by Geoff Wolak
‘Get that biscuit out of your mouth, I have work for you. Contact your friends in Mauritania and the region, I want all mines listed that have an airstrip, then I want all airstrips that are not runways, then I want a list of hotspots with a history of trouble, so get the team on it.
‘You, you talk to your mates, and I want to know what’s at each little airstrip, facilities, and get the low down on trouble in the Eastern Mauritania and Senegal.’
‘Was some trouble in Senegal, still some armed men left over from that group you hit before. Looks like they didn’t take your advice about getting a day job.’
‘I want all the details, and fast. Get back to me or to Captain Harris.’
When my phone trilled it was Tinker. He began, ‘Remember some weeks back you asked about a Dutch investment banking company interested in Sierra Leone...’
‘Yes..?’
‘I think I found them, and they’re naughty boys, they have a paper trail that is damn hard to follow – a company owned by a another in the Bahamas, owned by one in Panama, owned by one in Northern Cyprus, no records available.’
‘Good, keep digging. Those boys have an interest in Sierra Leone, and rumour has it they shoot people they don’t like.’
‘From what I can see they have interests in mines, and a vested interest in a quiet region. They have money in Senegal as well, so ... they’re on our side technically.’
‘Good, but make it your pet project. If anyone is keeping the peace in Sierra Leone it’s me, not them.’
We annotated maps, we drew up lists of airfields, and we had lists of supplies and men, extra white boards brought in and written over as French Echo landed, back from a deployment to Algeria, one troop of ten men plus support staff.
I greeted familiar faces, soon introduced to the 1st Battalion officers and men. We met later in the bar, Henri and Jacque in loud animated conversations with men from their old unit, Moran speaking French to the officers about the Wolves.
A Seal captain approached, a nod towards Sasha’s team. ‘Are those guys Russian?’
‘Yes, but they eat quietly and pee with the seat up. They’re OK.’
‘They’re OK? They’re Russian!’
‘They HALO behind the lines, get me intel. They pose as Russian arms dealers in places like the Congo. We work for Intel, not the Army.’
‘And that guy Tomo, he never dated Pamela Anderson, right.’
I bent over laughing.
The next day I noticed a wall siding a training room, unit emblems adorning it. I spoke to the Major back at GL4, and he would have a large wooden board made up and sent down.
At 10am both sets of Wolves were lined up in the hangar, chutes ready, Hercules ready. I had added in men from 2 Squadron, and those from 16 Squadron with wings, to save on fuel – a less than subtle hint from the Squadron Leader to save on fuel.
Crab and Duffy wanted some practise with “their men” so I agreed it; they would drop as well. Moran, the medics, and a team of French drove out to the LZ by jeep, Henri, Jacque and Sambo about to be employed as navigators for the long walk back.
Kitted up, refresher instructions given, the line of men walked awkwardly to the Hercules as it stood loudly idling its engines, a few of the international teams observing from the sidelines. Thirty minutes later the men dropped over the desert, one twisted ankle for a 16 Squadron man – a ride back in a jeep.
That ride back was considerably quicker than the walk back, and our Wolves tabbed in the next morning at 11am, dusty, hot, and totally spent. But, as usual, they were thrown straight onto the range and were shouted at. Finally, after 1pm, they were stood down to eat and rest.
Crates arrived by French C160, the items the cause of some concern to our bean-counter, Paul MacManners. Valmet had shipped us sixty basic Valmet rifles, twenty Elephant Guns, ten box-feds and a shit load of ammo. These weapons, however, would remain here, to be played with by the other teams. Paul insisted that they belonged to the MOD, on temporary loan - or else.
Henri knew of a mortar range, so a large gang of mixed teams travelled out with French support lads, small metal plates placed at 1200yards, bottles and aluminum cans placed closer in.
I had Nicholson zero a basic Valmet rifle with a large sight, but then hand it to Castille – who hit some of the metal plates. Handed an Elephant Gun, he again hit the plates.
