by Geoff Wolak
‘No one will be allowed to follow you,’ he assured me.
‘And my phone? My people can see where I am, so can yours.’
‘NSA would need an order to that effect, and I’ll check they don’t have one.’
The head of GCHQ put in, ‘We can help with that. We take the chip from your old phone, it stays with us, calls redirected to any new phone. That new phone will make calls back to us and through.’
‘Let’s set that up soon, just in case someone like the French track it as well,’ I suggested. ‘And maybe someone like The Banker can track it as well.’
‘Getting the satellite data is very difficult,’ the head of GCHQ assured me.
‘I need to get back to West Africa anyway, so I can meet Gorskov maybe, he’s hiding in Nigeria. Libintov is rumoured to be in Northern Cyprus some of the time.’
‘We have an expanding net of numbers that surround Izillien,’ GCHQ informed me.
I pointed at the Deputy Chief. ‘Any terror groups or Russians that you might be interested in, let me have a few names now so that I can listen out for them.’
He started to write them down.
I turned my head to the Director. ‘Priority for me, Ma’am?’
‘Stopping bombs in Sierra Leone.’
‘I can take my team back down, and track back this bomb maker. Then ... go see Izillien and say hello.’
The Deputy Chief handed me the list and I read down it. ‘This one, Krestol, he’s sat in a bar in La Palma with a cold beer, an arm missing. His No.2 shot him, left him for dead, took over the business. Krestol got some cash, not much, and his life. His No.2 was called ... Minksa, or similar.’
He made a note.
I faced David. ‘Can you get me a Bombadier, Canadair 200, or similar plane, as before, for a week or more, trusted pilots, I may need to hop about.’
‘There is one we can grab, ex-RAF pilots that have worked with us. Will it land anywhere dangerous?’
‘No, just that I may need to follow a lead in a hurry. Mister Hunt still on holiday?’
‘Back soon. You need him?’
‘It helps to have an opinion on things.’
‘When do you want the plane?’
‘Tomorrow noon at the earliest.’
Meeting breaking up, cooperation promised, hands shaken, we all set off in different directions. I headed back to the MOD building to get my pistol. Pistol back on, MP Pete collected – paperback dog eared, we set off west.
I called Moran, since O’Leary would have left for the day. ‘It’s Wilco. Got a deployment to Sierra Leone, do it on a volunteer basis, go see everyone, because some deserve a break. I’m back in an hour and a bit.’
‘OK, I’ll go see them now.’
‘And tell Swifty the curry is still on, we won’t go anywhere till tomorrow afternoon.’
Back at GL4, I loaded my crate with Swifty and drove it around, finding the hangar a hive of activity. To Moran I said, ‘Anyone not coming?’
‘Two of Robby’s have family things they can’t get out of, some still wounded, Smitty has a mum in hospital and he’s up in Newcastle already, one of Sasha’s has commitments, rest want some place warm. And Mitch has no social life.’
‘I heard that,’ Mitch shouted.
I closed in on Sambo. ‘You have greens, but take desert brown anyway, and civilian clothes, you may be undercover again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Crab closed in. ‘We on this job?’
‘Want some action, Sergeant?’
‘We do our bit,’ he sheepisly answered.
‘Yes, come along, but no stupid stunts.’
Tomo laughed at them.
‘Tomo, you’re fined £100.’
Tomo stopped dead. ‘I am? What for?’
‘What did you do wrong on the hostage rescue, Dumbfuck?’
He took in the faces. ‘I got the guard and the two outside.’
‘Staff Sergeant Rocko, what did this man do wrong?’
‘He moved without orders, and he didn’t radio his movement.’
‘Correct. So, Tomo, you’re fined £100, and do that again we’ll have words, loud words. Job is dangerous enough without adding to the danger, you could have been shot coming out the front door. Don’t be in a hurry to be like Sergeant Crab.’
Hamble seemed pleased that Tomo had been told off, Tomo sulking as he packed his kit.
‘Listen up! We won’t be going anywhere till at least noon tomorrow, so night out if you want, sleep on the plane.’
