by Geoff Wolak
I held my look on him. ‘We both know they’re all dead.’
He nodded, placing down his grenades.
‘It’s Rocko,’ came a whisper. ‘Got a good position. If you make some noise we get them when they come out. And Wilco, I can see six bodies, white people.’
‘Standby everyone. Rizzo, you in position.’
‘Yeah, these fuckers are stoned and high.’
Peeking down into the brightly lit main room, I could see that I was at one end of it, and that it stretched out towards Moran. ‘Five seconds.’
I pulled the pins on two grenades, Moran further along, Mahoney’s dark outline fifteen yards away and knelt facing us, grenades in hand. I nodded, and we dropped, Swifty shoving his in, the blasts soon reverberating, the screams rising. I set automatic, pointed my rifle in, and emptied the magazine before moving to the edge, many rounds cracking out from somewhere.
Magazine swapped, Swifty nearby, I aimed down, men soon running across the exercise yard, and soon picked off. I could see Rizzo and Stretch at the gate, hammering away on automatic.
The Zambians hobbled out, firing off in all directions, easily picked off from above and behind, many firing towards the main gate.
Running out of men to aim at, I shouted for my team to follow me, and we ran to the far end, out and down to the wall. Knelt, we fired into the main room for a few seconds before moving right and out of line of fire, moving around the back of the building.
A rear entrance was lit up, a few men running or hobbling out, picked off as we knelt. I moved down and forwards, to the edge of the door, Zambians running right past me and cut down by the lads behind me.
I peeked inside, seeing men trying to clumsily load weapons, and I sprayed those I could see - left to right and back. Easing back, a nod at Swifty as I changed magazines, and he stood. Kneeling, I spun in and fired long bursts as he fired over the top of me.
Grenade out, I pulled the pin and threw it in, last grenade to follow, cries rising.
A great volley of fire coming from inside sounded like my lads. I transmitted, ‘Rocko, we’re at the back door. Report.’
‘Don’t come in that way, we’re mopping up.’
Blasts reverberated.
‘It’s Rizzo, no fucker alive out here.’
‘Move up, double tap, be careful. Henri, Jacque, cover them.’
I peeked inside as the firing from Rocko’s team continued, but a minute later it was obvious that they were double-tapping.
‘It’s Rocko, no movement left.’
I eased inside to a grey concrete pillar and knelt, Swifty to the opposite pillar, a few bodies double-tapped. A moan, and I put a round into the man’s head.
Rocko, now fifteen yards away, pointed at a side room, so I edged along the wall towards it, two Zambians finished off on the way. Peeking around the corner, I could see the room split in two, weapons stashes in one, bodies in another, one alive.
‘One is still alive,’ I shouted. ‘Cover me.’
Rocko moved closer as I inched inside. Seeing movement and a black face I put three rounds into the man and he slammed into the wall and slid down it, a blood stain left. He had been the last man standing.
I rushed to the wounded white man as he sat against a bare grey concrete wall, his face bloodied; he had taken a beating, or ten. ‘Can you hear me?’
An eye opened, but that was all he could muster.
I checked his pulse, got down and listened to his chest, movement heard behind me, the team coming in. ‘Collapsed lung, I’ll need to drain it.’
I clicked on the radio. ‘Someone try and get a truck or jeep started. Send someone for our lorry. Double tap and check them all, then strip the beds for blankets, we’re taking the hostage’s bodies back. And check the bodies for a pulse, you never know.’
I eased the man down as cracks sounded out, Swifty at my side, my first aid kit out, and I inserted a drain into his chest, making him wince, but after I drained that lung he breathed better, and became lucid.
‘Take it easy,’ I told him. ‘We’ll get you out.’
‘My kids...’ he rasped out.
‘You’ll see them again, just relax.’
When he was stable enough - a few cuts stitched, some cream in, a few pads on - we eased him onto a detached wooden door and carried him out, Moran and Mahoney dragging bodies in blankets.
‘Eleven bodies,’ Moran noted. ‘That’s all of them. None with a pulse.’
