by Geoff Wolak
‘Our gracious hosts made us call family and ask that money be wired to them. Some paid, and were released, but my wife told them to keep me.’
Rocko and the lads laughed loudly, and rudely, at our hostage, and I could not resist a wide grin.
‘So what’ll you do when you get back, besides divorce her?’ I asked as cracks sounded out.
‘Well ... I fancied retiring soon, fifty seven now, and down to Cornwall. Some fishing.’
‘Got to be safer than working around here,’ I told him.
Tomo came and found me at the camp fire fifteen minutes later. ‘We killed twelve, smashed up their jeeps, and can’t see fuck all now, Boss.’
‘They may be walking this way,’ I suggested.
‘They ain’t that brave, Boss,’ Tomo said as he walked off.
As the dark night started to turn blue we sat chatting quietly, a few of the hostages asleep in the sand, a jeep trundling past us without stopping, and without us shooting at it.
‘Hercules for Wilco,’ crackled in our ears.
‘Wilco here, go ahead.’
‘Approaching your position now.’
I stood, and heard them before seeing them. ‘You’re due south, dead on track. You’ll see a road going due east, land on that.’
The lads stood and stretched, soon rudely kicking up the sleeping hostages, and helping up Mahoney plus our wounded hostage.
I stood staring at the Hercules as it approached, then exchanged a look with Rocko and Moran.
‘Did someone bleach our Hercules?’ Rocko asked.
A white Hercules circled west of us.
‘That’s a commercial Hercules,’ I told them. ‘Must have borrowed it.’ I transmitted, ‘Wilco for Hercules, what’s with the poofter white colour scheme?’
‘We borrowed this, it’s a commercial bird.’
Rocko transmitted, ‘You could have painted it first, you can’t pick us up in that!’
‘Just be thankful we’re here at all,’ came back.
I had everyone start walking towards the straighter stretch of road, one Delta carrying his dead buddy, Slider carrying the dead hostage, but I had deliberately left Cramer’s body when Castille mentioned it.
‘Make safe all weapons!’ I transmitted, and I unloaded mine.
Glancing back I could see the big white bird on approach, and it glided down over our heads and hit with a screech, soon halting, the tail ramp down as we walked towards it. Medics stepped down, Mahoney handed over with our hostage as I shouted at everyone to board quickly, a simple headcount done.
I transmitted, ‘Head count your teams!’
A final look back, and I boarded, the ramp closing. A burst of power, and we were off before people had seated themselves. I hung on to a wire cage as we climbed and banked to the right; this Hercules was used normally for secure parcel delivery, a few small parcels still in the cages – a delay in delivery.
Levelling out, I went forwards, to find RAF pilots in their green flight suits in a commercial Hercules. ‘So where did this come from?’
‘It was sat on the airfield, and Colonel Marchant used war powers to commandeer it, an offer of hard cash ... or a bullet to the head.’
I smiled. ‘Did the job, but I bet the MOD won’t be filming this fucking thing when it lands.’
‘Well, no, probably not. Anyhow, we’re headed for Bikino Fasso, and a Hercules from Kenya to meet us there, so you’ll arrive in an RAF Hercules.’
‘We’ll have to offload the wounded, or be criticised, so on approach radio for two ambulances, and UK and US Embassy officials.’
Sat down, no ear defenders to be seen, my phone flashed. ‘Hello?’ I shouted.
‘Wilco, Colonel Mathews. You in a plane?’
‘Yes, sir, a Hercules. Have your officials meet us in Bikino Fasso, ambulances, embassy staff.’
‘OK, I’ll sort that now. Any more problems?’
‘No, sir, we’re fine. Call the embassy, we’ll be there in an hour or less.’
I could see Mahoney being fussed over by two RAF lady medics, two medics with our wounded hostage, IV drips set-up, two bodies covered by ponchos. I stepped towards the Delta who had carried that body. Shouting in his ear, I said, ‘We’ll land at Bikino Fasso airport, US Embassy staff, body flown back.’
He nodded, looking dog tired.
I took out the video camera, and showed it to him. He glanced up, and then shrugged. I filmed the body, and took snaps with the still camera.
