by Geoff Wolak
‘Fucking knackered,’ Tomo said. ‘Feet are red raw.’
‘Sleep on the plane, nothing doing for a day or two. Get your boots off on the plane, get some air at your feet. You ... did get a shower?’
They offered tired smiles, and nodded.
‘Might get some food on the plane, RAF are a bit better these days.’
The RAF Medics turned up an hour later, but with no sign of Morten, a new doctor in charge of this trip, but he looked familiar. I greeted his team, and apologised for the inconvenience, explaining the job, a very nice lady doctor in the mix.
When I got around to her, I said, ‘You look familiar.’
‘I know Kate, at least we’ve met a few times. How is she?’
‘I see her ... and our daughter, infrequently.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh. Still, her world and mine are ... poles apart, and her relatives are hard work, even for her.’
She moved to a confidential distance. ‘I have an uncle in prison for fraud, and he has a title.’
‘Power corrupts,’ I said with a sigh. ‘And I hope you have something else to wear, we’re going to a desert.’
‘Forgot my bikini,’ she mouthed.
Sat back down, Swifty said, ‘You about to make a mistake and marry another doctor?’
‘I never married the last two.’
‘As good as, you got the grief and it costs you money.’
‘Knob off, Knobber.’
‘Charming language from an officer. That how they teach you to speak in Greenwich?’
Mahoney turned his head. ‘Trouble with the hoi poli?’ he mocked.
‘I know what that means, Yank,’ Swifty told him. ‘You calling me a peasant?’
‘Knob off,’ he mocked in a posh English accent, Moran laughing.
I pointed a finger at Mahoney. ‘He’s going to go back to the States and call people Knobbers, and they won’t have a clue.’
Mahoney smiled. ‘I shall call them wankers, gits, tossers, and ask them if they are having a laugh, that it’s the dogs bollocks. I shall half inch away things I like, and scoff some scram with my oppo.’
‘All your swear words we see on the TV,’ Swifty told him. ‘Fucking Kojak and Star Trek.’
‘I don’t think they swear on Star Trek,’ I pointed out.
‘What’s Feck?’ Mahoney asked.
‘You should know, Irish descendent,’ I said.
‘It’s Irish?’
‘Yes, and not at all rude. It’s a bit like ... rubbish, shit, damn, or I don’t believe it. What the feck ... is not what the fuck, but could be similar. I was shocked the first time an Irish six year old girl said what the feck.’
Our ride was ready just after midnight, our kit loaded, and we took familiar seats, twenty SIGINT with us, two MOD, and the medics, no RAF support staff – so that meant no Hercules. Our dated Tristar was soon heading south, and most everyone closed their eyes, Tomo, Smitty and Nicholson asleep before the door shut.
We landed in bright sunshine, at Niarmey Airport in the far south of Niger, and I glimpsed a large flat city as we approached, a prominent river banked by green bushes. The airport itself was set well away from the city, so maybe some privacy and security could be afforded us.
Our MOD types went first off the plane, the rest of us asked to wait, and buses were organised. Stepping down, the heat hit us before we boarded dated coaches, our kit being loaded into the bus baggage holds, some kit on the seats, our MOD men talking to their opposite numbers here – black, skinny faced and buck-toothed individuals in sweat-stained shirts.
Setting off, we drove in convoy out of the airport, a side entrance, and ten miles east up a highway to a military base with a small airstrip, pulling up alongside dated brick buildings, large fat guards sat on chairs at doors, sweat stains evident, faces jet black and shiny.
The local army officer assigned to us pointed towards the billet, and we claimed a new happy home, beds with flexible wooden boards but no mattresses or sheets, but they did have mozzie nets.
‘Please be here now,’ the local captain asked. ‘We is not ready, you come quick today, I will try and make do.’
‘Thank you, captain, we will make do. But do you have bottled water?’
‘I can get this here, there is a shop for this, yes. I will send some men.’
The lads examined their new abode for a moment and assisted with getting kit off the coaches, the driver and his mate seemingly thinking that they were responsible somehow, and surprised when we grabbed our crates. And they waited for a tip.
