by Geoff Wolak
An hour later, when Stretch and the lads were finally with it, I had them drive the lorry south to the new trenches, and to take a length of rope with them. I hung onto the side of the lorry as we moved off.
Down from the lorry, I explained to Stretch, ‘You place mines on the south side of the trench, hiding them carefully, starting here and working that way – west. No one steps over the rope, mines placed over the rope, that way there are no accidents.’
He got to it, Tomo kept well away from the mines. Fuses screwed in when in place, Stretch gently placed sand over them, a good few inches since the wind would blow loose sand off.
As the sun climbed higher he worked backwards with Rizzo, one mine every ten yards or so, Mouri and Dicky working the east side, the trench being extended by the bulldozer. And when that trench was quite deep I had mines placed in the bottom of it, the bulldozer driver keen not to reverse back too far.
Wiping my brow with a sleeve, I told the lads, ‘Should anyone sneak in and take pot-shots at us, this trench would be the obvious place to do it from, that’s why I want the mines in the base of the trench, a nasty surprise for the unwary sniper.’
At 3pm I called a halt, four hundred yards of trench dug, three hundred yards of mines placed, the ropes left in place as we withdrew, the empty boxes placed on the lorry.
Back with my team, I sat wiping my brow, a drink needed. ‘That section is now out of bounds to the enemy, a nice little choke point. And as soon as the first mine is hit they’ll believe it’s all mined.’
‘This place was nice when we first got here,’ Swifty complained. ‘Pristine desert. Now look at it. Looks like a scrap yard in the UK.’
‘Give it another week,’ I quipped. ‘And who took my pineapple?’
‘Where’d you leave it?’ Swifty asked.
‘There, on the sand.’
‘Someone pinched your pineapple?’ Moran asked. ‘Little buggers. You can have mine, I don’t like them.’
‘Me neither,’ I told him.
‘You don’t like pineapple?’ Swifty asked. ‘So why you worried about who took it?’
‘The fact that I don’t like pineapple is not the point, it was nicked,’ I pointed out. ‘People shouldn’t nick my fruit - I’m the boss.’
When my phone trilled it was Tinker, the sun having set. ‘You still in the office?’ I asked.
‘Yes, lot on. You still in a hole in the sand?’
‘Yes, nothing much on.’
‘Well you’ve pissed off someone, the radio chatter is up, and we hacked a phone tower, talk of Arab fighters coming in, heavy weapons.’
‘Is the State Governor involved?’
‘He’s made a statement for people not to attack outsiders, but the police chief is involved somehow and organising men. Local media is reporting the dead, figures rising. And talk of aircraft, not sure what.’
‘We shot down two attack aircraft today, and that will cost someone.’
‘They came from Mali somewhere according to our intercepts, now talk of artillery.’
‘Artillery? Well we’ve had rockets and planes. Who has artillery around here?’
‘Only the Nigerian Army, and it’s being moved north.’
‘I need to make a call. Talk soon.’ I stood.
‘They bringing up artillery?’ Moran asked, concerned.
‘Not if I can stop it.’ Stepping away, I dug out a number and hit the buttons in torch light.
‘Hello?’ came a bass baritone voice.
‘Minister, this is Petrov. How are things?’
‘I do not take social calls ... from you!’
‘Then just listen. Some of your army generals have taken money and are moving artillery north to attack the Americans at some airfield. I think ... the Americans will want to bomb you afterwards.’
‘That ... is good of you to inform me. And we are making progress against the likes of al-Sheek and his conspirators.’
‘I will pass on your good wishes to my paymasters. Good night.’
Back in my hole, I said, ‘Artillery has a range of ten miles, and they have D-30 Russian Howitzers.’ Map out, I had a look in torch light. ‘There’s a road, southeast of us, gets to within five miles, then tracks, and it’s away from villages. Might be worth a visit.’ I stood. I transmitted, ‘British veteran Lone Wolves, form up ready to move out. Extra rations, extra water, backpacks on.’
‘Send them south?’ Moran asked.
