by Geoff Wolak
Max took out his sat phone. ‘I can syndicate this right now.’
‘And go photograph the hostages before they leave.’
‘You’d shoot the receptionist as well?’ Moran toyed.
‘No, just wanted to sound scary. Did I ... sound scary?’
They exchanged looks, mocking nods given.
Hearing the dull drone of the Chinooks I headed out to the parade ground, smoke wafting, many buildings and vehicles well alight.
‘Mortar crews, ceasefire!’
The Chinooks came in from the north, setting down quickly, their ramps already down, men running out and waved towards me, soon kneeling.
‘”B” Squadron stay here, rest go around the back of this building, all the way around to the right, over there, join your other lads, enemy soldiers in the trees west.’
They moved off in their teams.
To those left kneeling I said, ‘Into the armoury, grab RPG and heavy weapons, carry them around to the far side.’
I clicked on the radio. ‘Any wounded, to the helicopters, get the hostages out now, but not the Americans, their own choppers are coming for them.’
I could see medics stood waiting on the ramps, six hostages running across, Travis sent off, a Pathfinder, the 2 Squadron lad with the scrape.
‘Wilco, hold those choppers, we have two men down,’ came a voice, and I peered around.
Some of the “G” Squadron lads were walking across, a man being carried. I pointed at a medic, then pointed at the man being carried, the medics running out and intercepting the man twenty yards short of the helicopter.
Wounded placed down in the back of the Chinooks, the medics got to work on two troopers, the wounds appearing serious. I gave the crewman the thumbs up and they lifted away and banked to the north over the fence, and it grew quiet again.
‘Mortar crews, hit the damn trees,’ I ordered as troopers emerged from the armoury weighed down with RPG, some lugging GPMGs they had found. They headed off towards their colleagues.
Stretch came out the armoury. ‘More stuff in there than for just this lot,’ he warned. ‘Some fucker was selling arms. There’s a lower level, full of weapons.’
‘We could blow it after we get what we want,’ I suggested.
‘It would take the fucking town with it!’ he warned.
I gave that some thought. ‘OK, keep bringing out the useful stuff.’ I called Bob. ‘It looks like the armoury here has more weaponry than for just this lot, this must have been a distribution centre for Liberia, some fucker selling the stuff. This place has sandbag machine gun posts and a fence, and you don’t need that for just a training ground.’
‘Can the weapons be moved?’
‘We can fly them to the capital, save the president a few quid on future arms purchases, but it don’t stop him selling it on.’
‘Can’t blow it?’
‘Not without demolishing the town, and it’s useful stuff, so let’s not blow it.’
‘I’ll make some calls, arrange for it to be picked up. Is it safe for helicopters to land?’
‘Safe enough.’
‘Secure the base and hang onto it.’
I clicked on the radio. ‘Henri, to the armoury with your team. Everyone, listen up. We’re staying a while, going to move out the ten tonnes of weapons they have here. Don’t take risks, but clear every building, check every corner, get comfy fire positions.’
Henri’s team assisted with dragging boxes outside, all opened and inspected, stacked up ready. When the Chinooks returned they set down in the same spot, puzzled to find us loading the boxes. I went through a cabin and put on the spare headsets, faces turning to me.
‘What the fuck did you do here?’ a pilot I recognised asked me. ‘You wrecked the fucking place, there’re bodies everywhere.’
‘This was the main rebel base, they were planning on moving on Freetown.’
‘Not anymore,’ the co-pilot quipped.
‘Listen, we’re loading your bird with weapons, drop them at the FOB then come back, this base was used to sell and supply groups in Liberia, so we’ve been ordered to remove the weapons.’
‘They stable?’ the pilot asked, clearly concerned.
‘Yeah, most are empty weapons, all safe enough. Ask the French Pumas to come fetch some as well.’
With the boxes stacked up in the rear the two crewmen threw straps over them and tightened the straps, soon pulling off, but steadily, no sharp turns seen.
