by Geoff Wolak
‘Yes, a bit, always the case.’
‘Bugger. Have to comb it over a bit.’
‘The hair doesn’t grow back?’ Swifty asked as he warmed our water.
‘No, I have patchy bits, but if your hair is long enough you cover it. You hairline was hit in Angola?’
‘Just next to it,’ Swifty responded. ‘Not a break in the hairline.’
I shared my tea with Ramirez, who relaxed a little, despite the rounds cracking overhead. With the rounds hitting the sand above us it felt like being in the butts on a range in the UK.
My phone trilled; Tomsk.
‘Da!’
‘I have some more information, but not good information really. Someone has paid these Somali fighters to attack this French Echo and British Echo, and some warlords are sending lots of men.’
I sighed, long and loud. ‘Is Aideed sending men?’
‘No, they say he wants no part of it for some reason. His men stay where they are and protect some place.’
‘You know who’s paying them?’
‘No, but a lot of money has been handed over, plus a reward for bodies and captured men. Are you in danger?’
‘See if I survive till morning. Talk soon.’
Phone down, Ramirez noted, ‘You speak Russian?’
‘And Arabic and German,’ I told him. ‘But my hand writing is not great - for an officer.’ I transmitted, ‘Listen up. Someone is offering large rewards for our deaths or capture, so there are lots of fighters moving in from other regions. It’s going to get interesting.’
I called Hunt. ‘It’s Wilco. I just got word that many local warlords have been paid to attack us, rewards offered for dead or captured British and French soldiers. Company is on its way. Update London and Paris, and Franks ... get a political opinion.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Up a cliff, hidden, but trapped, fighters below us. We rescued a downed American pilot, but we’re boxed in for now, may climb up and out.’
‘And Moran’s team?’
‘Three miles north at least. Discuss this turn of events and get back to me.’
I called Moran. ‘Listen, someone’s paid the regional warlords to come attack us, rewards for British or French soldiers - dead or alive, extra fighters moving towards us. Your operational orders as to get up high and dig in for now.’
‘OK, we’re close to the hills, a way up I think. But who’s paying these fuckers?’
‘Not sure, but my money is on the Saudis. Wilco out.’
Phone away, Ramirez asked, ‘Saudis?’
‘Not the Saudi Government, but rich individuals who are pissing about, funding al-Qa’eda and others. But if you ever repeat that your own CIA will end your career, so clam up.’
‘And that camp in Eritrea? I flew over it.’
‘Funded partly by a Saudi citizen - yes, and kept out the newspapers - yes.’
‘Jesus,’ Ramirez let out. ‘I flew into Saudi before joining the ship. We have bases there.’
Cookers away, twenty minutes later, Franks called. ‘I’ve spoken to Langley, and they don’t want a large scale operation here, not to be seen to be taking sides, or to upset Aideed -’
‘Aideed is staying out of it, staying home to protect his area. He’s not involved, and if the other warlords are thinned out you get to negotiate with him from a better position.’
‘Good point, so I have another call to make. Be back to you.’
Phone away, Swifty said, ‘Aideed not sending men?’
‘No, he’s home protecting the farm, chatting to the CIA through back channels.’
An RPG hit a rock sixty yards away, everyone ducking.
‘That was cheeky,’ Stretch noted.
‘It’s Nicholson, we found a way up,’ crackled in my ear.
‘Where are you?’ I asked, wondering where they had got to.
‘About four hundred yards up. When you’re ready I’ll tell you the route.’
‘Standby.’ I stood. ‘Let’s be having you! Ready to move!’ Henri, Jacque and Sambo came in, a headcount performed. I finally transmitted, ‘OK Nicholson, we’re ready.’
‘Face the cliff, the sand, right hand side, near the cave exit. Go up and right, then you’ll see a sandy crevice. Hands either side, legs wide and boots either side, avoid the sand, go up fifty yards.’
‘OK, moving.’ Off the radio I said, ‘On me. Ramirez, right behind me.’
I started up, the going easy enough, and I found the sandy crevice. Hands on the side, I found plenty of places to grip, my legs wide and my boots finding purchase.
