by Geoff Wolak
‘Two weeks or less and I’ll have a job, but if you send men they will be under pressure, in the shit, and getting wounded.’
‘Sounds like hell. Still, we’re supposed to be the best, and capable of handling such things, so I think I could spare some men. I’ll ask for volunteers.’
‘I’ll let you know when, sir.’
‘Was it you who grabbed that French man Dupree?’
‘No, sir, we passed it over to the Americans, and they have a second man to grab.’
‘Why pass it over?’
‘Politics, sir.’
‘I understand. Take care.’
When Colonel Mathews arrived he found his Wolves and NCOs gone. I led him to a quiet room with Franks, coffee made, showed him the map, and I detailed my plan over half an hour.
When I was done, he began, ‘And this would be my project?’
‘There would be British and French involved, and since it’s North Africa Admiral Jacobs would be involved.’
‘If we use my Lone Wolves, it’s more my project,’ he insisted.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We’ll use Deltas and Green Berets, not Seals, so Jacobs has less of an interest, and it’s a fucking long way from the ocean!’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll ... leave you to chat to him.’
He was soon on his plane and heading north to Morocco, whilst I had a ride in the morning to Nigeria with Franks and Captain Harris. I checked my watch, and sighed, my fingers firmly crossed, knowing what was about to happen – and the risks involved.
I called Mutch. ‘You sorted?’
‘I’ve been making calls all day, and now most every oil worker in Port Harcourt thinks there’ll be a Sarin Gas attack, a few bombs. GlobalTech down in Bournemouth issued a release by fax and email after London gave them a summary warning. Panic ... is in full swing, but what’s likely to happen?’
‘We got a warning that the Islamists in the north would use fake Sarin sometime this month, maybe,’ I lied.
‘Well the panic is more than just a maybe. And I never mentioned that it was fake Sarin.’
‘Keep the calls going, I want the Nigerians pissed off, airports clogged. Thank you, Scorpio.’
‘Is Scorpio my new official title?’
‘No, it’s still Fat Bastard, and that guy on Platform 12 - he was your twin brother ... and just as charming!’
At 4pm, London issued a warning to Lagos: Islamists in north possess Sarin Gas, attacks planned. The Foreign Office then issued a travel warning, a shock to those waiting at Heathrow Airport, a bigger shock to the Nigerians since their oil industry would be affected, tourism down. The BBC ran the travel warning, Reuters following.
At 4.30pm, the Nigerian police received a warning in Arabic of Sarin Gas attacks, to take place in shopping centres at 5pm. The police told the Interior Ministry, who told the President, who did nothing.
At 5pm, prime shopping time in Lagos, a bad smell registered in six different shopping malls. Eyes started to water, people coughed, panic ensued, the malls emptying out. Now the President took notice, the police to turn out.
When the police got the alert about Sarin Gas they quite sensibly refused to go anywhere near the malls, firemen called with breathing apparatus. When the firemen were informed it was Sarin Gas they uttered a few rude words and pulled back.
With the six principal malls empty, six large bombs tore the malls apart, windows blown out, structures damaged, floors collapsing, and the mall owners would have a bit of a cleaning bill, the Nigerian news full of the story, panic spreading. Fires were burning, but the fire brigade would not enter the malls.
On the roof of a skyscraper, under the mobile phone masks, Sasha and Casper got comfy and got ready, Elephant Guns loaded, firing positions adopted. Casper had a 1200yard shot, no wind at the moment, but he would not need to be accurate. He took careful aim.
Nigeria’s darling of the airways, the attractive Helen Zikelen, was reporting the mall attacks with her regular co-host, a panoramic backdrop of the city seen behind her through tinted glass. She had on a nice figure-hugging yellow dress, her curvy figure on display for the men sat watching her broadcasts, the lady something of a pin-up in Nigeria. Live on air, many of the citizens of Lagos watching, the glass behind her suddenly shattered. Helen screamed, her co-host getting under the table. Helen ran shrieking off camera.
