by Geoff Wolak
The colonel shook my hand. ‘My Engleesh ... not so good.’
The squadron leader translated as I detailed the new unit, make-up and training schedules, detailed notes taken.
‘From backwater to centre stage,’ the colonel finally noted. ‘Good to be busy.’
In the Admin area we found Captain Harris and his colleague. ‘You in the officer mess?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘What’s the plan here?’
‘You two ... doing fuck all to start with, so get some fitness work in and some range time. Then you can plan this new unit format with me. Oh, call GL4 and get Tinker looking at any action in the east of this place. You as well. In fact, any action within a thousand miles.’
Henri led me back to the canteen, where we grabbed a quick lunch, my Echo lads not planning on being quite so quick over lunch. Back at the barracks I told the NCOs where the canteen was, recruits to head there when ready. I also now possessed a few base maps, some handed out and to be pinned to the cork notice boards that these barracks offered.
When Sambo appeared with Jacque, back from lunch, I handed him a wad of US dollars. ‘Go see your woman, tell her you saved hard, but that you have been very busy.’
He stared wide-eyed at the money. ‘Thank you, sir.’
At 3pm a Tristar landed as I stood near the hangars, warm-looking RAF ground crews ready for it, ear defenders and orange wands to hand. From the steps came RAF personnel, but all were in suitable desert brown combats, and I recognised the 2 Squadron lads, no sign of Haines.
Para instructors stepped down, but a different group to those we had utilised in Morocco, different taskings. Fifty-five RAF personnel got off, kit unloaded from the cargo hold.
The young 2 Squadron officer, a Flying Officer that looked familiar – but not from an overseas job, stepped up to me and saluted. ‘We need men on the wire, sir?’
‘Not here, no, this place is safe – and the French are tasked with that.’
‘I was told to query your use of the word safe.’
‘No history of gunmen in this region, they’re further east and north by about five hundred miles of desert, so relax. You’re here to train, but acclimatise first, a day or two, then some long walks in the heat, then range time, then map reading, then I’ll give you set exercises.’
‘And in the long term?’
‘If we mount a rescue to the east you’d come along, or be our reserves, and if there’s trouble someplace around here you’d deploy, so you always need to be packed ready to go. If my lads are not here, you’d deploy with regular SAS, Pathfinders, Paras, even Americans, so I want your men shit hot and super fit. You should see some action.’
‘We’re ready,’ he assured me. ‘And these lads have all seen action before, some many times.’
After a quiet night, the base bar sampled – they even had tennis courts here, a Hercules touched down from Sierra Leone, “B” Squadron lads and Pathfinders stepping down with their kit, the Hercules destined to head back to the UK.
I greeted familiar faces.
‘This where the action is?’ a “B” Squadron captain asked me.
‘It will be, when we’re ready. Settle in for now, but how long you tasked with being here?’
‘Four weeks. We had just over four weeks left in Sierra Leone as rescue standby, now standby here.’
I shook hands with the Pathfinders captain, the face familiar from Sierra Leone, and he led his men off. I told the “B” Squadron captain, ‘Warn your lads, best behaviour, French and Americans here.’
‘They’re a good bunch, they don’t give me any shit.’
He followed his men to the trucks. Meanwhile, outside the base, the hot and dusty recruits were following Sambo and Henri, who knew a good twelve mile route, the recruits working up a sweat.
Back at the barracks, NCOs were just stepping out. ‘Sir, we’ve gone from a pile of sand to nice barracks with all the facilities, boys will go soft,’ an NCO playfully complained.
‘Once I’ve studied the map they’ll have an insert by parachute and a fucking long walk back.’
‘How long we here, sir?’
‘About two weeks. I want more long range patrols and navigation, I want them to get used to that and to be good at it, more parachuting, a HALO work-up to our bag technique, then it’s the jungle. But there’s no danger around here, plenty in the jungle.’