‘She’s a beauty,’ Castille told me as his men tried Valmets. ‘A slim fifty cal.’
‘Tungsten round, so you can punch a hole through a jeep, kill the engine,’ I told him. ‘Or hit a helo that gets too close. In Somalia, we were in a tight valley when the scream comes, and this Mi8 with rockets is coming up the valley six feet off the deck. It saw our jeeps and fired, blew our jeeps apart, but we hit it with GPMG and Elephant Guns.
‘My snipers said they broke the cockpit glass, hit the pilot. Then the helo drops like a stone – onto more of our jeeps, and it blew apart, a few SAS wounded from shrapnel.’
I fitted a telescopic sight to a box-fed, a bipod, and Castille’s lieutenant tried it, short bursts at the metal plates.
Castille noted, ‘Not much muzzle rise. So you can drop the lead in a tight area.’
‘And accurately, and at distance,’ I suggested.
A few of the Seals tried the Valmets and Elephant Guns. The Seals and Deltas had their MK11 variants, a 7.62mm version of the M16 chassis – the rifles either loved or hated by the men that used them. A competition was always in the offing, but not here, we would do it properly.
Back at the 500yard range, no Wolves on it and the RAF Regiment just packing up, I told everyone that the same test that the Wolves underwent daily would be a benchmark for the national teams.
The Americans whinged because it was “scoot and shoot”, Rizzo calling them names and taunting them. A few of the Seals opted for M16s. Targets ready, men in the butts ready, score sheets ready, and four Seals with M16s and iron sights were up against four of my lads with tube sights.
A warning, ready, whistle blown, and the men spun and fired standing, four rounds, soon running back, puffing at the 500yard mark, caps turned around on the Americans.
Scores tallied, and we won on average, one of the Seals level with our best score. Another go was demanded. Telling the Seals to wait, Castille and his boys went up, four more of my lads joining them, Castille’s men using the Mk11s - figuring them better at distance, basic telescopic sights kept on.
Whistle blown, and they were slow inside 300yards, the final scores close, but Castille had lost by a few points, one man shouted at for taking too long.
The Seals went back up, their average man older than the average man around them, a few displaying beards, and they increased their average. I wagered Castille a cold beer, and I grabbed a Valmet and a fresh magazine, a few rude words offered across the range.
Warning, whistle, and we were off, and I was sprinting between the firing points, more time to focus on the target, and I only dropped two points, Castille losing – and being a sore loser and wanting a rematch.
‘Tomorrow,’ I told him. ‘After my nice cold beer.’
Scores were typed up, copies made, one sheet pinned up in the ready room, one in the bar so that everyone would see it.
That evening the Seals wanted a static sniper test, but I was adamant. ‘In real life the target moves, you don’t get time to take a slow shot, so shoot and scoot, or you’re Girl Guide panties.’
The Wolves NCOs, seeing the scores, wanted in, and I was happy that they were competing.
Colonel Mathews flew in the next day with his team, the facilities here glanced at before he spoke to the Seals and the Deltas at length. With the Wolves static line dropping, three drops scheduled with a few RAF Regiment lads along again, Colonel Mathews spoke to the Wolves as they stood kitted ready.
We finally retired to a side room off the ready room, food and drinks laid on by the French, a private one-to-one with me.
‘How they shaping up?’
‘We got rid of th
e Wolves that didn’t want to be with us - and those that shouldn’t have been with us, and this lot are maturing with each new day. They’re getting the drops in, the desert walks, the range time - it’s all becoming routine and second nature, as it should be.
‘Back in the States, and in the UK – or in any army, men drop a few times a year, they use the range infrequently, and exercises are not normally live-fire, so here they’re getting a few years worth of standard training, but in a few weeks.
‘To these young lads, dropping in the desert, a forty mile walk, shooting accurately – that’s now old and boring and easy to do, as it should be. To your average soldier that’s an exciting once a year event, even to special forces.’
He nodded. ‘So like your guys, a mission is like making a cup of coffee – no cause for concern.’
