I cannot give details of the techniques we used to climb the platform without compromising security, but by the time my team arrived at the platform, it was obvious all was not going well. Team one should have already had a couple of men up on the spider deck, team two should have had at least one, and team three should have been well on their way, but we could see only the first man still struggling to climb out of the water. They were being hampered by the horrendous weather. As we sailed under the platform to join the crowd my hook man found a strong point and secured the leash to it. The rest of us crabbed on to it and we held station in the rapid tidal-stream. Two teams were on one leg adjacent to us and the other was diagonally opposite. The lead climbers, attached to their leashes at a point closest to the legs, had the toughest time with the heavy swell. When the trough reached that part of the leg it left the operative dangling out of the water, banging against the leg, and when the peak arrived (there was a forty-foot difference between peak and trough), he was held several feet under for a few seconds. Needless to say, when the moment came for him to remove his diving equipment, his timing had to be spot on.
I was at the back of the long loop-line and was not being dragged out of the water or under it. Being the special entry man and the most encumbered, I was to be one of the last out of the water.
At this moment we looked like a bunch of amateurs. Perhaps we had bitten off more than we could chew in these extreme conditions. But we had nowhere else to go but up. What kept us pressing on was not any fear of the consequences of peeling off and being lost in the middle of the North Sea in a storm. It was the relentlessness inherent to our character. That was why the selection process was as demanding as it was. We would never give up.
My heavy equipment was bashing against me one moment and pulling violently at my waist the next. I was beginning to worry about the connections that held it. How much more of this could they take, I wondered. A wave shunted my team halfway around the leg of the rig and I found myself within arm’s-length of the ascending link. I seized the opportunity. I had discarded my diving equipment and buddy line and made the decision to remove my fins, unhook from the leash and grab the link. I was moving out of turn, but due to my own precarious situation with my equipment and the problems we were all having getting out of the water, I felt justified.
I let go of the leash and grabbed the link. I rode a couple of swells while I pulled my equipment over my shoulder, held by its carrying-strap. I psyched myself up for the climb – the extra equipment was going to make it a tough one. This was mostly arm work. I chose my moment, rode the swell as high as it would go, reached up and gripped the link as the water dropped away. The equipment hung off my shoulder like a dead body. My feet bicycled in mid-air trying to hook on. I pulled myself upwards. A swell came and whacked me, but not my whole body, just up to my knees. A tangled operative below me who grabbed on was pummelled by the full force and lost any headway he had gained in trying to follow me. I held on and continued up and reached the spider deck. I scrambled over the rail and moved into position, crabbed on to the rail, in case a gust of wind hooked me off, unhooked my H&K and kept vigil above while the others continued to fight the elements to climb out of the water. I glanced at the equipment lying at my feet, not looking forward to the next horrendous climb, and decided I was going to have to work with the engineers to find a way to make the fucking thing smaller and lighter. I’m happy to report that I did.
It took over half an hour for everyone to make the spider deck. Amazingly we never lost anyone or any equipment. There was no time to waste. We still had seventy feet of rigtoclimbtoget to thefirst working deck.
This massive oil platform had six legs in total, four outside and two inside. The two inside legs had ladders welded to them from the water-line to the spider deck and then stairways continued up to the main deck. These ladders and staircases were out of bounds to us. The SBS never use any ascending aids integral to the rig. The same goes for big ships. They are obvious approach routes and can be monitored or booby-trapped.
Again, I cannot describe our methods for security reasons, but when the first pairs eventually arrived at the main deck, they went straight into action to secure entry points for the rest of us. We could expect to encounter enemy from that point on, but they would be dealt with swiftly and silently.
The terrorists knew we would be coming some time and patrolled every conceivable entry point. They had operated a watch routine over the previous few days but had been monitored. The decks of a large oil platform are hard to defend against our techniques.
Two terrorists we had observed checking over the side every ten to fifteen minutes were now huddled together under some machinery to get out of the weather. It was the early hours of the morning by now and they were getting cold and bored. When the first members of the assault team climbed over the side and on to the main deck they quickly engaged this pair before they could react.
