by Geoff Wolak
‘We’ll move after sun up, have a good look then. Need a fucking brew first.’
Sat back down, Stretch said, ‘We got company already?’
‘Yes, thirty fighters at those fifty cal – so an issue.’
‘They want to hit any helos coming in for us,’ Stretch noted.
‘Yep, and I was hoping to get a mechanic in for that Seahawk.’ I faced the sleepy crewman. ‘Go wake the pilots, and get yourselves hidden in the rocks nearby.’
‘There are rifles on the helo,’ he told me.
‘Grab them, and anything useful. After sun-up the fighters will try and hit that helo. Don’t be too close to it, eh.’
He trekked off east towards the Seahawk, his eyes still just slits.
Pilot Ramirez stirred, the light waking him. He had slept in a borrowed poncho, but had been lying on a bulky survival suit, the suit insulating him from the cold sand. He sat with us, rubbing his face but looking better than the crewman had, Stretch getting a brew on for him.
Ten minutes later the crewman returned, M16 in hand.
‘You know how to use that?’ I asked him.
‘Not too bad with one.’
‘Then keep your finger off the damn trigger till you want to kill someone. Where are the pilots?’
‘Twenty yards from the bird, in some tight rocks.’
‘Take some water and tins to them, but you come back here.’
He grabbed provisions and plodded off. Standing tall, I called in one of Sasha’s men. He arrived at the same time as the crewman.
‘Right, you two are now a team,’ I told them. ‘Go north a hundred yards, get a good position to watch those hills north of us and anyone sneaking in that way. Go.’
They plodded off chatting, and exchanging names as Swifty stirred.
‘We got the war on?’ Swifty asked, yawning and stretching.
‘Soon. Get with it.’
He got a brew on as Rizzo stirred, my staff sergeant hungry and cold, and complaining.
After Swifty got some food in him, and a brew, I sent him south down to Nicholson as the bright light started to expose our position. We were in a hollow, and not in line of sight to anyone unless they were on the peaks north of us.
‘Rizzo, you and Stretch stay with those pilots, near their Seahawk, but aim east and south. We’re surrounded, loads of the fuckers out there, so conserve ammo today.’
‘Plenty of ammo in them bags,’ Stretch noted.
I trekked off west to Henri, and found him sat with a brew, Sambo awake. ‘You rested?’
‘We’re OK,’ Henri replied.
‘We’re surrounded, lots of them around us. Go careful with the ammo, make every shot count. There are more grenades left up there, and some ammo.’
‘We get the Americans out?’ Henri asked as I knelt in the sand near them.
‘South, near the mounted fifty cal, are thirty men.’
‘Ah, they mean to stop helicopters,’ Henri noted.
Sambo said, ‘There are many dead bodies down below, sir. Soon they will go home I think, or have no one to farm the crops.’
‘Men came in from other areas, rewards offered for us,’ I informed him before clambering up a rock and standing tall, peering down at the valley. There was no movement below us, but north along the road I could see men moving, a thousand yards out, more movement around the camp that had been hit by the Lynx.
Standing there, I studied the area south. ‘Shit...’ I transmitted, ‘Everyone get ready, they have mortars. Get some solid cover, don’t bunch up!’
I scrambled down to Henri.
He said, ‘There are many rocks here, we have good cover. Mortars will be wasted.’
‘They only need to be lucky,’ I cautioned. A knee in the sand, I called London. ‘This is Wilco in Somalia. Sitrep: we’re surrounded on all sides, stuck up a mountain top, and the fighters now have mortars set up. Extraction by helo is not an option yet because the mounted fifty cal are still manned. Update the ships offshore and Mister Hunt. Oh, and we have plenty of supplies and ammo and water. Wilco out.’
A minute later the first mortar landed, but well away from anyone, well away from the Seahawk.
Henri complained, ‘They can’t see us, they have no idea where we are, big area … waste of mortars.’
Jacque smiled. ‘They have no training, no leader structure, paper instructions in Russian, no.’
I smiled down the valley, seeing the mortar crews, but then I heard a helicopter.
