by Geoff Wolak
He looked worried. ‘OK, so what did I do wrong?’
‘You accepted the intel and the mission and tried to satisfy the criteria. You could have just said no.’
He studied the material. ‘But if we get orders from above?’
‘You tell them to fuck off, and plan it yourself. If they tell you a town needs searching, and you think that you'll lose ten men, you don't do it. If you do, and you lose those ten men, then it's your career over anyway. Try the next one.’
He sat and studied the mission profile and the map. ‘OK. I think this one can be done, but I would modify the plan a little.’ He gave me his plan.
‘That's not a bad plan, but you have all your men in the open, vulnerable to helicopter or fixed wing attack, not much cover, no air support available, and if the enemy spot you they have two good roads and can drop a company of men a mile from you quickly. So, if they do, what's your response?’
‘I'd need to know what they have first.’
‘Always assume that the intel is bollocks, and assume the worst, always assume an armed Mi8 helicopter about to spoil your day. Here you have two troop on foot, not a great deal of cover. So you move at night or you find better cover. Try the third one.’
I stepped out and chatted to Major Harris for ten minutes, a fresh tea made, some of Mutch's biscuits pinched away. Back in the room, Forester was confident.
‘This one has better cover, yes, no good access roads for the enemy, no organised army – they're a band of twenty terrorists so unlikely to get organised support, no heavy weapons. I would set-up a 24hr OP, then move in for a close look, four teams of four spread out, dawn raid and withdraw sharpish.’
‘OK, not bad. This is an isolated farm house, a track, so these guys are getting food and water from the local town. A road ambush would be an option, at least to get some of them, and you need to make sure how many there are, so two days OP, count them, some might be in the local town with hookers now and then.’
‘So we observe longer.’
‘Longer the better, get the intel. Maybe there are thirty of them, ten in the town on average at one time. You need to wait and ambush them to make sure you got them all, or it's half a job done. Don't trust Mi6 intel, always look for yourself.’
‘You don't trust Mi6?’
‘I work for them, but if they tell me there are thirty terrorists I assume forty or more plus visiting relatives for a wedding, so a hundred of them. London Intel means well, but there's always a screw-up, random chance, change of weather. You need eyes on, and your own good intel.
‘And GCHQ can help, they can tell you how many phones are in use in that village, so you ask. If you go through channels it will take days or weeks, but if you go direct they can speed it up. I don't go through channels, not because I disrespect them, but because I need an answer now, not in a week.
‘Most jobs are screwed up in the planning and the intel, not in the execution of the job. You tell your men: London thinks that the twenty terrorists are in this isolated farm house, GCHQ has recent phone use there, but we'll decide for ourselves, get eyes-on for two days at least, count numbers, monitor road traffic, then we decide if it's doable.
‘That's how you talk to them, you never say it must be done and here's the plan. Give the troop sergeant a loose plan, give him what Intel you have and some loose directives, then let him decide when he sees it. Maybe it's raining and the farmhouse was abandoned and soggy, and the men are all in the village for a few weeks. Maybe you see the men have a falling out and shoot each other -'
‘Then what would we do?’
‘Move in, shoot those left and claim that you shot them all.’
He laughed.
‘No, seriously, I've done that. Never miss an opportunity to look good in the media, that's currency to you.’
‘And you get all the good jobs..?’ he asked, and seemed unhappy about that fact.
‘We're SAS in name still, and people think we're one and the same, and I take a troop of yours with me when I go. If it's a big job I call in your men as well, but London will always call me first apart from counter-terrorism work.
‘That division started because of a bad attitude by the regular SAS. They sometimes refused jobs from London, and often were rude and arrogant, and the government stopped using them for bodyguard work and switched to the SBS. I fixed that some, but the old attitude is still there.
‘In the Falklands War, brave RAF pilots risked their lives to fly a Chinook to Argentina, the plan being to raid the airfield that was sending aircraft to attack the Falkland Islands. When they landed, the SAS teams refused to carry out the mission and they crossed to Chile and got a flight back home.
‘To some people that's treason and cowardice, but the history books skim over that.’
‘I'd have court martialled them.’
‘You wouldn't be allowed to, so get used to that. The all-powerful Sergeant's Mess is in charge, not you. They have little respect for officers because those officers come and go, two year postings. By time the officers have learnt something they leave. In, take a piss, and piss off, as the men say.
‘And you're a prime example of that, a two-year posting on your way to being the head of the army. The men want officers in place for ten years, not two years.’
He nodded. ‘Not much I can do about that.’
‘You can petition the MOD to keep the good officers longer. You can at least try.’
‘And you'd back me on that?’
‘I would, yes.’
He considered that, and nodded.
‘Next scenario,’ I told him.
By 5pm he was thinking the right way, a new-found confidence to him, and he had a handle on the branches of Intel and what they could do for him. With Mally and his gang still here I had them brief him on how “E” Squadron worked.
In the bar that night he joined me. ‘So how much interaction do I get with people like the CIA?’
‘None, it goes through London or me. I deal direct, you won't.’
‘Oh.’