We could expect at least ten more terrorists. Up-to-the-second intelligence was coming to us via radio from MI5 technicians monitoring all communications on the platform. They told us that at least four terrorists were holding several hostages in the main control room. A possible four more were in the galley with several hostages, and the rest were roaming sentries.
The four assault teams quickly mustered at their respective entry points. Time was of the essence now. We had to hit them hard and decisively before they realised we were on board. If the terrorist sentries we neutralised were radio-checked and did not report in, it would be assumed they had been eliminated. The terrorists would be ruthless with us from that point on. I led my team speedily towards our pre-planned objectives.
My role now was to get through a bulkhead in a small compartment adjoining the control room to enable an assault team to gain a surprise entry. My entry device was the ultimate lock-pick. The assaults on the control room and galley were carried out simultaneously by two of the other teams. Doors were burst open, flash-crash (explosive) devices were tossed in to confuse and disorientate, immediately followed by the team, all of whom were wearing gas masks and throat communications. These entries were one hundred per cent successful and pronounced the occupying terrorists dead and the hostages rescued.
We could hear over our radios the body counts of terrorists and the securing of hostages in their locations as the teams took one location after another. Team three had moved to the main deck to secure it for the Marine helicopters that were thundering towards us in the blackness. Once my team had finished our entry, we went in search of the remaining wandering terrorist sentries. From the moment the shooting started it was a mad, controlled rush to eliminate and secure before hostages could be ‘killed’ and explosive devices initiated.
Steve and I saw two terrorists running into a building. We reported it over our radios as we pursued them. Two other SBS operatives across the platform headed for the other side of the building to support us. There were two doors into the single-room building where the terrorists had fled, one either side. I quickly consulted with the pair on the other side of the building by radio and we formulated a hasty plan. I opened one of the doors and Steve and I tossed in a couple of flash-crash. The terrorists fired at us as we ducked away from the opening, not charging in after the flash-crash as they might have been expecting. At that same instant the other SBS pair entered through the other door and fired on the terrorists, the intent being to hit them in the back as they faced in our direction.
When the shooting stopped, I waited for the shout, ‘Clear!’ from my partners inside, but instead I heard arguing. Steve and I opened the door and looked in. One of the terrorists was claiming he had killed the SBS pair. That SBS pair happened to be a couple of monsters, probably two of the largest men we had at that time, named Fleck and Chalky, both powerful, highly motivated and extremely professional. With Fleck and Chalky you could chat and joke around all you wanted before and after a job, but during it you’d better have your mind focused on just one thing – success. Fleck and Chalky would never be convinced they had not taken out the two terrorists first. Fleck grabbed the arguing terrorist and pulled his balaclava off to see who he was talking to.
‘Jenson,’ I said. Steve recognised him too.
It was only then that we realised the SAS were the enemy.
Fleck and Chalky did not know Jenson’s face, but they knew about him, and didn’t give a toss, either. Jenson pulled away and kept mouthing off about the low standard of the entry. The other SAS terrorist kept out of it. Fleck, a quick-tempered man with a bit of Turkish blood in him (his nickname was Abdul), wanted to fill in Jenson there and then, and it was all we could do to stop him. But we could not stand around arguing all night as we still had a rig to clear.
‘Tie ’im up and leave him ’ere,’ suggested Chalky.
‘You fuckers ain’t tying me up,’ Jenson said with a threatening look.
It might have been a bit over the top to grab him and force him to the ground. He was, after all, Jenson, and a senior SAS NCO to boot. Fleck and Chalky could have argued that it was an exercise privilege and probably have got away with it, but they opted for the diplomatic approach.
‘You stay in this fuckin’ room. All right?’ threatened Fleck. Then to Chalky, ‘Let’s get on with it.’
As Chalky and Fleck left the room, several waves of Sea King helicopters touched down on the main deck to unload their cargo of Marines dressed in black like us and armed with H&K machine-guns.
