by Geoff Wolak
‘This is Captain Hamble, old guy on a donkey approaching.’
I could hear laughter.
‘Is he heavily armed?’ I teased.
‘No.’
‘Then leave him.’
Man and donkey came into view, and he had picked the wrong spot on the wrong day. I counted five jeeps, took aim, and fired, a crackle sounding out as I put five rounds into the men in the back of the jeep before it swerved off the road.
Aiming right, I moved my aim to the back of the convoy as it slowed down, windscreens hit, men in the back hit as I fired like a crazy man. I was just about lying on my side as I loosed off a whole magazine.
Magazine swapped, I aimed down, finding men running for cover, but there was not much cover, and I hit a few men in the back. Some hid under jeeps and fired out, no real clue where we were, and I deliberately hit the road surface next to faces, a good dose of ricochet issued to a few men.
Second magazine swap, and the crackled eased, and we were now finding it hard to see worthy targets, a few bodies double-tapped.
‘Wilco, it’s Tomo. A few fuckers hiding behind jeeps, no shot.’
‘We wait them out. Go for the ricochet off the road, under the jeeps.’
I zeroed in on a leg and hit it, a foot, a hand, and took to trying to puncture the sides of the jeeps. ‘Ceasefire!’ I finally called. ‘Tomo, Nicholson, cover them. “D” Squadron, down to the road, but don’t get close.’
‘Wilco, that guy on the donkey is just stood there.’
‘Leave him alone!’
I eased up, and could see the “D” Squadron lads run down, kicking up dust. They knelt and fired, moved on, knelt and fired again, Tomo and Nicholson still firing.
‘Wilco, it’s Hamble, a few of them have hands up.’
‘I want them alive. Tomo, Nicholson, stay put, everyone else up, move down and double tap, take no chances.’
I jumped over the low stone wall with Swifty and we scrambled down the slope, soon running in, kneeling and double tapping. Around a jeep I found a man with his hands up, a good kick delivered to the stomach, his rifle kicked away. Someone got up and ran, a round to the back taking him down.
‘Wilco? Over here.’
I ran towards Hamble as bodies were double-tapped. He had a bearded man tied up, two sat phones on the man’s chest, as well as radios. ‘He’s the main man, so he comes back with us. He’s yours to drag. Search him.’
‘And these?’ Hamble asked, pointing at two other men.
‘Take them, French will be happy.’ I clicked on the radio. ‘It’s Wilco, I want some jeeps working, moved down the road, on the double. No flat tyres.’
Jeeps were started, some still running, and driven down the road.
‘Mount up!’ I shouted, taking in the tail end of the convoy. On the radio, I said, ‘Nicholson, Tomo, down to us, but be careful, don’t break an ankle.’ Peering up, I could see them moving through the rocks, jeeps driven past me, and driven over bodies.
Sat phone lifted, I called Captain Harris as I stared at the old man with the donkey, and he stared back at me. ‘It’s Wilco, we want the planes back, same spot, fast as possible.’
‘You have wounded?’
‘No, we have prisoners. Let me know an ETA on the planes, no need for medics.’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
‘Mount up!’ I again shouted, a few jeeps very overloaded. I stood in a jeep doorway, holding the door. On the radio, I said, ‘Headcount your teams.’ I checked that I could see my three, and told Rizzo to drive, and I had no option but to hang onto the door, feet inside.
We passed a local truck, which stopped, odd looks given, and reached the flat desert doing fifty miles an hour, a worry for me perched out the door, being buffeted by the wind. At a crossroads I directed the lead jeep left, and we halted ten minutes later, at what I thought was the right spot.
I jumped down. ‘Jeeps off the road ten yards!’
Rizzo bumped the jeep off the road and onto the sand, the lads in the back none too happy and letting him know that, my sat phone trilling.
‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Captain Harris, planes are off.’
‘Good to know. If you can reach them, tell them to aim for six jeeps in a row off the side of the road.’
‘OK, I’ll let the French know.’
As we stood on the side of the road a car came past, slowed, they looked us over – a good look at our trussed-up prisoners, then drove on, the sun now up fully, the temperature rising on this bleak and desolate landscape as we waited.
