by Geoff Wolak
I nodded. ‘We’ll cope. Thank you, Sergeant. And stay sharp.’
I grabbed Rizzo. ‘You been here before?’
‘Many times.’ Others echoed that.
I took my pips off. ‘Then let’s get some grub, then bottled water, I have money from the Major.’
After our meal, eaten under squeaking ceiling fans in a high-roof dome-shaped building, I headed to the SAS building with Moran, finding lights on.
We entered to find a few Army admin staff. ‘Major about?’
‘Who’s asking?’ came curtly back.
‘Captain Wilco is asking, you cunt!’
‘Oh, er ... moment please, sir.’
Voices preceded a body, and I recognised the man. ‘Ah, you’re here. Settled in?’
‘Kit is down, stomachs fed, guards posted, sir. Would you happen to know ... where they put our kit?’
‘Not a clue. Let me make some calls, it often goes to one particular place.’
After the call, he handed us a map, the building in question outlined, and we trekked over there, getting odd looks for no headgear. But I did put my pips back on.
At the room, we found a clerk sat behind a desk. ‘Can I help you? Eh, Captain.’
‘Our kit, off the plane. SAS.’
‘Oh, just a moment, sir.’ He was back five minutes later and moths flittered about the lights. ‘Would you ... happen to know what it looks like, sir?’
Looks exchanged, we followed him, a large room with a lot of kit, some metal crates like ours, and Moran spotted our HALO bags, and behind them was our kit stacked up.
‘We need a room, a big one, and transport to move this,’ I told the clerk.
‘Not my area, sir, sorry.’
I pointed him towards his desk. ‘Call the SAS major. Now.’
He checked the number as Moran rolled his eyes, dialled, and passed me the phone.
‘Major, Wilco here, sir. We need a room to use and store our kit.’
‘Won’t be able to do much till the morning, should have been pre-arranged.’
‘It was. And you were supposed to have arranged it, as promised by Major Bradley.’
‘Did he, well I don’t recall that.’
‘Do I need to get the Colonel on the line, or my friend the Prime Minister – who sent me here?’
‘Give me an hour, please.’ And he hung up.
I handed the phone back, angered. ‘You, get an MP here, and some transport, or I’ll shoot you in the foot. Those fucking crates have weapons and ammo in.’
The nervous clerk made a call, or five, as we waited, MPs arriving. I ordered them to protect our kit.
Twenty minutes later a three-tonner turned up, so I sent Moran to go get the lads. He was back ten minutes later, our metal crates claimed. Back at our room we unloaded them.
‘Put your crates next to your beds, check kit, set a stag,’ I ordered.
When a jeep pulled up it was Major Chalmers and an SAS sergeant that looked vaguely familiar.
‘You have your kit I see,’ he unhappily noted, Travis stood on stag, and heavily armed. ‘But there are base rules about weapons.’
I was trying hard to control my anger. ‘That’s tough, sir, because we have a specific threat against us. Our base in the UK suffered an attack last night, armed men with explosives, sent by the Russian arms dealers in the Congo we’re supposed to go visit, two men killed. So screw your fucking base rules, and get yourself fucking organised before I start shooting people. Sir.’
‘An attack at Hereford?’ the sergeant asked, concerned.
‘No, my new base near Brize Norton.’
‘You find some trouble,’ the sergeant noted. ‘We got a room you can use, I’ll post a guard.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ I offered, barely covering my contempt for the major.
‘We weren’t informed,’ the major offered before sloping off.
An hour later and we had a room with kit, a guard outside, the rest of the kit brought over under the direction of the sergeant – who knew people around here and how to get things done.
‘What’s your name, Sergeant?’ I asked.
‘They call me Fishy.’
‘Well, Fishy, you’re nominated to assist since you seem to be switched on. In the morning I’ll be here at 9am, and first business is the parachute packers.’
When my phone went it was Bob. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘So far ... typically military screw up. They were expecting us, we got rooms, but our kit got stuffed in a warehouse room – weapons and ammo, but we now have a room to use after I started threatening to shoot people.