With the wooden door - and its wounded man - placed into a jeep with its engine running, I lifted my phone, observing the bodies being loaded to our truck.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco. We got one hostage, but he may not make it, rest were dead before we got here, all beaten to death. We’re bringing back the bodies, the kidnappers are ... sleeping. Update London.’
‘Will do. Are you withdrawing now?’
‘Like fuck, we got one half-dead hostage, so we’ll look for others whilst we’re here, then go north. Send the Externals and the medics to the strip tomorrow, land by Hercules - it’s a good strip. Oh, and a good supply of body bags, some plastic sheets. Wilco out.’
Mounted up we drove out the gate, a quick look back, and we waited down the road. Stretch and Rizzo came running, clambering into the jeep before we sped away, the blast registering thirty seconds later, and everyone in a ten mile radius would have heard it.
Back at the strip, found after doubling back and looking for the track, we jumped down, George waiting.
I pointed at the jeep. ‘This is for you when we leave, a gift.’
‘For me?’ he approached the stolen jeep. ‘You is good good, yes.’ He observed as the wounded man was brought out, still on his wooden door stretcher, and placed on a table.
I checked the man’s vitals and drained his chest again.
He turned his head. ‘My brother..?’
I stared down at him. ‘Was he a hostage as well?’
‘Yes,’ he rasped out.
‘We have his body, he’s dead I’m afraid.’
‘Oh no...’ He started sobbing.
‘Travis, sit here, and watch his breathing, check every minute.’
The pilots closed in and took in the former hostage. ‘What happened?’
‘Hostages were all beaten to death, this one was lucky,’ I began. ‘We got here two days too late.’
‘They only kidnapped them three days ago!’
‘Exactly; there never was going to be a ransom.’
I sat away from the rest and called Harris, who put Max on, the story dictated for him. Finally I stepped across to our hostage. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Peter ... Fudgely. I know, odd name.’ I gave Max the details. ‘Peter, what’s your home phone number?’ I put in ‘0044’ and the digits, a woman answering, sounding very tired. I placed the phone to his face.
‘Sue..?’ He broke down crying as we observed, a few sentences exchanged. I finally lifted the phone to my ear. ‘This is Captain Wilco, SAS, we just rescued your husband, but I’m afraid his brother didn’t make it.’
‘His wife is here, sat with me, and the kids.’
‘We’ll bring his body back, and Sue – your husband is in a bad way, internal bleeding, he might not make it. Fingers crossed.’ I cut the call and accepted some food, sitting with my team.
‘Poor fucker,’ Swifty let out.
‘Poor family,’ I said. ‘House was full of all the relatives, kids an all.’
Half an hour later my sat phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob, I got the report. What’ll you do now?’
‘Don’t want to leave just yet, this is hardly a good result.’
‘Not your fault.’
‘No, but there must be other hostages, so maybe a happy ending, and then there’re the original hostages up north.’
‘I’ll check the latest intel. Oh, that ex-SAS man, Stan or Rice, they found his body in Essex, beaten to death, bleach down his throat and in his eyes.’
‘Someone had a score to settle, so don’t investigate too hard.’
‘We’ll cover it up if it was Mally and his mates.’
‘If it was them, then it shows they’re on our side ... and willing to go all out for us.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose.’
‘I’ll give you an update tomorrow.’ Phone down, I said, ‘Rocko, Rizzo, set a two man stag, rest sleep in the plane. And move our hostage to the plane – gently.’
An hour later, as men started to settle, taking it in turns to watch our hostage, my phone trilled; Captain Harris.
‘Wilco, that Hercules came back, minor fault, but they loaded the second one and it will be with you an hour after dawn.’
‘Sounds good, we’re staying a while. Have trauma medics on it, IV drip’s, they’ll bring back a man with internal bleeding – if he survives the night. ’
‘Could you get him out on the Skyvan?’
‘Not with one engine no. Might get the second engine going tomorrow.’
‘Local hospitals?’
‘Do you know any good ones that would take him, and where they are?’ I testily asked.
‘Not within fifty miles, no.’
