The men went to work, serious and focussed. They loaded specialist assault gear, weapons, ammunition and boats into trailers attached to a convoy of black vans with blacked out windows. Stirling checked his kit and then re-checked it. Everyone tied an orange piece of ‘mine tape’ onto their black grip bags, and wrote their names onto it, so they could find it quickly at the other end. One of the loadies took the black grip from Stirling, strained under the weight and squeezed out a “sir” as he lumped it into the back of the van. Everyone climbed in. The camp gates opened and the convoy sped out nose to tail with blue lights flashing. The drivers were specialist Military Police and in constant radio communication with one another. A police escort led the way and forced civilian traffic to the roadside as the twenty-strong vehicle convoy of elite special forces soldiers raced past.
The base of operations for the next twenty-four hours was an aircraft hangar, and the boys got busy preparing it for the mission. A makeshift operations centre was set up in a dark-olive canvas tent. It would be the brain of the operation. Laptops rested on wooden foldout tables, maps and satellite images were stuck to whiteboards. Sea charts and weather charts were pinned onto cork boards. After things settled down and the fire teams and their sections were squared away, a buzz went around. The formal set of orders would start soon. And the name of the mission buzzed around the hangar in hushed tones: Operation Ceto.
The soldiers slid into banked rows of wooden benches, opposite the canvas ops tent. Spinks stood and waited at the front with his reading glasses on, and tapped a green plastic folder against his leg. Once everyone was in, they all settled down, and the Sergeant Major began the formal orders process.
“Welcome to the O-group for Op Ceto,” Spinks said, “with the conditions, it’s fitting they named it after the mother of sea monsters,” he said over the top of his glasses to an audience of serious faces. Everybody involved in the mission was present; each fire team, the ship’s crew and captain, all of the intelligence, communications, logistics and engineering support specialists. As well as the pilots. Spinks followed procedure, which included explaining everything so that a five-year old could understand it. He started with where and when it would all happen, and included the stage of the moon and the weather conditions.
“As you can see,” Spinks gestured at the downpour outside the open hangar doors, “it’s fucking atrocious.” A few of the boys turned and looked out as rain rattled down, lit by the spotlights on the side of the building.
The next part of orders was the mission statement: “Your mission is to conduct a direct action assault against the MV Nisha, in order to stop the ship, search it, and apprehend all living souls onboard, by any means necessary.” Spinks said, and then repeated it.
The mission was always said twice.
“Execution. Phase one; a simultaneous assault from air and sea. Phase two; take control of the bridge to halt the ship. Phase three; search and apprehend all passengers and crew. Phase four; extract all prisoners to the HMS Sutherland.”
Spinks went into detail at each phase for any ‘actions on’ points. These were contingencies should certain situations occur, like capture, or injury, or an emergency evacuation plan. He specifically talked through actions on any improvised explosive devices or bombs.
“The ship may be boobytrapped, right?” Spinks said and looked around, “Okay. Captain Hunt will take you through Ops and Int.”
Stirling stepped forward, “The assault will take place in international waters, off the Sussex coast. This is going to be short and sharp. Maximum surprise, maximum force. They must not have the chance to detonate the device.”
Stirling pressed a button on the pointer and the projector screen flicked on an image of the ship.
“Assault teams will fast rope from two Chinook helicopters, supported by two Lynx attack helicopters and four Sea Kings, carrying command and control elements. Four fire teams, each in a RIB (rigid inflatable boats) will launch from HMS Sutherland. A high speed HM Customs boat carrying Special Branch anti-terrorism officers will be right behind. The RIB teams will scale and board the starboard bow, and move through and clear the ship. Snipers on board the attack helicopters will deal with any hostile threat during the fast rope, onto this section, and this section,” Stirling said and indicated two flat areas on the roof the ship’s bridge. The roof looked narrow on the projection. The long stares on some of the faces told him they were thinking about how it would be. Fast-roping in high winds, onto the narrow roof section of an enemy vessel as it smashed through the swell in storm conditions far out to sea.
