by Geoff Wolak
Liban called. ‘I think we go home now, eh.’
‘I think so, yes. Withdraw to me when ready.’
Rocko appeared next to me, staring down. ‘Not much chance of getting some quality sleep, is there.’
‘Get them all ready to withdraw, Staff Sergeant, some quality sleep awaits.’
‘Doubt that,’ he grumbled as he headed off.
Max appeared, rubbed his eyes, and started taking photos. ‘Can I get closer?’
‘Not if you want to live.’
‘Can we hang around till the light is better?’
‘Yes.’ I pointed at two Wolves. ‘Stay with him, lug his kit.’
My phone trilled, the battery low, an odd number. ‘Da!’
‘It’s is Libintov. My men got away much of the arms, so I owe you.’
‘Did they leave behind a big bomb?’
‘They blew the armoury, but the mines there were old – and not my property.’
I laughed. ‘I am up on the hill, and it was most spectacular.’
‘My men, they said that everything was covered in cement powder...’
‘The French dropped it, a trick they learnt from our Friend Captain Wilco. It blinds and confuses the soldiers, then the French were going to move in, but Major Dodoo blew half the base down, so the French pulled well back.’
‘There were apparently bodies and limbs everywhere.’
‘Most down to Dodoo setting off charges to cover his escape.’
‘He’s alive?’
‘Yes, he fled, I missed him. But just as well because I got a call last night to say the contract was cancelled.’
‘You won’t go after him?’
‘Not unless contracted to do so, no.’
‘Is Tomsk ... really as good as they claim?’
‘He made three billion dollars last year, all cash, no tax.’
‘That is a great deal of money, yes.’
‘When the Cali Cartel was hit, the price of cocaine doubled, and he made a billion in a week, so he has a healthy bank balance. If you have business interests, I can negotiate for you.’
‘You have turned out to be just as I expected, as people said, and you keep to your word, a man of honour. You got me my weapons back when you could have sold them or simply walked away, and you move like a ghost into places that I would not dare tread. So I may have some use for you in the future, yes.’
‘Start with a favour, this man Izillien. I made some calls and I already have two people wanting him killed.’
‘I have some contacts who can get information, yes. Least I can do, and it does not surprise me that people want him dead.’
‘Rumour has it that Dodoo was never to be president, that it was just about destabilising the country. Dodoo was wanted in The West, he could never have gotten loans.’
‘That ... comes as a shock, given what I was told. I think the number of people wanting Izillien dead just increased to three.’
‘He lied to you?’
‘He did, through his people. I was lead to believe that Major Dodoo had friends in Paris and London.’
‘No, definitely not, I know that for a fact.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
The teams assembled, and I led them off down the slope, Max hanging around, and we walked at a steady pace back.
My phone trilled after half a mile. ‘It’s Captain Harris. “D” Squadron got the hostages.’
‘They did?’ I puzzled.
‘At dawn the hostages were let go, and the blacks all drove off.’
‘So ... “D” Squadron didn’t do anything.’
‘Nope.’
‘I could have Max make up a story, but the hostages may end up on the news being interviewed. Have “D” Squadron brought back in a few days.’
‘They drove off east and are circling around.’
‘I never gave them permission for that, they could have ambushed the blacks driving south. I need to have words with them.’
‘They said the priority was the hostages.’
‘Bollocks, a Puma could have picked up the hostages.’
Liban arrived back at the same time as Moran, a long line of men behind them – a few with long beards, some limping. Liban stopped, his captains nearby. ‘If we had gone into that base?’
‘We’d all be dead. But not to worry, we dodged the bullet, be more danger next week.’
They laughed. ‘Captain Crazy Fuck,’ came from the back.
With Moran at my side I called out Crab and Duffy and led them away. Loudly, I began, ‘Just what the fuck did you two screw-ups think you were doing! You’re veterans, not fucking newbies trying to prove something!’ I jabbed a finger. ‘I want you two helping out at GL4, training the fucking police, not getting killed on some stupid stunt!
