by Geoff Wolak
‘Little buggers,’ Tomo let out.
We soon had no view of the jeeps. I moved forwards, selected a fresh magazine, and sprayed where I figured the jeeps were. Three minutes later, as the smoke started to clear, we could see the jeeps and trucks driving off, many with flat tyres, men running down the road north. I fired after them, but they were soon out of range.
‘Sasha, get your men below,’ I ordered, and they negotiated the rocks to get to the cave. ‘They have rockets,’ I told Nicholson and Tomo.
‘They’d have to be lucky,’ Tomo firmly stated.
Nicholson said, ‘I can see them setting up, white guy with some clever kit, and a sat phone.’
‘Shit! Get below.’
We rushed to the rear of the plateau and down the sandy slope.
Inside, I said, ‘There’s a white guy helping the Arabs, and he has some fancy kit, but that kit will only give him a bearing to a radio. But Nicholson saw him with a sat phone, so I think there’s a few cheeky chappies sat up a mountain with a phone and a pair of binoculars. If they give him a second bearing then he can be accurate.’
‘This place is solid,’ Swifty noted. ‘Waste of fucking rockets.’
A blast caused dust to drop from the cavern roof.
‘That was close,’ Rizzo noted.
A second blast resulted in no dust falling, but shrapnel twanged through a hole.
‘Airburst,’ Stretch said. ‘First rocket triangulated, and timed, second rocket on a timer, one second short.’
Another blast, and metal twanged in near the entrance.
Stretch said, ‘If we were out there we’d be getting some. Air burst rocket will cover two hundred yards radius or more.’
‘Still not that effective,’ Swifty scoffed.
‘Doesn’t need to be,’ I said. ‘If we got three wounded we’d pull out. Or call in helos. He wants to hit a helo as it comes in.’
‘Who is he?’ Sasha nudged.
I took a moment as they stared back at me. ‘We think he’s ex-SAS.’
‘Another one,’ Swifty complained.
I moved to the exposed part of the cave and turned my phone on, a warning given to Liban – who had inserted with his men after all, finally an update for Harris.
Next call was Franks, as blasts registered. ‘It’s Wilco. Do you think you could get an airstrike against rocket positions on a road, no civvies nearby just fighters?’
‘I could ask.’
‘I need it in the next few minutes.’
‘Oh, well ... I can say it’s an emergency, and it is artillery. There are birds up all the time and armed.’
‘Look at the map, road east, six miles south of that camp. Fly up the road, see damaged and abandoned vehicles, six hundred yards on are the rockets.’
‘OK, standby.’
Phone down, I peered out of one of the holes, just about making out the rocket launchers in the distance. I saw the smoke of a launch, and it arced over, right for me. I pulled my head in before the blast, metal pinging off the hole.
Sticking my head back out, I could see the rocket launchers being hitched ready to reposition. A screech, a loud cackle, and the launchers and the trucks disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Another screech, the blur of an F18, a loud cackle, and the launchers - and their operators – were shredded.
I grabbed the phone as the lads rushed to the opening to get a look. I called Franks. ‘It’s Wilco, excellent job, target destroyed. Hopefully, our friend the white man ... is missing some arms and legs.’
‘He was there?’
‘He was directing the show. Wilco out.’ Phone down, I said, ‘Tomo, Nicholson, get up there, damage assessment. Sasha, take your men, scan the hill behind us for movement. Radios back on.’
I eased down, and sipped my water.
Rizzo said, ‘Easy when you have jets like that.’
‘Yep,’ I agreed. ‘But jets like that don’t collect the paperwork and evidence.’
‘Nicholson for Wilco,’ came over the radio a minute later. ‘The trucks and jeeps are all alight, two or three men wandering around. I think I saw the white guy, wandering around with an arm missing.’
‘Standby to move.’
I eased up. Those that had been sat eased up. I began, ‘Moving in daylight is a risk, but I doubt there are too many fighters left around here, more north of us, so ... we’ll have to risk it a bit.’
I led them out, and I lifted my phone, letting Moran know that we would move north parallel to the road. He would close in to within a thousand yards of the road.
