by Geoff Wolak
‘We’ll try not to, not till the cavalry get here,’ I agreed. ‘On me.’
I led them slowly down through thick jungle, painstakingly slow, steep slopes and deep streams, and up a small ridge, almost an hour used up – everyone complaining. Peering down, we were now just three hundred yards from the furthest extremities of the palace, four hundred yards from the building. ‘Poncho’s down, flysheet up,’ I whispered.
Half an hour later, Moran said, ‘I see dog patrols around the courtyard.’
It was a worry, but those dogs would not come into thick jungle at least.
‘I see white faces,’ Mahoney hissed. ‘Building on the right, second level.’
We all had a look. ‘Yes, walking around. So much for being tied up with explosives,’ I noted.
‘He’d not damage his fucking palace,’ Swifty scoffed. ‘All for show.’
Sat back on a poncho, I took out my phone. ‘It’s Wilco, update please.’
‘Sasha and his team are down, rest of “A” Squadron landed instead of jumping, no problems so far. Your men landed at their strip, but killed twenty rebels. Secure for now.’
‘Good to know. We’re above the compound, and we can see white hostages walking around.’
‘French ambush force will land at dawn, Sandra with them.’
‘OK, Wilco out.’
Through my lens I scanned the building, and found what I thought was the main man’s quarters, guards posted. I could also see a blue indoor pool, black girls in bikinis. This idiot was not suffering any here in the jungle.
It started to rain, but we were snug under the flysheet, annoyed by the constant load drip of seemingly huge water droplets on the flysheet. I broke off a small branch covered in leaves and placed it at the apex of the flysheet, and the noise level dropped considerably.
‘Two on stag, two rest,’ I whispered, and I tried to get comfortable, but water was finding its way onto the poncho, my arse soon wet through.
I was awake but stiff as the grey misty dawn came up, I was damp in places, and it started to rain lightly again, a slight mist obstructing our view. But that mist also helped to hide us, thick green vegetation all around, all of it dripping water on us it seemed.
Few were stirring down below, the odd patrol glimpsed as we got a brew on, a tin of meat downed as I studied the ground in front of me.
The palace was off-white in colour, oblong in shape and with a flat roof, men in green ponchos seen moving around on that flat roof. It boasted three floors and maybe sixty rooms, backed by a tarmac courtyard, a few outbuildings, a high white wall all around. On the right of the palace, thirty yards away, sat a kind of two-storey barracks next to garages.
The road was on the far side of the palace, across it houses backed by a steep hill. This side of the palace, between us as the wall, lay uneven ground, some sodden areas visible, tall grass and a few trees, a few tracks visible.
Through the damp night we had taken it in turns to get an hour’s kip, and I did not feel too bad, better after some food and a brew. I had called in, the French ambush team down and moving to the road with Sandra, Henri and Jacque with her. All we had to do now was to wait, and hope that Tomsk got the day right, and that Jamal was true to his word, and that no one was spotted...
The day cleared up a little after a downpour, and I could see trucks and jeeps being made ready below. I could also see two dog patrols below, but the dog handlers were a bit crap, sticking to the tracks save getting wet in the bush. Damp dogs, and damp handlers, eventually returned to the palace, and now I had a good appreciation of the size of it – and its splendour.
‘Shoo,’ Swifty said. Faces turned to him, a green tree frog now sat on his telescopic sights.
‘Pity about that MP’s dog,’ Mahoney noted as he cleaned leaves off his rifle; we had all picked up leaves and creepy crawlies as we pushed through the bushes last night.
‘They get very attached to them,’ I idly commented, lifting off Swifty’s green frog and examining it.
‘He’s going to get a puppy,’ Moran put in as I placed the frog on a huge leaf.
‘Puppy?’ Swifty queried.
‘Six months to train them,’ Moran pointed out. ‘They don’t come ready-made.’
‘The handlers train them?’ Swifty asked, peering through his sights.
‘Some do, some dogs do the courses, but the dogs need to bond with the handler to learn what to do; reward and punishment,’ Moran noted.
