by Geoff Wolak
‘OK, we should all be packed for Sierra Leone, 4pm flight,’ I began. I pointed at Mutch. ‘Your mate was rescued, alive and well.’
‘Didn’t see a fax about it?’ the big lump complained.
‘SAS don’t send faxes. Now, the detail of the rescue will pass into the annuls of this great nation’s great fighting history ... as a great success of a rescue. But ... the exact detail is not to be released.
‘Late last night the hostage takers decided to move their hostages, six in total, two white faces in the group. The two SAS OPs observed the move, since the move was on foot ... and right past one of their OPs – about six week away to be exact.
‘The hostage takers loaded the hostages to two jeeps waiting on the road, but those jeeps were seen to drive off, the hostage takers running after them and shouting that they had been left behind, two SAS lads dressed like Bedouin at the wheel.’
The room erupted with laughter.
‘The hostage takers, pissed off that they had been left behind by what they thought were their mates, walked back up the ridge and ... were all promptly shot dead for no SAS casualties.
‘The SAS drove the hostages to a French base some twenty miles away, where they were arrested, stripped and held -’
The room erupted into laughter again.
‘- one hostage having jumped off a jeep without being spotted and reporting the kidnappers driving the vehicles. The remaining SAS team were picked up by French helo and landed to find their mates trussed up, a few cross words had. The hostages are now claiming that the SAS did nothing, and that the hostage takers simply drove them to freedom at the French base.’
The laughter rocked the building.
‘Rest assured that I will get Max the reporter the correct version of the story, some detail left out of course, and that we will take the piss no end when we see the SAS team in Sierra Leone.’
Major Sanderson asked, ‘How do we write that one up?’
‘As a great victory always, sir, even when we fuck it up,’ I told him. ‘OK, get ready for Sierra Leone, small intel team with us, some back here looking for hostages.’
‘And the British Ambassador’s son?’ Hunt nudged.
‘We know where he is thanks to GCHQ, and the US Navy will send a team in tonight.’
Waiting at Brize Norton I got a call from a Bolivian winery, made a note of a grid reference and village name given, an isolated spot, and passed that on to Colonel Mathews in the Pentagon, whilst asking him to write it up as CIA intel.
I got a call back ten minutes later as we sat waiting our delayed ride.
‘Wilco, is the Deputy Chief, can you talk?’
‘Yes, just waiting a plane that’s late.’
‘Colonel Mathews sent us the detail, and mentioned that it came from us, an odd way around of doing things. But the reason for the call ... we know about Martin Gibbs at the JIC, the late Martin Gibbs.’
‘And...’
‘We sent a note to our man on the committee, and he relayed it to the committee. I know you’re not popular with them, and that they pull their hair out at what you get up to, but ... they’ve been told that anyone screwing with our operations will be extradited Stateside.’
I sighed. ‘I’ll be even more popular now.’
‘Maybe you should just toe the line for a while.’
‘Wouldn’t get much done then. For the Ambassador’s son I did what was necessary, and fast, and I’ll worry about the consequences afterwards. I met that lad, and his father, had dinner with them.’
‘Does London ... not give you firm direction?’
‘Not really, no. Bob Staines was a good man, ambitious and aggressive. David Finch is a pen pusher. If I waited for firm orders I’d not do much.’
‘Well, you’re working in a grey area, and there’s a few over here that lose some sleep over your operations.’
‘And the real reason for this call?’
‘Just to say that we have your back should London not appreciate you.’
‘I would never leave my team, unless for a short while, but my disappointment towards London is building.’
‘I never offered you a job, just ... that we have your back if you need it.’
‘Good to know.’
‘Off anywhere nice?’
‘Just down to Sierra Leone to train a few groups.’
‘I heard, yes, this policy of training men in dangerous areas. Still, seems to be working very well by all accounts. And we got news of a rescue in Niger.’
‘Yes, another brilliantly daring raid by the SAS.’
‘Hostages are saying they were simply let go...?’
