by Geoff Wolak
‘It’s lined up, it’s landing,’ Swifty said. ‘Look, undercarriage down.’
‘Strip is long enough for a 737,’ I said.
‘Not a domestic flight?’ Mahoney asked.
‘No fucker around here has money to eat, let alone fly,’ I quipped.
‘Regional flight, with a fault,’ Mahoney floated.
‘Nearest airports are Monrovia and Freetown, and the pilots know that,’ I said. ‘If he’s landing here, he meant to land here, something dodgy in the back.’
‘That’s not a cargo plane,’ Mahoney noted. ‘Looks like Nigerian Airways.’
‘How’d you know that?’ Swifty challenged.
‘I studied all the airlines in the Deltas, we always do. That’s Nigerian.’
I said, ‘If that’s Nigerian, then it’s bringing in a shit load of weapons for someone, not wanting to land at the capital.’
‘We grab them?’ Swifty asked.
I turned my head, faces turning to me. ‘Well ... yeah. But most likely they’ll end up below us. So same deal, same French plan.’
‘It’s landing,’ Sasha noted, and we all peered through our sights.
‘Maybe that’s the president’s plane, up for a visit,’ Mahoney joked. ‘Inspire the troops.’
‘I doubt those are his troops down there,’ I pointed out. ‘More likely they’re rivals. His boys use APCs.’
‘It has landed,’ Sasha noted. ‘So we see.’
‘If it stays overnight, we grab it?’ Mahoney asked.
I turned my head to him. ‘What can we do with it? Hand it back to the rightful owner or the leasing company? I’m not flying in that thing. They can come get it.’
‘Something is not right with that plane,’ Major Liban noted.
‘We were just saying that,’ I told him.
‘No, look, the tail; it is at an odd angle.’
We peered through our sights.
Swifty laughed. ‘They went off the end of the runway, stupid fucks. Scratch one expensive plane.’
‘Could have been a shit load of weapons,’ Mahoney noted. ‘We call the FBI back in here?’
I turned to him. ‘If we see white faces, Russians, and boxes of weapons, then yes.’
‘You going to be polite to them this time?’ Mahoney asked as he turned back to the camp, Swifty offering me a broad smile.
‘I saved them from being captured, and they still complained about me,’ I told no one in particular.
‘Smoke!’ Mahoney loudly stated.
‘Fuckers damaged an engine,’ Swifty suggested.
A burst of flame caught our attention.
‘Fuel tank’s gone,’ Swifty noted. ‘Wait a few minutes for a very big bang.’
‘A big bang?’ Major Liban queried.
‘Weapons on board,’ Swifty told him.
‘Ah, yes,’ Liban realised. ‘A big bang.’
‘Look in the camp,’ Sasha hissed.
Lowering our sights a fraction, we could see frantic activity, trucks and jeeps being loaded.
Swifty said, ‘Right now, some fucker down there is saying – where’s the fire extinguisher?’
‘Hang on,’ I said, faces turning to me. ‘How come they weren’t sat waiting for the flight?’
Swifty and Mahoney exchanged looks.
‘Because they do not expect it,’ Sasha finally stated.
‘If that’s not their plane burning happily, whose is it?’ I asked no one in particular.
‘We go take a look?’ Swifty asked.
‘At what, a burnt-out shell?’ I scoffed. ‘No, we stick to the plan.’
The smoke column now stood a thousand feet tall.
‘Nothing has exploded,’ Mahoney noted five minutes later. ‘Plane is engulfed.’
Rocko walked up. ‘What’s up with that plane?’
‘We’re not sure,’ I told him. ‘Thought it might be an arms delivery.’
‘If it is, their rifles will be warm to the touch,’ Rocko noted.
‘Look,’ Mahoney called. ‘Some trucks coming back.’
As we peered down, blacks dressed smartly were manhandled off the trucks.
‘They’re fucking passengers!’ Mahoney shouted. ‘That was a plane in trouble.’
‘I see white faces!’ Swifty put in.
‘Shit,’ I let out, Liban concerned. I grabbed my sat phone and quickly punched numbers.
‘Duty officer.’