Crates opened, bandoliers were thrown on, webbing, rifles picked up, checked and loaded.
‘Please, please,’ the captain said, panicked. ‘What do you do with the gun?’
‘We like to be prepared, we even sleep like this,’ I told him as weapons clattered.
‘There be no trouble here, south, only north. Please not to be soldier here.’
‘We will make no trouble for anyone,’ I assured him. ‘We have good discipline, but we like to sleep with our guns.’ I turned my head. ‘Rocko, one man on stag, the stairs, and see if there’s a way up to the roof.’
With all the kit now in our billet I stood outside, SIGINT claiming a billet opposite, and as far as billets went these were quite modern and well maintained. When a large white jeep pulled up, a modern jeep with an air intake snaking up to its roof, our MOD guys waved me in.
I turned my head. ‘Captain Moran, hold the fort.’ I got in, weapon an all.
‘You look like you’re ready for anything,’ the MOD guy quipped, and we drove off.
‘We’ve had a few attacks in safe rear areas, as you’re well aware. So we sleep with our rifles,’ I said, enjoying the cool air-con blast in my face.
‘I know this city, and it’s relatively safe.’
‘That word relatively ... is the issue though, isn’t it. Morocco is very safe, yet a grenade went over the wire. You never can tell.’
The jeep eased to a halt next to a two-storey brick building labelled as HQ SQK2, whatever the hell that meant. I followed my MOD guy inside, and into a nice air-conditioned environment, a modern and well-equipped room with desks and computers, a few black officers, black ladies operating computers.
A guy in civvies welcomed me. ‘We finally meet. I was Major Thornton, “B” Squadron, now FCO, tasked with hostage ... erm ... matters.’
Two of Mally’s team stepped out of a side room, civvy clothes, beige utility waistcoats, pistols hidden. ‘Captain,’ they offered with nods.
‘What’s the latest, sir?’ I asked the FCO guy.
‘Nothing new, and we’d expect nothing for a long time. And, I may add, I was surprised that London would wish an attempt made to get the hostages back.’
‘My team doesn’t make attempts, Major, we have a 100% success rate – as you’re probably aware.’
‘The desert is ... unforgiving.’
‘So am I,’ I quipped. ‘Shall we get on with it?’
‘Well, we are apparently waiting on more SAS, and some pilots with a suitable plane. They should be here ... soon I guess.’
I nodded. ‘Is there a local sergeant who can show us a running track, and a range?’
‘I’ll arrange that.’
‘Like right now, please, Major, since we have nothing to do but acclimatise – as we wait.’
He stepped next door. I closed in on Mally’s men. ‘Anything you know?’
‘Fuck all, we just sit around here doing fuck all.’
‘So what happened?’
‘First hostages were brought back, cash handed over, second was a prisoner swap, two local bad boys for six western hostages – two Brits. Plane was shot up as it turned, pilot got a message out. Scratch one expensive plane.’
I nodded. ‘When we go for them, you might come along – if you wish to.’
‘We’re up for it.’
‘Then wherever you’re living, move into my billet, get some kit on, we have spare rifles. A
nd start training like you want to kill someone.’
‘Yes, Boss,’ they said before leaving.
Major Thorton came back. ‘Man on the way.’
‘I can jog back from here. And I assume that you’ll let my Intel people know all you know.’
‘Of course, I’m used to dealing with them.’
A sergeant appeared, and he looked fit. ‘I am Sergeant Ali, sir,’ he said, saluting. ‘I am assigned to you.’
‘Then let’s get started.’ I led him outside, and we jogged back to the billet, chatting as we went. Near the steps I found a stack of plastic water bottles.
In the billet, I shouted, ‘Listen up. We have some time till everyone arrives, so ... this is Sergeant Ali, and we’ll go do an hour’s speed march, then some range time. Grab a bottle of water, take it, plenty of ammo. Tomo, stay and watch the kit, please, awake if possible – but barefoot is OK.’
Assembled outside, the day damn hot, we set off at a brisk pace to the perimeter track and around, the highway in view, soon sweating.
