by Geoff Wolak
Flames burst from an engine, a wing exploding, the fireball flying off northwest and losing height as we all stood tall and observed.
‘God damn,’ came from several Americans behind me.
The An12 hit the sand a mile from us, a series of bright flashes, and the blasts registered five seconds later.
Swifty noted, ‘I don’t think the pilots got out.’
‘It had more ordnance in the back; that was just the first bombing run,’ I suggested.
‘My shot hit the engine,’ Tomo claimed from down the line. ‘All that radiation, I’m like Spiderman now,’ the British lads laughing.
‘Glow in the dark, Tomo,’ Slider noted.
‘Back to the building!’ I shouted, and I started that way, now finally answering my phone. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Crab, you lot OK?’
‘Yeah, we legged it away before the blast, going back now. Disperse the Wolves, watch the damn horizon, eh.’
Call cut, it trilled straight away.
‘It’s Rizzo, you lot alive?’
‘Yeah, fine, stay there.’
‘That plane landed like eight hundred yards away. Bits of it landed near us, RAF Regiment lads cursing you.’
I laughed. ‘Stay there, relax, I don’t think they have two planes.’
Back at the building I inspected the insides, smoke wafting, an acrid smell, but there was no hole in the wall facing the blast. ‘Building withstood it,’ I told the Seal captain. ‘But a blast like that could kill, and half of us would have lost our hearing.’
‘And we stay here?’ he asked, not with his happy face on.
‘Got a date?’
‘No, but I’d like my men to get back in one piece!’
‘Me too, so relax. We’re alive aren’t we?’
‘What did that French officer call you, Captain Crazy Fuck?’
‘A term of affection. Now, I have operational control on the ground, Colonel Mathews will confirm that, and I say you stay. If you want to call in a ride you can, your call, but you’ll never get a live job with us again. So have a coffee, sit down, and think about it with a cool head, eh.’
People reclaimed their patches of sand, the fires still going, my lads not too bothered, Tomo insisting he hit the engine. I put men up on the roof, to listen as well as well as to look.
Sasha’s team walked in half an hour later, our prisoner looked over, his black face bruised. I handed him to the nurses. A French lad was nursing a head wound, so I had him kneel by the fire, the Seals observing my handiwork, one of their medics assisting. Stitched up, the wound clean, the man was told to take it easy, and I handed him over to our medics.
‘You a medic by trade?’ the Seal captain asked me as he sat with a coffee, his face lit by flickering orange flames.
‘I studied first aid, yes, did all the courses, up to field trauma, and my lads practise on live pigs. They all do good stitches.’
‘And the black guy over there?’
‘Was in charge of the gunmen in the camp over the hill, and probably knows a few interesting facts, so I’ll hand him to your people.’ My phone trilled, so I stood nearer to the steps. ‘Wilco.’
‘DGSE, we have met. The Legion fought a battle with the rocket men, killed them, some wounded Legion, but the major – he is dead.’
My face fell. ‘Will the Legion come back here?’
‘Tomorrow maybe, more soldier arrive, officials.’
‘OK, thanks.’ Heaving a breath, I loudly stated, ‘Listen up. The Foreign Legion caught the rocket crew, they tangled, but ... the major in charge was killed.’
Henri and Casper let out curses in French, Sambo shocked, my lads all now with long faces.
‘Henri, walk to 1st Battalion, let them know.’
With his head low, he scuffed up sand and walked out with Jacque.
‘Rest of you, grab some shut-eye, could be a long day tomorrow.’ I faced the Seals. ‘You might not feel like sleeping, but tomorrow might get lively and you’ll need your strength, so try and get some down time.’
‘I can release this?’ Max sullenly asked.
‘Yes, get the attack out there, and the losses in the Legion. The rocket crews were Islamist extremists, stick to that.’
As Max lugged his kit up the steps, the Seal captain closed in. Whispering, he angrily began, ‘You know damn well it wasn’t Islamists!’
