by Geoff Wolak
‘Yeah, I suppose.’ We heard the shouts and looked around. ‘Front gate,’ I noted.
Tomo blasted four loud rounds in quick succession, Nicholson and myself darting to the east wall and aiming.
‘Truck bomb!’ Tomo shouted. ‘I got the driver as he ran.’
I peered at the gate, the police and Marines running. The flash lit up a large area, and I ducked, knocking Nicholson down as I shouted, ‘Get down!’
Debris hit the roof behind us, but just small lumps of metal and wood, wood that used to be the hut at the gate. Lifting my head, I could see the police and Marines that had been at the gate, all now down. ‘Medics!’ I rushed a few steps to the north wall. ‘Medics! Get to the front gate! Move it!’
Back at the east wall I observed as the smoke wafted, the Marines lifting up slowly, the police now on their knees but dazed as the medics and others sprinted towards them, a 300yard dash. The Marines and police were soon being helped along by many hands.
Below I could see Moran and Ginger. ‘Moran, get a truck and block that gate! Nudge what’s left of the chassis aside, they'll want to use it tomorrow!’
He led Ginger off.
‘Tomo, go search that body.’ He led Nicholson off.
As the wounded men were led in I walked down and to the medical tents, light coming from the hole in the terminal wall, plus numerous bright battery lamps. ‘Report the wounded!’
The Lt. Commander lifted his face. ‘Splinters, concussion, middle ear damage. They'll all live.’
‘When ready, evacuate back to ship, they're no good here.’ Outside, I called Franks. A rating took the call and set off to get Franks.
‘Yeah,’ came a sleep voice finally.
‘You awake?’
‘I am now.’
‘Captain awake?’
‘Not sure, he's not here.’
‘Update the Duty Officers and Major Harris. We had a man with a sat phone – we shot him dead. Then we had two men in the treeline north, shot them dead as well. Then we had mortars, no one hurt, just had a truck bomb, a dozen Marines with minor wounds to be taken back to ship.’
‘I'll go update them now, sort transport.’
‘Helos here could take them, coordinate it.’
I could see a truck being placed across where the gate used to be, ditches to the sides of it. Tomo and Nicholson walked back in with Moran.
Tomo told me, ‘Just a cheap local phone.’ He handed over a Nokia and an ID card.
I called GCHQ on my sat phone, since I doubted the man had credit for international calls. ‘How do I get this Nokia to tell me what the number is?’
‘Try hash-star-one.’
‘OK, I can see it.’ I read it out. ‘Try and trace that, local phone not a sat phone. ID cards says Hernadez Rodriguez. 1299-1524-1262. DOB, 15/10/1960.’
‘Got that.’
‘Wilco out.’
Moran had waited. ‘So what comes next? Dog with explosives strapped to him..?’
I smiled. ‘A seeing-eye dog, yes.’
‘If they had a way to hurt us they would have done. This is the action of someone without a plan.’
I nodded, and took in the gate. ‘Rockets are next.’ My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Swifty. Boys are out around three miles, no one to shoot at, so what we doing?’
‘How big are the teams?’
‘All four men, still a bunch back at the treeline here.’
‘May as well send them off. They keep walking on whatever bearing you have them on till they hit a road or good track, then they observe it. There's a road about twelve miles due north, but the distance will vary, and there are small hills.’
‘I'll dispatch them all and go for a walk myself.’
‘Make a note of the bearings, and at dawn I need accurate positions or we'll be tripping over each other.’
‘Will do. What was that blast?’
‘Truck bomb. Tomo shot the driver.’
‘Could have been worse, we could have shot someone's seeing-eye dog.’
Laughing, I pressed the red button. Inside the terminal, the men were anything other than relaxed. ‘All of you, settle down and relax, long day tomorrow. Just ignore the loud bangs.’
‘What was that?’ a pilot asked.
‘Truck bomb.’
‘What would it have done to us?’
‘Detonated outside this building, glass flying, debris flying. So … what do you think you should do?’
‘Stay down..?’
‘Correct. Stay down, and rest. You built a wall, so use it.’ I sat near a young lad that looked eighteen. ‘What do you do?’