‘My unit is irregular warfare and intel, not green field soldiering, and you're mostly soldiering with some counter-terrorism work, although the CT police are keen to take that off you, and they will. Can't have men sat doing nothing in London, waiting for a hijack that never comes. And I pinched your hostage rescue work.
‘What Colonel Dean did was to re-focus on your core wartime roles, not what jobs people might find for you in peacetime, and you need to do the same – to satisfy the MOD about that wartime role not fight them on it.’
‘So what do we get involved with in peacetime?’ he pressed.
‘Africa, hostage rescue in support of me, small wars. It's your wartime role in a small war, and I always drag your lot along, and most all of them have seen action and have the experience now. Previously, people like Major Coalridge, he saw brief action in Aden, some in the Falklands, then nothing for twenty years.
‘Some troopers go their whole careers and never fire a shot in anger, but that has changed with me including them in Africa. And the short-timers, they do two years and hope not to see any action, then get a job as a bodyguard in the Middle East, forty grand a year tax free, do that for a few years and buy a bar … then tell stories of what heroes they were.
‘And some will embarrass you greatly. The drunken violence and murder rate of ex-troopers is very high, and once a year one of yours will kill his wife.’
‘I can't be held responsible for ex-soldiers,’ he protested.
‘When the news hits, the Regiment always gets the blame. And all of them have a service pistol at home, illegal, and they never hand them back in. Some ex-trooper is out ten years, drunk, and he uses it. They do, and they kill wives mostly. It's something you'll face when you get there.
‘And every once in a while an ex-trooper turns up in Africa working for the wrong side. I killed ten or more of them already. One tried to plant a car bomb that would have killed fifty British servicemen.’
‘They're trained killers, and some like it, and some go the bad-boy route in Africa, the lure of money. They can't sit at home, nor get a job as a painter decorator, not after the exciting life they led.’
The next day I walked around the track five times, a fast pace maintained. I wasn't running, but I was getting fitter.
The following day was the 24hr speed march, and in on it would be the four new lads from 14 Intel, Stickler, Stiffy and my troop of regulars, plus three new men in 14 Intel. I had those Echo men here form up, a four hour speed march to test their fitness, and to improve their fitness. Forester was told to join in, and he admitted to being a weekend 10k competitor.
I could not walk with the groups, not yet, and so tackled some paperwork. Tomo made a competition of it, rude to the others, and he came in first – drenched in sweat, Stickler second, Forester doing well.
Tomsk called at 4pm. ‘I saw you on the TV news, the White House, it was a shock.’
‘Why a shock?’
‘You pretend to work for me!'
I laughed. ‘How's Gay Dave?’
‘He is getting more muscles, and he looks fitter, and he shoots very well now, he killed a man.’
‘Killed a man?’
‘He drew his pistol and shot him, but this man was a mental case, a piece of wood in his hand. But still, he drew quickly, head-shot from twenty yards, and many people saw it. I hid the body and said that he was shot between the eyes.’
‘Where was he hit?’
‘Through the mouth.’
‘Just as good. How's business?’
‘Good, very good, the price of cocaine went up a lot, almost double, and many people ask Carlos for more, so we shipped more with the test kits, and now everyone has a test kit - we made thirty thousand of them in a factory in Mexico, but they are just three dollars each.’
‘So business is good.’
‘I sent some money to Bob as well, and I spoke to Tiny on the phone, all about Washington.’
‘The other girl OK?’
‘Yes, they are a couple, have a nice apartment, busy five days a week checking people out, but no more trouble.’
‘Good, no trouble is good.’
‘And you? You are always in the TV news.’
‘Still a few people trying to kill me, but we got most of them, a few left out there. Your oil flowing?’
‘Yes, and now it makes ten times more money than before, one tanker a day.’
‘I will be down there soon, to get rid of any armed men, make the city safe.’
‘That will be good yes, I build more hotels and apartments from the money, that way it's laundered straight away, then a loan against the building at low interest, so the money is cleaned up.’
‘And just when will you retire, eh?’
‘And do what, sit on a beach. No, I like the work. I'm stupid, like you.’
‘I'm stubborn and stupid.’
‘I arranged the wedding, the lady doctor, and that was nice, and now I have a son.’
‘Son?’
‘Adopted. He's ten years old, and the lady doctor mentioned him, he's very bright, speaks English and Spanish but also some Russian -a fast learner. I like spending time with him, explaining things, and he has ideas about things as well.
‘He paints, and the doctor says he may be autistic, because I put them on the walls and people ask which gallery they came from.’
I laughed. ‘Sell them for a million each, no one will know!'
‘I send you one.’
‘A beach scene, I'll put it up in our canteen.’
‘OK, I send some, yes. Bob said he wanted one. He sent me a photo of a beach near him, so my lad will copy it. I give him extra dollars and he's happy, and the guards laugh and joke with him.’
‘And La Ninga airfield?’
‘You wrecked the damn place!'
‘Don't blame me, I was getting shot at.’
‘We fixed it now, building work still going on, but I want it developed because it's close to my hotels on the islands, so I expand it some. Planes can come from America and from the Caribbean islands. If they land in Panama City it's three or four hours in a bus.’
