by Chris Ryan
‘I was in the A stream before the Beirut job,’ he continued. ‘But after the op, Soames bumped me down to the B stream. The bastard sent me on shitty postings and gave us a crap write-up in my confidential. He even got me cross-promoted to one of the crap squadrons and replaced us with a load of yes-men. That prick stitched me up good and proper.’
Porter went quiet again. He remembered how some of the officers tried to persuade him to chuck in the towel, no doubt encouraged by Soames. The other lads kept their distance from him, after that. They could smell the failure coming off him. His career in the Regiment left in tatters. All because of Soames.
Bald eyed his mucker carefully. ‘You sure it was Soames who shafted your career?’
‘The fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I heard that’s when you started hitting the bottle. Right after the Lebanon op.’ Bald shrugged. ‘Just saying.’
Porter clenched his jaws. ‘It wasn’t the fucking booze, Jock. Soames hung me out to dry so he could cover his own arse. He’s a slippery bastard. That bloke’s got his fingers in more pies than a leper on a cookery course.’
‘So what? Every bloke who’s ever made their fortune has to get their hands dirty sometimes.’
‘Not like Soames they haven’t. This guy is on another level.’
‘Maybe,’ Bald responded. ‘But all I know is, Soames has done well for himself and we’re being paid a crap salary to fly out and rescue him. So who are the real mugs here?’
Porter didn’t answer. He shook his head and returned his gaze to the window. Bald doesn’t know what Soames is really like, he thought. Most of the Ruperts in the SAS followed the same career path. They came into the Regiment straight out of staff college and started throwing their weight around, acting like they were Lawrence of Arabia. Then they pissed off after a few years and ended up with a corner office in Whitehall and a pension pot the size of a Premier League footballer’s salary. Most of them were tossers. But Soames was worse. Far worse. The guy had been a ruthless bastard, willing to do over anyone who dared to cross him.
Porter remembered how he used to hang around the base, being chummy and acting as if he was just another one of the lads. Soames would put on a front and stroll through the junior ranks’ cookhouse, buying pints for the sergeants down the local pubs. But Porter had seen through the act. He’d noticed the wicked gleam in Soames’s eyes, the way he looked down on the other Blades. And then there were the rumours that had floated around Hereford during his time in charge. The stories about Soames’s dodgy dealings, fiddling the books and stealing money from diplomatic bags. Anyone who asked questions quickly found themselves in trouble. Soames blackballed some of the lads on the Circuit. He sabotaged the contracts of rival PMCs. He fucked with the careers of his enemies. Just like he fucked with me, Porter thought.
Too many bad memories, Porter thought. Time to forget about them. He took a long sip of his vodka mixer, sat back in his chair and tried not to think about the past.
SIX
0204 hours.
The rest of the journey passed in an alcoholic blur. Bald and Porter landed at Mohammed V International Airport in Casablanca at 1825 local time. Four hours later they boarded an ageing Boeing 737 for the last leg of their trip. The plane was more than half-empty. The only other passengers on the flight were a few locals and a handful of nervous-looking Arab businessmen who stank of cheap cigarettes and cologne. No one was flying to Freetown if they could possibly avoid it.
The fight from Morocco took a little over three hours. Porter passed the time sipping from his vodka mixers whenever Bald had his back turned. By the time the pilot announced that they were making their final approach to Lungi airport he was feeling thoroughly well-oiled, and better about himself. As the creaking old Boeing dipped through the clouds Porter knocked back the dregs of his vodka and glanced out of the window at the landscape below. Sierra Leone wasn’t much to look at. Not by night, at least. Most of the surrounding jungle was buried under a dense blackness. Like soil heaped on top of a coffin. Further along the coast a cluster of lights glowed sporadically in the distance. Freetown, Porter realised.
Twenty-two minutes later they had landed.
0235 hours.
