by Geoff Wolak
‘It would cost money to fix, but we would start over.’
‘Might deter some companies from dealing with Liberia.’
‘We need Van de Berg questioned, and I have people on the way.’
‘And Deep State, are we sure they're not involved here?’
‘Their original plan was to grab the oil, and I don't see how they benefit from setting us back a few months.’
‘That oil will make Tomsk rich, so … is there an angle here, a fear of him in some quarters.’
‘A good point, and yes – Medellin might fear that, but as for Deep State - they ask me and I ask Tomsk. Why get rid of him?’
‘It's a puzzler.’
‘We'll have wounded in the morning, tight jungle fighting.’
‘I don't think too many people question what you do these days.’
‘Some of the oil workers did. Loudly.’
‘I'll have a word with their bosses, and they're licensed and insured by us, so they play ball – or no more work.’
Half an hour later Robby reported large splashes, and swear words in Russian. Fifteen minutes later and Sasha's team walked in, all soaking wet, Morten and Doc Willy ready, the cafe bar soon a hospital – the floor a mess.
Sasha had a splinter removed from his leg, a second man having several splinters painfully removed from his scalp as the oil workers looked on. But at least the swearing was in Russian.
Stepping out, Swifty called. He whispered, ‘We got movement, small stealthy teams. If we hit one team then the men behind get us, so these guys have had their coffee.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Coming down the track to the river.’
‘Let ‘B’ Squadron distract them, then use silencers.’ I sent Rocko to join ‘B’ Squadron, and to warn them.
Quiet cracks reached us. I transmitted, ‘Nicholson, you on?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Where's that coming from?’
‘West, the French.’
‘Stay sharp, look for teams sneaking in. I pulled the Wolves from down at the south end, so keep an eye out.’
‘It's all white like snow, we'd see them! It's like Christmas.’
‘You'd shoot people at Christmas, season of joy?’ I teased.
‘Christmas is a special time for shooting people, then you eat turkey and fall asleep.’
Haines walked around the building. ‘I could put men down in the mine.’
‘We don't know what direction they'll come from, so stand ready to send a team when we know. And we got the mortar crew, at least one mortar crew.’
My phone trilled. ‘It's Rizzo, and it's gone quiet, just the odd shot now. These near us fucked off, but south towards you.’
‘Remain static, protect the oil wells till dawn. Get a brew on. Oh, what about the British soldiers with you?’
‘None here.’
I looked up a number and called the Wolves captain. ‘It's Wilco, you OK up there?’
‘We have two dead, eight wounded,’ came a sombre voice.
‘You stay till dawn, I can't get a helo in till then, too risky.’
‘We patched them up, but one might not make it.’
‘We have little choice, a helo would be fired at.’
‘Killed many of them though.’
‘Stay down till dawn, then flanking patrols.’
‘Understood.’
I called out Max and gave him the story, to put on Reuters straight away.
‘That guy had a digital camera, so I got the wreckage images out there, and the bodies.’
‘Be smelling in the morning. But we have the lime at least, a million tonnes of it.’
My phone trilled. ‘It's Rocko, and we shot-up the first group of swimmers, now it's a shoot-out in the dark.’
‘Swifty is behind them, hitting the tail end.’
‘They know they won't get across the river, so this lot will piss off.’
‘Depends on how well paid they are. French are firing at them as well. Two American Wolves killed, but they battered the main force. Come back up if it goes quiet.’
I went and found the local Captain. ‘Where did the British soldiers in the trucks go?’
‘To the pumping station, start of the pipe, where three pipes come together.’
‘Have they reported in?’
‘Yes, sir, all quiet.’
‘Warn them about rebels north of them.’
‘There's open ground, sir, all bulldozed down, and the river and a swamp, good defensive position.’
Ten minutes later a burst of fire was met with a cackle in the trees east, a short exchange, a wounded British soldier brought in with a nasty leg wound. He looked eighteen years old. I asked the Captain to get a Puma in.
A big sergeant reported, ‘Four blacks, sir, we killed them.’
‘Good work, Sergeant, go check on all your positions.’
