by Geoff Wolak
‘So you should be. I like training men and running GL4, so part of me thinks this is crazy as well, but the stakes are too high, we have to stop that ship and get some answers. Maybe half the uranium is on that ship, half somewhere else. We need answers before some place like London starts to glow in the dark.’
Half an hour later and we were all in wetsuits, rubber boots on, the para instructors getting our chutes ready, life preservers, and the salt water lights. I tucked my pistol into a holster outside my wetsuit, spare magazines in it, torch wrapped in plastic and stuffed under the holster into a flap.
I tested a few helmets till I found one that fitted, and tested the night sights.
The Lt. Col. then told me, ‘That ship, it will have lights on, strong lights, or it breaks the law and is stopped and reported maybe.’
‘It's the law, to have bright lights?’ I asked.
‘Yes, red and green to show direction, but they always have some deck lights. When you come in, look for the red and green and land in the middle.’
With the team together, the other French Commandos and the remaining Deltas stood around with the local police, Mutch close by, I stood at the white board, warm in my wetsuit. The aircrews stood off to one side, with a few men down from London, SIS managerial types.
‘Do we have an update on the ships?’
The Lt. Col. put in, ‘The submarine makes reports. Course is almost due east, 20 knots, wind is 20 knots same direction.’
‘So the wind effect is nil, we aim at the ship and make no adjustment. Does the ship have lights on?’
‘Red and green only, some cabin lights.’
‘And your destroyer?’
‘Twenty miles behind.’
Mutch put in, ‘They have ship radar here, for the straits, so they can relay the exact position minute by minute.’
‘So we don't need the C160.’ I faced the French pilots and they nodded.
‘OK. We aim to drop over the ship, three seconds apart or we collide. Pilots, we start to drop two hundred yards behind the ship, and you slow down as much as possible without stalling.
‘We all drop till we see the ship, night-sights used, then maybe we see the lights, red and green. Aim at the ship, pull your chute at 1,000ft or under, follow the ship.
‘When you're close, do not land on the bridge, land at the front if you can, less noise. Come in from the side and aim at machinery, to get the chute caught. We have green cord, twenty metres each, we slide down it.
‘You try and get to the bridge, turn the ship south then west, use the radio to report that you're in control, and the French commandos land by helicopter on the bridge.
‘When that helicopter approaches the crew will know, so they will come out with guns. Be ready. Someone let the Navy ships know that if they see it turn south that we have control of the bridge.
‘The plan is to search for a bomb, and get the ship heading west. Ask the French Navy to send men to pilot the ship and control the engine, after we secure the ship, and bomb disposal men. Now, anyone got a Geiger counter?’
They exchanged looks as Castile said, ‘The nights sights are supposed to show radiation, like small sparks. In theory – we ain't tried it!'
‘OK, so we use them below decks, we might get lucky. Any questions?’
‘What happens if we hit the water?’ Dicky asked.
‘Submarine should pick you up, and you should be in a tight group. If you see other lights, swim together. French Navy is less than half an hour away as well, and other ships, but the water is cold this time of year.’
I pointed at the Lt. Col. ‘Have the submarine monitor the ship's radio, and to come to a stop when it sees any lights in the water, and to launch rafts.’
‘They have periscope with night sight, they see you drop. And this periscope has video camera.’
‘Dicky, Henri, comb your hair.’
The group laughed.
‘We wait till the ship is closer, that way we can get the air sea rescue here out to the ship.’ I turned to Mutch. ‘How far is it on radar?’
‘Twenty miles or so.’
‘Close enough. We go now. Hercules crew, get ready.’
They rushed out.
‘Check all pistols and magazines. Swifty, Henri, sat phones in plastic.’ I grabbed plastic bags ready for my own phone.
A French Naval helicopter loudly set down, the commandos taken off to the French warship, and I could see two S61 helicopters sat ready, one starting its engines.
My phone trilled. ‘It's Miller’s boss. You're in Gibraltar?’
‘Yes.’
‘And tracking a ship.’
