by Geoff Wolak
A British reporter asked, ‘You were ordered not to get involved?’
‘Our orders were clear: observe from the hill top and report, possibly for a British rescue attempt.’
‘So why did you break that order?’
‘As we left the hill, after the French raid, we found a vehicle convoy below us, just 200yards, not many men protecting it, and we took a snap decision. If it had been a well-defended convoy we may have just reported it.’
‘Did you consult with anyone?’ the same man asked.
‘No, that was our decision.’
‘That was my decision,’ Captain Moran piped up with. ‘Made on the spur of the moment, and I had operational control – as well authority to make such decisions. I’m paid to do a job.’
‘And the four French soldiers?’ the French guy nudged.
I said, ‘Two wanted to rescue their friends, two did not, and we did not have time to argue. We knew that the gunmen in the village were scattered, many dead in the convoy, and so we made another snap decision, those two French soldiers insistent on coming with us, and they fought bravely without complaint.’
‘Could the ambush of the French have been avoided?’ a British reporter asked.
‘With great difficulty,’ Captain Moran said. ‘We went in by parachute and avoided all contact with local people, because we knew that the locals would report us. As soon as the French left their base they would have been reported.’
The Major cut off further questions and led them away. Later, he came up to our camp as we cooked in the dark. I stepped away to chat to him.
‘Good answers,’ he commended as we stood in the sand, distant lights twinkling. ‘You gave short facts by sat phone, not opinions, and that rings true. Rest is down to French public opinion. And what could you see from 1200yards at night anyhow.’
‘I’m not worried, but we do need the French onboard. Anyhow, Bob Staines ... has in mind a base in Dorset, full time admin staff, mini squadron.’
The Major took a moment. ‘What did you tell him?
‘That it was a bad idea, and that our base could be used weekends, and that you ... could take some of the admin work.’
‘His response?’
‘I made it clear I wouldn’t be moving away, and he fears that some day that base may go the same way as 14 Intel, and turn on him.’
‘Damn right. 14 Intel started as a detachment, ended up as a country in its own right, its own laws. Fuckers set off bombs and made it look like they were IRA, a bad business.’
‘Can you handle some extra work, sir?’
‘We’ll make do, because we don’t want a separate unit competing with us, that would be bad all round. As they are ... they’re a bunch of thirty something ex-troopers, those with the best attitudes and not yet in prison or the drunk ward, but they’re a bit fast and loose, some doing private bodyguard work or mercenary work – a conflict of interests because you have to be cautious about someone who likes money.
‘Your lad Tomo, he’s a better bet, a fresh face and a fresh attitude, trained up the right way, Slider and Rocko – handpicked. In the past, choosing people for “E” Squadron was a bit hit and miss at best, and half of them are still languishing in foreign prisons.’
‘As is the former resident of my apartment, sir.’
‘Yes, Captain McQuire. He was OK, good soldier, but got drunk one night and hit some staff officer on some course – and in front of witnesses. You’re rare, Wilco, because you’re a good soldier with a good attitude, and look at the effect you’ve had on Rizzo.’
‘He does chew his food quieter, sir,’ I said, and we laughed.
That evening we split into two groups of four, a map reading exercise with a twist, Tomo placed in charge of the map reading for one team, Captain Moran for the other.
Twist was that there were several jeeps waiting in places checked by sat phone GPS, and the teams had to bump into those jeeps in the dark. Tomo counted his paces well enough, and was within a hundred yards of most jeeps, Moran a little better because he had his team all count paces, and then he averaged them out.
We got back around the same time, 2am, and claimed our patches of sand, notes swapped between Tomo and Captain Moran. Tomo had learnt a valuable lesson.
After a lazy breakfast around 8am, no one moving quickly, four troops were loaded aboard coaches and taken to the airfield, the Hercules waiting. Life vests on, chutes on top, they knew what was coming next, a short ride in the Hercules placing us at the coast near our temporary base, conditions favourable. And out we went into brilliant sunshine.