A second shot, a brilliant shot that would pass into legend – the Petrov Legend, and her yellow coffee mug exploded on air, the camera still live, the third shot smashing the camera glass, suddenly a view of the floor through broken glass for those sat watching at home.
Sasha took careful aim, as Casper called me. ‘OK, now.’
I entered a number. And waited.
‘Hello?’ came a base baritone Nigerian accent.
‘Interior Minister, this is Petrov.’
‘Petrov? How’d you get this number!’
‘Listen carefully, pay attention. I just shot up your TV studios, a distance shot, and that Sarin, that was not the Islamists from the north, that was me.’
‘We will hunt you down like a dog!’
‘People always say that ... but who hunts and kills dogs, eh? People love dogs.’
‘What?’ came after a pause.
‘Here’s a newsflash, since your TV station is damaged. Your oil industry has been starting coups in Liberia, Sierra Leone and Senegal, and my paymasters are not happy, not happy at all, so I’m going to bomb you back into the Stone Age. Six bombs have gone off, twenty-six are left in place.’
‘Why are you doing this!’
‘Those I work for wish that you take a look at your oil millionaires, see what they are doing to cause problems for other African nations, and that you stop them. And here’s a news flash for you. Al-Sheek took money from the Saudis, and he passed it to Islamists in the north. Were you aware of that, Minister?’
‘No, I was not, and he will pay!’
‘Minister, if I do not see your government take a hard line with men like al-Sheek, and your oil industry, Lagos will burn, and I will kill you and the President. Now, get under your desk.’
‘Get under my desk?’
‘I have you in my sights.’
In Lagos, Sasha saw the Minister dive under his desk, and so fired several rounds, the window shattered, the wall behind the minister hit, plaster flying everywhere, and I heard the damage being wrought down the phone.
‘Are you still there, Minister?’
‘Yes, I am here.’
‘I could have killed you. I will next time. Deal with your oil industry. Spaceba.’ Call cut, I had to work hard not to grin.
Casper glanced at Sasha, a nod exchanged, a mobile number punched into a phone. A mile away, al-Sheek was currently in a board meeting, his team sat about a large oval desk when the bomb went off, the windows blown out. But this device was small, it was full of small nails, and packed with phosphorous.
None of the men sat around the table were killed by the blast, but all had their legs shredded, several having their lower legs blown off, feet blown off. All had their legs and lower abdomen’s burnt badly.
The sprinkler system kicked in, the burning men finding some relief from their considerable pain. But their relief was short-lived. After sixty seconds of plain water the sprinklers issued a red smelly liquid, people upturning palms and wondering what it was, and why it smelt so bad. Evacuation was called for, the very wet office workers finding that the red liquid now worked like superglue, fingers stuck together, hair matted.
Outside, the arriving police and fire brigade found a hundred people naked or semi-naked and frantically thrashing in the ornate company fountain, like some giant orgy. Seeing and smelling the red liquid, the firemen refused to enter the building, the mayhem just about visible to Sasha and Casper from their lofty vantage point.
Across town, the President was at his desk when the blast registered, his limo blown apart, no one in it, no one hurt. He stood at his office window, staring wide-e
yed down at the burning limo.
Despite the devastation brought, only one old security guard had been killed so far, but many of al-Sheek’s board members were unlikely to survive the night.
Sasha’s team withdrew, a route to reverse, tracks to cover, one last task; Casper would make sure a CCTV camera got him in a facemask, upper lip visible.
Mutch called at 7pm. ‘The panic has turned into nothing short of hysterical grown men running for their lives.’
‘What’s happened?’ I pretended.
‘Bombs went off in Lagos, Sarin Gas released, it’s mayhem.’
‘Oil workers targeted?’
‘No, shoppers were targeted, easier to get at, oil workers have armed guards.’
‘Intel was faulty then.’
‘Intel was correct, if you assume that oil workers have money and use the shopping malls, as the Islamists might have assumed. They’ll always go for the soft target.’
