by Geoff Wolak
‘If all goes well, then by 2am we have everyone down, the FOB secured. We then wait till around 4am before launching the rescue. We aim to have the hostages back by 6am, so 6am is the time we expect to see two Hercules and two French C160 circling.
‘We’ll establish radio contact, and you’ll land in sequence, hostages taken onboard first, then soldiers and jeeps. Any questions?’
They exchanged looks, and we had been over this a dozen times already.
‘Weather forecast?’ I asked.
‘Clear tonight over the FOB, winds ten miles per hour, rain forecast for late afternoon tomorrow, some poor weather at the edge of the Dog Leg South.’
‘Good, thank you. And ... my team will be back at exactly 8am, so full English breakfast please.’ They laughed.
I took a call from Bob ten minutes later and he wished me luck, Moran testing his sat phone with the Duty Officer back in Hereford. Sergeant Crab checked his troop, Captain Hamble with him and now looking concerned at what he was about to do, the second troop checking kit, M16s to be used, grenade launchers fitted.
‘Hope I don’t have to rescue your sorry arse again,’ Crab told me.
I smiled. ‘If you do, I’ll get the curry and beer.’
‘Deal,’ he said.
Bob’s guy came and found me. ‘Apparently, some UNITA units left that town today, maybe for the border, so it may be working at last.’
‘Better late than never,’ I quipped. ‘No last minute intel?’
‘We’ve confirmed the ... liquid refreshments, that started lunchtime today, and most of the produce was handed out. Results will not be known till you get there.’
‘Well it all helps, rest is just luck,’ I told him.
The time came around soon enough, and I topped up my water bottles, a good drink taken, a pee taken, and I walked out with Henri and his seven men, the French falling into line with my seven, Tomo and Smitty watching us walk across the apron. Tomo would be stuck to Sergeant Crab for the duration.
Half my team joined the first loud Chinook – boxes in hands, half joined the second, plenty of room for all, Henri splitting his men between the two Pumas. We were spread out partly for risk, the risk of a helicopter going down, and partly for fuel efficiency and the weight of the helicopters. In the hold of the Chinook we found the emergency kit of the crew; ammo, rations and first aid kit, along with rifles and cammo netting and survival gear, even tents and sleeping bags.
With the ramp closing, the helo rolled forwards, an increase in power and we sped forwards, lifting gently, the nose down and arse end up, speed increasing, soon levelling off. I peered out the window, and I figured us to be travelling at just under 100mph, about three hundred feet off the deck, the second Chinook visible behind us and to the side.
Moving forwards along the darkened hold, I grabbed the spare headsets above the pilots. ‘All OK, sir?’
They glanced over their shoulders through the dark. ‘Damn well hope so,’ came back, the pilots in combat clothing, night sights fitted to helmets. ‘Checked it all enough times.’
‘Fuel, sir?’
‘To the brim, windscreen wiped, MOT and road tax up to date.’
‘Fingers crossed then,’ I said with a smile.
I sat down and stretched out my legs, folding my arms, the lads just dark outlines.
We hit a little turbulence after forty minutes, but nothing to worry us, and on the hour I went forwards, headset back on.
I heard, ‘Fox One to Heavy One, receiving, over.’ They waited. ‘Fox One to Heavy One, receiving over.’
Two minutes later a crackle came, ‘Heavy One to Fox one, package delivered, no signs of anyone at FOB, over.’
‘Fox One to Heavy One, safe flight. Out.’
‘The other helos would have heard that?’ I asked.
‘Should have, yes, but they’re following us.’
‘Flash the cabin lights with five minutes to go, sir.’
I sat back down, checked my watch, and thirty minutes later the lights flashed. Taking out a magazine I clipped it in, the lads copying, the ramp lowered with a blast of air, a bump and we were rolling down the FOB runway, a squeeze of the brakes and we were out and running, the roar of the second Chinook behind us, the Pumas on the grass and disgorging men.
Our ride powered up and turned off the runway and onto the dirt, the second Chinook copying, both powering down quickly. It grew quiet as our eyes adjusted to the dark.