‘Technician, sir.’
‘Afraid?’
‘A little bit, sir.’
‘That’s OK, keeps you alert.’
‘So they fired mortars, sir, and now a truck bomb. And they blew up this here building next door..?’
‘Yes, and next they'll send a seeing-eye dog.’
‘A what, sir?’
Most of the pilots and crews were down low, but listening in.
‘Back at my base in the UK we had an attack on the wire. First we had a decoy, then four snipers sneaking in. After we killed them my men were tense and ready, and they see a dog approaching in the dark, but with something strapped to it, so we thought it was a bomb.
‘So we shoot the dog dead, get to it and check the backpack. Turns out that the backpack was full of medical things for its owner, and it was one of those dogs for blind people, wandering in from the local village. Then a woman calls our gatehouse: has anyone seen her husband's seeing-eye dog? So we buried it quickly.’
Faces were now offering smiles.
A pilot said, ‘They take a long time to train, them dogs. My mother has one.’
‘In Guinea, we were up on a roof, and my man Tomo calls us over. Tomo is the sniper that shot the driver of that truck bomb. So we all peered down from the roof of an apartment block at a porn film being made, black men and women actors, curtains open.
‘Then the male actor grabs a knife and stabs the woman repeatedly, blood everywhere, so Tomo shoots the male actor, the cameraman, the director. The woman, who we think is dead by now, she jumps up, wipes off the fake blood, checks the script and runs out the apartment.’
Laughter swept around the pilots and crew.
‘What the hell kinda porn movie was it?’ a pilot asked.
‘Wish we knew, it had us stumped.’
‘That film, Camel Toe Base, that was accurate?’
‘Your people had the timeline to the second, all the action,’ I told them.
‘That actor is just like you, sir,’ the young technician noted.
I nodded. ‘I was never consulted about it. And you should have seen Camel Toe when we got there. Pristine sand, a dead flat horizon, no features, nothing. When we left, your SEALs arrived, and as they stepped off the plane they had the debris, and the bodies, and the smell. Some of the British officers wanted to get their men back on the damn plane.’
‘Your men here have Elephant Guns?’
‘Four of them, my snipers. They'll hit you a thousand yards out, and if you were naked then your heart and spine would be fifty yards behind you, a hole big enough to put a baseball through. We've shot down Mi8 helicopters, Cessnas, all sorts. My lads have regular ammo, as well as Teflon rounds. They stop a jeep or truck, rip a hole in the engine block.’
‘We could have launched these planned missions from ship...’ a pilot nudged.
‘Your ships are staying out of rocket range, not because of the worry of damage, but the worry of what the media might make of it. If a rocket lands on your carrier and hits an F18, sets it alight, or kills ten crew, it’s a victory for the terrorists, your navy less potent in the eyes of some because of one stray rocket.
‘A terrorist can stop a bus full of tourists in the Middle East and kill them all, one man with a rifle. To catch that man we spend billions each year, and we still don't get them all. Winning the war
on terrorism is about winning in the media, not stopping a lone gunman - or rockets here.
‘It’s about the voters and taxpayers having faith in you lot, not shaking their heads because a stray rocket got lucky. In Lebanon you suffered from a truck bomb, and Somalia was cut short due to casualties and politics.’
I glanced over my shoulder to see where the Press officers were. ‘Your enemy is the media perception back home, not the man with the gun. There's only one place to win a conflict, and that’s in the media.’
‘After Vietnam the attitude was poor,’ a pilot noted. ‘It’s taken a while to move on from that, but I hear what you're saying, because every now and then someone mentions Vietnam – as a reason for us not getting involved.’
I nodded. ‘Wars should not be brought to a close because the TV ratings are falling. Wars conclude when you reach your objective, but in this day and age the politicians are all very sensitive to media criticism.’
‘And the plan here?’
‘Come dawn we'll go all out and encircle the launch sites, and we should force the rocket crews beyond the range to hit us or your ships. Then it’s seek and destroy in the swamps. In fact, my men are already moving up to the border, the British and American Wolves. They might have killed a rocket crews by dawn.’