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ I pretended. ‘Tell those oil workers to go back to work.’
‘Ha. They’ll be gone a while.’
When my phone trilled next, it was Paul MacManners. ‘Have you seen the news from Lagos?’
‘Mutch said something about shopping malls being hit, not oil workers.’
‘Yes, six malls, so our warning was kind of accurate. And there are rumours that al-Sheek’s company suffered a bomb attack and chemical attack.’
‘Chemical attack? What chemical?’
‘Unknown at the moment, but it’s being reported as red wood glue, water soluble. Someone put it in their sprinkler system. Hang on ... Reuters is reporting an assassination attempt on the Interior Minister, and the President. Any ... clues?’
‘Why ask me? I’m in Mauritania, and all my lads are in Tenerife on holiday.’
‘And Spectre?’
‘Ah, well they may have had a hand in things, but I’m doubting they left any evidence behind, they tend to use sub-contractors over the phone, no face-to-face meetings.’
‘Sounds both cautious and thorough, true professionals.’
‘I’m flying to Lagos tomorrow. Is it ... safe?’
‘Not really, so you take care over there.’
‘And will the various officials be joining me?’
‘They will, yes, especially after today’s extraordinary events. Hang on ...’ He started laughing in the background. ‘Someone just showed me a video clip, a nice young lady TV presenter, the window behind her shot out, her coffee mug hit, then the camera. It’s like one of those humorous “outtake” shows.’
‘I’d love to see it, maybe I will tomorrow. Oh, can you round up any spare Lone Wolves and send them down for a few weeks, kitted for the desert. Talk soon.’
I called Tomsk.
‘What the fuck have you done in Lagos?’ he shouted.
‘I sent them a message.’
‘A message! Half the city is on fire, talk of Sarin Gas and chemical weapons, the Presidents car blown up, his ministers shot at!’
‘OK, so it was a loud message. Anyway, you’ll see a video clip eventually of their TV station being hit. Let everyone know it was me.’
‘You want them to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will be wanted afterwards maybe!’ he teased.
‘Maybe.’
Admiral Jacobs called an hour later. ‘Captain, CIA are saying that al-Sheek got his balls blown off today ... literally, legs and testicles burnt.’
‘Saves me the job of doing it, and maybe things will be quiet around here.’
‘Did ... your people have a hand in it?’
‘Certainly not, sir, were British, we don’t do such things, we have laws, rules and regular audits.’
‘You’re also full of crap. You said you’d deal with him.’
‘I dare you to find a single shred of evidence to back up that claim, sir. Beer on me if you do.’
‘We’re going for Colonel Huebert tonight, and I’m flying to Lagos later, I’ll be there for the meeting.’
‘Colonel Mathews did suggest I not let you steal all the limelight.’
‘We’re all on the same damn team, and North Africa is my area.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, sir.’
I checked in on Captain Harris and Franks. Bags were packed, so I grabbed mine after a shower, a USAF Hercules to transport our small team east to Lagos, a nice hotel booked, the Nigerians asked to provide security. I would feel safer with Americans in the team; the Nigerians would not try something, like shooting me full of holes.
After four hours of uncomfortable Hercules we set down in Lagos in the dark, Abuja now being the de-facto capital for a few short years, but Lagos was where everything happened.
Our Hercules was met by police jeeps, and we were soon into the air-conditioned interiors and being whisked along behind flashing blue lights, the police and army out in force.
‘Is it always like this?’ I asked our driver. ‘The security?’
‘Oh, no, Cap-ee-tan, today we have an attack from Islamist separatists, very bad.’
‘Islamists, from the north?’
‘Yes, they want to be gone from us and more Muslim, sir.’
‘Ah, I see,’ I said, a glance at Franks.
It took almost an hour to reach our hotel, even with the flashing lights, and our bags were carried up steps and inside. A British embassy official introduced himself, keys handed over, and he led us briskly to the lifts.