‘That’s your British Lynx,’ Henri insisted. ‘High pitch.’
‘Yep,’ I agreed, looking around but not seeing what was making that high pitch whine.
‘Lynx for Wilco,’ crackled in my ear.
‘Wilco here, go ahead.’
‘We now have two Lynx, fully armed, door gunners either side, so what do you have for us?’
‘How so very keen they are,’ Henri complained. ‘After Liberia, they all want a fucking medal, no.’
‘Wilco for Lynx, fix our position from the American Seahawk helicopter sat getting a tan. Fly south six hundred yards, and look for mounted fifty cal pointed north. Try and hit them and their crews, then go east half a mile and recon, hit any large groups.
‘Then I want you to fly north up the valley three miles, look for our men high up, east side, pick them up and drop them here. And then - if you have some fuel left, look for mortar crews a mile south down the valley, over.’
‘Lynx for Wilco, understood, moving in now.’
‘There!’ Sambo shouted, and we stood tall, the two Lynx dropping from around 2,000 feet like they were attack aircraft, soon a cackle of 30mm cannon from the first Lynx, a few seconds later the second Lynx pounding the hillside with two missiles, the blast reaching us a few seconds later and the echoing off the valley sides as the Lynx moved east.
A hover, nose down, a puff of smoke, and the 30mm targeted a group of fighters, soon a second.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s Nicholson, and you could have warned us.’
‘That would take all the fun out of this. Was their aim any good?’
‘Hit the fifty cal, killed all the ragheads down there, don’t know if the fifty cal is damaged though.’
‘Snipe at any survivors.’
‘Mortars landed behind us.’
‘It’s nothing personal, they’re aiming for Tomo.’
With the Lynx flying off north and out of sight I sat, a mortar landing 200yards way.
‘Pah! Sand and rocks is no good to mortars!’ Henri complained.
‘Pray they don’t have airburst,’ I told him.
My phone trilled two minutes later. ‘Wilco, it’s Franks. You got helos up?’
‘You got any coffee in you?’ I teased.
‘Fuck no, and I hate this early morning shit.’
‘We have two fine British Navy Lynx up doing some damage, moving men, and I’ll have your crew picked up and dropped back. But do me a favour and argue for this Seahawk to be fixed and flown, even if it’s a risk, save the Somalis claiming they shot it down.’
‘Was thinking along those lines, yeah. Leave it with me.’
Jacque sniped down at a jeep moving, the jeep crashing off the road, its dazed occupants picked off as static crackled in my ear.
Five minutes later we again heard the buzz of the Lynx. They came in high from the north and dropped down.
I transmitted, ‘Get the American aircrew on the Lynx!’
The first Lynx slowed, making for a nice target should there be any more fifty cal around here, hovered and dropped with its doors open, men out, downed US crew in. The second Lynx landed and dumped men, both pulling off north around the cliffs. They re-appeared in the valley, nose down, a puff of smoke and the bang heard two seconds later, followed by the cackle of 30mm cannon, the mortar crews running for cover, the Lynx soon just specs on the horizon, the hills falling quiet again.
Peering down the valley, I could see smoke lingering, bodies in a few places, men running around.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s Swifty. I went right, couldn’t get to the fifty cal without some flying lessons, but now I have the mortar crews in my sights, what’s left of them.’
‘Use your ammo then come back here.’
‘You want me to shoot wounded men?’ he teased.
‘No, just … wound them some more.’ Phone away, I could see men running around down the valley.
‘Robby for Wilco. What we doing?’
‘Get some supplies and ammo, walk west to me.’
‘Roger that.’
‘Who else is there?’
‘Salties are down,’ came a voice, sounding like Dicky.
‘Move east to Sasha’s team, snipe from there.’
‘Moving.’
Robby and his men appeared ten minutes later, soon peering down.
I told them, ‘Go south two hundred yards, snipe down. Swifty is down there somewhere.’
‘How come you fuckers got fresh food, eh?’ one of his troopers complained as they passed.
‘My Uncle Sam dropped it in.’
‘Who?’ came a voice.