Thinking that our Chinooks had returned for some reason, I saw two grey Seahawks coming in. Stepping out, I waved to them, and they set down close to the armoury.
‘Get the American hostages out,’ I ordered, soon seeing a line of six men and women rushing across with heads bent low, loaded up and off, both helicopters flying east and turning south with so much as a “thank you”.
I stepped across to the mortar pits, the lads stood sipping water or nibbling chocolate, resting against the sandbags. ‘Any ammo left?’
‘Plenty in the boxes, could fire all fucking day,’ Rocko told me, and I could hear outgoing fire from the “G” Squadron teams, a quick glance their way.
‘Still men in the trees, so hit them between helicopter runs.’
Half an hour later the Chinooks were back, many hands loading boxes, these containing GPMGs and ammo. The FOB would be well stocked, a GPMG for each man, enough ammo to last a week of continuous firing.
With the Chinooks disappearing to the horizon it grew quiet. I clicked on the radio, ‘”G” Squadron, this is Wilco, report. What can you see?’
‘They all ran off, few wounded in the buildings, a few hiding.’
‘Collect up all rifles, unload them, we’re not leaving any behind. Someone find a jeep that still works, or a truck not burning, to collect weapons. All Echo, collect up weapons and pile them up. And be careful of loaded weapons - all of you!’
The Salties had a jeep that worked, and drove over the parade ground, halting and grabbing weapons as they progressed. They came back with their rear stacked up high. Stretch found boxes, and the lads loaded the rifles, all made safe in a repetitive routine. Still, it was good practise for them.
With the jeep heading off again towards the barracks, I could hear a helicopter, just one, and scanned the horizon, finding a spec to the southeast. As it grew larger I could see that it was a Russian Mi8, maybe UN or Red Cross, and I figured we might get some criticism here.
As it approached I could see no weapons, no rocket pods, and noticed that it was smoking. Stood with Swifty and Moran near the mortar pits, the Mi8 oddly seemed to be landing in the town, then lifted up and cleared the gate, shimmied a little, went sideways and recovered, dropped and hit the concrete – it’s wheels on one side buckling, Moran and I exchanging looks. With sparks flying it skidded along and whacked a burnt out truck, coming to rest upright but at an angle.
‘No the best landing I’ve seen,’ Swifty casually noted, no one rushing forwards to rescue the crew.
‘I think someone’s been at the local brew,’ Moran suggested.
Doors were flung open and two white men in dark suits jumped clear, the pilots scrambling out. I walked forwards as the men in suits stared back at me.
They glanced around, suddenly fearful. The older of the two spoke Russian to his colleague. ‘Say nothing. We were on our way to Sierra Leone, mechanical failure.’
‘Preevyet. Kag dillar,’ I offered. ‘And you will talk, or I’ll strip you naked and set fire to you. Take a look around you. My men did this, British and American special forces, and there are no witnesses.’ I ended that sentence with my face right up against his. ‘Would you happen to be an arms supplier?’
He did not answer.
Rizzo was on my left. ‘Search them,’ I ordered, their Mi8 smoking badly.
Rizzo kicked the older man in the balls, and as the man deflated Rizzo checked pockets, two passports handed to me, the pilots stood with hands up.
Passing my rifle to Rizzo, I took out m
y sat phone.
‘Duty officer.’
‘It’s Wilco in Liberia. Run two names for me.’ I spelt them out and gave the passport numbers.
‘One of those is a big fish. How come you have his passport?’
‘He crashed his helicopter into the rebel base we took. He’s now my prisoner.’
‘Oh, excellent. I’ll let Bob know.’
Swifty jumped into the smouldering helicopter, and I thought he had gone mad. He emerged from smoke coughing, and handed me a big bag of what felt like marbles.
‘They ain’t marbles,’ I commented, taking a look inside. ‘No, not marbles, a few million quids worth of Blood Diamonds. Tie these men up, bring them, that helo is going to explode.’
Back at the mortar pit I showed the lads the diamonds, but their comments were all the same – “They don’t look much like diamonds.”