Hearing a drone half an hour later, we all keenly peered up, the three aircraft leaving faint vapour trails at around three thousand feet. They circled, the first Nomad flying by low enough to reach up and touch. It climbed and circled, came around, and set down. ‘Same teams, same order! Make safe weapons. Unload!’
I unloaded as I checked the road both ways, the long straight road stretching out a mile and shimmering, the Nomad soon down and easing past me as I knelt.
We scrambled aboard, finding that it was half seats and half mesh cargo cages. “D” Squadron put their prisoners in the cages, and sat inside with them. A thumbs up, and the Nomad powered off. Moving forwards, I told the pilot to circle.
Peering down anxiously, I could see the Skyvan down and loading men, followed by the second Nomad, and we made two more complete circles before the second Nomad took off. Our pilot pointed his nose west, and we climbed, a few men looking relieved.
Looking down with interest, I could see the ambush point and the jeeps, now seeing men moving around down there. Beyond the ambush point I caught sight of the plateau, and soon identified the target village far below, hoping they had no surface to air missiles.
I settled back, a look at Swifty – who nodded, sipping his water, Mahoney studying the land below, Moran tackling biscuits.
A short forty-five minutes later I could see the airfield and the inviting blue ocean – white waves crashing onto golden sand. We descended – slowly this time, came around, lined up, a gentle touch and we were down, taxiing around to the hangars, quite a crowd waiting.
Stepping down, the heat hit me, and I had not realised the aircraft was air-conditioned. We walked across to the Major, the French colonel at his side. I saluted.
‘Welcome back, and so soon,’ the colonel offered.
‘And would you happen to know who sold us out, sir?’
‘A local officer has been arrested, he saw the map.’
‘Lesson to be learnt there, sir.’
‘Indeed, and we will tighten up here.’
The Skyvan pulled up and halted as I turned, soon the Nomad, our prisoners brought out.
‘Prisoners?’ the colonel queried.
‘You wanted the head man in that village. Here he is.’
‘What!’ He strode forwards with his officers, grabbing the man by the beard and shouting questions, terse answers coming back as my team grouped.
The colonel returned to me as our prisoners were led off. ‘You are due a twenty million euro reward I think.’
‘I’ll have my boss contact you about it. We can buy some kit with it.’
He smiled, and patted me on the shoulder as we headed to the coaches. Setting off, Rizzo said, ‘That guy was worth twenty million euro?’
‘Yes, and some of it may come our way.’
Rocko said, ‘Why can’t we go looking for people like that on the weekends?’ the lads laughing
‘Because we have jobs, and places to put our heads down. What more do you need?’
‘Twenty million euro we need,’ a few suggested.
I called Bob. ‘You awake?’
‘Yes, and getting the reports. Where are you?’
‘Sat on a nice air-conditioned coach, heading back to the range. But we’re due a small bonus?’
‘What for?’
‘We took prisoner the main man, apparently a twenty-million euro reward.’
‘You grabbed him? Already?’
&nb
sp; ‘We don’t hang around, Bob. So try and get that money, some beer for the lads, eh.’
‘Christ, you have Khalid Mohammad?’
‘Fuck knows, didn’t get his name, guy has a long black beard. Ask the French, they have him. Then ask for some favours. Wilco out.’
Stepping down from the coach at the side of the road, we again had a long walk up to the range, “D” Squadron whinging at me about the corkscrew descent.
‘Did you attend the briefing?’ I asked as we walked.
‘What briefing?’
‘Well look, guys, if you don’t attend the briefings you’ll miss stuff like that.’
Moran and Swifty laughed.
‘What fucking briefing?’ they pressed. ‘Thought I was going to die! You fuckers had seats, we were on the floor.’
‘Did you book a seat?’ I asked as we walked on, my team laughing.
‘Book a fucking seat? What’d you mean, book a fucking seat?’
Mahoney told them, ‘I booked a window seat, with leg room.’
‘Fuck off, Yank,’ came back.
