by Geoff Wolak
‘Navy? What the heck you doing here?’
He stood tall with his hands on his hips. ‘Technically I’m a civilian with British Aerospace, back in uniform for twelve months down here, nice tax-free bonus at the end. I teach instrumentation, night work and navigation.’
‘How good are the local pilots?’
‘All shit hot, all degree educated, many from Sandhurst, many went to boarding school in the UK, some went to Eton.’
‘Have you been given a remit to assist me, and some rules of engagement?’
‘Crown Prince sent the squadron, all keen to mix it up and get a medal. This lot have never fired a shot in anger.’
‘Weapons?’
‘Ground attack rockets, anti-tank rockets, door guns.’
‘Flares?’
‘Not standard but can be fitted.’
‘Fit them, fast – or get a heat-seeking missile up your arse.’
‘They have missiles?’
‘They do.’
‘I can have the kits delivered quickly and fitted. But what I do know is that a shoulder-launched missile has a hard time locking onto a low flying helo.’
‘Warn them all about missiles, and mounted Dushka, but we plan on using the old camel trail, so you fly that trail and avoid roads. No roads, no Dushka, no missiles.’
‘Yanks hit some place in Somalia the other day?’
‘Yes, our intel, shipments of arms for Yemen.’ I pointed at a Lynx. ‘You can fly fast low-level down the wadi?’
‘Hell yes, the boys love that. And the wadi has low gentle sides, no cliffs till you’re two hundred miles in. We tank down the wadis at over a hundred knots, six feet off the deck.’
‘You can insert our teams soon, in daylight, warn the pilots about it. Oh, ask around, and try and get me a Cessna to use for recon, and I’ll have some dangerous recon missions for you just as soon as you have flares, and are confident about using them. I’ll want your assurances first.’ I pointed at the row of modern brown tents. ‘Do you have a spare tent here?’
‘We could double up.’
‘I want medics here, you’ll provide 24hr casevac.’
‘I’ll make some space.’
‘And if an armed Mi8 came in and hit your Lynx on the deck..?’
‘I’d face a firing squad probably.’ He took in the helicopters. ‘They have Mi8?’
‘They do, so disperse your very expensive helicopters.’
My driver took me to the SAS camp, and I jumped down at the command tent and slung my rifle as troopers offered welcomes, jeers, and a few rude quips, finding Major Pritchard with his senior staff. I ducked inside.
‘Ah, Wilco, you fit and well?’
‘Lads are groggy, as ever, they don’t discipline themselves on long flights. I stay awake.’
‘This place is OK, no chance of someone sneaking up on us. Jeeps have been tested, had foot patrols out – plenty of men here. So what do you have for us?’
‘If you want to move out tomorrow you can.’ I moved around the map table. ‘Go west to the border in your jeeps, slowly north up the border to the wadi. I say slowly, because I want any tracks reported – other than camel tracks. And you know what a camel toe looks like.’
They laughed.
‘At the wadi you turn left, and drive in and look for tracks. You have a hundred miles to the first likely ambush point, here.’
They marked it on the map.
‘Before you get there I’ll have it checked by air,’ I offered them.
‘And the chances of someone coming the other way?’
‘Very low. They’d have to have good jeeps, good supplies, and some military planning to make it that far, and these boys are a bit crap. Halt from noon till three if it’s hot, don’t drive at night, dig in at night – no fucking headlights.’ They laughed. ‘As soon as you see some tracks, stop and report it. There should be no tracks, so if your lads see some – panic.’
‘Mines in the sand?’ a captain asked.
‘I’d say yes, at the point indicated - and west of it, since it can be reached by road or track. No one will carry a heavy box of mines down that wadi.’
‘How far do we go?’ Pritchard asked.
‘All the way.’ I tapped the map. ‘You stop and hold that point, but you’ll be within walking distance of the bad boys, thousands of them. But if they are where I think they are -’ I tapped the map. ‘- you’ll need to fight and skirt around them, and we’ll insert and attack from behind.’
‘Could reach that first point in three days,’ Pritchard noted.
