by Geoff Wolak
‘Serviceman.’
‘Unless someone has covered it up, there’s no one missing in that region.’
‘Go check carefully, sir, shout at the CIA, and let me know. Then consider that there are twelve hostages, and do you want to be involved.’
‘We most definitely do wish to be involved. Where are they?’
‘Southern end of Mali, close to the Niger border. There is a French presence in Niger, so they might assist.’
‘If it was a US serviceman then his family would have yellow ribbons around the trees, the press giving us shit. I’ll get back to you soon.’
I called David Finch.
‘An American soldier ... in Mali?’ he puzzled. ‘We’d know.’
‘CIA?’
‘Maybe, but a uniformed soldier? Very odd.’
‘There are twelve hostages, two Americans, most Europeans. Do we go for them?’
‘I’ll pass it to the Cabinet Office.’
‘Americans are keen.’
‘Staged event?’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll get back to you soon.’
Colonel Mathews called me back an hour later. ‘We’re not missing any men.’
‘Could someone have covered it up?’
‘I’m the guy who sends them out and covers it up – so no. Maybe they identified him wrong, green t-shirt and khaki pants. People on safaris dress like that, so maybe someone got the wrong idea.’
‘Dog tags, sir.’
‘Kids over here wear dog tags.’
‘Do you want to go for them anyhow, sir?’
‘Yes, so come up with a plan. In the meantime, we’d like a team to train with you.’
‘In the cold wet rain? Be a waste of time, sir. We should train close to the operation.’
‘OK, so where would that be – without tipping them off?’
‘Let me look at the map, sir, and get back to you.’
‘There are Deltas in London drinking your warm piss beer, they’ll be with you in a few days – after they’ve sobered up.’
‘Warm piss beer, sir? Us Brits love tepid beer.’
‘Yuk. I grew up in the deep south, and the beer was so cold it had ice on the glass.’
‘I guess it’s all relative, sir, and it’s cold as hell here most of the year. I’ll prep the cold, damp barracks ready for your men.’
At the morning briefing, I detailed a potential job in Mali again, hostages, and that the Yanks were on their way, Mahoney asking which team was coming.
‘No idea,’ I told him. ‘One Yank looks like another to me. Crab, Duffy, get the barracks ready. Rest of you, I want walking and sniping, fitness and shooting, forget pistols.’
Sitting with Captain Harris and his team, they laid out a large map, Moran and Hamble stood with me. I pointed out the hostage location.
‘Sparse population,’ Captain Harris noted. ‘A few good roads, but also good to ambush you on.’
‘Got the latest intel on Mali?’ I asked.
‘We sure do, we’re on the ball these days.’ He stood reading out facts, local tribes and squabbles, the Islamist separatist attacks, styles of attacks, weapons seen.
‘All the usual,’ Moran noted. ‘But how do we get close without being seen?’
Hamble said, ‘It’s a two hour flight from Sierra Leone.’
I exchanged a look with Moran.
Moran said, ‘Hercules on a road. Simple.’
I nodded. ‘HALO in, Hercules out. I’d best chat to the French though, it’s their back yard.’
‘Who’s Hercules?’ Harris asked. ‘British or American?’
I made a face. ‘Don’t matter to us, but the MOD may want a say in it. Start making plans as if it will go ahead, we should know soon.’
I discussed the operation with the Major, and we had done it all before, there was nothing new.
David Finch called me back at 6pm. ‘Met with the PM, and he’s happy for you to assist the Americans, but we want to look good out of this.’
‘So ... how about a British Hercules drops us and fetches us, crewman with a video camera. We can mention the RAF.’
‘Yes, that would be good. You’d parachute in?’
‘As much for practise as practicality, but we need a quiet entry anyhow. Oh, Deltas in London, they’ll come here, but we need to ship out straight away to Sierra Leone, no good training in a cold climate.’
‘Sierra Leone?’
‘Two hour flight to the hostages.’
‘It is? I’ll have to look at the map.’
‘I figured we’d take some French lads, four in total, since they have men in Niger and could come rescue us if needs be.’