At 7pm the second Tristar landed, Robby’s troop on it with twenty men of 1 Para, plus more RAF personnel - including survival instructors for aircrews. The courses they ran were normally held in a cold forest in Wales, not in the deserts.
The French found them rooms with a quiet efficiency, and I informed Robby that his troop were on standby from the morning as our Echo representatives to this project, they were on rescue standby – four weeks. The Pathfinders were on the same floor, the second half of this room, and I welcomed them to the base.
‘What’s this place called, Boss?’ one asked me.
‘I saw Aleg as the nearest town, and that is on the wall out there, so Aleg Airfield I guess when sending postcards to wives and girlfriends.’
‘And what’s the plan, Boss?’ another asked.
‘You train here, desert training, navigation, parachuting, but if there’s trouble you’ll go shoot some people, so be ready. This will be a permanent thing, four week rotations or so.’
‘There trouble here?’ a staff sergeant asked.
‘East of here, always some trouble, but that’s more than five hundred miles off.’
Upstairs I found 1 Para, a captain in charge of his platoon, the man looking fit and tough, and old. ‘You came up through the ranks?’ I asked as I shook his hand.
‘Yeah, six years then a commission, like you.’
‘My commission was forced on me,’ I quipped.
‘So what’s the deal here, they said it was training and support.’
‘There’ll be a multi-national special forces unit here, and if there’s trouble in this region they go deploy, and you go with them, shots fired in anger. In the absence of a local insurrection ... you train here; desert navigation, patrols, parachuting, range work. Get up to speed quickly, always assume you’ll ship out at an hour’s notice.’
‘Not many of us?’
‘Forty Brits, forty Americans soon, forty French, so it’s a large force for counter-terrorism and rescue work. And there are tennis courts if you’re bored.’
That evening the bar was full, the visitors getting a cold beer, but there was a large terrace area outside with seats, benches and barbeque pits, promises made that we would get a barbeque going soon. I spoke with many of the groups, no recruits allowed in here, and to some of the French lads that Henri introduced me to.
Sambo turned up with a black eye, hard to see, but it was swollen.
‘Sambo..?’ I pressed.
‘My woman, sir. She hit me with a bit of wood.’
I hid my grin as men listened in.
He continued, ‘I gave her the money, but she said ... that I have so much money I can visit more often, and she hit me with a stick.’
Henri doubled over laughing, others joining in as I grabbed ice and placed it on Sambo’s face.
‘Stick to the soldering,’ I told Sambo. ‘It’s less dangerous.’ I led him to a seat, ice in a rag handed over, plus a beer.
‘What happened to the big black guy?’ one of our American NCOs asked. ‘He’s too damn big to screw with.’
‘He gave his woman a lot of money, so she hit him. She figured he could have used it to visit more often.’
The NCO next to him said, ‘Let’s have her scare the recruits,’ the group laughing.
I took ten minutes to explain the various British groups and what they did, the Americans trying to figure their equivalent units. But they had several equivalents for each British unit, and no one could figure out just what the Green Berets were tasked with these days and where the overlap was with the Deltas.
The Pathfinders captain asked about the Lon
e Wolves. I began, ‘If the Americans got their act sorted out this programme would not be necessary, but they have a huge military machine, controlled by the White House, and they can’t fire a shot in anger without permission written in triplicate.
‘There’ve been very few American special ops in recent years, and most were a disaster, so my successes with a small loose team have been observed with envy. To send Seals or Green Berets some place you need permission, and you have a hundred senior officers up the line putting their opinion on it.
‘What certain Pentagon officers want is some flexibility, plus a good man that will drop into a dangerous spot and get back out. Seals and Rangers and Green Berets and others will do that, and do it well – better than my Wolves, but their part of a rigid system. This base will have American special forces, but they’ll be labelled up as training and support, no White House approval if they accompany me on a job here. And afterwards, if all goes well, a good newspaper story after the fact, no waiting on permission.
