by Geoff Wolak
‘We might get some timely intel soon, sir, these six Arabs won’t be the last of them, just the start.’
‘You need more men?’
‘No, sir, probably have too many here, but I want the units to get the experience, some press coverage, good for recruitment.’
‘I have a team in Liberia, one in Sierra Leone, and no one in Africa is screaming about it, so the powers are happy.’
‘This base may cause too much local interest, and if it does we’ll pull out, I’m not here to shoot local farmers.’
‘Well ... no, but it would be them attacking you.’
‘Even so, I’d pull out.’
‘OK if I made a flying visit?’
‘Yes, sir, but I can’t predict a rocket strike.’
‘We’ll check with you before landing. Talk soon.’
The men continued to sit around in groups, chatting till 10pm, when I transmitted for all teams to disperse and to get ready for some sleep. I settled down into my hole, chatting to Swifty and Moran – now back in brown shirts and smelling a whole lot better, half my lot still in Hawaiian shirts.
My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s No.1.’
‘Hey No.1, some news?’
‘Not good news, I’m afraid. Two things. First, there’ll be two An12 landing before dawn at a runway in Guinea, close to the Sierra Leone border, weapons for those attacking you. And second ... the men south of you have two tanks.’
‘Tanks!’
‘Two old T72, coming from Mali, be with you tomorrow. They’re on a truck obviously, hard to move around, part of some old Army Reserve unit that needed some extra cash – ammo and fuel was provided by someone I’m watching, a Russian. Judging by what my contact told me ... the barrels would probably explode if fired.’
‘Good work anyway, we’ll be ready.’
Call cut, Swifty asked, ‘Tanks? They have tanks now?’
‘They have two rusted old T72, which when loaded and fired will probably just blow up.’
‘And if the barrels are in good condition?’ Mitch asked.
‘Then we have a problem,’ I told him. I sighed loudly. ‘Not enough time to dig a tank ditch. Right, you lot, make yourselves useful. Go find the RPG boxes, inventory them, leave them inside the drain, somewhere we can find them in a hurry. Go on.’
They eased up and headed off, concerned now.
I called Libintov, hearing music in the background as I stood on the dark runway with a hand in a pocket, checking the horizon south. ‘Do you have planes due to land arms in Guinea tonight, close to the Sierra Leone border?’
‘No, definitely not.’
‘Do you know who they belong to?’
‘I would hazard a guess at Polchok.’
‘The planes will be intercepted.’
‘Ah, good, that will cost him dearly.’
I called Admiral Jacobs. ‘Sir, got a tasking for you. Got a paper and pen?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Tonight, in Guinea, close to the Sierra Leone border, two An12s will set down with weapons, or pick them up, heading to this location to arm those shooting at us.’
‘Got a team there, two, so we’ll be all over it, top cover as well.’
‘Try and grab the crew, and seize the planes or accidentally destroy them, hand the crew to the FBI. And, sir, make sure you have a video camera to hand.’
‘We’ll have a whole fucking shop full of cameras to hand.’
‘Let me know how it goes, sir. Oh, and, sir, could you use the British and French teams as well for the ground operation, this is a multi-national effort after all.’
Off the phone, I walked to the French position, radio calling for Liban. I met him above their trench. ‘Tomorrow will see two tanks.’
‘Tanks!’
‘The artillery can fire horizontal, and we have anti-armour RPGs to use if they get close. Get me the men who are good at using the bulldozers, please.’
Names were called, the men coming in.
‘You get no sleep tonight, but can rest tomorrow if we are still alive, there are tanks coming.’
‘Tanks!’
‘Get the bulldozers, and dig me several small trenches, east and south east, five feet deep, 1,000yards out from the end of the runway. They’re not to stop the tanks but to fire out of. Then some south, always 1,000yards out. Go.’
In the drain I found my team moving RPG boxes. ‘How many RPG?’
‘Sixteen,’ Moran reported.
‘Heads?’
‘Loads of them.’
‘The bulldozers will dig trenches a thousand yards out, and before dawn we’ll put men in them. Tanks will roll over and get an RPG in the arse.’