“As the Sergeant Major said, the seaborne assault and the airborne assault will happen simultaneously. Once the target is secure, officers from the Anti-Terror Police and EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) will board, and perform a secondary, specialist sweep. Our mission is disable, clear and secure, in preparation for the second sweep. Any questions?”
Stirling looked at Spinks and held out the clicker.
“Right, that is it. And just so you know, because I know it is the only thing any of you want to know” he said, “Captain Baldwin’s troop will be first on target.”
The lads boo’d and clapped and the soldiers in Baldwin’s team grinned.
“Each of your troop leaders has been briefed and will brief you on your own fire team’s specific role. We have rehearsed this scenario, over and over, I have complete faith in each and every one of you. Get on board, disable her, and get off. Alright?”
Metal scraped on concrete and the din of conversation drowned out other sounds as the soldiers and crew stood and moved into their fire teams. Stirling chatted to the pilots and Spinks came up behind him and patted him on the back.
“Nice one,” was all he said.
Stirling walked over to the hangar doors and looked out. There, huddled under the roof of a bicycle rack, he saw the three other members of his fire team. They were standing close to one another, hands in pockets, shivering and stepped from one foot to the other to warm up. He jogged through the rain to join them.
“Got one of those for me?” he asked.
“Alright, boss? Didn’t know you smoked,” Matty said and held the box out.
Matty was the youngest in the group, a high flying Corporal back in the Marines, he was short, wiry, with birdlike features and a sharp, direct tone. He was a man who preferred to lead by setting the example, quiet and professional.
“Yeah, well, occasionally I do. This is one of those occasions,” he smiled.
Stirling took a cigarette from the box, and Jamie Taylor held out a light. He dragged on it and exhaled a white cloud into the yellow light and the rain.
“We were just discussing who was gonna be first one down the rope …” Jamie said with a grin and looked at Stirling. Jamie was from the coast, not far from the Regiment’s Poole base. He’d grown up on the hills of the coastline, and on the ocean. His father was a fisherman and immensely proud of his son. Jamie seemed to take it in his stride. His mood was always calm as the outgoing tide. He had a wide, round approachable face and his cheeks were marked with freckles.
“Whoever it is, is likely to have his gonads shot off,” Jock said, and they all looked to Stirling.
“Well, it’s going to be Captain Baldwin’s decision, as troop leader. I’m just one of the blokes for the op. So if no-one else wants to,” Stirling took another drag and gave a light cough, “I’ll do it,” he said.
“No way, sir, you?” Jock said in a thick Glaswegian accent. He was short and square like a prop forward with tufts of short cropped hair and a dry sense of wit. He always claimed he’d meant to join the Special Air Service, but got the answers wrong on his application form.
“Why not me?” Stirling said.
“What does the CSM say about it?”
“CSM is fine with it; let’s see what Captain Baldwin says.”
Captain Baldwin jogged over to call them in.
“Troop meeting in five minutes,” he said, held up five fingers and turned in the rain to run back inside.
“Sir, Captain Hunt is going down the rope first,” Jock yelled after him.
They went in and huddled around.
The briefing didn’t last long. And, as Captain Baldwin was finishing up, one of the medics went up to each man and handed out small plastic bottles.
“What the hell is this?” Jock asked.
“Nerve agent medication,” the medic said.
The boys all looked at one another.
“You’re all going to want to take those,” the medic said, “who is the medic in the fire team?”
Matty raised his hand. The medic handed him a pack of antidote kits.
“Atropine,” the medic said, “use it if anyone is exposed to a nerve agent.”
“Right, on that note,” Captain Baldwin said, “Captain Hunt has volunteered to go down the ropes first, anyone got a problem with that?”
The other lads shook their heads.
“Get your tablets down your necks. Get some rest. See you in a few hours.”