by Geoff Wolak
‘OK, got that.’
‘When you get there, drop us somewhere isolated but easy to land, you choose.’
Moving back, we soon lifted off, the second Chinook following us. Dicky shared a chocolate bar with Mouri, making me hungry. I took out my own chocolate bar and wolfed it down, washed down with tepid water.
As we flew north I peered out the small window, lush green forest below us as we headed over terrain we had previously walked. Half an hour later we turned hard right, and I knew we were across the border, a little zigzagging undertaken to avoid towns and villages.
Twenty minutes later we slowed and circled, finally the red light flashing. Men got up, moved back and knelt, hands on shoulders of the men in front, lush green fields seen from the ramp, soon forest, finally red dirt. A bump, and out we ran - magazines in and weapons cocked, and to the tree line and in, the French running across to us as we took in the area.
Chinooks away, the drone abating, I studied the immediate area, some sort of abandoned strip mine, red dirt tracks leading off it. Compass checked, I said, ‘Form up, radios on.’
Walking off north, and into the trees, I performed a radio headcount, Moran with the French and reporting that they were all accounted for, Sasha next to Mahoney again. I called in to Captain Harris, an update for SIS London, and to Tucker – I got his number before I left.
Fifteen minutes of dense trees gave way to grass, the ridge now visible due east, most of the upper levels of the ridge devoid of trees and covered in grass. Someone had been logging for firewood here.
The line of men penetrated a stream, soon a second, and I led them higher, towards the edge of the forest and the start of the hill. Seeing local men cutting down trees I skirted around them quietly, and we pressed on till we started to lose the light.
Moving higher up the ridge meant that the going was a little easier, apart from the numerous fallen trees, and finding a track I adopted it, thinking the loggers now home and snug with their wives as it grew dark.
An hour of steady walk brought us to a high point, and looking down I could see a dirt road, and what appeared to be a border post, now illuminated by yellow bulbs.
I clicked on the radio. ‘What you can see down the hill is the border post, so we’re moving north into Guinea, and if the intel is correct then the bad boys camp is around here somewhere. Another mile and we’ll make camp.’
I pushed them on, the going easy enough, a cool breeze blowing, and finding a dense area of trees just below us - a stream to hand, we made camp; French to the south of the stream, Brits and Americans to the north of it.
On the radio I said, ‘OK, one hour for food, then some of you will rotate patrols.’
My team got a dirty flysheet up, ponchos down, the cookers going, and we sat cross-legged, Running Bear and his sergeant under my flysheet.
Running Bear noted, his face dappled by dull orange light from the flames, ‘Local boys like to chop down the forest. I think the Lorax lives around here.’
‘The what?’ Swifty asked.
‘It’s a kids cartoon,’ he explained. ‘Old one, where the people chop down all the trees, nowhere for the poor Lorax to live.’
‘Ah,’ Swifty let out. ‘Was he green?’
‘That was the Grinch,’ Mahoney told him.
Loud tapping sounds on the flysheet preceded a hell of a downpour erupting.
‘Good timing,’ I noted.
The roar grew, men moving position.
‘That stream will be six feet deep soon,’ Mahoney suggested.
Swifty glanced at the gurgling stream, maybe an inch deep. ‘Fucking knobber.’
Mahoney addressed his countrymen. ‘Knobber is like dickwad. You have to get used to the quaint English sayings.’
The rain drowned out all normal conversation, and a bomb going off would not have been noticed.
‘Fuck ... me,’ Running Bear shouted, barely heard, our poncho getting wet.
The rain lasted for half an hour, after which the stream was indeed deeper, by about two inches. The rain stopped suddenly, like a tap being turned off, the forest now steaming, the humidity just about 100%. A burst of silver light announced the moon coming out, the trees glistening.
I clicked on the radio, ‘Rocko, you lot eaten?’
‘Yeah. Been for a swim as well.’
