I could see my two corpsmen hard at it, plus French medics – many of the locals speaking French, the American Press Corp officers also hard at it - and filming everything.

  ‘Still in one piece?’ I asked them.

  The captain glanced at my shoulder rank. ‘Major Wilco. And yes, but a close call with those damn mortars, thought the building would collapse.’ He pointed up. ‘Don’t like being close to that damn tower either. It don’t exactly look safe up there.’

  ‘Film your Marines quickly then, Seals from behind, get it out there and milk it.’

  ‘We’ve already sent out enough for a two-hour special, they had the kit inside and a transmitter, so we’ve sent out hours of film. We caught the APC, and the helicopter attack, mortars coming in, and it aired on CNN an hour ago.’

  ‘And the faces of my men?’ I pressed.

  ‘The Pentagon told us we’d face a firing squad, so relax, sir, all distant shots. You know they intercepted your radio messages?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard. Any … problems there?’

  ‘Quite the opposite, they love you!’ he said with a smile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They quoted you as you threatened men with an enquiry for shooting civilians. They put together a half-hour segment, and syndicated it to every African nation. If has the action on the rooftop, your words spoken and then transcribed below.’

  ‘Oh.’ I glanced at Swifty in his facemask.

  ‘There was a few swear words in there,’ Swifty noted.

  ‘Edited out, Africans don’t like swear words,’ the captain told us.

  Swifty told him, ‘They like hacking each other up with fucking machetes though!’

  ‘We caught some murders on tape, civilians killing each other, but it’ll never air.’

  ‘Lookout!’ came a shout.

  I turned my head left, a shiny-faced black with a pistol, and it was aimed right at us. His head exploded a second later, his body flung sideways, women screaming.

  ‘Crab for Wilco, you OK down there?’

  ‘Yeah, and thanks. Stay sharp.’

  The body was moved by the medics and bagged up, and calm reclaimed the streets, Swifty holding his pistol ready, his rifle slung.

  I was pointed out, a short fat local man in a suit approaching. ‘Major Vilco, I am the station manager.’ He shook my hand vigorously with both of his. ‘Thank you, Major, thank you, you saved us.’

  ‘We had our orders, so thank the British Government.’

  He raised a pointed finger. ‘We have reported on your rescues in Sierra Leone and Liberia, and Mauritania. A great pleasure to finally meet you.’

  ‘Then do something for me. Have your people go around and check each apartment close-by, look for wounded civilians, and make a register of names and addresses, and missing people.’

  ‘We will do it, yes, I have many people.’ And he trotted off, a shout at his camera crew, who then focused on me. I focused on Parker as he dug out a long metal shard from a shoulder wound, stitches begun.

  I heard a baby crying, many faces turning, a lady medic – an RAF corporal, bringing out the baby in a small blanket and – oddly enough – handing it to me with a smile, the damn TV crew closing in.

  A beaming local, the father, asked what my name was.

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘After the angel, yes. I will call him Michael.’

  I showed the baby to the TV camera. Baby handed back, I handed the father $200. ‘For food, for the baby.’

  He was stunned, but pocketed the money anyway.

  My phone trilled, so I found a quiet spot, Swifty and the lads surrounding me, eyes everywhere. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Admiral Jacobs.’

  ‘Just how much shit was thrown your way, sir?’

  ‘Several tonnes, and it keeps coming.’

  ‘Well expect a reversal of fortune, because peace has broken out here, your military reporters got out hours of footage – it’s on the news in the States, and the local TV reporters love us to bits, not least because I have my men giving first aid and delivering babies.’

  ‘Well that’s something, yes, a silver lining.’

  ‘And the F18..?’

  ‘A lot of raised voices, Pentagon screaming, White House ready to shoot someone, but they’ve calmed down, little they could do. The pilot is suspended from duty, he’ll get a tonne of shit. Experienced men, both of them, should never have clipped each other.’

  ‘The President’s replacement is on his way, from Ghana, I just hope the people like him.’

  ‘How is it there?’

  ‘People dancing in the streets, beer offered to my men,’ I reported.

