by Geoff Wolak
Bored, I clicked on my radio. ‘Rocko, what can you see?’
‘Everything, got a great fucking view up here, we can cover all the yard down there, and see out right across the mine.’
‘You’re our eyes and ears, so in the morning sing out any movement. Sergeant Crab, you hear me?’
‘Just about, poor signal,’ came back.
‘Rizzo, how you doing?’
‘We’re up on the roof, flat roof with a small wall so no fucker can see us. Terrible smell of cooking, making us hungry.’
‘Rocko, you see the front gate?’
‘Kindof, it’s behind a big mound. I can see the gate, and a part of the gate house.’
‘Have someone watch the gate and road, someone looking south, we could do with some warning.’
Time moved slowly, it always did when you were alert and ready instead of relaxing, and water dripped down on us in a rhythmical pattern.
I tapped our reporter’s leg and pointed at the medic from Angola. ‘He was with us in Angola, lost a good friend killed right in front of him – a lady, and he lost it a bit, but he got himself fit and volunteered for this. Be a good human-interest story.’
They started chatting quietly, and our reporter got himself a good story over the next hour.
I stretched my legs every hour, stretched my back, twisting as I sat there, and at several points I stood at the rear and stretched my legs, a patrol of the line, whispered comments to the lads, a long chat with Henri about tactics here, vintage French cars, and the pros and cons of nudist beaches.
As the sky turned dark blue I eased out and stretched, a wet red arse from sitting in the damp ore, and I was keen to get started. Weapon checked, and re-checked, I felt my bandolier, touched my pistol, and wondered what would happen – and what would go wrong.
A digger started up, catching our attention, and it drove off south.
With the dawn coming up, the risk of getting seen increased. I eased down and clicked on my radio. ‘Listen up. Dawn is coming up, stay down, stay hidden, no peeking out, just Rocko for our eyes and ears.’
Half an hour later and I was worried, it was getting very light, and soon the workers would start the conveyor above our heads.
A dull blast registered.
‘Report!’ I urgently got out, peeking out.
‘It’s Rizzo, small blast inside the accommodation, smoke coming out.’
‘It’s a fucking decoy!’ I shouted. ‘Get ready. Rocko, any vehicles?’
‘There’s three jeeps coming in the south, a lorry at the front gate.’
‘This could be it. Rocko, sing it out.’
‘It’s Rizzo, the workers are moving outside, lining up.’
‘Playing right into the hands of the fighters,’ I said.
‘Wait, there’re two men with AK47, workers being held. They were inside.’
‘Shoot them!’
Cracks sounded out, our reporter desperately trying to photograph the action with his long lens.
‘Sergeant Crab, go, go, go!’
Rizzo came on with, ‘The workers are running back inside, can’t see any gunmen.’
‘It’s Rocko, jeeps approaching from the south, truck from the north.’
‘Everyone get ready, take fire positions, target that truck but wait the signal. Rizzo, target those jeeps if they get close – but watch out for civvys.’
I adopted my rifle and peered through the telescopic sight at workers running around, two bodies on the ground, a jeep starting up and tearing off.
Swinging left, I could see the truck approaching, three men in the cab. It eased to a halt near the bodies, and the passengers jumped down, rifles in hand.
‘Open fire!’
The crackle sounded out, the attackers hit and spun, the truck windscreen shattered, the rear canvas cover torn up, men jumping down but not getting very far, each hit a dozen times from several angles and doing a little dance.
‘Jeeps coming up,’ Rizzo reported. ‘They stopped, they’re turning around.’
‘Hold your fire, they could be civvys.’
‘It’s Rizzo, one man got down from the jeep, AK47.’
‘Fire on them!’
The crackle in the yard finally eased.
‘Up and forwards!’ I shouted, head ducked under the conveyor, soon scrambling over the red ore-dust mound and running forwards, men to either side of me.
A burst of GPMG fire came from the north, soon a second.
‘Sergeant Crab, report!’ I called as the lads checked bodies, our keen reporter taking snaps, faces peering out at us.
