilians trapped in the fighting and getting them to safety. I remember thinking that I was getting too long in the tooth to be cutting about a war zone with weapons. Nowhere near as fleet of foot as I needed to be if things went wrong and I had to escape and evade after a compromise. That my preferred approach would be to recruit a team of fixers and facilitators who we could deploy to the hardest areas. We would manage, direct, and oversee their deployments on our behalf. Thankfully, Mark had come to the same conclusion and we decided not to carry weapons. With that behind us, we headed to Heathrow with a ton of luggage and the familiar mix of excitement and trepidation as we started our journey east.
On the flight, we both noted some familiar faces among our fellow passengers. A chap I recognised, I’d last bumped into on the Syria/Iraq border the last time we’d seen each other a couple of years before. He was a little cagey about the exact nature of what he was going to be doing, as was I, but we swapped numbers in the event that we might be able to help one another at some point. I saw Mark doing the same with someone he knew from a previous contract. This is the norm for work like this where your network is everything. Every one of us at some point reaches out to an individual they think might be able to help or connect them with someone else who can.
After an overnight stay in Warsaw, we picked up a robust hire car in the morning and headed east. We decided to base ourselves around Lublin in Poland so that we could access the Border Crossing Points (BCPs) into Ukraine. Recce them and identify the protocols and restrictions applicable to each. On checking into our hotel in Lublin, it was apparent that a lot was going on. The hotel was bursting at the seams with refugees, security contractors, embassy staff from several European countries.
Oh, and spies.
Having been involved in clandestine operations for the better part of my career, it was easy for me to identify the spies among the myriad personalities we encountered. This however, was probably the first occasion I can recall where the spies weren’t too bothered that you knew who they were. Sure, they trotted out the usual cover story of some vague embassy political appointment or role, but left it at that, no further details given. An acceptance that, while unsaid, we knew who they were. The reason for this was twofold; speed, and unity of purpose. The invasion was unfolding fast in real time so nobody had the luxury of waiting until conditions were right before acting. And second, every nationality in the area was united in their mission to rescue colleagues or civilians from the fighting. Information and intelligence was being shared and swapped over tables at the bar and in the conference rooms. Spies sharing contact details with contractors like us who were able to move freely and faster than they could. Quid pro quos agreed upon and reciprocated. We made close connections with a couple of intelligence officers from one of the Baltic countries where I had worked previously and had daily discussions in a conference room where we helped them with some real time intelligence we were getting from our nascent network. They reciprocated with introductions to other individuals working in areas we were interested in. Special forces, local intelligence Assets, local law enforcement, all super helpful for our understanding of the threat and freedom of movement conditions.
Over the course of a few days, Mark and I spent every waking hour networking with whoever would talk to us up and down the border. We both reached out to anyone we thought might be able to help us and came up with some terrific contacts who had access to significant networks of their own. One cracking individual I knew was already running some heavy operations and, true to form, when I reached out, he was only too happy to help.
Networking conversation. James E Mack
We recruited a personal friend I’d known from previous work in Poland as our interpreter/fixer/facilitator, and she became a major force multiplier for our tiny team. We spent a lot of time on the border, chatting with guards at the checkpoints, learning the means and methods of entering and leaving Ukraine. This is key in operations such as ours, the right permits and paperwork the difference between getting people out safely or having them trapped at the border with no ability to make it across.
We’d also begun putting together our extraction team, a network of savvy individuals we would run into the hot zones on our behalf. They were already carrying out similar activities on an ad hoc basis but we moulded them into a solid team with all the assets required to run successful extraction operations. An additional bonus was the real-time intelligence they were providing us as eyes and ears on the ground. This enabled us to get accurate intelligence to our media clients and have them amend their travel plans according to the corresponding threat level. A further, more sobering aspect of this was seeing the graphic, first-hand photos and images from our team’s phones as they operated in and around Russian positions.
Missile damage. UA Fixer/James E Mack
It reminded me of how right Mark and I had been in not being armed and deploying to areas where, even with our experience, we would have had serious trouble moving around unnoticed.
Entering Ukraine for the first time, it was incredible to see a country under invasion and preparing itself to repel the invaders as best they could.
Improvised highway defences. James E Mack
In the west of Ukraine, tens of thousands of refugees were passing through the rail and bus stations of Lviv as they made their way to the Polish border. All women and children with hardly any males present in the huge throngs. This made the sight all the more poignant, seeing families ripped from their homes and lives and being forced to flee with only what they could carry.
Border crossing. James E Mack
Trains running at night without lights so as not to be targeted by Russian aircraft. Each carriage crammed with people standing cheek to jowl and sometimes taking as long as 48 hours to make the journey from Kyiv to Lviv. Think about that; a mother with kids crammed into a dark, boiling, sweaty train carriage for up to two days as a war rages around them, rumour and speculation filling the void of accurate information. The fear and terror of not knowing if you would ever see your husband again, or indeed, even your home. Of not knowing what you were going to find on the other side of the border other than safety for you and your children.
This is a photo of a couple of pages from one of my Ukraine notebooks. I remember Mark and I had just left a meeting with a fixer in a cafe in Lviv when we got a call to arrange a fast-notice extraction. Mark took the call and I made the notes, substituting names and ages to mask identities in the event that we were stopped and searched while Mark got us back across the border. You can see from the rushed notes that there were quite a few complications to this extraction.
First there was the issue of the man, a serious medical condition and with limited medication due to the fact all infrastructure in their local area had been destroyed and looted by Russian troops. He would also require an exemption from fighting certificate to get him through any Ukrainian checkpoints as they were arresting males suspected of desertion or avoiding the mandatory conscription. We overcame this by identifying a friendly contact in the Ukrainian military who could get an Army doctor to produce the relevant document and source some medication. Second, was the presence of young children and some of the considerations we needed to implement for their safety and the attrition of a long journey through dangerous territory. The writing at the bottom of the left page that says 3 more PAX? refers to the request from the family that another 3 individuals be factored into our plan for the extraction in the event they could make it. Another vehicle, driver and security, fuel, food, accommodation to source and be ready in the event it was needed.
Again, on the hoof, Mark and I put our plan together. We knew the area the family were trying to leave, east of Kyiv and the Dnieper River, but by speaking to them we learned that they could get to an uncontested area without too much trouble. This area was pretty quiet in regards to fighting and Russian presence and would be easier for our team’s ingress and egress than the family’s home turf. We offered up the choice of Kyiv or Lviv as the in-country safe staging area, from where the family could choose where they wanted to go, but then settled on Lviv and getting them into Poland for full extraction and safety.