  ‘Well that’s something, makes us look welcome – and we don’t exactly have a history of being made welcome in Third World countries!’

  ‘There’s something you don’t know, and keep it to yourself and Colonel Mathews, but when your planes hit the mortars – you killed Russian advisors.’

  ‘What the fuck were they doing there?’

  ‘Up to no good, now dead and buried.’

  ‘Just as well, screw ‘em. Moscow got its fingers burnt here.’

  ‘Hopefully they learnt a lesson, a costly one.’

  ‘CIA here are discussing it, their involvement, but not much we can do.’

  ‘We can keep them out of the region, and maybe then it’ll be a quieter region.’

  ‘Ha! Chat later, Major.’

  Half an hour later the Marines landed a field hospital, set-up on the ground level of the TV station, and when I poked my head in after dark they had a dozen doctors and surgeons hard at it, the locals being well looked after – TV cameras rolling. Facemask on, I asked about the local hospital, and the TV station manager told me that it was expensive – and that the rich doctors had all fled.

  Back up on our roof I had the Veteran Wolves on stag and forbidden to drink as the rest sampled the local beer and the numerous offerings of home cooked food, music playing. Rizzo was seen with a local girl, a cute curvy one, and he disappeared for an hour, Slider shaking his head – and informing me that Rizzo always had condoms in his webbing.

  Stood with Swifty, I was jealous of Rizzo, we both were, but we agreed that African girls with AIDS should be avoided, condom or not.

  After midnight the locals started to go home, and we all tried to get some rest, a few blankets having been donated, cushions, and the rain was holding off.

  Shots rang out at 2am, looters wounded, and at 4am two armed men were shot dead in the street. I was not overly concerned given the factional fighting here.

  The dawn found me up and peeing, my pee entering a rooftop drain, but when I peered over the wall it was hitting a car below. ‘Sorry,’ I quietly told no one in particular, and I glanced at our make-do bridge across to the TV station. At their end the Marines had secured it with rope, but I was not confident of their rope holding the tower in a storm.

  Men started to stir as the sun came up, and today would be the first day of good sunshine. Also, there was a real absence of gunfire on the breeze.

  After breakfast I had the APCs moved by Casper, the burn-out bus nudged aside, the other buses parked near the TV station for the marines to use when they left.

  I was stood with a brew in hand when the blast sounded out, and looking north I could see a street shrouded in smoke, a huge car bomb blast having hit three blocks up. Everyone inside a ten mile radius heard the blast. And a minute ago the street had been busy with early morning shoppers, civilians.

  As people fled screaming I transmitted, ‘Wilco to all teams, get down there and get the wounded back up here. Move it!’ Turning, I shouted, ‘British Wolves stay here, snipers here, get looking for trouble!’

  The remainder ran to the stairwell and down.

  I called SIS. ‘It’s Wilco in Guinea. Update to all interested parties, large car bomb has gone off near us, a hundred wounded civilians. Tell everyone in Guinea to stay sharp. And ask what our fucking orders are because that car bomb could have got some of my men! Do we stay or go, because the job is done here.’

  Observing from the rooftop I could see wounded walking in, some carried in, bodies brought down to the field hospital, Morten and his team suddenly very busy, the American medics rushing around.

  When my phone trilled it was David. ‘We’re reviewing the situation, and we fear a car bomb, but your men are up on the rooftops.’

  ‘There are thirty medics down on the fucking street!’

  ‘And we’d rather they not be hurt, so the Prime Minister is being advised as we speak. Can we … move those medics?’

  ‘After they get rid of the current wounded, yes, back to the south, if there is any safer against sneak attacks.’

  ‘It should be, there are roadblocks.’

  I observed the wounded brought down the street, my men returning to the rooftop in small groups, many washing off blood.

  Moran drew alongside me. ‘Hell of a mess up there, body parts everywhere, arms and legs. More dead than during the fighting here.’

  ‘I’ve given London a nudge to pull us out, as well as the medics below.’

  ‘That car bomb could have got the medics, all of them,’ Moran noted, and we exchanged a worried look.

  Half an hour later the Prime Minister was on. ‘Major, what’s the situation on the ground?’