‘We killed four of them, coming down to you, what’s happening?’
‘We killed them all here, go past us and south, three jeeps making a break for it. Go fast.’
A minute later his jeep tore past us and on, soon followed by the others, but I waved down the Paras and closed in on them. ‘Go back, check the area north, guard that gate!’
They turned in a circle, throwing up red dust, and sped north to the gate. Turning, a tall man in a white shirt strode purposefully forwards, his hands up, taking in my lads, and the bodies.
‘I’m the mine manager,’ he shouted, accented.
People pointed him towards me.
‘I’m the mine manager,’ he repeated. ‘Who in blazes is you?’
‘British SAS.’
‘How’d you get yer so quick?’
‘We’ve been hidden here for days, we had a tip off about an attack.’
‘What! Then why the fuck not warn us, we have injured men!’
‘Because two of your men arranged the attack, we couldn’t show ourselves.’
‘They arranged it?’ He looked at the two dead gunmen, the first two to die.
‘We intercepted their calls out.’
He strode over to a body and landed a good kick to the balls, the lads smiling at each other.
Rocko came running up behind me. ‘Well that saves on ammo, just kick the fuckers,’ he puffed out.
Slider came around to me. ‘Twenty men in the lorry, some wounded and alive.’
‘Drag them all out, be careful,’ I ordered, taking out my sat phone.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco, we intercepted the raiders, mopping up now, no casualties as far as I can see, but send that Puma.’
‘I’ll get the French to contact it now.’
I observed as both bodies and wounded were dragged off the lorry unceremoniously and dropped. ‘Patch up the wounded, I want prisoners.’
The mine workers had come out to see the show, and stood around asking questions, looking at bodies, the Puma loudly announcing its arrival and setting down in a cloud of red dust, medics stepping down.
I clicked on my radio. ‘Sergeant Crab, report.’
‘We pasted them, but we got a lad wounded.’
‘Get him back up here, we got a chopper ready.’ I waved forwards the medics. ‘Check the rebels, I want them alive, but we’ve got a wounded man coming up.’
When Crab burst upon the scene, red dust spewed up as he skidded to a halt, I sent our RAF medic to him, a trooper with an arm wound. Walking over, I thumbed the medic and his patient towards the waiting Puma. ‘Work on him in the helo. Go.’
The mine manager and his mine doctor appeared, a man on a stretcher directed to the Puma, three wounded rebels loaded aboard, but with their hands and legs tied. Still, they looked to be in no shape to put up a fight.
The remainder of the SAS jeeps pulled up, soon a great many people milling around doing nothing, the Puma sent off in a blast of red dust, everyone recoiling and covering faces. It grew quiet.
The Paras reported in that they had shot up a jeep full of armed men. I jumped onto Crab’s jeep and we tore up dirt heading north half a mile. At the main gate I found a jeep full of holes, a mass of bloodied bodies inside, most displaying webbing or a rifle. They had picked an argument with two GPMGs at close range, and had lost.
‘Stay here,’ I
told the Paras, and we drove back. Grabbing Henri, I had him grab a few lads and head back to our own jeeps, to bring them around here. About to walk off, I radioed the Paras at the gate, and informed them of our jeeps coming forwards – and not to shoot.
I found the mine manager being interviewed by our reporter, notes taken.
‘You have plastic bags for the bodies?’ I asked him.
He looked past me, then shouted orders.
‘They’ll need to go on a truck, for the police and army to look at,’ I told him.
He nodded.
‘More at the south gate, some at the main gate. Was probably forty men in all.’
‘They would have butchered us all,’ he spat out. ‘Fucking Twareg scum.’
‘It is their country, old chap,’ I mocked him, and I sipped my water as Rocko and Rizzo closed in.
‘We pasted ‘em,’ Rizzo noted.
‘We were lucky – good and timely intel and a badly planned attack,’ I insisted.
Rocko dusted himself down, red dust everywhere. ‘Hope this ain’t uranium ore.’
‘What next?’ Rizzo asked.
