by Geoff Wolak
‘If that boat gets close we need to fire warning shots, sir,’ I told the captain.
He nodded. ‘Tonight we turn out to sea at sun down and lose these boats maybe.’
‘Or we let them think they’re winning,’ I suggested.
He considered that. ‘How will you get ashore unseen?’
‘Helicopters can fly from here inland, then back out to the American carrier. The fighters will go and look in the wrong place.’
‘Ah, we trick them, yes.’
‘I’m waiting to hear from London and Paris, sir. We may just get a suntan and go home.’
Down on the helicopter deck I found that the lads were spread out, French commandos in a group, some of them with fifty cal and GPMG. Stood next to Rocko and Slider, I pointed. ‘That small boat has dickers with binoculars watching us.’
‘That’s how they knew?’ Rocko asked.
‘No, because for all they know we’re just sailing past – and French!’
‘What’ll we do?’ Slider asked, squinting in the bright sun.
‘Bore them to death, trick them maybe. If we transfer from here to the American tub, via an inland dog leg route, they’ll think we set down, and go waste days looking for us.’
Rocko said, ‘Do that twice a day, different locations, and the ragheads will be well pissed-off running around.’
‘Yep,’ I agreed. ‘But it’s down to London.’
I toured the deck and the forward areas, the lads spread out, and I completed a full circle of the ship, French Echo now kitted out and ready. I agreed with Major Liban to set a rota, leading him back up to the captain.
My DGSE liaison came up to the bridge. ‘Paris says that now we know it is a trick you can modify the plan. They leave it to you, but I update them.’
I faced the captain. ‘Do your pilots want some practise, sir?’
‘I can send them, it is a simple mission.’
‘If you point the ship south, the men watching us will not see who loaded the helicopters. Have your commandos on the rear helicopter, seen loading. They fly inland, a remote place, fly low level and down, back again in a circle. Simple.’
He pointed me towards a map. I put a finger on a place east of the camp. Orders were issued.
Fifteen minutes later, pilots getting ready, rotors turning, we turned southeast, our friends in the small boat following on behind us a thousand yards back. French commandos boarded the rear Puma, and all three took off in sequence.
A French officer with binoculars reported, ‘The men in the boat make a call, satellite phone.’
I exchanged a look with the captain.
Liban said, ‘We play our game, they play their game. I think we are smarter, and if we are not smarter ... we all get a job as taxi drivers in Paris.’
The captain smiled.
I asked, ‘Paris taxi drivers..?’
Liban explained, ‘They often ask the passengers if they know the way.’
I teased, ‘A knowledge of the city is not required for a taxi license?’
‘No!’ came loudly from several officers.
Stood on the deck, Franks rang. ‘You inserted? We saw your helos on radar.’
‘No, we’re flying decoy missions to piss off the fighters. They’ll go look, and waste time, get frustrated.’
‘We could assist with that.’
‘When you see our helos return on radar, send yours to an isolated spot but close enough be heard or seen, drop low, pause, fly off.’
‘They’ll think we inserted teams. OK, I’ll talk to the Air Commander.’
I stood down some of the lads, and informed them that they would be on late tonight, the rest to be hidden below decks, those areas that were exposed to the ocean. And the darkness of night would be the issue, because a small boat could get close, RPGs fired at us. I was sure that the hull was tough enough, but men on deck could be hit, as well as the expensive French Pumas.
Summoned to the bridge, they reported the American helicopters, so I explained it.
The captain said, ‘We keep them awake and confused.’
‘Need to be vigilant tonight, sir, a small boat could get close and shoot at us, RPG maybe.’
He nodded. ‘We stay at alert, but this is good for the crew – real conditions.’
Hunt stepped onto the bridge. ‘I spoke to London, and ... they’re happy for us to wear down the fighters, to trick them, and then move in. Paris is in agreement.’
I raised a finger. ‘On the satellite photos, was there a water well I saw?’
‘I think so.’
‘And if it was bombed..?’
Hunt smiled. ‘They would be out of water and have to travel to the next well.’