At the top I was panting a little, finding a ledge and a cave. ‘OK, Nicholson, I’m on the ledge.’
‘Into the cave, torches on, left, up and out.’
‘Moving soon.’
I waited for Ramirez then Swifty before moving off, rounds pinging off the rocks below us still, but none too close. I ducked into the cave, torch on, and I bent double as I moved left, finding an internal chimney, but easy enough to climb. At the top I emerged onto a ledge backed by sand, but this sand was less than forty-five degrees.
I transmitted, ‘It’s Wilco, I’m at the base of the sand.’
‘Just follow it up, easy enough from there.’
‘Moving.’ I started up, just about remaining upright, hands used now and then, a hundred yards to a change of direction, soon moving off in the ten o’clock position, another hundred yards, off in the two o’clock position, and now I could see their outlines. I was puffing when I reached them. ‘What’s higher up?’
‘It levels off here,’ Nicholson reported. ‘It goes ... wherever is that way. East.’
‘About three miles of deadly rocks and cliffs and hills to the next road,’ I warned them.
The lads came up one at a time, all puffing as I took in the bleak landscape, a good view of the opposition down below, the road clearly visible down in the valley bottom.
‘Earning our keep,’ Stretch noted, puffing.
Sasha was the last man, also out of breath. ‘I am not as young as I was.’
‘None of us are,’ I agreed. ‘Especially Stretch.’ The lads laughed at Stretch as I glanced up at the stars. ‘Let’s find a place for a helo extraction for our guest.’
I led them off east, plodding through the sand that had collected in the cracks and crevices, and after ten minutes we came across a plateau of flat sandy dirt dotted with small bushes, high cliffs north of us half a mile away.
I called Franks. ‘It’s Wilco. Track back this location, come get your pilot, no hostiles nearby, but have them come in from the east, out to the east. Bring us some supplies; water, ration packs, grenades especially.’
‘You don’t want extracting?’
‘What for, job is not done yet.’
‘Washington is considering the Aideed position, and we may get permission for further air strikes, but they’re wary of intervening in a big way.’
‘My boys and the French will wear down the fighters, and when those fighters are dead the job is done; no more bomb-makers’ camp, a lack of staff to run it.’
‘I’ll dispatch the helos with supplies for you. Standby.’
Phone away, I called, ‘Rizzo, you feel OK?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Helo coming in, could get you out.’
‘Feel OK, a bit sore, head throbs.’
‘I’ll give you some antibiotics, see how it goes. Drink plenty.’
We waited in the dark, our sweat cooling, light areas of sand to move around in, the stars above us, and half an hour later we heard jets screech past, soon a dull resonating drone of helicopters registering with us. I peered east, finally seeing them coming straight for us, several of the lads flashing torches.
‘Get ready, Ramirez, and ... good luck. Watch for those missiles, eh.’ We shook.
‘Can’t believe you’re staying here; this place terrifies me.’
The drone grew.
‘Look!’ Swifty shouted.
&
nbsp; I turned from Ramirez to see tracer arcing towards the Seahawks, impacts registering, the tracer fire coming from the south, but not down in the valley. Everyone held their breath for five seconds.
A Seahawk suddenly banked north and dropped down out of sight, one came on, but as it came in I could see it wiggling.
‘Get down!’ I shouted. ‘Run!’ I grabbed Ramirez and shoved him away and down, the Seahawk touching down a second later, its engines powering down, but still a hell of a sand storm thrown up.
‘On me!’ I shouted, and ran through the sand storm, dark outlines moving with me. I reached a crewman as he ran clear, pilots opening doors and jumping clear. I thrust my upper body into the rear amidst the roar from the engines, not seeing anyone, so I grabbed the holdalls and slung them out. Issuing instructions, men and kit were moved back, but the Seahawk failed to catch fire or explode as its engines ran down.
‘You OK?’ I asked the men taking off helmets as they stood a hundred yards away from their ride.
‘Yeah,’ came from a pilot. ‘Mick, you OK?’
‘Yeah. Bobby, you good?’
‘I’m OK,’ came a third voice.