‘Yes, Clava II, uranium on board.’
‘And the crew?’
‘No idea who they are.’
‘We'd prefer it if they never made it to the witness stand.’
‘I'll see what I can do, but is there something I need to know?’
‘We suspect a group that was linked to us, South Africans.’
‘They'd have no interest here, but your people would. So what do they want the uranium for?’
‘We're not sure.’
‘How about … they dump it in Iraq or Iran and use it as an excuse to attack.’
‘That … was a project on the drawing board, still is. Do you have evidence?’
‘Not that I'd use. But you can be sure that the South African gang would have no motivation for such a thing, whereas you might.’
‘This project is not being directed from here. So we want it shut down. I'm not saying we disagree with the principal aims, or the method, just that we're not in control.’
‘I'll update you later, if I live.’
‘What do you mean, if you live?’
‘Life comes with risks, and that ship may be wired to blow.’
‘Then send your men, don't go yourself.’
‘As I told my own boss, I'm the best man for the job. Chat later.’ I cut the call, and stared at the phone.
Ten minutes later we were ready, chutes on, helmets on, kit checked and re-checked, and I allowed a French pilot to use a video camera, our heads down as we walked to the loud rumbling Hercules. At the Hercules I waved him aboard, and to film the drop.
Sat down, it was odd to be in a wetsuit and to have no rifle to hand. And now I wanted a piss. Night-sights lowered, I could see a green-grey world well enough. Sights pushed up, the ramp came up, the plane jerking off and taxiing around a very short distance, the airport here being little more than one runway and one taxiway.
Lined up, power on, and we were off, no other traffic at this little-used airport sitting between Gibraltar and Spain, and we were soon up, heading west and banking left and around away from Spanish territory.
I turned to Castile next to me. ‘I need a piss!' I shouted.
He smiled. ‘Should have gone before we left! Go in the suit.’
I glanced at Swifty, and he seemed distant, or worried. I wondered if I was about to get him killed.
I could feel the aircraft climbing, but we were soon turning south as the para instructors stood ready with the crewman – all in harnesses fixed to the aircraft. The lights flashed all too soon, the ramp coming down, an instructor soon peering down into the black ocean below.
Waved up, we moved to the rear. I pointed Dicky first, Henri, Swifty, myself, Castile, his buddy, the four French Commandos. They all nodded.
To the para instructors I held up three fingers and they nodded, the aircraft buffeted, men knelt ready, shoulders held. I could feel the aircraft nose up, and we should have been at 14,000ft.
Red on, and we moved back in a group, Dicky ready, held by an instructor with a wide stance, a second instructor opposite him, a cold draft felt.
Green on, a glance at it. Green flashing, and Dicky was launched out, a count, Henri launched out. I moved up with Swifty, my heart racing, the cold wind felt around my neck. This could all go horribly wrong.
Swifty launched into the cold blackness, and I moved up, co
unting. On time I moved forwards, a gentle shove, and I was falling head first, getting a stable position after a few seconds but turning myself around to head east, at least east in my mind, nothing seen below but the distant Spanish coast was clear, as well as Gibraltar in the distance.
Stable, I knocked down the night sights and orientated myself as the cold air froze my wrists and neck. Below I could see a ship clearly, two or more flashing lights on it, but there were other ships close by, so this was a risk – I could choose the wrong damn ship.
I tried hard to maintain a stable position as I waited in the blast of cold air, the ship's green-grey image getting larger, a roar in my ears despite the helmet, my wrists and neck frozen.
With a ship slightly ahead of me I made a choice and moved my arms back, soon over it as its image grew. It was heading in the right direction at least, I could see the bright coastline.
Starting to see detail, I moved a hand back, left hand splayed and forwards, knees bent slightly, and I pulled, soon getting a reassuring jerk upright. I frantically grabbed the toggles and steered left, getting over the ship and seeing a huge crane running the length of the ship, so this had to be the right ship.