Retracing our steps, we followed our old tracks for fifteen minutes, but instead of dropping down as before I struck out diagonal across the slope, and the danger here was that we could be caught with our backs to the cliffs with nowhere to go.
Finding dirt and not sand, I picked up the pace, and we covered plenty of ground, getting to a point where the cliffs were broken, some suitable escape routes offered to us. We had descended, and we were now five hundred yards above the road, so a mounted Duska would be an issue.
Arriving at an outcrop above the rockets, perhaps six hundred yards, I had Tomo and Nicholson take position and start sniping down. They killed a wounded man seen wandering around, soon a second, a man seen crawling and hit in the back, no sign of our white guy so far. Bodies were double-tapped, body parts seen to be strewn around, the F18’s 30mil cannons having made a right old mess, jeeps peeled like they had been made out of baking foil.
With nothing and no one to shoot at I led the team off north and then northwest, away from the scene of carnage, and across the road we could see Moran’s group. I climbed higher, calling a pause in a place where I knew we had cover.
‘Wilco!’ came Nicholson’s voice. He knelt and took aim down the slope. ‘Wounded white guy.’ He fired. ‘Wounded white guy with a hole in his gut.’
Tomo fired. ‘Gunna need some knew lungs as well.’
Nicholson fired again, Tomo twice. Nicholson finally turned his head to me, ‘His blood in is in the sand, not in him, so I’m thinking he’s not going to make it, Boss.’
‘I needed him alive for questioning!’ I shouted.
Tomo and Nicholson exchanged worried looks, but then saw my grin.
‘Fucker,’ Tomo let out as the lads laughed at them.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s Moran, what you shooting at?’
‘White guy.’
‘Oh ... him. He dead?’
‘Getting there slowly.’ I called Tinker. ‘We just shot a white guy full of holes.’
‘It’s not Jacko Thompson, he’s in a prison cell in Mozambique.’
‘Then who?’
‘Have to follow up on that bar in Tenerife. I’ll let you know. Where are you?’
‘We’re about five miles southeast of the camp, west side of the road. Moran is east, French are north of that camp. We hit a small roadside camp, then our white guy turns up with rockets, and he fixed our position to within an inch, air burst rockets, but we found a cave, no one hurt.’
‘That’s naughty - he’d need triangulation.’
‘I think he has men on the hill tops, local Somalis maybe. Wilco out.’ Off the phone I said, ‘Swifty with me, rest of you cover us. Man down there is not who I thought it was.’
I ran down a sandy slope, skidding down on my arse in places, Swifty cursing the slope from behind me, and we ran down looking left and right, a four hundred yard sprint up and down small dunes to our man. Reaching him, I knelt and checked the road, and checked that he was dead. From the amount of blood in the sand there was no way he could surprise us.
I ran over, his pockets checked, wallet taken out, sat phone pinched away, bloodied paper grabbed. Standing over him, I looked down at the face, but did not recognise him. I turned, and we ran.
Back up the slope we were puffing. I sat on a rock and got my breath, a sip of water needed, the wallet looked at. ‘David Smith.’
‘David Smith?’ Swifty baulked. ‘Fake ID.�
�
‘Address is ... a street in London full of shops with no residences. He has ... an underground ticket, a London bus ticket, a photo of himself outside Parliament with a girl.’ I smiled widely. ‘Pamela.’
‘Who?’ Swifty asked.
‘This guy is posing with the Mi5 lady manager that fell down a lift shaft in the Farringdon job.’
‘Mi5?’ Swifty shouted.
‘Made to look that way. His wallet is enough to fool a dumb Somalis, but not a professional.’
I used David Smith’s phone to call SIS London. ‘This is Wilco in Somalia, using a bad boy’s sat phone. Check this number for connections to the intelligence services. Then run a name, David Smith, date of birth 21/10/1972.’
‘That name and date of birth is used in training scenario for new agents.’
‘He has a fake ID good enough to fool a Somalis but no one else. He also has a photo of the late Pamela, Mi5.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Put me through to Mi5.’
‘Hold on.’
I waited.