‘You’re both fined £200 for being stupid cunts. I don’t care if you want to recapture your youth and get an erection, I have a role for you, and I don’t want to have to replace you fuckwits with new people. Do you understand me!’
‘Yes, Boss. Sorry.’
‘Don’t even try and explain why it was necessary!’ I shouted. ‘You follow my fucking orders next time. Now fuck off!’
‘Right, Boss.’
Moran watched them go, shaking his head. ‘Fucking glory boys, at their age.’
‘Tell the French they can use the huts.’
Moran stopped, glanced at the burnt-out huts with a puzzled frown, and laughed.
The first Pumas arrived an hour later, four of them, French Echo and some Legion taken off. The next flight took the rest of the French, “B” Squadron and some medics, Max returning to us and fearing we may leave him behind.
The following flight took the rest of the medics and their kit, 2 Squadron, and the Wolves, the final two Super Puma taking Echo back to the Legion base. After landing, and bussed around, I noticed senior French officers. As well as “D” Squadron poking heads out of a hut.
Liban introduced me to the colonel in charge of the Legion, as well as the colonel in charge of 1st Battalion, Liban’s parent unit, much of the detail recanted for them – all worried about the close call.
With word that the French Interior Minister and Defence Minister’s were on their way, not just to see us but to chat to the government of Mauritania, I reclaimed a bed in a hut, all of us in need of a shower. Sergeant Sambo showed us where the showers were, but all of the hot water had been used already, so we had cool showers, followed by a good meal.
After the meal I called out “D” Squadron’s captains and troop sergeants. ‘Who told you to abandon that road position?’
‘We had the hostages -’
‘You weren’t there for the fucking hostages!’ I shouted. ‘A Puma could have picked up the hostages and you could have done what you were supposed to fucking do, which was to ambush the blacks.
‘After you left, hundreds of them walked off or drove off down that road, and you could have shot them up.’
‘Why?’ a captain asked.
‘Why? Because next year me and my men, or you lot, will be tasked with sorting them out when they re-group, that’s why! I had operational control, and I did not want you leaving the area, so expect some shit from the colonel. You left that door wide open, half a job done. Switch your fucking brains on, and if in doubt – call me, they don’t bill you the cost of the fucking call!’
A troop sergeant shot his captain a look that said it all before I walked off.
That evening the Legion’s Major had beer brought in, something of a party atmosphere created, men wandering around chatting, a barbeque roast pig smelling great, Moran and I taunting Liban about not doing anything. I chatted to a Legionnaire after pulling on his long beard, such beards allowed.
At one point I was stood next to Whisky. He began, ‘Felt a bit useless on this trip, didn’t do much save getting bombed a few times, quite a few times.’
‘I figured it would take longer, some action in the desert, some tracking maybe, but things never quite
turn out as you expect them.’
‘They had the base wired to blow...’
‘Yes, and if we had been crawling over it at the time we’d be down a lot of men. But the objective was to stop them moving on the capital, and we did that, and the hostages were let go – so all’s well that ends well.’
In the morning, after breakfast, the Ministers appeared, everyone warned to be on their best behaviour, Max ready to take snaps. As they pulled up my lads all put facemasks on, so too French Echo, and Max plus a French reporter snapped away as I shook hands with the ministers.
At my request, the helicopter and C160 pilots were here and now lined up with their crews, more snaps taken, the ministers chatting to them after I explained their role – the cement having to be clarified, twice. I stood with the aircrew, facemask on, and Max and his colleague snapped away, the aircrew happy to meet me, questions about the poison.
With the French all lined up in blocks the ministers thanked them, snaps taken. When they finished, I halted them, and had Moran translate for me.
‘I would like to thank the Legion for hosting us here, for supplies, and for the use of their men – who did well under fire and in the field. I am happy to work with Legionnaires in the future.
‘But most of all I would like to thank the C160 pilots and crew, who at a key moment dropped ten tonnes of cement on the enemy.’