‘Right, sir.’
I asked the lad if he wanted me to speak to his parents, and he called out the numbers as I punched them in. Outside I hit the green button.
‘Hello?’ came a voice.
‘That Mister Hillborough?’
‘Yes?’
‘Major Wilco, British SAS, Liberia. Your lad Michael is with me.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘Shot in the leg, but he'll be OK.’
‘His mum will worry, but I got all the clippings of your campaigns, Michael likes to read them as well. Very odd, you calling me.’
‘You'll get an official notification from the Army, but don't worry, he should make it OK.’
Inside, I spoke to the young lad for ten minutes about Panama.
Rocko appeared as the Puma set down, our wounded man put aboard. ‘Sergeant Major, we have Charlie in the tree line. Keep an eye on this door.’
‘They must have crossed over the river further up, from the town maybe.’
A burst of fire from the highest building, and I peered down into the mine, just about seeing black blobs on a lighter background. I set automatic and emptied the magazine, Rocko copying, the black bobs running off back to the treeline.
‘2 Squadron,’ I called. ‘Put some rounds into the treeline south.’
Eight men fired down into the mine, and those rebels wishing to get up here would now be deterred.
‘They'll come around the side,’ Rocko noted.
‘Yep. Mister Haines, four men please.’ I turned to Rocko. ‘Go west to the trees and then hide, but keep in mind that the French are down the hill three hundred yards, at the river.’
He met the 2 Squadron lads and plodded off kicking up dust.
I transmitted, ‘Snipers, all teams, we have a five-man team moving west to the trees for an OP, check your fire.’ Knelt at the edge of the mine I peered down, seeing bodies, but no one was being foolish enough to try and get up to us.
I stood, saw the flash, the RPG climbing up to us. ‘Incoming!’ I watched as it flew straight to the taller building, hitting the wall as I knelt, a twang of metal on the floor near me. I stood again. ‘2 Squadron, you OK?’
‘Got a piece,’ came a shout.
‘Get down here.’
I had a look at a leg wound, leading the man inside, a nurse soon extracting the metal and getting four painful stitches in. Leg taped up, I sent him back up top.
Outside, I saw the RPG just in time and ducked, the head flying over me and on, over the trees and out of sight.
My phone trilled thirty seconds later. ‘It's ‘B’ Squadron, and an RPG came in from your side, up the hill..?’
‘It was fired from the south, went right over us. But don't worry, it wasn't personal.’
‘Oh, well that's OK then.’
‘Is it quiet there?’
‘Yeah, they fucked off.’
‘Send me a few men up the track.’
The next RPG hit the main building, but missed the windows, no injuries, the 2 Squadron lads complaining - loudly. The fourth RPG hit the plane wreckage, no one hurt, the fift
h again hitting the main building but missing the windows.
A burst of fire west and I was peering that way.
‘It's Nicholson, and Rocko is in a scrap with the rebels.’
‘Don't risk firing near them.’
SAS Regulars came walking in, eight of them. ‘Where'd you want us handsome chaps?’
‘Kneel at the edge of the mine here.’ They knelt. ‘Aim down, see the huts, go right thirty yards to the trees. Each man, one magazine. Fire.’
The cackle built quickly, the trees below shredded, and our RPG men would hopefully get some hot lead in a painful place.
‘Reload,’ I finally ordered. ‘Stay near this door, be ready for some cheeky chappies sneaking in. Keep an eye on the huts down there.’
Shots registered, at the east end, and I peered that way with the others. The young Liberian soldiers were in action.
A troop sergeant asked me, ‘Those young blacks any good?’
‘They know what will happen to them if they lose here, so they're motivated. No Geneva convention here, so they fight or die.’
The liaison major stepped out. ‘Do we … need to call in support?’ he asked.
‘We are the support. No one else. But I've been doing the maths, and they're running out of warm bodies. Sixty or so left I reckon. They lost half their number up at the oil derricks, many around here. Fuck knows why they're still fighting, they must have been offered a shit load of money – and performance based.’
My phone trilled. ‘It's Swifty, and we can hear helos.’