‘It’s Wilco, in Liberia. Check to see if a plane is missing in this area, and quickly.’
‘Hold on ... nothing listed.’
‘Check Reuters, then check directly with the Nigerians, a 737.’
‘Nigerians?’
‘Do it quickly.’
‘Hold on.’ Faces stared at me as we waited. After three minutes came, ‘You there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Something just popped up on Reuters this minute, missing Nigerian 737, possible hijacking. How did you know?’
‘It just landed right in front of me, at the former rebel camp in Liberia.’
‘What!’
‘Passengers got off before it burst into flames, plane went off the end of the dirt strip, the passengers now hostages in the camp below me. I want JIC notified immediately and the Cabinet Office, note to Bob Staines. You got that?’
‘Yes, on it now.’
‘Get Bob to call me.’ Phone down, I sighed heavily. ‘That is a Nigeria Airlines flight, it was hijacked.’
‘And now burning happily,’ Swifty noted.
‘Passengers got off,’ Mahoney suggested. ‘Was a good six minutes before it started to smoke, so they got out down the slides.’
‘There,’ Swifty hissed. ‘Two pilots; black faces, white shirts with braid.’
‘If the pilots got off, everyone got off,’ Mahoney insisted.
‘A 737 can hold two hundred people,’ I noted, concern in my voice.
‘And there’s fifty of us,’ Swifty reminded me.
I lifted my phone and called.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘It’s Wilco, we have a situation. Nigeria Airlines 737 was hijacked, just landed here in Liberia, two hundred hostages now in the target camp below us.
‘What the fuck...’
‘I want the Chinooks on standby, medics, alert the French, and see if you can cobble together the Welsh Guard into a team that will shoot.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Get to it.’ Phone away, I said, ‘We have two Chinooks.’
‘And the Welsh Guards?’ Swifty asked.
‘Could hold a perimeter once we’ve cleaned up.’
‘They have vehicles?’ Mahoney asked.
‘Yes, but a three or four hour drive away, roads are shit.’
‘More white people,’ Mahoney noted, peering through his sights. ‘Maybe twenty white folk in total, so their probably westerners.’
‘Was this planned?’ Swifty asked. ‘To land there, or a fuck-up?’
‘Maybe they wanted to land someplace else,’ Sasha noted. ‘Here is no good for anything, shit runway – they crash.’
‘And the idiots below were not expecting them,’ I put in. ‘So yes, a fuck-up on the part of the hijackers.’
‘Out of fuel?’ Mahoney asked. ‘Nigeria is a long way off.’
‘Islamists?’ Sasha asked me.
‘If they are, the boys down there will kill them in a minute.’
‘And the self-imposed president in Monrovia?’ Mahoney posed.
‘He’d never touch a hijacking, he’d expect the west to bomb the fuck out of him, and he’s probably very wary after our incursion last year – very damned wary.’
‘So what happens when he finds out?’ Mahoney posed.
I made a face. ‘He sends five hundred men here, APCs, and shoves the passengers over the border to be rid of them.’
‘And the plan is..?’ Swifty nudged, caution in his voice.
‘Whatever we do, we do it at dawn tomorrow,’ I told them. ‘Boys down there like their k
ip.’ My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob, I just heard, and the news has hit somehow, Nigeria Airways hijack plane lands in Liberia.’
‘It did not so much land ... as skid off the runway and burst into flames.’
‘The passengers?’
‘Looks like they and the crew all got off, now being held hostage below us.’
‘Jesus. And if you had arrived a day earlier?’
‘The passengers would have got a pleasant welcome from us, all the bad boys dead.’
‘Bad timing, but great that you’re there. What you’ll do?’
‘Question is, Bob, what do you want us to do?’
‘Get the hostages of course.’
‘There’re two hundred of them, the hostages. We’d need to secure trucks and risk the roads, or use Chinooks for five or six flights. And that’s after we deal with the men down there, who’ll now be alert. And Bob, what about the idiot dictator here?’
‘He would want them gone, someone else’s problem – he’d not want to upset the UN or the West more than he has done.’