‘Fact is there are no US bases around Africa, never have been, no boots on the ground here, lots of French bases because of the old colonial ties. Americans want a piece of the action here, good headlines, some influence.’
‘So it’s political.’
‘Yes. They get what they want, I get what I want - which is more hostages rescued.’
‘In Liberia they said you ran the whole show during the war there...’ He waited.
‘My part was the intel and the special forces, which was most of it, but I coordinated the support – which was the remainder. I have what others want, a track record of successful jobs, and yes - that gets me more influence than a captain should get.
‘But I’ve worked hard at getting units to work together as they should when most SAS men don’t give a fuck about outsiders. I’ve always tried to get a good write-up for the other units, and that helps with the feel-good factor and recruitment. And I’ve used what influence I have to get rid of the old SAS attitude.’
‘I had considered the SAS, but it’s that attitude that put me off, I’ve met plenty that had nothing good to say about them.’
I nodded. ‘They’re better these days, many of the old wankers are gone. You know Captain Lester of course.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Good at everything, but a nutter.’
‘I’ve met a few of those...’
In the morning I had Henri grab a few French lads who knew the area, and they knew of previous map reading tests for this area, the American Wolves split up and sent off with at least one French lad each, NCOs trailing behind.
I waited near the ATC building with Captain Harris as Crab and Duffy worked the British Wolves on the range. Two USAF Hercules appeared, lined up and touched down, ramps down as RAF and French crews assisted, engines soon winding down. They were here to stay.
Striding towards us with large kit bags was Captain Castille and a few familiar faces.
‘Time away from the office?’ I asked.
He smiled widely. ‘Hoping for some action, so what you got for us?’
‘Careful what you wish for,’ I told him, his team directed to trucks. ‘Settle in and rest.’ I offered him a tired and concerned look. ‘You holding up?’
He looked away, knowing I was referring to Mahoney. ‘Boys don’t talk about it much. We held a wake, we told stories about everything Mahoney did wrong back as a new officer, we shouted a little, broke a few windows and kicked a door in, then we moved on.’ He finally made eye contact. ‘And you and your boys?’
‘We went out and killed as many fighters as we could find, an emotional outpouring via a brass cartridge.’
He nodded. ‘Guess it helps with closure some.’
Behind them trekked airmen in blue, American airmen, bags lugged, even USAF police. A line of men walked up to me, looking anything other than airmen.
‘You Captain Wilco?’ the lieutenant, asked saluting.
‘I am, I’m afraid.’
‘Seal Team 24, sir. You ... got a clue as to what we’re supposed to be doing?’
‘Yes. Get settled in, shower, some chow, briefing later. Relax for now.’
And Seal Team 24 seemed to have thirty or more men.
I sat with Captain Harris and made a plan, a drawing put on a white board, altered, adjusted, and altered again. I was finally happy. I sent word to all units that senior men would gather here at 7pm, and I asked the colonel nicely if he could attend – translator to hand.
A small jet landed, a six man CIA team. They knew Franks, and they had been briefed on me and my team. But I wondered, and worried, if the French had approved their presence. Since the CIA referred to themselves as Military Intel Support, I guessed that they were keeping a low profile. Captain Harris led them away for a long chat.
At 7pm I had a full room, Moran, Mitch and Ginger to one side, officers and troop sergeants present, French at the back, translators available, Castille with his sergeant.
‘Gentlemen, welcome, and thank you all for being a part of this new venture, although I’m sure that most were sent here rather than volunteering. This base is strategically placed in West Africa, but also has good training facilities. And that’s the heart of it, strategic location - and training.
‘The teams here will be sat ready for hostage rescue and anti-terrorist work in the region. But when teams are not on standby they train, the idea being that – over a year – many men from various units get to train here. They can parachute, HALO, take long walks in the desert, navigation exercises, combined exercises with the various national teams.