Smiles broke out.
‘Believing that it was smoke, and that my men were sneaking in behind the smoke, the rebel leader set off bombs. If we had not used this trick we would have lost many men. I would ask that the Defence Minister awards these pilots something – at least some cement bags for use at home.’
The French soldiers laughed.
‘These two crews should be allowed, as English pilots were, to call themselves “The Cement Bombers” and to paint some confirmed kills onto the side of their aircraft.’
The French soldiers again laughed loudly.
Packed up, people thanked, we waited a ride, and most would be on the same Tristar, a risk; if it crashed the UK military would be set back.
At 2am we arrived back at GL4 to find a covering of snow, everyone complaining, and I reminded them they had a few days off – and to get some skiing in. But my house was warm, the heating on, milk in the fridge, fresh bread on the table. I made a brew, a trail of melting snow down the hall.
‘Deserts are best,’ Swifty idly noted as he held his mug with both hands, staring into it.
After a moment, I sipped my tea and said, ‘Yep.’
A minute later he said, ‘Caves were a good find.’
‘Water source nearby, so ... I reckon, during the last ice age ... or after ... they saw a family or two. Good defensive position.’
‘No painting on the walls,’ he noted.
I nodded. ‘Maybe other caves, further down. Besides, I think that brown sandstone would weather and crumble.’
A minute later he said, ‘Some of those Legionnaires had long beards...’
I nodded, staring into my tea. ‘Odd, yeah. Our Navy boys are allowed to grow a beard if they’re getting married.’
We had some toast before heading off to bed. I looked out of my bedroom window at the odd scene of snow over the airfield, something we had avoided in past years, and I was sure that no sensible assassin would be out in this weather.
I woke at 8am, but lay there for a while, and after peeking out the window I was not that keen to venture out, not even sure if the canteen was open. But since there were tyre tracks in the snow I assumed that the ladies were in.
With t-shirt, shirt, jumper and jacket on, I ventured out in a woolly green hat, cursing the weather. I was no longer a cold weather soldier, and like the rest of the lads I preferred jungles or deserts.
I found that the ladies were in – at least two of them, two MPs being their first keen customers - I was their third, a hearty breakfast enjoyed as I chatted to the MPs. A few of the lads came in, all dressed warm, all complaining.
At 8.45am I wandered up to the hangar, and inside it was much warmer than outside, so some training could probably be done in here.
The Major’s Portakabin was still sat on the right hand side, the downstairs offices now displaying a few walls, and in front of the offices sat a large area of rubber tiles, MP stood ready with his rifle. I kicked at the tiles, finding them stuck down well.
‘Glued down, Boss. Not supposed to come off for ten years they said.’
I nodded as I studied the area, knelt and had a feel. On the steps I found the same type of rubber, and running up the stairs I did not make a racket. In the common room I found Tinker and Mutch making toast, a cold-looking Lesley nursing a mug of soup as if her life depended on it, Major Sanderson reading a newspaper.
Sanderson lifted his head. ‘All back safe and well?’
‘No wounds to my lot, sir, but two RAF Regiment lads got some shrapnel in the legs.’
‘A close call, we hear.’
‘They blew the base, so if we’d been inside at the time ... yes, a problem. Some of the French were hurt by falling debris.’
Tinker said, ‘We got signals intercepts, the An12 aircraft and Russian mercenaries...’
‘Have it all classified Top Secret, delete any records here, it never happened. They were ... FBI collecting weapons.’
‘FBI, eh?’ Tinker said with a grin.
Sanderson noted, ‘Some things we’re not supposed to know.’
‘Some things best left to London Intel, sir. Or it might slip out. There’s sensitive material, and then there’s dodgy material. Best leave the dodgy stuff out or careers could be cut short. Let London worry about it. But ... those An12s were a good result, some excellent intel gained.’
Sanderson continued, ‘But this Major Dodo got away...’