‘Take three men, go northwest a mile and back the same route, leave the flysheets there.’
‘Moving soon.’
‘Captain Moran, take five French and go west down the slope a mile and back, let the French know about our other patrols.’
‘Moving soon.’
Off the radio I said, ‘Mahoney, take your Deltas up the hill, look for lights, then back down.’
They eased up and checked themselves, soon moving up the slope.
I eased back against the tree, Sasha and Swifty close by, took out my phone and recalled a number.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘It’s Wilco. We’re camped about a mile north of the border, but hard to know where the damn line actually is, no fence or anything. Patrols are out, and we should be within a few miles of the bad boys. If we don’t find them we’ll move position and start again.’
‘OK, good luck.’
Phone away, I eased back against a tree, rifle across my legs, my legs crossed.
‘That was some rain,’ Sasha idly commented. ‘I last saw rain like that in Novograd. Sometimes, in spring, you had a warm day, then it rains hail stone, like a golf ball. People have blood on the faces.’
‘Ouch,’ Swifty said.
I commented, ‘A few years down the line, and how much rain forest will be left?’
‘That’s what all the protests are about,’ Swifty quietly noted.
Sasha put in, ‘In Siberia, they count the log on truck, and only so many to go to market. And more grow quick.’
‘They plant more?’ Swifty asked through the dark.
‘No, it grows quick.’
‘Birch,’ I said.
A few minutes later the radio came to life. ‘Mahoney for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Got a good view from up here. No Lorax around, but lights on bearing 310, maybe two miles. There’s a road north, some traffic on it, cuts through the hills, a few small lights around, nothing close by.’
‘Roger that. Come back in, unless you can get higher.’
‘We can go north half a click and get higher.’
‘Do so. Wilco out.’
‘Who are the Lorax?’ came from Dicky.
Swifty told him, ‘Local tribe. Like pigmies.’
I gently tapped Swifty on the head.
‘Click is kilometre, yes,’ Sasha asked.
‘Yes, and very European,’ I answered. ‘US military uses miles mostly, but also the click, fuck knows why. But did you know ... that Poppy Day, the First World War remembered, started in the States, the use of the red poppy I mean.’
‘Thought that was a British thing,’ Swifty noted.
‘Nope.’
Ten minutes later Mahoney was back on. ‘Mahoney for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Got a better view of those lights now, a village seen, but also some regimented buildings; looks like a camp.’
‘Well done, you win a cookie; that could be our place. Come back in.’
Half an hour later my sat phone trilled, my face soon green. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Rocko. We’re beyond a mile I reckon, heard what Mahoney said on the radio just about. There’s a village and a camp, trucks, soldiers, towers with guards.’
‘Towers with guards? That’s ... odd. How close are you?’
‘Six hundred yards to the edge of the village, another two hundred yards to the camp.’
‘What’s the terrain like?’
‘Where we are is tight jungle, but there’s lots of tracks good enough for a jeep or truck, lots of fallen trees on the sides of the tracks.’
‘Seen any movement?’
<
br /> ‘Was a small tin shack with a light on, south, fuck all else.’
‘Any high ground?’
‘Left, west of us, but not that high, but there’s trees all over it.’
‘I’m going to send Moran to you, he’s south, get a good OP before dawn, no risks. I’m taking the rest around to the north of that camp.’
‘OK, moving now. Don’t leave our flysheets, eh!’
I called Moran, and dispatched him north towards Rocko’s position, and broke camp, informing Liban of what we had discovered. Flysheets down, we now had extra flysheets to carry, and Rocko and Moran were short of some rain shelters.
As we moved off north, along the tree line, I said, ‘I don’t like those guard towers.’
‘Well organised gang?’ Swifty asked.
‘No, more like a rebel faction, at war with the president in Monrovia, leftover from the last war. There are plenty of them around here.’
‘Are they likely to have our hostages?’ Swifty asked.