They stepped off the plane into a suffocating wall of tropical heat. The air was so thick and hot, Porter could hardly breathe at first. It was like wearing a scuba-diving suit into a steam room. He and Bald shouldered their bags and climbed down the flight stairs, then boarded the airline bus. It was a million degrees inside the bus. Porter could feel the sweat slicking down his back as they rumbled across the runway and approached the main terminal building. Sixty seconds later they drew to a halt. The doors hissed open, and the passengers disembarked at the front of the terminal. The building façade was riddled with bullet holes. A battered sign above the main doors said: COCA-COLA WELCOMES YOU TO FREETOWN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. Next to it there was another smaller sign: DON’T RAPE WOMEN. YOU MAY GET AIDS.
Welcome to Africa, thought Porter.
It was chaos outside the terminal. Armed guards stood anxiously in front of the glass doors, clutching their AK-47 assault rifles and barking orders at the passengers stepping off the bus. Across the asphalt a team of airport workers were busy unloading crates from the back of an old Russian Antonov An-225 cargo plane. Several locals were hanging around the front of the terminal, bartering with the passengers. A skinny porter hobbled over to Bald and Porter and tried to grab their bags, offering to escort them into the city. Bald shoved him aside. Then he looked up and spotted their handler beyond the heaving throng.
He was easy to identify. Partly because he was the only other white guy in sight. But mostly because he was doing his best not to look like a handler. He stood to one side of the terminal building, clutching a clipboard in his right hand and chewing on a wad of tobacco. He had a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators strapped across his face, under a baseball cap with the words EVERGREEN CARGO stencilled across the front in big gold lettering. The guy was medium-height, medium-build. Medium-everything. He looked about as anonymous as a white man could be in a place like Sierra Leone. The handler caught sight of Bald and Porter and quickly approached them, threading his way past the crowd.
‘You’re John Bald, right?’ the guy said, thrusting out a hand. He had a gruff Midwestern accent, Porter noted. He didn’t take off his shades.
‘Aye,’ Bald replied, pumping the guy’s hand. ‘That’s me.’
‘Mike Shoemaker. Logistics manager here at Evergreen Cargo. I was told to expect you guys.’ Shoemaker looked towards Porter and gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘That makes you John Porter, I guess.’
Porter grinned. ‘You’re Catholics in Action?’
Shoemaker scratched his beard. ‘Excuse me, sir?’
‘CIA,’ said Porter, pointing to the guy’s baseball cap. ‘That’s you, right?’
Shoemaker stared at him from behind his shades. His expression was neutral.
‘Sir, with all due respect I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just the logistics manager.’ He adjusted the brim of his cap and said, ‘Now, if you gentlemen both follow me . . .’
He turned and marched purposefully towards the terminal. Bald and Porter followed him a short distance behind. Bald glanced at his mucker. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked in a low voice, so that Shoemaker wouldn’t overhear.
‘He’s from the CIA,’ Porter whispered in reply, pointing to the back of the guy’s cap. ‘I recognised the name of the company he’s working for.’
‘Evergreen Cargo?’
Porter nodded. ‘It’s a front business the CIA uses for operations in Africa. Their mob were working for the same firm down in Zaire, back when Mobutu threw his toys out of the pram.’
‘You sure, mate?’
There was a note of scepticism in Bald’s voice. Porter said, ‘I might be an alcoholic, but that doesn’t mean I’m losing my marbles. This guy is definitely working for the Company, Jock.’
<
br /> They caught up with Shoemaker and followed him into a low-ceilinged hall with a loose line of immigration cops, a customs counter and a Hertz desk with nobody manning it. There was a tense mood in the air. Some of the armed guards stood huddled around an old radio set, listening intently to the broadcast and pulling on their cancer sticks. Shoemaker led Bald and Porter past the queues and made for a side door. He paid twenty bucks to an immigration official and slipped another Andrew Jackson to the customs guy to stop him rooting through their bags. Shoemaker seemed to be on first-name terms with everyone at the airport. He was that kind of guy. In a few minutes they were breezing out of the terminal building. I don’t care what this guy says, Porter told himself. He’s with the CIA. I’d stake my life on it.
Which made him wonder: Why would the CIA give a toss about helping to extract some British ex-Rupert? What’s in it for the Yanks? I don’t know, he thought. But I get the feeling someone’s not telling us something.