Just under an hour later we landed, and taxied into a sea of flashing blue lights, police and ambulances. Ramp down, the medics walked the wounded to trolleys, our patients cooperating and laying down, the bodies carried out and placed on trolleys, men in suits stood by, two dozen local police officers behind them.
And there on the tarmac sat an RAF Hercules, engines turning, so I led everyone across to it as Castille closed in on his ambassador, our big white bird to be refuelled and flown back, the medics coming with us, heavy bags lugged. I snapped the Hercules with the camera, as well as the police and ambulances.
Castille joined us ten minutes later, and ten minutes after that we were airborne and heading southwest – ear defenders worn this time, our hostages now safe – and officially handed over, not my responsibility any more. Most of those aboard went off to sleep quickly.
Coming in to land, I had most everyone put their facemasks on, and I handed the video camera to a medic. As the ramp came down that medic filmed us, and he walked off first, filming us as we walked down the ramp, weapons in hand.
Outside the RAF room I met Captain Harris, asking for a truck or bus for the lads. Calling to Moran and Castile, we stepped in and to a mini de-brief, Colonel Marchant and his senior staff present. I handed over the video camera to the keen MOD propaganda team.
Using a white board I detailed the original plan, then the modified plan, finally what we actually did. ‘We made it thirty miles south, then the truck gave out, or we would have made it to Niger. But then a hostage with known mental problems grabbed a pistol and shot dead two men, wounding two others. This guy ... had been held in North Korea, Russia and Israel for illegal entry, and even had a documentary made about him.’
Colonel Marchant began, ‘So without that nutcase, and a truck that lasted another hour, it would have been a quick textbook operation, no casualties.’
‘Best laid plans, sir. And let’s agree not to mention that white Hercules.’
They laughed.
‘Film will be edited,’ an officer shouted from the back.
Getting back to the hotel, the lads sat eating, I called Max. ‘What’s on Reuters about a US hostage rescue in Mali?’
‘Hang on ... US and British special forces rescue twelve hostages in Mali, but hostage Billy Cramer – previously incarcerated in North Korea, Russia and Israel - grabbed a pistol and shot dead a US soldier, and one hostage. Hostages were released to their national embassies in Bikino Fasso after medical check-ups, one wounded US soldier and one wounded hostage taken to hospital. That was you?’
‘Yes, and that nutcase kid wounded Mahoney.’
‘Shit ... what’d you want me to run?’
‘I have some snaps for you, but give that kid a bad write up. Do some research on him, name of Billy Cramer.’
‘OK, will do.’
I ate with the lads, rude jokes being cracked despite the deaths, but they all soon headed off to bed, to be woken a few hours later by a corporal, a Tristar available to us in a few hours.
Yawning, I considered how hard it would be to wake this lot. ‘When’s the next one after that?’
‘Two days later, sir.’
‘Book us on that one.’ I went back to bed.
The next morning Colonel Marchant came to see me, taking me outside. ‘There’s a town in the north, getting rowdy, had a few shots fired at our lads. Not rebels, just ... lawless.’
‘I’ll take some lads tonight, sir, arrange some transport, but ... nothing written down, no questions asked. 6pm here.’<
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He nodded and headed off.
At 6.15pm our transport arrived, and I had selected my sniper team, plus Swifty, but had also dragged along Castille. His men had slowly recovered, from sour faced and miserable to just plan tired and miserable.
‘Where we off?’ he asked.
‘Wait and see,’ I told him.
An hour’s drive on poor roads and we pulled up on a ridge, the drivers set to be back at 1am. Out of the jeeps we donned facemasks and gloves, weapons checked before I led them off as if on patrol. Over the ridge we found the town, and skirting right along the ridge we came to high ground above the town, a promontory jutting out into the town, tall trees available to us.
I told the team to climb trees and get a good fire position, Castile to be with myself and Swifty. Rifles slung, I started up a large tree, plenty of vines to assist, and found a suitably shaped branch. Green rope out, I tied it over the branch above and made three large loops for us.