‘And if the Americans hit roads...’ I suggested. I stepped out and made a call.
‘This is Franks.’
‘It’s Wilco. Ask your Navy if they’ll damage a few roads for me, no civilian casualties.’
‘If it’s just isolated roads I think we could swing it.’
‘There’s a main road west, so find a spot with a small bridge – I saw some on the map, dried river beds. Cut the roads in a few places, then the road southeast.’
‘I’ll chat to them now. Pilots will be happy; they never took a shot at the hilltop in Eritrea, but Washington may see it as pissing off Aideed, so there’s politics involved here.’
‘It’s a small village, not a major industrial area, so press the issue.’
‘Leave it with me.’
At midnight I patrolled the deck positions, our dickers still with us, seen on radar but not by eye, just the odd glint in the moonlight.
Tomo and Nicholson were sat observing the dickers.
‘Tomo,’ I called. ‘If you fitted your silencer and hit the dickers I might have to reprimand you a little.’
He lifted his face to me, fitted his silencer, lay down and took aim, three quiet cracks, and in the stiff breeze I figured that no one on the bridge would hear it.
‘Not easy, Boss,’ Tomo told me. ‘They’re moving up and down, so are we.’
‘Then give their boat a slow leak.’
‘Ah.’ He fired again, five times.
I wandered up to the bridge, and casually asked about the boat.
‘They are leaving us,’ I was informed.
‘Maybe we have a quiet night, no RPG in the side.’
The officer looked horrified. ‘Will an RPG make a hole?’
‘If it’s anti-armour RPG ... maybe,’ I told him.
I returned to the deck. ‘Tomo, that boat is heading home, so there’s no evidence against you.’
Nicholson asked, ‘We not allowed to shoot them?’
‘No, we need provocation first – they could be out fishing, and we can’t shoot at them unless they’re shooting at us. At least not when there are witnesses.’
Below decks, many of the lads were still awake.
‘All quiet up there?’ Sasha asked as he sat with his team.
‘Yes, and ... a grateful man in Marseille put some money in our bank account, so bonuses when we get back.’
‘Bonuses?’ Rizzo asked as he lay on his back.
‘Cash bonuses. Unless you’re killed on this job, Staff Sergeant, then it’s more money for everyone else.’
A tannoy shouted something in French.
Moran jumped up. ‘Incoming!’
I turned and ran back to the steps, up in a hurry to the deck. ‘Incoming! Get ready! Incoming!’ I ran back to Tomo and Nicholson as they lay down ready, figuring an attack from the west, the coastline.
‘There!’ Nicholson said, and I peered down his rifle from behind as footsteps echoed on the deck.
A flash, a blast, and an RPG flew in, but it hit the water well short, not detonating. I knelt, took aim but aimed high, and I fired ten rounds as Tomo and Nicholson fired out, others joining in.
Another flash, a blast, and an RPG went off at an angle.
‘What the fuck they aiming at?’ Tomo asked.
A GPMG opened up from the deck, red tracer seen, the rounds seeking out flesh. They found fuel barrels, a burst of flame, men engulfed in those flames and jumping over the side, the GPMG pumping rounds into the boat as it burnt brightly. I set automatic and fired, but at the men in the water.
The ship’s engines were cut, shouts echoing in French, a Zodiac soon lowered over the side on a winch, six French commandos on board, no one firing out now. In the water, engines started, the Zodiac sped off, back ten minutes later with two damp prisoners – the winch fitted, the Zodiac lifted as we observed. I headed down to the Zodiac.
One damp Somali was burnt, the other damp Somali OK – just a teenager, both bound up, the teenager on his knees, his head lowered.
With the burnt man being carried away on a stretcher, I began in Arabic, ‘You can talk to us, or we see if you can swim back. And if you talk, maybe we put some money in your pocket and drop you down the coast; you make up a story about the boat sinking, walk home. Up to you.’
The prisoner kept his head down, French commandos either side.
‘You attacked a French ship, so you go to France, prison for life, shit food, other prisoners knifing you for a few cigarettes.’
