by Geoff Wolak
‘Another good guess. It’s been ... twelve years, but I knew a man that was in touch with him, and I helped fake Casper’s death.’
‘Did he spend some time in the Foreign Legion?’
‘You are an annoyingly insightful individual. Yes, four years. He did his national service in Russia, even though he didn’t have to, and instead of officer training he defied me and entered the Parachute Corp, and did well.’
‘You wanted him to follow you..?’
‘A desk job, yes.’
‘And his current paymaster?’
‘Last I heard it was a secretive group of investment bankers.’
‘Bankers?’
‘Yes. They invest in risky ventures, many around Africa, and have been known to dispose of the competition. They work out of Amsterdam.’
‘And what will killing Izillien do for them?’
‘I would assume it would make them some money. I doubt they’d lift a finger for revenge nor insult given.’
‘And the real reason for this call..?’
‘Not much gets past you, I can see why you’ve survived this long. I’d like you to look out for him, and if you come across him ... let him live.’
‘Your wish will be granted, so far as it is within my power.’
‘And your associates?’
‘I will update them all, send the photo.’
‘Thanks, that’s as much as I can ask for, but ... you know ... don’t tell anyone that I care about him, it may make him a target for blackmail.’
‘I am surprised you had to say that. No one will know.’
‘Thank you.’
I called Mike Papa, and asked that should he ever come across the man in the photo to leave him alive. Libintov called, and he was puzzled, but agreed to leave the man alone – unless he was shooting at Libintov at the time. Gorskov was in agreement, Tomsk curious about just who the man was.
Call cut, I stepped inside to find Hunt. ‘OK, got some work for you, top priority, get some help. I want to know who - which private companies, have invested in projects here and Liberia and within the last two years say. I also want a list of investors in that plant I hit in Niger, and I want to see the hidden investors behind them, the shell companies.’
He stood. ‘Embassy will have a list.’
After he had gone, I called Tinker.
Tinker reported, ‘We got a signature match on the bomb, a match to Senegal.’
‘No surprise there. Get a match to somewhere else.’
‘Bugger, we worked hard for that.’
‘Keep working hard. Now, do you want to really impress me?’
‘How?’
‘Get a list of investment companies in Holland, and cross match them to Senegal, Sierra Leone, Liberia and Niger. Look for one that benefits from a quiet status quo.’
‘I’ll get on it, I know a man who knows them all – he does risk assessments for Africa.’
‘Don’t tell him why you want it.’
‘OK’
At 9pm, David called. ‘Working late, Boss?’
‘I’m at home. Just spoke to Langley, and they agreed that adopting the fake photo could help.’
‘I know who that man is, but let’s not tell the Americans yet, I’ll tell you face to face.’
‘And the people he works for?’
‘On our side indirectly, and not interested in planting bombs.’
‘Well ... that’s good to know, at least. Do you think there will be more trouble in Sierra Leone?’
‘No, it should be over now. Unless someone other than Izillien is interested in Liberia – and dumb enough to take on the British Empire.’
‘We don’t have an empire any longer,’ he pointed out.
‘And yet ... here I am, sat in a small African nation, soldiers used to protect its borders so that we can get at its oil and minerals, its leaders assassinated. How things have changed.’
‘I’m hoping that you keep such opinions away from the press.’
‘Definitely. And how is Max?’
‘Out of danger, in some Harley Street facility, paid for by his newspaper – who have been milking the story.’
I woke the next morning to find that no more bombs had gone off, and I was relieved, up to the roof at 6am, Fuzz on stag, mist hanging around the hill tops north, above the sprawling city. ‘All quiet?’
‘Nothing doing, Boss.’
‘Good, hope it stays that way.’ I took in the distant white building.
‘We staying here for a bit?’
‘A few days, then Eritrea.’
‘Mountain goat country,’ he noted.
‘Yep. Americans will loan us some choppers though.’
‘What’s there, Boss?’
‘Training camp for would-be bombers, including the idiots that came for us here. Some ex-IRA chaps, out of work now that there’s a peace accord.’
