by Geoff Wolak
With the sun high the helicopters could be heard, two landing on the road below us, about a thousand yards away, two landing nearby, spacemen easing down and waddling through a sand cloud, bags lugged. But as they cleared the cloud, helicopters lifting off, I would see that what they carried were advanced air filters, a hose to their suits.
They were pointed inside, and assured that the containers appeared safe – for now. We waited.
Twenty minutes later a spaceman emerged and walked to me. ‘Who’s Captain Wilco?’
‘I am.’
‘The barrels on the trucks look to be in good shape, no leaks detected, and further down the tunnel is the mixing area.’
‘Ah,’ I nodded. ‘Two birds with one stone. Anyone in there?’
‘Well ... no. You did check it before we went in..?’
‘Nope.’ The guys laughed. ‘So what’s the plan?’ I asked him.
‘We’ll photograph everything, get the papers, there’s a computer or two as well, then ... not sure, could blow it.’
‘You don’t need us for that,’ I told him. ‘So we’re leaving.’ I faced Liban. ‘Have more Paras brought up here, set a perimeter. Ask for tents for these guys. Report to Paris what’s here, I’m returning to Sierra Leone, you can handle any problems here, Lieutenant Colonel.’ I gave him a mock salute.
He slapped me on the shoulder as I passed, smiling, phone out as I led Echo down the slope.
‘Boss,’ Tomo called. ‘I got that jacket back, no need to bill me.’
‘Is it torn?’
‘I’ll stitch it.’
‘When did you learn to stitch?’ Swifty scoffed.
‘Easy, stitching,’ Tomo insisted.
‘We’ll see the finished result,’ Moran threatened.
With a C-160 setting down on the road, the chemical expert’s tents and kit being offloaded, we grabbed a ride, and an hour later the DGSE men were surprised to see us back at the base.
‘You return?’
‘We have the chemical, we have the place they made it, we have the paper work, and you have a hundreds of men there and French Echo.’ I handed him the papers I had. ‘If you need us, we can be flown in, but I have commitments elsewhere.’
‘Of course, and we are grateful.’
‘I need a ride to Sierra Leone.’
‘This British plane?’
I sent Nicholson off running to enquire as we reclaimed our hut, Sasha welcoming us, some sleep to catch up on for the lads. When Nicholson returned he informed me that the plane was due to wait to take the para instructors back, but could take us to Sierra Leone in the mean time.
Hunt appeared as I sat on my bed sorting kit. ‘You’re back early.’
‘No men there to fight, we found the poison and where they mixed it. What’s next is an analysis of the paperwork, to see if any poison was sent somewhere else, and what players are left out there. That’s a French job, and an intel job, not really our job. If you see Captain Harris, tell him we’ll head back to Sierra Leone. And pack up if you have anything to pack up.’
He nodded and headed out as I checked through my crate with Swifty.
When my phone trilled it was David Finch. ‘You’re back in Western Sahara?’
‘Yes, job done, at least our part. I’ll go back to Sierra Leone and train the police, not least because we have no leads left on the poison to follow up.’
‘News has just started reporting it.’
‘Send a note to the French, stating that in the absence of further leads and solid intel, or a specific job requiring my men, we have commitments elsewhere.’
‘Will do, not least because I thought that from day one.’
A long ten hours later we touched down in Freetown, a Chinook ride to the FOB, where Sergeant Crab stood waiting.
‘Nice of you to join us. Where the fuck you been?’
‘Christmas break back in the UK,’ I told him as the Chinook loudly departed, men trailing past me and inside. ‘Turkey and beer and girls.’
‘We got the newspapers, read about it. Police spent more time calling worried family in the UK than training. It all sorted now?’
‘Yes, back to some peace and quiet. How they doing?’
‘Had the RAF Regiment helping out, set exercises and stuff. All the coppers are good with the GPMG and SA80 now, and they’ve all done a dozen patrols, slept out. Work with the AK47 is good, and they don’t accidentally discharge now, I beat it out of them.’
‘Excellent, we’ll review them in the morning.’
I greeted the RAF Regiment officers in the canteen before I claimed my old room with the team. We were soon sat cross-legged and warming the water, Mitch being instructed by Moran on British rations.
I said, ‘I keep expecting to see Mahoney sat there, but then I got used to Captain Hamble.’
‘Who do I partner?’ Moran asked.
‘I’d say Mitch, because Hamble should probably be with his troop.’
‘Where is he?’ Moran wondered.
‘Back in the UK probably, convalescing. They took a hit, lot of wounds.’
Dicky appeared in the doorway. ‘You’re back then.’
‘How many of your lot are upright?’
‘Two of us, two of Robby’s troop.’
‘And Robby?’
‘Some big splinters in him, he went back.’
I nodded. ‘Coppers coming along?’
‘We had them practise moving without discharging, much better now.’
‘Regulars at the border with Ivory Coast?’
‘No, Marines there now, regulars pulled out – a few minor wounds.’
I told him, ‘All of “D” Squadron went to Western Sahara, many HALO dropped into Algeria. Should be pulling out by now. Oh, this is Mitch, he replaces Mahoney.’
Dicky nodded.
‘Dicky is SBS, like your Navy Seals, on loan.’
‘You have to give me back undamaged,’ Dicky reminded me before he withdrew.
Smitty appeared. ‘Right Boss, been having fun.’
‘What happened to Fuzz?’ I asked.
‘Got a through and through. Nasty scrap it was. But the regular SAS, they didn’t coordinate well, did their own thing.’
I exchanged a look with Moran. To Smitty I said, ‘You damaged?’
‘A few bits, no drama.’
Mitch asked, tasting his mix. ‘What is this shit supposed to be?’
‘Don’t ask, just eat it,’ Moran told him.
‘Full of vitamins,’ Swifty told him. ‘Good for you, boy!’
Mitch shook his head. ‘I thought our MRE rations were bad.’
‘You’ll get used to them,’ I assured him.
At dawn the next day I was stood on the roof, a flight of green parrots sailing by, and as the mist lifted I was offered a lush green forest to view, and I smiled; I loved it here. Trying not to think about Christmas, or my daughter, I did the rounds, this FOB more of a home to me than Brize Norton ever had been, more of a home than the GL4 base. Here I felt like I fitted, that I belonged.
With the sun up, the lads training the police, I finally gave in to a nagging doubt that had been plaguing me, and I ordered up a Chinook with a rope, Swifty and Moran with me, Mitch left behind as we dusted off from the strip.
Five hundred yards north we peered down as the Chinook circled, and we found the old chute. Widening the circle, I was not surprised when we found a second chute, and we roped down to it, the Chinook pulling away and returning to Freetown.
There was no sign of a body, and an hour’s search revealed nothing.
Swifty finally said, ‘So the guy walked out the jungle without taking a shot at you.’
Moran noted, ‘Means he’s still out there.’
I told them, ‘If he walked out of here then he has contacts, people who can get fake papers, not least to hide him from his paymaster – who’d be mad at him and wanting him dead for not shooting me.’
‘That twat in Angola?’ Swifty puzzled.
; ‘Maybe, or maybe someone else,’ I told them. They exchanged looks before we set off back.