‘Dunstan here.’
‘Wilco here.’
‘Captain Wilco? Good to meet you at long last, if only on the phone. What you after me for?’
‘I wasn’t, I need to speak to the Director.’
‘On holiday in the south of Corsica, old chap.’
‘Then his deputy.’
‘I am he, what’s your pleasure?’
‘I just killed a white man assisting al-Qa’eda fighters in Somalia with some sophisticated radio kit, and the man is one of ours.’
‘One of ours?’
‘He has a fake ID, David Smith, 1972 –’
‘Someone’s idea of a joke.’
‘And he has a photo of himself with the late Pamela.’
‘Ah ... that’s not good.’
‘This is his phone I’m calling from, so go all out. We know he rang an ex-SAS guy in Tenerife, that man in custody down there.’
‘I’ll be all over it. Age, height, weight?
‘I’d say late thirties, five eleven to six foot, strong and fit, short dark brown hair, no beard or moustache, no obvious scars, weather worn face. He knew his trade; radio detection, rocket control.’
‘That narrows it right down, to time served in the Engineers. I’ll get back to you.’
‘Wilco out.’
I left the phone on and stuffed it in my webbing. About to walk on, I looked back at the body. I called SIS London as the lads glanced at me. ‘It’s Wilco. Look for a link between the white man here in Somalia and 14 Intel.’
‘You know something?’
‘A hunch. Assume he was a soldier, born in Northern Ireland, served in the Engineers, ended up with 14 Intel.’
‘That’s more like a leap ... than a hunch.’
‘Run with it. Wilco out.’
‘14 Intel?’ Swifty asked.
‘Double agent, really working for the IRA, wanting to hurt people like us for some cash.’
‘Thought we saw the last of them,’ Swifty grumbled.
‘Their officers were replaced, but their foot soldiers still have their skills ... and fuck all to do these days.’
I led the team on as the day warmed up, and we kicked up sand for a mile. Finding a hollow with a sandy basin I ducked into it and had the men get down as I scanned the map.
‘Right, listen up. We can go up and over and down the middle, a high valley, and come up behind them, or we go along the edge of the road. If we go up and over we could be ambushed in a bad spot. If we go along the road then we might not find much cover, backs to the cliffs, spotted from the road.’
Rizzo said, ‘I say the road. We have Moran’s team ready to help us, helos can come in.’
Others nodded heads.
‘Show of hands,’ I called for, most in favour of the road.
I called Moran. ‘It’s Wilco, we’re going to bed down here for a few hours, move out after dark.’
‘OK, we’ll do the same, and coordinate it.’
Swifty elected to get some kip, and he benefited from a soft sandy bed, no wind, and warm sunshine.
My phone trilled an hour later, so I stepped away and stared down at the road. It was Tomsk. ‘Da!’
‘I have some information from the Lebanese man. He arranged a helicopter from Ethiopia someplace, and these Arabs are going to fill it with explosives and ram some ship. He also supplied three heat-seeking missiles.’
‘Missiles? You tell that Lebanese shit I’m coming for him! Those missile will be aimed at me and No.2!’
‘Ah, well I tell him to back off then.’
‘I’ve got to go, talk later.’ I called Franks. ‘Listen, Arab fighters have a helicopter stuffed full of explosives and they’re going to try and ram a ship.’
‘Jesus...’
‘They also have three heat-seeking missiles -’
‘Missiles!’
‘Cease all helo operations, warn the F18s, and now.’
‘We won’t be able to get casevac to you!’
‘You noticed that as well did you?’ I quipped. ‘We’ll just have to avoid getting shot. Tell the French, and quick.’ I called Moran. ‘Listen, Arabs have heat-seeking missiles -’
‘How the fuck we supposed to get picked up then?’
‘Good question. I’ll call you when I think of an answer.’
Next call was SIS, London. ‘It’s Wilco. Arab fighters here have taken delivery of a helicopter. They’re going to stuff it full of explosives and try and ram a ship. They also have heat-seeking missiles.’
‘Missiles!’
‘Update David Finch, the Director, Cabinet Office – and the Admiralty, and fast. Wilco out.’