‘We can’t release the truth here,’ I quietly told him. ‘And Desert Sands, they were shot down on the direct orders of a fucking Saudi Prince-’
‘A Saudi?’ he asked, half his face orange from the fire.
‘A Saudi, and we didn’t release that either, but at least that Saudi fucker got his head blown off with a Valmet rifle.’ I checked over my shoulder. ‘We do what we can, we suck up, we put out bullshit stories, and we fight a losing war on terror.’ I jabbed a finger. ‘And if you mention that Saudi your own fucking government will shut you up, permanently!’
He stared back, angered. ‘How’d you stomach working for these shits?’
I sighed. ‘They play their game, I play mine; we shoot as many of the foot soldiers as we can while we can. We’re all smart enough to know the game, the politics, the bullshit, but as someone once said ... good men sleep safe at night because rough men do violence on their behalf.
‘We’re the rough men, you and me, and we’re here so that the folks back home sleep better. We do the dirty work, and I know exactly what I’m doing, and why I do it.
‘In Sierra Leone we go out on patrol, we hide, and when we see a man with a machete wanting sex with a nine year old girl ... we blow his fucking head off, our small contribution to the world. The more I play their game and get them good newspaper headlines, the more leeway I have to play my game, more gunmen in the ground.’
He sighed. ‘Got it all figured out, haven’t you.’
‘And have you yet figured out why you do it...’
The night passed without incident, at least here, the TV news reporting the rocket attack as well as the plane shot down, US nightly news full of the story. An ignorant viewer might have believed that US forces were preventing the terrorists from getting access to a nuclear bomb.
At sun-up we got word of planes landing at the Legion Base, soon hearing the drone of helicopters, two French Puma loudly announcing their arrival; they had leap-frogged re-fuelling from Western Mauritania. They dropped off senior French officers and officials, a small British team of experts, and six American experts on nuclear devices – plus two keen reporters.
I put our prisoners on the helicopters before I got any criticism for mistreatment, the French taking charge of them for now.
Geiger counters out, the experts started to scan the area, others donning suits and respirators and descending into the bunker as tired faces looked on.
Thirty minutes later a short fat British scientist pulled off his respirator after he emerged from the bunker, the man covered in sweat, his hair sticking up. ‘Fascinating bunker, like some old sci-fi movie.’
‘Any radiation?’
‘No, none, so there never was any uranium or plutonium with the bomb casing. But it’s a genuine Soviet bomb alright, museum piece.’
I turned my head. ‘You hear that, Tomo, no radiation, so you bollocks are safe.’
‘His ... bollocks?’
‘He was worried about having kids.’
‘Oh, right.’ The man adopted a deep frown. ‘Well there’s no danger, and we’ll start bringing things up and cataloging them. Is it safe around here now?’
‘So so.’
‘So so?’
‘Could get a rocket attack, aircraft attacking ... fuck knows. Work quickly.’
‘They said it was safe...’
‘I never said that, and I’m the man in charge here. Work quickly.’
My phone trilled, so I stepped away, and out to the muddy river. A Crane saw me, eyed me warily, and flew off down the river course. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Colonel Mathews,
can you talk?’
‘Yes, sir, no incoming at the moment, scientists are here.’
‘What have they said?’
I kicked away a beetle and it landed on its back. ‘No radiation, damp squid, but an interesting find. You still have your head, sir?’
‘Yes, because the White House employs people who are even better sneaky shits than you are.’
‘Me, sir?’ I feigned.
‘They got the story from my boss in time, spun it every which way, held a press conference and made it seem like it was an armed nuke, then the TV news reported World War Three going on where you were, but the White House issued an update before those scientists got there to say the bomb had not been completed, no plutonium found so far, situation under control.
‘But it’s a good job the folks around here don’t watch the French TV news, because it had their men doing all the work!’
I smiled, studying the Wolves as they moved around in the distance. ‘Why not, they all get a feel-good factor, and there are senior French officials here now. But are you getting any shit?’