  ‘The situation is … that we’re now playing at being policemen in an insurgency, and about to lose a lot of men, our Prime Minister about to get a tonne of shit from the media, his ratings heading down the toilet.’

  ‘Don’t hold back, Major, speak your mind.’

  ‘I always do, sir, and you’re about to get some serious shit from the African Union for empire-building down here. Many have tried, all failed badly.’

  ‘There have been a few louds words here about that very matter.’

  ‘Do I still have operational control on the ground, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we’re leaving. Wilco out.’ I cut the call and got through to Captain Harris. ‘Organise helos or planes for a withdrawal, fast as you can, we’re leaving - back to Sierra Leone.’

  ‘OK, I’m on it.’

  I transmitted, ‘Wilco to all teams, we are withdrawing, group and get ready, get those buses below us ready to use. American Wolves drive south, buses come back, as soon as ready.

  ‘Marines to assist the American medics to pack up kit. Any wounded still under our care get bussed south or to the local hospital. Move fast, everyone.’

  I observed from the street as wounded on stretchers were placed aboard the two remaining buses, the American medics complaining about having to move their patients. One was a Lt. Col. and a surgeon, and not a happy bunny.

  I shouted, ‘Mister, if you’re still stood there an hour from now you’ll be dead, your entrails up the fucking wall. Then who’ll care for the wounded on that bus? Get moving, or I’ll shoot you in the foot!’

  He encouraged his team, Marines and Seals pitching in, and with buses full of wounded - jeeps borrowed from TV staff as well as kind locals, the convoy set off south, just a few miles to cover.

  Morten and his team were packing up, but still working on wounded as those wounded mostly walked themselves down to us, many with simple arm injuries or head cuts. The French walked in as one large group and ducked into the TV station as they waited, and I counted five men with bandages on heads, a few with bound arms or hands.

  Back up on the rooftop I had my snipers check the area, but it was quiet.

  ‘Whose car bomb?’ Mitch posed.

  ‘Some Army officer wanting power in the current vacuum, and thinking that the best way to achieve that is to keep the people scared, the daily life here disrupted. It’s the mentality of a street gang. But this is the middle class area, and they probably vote for a different candidate to the people up in the slums. Left and right wing candidates, same the world over.’

  ‘And where’s the fucking fire brigade?’ Rizzo complained. ‘They sleeping?’

  ‘No, they’re avoiding getting themselves killed - and hiding under the bed,’ I told him.

  My phone trilled. Gorskov. ‘Da!’

  ‘I have some information, and I hoped to get a little … money for it.’

  ‘Depends on the information, but if it helps someone then that someone will pay I’m sure.’

  ‘I have a man who got me some information about a fixer in Greece, illegal pipelines, people smuggling, drugs, all sorts. I had the fixer bugged, thinking it might net me something useful. There is a truck, name on the side is EuroTrans, blue truck, passing through Switzerland soon heading for Paris, bomb on board.’

  ‘You just made yourself some money. I’ll get back to you shortly.’

  I called SIS. ‘It’s Wilco in Guinea, emergency message for the French Government. There’s a blue truck with the name EuroTrans on the side, passing through Switzerland for Paris, bomb on board. Contact them immediately. Tell David Finch that the tip-off came from my friends in low places.’

  I turned to find Henri and Sambo back with us. ‘I just got a tip-off, truck bomb heading for Paris, came from Greece.’

  ‘Related to the fighting here?’ he puzzled with a deep frown.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t think so.’

  Ten minutes later, after checking with me, the French walked south in two long lines, spaced apart, weapons ready, eyes everywhere. I had the American Wolves come to me as we waited some helicopters.

  The screech was quiet, not reminding me of a mortar, three buildings north of us hit, huge blasts, my men soon face down. The sound of something metal hitting our roof had me up and looking, a tail fin rolling to a stop.

  ‘Those are rockets, seven miles out!’ I shouted. I stood tall. ‘American Wolves, follow the French down the road south, and double time! Sergeant Crab, move it! SAS regulars follow on, Echo men to the medics!