Crab and Duffy appeared, their turn on stag. ‘All quiet, Boss?’ Crab asked.
‘Yeah, all quiet.’
‘Chefs will be happy,’ Crab noted, the lads laughing.
‘Sergeant, the only thing that will make those chefs happy ... is us lot leaving.’
At breakfast, Henri got a call, and took me outside. ‘Paris has been down the list. Some are dead, some in prison, one works for the DGSE. They think the man that jumped onto the FOB was Claude Gubert. He was active at the time, and he disappeared, not seen in a year, and was in Ivory Coast at the right time.’
‘So the trail has gone cold, or ... someone faked this man’s death or changed his ID.’
‘Maybe,’ Henri said with a Gallic shrug.
A jeep pulled up, Hamble easing down with a pronounced limp and a cut over his eye.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
An MP captain cut in. ‘One of my sergeants accidentally hit Captain Hamble here, but Captain Hamble grabbed the man around the neck and shoved him.’
‘The man was negligent,’ Hamble insisted, still angry, and barely able to stand.
I faced the MP captain. ‘You wanting to press charges against the captain? Because if you are I have a direct line to the Defence Minister, and your sergeant will be on a plane and no longer a fucking sergeant.’
‘That’s what I figured, so we’ll drop the matter: his bad driving, your man’s bad reaction.’
‘Sounds fair. Thank you, Captain.’
A glance at Hamble, and the MPs drove off. I helped Hamble inside, and to a table, people asking questions about how he got hurt – and was he in a punch up.
I tended his cut. ‘You’re staying here, but at the FOB. Heal that leg, do some training of the RAF Regiment there. I’ll talk to the Major.’
‘Wasn’t my fault-’
‘And I would have hit the man, so just move on. You need a week or so with that leg, but you can still do some good. Rest of might have a job in Eritrea.’
I stepped out and updated the Major, who worried about Hamble’s state of mind.
Inside, I sat there thinking about changed IDs. And, with no more bombs, and no fresh leads, I started to think about Eritrea. As for our plane, the one that we might need in a hurry, it had sat there for days – going nowhere fast.
I called David, we discussed it, and a move to Djibouti was on the cards. He would advise the CIA of the move, and ask for a tub and some serviceable helicopters. He would also have our brown Valmects sent to Djibouti, something that might cause Bongo to get up of his fat arse for more than ten minutes.
Sambo would come with us to Eritrea, Sandra would be sent back to the UK. She was pleased; no more bombs.
I had the lads pack up later on, and we would leave after dark, a perilous journey across Congo airspace – avoiding Nigerian airspace first, and to Kenya to refuel. Hunt was sent for, still at the embassy.
With Hunt I travelled around to say goodbye to Colonel Marchant, and to say that if trouble flared we would be back.
After dark we loaded the plane amidst a sea of armed MPs, the plane searched
carefully first, top to bottom, and we reclaimed our seats, the co-pilot making sure that we were in the centre of the plane.
I woke as be bumped down in Kenya, local time 3am, and as usual we had to get off as our ride was refuelled. But at least we got to stretch our legs, use the toilets, and have some food and drink in a small lounge, embassy staff on hand to look after us.
Back aboard, I found out that we would be flying over Ethiopia to get to Djibouti, so I was hoping that we would not have to make a forced landing there. Or a crash landing, or any kind of landing.
Three hours later we landed at a familiar airfield on the coast in Djibouti as the sun threatened to rise, French soldiers seen, embassy staff awaiting our arrival. Down from the plane, yawning and stretching, I met with the embassy officials, two men in white shirts, and they had two things for us; a crate of rifles with ammo – that should arrive within an hour or two or three hopefully, plus details of our ride out to an American carrier called Kearsarge.
In the meantime, Henri chatted to a French officer and found us a room with benches, a kitchen and toilet, so we were OK for a few hours, our crates arriving and being stacked up outside.
‘OK, listen up,’ I shouted. ‘We’ll be transferred to an American carrier, short trip up the coast, a chat to those American lads coming with us on the job – hopefully a map to hand and some satellite photos. Best behaviour, or the troop sergeants get their pay docked.