‘Mostly drive in bright sunlight, eyes on the sand, eyes keenly staring left and right.’
‘Resupply?’
‘By Lynx, or Hercules pallet drop. Road supply is out of the question here.’
‘Casevac?’
‘Make sure that your men have Major Harris’s phone number, he’ll have a Lynx out there in minutes. Troop sergeants or officers need sat phones.’
‘We have them, and the numbers provided, and yours.’
‘So all you need now is to find some heavily-armed fighters, or it will be embarrassing.’ They laughed. ‘But what we do know is that the terror training camps have emptied out. Where they are … is for us to find out by tripping across them and screaming like girls as we open fire.
‘Oh, get some wood, and make some signs for people behind to follow you, in case of bad areas, soft sand – and mines. Leave some markers, paper note on them: stay left.’
Outside, I walked the short distance to the Para’s camp as my driver followed, soon hearing shouts from officers met in GL4 and elsewhere as their men milled around tents and jeeps. They welcomed me into their command tent, map laid out ready, cold water offered from a cooler. The water turned out to be more cool than cold as I sipped it.
‘So when do we get a tasking?’ they asked.
‘SAS send men tomorrow, you’ll follow two days later, in their tracks – literally in their tracks. You’ll have places to hold and supplies to stack up, the Marines to move up and pass you, and eventually the entire wadi will be covered.
‘I can’t say how and when you’ll see action, but be careful what you wish for here.’
Outside, I drove two hundred yards to the Marines, and they were in good spirits and wanting some action. Leaving the Marines I noticed the Pathfinders and stopped, and they had twenty jeeps here, most with towed bogeys fitted.
‘What’s the plan?’ they predictably asked.
‘You follow the SAS is a day or two, with the Marines and Paras, almost two hundred miles of sand till you reach the contact point. But between here and there they will try and ambush you. Keep your eyes open, but for the most part the wadi is a mile wide. Where it gets narrow … be careful, men on foot forwards maybe.
‘It’ll take you a week to get there, and by then we’ll have some intel and aerial photos, maybe some contact.’
‘Got those Lynx to support us,’ they enthused. ‘Make a mess of someone trying to shoot at us.’
‘Unfortunately, the heat-seeking missiles that the fighters have will make a mess of a Lynx.’
I left them looking worried.
Back at the HQ room I called the senior staff together, Moran stood in the door with Ginger, Colonel Clifford and his men huddled at one end, Robby poking his head in. ‘We have local men to protect this place, and men on foot attacking us here would seem unlikely, so 2 Squadron can move forwards.’ I tapped the map. ‘If teams drive west twenty miles they hit the border, so I’ll have one flight of 2 Squadron there.
‘If you drive north twenty miles you reach the wadi, the entry point, so I think we’ll have one flight of 2 Squadron up there, the others spread back along the route at the border and patrolling by jeep and by foot. They can insert in the morning, the SAS will drive to the wadi and enter it tomorrow.
‘Medics need to be sent across to the Lynx tents, there is room, and we need at least one Lynx ready at all times with medics sat in it, rotate the pilots
. The main man over there is British Navy.’
‘We met him last night,’ Harris informed me.
‘Well as soon as he has flares fitted he can do something useful. Plan is, as soon as the SAS cover ten miles the Paras move up and enter the wadi, Marines behind them. Every ten miles the Paras stop and leave some jeeps and make camp. When we know the entire wadi is secure they might move up and fight.
‘Marines drive past the last Para and do the same thing, small camps every ten miles as the SAS push along. If there’s any trouble in the wadi we have men close by, not a hundred mile drive to assist someone.
‘When the Marines and Paras are settled in the wadi … start Lynx re-supply. That should all take a week, and by then we should have some intel and some recon as to where the fighters are. We can’t start this party till we know where they are.’
A lady Intel captain asked, ‘The US Navy bombed an airfield in Somalia?’
‘Yes, my intel. Weapons were heading for Yemen, but not anymore.’
‘Do we know what they did take delivery of?’ Harris asked.
‘No, and that’s the worry.’