‘And Bob, our ride here was a civvy coach, second group of civvies transporting our kit. One man with a rifle could have killed us all.’
‘I’m going to do some shouting of my own in the morning. You’ll acclimatise?’
‘A day maybe. Top priority is these chutes, and if they work. Any ID on the shooters?’
‘Romanian, but no record we can find.’
‘So our Moldovan friend had some amateur gunmen to hand, intel from Roach.’
‘The Cemtex tracks back to France, so they’re investigating, their men were at risk as well. You didn’t take Mally?’
‘I knew he was innocent and used, so I told him. He’s looking for any leads on that guy Stan, and links to Roach.’
‘I’ll call him, make sure he doesn’t go off on one. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Room locked, guard outside, I thanked Fishy and we headed back through the warm night air whilst getting lost at first, and I checked in on the medics and the externals. 2 Squadron had a second officer along, two flight sergeants, all chatted to, and I chatted to the Pathfinders officer, his colonel keen for some better oversight of his men.
Sandra was on a bed next to Henri. ‘You OK?’ I asked her.
‘They look at me funny here, but this is a black country.’
‘No lady soldiers here, just in admin,’ I told her. ‘Henri, look after her.’
He nodded as he cleaned his rifle.
‘Max, careful with the photos here, the base commander probably wants some input.’
He nodded.
At my bed, I said to Moran, ‘You know that Pathfinders officer?’
‘Yes, he’s a good man.’
‘Bit cheeky to send someone unannounced.’
‘He’s for admin and problems, not to go into the jungle.’
Sat on my bed, I checked my webbing, then stripped and cleaned my rifle, others doing the same, Dicky and Mouri chatting about fishing here, and I wondered what the local lakes offered to a keen fisherman.
After lights out, Swifty called through the dark, ‘Wilco, you ... sleeping with your rifle?’
‘Yep, and my pistol.’
‘Me too,’ Moran said.
‘What a sad bunch we are, eh,’ Swifty noted, men laughing.
After a while, I said, ‘Should we have mozzi nets.’
‘Yes!’ Rizzo said. ‘I was wondering about that.’
‘No problem,’ Rocko said, getting out of bed. He knocked the lights on, and lit a rolled up newspaper. Blowing it out, he wafted the smoke around. ‘Mozzies hate newspaper smoke. Daily Mail is best.’
We laughed, soon plenty of smoke lingering around the ceiling, and I wondered what Sandra made of Rocko in his underpants.
‘My mother did this,’ Sandra noted, sleeping in her civvy clothes on top of the bed.
‘Rocko,’ I called. ‘Any mozzies, shoot the bastards.’
I was awake at 6am, feeling OK, sat on the bed thinking as a few men stirred, the dawn threatening to put in an appearance. And I noticed a mozzie bite. I used the room’s toilet, far enough away not to wake anyone with the flush, followed by a cool shower – no hot water it seemed, Mouri in the next shower and as chirpy as ever.
After I dried, pants and trousers back on, Sandra appeared at my side, rubbing her eyes.
‘My goodness, you have suffered much. I saw many men like this
in my country.’
‘I was injured in many conflicts, not tortured,’ I assured her.
She stripped off and took a shower, not at all concerned who saw her, but as she turned I could see the marks on back; she had been flogged, pink skin showing through.
Stepping out our hut later and turning right, I found the Pathfinders. ‘Get some exercise today, some acclimatisation, check kit. You’re down for our rescue team, and we won’t need rescuing till we go, and we don’t go till we have a plan, and we won’t have a plan till Intel finalise it. Try and get some range work in.’ I gave a similar message to Haines.
After breakfast, which was passable, people eyeing the black lady in combats, we walked to the kit room and waited for Fishy. As we waited, a burly Warrant Officer wandered past and took exception to my rabble.
I pulled out my pistol, cocked it and stuck it in his neck, shocking him. ‘Wilco, SAS, down here for the annual stamp collecting convention. These people are all stamp collectors, and right unsociable they are too, so leave them be please.’
Wide-eyed, he marched off before Fishy turned up, two RAF flight sergeants in tow. The RAF saluted me.