‘And the Lone Wolves, they undertake missions alone?’
‘They do, and they volunteer for it. They'll parachute into a place well behind the lines, sneak about by themselves or in pairs, and walk back out. The key ingredient is that they volunteer to do it, not worry about family back home.’
‘They all crazy?’
‘They're selected for the fact that they're not quite crazy, but crazy enough to do it.’
‘And your men, sir?’
‘All completely fucking crazy.’ They laughed. ‘Back at base in the UK it’s now cold, so they tell me: boss, let’s go someplace warm and shoot people. As I told your Admiral Jacobs, the test of the right man is that he doesn't want to be someplace else. I've never heard my men ask: when we going home?
‘If I go up to the roof and tell my men we're here for another six weeks they won't question it, they'll ask about food. If I tell them we'll fly straight to West Africa … they ask what the job is.’ I pointed at the pilot. ‘Married?’
‘With two kids. And if someone said my rotation home was cancelled I'd shoot the bastard.’
They laughed.
‘You're a pilot, an officer, a married man and a nice upstanding citizen, not suited to living in a hole in the ground.’
‘Hey, I got a pig pen here!’
They laughed.
‘A story for your kids, a tale to tell over a beer. Make sure you take plenty of photographs.’
Ten minutes later two Seahawks arrived, the wounded Marines all sent off since there was no point in them hanging around; we were not at war here.
Men settled down, some closed eyes, and I patrolled around. Back up on the roof I peered over the wall, the medics’ tent quiet, but lights were on.
‘What next?’ Nicholson asked.
‘Rockets.’
Tomo walked over. ‘That man I shot earlier. Could I … be prosecuted like?’
‘I would block it,’ I told him. ‘But the Americans here might report it. If it came down to it, I'd fake your death and sneak you out. As far as the world is concerned, you knew this first building was blown, and that I suggested someone might have a phone detonator for this second building. You figured the guy to be about to blow us all sky high. No jury would convict you.
‘And the point is, he may well have been about to set off a bomb, there could be another one here, phone detonated or otherwise. By morning we should have his phone linked into some bad boys as well. Next time, wound the man. In fact, say you aimed at his legs. Distant shot, night time, who could argue with that.’
Nicholson said, ‘His aim is crap anyway.’
Slider came up five minutes later. He faced Tomo. ‘What did you do, fuckwit?’
‘Wilco said there was a bomb in these buildings, phone detonator, and I saw the phone, aimed at his legs.’
‘You mean his balls,’ Slider noted. He faced me. ‘You reckon there's another bomb?’
‘If there is then the man tasked with setting it off is not around, or alive, they would have blown it by now.’
‘Like that bomb on the wall in Sierra Leone,’ Slider noted.
I nodded.
He asked, ‘Will Tomo get some shit?’
‘I gave the warning, partly my responsibility, and … might be a bomb here. He may have saved us.’
‘So I can't punch him in the head?’
‘Not for that, no. Be something else to punch him for soon enough.’
Nicholson laughed. ‘Tomo, watch the road for seeing-eye dogs.’
‘Yeah, fuck off.’
Nicholson noted, ‘If Salome was here she'd be walking around naked.’
Slider told me, ‘More bromide for this man.’
I told them, ‘Back at the villa, when the American team landed, we had to double up, so the two 14 Intel girls grabbed my room without asking. I was on the sofa, but they made a point of walking around naked. Anyone at the base nailed Tiny yet?’
‘They're all afraid,’ Nicholson suggested. ‘She's whacked a few in the balls.’
Slider noted, ‘You have the Israeli following you around, and Tiny, what the fuck is wrong with you?’
I shot him a look. ‘I work with them, I'm the boss.’
‘You need a holiday,’ he told me.
‘Just as soon as I get a break,’ I told them.
‘When will that be?’ Slider scoffed.
My phone trilled.
‘See what I mean,’ Slider added.
‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Miller.’
‘You're up late.’
‘Been a long day.’ He sighed. ‘Anyhow. The late dead Terotski was cornered in a house near Niagara Falls, Canadian side. He blew his brains out. But … and it’s an annoying but, it’s not him.’