‘Exactly, and we’d have to drive him, risking a roadblock ambush.’
‘OK, nothing we can do, you’re a long way off. Hercules will take off soon. Oh, what about the lady and the Russian?’
‘Send them, they can earn their keep.’
After thanking George, his kids now in bed in their shack, I settled down, due to be on stag at 4am. I checked our hostage, sat him up and gave him water, then let him sleep.
It was a tight squeeze in the Skyvan with us all in it, a few electing to sleep sat-up, and we tried to get comfy.
Men going on stag and returning woke me a few times, but I got a few hours kip, finally woken by Slade. Outside, in the still warm night, I took a pee, the animals of the night still calling to each other.
After a drink and some chocolate I wandered across the strip, listening for intruders, and took a meandering stroll right up to the main road and back, reflecting on how comfortable I felt in deep dark jungle – albeit with a handy cafe nearby.
I observed the black night turn dark blue, a mist around the trees much like Sierra Leone, a few birds off early-morning hunting for juicy grubs. Stood there, a large snake slithered past me and towards the west. I would have to check the Skyvan for snakes before it left here, if it ever left here.
It grew lighter minute by minute, and when I turned I saw the hostage on his feet, so I ran in.
Slade had him. ‘He insisted on a pee outside,’ he whispered.
I led the hostage to a tree, and he leant against it and peed.
‘Does it hurt when you piss?’ I asked.
‘No.’
I clicked on my pen torch. ‘That’s a good sign, and no blood in the piss.’
Slade handed our hostage a bottle of water, and the man drank some, some poured over his face, the dried blood washed off. He was starting to look human again.
‘Plane will be arriving soon, we’ll have you out on it,’ I assured him.
‘Thanks. Lot of effort for us.’
‘It’s what we do.’
He nodded. ‘Where’s my brother?’
‘In the truck. You don’t want to look, he’s all mashed up, like you.’
He looked me in the eye. ‘I’d like to say goodbye.’
‘You can do that in Kenya, they’ll wash the body.’ I took out my phone, and recalled a number, and handed it over.
‘Sue, it’s me.’ He stepped away, talking quietly, and five minutes later he handed it back, clutching his chest, my drain-tap still in.
‘She OK?’ I asked.
‘Well ... fraught, got little sleep, my sister-in-law is there with her kids. Was going to be my last year away, this year, so I guess she’ll kill me if I try and come back.’
‘You came close, a moment to reflect upon.’
‘I read about you in the papers. Odd to meet you. I won’t condemn you, but you’re a cold one. And your men, they make jokes after something like that.’
‘During the Second World War ... soldiers fought for years, but then went homes to wives and families. Why should we be any different?’
He took a moment, nodded, and Slade helped him back.
As the light came up, George’s extended family stirred, and a cock crowed. Fire lit, a local woman got some water boiling, and as I watched she broke the necks of a few unlucky chickens that had previously been around her feet, her kids tearing at the birds and pulling feathers off, making a game of it.
I heard a distant drone, and my radio crackled into life. ‘Hercules for Wilco.’
‘Wilco here, go ahead.’
‘We’re approaching the strip, what are conditions on the ground?’
‘Kettle is boiling, food is on, zero wind, no hostiles.’
‘Hercules for Wilco, we’ll fly-by first.’
‘I see you.’
They came in low and banked over, taking a good look at the strip.
‘Hercules for Wilco, what’s the condition of that strip?’
‘It’s wide, it’s long, and it’s solid – no potholes or rocks. But you may have a problem turning. Truck here that could push you back if needed.’
‘Hercules for Wilco, it looks long enough. Inbound now.’
The lads stood on the edge of the strip, the Hercules edging lower, it’s gear down, and when it looked like it may clip the far trees it just skimmed over them and touched down, a roar as the reverse thrust kicked in. Stopping, it started to move backwards a few yards before halting, and it seemed to have landed in a hundred yards.
Ramp down, the Externals ran off. I waved them over as RAF crew stepped down with heavy bags between two people, the Salties joining my lads. Sandra stepped down, Henri greeting her, Sasha tooled up and ready for war, smiling as he approached me.