‘We wait, just in case there’s some other fuckers out there that slept in late and are on their way.’
Our jeeps trundled in ten minutes later and formed a line, the SAS putting their jeeps next to them as men sat about waiting.
When my sat phone trilled it was Bob. ‘Hey Bob, how’s the weather in London?’
‘Grey.’
I laughed. ‘I’d swap, it’s red here.’
‘A good result I hear.’
‘Yes, just the one SAS lad wounded, he’s off on the chopper, most of the local bad boys dead, a few wounded and sent back. And our embedded reporter - he’ll have a hell of a story to send out.’
‘Well, it sets them back, yes.’
‘Thanks to your intel, Bob.’
‘Thanks to GCHQ intel – I am sure they will insist, despite me nagging for their help.’
I laughed. ‘They get a pat on the back from me.’
‘Oh, new colonel has been selected, and I checked him out, no skeletons in the closet as far as we can see.’
‘Always good to know. Who is he?’
‘Rawlson, Paras. He was third on the list, second candidate moved his family to Germany and doesn’t want the upheaval of moving them back.’
‘I’ll meet him when I get back.’
‘Or sooner.’
‘Sooner..?’
‘He’s flying out with a few senior officers.’
‘Am I in trouble for hitting SAS lads?’ I quipped.
‘I hope not, maybe they want some time out of the office.’
We hung around till noon, no further attacks materialising, and finally wished the mine manager well as we set off in a long line, a reverse course. We stopped on a lonely stretch at midnight, a brew on, fuel tanks topped up from cans, men peeing in the sand and stretching legs, and we trundled back into base just before sun up, our hero reporter snoring away quite happily in the back.
Tired jeeps were shut down, and tired bodies lay down, many covered in red dust.
I woke around noon, the base quiet, men sleeping, and I slipped out quietly and headed first to the medical tent. I found it empty. ‘What happened to our wounded guy?’
‘Puma refuelled here, then flew to the coast, and the prisoners are in some military hospital,’ the head surgeon informed me.
‘That arm of his OK?’ I asked.
‘Should be OK by all accounts, bone was not smashed.’
Hearing a Hercules land, I walked around, rifle in hand, but with no bandolier or webbing on, finding Captain Harris and our logistics officer stood waiting the flight, ground handlers ready.
I stopped and observed the Hercules as it was directed in, and anyone still asleep would be awake now. Its engines shut down after the rear ramp had lowered, a group of eight men striding forwards and taking in the base.
I recognised the mandarin from the Join Intel Committee, and a staff officer that worked with General Dennet, the rest I didn’t recognise.
Those of us lined up saluted as the guests drew close, but I was the only one with a rifle in his hand – and looking dirty, smelly and shabby.
I faced General Dennet’s man. ‘Hello again, sir, been a while.’
‘It has, and I bet there are no nice hotels for you in this hell hole.’
I smiled. ‘If you gentlemen are staying the night we might have some camp beds for you, little else.’
‘No, we’re only here an hour or so, fact finding mission,’ he said. He turned, ‘This is your new CO, Colonel Rawlson.’
I shook his hand, a fit and strong looking man with an intense stare, plenty of wrinkles around his eyes. ‘Welcome aboard, sir.’
‘Good to finally put a face to the name, I’ve heard many of the stories.’
The other officers introduced themselves, and I introduced Captain Harris and our logistics guy.
‘Rest of the men are just waking up, they were in action yesterday, twelve hour drive back, got back before dawn. Let’s get you some tea and coffee.’
I led them to the command room and got the kettle on.
‘Been following The Sun newspaper with a keen interest,’ Rawlson told me, taking in the maps. ‘Most publicity the SAS have had since the Gulf I guess, as much as the Iranian Embassy siege, and recruitment is way up for the Army and for us. Good for the damn paper as well I bet, circulation is up.’
Captain Harris put in, ‘This morning’s paper had a six page spread apparently, sir, the entire operation. The reporter embedded with us has a digital camera and a machine to send images via satellite, so they got some good images at the mine. They syndicated it, and many of the broadsheets have the story of the attack at the mine.’
