by Geoff Wolak
Men smiled.
I faced the French major. ‘You can insert by truck, helicopter, or parachute in. By truck there is a danger of being stopped at a roadblock and reported, plus casualties. One option ... is a small airstrip near the road in question. My men can HALO in, secure it, and your transport planes land.’
‘That would be best,’ he agreed.
‘And that strip can be used to extract the hostages,’ I pointed out.
‘Oui.’
‘Then ... my men will drop at midnight, call in your transports at dawn if all goes well.’
He nodded.
‘You will have a three mile walk to the road, jungle, but not difficult, many tracks and roads. Convoy is due midday. RAF, you will extract the SAS at the strip at the same time as the hostages are removed, returning later for the force attacking the fortified position – timing to be adjusted, wait the signal.’
The French major began, ‘To stop the convoy we do not need so many men, perhaps thirty.’
‘The rest could join the attack on the fortified position.’
‘Oui. And we take the captured truck to drive the hostages, maybe wounded men.’
I nodded. ‘Mister Morten, medics on the French transports and ours.’
He nodded.
‘RAF Regiment, my Externals will come with us, rest on standby to come out if necessary, some left to protect this base. Hercules pilots, you’ll have many men aboard – French and British, you’ll loiter around noon, and if the signal is a go then you drop those men at a certain strip, drop back for the hostages and the SAS regulars at the French strip.’
They nodded.
‘Skyvan pilots, you’ll HALO drop an advanced team at that strip, second team near the fortified position. Mi8 pilots, you’ll fly off to George’s strip, refuel, on to the second strip after it’s secured, thereafter wait for medivac. First leg you’ve already done, second leg is eighty miles.’
They nodded.
‘Have say ... four soldiers in the back and two medics.’ I took a breath. ‘So, first teams leave around midnight, Skyvan to make several drops, and we wait their feedback. If something goes wrong ... we only have one chance to get the hostages, so we may drop on the airstrip they’re headed to and attack as a last resort. I will brief each individual team today.’
‘Weather?’ Captain Harris asked.
‘What’s the forecast?’ I asked him.
He raised a sheet. ‘Weather here is poor tonight, mixed tomorrow. Over the drop zone it’s light cloud at five thousand, wind a little high for a drop, but not terrible.’
‘We go anyhow, those hostages have one chance. Thank you everyone.’
At the “A” Squadron billet I called them all in. ‘OK, live operation tonight, a big one, and a very important one; you’ll all be involved.
‘Your job is to HALO onto a strip and secure it, French transports will land when you give the OK signal. You’ll hold that strip till around 2pm the next day, extraction by Hercules. If there are bad boys in the area, you kill them and hold.’
‘We can do that,’ one said.
‘Local opposition?’ a man asked.
‘As good as you’ve encountered so far,’ I quipped, and they laughed.
‘We’ll paste them,’ they offered.
‘Check kit, get chutes – we have a good supply still, make a plan, look at the map, you leave at 11pm. But some of you may have to use our civvy chutes.’
‘We practised with them,’ Fishy assured me.
‘They’re better,’ someone shouted.
Upstairs, I called everyone together. ‘OK, tonight we have a large operation, everyone involved – not you Sandra.’
‘Why not!’
I let out a sigh. ‘You are not a soldier.’
‘I can fight.’
‘You want to parachute in?’
‘Well ... no. But there must be something to do.’
‘Let me have a think. OK, Sasha – and your gang from the Wolves, you static line drop in and observe a road. Create a small roadblock to slow them down a little, a broken car, and at midday a convoy will pass.
‘Let it pass, but confirm if it has any hostages – white faces, and how many. After the convoy has passed you move north unseen, ready to join an attack on a fortified base. Make sure you have a sat phone and my number, as well as the number of Captain Harris here.
‘Rocko, Rizzo, Salties, you’ll drop on an airstrip and secure it, static line probably because the regulars will need the freefall chutes. Take some Pathfinders along to make up numbers. If something goes wrong we’ll have more men on standby. If all goes well then the Hercules will land a large force after midday.