‘Yes and no. Each conversation starts of frosty, questions about the chain of command, I explain that our men were there for training and support, and they all end up congratulating me. Half the generals around here talk as if they organised it.’
I laughed. ‘It’s good to know that human nature never changes, no matter where you are in the world.’
‘Are the teams behaving?’
‘A few awkward questions, and some don’t like getting bombed, but so far we’re holding it together.’
‘And my Wolves?’
‘Are getting some excellent experience, sir, and none have expressed a desire to quit.’
‘I said you’d magic-up something, but Jesus – a fucking Soviet nuke. That’ll take some beating.’
‘They don’t need to know we found it by accident.’
‘Hell no.’
I lifted my head as two F18s screeched by. ‘Sir, did you send some F18s?’
‘Oh, Navy off the coast of Senegal, where you are is just three hundred miles from the coast, refuel birds overhead. You know who sent that An12?’
‘I was about to make some calls. Talk later, sir.’ Phone away, men peering up at the F18s circling, I called Libintov.
‘Ah, Petrov, as I was about to call you.’
‘About an AN12 in action on the Senegal/Mauritania border?’
‘You heard?’
‘Some of it, what do you know?’
‘Dupree loaned the plane to a Russian mercenary and his pilots, but they failed to return, then reports it was shot down, so Dupree is mad as hell and out of pocket for a large sum.’
‘And this Russian was working for which Nigerian?’
‘You are an annoyingly well-informed man. He was working for a man called al-Sheek, an oil company boss, friends with the late Izillien.’
‘I guess they still have designs on Senegal, but he took on the Americans, and now F18 jets seen over Senegal. Call Dupree, please, let him know the CIA is after him big time.’
‘I will do, it will be great to hear him squirm.’
My next call was Tinker, as several Legion trucks noisily trundled in. ‘Listen, the paymaster was a man called al-Sheek, Nigerian oil boss. Go all out, update London. And the Russian mercenary responsible for the plane is now extra-crispy, the plane hired from Dupree, French citizen who may or may not have known what the plane would be used for.’
‘That ties it all together. And that gold mine?’
‘There’ll be no attack on it now. Wilco out.’
Moran walked up with Ginger. ‘What’s the plan?’ Moran asked, glancing at the trucks.
‘We wait for the mad scientists to do their bit, then it’s back to training the Wolves I hope. That plane we shot down had a Russian mercenary on board, paid for by a Nigerian oil baron again, still interested in getting into Senegal.’
Moran noted, ‘We’re getting a bad name in Nigeria.’
‘And that camp?’ Ginger asked.
‘Empty. But Grab some men and go take a look from the hill, just in case.’
Ginger keenly headed off on his assignment.
‘Wolves were in at the deep end,’ Moran noted.
I nodded. ‘Follow me.’
We kicked up sand, six hundred yards north, finding the Wolves dug in, their NCOs on the rocks, ponchos up. I gathered those NCOs closest, the men dusty, unshaven, and looking dead tired.
‘What’s the attitude of the Wolves?’
‘None wanting to quit, sir, if that’s what you mean.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. Any of them ... said anything?’
‘Your Brit lads think it’s all a joke, I’d have to test their sanity, our lads are ... resolute but nervous, shocked of course – their first action. And they all need a bath.’
I smiled. ‘Smelly armpits aside, have you lot got any doubts about any of them to add to the files?’
They exchanged looks.
‘Given what they’ve seen and done ... no, sir, not yet.’
I nodded. ‘You lot get some quality sleep today, you look like shit, take it in turns. Keep stuffing the food down, it helps.’
‘Can you organise a few bomb-free hours, sir?’ a man cheekily asked.
‘Today is good, get some rest. Same for the Wolves.’ I led Moran to a pair of American Wolves sat cooking. ‘Don’t get up. How you coping, soldier?’
He squinted up at me. ‘Fine, sir, I guess, we’re still alive.’
‘Should be less action now, you can get some shut-eye.’
‘Got none last night, sir, was kinda loud. Thought an atom bomb had gone off, then it rained sand down on us, small stones.’
