The Americans seemed content to let the SAS have their little adventures and continued to provide the technological security dome over the war zone, ready to react in the event of any emergency. When Bravo Two Zero had its fateful encounter, an American AWAC, the large flying surveillance craft with its huge saucer on the roof, happened to be in the area and picked up their emergency beacons. On board the AWAC, along for the ride with the American crew, was a single Brit from the Royal Corps of Signals, a man I met several months afterwards.
When the AWAC picked up Bravo Two Zero’s emergency signal, it changed direction and headed for their area. It hoped to monitor the direction and location of the team and vector a helicopter pick-up on to it. As it headed towards the area at 15,000 feet, the emergency siren sounded on board and the white lights in the main cabin went to red. An Iraqi Mig had ‘locked on’ to them and was coming in fast for an attack.
Neither the signaller nor the American crew had ever been in an air-combat situation before and, needless to say, there were some terrified expressions on board. The AWAC pilot went into immediate evasive action and lurched the heavy craft into anti-pursuit patterns. Everyone buckled into their seats and held on. There was nothing else they could do: the AWACs have no offensive capability. It was a frantic moment.
A voice boomed over the intercom, ‘Missile fired!’
The Mig had released an air-to-air missile and it closed on the AWAC at a rapid pace. The AWAC is not exactly an agile craft, but the pilot threw it violently about in an effort to lose the missile. For the Mig, the AWAC was a sitting duck.
Suddenly there were two very loud ‘pops’, as the signaller described them, followed seconds later by two explosions thatshuddered theaircraftas itbanked steeply.
‘We’re hit!’ cried the signaller as he clutched his seat with white knuckles.
‘Chaff!’ shouted an equally frightened US crewman strapped in beside him.
He was referring to the anti-missile devices released by the AWAC, designed to explode behind its tail sending out thousands of tiny shards of foil and heat to confuse the enemy missile’s guidance system. The AWAC dived and turned back to level flight and headed towards a pair of American fighters which were already responding to the attack. The aircraft ceased its violent movement as the pilot brought it under control. Then his voice came over the intercom again.
‘He’s a-runnin’.’
A cheer went up and the crew applauded. The signaller sat back totally exhausted by the experience.
The irresponsibility of Bravo Two Zero’s mission would have been highlighted even more had the AWAC gone down.
The SBS’s final piece of action came with the retaking of the British Embassy in Kuwait. This was a combined operation in so far as American and French special forces moved in at the same time to take back their own embassies. This was mostly a show, as little or no resistance was expected. But it is worthy of a mention because of one amusing and ironic incident.
Ron, an old friend, led the SBS team that roped down from choppers on to the embassy roof (photographed by the media and once again credited to you know who). Members of the British civilian diplomatic detachment were ‘in the wings’ to ‘take possession’ when the SBS had made the building safe and clear – there was still the very real danger that the Iraqis had left mines and booby-traps.
The heavy wooden doorsthat sealed the main entrance to the embassy were ancient and ornately carved and had been securely locked by the Iraqis before they left. Not willing to take any chances and risk his men’s lives forcing open the doors, for fear they might be booby-trapped, Ron ordered them to be blown open. This was a standard enough procedure using a small charge.
The doors were blown in and, naturally, they sustained some damage. The embassy was searched thoroughly for charges, none were found, and it was declared clear. Ron, an SBS sergeant, felt somewhat honoured to have been selected to claim the embassy back. When the senior diplomat arrived to take possession, he approached Ron, who, in full SBS combat gear, was waiting to welcome him.
When the diplomat saw the mess at the entrance, instead of thanking Ron in an official capacity for retaking his building, he looked aghast and exclaimed, ‘What have you done to my doors?’
Ron could not believe the ignorance and audacity of the man as he went on about the ancient carving and how it would cost thousands to repair. Ron did not bother to explain how he regarded the lives of his men more highly than this man’s doors.
‘Oi,’ Ron said instead.
The diplomat looked at him with a sneer.
Ron extended his middle finger at the diplomat, held it there long enough for the man to get the message, and walked away.
