by Geoff Wolak
He lowered his head, now looking gravely worried as men glanced at him.
I led Admiral Jacobs and the Crown Prince outside, and we ambled towards the Learjet. I began, ‘We need to make sure that the media runs our spin story, that we passed the warnings but mistakenly considered the bomb to be in Salalah or here, and that … a message passed to the Omani police was delayed a day perhaps.’
‘I will think of something,’ the Prince offered. ‘To make you look good and my people less so. That way you move forwards. My people will understand, they will not want an official strung up; I know how nasty your media can be.’
Admiral Jacobs coughed out a laugh. ‘My people won’t understand.’ He sighed. ‘Shit … fucking CIA should be all over this, not my damn job, but I’m here … and this is my area, and I asked for more to do, more responsibility. I wanted the responsibility, and I got a ship full of intel analysts, so I would have had a hard time explaining it.’
I told him, ‘When you fight terrorists they’ll always hit a soft target just to piss you off. Winning the war in the sand is straight forwards, but the fighters are civilians, moving through cities, and we can’t follow them into the cities. We do what we can … but there’s no military fix to fighting terrorists.’
‘That I’m starting to learn,’ Jacobs noted.
I told Prince Kalid, ‘Al-Qaeda had help with that bomb, a truck driven from Saudi packed with explosives, I don’t think they bought it locally.’
He angered quickly. ‘I will find those who assisted them, and hang them myself.’
We shook hands with the Prince, saluted and wished him a safe flight, soon ambling back to the HQ room as the Learjet doors closed.
‘You can wipe them out?’ Jacobs asked.
‘Yes, they’re easy to play, we just anger them and they walk into the line of fire, little strategy. If they were wise they’d hide in the cities and not fight us, but they have pride – so we’ll leave their bodies in the sand, most of them at least. And there are hostages, so I’ll go after them and try and get a good newspaper headline.’
‘That would be a good result at least, yes.’ He nodded.
Outside the HQ building, Franks walked out with Dick. Jacobs stopped them with angry pointed finger. ‘You two screw-ups best get your fucking act together. You can expect a shit letter from me to the agency,’ he snarled.
‘Sir.’ Heads down, they walked off.
My phone trilled so I stepped away. ‘It’s David. You’ve been barking at my staff..?’
‘The bomb was found, and it was booby-trapped, the bomb disposal team killed, twenty of them, thirty police, plus catering staff.’
‘My god.’
‘If the bomb had not been found then three hundred NATO officers would have been killed, and you’d be explaining it to the Prime Minister. We had the warnings, and your people – namely me, missed the opportunity to find out about that meeting, and no one your end told me about it. So you would have had a hard fucking time explaining why so many senior NATO officers were killed.
‘As it stands, the post mortem won’t be pleasant for you either, because we all missed the obvious, and questions will be asked, questions like … you nearly lost three hundred NATO officers despite three warnings, Mister Spy Chief.’
‘One stiff drink coming up, followed by some unpleasant chats to various people; the British Army generals at that meeting may have some loud words for us, the Defence Minister shouting a little. My god.’
‘Did you get from my Intel team a warning about a bomb?’
‘Yes, but it was listed as being an attempt on your forwards base, plus a report that a search found no bomb.’
‘The idiots in your office should have put two and two together.’
‘Yes, and I’ll be having words with them. FCO got that bomb warning, so too the embassy, so the enquiry will be far reaching.’
‘Dodging the bullet and being lucky is not much of a fucking strategy.’
‘No, relying on luck never is. What comes next?’
‘I’ll insert Echo, the Wolves, American Wolves, French Echo. We’ll sneak through the hills and wipe out the fighters. Five days then we leave, hopefully a good newspaper story.’
‘Well … good luck,’ he quipped.
After checking the map and the plans, Jacob’s Hawkeye returned, and I waved him off. I climbed to the ATC and out onto the roof, staring at the assembled aircraft, and realising how close we had come, a chill going through me despite the pleasant sunshine, a weight pushing down on my shoulders.
‘You OK, sir?’ came a voice.