Back at the lads in the sand pit, many awake, I told them, ‘We’re in the shit. Arabs have heat-seeking missiles, could bring down a helicopter.’
Sasha was immediately very worried. ‘I don’t need you pushing me out of a fucking helicopter again...’
I smiled. ‘If you fell out you’d have soft sand to land on. Relax.’
He swore at me in Russian.
Ten minutes later my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘Commander Lewis, Royal Navy Lynx pilot. We’re in range of you, so ... anything you need us to do?’
‘Ever played chicken with a heat-seeking missile?’
‘No, thankfully’.
‘The fighters here have three heat-seeking missiles, so if you came in to casevac us you’ll be fired at. So before that time, how about you put two crewman in the rear, doors open, and fly up and down and see if you can get someone to fire a missile at you. You have flares?’
‘Yes, but rarely used. We’d have to test them.’
‘Do so, think about it, because we’re stuck till we get those missiles.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s better to bait them than wait a real job and get hit. I’ll discuss it with the chaps here.’
An hour later, the afternoon warm, the French commandos reported that they were about to get a close-up visit, and that news was relayed to me. I was worried; I did not want to be explaining their deaths.
But the French commandos were hidden in cliffs - no one could get close to them and, as the commandos made ready for some company, they noticed two heat-seeking missiles being set-up, and so called it in. Franks saw the opportunity, and screamed at the Navy to hit the missiles right away.
F18s launched off the deck catapult in a hurry, grouped overhead, sped inshore just ten miles, and dived down at the target location. The first 2,000lb bomb blew the missiles, and the missile operators, to bits. The second 2,000lb bomb blew the missile operators jeeps to bits.
The third bomb, however, hit the base of the cliffs that the French were in, all radio contact lost, the US Navy now worried that they had killed the French team.
A French commando finally got a message out; they were alive, eardrums blown, any chance of a helicopter to come get them?
Two French Pumas flew in, a risk, and picked up the Fre
nch team from the top of the cliffs, a quick operation, no missiles fired at the helicopters. But as the Pumas flew off a sharp-eyed radar operator on the Joan de Arc noticed a blip. He radioed the Pumas, and asked them if they could “please look over their shoulders”.
A puzzled crewman peered out of the trailing Puma to see an Mi8 close on his tail and following along behind, back to the French carrier. The French commandos, seeing an obvious solution, pushed a man out the door with a GPMG, his colleagues holding him by his webbing.
The GPMG hit the Mi8 for sixty seconds before the Mi8 turned away, the GPMG gunner accidentally hitting his own tail rotor. The Puma started to lose control.
Just then, and with a Navy Lynx approaching, F18s overhead but unable to fire on the Mi8 without risk of hitting the Pumas, the Mi8 decided to blow, a giant spectacular blast, the Lynx and the F18s a bit too close, some loud words used over the radio.
Out of control and about to hit the water, the French commandos tore off webbing and jumped, the crewman pushing out life vests and pre-packed rafts before jumping himself. The pilot settled the Puma on the water as the co-pilot jumped, the pilot half out the window when his ride rolled. He managed to swim up to the surface as his expensive Puma sank to the depths.
Clinging onto a raft, the French commandos agreed to not mention that they hit the tail rotor, but did so loudly, ears still a problem.
The Lynx was first on station, and it winched three French commandos aboard, the air-worthy Puma closing in and picking up some very damp pilots and crewmen, all safely returned to the French carrier.
Hunt called me and gave me the story. ‘Two missiles destroyed, helicopter dealt with, one missile left, a bunch of very wet French lads.’
‘Ask the Lynx to fly up and down as bait, see if a missile is fired at it; it has flares. If the final missile is used we’re safe for casevac.’
Franks called me ten minutes later. ‘Langley is very interested in where the missiles came from.’
‘I know the supplier.’
‘We’d like to put a bullet in him.’
‘Well ... he’s selling arms, but also letting me know what they are ... and to who he’s selling them, so ... he’s useful. Mention that fact up the line, because we get years of intel – assuming I don’t shoot the guy.’