Within a few weeks the teams were back in Poole and it was business as usual. There was a new job for them to do, one they were perfectly trained and equipped for, but which had never been considered before. The drug wars.
18
British Customs were having problems dealing with the trafficking of drugs into Britain by boat. The smugglers were getting smarter and Customs did not have the skills or technology to deal with them. They went looking for SAS assistance, but the SAS passed on it, thinking it was too small to get involved with. They did not have the expertise to fulfil the task anyway.
The SBS took on these small jobs at first because they did not drain the service’s manpower and also because they served as rehearsals for one of the squadron’s primary roles. But after many initial successes and the arrest of several drug smugglers and the seizure of their merchandise, the Customs authorities realised they were on to a winner and pushed for greater SBS involvement. London gave the OK. This was followed by the biggest single drugs seizure in Britain’s history, carried out by the SBS at sea using MAT techniques.
Another operation, in the Thames, resulted in over a ton of cocaine being captured and several arrests. This one was photographed by a woman from her apartment overlooking the raid and made the front page of the papers as an SAS operation. The SBS have never cared that the papers credited its successes to the SAS – in fact, as I’ve said, it has usually worked in the SBS’s favour.
In all, over the past few years, close to a hundred drug smugglers and sixty tons of drugs have been captured as a result of SBS operations. The SBS have always taken great care to protect their techniques and to be on their guard against any attempt to counter them. So in spite of any efforts smugglers may have made to do so, often they have been completely unaware that they were being tracked untilthe SBShaveburst on to thebridgeoftheir ship.
Prince Andrew was a helicopter pilot in a naval squadron which flew in support of the SBS. A handful of Navy pilots work with the SBS in their MAT role on a rotational basis. The pilots are recruited because of their skills, which have to be no less than exceptional. The SBS cannot afford them to be otherwise. Prince Andrew flew for the SBS not because of his rank, but simply because he was a good pilot, having gained a lot of experience flying in the Falklands conflict.
Not long ago, the Prince was flying two SBS snipers in his Lynx to a firing range in northern England. I have explained the familiarity between officers and men in special forces but this does not apply in quite the same way to Royalty. However, the Prince was like most other special forces pilots: easygoing and approachable within the confines of the job.
The two snipers were dressed in their standard black MAT one-piece overalls, carried their ammunition in a bag and held on to their sniper’s rifles, G3s, known as ‘widow-makers’ or ‘barking dogs’ because of the distinct sound they make when fired. They had flasks of coffee and offered a cup to Prince Andrew, who declined it.
‘There’s no laxative in it, sir,’ they said.
He was used to SBS humour and smiled, but still refused it.
‘Don’t you like our coffee then, sir? It’s instant.’
‘I’d rather have a cup of tea, actually,’ he said.
‘We haven’t got any, sir. It stews in the flask and doesn’t keep.’
‘Would you prefer a cup of tea?’ he asked.
‘Well, yeah, sure,’ they replied.
‘I have some friends nearby. Let’s pop down and see if we can get a cup.’
The two operatives thought he was joking, but the Prince suddenly banked the chopper and started his descent. Even then they didn’t believe he was serious, and when they saw where he was heading they sat there speechless. They were touching down in the courtyard of an immense country estate.
The Prince turned off the engines and climbed out.
‘Come on, then,’ he said.
They stepped out of the chopper carrying their sniper’s rifles, still not quite believing their eyes. Then half-a-dozen security men in civilian clothes appeared from the buildings and surrounding gardens. The head of this security team hurried over to ask the Prince what was up, assuming that they’d had engine trouble, as no warning of their arrival had been given. The Prince explained they were just stopping for a cup of tea and headed for the main house. When the two SBS operatives set off to follow him the security officer stopped them and said they would have to leave their weapons in the chopper.
‘We don’t leave our weapons anywhere, mate,’ they replied. They might have been a little overawed by the event, but they never forgot their own rules and responsibilities.
‘Oh, come on,’ said the Prince. ‘They’re SBS. Who’s better qualified to carry arms into Sandringham than them?’
The security head could not argue with the Prince and let them pass.