‘Those men and teams that have no desert experience get some, others get a refresher, four week rotations have been asked for. Now, in the past the Americans have not set foot in West Africa for hostage rescue unless with my team. That will change with the new American presence here. And, following on from this unit, there’ll be a base in Sierra Leone or Liberia, one on the Red Sea.
‘What that will give us is a presence across the top of sub-Saharan Africa, a rapid reaction force, not one that takes a week to get here. Gentlemen, we aim to react to a situation in a matter of hours, aircraft off the deck in minutes. For you Americans, wondering about how you might get permission for that, you’re listed as being here for training and support, and you don’t need permission for that from the White House, the Pentagon E Ring will send you.
‘Now, if you’ll all have a look at the chart.’ I pointed at the board. ‘At the top is Intel, a few men here in touch with other men out there, and the start point of a job.
‘Below them are the special forces teams, one from each nation. But ... there are more of you than one team, the reason being that we’ll rotate the standby. Eight hours on, sixteen hours off, etc. One team is ready – sat awake not sleeping, the others are training, one is stood down to rest.
‘Below the special forces are support teams, good soldiers, but the types of units that don’t normally get involved with hostage rescues. They would go on the job, hold fallback positions, hold perimeters, organise decoys, etc. And, when here, they would get some hostage rescue training, practice at storming buildings.
‘If there was an insurrection in the region, those units would shoot in anger, and we should have enough men here at any one time. We then have the transport, aircraft and helos, and pilots assigned to special forces will train here with us. In the UK that’s 47 and 7 Squadrons.
‘Gentlemen, what your governments want is that many men are trained here, the side effect of being on standby for hostage and terrorist work, it is no more complicated than that. You will, however, practise using each other’s aircraft, helos and support men, NATO integration and all that.
‘A word of warning: senior offices are watching this unit with a magnifying glass, they expect great things. Do a good job, or face the consequences.’
They exchanged looks.
‘And a word of warning about discipline. I have a great deal of influence with all of your superiors. If you or your men get
drunk and start fighting you’ll pay a heavy price for that. Keep it tight, issue the warnings today. OK, any questions?’
‘We call home base before we do anything?’ a Seal officer asked.
‘No, because Intel here is in touch with the E Ring. You would never move out till the Pentagon has been consulted, but your presence here has been pre-approved up the line, including shots fired in anger.’ I pointed at the CIA. ‘Ask them if you have a doubt, and if you still have a doubt then get a ride out of here and don’t waste my time. You came to fight, not read about it in paperback.
‘OK, in a few days, or as soon as you’re ready, toss a coin, and have teams up on standby rotation, eight hours. We have my lot, regular SAS, Deltas and Seals, so that’s four plus the French, so more than enough for the rotations.’
I took in their faces. ‘Gentlemen, this has come about following the loss of the Desert Sands team, a change of attitude and strategy by the Pentagon. A lot is riding on this, so show the world that you’re as good as they think you are.’
A French officer raised a hand. ‘French Echo will be here tomorrow, plus 1st Battalion.’
‘Thank you. So let’s say that day after tomorrow, 9am, first team is ready, aircraft are ready, medics are ready, Intel are ready, room set aside close to this one for the ready team, cold drinks and paperbacks.’
The Seal lieutenant put in, ‘We can field two teams.’
‘Good,’ I told him. ‘We’ll start a rota. For now, relax and get sorted. Dismissed.’
I had the French pin up several large maps of the region, and I drew a line around Sierra Leone and upwards. Mali could be covered by us, but probably not Niger. There was a team in Sierra Leone, so they could handle Niger.
To Captain Harris and the Squadron Leader I said, ‘I want a list of every alternate airfield and airstrip radiating outwards, distances and compass bearings. I want to know all the commercial mines and their airstrips, and fast please.’
I called GL4, and Mutch. ‘Hey Fat Bastard.’
‘With references like that you won’t motivate your staff, you know that.’