When my phone trilled it was Bob. ‘Wilco, you have Oleg Dermov with you?’
‘Could be, he has a few false passports with him, but he ain’t on holiday.’
‘I’m calling in the Americans to pick him up, it’s big favour time.’
‘I have a bag of Blood Diamonds, about twelve kilos worth.’
‘You can’t keep them, but don’t give them to the Americans. How did you capture him?’
‘It was a long drawn out chase through the jungle, an epic tale. I’ll tell you over a beer.’
‘Excellent work all round. You’re getting the weapons out I hear.’
‘Yes, the FOB will soon be the most well defended spot on the planet.’
‘Wait for the Americans to collect your guest, I’m going to draw up a shopping list of favours.’
‘You sound excited, Bob.’
‘Chuck will have to buy me dinner for months, and eat humble pie.’
Laughing, I put the phone away.
‘I can pay you,’ Oleg said in Russia. ‘A great deal of money. Or I can reach your family.’
In Russian I responded, ‘Take a look at me and my men. Do you think we are motivated by money? We sleep in the jungle and shoot people.’ He took in the faces, a long look at Rocko as Rocko stared back. ‘As for my family, this is it. I have no wife or children, these ... are my sons and brothers.
‘As for my life expectancy ... I do shit like this every month. If I live to the end of the year it will be a surprise to me – and a surprise to my men. Anyhow, what charges are you facing?’
He took a moment. ‘Enough to go to prison forever.’
‘Then I hope your last holiday was a good one, good memories. I cannot remember my last holiday, I just fight, and fight, and fight.’
The Salties came back with another jeep load of weapons and, as we unloaded, Oleg carefully observed us - they were probably his rifles.
Rifles boxed up, more rifles brought out, we waited, the Chinooks eventually returning, but with three Pumas in tow. Blasted by the first Chinook down, many hands assisted getting the boxes onboard and stacked up, the crewman loading more than I would have considered he would take, and it pulled away slowly, gaining altitude, a slow turn over the north fence, the second Chinook loaded by men now sweating.
After it departed the Pumas came in, two French officers stepping down and coming over as we loaded boxes, Henri closing in.
They exchanged pleasantries and scanned the base, then inched closer to me. Henri said above the roar, ‘They wish to see what happened here.’
I made a face and shrugged. ‘Brief them.’
They pointed at the two men in suits knelt down and tied up, and at the pilots, Henri explaining, pointing at the smouldering Mi2.
Henri stepped to me. ‘They think the men should be handed to the UN, The Hague.’
‘I have my orders.’
Henri explained that to them, our guests not happy, some waving of arms and shouting. They finally insisted that Henri show them the armoury.
I called Bob. ‘French officers have landed, they want our prisoners.’
‘Like hell, you don’t give them over, that’s an order from the Cabinet Office.’
‘I understand, oh mighty one, I was not planning on handing them over, so you speak to them and smooth it, we need good relations, all friends in Europe and all that bollocks.’
The second Puma was duly loaded, boxes of rifles, and lifted off when the crewman was happy.
With the third Puma down, boxes being loaded, I was expecting the French officers to miss their ride, accidentally or otherwise, so went and fetched them, pointing them to their ride back. Sour faced, they headed off, Oleg watching them go. I figured he would prefer a Dutch prison to an American one.
Stretch appeared, soaked in sweat. ‘Lots of anti-tank mines down there, could take the detonators and dump them, or blow the detonators.’
‘Much left down there?’
‘We have most of the rifles away, a few more boxes of RPG and plenty of heads.’
‘Load the RPG into the Salties jeep, send them over to “G” Squadron to fire at the trees, good practise, bring them all up. And what’ll happen if you blow what’s left?’
Stretch peered towards the town. ‘It’s an underground store, so chunks of rock could reach the town easily enough.’
‘Dump the detonators in that river for now, get some lads on it.’
The next Chinook run had me concerned, because we would be here after dark, and local stragglers could shoot at us.
Two of the “G” Squadron lads appeared in a jeep with a 105mm recoilless rifle. ‘Got any ammo for this?’