‘Send them in a few directions.’
The Wolves started to gather on the dark runway, backpacks fixed, rations added, water added – and we had water cans that were just 12kg when full, not heavy Jerry cans.
I checked the men over in torch light, asking about ammo levels, the men in good spirits. When they were all gathered I began, ‘Make sure you each have extra water, brown poncho, brown cloth to hide under, rations for a few days.’
‘We got some mince meat,’ a man said, the Wolves laughing.
I nudged two men aside. ‘First two men, you go due east ten miles, have a look for tracks, movement, don’t be seen. You can move by day so long as you’re a long way from anyone. Count paces, check the compass, don’t get lost. Don’t engage anyone unless it’s just a small patrol.’
I nudged the next two men. ‘Next two, due west, same deal, stay out two nights and back. Next two go due east two miles, then due south five miles, count your paces. Next two, go west two miles, south five miles, same deal. Last two, follow the track till you’re beyond the mines and the wrecked jeeps. The minefield is south of the trench, trench is just north of the wrecked jeeps.
‘You walk due east 1,000yards, turn due south 5,000yards, find a place to hide, look west and report any movement. OK, any questions? All got sat phones, spare batteries ... clean socks on?’
Their dark outlines laughed.
‘No risks, stay hidden, avoid a shootout. Off you go.’ They plodded off in the three directions. I transmitted, ‘All teams, listen up: patrols going out, don’t shoot. Fingers off triggers now.’
I woke to find that I was still alive, and still living in a hole in the sand, my bum feeling damp for some reason. I lifted my head, just one man down the line stood peeing, but I no longer enjoyed an uninterrupted view from my desirable runway-side residence. The wrecked APCs stood out, the two burnt planes, the crashed Antonov, the distant line of wrecked jeeps. It was starting to look a mess.
After a good brew and something to eat I went and found the ghetto blaster and took it back to the flag poles. After the Americans had blown reveille, and after the French had blown their three trumpets, I called for all British personnel to fall in - in their teams.
A dusty scruffy bunch ambled in, teams formed, and some of the lines were almost straight, the French wondering what we were doing, the Americans stood up top and observing. Moran hoisted the flag.
‘Gentlemen, and lady, you are required to sing, or get shot in the foot.’
Rizzo whispered, ‘Don’t fucking know the words to the national anthem!’
‘Sure you do.’ I hit the tape deck, volume turned up.
‘Always look on the bright side of life,’ belted out, the Monty Python tune, smiles so wide that faces hurt, the teams joining in as I encouraged them on.
‘Life’s a piece of shit, when you look at it, life’s a laugh an death’s a joke it’s true, you’ll see it’s all a show, keep them laughing as you go, just remember that the last laugh is on you...’
Everyone sang loudly, the medics included, Liban laughing, Castille and his men smiling widely, Max taking distant shots from behind.
When finished, I said to the French. ‘We sing better than you lot!’ the British teams jeering the French as they broke up.
At 11am, stood chatting to Liban, my phone trilled.
‘Captain Wilco, it’s Lone Wolf Billy Mason.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘We’re about six miles southeast of you, and there’s a dip and a track, and we’re above it a thousand yards out,
some ridges here to hide behind, and down below are two artillery pieces and some trucks, they just got here.’
‘How many men?’
‘Say ... twelve.’
‘How are they armed?’
‘Most are not really armed, but we saw some with old FN SLRs, 7.62mm.’
‘What are they doing?’
‘They’re setting up the artillery, sir.’
I sighed. ‘I need you to do something for me, or we’ll have dead and wounded up here. You’re better than they are, so stand up, walk to within 400yards, lay down and shoot the bastards. They have old rifles with iron sights, and they couldn’t shoot for toffee, and you can. So kill them all for me.’
‘We can get another two hundred yards unseen, then it’s open ground, sir.’
‘Are you confident? Because I know you can do it.’
‘We’ll do it, sir.’
‘Call me back. No call back and we come out to you. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Phone away, I transmitted, ‘Incoming! All teams underground, in the holes or in the drain! Move it!’
