Recovering Commando Box Set

by Finn Óg

  “Sir,” barked the boss.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  The analyst began to read his own scribbles.

  “Twenty-two people, sir, living underground, sir. They are surviving in a wadi, sir.”

  “Hurry up,” barked the boss.

  “Yes, some have papers, sir, in preparation for leaving Libya.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The captain says they are what remains of Gaddafi’s inner circle and their families, sir.”

  To the analyst’s amazement the boss simply nodded.

  “Thank you. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  “Do you not want the names, sir?”

  But the boss was already reaching for his phone, so the analyst gently set the piece of paper at his side and tiptoed out of the room. He didn’t even get to tell him that a small group had recently left the bunker.

  Sam had done his desert training. He could navigate, he could drive and he could hike. He had suffered the Brecon Beacons and all Wales could throw at him during the height of summer and the harshest of winter. That was what special forces training was partly about: endurance, but it was also about guile, wit, sense and knowing how to crack the toughest of nuts. The Libyan desert was one such nut.

  In classrooms he’d learned about the exploits of the original SAS, the pioneers who’d cut their teeth on this very terrain. His own personal hero, Blair Mayne from Northern Ireland, had been one of the toughest SAS troopers the force had ever seen. They’d conducted incredible attacks on Italian and German airfields throughout Libya during World War ΙΙ, ferocious fighters doing the bravest of work. They’d ranged into unmapped territory aboard failing vehicles with crap kit and only the sun and stars to guide them. It had taken weeks, sometimes months.

  So Sam flew.

  It had taken a sizeable withdrawal from Waleed and a few goes at the ATM for Sam to gather the funds but the rest was relatively straightforward. Tobruk airfield didn’t offer day trips or flying lessons but it had helicopters and a few would-be pilots. For the cost of heli-hire and fuel they appeared only too keen to up their air miles ahead of qualification. Sam didn’t inquire too far into their actual ability but within two hours he was airborne and headed towards the coordinates on Habid’s GPS in his hand.

  The pilot was excitable and irritating, keen on swooping and showing off. Nine miles out Sam had to bark at him over the hubbub to stop fucking around, but his voice was outstripped by the boom of two fighter jets screaming far overhead.

  Sam’s heart sank as he suddenly realised what was about to happen.

  “Turn!” he shouted, sending his skipper into what was almost a tailspin. “Calm down, sorry, son. Calm down. Get the aircraft steady and turn around. Go back now. Tobruk, yes? Tobruk.”

  The young man got his shit together and cut a steady curve to head back north-east.

  “You are about to hear something shocking, ok? It will be ok. Just get us back to Tobruk, do you understand?”

  The pilot just kept nodding.

  “Get us there as quickly as you can, ok?” Sam’s voice had lowered to a soothing but authoritative register, coaxing the kid to keep his head and get them back safely.

  And then came the explosions.

  “Eyes front, son,” he said, using two fingers on his right hand to gesture to his own eyeballs and then point ahead. And then Sam turned to catch the remains of the fireball that had been generated in the middle of nowhere.

  He closed his eyes and prayed that what had just happened wasn’t as a result of what he and Waleed had done, but he knew deep down that was the most likely reason Habid’s flock had just been cremated.

  Sinead was trying to sleep when she got an encrypted message on the app:

  Áine correct about hack. Any danger now passed. They have what they wanted. Sorry. Really. Sam.

  Chapter 25

  Sam had three days – and enough anger for three decades.

  Waleed hurtled across the highway, this time convoyed by two open-bed jeeps each equipped with a general-purpose machine gun and two armed soldiers in the back. Whatever deal he’d struck with his counterpart in Libyan intelligence, it seemed they wanted rid of Waleed and Sam just as much as Waleed and Sam wanted to get out of Libya.

  Big Suit had been left on a mattress at the detention centre wearing the same clothes he’d had on for three months. There’d been some initial resistance but the soldiers had become incredibly agreeable with the handover of cash.