I turned to face a delightful vision, Cecilia. Looking back at the Hercules, I began, ‘Bomb went off in Muscat, many killed, but if it had gone off when it was supposed to it would have killed three hundred Western officers, five hundred officers in total.’
‘My god.’
‘It would have set me back years, all my hard work for nothing.’
‘You need a holiday, you look tired.’
I glanced at her. ‘Sounds nice, a holiday. Maybe after this is over.’
‘I’ll be back in the UK after this wraps up, time accrued,’ she just happened to mention.
It was hard work, but I smiled. ‘Perhaps I need a break from it all.’
At the billet I told all Echo men left here to get ready to insert, and for Swifty to take all the British Wolves on the insert. I warned the American Wolves to be ready to go today, then informed the HALO teams that they would insert after Echo had searched the area south of the strip and given the green light, no heat-seeking missiles to worry those HALO teams.
Next, I spoke to the Chinook crews, all known to me, and they would lift off at dusk. The Omani Hercules crews came and found me in the hangar with their RAF counterparts.
An Omani pilot began, ‘We think it best if we insert from the north, for any drop. We fly low-level over the sand close to the Saudi border, but not that close.’
‘Up to you, so long as you’re not seen on anyone’s radar.’ The Omani crews exchanged looks. ‘Plan a route, let me have a look at it, but my men will be in place tonight, to attack any missile crews. If you drop men, you drop them tomorrow night.’
In the HQ room, desks now as they had been, Major Harris and his team all subdued, I gave them the plan and the movement orders, sheets diligently updated.
As the sun hung low I made a decision, and I topped up my webbing. In the HQ room I told Clifford that he was in charge, but that I was at the end of the phone.
‘You’re going in?’ he queried.
‘There are hostages, it smells of a trap, and I want to make that choice myself. Tomorrow, use the helos to bring up the British soldiers when we’ve secured an area, then pallet drop near them. I’ll create a forwards HQ most likely, just need to find a good spot.’
I was soon leading Echo towards the waiting RAF Chinook as those Chinooks sat loudly disturbing the base, men counted in, British Wolves led in, half of Echo on the second Chinook with other British Wolves, American Wolves to follow – but to be dropped ten miles from me, the French to follow in the morning with the British forces.
I patted a familiar crewman on the arm and sat, and we were soon rolling down the apron and onto the runway, gaining speed, lifting up and banking left, and west into the setting sun as the cabin lights were switched off. But the planned course was northwest, north of the wadi and around, just in case.
Opposite me sat Moran, Mitch and his spies, Slider and his team, Rizzo on the second Chinook, British Wolves seen down the hold, all of the men dressed alike, most sat side on to the benches since they had backpacks on. Sambo had a backpack full off ammo, and most of the men had a sleeping bag above their mess tin pouches.
Thirty minutes later, the sky outside now dark, the cabin dark, the crewman waved me up, the ramp coming down. I loaded my rifle but did not cock it as I knelt, others copying and soon shoulder to shoulder as if about to start a sprint.
We were now slowly heading du
e south, Ginger ahead of us on the ground with a torch signal for us - hopefully, and we set down in a sandy gully, just wide enough for the Chinook, out and running to the sides, rocks found and knelt next to as the damp sand and cold wind washed over us, eyes closed as we were assaulted.
My nostrils were soon full of the smell of damp sand, a little sand up my nose, and I should have put on my facemask, the sand scouring my neck.
I cocked my rifle but shielded it from the sand blast with my body as the Chinook roared away into the black sky, the second Chinook behind us a hundred yards, both sets of crews equipped with night sights. As it grew quiet I lifted up, walking south as teams formed, Moran with me, and Ginger’s team came in from the side, torches still on.
‘Radio test, then get the damn sand out of your weapons.’
The teams sounded off, all with working radios thankfully, and a long line was formed as I pressed south quickly, straining to see ahead along the dark gully as a loud and un-stealthy clanking came from behind me. But we were a large force with the Wolves and the spies, capable of dealing with any trouble here, more than sixty men.