But Jenson could not let it go. He followed Fleck and Chalky outside to give them another tuppence worth. This was a grave mistake. Jenson had misjudged the two men. His continued complaints about their soldiering abilities were more than Fleck and Chalky’s short fuses could take. Fleck spun around, marched back and grabbed Jenson viciously by the neck.
‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll belt you. I don’t give a shit who you are,’ he shouted.
All that did was anger Jenson and he tried to pull away from Fleck’s grip and started swinging his fists. Now Chalky leapt in, grabbing Jenson on the other side with powerful arms, while Fleck slammed a fist into Jenson’s gut, winding him and bringing him to his knees. Jenson paused to suck in air, but Fleck and Chalky had not finished. They lifted him to his feet and, as he struggled and lashed out, they forced his hands behind his back and tied them together with plasti-cuffs. Jenson couldn’t believe this audacity and started to shout and twist and kick at them.
‘Untie me, you bastards!’ he yelled.
‘I think he wants the full treatment, Fleck,’ said Chalky.
‘I believe he does, Chalky.’
‘Untie me!’
They ignored his pleas, dragged him to the rail that ran along the edge of the main deck and pushed him over it. Jenson screamed as his gut hit the top rail and his head tipped over and down, his hands tied firmly behind his back – nothing but boiling black ocean far below him. As his feet came up to follow him over the rail, Fleck and Chalky grabbed them at the ankles and let him down as far as they could. Jenson dangled over the edge with Fleck and Chalky each holding a foot in one hand. Jenson screamed like a stuck pig as he gaped at the thrashing waves a hundred feet below. If they let him go he was a dead man.
‘Don’t drop me. I’ll kill you, you bastards!’ he screamed. His yell did not travel far over the sound of helicopters buzzing overhead.
Chalky and Fleck remained unfazed by his threats.
‘Are you gonna be a good boy now or are we gonna drop you into the ogin?’ Chalky asked. ‘It’s your choice, laddie.’
Jenson had a sudden and drastic attitude change as it dawned on him that they might be serious.
‘Please,’ he suddenly cried out. ‘Let me up.’
‘Are you going to be good?’ insisted Fleck. ‘My hands are gettin’ tired. Are yours, Chalky?’
‘Fuckin’ right,’ Chalky replied. ‘Can’t ’old on for long.’
‘Please,’ Jenson continued to beg.
They let him sweat it out for a few moments longer until he assured them he would play the game, then they dragged him back on board and let him fall to the deck like a sack of spuds. They walked away and left him there with his hands tied up.
‘Bastards. I’ll kill you, you hear me! Bastards!’
But the point had been made, and taken. Jenson never did anything about it. His image had been tarnished, but he’d get over it.
Jenson had a long career in the SAS and remained at the sharp end of many of their operations for years to come. The last I heard of him was not long ago. An older SBS operative, Bob, who had taken my place in South Det soon after I left, was passing through Gibraltar when he almost literally bumped into Jenson. Jenson had done a considerable amount of work with the SBS by then and had learned to be tolerant and even civil to us. Bob was curious as to why Jenson was in Gib, but naturally did not ask. Something was up, though: the signs were obvious to a seasoned pro. Jenson was carrying a small holdall and Bob was certain he was armed with a pistol in a shoulder holster under his coat. The following day, three members of an IRA ASU were shot and killed while preparing to plant a bomb with the intention of killing and maiming. Had the IRA succeeded they would probably have killed more locals than British. Gibraltans are a laid-back lot and I doubt half of them know or care where Northern Ireland is. It would have been difficult to get them to understand why their children had died for the IRA cause. Had the SAS not killed the ASU and the bomb gone off, it might have been even more difficult to explain to those parents why the British had not shot them when they had the chance.
The last I heard of Jenson was that he had gone outside and was looking for civvy employment. I doubt he will ever be short of work in today’s world.
After the oil platform rehearsal, the animosity between the two units continued to simmer below the surface and Jenson’s threat to kill an SBS operative was to become a reality not long after. Although he personally would have nothing to do with it, one of ours was destined to be shot and killed late one night by the SAS on a lonely hillside in the middle of the Falkland Islands.