by Geoff Wolak
‘Two groups of hostages were taken to the strip.’
‘To be flown on somewhere,’ Bob suggested. ‘Warlords do trade hostages like currency.’
‘Look into it quickly, Bob, because maybe there are other hostages being traded. And if we kill the fuckers involved, fewer hostages.’
‘Will do. And those French hostages are all over the news in Europe.’
‘Do the Belgians still claim that hostages were killed in the crossfire?’
‘No, the bodies were examined in Kenya, no bullet holes as you said.’
Phone down, I glanced at Bradley. ‘Someone has been trading hostages.’
‘Then we go for that someone,’ he adamantly stated.
I nodded. ‘Captain Harris, I need all intel on hostage movements collated, and soon, look for a pattern, ex-hostage statements. We need to see where they go, a hub, to find the nice chap at the centre.’
Samantha stepped forwards, looking sexy, her boobs distinct despite her bra. ‘There was an odd pattern, I read the report. Three groups of French and Belgian hostages were moved, not heard of since. To the central region.’
‘Why?’ Bradley asked. ‘Ransom?’
‘Ransom would be the only reason, sir,’ Samantha stated.
‘And the more hostages, the bigger the purse,’ Bradley added.
I had been staring at the floor. ‘Bigger the embarrassment.’
‘What?’ Captain Harris puzzled.
‘True,’ Bradley put in. ‘Hostages are very embarrassing for any government; lots of public outcry, little anyone can do. Look at the Iranian hostage drama in Tehran, probably cost Carter the election.’
‘I think Carter did that to himself,’ I quipped, smiling. I stepped out and lifted my phone. ‘Bob, work on the assumption that the French have not been truthful with you about hostages around here.’
‘Why do I have a bad feeling about this?’
‘Because you should.’
The medics came back from a speed march around the perimeter in full kit, now sweating profusely.
‘They getting fitter?’ I asked Morten as his team gulped water.
‘Seem to be,’ he puffed out, wiping the sweat.
‘Get some range time,’ I suggested.
‘We did, the other day.’
The Wolves came back in after lunch, Crab having led them on a speed march, all now soaked in sweat. I had them strip off and wash in the hangar, a standpipe to use, the water cool enough, shampoo to hand.
Dried, fed with fruit and biscuits, cold water downed, I had Haines hand over some of the weapons stockpile to the Wolves, Crab and Duffy tasked with RPG practise for the men, to be followed by Russian machineguns with box magazines; stripping, cleaning and firing.
Air Troop came and found me in the hangar, a new plan, not least the hope of pale-faced British hostages. An hour later they presented the plan in the command room, opinions taken. This time there would be a split force, some driving in our stolen jeeps, one troop inserted via HALO. The HALO troop would scout the target, eyes on as the jeeps approached, and sneak in as a distraction was caused.
The hostages would be taken to a nearby road less than a mile away, long and straight, and the Skyvan would set down, the Mi8 loitering. The Mi8 would pick the HALO troop, four men in the Mi8 just in case, my men ready for rescue if need be - with the medics.
‘You have a go,’ I told them, and keen troopers headed out to check kit.
Bob came back on as I observed the Wolves blast the sand with RPGs. ‘You were right. I spoke to my opposite number in Paris and bluffed him, said we had French hostages talking.’
‘And..?’
‘A certain warlord called Jamal, from the other country called Congo, north of your Congo. He used to do naughty jobs for the French, then one day the French tried to kill him, but only succeeded in blowing up the wife and kids, so Jamal was mad. He moved south, and makes money from blood diamonds, mining, drugs and guns.’
‘And now kidnap and extortion,’ I put in.
‘He has fifty plus French and Belgian hostages, and he wants twenty million Euros. He sent the French a photo, a heavily fortified location, explosives wired to the hostages, so they won’t go for them – and neither will we.’
‘Well at least we now the score now. So what are the French going to do?’