‘Prime Time is the problem,’ I told Moran, ignoring the melee behind me. ‘They go home instead of attending briefings.’
‘Go home? We’re in the fucking desert!’ came from behind.
I greeted Sasha the Wolves, all keen for the detail, and chatted to Haines and his lads for a while as most of those involved in the job went to sleep. I finally settled down next to Swifty, Moran and Mahoney asleep as it grew hot, and I closed my eyes.
At 5pm I was awake, in need of a shit. After my late-in-the-day morning ablutions I checked with Sergeant Crab and the support lads, ducking into the SIGINT tent afterwards.
A hot and bothered Captain Harris informed me, ‘The man you got was not the main man, it was his brother – which came as a shock to the French because they captured him years ago. He should have been in an Algerian prison, so now they’re trying to find out how he got out.’
‘Bribed his way out,’ the Major put in. ‘Big stink.’
‘So no reward then,’ I quipped, sighing. Remembering the dicker’s sat phone, I handed to Captain Harris. ‘Hand that to the French if you like.’ With my phone trilling, I stepped out. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob. You heard about your captive?’
‘Yeah, just got the detail. Makes no difference to me, the job was a bust.’
‘Not entirely, because the Algerian resistance is saying that the brother, the group leader, died in the shootout.’
‘Do we get a reward for shooting him?’ I teased.
‘No. But the French media is going crazy, and those arseholes are claiming it was down to French special forces.’
I laughed loudly. ‘What do we care, Bob. And Max is here, he can get a story out.’
‘You still want to make use of the Marines and their helicopters?’
‘Depends on what the next step is, and that’s down to the French.’
‘The Algerians will be expecting you over the border,’ Bob cautioned.
‘They were last night!’
‘Let me know what the next step is when you have it.’
I found Max in the huts. ‘You can send a story out now, but make it look like a few more French in Echo.’ I sat and gave him the technical detail, and he had old photos that he could use. The one change to the detail I did insist upon was to state that we went in by French helicopter; I wanted our planes kept a secret.
I gave most of the lads a day off, and I figured we’d give the French a nudge in the morning, a new target maybe. The Wolves had a map reading exercise to tackle, Sasha in charge, and I sent them out at 7pm.
I was awake at midnight when they returned, all tired from a hard slog through soft sand. Most went straight to bed. I turned in as well, jacket over me, since it had cooled down from the day’s extremes.
At 2am my foot was shaken. ‘Wilco,’ someone hissed, and I stirred, a little groggy.
‘Wa ... what is it?’
‘Dickers on the wire, Boss.’
I eased out, kicking the feet of Swifty and Moran, rifle cocked, and found a silver moonlight. ‘Report.’
‘South, Boss, two men sneaking about,’ the 2 Squadron lads reported as we walked to the south fence.
‘Someone out taking a shit?’
‘Not that far out, and not together I’d hope.’
I smiled unseen. ‘French?’
‘Ain’t seen any that way before.’
I reached the wire, two other 2 Squadron lads knelt ready. I got down behind a sand bank and aimed into the fuzzy grey light created by the moon. ‘Where?’
A hand pressed onto my shoulder. ‘Aim left a bit, more, there.’
Feet scuffed up sand behind me, men taking position. I could sense Swifty without looking.
I could now see two dark outlines around two hundred yards out, getting up and running, getting down, sneaking closer. ‘Standby,’ I whispered. ‘Look for the muzzle flashes and aim at them, but wait for them to fire first – or call out in French about having their ablutions interrupted.’
I took aim, aimed away so as not to kill them, and fired four loud rounds, which most everyone would have heard. Two automatic bursts came back at us, cracking overhead. Several men opened up, a racket created, and I peered through my lens, seeing the muzzle flashes. I waited, and zeroed in on the flashes, two men both hit twice. It grew quiet, men running around behind me.
I turned over, whistle out, a loud blow. ‘Stand to!’
A pop, a feint whistling sound, and a small mortar hit the range. Now everyone was definitely awake.
I eased up. ‘2 Squadron, south side wire. Pathfinders, down to the huts, back of the huts, protect the tents, wake up everyone. Go! And get your radios on!’