‘Bit of a risk for the poor chaps out there,’ Ginger floated.
‘Alternative is that we abandon this place. And I’m thinking that the tank crews are probably a bit crap. Only danger would be if they saw this drain and aimed down into it, but it would be damn hard to get the angle. Tanks are no good against trenches. Anyway, get some sleep, tomorrow will be interesting.’
Castille closed in. ‘We expecting trouble?’
‘Tanks.’
‘Tanks!’
‘Two rusted old T72 driven by weekend soldiers that are crap. Probably just get stuck in the sand. Relax.’
‘Jesus. Tanks.’
Back at my hole I settled down, Rizzo not happy that tanks were on their way.
‘They’ll never find you in Slider’s Hole,’ I told him.
‘It’s not Slider’s Hole!’ came from Slider, men laughing through the dark.
The man on stag at 4am, Nicholson, kicked my boot. ‘Awake, Boss?’
‘I am now,’ I croaked out. I eased up and blew my whistle. I transmitted, ‘All teams, wake up, food on, brew on, get ready for some action today. We have company coming. Someone sweep the runway, and I want creases in trousers and shirts.’
Walking down the dark runway whilst scanning the horizon, I called London. ‘It’s Wilco. Did the operation in Guinea go off yet?’
‘It’s in progress apparently, team of SAS in the trees with French and Americans.’
‘Let me know what happens. Update the interested parties, we have tanks on their way.’
‘Tanks!’
‘Yes, tanks.’
I walked along the runway and to the drain, shouting men awake, a long look taken at the RPG boxes. I had seen the bulldozers on the runway, so I hoped we now had a few trenches ready for the RPG teams, if and when the tanks showed up.
As the grey dawn came on the teams sat eating, and with the sun threatening to lift above the distant horizon my phone trilled.
‘It’s Admiral Jacobs.’
‘Go ahead, sir.’
‘Our teams grabbed the An12 and the crew, killed a bunch of men on the ground, grabbed some Russian guys, FBI about to get an erection, story on Reuters already, so the White House spokesman will have something to report. And the boys in your desert won’t be getting their ammo delivered.’
‘Good news, sir. Anyone hurt?’
‘Got reports of a few minor wounds, a shoot-out with the blacks at that airstrip, no one killed.’
‘Then we’re winning the war in the media, sir.’
‘That’s the only place to be winning a war,’ he dryly noted. ‘Anyway, I’m off to bed.’
Before the visibility got too good, too good for a sharp-eyed tank gunner to aim with, I dispatched many men east from British Echo, RPGs carried, bags of heads slung. Swifty reported a decent trench, Henri and Jacque in with him. Moran, Mitch and Ginger were in another, Rizzo and Stretch in a third, and that covered a wide area of approach. Men with RPGs were also placed in the west drain with Crab and Duffy, and in the southeast trench, the mortar crews ready, our artillery men ready.
Now we waited.
The sun climbed higher, our lookout checking the east more than any other direction, men on second cups of tea, all now aware that tanks were on their way, all looking worri
ed.
An hour later, the day getting warm, Swifty reported over the radio, ‘There’s something on the horizon.’
I peered that way through my binoculars, saw something, but could not make out what it was, many men now staring east at the shimmering double-horizon.
Fifteen minutes later Swifty was back on. ‘It’s a camel.’ Many men laughed, and asked if we should open fire.
Ten minutes later, Swifty transmitted, ‘The camels are running, fast, away from something.’
Something had scared the camels, so again men peered east. I could see a dust cloud, then two. ‘Standby all teams, vehicles approaching almost due east. RPG teams get ready.’ I moved to the furthest point of the southeast trench, but glancing over my shoulder I noticed the APC. ‘Shit. Casper, drive the APC west, a mile or so! Quickly!’
I heard it start up a few minutes later, black smoke seen belching, and it drove off down the runway picking up speed.
Moran transmitted, ‘Two tanks coming, Russian, APC further back, and a lorry. They’ve brought the whole damn crew.’
‘Does the APC have a turret?’ I asked.
‘No turret.’
‘Distance from the end of the runway?’