‘Doubt it, but they may be into dodgy dealings. And the hostages were moved south to here, or are being moved, so they may not be around here yet.’
‘Those rebels a threat to Sierra Leone?’ Mahoney asked as we plodded through the mud.
‘No, they’re more likely to side with Sierra Leone against the idiot in Monrovia – as far as loyalties go around here.’
‘We saw an organised force inside Liberia,’ Mahoney reminded me.
‘Yeah, but they were the president’s men, paid a wage. These fuckers are not being paid, unless by a warlord.’
‘Hence hostages and ransoms,’ Mahoney quipped. ‘As well as blood diamonds.’
Half an hour of muddy slog brought us to a high point, the distant road now in view.
‘Hey, smell it,’ Mahoney called.
‘Weed,’ I said.
Mahoney noted, ‘That explains how these boys are getting paid. They’re growing and selling.’
‘Might find them all high - again,’ Swifty put in.
I adopted a track down, a glance back at the line of black blobs, and as we descended a few cars passed in the distance. Getting close to the road, I claimed the tree line and slowed down, telling everyone to bunch up.
Reaching the road, I found a dense area of trees, and after a pause I had the men run across in pairs, some ten minutes used up, no approaching headlights to worry us.
Pushing on, we found small square fields and so avoided them, sticking to the tree line, a few distant lights seen, even a distant dog bark heard.
When my phone trilled I called a halt. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Moran, we’re with Rocko at the high ground, some good cover, dense trees, got a way out.’
‘What does that camp look like?’
‘Remember that exercise in Canada, like that. Regimented wooden huts, canteen, guard towers, fence. Say ... enough room for two to three hundred men in it.’
‘Do they look high on drugs?’
‘No, they look switched on.’
‘That’s not good, these boys are probably the former Liberian Army, pushed out of power and hiding up here.’
‘We’re outgunned, yes.’
‘Don’t take any risks, eyes on, and if you have to leg it away do so.’
‘OK.’
‘We’re moving around to the north of them now, be another hour or two. Wilco out.’
Knowing the time difference in Washington, I called Bob.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Wilco.’
‘I got just to my hotel room, nice room as well. How’s it going?’
‘Not well. The given location of the hostages has a well run army camp, could be the former Liberian Army, maybe three hundred men, guards towers, the works.’
‘There are many ex-army up there, most form gangs, so yes – I agree. Surprised they got involved in hostages, they’d not want to upset The West.’
‘What if ... el Presidente figured we might do his dirty work for him, and he arranged this?’
‘Ah, see what you mean. He has this group hold the hostages so they’re discredited, or shot full of holes, no longer a threat to him. But three hundred men are no threat, and he’s been in power ... eight years. He has thousands of men, and APCs.’
‘Still, if we get rid of these boys ... he doesn’t have to. There’s also the drugs dimension; it’s being grown around here.’
‘Drugs help to fund them, yes, we discussed that today.’
‘You need to consider the politics behind this, Bob. We get the hostages, good, but we diminish this group by being played.’
‘I’ll think about it, yes. You’ll observe them first?’
‘Yes, day or two, we don’t have enough men to be sure of a shootout.’
‘Talk tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Bob, I’m glad your hotel room is nice.’
‘Sod off.’
Plodding on slowly, I was wary. I had been played, maybe, or Tomsk had been played, but would the Liberian President really risk upsetting Tomsk? I doubted that, he wanted a deal, so maybe I was in the wrong damn place and the hostages were a few miles away.
Agricultural activities, legal and otherwise, forced us to weave around through the dark, the better part of two hours used up, and getting out quickly would be an issue. I finally caught sight of the village, crossed a dirt track and skirted around the village at about 500yards out, and could now see the camp. And it did look like the one in Canada.
Nudging the men into a dense area of trees, we raised flysheets and put our ponchos down, every second man allowed to rest, the remainder on a tight stag, all approaches covered.