I lowered my phone, ‘Incoming helicopters! Get ready to fire up.’ In the panic of men rushing around, I transmitted, ‘All teams, helos coming in, get ready to fire up!’
To the regulars near me I shouted, ‘Get down the runway, spread out.’ I cut the call and checked my magazine. I was running low.
I stepped to the doorway, the major looking lost. ‘Soldiers, medics, outside now!’
Mitch came running with Salome and Doc Willy.
‘Down the runway, spread out.’ Moran came around the corner. ‘Down the runway!’ Morten led his team out. ‘Get down the runway, find cover in the mine, get ready.’
They ran off.
I found the liaison major stood behind me with the local captain. ‘Major Wilco?’
‘Captain, get out here, aim at the helicopters when they attack. Get your men aiming up. Major, back inside please, that building is solid.’ I lifted my head. ‘Men on the roof, get ready for helicopters, spread yourselves out up there.’
I called London as the drone registered. ‘It's Wilco, get the Navy Lynx to us, we have hostile helicopters on approach.’
My phone trilled. ‘It's Swifty, and I can see an S61 with lights on and women in it, two Mi8 behind it!’
‘Shit!’ I lowered the phone and transmitted, ‘All teams, it's a trick, commercial S61 on approach with civilians – do not fire, Mi8 behind, make sure you get the right helos!’
I sprinted desperately towards the huts and the treeline, trying not trip of the wreckage as the drone grew. ‘British soldiers, do not fire! It's a trick! Pass it on!’
The S61 loudly came over, all lit up, a few rounds fired up at it. ‘Cease fire!’ I shouted as it came into the runway, soon lifting my rifle at the loud Mi8 now clearing the trees; I was in its down-draft. I started to fire, the front of the helos soon sparkling with so many rounds hitting them, disfigured rounds hitting the ground around me. The toe of my boot got a whack.
Four rockets burst out, the main building hit as I fired up, my hair being thrown around, my ribcage rattling. The droning Mi8 on my left suddenly dropped, my eyes widening, but I dived clear as it hit with a thud, a burst of flame as it's back broke, still the heavy drone of the second Mi8 above me as men fired at it.
I rushed to the Mi8 as the door opened, firing from the hip in the melee, not sure how many men I hit in its the dark interior. With a ball of flame erupting I turned and ran the opposite way, seeing my own shadow on the ground.
I could see the S61 on the runway, doors opening as the second Mi8 slid down towards the mine and in, soon a thud registering. I ran to the S61 around the burnt wreckage of the An12.
In the light from the cabin I could see emaciated wrecks of human beings, clothed in rags, all gaunt, six or more outside. ‘Where did you come from!’ I demanded, aiming at them.
A woman at the back spoke up. ‘We were hostages, in the Congo.’
‘Your captors tried to trick us in to shooting you. Are there explosives on board?’
‘I'm …. not sure.’
‘Walk towards me, quickly. Lady, get the others out.’ I turned my head. ‘Medics!’
Morten came running.
‘Don't get too close, it could be another trick. And send someone to the building to check for wounded!’
Two male medics ran that way.
The hostages walked towards us, and I could see the two black pilots peering out as the engines wound down.
‘Keep coming. Faster! Morten, back up, lead them away.’ I was walking backwards myself. ‘Come to us, faster!’ They ran.
The blast knocked me off my feet, and I felt the searing heat of the flames. I rolled over and shook my head, the S61 now a huge fireball, four hostages near the door screaming and on fire, those further away now down in the dust.
I was very tempted to finish off the burning hostages, but there were witnesses, and their anguished screams held my attention for a second or two. I grabbed a hostage in front of me and dragged him off, but fortunately he was very light. Regular SAS ran in and grabbed hostages, and in total we had eight skeletons in stinking filthy rags. But it looked like the helo had landed with at least twenty on board.
Turning, I studied the smoke around the main building and ran that way. ‘Spare men, on me!’
I reached the door and ducked in past the smoke, soon dragging a body out and onto the white-brown dust. He had no pulse, blood on his scalp. Back inside, I found a man coughing and I dragged him out, rubbing shoulders with the SAS regulars. In a side room I found three bodies, two wounded men, and so dragged them out one at a time.