‘SAS are taught to get in and out without anyone seeing them, and now ... now they’re taught to rescue people who don’t even know they’re being rescued.’
‘What are you not telling me?’
‘Two SAS lads dressed up like Bedouin, killed two jeeps drivers and took their places, and simply drove the hostages away without a shot fired. But they failed to show their white faces or speak English to the former captives.’
‘Brilliant in its audacity, and typically British. So ... it was a good operation, yes?’
‘They failed to show their faces, so the hostages think that their captors simply let them go.’
‘Ah...’
The flight down saw many of my lads sleeping, many of the police recruits sleeping, many keen-faced young soldiers in the rear of the plane, on their way down for a peacekeeping tour. I was not about to do the rounds and be gawked at, no autographs or photos this flight.
As the aircraft doors finally popped open I ducked my head and eased out into warm fragrant air, but I could tell that it had rained within half an hour. It was not hot air that welcomed us, but it was a damn sight warmer than that of the UK, and I smiled – glad to be away from the UK for several reasons. Or a great many reasons.
We were met again by Colonel Marchant under the tall yellow floodlights, buses laid on for the short trip to a waiting room as kit was off-loaded. This time they had cold drinks and tea in an urn; progress was being made.
When our kit was ready we boarded two Chinooks, webbing on, rifles ready, and we landed a few minutes later at a familiar FOB, an RAF Regiment Fl Lt welcoming us, 16 Squadron in attendance, tents at the rear, jeeps and trucks on hand.
‘Why’s your squadron here?’ I puzzled as the lads trailed past me and inside, the police following, Sergeant Crab organising with Duffy, Whisky already down here - somewhere.
‘We argued with the MOD, got this FOB as ours for a while, training and rotations. Was a group of Pathfinders these last two weeks, before that SBS, before that SAS and some Marines. They all do the standard patrol routes. We use the tents, you have the building, but we have plastic on the tents now – rains like hell around here.’
‘Any action?’
‘Now and then, over in Liberia. Over here we see some idiots with guns now and then, but they’re not organised and they always run away.’ He led me inside, the grey concrete rooms bustling, an RAF Regiment sergeant organising things, better cookers in place now.
I placed down my rifle on the map table, a map of the area now in place, lists of stores and men. ‘No Army chefs?’
‘Some at the airport, some at the forward base.’
‘I thought this was the forward base?’ I teased.
‘In Liberia, place you attacked a dozen times.’
‘Yeah? I should have left some buildings standing.’
‘Sore point, and your name is cursed often and loud about not leaving any running water, working toilets, or buildings without holes in them!’
I shrugged. ‘Plan was to destroy the damn place, not occupy it. How many men can you feed at a time?’
‘Tables for eight at a go.’
I walked to the corridor. ‘Sergeant Crab?’
‘Here!’
‘Eight men at a time, food in the canteen, twenty minutes tops.’
‘First eight coppers,’ he ca
lled. ‘You lot, and you four.’
Back at the map table, I pointed at the Christmas tree.
‘Soon be Christmas, sir,’ the sergeant told me.
I had to stop and think, and it was ten days away. I would be here, my family would be ... elsewhere. I tried not to think about it.
Up the stairs I found my lads in familiar rooms in familiar routines, laughing and joking, and out on the flat roof I found an improved GPMG nest, wooden benches inside the sandbags and a roof for the men positioned here.
‘That looks cosy.’
‘Better now, sir, we know what it was like before, the lads laying down in the wet.’
‘And the trenches?’
‘All full of water, sir, some frogs. We have some above-ground positions now.’
‘We expecting any action, sir?’
‘No, we’re here to train the police snipers.’
‘We were told never to believe a word you say about such things, sir.’
I smiled. ‘Not my fault if trouble comes and finds me.’
‘Could you, you know, leave just before Christmas day – they promised us good turkey, not getting bombed.’
I laughed. ‘I’ll try and make sure you get that turkey, and some peace to eat it in.’