‘Smitty, you awake?’ I asked as we marched.
‘Getting there, Boss.’
Our guide led us to a sandy 100yard range with 25yard breaks marked out. There was no long range here, so we’d have to make do. Seemed that around here they did not shoot anyone beyond 100yards.
‘Anyone got playing cards?’
‘Here,’ said Nicholson, and he handed them over. I bent each card in half to make a 90degree angle and balanced them on the wood of the butts, no wind to blow them over. ‘First four men, zero rifles.’
I took in the flat vista as they got ready, a few irrigated fields visible, small stone huts, a donkey turning a water wheel.
Cracks sounded out, cards knocked over.
‘I can find zee target, sir,’ Sergeant Ali offered.
‘If you can, please do so.’
He jogged off towards low sandstone buildings.
‘Fucking hot here,’ Swifty noted. ‘Hotter than Morocco.’
‘Yep,’ I let out. ‘Bad time of year to be here.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Mahoney asked, wiping his face in his sleeve.
‘Not a clue,’ I responded. ‘Yet to even see a map. HALO is an option because driving is dodgy, but then we’d need to steal a truck and drive back.’
Sgt Ali came back with four man-targets, and we placed them into holes we found. Using staples found in the targets, I pinned cards where the human heart would be.
Back at the lads I said, ‘OK, ten rounds to the heart, five rounds kneeling here, run down, five kneeling at 50yards. Get ready.’ Rocko, Rizzo, Stretch and Slider got ready. ‘Standby. Fire!’
Rocko blasted the target five times in quick succession and then moved forwards, the others close by, five more rounds.
I walked forwards and had a look. ‘That’s eight, Staff Sergeant, but the two rounds to the throat I like. Rizzo, that’s eight, two in the pancreas – good thinking, stop him digesting food.’ They laughed. ‘Slider, that’s seven in the heart, three in the right lung – stop him breathing, good. Stretch, seven in the heart, one in the throat, two in the nipple. Bit kinky that.’
They laughed as they turned, and I swapped the cards.
An hour later we jogged back, working up a sweat, Sgt Ali thanked - and asked to be back at 8pm. He saluted and headed off as the guys washed, and the tap water in our billet was quite cool.
I lay back on my bouncy wooden slats, mozzie net over me. ‘It’s not too bad,’ I told Swifty.
‘They bringing mattresses?’
‘Tomorrow, probably.’
‘Bloody marvellous. Uncomfortable plane, now wooden slats.’
Most of the guys slept in the heat, and I dozed for an hour before enjoying a cool shower, the two old timers from “E” Squadron moving in with us. Kit back on, I sat on a plastic chair and ate rations, and when Thorton drove up he offered me the use of the officers mess.
‘We live together, Major, and eat together, and fight together. That way a better attitude, unlike regular SAS – they despise their officers.’
‘Well, there is a ... cultural difference between the SAS and other Army units.’
‘Bullshit.’
He blinked.
‘French soldiers salute and say sir, so do Americans and ... well every other regiment apart from ours.’ I waited.
‘As I said, a ... cultural difference. I could get you all in the local cafe, it’s quite good but basic, and they’re used to soldiers.’
‘Got any money on you, sir?’
‘Ah, I will have in a tick.’ He drove off, and came back with a wad of local currency. ‘More than enough for a few days. Go out the main gate and straight over, benches outside it.’
‘OK to have rifles?’
‘Well, I guess so, see what they say.’
I rounded up the lads and Mally’s two, money in pocket, and off we walked, rifles slung. At the gate the guards saluted me, and they seemed to be switched on - for a change, and over the wide dual carriageway we found the cafe, just two soldiers sat eating.
We claimed tables, and a fat local lady came out with a notepad. ‘Seventeen people, all chicken, some chips, cold Fanta?’
She nodded, and headed off.
I could see parachute wings on the arms of the two soldiers, and they looked fit. I waved them over.
‘Captain?’ they nervously asked.
‘Sit please.’ They sat. ‘You are paratroopers?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How many paratroopers are there?’