‘Wilco for Ginger, any locals around?’
‘If you keep on this heading we may trip across some, we saw lights to the south. We had a look at the missile men after the US Navy hit them, bits of them all over, got some IDs.’
‘And that dirt strip?’
‘Nicholson got close, and he reported men hidden underground in a few places, but not many of them. We had a look around this area, no one seen, no tracks, and there’re no suitable places for jeeps that we could see – so they’d be on foot if they’re here waiting.’
‘As expected. OK, thanks.’
My eyes adjusted, the going easy enough, the sand a lighter colour than the rocks, a black sky of bright stars above us, the wind chilling me. I put on my facemask and gloves, as much to stay warm as to hide my features.
The gully wove around south, but I was soon up on smooth rocks and climbing gentle hills, pausing to sniff the air and look around. We dropped and climbed, over and over, the lads about to get sea sick.
After thirty minutes I could smell smoke. ‘Mitch, stay here with your team, watch our rear. Rizzo, go left and around, slow and steady. Swifty, take the Wolves right and around, four hundred yards west then south. Move out quietly.’
I sat on the cold rocks with Moran, and we peered ahead to the horizon, not seeing any lights but getting a whiff of cooking smoke from ahead. Slider and his men were behind us, which now included Ginger’s original team – now melted back into the two troops.
I could see the dark outlines of the lads as they moved east and west, soon out of sight, just the cold wind for company, damp sand on cold rocks beneath us. I had to wonder how that kitten survived out here, maybe finding gerbils to eat, and maybe sleeping in a nice cosy cave at night.
After fifteen minutes the radio crackled. ‘It’s Rizzo, you hear me?’
I stood tall. ‘Go ahead.’
‘We can see the camp, lights in a few places, dozen jeeps.’
‘All teams, avoid the sand on approach, could be mines. Swifty, you got eyes-on?’
‘We can see some lights east of us, no detail, too far away.’
‘Have your main body stay where you are, send four men forwards slowly to have a look, second team south 400yards, dead slow dead quiet.’
‘Dispatching teams now.’
I waved them up, the team behind me easing up, and I led their black shapes slowly up and down the rocks, avoiding the sand below us, a ridge clambered up. Peaking over the top I could smell cigarette smoke. I quickly ducked down, the men behind silently copying. I whispered, ‘Men close.’
Easing my head back over, Moran and others moved up, heads peaking over, and we could see a tent down in the sand – thirty yards away, a light on within, men chatting away. A wave of my hand, and men spread left and right quietly.
Beyond the tent came rocks, but beyond them we could see little. I waited.
‘It’s Rizzo, and we’re close now, hundred yards or more.’
‘Standby. Swifty, where are your boys?’
‘This is Wolf Brigson, Boss, and we got eyes on, tents with lights, jeeps in a line, say twelve jeeps snaking south.’
‘How far out are you, Brigson?’
‘Say … two hundred yards or less.’
‘Silencers on, everyone, get ready.’ I eased back and quietly clicked on my silencer after blowing through it twice, soon reaching over and aiming down. ‘Mitch, you hear us?’
‘Go ahead,’ crackled back.
‘All quiet back there?’
‘No lights, no movement.’
‘Rizzo, fire when ready, then all teams who have a shot join in, rest turn around and look for stragglers.’
I aimed down at the tent, soon hearing a distinctive crack, and I fired as Moran fired, the tent riddled, no chance of anyone surviving - or getting a shot off, brass cartridges tinkling off the rocks below me.
The horizon lit up, a huge blast reaching us.
I urgently got on the radio. ‘Report the blast!’
‘Wolf Brigson, Boss, and I think something exploded.’
Men near me laughed as cracks sounded out.
‘Any wounded?’
‘Our ears are ringing.’
‘What was that?’
‘Something in a jeep exploded when we hit it.’
‘All teams, snipe and wait, but I think they might know we’re here now.’
Moran laughed. ‘Good stealthy operation. And a good job we brought silencers, eh.’
An RPG few out, over our heads, a blast in the distance.