A chute below me, two, and they hit the ship, so it seemed. I turned right and came around in a circle, coming at the ship from the side but close to the bridge and about to have a heart attack, but I saw the rear crane in time and so aimed behind the bridge, in over the railings, tall bridge on my right – bright portholes seen, crane right in front of me, a jerk backwards and around and I slammed into hard metal, the wind knocked out of me as I considered I had broken a leg, or both. From the pain, it felt like I had broken three legs.
Swinging above the rear deck, my shoulder hit something and I grabbed it, soon holding a narrow square erection as I released my chute with my eyes closed, the pain about to knock me out.
I dropped, my hand saving me, and I went hand-under-hand down to the deck. Helmet off, I gasped at the pain; this had not been the best idea I had ever had.
Pistol out, no one around, I cocked it ready, my legs taking my weight as I moved, so I wondered what I had injured, a tendon maybe. Walking was painful, and halting at a corner to peer around I realised that my ribs were bust as well.
The steps were right there, no one about, music coming from somewhere, so I started slowly up the steps, benefiting from rubber boots. Three landings up and I knelt, peeking in the window, two Arabic-looking men sat reading but facing away from me.
I lowered the door lever and slowly opened the door, easing inside and upright, pistol levelled.
They both turned at the same time, both clearly Arabic in appearance, one with a full beard. Startled looks greeted me, one man reaching for a pistol. My head-shot took him down, and it echoed loudly.
The second man, older, raised his hands.
‘Speak English?’
He shook his head.
In Arabic I said, ‘Do you know what is in the cargo?’
He shrugged. ‘Weapons.’
‘Uranium.’
His eyes widened.
‘The Americans will dump it in Iraq and use it as an excuse to start a war.’
His mouth fell open. After all, how would he know the real story here.
‘Do you wish to see millions of Arab brothers die?’
He shook his head as I controlled my pain.
‘Go down the steps, talk to no one, into the hold, look for the weapons, then look for the large bomb they placed to sink this ship if things went wrong. Tell me if you find it.’
He headed out. I eased forwards, about to faint, and turned the wheel till the compass said due south.
A tap of the glass, and a bloodied face opened the far door, Swifty limping in.
‘You bust up as well?’
‘Hard fucking landing.’ He stepped to the middle of the bridge and peered down the internal stairs.
‘I recruited an Arab crewman, he never knew what the plan was here.’
‘Why would he, just the hired help.’ Swifty spat blood onto the floor.
‘Anyone else alive?’
‘Not sure.’
‘If you're up to it, go search the deck, but keep your life vest on, in case it blows.’
He headed past me and down.
I grabbed the ship's radio. ‘This is Wilco aboard Clava II, bridge has been secured, send helos.’ I turned the ship west, and the crew would feel us turn.
I got ready, behind the exit of the internal stairs. Footsteps, hurried footsteps, shouts in Arabic. Three men ran up, my three shots in the back knocking them down. Bent-double in pain, I grabbed my spare magazine.
‘Alo?’ came from the external steps.
‘It's Wiclo!'
A white face appeared, then a body and a pistol.
‘Go search for the other men.’
He nodded and disappeared, limping badly.
A noise left, and I aimed, a helmet seen. ‘In here'
Castile limped in and flopped, half dead.
‘Take it easy, helos on the way.’
He eased his helmet off. ‘Never … again.’
‘Your buddy?’
‘He hit the water.’
A noise below, and I aimed down the stairs, dragging the bodies to one side in agony.
A shout, a question, no answer given, and someone came up, pistol levelled. My head shot robbed him of further thought on the matter, and I dragged him out of the stairs and clear, blood all over the floor now, five bodies.
Swifty appeared after a noise alerted me. ‘Dicky is hanging, alive but busted up, and Henri is dangling over the side.’
‘You saw the French guy?’
‘No?’
‘Find him, shout, get Henri up.’
Swifty limped back down the steps as I heard the helo. It soon droned loudly above us, men heard hitting the roof above us and climbing down, weapons ready.
I waved them in. ‘Go down these stairs, find all the crew, take no chances.’