‘I’ll send them a note now. They have bases close by?’
‘Inside of sixty miles.’
‘So their helicopters could come out. OK, I’ll discuss it with them.’
He called back later. ‘Two hours would get you to the southwest tip of Mali, but these hostages are 800miles from Freetown, so a Hercules will be slow, four hours or just under.’
‘Four hours is not an issue to a Hercules, just not that comfortable in the back.’
In the morning I called the para school CO in Brize Norton. ‘Sir, I have a job, HALO insert in Africa, top secret for now. In a few days I’ll want my chutes and bags, and say eight of your men. They’d be gone a week.’
‘Chutes for how many men?’
‘Chutes for a great deal of practise first, then maybe thirty men on the insert.’
‘OK, I’ll start to get things organised.’
‘And put it down as training, sir, all tight-lipped.’
‘Will do.’
The Major sent a fax to alert the RAF that we would need a Hercules or two in Freetown for a live operation in a few days.
The Air Commodore was on at 5pm. ‘Wilco, you got a job on?’
‘Yes, sir, but no need of any of your lads.’
‘No?’
‘We’ll HALO in after flying there, no FOB.’
‘Medics?’
‘They could come out of the plane that picks us up, yes, but if that plane goes down in a bad spot...’
‘Second plane behind it, sat ready.’
‘Fair enough, sir, have your medics prepped. And I’m taking your para school lads, so they’ll get some training in.’
‘Good, good. No need of the RAF Regiment?’
‘Not that I can think of, sir. But things can change.’
That evening I ate with Sasha in the pub, chatting about this upcoming operation – as well as Panama. He had a girlfriend in London, a Ukrainian girl, and thought that it might go somewhere – so long as she never asked too many questions. I laughed so load he called me rude names.
‘You find a girl that never asks questions, you tell me what fucking planet she’s from.’
Hamble wandered in at 9.30pm, so I stood, telling Sasha a needed to chat to Hamble.
‘Is he ... OK?’ Sasha quietly asked in Russian.
‘Wife was cheating, now divorcing him.’
‘Ah...’
‘Wait till you’re married, and she starts asking questions.’ I approached Hamble. ‘Needed a beer?’
‘I run a lot more these days, just clocked six laps, and I find it helps me wind down. If I try and sleep after running I can’t, still buzzing.’
‘One of the reasons I run in the mornings.’
‘I’ve lost weight, and I’m much fitter now, and – well – if I’m with you I need to be fitter.’
‘You’ll do the standard fitness tests, and that will peg your fitness. But you’ll stay even if you don’t do well enough on them.’
‘I’ll pass them all,’ he confidently stated. ‘Never been fitter.’
‘Divorce will do that to a man,’ I quipped. ‘Any ... news?’
‘It’s progressing, silly letters back and forth to the solicitors. I have a car on finance, which she thinks I own. I owe three grand on it still.’
I nodded.
‘Not very often, it would distract me. She sends pictures of our daughter now and then, but they upset me a little, and I hide them away. But at the dinner parties she boasts about me, and talks like we’re married and see each other every day.’
‘Women, eh.’
‘Stick to soldiering, much easier.’
On Thursday morning the Deltas turned up in a hired coach, just ten of them in a big coach, all dressed in civvies, and it offered a few men from Mahoney’s old team.
I shook hands with Captain Castille. ‘How’s the warm piss beer in London?’
‘Some of the guys like it, but I’m a Guinness man myself.’
Mahoney stepped out. ‘You come to collect me, because they won’t give me back?’
‘We heard you like it here,’ Castille quipped. ‘And the warm beer. Anyhow, you’re no longer a lieutenant.’
‘I’m not?’ Mahoney puzzled.
‘Next month you’re Captain Mahoney, some time Stateside.’
‘Office and a desk?’ I teased.
‘Hope not, not yet,’ Mahoney replied, looking worried.
We led our guests to the barracks, the heating on, bags dumped in familiar rooms.