‘Good job it went off well then,’ Rawlson curtly noted.
‘Luck, sir, and some good timely intel,’ I told him. ‘The GCHQ spies put a device near that mine and picked up the chatter.’
He nodded. ‘And the rest of the operations here?’
‘We sent out jeep patrols, sir, but ran into roadside bombs, literally ran into them - we were blown off our feet twice, lucky no one was killed. They like to have a man at the end of a long wire.
‘We then switched to OPs, and one OP noticed a bomb crew, killed them, and we have two Cessnas here – four of my lads fly – so we’ve had roving patrols, and we spotted a bomb crew and ambushed them.’
‘Your men fly?’ Rawlson puzzled as the men stood about the large map table, tea and coffee handed out, sugar lumps dropped in.
‘They’ve had flying lessons for some time, sir, they could pass their Private Pilot’s License exam. I figured it a useful skill, and we have a good budget.’
‘Indeed, and that budget ... is set by whom?’
‘It’s set by your opposite number in Mi6, the head of operations, Bob Staines. Myself and my team do not, sir, work for you, you’re our landlord, a marriage of convenience.’
‘How so?’ he curtly pressed as tea and coffee was sipped.
‘Back in the day, Mi6 had SOE, but Harold Wilson shut them down, then “E” Squadron appeared and was a kind of replacement, but Mi6 could call on any serviceman to help out. Recently, what Mi6 desired was their own SOE again, but the Army - and your predecessor, were very much against that since such a unit would leave the SAS with little to do between wars – the lads would go stale.’
He nodded. ‘So a compromise was reached.’
‘Yes, sir. Some of my lads are yours on loan, some SBS, a few other units, and you’re our landlord. My detachment is, technically, SAS as far as the world at large is concerned – and you get the credit.’
‘And the blame if something goes wrong,’ he pointed out, a few faces turning towards him.
I made a face. ‘History of the SAS is a distorted pile of shite, a long list of fuck-ups made to look like great victories. Sir.’
He stared back. ‘Reputations not lived up to.’
‘And your lot?’
‘Sensible, yet ... they like the action, and they’re the best the British Army has to offer, plus a Kiwi and two French Paras. If I tell them to run down a machinegun nest they will.’
He nodded, assessing me, tea mug held high. ‘And discipline is tight?’
‘Not really, but it’s far better than regulars, sir. You’d be lucky if your regulars saluted and called your sir.’
‘SAS tradition,’ he noted with a sigh.
‘Bollocks.’ His eyes widened. ‘French special forces salute, so do ... every other country’s special forces, sir. A while back I had a trooper kick my car window in and give me the finger after Major Bradley charged him, instead of him saluting me. That doesn’t happen with other armies, sir.’
‘No, quite. And we have a trooper making a complaint against you for hitting him and threatening to shoot him.’ He waited.
‘The soldier asked me if I would be popping out to rape the local girls. What would happen to that man in the French Army? I’ll tell you, sir, he’d be court martialled and get six months in prison. Major Bradley would have given him a twenty quid fine and a warning.’
‘And your men?’ the JIC man asked.
I focused on him. ‘Would never talk to an officer like that, any officer, they know what I would do to them. To my mind, a good attitude is better than being a good shot. Give me a group of men with good attitudes ... and I’ll give you back good soldiers, sir.’
‘You’ve already given us that, and they earn the newspaper inches,’ the man noted. ‘Recruitment had been in decline, a sudden surge now as young men read of your exploits.’
‘We’ve had a run of luck, sir, but it won’t last,’ I firmly told him. ‘I missed two roadside bombs by thirty yards, so my luck will run out soon enough.’
‘Hopefully not yet,’ he quipped.
Rawlson asked, ‘Why are there Paras and SBS here, and not our lot?’
‘It was decided, at a political level, that as many units as possible work and train with me and accompany me on jobs like this, so that the men in other units get some wartime experience in peacetime, and that those other units get some pride and some recruitment benefit.