In my room I found that Swifty had grabbed a rubber mat for me, and I sat opposite Hamble and Moran as they got the food on. ‘They cook downstairs if you want something later. Eight men at a time in there.’
‘Grab something in the morning,’ Moran suggested as he warmed his water. I had to look twice at Hamble, expecting Mahoney.
Hamble began, ‘What did those idiots do wrong in Niger?’
I told him, ‘They drove off without thinking. Should have gone a mile and stopped, met up with the OPs.’
‘Fucking knobbers,’ Swifty let out. ‘Who were they?’
‘”B” Squadron lads, little experience,’ I told the team. ‘Troop sergeant had the years in, no officer along, only the one sat phone.’
‘Just one?’ Moran repeated. ‘And if it broke, and they had fucking wounded?’
I shrugged as I sat cross-legged.
Moran added, ‘Someone needs to shout a bit.’
‘There was a mini port-mortem, and Colonel Dean had a word, a loud word.’
‘There’s a reason we’re successful,’ Swifty began. ‘We take spare batteries and test things before we move out. How difficult is that?’
‘We risk our lives all the time, so we check,’ I suggested.
In the morning I got an early call, 7am, but I was awake and fed, and had toured the FOB extremities already, time spent just staring at the lush green forest and the myriad of interesting creatures to be found here.
‘It’s Colonel Mathews.’
‘Up late, sir?’
‘Been a long day and a long night, but we got your Ambassador’s son, who I just learnt is a fresh young Army officer. He was unharmed, in good health.
‘We had Navy Seals on the tubs, so they HALO dropped in a team five miles away and walked in, got a good position, counted the guards. There were just three men guarding the prisoner at night, a bit sloppy by all accounts, killed quickly, helos brought in, no casualties on our side.’
‘A good operation then.’
‘All over the news already, out on Reuters, White House very happy. I can get some damn sleep knowing there were no screw-ups. Oh, Colombians have complained about us launching operations without telling them.’
‘Fuck ‘em.’
‘That’s what I told their Defence Minister an hour ago.’
I laughed. ‘Good old American diplomacy.’
‘But we’re playing nice at the moment, got more than a hundred people on the ground at that mass grave, some at the second and third mass graves, teams digging where locals said men were buried.’
‘Thousands went missing over the decades.’
‘We know you could have got your man back yourselves, so we’re grateful for the good publicity.’
‘He’ll like being aboard a tub, a bit of a break for him. Pity I couldn’t have got the Panamanian Minister’s son back; I met the father.’
‘He got his boy back in small pieces; must have fucked with his head some.’
‘Let’s just say he had ten minutes alone with the man who killed his son.’
‘Yeah? Well, closure I guess. And the man who killed his boy?’
‘Bit’s of him were eaten by wild animals in the jungle.’
‘Jesus, South American justice. And the group who took the Ambassador’s son?’
‘Beyond reach for now, and secret – so deflect any questions, make it look like a Colombian group if anyone asks.’
‘If that’s what you want, sure.’
‘Sleep well, sir. No snoring.’
‘Who the fuck told you I snore!’
I cut the call, smiling.
After breakfast, a normal breakfast time and not my breakfast time, I split the police into three teams, everyone lined up outside, the police looking just like my men, the kit the same.
‘Rocko, small team, take Police Team One under your wing. I want pistols, rifles, SA80, GPMG. I want regular runs, I want kit and camouflage, a patrol in a few days, or when they’re ready. Rizzo, Team Two. Sergeant Crab, grab some men that are left and take Team Three, work them hard, no patrols till we know they’ll come back alive – without accidental discharges!
‘Sasha, your team, small patrols south, get some exercise, some weapons practise. Robby, patrol up the east side, night out, and back. Make sure you have a sat phone, test it. Salties, take four RAF Regiment, check their kit, up the west track, night out. When you’re ready. Dismissed!’