‘Swifty, Moran, Mahoney – with me. We’ll HALO near the fortified position and have a look, make an assessment, report a convoy leaving, call in the attack or abort. Rest of you go on the Hercules with the Wolves.’
‘The Wolves?’ Moran queried.
‘Why not, they have to learn,’ I said.
‘On a live attack?’ Moran challenged.
‘They’re good enough, and they won’t be in the thick of it. Besides, they may come and rescue our arses when we professionals get into trouble.’
‘We on the main attack?’ Rizzo asked.
‘Yes, you leave that strip behind. OK, check kit, make some plans, plenty of food then some rest, off around 11pm.’
I jogged over to the Wolves, rifle in hand, the clouds threatening rain, and I interrupted their rifle practise. ‘Gather around.’ I waited. ‘Tomorrow you’ll join a live job, a large-scale attack; I think you’re up to it. Sergeant Crab, Duffy, you’ll lead two teams of eight, Russian speakers drop in with Sasha tonight.
‘Check kit today, stock up rations and water, plenty of ammo, be ready for tomorrow around noon, good night’s rest. You’ll go by Hercules, but no para drop for most of you. Today, team work on the range.’
‘RPGs?’ Duffy asked.
‘Any left?’
‘Aye, twenty.’
‘Take them. And the Russian machineguns?’
‘Four of them, plenty of ammo.’
‘Yes, take them.’
At the hangar, I grabbed Haines and his fellow officer. ‘Externals come by Hercules tomorrow, with the Wolves and the rest of my lot. But put two of your men on the Mi8, two French lads. Ask for them later. And make sure we have enough men here to watch the wire.’
Next was Morten. He called his medics in. ‘Listen up,’ I began. ‘Tomorrow you’ll be split into small teams, at least two of you fully kitted on each French transport. Don’t send anyone on the Hercules delivering my lot, but do send people when they come to pick us up. Triage area back here for wounded hostages and men. You’ve all done this before, so it’s routine.’
I chatted to the Hercules pilots, the Skyvan pilots and the Mi8 pair, all clear as to what was to happen – which might just be aborted anyhow. I stood chatting to them, and it turned out the Mi8 pair had been taken off regular flying back in the UK and were now desk bound, hence volunteering for this. They also had less than a year left to serve.
Max came and found me. ‘Where’d you want me?’
I stopped to stare at him. ‘Since when have you asked my permission?’
He lowered his head a little. ‘My being here is kinda implied,’ he said with a shrug.
‘You can be on a French transport picking up wounded and hostages, or come on the attack, but not both – because they’re at the same time.’
‘Oh. Er ... I’ll think about that.’ And he sloped off.
Henri approached me in the hangar. ‘I go with my unit?’
‘We need someone good to lead them,’ I quipped, making him smile. ‘Make sure that you block that road at a corner, hit the drivers, guards in the back, not the hostages. No one ... fires on automatic.’
He nodded.
When my phone trilled it was Bob. ‘All set?’ he asked.
‘We have a plan, they know what to do, so all we need now is some
luck, and for that twat Jamal to stick to his word.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘I won’t risk the hostages with a frontal assault. We’ll have to wait an opportunity; big training exercise for nothing.’
Sandra came and found me, boobs poking out her t-shirt as usual, men trying not to look. ‘I do not have something to do with this fight.’
I eased back, trying not to look at her boobs. ‘You can ... go with the French, plain clothes. They will stop a convoy, you can pretend a car is broken down. How’s that?’
‘Fine, I do it.’ Sandra and her boobs wobbled out, looks exchanged by the men.
I stuffed down two tins of meat, had a good drink of water, and with the sun high I got some sleep with the others, the afternoon damn warm and humid.
I was awake around 8pm, stretching, men stirring. After sitting on the toilet for ten minutes, and glad that I had done, I washed, checked my kit, and headed out as men got ready.
“A” Squadron had stacked up their kit and parachutes, and had then slept in full gear almost, now seen to be getting ready.