I called Franks. ‘It’s Wilco -’
‘We got reports of a bird down,’ Franks cut in.
‘It landed, crew all OK. What about the other one?’
‘It returned, but has minor damage. They said they were hit with accurate fifty cal.’
‘Fighters have fifty cal on a hilltop south, say six hundred yards. We never knew it was there, or how they got a mounted fifty cal up a damn mountain.’
‘Must be a road or track.’ He blew out. ‘And now the White House is going to be pissed.’
‘Best laid plans, eh. But this helo might be salvageable. After dawn I’ll send a team to go hit the fifty cal, then we can reassess. Wilco out.’
I faced the dark outlines of the pilots as the rotors wound down. ‘You have survival gear onboard?’
‘Yeah, but water survival.’
‘Go get it, make yourselves comfy. Sleeping in a dinghy is better than sleeping in the dirt.’
They headed off, panels opened, kit lugged back as I issued grenades to the lads. ‘Tomo, Nicholson, go south two hundred yards, set an OP, look for those fifty cal.’ They plodded off. ‘Henri, Jacque, Sambo, back the way we came till you can see the valley, set an ambush, rotate the stag.’
They kicked up dirt as they plodded off.
‘Sasha, send two men east, two hundred yards, to stay in radio contact. Set up an OP east.’
Sasha called names, the men heading off as the pilots salvaged all they could from their ride.
The pilot dumped a kit bag. ‘We were told it was safe to approach from the east,’ he complained.
‘We didn’t know they’d positioned fifty cal up here, and we can’t search rocky hills at night. There’s no road back there, so ... fuck knows how they got up here.’
Swifty said, ‘What about that Mi8 helicopter they had for a while? Could have lifted fifty cal up here.’
‘Could have,’ I agreed. ‘But how’d they get it back down later?’
‘Same way, maybe. They figured they’d have access to a helo.’
‘No helo, no resupply,’ I told them. ‘Be hard for men to scramble up here with heavy ammo. How badly damaged is your bird?’
‘Won’t know till we take a good look in daylight, but I think the tail rotor was damaged; picked a wicked shimmy, bells going off.’
‘Best get comfy then.’
‘And your plan now?’ the pilot curtly asked me.
‘Wait till dawn, go hit the fifty cal, reassess. But you chose a really bad day to test your luck.’
‘How so?’ the pilot pressed.
‘The local warlords have all been offered big rewards for us lot, dead or alive. Thousand of fighters moving in from other regions.’
‘How safe are we way up here?’ the pilot asked, now worried.
‘How lucky you feeling?’ I countered with. ‘We climbed up here, so can they.’
‘We can call in an airstrike,’ the co-pilot suggested.
‘Your White House is not that keen to escalate this.’ My phone trilled, a Washington number. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Colonel Mathews.’
‘Ah, and how’s that desk at the Pentagon, Colonel?’
The Seahawk crew exchanged looks through the dark.
‘I stand a lot, walk around, hate sitting too long. What’s the situation on the ground?’
‘F18 was hit by the last known missile, pilot ejected - we got to him before they did, but got chased up a mountain. Helos came in to get your downed pilot, but were hit by fifty cal, one damaged, landed ten yards from me, crew all OK, but their ride is out of commission. Hang on.’ I handed over the phone. ‘Colonel Mathews, E Ring.’
‘Sir?’ the pilot began. ‘Yes, sir ... fifty cal, two or three mounted units ... close ... they were on the top of the hill ... we’re OK, sir ... other bird was damaged and turned away. Yes, sir ... thank you, sir. I’m ... sure we’re in good hands, yes.’ He handed the phone back.
‘Wilco,’ I said into the phone.
‘How’d they get damn fifty cal units up a mountain?’
‘Fuck knows, sir, because there’s no road. One of my lads suggested they used an old Mi8, the one they stuffed full of explosives.’
‘That might explain it, yes. What’s your plan?’
‘Wait the dawn, go hit the fifty cal, search the area, get some helos in, but we hit a wrinkle, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Someone ... has paid off the local warlords to attack us, specifically offering large rewards for British or French soldiers – dead or alive.’