In the main cafe bar the men were OK, just shocked and dazed and mostly face down as medics worked on two wounded men, smoke hanging around the ceiling.
‘Stay in here, stay down! This might not be over.’
‘You evacuated your people and left us!’ a fat old man suggested.
I knelt and faced him. ‘What kind of gutter crawling scum are you to even think that?’ I levelled my rifle at him. ‘My people went out to shoot down the attacking helicopters, to risk their lives outside in the open to save you lot, the medics to tend them when injured, you lot safe in here.’
‘Safe! There's men dead now.’
‘There are more dead outside, arsehole. You had concrete walls at least. Twenty burnt to death on a helicopter, a trick.’ I got up and walked out before I shot him.
Outside, Max was taking snaps. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
I took in the brightly burning S61 and heaved a sigh. ‘A trick, and a good one. Civilian S61 helicopter had hostages on it, from the Congo, pilots paid to fly here somehow from Ivory Coast, but it was rigged to blow. They wanted us to shoot it down and get the blame, but I called it right and held off firing. The two Mi8 came in behind it.’
I heaved a breath. ‘Twelve or so hostages on the S61 burnt to death, the pilots, four or more men inside the building were killed. And the arseholes inside think it was all my fault.’
‘The man sending the S61, he wanted you to get the blame either way.’
I nodded. ‘Get a story in Reuters straight away, the trick.’ I transmitted, ‘All teams, watch the perimeter, look for rebels sneaking in!’
I stepped to the crashed Mi8 as it smouldered, but it was not burning, young British soldiers near it. ‘Get away from that helicopter, it might explode. Get back to the treeline!’
They ran. I could see the cockpit glass broken, the pilots dead. I walked to t
he mine edge and peered down, a helo on its side down by the huts. The crew might have made it out and to the trees.
Rocko walked in. ‘Fuck all movement over there now, we killed ten or more.’
‘That burning S61, it was a trick, it had hostages on board. They wanted us to shoot it down my mistake.’
‘What a bunch of cunts, eh.’
‘Four dead civvies, and the rest are all mad at us.’
‘Fuck ‘em, we risk our lives to save them.’
‘Check the building, block up holes.’ I lifted my head. ‘Mister Haines?’
‘Here.’
‘Your men OK?’
‘Some sore ears, rockets hit the lower levels.’
‘Stay sharp, look for stragglers.’ I called Swifty. ‘It was a trick, and that S61 had twenty hostages on it from the Congo, they hoped we'd shoot at it, but it was also wired to blow. We got eight off before it blew. If we had been inside the helo … we would have lost a team.’
‘Someone is trying to play you at your own game, and he knows you well.’
‘It's all in the fucking media and the books. Where are you?’
‘Still on that track, and we killed twenty stragglers. Quiet now.’
‘Move after dawn, back here, don't move in the dark.’ Phone down, I called, ‘Mister Morten, what are the stats?’
‘Four dead oil workers, one might not make it, rest are OK, they were nearby and concussed.’
‘It could have been worse.’
‘That helicopter...’
‘Was rigged to blow as we got on it to get the hostages out.’
‘Jesus, how can a human mind think like that.’
‘We have eight live ones at least.’ I closed in on the lady who spoke English. ‘I need you to tell us everything you can remember about where you were held, and the men, so that we can go find them.’
‘I was grabbed in Uganda, at the border, six weeks of hell. They killed a few hostages just for fun, the man in charge, Mgolo.’
‘Max!’ He ran over. ‘Take this lady's story, get it out there.’
I stepped away and called the number for Miller as the S61 burnt down. He called me back. ‘Mister Miller, Deep State is in trouble again, lots of trouble.’
‘What's happening on the ground there?’
‘What happened ... was that your man Mgolo grabbed hostages, executed a few just for fun, then flew them to Ivory Coast. He then flew them to me, knowing that I would shoot down an unidentified helo. But I held off firing at it, it landed, and we got some of the hostages off before it blew, the other hostages burnt to death.