‘Yes, sir, as it should be – no panic.’
‘How many left?’
‘Twenty-eight, sir, and they all seem solid. I can work with this lot, but the real test comes next, Sierra Leone. They’ll face real danger, and they might get the chance to kill a man.’
‘And the difference to your batch?’
‘My Wolves have a maturity, and a cheeky attitude. Yours will follow orders to the letter, and that’s a problem – they need to think on their feet and adjust the mission. But I’ll soon give them scenarios, planning tests, and try and trick them, and they’ll learn from it and realise that they have a hand in the planning and execution of a mission.’
‘We have a second batch, but we’ll wait till these NCOs are freed up, same men testing them, and we have an older batch as well as young officers. It’s labelled as an experiment, and that way no four-star general gives me shit over it.’
I told him, ‘Despite the profiling, one of your lads wanted to go kill some niggers.’
‘A shrink can be lied to, told what they want to hear.’
‘I think we’ve routed out the idiots and pyscho killers.’
‘Damn well hope so, or I get the shit. So what’s a final test for this lot?’
‘After Sierra Leone, bring them back here, and I’ll plan a mock mission. HALO insert at night, recon, map reading, long walk back. And they do it alone. If they can do that, they can do most anything.’
‘And some good newspaper headlines..?’
‘There’s a group causing trouble east of here, so I’ll launch a raid soon, reporter to hand.’
‘I have more support staff on the way, and we have a few helicopters off ship to base here temporarily, rations and ammunition.’ He grinned. ‘This is labelled up as training and support, and a few senior staff will puzzle how we got ourselves a base here. Get me a good newspaper headline and it might cost me my head when they realise that we have teams here without ten years of White House and State Department planning.’
‘Well let’s hope you keep your head, sir, and you can blame me if something goes wrong.’
He was soon off, north to Europe and to a series of meetings. I was off with Henri and the base commander to view a bunch of falling down buildings, twenty miles north and in the middle of nowhere. We drove in armed convoy off a main road, and to a side road with a sign in Arabic for a factory unit, dead flat land all around us.
A mile on and we passed a broken down old gate and a dilapidated fence, finding piles of ore left and right, soon to a two-storey brick building with cracked windows and weeds growing, a small factory unit off to the right, rusted old shed on the left, a few huts dotted around.
Henri explained, ‘They drilled down but did not find the ore quality good enough, so left it here twenty years ago. We had an exercise here one time.’
Out of the jeeps we had a look around, and it was perfect. ‘Colonel, I would like your men here straight away, today, we’ll organise an exercise for tonight. I want twelve men, dogs, say three jeeps – supplies and rations.
‘Your men patrol this place at set times, dog patrols, eat and cook, look out for anyone sneaking up on the place – please don’t shoot them! I will send teams in to recon the place.’
Henri translated, and we headed back.
At the Seals barracks I had them gather, the men thinking something was up – a live job. ‘Listen up. At the following coordinates is a suspected hostage location, now being manned by deadly and vicious French enlisted men with dogs – don’t fucking shoot them.’
They laughed.
‘You are hereby tasked with parachuting in tonight at midnight, no closer than ten miles, walking in whilst avoiding being seen. You will set-up a 24hr recon and note the number of men, patrol times, dogs, jeeps, weapons, everything, and you will draw sketches that are works of art – people will be wanting to buy them.’
Again they laughed.
‘You will arrange pick-up ten miles away by helo at dawn the following day. Team of four, or eight, up to you. Take a sat phone, linked to the officers here, any injuries and we send out the helos, it’s not far from here anyhow.
‘Gentlemen, you’ll be judged on how good the drawings are, how good the intel is that you present to us when you get back. Senior men, over to you. Get moving!’
In the command room I briefed everyone, and we would put several teams through this, including the Wolves.
Later, as I stood with a cold beer in the bar, the Seal team was getting kitted out, two four-man teams to insert, a support team to be in the command room all night manning phones, the CIA observing – the standby team observing and wishing they had something to do.
