by Geoff Wolak
I jogged to the command centre, the duty officer showing me the faxes. I took a copy back.
When my lot crunched gravel outside, I stepped out to them. ‘Listen up, gather around.’
They panted, hands on hips, faces shiny. ‘There’s been a fresh kidnapping, further south, an enlarged mission, we’ll go after them. Externals are now in, maybe a Hercules touchdown. Good night’s kip, plenty of water, we may leave tomorrow night.’
Sat on my bed, the lads washing, I matched coordinates and found the mine, the road across the border, the town in question – and it had an airstrip. There was also an airstrip ten miles away, in the middle of nowhere.
A cleaned-up Moran sat with me. ‘How’s it look?’
I put a finger on the map. ‘That small town is where the hostages are, airstrip at the edge of the town, another airstrip here, ten miles away – looks abandoned.’
‘Then that’s our spot, night landing by Skyvan.’
I made a face. ‘We have more men to consider, and that runway may have shit all over it. Some have old lorries on them to stop anyone landing. So ... how about we HALO onto that airfield, make an assessment, bring the rest of the team in. Move on the town, make an assessment, get the hostages, and use their own runway for a pickup.’
‘Would have to secure that runway,’ he cautioned. ‘Or the plane gets shot at.’
‘Alternate is to steal vehicles and get the hostages to this other airstrip.’
‘And if it’s an abort?’ Moran asked.
‘Mi8 pickup, or a long walk. Here, thirty miles, good airstrip, no hostiles, Skyvan will park there, Mi8 pilots ready.’
‘Could drive there. What are the roads like?’
‘Shite, could be washed out, bandits around.’
‘So first it’s a drop in, assessment made, then an assessment on the town, several abort positions.’
I nodded. ‘Stage by careful stage.’
At 9am the command room was bustling, Max listening in, as well as a sour-faced major representing the base commander.
Moran was here, but I left the rest of the lads to check kit – and to check our parachutes. I had requested Major Chalmers, and he did not look happy, he looked like he had gotten his kick up the arse. Fishy was here at my request, plus the RAF pilots trained on the Skyvan and the Mi8, lots of SIGINT staff, Morten, and an RAF Squadron Leader I didn’t know – and our odd Pathfinders officer.
‘OK,’ I began. ‘We have fresh orders. A group of twelve western workers were kidnapped from the Zambian side of the Zambian border, now being held in the Congo, here.’ I put a finger on the map. ‘The small town they’re in has a working airstrip, so that may be of use. Ten miles away northeast is another airstrip, the preferred entry point, but they tend to dig up such airstrips or put obstacles on them.
‘Plan is to HALO drop at night on that airstrip, twelve of my men, and make an assessment of the strip. We may abort at that point, we might call in an aircraft if we have broken legs. Alternate pick-up could be made by helicopter.
‘If all goes well, we move to the town and make an assessment. After that assessment we may ask for a larger force to be brought in by aircraft or even by parachute. That second line force is my last four men, eight Pathfinders, and nine 2 Squadron men, who are our rescue party if something should go wrong.
‘If needs be, then I ask that Major Chalmers has two teams ready on standby to come rescue us. Mister Morten, Hercules sent out for hostages should have medics on board, trauma kits, and when we land with hostages they’ll need to be looked over. Now, how many Hercules do we have?’
The Squadron Leader said, ‘There are two here, one tasked to support you.’
‘Ask about the second one. As for the first one - I’d want it loitering, medics and rescue team on board, it would not set down.’
‘I’ll ask,’ he offered.
‘Skyvan pilots, you would fly us to Tanzania, refuel and on – second airstrip available further south, HALO drop, then you wait in the Congo at a safe location fully fuelled. All of you must be aware that the Tanzanians don’t want to see soldiers walking around at that airfield – it’s used for tourists, so it’s not an FOB as such.’
‘Civvy clothes?’ the pilots asked.
‘Yes. ID on you, pistols tucked away, survival gear in the back, sat phones in case you go down. And if you go down in the Congo you’ll be kidnapped and sold back. Plan is that we have a Hercules loitering, rescue team and medics – it could even set down on a road.