I judged the wind direction, stood and peered through the dark, soon seeing a fluttering parachute. ‘Elkin, torch out, jog east down the runway and back, look for obstacles. Swifty, down the west and back. Call out if there’s something large that needs moving. Rest of you, on me!’ We jogged towards the supplies, men converging from the right.
We arrived at the same time, the parachute gently tugging at the pallet. ‘Cut the chute,’ I called. With my knife out I cut the pallet straps, dark figures helping, soon down to wooden boxes, sides unclipped, GPMGs pulled out and handed out.
Rocko took one, his rifle slung, and I used my torch to find the ammo tins, opening one and handing him a long chain of ammo as if placing a Hindu flower garland around his neck twice. He and Slider ran off to the access road.
With Stretch taking a GPMG, ammo handed over, he and Rizzo ran to the access road, to take position the other side of it. Henri found a second pallet, GPMGs handed out, and we were set for now, Henri’s men taking the north, the side away from the access road.
With Moran at my side I walked to the access road, seeing lights in the distance, houses maybe. We found an old gate, a falling down old hut, and a brick hut that had no roof, and so it was grabbed as a fire position.
I got on the radio. ‘Rizzo, flash your torch at me.’ I could see his position. ‘Rocko, same.’ I now knew where they were. ‘We’re in the brick shit-house building. Henri, you in position?’
‘Yes.’
‘Henri, check your aircraft radio, we have thirty minutes.’ I took out my sat phone and called the Major.
‘Major Bradley.’
‘It’s Wilco, sir, down and safe, all quiet, awaiting the second wave.’
‘Understood.’
‘Wilco out.’
I peered out through the dark, seeing small trees silhouetted, the access road hitting another road at right angles, trees beyond it. ‘OK everyone, watch out for lions.’
Moran laughed.
Rizzo came on with, ‘No one said anything out lions!’
‘That’s because there aren’t any, idiot.’
‘Fucker.’
With only the dark night of broken cloud and a few stars for company we waited, and strange set of smells on the breeze, soon a drone heard on that breeze.
‘This is Henri, aircraft on approach.’
‘Roger that, tell them it is clear to land, over.’ I lifted up. ‘Swifty, how’s that runway looking?’
‘Few holes in places, I moved some rocks, and there’s a dead ... something like a cow, but at the side.’
‘Elkin, report.’
‘I moved some rocks, some holes to watch I guess, but the centre where we were is the best, about a third of the way down.’
‘Henri, you got that?’
‘Yes, third of the way down is best.’ A minute later he came back on with, ‘This is Henri, I have spoken with them, they will aim at a third, one at a time.’
‘Roger that.’
I walked with Moran back to the pallet we had opened, and it was close enough to where we figured they would land anyhow, so we waited in the dark, crickets chirping away.
The rhythmical drone grew, and we soon saw the first Hercules, and whilst completely blacked out it landed with a screech of tires, powerful reverse thrust, ramp down, and boots could be heard as I flashed my torch, a jeep appearing and driving slowly towards us, two buggies pushed out the ramp and onto the dirt at the side of the runway.
A roar from the Hercules and it powered down the runway, lifting its nose in
what appeared to be no more than a hundred yards, and it banked left, the second Hercules not leaving any margin for error and hitting the deck before the first Hercules had turned, men and jeep out, another buggy, a roar and it was away as Swifty and Elkin jogged up, panting.
Sergeant Crab organised his troop as the French transports touched down, men out and running away from us, off to Henri, the second French group soon disgorged as I approached the RAF lads.
‘Fuel tank OK?’ I asked their dark outlines.
‘We’ll use it now and see, get the generator going.’
‘OK to use torches?’ came from a dark outline.
‘Yes, because if the bad guys are that close we’re fucked.’
I found Crab at his “command” jeep. ‘Be a love, find the other pallets, grab the GPMGs and ammo, taken them over to the French lads, then the water.’