  Neither man said anything for a very long time. They were of the same mind – the law of unintended consequences. Both understood that they’d miscalculated, that they’d become involved in matters that had wider, perhaps even global, implications. Both now understood that of course there were people who wanted Gaddafi’s insiders incinerated. The new Libyan administration weren’t fans, for sure, but there were others too – those who had managed or run informants within the regime, those who manipulated the leader in from the cold to the benefit of the west.

  Both Sam and Waleed knew they’d started a chain of events that had led to the identification of the hideout. They’d have to live with that and therefore the deaths of whoever had been stashed in the desert.

  And that brought silence, but it also brought determination. This seedy business in human exploitation had to end.

  Close to exhaustion, they rolled into Alexandria where the final touches needed to be applied to Sam’s hedge.

  Sam hadn’t seen Waleed in full fight but it was worth a watch.

  Tassels was ripped from his bed at three o’clock in the morning. His face forced into the screen of Waleed’s phone.

  “Your cousin,” Waleed screamed in Tassel’s ear.

  “Who are you—”

  “Waleed Ahram.”

  Tassels evidently knew the name because he began to urinate inside his blue pyjama bottoms.

  “You have group arriving from Libya.”

  “Yes,” Tassels bleated.

  “Today.”

  “Yes, how do you know this?”

  “The Libyans told me.”

  Which was true. Waleed’s counterpart had got round to reading his analyst’s handwriting.

  “What do you want?”

  “Your cousin, he has sold you out.”

  Waleed was gripping Tassels by one ear and twisting hard, while whispering and spitting into the other.

  “He has told us you collect the boat captains.”

  “Yes,” mustered Tassels. “Later.”

  “From where?”

  “From train.”

  “My friend here,” he twisted Tassels’ neck to allow him to see Sam for the first time, “will go with you. Understand?”

  “Yes, yes,” panted Tassels.

  “Where is your phone?”

  “By the bed.”

  “We will be staying with you until this is over. If you want to avoid execution, you will do exactly what we say. Understand?”

  “Yes, yes. Understand.”

  Sam didn’t understand. The whole hissing, pissing, growling conversation had been conducted in Arabic, but he imagined the hedge plan had been explained rather eloquently.

  Tassels loitered on the platform smoking furiously. He’d spent the night between two exceptionally angry men as instructions were relayed in English and repeated in Arabic, confirmed and refined.

  He had an A4 piece of paper to identify himself that he held up each time a new train arrived. He swore blind to Waleed he was never told what train the sailors would arrive on. Three carriages came and went before he was approached by a swarthy man in jeans and a plain blue shirt. Ethnically the match with Sam was far from ideal – the man could be Turkish or Lebanese, and size-wise they’d have to find Sam some new kit because the boat captain was tiny.

  He got into the back of Tassels’ car and was bookended by Waleed and Sam. Before long he was tied to a chair in Tassels’ apartment and was explaining his arran
gement with Habid in broken English.

  “How did you get this job?” Sam asked.

  “Agency.”

  “What agency?”

  “In Romania.”

  “There is a seafarers’ agency in Romania? There isn’t even sea in Romania.” Sam had scoffed.

  “Not shipping agency,” the man explained. “Transport. Internet. For get to Europe.”

  “Trafficking, in other words,” Sam said.

  “Where did you come from?” Waleed asked.

  “Abkhazia,” the man said.

  “Black Sea?” Sam was surprised.

  “Yes, Black Sea.”

  “So you are Russian?”

  “Nooo,” stressed the man. “Not Russian.”

  Sam couldn’t be hassled with the politics. He knew there were issues in the Caucasus, a lot of the area craved independence, but it wasn’t a primary concern.

  “What are you supposed to say to the man who has hired you?”

  “Nothing. Strict instruction. Say nothing. Not speak to no one.”

  “What are you supposed to do?”