You can see from the notes that extractions rely on knowledge of the region, the security situation, communications, and logistics. Factoring in other vehicles for baggage for example. An overnight hotel in Lviv to allow the family to recover from the stress of days of tense journeys across a hostile landscape. A contingency plan to walk the family across the border in the event that the BCPs closed to traffic which they were prone to do from time to time. Bearing in mind we’d seen traffic queues of up to ten kilometres at the border, some planning for helping a family to walk this distance was required. We also needed to factor in vehicle recovery from the Polish side as some of our team were remaining in Poland for a short break.
And of course, money.
How to get money to the team for vehicles, fuel, food, accommodation, bribes for checkpoints/Russians etc. Nothing would happen without people being paid. And bear in mind, good fixers and facilitators are rare, valuable commodities that are in constant high demand and can easily find another operation to join. I’ve seen it happen and in fact, some members of the team we recruited had jumped ship from a company who couldn’t pay them when required. So, prompt, full payment of agreed funds was essential to keeping our operation moving. Where it wasn’t possible for us to pay our guys directly in cash, Western Union transfer of Euros became the standard method at the time although this would probably end sooner rather than later as the country’s financial infrastructure continued to be targeted by the Russians.
Extraction notes. James E Mack
The notes above show an altogether different extraction request. Far greater numbers and with a large American element, hence my point regarding State Department liaison. This was essential in determining both the accuracy of numbers and the identities of those involved. With such a large group of people, transportation was a key issue both in terms of sourcing and which routes would be suitable to move the personnel. As we would be picking up from various locations and not a centralised one, this added greatly to the logistics headache we were experiencing. Where I have blurred a name out, this referred to a key fixer we had used in the past who was now in France but had agreed to jump on board and help with our task. Again, passes, passports, and documentation needed to be in order and you’ll note at the bottom of the page I’ve written TRIM. This is the abbreviation for Trauma Risk Management; having qualified practitioners ready to receive those escaping the fighting and assist with initial counselling and signposting to further help. These people had seen and, for some, experienced, first hand the brutality of the Russian forces and consequently needed more in-depth support than usual.
After a hectic week, our little team decided to put down some roots and rented an apartment in Zamosc, Eastern Poland. A pleasant and very pretty little city that afforded us quick border crossings and easy access to airports and train stations.
Zamosc, Poland.
We grew very fond of Zamosc and our apartment, particularly when we had some downtime and could cook a communal meal, indulge in a glass of nonsense or two, and laugh about some of the more ridiculous things we’d encountered that day. We became so entrenched here that one of our neighbours in the block complained to us about another neighbour who was leaving cigarette butts in the communal spaces. We began jokingly referring to ourselves as the Zamosc Residents’ Association, making idle threats to produce community newsletters, naming and shaming any neighbours who committed anti-social acts. It was also a source of amusement for us that, whenever we were asked by officials or contacts we’d just met, who we were, we’d reply with a serious expression and sober tone of voice ‘The Zamosc Residents’ Association’. I’m not sure whether it was due to translation or people just not wanting to admit confusion, but it was hilarious to us how the name was never questioned whenever we deployed it.
The Zamosc Residents’ Association continued their work in Ukraine and Poland until the requests for extractions began to ease off. Our fixers and facilitators wanted to pivot towards the sourcing and supply of military equipment to militias, volunteers, and private security details, as well as offering the role of drivers and security escorts. So we made the decision to put the extraction pipeline we’d worked so hard to set up into caretaker mode. Maintained and monitored so that it could be reactivated with minimum notice. This was always going to happen and wasn’t anything surprising for us.
But that didn’t mean we were any less saddened by it.
Zamosc Residents’ Association, Zamosc, Poland
From arriving in Poland with just one contact’s telephone number, and a vague mission brief all those weeks before, to the stage where we could get anyone out of almost any area in Ukraine, the Zamosc Residents’ Association were rightly proud of our achievements. The team’s hard work, constant communication, and comprehensive logistics all played their part in the setting up of a cracking extraction pipeline.
So, when I see extractions portrayed in the movies as a one-man, armed to the teeth, kill anyone who gets in his way kind of deal, I take it for the entertainment it is designed to be and not an accurate reflection of the reality on the ground. Real extractions take teamwork and a network of talented fixers and facilitators to make them successful. Both my team and our network were talented individuals in their own right and an absolute privilege to work with. I’ve done quite a few interesting things in the private sector but look back upon my time as a member of the Zamosc Residents’ Association with a real sense of accomplishment and fondness for the people I was fortunate enough to have worked alongside.
Have had such great feedback from my short story that I made free to the readers of my novels that I thought I would make some more free stuff available to give a further taster of my books and writing. Here’s a free sample from my last published novel, A Day Ahead of the Devil. I’ve made a couple of the first chapters free individually some time back but have put them together now for a bigger chunk of the story. Hope you enjoy!