‘You’ve arrived at a bad time, was a series of attacks today, Sarin Gas, chemical weapons, the works.’
‘Real Sarin, or fake Sarin?’ I asked.
‘Well, given that there’s no one listed as killed from the gas, I’d have to say fake Sarin, as was stopped in Europe.’
‘Aim is panic,’ I said with a sigh. ‘So fake or not it causes panic.’
‘Might I suggest ... overnight wash and dry, for the uniforms.’
Captain Harris and I exchanged looks, looked each other’s uniforms, and nodded whilst grinning.
The lift door opened with a ping, police stood like statues, and we found our rooms – and they were palatial. I ordered room service after Captain Harris came in and sat with me, the local TV news keenly watched, the Nigerian Government firmly putting the blame for today’s events on Islamists. When they showed the lady TV presenter screaming and running we laughed loudly.
The room service was excellent, beers enjoyed, Admiral Jacobs knocking on my door but simply saying that he was exhausted and going straight to bed.
TV on, I flicked through local channels, finding a sitcom that took the piss out of the English language, and quaint old sayings.
‘Let the cat out of the bag,’ a man implored.
‘What cat? I have no cat here, and who would put a cat in a bag?’ a woman responded.
Later, he said, ‘That ship has sailed.’
A young boy ran to the window. ‘What ship, Grandpa, like an old sailing ship, like pirates?’
I laughed, amused, as they took every old saying literally. And it seemed that around here you added an “oh” to the end of everything. It was odd to hear Nigerian police saying “good-oh”. And your arse was your “nash”.
At 5am I ordered a room service breakfast, and again watched the news, having kept my curtains drawn since I had first entered this room. I was wary of snipers, their snipers.
At 8am, and in clean fresh shirt and trousers, I met with the others, the British Ambassador arriving, and looking most annoyed with me. His officials were a little less frosty. When the American team was ready we claimed mini-buses with tinted windows, a small army of police escorting us, a small army of Nigerian Army jeeps behind us.
A mile across town we pulled into the old government buildings that were still used by a few ministries, and as we stepped down I nodded a greeting at the senior DGSE manager as he stood in a suit with his ambassador, and he worked hard to hide his grin.
Inside, led along long corridors in a period colonial design, we
came to a large conference room, a huge oval table of dark red wood, names on cards. I found my name and sat, Captain Harris behind me, Franks sat off to one side and not at the table.
The British Ambassador and some official was on my right, the French on my left, the Americans opposite, empty positions at the top end of the table noted as people sipped water, tea of coffee orders taken by ushers.
I took in the period colonial cornice work, and the paintings on the walls that seemed to be of black slaves being whipped by white people on horses. I stared up at them with a deep frown, wondering what the hell they were doing in this room – in a black African country.
The Nigerian delegation eventually arrived, the President and his Interior Minister being announced to the group, shaking hands with Admiral Jacobs but few others, the Defence Minister sitting with his team. Everyone settled themselves, the Nigerians all very tall and as black-skinned as black could be, making it hard to discern features.
Admiral Jacobs began, ‘Thank you all for attending here today, this meeting being a proposal for the Nigerian Government from three other countries; Britain, France and America.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘We are all well aware of the problems you’ve had with Islamists in the north, and this meeting is timely given what seems to have happened yesterday.
‘Mister President, we have a proposal for you, from our combined special forces unit.’ He turned to me. ‘Captain.’
I began, ‘Mister President, in the north of your country is a disused airfield, built by the Americans in 1962, the height of the cold war. That airfield is nothing more than a runway, but is so long that the Americans actually considered using it as an emergency landing runway for the Space Shuttle.
‘The Americans discounted that idea because of the remoteness, and also the troublesome tribesmen and gunmen in the area. Your own forces rarely visit the area for the same reason.
‘What we would like to propose, Mister President, is that we take over that airfield and place our combined special forces soldiers there.’
The Presidents jet-black face wrinkled. ‘If you are there ... then the local tribesmen will attack you.’