Swifty was below me, Castile on my right, and we all tried to get comfy, which was never going to be easy. I transmitted, ‘OK, listen up: it’s a hundred US dollars for the best shot, or the most inventive shot. Any idiot down there with a gun or machete is fair game, this town known for its lawlessness, and for shooting at our boys when they pass through. You are all now deputised from me, the town sheriff.’
A crack sounded out.
‘Who was that?’ I asked.
‘Me, Boss,’ said Tomo.
‘I hadn’t finished my speech. Who’d you shoot?’
‘Shot a guy in the arse.’
‘Why ... did you shoot him in the arse?’
‘He had a rifle slung.’
‘Fair enough. OK, everyone, happy hunting. You may begin.’
‘Happy hunting?’ Castille repeated as he took aim.
‘Find someone worth shooting, then decide if you want to shoot them – and tell me why.’
A minute later he said, ‘Four men stood smoking by their jeeps, left of the park,’ Castille said as cracks sounded out.
‘And why shoot them?’ I pressed.
‘Gunmen, drug dealers probably, bad boys, and frightening the locals.’
‘And if they die ... how many will live in peace,’ I posed. ‘Your shot, Captain.’
He hit the first man, Swifty the second, and I hit the third. Castille fired four more rounds, finishing off the men. Bystanders glanced around, no idea where the shots had come from, and with our silencers fitted they would never know.
Two minutes later, Swifty said, ‘Hard right, red roof, go right, white shiny car.’
I focused on a man fucking a girl from behind, a knife to her throat. ‘Mister Castille, head shot please.’
Castille fired, the man’s head jerked back, blood spattered up the wall. The girl lifter her knickers and glanced around, then ran.
‘Welcome to the jungle, Mister Castile, where good and evil is black and white, and men like us can make a difference.’
Five minutes later I was peeking into apartment windows, soon finding a bunch of bad boys sharing out the cocaine, AK47s slung. I transmitted, ‘OK, everyone, look at the white apartment block in the ten o’clock position, left side, fourth floor, middle, four men sat about the coffee table. Nicholson, break the window without hitting anyone. Tomo, hit the bottle of Pepsi.’
Swifty laughed loudly.
A crack, and the window shattered, a second crack and the large bottle of cola exploded.
‘Boss,’ came Tomo’s voice. ‘They got Pepsi on their coke, so does that make it Pepsi-cola?’
I could hear the laughter through the trees. ‘If that’s how they made coca-cola it would be very expensive, but also very popular.’
‘They ain’t too happy,’ Tomo added.
I could see the men now in a mad dash to save as much cocaine as possible, one pointing his rifle out the window. ‘Sniper Team ... kill the fuckers.’
The man in the window suddenly lost the back of his head, his friends startled to be covered in brains and blood, their cocaine also tainted. Their surprise did not last long, three head shots turning the room red.
Castille noted, ‘Business is closed for the day. Maid will be worked hard though.’
‘Main square,’ Swifty called fifteen minutes later.
I peered through my sights, seeing eight armed men. They crossed the road to inspect the four dead men, whose possessions had been picked clean already – mostly by children. I transmitted, ‘When I fire, you fire. Castille - the main man. Swifty - the big guy to his right, Nicholson – far left, the guy kneeling for Tomo, two at the back for Swann and Leggit, but ... you are only allowed to hit them in the foot.’
Laughter reached me through the dark.
‘Standby. Aim ... and fire!’
The cracks sounded out in tight order, our targets soon hopping mad.
‘Nobody say it,’ I transmitted.
‘Boss, they’re hopping mad,’ came Tomo’s voice, Swifty laughing.
‘OK, Nicholson, any of those men ... right index finger only.’
A minute later a crack sounded out, man losing two digits.
‘That was two fingers,’ Swifty complained over the radio. ‘You’re pants.’
‘Tomo,’ I called. ‘Testicles.’
Five cracks sounded out, our victims rolling around and holding their balls, but all had fatal inner-thigh wounds, blood pumping.
‘Destroy their jeeps,’ I transmitted, and fired myself, hitting a tyre and an engine grill.
It grew quiet, no gunmen seen for a while. Swifty fired.
‘What was that?’ I asked him.
‘Guy with a nasty dog, frightening people with it. I hit the dog.’
