by Geoff Wolak
‘You need to stay with us, to show us which soldiers are part of the coup.’
He nodded. ‘What men is you?’
‘British SAS.’
‘Ah, I have read the books abouts yous. Yous very good, no? You shoot shoot good.’
‘Very good,’ I agreed. ‘We shoot shoot very good,’ I mocked. ‘Rocko, this side, Rizzo, far side, Captain Moran and a few men watch these stairs, rest spread out, eyes on.’ I led the local captain to the far side, facing towards the distant city over the estuary, and we could see the brightly lit approach road, the main gate, vendors outside trying to sell their wares, sleepy taxi drivers waiting some trade, no signs of a coup yet – or of a panic.
I slung my rifle and sipped some water.
Mahoney drew level. ‘If my government knew I was part of this they’d shoot me.’
‘My government wants the president to stay, so yours must want that as well, we’re good little servants to Washington.’
‘Usually, yeah.’
I called the Major.
‘Bradley.’
‘Wilco, sir, we’re in the shit.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Was going well, but there’s a coup in progress, so we’re stood atop the main airport building as we speak, president is down below hiding under a desk, UK government wants us to protect the idiot, FOB is exposed.’
‘If the Prime Minister wants you there, nothing we can do. Is an attack on the FOB likely?’
‘Not tonight no, these drugged up idiots wouldn’t move at night, maybe something tomorrow.’
‘Might be all over by then.’
‘Hope so. Mahoney is here, and his government probably don’t know one of theirs is here. If he was captured...’
‘Be hell to pay, yes. What a mess. But if that president goes you could be right in the shit, because the new guy might expel all foreigners, or round them up, be a right fucking mess. I’ll have to let Rawlson know, where are his men?’
‘At the FOB.’
‘Well, given what’s happening, might be the best place for them, tucked out the way.’
‘Those hostages we rescued might still be here, at the airport. Might be hostages all over again!’
‘What a mess. Keep me informed, please.’
We stood about chatting, a great view from our lofty position, but at least it was not raining. I had the 2 Squadron external lads get a brew on in a corner sheltered from the wind, and we all got a few mouthfuls as we stood around.
An hour later and our local captain was concerned, he could see trucks coming. I lifted my rifle and peered through my telescopic lens, five trucks with a jeep at the front.
‘Who are they?’ I asked him.
‘They is not loyal soldiers, they comes to kill the president.’
‘Stand to!’ I shouted. ‘Everyone to this side, get ready.’ I knelt, two feet back from the edge, others copying, the column getting closer.
The lead jeep halted at the gate, words exchanged, arms waved, weapons pointed. The poor gate guard had no choice but to lift the barrier and move aside.
‘Standby, wait my signal, wait for me to fire first, aim into the backs of the trucks, set automatic, and keep firing till you’ve used up two mags at least.’
The gate was three hundred yards off, and the road snaked right and then around to us, the well tended flowerbeds below us something of a contrast to the rest of this country.
As an afterthought, I had Dicky watch the rear, the apron.
‘Captain?’ I called as the column drove around. ‘You are sure that they ... are the men causing the trouble?’
‘Yes, yes, that is them,’ he said, sounding terrified.
The lead jeep suddenly sped up, tore across the flowerbeds and headed back towards the front gate.
‘That wasn’t very nice,’ Rocko said. ‘Ruined them nice flowers,’ he added, men laughing.
The trucks turned right onto the grass, exposing their rears, machineguns seen.
‘It’s a trick, open fire!’
The cracks sounded out, the men handling the machineguns shredded, the cabs hit, men falling out and shot.
‘Ceasefire!’
‘Wilco!’ came Dicky’s voice. ‘Thousands of men approaching!’
‘Other side!’ I shouted, and we ran across, soon knelt down.
‘It was a decoy,’ Moran shouted.
Beyond the well-lit apron I could see hundreds of men, groups approaching from all sides. Rounds crackled out, the soldiers below us either hit, returning fire or running away.