‘Americans, you twat!’ Robby told the man, making me smile, the man’s teammates taking the piss out of him as they passed.
My phone trilled ten minutes later. ‘It’s Moran. Those Lynx coming back for us?’
‘Hope so, but you have Rocko with you, so no worries.’
‘They all fucked off, the fighters below us, just bodies now. We must have hit forty of them, hit their jeeps. They weren’t the most switched-on bunch.’
‘This lot down here have mortars, random shells landing, but just guesswork. I’m hoping they repair the Seahawk and fly it off, look bad for us otherwise.’
‘What the fuck…’ came from Moran.
‘What is it?’ I puzzled.
‘There’s an Mi24 attack helicopter! No, two!’
‘Get to cover!’ I shouted at both Moran and those near me.
‘No need.’
‘No need?’ I shouted.
‘They’re strafing what’s left of the idiots below us.’
‘They are?’ I puzzled.
‘Powering down the valley … wait … just hit a small vehicle convoy. Who’s helos are they?’
‘Fuck knows,’ I let out, staring north up the valley.
‘Rival warlord?’ Moran asked.
‘They don’t have any Mi24. Nearest would be from Ethiopia. I’ll get back to you.’
Phone down, I could hear the heavy drone, and five minutes later glimpsed the two angry Mi24s stalking in.
‘What the..?’ Henri let out as he stood tall.
The Mi24s growled down the valley, the roar of their blades resonating, and level with us the first Mi24 fired on the road camp south of us, soon the second Mi24 firing, the camp once again covered in smoke and dust.
‘These men below, they are not feeling loved today, no,’ Henri stated as we all stared wide-eyed down the valley, the Mi24’s now out of sight.
I called Franks. ‘It’s Wilco. Listen, there are Mi24 attack helicopters here -’
‘Mi24! Where’d the fuck they come from?’ he screamed.
‘No idea, but they’re on our side, so don’t engage them.’
‘On our side?’ he shouted.
‘They just shot up the fighters below us, right down the valley, can’t be too many idiots left alive down there.’
‘Some other warlord?’
‘Some other warlord … that you arseholes don’t know has Mi24’s, so make some calls. After you warn your pilots to leave them alone.’
My next call was Hunt.
‘Mi24’s?’ he screamed.
‘Calm down, they’re on our side.’
‘Our side!’
‘Looks like they were sent by some other warlord to settle a score.’
‘Aideed?’
‘He doesn’t have any.’
‘So who?’
‘You’re the intel chief, so make some calls, eh.’
‘I’ll get back to you. Safe for the Lynx?’
‘Yes, and an Mi24 would never catch a Lynx. Get Moran down here.’
I walked back to the centre camp, and to Stretch and Rizzo. ‘Rizzo, you could have got a ride out.’
‘Head is OK, kind of,’ Rizzo noted, sat lazily with his back to a rock, his rifle against that rock, a serious offence in the SAS regulars.
I sat with them, a brew soon on, a chat about the Mi24, and fifteen minutes later the whine of the Lynx was heard echoing off the hills.
‘Lynx for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Those Mi24 still around?’
‘Negative, long gone, but keep your eyes peeled.’
‘Last of your men with us, on approach.’
We all craned our necks around as the Lynx landed, Moran and Rocko out, Mitch and Slider, Smitty and Fuzz. Heads down, they ran over, the Lynx pulling up.
‘Lynx for Wilco, any targets of interest?’
‘Go east, see what you can see. Wilco out.’
Rizzo pointed at the rations, Rocko soon pulling out tins.
‘More like it,’ Rocko approved, tins handed to Slider.
‘Grab some rations, chill out,’ I told them. ‘We’re waiting to see who comes out to play.’
Moran sat on a rock, rifle cradled. ‘And those Mi24?’
‘Rival warlord, must be, and now the CIA will shit themselves wondering who has control of those Mi24. They could attack a ship.’
‘A worry, yes. That Seahawk a write-off?’ Moran asked, staring at our beached turtle.
‘No, just some tail damage.’