‘But, if the RAF wanted to be really professional, they could have chutes on board, and could drop two medics and two soldiers on top of a crashed Skyvan.’
They exchanged looks.
‘So, today we’ll have a wider group practise HALO with us, just in case. Major Chalmers, I’d like your Air Troop to all try a drop with our new kit.’
‘If they’re happy with the new kit.’
‘They all got erections when they saw it yesterday.’
A few people grinned towards Major Chalmers.
‘Pathfinders and 2 Squadron, you’d practise as well, and maybe someone has a helmet camera to hand so that Max here has something to send out after the job is a success. Max, if we screw it up ... no story.’
They laughed.
‘I know how it works,’ Max quipped.
‘OK, Skyvan pilots check your ride, please, be ready for some local HALO action in an hour or so.’ I faced the major from the base commander’s staff. ‘Any air traffic to worry about?’
‘Not today.’
‘And we can drop over the airfield?’
‘Not normally, no.’
‘I’ll take that as yes.’
They laughed.
‘Pilots, work out wind speed and direction, and a drop point. From 14,000 feet, six mile an hour wind pushes us under half a mile. When the kitbag chute opens, at 1,000ft supposedly, it drifts at current wind speed for sixty seconds. Get a calculator. My men can turn, the bag can’t. Right, any questions, please?’
‘When will you go?’ the RAF asked.
‘If today goes well we’ll go tomorrow, aim being to HALO after dark, but it doesn’t matter quite when after dark – it doesn’t need to be when the enemy is asleep because there’s no one at the strip in question according to Intel. We just don’t want to be seen.’
‘And the Hercules would loiter?’ they asked.
‘Ideally yes, but we’d go without it.’
‘Hercules would not need to refuel in Tanzania,’ they pointed out.
I nodded. ‘Aim would be that the Hercules is overhead about the time of insert, and that it turns around when the Skyvan turns back. Rescue is for downed RAF pilots more than my lot, we can walk out or steal a car. Oh, Skyvan pilots, wear chutes – just in case, or take them.’
An hour so later and my nominated eleven men were putting on chutes next to the Skyvan, engines turning, bags soon loaded, positions taken. The difference now was that we had oxygen masks with no oxygen – just a hole where the hose would have been, so that we could use the radios. A thumbs-up to the pilot and we took off in hardly twenty yards, climbing and circling.
I checked the helmet camera handed over by Fishy and clicked on my radio. ‘No one break a leg, lots of fuckers down there watching us.’
‘Could be embarrassing, aborting now,’ Moran noted.
I transmitted, ‘OK, lead man – that’s me - waits the tone, says three-two-one-break, then counts one-thousand onwards, and each man breaks at the agreed count, lead man last. Simple.’
We all got a good appreciation of the base from the Skyvan, as well as Mount Kenya to the north, a ring of cloud around the peak.
Lights red, and we stood up and moved to the rear, the ramp-door coming up, and we shuffled further back, the bag nudged along. I set my radio to permanent transmit and turned on the camera, and it would take a snap every twenty seconds for two minutes.
Green on, and we slowly fell out the back as a tight group. But Swifty manag
‘Nice of you to join us,’ I shouted, sounding nasal to myself.
Looking down, I could see the runway, as well as the distant training ranges, a spectacular view from up here.
The tones began all too soon, and on the continuous tone I said, ‘Three ... two ... one ... break,’ and we all let go and backed away. ‘One thousand ... two thousand ... three thousand ... four thousand ... pull.’ And I pulled my own release, the bag left behind.
A jerk, canopy open and no rips, lines in good order, I looked down after grabbing the toggles whilst not seeing the bag. It opened late, quite low, but at least it did not hit the ground.
‘That was low,’ Swifty transmitted.
‘Yep,’ I agreed. ‘Follow me.’
As we descended we could hear the crackle of someone else using the radios, and we followed the bag as it hit red dirt at the north-eastern end of the runway. I touched down next to it, a jeep approaching, Swifty behind me.