‘Mitch, you’re our liaison on the tub.’
He waved a hand. ‘I’ve ... er ... never been on naval vessel before. Couldn’t tell you the front end from the back end.’
‘But you are an American officer, so they will relate to you. We hope. OK Sambo, you’re with the British SAS, should anyone ask, same as Henri and Jacque, report any problems to me. Sasha -’ They laughed. ‘- if anyone asks you were born in Canada to Russian parents and served in the British Army. And Sasha, don’t go looking at anything sensitive over there, they’ll shoot you as a spy. Mouri, you’re fine, they don’t mind New Zealanders.’
‘We on the job?’ Crab asked.
‘No, you’re our men on the tub – our rescue team. But if you pass our standard fitness tests back at GL4...’ I held my hands wide.
‘I ain’t twenty five anymore,’ Crab grumbled.
‘Don’t be in a hurry to get yourself killed, Sergeant, I need you running things back at GL4 – which you do a good job at, otherwise Rocko, Rizzo and Robby would have to sit behind a desk.’
Rocko turned his head to Crab and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’re doing an excellent job back there,’ he said, the lads laughing at Crab.
A long four hours later, four hours of hard benches to lie on, we finally got word that our rifles had arrived, the crates opened and inspected. In the midday heat we found thirty brown Valmect, just under three hundred magazines, ammo, plus extra browns. We also found six extra lenses, the bigger ones, not sure why they were there. Since they were finished in brown they would be useful.
I called London, and they would arrange a ride for us out to the American tub now that we had the extra rifles. So it was back to the hard benches as the room we were in grew hot and stuffy in the sunshine.
Four American Seahawks eventually glided in and landed. There were twenty-five of us, plus crates, so we wondered about the loading.
A suitable loadmaster ran over and took off his helmet. ‘You Captain Wilco?’
‘I am, and there are twenty-six of us plus kit, these crates.’
‘Might need another bird for some of the crates. How heavy are they?’
I pointed him towards one and he lifted it at one end. ‘Not heavy. Four or five per bird.’
‘Three are four heavy crates, rifles and ammo in them.’
‘Leave them to last.’
I shouted instructions about the crates, the first six men sent across with three personal crates. I took the second Seahawk, and we settled in as the doors closed, plenty of room inside, the loadmaster securing the crates.
A few minutes later, four crates seen left behind, we pulled up and skimmed the ground as we turned to the right, following the bird in front, soon climbing over a beach with just local kids seen on it, the inviting blue ocean below us.
A ten minute ride, and we passed a grey warship below, soon a second warship, slowing, nose up – the carrier deck seen, and we bumped down. Crates lifted, we clambered down and walked bent double a few yards before straightening up – being waved towards an area of deck near the island. Crates were dumped down where told to on the black metal deck.
With all of us assembled, and being herded together, we suddenly started to descend, this section of floor being a deck lift. Clanking sounds permeated the air as we slipped below the main deck and into the dark, helicopters seen being worked on, crewman walking about.
Halted, we were directed to a corner. ‘Kit here, assembly area. Wait here, please, sir.’
Crates stacked up, we stood taking in the huge internal deck as crewman came and went.
Four Marines ducked out of a door, a lieutenant leading them. He saluted me, which I returned. ‘Captain, I’m Lieutenant James, US Marines, and your liaison on the ship for chow, supplies and bunks. The others are just next door, sir.’
‘Others?’
‘Delta Force, sir.’
I nodded. ‘This is Lieutenant Mitchell.’ They shook, a quick chat. ‘Is there someone with a map, some satellite photos?’
‘There’s a CIA team. 1800 meeting booked, sir.’
‘How long till the ship is close enough to launch helos?’
‘I heard them say tomorrow afternoon, sir.’ He took in the lads. ‘I can arrange for my corporal to take groups to chow, sir. You’ll be in the officers ward.’
‘Fine, up to you. And show us where the “head” is.’