Fishy began, ‘These are the parachute packers.’
‘OK,’ I began. ‘Inside you’ll find civvy freefall rigs in plastic bags, I want you to take them all to wherever you pack chutes. Those in the black plastic bags were tampered with -’
‘Tampered with!’
‘Yes, by an enemy agent.’ Their eyes widened. ‘I want you to tell me if that man was an expert or not – and if they can be fixed. Second, I want all the other chutes opened and tested, then re-packed very quickly, drag in what help you need, this takes priority, my good friend the Air Commodore waiting an opinion on your abilities.’
I pointed at Fishy. ‘I want armed guards on those chutes at all times, and on the building.’ I pointed at the RAF. ‘Only use people you know and trust.’
They nodded. ‘We got a message from the Air Commodore.’
Fishy unlocked the room, we never had a key, and we began to check kit as the chutes were carried out.
An hour later and the base commander, a colonel, turned up with some of his staff, all looking highly inconvenienced.
I met him near the door and we stepped outside to the narrow gravel track sided by whitewashed pebbles. ‘Sir?’ I asked, squinting in the bright sun.
‘I had my arse kicked before breakfast by the MOD, so I’d damn well like to know why.’
‘First, we were transported here in civvy coaches when the MOD specified a heavily armed escort. Second, our kit – weapons and ammo – was transported here by civvies, no escort, and dumped in a room which we had to find ourselves, and this room was only made available to us to get organised after I threatened to shoot people.’
‘Why the damn panic?’
I loudly stated, ‘Because, sir, the fucking Prime Minister expects me and my team to parachute into the Congo tonight, rescue some hostages and get back out alive!
‘On top of that, our base in the UK was attacked before we left, men with guns and bombs sent by the same people in the Congo we’re supposed to shoot this week. And those same people know we’re here, so you may get a big bomb and a shit load of dead servicemen by the lunchtime. Does that clarify the fucking panic, sir?’
He controlled his shock and anger. ‘It does, yes, and I’ll kick arse myself; this should have been better handled.’ He turned his head. ‘Condition black on the gate. And I want all messages from the MOD about this gone over in the next hour.’
Two men stepped away.
The colonel sighed, frustrated. ‘What else do you need?’
‘Some cooperation, then some luck, sir.’
‘There’s a Hercules here for you apparently, ground staff, and some odd aircraft.’
‘I’ll meet with the pilots soon, check out the aircraft, but we’ve been delayed, our parachutes were tampered with.’
‘Tampered with? You know who?’
‘Yes, we killed the two men back in the UK.’
‘Christ, you’re exactly as I imagined, and around here a twisted ankle is news.’
‘We’ll be gone soon enough, sir, out of your hair.’
‘And ... this black woman?’
‘Mi6. So is the Russian man.’
‘Quite an exotic team you have. How’ll you get there?’
‘HALO drop, sir.’
His eyes widened. ‘HALO, an operational HALO?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jesus. And they know you’re coming?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
He faced a major. ‘Make sure they have all they need, tight security.’
‘Some cold water might be nice, sir,’ I floated.
‘I’ll sort that now,’ the major offered before heading off.
‘And colonel,’ I called. ‘We have an embedded reporter with us, MOD cleared. If you have a press officer, send him.’
‘I’ll be back later,’ the colonel offered, making it sound like a threat, and drove off.
After lunch, Fishy drove myself and Moran to the parachute packers, a busy building full of long benches, guide stations positioned along the benches, suspension lines placed in the groves, risers fixed and clamped, the canopy supported and stretched out. They had forty benches, and a hundred local women to hand, a dozen RAF personnel.
The RAF flight sergeants approached. ‘The four tampered chutes are laid out - no expert did it, quite clumsy, ladies are fixing it now. The replacement lines look thicker, you can notice them if you know chutes, but they are stronger. Rest seem OK, all will be checked soon enough, ladies had nothing to do anyhow.’
I nodded, taking in the rotund local ladies as they looked back at me. ‘We have HALO bag chutes as well, we’ll get them to you, but we’ll not drop today or tomorrow. Got an expert with altimeters?’