‘Your confirmed kills?’ Castille asked Mahoney.
‘Got to be ... fuck knows. Over three hundred, more. I don’t count.’
‘You’ve clocked up a shit load of live missions, all in your file, and now it’s a thick file,’ Castille informed Mahoney. ‘They’ll want you teaching soon.’
‘Well, was kinda inevitable,’ Mahoney let out.
Bags down, we led them to the canteen for a warm drink, many having an early lunch whilst we chatted about Liberia and Ivory Coast.
After lunch, they sat in the briefing room with my senior lads, a drawing made on a white board.
Stood at the front, I began, ‘We have twelve hostages as far as we know, and the intel is from a very good source. They’re in or near a small town, very small town, desert all around, lonely highway, up to one hundred armed men with limited training.
‘The closest friendly base in is Niger, sixty miles, French outpost, a helicopter or two -’
‘Nice safe French helicopters,’ Rocko scoffed.
‘As safe as ever, which is not that safe,’ I noted. ‘Still, when you’re shot and bleeding they’re worth a risk.’
‘French helos are poorly maintained?’ Castille asked.
‘We’ve seen our fair share of accidents, but when you push helicopters in the sand they break.’
Castille said, ‘In the desert, our choppers break down every damn day.’
‘The French base is an asset to be used if needed,’ I told them. ‘The Plan ... is that we all fly down to Sierra Leone soon, and practise some HALO. When we’re happy, we’ll fly by RAF Hercules up to the target and HALO in, sneak up and take a look, make a tight plan, and go for the hostages.
‘We have no pictures of the building, no nothing, so we make it up as we go along. If we abort, or if we get wounded, or if we get some hostages out, a Hercules will land on the road. I’ll have that plane in the air an hour before we hit the target, ready to land on a road a few miles away.
‘I’ll take most of Echo down, but the insert team will probably be ten Echo, plus our Deltas here, plus four French – the French yet to decide. So, all straight forwards enough, but anyone breaking an ankle next week is off the job.
‘When we drop, the Hercules will circle for fifteen minutes, and if we have broken legs we’ll abort and be picked up ... and go back a few days later maybe. The hostages have been there a while, and they’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Deltas, you’ll adopt our new rifles and practise with them, not those pee-shooters you often carry.’
‘New rifles?’
‘Custom designed for me, based on our standard AKML, which you all used last time. These new rifles pack a punch, great at distance, very reliable.’
Rizzo turned his head to Castille. ‘I hit a guy in the stomach, wounded two men behind him.’
I told Castile, ‘My lads practise at 1200yards, and hit dead centre. So will you.’
‘How many desert brown ones do we have?’ Rocko asked.
‘Not enough, so we may paint some of the green ones,’ I replied. ‘Do a count today, get the paint out. So ... today we’ll give our guests some practise on the new rifles, lots of practise as I organise a plane for us.’
Since I had a need to train the police, I organised Crab and Duffy, plus the Salties, to spend some time with the police whilst I was away. I chatted to David Finch, and left Sasha and his team behind; they had some spy training to tackle. Robby’s troop were regulars still, and had courses to do, so they would be away for two weeks.
That left Captain Hamble, and what to do with him. I went and found him and led him to a quiet spot. ‘I’m not taking you on this job, you can help train the police or do the fitness tests if you like.’
‘Oh. And the reason you’re not taking me?’
‘Because you’re angry and want to kill someone, whereas my guys will kill someone without being angry about it. I don’t need some heroics from you, nor an angry man when finesse on the trigger is called for. But ... if you can look me in the eye and tell me you’re not angry...’
He stared past me. ‘Might take time to calm down a bit. I’ll do the fitness tests, keep focused.’
‘You’re a good man, and a good officer, and soon to be a good soldier, but you need to pull the trigger for the right reason – and anger is not that reason, not on a hostage rescue.’
He took a moment. ‘I couldn’t argue with that.’
‘Sort you head first, you have plenty of time.’