I moved forwards with Swifty through tall grass, as close as we dare, and we peered through our sights. Each tower had just one guard, no search lights evident. No dog patrols were seen, no leg patrols either, and although a few lights were still on the men seemed to be asleep early, people in the village still seen moving around.
The outer fence was eight feet tall and topped off with barbed wire, but I could see sections that drooped.
Getting in would not be too hard, the men in the guard towers were easy to pick off, the wooden huts could be fired into, but there could be a lot of men in those huts, more sleeping in the village next door, more again up the road and a phone call away.
As we observed, the tower guard closest to us shook out a poncho, and lay down, not seen for many minutes.
‘Is he sleeping?’ Swifty whispered.
‘Looks that way.’
‘What a knobber. These guys aren’t switched on.’
Ten minutes later I led Swifty back, dead slow and dead quiet, and we hid ourselves with the teams. Phone out, I called Moran.
‘Moran,’ came a whisper.
‘It’s Wilco. We’re four hundred yards due north of that camp, we have eyes on. And the tower guard our side just bedded down for the night.’
‘He’s sleeping?’
‘Either that or doing lots of sit-ups. What can you see?’
‘Two gate guards stood looking bored and chatting, jeeps and trucks parked, no one moving around now.’
‘Then we wait the dawn and see how many there are, and any hostages seen. Keep your distance.’
‘OK.’
Phone away, I sat quietly against a tree, the camp in view, having asked Liban and his captains to consider a plan – but to do so quietly.
After an hour I called a meeting, Swifty, Mahoney and the Deltas, Major Liban. We stood in a tight circle, just black outlines. ‘There’s something we need to consider. Those men, if they have our hostages, are ex-Liberian Army, and may someday be back to being in the Liberian Army after the current tin-pot dictator is removed.
‘The man in charge of that camp may be the next president down there, elected or otherwise. If we wipe out that camp, we shift the balance of power around here, we move from hostage rescue and into politics, and we have no mandate for that. So ... opinions, gentlemen?’
Swifty put in, ‘They
’re as bad as the rest; drugs and guns and hostages. Shoot ‘em all.’
Mahoney said, ‘We’re tasked with getting the hostages, and wiping out that camp is a side effect.’
‘One with consequences,’ I told him.
Running Bear put in, ‘The men there could be linked to other groups around here, same story, legit ex-soldiers forced out by a revolution. Sure they do drugs and guns, but there’s no welfare for old soldiers around here. Some of that lot may be OK.’
‘Maybe,’ Swifty agreed.
‘They’ve organised themselves, to bed early,’ I pointed out. ‘With other groups we’ve seen them high, wandering around in their pants and shooting each other.’
‘True,’ Swifty admitted.
‘Do the hostages take priority?’ Liban asked. ‘I understand about ex-Army, and we have trained some, just like these men.’
Swifty asked, ‘You planning on talking to them?’
‘No, at least not yet,’ I replied. ‘They may not have the hostages. And there could be more than one faction in that camp.’
Mahoney cautioned, ‘If these boys spot us and make a call, we could have a lot of men down on us – assuming that they are ex-Army and have links to others around here.’
Running Bear put in, ‘Our intel suggests that ex-Army factions are often the most violent. They were selected and trained to be mean in the first place, now out of a job and pissed off.’
I began, ‘If that was a gang, they’d be in the town, with their wives.’
‘Maybe they are,’ Swifty said. ‘We’ve not seen many men here. If we hit that camp at dawn we get flanked.’
‘True,’ Liban noted. ‘So we must take this into account.’
‘After dawn we’ll see how they operate,’ I said. ‘Then assess. And if they wander out this way we’ll withdraw back a bit.’
A burst of distant automatic fire echoed, and we all turned.
‘From the village,’ Swifty noted.
Running Bear put in, ‘So they do sleep there, and are on drugs.’
We waited. And we waited more, no response from the camp, no escalation in activity.