Chutes collected up, we looked each other over, happy there were no screw-ups, then stood and observed as the next team came down, their chutes already open, the bag’s chute bursting into life.
Kit off and in the jeep, the next bag wanted to hit our jeep, and scared the driver as we ran a few yards, laughing.
Back at the hangars we met the crowd, many of those to be involved in the Congo operation having stood and observed. The Skyvan gently touched down.
‘OK,’ I called. ‘Pathfinders, you’re up, two teams plus my Salties. 2 Squadron, three teams if you have the men.’
‘And us?’ the Air Troop asked.
‘If there’s time, and bags ready – and your major is happy of course.’
‘We have the French bags, suitable load – and bollocks to the major.’
‘Then please drop.’ I handed them back the helmet camera.
By 5pm the poor old Skyvan had been up four times, and would perform night drops later, chutes being re-packed by the local ladies.
SIGINT had nothing new, so we were still a go, to be confirmed at the morning meeting.
I called the Major. ‘Wilco here, sir, having fun in the sun.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘We got a HALO drop in today, everyone did, night drops tonight, then we’ll make a choice in the morning, but it looks OK. You heard about the change of plans?’
‘Yes.’
‘How’re my Lone Wolves?’
‘Been on the range all day, after a run this morning. Set for that pattern all week, lesson tonight is judging distance accurately, RSM here tomorrow. Oh, TA major is here.’
‘I upset your mate Major Chalmers.’
‘I know, he called me, but he should have been better prepared, and no escort from the airport was damned risky given that it’s you.’
‘Anything new on the investigation, sir?’
‘Was all over the news, but they had it down as Leominster, which is fine. Police have been back a few times, statements from the MPs. Villagers know about it, but the pub landlord hasn’t banned us yet. Crab and Duffy wear pistols on hips, just in case.’
‘Should be sorted soon, sir.’
‘And Mally?’ the Major asked.
‘Set-up to take a fall.’
‘I know that man, Stan, Sergeant Rice his name. What a thing to do.’
‘Money, sir, a great temptation.’
Bob called after our evening meal and I stepped out. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘I got everyone to make a HALO drop today, no injuries, all went very well, too well, something will go wrong soon enough.’
‘And the plan?’
‘We HALO practise tonight, make a decision in the morning.’
‘Chat tomorrow then.’
For the night drop we had to test our lights, but those green lights were not fitted to helmets but the top of the chest. The bag light worked OK to start, but shut down after the chute had deployed.
As I drifted down, people were asking, ‘Where’s the fucking bag?’
We landed on the apron, soon asking, ‘Anyone seen our bag?’
‘It landed behind Air Traffic Control,’ came the answer. ‘And they ain’t happy.’
Kit off, the bag was brought around to us, unhappy officers complaining.
The second bag was also lost, but hit in front of Air Traffic Control, the third bag hitting the runway. We needed better lights – and better aim.
The Pathfinders were warned, and so stuck a torch on their bag, to be turned on before their drop. The first Pathfinder team kept sight of their bag as it landed east, the second team wondering where their torch had gone as it smashed into a million pieces on the apron, scaring a few people nearby.
For the 2 Squadron teams, torches were securely fitted, as well as some tin foil, and they landed without a hitch.
At the 9am briefing, the same faces in attendance, I began, ‘OK, there were a few hitches last night, don’t whinge, that exercise will not be repeated. Lights on the bag were a problem, fixed now – we think.
‘Since we managed all that yesterday with no broken bones, we’ll leave today. So, Skyvan flight time to Mwanza is under two hours, yes?’
‘Yes, depending on wind, it’s a flying brick.’
‘And we fly southwest now, no need to overfly Rwanda, three hours, to an airstrip near -’ I checked the map. ‘- Mpanda for the next refuel, then into the Congo, a straight leg of three hours.’
‘Doesn’t give us much loiter time,’ the Skyvan pilots stated.