As I opened grenade boxes, Moran opening up the smoke and CS gas boxes, Crab issued orders to two troopers, who drove off, their headlights on full, making me laugh. Still, there should not have been anyone close by, and not awake if they were. The second jeep was earnestly employed towing the fuel buggy and the generator, but very slowly.
Captains Moran, Hamble and the third guy made the supply pallet command central as a second pallet was dragged over to it by the jeep, soon two others, and that was all the pallets, something of a three-sided enclosure created. Tomo was helping out, and given the task of issuing supplies.
The troop Captains dispatched four troopers to the west end of the runway and beyond, four to the east end and beyond, rest to remain around the HQ area ready for action, but for now they got a brew on.
Next came the hard part, and I waited with Swifty at the brick building near the access road as a helicopter started up for a few minutes, followed by second helicopter. If there was anyone close buy they would have heard us long before now. We loaded grenades and smoke canisters from a bag at my feet, and I now carried four grenades, two smoke and two gas canisters, Swifty the same.
And we waited in the dark, just crickets for company.
Bored, I wandered over to Rizzo and Stretch and handed out grenades and gas canisters, soon ambling slowly to Rocko and Slider.
At 3.35am lights appeared, three sets, and I issued a general, ‘Stand to, vehicles approaching, they might be our local contacts. Henri, bring your team across now, please.’
Walking forwards, I cautiously met the convoy where the access road met the main road, and a man jumped down, soon standing in his own headlights. We approached, weapons levelled.
‘You are Vil-co?’ he asked, seemingly terrified, and covered in sweat. I could smell the man from where I stood.
‘Yes. You are who?’
‘I am Bon-a-rey.’ It was the correct name, and the correct number of trucks.
‘OK, wait here.’ I clicked on the radio. ‘Echo Detachment, swap GPMG positions with troopers. Sergeant Crab, send your men forwards to the GPMGs near the access road. Echo Detachment to the access road, our ride is here.’
I pulled out my sat phone and dialled.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘It’s Wilco, send the aircraft now, we’re about to get a ride into town, say thirty minutes, fifteen to get into the prison, ten to take it, thirty minutes for our choppers to come, thirty minutes back, so inside two hours – and that’s your flight time.’
‘We’ll send them off now, aim is still roughly 6am then. Good luck.’
Five minutes later I counted seven dark outlines, finally boots on tarmac as Henri arrived, a head count done. ‘Close in tight, on me. Kneel down. OK, first vehicle, six men, second vehicle six men, third vehicle is for you Henri.
‘Now listen up: these are beer lorries, full of beer bottles and maybe some coke, don’t touch any of it, I’ll shoot anyone who opens a bottle. Got that! Beer and soft drinks here are made from swamp water, and you will die.
‘I’m serious: any man from my detachment who touches a drink on the lorry is out the unit, and I’ll leave you behind. Henri, warn your men.
‘When we board, you move the crates aside and hide at the back. If we’re stopped, the drivers will allow the police at the checkpoint to take a crate or two from the rear. Just relax, but keep weapons ready. Any questions?’
‘We trust these fuckers?’ Rizzo asked.
‘No, but what choice do we have. Mount up.’ I clicked on radio. ‘Sergeant Crab, we’re leaving, hold the fort. And if you could sweep this access road before we have company that would be great.’
‘Fuck off,’ came back, laughter heard through the dark.
Swifty jumped up into the lorry first, but we found a side empty of crates after flicking on torches and so edged along it, soon dragging crates across to hide our position near the front of the truck. From the pitch-black hiding space we could see holes in the sides, so would be able to peer out, and I could see through a slat into the cab.
Sitting on a crate, I was nervous. This was all down to Bob and his local men, who had not filled me with confidence so far.
‘Henri, you inside?’
‘Yes, we are hidden.’
‘Rizzo?’
‘Yeah, we’re hidden. What’s wrong with this beer?’
‘Made from pond water, laced with ethanol and antifreeze. You’d be sick for a month, probably go blind. And I’d kick you out the unit and the regiment. That clear?’
‘Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on.’
The gears scraped, and we were off.
Swifty complained, ‘This is fucking dangerous.’