Moran explained what he had been up to with the Wolves, each man HALO dropping with some hand-holding, and tomorrow they would try the bag technique – the British at least.
At 5am I checked in on the standby team and the Seals officers, their sheets detailing the insert, observations made so far by the men on the ground. They detailed eight guards and three dogs, but I knew there were twelve men and four dogs. I said nothing.
At 5pm I again checked in on the Seals officers, now detailing ten guards and four dogs – two visitors. Henri had driven out to the site and had lunch with the enlisted Frenchmen there, and Henri had stood with binoculars scanning the bleak horizon, but had not spotted anyone.
At dawn the next day a French Puma picked up the men and brought them the short distance back, the men dusty. I stood with the Seal captains and welcomed them back, sketches to look at, detail to be noted.
The sketches were not bad, maps with little three-dimensional buildings and ore mounds, distances marked out. They listed ten men and four dogs, two visitors at midday, patrols every twenty-seven minutes on average - clockwise, every hour roughly after dark.
On the right hand side of the sketch they had listed every patrol, and the time it started and ended, good attention to detail.
I commended the sketches and the detail. ‘There were twelve men, not ten – so you lose a few points.’
‘They all look alike, how the frig we supposed to tell!’ they protested.
‘Detail is everything, gentlemen,’ I said with a smirk. To the captains I said, ‘Insert another team day after tomorrow, Deltas will insert tonight. And yes, there will be a different number of men on guard tonight.’
At midday, as I stood with hot and dusty RAF Regiment lads on the range, my phone trilled.
‘Secret Agent Scorpio here.’
I smiled widely. ‘You have something for me, Fat Bastard?’
‘A hostage.’
‘A hostage?’
‘Just the one, an oil worker. I met him, can’t stand the man, but he’s supposedly being held somewhere near that town you hit on the Senegal side of the border, his phone not responding.’
‘Are these the same men?’
‘Yes, but they have no money, no political ambitions, no nothing. Hence the kidnapping of mine workers – or in this guy’s case an oil prospecting dickhead.’
I smiled widely. ‘How many gunmen holding our dickhead?’
‘Thirty in a group have been reported by Intel. Tinker says ther
e’s no sat phone usage at all in that area save our guy.’
‘How long has that man been there?’
‘A few days, so leave him there a month before you rescue him.’
‘Now, now, play nice. Tell the team we’ll move on that place straight away.’
Phone away, I shouted at the RAF Regiment to pack up. ‘We have a job on! Move it!’’
I ran back, and to the Seals barracks. ‘We have a job on! Assemble everyone!’ I passed a Delta and gave him the same message as I ran to the command room. At the ready room I found Robby’s troop – Ginger sat in with them. He was their troop captain, but was unseasoned in rescues. I made a note to have a word with him. ‘We have a live job, you’re in on it, we leave tonight.’
I asked the colonel to recall the French at the abandoned mine, and that tonight’s recon exercise was scrapped - we had a live job. In the command room I updated Captain Harris, and he would get the senior staff, Moran and my lads recalled.
I stepped out and called Colonel Mathews after checking my watch, a block of French lads walking past and – as was common – singing. I called it chanting, they called it singing. ‘Sir, we have a job on. It’s one hostage and thirty drugged up idiots, but the lads here don’t need to know that, nor the outside world. Label it as a force of unknown size and unknown number of hostages. We’ll go tonight.’
‘Excellent.’
‘I’ll take the Wolves, talking up the dangers first.’
‘Safe enough for them?’
‘One man with a knife could take this lot of bad boys, sir.’
‘Well we’ll keep that bit quiet. Update me later. Oh, what about a journalist?’
‘There are cameras here, so we’ll take snaps and hand them over. I’ll send for my reporter, you send one you can trust.’
‘There is a guy, yes, I’ll ship him out.’
I called Max, gave my location, and asked that he get here quickly.
In the command room I made sure that we had everyone, the CIA and the American support staff attending their clever computer things. The RAF senior staff were present, with the pilots, the room full.