A group of soldiers in desert browns ducked through a door and straightened up, and I smiled. Captain Mahoney strode over. ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’
Swifty gave him an American salute.
‘Fuck off, Knobber,’ Mahoney told Swifty with a smile.
‘Fine language from a captain,’ Swifty quipped.
‘Learnt to shoot straight yet?’ Moran asked his old roommate.
I shook Mahoney’s hand, after he said hello to Mitch; they had met. ‘How’re the wounds?’
‘Healed up now.’ He introduced his lieutenant, Bannon, and his sergeant, Devilleman.
‘Devil Man?’ I queried with a smirk.
‘Only when drunk, sir.’
‘They’re from my new team, Delta Team 17, also known as Desert Sands.’
‘Desert Sands?’ I repeated. ‘Isn’t that a hotel in Vegas?’
‘Yeah, and some of my lads have stayed there. We’re a new team, tasked with rescue in the Middle East and North Africa.’
‘Hope you won’t be taking work away from us,’ I teased.
‘That’s the idea. And we use Valmects, and bandoliers, and HALO bags.’
‘I should be on a commission,’ I told Moran.
Mahoney thumbed at Sergeant Devil. ‘He calls me Frankenstein because of my scars. Show him.’
I eased off my shirt.
‘Holy ... shit,’ Devil let out, the young lieutenant staring wide-eyed.
I turned around. ‘Legs are even worse,’ I said as I put my shirt back on.
‘Sir, you need to duck a bit more,’ Devil put in.
‘Nearly got blown to pieces in Sierra Leone, slept the night with Semtex on the wall of our billet,’ I told Mahoney.
‘And you got a medal in Paris...’ Mahoney noted.
‘We did fuck all,’ Moran put in. ‘Comfy hotel, some wine, ran into a room leaking nerve gas.’ He shot me a dirty look.
‘We survived, didn’t we,’ I told Moran.
‘Let’s get you some chow,’ Mahoney suggested.
‘Is it any good?’ Moran asked.
‘I’ll ... let you decide that.’
‘Some of our crates still at t
he airport, so check they’re on their way please.’
The Marines lieutenant promised to do just that and stepped away, leaving two Marines on guard. I had one of the Marines take Hunt to find the CIA for a coffee and a chat.
At 1800, and after some decent food in the officers mess – the lads complaining about the ratings “prison meals” on trays “served by sweaty Filipinos”, myself Moran and Mitch were led to a meeting room, finding Franks and Hunt.
‘Franks, what a surprise. I thought you were deskbound.’
He shot me a look and introduced his colleagues, plus a Marines’ major, before we stood around a map table, not enough benches for us all to sit down, Mahoney and his sergeant to one side.
Handing me black and white satellite photos, Franks added, ‘We’re happy about the place, in that we’re sure it’s a training camp, and local intel has movements towards it, white faces seen, plus African blacks.
‘Photos show a few huts, plus these odd areas -’ He pointed them out. ‘- damaged cars, lots of them, so they’re used for car bomb training. Damaged buildings as well, sand patterns suggest regular explosions, so we’re happy it’s a training school. Photos show armed guards, say twenty.’
‘Any idea on who funds it?’
‘We’ve found links to Al Qa’eda and a few Yemen groups, as well as Somali groups, but men pay for tuition here – no ideology by the organisers.’
‘And we’ll be in place tomorrow?’ I nudged.
‘Yes. And the plan?’
‘Drop in by helo ten miles away, walk in and kill everyone there. Any questions ... regarding the plan?’
Franks and Mahoney laughed, the Marines Major staring at me wide-eyed.
‘What about due process?’ the Major tersely asked.
I faced Franks. ‘Do we have permission from the Eritrean Government for this?’
‘Hell no. We figured we’d ask afterwards.’
I faced the major, and waited.
He glanced at Franks. ‘Could at least pretend to try and arrest them.’
‘Fine. I will ... try and arrest them, sir. In fact, if the Irish guy is taken alive we will bring him back. We’ll also look for papers.’ I leant over the map. ‘Here, dry sandy valley. How far is that?’