He lifted his head, appearing terrified, his clothes wet, his skin jet black, his buck teeth in need of a dentist.
‘You go home if I let you go home, and if you cooperate I put some US dollars in your hand, no one will know. So tell me, there was a white man in the camp near the village of Kejaki, teaching the fighters, the Arabs, the men who think they are much better than you.’
He lowered his head. ‘Yes, there was a white man, and these Arabs have no respect for us. This is our country, not theirs.’
‘They are paid by the Saudis, well paid, fresh weapons arriving a few days ago.’
He lifted his gaze. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘We have men in the hills close by, watching that camp, and there are villagers that want to make some money,’ I lied.
‘I want to go to Kenya.’
‘Why Kenya?’
‘My family escaped to there many years ago, I want to find them.’
I dug out some dollars, counted them out in front of him, and put them in his wet jeans pocket. ‘Untie him,’ I told the French commandos.
They liftedhim and untied him.
‘Some food, a cup of tea, and we can talk.’ I led him to the officers’ galley, finding it empty, Hunt and the DGSE man soon stepping in. I pointed at the DGSE men, ‘Food, coffee, for our guest.’
I sat, coffee soon placed down for me and my guest, someone’s leftover meal handed to the boy. He scoffed it down with his fingers, obviously in need of a good meal.
‘What was your job on the boat?’ I asked, Hunt sat near me, our DGSE man opposite.
‘To keep putting the fuel in.’
‘How many men were there?’
‘Six. Two were shot, the others burnt. I fell over the side,’ he said with his mouth full.
‘If the French treat you like a prisoner here I am sorry, but I will drop you in Kenya if you help us. We want to shoot the Arabs, not honest hard-working Somalis.’
He shrugged. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Do you know who alerted the Arabs about us?’
‘Some phone call, I heard them say.’
‘And you know where they hide?’
‘Southeast of the camp, there are caves in the rocks. And south of the camp they lay mines in the sand in some areas.’
I turned my head to Hunt. ‘Map and satellite photos.’
He rushed out, our guest eating the plate clean, sandwiches found for him, coffee sipped.
Hunt soon placed down Moran’s larger sketch, a pen handed over. With mucky fingers our guest drew the minefield, and marked the spot of the caves. Several houses at the edge of the village had been taken over, machineguns placed.
Hunt pointed at the map. ‘They’re hoping that you’re caught between the minefield and the men south, pinned down by the machineguns.’
‘That plan ... would not be based what the ex-SAS guy told them to do,’ I firmly stated. In Arabic, I asked, ‘What does the white man do?’
‘He has radio equipment.’
‘Does he make plans and advise them?’
‘I’m not sure. Khalid is the boss, very arrogant, he listens to no one.’
I turned to Hunt. ‘The boss does not listen to good advice, and our ex-SAS friend has radio interceptors and direction finders.’
‘He would have listened in to your chat as you approached,’ Hunt noted.
I nodded. ‘He would have picked up our static a mile out. He could also listen-in to helicopters, and ship to ship communications.’ I turned my head towards the DGSE men. ‘Go tell the bridge crew: radio silent unless absolutely necessary, then in code. Warn the helicopter pilots.’
He nodded and stepped out.
I stepped to the corridor and found, as I expected to find, two French commandos on guard for the prisoner. ‘Wait with the prisoner, treat him well.’
On deck, I called Franks.
‘Hello?’ came an authoritative voice, but not Franks.
‘This is Captain Wilco over on the French carrier. Who are you?’
‘I’m answering this phone for the CIA guy. Commander Phelps, it’s my duty watch.’
‘Just to let you know ... there’s a man onshore with a radio scanner and radio direction finding kit, so warn all your helo crews and ships.’
‘Hell, we can screw him over real easy.’
‘You can?’
‘Since Vietnam we’ve had the kit on the ship. We can jam him or blow his ears with static, can even play tapes of phoney messages.’
‘Excellent. Then get the right people on it, starting now, because he’s listening in.’
‘You know where he’s at?’