‘Hold your fire!’ I called, getting in a fresh magazine. Men copied, everyone clanking along the line. I placed two magazines on the low wall in front of me, again everyone copying.
‘Listen up. First magazine, spray it around. Then get down, pick your targets, closest men first. Dicky, watch that fucking stairwell.’
‘We got grenades,’ he said as he moved.
‘Grenades!’ I loudly repeated, only then remembering we had them, taking out my four and placing them down. ‘Everyone, rifles down, ready grenades, step back from the edge, hard throw. Standby!’
A clatter of rifles being placed down preceded the lads all lining up, left foot forwards.
‘Throw down or across?’ Moran asked.
‘Aim at the edge of the concrete down there!’ I shouted. ‘Standby.’
The crackle of fire continued, the first few soldiers reaching the apron and now brightly lit. ‘Throw!’ I said, pin pulled, grenade thrown as hard as I could, second grenade lifted and thrown just as the blasts started to register in quick succession, puffs of smoke throwing up barriers to the advancing men, and I got through four grenades in eight seconds, a hell of a racket created on the apron below. The president must have been shitting himself under the desk, I considered.
I dived forwards and knelt as the ongoing blasts registered, a blanket of smoke now obscuring most of the advancing men, but I did not bother to aim, I just fired from the hip on automatic, spraying left and right, men to my sides copying. I knew that I was hitting the concrete, and I knew that anyone near would get the ricochet.
On my second magazine I inched forwards, Moran right next to me, and I strained to see through the wafting smoke, soon hitting wounded men. The advance had well and truly halted, a few men running away, hit in the back.
Finding a big man urging his troops on, I hit him in the chest, his men finding a reason to lay down rather than advance. But they seemed to be shooting at the terminal building rather than us, and with the powerful lights on the side of the building in their eyes they would have found it damn hard to spot us up here.
Swapping magazines, I considered that I had killed at least twenty men, and I started to pick off men beyond 400yards as they ran away, a few stopping to fire back. When they were beyond 600yards I called a halt, everyone standing.
Rocko shouted at them, ‘That’s what happens when you drive over our fucking flower beds!’ the guys laughing, the local captain looking at us like we were mad.
The captain edged to the side and peered down, an incredulous stare. ‘You shoot shoot them.’
‘We don’t like to take all the credit,’ I told him. ‘Tell everyone that your men were up here. Now, take me down to your president, please.’
‘Yes, yes, this way.’ He led me off, glancing back the bodies below, down two storeys, and we found many people on their stomachs.
‘It’s OK,’ I shouted. ‘The danger is over for now.’
People lifted up, the president protected by a loyal group of frightened looking soldiers.
‘Who is you?’ the president asked me, wide eyed and terrified.
‘British Army, at your service, sir.’ I saluted. ‘We were ordered here to protect you.’
He looked past me, his eyes about to burst from his head, and stepped across to the glass, a few parts displaying bullet holes, and he peered down at the carnage.
Straightening up, he suddenly found his pride, and
he dusted himself off. ‘My government will be sending a note of thanks to your government, Captain.’
‘Then send also thanks to the American Government, half of the men here are American Delta Force soldiers.’
‘Delta Force?’ came an American accent, and a white man closed in.
‘Who are you, sir?’ I asked.
‘State Department, got caught up in all this, was waiting for a ride out.’
‘Would you ... like to meet your men?’
‘Sure.’
I faced the president. ‘May we stand down the men, sir, and return to base?’
‘Yes, you ... may go, thank you, Captain.’
I saluted, trying not to smile, and led the State Department guy up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Dicky on guard still, I called for Mahoney.
His dark outline appeared. I thumbed to my right. ‘Your State Department chap here got caught up in this.’
‘Lieutenant Mahoney, sir.’
‘You came off a ship?’
‘No, sir, we’re here with the Brit special forces, we have a forward base up country.’
‘The hostage rescue yesterday?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A crackle of distant gunfire, and I told the State Department chap, ‘You’d best stay down there, sir.’ And off he went.