‘We are back in the jungle,’ he noted.
I smiled. ‘That we are.’ Loudly I shouted, ‘OK, lower your weapons, fingers off triggers, no danger here for now. Right, all of you, over there, get the parachutes and bags, and back on the plane. Move it.’
‘There are chutes for you on the Hercules,’ someone shouted, so I went to look.
Morten came around to me, two men behind with a stretcher, our hostage on his feet and peering out the back of the Skyvan. Stretcher down, he lay down as requested, four men carrying him, Max taking snaps.
‘Morten, he pisses OK with no blood, a good sign!’ I shouted above the roar of the Hercules.
Morten nodded as he escorted the stretcher back, now quite a pile of kit on the side of the runway. Body bags were carried to us, the medics directed to the back of the truck, a few of my lads helping as the Externals carried parachutes and HALO bags around to the rear of the waiting Hercules.
Many of us assisted with lugging bodies – Max getting in the way as he took snaps, all of the bodies stacked up onto black plastic in the rear of the hold, and I could now see our hostage with a drip in his arm, medics knelt over him.
Bodies loaded, chutes loaded, I gave the crewman a thumbs-up and moved aside, George stood wide-eyed at all the activity. The Hercules went full power on four engines for thirty seconds, kicked off the brakes and powered down the strip, lifting steeply and missing the trees at the far end, a gentle bank to the right, and it fell quiet again.
‘Mister Morten, set camp in the trees, pick a spot. Mister Haines, set a perimeter and patrols, but be very careful who you shoot, locals are friendly for the most part.’
He dispatched men as others grabbed kit.
‘Pathfinders,’ I called as they stood in a group. ‘Make a happy home, ponchos down, flysheet up, set a stag on your kit – the local kids may play with it or have it away.’
‘Hostiles nearby, Boss?’ one asked.
‘Not close by, and we killed all the hostage-takers last night.’
‘How’d the drop go?’
> ‘Worked like a charm,’ I commended. ‘As we practised it, but the second bag nearly landed on my head.’ I stepped to Morten. ‘You have cash?’
‘Yes, always bring it on these things.’
He handed me a thousand US dollars. ‘See if the local boys can fix an engine,’ I said with a sigh.
George took the money, very happy, and had his mate start on the engine, ladders placed next to it, a pilot asked to sit at the controls. As breakfast was cooking, the place a hive of activity, I observed as the engineer shouted instructions.
The pilots started the left engine on the third attempt, but the right failed to start - as expected. Something was detached, inspected and re-attached, a thumbs-up given. The stubborn engine turned over, but would not start.
Part out again, cleaned and scraped again, it was put back. The engine sputtered into life and then died just as quickly. Part removed, the local took it to a table to work on, the Skyvan shut down.
I called Harris. ‘Hercules is away safely, men down, kit down, bodies removed. That wounded guy survived the night, so he should make it.’
‘Good to hear. What’s the plan?’
‘Plan is ... that you find me some hostages around here, and sharpish; some good quick publicity then we fuck off home.’
‘I’ll check the latest reports and get back to you.’
Sandra started chatting to George in a local tongue.
Since Sandra was in combats, I said, ‘George, does your wife have any clothes that would fit this lady?’
He laughed so hard he fell over, those nearby in hysterics, George’s very large wife not in earshot thankfully as Sandra stood with hands on hips.
‘OK, George, maybe something from the town, eh.’
After breakfast, which was chicken again, Bob called.
‘You up early?’ I asked him, Sandra now helping to cook.
‘It’s 7am here, so not that early. How’s it going?’
‘Hercules took the bodies, and our live one looks like he might make it. Externals are down, medics are down, so they get some experience again. I’m waiting on Intel.’
‘I have a team on it, French assisting. The kidnappers?’
‘Dead to a man, a big blast at their base, a jeep stolen away. Oh, I let the wounded man call his family, might get some shit for that, but he was touch and go and I needed him positive to survive the night.’