‘Yes, good idea.’
The next day I added Forester to the Paras going over the left-firing course, and as he advanced I went with him, advice dispensed. When all of the Paras has been through I sent Forester through again, getting his score up.
‘You hit the target, even if slowly, then you improve the speed. First priority is to kill the man.’
I sent him through a final time with just a pistol, spare magazine in his left hand, and he hit all the close targets, Crab at the controls.
‘I'm improving,’ he suggested. ‘Been sat behind a desk too much.’
After his meal in the Officers Mess I met him with Rizzo and a few lads in the Killing House, and with pistol in hand he was led through, and shouted at, then led through again, finally with an MP5.
Just to be mean, they put a dog in a room, a big Alsatian, and it barked and growled at him but did not bite him before Forester put six rounds into it.
Walking back, making safe, a rat ran out, Forester jumping.
‘What you jumping for, you fucking pussy!' Rizzo shouted at him. ‘Stamp on it!'
Forester tried three times and missed the rat, which found a hole as men laughed.
I told Forester, ‘Expect rats, always expect rats. They don't fight wars in nice places.’
The following day Forester was sniping, Elephant gun and Valmet, his aim improving as the day went on. Up on the barracks roof he aimed at jam jars on the range butts, using the larger telescopic sights. He hit most of them, careful tuition from Tomo of all people.
In the morning I gave him a scenario, and he could consult with Sanderson and Harris, since this would be a live job. His task was to use 14 Intel, Echo and the Wolves for irregular intel gathering in Monrovia and the surrounding area, as well as snatch missions for criminal gangs.
I added in the transport and logistics, just to keep him busy, Harris smiling at the cheek of it.
The Brigadier helped out, as well as the Intel captains, and actual forms and sheets were used, a transport requisition warning sent to the RAF at Brize Norton. Forms were faxed to HQ Army Freetown, and the outpost at the mine, and all units in the country were requested to update local intelligence reports, Pascal sent for.
In fairness to Forester, he did a good job, but then again he was supposed to be good at all of this anyhow; it was what he was paid to do.
We soon had a plan, a two week deployment, and after checking with David Finch we booked a flight down to Monrovia, and the airport was said to be a lot better these days, radar and ILS available, European staff working there.
The following Monday we landed in a Tristar at Monrovia International Airport, and it now boasted about ten flights a week to Europe, Tomsk running local flights from here and Sierra Leone.
I had never seen it close up before, so I had nothing to compare it to, but it looked to be in better shape than Freetown airport, a new lick of paint evident. The fence looked new, and there were many armed guards and soldiers, a few APC dotted about.
Seeing a large and well-guarded hangar at the far end I remembered the stored weapons. I was hoping the FBI would stay away.
Down from the plane we found buses waiting, and with the crates loaded they whisked us around to a new ten storey white hotel, in sight of the Presidential palace. The hotel was fenced off and offered gardens and a pool, some building work still evident as we lugged trunks inside and were allocated rooms.
I had two men put on the roof straight away, two on the front door, and from my window I could see the pool, men tending the lawns, and in the distance I could see a shit-hole of a city with a few new tall buildings under construction. The shanty town could be seen, and I thought I could see a dead body.
Downstairs, I checked with the manager, and he was from Panama. I found a suit
able room, and sent for Forester and Moran, and we soon had a HQ Room set up, maps laid out, Forester in full swing and laying out forms and lists of teams.
With the lads, and our medics, allowed to swim, 14 Intel due to arrive later with Stiffy and his troop, I took Forester and Moran around to the Presidential Palace, jeeps having been sent for us.
The same Russian aide was still in residence and we shook, chatting in Russian as we walked in, my lot armed to the teeth and ready for war.
In the President's sumptuous lounge he greeted us warmly, and loudly, and we sat, weapons down, webbing off, cold drinks poured.
‘Mister President, this is Lt. Col. Forester, the next head of the British SAS.’
They shook. ‘I know much about your military, I get the films and the books, and I now talk to the colonel in Freetown and the French colonel visits often.’
He faced me. ‘I visited the mine and the oil areas, still those planes left there, an eye-sore yes, we will try and move them. And now they cover the pipe with concrete, then dirt, and plants on top. They say a year, and no one will know where the pipe is – the jungle grows quickly.’
‘Hope no one tries to blow it up,’ I told him.
‘We guard it well,’ he assured me. ‘And any problems and they cut the flow and suck it back up, or something like that. They are prepared for a broken pipe.’
‘And what do you do with your new wealth?’ I posed.
‘I build, and I like building, yes. New apartment blocks, no more the sleeping on the floor for my people, and new roads. These Europeans, they fall over themselves to help out, and to suggest things.’
‘Mister Forester here will execute our plan, to check the city for criminal elements,’ I told him.
‘Good, it all helps. There are some gangs, some former soldiers, people hiding away. In Europe you have these census and phone books and tax codes, here people are unregistered, some from other countries.’
Moran asked, ‘You don't know how many citizens you have?’
‘Not a clue, no. Maybe someday soon. We have Medisans something from France, and they make clinics in many places, and we guard them and French soldiers guard them. We are improving things.’