Ten minutes later, Mahoney asked me, ‘You ever think about casualties?’
I took a while to figure his meaning. ‘On our side?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you think about our casualties, L.T?’ I quietly fired back.
‘Well, when you get it straight in your head I figured I’d borrow your approach.’
‘Oh. Well, yes I think about casualties, but more and more these days I second guess myself, like troopers used to do – the blame game, who’s at fault. I think a lot about people blaming me for things I do, but as the Major would say – I’m a cog in a wheel.
‘If I wasn’t here, if we weren’t here, someone else would be; world don’t revolve around us. Conflicts were here before we arrived on the scene, be here after we’re dead.’
Moran asked, ‘You worry about blame more?’
‘If you lead men, you worry,’ I replied.
‘I did in Northern Ireland,’ Moran responded. ‘And you’re taught that as an officer, the care of men under you. And the blame game is not new to the Paras.’
‘I sometimes think that ... someday I’ll fuck–up because I’m second guessing myself,’ I explained. ‘If it was just me and Swifty, I’d not worry us getting killed and have at them.’
‘You’d not worry about me being hurt?’ Swifty teased.
‘You’re as dumb as I am, you love this shit,’ I pointed out. ‘Before I came along you were No.1 with Intel, on the James Bond missions, and by yourself.’
Mahoney turned his head towards Swifty. ‘Did many jobs by yourself?’
‘A few, yes; that way ... no one to fuck with me. I worked with regular troopers for two years, and they squabbled like teenagers, fucked with each other’s kit. I was glad to be away from all that. The SSM above me, he saw me do naughty jobs and tried to trip me up, jealous, till someday he was jumped on late at night, his ankle done in.’
I tutted.
Moran began, ‘When I put in my papers for the SAS, my CO tried to make life hard for me, gave me a job in Stores.’
‘You came to us ... from Stores?’ Swifty teased. ‘Fucking pen-pushing blanket stacker.’
Moran responded, ‘It gave me time to train, so it wasn’t all bad.’
I said to Mahoney, ‘The answer, L.T., is that I tend to move on quickly when someone I know is killed or wounded. And if no one is blaming me, I get right on with the job. I miss Smurf, but what his father said to me got it all in context; Smurf was a nobody outside the unit, a wasted life, so at least he achieved something while he could.
‘So the answer is ... I don’t regret dragging Smurf along on the jobs that led to his injury that led to his death, and I don’t think Smurf would have had it any other way – even if he knew he’d be wounded. His father held no malice at all.
‘These men – our men - are volunteers, they weren’t conscripted. If they were I’d feel terrible about their deaths, but they worked hard to get here and they know the risks, they’re not stupid. Rocko and Rizzo, they’re like Swifty and me: on a charging horse, too fast to slow down or stop, but loving the ride. We know it’s going to end badly, but we stay on the horse.’
Time dragged on, the weather improving hour by hour, and at 10.30am we noted trucks and jeeps being made ready, fuel topped up. I sent the signal that the convoy was getting ready to leave, the humidity now very high; I was sweating inside my facemask.
‘Wilco, too many trucks for just the hostages,’ came from Moran.
‘Twenty hostages per truck,’ I thought out lo
ud.
‘Less with guards in the back,’ Swifty put in.
‘So ... eighteen hostages per truck, four trucks at most,’ I said.
‘There are nine trucks getting ready,’ Moran pointed out. ‘The rabble down there are going with the hostages.’
I lifted my phone and wiped a small millipede off it.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘Got a problem; hundred soldiers with the truck convoy. Have the SAS move up to the road ambush.’
‘The “A” Squadron men are with the French, at the road, three troops, one holding the strip.’
‘Double check, warn them now.’
Phone away, Swifty said, ‘Can Sasha ambush the tail end?’
‘What if they have radios?’ Mahoney countered. ‘They may all stop and turn around.’
‘He could hit one tyre and not alert them,’ I said. ‘Tyres burst all the time.’
‘So that’s the last truck,’ Moran noted. ‘Thins them out a bit, assuming that the last truck has soldiers.’