I stepped outside into the cold dark night and called Tinker. ‘It’s Wilco, we’re off to Sierra Leone tomorrow, got a lead on the bomb maker.’
‘I’ll be in tomorrow for a few hours, a few of us will.’
Kit checked, crates locked, Swifty having added two paperbacks, and we were almost set.
Hunt stepped in dressed warm.
‘You back?’ I nudged.
‘Had a family crisis to sort. When we flying?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon most likely. Know where Harris is?’
‘Nope. How’d the big meeting go?’
‘The White House knows, but it’s business as usual. They may be able to get the FBI off Petrov.’
‘That’s something.’
‘You need to pack?’
‘Never unpacked, but I need to wash a few things overnight.’
‘Some of us heading for a curry.’
‘Ah, well that takes precedent over washing my socks.’
‘Cirencester, Taj Mahal, hour from now.’
He nodded and headed out.
I returned to the gang. ‘Anyone want a curry, we’re heading that way, and I have cash. And no, I did not earn it legally.’
Laughter echoed as we left the MP to guard the crates, a quick wash before heading out for a much-needed curry. At 8pm, the curry house quiet due to the shit weather, twenty-four of us walked in, MP Pete along and on duty, but at least he could eat, two MPs off duty. All of a sudden, the poor bored waiters had something to do.
In the morning - the last of the snow melting as it rained, a few lads checked kit, and we all changed into jungle greens, Crab and Duffy checking ammo and ration pack levels. We had taken delivery of thirty brown Valmects, so there would be enough for either type of terrain in the future.
Harris was off with family and had asked to be excused, but he could get back if it was vital. I told him to stay with his family. Sandra turned up, and I wondered why.
‘Mister David said I could be useful in Sierra Leone,’ she told me, looking cold and miserable.
I nodded, ‘Make sure you have green clothing, but also some civilian clothing, you may be spying for us.’
‘I go home – three hours, I go shopping, I make my flat warm, and I come back here – three hours.’ She threw her arms in the air and walked off cursing, leaving people asking me what I had done to upset her.
The RAF buses turned up at noon, to take us to Brize Norton, hopefully a suitable ride waiting to fly us from there. Crates were put aboard, a headcount done, absentees noted just as Fuzz drove in. He approached me as I stood waiting by the bus steps, now in civvy clothes.
‘I’m better, Boss, I could do something.’
‘You been signed off?’
‘Another two weeks, but that’s bollocks, all healed up unless someone gives me a good kicking in the stomach.’
‘Got your kit?’
‘In the car.’
‘Leave your keys in the car, get aboard fast.’
He moved his car, left it open – a word with the MP stood right there near the hangar, and lugged his Bergen aboard. I stepped aboard and we drove around the top of the perimeter track, police escort joining us at the gate, MP Pete in his jeep ready.
A short fifteen minutes later we chugged up the long approach road and passed the gate at Brize Norton, old memories coming back. How many nights had I stood guard there, I wondered.
Around to the apron, and a white and blue Bombadier jet sat the
re, RAF ground handlers ready, RAF police watching over it. Crates off the bus and loaded to the cargo hold, we boarded, and with everyone aboard the co-pilot repositioned a few of us to even things out.
Door closed, the engines started to whine.
‘This ain’t as comfy as that little plane,’ Rocko complained.
‘That was a Gulfstream,’ I told him.
‘This is like a 737,’ he noted.
‘Nothing like a 737,’ Swifty told him. ‘This has engines at the back, 737 has them under the wings.’
‘The seats,’ Rocko grumbled.
‘Learjet can only take about ten people,’ I told him. ‘Gulfstream about nineteen at most.’
We were soon above the clouds, and in glorious sunshine, heading south and towards a better climate. And with a little planning and some foresight we could have flown from Niger direct to Sierra Leone – if I had known how things would turn out.
Five hours later we landed in the dark at Freetown airport, local time 7pm, Colonel Marchant still stationed down here.
We shook at the base of the steps. ‘Any more bombs, sir?’
‘Not today, and we’ve restricted movements. Will you want transport to the FOB?’