‘If I was a betting man, I’d bet on him just finding out, and sending a brigade here. Do we want to be caught up down there when they arrive?’
‘I’m going to check the signals intel, and with our people in Monrovia. Sit tight, don’t do anything.’
Phone away, Swifty said. ‘So?’
‘We’re ordered to sit tight for now.’
Major Liban began, ‘So, no small exercise, we are in the shit, no.’
‘We’re in the shit, my friend, yes. Update Paris, please.’
Half an hour later, the smoke still rising from the burning plane, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob, we have problems, several, on my way to a COBRA meeting. First, the barracks in Monrovia are emptying out, men on the move in a hurry, and second – the plane manifest lists nine American embassy staff, three are CIA.’
‘Ah ... bollocks.’
‘Quite. I spoke to the Americans and they’re hopping mad, but their carrier group is more than a day’s sail away, probably two.’
‘They want their staff back,’ I noted.
‘They know you’re there, so they have that ray of sunshine.’
‘Twist their arms for some favours first, Bob.’
‘Just observe for now, but be ready to move on the hostages.’
‘Best time for that will be dawn tomorrow, or right now.’
‘Don’t go right now, and we can’t afford a fuck-up here.’
‘Then we sit tight, and make sketches.’
‘I’ll call you in an hour.’
Phone down, I took in their expectant faces. ‘There are nine US embassy staff down there, some CIA.’
‘Shit...’ Mahoney let out.
‘Your nearest carrier is two days sail away,’ I told him. ‘And - just to make it fun day out - every soldier in Monrovia is on his way here.’
‘Coming here?’ Major Liban repeated.
I nodded. ‘Maybe a thousand, and APCs.’
‘We stay here?’ Liban queried. ‘Maybe ... we run like girls away, no.’
‘We have the high ground, jungle behind us, rivers, no roads for APCs.’
‘But they send a great many men!’ he protested.
‘They will not attack us unless we attack them,’ I assured him. ‘And we have helicopters to help us withdraw.’
‘Not so much the map reading exercise, no.’
‘You wanted to see how we do it? Sit and watch, Major.’
‘Aiyah,’ he let out. ‘Our first live job, and this shit. My god.’
I sipped my water, thinking, and watching the wind nudging the smoke stack north.
Mahoney finally broke the silence with, ‘I reckon on a hundred and ten hostages, based on the trucks and jeeps I saw arrive back.’
‘And hijackers?’ I asked.
‘None seen.’
‘That’s odd,’ Swifty put in.
‘If they’re Arabs, then they’re dead and rotting at the airfield,’ I told him. ‘Boys down there don’t like Arabs.’ My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Running Bear.’
‘Captain Running Bear,’ I loudly announced, Mahoney turning his head. ‘I was just saying to Lieutenant Mahoney that we could do with some professionals to show us how it’s done.’
He laughed. ‘Be there today, flying from Cyprus.’
‘Long flight.’
‘We have a big old executive jet to use, fast as fuck, be there in under four hours, twenty of us, more being dispatched from Germany.’
‘When you get here, you still have to get across country without being seen.’
‘Roads any good?’
‘Washed out in places, gunmen in other places, and a four hour trip. There are two Chinooks you can use, and I can give you coordinates to land at, and we’ll send someone to walk you in. Mahoney is never busy.’
Mahoney shot me a look as Swifty smiled at our Delta.
‘Be with you after dark then.’
‘Plan is to hit them at dawn, so sleep on the plane.’
‘Be in touch soon.’
Phone down, I said, ‘Deltas on their way, twenty of them, more from Europe. Just the one small problem...’
‘No US helos, no vehicles,’ Mahoney noted.
‘Ah, you spotted the flaw in their planning.’
‘When will they hit this patch of mud?’ Mahoney asked.
‘Around midnight I reckon.’
An hour later, the day growing hot, my phone trilled, all heads turning. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob, got a wrinkle in the intel, or at least our assessment of the president. Seems that he blames the Americans for an assassination attempt last month.’
‘Was it them?’
‘Not that they’re admitting to, and we think it more likely the Nigerian oil barons – some of whom make Tomsk look like a saint.’