  “Take boat, start engine, bearing is north-west. When ship approach, light flare, go to Europe.”

  Made sense to Sam. It fit with what the doctor and Alea had said. He rooted through the man’s haversack and withdrew a bottle of water, a handbearing compass, a set of decent oilskins and a woolly hat. There was also a small Magellan GPS. Sam packed it all back in apart from the oilies, which were too small to be of any use.

  “No phone?” he asked the man.

  “No,” he said.

  “Search him.”

  Waleed stood the unfortunate sailor up and emptied his pockets. In his sock he found a small Nokia in a plastic sealable bag. Under the insole of his shoe Waleed withdrew a slim wrap of euros.

  “Papers? ID?” Sam asked.

  But Waleed was already on it. In the lining of the oilskin he found a passport – presumably to get the man as far as Egypt, and some sort of certificate written in a language they couldn’t understand.

  “Is this all the money you have?” Sam waved the cash in front of his face.

  “Employer must pay before departure,” he said, forlorn.

  “Ok,” said Sam. “We,” he pointed between Waleed and himself, “are police. You have been involved in people smuggling. You have been caught. You will not be going to sea tonight. You are lucky. If you had gone to sea, you would have died, for sure.”

  And they left him there, bound with knots from the muscle memory of a seasoned sailor. Waleed would deal with him later, once he had dealt with Tassels.

  Sam longed to see the man he’d travelled thousands of miles to hunt. It had taken five days and enormous good and bad fortune, but when the moment came he was disappointed.

  Tassels, observed at a distance by Waleed, had done his job and ferried the migrants to the bank where monies had been exchanged. That night Sam took up his station by the shore as the tiny tribe approached carrying their heavy bundle between them. Each was bearing a fraction of the load in one hand, and in the other hand four of the travellers each swung a small fuel can.

  Tassels beckoned Sam forward to meet the group. He stood and glared at Habid who barely acknowledged him. He was smaller than Sam had anticipated but sprightly given his injuries. Sam wondered if he’d be as resolute if he had only one toe and one testicle. The grisly figure bent to peel off a few fifty-euro notes, which Sam accepted and stuffed in his pocket before taking a handle on the dinghy and helping the group down towards the sea. Habid didn’t appear to doubt the proceedings for a moment.

  Habid stepped aside from the group and looked around him. Apparently happy, he motioned the others to set the boat down. Then he stooped into it and threw Sam a foot pump. Dutifully Sam set about unscrewing the valve caps and began bellowing air into the inflatable. As he did so he appraised his crew.

  There were three other men, three women and two children – a boy and a girl. None of the women were covered as Alea had been. Each wore headscarves but beyond that there was nothing hindering his view. Two were in their thirties, the last was perhaps fifty. He assumed she was the wife of the oldest man, who was at least sixty. They appeared to have great affection for the children and stroked their heads at times, reassuringly. The younger men were wary, watching everyone, particularly Sam. They obviously had no idea who he was or what he was there to do – Habid explained nothing. Sam regretted that things were about to get tough for the kids.

  He bent down to test the spring in each tank and, when satisfied, replaced the valve cover and moved to the next. When the boat was fully inflated he reached in to lift the two-stroke engine and attach it to the aluminium board at the transom. He then inflated the floor and stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder and nodded at Habid.

  The little man then began gathering documents from the men who each handed over a sheave of paper with obvious reluctance. One looked regretfully at his wife but parted with the bounty nonetheless. Habid snapped a few commands in Arabic and the group gathered around the boat once more to drag it the final few feet towards sea. Not one of the migrants had been offered or wore a life jacket. Things were evidently getting tight on the safety front, thought Sam. When the boat was afloat Habid gave instructions for the people to climb in. The sea was washing gently up the beach, catching the women by surprise as the cold water rose higher with each wave. The men helped the children and women in before turning expectantly to Sam.