The Prince led them around to a side door, and as they approached it, it opened. This time they really could not believe their eyes. Standing in the doorway, smiling and waiting to greet them was a short, elderly lady in slippers with blue-rinsed hair.
‘Andrew! What a nice surprise,’ she said.
The prince kissed her on the cheek. She then looked at the two operatives and smiled at them.
‘These are men from the SBS, Mama. We’re just stopping by for a quick cup of tea.’
The Queen stood back to let them enter. ‘Do come in, please, won’t you?’
She never acted like a Queen for a second – she was just like any other mother welcoming her son and his friends into her house.
Inside the hallway, she paused to consider their sniper’s rifles.
‘You can put those in there if you like,’ she said, pointing to an umbrella stand.
It was unlikely that their weapons would be nicked here, so they plonked the rifles in the stand and followed the Queen into a beautiful library.
‘Please make yourself at home.’ And at that she left the room with her son.
The operatives sat there quite rigidly, wondering if this was really happening. Then the door opened and an old retired colonel walked in carrying a brandy snifter. It was 11:00 a.m. He seemed a cheery old fellow.
‘How are you chaps doing?’ he asked.
The men stood up. ‘Fine, sir,’ they said in unison.
‘Good. Good. Sit down, please, please.’
They did. The door opened again and the Queen returned, leading a butler carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches. The men stood up again. The Prince returned and the Queen asked them to sit down while she poured everyone a cup of tea. They were joined by a Duke and Duchess. The operatives couldn’t remember afterwards who they were but they described the Duchess as ‘essence’, meaning ‘gorgeous’. They all sat around together like one big happy family, chatting away as if this was all quite normal. The Queen spent most of the time talking with the two men, asking them all kinds of questions about their work and families, and where they were from. At one point she realised that the two men were uncomfortably warm in their one-piece heavy-duty fireproof MAT suits.
‘Please undo your tops if you’re too warm,’ she said.
One of them stood up thankfully, unzipped his top and rolled it down to reveal a plain white T-shirt underneath. The other operative remained sitting and perspiring.
‘I’m fine Ma’am,’ he insisted.
He could not undo his top because underneath he was wearing a T-shirt with a detailed drawing emblazoned on its front of a man with his head up his arse and some slogan about being kept in the dark.
When tea was over, the Queen escorted them to the door where they retrieved their sniper’s rifles. She wished them luck and waved goodbye to the Prince and his guests as they headed back to the helicopter.
The future of the SBS now seems to lie alongside that of the SAS, and amalgamation appears inevitable. This has already happened to a degree and will increase in time. But it has its problems.
For one, an SAS trooper is paid more than his counterpart in the SBS, another indication of the SAS’s ‘pull’ upstairs. Today, an SBS rank has to pass the SAS selection before he can move on and attempt SBS selection. On passing the SAS selection, he is technically qualified to join the SAS and therefore to receive their higher pay. By continuing on and passing for the SBS, a more selective process involving diving, boating and MAT training, he qualifies for less money. And if he fails to get into the SBS he can always go back to the SAS. Little wonder there is some discontent amongst the SBS ranks. These days it seems to be a much more money-orientated world than I remember, or perhaps it was just me. When I joined, I had no idea how much I would be paid and I hardly thought about it. When I was a noddy in training, after my second week, we were lined up outside the paymaster’s office and, to my surprise, handed fifty pounds. Naïvely, I hadn’t realised we were going to be paid at all until we finished training. With so many lucrative jobs in civvy street for ex-special forces these days, some men join for just long enough to get the basic skills, and of course the name and the kudos that goes with it, then leave to find a job outside.
Another problem is the conflicting attitudes of the two groups. The SAS still regard themselves as distinctly superior to all. Recently an SBS friend was training in Hereford alongside members of the SAS. He realised that, in the evenings, they blatantly avoided socialising with him. He was informed by one somewhat embarrassed young trooper that they had been told by their senior SAS NCO not to fraternise with SBS ranks after working hours. The SBS, on the contrary, are well known for socialising even with non-special forces attached ranks when they are working together.