‘Not many, sir, maybe fifty. We train in Nigeria, not here.’
The lads were now listening in.
‘But you are based here?’
‘Sometimes, sir, for study.’
‘And the Islamists in the north?’ I asked as cold Fantas were placed down.
‘They is trouble, yes, sir, some time dee bomb in dee town.’
‘And kidnapping?’
‘Yes, sir, they take dee white people and ask for money.’
‘You are good soldiers?’
‘We are good, sir, yes. Top oh dee class.’
‘We may need some local help when we move north, so I will ask your officer – if you want to see some action.’
‘Yes, sir, we help. What you do here, sir?’
‘We’re British SAS.’
‘Ah, very good soldier, no. We study SAS. You wuz in Angola?’
‘Yes, I led the hostage rescue with these men.’
They stared at us wide-eyed. ‘You kill many men, and take a hundred hostages, sir.’
‘A hundred and twenty nine,’ I proudly stated. ‘And in the Congo we worked with the French, and dropped from 15,000ft at night to attack the enemy and to get the hostages.’
‘Ah, you HALO, sir. I want to try it, but difficult here.’
‘We may HALO here to the north, there are hostages.’
‘We can help, sir,’ they keenly stated, and I figured they were a bit bored around here.
The chicken and chips were good, washed down with cold Fanta. When our waitress placed down the bill I asked my two new friends to check it, then I counted out the thousands and handed it over. According to our two Paras, I paid about twenty-three quid for the lot of us, a bargain.
‘How much was that?’ Rizzo asked as we walked back.
‘About one pound twenty-five each.’
‘Cheap as chips,’ he said, get moaned at.
The Paras escorted us back, saluted, and headed off to wherever they lived. Our kit was as we left it, our guard on the door, and we settled down to what would be a long night of not doing very much.
But an hour later, after sun down, two enterprising soldiers came by with beer in crates. It was cheap and still cold, so I bought some, but I asked the soldier to open one and drink it – just in case. He downed the whole lot. I asked him to come back tomorrow night.
All of the lads got two bottles of beer, and after his beer Tomo went to sleep on his woo
den slats, Smitty yawning, Nicholson alert enough.
‘Didn’t bring the rubber mats,’ Moran noted.
‘Where are they?’ I puzzled.
‘Stacked up in Stores, I saw them, forgot about them.’
‘When we move north we’d not take them, bed of sand.’
‘What about Max?’ Moran floated.
‘This is a screw up, so I don’t want Mally’s part out there, and I don’t think Bob does.’
‘Not Mally’s fault,’ Moran protested. ‘He went unarmed, that took balls. And we could spin the story anyhow.’
I made a face. ‘See what Bob says, but I’m not taking Max anywhere with a long walk out, and he’s not going to parachute in with us. If there’s a good story, we give it to him, and he uses old photos.’
I called Bob later. ‘Still awake?’
‘Same time zone as you. All settled in?’
‘Yeah, nice enough billet – no mattresses, but we have water, and the local cafe is great. Today we got in a jog and some target practice, so we’re acclimatising.’
‘I found you a Skyvan and an Islander, be with you tomorrow, but ... also found a French base on the Mali border, just eighty miles to the area of interest.’
‘That would be better. How far away are we here?’
‘Three hundred miles.’
‘So yeah, better, but what about facilities?’
‘Basic, but there is a town not too far away, water, some civilians using the strip for transport, mine workers, it’s not totally dead.’
‘And French military?’
‘Two dozen assorted men, some air force personnel, some jeeps and trucks. The men maintain the strip.’
‘Any local threats?’
‘Nothing listed, never been any attacks there.’
‘So we move there, then try and get some local transport, a few SIGINT left here to coordinate with this Major Thornton.’
‘He uses his Major title?’ Bob puzzled.
‘No, but he told me about his past service.’
‘I would hope he’s discrete about such things.’
‘So what about “A” Squadron?’
‘Be landing tonight some time, should be with you soon.’
‘And operational control?’
‘This is your operation, but there were a few ... odd words spoken. You may need to call Rawlson and the squadron CO before using the regulars.’