Outside, I called Admiral Jacobs. ‘Sir, I’m on the ground in Oman with my men, near the border, jeeps move across the border tomorrow. Can you send me a senior man?’
‘He’s on his way to some airport, be with you soon I think, and those CIA guys - plus the Press Corp.’
‘Did you take some high-altitude photos, sir?’
‘Yes, he has them, about twenty small camps seen, their main camps quiet.’
‘And playing chicken with the missiles, sir?’
‘Birds flew over a sector yesterday, no action, different sector today.’
‘Where are your SEALs, sir?’
‘On ship, ready to deploy.’
‘And the Green Berets?’
‘Landed last night in the east, Hercules to you, not sure when.’
‘Talk soon, sir.’
Max pulled up and jumped down.
‘How’d you get here?’ I asked him.
‘With the Paras, and I got a shit load of images ready. When can I release a story?’
‘Now, because I want to piss off al-Qaeda – who we all know read The Sun newspaper.’ I gave him a few paragraphs to use, quotes from me. ‘Make sure the Omanis here get a very good write up.’
Inside, I found Colonel Clifford’s office, and he would handle logistics from it and liaise with the Omanis. We sat with drinks and chatted for half an hour.
When the teams returned from their walk they made beds, tried the warm bottled water and examined the toilets here, paperbacks broken out, a few pairs seen sat cooking rations near the back door – we had no mess tent.
I walked around to the ATC and found the Omani major. ‘Is there a mess tent?’
‘Just for the officers, quite small. Sorry, but we were led to believe you would deploy straight away.’
‘Within a day or two, yes. No big deal, they have rations – and they’re supposed to be tough.’
Back in my brick hut I made my bed and lay on it. ‘So what’s the plan?’ Rizzo asked.
‘”B” Squadron go for a drive tomorrow, three days to reach the first ambush point we think. You’ll wait for Intel to target a group then deploy by Lynx, sneak up on them.
‘If the Regulars hit trouble we’d go in by Puma or Lynx, land a few miles away and move up. Have your troop check kit, bend and stretch, you never know – al-Qaeda might go and alter my plans and give us something to do.’
‘They always fucking do alter our plans.’ Rizzo complained.
Nicholson put in, ‘I have ten quid on a big explosion inside 48hrs of landing. Rizzo has a plane attacking, but Tomo bet on us being attacked by ship.’
An hour later a Hercules landed so I walked out and around to the apron as the loud Hercules was tended by a dozen efficient ground handlers, soon seeing Franks and Dick lugging heavy kit down the ramp, followed by two familiar Marine Press officers – the same men that were at the mine in Liberia. Behind them trailed what looked like ten American officers, most in green combats, webbing worn or carried, M4s or M16s slung, pistols seen on a few hips.
Hoping that they had some desert browns, I waved them over as Colonel Clifford stepped out to greet them. Shaking Franks’ hand, I said, ‘Some proper work for a man of your pay grade?’
He shot me a look. ‘Lobos lost thirty-six senior men to that bomb we dropped, but … their affiliates in Los Angeles killed two cops in revenge.’
I shook hands with Dick as he took in the base, soon smiling and nodding at the Press officers. ‘How’s that grievous hand wound you suffered?’
The man in question held it up with a smile. ‘I had a bandaid on it for days. It was sore and itchy and red in colour.’
‘Ah, well a sore and itchy wound is definitely worth a Purple Heart.’
Franks turned and gestured to a big man with square shoulders and a square head, a mean look about him. ‘Major Hicks, Green Berets, and some of his staff.’
I shook the man’s huge steak of a hand.
Hicks began, taking in the ATC, ‘Teams will be here tomorrow.’
‘There are British groups leaving here tomorrow,’ I told him. ‘Plenty of spare tents after that.’
Franks pointed at three naval officers. ‘From Admiral Jacob’s team.’
‘Commander Kovsky,’ a man announced himself, dressed in standard US Navy brown – so at least he was camouflaged right for the desert. We shook, and he named his team, Colonel Clifford leading them to a brick building with beds, the de facto officers mess.