‘Take a look inside,’ I told him. ‘Ask for Stretch.’
They came back out lugging a heavy box, opened next to the jeep, projectiles stacked up in the back of the jeep, a second box lugged. The driver finally came up to me. ‘It ... er ... OK if we get some target practise in, Boss?’
‘Sure, demolish anything you like, just ... not over this side yet.’
And off he drove, and to the one barrack block that was not smouldering, but he reversed back a long way to the fence, other “G” Squadron lads nearby. Made ready, he blasted the barrack wall, a cloud of dust seen, the blast echoing off the other buildings.
On his third shot, part of the barracks wall collapsed, and on his forth the whole structure crumbled, one end left standing.
‘Helicopters,’ someone shouted, and I looked south, seeing two grey specs that became Seahawks. When they got closer I waved, but they circled several times anyway before setting down in front of me, eight soldiers piling out, a tan coloured officer coming over to me.
With the prisoners being loaded, the tan coloured officer halting and observing that, then waved the Seahawk off.
‘You have a reservation at this hotel?’ I asked him.
‘What’s the pool like?’ he asked with a grin.
‘Needs cleaning.’ We shook. ‘Wilco.’
‘Captain Running Bear.’ He smiled and pointed at Mahoney as he closed in.
‘Captain,’ Mahoney offered, and they shook, Mahoney nodding and smiling at a sergeant.
‘Running Bear?’ I repeated.
‘Official name is Sanderson, but I was born with Running Bear. The guys call me Running Bear.’ He took in the base. ‘You made a mess, Lieutenant.’
‘It needed decorating anyhow,’ Mahoney quipped.
‘How many men did you find here?’ he asked me.
‘About three hundred.’
‘And how many of you?’
‘Thirty in the first wave, rest arrived later by helo.’
‘Thirty? I heard you were a crazy bastard.’
‘The base defenders were predictable, and we wore them down in set piece moves. A decoy, an ambush, some jungle work, a few tricks. And they don’t have much of a will to fight when they’re losing, these local boys, only happy when bullying the town’s people.’
Running Bear nodded. ‘We’d like to have a sniff around, for paperwork, and get some serial numbers off the weapons.’
‘Help yourself. This building b
ehind us is the HQ, lots of paperwork, but we already pinched away the gold plated AK47 and the diamonds.’
‘Where will they go?’ he asked as we turned.
‘The diamonds will go to my government, the rifle – I reckon we’ll auction it and give the money to the families of the men killed.’
Inside, and up the stairs, we found Max reading files. ‘This is Max, our embedded journalist.’
‘A reporter?’
‘Yes, we have a good working relationship with the press, and some say over what’s printed.’
A loud blast had our guests concerned, rushing to the window.
‘That’ll be my lads, they’re demolishing the place. And having some fun.’
Max handed me a pile of papers. ‘Those all relate to the mercenary company, this pile to arms sold or bought.’
I lifted the second pile and handed it to Running Bear. ‘Saves you time.’
He sat, and started reading as his guys opened cabinets and draws.
Max said, ‘It details sales to six different groups here, every shipment, the price, everything, and it details the movement of arms in. There are some code words used, some references to flights in and where they come from.’
‘There’s a good dirt strip a mile east,’ I told our guests.
Max added, ‘British mercenaries have been here six months, before that French and Belgians, one American.’
‘What was his name?’ Running Bear keenly asked.
‘O’Sullivan.’
‘Fucker...’ Running Bear slowly let out. ‘He was reported dead years back. Fucker is still going. Any chance that he’s around here someplace?’
‘Could be hiding out at the air strip,’ I suggested. ‘But he would be long gone, he would have left when the shooting started. Could be hiding in the town.’
With the sounds of Chinooks approaching, I peered out the window.
‘How long you going to be here?’ Running Bear asked.
‘As long as you like, might stay the night ... because we need to figure how to blow the anti-tank mines without demolishing the town.’
‘You have orders to blow it?’