‘We’ll have to call it from here,’ I suggested. ‘Only way.’
I peered through my sights with renewed interest, if not some trepidation. Our main force, Echo and the French, were coming here, yet the bad boys main force would be with the trucks.
As time passed the activity below increased, till we finally glimpsed hostages being loaded, all bound and chained, and chained together. The French ambush team suddenly had another level of headache and I called it in.
Fifteen minutes later, and the hostages were still being loaded as we observed, and I counted over sixty, some black faces in the mix. Soldiers started to mount up, four full trucks worth and several jeeps, and the convoy moved into a line.
‘Soldiers at the rear,’ Moran hissed.
I called Sasha.
‘Hello?’ came an accented voice.
In Russian, I said, ‘It’s me, we have a problem. First five trucks are hostages, last four are soldiers, so too the jeeps. I want you to shoot the front tyre of the last truck, and only that truck. Don’t be seen. If they stop for more than fifteen minutes, or if I call, open fire on them, don’t get close.’
‘OK, got that.’
I pushed buttons in haste, my gloved fingers damp and muddy.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘Convoy getting ready. First five trucks are hostages, last four and any jeeps are soldiers, warn the French and SAS now, I’ve warned Sasha.’
‘OK, will do. What’s the ETA?’
‘They’re ready to move now, say ten minutes. We’ll update you.’
And we waited, the tension rising, the day brightening a little as the minutes passed. Finally the convoy was ready, and the main man himself waved them off, surrounded by his lieutenants. I watched him walk back inside, maybe for a swim with some of his ladies, or a game of snooker on the table I could see. I lifted my phone.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘Convoy is moving, make-up as described, ETA to the French is half an hour.’
‘OK, got that.’
I called Sasha. ‘They’re moving, be with you in less than ten minutes, hit that tyre.’
‘OK, will do.’
‘Now we wait,’ Moran said with a sigh, and he lifted up a small yellow snake, tossing it into the bushes.
‘Out of our hands,’ Mahoney noted, his facemask ripped; I could see his teeth. ‘Are there enough men with the ambush team?’
‘Almost fifty,’ I said. ‘Enough. But they have to get the hostages and fight off the soldiers at the same time.’
‘Chained-up hostages,’ Swifty put in. ‘Take ten fucking minutes just to get them off the truck.’
‘Plan is to steal the trucks, hostages inside,’ I told them.
‘What’s that?’ Swifty called. ‘It’s a fucking helicopter!’
We all lifted our heads and observed as the small helicopter was pushed out of a garage-like building, its rotors pinned back.
I lifted my phone. ‘It’s Wilco, they have a small helicopter, to follow the convoy, warn the French to try and shoot it down.’
‘OK, got that.’
‘That helo could go to the strip and check it out, they’d see no one there,’ Moran urgently hissed.
‘They think planes will come,’ I put in.
‘It’s not armed,’ Mahoney noted.
Two white men appeared, and got into the helicopter.
‘Mercenary pilots,’ I noted. ‘OK, we’ve got silencers on, and if we get the chance we hit the tail rotor. They won’t hear us above the noise of that thing.’
We made ready.
The helicopter started its engines, a loud whine heard, ran those engines up for five minutes, and gently lifted off. It came right across our front some two hundred yards out. We each fired twice. Rifles lowered, the helicopter wobbled and spun, recovered, turned around and set down on the grass, engines shut down, pilots out and having a look. We had just minutes before they noticed the bullet holes, all of us holding our breath.
When my phone trilled I answered it in a hurry.
‘It’s Sasha. We blew a tyre, they all stopped, and the soldiers from the last truck go into the next two trucks, and they sped off.’
‘OK, make your way here, don’t be seen.’
I called Harris. ‘Listen, last two trucks are overloaded with soldiers, hit them hard. Got that.’
‘Got that.’
‘Wilco,’ Moran called, the pilots now inspecting their damaged ride.
In the compound, two large trucks revved.
‘Shoot them, now! The pilots.’
Swifty loosed off a round before I had finished the words, Mahoney hitting the second man.
‘That’s torn it,’ Moran noted. ‘They’ll be found in minutes.’