My chute opened with a jerk, a rude prayer offered up, but as I drifted down I could see someone Roman Candle, a reserve pulled and just about opened before he hit the water with a big splash. Horrified, I watched as he struggled to get his chute off, the water coming up to me very fast, and I just about turned into the wind in time, my face soon slapped with cool salt water, bubbles in front of me as I held my breath and opened my eyes.
Breaking the surface, I unclipped my chute and reserve and struggled to get them off. Rocko bursting to the surface near me with a loud curse.
‘You OK?’ I shouted, struggling myself in the surf.
‘Would have been better if I had inflated the fucking life vest before I hit.’
I laughed. ‘Don’t tell anyone!’
Swimming in I could see others, many people waiting for us on the beach, the selected journalists having filmed the drop. We know stalked up the beach, weapons cleared of water.
Hearing gunfire, I spun left, Slider opening up on waves, Moran joining in.
‘What the fuck you doing?’ I shouted.
‘Shark!’
‘You ... what?’ I said as I ran as best I could towards them through the shallows.
‘Fucking shark,’ Moran shouted, and I caught a glimpse of the fin. ‘I landed right on it.’
‘What did you do that for, sir?’ I asked, and he lowered his weapon, offering me an exasperated look.
‘It wasn’t fucking intentional!’
Smiling widely, I collected up my dripping wet team, the chutes being washed ashore - no one wanting to go in after them, a zodiac further out, and we took off some of the wet kit, all asking about the “G” Squadron lad whose chute had not opened.
A shout reached us, a dead shark washing ashore, riddled with bullet holes, Captain Moran now referred to as ‘Psycho Shark Killer’ and taunted something terrible on the way back.
Stripped off, we dried clothes on an old fence, taking it easy till dusk, where our fearless shark killer was tasked with an assault on the abandoned buildings.
Bob came and found me just as we were kitting up. ‘Some excitement today I hear.’
‘One chute that failed to open, thankfully he was over water, and one curious shark – shot and killed.’
‘You’d not have me jumping into water, not with a chance of sharks around. Anyhow, that French Major made a statement praising your actions, and that you supplied all the facts. He was shit scared we had the tapes, which we don’t, good bluff. British papers have plenty of photos from here, various poses, and the local African papers have them as well, so we’re getting the message out.
‘I’m off down the coast with our military hardware guys, and to offer counter-terrorism training. Have fun.’
At midnight we held a team briefing, Moran briefing us of his detailed plan, and we took notes, the Major listening in. We had a decoy set-up thanks to the Hercules pilots - and some bags of cement powder. That decoy was timed for an hour before dawn, the time to be confirmed by sat phone.
Kit was checked and re-checked, and off we went, Moran doing the job that troop captains were always supposed to do, yet often left it to troop sergeants. We trudged through the sand, trying to be quiet, all round observation kept in the dark, two teams of four a short distance apart.
An hour later and we approached the target ‘village’, lights seen on, as well as vehicle headlights, the old bangers give
n batteries. Smoke could be smelt on the breeze.
Team one went left, team two went right, and soon Rocko and Slider were positioned where they could see the target house and along the main road. From here they would sneak very slowly closer, to 200yards from the target building.
I moved forwards, behind Moran, and we snuck up very slowly and very quietly along the back streets, buildings peered into, finally in position and laying flat on the roof of a low building. Radio contact was maintained by clicking the radios. Two clicks for an enquiry, three to say that all was OK, four to abort back to meeting points.
And we waited. Moran pulled out his sat phone, dialled a number, and then beeped a button three times, the go signal for the RAF.
And we waited some more in the dark, all very quiet.
Forty minutes later and we could hear the drone of the Hercules, sure that it had never been intended to drop bags of cement powder, and we hoped that their aim was good – we were a bit exposed to forty pound bags hitting us from above.
The roar built up, the aircraft at little more than a hundred feet off the sand, and as we looked east we saw two large plumes erupt as the cement powder hit.
Moran clicked on his radio. ‘Standby.’
We waited for imaginary gunmen to run out and to disperse, then rolled off the roof, landing on our feet. I shot a paper target twice.
‘Moving!’ I called through the dark.