‘So far they’ve kept it out of the press, but Jamal is threatening to leak it to the press, human hands sent back.’
‘The French won’t pay?’
‘They can’t be seen to be funding someone like that, and he’d just grab more next year. So they have a problem.’
‘I have an idea.’
‘You can’t storm that place, be a bloodbath!’
‘No need. I’ll get back to you.’
I checked my watch, and made a call. ‘Is Napoleon awake?’
Big Sasha laughed. I could hear in the background, ‘That trouble-maker wants Napoleon.’
‘Petrov?’ came a few seconds later.
‘Yes. Listen, in the Congo is a warlord called Jamal, make contact with him. He has fifty French and Belgian hostages, and he wants twenty million Euros for them. Offer him less, and tell him you’ll let him live.’
‘Me? I buy them out? What the fuck for?’
‘What do you think..?’
After twenty seconds, he said, ‘The French would owe me.’
‘And they would pay some of the money, they just can’t be seen paying it to Jamal. You do first, ask later. You’ll have a hold over them, they’d never want to upset you.’
‘That’s true. Did the British suggest this?’
‘Yes, Bob has his people in the Congo trying to rescue British hostages. But he can’t be seen to be talking to you about this.’
‘Of course. I know some people down there, I’ll find out what I can and talk to this Jamal.’
‘Call me back soon eh, this fucker is executing hostages by the day.’
‘Yes, yes, soon.’
At midnight I was in the command room with Moran, both feeling odd because we were hearing about the action for a change and not being part of it. The regular troop captains were annotating a map and ticking boxes.
The regulars had driven off in our stolen jeeps, the Zambians loaning us an old lorry as well. Air Troop had inserted, one man with a bust shoulder – he hit a fence on landing, and they had spied out the hostage location, the host-takers just as high on weed as ours had been.
When a member of Air Troop literally bumped into a gunman taking a shit the game was up, but a short firefight resulted in twenty dead gunmen and one bad ricochet wound for a trooper – bound up for now.
The regulars then led the hostages off on a brisk march, one carried, and they met the jeeps and the truck. Hostages in the truck, they set off south, and we awaited their arrival, watching the clock.
When the convoy got back “A” Squadron were jubilant, the medics checking over the hostages before they boarded a waiting Hercules, and the hostages would be taken down to the capital with the wounded trooper, who believed it was one of his that had shot him accidentally.
I had arranged for beer to be brought in, and issued it to the regulars, just about enough for two bottles each. And Max, the little shit, had gone in the truck without my permission, now sat sending out pictures and narrative – and avoiding eye contact with me.
It had been a live HALO drop, a firefight and withdrawal in good order, so it was deserving of a good story anyhow. And I made sure Max described it as “A” Squadron SAS. Only downside was the loss of the parachutes and HALO bags, Bradley now responsible for that loss as acting CO of “A” Squadron. There was even talk of going back for the kit.
As the dawn came up I was sat in the dust with the Wolves, the Mi8 heading off with some of my lot, and they came back with chutes and bags, making me smile. Bradley had risked a helicopter and wounded men for the kit, Sgt Crab describing him as Bean-Counter Bradley.
The Wolves would be parachuting to
day, static line and freefall, till we ran out of chutes.
Bob called lunchtime. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I was just with Sasha and his team.’
‘His team?
‘I have him with the four Russian speakers, and he’s done an excellent job of making them all appear to be Russian soldiers, even the right swear words. Got some potential there, Bob, our own little fake unit of six Russian gunmen if you include me.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that for them, at least not yet, but yes – excellent potential. Last night’s raid is all over the news, the hostages interviewed, Prime Minister very happy.’
‘You’ll make director yet,’ I teased.
‘How’re the Wolves?’
‘Does Samantha not report our every move?’
‘No, she’ll send in written assessments of the candidates at the end.’
‘Well so far she’s done a good job, none of them are idiots, so the selection process worked well.’
‘Good to know they got that right, I had a team of eight on it, including psychiatrists. How are “A” Squadron behaving?’