Outside the airport Porter noticed a long line of people standing around outside the departures hall. There must have been four hundred people in the line, he guessed. They were mostly Westerners, along with a few locals. They looked like the richer ones. The ones who could afford a two-hundred-dollar plane ticket, in a country where the average wage was less than a dollar a day. Some of the travellers sat on the ground, surrounded by their hastily gathered belongings. Men argued with the armed guards, offering them cash bribes. Their voices were laced with desperation, and fear.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Bald asked as they paced towards a line of vehicles parked across the road from the main airport building.
Shoemaker took off his cap and wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Right. I forgot you guys have been off the grid for a while. Things just got real bad here. RUF forces have entered Freetown.’
Bald frowned heavily. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday evening. General Mosquito’s men broke through the army checkpoints at Port Loko and entered Freetown at around 1930 hours.’
Porter stopped in his tracks. ‘The city’s fallen?’
‘Sure looks that way,’ Shoemaker replied. ‘Details are a little sketchy right now. But we’ve got reports of the rebels going nuts. Looting World Food Programme warehouses, stealing Red Cross vehicles, stripping luxury homes. Last night they reached the Pademba Road Prison and released all the convicts. Co-opted the fuckers into their army. We’ve also heard reports that some of their guys launched mortar attacks on the American embassy a few hours ago.’ He waved a hand at the line of people stretching outside the airport building. ‘Everyone’s trying to get out while they still can. The smart ones, anyhow. The rest are locked up inside their homes, praying the rebels don’t come for them.’
‘Our timing’s fucking impeccable,’ Bald muttered. ‘As per bloody usual.’
Porter felt unease dripping like acid into his guts. He turned back to Shoemaker. ‘How the fuck are we supposed to get into the city if the rebels have taken control?’
‘That’s going to be the least of your problems. Most of the rebels will be too busy lining their pockets and settling scores to pay you much notice. As long as you stick to the back streets and try not to draw any attention to yourselves, you should be okay. If it gets too hot, you should make your way to Lumley Beach, to the west of Freetown. Where all the expensive hotels are. The rebels won’t dare approach that area. Not yet.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘One word,’ Shoemaker said. ‘ECOMOG.’
‘The fuck is that?’ said Bald. ‘Some new sort of fancy new version of AIDS?’
‘It’s the local peacekeeping force here in Sierra Leone. Soldiers drafted in from Nigeria and Guinea to help keep the peace after the last rebel coup. There are about three hundred Nigerian troops based in Freetown, under the command of Major-General Godwin Bassey.’
Porter rustled up a smile. ‘You know a lot about Sierra Leone for a logistics manager.’
Shoemaker looked at him but his expression gave away nothing. ‘As long as Bassey and his guys are stationed in the city, the rebels will be wary about attacking the hotels. They’re mad motherfuckers, but they’re not crazy enough to want to get into a pissing contest with the Nigerians.’
‘That’s assuming the Nigerians stick around,’ Bald countered. ‘What happens if they pull out?’
Shoemaker just shrugged. ‘Then, brother, you do the smart thing and get the fuck out of Dodge City.’
He stopped in front of an eggshell-white Range Rover. Dug a set of keys out of his cargo pocket.
‘Here,’ he said, chucking the keys at Porter. ‘She’s got a full tank in her, plus four extra jerry cans in the back if you run out of gas. It’s an hour and a half from the airport to the city. How you get there is real simple. You follow the road south all the way until you hit the crossing at Tagrin. You can’t miss it. Buy yourselves a couple of VIP tickets, and the ferry will land you at Kissy, on the other side of the Sierra Leone river.’
Bald said, ‘Isn’t there a quicker way into the city?’
Shoemaker took out his pouch of chewing tobacco. Took a pinch and thumbed it into the back of his mouth. ‘Usually, yeah. Couple of Russian pilots own an Mi-17. They run a helicopter service that can get you into the city in twenty minutes or so, but the chopper’s out today. They’re going where the money is. And right now, that’s flying expats from Freetown to Conakry. You guys are going to have to slum it on the ferry instead.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not your lucky day today.’