‘Only way in,’ I said, heaving a sigh. ‘Get comfy, we’ve got maybe up to an hour to kill.’
As we picked up speed and joined a main highway I kept an eye on the driver and on the road, a few cars passing us. Fifteen minutes in, and we approached our first roadblock, a lazy soldier waving us down and raising a barrier.
Words were exchanged, a few more words, and the driver jumped out. The rear opened and we ducked down behind the crates, a few louder words, and a crate was taken. Rear closed, door slammed, gears scraped, we set off, and I heaved a sigh of relief – it had worked well.
Another fifteen minutes and I saw the roadblock, an armoured personnel carrier in the road, three soldiers stood looking bored. Words were again exchanged, the rear opened, two crates handed over, and off we went.
‘If they keep nicking his load he’ll have nothing left to sell,’ Swifty noted. ‘And we’ll run out of hiding space.’
‘Squeeze down the side, put some crates on the back by the door, save them looking back here,’ I told Swifty.
A town appeared fifteen minutes later, and we took a back route in along side roads, but again we approached a roadblock and squeaked to a halt. Words were exchanged, now angry words, and the rear was opened as we made ready, a number of crates taken at gunpoint, our poor driver stood with his hands up.
Driver’s door slammed, gears scraped, we pulled off, and five minutes later I started to recognise streets, soon seeing the prison in the distance. I clicked on the radio. ‘We’ll be there in two minutes.’
I pulled out my sat phone and dialled.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘It’s Wilco, foxes arrived at the chicken coup safely. Status of aircraft?’
‘Birds are in the air.’
‘Roger that. Wilco Out.’ Dialling again, I got Crab. ‘It’s Wilco, we’re going to hit the prison in five minutes, launch the helos now. Acknowledge.’
‘Roger that, launching helos now.’
In nervous silence we bounced along a side road, and I knew exactly which road it was, still a few people awake at this hour and sat outside houses, men that appeared homeless sat around a fire near the rubbish dump. Reaching the back wall of the prison we squeaked to a halt.
‘Now! Go!’ I urged, the crates moved, the rear noisily pulled up, and we jumped down in the shadow of the prison wall, soon in the bushes near the rubbish dump, all faces covered in sweat. The trucks revved, belched smok
e and pulled away, disappearing around a corner and out of sight. Apart from crickets and a distant dog barking, it was all quiet.
‘In your teams, take position.’ I moved with Swifty, Moran and Elkin to the left, our target doors in view, and I could see Rizzo and Stretch close in on the doors. By now, Henri and his team should be covering the next road over.
In front of me sat the north side of the prison, its old grey wall separating us from the hostages, a few high windows seen, grills on them. I could see the commander’s officers and the flag pole, and at the end of the street sat a brightly lit main road, the occasional vehicle passing. To my left sat shanty houses, plenty of dogs barking somewhere, a few lights on. I could even smell cooking.
Along the street, and behind us, grew plenty of trees and bushes, and the pong from the dump hit us. Looking up, and expecting a few guards to be visible, there were none, at least none we could see. I observed moths flittering around a light for a moment.
‘Henri, report.’
‘All quiet, only a stray dog.’
Moran asked, ‘We try and get in quietly?’
‘No, we hit them fast, intel has changed, hostage doors are weak.’ I clicked on the radio. ‘Team one, go. Team two, move up, team three close in.’
Stretch moved up with Rizzo, five yards, and they examined the doors, charges placed on each. With a nod they snapped fuses, running back around the corner.
The blasts seemed much louder than expected, maybe because it was night time and quiet, a hundred dogs barking as we moved forwards and into the smoke. Rizzo was first in, followed by Stretch, Rocko and Slider, and we all made it in before a shout was given, a man shot by Rizzo.
I scrambled up onto the cell roof with Elkin, our assigned position, and I aimed at the commander’s office, seeing no movement yet. A light came on, a face peering out, and I hit the man twice, smashing the window and knocking him back.
A burst of fire, and I could see Rizzo shooting out high windows at the barracks, three men tossing grenades in. A hell of an echo came out, more grenades tossed in, lights switched on.