After they had dumped kit I waited for Kovsky, and he held a large square leather bag when he appeared.
‘Your photos,’ he said as we fell into step. In the command room I sent people out to make space, just senior staff left as I took out the large A4 black and white photos. Each had a grid reference top right and handy map coordinates.
Harris read out coordinates, small plastic models placed at the coordinates on the map. He finally smiled. ‘I was right, they’re where we thought they would be, all points accessible by jeep – the lazy bastards didn’t walk anywhere!’
I had a close look at the camp that the SAS would run into in a three days. ‘That looks like more than a hundred men, jeeps, mounted Dushka, mortars even. We can’t let “B” Squadron just drive up to them, or … maybe we could. I’ll insert behind the camp and get ready, use “B” Squadron as bait.’
Harris noted, ‘The wadi at that point is about two miles wide, so if “B” Squadron were on the far side they would be seen but be out of range.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
Franks chipped in, ‘We got a radar contact a few days ago, big enough to be a transport, flying low near the main camps, so they took receipt of some weapons.’
I turned to him and nodded.
Kovsky asked, ‘What’s the plan here?’
I told him, ‘First we find out where they are, what their tactics are, then we attack; set piece moves, helo insert, jeep support.’ I held up the aerial photos. ‘What these suggest is twenty small camps, a hundred men each, each thirty miles apart.’
‘Could just bomb them,’ he suggested.
‘We want intel and bodies - faces and fingerprints, sat phones … and letters home to wives and girlfriends. Some prisoners would be good as well, some gossip about terror training camps visited elsewhere.’
He nodded. ‘So we do it the old fashioned way, and play Indians to their Cowboys.’
I smiled at the analogy. ‘Circle them wagons. How many keen armed men do you have on ship?’
‘Sixty SEALs, and four hundred Marines. Marines have snipers, and we’re swapping M16s for weapons with range, but we also have good telescopic sights for the M16s.’
‘I’ll hand your SEALS an O.P. tomorrow if you can alert a team or two.’
‘They’re ready, itching to go.’
‘Helo insert will need to follow a tight route and avoid certain pl
aces.’ I showed him the map. ‘Here, west of our first ambush point, are fighters sat waiting for us. You land ten miles northwest at least, close to the hills and not in the open. Your men walk slowly in and get eyes on, then report to me.
‘Your helos fly east, here, and around, to fool them, out the same way. Warn them about heat-seeking missiles and Dushka fifty cal, plenty of Dushka here. Warn your pilots about Omani Air Force Lynx helos and Pumas in the wadi area - should have IFF working, and that our men are driving west down this wadi.’
‘I’ll send a report now, and the tasking.’
‘Only danger is an old Mi8, but it won’t catch your helos.’
‘Hell no.’
An hour later a Hercules landed, a team of thirty RAF and Omani mechanics walking off with heavy kit bags, pallets and trollies pushed off, RAF parachute instructors walking off, but just six of them. An RAF Squadron Leader walked over to me, and he looked familiar, a blue beret to top off his greens.
‘We’ve met before,’ he said. ‘Angola.’
‘You here to service Hercules?’ I puzzled.
‘They are, I’m the RAF logistics officer, time spent with Air Commodore Loughton. I was at Salalah Airport, had to make an assessment before we used it. Radar is OK, no ILS … or much of anything else. There are chutes for you on the way, and these RAF instructors came down ahead of them.’ He thumbed over his shoulder.
‘Might not be a need to use them operationally, but I’ll have men practise with them.’
‘RAF propaganda team on its way as well,’ he said with a smirk.
‘I get told off for calling them that.’
‘They’ll make a mini documentary on various RAF aspects, parts of future recruitment films.’
I took him to Colonel Clifford and they would share an office, both involved in the logistics here. And both turned out to be from Surrey, so I left them chatting.
Back in the hangar I greeted familiar para instructors, stories of Sierra Leone and Liberia recalled. ‘Guys, till we have some chutes and a need to use them you’re soldiers, you protect the RAF here. Keep fit, practise on the range, don’t whinge that I’m not using you just yet.’