As I headed to the command room I could see groups of French soldiers jogging in squads, and in the command room I accepted a coffee, asking for spare batteries for my sat phone.
‘Any last minute changes?’ the Major asked, stood in a short-sleeved green shirt like many others.
I made a face. ‘Nothing so far. And we may just abort.’
‘And the refuelling for the Mi8?’
I lifted a finger then punched in a number. ‘George, Captain Wilco. How you doing, my man ... good, good ... listen, you have aviation fuel ... good, I’m sending you a helicopter late tonight ... yeah, same one ... refuel it for me ... they’ll have cash ... how much you need ... OK, good man. Expect it later.’
Phone down, I said to Bradley, ‘Just two thousand dollars, he got trucks and guns from us.’
‘Plenty of cash here.’
I eased back in my seat. ‘You know ... those Mi8 pilots are deskbound now, so to the Skyvan pilots. Could make better use of them in the future, sir.’
‘They’d love the action rather than a desk,’ the Major agreed.
Samantha approached me. ‘You’re taking the Wolves...’
‘You are?’ Bradley loudly asked.
‘Yes, because we need the firepower, and they need the experience. But I’ll have them stand off and snipe for me, no storming of buildings. And some have already seen action and did well enough.’
‘Be a good test,’ Samantha agreed, the Major shooting her a look. ‘I’ll interview them after.’
‘Test and assess, sir,’ I told the Major.
‘Or bring one back in a bag,’ he countered with.
I said, ‘After the programme, they’re free to do jobs for Bob. This will be safer, men around them, support to hand, sir.’
‘Marginally safer. Some look a bit fresh-faced.’
Samantha cheekily stated, ‘Hopefully, less fresh-faced afterwards, sir,’ getting a stern look.
‘They have RPG,’ I began. ‘So they can pound the bad guys from way off.’
I checked in on the medics and 2 Squadron, a Hercules touching down, pallets being pushed off, bags carried, long trolleys full of chutes. The three French transports now took up the whole of the apron, little room left for the Hercules.
Back in the billet I gathered my team, and at 10pm we collected chutes and checked them over, our kit in a HALO bag, but with some extra ammo stuffed in as well, extra grenades. Radios checked, batteries checked, sat phones checked, we were almost ready.
Pistols out and checked, maps in plastic bags, mini-first aid kit in trouser pocket, lightweight helmets checked – not too tight, goggles cleaned. Jackets on, pockets checked, nods given.
“A” Squadron were stood right next to us in the hangar, similar routines being adopted.
Chutes on, I nodded at the “A” Squadron team and they kitted up, bags being lugged to the Skyvan by four men at a time. And the regulars had pinched away the folding stock AK47s. Engines burst in to life.
Most everyone from the command room was stood watching at the edge of the hangar, the Mi8 lifting off before us and disappearing into a black sky, the wind here picking up.
I waved before we turned and loaded the Skyvan, my team due to be in first and out last. “A” Squadron had opted to drop one team now – on their strip, two to follow, one kitbag to be shoved out unaccompanied on the second drop, one French HALO bag as well. It was their plan, so I left them to it.
Sat down in a familiar routine, a nod at the pilots, and the ramp lowered, a jerk and we were off, taxiing around, power up, the nose up in no time, a hard left turn, and we were facing north, the black night claiming us.
‘Radio check,’ I called, taking in their dark outlines.
‘Moran on.’
‘Mahoney on.’
‘Swifty on.’
“A” Squadron was on a different setting, but got some static as usual.
An hour later, water being passed around the dark cabin, the red light came on, “A” Squadron up – men’s individual green lights turned on, bag light on, their bag now dragged to the rear. The rear door powered upwards, a roar let into the cabin.
Green drop-light flashing, green on, and they fell out the rear and disappeared into the blackness, the chill air swirling around us till the ramp dropped. They were gone, their fate sealed, that fate determined by kit and skills – and our pilot’s navigation.
Ten minutes later the red light came on again, but this time the ramp jammed half way, three of us pulling it up slowly. Being stuck upright was no big deal for us, but would make life interesting for the pilots.