I scanned domestic houses, little more than tin shacks, Castille firing. ‘Something, Captain?’
‘Guy beating his woman, then he fetches his machete. I hit him in the hand, so I hope she forgives him and cooks for him – because he won’t be doing no stir fry for a while.’
Tomo transmitted, ‘I got the best shot.’
‘How so?’ I challenged.
‘This hooker was walking the road, and this guy walks past and shakes his head at her, so she robs him – a knife to his throat. I took her nose off, so no more selling the goodies for her, a bit ugly now.’
Castille transmitted, ‘You just turned her towards a life of crime, dumbass, no steady income no more.’
‘Maybe she’ll see the light and become a nun,’ Tomo suggested, making me shake my head.
‘Here we go,’ Swifty said, and fired. ‘Daddy was making his little princess suck his dick, but she was holding out.’
‘And now...?’ I asked.
‘And now his brains are all up the wall and she’s run off.’
Half an hour passed, no shots fired, eyes rested, the tree frogs serenading us.
‘Heads up,’ came from Nicholson. ‘Right side, main road.’
I peered through my sights, and sat there was a mounted Duska, two jeeps with it, a heated argument going on. ‘OK, gentlemen, bonus prize if you set that jeep alight. First, kill all those men.’
The cracks disturbed the creatures of the night, gunmen sent flying, heads snapping backwards, the jeeps spattered with blood. I hit the windscreens and tyres, and then focused on the engine.
‘RPG!’ someone shouted, a man seen near the jeeps with a RPG. He was hit on the side of the head a moment later, the RPG fired. Lowering my rifle, I followed the rocket-powered head, and it hit the apartment block, a shower of sparks lighting up the street, people running for cover.
Someone finished off our RPG man with a chest shot as I studied the house he had come from. I transmitted, ‘That house he came from, a few bad boys sneaking around.’ I aimed and fired, the glass shattered, a man hit.
Someone ran down the alley and stopped, my shot knocking his head to one side. Two cracks, and the back of the house blew out, a bright flash, sparks flying.
‘OK, who was that?’
‘Me, Boss,
’ Tomo answered.
‘What did you aim at?’
‘Gas cylinder.’
Castille said, ‘How they going to cook supper now, eh?’
At midnight we had run out of people to shoot and scrambled down, walking back to the road.
‘So who gets the hundred dollars?’ Tomo nudged.
‘I do,’ Castille said.
‘Why?’ Tomo challenged.
‘I aimed at this guy with a nasty dog, accidentally shot the dog’s balls off. It ran off shrieking.’
‘Fair enough,’ Tomo said. ‘It’s the dog’s bollocks,’ making us laugh.
‘What I said, the dogs balls,’ Castille noted.
‘In England,’ I began, ‘the dog’s bollocks means it’s good.’
‘It does? Such a strange nation of Limey nut cases...’
At the road we found a hidden spot to wait.
‘Gentlemen,’ I began. ‘What you just did was probably the best thing some of you will ever do in your military careers. Mister Castille, I’m regarded as the best, so consider the lesson to hand, and consider what you just did.
‘Before we came out I told Captain Hamble I’d not take him along. He’s getting divorced, and angry, and I don’t want angry men on the trigger. Some of you pull the trigger to please me, some to try and be competitive with your mates, some because you want to be good soldiers – and get the respect.
‘I don’t always care why you pull the trigger, but it would be nice if you understood why some of the time, and saw the politics in a place like this. Down there, and in a hundred towns like this, some guy is forcing a nine year old to have sex, likely to slit her throat afterwards. If you shoot him, you’re doing our planet a great favour.
‘This is the jungle, and the law of the jungle, dog eat dog. But a few miles west is Ghana, and there the girls skip to school hand in hand, not even thinking that there’s any danger. People there smile and say hello, and go about their business, guns not seen. These scumbags pick up a gun as a career choice, and if you end their careers you’re doing Africa a favour.
‘This is not the first time I’ve played sheriff, and I’d be happy to do it every day, in towns right across Sierra Leone and Liberia. Back in the UK, the various intel agencies squabble like kids, and people like us get killed sometimes because some guy wants to advance his career.