Moran clicked on his radio. ‘Stage 1. Moving.’
Cracks permeated the air, Slider and Rock hitting paper targets for ten seconds.
I clicked on my radio as I knelt at the edge of the main road. ‘Snipers hold!’
I ran out ten yards and slid to a halt, spinning around, rounds fired into the windows of the target building, and high into the door. ‘Go!’
Moran moved from the left, two dark outlines from the right, thunderflashes tossed inside. When they detonated, the three dark figures moved inside, I stayed to cover, checking all the angles.
‘Clear!’ could be heard.
Moran appeared with a dummy. ‘One hostage, wounded. Withdraw!’
We withdrew west, cover from Slider and Rocko, who again hit the paper targets, and I sprayed the dark corners. We took it in turns to drag or carry the heavy dummy, covering fire issued, cracks coming from Slider and Rocko as they moved back and around.
Back at the meeting point we made safe, Moran doing a head count, and happy with it.
‘On me!’ he called, and we ran, two miles back down to the range, Rocko doing a fireman’s lift for our dummy.
Panting and sweating, we were met by the Major. ‘All in one piece?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Moran got out.
‘Realistic?’ the Major asked.
‘Like Somalia,’ I said, the others agreeing.
‘Hercules pilots wanted to know how accurate their aim was,’ the Major noted.
‘A little south, but close,’ we agreed.
Smurf had the food going, cold fresh water available, and we claimed our sandy bunks – soon sat cross legged, a debate about the assault, and about Somalia, the risks and the problems of such assaults, Tomo getting some excellent first hand advice.
Three days later, and we crawled into our make-do camp after a twenty-four hour slog in the heat and the sand, all of us spent, all of us covered head to toe in dust. Smurf issued cold water and got a meal on as we moaned and groaned about having seen enough sand for a while.
I had just sat down when Bob drove up in a jeep. I eased up and walked over with my rifle, Bob stepping down with the Major.
‘Back again, Bob?’ I quipped, no energy in my voice.
‘Got a job on,’ he said.
My eyes widened. ‘We’re a bit knackered,’ I told him.
‘Not just this minute,’ he said with a smile. He glanced at the Major. ‘The ringleader behind the hostage taking in Mauritania – who you apparently wounded that day, we know where he is, we got an intercept.’
‘He has hostages with him?’ I asked.
‘No,’ the Major answered. ‘But we want him, dead or alive.’
I took in their faces. ‘And his location?’
‘About thirty miles east of the last raid,’ the Major stated.
‘Ark Royal is available,’ Bob said.
‘She is?’ I asked, astonished. ‘Just for this?’
Bob smiled. ‘No, no, she’s heading to Gibraltar and then to Ascension Island for exercises, she’ll be off the coast in a day or so. One day delay, that’s all.’
I had a bad feeling. ‘Bob, is this job about us looking good, or the practical removal of a threat?’
‘Both,’ the Major cut in with. ‘It’s all politics, and we’re keeping the arms sales up and counter-terrorism training going, but it would be good to remove the dirt bag as well.’
I heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Then I suggest, after we get some rest, a two helicopter drop.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ the Major quipped. ‘And we’ll have several teams on standby for rescue.’
‘Any chance of some Harriers as a decoy?’ I asked Bob.
‘Unlikely.’
‘Then, Bob, I think we have some Hercules that could make a noise at the right time.’
He made a face, and exchanged a look with the Major. ‘It’s just a fly by, so why not.’
‘Why not use the damn Hercules for the drop?’ the Major asked. ‘If there are choppers on the way to pick up men with broken ankles, less risk!’
‘OK, sir. Then I suggest ... that two troops from “G” Squadron drop with us, sir, and hold a fall back area. Some experience for them.’
‘It would be, yes,’ the Major loudly agreed. ‘But I’ll chat to the CO first.’
‘We came here to get the men some experience, sir.’
‘True, but I’ll consult with him anyway. Be ready in the morning.’
‘What about Tomo, sir?’ I asked.
He hesitated. ‘A bit fresh for something like this, I don’t want him back in a body bag.’