A DAY AHEAD OF THE DEVIL – SAMPLE
1
SPECIAL OPERATIONS BARRACKS, GHAZNI PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN, AUGUST 2021
Her eyes snapped open and she sprang from the thin mattress, reaching for her boots as she flinched at the explosions shattering the night. Heavy machine-gun fire accompanied a cadence of crumps from the mortars that were creeping closer to the small barracks where, until moments before, she had been sound asleep. Boots tied, Samira stood, scrunched her long, dark hair into a ponytail and secured it with a hairband, flinching as the concussion from a mortar round buffeted the thin metal walls of her room. They were getting closer. Bending, she scooped up her tac-vest and threw it over her head, fastening the Velcro side panels to fit to her body. Running her hands across the pouches, Samira nodded, satisfied that she had her full complement of ammunition and grenades. From the rack under the window, she retrieved her rifle, attached the sling to a clip on her tac-vest, removed and checked the magazine before reloading the weapon and cocking it. Another explosion shattered the windows and she turned her face away for a brief moment before picking up her helmet, giving a sharp tug on the attached Night Vision Goggles to ensure they were secure. As she donned the Kevlar helmet, Samira could hear the urgency in the voices carrying through the chaos of the fighting outside. Making her way towards the door, she smelled smoke and saw, for the first time, the flicker of fire from somewhere near the armoury. The voices were louder now and Samira identified some of them. Sergeant Khan directing a sniper to start finding targets. Captain Noor ordering someone to get air support immediately. Other voices calling urgently for information on the enemy’s positions. She burst out of her accommodation as a mortar exploded among the vehicles parked near the gate, pieces of Humvees now lethal projectiles in their own right as they scythed through the air at speed. Men were shouting as they spilled out from their sleeping quarters where, like Samira only moments before, they’d been resting peacefully. Samira ran at a low crouch towards the familiar figure of Captain Noor as he stood talking into a satellite phone and barking out commands to the commandos around him. He looked up as she approached and lowered the handset to address her. ‘This is not good. Somehow more than two hundred Taliban have entered the city and taken control. It appears that all the other Army and Police positions have been abandoned and the troops deserted. We are the only point of resistance and we must hold. I am trying to get reinforcements and air support but nobody is answering. And we have no radio comms, must have been knocked out.’ Samira shook her head. ‘I don’t understand, how could they get here so fast without us knowing? Where were the warnings from Headquarters? The Americans?’ Noor spat. ‘My suspicion is that our Headquarters have abandoned the Province, and us, to save their own skins. I’m just about to call Kabul and get them to support directly.’ Samira struggled to comprehend the enormity of Noor’s words. The rank and file of the Afghan military had been deserting in droves, abandoning towns, cities and provinces ahead of the Taliban advance. But the Ktah Khas, the Special Unit, her unit, had always fought. Always. It’s what made them different. What had made the difference for the past ten years. As the American draw-down had taken effect it had become apparent very quickly that the Afghan security forces would fail. But the Ktah Khas had not failed. Had continued with the fight. Even now, as the Taliban made great gains through the country, Samira and her fellow commandos had been taking the fight to the enemy. She was brought back to the moment by Noor grasping her shoulder. ‘Go to the roof with the sniper and give me updates on the enemy positions so that I can inform air support if they ever answer. GO!’ Samira spun and ran towards the main building complex, bounding up the external staircase and on to the roof. In the dim light she could see the sniper positioned at the southern end of the roof and she called out as she approached him, crouching as she ran. ‘Friendlies approaching rear, friendlies approaching rear.’ She slid next to the sniper, taking care not to bump him, lowered her NVGs and activated the laser sighting on her carbine as she spoke. ‘What have we got?’ The sniper, a new member to the unit, replied quietly. ‘At least two mortar teams out of view, recoilless rifles in closer and four or five groups closing in on all sides.’ Samira gave a sharp intake of breath. This was a significant force for their small unit to deal with at the best of times. But without air support? Insanity. She shook her head. ‘What’s your ammunition status?’ ‘Good. I’ve brought spare, might need some help refilling the empty magazines.’ The sniper moved suddenly. ‘Fifty metres, half-left, base of building, four men, rifles and rockets.’ Samira looked through her NVGs, following the sniper’s indication and saw the men at once, noting the shoulder-mounted RPGs or rockets as the sniper called them. Flicking her safety catch to the ‘fire’ position, she moved her green laser over the torsos of three of the men as she spoke. ‘Marking targets.’ The sniper grunted in affirmation and Samira squeezed her trigger, firing small bursts of rounds into the chests of the men she’d painted with her laser. The suppressor of her carbine muffled much of the noise and she heard the sniper’s shot as he took out the final Taliban fighter. Samira scanned the kill site for several moments to confirm all four were dead. Turning her head to observe the other side of the street, she noticed a furtive movement through the green hue of her NVGs. She focussed her attention on the area but saw nothing further to indicate anything suspicious. Samira continued to monitor the street to her front, looking for targets, determined to engage them before they could get close to the base. The sniper whispered to her. ‘They’ve stopped the mortars. Everything is too quiet.’ Samira nodded her agreement but felt no relief; in her experience such a silence was usually the prelude to a concerted attack. Adrenalin was coursing through her, a familiar sensation as she anticipated the close-quarter combat to come. Below her, within the confines of the concrete walls, she could hear whispered directives being ushered as each commando came to the same conclusion she had arrived at: Something big was coming. She heard Captain Noor speak in English to one of the squadron’s Team Leaders and tell them that there would be no air support coming. Samira realised with a jolt that if Noor was talking in English he must believe the Taliban to be within earshot. Is that possible? She was about to ask the sniper when a riot of noise erupted from all directions as the base came under heavy attack. Chunks of wall exploded as RPGs and heavy machine-gun fire tore into the defensive structures. Mortars rained from above in numbers far in excess of what they had already experienced. Samira tried several times to return fire from her position but the wall around the roof was being shredded by the incredible weight of fire from the Taliban. She rolled away from the wall and crawled to the other side of the roof as green tracer rounds ricocheted in crazed directions off the walls protecting her. At the other corner she took a deep breath and raised her head above the parapet, aiming her rifle. She saw a group of Taliban running across the wide road and engaged them immediately, their bodies dropping on to the hard-packed dirt road as her rifle clattered and bucked in her shoulder. Samira dropped back behind her cover just as a heavy burst of fire tore into the wall sending chunks of stone into the air. She rolled away from the area and tucked herself against another corner, changed magazines and tried to work out what she was going to do. The noise was horrific; a constant barrage of explosions and weapons’ fire tearing the defences of their small base to pieces. She looked up as the sniper sprinted towards her and dropped to her side breathing heavily. ‘I can’t do anything from up here, they have us surrounded and pinned down. I’m going down to help with the fight there. Why is there no air support?’ Without waiting for an answer, he took off at a crouch and made it to the staircase, quickly dropping out of sight. Samira rose to her knees to follow him when a giant explosion rocked the entire building, deafening her and knocking her over. She shook her head and pushed herself up just as a second, more violent blast lifted the entire roof several feet and lit up the sky in a hellish illumination of red and orange. Samira’s breath was knocked out of her as the roof dropped and began collapsing under her feet. With no time to collect her thoughts she staggered towards the stairwell as giant slabs of the roof began falling into the darkness beneath her. She was dimly aware of an increase in the shooting below but focussed on making it to the stairs. As she reached them, she noted that they remained mostly intact but were twisted and buckled in some places. In the compound below she saw a giant hole in the perimeter wall and the warped, burning chassis of a car: The standard Taliban suicide borne vehicle bomb. She had no doubt that the explosion on the other side of the base had also been a car bomb. The stairs moved under her weight but didn’t come away from the wall. Samira took the steps several at a time, determined to get to the ground before they collapsed underneath her. They groaned in protest and sagged a little but they held and she gave an unconscious grunt of gratitude as her feet hit the earth of the compound. She began running towards the last place where she had seen Captain Noor but dropped to the ground as a stream of bullets zipped past her face. Samira rolled on to her side and raised the carbine up to face the threat. Two Taliban ran towards her, adjusting their aim as they approached but she engaged both men before they could focus on her prone figure, cutting them down mid-stride. Without pause for thought, she was on her feet again, sprinting towards the Operations Office and, hopefully, Captain Noor. All around her, heavy fire was being exchanged at close quarters as the Taliban continued to breach the base. Her ears were ringing but she could still hear explosions and feel the blast waves as grenades and RPGs detonated within the walled compound. A movement caught her eye and in the darkness beyond, she saw a green laser being waved around in a circle and was grateful for the signal that identified the rally point. As she reached the location, she saw it was a small corner that had been fortified with sandbags and whatever solid cover the commandos behind it had managed to grab. Samira clambered over the raised protection and landed on her back before rising to her knees and taking in her new surroundings. There were six of her fellow commandos returning fire while several others were sat with backs against the sandbags, yelling into telephones. Samira saw that Captain Noor was among them, alternating between a satellite phone and a conventional one. She could tell by his expression that things were bad; she had never seen concern on his face before but now he was shouting into the phones, frustration and anger contorting his features. She was about to make her way to him when the commando standing beside her dropped suddenly, collapsing to the ground. Samira grabbed him by the straps of his tac-vest and turned him over to check for injury. The blackened eye socket pooling dark blood and the limp body told her the commando was dead, not injured. Taking several of the dead man’s magazines and a couple of grenades from his tac-vest, she stuffed them into her own pouches. She then sprang up, rifle on aim and took the commando’s place. Her first burst cut down a Taliban fighter who was already aiming his RPG at their position. As he fell dying to the ground, the weapon went off and the projectile screamed harmlessly into the night sky. Movement to her left caught her eye and she turned her weapon to face it but lowered her aim as she identified the sniper and another commando sprinting towards her. Samira moved to one side as the men leapt the small barricade and took cover. She turned her attention back to the fight and opened fire on a small group of Taliban who were attempting to reach the stairs. She saw two of them drop but the other pair retreated around the corner of the building and out of sight. Someone stood beside her and she saw that it was the sniper, long rifle up on aim and firing into the darkness beyond. Samira scanned the area for further targets but none presented themselves to her. She could hear Captain Noor talking to someone on the phone and cursing whoever was on the other end. Again, so out of character from a commander they respected for his calm, considered leadership. The sniper bumped his hip against hers to get Samira’s attention. ‘He’s not going to get any air support. I spoke to my cousin who is a policeman in Kabul and he told me it’s chaos up there as all the foreigners are flying out of the country.’ He turned his face to look at her. ‘They’re leaving. The Americans, the British, all of them. They are running away.’ Samira stared at the sniper as he turned his attention back to monitoring his fields of fire. It couldn’t be true. Their American partners had sworn to them that they would always be here. Yes, in smaller numbers but the Special Forces would never leave Afghanistan. Would always be there to provide air support and intelligence to the Ktah Khas. She shook her head; the sniper’s cousin would have heard a rumour and, in typical Afghan fashion, exaggerated the facts to make it more interesting. But the seed of doubt remained. Even when air support hadn’t been immediately available to their missions in the past, a reason and alternative was always provided. This time felt different: Getting no response to their support request was unheard of and for the first time since the battle began, Samira felt a small stab of fear in her stomach. She’d been with the unit for over three years and had been a commando with the British-mentored CF 333 before that. Had fought hundreds of engagements with the Taliban, ISIS-K and Al Qaeda. Been wounded and injured many times over the years but had never believed her death was imminent. Until now. She turned to look at Captain Noor just as the sniper screamed a warning. ‘CAR BOMB FRONT ENTRANCE!’ Samira threw herself to the ground, covered her ears and opened her mouth as the air was split by an apocalyptic explosion and a blast wave that destroyed the cover around the commandos. She shook debris off her back and legs and turned to face the direction the blast had come from, knowing that a follow-up team of shooters would be racing towards them. Around her the other commandos were doing the same and a heavy weight of fire was soon streaming across the compound, the bullets tearing into the dozen Taliban attempting to cross the open ground. There was a lull when the last man fell and Samira used the time to change magazines and take stock of their situation. Looking around the remnants of their ruined position, she saw four bodies on the ground and two injured receiving treatment from the medic. Their cover from fire now consisted of a mere two levels of sandbags, barely enough to lie behind for protection. Captain Noor crawled forward until he was in their midst and Samira moved to one side to give her commander some room as he addressed them quietly. ‘The situation is bad. We are alone and no help is coming. No help is coming ever again. The Americans are leaving Afghanistan now. They started last night and will all be gone by today. The world has turned its back on us.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘From what I have learned from my contacts many of our senior officers have also run, taken flights to Dubai and Qatar to go and count their money.’ He spat on the ground before looking up again. ‘The Taliban are expected to reach Kabul by tonight at the latest and will probably take it with little to no resistance. Who will fight them without the support of our allies and no command structure from our own security forces?’ Samira cleared her throat before speaking. ‘So, what is the plan?’ The Captain let the question hang in the eerie quiet before replying. ‘There is one piece of good news. All Ktah Khas commandos and other special ops soldiers will be evacuated from the country under the order of the Americans and British. Their families will also be allowed to go with them.’ A murmur ran through the small group and the Captain raised his hand. ‘But . . . the airlifts will only take place from Kabul airport. Nowhere else. And by the time we make it there, the city will be under Taliban control.’ The sniper faced his commander. ‘What do you want us to do, Sir? There’s too many Taliban out there for us to kill. Another attack like that last one and we will be defeated.’ The Captain opened his mouth to reply but was stopped by the sound of a voice coming from a loudhailer beyond the compound walls. ‘Captain Noor, Captain Noor. Can you hear me?’ The commandos remained silent and focussed on the darkness around them as the disembodied voice continued. ‘Captain Noor, please answer me. You and your soldiers have put up a very brave fight. There is no need for anyone else to die here. Let us talk like men.’ Noor cleared his throat and shouted his reply. ‘I can hear you. Who are you and what do you want?’ The reply was immediate. ‘Captain Noor, I am Qari Hazrat, commander of over two hundred mujahideen fighters surrounding your base. We control the entire province and it is now part of our glorious Islamic Emirate. By nightfall we will take Kabul and clear it of the infestation of parasites and blasphemers who sit on their gilded thrones. Then the Taliban will rule this Islamic Emirate by the will and laws of Allah and his prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. So, to keep fighting is not necessary. Surrender, give up your weapons and you will be free to return to your homes if you give your word that you will never take up arms against the rightful rulers of the Emirate.’ The silence was almost absolute, broken only by the occasional wail from the wounded beyond the walls and the cackling from fires burning within the base. Noor leaned into the group as he spoke in a quiet voice. ‘I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any Taliban. I don’t believe he would honour such a surrender. But . . . we can’t defeat them. No one is coming to our aid. I can’t order you what to do anymore. The time has come for each of you to make your own choice.’ The sniper spoke up, voice raised in frustration and fear. ‘What choice? Surrender or die?’ The Captain regarded him. ‘There is another option; run. We fight our way out of here, make it to the streets and find a way to Kabul.’ The sniper shook his head. ‘They have every street blocked, I saw it from the roof. And even if we did survive and get out of the city, you heard him, they have control of the whole country.’ Samira met Noor’s gaze. ‘I’m running. There’s no choice for me. You know what will happen if those animals get their hands on me, no matter what they promise.’ Noor nodded. ‘I’m running too. We are Ktah Khas; the Taliban know we have been responsible for killing so many of them that I don’t believe they will let us go.’ The sniper leaned in, hissing his objections. ‘Where are you running to? You really believe you can make it all the way to Kabul? And even if you do, then what? Check in at the Ariana desk, enjoy some green tea in the departure lounge while you wait for your flight? No! Everything will be in Taliban hands, including the airport. I think we should put down our guns and negotiate.’ Noor’s response was halted by the interruption from the loudhailer beyond the walls. ‘Captain Noor, time is running out. I need your answer now. It is a good offer for you and your men. Take it but take it now as I am losing patience.’ Noor spoke quickly. ‘Show of hands; who is running?’ Samira looked around and saw that, along with her and Noor, only Sergeant Khan raised his hand. Noor spoke again. ‘Three of us. That leaves six who want to negotiate, yes?’ Samira confirmed the count and nodded at Noor who pointed to the sniper. ‘You. You will take charge of the group who want to negotiate. It is better the Taliban hear one voice to avoid confusion and honour their agreement. So, speak to Qari Hazrat now. Let him know you will be coming out of the front entrance, unarmed, carrying wounded and that you accept his conditions.’ The sniper nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’ Noor shook his head. ‘No. It’s better you know nothing of our plans in case they change their minds and torture you. If you know nothing you can tell them nothing. Now speak before he changes his mind.’ The sniper paused for a moment then turned, placing his rifle on the ground and cupping both hands to his mouth as he yelled. ‘We accept your merciful terms and are coming out, unarmed and carrying our wounded brothers.’ There was silence for several seconds before the reply. ‘A wise decision. Come out of the front entrance in single file unless you are helping the wounded. If we see any weapons we will kill you all.’ The sniper motioned for his group to take control of the casualties. Captain Noor gripped the younger man’s shoulder. ‘May Allah bless and care for you brother. Go now and know we will do nothing until all of you have left.’ With that, Noor grabbed Samira and Sergeant Khan, pulling them out of earshot from the remainder. ‘Plan: Samira, prepare a Humvee for us. Khan, you and I set demolitions to breach the wall on the south perimeter that will give us direct access to the widest part of the road. This should catch them off-guard; they’ll be expecting any escape to come from one of the gates. We can’t move the vehicle until the breach so we will set it, join Samira in the Humvee, detonate the charge then drive through the gap. We go fast and we go hard, try to use as many of the main roads as possible for speed then cut west on the tracks when necessary. If we lose the vehicle we steal another by whatever means we can. The quicker we reach Kabul, the sooner we know what we are dealing with. Questions?’ There were none. Samira ran to the vehicle parking area and selected one of the Humvees furthest away from the damaged ones. The vehicles were always ready for immediate deployment but she went through the checks anyway. The .50 Calibre heavy machine gun was loaded and its complement of ammunition stored as she had expected. Grab-bags of medical, food, water, ammunition for the carbines and batteries for the NVGs and other equipment were all secured in their allocated spaces. Four M-72 light anti-armour weapons strapped against the vehicle framework completed the inventory. After a quick check that the ignition fired, Samira turned the vehicle off, opened the doors and waited. She couldn’t see Noor and Khan from her position but knew from experience the men would be quick. She attempted to slow her breathing, nerves kicking in now that she was not active. She watched as the small column of those who chose to surrender shuffled past her, the healthy supporting the weight of the wounded. Their distorted shadows danced like demons in the red hues from the light cast by the fires and the smoke plumes drifting across the compound. Samira didn’t believe the Taliban would hold up their side of the agreement. They loathed the Ktah Khas. Hated them worse than they despised the Americans even. No, Samira had no faith that her colleagues making their way to the front entrance of the base would ever see their homes again. A Taliban prison perhaps, but not their homes. Movement drew her attention and she saw the figures of Noor and Khan sprinting towards her. Noor leapt into the passenger seat and Khan took the rear, the Sergeant pushing himself out of the top cover and taking control of the .50 Cal. He was also watching the movement of the sniper’s group as they made their way towards the front entrance. Monitoring their progress, Khan counted down the distance the group had to cover before reaching the gate and updated Noor and Samira. ‘Thirty metres . . . twenty metres . . . ten metres . . . last man through.’ He dropped back into the vehicle as Noor fired the remote detonation unit. The explosion shook the compound and the flash lit up the entire area as Samira started the ignition and floored the accelerator, propelling the vehicle forward. Using only the infra-red headlights and her NVGs, she sped towards the roiling smoke and dust cloud and saw the wide breach in the wall. They hit the rubble at the base of the breach and the Humvee was airborne for a brief moment before the vehicle landed, bounced then skidded as Samira turned it on to the wide thoroughfare of the road. Khan was already back up and manning the machine-gun as Noor stared ahead and gave clear directions. ‘Roadblock, thirty metres, no alternative route. Engage.’ Sergeant Khan opened up with the heavy machine-gun, the large rounds slamming into the vehicles and men blocking the road ahead. Samira aimed the Humvee at a point where two vehicles had been reversed against each other, knowing that they would provide less resistance than the front of a car where the heavy engine block was situated. There was a pause in the firing as Khan dropped back down and secured himself an instant before the Humvee smashed into the roadblock, the big American vehicle sending the smaller cars spiralling away into the darkness, metal screeching and sparks flying. Khan was back up in the turret as the Taliban opened fire from behind them, the booming reply of his heavy machine-gun soon silencing even that token resistance. Noor clapped Samira’s shoulder. ‘Good work. Take the next left then immediate right. After that it’s only a couple of kilometres to the highway.’ He was silent then, his attention focussed on the streets around them as the Humvee sped along the deserted roads. The streets were dark and empty for the most part, the occasional corpse on the road the only sign that any life had existed at all. There was no pursuit and other than the sounds of sporadic gunfire in distant parts of the city, almost no indication of further Taliban presence. Despite this, Samira’s stomach was tensed in anticipation of ambush or encountering another roadblock. Risking a quick glance at Noor she could see from her commander’s intense focus to their front that he was feeling the same way. Samira continued to follow Noor’s directions and breathed a sigh of relief when they burst out of a side street and hit the main highway, the Humvee’s tyres squealing in protest as she spun the wheel to point the vehicle north. North to Kabul.