‘You know who?’
‘Not yet, sir, but I have an idea.’
‘There’s enough hardware offshore to do some damage.’
‘Problem is, Colonel, that the White House is not keen.’
‘I’ve been hearing that all day, yes. I’ll get back to you.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’ Phone away, I said, ‘Get a brew on for our guests.’
The pilot took out his own sat phone and called his own boss, on the carrier, an update given.
A minute later, the crewman pulled a cord, a raft hissing into life. ‘I’m sleeping on this.’
‘Looks comfy,’ I noted. ‘And we have plenty of chow, in the bag you brought us.’
‘Marines rations,’ the pilot scoffed. ‘Rather go hungry.’
‘Ours are not a lot better,’ I joked. ‘But we have chocolate and dried biscuits.’
Rizzo stuck his face and torch into a green holdall. ‘These ain’t rations, they’re tins. Pears, beans, ravioli.’
The crewman, now sat on his inflated raft, said, ‘They must have come from the galley.’
‘Americans first, have your fill, then we’ll have what’s left.’
‘Fucking loads here,’ Rizzo told me. ‘I’m having ravioli. Anyone want corned beef?’
‘Sasha loves corned beef,’ I told Rizzo, our Staff Sergeant handing a tin to Sasha.
‘Sasha?’ the pilot queried as he sat.
‘Russian,’ Ramirez explained.
‘Russian wanted gunman,’ I added, cookers going.
Sasha put in, ‘Not wanted now, I have new fake ID. I am ... new man.’
The lads laughed through the dark.
‘You take the situation lightly,’ the pilot complained. ‘We’re surrounded and cut off, no helo extraction likely.’
Rizzo told him, ‘But we have ravioli, so it’s not all bad.’
‘And pears for dessert,’ Swifty enthused.
I told the pilots, ‘You fly every day and risk your lives, and think nothing of it. We’re always in places like this, sleeping on the floor, getting shot at. It’s nothing new to us.’
‘Nicholson for Wilco,’ crackled in my ear.
I stood tall. ‘Go ahead.’
‘We can see the fifty cal, two of them, about eight men.’
‘How far from you?’
‘Say ... four hundred. But there’re some nasty drops between them and us.’
‘Get as close as you can and shoot the fuckers. Report back.’ I sat. ‘My lads have eyes on the fifty cal; two units, eight men,’ I informed our guests. ‘No roads or tracks, so I think they were air-lifted into place.’
‘Missile that hit me,’ Ramirez began, ‘was launched from the top of a mountain, no roads.’
I explained, ‘Well, the only helo they had was destroyed, unless there are others around here someplace that we don’t know about.’ My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Moran. We’re up high now, but loads of fucking movement below us.’
‘We just had a Seahawk damaged and crash land, fifty cal up on a hillside, crew are with me now getting a brew on.’
‘And the mission now?’
‘Original mission is scrubbed. Mission now is to wear them down, but I’m waiting on London and Washington for a directive. You in sniper range?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then shoot some of these fuckers, eh.’
‘Will do. Moran out.’
Off the phone, Swifty asked, ‘What’s Moran doing?’
‘He climbed up after I warned him, heavy reinforcements turned up in the valley. They’ll snipe down at them.’
Rounds cracked overhead, red tracer seen, our guests diving down.
‘It’s OK,’ I reassured them. ‘They don’t know where we are, they’re firing at my snipers south of us.’
The fifty cal fire eased, then stopped, our guests easing up.
My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Nicholson, couldn’t get you on the radio. We killed six, others are hiding.’
‘Stop them using that fifty cal. Make an assessment at dawn.’
‘OK, will do. Out.’
I told the pilot, ‘Fifty cal is out of action, but the question remains ... are there any others around here?’
A dull blast registered.
‘Grenade,’ Swifty noted. ‘Behind us. Henri having fun.’
‘What does that mean?’ Ramirez asked.
‘It means ... that the bad boys are trying to climb up here after us.’
‘We safe here?’ the pilot asked.
‘Hell no,’ I told him.