‘Tell us something we don’t know, mate.’
Shoemaker half-laughed and pointed south down the road. ‘There’s a government checkpoint half a mile outside the airport. The soldiers are on edge, what with the shit that’s going down across the river. Also, they’ll be suspicious about why a couple of white guys want to head into Freetown in the middle of a coup. You just smile, stay calm and hand out a few bucks to each of the soldiers. Keep the denominations low. A dollar or two apiece ought to do it. Hand over too much and they’ll think you’re hiding more cash and will likely rob you. The trick is to make them think you’re broke, and handing over all the dollars you have left in the world. Got it?’
‘Don’t worry about us,’ said Porter. ‘We’re big boys. We can take care of ourselves.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Shoemaker took out a business card from his wallet and handed it to Porter. It was plain, no-nonsense, with the Evergreen Cargo logo and a local number at the bottom. ‘You guys run into trouble at the checkpoint, or if you need anything, you give me a call. No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Sure,’ said Porter, pocketing the card. He started to turn away.
‘A word of advice,’ Shoemaker continued.
Porter stopped. Half-turned back towards Shoemaker. ‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know what your business is inside Freetown. Frankly, I don’t want to know. But whatever it is, make it quick. Word on the grapevine is that the rebels are gearing up for an attack on the airport. If that happens, don’t expect the government troops here to put up a fight. Trust me, they’ll run at the first sight of the RUF.’
‘What about the Nigerians?’ Bald asked.
‘They’re strictly based in the city. Their orders are to guard key government buildings and protect the expatriate community. Their jurisdiction doesn’t extend to the airport. If the rebels attack here, the ECOMOG troops won’t be in a position to help.’
‘And if the airport falls,’ Porter said, ‘we’ll be trapped.’
Shoemaker nodded. ‘All I’m saying is, do what you gotta do, but don’t stick around for a second longer than you have to.’
They shook hands. Then Shoemaker turned and hurried back in the direction of the terminal building, shouting at one of the airport officials. Bald and Porter climbed inside the Range Rover. Porter took the wheel. He shoved the keys in the ignition and fired up the wagon. Then he steered out of the airport and bulleted south on the main airport–ferry Road. Headl
amps burning in the near-dark, tyres throwing up fists of purplish dust into the pre-dawn sky. Porter felt his hangover giving way to a raw sense of unease. They were heading into a city in the grip of a violent coup, crawling with murderous rebels and escaped convicts looking for easy targets. And to make matters worse, they were both unarmed.
The more he thought about it, the more Porter started to realise that this op was a really bad fucking idea.
SEVEN
0329 hours.
The drive south to the ferry took a little under thirty minutes. After half a mile they hit the government checkpoint. Just like Shoemaker had said. Twenty or so scruffily dressed soldiers stood in a line blocking the road, next to a pair of beaten-up pickup trucks. Some of the guys were brandishing AK-47 assault rifles. Others were armed with RPG-7 rocket launchers or pistols. The soldiers looked tense and edgy, and itching for a scrap. Porter kept his cool, played the ignorant Westerner and dished out the dollar bills. The sight of hard cash instantly changed the mood. The soldiers grinned as they waved the Range Rover through. Porter hit the gas and carried on down the airport–ferry road.
They passed an unending line of locals trudging along the side of the road in the opposite direction. It seemed to Porter as if half of Sierra Leone was trying to flee the city. Men walking barefoot and dressed in filthy t-shirts shuffled alongside women in dirty patterned skirts. The locals stared indifferently at the Range Rover as it rolled past, their bulbous eyes glowing in the faint pre-dawn light. Some of the locals were missing arms or legs. Many of their faces were horribly scarred, a legacy of the last time the RUF rebels had rolled into town. It never changes, thought Porter. He had been on previous missions to Africa and he never ceased to be amazed by the level of shit that people put up with in this part of the world. The grinding poverty, the desperation, the constant threat of violence. It doesn’t matter who they put in the president’s office, he thought. These people had fuck-all before, and they’ll go on having fuck-all long after the dust has settled too.