‘Say ... 2,000yards, closing fast.’
‘French artillery, aim at the truck, fire when ready!’ I got up top and observed the artillery men making adjustments. Two almighty blasts, and shells were hurtling east.
I heard French words, but it sounded like Moran. Reloaded, the artillery fired again as I peered through my binoculars.
‘It’s Moran, and the lorry has stopped, it was close to a shell landing, just tarp on the back. Men are out, they look wounded. APC and tanks coming on.’
‘Mortar team, aim at the truck!’
They must have been adjusting tubes as the vehicles progressed towards us, because four mortars popped out quickly.
‘It’s Moran, men outside the truck took a direct hit, truck is a write off.’
‘Distance to lead vehicle?’
‘I’d say ... 1,500yards to the end of the runway, soon be in range for us.’
We waited, expectant looks exchanged, men staring east as the dust clouds got closer.
‘It’s Moran, and a tank has lost its tread. It’s stopped.’
‘Should we offer assistance,’ came from Castille, men laughing. ‘Offer it a tow maybe.’
‘Any RPGs in range for a side shot?’ I transmitted.
‘We are,’ came from Rizzo. ‘Wait, the APC is moving up ... it’s alongside the tank.’
‘Rizzo, hit the APC!’
I could see him and Stretch leaving the trench, a few steps, kneeling, a puff of smoke and I scanned left, the APC hit, a flash and smoke, a second hit, more smoke. The trailing tank turned its turret, Rizzo and Stretch diving into their trench. A flash, smoke expanding outwards in concentric rings, and the shot missed Rizzo by a hundred yards, a huge plume of sand and smoke sent up, the blast registering with us a few seconds later.
A cloud of smoke and dust, and someone in a trench in front of me fired, a blast on the lead tank’s tread seen, smoke wafting.
‘French artillery, aim at the tanks. Open fire. Mortar team, open fire on the tanks.’
Two loud blasts signalled the artillery pieces firing, the tanks lost in dust and smoke a few seconds later.
‘It’s Rizzo. The second tank is turning around.’
‘Try and hit it!’ I said as four mortars popped out.
‘It’s Swifty, and that artillery hit the tread on the other side of the lead tank, so both treads are off now.’
Four plumes of sand were thrown up, and I saw Rizzo and Stretch moving east, kneeling and firing.
‘It’s Rizzo, we hit the wheels and it’s stopped.’
The artillery fired again, a huge shower of sparks seen through my binoculars, a direct hit on the lead tank.
‘Direct hit!’ I reported, orange flame seen.
Four mortars landed, a flash seen, and the second tank was now spewing flame from its rear, the engine compartment.
‘Mortar team ceasefire, artillery ceasefire. RPG men, get close and finish off that APC, hit it from the side.’
I could see Moran, Mitch and Ginger up and running southeast, and after a hundred yards they knelt, three back-blasts of smoke, three showers of sparks at the APC. I refocused, now seeing orange flame and black smoke.
I turned my head. ‘Max, get out there and take some snaps.’
He scrambled up the sand and ran towards the smoke columns as many men got up top and had a look. A massive eruption of smoke and flame, the blast reaching us a few second later, and the rear tank blew, its turret blown clean off.
Castille appeared at my side. ‘Listen, Boy, we promised these here nice Nigerian fellas that we would leave this place as we found it.’
‘Bit of a sweep up and it’ll be fine. Another sand storm and they’ll be nothing left to see.’
‘Those poor bastards in those tanks, they got roasted alive. My grandfather was in tanks, Shermans, he landed in Normandy a few days after the initial landings. He got himself a nasty disease from some French whore and was shipped back. But somehow he produced my father ten years later, drippy dick an all. Christmas and Thanksgiving he used to tell us kids all about this whore, and the nasty disease she gave him.’
I stared at him, wide-eyed.
‘They shipped him off to a home, where he no-doubt told the immobile residents about this French whore and the disease she gave him.’
I returned my attention to the tanks. ‘No whores in this war, Mister.’
‘Probably a good thing an all.’