Our lookout got down in a hurry, Liban leading his men to the drain, shouting them on. Stood near the drain, I scanned the horizon with my binoculars, no one visible, and I finally ducked inside.
‘What comes?’ Liban asked.
‘Two pieces of 122mm artillery.’
‘Ah, not so good, eh.’ He looked up. ‘Will this hold?’
‘Yes, but the trenches are vulnerable.’ At my team their expressions asked a question. ‘122mm artillery pieces, and the shells will do more damage than a rocket, a lot more. Wolves are near them and are going to shoot the bastards.’ I walked to the south side, so that my phone would work.
Waiting was hell, and not from the fear of a shell landing on my head; I worried for the two Wolves, I might have sent them to their deaths. But if they stopped the artillery they may save lives up here, at least I told myself that. And if there were ten artillery pieces out there we were screwed.
They called back fifteen minutes later, sounding out of breath. ‘Sir, we got them, all dead or wounded, one might be hiding. But we went forwards to finish them off and got a wound, a through and through.’
‘That happens when you get close in, soldier, which is why we avoid it. How bad is that wound?’
‘Bleeding a lot but not pumping, sir.’
‘Start walking north, retrace your steps, I’m sending jeeps, and we’ll try and follow your tracks. Hang in there, we’ll be twenty minutes or so.’
I turned, ‘Sasha, Casper, get the APC working. British Echo, on me now!’ I scrambled up the sand bank and jogged towards Slider, less wary of artillery pieces now. At Slider’s hole I shouted, faces appearing. ‘Get outside!’ I heard the growl of the APC starting up.
When Rizzo emerged I said, ‘Get the two jeeps, medic in each, six men in the APC.’ I put a hand on his shoulder as we walked along the runway. ‘Go east two thousand yards, then due south, you should be able to follow tracks in a few places, foot tracks of two Wolves. Try not to get stuck in the sand. Five miles due south are the two Wolves, wounded. Pick them up, get the medics on them, then drive south till you find two artillery pieces, then call me. Go!’
I pointed at Casper in the APC and gave a circular motion with a finger, the APC turning in a tight circle to face east. Jeeps started up, medics grabbed with their kit. Rizzo drove a jeep off east down the runway, followed by Henri at the wheel of another, the APC following as the rest of the Echo lads looked on.
I told them, ‘Two Wolves, they found the artillery, shot up the gun crew, picked up a wound.’
‘So no artillery on our heads,’ Swifty noted.
‘Not unless there’s ten artillery pieces out there about to open up. Get back to cover,’ I told Slider, leading the remainder back to the drain, discussing artillery.
In the drain I transmitted the story for the teams, soon stood on the south side again, and waiting pensively.
It was twenty minutes before Rizzo rang; the two Wolves had been picked up. He was now heading south following their tracks. Ten minutes later he called back. ‘We can see the artillery. What we doing?’
‘Shoot anyone left alive, double tap, close in, then try and hitch the guns back to the lorries and drive them back up here.’
‘That sand is dodgy in a few places,’ he cautioned.
‘If it looks dodgy moving them, remove the firing pins and mechanisms, or blow them, just don’t leave the artillery for them to use against us.’
‘OK.’
Fifteen minutes later he was back on, and in a panic. ‘There’s a fucking helicopter coming in!’
‘What type?’
‘Mi8. Black one.’
‘I saw Sambo get in the APC. Send him forwards, pistol hidden, try and capture it. If not, have Casper ram the damn thing as it lands! Or shoot it down!’
My team was behind me. I turned to them as they waited, faces painted with expectation. ‘Fucking Mi8 landing at the artillery site, and our lot are still there, on foot.’
‘Does it have rockets?’ Moran asked, worried.
‘Rizzo didn’t say.’
‘They’re a bit exposed if it has rockets,’ Moran cautioned. ‘And if they drive back in open jeeps and another Mi8 turns up...’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, a problem.’
‘And if it comes here?’ Swifty asked.
‘Its rockets won’t damage this drain. We’d shoot it down.’