2
KABUL AIRPORT, AFGHANISTAN, AUGUST 2021
The C-130 Hercules dropped suddenly and Nick Morgan’s stomach lurched as the big aircraft descended at speed, a defence against any anti-aircraft missiles targeting the plane. Grabbing the webbing straps above him, he pulled himself upright and looked out of the window at the chaos he and his team were about to enter. On the aprons and runways below, he could see people and vehicles moving around in big numbers, far more than any normal airport should ever have. Civilian airline jets taxied past military aircraft with various national flags prominent on their tails. Beyond the walled perimeter of the airport, he could see columns of dark smoke rising up from various locations around the city. Nick adjusted his gaze to look at the area adjacent to the boundary and saw thousands of people corralled into the streets outside the airport entrance. He could imagine the panic and chaos on the ground as each Afghan fought for entry to the airport and the chance to escape the coming Taliban. Dropping back in his seat, Nick thought about the operation ahead and what little information he and the team had to go on. Plucked from their support role in Kenya to the Secret Intelligence Service, SIS, or MI6 as they were known to the wider world, and straight on to a plane to Afghanistan. Their mission directive covered by a rather vague ‘key personnel extraction in advance of hostile actors’ imminent ownership of operational terrain.’ Of course, they’d been keeping up with the news and had received some intelligence briefs from the analysts on the situation in Afghanistan, but these had been general in nature. His team’s operational focus honed on their current area of responsibility, East Africa and the resurgent terrorist threat. That had changed with the call and subsequent online meeting with the Operations Officer, ordering Nick to shelve whatever he and the team were doing and prep for immediate deployment to Kabul. Civilian profile and ready to hit the ground running on arrival. He’d been advised to take vehicles with them, another sign that the situation on the ground was pretty volatile. Some support assets would be available and they’d be working closely with and possibly directly to, British Embassy, Foreign and Commonwealth Office and the SIS Head of Station. That convoluted chain of command in itself warned Nick that there were severe challenges ahead for him and the team. When he’d asked the Ops Officer outright how bad the situation in Kabul was, he’d been given the standard euphemism of ‘fluid’; a term usually reserved for situations of utter chaos. Nick looked down the aircraft at the vehicles strapped to the deck and observed his twelve-man team sat either side of them as the C-130 spiralled into its fast, final stage of descent. Most of the guys leaned back in their seats, eyes closed, some listening to music, others lost in their own thoughts staring into space. Every man had spent time on the ground in Afghanistan at some point with most having completed multiple tours. Nick had been deployed to the country regularly since 2001, when he’d been a young Special Air Service Trooper on secondment to the Special Boat Service, the SBS. Originally, he’d felt deflated at the thought of not deploying to Iraq with the SAS, his own regiment. But the intensity of combat he’d experienced on that first deployment with his maritime counterparts had given Nick a depth of experience which rivalled that of even some of the more seasoned special forces soldiers. Since then, he’d returned regularly to Afghanistan in various roles: Conventional assaults, High Value Target detention ops, Surveillance, Support to SIS Stations in Kabul and Kandahar, Operational Mentoring of Afghan Partner Units. Twenty years of operations had taken Nick from Trooper to Warrant Officer second class – WO2, in the Regiment and he was regarded as safe pair of hands in a tight spot. And this current situation, as far as Nick could tell, definitely qualified as a tight spot. His last briefing before wheels-up in Nairobi had been that lists of the personnel Nick and his team were expected to extract from Kabul would be compiled and waiting for them on arrival. But if experience had taught Nick anything it was to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Judging by the chaos unfolding below him, Nick had very little confidence that the lists would be ready and waiting. But he’d been here before. They all had. Dropping into ‘fluid’ situations and getting straight to work, relying on no one else to bail them out when things didn’t go to plan. He doubted that this operation would be any different. The plane bounced slightly as the wheels touched down and the engine sound increased as the C-130 braked hard, moved into a slow taxi and turned. After a minute the aircraft came to a stop and the crew made their way through the plane, unshackling the vehicles and cargo ready for an immediate unloading. Nick stood and stretched as the ramp at the rear of the aircraft was lowered and the light poured in. He picked up his chest rig and pulled it over his head, the weight compounded by the Kevlar plates and magazines of ammunition stuffed into the pouches. He secured the Velcro side flaps and, grabbing his pack and rifle, walked between the vehicles and the fuselage, down the ramp and into the madness of Kabul International Airport. The heat and noise were the first sensations he registered and as he walked down the short ramp, the frenetic activity all around him the second. Aircraft and vehicles moving in all directions and even for the brief few seconds he watched, Nick saw one near miss as a Kam Air jet almost collided with a large bus that was speeding between stands. He lowered his sunglasses against the glare and pulled his satellite phone from his pack and found the pre-set number he was looking for. As he waited for the connection he glanced back at the aircraft and saw his team busy unloading it with the assistance of the Royal Air Force crew. A voice answered his call and he turned his attention back to the task at hand, his reply short and to the point. ‘Hi, it’s Nick. We’re wheels down. Where do you want us?’ He listened as his question was answered and directions given. ‘Thanks, we’ll be with you in about ten minutes.’ Nick stowed the phone and turned back to brief his team. ‘Okay, once we’re good to go we’ll make our way to the QRF building at the other side of the Military Terminal. They’ve got us an office set aside to use as an Ops Room and Station is going to brief us on current situation.’ The men nodded their understanding and turned back to getting their equipment and vehicles off the aircraft, Nick stepping aside as the first Toyota SUV was driven down the ramp. He looked up as the sound of gunfire carried over the din within the airport and wondered if it was incoming or outgoing. From what he understood, the Taliban were already in Kabul but had not attacked the airport for reasons best known to themselves. The UK had deployed around seven hundred soldiers from 16 Air Assault Brigade, many of them Parachute Regiment, Nick’s regiment before he had passed SAS Selection. That had been one small piece of welcome news; he was bound to know, or one of his team would know, a couple of decent contacts within the Paras that they could call upon for some help if needed. A shout caught his attention and he saw Luke, one of his Team Leaders, giving him the thumbs-up that the vehicles were packed and ready to go. Nick moved to the first and jumped in the passenger seat as his team followed his lead and mounted up in the three cars. Nick looked at the driver, a Mobility Troop Corporal from D Squadron. ‘You know where you’re going John?’ ‘Yeah Nick, been out here a couple of times and remember it pretty well.’ Nick nodded and turned his attention to monitoring the chaos surrounding them as John negotiated around vehicles and aircraft who seemed for the most part to be far less concerned with what was going on around them than the SAS team were. They were approaching a strong barricade and Nick noted that it was British soldiers manning the defences, their vehicles bristling with various calibres of machine-guns ready for any eventuality. John slowed the vehicle down as they approached and lowered his window. Ahead of them, the vehicle-mounted weapons were immediately turned to cover their arrival. Nick watched as a Lance Corporal silently gestured for them to hold up their Identity Cards. Each man held his ID card out of the window and after several seconds of studying them through his rifle’s optical sight, the Lance Corporal beckoned them to approach. When Nick’s vehicle reached the Lance Corporal, their ID cards were checked again, much to the driver’s impatience. ‘What’s the point of checking them twice mate? They’re either good first time or they’re not.’ Nick could see the Lance Corporal weighing up who these men were with their Army IDs, armed and travelling in civilian clothes, before giving his reply. ‘We check twice; once at safe range just in case it’s another suicide bomber, and once close up in case they’re forged. We got caught out with a few of them on our first couple of days. Where you lot headed?’ Nick leaned over and replied, deploying the team’s basic cover story. ‘QRF building mate, we’re security team for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office staff.’ The Lance Corporal raised his eyebrows. ‘FCO? Good luck, they’ve been nothing but a pain in the arse for us since we arrived. Maybe you lot can sort them out, let them know we’re not here to run around after them all day.’ Nick grinned. ‘I hear you. We’ll see what we can do.’ The Lance Corporal made a hand gesture and a barrier was raised and a heavy truck reversed, opening a gap between the defences that Nick and his team manoeuvred through. As they made their way along the row of buildings, Nick noted the lines of people being hurried towards waiting military and civilian aircraft and for the first time, appreciated that a full-scale evacuation was underway. The tail markings of German, French, Dutch, British and numerous other nationalities on the planes underlining the fact that every country was leaving. A complete evacuation after twenty years of fighting. Although the term evacuation suggested at least some semblance of planning and execution, what Nick had witnessed so far seemed more akin to fleeing. He turned back to the driver as they passed a row of armoured vehicles similar to the ones they had encountered at the checkpoint. ‘Is that SFSG?’ The driver nodded. ‘Yep. Not sure how many but definitely their wheels.’ This was another piece of good news for Nick. SFSG, the Special Forces Support Group, were veterans of many high-intensity operations. Allocated directly to Special Forces, the Paras, Marines and RAF Regiment soldiers that made up their ranks thrived on their role in support of SAS and SBS tasks around the globe. Nick was happy they were here as their mobility and firepower would be a massive asset if things got close to the wire for he and his team. The car slowed and Nick turned his attention to the building the driver was turning towards. People were rushing in and out of the entrance and dozens more were spaced around the immediate vicinity shouting into mobile phones, hands cupped to ears to drown out the incessant din of aircraft engines and voices. The car came to a halt and Nick exited the vehicle, grabbing his rifle and rucksack. His team followed suit with each driver locking the vehicle behind them. John nodded towards the building and addressed Nick. ‘I’ll stay here and guard the cars and the kit Nick. There’s way too many people milling about and no security that I can see.’ ‘Good call, John. I’ll see about getting a couple of spare bods attached for admin and security while we’re located here.’ With that, Nick led his team towards the entrance. Around him he identified German and French being barked down mobile telephones, urgency and frustration apparent in every call. When he reached the entrance, Nick pushed his sunglasses up on his head to adjust for the dim interior. Two armed soldiers stopped his team and again, checked their IDs and their mission before allowing them to proceed. Nick waited until all his men were through the check then led them along a corridor bustling with people rushing past or talking loudly into phones. Remembering his earlier conversation, Nick found the stairwell he was looking for and led his team up, cursing as he was bumped by two Polish officers running down the stairs. On the next floor, he found the office he was looking for, marked with a plastic British flag and a printed Foreign and Commonwealth Office sign underneath. He pounded his fist on the wooden door and heard the immediate response of the locks being turned. The door opened slightly and a pale-faced young man in wire-rimmed glasses looked at him. Nick raised his ID card. ‘Nick Morgan and Team. Security. Stuart Ashby is expecting us.’ The younger man swallowed and glanced at Nick’s tac-vest and weapon before nodding. ‘Yes, okay, he’s in a meeting just now but should be done in a minute. Come in and you can wait.’ He pulled the door open and Nick saw the large office space was crammed with people standing and seated over desks, telephones and computers. The noise was constant with all manner of British dialects competing with ring tones for dominance of the space. Nick and his team followed the young man and he led them to a smaller room where another group of people were furiously typing on laptops or mobile telephones. Some of them glanced up and stared at the newcomers for several seconds before turning their attention back to their own tasks. There wasn’t much free space so Nick and his men slotted themselves between individuals where they could. The young man touched Nick’s elbow to get his attention again. ‘The meeting should be over any minute now and I’ll grab Stuart as soon as I see him and point him your way.’ Nick nodded his thanks and leaned against the wall, looking back into the main room and the frenetic activity within it. From what he could gather from the snatches of dialogue he was picking up, the frantic conversations seemed to be focussed on identifying and confirming who was to be evacuated and requests for more time and assets with which to achieve this. He could also sense something else in the room. Less tangible perhaps, but none the less real for that: Fear. Now that he’d identified it, Nick could see the physical manifestations of fear on the individuals’ faces. The wide eyes, clenched jaws, beaded sweat on foreheads, flushed cheeks. These people were scared. Nick assumed that for most of them, this was the first time they would have been involved in anything like this. The first time that their diplomatic status had come crashing into the real world that their political influencing had created. Nick reached into his pocket and retrieved his mobile phone, powering the device up and retrieving his messages. He stabbed out a quick missive and sent it, watching for confirmation that the message had gone before turning the device back off again and stowing it away. It was a deal they’d made with each other not long after they’d got together. That no matter where they were or what they were doing, they would always check in with each other and say where they were and how long they might be out of communication. Sometimes they couldn’t say directly but in veiled speech, they could usually get their location and information across without any security compromise. Nick’s reminiscing of his personal life was cut short when his name was called from the main room, and he turned towards the familiar, upper-class voice as Stuart Ashby, Head of Station for SIS Kabul approached him. Nick regarded the tall, angular figure with the unruly mop of dark hair and extended his hand to meet that offered. ‘Stuart, good to see you again. How’s tricks?’ Stuart Ashby paused and regarded the SAS man with a sardonic smile as he rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Hello Nick. Good to see you again too. Tricks, as you put it, are not good. Not good at all. In fact, to put it bluntly, tricks are fucking awful.’ Nick raised his eyebrows in surprise at the profanity. He was now under no illusion that things were bad in Kabul. Despite what he had personally observed since his arrival, the erudite and urbane Stuart Ashby’s use of the F-word was the most serious indicator yet that Nick and his team were definitely in a ‘fluid’ situation.