  We bumped shoulders as we ran into the stairwell – leaving behind the stacked supplies, soon clattering down the stairs and finally onto the street, the RAF medics packing up, Marines and Seals emerging from the TV station.

  I shouted at them. ‘Form teams, move south on the double! Go!’

  They got their men together, many with huge backpacks and two rifles, and started tabbing south after the Wolves. The Seals came out last, a headcount done, my veteran Wolves now sent south – a break between the teams, the Seals walking with heavy kit bags – and complaining about the lack of vehicles or helos.

  Morten was still tending wounded, so I had Echo split either side of the street as we waited, the lady medics packing up kit.

  ‘Leave the tents and camp beds,’ I told them. ‘We’ll come back for them or get them sent down.’

  The blast had us diving down, and the rocket had landed just a hundred yards north, windows blown out, cars set on fire, the locals seen fleeing.

  I eased up. ‘Mister Morten, you have approximately seven minutes, next salvo to land right where you’re stood.’

  He sent off his final two wounded, but they were keen to leave the area anyhow, the TV station manager offering to assist, a jeep driven around. Camp beds, kit bags and a hastily folded tent were thrown in the back with three lady medics sat on top of it, and it sped off south.

  ‘Wilco to anyone remaining near the TV station, move off south on the double, headcount your teams.’

  I led them into the middle of the road and set the pace at a fast walk, the medics burdened with heavy backpacks.

  ‘Mister Morten. Those exercises you do, walking with heavy backpacks, well they’re for just this eventuality. So sweat a little.’

  Many of my lads grabbed kit off the medics, and we made good time, the corners covered, the rooftops nervously glanced at as the locals nervously glanced at us, kids waving, a few pedestrians stopping to stare.

  ‘We missed that,’ Swifty shouted.

  ‘What?’ I puzzled.

  He pointed. The neon sign said “Massage Parlour”. ‘Massage with a happy ending,’ he shouted.

  I shouted back, ‘The happy ending would be your watch still on and no disease!’

  Three hundred yards down the road my radio buzzed. ‘Chinook for Wilco.’

  ‘Wilco here, wave-off, wave-off, leave the area, incoming rockets!’

  ‘Chinook, Wilco, roger.’

  ‘Wilco, Chinook, meet us south at the choke point in half an hour.’

  ‘Chinook, Wilco, roger.’

  I could see them fly over, south of us, and turn around, back to the airport. The blasts had us kneeling, and glancing over my shoulder I could see the TV station entrance shrouded in smoke, our original rooftop having been hit.

  ‘Good timing,’ Morten noted. But he looked horrified when he said it, struggling with his heavy backpack. ‘I missed that plane crashing into the President’s house by ten minutes, missed that car bomb, missed those rockets by seven minutes. The time window is getting smaller.’

  ‘Pick up the pace!’ I shouted at the stragglers, but our pace was being set by the medics.

  Coming up to seven minutes I had them disperse to shop entrances and side streets, the blasts hitting rooftops north of us, the locals traumatised. Moving on, we were soon seeing tall apartment blocks south and east a little, the buildings starting to thin out, parks seen, even kids playing, people going about their daily lives as if nothing was amiss.

  The next salvo did not follow us south but again hit the TV station area, and by time we reached the choke point I had lost count of the number of rockets.

  Many of the teams had waited for us on a patch of waste ground, and as I drew near the Chinooks were back, but with four Sea Hawks.

  ‘Wilco, Chinooks, take the French teams back to the airport. French teams, split across the helos – and thank you for your assistance here. Travel safely.’

  ‘Liban for Wilco, where is my bottle of wine, eh?’

  ‘Same place as your kiss on the cheeks. Get your men to the airport and call Paris. Seals and Marines, any space on the helos is for you – but I have no idea where you’re headed to next. ’

  ‘Seals for Wilco, we’re staying with the embassies for a while.’

  ‘Thanks for your assistance, and thank the medics for me.’

  I halted the Echo lads, the muddy brown estuary in view, as was the muddy brown ocean the other side, the faint smell of sewage on the breeze. The Chinooks came in and took the French, all the French aboard just the two Chinook.

 

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