‘Target area will be dark anyhow, no lights. We risk it. Straight line, drop, ten minute loiter – wait a radio signal, and you turn back to land near Kabalo, friendly rebels waiting for you, fuel to hand, some local home brew to drink. Mi8 should be there, so the Mi8 pilot pair can check it out.’
‘And the Hercules?’
‘Aim is that when the Skyvan crosses the lake the Hercules is half an hour behind and catches up at the point of release, chat on the radio. Skyvan turns back, so does the Hercules, but the Hercules does a loop till the Skyvan is near Kabalo, then the Hercules departs northeast. Does the Hercules have the range?’
‘Yes, it’s about eight hundred miles there, same back, plenty of margin for error, a few alternate airfields to set down at.’
‘On the Hercules,’ I began, ‘should be my four spare lads with chutes, four medics with chutes, crew should have chutes, survival gear, weapons – just in case. If all goes well they simply return.’
‘Why not drop from the Hercules?’
‘We could do, but the Skyvan needs to be there anyhow, and if we’re wounded on landing there’s a chance to land the Skyvan with fires set, less so for a Hercules. I don’t want to bend a Hercules and have to explain it.’
‘Neither do we,’ came firmly back.
‘Hercules crew: sat phone to hand, make sure you have my number.’
I went and found Dicky and the Salties in the kit room. ‘Dicky, you and the Salties, on the Hercules, rescue team, chutes and kit. If the Skyvan goes down, you go down after it. Go find the Hercules pilots, present yourself, don’t let them go without you.’
He curled a lip. ‘Nice comfortable Hercules.’
‘Better than that fucking Skyvan, buddy. Curl up and sleep.’
Kit was checked and re-checked, then checked some more, cold water downed, many wishing us well as we headed to the aircraft, Dicky, Lassey and the Salties walking with us. Stood on the tarmac, I used my sat phone to call Capt Harris – stood now just ten yards away. All was set, the Hercules crew stood watching us leave.
Twelve of us sat in the back of the Skyvan, which smelt like stale armpits, a few lads having taken bottles of water. The two Mi8 pilots sat on the single row of seats up front, and they looked a lot like spies about to parachute somewhere, sunglasses on. And we were all uncomfortable in the chutes. I had grabbed numerous ration packs, so we would not be hungry on the long journey.
This dated Skyvan had just the one row of seats up front, six seats, then just benches made from flimsy aluminium tubes, green netting holding it all together, just about space for us all with the HALO bags.
The engines rumbled into life with a burst of smoke – not a good sign, we taxied around, and I sat wondering who would piss first; we had plastic bottles to piss into. A pause at the end of the runway, power on, and we were off, all hoping for no screw-ups, the base soon left behind. I pulled out my paperback and found my page, one of the Mi8 pilots copying me, Rizzo asleep already.
Crossing a lake and marsh land we peered down, and approaching Mwanza the pilot signalled me forwards. I put the spare headsets on whilst being curiously observed by the two Mi8 pilots in their sunglasses.
The pilot turned his head. ‘We made good time, and hardly used any fuel, so how about we go on?’
‘Fine. We call it in when we leave Mpanda, but I’ll update them now. Say ... one hour ahead of schedule?’
‘Yes, that should do it.’
Sat down, I took out my sat phone and dialled Captain Harris. ‘You hear me?’ I shouted.
‘Just about.’
‘We’re not landing at Mwanza ... we have lots of fuel, going straight on. Tell the Hercules pilots – we are one hour ahead of schedule.’
‘Got that. Good luck.’
Phone away, I wrote a note about the unscheduled change and passed it around.
My jump team would be Swifty, Moran and Mahoney. Second team would we Rocko, Slider, Travis, Slade. Third team would be Rizzo, Stretch, Henri, Jacque. And Henri was first to pee in the bottle, trying to stand as he did so and wobbling.
Swifty wrote a note. ‘If we all use that bottle, Rizzo will give us a dose,’ making us laugh.
The time dragged on, and on, and I drifted off to sleep more than once, as did many, the drone of the engines helping us rest. I even swapped paperbacks with one of the Mi8 pilots.
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