Waiting was hell, men paced up and down, looks exchanged.
My phone finally trilled, all eyes on me, men closing in. ‘Wilco.’
‘We sent Sambo forwards, and he shot two officers as they got off, and then got inside and took the pilots hostage, and Henri and Jacque are inside as well. We blow it?’
‘No, dope, have the pilots forced to fly it back here. Tell Henri to shoot the co-pilot in the leg if they don’t co-operate, and to fly due north at 1,000ft for five miles, to find us in the west. Do it now.’ I faced my team.
‘They hijacked the helo?’ Mitch asked, wide-eyed.
I nodded. ‘One careless owner, two dead Nigerian Army officers.’
‘Jesus,’ Mitch let out, looks exchanged.
Liban closed in. ‘What is happening?’
‘My men stole a helicopter.’
He shocked upright. ‘A helicopter!’
‘My lads are more awake than you’re lazy bunch.’
I got a long list of rude words in French as the team laughed, and ten minutes later the heavy drone could be heard. I transmitted, ‘Back to normal positions for now.’
My team followed me up the sand bank and onto the runway, and if this was a different Mi8 we were all in trouble. It set down, Jacque jumping down with Sambo, the rotors winding down, and I could see two white pilots. I waved them out as the teams stared at the odd sight of a helo on the runway.
I led the two pilots away, both slim and silver haired. In Russian I began, ‘If you cooperate I let you walk out of here. Who are you working for?’
They exchanged looks and shrugged. ‘Name is Belchov.’
‘Belchov is dead.’
‘His step-brother. He stole Belchov’s money and houses when Belchov was killed, he’s now in charge.’
‘And would you know who motivates him?’
‘They’d not tell us, and we only fly a few times a year. This helicopter belongs to a charity in Mali, they ... don’t know we’re here.’
‘So, a little extra cash on your day off, eh. Who were the men that were shot?’
‘Nigerian Army. From a base south, two hundred miles.’
‘Do you know why they were flying to the artillery?’
‘I heard something about stopping the artillery, a change of plan.’
I nodded. ‘You now work for us. Petrov is here.’
‘Petrov?’
‘Yes, he works for some rich Russian in Mexico.’
‘Tomsk, in Panama.’
�
�Might be.’
‘Why ... does he help British and Americans?’
‘Tomsk and others, they own shares in mines here, and oil, and these Islamist fighters keep attacking, paid for by Nigerian oil barons.’
‘Ah, we saw it on the news, the Nigerian Government making arrests of such men.’
‘Would ... ten thousand dollars a week each be enough?’
They shrugged. ‘Sure. But the helicopter, it will be missed.’
‘You say ... you had a fault, set down, and ... the Islamists held you for a week or two.’
Again they shrugged, keen on the money. ‘What about fuel?’
‘I’ll have some delivered, don’t worry. Come.’ I led them off.
‘Your Russian is good,’ one complimented me.
‘Thanks, I studied it in university.’
At my team I said, ‘Captain Moran, take good care of our new recruits, food and water, place to sleep. We now have air-recon available.’
Smiling and shaking his head, he led them to Morten as the teams reclaimed positions.
I called the Squadron Leader in Mauritania. ‘It’s Wilco, sir. Can you try and get me a fuel bogey with av-gas in it.’
‘Av-gas? What the hell for?’
‘We stole a helicopter.’
‘You stole a helicopter!’
‘Yes, sir, so we’ll make use of it.’
‘You have pilots?’
‘It came with pilots, so yes - we have pilots. Try and get me that av-gas from Liberia, and soon, sir.’
‘Bloody hell. OK, leave it with me.’
Liban looked over the Mi8, questioning Henri and Jacque about what happened. He finally turned to me. ‘It was our men who stole the helicopter!’
‘Your men in my team, following my orders,’ I countered with. ‘If they are in my team ... then they are my men.’
‘Pah! You are bad sport English type.’
Rizzo called, sounding out of breath. ‘We made it half way, but a lorry is stuck in the sand.’