‘Major Dod-oo,’ I corrected with a grin. ‘Yes, he is not extinct yet, but the main aim was to stop his men moving on the capital. He may try again next year, but his backers ... stopped backing him.’
‘And “D” Squadron got the hostages,’ Sanderson noted.
‘Not quite. The blacks let the hostages go and ran - after they realised that their bosses had all fucked off.’ I accepted a brew from Tinker.
‘So would you say that it was a good operation?’ Sanderson pressed.
‘Yes, main objective reached, hostages free, the kids all played well together, no serious wounds, and we got the French Foreign Legion a good write up. But when I asked a lady nurse if she had gained any useful experience, she said that she had walked ten miles across the desert with a heavy pack, got bombed, got bombed again, got rockets fire at her, got bombed again, and cooked in the sand.’
They laughed.
I continued, ‘Still, she got experience of being bombed, so she’ll know what to do next time. And French Echo, they landed, got bombed, they walked on, got bombed, climbed a hill and snuck down, got blown up, cooked in the sand, got blown up again, then walked back – not a shot fired in anger, just a mouth full of sand.
‘Foreign Legion did see some action, one ambush of a rebel patrol, then some sniping, then got blown up, then blown up again, and walked back – a few wounded from falling bricks.’
Tinker began, ‘Mister Hunt said that the French top brass turned up.’
‘Yes, Defence Minister and Interior Minister. They congratulated their C160 pilots - who dropped cement for me, perfect aim. Just imagine a normal-sized bag of cement coming at you from 1500ft.’
‘1500ft?’ Mutch repeated. ‘They’d explode nicely.’
‘They did, and they shrouded the rebel camp, and Major Dodoo believed it smoke, a prelude to us moving in, so threw the switch, forwards positions blown. But the final big blast was down to those FBI agents; they left a bomb in a room full of old anti-tank mines, but did so without malice, they wanted the base blown, not my men killed.’
Lesley said, ‘Reuters has a photograph of the aftermath, locals suggesting that it was bombed from the air. Bodies and limbs all over,
plus the grey cement powder.’
‘We left a mess behind,’ I agreed. ‘But we never blew anything, never got within 500yards. My lot never got within a mile. Anyhow, got any hostages for me, because I need an excuse to go someplace warm?’
Lesley replied, ‘Long list of missing people, no great intel on where they are, but we haven’t really been looking, we can now.’
I sat and chatted to Marcel from the DGSE, then Baker - DOD come CIA, in Baker’s shiny new office.
He told me, ‘I got a summary report after London sent one Stateside. Libintov is of interest, as is Izillien. Libintov is good operator though, little evidence, and twice now he’s dumped a body with his ID on it to fool the FBI.’
I smiled. ‘I have a good working relationship with Libintov now, so anything you need – ask. And no, I won’t hand him to the FBI.’
‘His boys took back their toys...’
I nodded.
‘So he owes you. And that’s another two hundred years onto your sentence if the FBI ever catch up with you.’
‘On top of the three hundred I’m already due,’ I quipped.
In with O’Leary, I asked him to get another thirty Valmect, brown ones. From now on we would take both colours with us when we deployed. Today being a Friday, the Major was not around.
Moran appeared with Hamble, wrapped up warm and complaining, but promising to get some paperwork done.
I looked Hamble over, ‘Healing?’
‘Be fit just as soon as I can run without sliding.’
‘The others?’
Two Salties on medical leave still, one of Robby’s wounded is back, or two, some just need time for healing.’
‘They’ll allcome back?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Use the gym up the road, in civvies,’ I told Hamble. ‘Swimming as well.’
‘I went up there once this week. Also drove up to the DeVere, Hereford, place that you used to use, trained with friends.’
‘God, that seems like years ago,’ I noted. I faced O’Leary. ‘That guy Fuzz..?’
‘Off on the sick, but doing well. He called in once or twice. Be a few weeks.’ His phone went. ‘Here’s in here. OK.’ Phone down, he said, ‘The American wants you.’