Green light flashing, we grabbed the bag – bag torch-light turned on in a hurry. Hands on shoulders, green on, and out we fell into the blankness, feeling our way more than seeing anything as we plummeted. My only point of reference was the bag light.
Settled, a roar in my ears despite the helmet, I said into my mask, ‘Low cloud, can’t see fuck all.’
‘We may land on the fucking compound,’ came from Swifty.
‘We should be a few miles northeast,’ I shouted.
The tone started all too soon, but as we broke through a layer of cloud I could see lights below, and I clocked the town. We were north of it, not northeast.
‘We’re too fucking close,’ came from Swifty as the tone changed to continuous. ‘Three – two – one – break. One thousand – two thousand – three thousand – four thousand - pull.’
My chute jerked me upright, and the roar abated. I was now in a silent world. ‘Sound off.’
‘Moran here.’
‘Mahoney here.’
‘Swifty here.’
‘Green lights off.’ I turned my light off and checked it.
Peering down, I could see the bag, and it was heading right for a floodlit football pitch, and if it missed that it would hit a road or houses.
‘We stick with the bag?’ Moran asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If we’re seen we may abort.’
‘Wind is picking up,’ Swifty said.
I tried to guess where we were headed, and we still had sixty seconds. ‘Might hit the trees.’
‘We land in the trees?’ Mahoney asked.
‘No choice,’ I shouted back.
The teenage boys on the soccer pitch might have seen us, but we were now five hundred feet above them, and we crossed the road, still busy with traffic at this late hour.
‘There, that clearing, follow me to it, last man watch the bag.’ I manoeuvred my chute, and I left enough time to turn into the wind, slowing nicely and hitting soft ground, a rough idea where the bag was.
Thuds behind me indicated the team as I tore off my chute and grabbed my pistol, just before Moran knocked me off my feet. Cursing, I got up, a face full of mud. ‘Who saw the bag?’
‘It landed away from the road,’ Moran said. ‘Further into the trees.’
We scanned the im
mediate area, the lights of the road seen, and we hid the chutes under a large bush. And for fifteen minutes we felt our way through the trees, penetrating a bog up to our knees. Finally we could see a ghostly grey light and tore away the chute, the bag opened in a hurry as it hung from a tree.
‘Tear down the chute, cut it, someone might see it,’ I whispered through the blackness.
Bandolier on, webbing on, weapon checked by touch, I reached in for the water bottle and placed it in the back of Swifty’s webbing. Extra grenades and ammo were handed out by touch and whispered comment, pockets filled. Redundant oxygen masks off, they were stuffed into webbing pouches; we’d be re-using them.
Sat phone out, I called the FOB, my face illuminated by the phone.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘We’re down, text book landing, no injuries, moving out now.’
Snickers came through the dark.
‘”A” Squadron are down OK, one sprained ankle, no one at that strip so far.’
‘Good to know. Wilco out.’ Phone away, I announced through the blackness, ‘Regulars found no one at that strip to shoot.’
‘Where exactly are we?’ Moran asked through the dark, and I had no idea where he was.
‘We go north, east, cross the road, then south. On me.’
‘Where the fuck are you?’ Moran complained. ‘I can’t see a fucking thing.’
I led them off – so tight a group we were almost touching, a terrible pace, and we fought through trees and mud for half an hour like ancient jungle explorers – but in need of some machetes, finally turning right on a track, some light from the road.
At the end of the track we hid from passing vehicles, inched forwards and finally ran across the road unseen, another track followed up into the hills. Since it took us southeast we stuck to it.
An hour later, and I had my bearings, the town’s orange lights in the distance, the compound in the foreground.
‘Uh, Wilco, is that a compound or a presidential palace?’ Moran asked.
‘It’s a bit fucking big,’ Swifty let out.
‘A bit fucking ostentatious,’ Moran corrected him.
‘Be a shame to spoil it,’ I quipped.
‘I see ... twenty trucks, two hundred men,’ Moran listed off. ‘Let’s not piss them off, eh.’