‘He has to learn, and I’m sure that Bob here will risk the lad’s life and liberty soon enough.’
‘I’m OK with it,’ Bob said, and I could see a flash of anger on the Major’s face.
The Major faced me. ‘Want his death on your hands?’ he barked.
‘No more than anyone else on the team, sir, and he’s no less capable. Could just as easily be Swifty or me shot dead. And I’ll not put him at the front, sir.’
The Major took a moment. ‘If you hold him back from the fighting, then yes. Experience for him.’
I saluted, making the Major shake his head, and ambled slowly back to the camp. ‘OK, listen up. Get plenty of food and water, plenty of rest, live job on in the morning, full squadron attack.’ They lifted their heads, now all ears.
‘Full squadron?’ Rizzo queried.
‘Just about, all those here. Hercules in, three troops, two troops on rescue standby.’
‘What’s the job?’ Swifty puzzled.
‘The mastermind behind the Mauritania hostages, who we apparently injured during the raid. He’s camped out thirty miles inland, we’ll go get him. I don’t have any details yet, so don’t ask.’ I turned my head to Tomo. ‘You’re in on the job. You up to it?’
‘Damn right,’ he shot back, Swifty looking concerned.
‘When do we get the details?’ Moran asked.
‘Probably a few hours before we lift off,’ I told him. ‘You’ll then be seen to plan it.’
‘Fucking marvellous,’ he let out.
I fixed Swifty with a stare. ‘Tomo, you’ll not be at the front, Major not happy, you’re untested in battle – or some bollocks. But good experince for you, maybe some shots fired in anger.’ Now I turned to Tomo, who appeared a little hurt. And I waited.
Tomo took in the faces. ‘I gotta start somewhere,’ he quietly complained.
‘”G” Squadron will be holding our escape route,’ I began, ‘and they won’t be complaining, they’ll be following or
ders and doing their jobs.’
‘I wasn’t complaining,’ Tomo quietly insisted.
‘Good, because I’m tired and grumpy.’
‘Might be some goats to kill,’ Rocko told Tomo, pushing him over, the lads laughing, Tomo smiling. ‘But no sharks inland.’
‘Fuck off,’ Moran told Rocko.
‘Landing on a shark from 800ft is no easy task,’ I noted, the lads now laughing at Moran.
We woke with stiff limbs and needing a good stretch, some gentle exercise to get ourselves warmed up. Breakfast down, bowels emptied, we checked kit, broke camp – Smurf left to clean up, and I led the team to the range to check and zero weapons.
When ready, everyone happy, we walked down to the command tent whilst checking radios, still plenty of dust on us.
The Major put his head out. ‘The Dirty Dozen,’ he noted.
‘We’re ready, able and willing, sir, just a bit stiff. Kit checked, weapons zeroed. But we forgot to shine our boots.’
‘Buses here soon.’
Waiting, I chatted to some of the “G” Squadron lads as they got ready, and they were happy to be going along, and I was eventually called into the command tent with Captain Moran and the “G” Squadron officers, plus other troop captains and troop sergeants.
‘OK,’ the Major began, attending the map. ‘We have the kidnap mastermind believed to be here, roughly thirty miles east of the previous hostage village. Three troops will parachute in from our Hercules, that being Captain Moran’s troop, two from “G” Squadron.
‘”G” Squadron will hold the rear, when we have a point fixed for that, and offer rescue support should Captain Moran’s troop get into trouble. They will close-recon the village, and if practical grab our man at dawn tomorrow.
‘We then have helicopters from Ark Royal, three or four to pick you up, but no sooner than 9am tomorrow, she’s still steaming down the coast, but has been appraised. In an emergency there are French helicopters, and the remainder of the lads here will be relocated down to Mauritania on the pretext of an exercise and on standby for a rescue should it be needed – but we’ll need choppers of course.’
I asked, ‘Have the French been notified about this job, sir?’
‘No, and we’ll keep it that way, just in case. Captain Moran, have a look at the map, make your plan, get your team ready. You leave in an hour or so.’