  Habid stood a few feet behind him. He could see the silhouette of Tassels in the near distance and beyond that the unmistakable outline of Waleed ready to secure his prey.

  Sam closed his eyes for a moment, thought through what he had to and lashed round with a full hay baler knocking Habid’s remaining few teeth ten feet up the beach. He heard the women gasp, not scream, then he leaned over Habid and with his open palm hit him in the sweet spot of the jaw, confirming his unconsciousness.

  Sam turned towards the boat with his palms facing downwards in a gesture of calm. He spoke for the first time.

  “Do any of you speak English?”

  “Yes,” said one man.

  “I do,” said a younger woman.

  “Good. I am here to help you. Do you all know one another?”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  Sam looked to the woman. “Is that right?”

  She nodded.

  “I need to make sure. Were you underground together?”

  “Yes, yes,” nodded the woman.

  “For a long time or just recently?”

  “For almost one year,” she said.

  “Everyone here?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. Why?”

  “Can the children speak English?” he checked.

  “No, they are too young.”

  “I need to be sure because this man,” he pointed at Habid’s carcass, “has placed people in boats before and then killed them. Are you sure you know all these men?”

  “He is my husband,” she pointed at one of them, “he is my sister’s husband,” she pointed to a woman and the other younger man.

  “What about them?” Sam asked, gesturing to the old man and woman.

  “They are known to us. They have been underground as long as we have.”

  Sam had to be sure, so he leaned into the boat and patted the old man down, felt his trouser legs down to his socks and nodded.

  “Ok.”

  He turned and picked Habid up from the beach and tossed him into the base of the boat.

  “If he wakes up, make sure you tell me. He is one evil little bastard. Now, you can take your papers back from him – try and keep them as close to your body as possible.”

  There was a minor scramble from the men as they shook Habid’s torso down and sorted the papers between them. Then Sam pushed the boat out a little, dropped the outboard, attached and massaged the fuel lead and ball and ripped the cord. It took almost twenty tugs but the engine coughed into life and Sam ga
ve it some throttle in neutral. Once he was convinced it was pumping water to cool it and that the fuel was drawing correctly, he turned to face Waleed and gave him a long salute of a wave. Waleed returned the gesture with both hands. Sam leapt in and knocked the engine into gear.

  A mile offshore he checked Habid for life signs and showed the men how to bail the water out with their shoes. He withdrew the Magellan GPS from the Abkhazian’s haversack and switched it on. He motored due north straight into the swell until the shallows became depths and the sea state moderated. Then he turned north-west and ran the engine until empty. The migrants just stared ahead expectantly.

  It took three refills and four hours before he was close to the position he wanted: forty-two miles north-west of Alexandria. He allowed the engine to idle while he drew the backpack towards him again and lifted the most valuable weapon he’d held in years.

  Waleed had sourced the VHF – a very high frequency radio, from an Egyptian naval colleague in town. Better than that, he’d managed to obtain the planned transit line of a ship familiar to Sam. He fired up the VHF, turned the dial to channel sixteen and began the call, willing it to be answered.

  “LE Niamh, LE Niamh, this is a migrant vessel in need of assistance, over.”

  There was a hush in the boat as the Libyans gazed up at Sam, confused, curious, hopeful.

  “LE Niamh, LE Niamh, LE Niamh, this is a migrant vessel in need of assistance, over.”

  A full minute passed before the radio snapped into life.

  “Station calling LE Niamh, say again, over?”

  The sound was beautiful. An Irish woman answering an Irish man forty miles north of Libya. Sam could barely contain his relief.

  He looked at the GPS. “LE Niamh, LE Niamh, our position is twenty-six degrees, thirty-three minutes and fifty-one north, and seventeen degrees, twenty-two and eighty-three west.”

  Sam repeated the coordinates and braced himself for a reply.

  “Migrant vessel, this is LE Niamh. Transmission received. Hold your position. Over.”