Half an hour later my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s David, and we’re very worried about the Mi24.’
‘Do you know who they belong to?’
‘No, and we checked with Ethiopia, and their squadron is on the deck gathering dust, all accounted for.’
‘There’s no one else around here that operates them,’ I pointed out.
‘Americans have drawn a blank as well, Aideed doesn’t know who sent them, so he’s worried as well.’
‘So long as they’re not shooting at me, fine.’
‘What about the operation now?’ David pressed.
‘We can move on that camp -’
‘No need, those Mi24 flattened it, and the village.’
‘They did? Shit…’
‘So I guess it’s mopping up, gather what intel you can.’
‘I’ll get paperwork off the dead, phones, see what’s left in that camp. Give me a few days. Wilco out.’
Phone away, Moran asked what we were doing.
‘For now, getting a tan; those Mi24 flattened that base for us.’
Men exchanged puzzled looks.
Swifty walked in half an hour later kicking up sand, the day warm now. ‘No one left alive below us, rest fucked off, so what’s the plan?’ He wiped his brow with a sleeve.
‘We hit the stragglers, get some paperwork, then go home,’ I told him as the lads lay around.
‘And those Mi24?’ Swifty pressed.
‘No one knows who sent them,’ I responded. My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Franks. Radio boys say they picked up some chatter from the Mi24, in Russian.’
‘I’ll make some calls, but they always have Russian pilots, no fucking Arabs flying them.’ I checked my watch and called Tomsk.
‘I was just going to bed!’ Tomsk complained.
‘Listen, ask around if anyone near Somalia has some Mi24 helicopters.’
‘Mi24? Very hard to get hold of!’
‘Ask anyway.’
‘OK, some quick calls and then I sleep, was a party at the club, Panama politicians.’
‘You are indeed the gracious host.’
Phone down, Rocko said, ‘That our friend in the nice villa?’
‘Yep.’
‘If you need us to go back there we’re ready, able and willing,’ Rocko offered, the lads laughing
.
‘Maybe someday soon, you never know,’ I offered them.
Ten minutes later, after I checked a cut on Smitty, Tomsk called back. ‘I know the man who knows that area and he says there are definitely no Mi24 near Somalia.’
‘Then I was assisted by two ghosts.’
‘They helped you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very fucking odd. Anyway, I’m off to bed.’
I called Franks, the lads listening in. ‘It’s Wilco. I just spoke to our good friend in Panama, who spoke to the Russian arms dealers for this region, and they assure me that there are definitely no Mi24 anywhere around here.’
‘Fucking ghosts then. Langley drew a blank, so yeah – ghosts.’
‘But helpful ghosts,’ I teased.
‘Some worried faces over here at the mention of Mi24, still at General Quarters. Captain uttered a few rude words at the mention of those Mi24. Langley wants you to find out who’s paying the fuel on those Mi24.’
‘Tomsk drew a blank, so I’ll call my other friends in low places. Wilco out.’
It fell quiet. In fact, it had been quiet since the Lynx had quit buzzing around and making a noise. Those Lynx had returned around midday – keen to get a medal, only to report fighters leaving the area, and Tinker reported radio intercepts from the French, from an Arab-Speaking DGSE guy, and that the price on our heads had been reduced to zero.
The lads slept in the heat after eating well, and at 3pm Franks finally arranged for a maintenance crew for the Seahawk. They set down with some loud top cover of F18s and had a look at the beached turtle as it sat there, my lads sat lazily observing the mechanics, the two pilots and their crewman having elected to return now that the danger had abated.
I got an hour’s sleep in the heat before I did the rounds, some of the lads taking pot shots at wounded men below, or abandoned jeeps below, wagers laid off about inventive shots.
At a respectable hour I called Libintov.
‘Ah, Petrov, how are you my dear friend?’
‘After some information. You know anything about the sale of Mi24 helicopters into Somalia?’
‘Mi24! You must be mad.’
‘Mad or not, they were in action today, a hundred miles from Mogadishu.’
‘Really? My god. I would love to get some, but they are rare, easy to spot and soon reported to the Americans.’