I faced Mahoney. ‘You used a plural, Lieutenant,’ I teased.
‘You’ve corrupted me,’ he said, adopting an unhappy expression.
‘Everyone, we are leaving! On me!’ I grabbed our helpful local captain. ‘I want a truck, to take us over to the French base.’
He nodded, and led us down, but on the lower level we found dead and wounded soldiers, thick blood everywhere, drag marks. They were not getting any care, so I halted the captain.
I faced the lads. ‘Field dressings, first aid kits, on the double.’ I set safety on and placed down my rifle, my first aid kit out, antibiotic cream used, wounds dressed, men injected with antibiotics – which I figured would in short supply around here, and we did what we could, every wounded man attended by at least two of ours.
I finally called a halt and moved the team outside, a truck sat waiting, tail gate down, the men loaded up. I sat up front with Moran, window down, weapons ready, and I pointed, so the driver headed straight onto the runway and down it whilst steering around bodies - a few bumped over, a cut across the dry brown grass and to the French area, almost a mile from the terminal building.
We closed in on nervous French soldiers as they protected the Pumas, and Moran shouted out the window at them. Squeaking to a halt, we jumped down, Captain Harris and others coming out.
‘You just missed some shooting over the other side,’ he began.
‘No, that was us.’
‘It was you?’
‘We got up on the roof and fired down at the attackers, coup’s been called off. Can these helos take us back?’
‘I doubt they’d want to fly, people shooting into the air.’
‘We need to get back, the FOB is exposed.’
He shook his head. ‘Twelve Marines landed, a few GPMGs.’
‘Yeah, well that helps. Still, my job is over there, not here, so ask them please.’ I turned. ‘Make safe weapons,’ I called, and the team moved inside, a room adopted, tea and cake provided, the lads in a buoyant mood. Stood outside, I called Bob. He took a while answering. ‘You there, Bob?’
‘Yes, call was redirected, I’m in the Cabinet Office, what’s happening on the ground?’
‘Coup has been called off I think, we repelled them. We got up on the terminal roof, president snug inside, and they threw a decoy at the front - which we figured, and then they advanced across the apron, so we shot the fuckers.’
‘Any wounded?’
‘No.’
‘And the president is safe?’
‘Safer now, yes; the officer organising the coup will need a few more men. US State Department officials were there, in the airport, and they think half my men were Delta Force.’
‘Sly toad. But they’ll check of course.’
‘You got Marines to the FOB I hear.’
‘Yes, just for tonight. When you heading back?’
‘When the French take us, they don’t want to fly just now, and we’re not driving there – not this night.’
Back inside I grabbed a coffee and some cake, wondering just how dodgy this local cake was, or did the French import the damn stuff. Sitting, I waited with the team.
I faced Lassey. ‘First action this week?’
‘Yes, Boss, two in two days. How many you reckon we got here?’
‘Too many,’ I told him, sipping my coffee.
‘How’d you mean, Boss?’ he puzzled, others listening in.
‘They were just enlisted men being told what to do by some prick of an officer, they should have lived. The men in the jungle ... they’re scumbags, but those soldiers at the terminal building ... well, could better have been avoided, but our dear Prime Minister wanted us to protect the president here, so we did.
‘But that’s not really what I’m about. If you’re ordered, you do the job as best as you can, take a pride in what you do and it went well, but ... would you open up on Welsh Guards if some prick of an officer told you to?’
‘Well, rather not, no,’ Lassey admitted.
‘This is your first experience of politics and warfare. If the UK was being invaded, or the Falklands again, it’s different. But we just helped some tin pot dictator stay in power.’ I sighed. ‘I don’t know, maybe the guy is better than the one that wanted his job, but I get the feeling that if the army wanted him gone he was a bit of a prick.
‘But your job ... is to do that job well and not worry about the politics. Let me do that, you work on your scorecard.’
‘I reckon I got eight yesterday, and about twenty today.’
I gave a proud nod.