Four men rushed down, two remained, tending Castile as the helo pulled away.
Swifty appeared two minutes later, Henri carried in and eased down with the help of a French Commando.
I told them, ‘Go search the cargo hold, watch out for the French Commandos. Swifty, if you see an older Arab guy with a beard...’
He nodded, understanding my look.
I grabbed the radio. ‘Wilco aboard Clava II, send rescue helicopters, we have wounded men and missing men.’
One of the French Commandos attended a console, the ship's lights soon coming on, the entire ship lit up. I could see a man dangling, then a second. Both looked lifeless, and my face fell. I stared at them long and hard.
Sat phone out, unwrapped of plastic, I stepped outside and called SIS London, glancing at the dangling men. With no energy, nor enthusiasm, a chest full of regret, I began, ‘It's Wilco, we've secured the ship and turned it west. Update all parties.’
I called No.1. ‘It's me, we secured the ship, so far.’
‘I have a story to release to some well-paid journalists with low morals.’
I stepped back inside. Seeing the controls, I pushed the throttle forwards towards maximum; I wanted this ship away from the Med.
Five minutes later the helo was back, men down, but sailors. One with rank adopted the wheel, orders shouted in French.
I slid down a panel and ended up in a heap as men rushed to assist me. ‘I'm OK,’ I croaked out.
‘You not look OK,’ came back heavily accented.
I turned my head. ‘Henri, you alive?’
He lifted his face and spat a few teeth. ‘I need a hot bath … and a massage, and … a new body.’
Swifty rushed in, but limping. ‘Found the Arab guy, and he pointed at a big container, and it has a huge fucking bomb in it. But the detonators were easy to pull, and we put a metal thing over what looked like a transceiver and cut a wire going up to the deck.
‘The French soldier is now throwing the blocks off pl
astique down the walkway.’ Swifty glanced around. ‘Arab guy is dead.’ He rubbed his ribs and winced.
Shouts in French, and trussed-up prisoners were led up, knelt down and kicked, the bodies being moved.
I could see a sat phone on a console and Swifty helped me up. Grabbing the phone, I stepped out and called London, to trace it. A glance at the French, and I tossed it over the side.
Back inside, I adopted a chair, but that was too painful, so I lay down again, wondering what I had broken.
I woke as they placed me in a basket. Cold wind, noise, and I woke in a warm place, Mutch sat in a chair.
‘How long...’ I croaked out.
Mutch eased up and waved in a nurse. ‘Ship is docked in Morocco, isolated port, warships nearby, Doctor Summers there with his team.’
‘Any men hurt … from the drop?’
Without concern, he rattled off, ‘American drowned, one French drowned, one broken neck. Henri is here with Dicky and Swifty, all hurt but not badly.’
‘How long was I out?’
‘Almost two days. You broke your hip, so they put a graphite pin in it, hairline fracture of a spinal disc. Possible nerve damage.’
The nurse eased the bed up, water offered to me.
‘What's on the news?’
‘It's been all over the news these past two days, people worried about the uranium contaminating the beaches. They traced it to the Ukraine, from twenty years back. Authorities there wish to help us. News listed you as critically wounded at one point.’
‘What has the doctor said?’
‘You should be OK, but they need to test the nerves in your left leg.’
I peered down at the sheet covering my feet and wiggled my toes. ‘Seems OK.’
Mutch went and fetched Swifty, who appeared in civvy clothes, his face black and blue, nose covered in a plaster.
‘Where'd you get the clothes?’ I asked.
Sounding nasal, he reported, ‘Government minders went shopping for us, some clothes here for you as well. Had to cut the wetsuits off.
‘You hurt?’
‘Bad bruising, nothing broken, chipped bone they said, just needs time.’
‘That bullet missed you again. Dicky OK?’
‘Hit his face, concussed, ribs busted, shoulder dislocated, but he's awake and OK. Henri lost some teeth, bad bruising, broken fingers. He's up for an award, French President been going nuts about it, labelling it as a French operation.’