Their dark outlines ran off as I walked down towards the middle of the bivvy line.
‘Bit of a flap on?’ Rocko called.
‘Ready Echo in teams.’ Past him, I said, ‘Sasha, Wolves to the north fence, spread along, careful who you shoot at. Go! “D” Squadron, down the track past the huts and on, in your pairs, static positions, eyes on. Go!’
Turning around, I met Echo as they formed up, kneeling. ‘Rocko, Rizzo, south wire, down the range two hundred yards, spread out. Radios on. Go!’
They ran off, but a whistling sound had them shouting and down, and we all dived down, a thud felt through the ground.
Easing up, I shouted, ‘Salties, north fence, two hundred yards along. Rest of you, on the firing point, ready to move – targets of opportunity.’
The final teams moved to the firing point, as if about to get some target practise in. And we waited. I popped in two glucose tablets, washed down with plenty of water.
‘Wilco, it’s Dicky,’ came over the radio. ‘We have movement.’
‘Make sure it’s not a French soldier. Warning shot at his feet.’
A crack sounded out, automatic fire returned.
‘I don’t think it’s a French soldier, Boss,’ came Dicky’s voice, further cracks sounding out.
Swifty said, ‘If someone shot at me when I was taking a shit, I’d have at him,’ the closest men laughing.
Bright flares exploded above us, but up near the French camp. A whistling sound, and I ducked down, the range hit again.
‘Not the best of aim, are they?’ Swifty noted.
‘Don’t need to be,’ I said. ‘Just lucky.’
The roar built, two Pumas coming in at 500ft. One flew over us, search lights on, men in the doors, a GPMG soon hammering our rounds. The second Puma remained south of us by 500yards, it too hammering out rounds, but at what ... remained to be seen.
‘We can go back to bed then,’ Mahoney suggested.
‘We’ll be up all pigging night,’ I told him. ‘Some of you, get a brew on.’
As the grey dawn came up we were still staring out beyond at the wire, French patrols now out and searching, bodies brought back, the mortar tube recovered.
I clicked on my radio. ‘All
Echo, back to bed. Wolves, stand fast, every second man sleep for an hour. 2 Squadron, stay on the wire, every second man sleep. “D” Squadron, back up to me, Pathfinders, back up to me.’
Men shuffled away towards their dirt beds.
Sat thinking, the day growing lighter, I lifted my phone.
‘Duty Officer.’
‘It’s Wilco. Send a message to the MOD, ask for the Marines off HMS Fearless to be sent to me, we had an attack here at our base, need someone to watch the wire. Copy in Bob on that.’
‘Will do.’
A French captain walked down with an escort, radio man to one side. ‘You are all OK, no?’
‘Yes. Do me a favour, put ten men on that hill, patrols behind it.’
He glanced over shoulder at the hill, and gave orders to the radio man. As he wandered off I realised I had not made use of my heavy binoculars yet, and wondered where the field telescopes had got to.
Wandering down to the huts, I found Crab and Duffy, Batman and Robin, all kitted ready for war, rifles in hands.
‘Excitement over?’ Crab asked.
‘For now, but driving to the airport could be fun. I want one of you with the Major at all times, even if he objects. When he goes for a shit in the sand, you’re there. Rotate it. I don’t need his wife giving me shit. And sleep with your rifles.’
‘Who were they?’ Batman asked, his bald plate sweaty and shinning.
‘Most likely Algerians living here, a bit pissed off that we killed the rebel leader over the border.’ I sat with them as they cooked up some stew they got off the French.
When the Major appeared, looking less than fresh, I handed him a brew. ‘Not the best night’s kip I’ve ever had,’ the Major complained.
‘French patrols are out now, sir, should quiet down a bit. Sleep later, in the heat, I doubt they want a scrap in the middle of the day.’
‘This country is supposed to be safe!’
‘Displaced Algerians, sir, with sympathises for the folks back home – the ones we shot full of holes. But still, they think that raid was French, and they think this base is just French – so at least it’s not personal.’
‘Whether the mortar is personal or not, it’s still a fucking mortar!’ he complained.