Men observed as the smoke climbed high, Max and the two American reporters seen taking snaps, my lads ambling slowly back in.
Rizzo said, wiping his brown with a sleeve, ‘Fuck’s sake, Boss, do they have any good boys to throw at us?’
‘Let’s hope not, eh.’
‘Fucking embarrassing it is. That tank threw a thread before they even reached us.’ He walked off shaking his head.
I called Bob Staines. ‘Two tanks sat burning.’
‘Ah, so the intel was good.’
‘And those two An12 in Guinea were grabbed.’
‘A hefty bill for someone.’
An hour later were heard aircraft, everyone panicked for a moment till our radios crackled; Hercules and C160s inbound. I stepped to the runway.
‘Hercules for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘What are the fires down there?’
‘Some tanks and APC came at us, we destroyed them, safe at the moment to land – no tanks anywhere close by, not working ones at least.’
‘Glad to hear that. Inbound.’
After touchdown, the silver metal cages were pushed out, plus bogeys, plus wheeled pallets with green tarp over the contents, all pushed to the side of the runway. The first C160 landed, water bogey and fuel bogey pushed off, two large pallets of brown cardboard, our old water bogey and fuel bogey pushed on.
The final C160 offloaded cement, a shit load of cement on trolleys, the heavy trolleys dragged to one side before the C160 departed.
Peace reclaiming the runway, men forming an ant-like chain and starting to lug the cement to the French cottage industry, the food towards the medics. Stretchers were found in boxes, taken to the medics. Cardboard boxes opened, and we had tins of fruit and tins of meat, lots of them, each man keenly taking several away.
I grabbed mince meat and pears with Swifty, and back in our sand hole we cooked, a huge portion of mince meat enjoyed, tinned pears left for later.
My phone trilled; Tomsk. ‘Hey Boss.’
‘Listen, I have a gift for you, write down this number.’ I got my pad out and wrote it down. ‘There’s a plane going to attack you, organised by a Ukrainian man I don’t like, but I paid some money, bomb on board. Call that number to set it off.’
‘Signal might not get through the aircraft skin.’
‘No? Fuck it.
Try it anyway, it takes off soon.’
‘What’s on the plane?’
‘Something they will drop, some chemical.’
‘Chemical?’
‘That’s all I know. Talk soon.’
Phone away, I stood up and transmitted, ‘All teams prepare to move out, take what you can with you, extra water, load the trucks, load the APC, this base may be hit with a chemical. Get ready to move out in the next ten minutes! Medics, take the jeep and your kit, spare water. All teams, when ready, walk north!’
‘Chemical?’ Moran repeated.
‘Plane will drop something, make this place uninhabitable for a day or two maybe. Pack up, form up!’
No one was keen to stay, so when water had been topped up, the fresh tins pilfered away, teams moved north, the APC and jeeps following, the two artillery trucks and the mine truck trundling through the soft sand and in danger of getting stuck.
Now we were an easy target, but reasonably spread out. “B” Squadron joined us, and I led them all beyond the ridge and on a thousand yards. Halting, I transmitted, ‘Haines, Crab, take your men due west half a mile and stop. French teams, east half a mile and stop, spread out, dig shell scrapes if you like, or get under ponchos and sleep.’
I turned around and studied the empty base, that which I could see, soon studying the sky as my team sat down in a group, the jeeps and APC a hundred yards north of us, the trucks sitting with the French teams east. And I wondered if we would ever return, and what kind of chemical our attackers might use. I figured that in this heat a chemical would evaporate quickly, very damn quickly, and the sand would absorb a chemical like blotting paper. Someone out there had not done his homework.
A French voice finally reported something coming, a heavy plane. I hit the numbers, and pressed the green button. Nothing. The drone grew, and if the pilots were paying attention they might see us out here and target us, the trucks and the APC a bit obvious out here on a flat horizon.
Through my binoculars I could see the plane, and it looked like a French C160, white with a red tail. I recalled the last number, pressed green, and waited. I pressed green again, and again. Looking up, I could see the C160 start to nose dive, turning hard, soon in a corkscrew, and my cheeks moved all by themselves into an insidious and confident smile.