‘Not yet, sir, we’ll be here to start with.’
‘That hotel is available, a few NCOs in there I think, most are in the former barracks just outside, well protected.’
‘Put a man on the door, sir. If the kingpin behind the bomb knew we were here he would send someone.’
‘Am I allowed to know what’s going on?’ he complained.
‘Same people who funded the coup; Nigerians. They’ll achieve nothing by setting off bombs, but it’s the mindset of a gang.’
‘President was killed when his helicopter went down, Vice President sworn in.’
I nodded as the lads boarded a bus. ‘Did they recover the helicopter?’
‘No, it’s in the muddy river somewhere.’
‘Maybe he took some money and skipped town.’
‘Hadn’t thought of it like that, but his family were not very happy – and won’t be if that’s the case.’
I stopped Hunt boarding the bus. ‘Get a ride to the embassy, room there, all local intel, talk to the police – those than can be trusted, get a feel for everything here and all the players. In particular, sound out the new president, and then sound out what he really thinks about us Brits.’
He nodded, and headed off with his bag.
Bus loaded, we trundled the short distance around to the dilapidated hotel, familiar rooms grabbed, Mitch not impressed with the rooms. He doubled up with Sasha.
Back downstairs, we found the ‘diner room’, the sign still there, a few sergeants sat around, the men being from Transport.
‘Captain?’ the first asked as he stood.
‘Sit, sit,’ I told them. ‘How many of you here?’
‘About six, sir.’
‘We’re SAS, so don’t go advertising that fact around here, and stay sharp, a good look out for strangers.’
‘Right, sir.’
The same cook stepped out, and stopped dead to stare at me. ‘Sir.’ He glanced at the NCOs. ‘We need tin hats and body armour, sir?’
‘Hope not, but the locals are kicking off, so stay sharp. Twenty something of us, not sure how long we’ll be here. Two are black.’
‘We’ve seen black servicemen before, sir,’ he said with a puzzled frown.
‘Black, and not British servicemen.’
‘Oh, right.’
Sandra stepped in with Henri and Jacque, chatting in French, coffee grabbed, Mitch stepping in and saying hello.
‘I’ll ... get some food on, sir,’ the chef said with a heavy frown as he turned and sloped off.
One of the Transport NCOs pointed at Mitch’s epaulettes. ‘What are those?’ he asked as the lads arrived in small groups.
‘I’m a lieutenant.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘No bother. What you boys do around here?’
‘Transport, sir.’
When Rocko appeared I halted him with a flat palm. ‘Man on stag at the front door, and send someone to try the roof.’
Tomo got first stag on the door, to some moaning, Nicholson heading up to the roof. He was back in a hurry.
‘Everyone out! Bomb on the roof!’
‘Outside!’ I shouted, and ran into the kitchens as chairs scraped and tables were nudged. ‘Get everyone out, there’s a bomb! Move it! Get outside!’
I ran out, a hundred yards and stopped, sending the appointed MP guard off for help. ‘Nicholson, describe it.’
‘Bag of sugar size, mobile phone, flashing light.’
‘Where was it positioned?’
‘Against the wall.’
‘Against the fucking wall?’ Stretch repeated. ‘Fucking bomber ain’t got a clue.’
‘Which wall?’ I asked.
‘Left side,’ Nicholson responded as flashing blue lights preceded the arrival of more MPs.
I asked for Bomb Disposal, but I was informed that the relevant men were in the city, a suspect device to deal with.
‘Stretch, go take a look.’
Stretch ran in, the chefs grouped, and not looking too happy.
‘How’d they get someone on the roof?’ Moran wondered.
‘Steps at the back,’ Nicholson informed him.
‘Someone know we’re here?’ Mitch asked.
‘Maybe, or just a random target.’
Colonel Marchant arrived in a jeep. ‘You found a bomb.’
‘Yes, sir, my man is looking at it now, or supper will be delayed. And how did they get in, sir?’
‘Lots of airport workers. They’re screened by the local army.’
‘So not screened well at all then.’