By 5pm I had the Tristar booked, and booked for the morning, everyone told to pack their desert kit, but to wear greens whilst in Sierra Leone. The crates were brought over, a flurry of activity around the hangar and the armoury, but at least the paint we used on the rifles was quick drying. Rocko had counted twenty brown rifles, then counted correctly twenty two, and painted ten more, enough desert brown magazines oddly enough.
And Bongo, just to be helpful, had made up ten magazine clips whilst we waited proper ones from Valmect.
I made sure we had brown cloth, and desert clothing for our guests, as well as desert facemasks and ponchos. A little green was not an issue, and we did not have enough brown caps. I left a note for the Major to get more brown clothing in a hurry and to send it down to us.
By 9pm were had checked and stacked the kit and crates, no need for rations or water, that we could pinch down there. But I did make sure we had plenty of ammo. Some of our HALO bags were here, some with the para school, and we would make use of our French parachutes.
I emptied my large first aid kit and checked it, and made sure the Deltas each had both tourniquet and tampons. I packed a map in plastic, a second map for Moran, a third for Castille, extra nine volt batteries handed out.
Henri had received a call, and a few French Echo lads would meet us in Freetown, a troop to head to Niger and to wait a signal.
At 10pm we were ready, and all sloped off to check personal kit, and to turn in early on a cold wet night. I cleaned my pistol on the kitchen table, checked my small first aid kit, laid out my greens for the morning, and I was set. I went to bed listening to a hell of a rain storm hitting my window.
I kicked Swifty up at 6am, my housemate whinging, and we enjoyed an early breakfast with many of the lads, some less than fresh. A final check of kit, and we stood waiting for the RAF buses, who were late. Escorts in place, the Major wishing us well, we set off to Brize Norton, and this time they were expecting us and had the paperwork. Small miracles, the RAF had finally organised themselves.
Boarded, we found a hundred servicemen on their way down for some peacekeeping and patrolling. Our uniforms got strange looks, American accents causing puzzled looks, but they left us alone, many of my lads dosing off to sleep as we flew down.
I busied myself with a map and notebook, distances and compass bearings noted for the target area, village names, road directions. By time we got there I had it all in my mind, as well as written down.
The doors opened to pleasant sunshine and a warm breeze.
‘This is more like it,’ Rocko enthused. ‘Let’s live at the FOB all year round, eh.’
‘What’ll you do for beer?’ Moran teased as we stepped down.
‘Have to get a bar installed.’
Colonel Marchant pulled up, and I saluted. ‘Back so soon?’ he asked me.
‘Some parachute training, sir, then a little job a long way off that you’re not supposed to know about.’
‘We have rooms for you here, as requested.’ He spotted the Deltas. ‘Americans?’
‘Yes, sir, joint mission.’
A bus took us around to the newly-requisitioned British Army staff hotel, formerly a three star hotel in need of some work. But at least it was well guarded. We were given room numbers by a corporal, to share, no keys since they had removed all the locks for some reason.
In our dated and dilapidated room, Swifty said, ‘Put a chair up against the damn door at night,’ as he peered through a cracked and dusty window. He put a smiley face in the dust. ‘Maid is off this year, and that toilet was last used in 1852, when it was installed.’
Back outside we waited our crates, but they had followed us without a hitch, soon being unloaded. With my bandolier on, webbing on, rifle loaded, I did not feel better – I always did. Rifles slung, we moved personal crates and kit crates inside, this small hotel just for us, and Captain Harris and his team would grab their old rooms, in the old French building. RAF medics were over with the rest of the RAF personnel.
‘A bit of a dive,’ Castille noted, paint peeling off the walls.
‘It’s a step up from our usual spot down here,’ I told him. ‘Be happy; this is luxury.’
Downstairs I found the canteen, labelled as ‘Diner Room’.
‘Should that be Dining Room?’ Swifty puzzled.
A sergeant chef stepped out, and stopped dead. I stopped dead and stared back. Then grinned.
‘Sir, any bombs or bullets around here, and you cook your own fucking meals.’
‘We’re here for some parachute training, war is over, Sergeant, so relax.’