Captain Harris stepped in an hour later, the cake all gone, the lads a bit bored. ‘It has quietened right down across the city, the coup major has fled up north, heading for Guinea. ‘The French will fly you back soon.’
I eased up and stretched. ‘I get the feeling that our dear army major up north will not sit quiet.’ I faced the lads. ‘On your feet, outside!’
Stood outside, I observed the moths around the lights for a moment, wondering about the politics here, the French checking over their Pumas. Thinking about the FOB, I grabbed the French colonel and asked about camp beds or rubber mats. He had rubber mats suitable for soldiers, but they were bright green, almost yellow. I asked for them anyway, and right now.
My phone trilled. ‘Wilco here.’
‘It’s Bob, where are you?’
‘At the airport, as ordered,’ I quipped. ‘We’re with the French, be flying back soon.’
‘Our men on the ground think that a hundred of the coup soldiers are dead, another hundred and fifty wounded.’
‘Waste of good enlisted men,’ I noted. ‘And the coup leader has fled north I hear. How long before we go after him, Bob?’
‘You’re a mind reader, we’d prefer him dead.’
‘That’s not a priority here, unless we’re now empire building.’
‘Well ... politics, we have investments in the country.’
I sighed. ‘Let’s get the hostages first, eh.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ve had no reports of trouble at the FOB, so they should all be safe.’
Ten minutes later the engines started, and ten minutes after that we were waved forwards, all now carrying rubber mats, all still nervous about crashing and burning in French helicopters. The brightly-lit city was glimpsed in the distance, the streets deserted for the most part, and soon the street lamps gave way to shanty town, then just black forest.
Our helicopters had their lights on, and as we came in to land I noticed men with torches, maybe to direct in the helicopters, and we were soon running bent-double, the Pumas lifting off as soon as we were clear. It grew quiet as they flew beyond the perimete
r.
Haines shone a torch at his own face so that I could see him. ‘That you, Captain?’ he asked.
‘All quiet?’ I asked him as I drew level.
‘Quiet apart from two Navy helicopters landing, twelve Marines on the roof.’
Morten appeared with a bright lamp as the lads filed inside. ‘Any wounded?’
‘Not that I know of, no,’ I told him. ‘We were lucky.’ I led them inside, a Marine waiting, rifle in hand, cam cream on his face.
‘This is Captain Helms, Marines,’ Haines introduced.
I shook his hand after stuffing my new rubber mat under my left armpit. ‘Glad of the help, we could have been gone a day or two.’
‘What happened?’
‘A coup, a disaffected army major. He attacked the airfield with a few companies of men, but he never went to Sandhurst, his plan a bit crap. We were up on the terminal roof, they approached across a dead flat and well-lit apron, so we threw down more than a hundred grenades, then opened fire. They withdrew in poor order.’
‘And if you had not been there?’ he asked as we moved inside.
‘President had a dozen poorly trained men around him, so he would have been ousted, country would have fallen in to chaos, no flights in or out, foreigners rounded up – a complete fucking mess.’
‘But it’s sorted now?’ he asked.
‘As far as we know,’ I told them. Reaching the medics, I said, ‘How’s the baby?’
‘She’s a good sleeper,’ a lady nurse told me with a smile. The medics had the windows covered, lamps on inside. I faced the Marines Captain, ‘Contact your ship, they can come get you anytime.’
‘Well, no hurry,’ he quipped. ‘We’re here now, we can drag it out, stretch our legs, time off ship.’
‘I have two Marines in my unit, you can say hello in the morning, we’re all a bit knackered. Mister Haines, Captain Helms, defence of this place is over to you – but don’t wake the baby.’
I headed upstairs and placed down my new rubber mat on top of the original. Checking my watch, it was 1am, but it felt much later. Moran and Swifty had a brew on, and I sat with them, kit off, rations opened.
‘Marines here?’ Swifty idly commented.
‘On the roof, dozen of them, not in a hurry to get back. If they’re not called back they can do a short jungle patrol tomorrow, something to do off ship, or have a go on our shooting range.’