‘Jubilant, is the word. And they’re not mad at me, there’s no rift. Unlike Chalmers, I won’t hold them back.’
‘You’ll send them out again?’
‘If there’s a need. Up to you. What’s our timescale here?’
‘No urgent need to withdraw you, but what about the Wolves training programme?’
‘Doing it here, and this is ten times better than the UK.’
After a bite to eat, Tomsk rang. ‘I’ve been busy,’ he began. ‘This man Jamal is in debt to some people I know, so I bought the markers, two million euro. Now he owes me, and so I called him. I have the price down to twelve million euro - and I let him live.’
‘How will the payment be made?’
‘He has a Cayman Islands account, same fucking bank as mine. I just gave him five million for good measure.’
‘Tell him you want the hostages loaded to trucks and driven to an airfield, where civilian planes will take them to Zambia. But don’t arrange the planes, let the French ambush that convoy, they’ll claim they got the hostages out.’
Tomsk laughed loudly. ‘You know how to play these shits. I’m very lucky to have your advice.’
‘Let me know when he’ll release the hostages.’
‘Will do, yes.’
I called Bob. ‘Listen, Tomsk has bought up the debt markers for Jamal.’
‘What you been up to?’
‘Calling in a favour. He’s got the price down to twelve million euro, and the hostages will be driven out in convoy. So get a hundred French commandos down here right away.’
‘You’ll help them attack the convoy?’
‘Why not, they claim it as their victory, they owe you, and they owe Tomsk.’
‘Why would Tomsk help like this?’
‘He wants some money back off the French, and their goodwill.’
‘You mean you gave him that idea.’
‘You might think that, Bob, I couldn’t possibly comment.’
He laughed. ‘You’re a little shit, wasted in the military.’
‘Get me the commandos,’ I pressed.
‘I’ll get back to you.’
The Wolves, with the assistance of my lads, static line dropped over the airfield, two drops an hour apart, many freefalling with hands held by more experienced men. One group of experienced lads even jumped with the HALO bag. “A” Squadron had a day off, and sat getting a tan for the most part, some helping out.
A Hercules came in from Kenya, a new major on board, a medic sent out with a swollen leg from a bite, an “A” Squadron regular sent off after slipping and dislocating a shoulder. Parachutes had been brought in, the used ones bagged up and sent off, so we now had a great many chutes to hand, fresh ration packs and ammo stacked up.
I saluted the major, the TA Quartermaster from our GL4 base. ‘Welcome to Zambia, sir.’
‘I’m just temporary,’ he said, soon in a chat with Bradley, who had now been relieved of his duties regarding “A” Squadron.
After sundown, the Wolves running around the perimeter track, Bob called back. ‘French commandos on the way from West Africa. I briefed the Prime Minister, who needed a sit down and a stiff drink, but then smiled about the French. Much of this is off the record.’
‘Only you and me know about it,’ I assured him. ‘Will the French pay Tomsk?’
‘They’ll pay us, we pay Tomsk through the Cayman Islands.’
‘What strange bedfellows we have, eh.’
‘Let me know when you have a plan or a timescale.’
‘Will do. Oh, get me tents from Kenya, and pronto, not much room for the French here. And lots of chutes, we may need them.’
‘Leave it with me.’
In the billet, I said, ‘Listen up. French commandos on the way, so we may give up this room for those soft French boys.’ They jeered Henri and Jacque, who offered a few colourful responses. ‘Captain Moran, have a look around for other rooms, camp beds, or a strip of sand for us.’
‘There’re fuck all soldiers in those green huts,’ he said.
‘I’ll have Captain Harris ask the Zambians. Or we may sleep in the back of a truck.’
‘Let’s go back to George’s cafe,’ Rocko suggested, others agreeing.
‘Might be an option, yes,’ I agreed. ‘But we have a joint venture to plan with the French, a large operation. Henri, you are our go-between when they get here.’