‘It’s Mitch, and who’s firing at us, eh?’
‘Any wounded?’ I called.
‘No, but that was damn close. Other side of the rocks and we’d have men down. No shelter here either.’
‘It’s Rizzo, and we got no one left to shoot at.’
‘Observe for now, slow move in, don’t walk on the sand. Brigson, report.’
‘A few of them hiding, but they can’t see us.’
‘Destroy all those jeeps, hit any boxes on the ground.’
‘It’s Swifty, and we have lights south a mile.’
‘Move that way, look for the access track, get above it.’
‘Moving.’
The blast echoed around us.
‘Report the blast,’ I issued through the dark.
‘It’s Stretch, and some silly cunt of an Arab just stood on his own mine down there. I think he has a hole in his sandal.’
Moran’s black outline turned to me. ‘Mines in the sand,’ he noted. ‘Makes moving around hard.’
‘Not really, we just avoid sandy areas,’ I told him, the lads laughing through the dark.
‘Any jungle here?’ Moran quipped.
‘East a few thousand miles.’
We waited an hour as we chilled in the dark, the occasional crack heard, the stragglers and the wounded shot. I finally stood. ‘Rizzo, move south then west, find the track, don’t shoot at the Wolves. Mitch, close up now.’
When Mitch and his team appeared I led my team west and then south, following Swifty’s previous course, and we finally met up. I sent him west 500yards, to then turn south as my team plodded slowly south.
‘Wolf Brigson to Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Big camp ahead of us, but it looks empty through my sights.’
‘Go to ground, hide, they heard the blast and are hidden ready. Rizzo, you hear me?’
‘Yeah, good signal, you must be close.’
‘Close in till you see lights, then get down and wait. Swifty, you hear me?’
‘We’re up higher than you now, good signal, and I can see the lights.’
‘Slow and steady, they know we’re here, get to the west of them.’
‘The ground gets higher to the west, so we’ll sneak up and over and have a look down.’
‘All teams, keep your distance, they
’re hidden ready. Heads down, use your ears.’
The whistle had us looking up, a blast registering behind us three hundred yards.
‘Mortars,’ Moran noted. ‘Targeting where they think we are.’
I stood tall. ‘All teams, they have mortars, so spread out and get some cover, don’t bunch up.’
‘It’s Swifty, and we can see the mortar team, 800yards we reckon.’
‘Rizzo, you see them?’
‘Not yet.’
‘It’s Swifty, and we can get to 600yards and have a go.’
‘They may be hidden that far out, so slow and steady.’ Off the radio I said, ‘Get a brew on,’ to the teams. ‘We’re far enough away, and downwind.’
Fifteen minutes later I sat against a rock with my brew, and it was much appreciated in the cold wind, the lads whispering as mortars flew out every three minutes or so, none landing close to us.
‘Waste of mortars,’ Ginger scoffed.
A burst of fire, not ours, was followed by three quiet cracks. I stood. ‘Report the firing.’
‘It’s Brigson, boss, and we had a cheeky chap come take a shit right close to us. So we rudely interrupted his ablutions and shot him.’
‘All teams, they know we’re close now, get ready.’
‘It’s Swifty, and Wolves with Elephant Guns are up on a high point, got the mortars fixed, just two tubes, one in use.’
‘Have them look for the man in charge first, then hit the mortar crew.’
‘I think we can see the guy directing the mortars. Standby.’ Five minutes later came, ‘It’s Swifty, and the idiot directing the mortars is dead, and the mortar crew.’
‘Any team with a shot, take it, and destroy jeeps, but pause after firing and look for men close in who’re hiding.’
An RPG flew past us and hit rocks a hundred yards behind us.
‘It’s Mitch, and who keeps firing fucking RPGs at us!’
‘It’s not personal,’ I told him.
‘Well, so long as it’s not personal,’ he quipped.
Brew kit away, webbing checked, we moved slowly forwards in a long line, Mitch fifty yards back. The rocks were a darker colour to the sand in the gullies, and bushes were darker again, so we had features to follow.