‘Most likely within a mile of the target camp, I doubt he’s on the coast.’
‘We sent out a dummy insert earlier, west of that camp, but they reported the men down. So if your guy was listening in he’s chasing ghosts right about now.’
‘That’s the idea. Tell the CIA we have a prisoner from a boat, it tried to get close enough to fire RPGs at us. How far offshore are you?’
‘Twenty miles.’
‘We’re ten miles off, but be careful.’
‘I’m going to check some radar screens right now and post Marines, but an RPG won’t hole us.’
‘You sure?’
‘I saw an RPG fired at an old tub with the same hull thickness, never punched a hole, but the upper workings have lighter armour. This old tub is damn solid.’
‘And if an RPG hits a helo on the deck..?’
‘Then I’d be explaining it to a board of enquiry, after putting out the damn fire.’
‘You have escort ships?’
‘One on the starboard side, normal routine. I’ll give them something to do.’
‘Good night. Wilco out.’
Back in the galley, I sat. To Hunt I said, ‘US Navy have counter electronic-warfare kit and officers, so they’ll give our man some loud static and phoney messages.’
His eyes widened. ‘Of course, it’s a carrier, it’ll have lots of gadgets for stuff like that.’
‘They flew a dummy insert as well.’
Our guest sipped his coffee, and I could smell him from where I sat. ‘I learn some English. School before.’
‘If you think of anything that will help us, let me know,’ I said in Arabic. ‘They may tie you up and keep you in a room, but don’t worry.’
‘We will look after you,’ the DGSE man offered in Arabic.
Back on deck, I found Rocko and Slider. ‘Shouldn’t you be asleep now?’
‘Hard to sleep expecting this fucking thing to sink,’ Rocko grumbled.
‘No chance. This old tub is ancient, thick hull; RPG won’t penetrate.’
‘No? Well, that’s something.’
‘Go get some rest, or you’ll be grumpy. Go
on.’
They plodded off. I sat next to Tomo and Nicholson. ‘What time you on till?’
‘We stayed on, want to be dog tired,’ Tomo told me. ‘That way you sleep better.’
‘True,’ I agreed. ‘I’m awake now.’
‘Prisoners?’ Nicholson asked.
‘One is burned, one is just a terrified sixteen year old. He’s now on the team and blabbing. Fuckers over there laid out a minefield for us, ambush set, men hidden in caves, but we got the detail so we know what to avoid. And the Yanks are screwing with their radios.’
‘So we have the advantage,’ Nicholson noted.
‘They have a man with a radio scanner, so I’m going to screw with them till they shoot the guy.’
I finally got some sleep at 2am, up at 6am. This ship was having a soothing effect on me, I was sleeping very well.
No further attacks took place during the night, or maybe the Somalis had tried – but failed to find us. After a breakfast in the officers’ galley I enquired about our prisoner. He was being kept in the medical ward, but handcuffed, a French-Algerian medic keeping him company and conversing in Arabic.
After breakfast I patrolled the deck, the Pumas tied down, and I stood staring out at the grey morning ocean as the sun started to have an effect.
A tannoy sounded out, shouts below, and I saw the Zodiac being winched down in a hurry, six men aboard it. Engine started, they powered off, and now I could see a small boat approaching us at speed.
Sasha was on stag and closed in. ‘That boat thinks it’s a plane.’ He meant the approaching Somali boat.
‘At least like that they can’t fire an RPG,’ I told him as the Zodiac closed in on the approaching boat at a speed just as reckless as the Somalis.
The Somalis saw the Zodiac too late, but slowed and turned away, a cackle of fire, Somalis seen falling over the side, their boat going around in a tight circle – yet very quickly.
With all of the Somalis dead, I laughed, Sasha laughing as well; the French commandos were trying to figure out how to board a small boat doing sixty miles an hour in tight circles.
Moran appeared next to me with Hamble, kitted out. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Somalis are all dead on that small boat, rudder stuck, and the French want to board it.’
Moran put a hand over his eyes. ‘If they get rammed by it they’ll be swimming back.’