Stretch appeared, device in hand, the chefs taking a step back at the sight of it. ‘Cheap mining explosives, dated mobile phone rig.’ He handed it to a startled Colonel Marchant. ‘Defused now.’
‘Listen up! Search the entire building, start at the ground level. One man around the outside, one man on the roof. Chefs, search your area and your rooms, and now – but first salvage our food please. Salvage the food first, bomb searching second.’
They moved off, and back inside.
Colonel Marchant asked, ‘What would this have done?’
‘Fuck all,’ Stretch told him. ‘Where it was, hole in the wall, some damage, big bang, bricks flying off. Building would have stayed up, no one killed.’
‘So an amateur bomber,’ he noted.
I told him, ‘Even amateur bombs, kill, sir. And you need to sweep every building. Tonight, sir. That won’t be the only one.’
He handed the device to an MP, and drove off as I headed back inside. I checked the diner with a few others, under tables, and then my room, but there was nowhere to hide a bomb in the room.
Up on the roof I found Nicholson, kitted out. ‘Stay sharp, rotate the stag, or they may get lucky.’ I took in the runway, the terminal building, the city beyond the wire, the city being a mass of distant orange lights.
‘I was going to throw it.’
‘Could have done, it wouldn’t have gone off.’ I called SIS, London. ‘It’s Wilco, in Freetown. Sitrep: small bomb with a mobile phone detonator found on the roof of the hotel building we’re staying at. Bomb defused. Send that message on to the MOD. Wilco out.’
Stepping away from Nicholson, I called Monrovia.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Papa Victor.’
‘Ah, I was going to call, they just handed me a sheet of paper, some blood on it. Our friend resisted for a while.’
‘An amateur bomb maker would not resist.’
‘They tried to persuade him, money offered, but he had principals and loyalty. They only reported their approach an hour ago, so I had the approach ... modified. Do you have a paper and pen?’
‘Hold on.’ I took my notepad out and placed it on the wall, pen ready. ‘OK, go ahead.’
�
��Man’s name is George Kallabella, he runs a bar and brothel called Fun House, Dock Street, opposite the police station – north east side.’
‘And I wonder who he pays off.’
‘Indeed, yes.’
‘Did the man have a phone?’
‘Yes. Would you like the number?’
‘Please.’
He read it out.
‘What motivates this man?’
‘He was paid, but he fears his paymaster. This George is not the paymaster, he is ... the facilitator. His paymaster is a Nigeria, Samuel Adebayo, the man living in Ivory Coast.’
‘How many bombs has this man made recently?’
‘Six.’
‘Keep questioning him, it is all useful. One bomb was found by the British, simple mobile phone detonator. And thank you.’
‘A pleasure.’
Call cut, I rang SIS London because I had no number for Colonel Marchant. ‘It’s Wilco. Send to Army units in Sierra Leone: six bombs known to have been placed, one found in airport, one going off in Freetown, four left to find.’
‘OK, got that.’
‘And pass this mobile number to GCHQ, top priority.’ I read it out twice.
Downstairs, I found that the chefs had salvaged what they had been cooking, and were ready to serve, but they did not look happy with us. ‘Gentlemen, that bomb was one of six placed around this base before I arrived, and no one knew we were coming. If my man had not spotted it ... well, you may have got yourselves a nice long stay in a local hospital, those of you that survived.’
Their facial muscles moved from sour-faced to frightened, so I left them to contemplate their own mortality, and I claimed a table with Swifty, Moran and Mitch, cold drinks grabbed, the Transport guys a bit disturbed, my lads in high spirits.
Hamble asked, ‘Safer at the FOB?’
‘Yes, but I want to be close to Freetown.’
Fuzz put in with a smile, ‘Back on the job a few hours and nearly blown up.’ He shook his head. ‘Had enough hospitals for a little while, Boss.’
‘I know how you feel,’ I told him. I said to those on my table, ‘After our food, we have a house call to make, but first – need some CS gas I think.’
‘That kind of house call,’ Mitch noted. ‘I’m guessing we won’t be expected, nor welcome.’