As many of you will remember from my previous posts, I have recently moved house, down the coast to a lovely little village where we are settling in nicely. As part of the moving process, I have been coming across bits and pieces that I’d squirrelled away and completely forgotten about for years. Looking back through this collection of dust-covered objects has been a big hit of nostalgia as well as being quite funny in some cases.
Case in point; various passes and IDs that I’ve held in different countries throughout the years. While there is the almost comical visible timeline of watching my hairline recede from year to year, each pass or badge brings back a flood of memories in the way that a familiar song will transport the listener back to the time and place where it holds the most relevance. For me, these IDs take me back to the time and place where a memory has been locked in because of an activity or event that the pass or badge reminds me of. For example;
The first time I realised that my official, government-issued, ‘all access’ badge meant nothing to the terrified conscripts manning checkpoints in a Middle Eastern city as I was dragged from the car and given a sound beating. For nothing more than pointing out the very clear writing on the pass that stated ‘do not stop or search’. Confidence and humour partnered with the sharing of a packet of cigarettes defused the situation and stopped the car being searched and my guns and comms being discovered. And me being hustled away to a filthy jail cell in one of the city’s many police stations for some seriously enthusiastic interrogations. As I looked at the photo on the pass of the younger me with an enviable hairline, I smiled at the memory of passing out cigarettes to a bunch of scared conscripts who seconds before had inflicted the lumps and bruises on my face and body. Chuckled as I recalled my attempts at jokes at my own expense, my pidgin Arabic causing as much mirth to my captors as the content itself.
Or another time, approaching a coalition checkpoint in a different city, adhering to the rules and processes as I had done dozens of times before; vehicle pass prominently displayed on the dashboard, personal passes held high out the window as my car crawled towards the armed American guards. Only to be opened up on by one of the soldiers, his rounds tearing through the soft skin of the car bonnet and pinging off the hardened components of the engine below. His colleagues bellowed for him to stop and I waited until the situation was under control before I slowly opened my door, hands high in the air still holding my passes, and walked over to the soldiers.
‘WHAT THE ACTUAL F**K GUYS? YOU CAN SEE I’M BRITISH!’
There was a brief pause as the sheepish looking soldiers turned to the shooter in a manner that demanded he explain the situation. With a shrug and a nod of his head towards my car, he simply said, ‘Sorry dude, but we were told to watch out for a suspicious, black BMW.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘With British vehicle pass and personal access passes?’
He paused and inclined his head to one side while he gave my question some thought. ‘Nah . . . just the car, man.’
Some years later, I recounted this incident to a friend of mine who had also carried out some clandestine work in that area and he laughed and told me that an entire checkpoint had opened up on him and his colleagues and that even as they’d de-bussed and taken cover and yelled ‘WE’RE BRITISH, WE’RE BRITISH!’ They’d been answered with an American drawl from behind the Hesco Bastion fortifications, ‘WE DON’T CARE!’
Or the time in Mozambique where, tired of the standard Friday shakedown from local Traffic Police, I created a simple Word Doc with the insignias of the Interior Minister, my company, and a small form below these motifs. When pulled over for the regular ‘pay the bribe or go to jail’ on Friday afternoon, I smiled, nodded, and produced the document from the glove compartment of my pick up truck, explaining that the Interior Minister had decreed that all police officers had to complete this form with their name, rank, department, details of offence, and punishment given. As the Interior Minister had direct oversight for the safety and security of my company’s contract, he needed to be fully informed of every interaction with local law enforcement. It was, of course, a massive bluff capitalising on 2 main elements; Firstly, the poor literacy rate among rank and file law enforcement, and second, the traditional fear of those in power in an autocratic administration. Within weeks my trusty white Toyota Hi-Lux was being waved through every checkpoint with a sneer of disgust from the disgruntled cops.
My favourite though, is the last pass I came across. It was some years ago when I was on a NATO project, advising and mentoring senior brigade staff deploying to hostile countries. The individual in charge of creating and issuing the access badges for one of the exercises was, unfortunately, a good friend of mine. And in the spirit of good friends seeking any opportunity to get one over on their oppo, this was the badge I had to wear, and answer to, for the two-week duration at every meeting and briefing during the exercise.
As I say, unfortunate that he was a good friend in a position to get one over on me. However, had the roles been reversed, I have no doubt that I would have chortled with pleasure as I created the new access pass for Mr Hugh Jass or something similar . . .
Anyway, a short and sweet post, just fired out as I came across a box of old passes and name badges from various corners of the world and thought I’d share a few of the stories behind them.
I’ll keep this short and sweet. I’m sure most of you will have guessed by the image above that I finally have some news regarding the publication of my latest book, The Kill Chain. Thanks to my brilliant agent Andrew Lownie, I have just signed a 2 – book deal with Penguin Random House. I’m still coming to terms with being pitched by the most respected publisher in the world, very keen to secure The Kill Chain and a follow-up. Having become accustomed to me pitching my work to publishers, it was a surreal experience to be courted and convinced to commit to a great deal with Penguin Random House. They were very complimentary about the storyline, the characters, and the plan for a trilogy which they are keen to work with me on. A lovely invitation to London to meet and greet which I will partake of once my current domestic circumstances calm down a bit, having just moved down the coast a tad and humping and dumping the contents of a four bedroom house in vans, cars, and wherever else we could squeeze our belongings.
A film scout is also currently reading the book with interest and I will of course update with any developments on that front. But again, absolutely amazing to have my agent pass on that piece of news as well!
So, I’m currently sat in the living room of my new home as of yesterday, the faithful hound Kota sleeping at my feet, and taking a breath for a beat just savouring the moment of having just signed the contract with Penguin Random House. An amazing start to a new venture and one that would never have been possible without the support of you, the reader. My books wouldn’t exist but for the people who read and enjoy them and continually encourage me to write more. So to you, thank you. Thank you so much for being with me on the journey from typing out the bones of my first novel on an ancient laptop in a dusty room in Afghanistan to signing a cracking deal with the world’s most respected publishing house from the living room of my new home.
And now, a healthy shot of rum (or four) methinks . . . . . .
As my Readers await my next book, of which I have some exciting news coming soon, I want to thank you for your patience and understanding. As such, I’ve written a short story as a small token of my appreciation. A bit of fiction, but, with the craziness in the world at the moment, it could turn to fact any given day. Anyway, take it for what it is, a fictional story based around current events. Hope you enjoy it.