‘He's faked his own death before.’
‘Right blood type, plastic surgery drugs, maps of Nicaragua and Panama, all the right detail. Wrong teeth.’
‘Always check a horse's teeth.’
‘Definitely. How's it going?’
‘As my Captain Moran noted, they don't have a plan or an ace in the hole, or they would have hurt us by now. They tried mortars, a truck bomb, and a bomb under a building set days ago.’
‘They're outside the wire hoping to get in, yes. But they lost the drugs, so how are they funding this?’
‘Good question, very good question, maybe a sponsor out there.’
‘A sponsor that wants to hurt us … more than make money. That’s a political sponsor. North Koreans don't have the cash.’
‘Someone else, so have a think, get a think tank assigned to it.’
‘I will, I want to know who's pulling the strings here.’
Phone away, Nicholson asked, ‘Who's that?’
‘CIA.’
‘Horse's teeth?’
‘The man behind this has faked his own death a few times. When they find a body they check the teeth.’
Slider noted, ‘He wants to live, so he's not on the border or around here, he's some place real safe, phone in hand.’
‘Yep,’ I agreed.
‘Wilco,’ Tomo called as he sat prone. ‘I got a man sneaking in. Can I shoot him?’
‘No.’ I eased in behind him as Slider and Nicholson got ready, Mouri and Swan coming over to this side.
Tomo called out, ‘That clump of trees, left a tad and down, area of grass before the ditch.’
‘I see him,’ Nicholson offered.
I stood. ‘When I say go, Tomo and Nicholson shoot the man, the rest of you shred those trees and the area around them.’ I knelt and aimed. ‘Three … two … one … fire!’ I loudly pumped out a magazine with Slider, Tomo and Nicholson firing twice each, Swan and Mouri hitting the trees. �
�Ceasefire.' I turned to the Marines corporal. ‘You have flares?’
‘Small ones, sir.’
‘Take your squad to that clump of trees we just fired at, use the flares, search it, drag back the body, and be careful – be laying down when you fire the flare.’
He called in is squad and rushed down.
‘Cover them,’ I told my snipers.
Moran and Ginger, Mitch and Greenie, came running up the steps a minute later and knelt ready. ‘We got company?’ Moran casually asked.
‘One man, maybe more,’ I told them. ‘Marines will search, we cover them.’
When the first hand-held flare was fired we aimed, seeing the body, not a second body. But the Marines fired at something.
‘What they firing at?’ Slider asked.
Second flare fired, and the Marines grabbed the first body, soon a second body from the ditch. I led Moran down, the blood-soaked bodies to us a few minutes later and dumped in the light. Both men wore green t-shirts and blue jeans, and had their faces blacked with what looked like shoe polish.
I sent the corporal back out, to search for a phone or a rifle. He led his men off at the sprint as I checked pockets, finding ID cards and cash. I held up the cash, all hundred dollar bills as Major Morgen appeared with a few Marines. ‘Someone just got paid.’
‘Fifth column?’ Morgen asked.
‘Amateur hour,’ Moran scoffed.
I called in with the IDs, the Marines corporal soon back with an M4, silencer fitted, and a local phone, all placed down next to the body.
Moran asked, ‘Just what the fuck did they think they'd do? Get a shot off before a hundred men filled them full of holes!’
I stared at the gate and beyond. ‘Either they're running short on men and ideas, or it’s a distraction. Cannon fodder to keep us distracted.’
‘From what?’ Moran puzzled.
‘From searching the border,’ I told them. ‘Maybe they're moving into position at the border, rockets ready.’ I faced Major Morgen. ‘I want your four best snipers, and two men with M60, for two helos.’
He shouted orders and men ran off as I strode into the main terminal building. The faces were worried again. ‘I need two helos ready to go, a mission to the border!’
Pilots jumped up and chatted, two crews rushing out with technicians. I followed behind. When the Marines arrived I waved them over, rotors starting to turn. ‘I want snipers in the doors of the helos, two M60. You go look for rocket crews, and shoot the fuckers. Tell the pilots to stay above 500ft, or you could be hit by ground fire and RPGs. Go!’