‘Anywhere you’d rather be right now? Perhaps ... somewhere with snow?’
‘I grew up in New Mexico, sir, so this looks like my back yard.’
‘I grew up in Montana, sir, seen enough snow, rather the sand.’
‘You carried Sergeant Crab on your back, sir, seventy miles across the desert..?’
‘That fat bastard, no. I stole a jeep and got ten miles, hitched a lift twenty miles, I only carried him twenty miles.’
‘That Sergeant Crab tells some tall tales, sir.’
‘We all do, but he’s got the years in, he’s seen the action, been on a lot of live jobs with me, killed a lot of men. He knows his stuff or he wouldn’t be here.’
‘And this fella called Tomo, he set off a mine by shitting on it?’ Moran and I laughed. I told them, ‘He did, in Somalia, and we still don’t know how he survived the blast. I think maybe he stood on the fuse, faulty fuse, took a few seconds to pop.’
‘Lucky, sir, darn lucky.’
‘Captain Moran here took a round through the stomach on his first live job, but fought on.’ I tapped my magazines. ‘I’ve been hit in these magazines more times than I can remember. As a soldier you need some luck.’
We spoke to Crab, to the British Wolves, before finally headed back.
Moran noted, ‘I can’t believe Tomo’s shitting habits are reaching the Americans.’
‘Wait till they get to work with him – and Rizzo. Then it’ll reach the White House!’
‘One major international incident ... coming up! Can you imagine an American general inspecting us in the field, and he talks to Rizzo. General, sir, we bollocking shot some fucking bastards over there, before I had a monster shit like, off for a cuppa now...’
‘Captain, are you suggesting that our men are not fit to meet foreign senior officers?’ I toyed.
‘Yes!’
I sighed loudly, and nodded.
The scientists made use of the Legion men, loading up the Legion trucks with interesting historic items – as well as the bomb casing. They took documents, samples of the seeds and grain, even a few old pistols and rifles.
At 4pm they were ready to leave. ‘Can you blow it?’ one asked.
‘Why, we like this building?’
‘Pes
ticide in there, and after thirty years it’s deadly.’
‘How ... deadly?’
‘I know that make of pesticide, well documented, and it’s more deadly than that stuff the Algerian Hammad made up. Some was found in Chechnya by the rebels and used, killed hundreds.’
I stopped dead and faced him.
‘What..?’ he asked.
‘I think I just figured something out. Withdraw your people, we have a building to blow.’ Inside, I shouted, ‘Everyone out now! Evacuate! On the double!’
They did not need to be nudged twice, a mad scramble, kit dragged or held over shoulders, men coming down from the roof, Slider helping Max with his heavy kit. I had them walk to the road, the Wolves called in, the French called in from where the river hit the hills, Ginger told to stay put for now.
1st Battalion were told to pack up ready to leave immediately as I directed everyone north up the road. The Legion took down tents in a hurry as I made a call to the E Ring, and to Colonel Mathews.
‘Sir, the scientists found old pesticide, and they say that it’s deadly, like your worst nightmare deadly, and I think I know why people were looking for that bunker.’
‘They wanted the pesticide.’
‘I need an airstrike, a thorough one, building and bunker hit hard. Send it up the line, sir, explain the deadly poison.’
‘I’ll get back to you, but the building is empty now?’
‘We’re all a long way off, sir, we just left your FBI guys inside.’
‘Captain, that’s mean and downright cruel ... at least it would be if true.’
Phone down, I shouted for teams to be head-counted as we walked north.
‘What’s the panic?’ Moran asked.
‘That prisoner lied, he was never after the old nuke, there was pesticide in there, and after thirty years its deadly poison.’
‘He was going to sell it, or use it. What a little fuck, eh, but he would have probably just poisoned himself moving the containers.’
‘There were men on the way, and the Seals shot them up. One was a British black, so maybe born here and moved to the UK, changed his name, came back to play terrorist.’