‘There is a man here, yes, Engineers.’
‘Send him to me, please. And thanks. Oh, what about spare chutes here?’
‘Hundreds, all set for next month’s exercise, and HALO rigs with the RAF Parachute School detachment here.’
‘We have HALO kit bags, and we brought bags that are similar but in need of sewing. Go take a look at the HALO bags, and rustle me up some copies, please.’
‘We have something, come take a look,’ and he showed us bags that were similar. ‘French used them, left them behind last year.’
‘Got a drogue chute?’
‘Pilot chutes, we call them, and yes.’
‘Altimeter-fired release?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, for Hercules dropped survival packs that never get dropped in the bush.’
‘So make me some HALO bags, altimeter set to 1,000ft, and the Air Commodore gets a note about how damned good you are.’
“A” Squadron’s Air Troop lads had been brought back off a few days leave and ordered to assist, but they were keen to help and not pissed off with us.
When they saw the HALO bags they all got an erection at the same time, questions fired at us, bags examined. They were jealous as hell that they weren’t tagging along.
Morten turned up at 4pm. ‘We’re set-up in a hangar with other RAF personnel, ready if you need us.’
‘For now, get organised, don’t unpack and get comfy, get some exercise, maybe some range work. We’ll know more tomorrow. I’m still to find Signals and Intel.’
‘I saw them, building that looks like all the others around here, past the shop.’
‘So ... I look for that building that looks like all the others?’
He shot me a look.
‘We’ll find them,’ I said with a smile.
With Morten only being gone a minute, Captain Harris wandered in. ‘SAS said you were here.’
‘Right screw up so far,’ I told him. ‘Came from the airport on civvy buses, no guard.’
‘I nabbed a room under air traffic control, as a command centre, big enough.’
‘Good, show me. Captain Moran!’
We drove around, Harris having nabbed a jeep already, and we found his lot getting comfy.
I pointed at a large desk. ‘That’s command central, lay out a map. Go talk to the Pathfinders, always a man here, same for 2 Squadron and the medics. First command meeting at 9am in the morning. Find the pilots, get them here for the meeting. And ... any updated intel?’
‘We have the hostage details from Bob, local militias, numbers assessment. We get updates daily, but they usually say “no change”.’
After the evening meal I organised a run, Rizzo, Dicky and others all knowing the way to run, and I sat poring over maps, thinking, Sandra sat reading a book, Max fiddling with his gear. I finally had the plan right in my mind.
When my sat phone trilled it was Bob. ‘I was just sat looking at the map,’ I told him. ‘Earning my keep.’
‘Well look further southwest, change of plan, Prime Minister is being advised as we speak.’
‘About what?’
‘Twelve white mine workers from Zambia; five Brits, four French, a Belgian, some others. They were snatched from a mine on the border, the bus intercepted.’
‘I know how they feel about buses around here...’
‘So we want them back.’
‘And the other hostages?’
‘Could go for them afterwards.’
‘Simple job, week at most...’ I mocked.
‘Don’t blame me, chat to the Prime Minister. I’m sending details to captain Harris.’
‘And this kidnap gang..?’
‘Quite capable, hundred or so men.’
‘There are not supposed to be capable groups that big!’
‘They’re Zambians, so they weren’t in the list.’
‘Fucking marvellous,’ I sighed. ‘Oh, command meeting at 9am each day. And can I drag in extra people?’
‘Drag in whoever you like, PM is calling it, not me. His blame, his budget.’
Phone down, Sandra asked, ‘Problems?’
‘Yes, a Zambian gang has kidnapped mine workers, south at the border. We’ll go for them first.’
‘I will be involved?’
‘Not likely for this first job.’
‘I do not know that south area.’
I walked next door to the 2 Squadron lads. They stopped and faced me. ‘Change of plans. My Externals, get ready for a live insert, we have a fresh hostage problem, mission has been enlarged. 9am briefing for officers and sergeants.’ I repeated that with the Pathfinders, whose officer wanted to check with his major first.