‘I don’t remember seeing any oil being pumped around here.’
‘Not yet, but they think there is oil, and the Nigerians want to be first in there.’
‘And it just so happens to be a Nigerian plane sat smoking below me, maybe with some Nigerian oil barons on board. If that’s the case then the president is going to line people up and shoot them!’
Bob sounded downbeat. ‘We think so.’
I sighed loudly. ‘I think our man in Panama needs to come into play.’
‘Tomsk?’
‘And my alter ego.’
‘How would that help?’ Bob queried.
‘What does the idiot dictator here want..?’
‘To stay in power.’
‘And for that he needs arms and money, he needs to sell blood diamonds, buy and sell drugs, buy weapons. Tomsk could buy blood diamonds quietly, ship arms...’
‘We could have no part in that, be hell to pay!’
‘All I need is the idiot president believing in the idea for a day, no one shot, I string him along. American Deltas are on their way, but we’d still be outgunned, no heavy weapons – so we’re not going to take the hostages off them if they have a dozen armoured personal carriers and five hundred men.’
‘Fooling him would seem like a better bet, but he may just shoot you.’
‘My alter ego is Russian, with a reputation, a kindred spirit.’
‘It’s still a risk.’
‘And if the Americans want to move on the camp when I say no?’
‘Be a few heated words, yes.’
‘And if I’m ordered to move on the camp and ten of ours are killed, some French.’
‘Be a lot more heated words.’
‘If the president takes the passengers back to Monrovia we’ll never get them back, you know that.’
He sighed loudly. ‘You have operational control on the ground, do what you think is best to safeguard the hostages.’
‘Fine. Wilco out.’ I turned to Sasha. In Russian, I said, ‘Get ready, we’re going for a short dangerous walk. M
ake sure you have nothing English on you, ditch English rations.’
He smiled. ‘I have my own rations, nothing English.’
‘Keep the radio, but off,’ I told him as I handed Swifty my rifle. Webbing off, bandolier off, I tapped my pockets and checked for anything to give me away whilst being curiously observed.
‘What you doing?’ Moran asked.
‘Going down there for a chat.’
‘A chat?’ he shouted. ‘You fucking mad?’
‘I have an ace in the hole, and we’ll pretend to be Russian.’
‘Your other day job,’ Moran unhappily noted.
I nodded, checking my pockets. ‘My operational orders are ... that you don’t take excessive risks, and that you wait for the Yanks. The Monrovia President’s men are on their way, lots of them, and most likely he will either kill the hostages ... or move them. He was the fucker that arranged this, not least because he thinks the CIA tried to kill him last month.’
When ready, I approached Major Liban. ‘Check with Paris on what to do, shift the blame. Behind you is jungle, you can make the border in an hour or two unseen.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I cannot say, it’s secret, but trust me. I am going down there to talk to them.’
‘Talk to them..?’ he asked, wide-eyed.
‘Captain Crazy Fuck, no,’ I mocked. Turning, I grabbed Sasha, and we started off down the hill being curiously observed, and I felt naked, just a shirt and my sat phone, not so much as a pistol. Sat phone out, I checked the time and called Tomsk.
‘Da!’ came Big Sasha’s voice.
‘Hey big lump, Napoleon awake?’
‘Petrov? No, he’s asleep, it’s early here.’
‘Wake him, this is urgent.’
‘Hold on,’ came a reluctant voice.
After two minutes came, ‘Petrov?’
‘Hey boss, how’s your waistline?’
‘You know what fucking time it is here!’
‘Got a problem, Boss, and you can help. I’m in Liberia with No.2, a little job for the British that has gone wrong.’
‘What the fuck can I do?’
‘The president of Liberia hijacked a plane, on it CIA and American embassy staff.’
‘Ah ... the Americans want their people back. After the Congo, I have a deal with the French. I send three shipments, they get one arrest.’
‘Sounds like a good deal. Listen, I’m at this old fucking jungle base, full of gunmen, president’s men on his way to shoot the hostages. I’ll try and strike a deal, get him and you chatting, some drugs and blood diamonds, some guns, and we’ll get the British and Americans to leave him alone if he cooperates.’