‘Maybe,’ I let out. ‘And that convoy needs fifteen minutes.’
The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife as the minutes were sliced off that fifteen minute journey, and nervously we watched as men worked in the compound. Fortunately, the pilots were in long grass and had not been seen.
Ten painful minutes passed.
‘Wilco, dog patrol,’ Swifty whispered.
‘Shit,’ Mahoney let out.
‘Get ready. Swifty, the man, rest aim at the dog, be hard to hit.’
Man and beast wandered towards the back wall, stopped for a chat and a cigarette just to taunt us, and then came on. Man and beast turned away from the helicopter, walked ten yards, but the damn dog was pulling towards the hidden pilots. Then it started barking.
When the handler decided to have a look, I said ‘Now’ and squeezed the trigger. The handler dropped, his poor pouch wriggling, a leg shaking. All eyes were on the courtyard; had we been heard?
I lifted my phone and dialled.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco, any word on the ambush?’
‘They reported the convoy sighted a minute ago. Guess they’re busy now.’
‘Land the men now.’
‘I’ll send the signal.’
Phone down, Mahoney said, ‘Another fucking dog handler is coming!’
‘Doesn’t matter, convoy was ambushed, or is being ambushed as we speak.’
‘Look!’ Moran hissed. Men below started running around like crazy. ‘They know about the ambush.’
‘Take them thirty minutes to get there,’ I said. I called Sasha. ‘Where are you?’
‘Moving along a track towards you, above the road.’
‘Extra men are getting ready. You see any trucks or jeeps, open up.’
‘OK, will do.’ Phone down, I said, ‘Sasha is on that road, he’ll hit them as they pass.’
Moran turned his head. ‘And if they dismount and go after him?’
‘Then he has to get to us for support,’ I said, sighing.
‘We cause a distraction?’ Mahoney asked.
‘Still two hundred men down there, and we don’t need them up here,’ I said as I peered through my lens.
>
‘Jeeps moving out,’ Swifty noted.
There was little we could do, and we waited, trucks moving out laden with men. I was sweating inside my facemask, and when a giant millipede crawled over my arm and then my rifle I just ignored it.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s Captain Harris, main force landed, planes loitering for the hostages.’
‘And the ambush?’
‘No word yet.’
‘OK, thanks.’
Sasha called a minute later. ‘We hit jeeps and trucks, now we snipe at them.’
‘They stopped?’
‘One truck went on, but we hit men in the back.’
I could hear rounds being fired from Sasha’s end. ‘Keep them pinned down, but withdraw into dense bush if they get close.’
‘OK.’
Phone down, I said, ‘Sasha stopped most of them. One truck went on, but was hit.’
‘Oops,’ Swifty let out, and we all looked. ‘Machineguns on the roof being brought out. I count ... eight so far.’
‘We wait,’ I said, frustrated, water dripping onto me, all of us damp.
Ten minutes later my phone trilled. ‘It’s Rizzo, where are you?’
‘Above the target compound, northeast of it.’
‘We borrowed two trucks, one careless owner, and we’re ... near the hill with the sharp peak.’
I looked hard left, and saw the track, and now the two trucks. ‘Keep coming, no patrols seen down there. Halt next to the bend in the track, spread out in teams. But they have eight machineguns on the roof, so don’t get close, stick to the tight bush and sneak in, teams of four.’
‘OK.’
‘What was that?’ Moran asked.
‘Rocko and Rizzo nicked some trucks, they’re just left of us.’
‘Bit of a risk,’ Swifty complained.
‘Yeah, not as risky as a HALO drop onto a heavily defended compound,’ Mahoney quipped.
‘That’s different, part of the plan. Those knobbers could have been stopped at a roadblock.’
‘Knobbers?’ Mahoney repeated. ‘No doubt old English plural for knobs, or dicks.’
‘Knob off, Yank.’
I shook my head.
‘It’s Rocko, anyone home up there?’ came over the radio.
‘This is Wilco, keep your heads down, spread out, they’re ready for a scrap. How many of you?’