I approached Moran. ‘Grab Fuzz for a few hours, teach him how we do it, allocate some exercises, allocate a man to him. Captain Hamble, check all kit and stores we have, what’s here, what we need. If you’re bored, teach the RAF Regiment, small patrols. Captain Harris, wouldn’t kill you to get some exercise and some weapons work done.’
‘You can’t be sure of that,’ he told me, Hunt laughing. I led Hunt away for a coffee, and I briefed him on all that had happened here over the years – and the politics that had gone with it.
An hour later Whisky walked in, wet and muddy, a patrol of Light Infantry behind him, officer and sergeant at the front. I met him on the strip.
‘How’d it go?’ I asked as the muddy patrol halted and bunched up.
‘No shots fired, but a lad was bitten, needs a doctor today. Bitch of a rain storm yesterday, roads washed out.’
I shook hands with the sodden captain as he closed in.
‘We met in Greenwich,’ he offered. ‘On a course.’
‘How you’re lads doing?’
‘For most this was a first live patrol, and they did OK, despite the weather. It was like one of those Vietnam War movies; half the time we were up to our waists in water.’
To the sergeant, I said, ‘Have them make safe, please.’
‘Make safe weapons!’ he shouted.
‘You on a rescue?’ the captain asked me as he made safe his own weapon.
‘No, training the police counter-terrorism lads, second batch.’
A round cracked through the air, a young man getting shouted at.
The captain said, ‘That happens with these rifles, you need to look in the damn breach. I’ve done it.’
‘Fucking pee-shooters,’ I cursed.
As his patrol was waiting on the arrival of a jeep to get them to the airport, their base, I had them using my Valmect on the burnt-out shell of a helicopter down the strip.
Standard paper targets had been brought down and set-up at the end of the strip, distances marked out, teams of police now firing.
In the morning the teams again got some live-fire training, but at 4pm Rocko came back with odd news. ‘We found a body, a soldier, white guy we think. Good kit.’ He handed me a muddy M4 sniper variant, painted green, and the man’s wallet.
‘No one is listed as
missing,’ I puzzled. ‘Not us or the French.’ I stood with Hunt and opened the wallet, finding a ticket stub for something in French, from last year. ‘A year or so ago, when we were fighting Colonel Roach. But this guy is Canadian.’
‘Canadian-French, Quebec,’ Hunt noted as he studied the plastic ID card.
‘Run his name,’ I suggested to Hunt. Tomo wandered over, and handed me a filthy muddy and mouldy backpack from our body. I started to sift through it, lifting out a frog.
Hunt made a call, and adopted his concerned look when he returned to me. ‘He’s CIA.’
I stared back before I held up the photo of me. ‘CIA sniper, with a photo of me?’
Hunt grabbed the black and white image. ‘Shit...’
I took out my phone, checked the time, and called Langley.
‘Deputy Chief.’
‘It’s Wilco, got a problem. A year ago I was in Sierra Leone, fighting a coup attempt serviced by the late Colonel Roach.’
‘It’s fresh in my mind.’
‘Run a name for me: Henri Gohort.’
‘Hold on ... he’s flagged ... he’s ... NSA.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘His body was just found at my base in Sierra Leone, he’s been dead a year. On him was a sniper rifle ... and a photo of me.’
I could hear the loud sigh. ‘You know, I was having a good day till you called. Now this.’
‘Go talk to the NSA and get me some answers. You said you had my back, so prove it.’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
Phone away, Hunt began, ‘Could the French have wanted you dead, or some element of the French Intel services?’
‘The simple answer is ... yes, I stepped on their toes a little. And they used to be the colonial power here, now us Brits.’ I punched in a number. ‘Tinker? Get a paper and pen.’ I gave him the would-be assassin’s name, address, and the details of tickets in the wallet. ‘I want to know everything about his guy, and his movement’s a year ago and before. He was NSA.’
‘NSA? Why you interested in one of theirs?’
‘Just found his body down here, sniper rifle and a photo of me.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I want a team on it, I want to know everything.’