I went and gave Captain Harris a nudge, he spoke to his counterpart, and yes – the huts could be used.
At dawn the French loudly announced their arrival and touched down, three green C-160 transports soon disgorging men and kit, trolleys pushed off.
I recognised the major, but could not remember his name. He was thick set and bald, a face that had taken a few knocks; he had not emerged from behind a desk. ‘Hello again, sir.’
‘Good to see you again,’ came back accented, but not a soft French accent like Henri. He could have been the bad guy in an old black and white movie, like Casablanca.
I looked past him. ‘Are those tents?’
‘Oui.’
‘Put them up in front of the barracks, sir, and we have small huts for you as well.’
‘We have support men, tents and cooking,’ he said, giving a big Gallic shrug.
Some of the men threw friendly insults to Henri, getting some back, the major laughing, and we soon had twelve large tents up on parched grass, cookers going, chefs preparing food.
The French major came and found me later, Henri on his arm. ‘What is the plan here?’
‘We are waiting information about French hostages, many of them. You will go after them, and get the credit.’
‘Why us, you have many men here?’
‘Politics. I follow orders.’ I shrugged.
‘Pah. Fucking Paris never knows what it is doing,’ he let out before leading Henri away.
The next day the French observed the Wolves static line drop before we pointed the French towards the range, and they zeroed weapons for a few hours, the base now bustling. The Wolves got three static line drops each, so they were building up the experience and the skills.
The next Hercules from Kenya brought in some serious-faced men from the MOD and an official from JIC. Bob was taking no chances here – no chance of him being blamed for anything. I settled them, found rooms, and told them that we were waiting intel and so simply training till that time.
At midnight, Tomsk called me, morning now in Panama. ‘We’ve struck a deal, and I got a good price. Hostages will be moved day after tomorrow, driven to some airstrip.’ He gave me the name and I wrote it down. ‘He thinks I will send aircraft.’
‘The French will. Will he release all the hostages in one go?’
‘Yes, fifty eight French, six Belgians, and some people from a fucking place I’d not heard of.’
‘Tell him he gets the balance when they get to the
planes.’
‘What will the French do?’
‘Kill the fucker.’
‘Ah, then that saves me some money as well.’
‘One final thing...’
At 9am we held a command meeting, some of the SIGINT sent out because there was just not enough room. Our sour-faced MOD types were listening in, as well as the mandarin from JIC, the French major and two captains off to one side with Moran and the “A” Squadron troop captains. Max was sat on the floor, notepad in hand.
‘We now have intel on the French hostages. They’re being held in a fortified position, and it would be very unwise to try and attack that place and hope to get the hostages out alive. But what we have been waiting for has finally happened, and the hostages are being moved by truck tomorrow.
‘There are fifty-eight French, six Belgians, and some others – we have a man placed in the ranks of the hostage takers,’ I lied. ‘The plan is, provided we get approval, to insert in the early hours - several teams. One team will close in on the fortified position and report movement.
‘One small team will be on the road near the fortified position, reporting the convoy – and if it has hostages with white faces, its speed and direction, but there is only one road to the airstrip they’re supposed to be headed for.
‘If all goes well, French forces will ambush the trucks on the road. A separate and large force will then move on the fortified position, with the aim of taking the people there ... into custody.’
Cheeks creased into smiles around the room.
‘Anyone we do arrest will be handed to the French for prosecution,’ I added. ‘Any questions?’
‘Seems straight forwards enough,’ the JIC mandarin put in. ‘But what about your estimate of casualties?’
‘The French will need to be very careful when stopping the convoy. Casualties there are beyond my control. At the fortified position we will not storm it but surround it, and wear them down.’
‘Sounds OK,’ the JIC mandarin noted, taking in the faces. The MOD stiffs nodded solemnly.
I faced Bradley. ‘Sir?’
‘No more risk than anything else we’ve done. I see no flaws in the plan, and we’re good at this – got some practise in.’