Spider Shepherd: SAS: #1 (25 page)

‘And as Her Majesty’s representative, no doubt you’ll be wanting to take charge of them personally?’ Jock said.

‘I don’t care for the implication behind that,’ said Parker archly.

Jock smiled without warmth. ‘And I don’t care whether you like it or not.’

‘Come on now girls, we’re all on the same side here,’ said Shepherd. He looked up at Parker. ‘Give us the intelligence dossier and while we’re studying that there are some things that we’ll need and with all your contacts, you should find it easy enough to get hold of.’

‘I’m listening,’ said the MI6 man.

‘We need at least one South African army uniform and it has to be at least five years old,’ Shepherd said. ‘We’ll also need a number of other things that will help to build up a convincing legend so that the guy we are going to leave behind really seems to be the professional merc we’re trying to portray him as.  It’s the little bits and pieces and the tools of the trade that must be convincing.  So we’ll need a set of webbing and belt kit, and it must be well worn and look comfortable.  Don’t forget, this guy would have worn it on campaigns all over southern Africa, so it won’t have come off a shelf in the stores last month.   On the belt we will need a bush knife of some description because these guys tend to get their fresh rations on the hoof.’

Parker nodded. ‘No problem.’

‘The next thing we want are a few items to go into the belt kit.  First we’ll need a comprehensive weapon cleaning and maintenance kit.   These would be bits and pieces he had acquired over the years, so there could be bits of Cuban, Angolan, Russian and South African kit - brushes, rods and screwdrivers, and so on.  He wouldn’t just use the kit to keep his weapon clean, he would also have been constantly adjusting, repairing and re-zeroing his weapon as necessary, so once more, they’d be well worn and scratched.  Stick some biltong - wind-dried meat - into one of the pouches too, because he would use that to stem his hunger pangs between the irregular meals he would be used to.  Then to round it off, tape a couple of Russian grenades to the ammo pouches for effect.  That should just about do it for the webbing and belt kit.’

Parker took out a small black notepad from his pocket and a gold pen and began to scribble in it.

‘Now for the boots,’ said Shepherd. ‘The guy who said an army marches on its stomach got it wrong. Armies march on their feet. The only guys in the modern army who wear standard-issue army boots are the REMF’s - the Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers - because they only ever march from the canteen to the billet and back.  Guys in the field know their lives depend on being able to march 24/7. And I’ll tell you one thing for sure – I probably spend more on my boots than you do on your Savile Row suits.  On ops we try not to take our boots off all the time we are in the field.  This means they must fit like gloves, be supple and extremely comfortable.  The boots we need will have been worn by this guy for years.  He will probably have worn them for gardening and hiking around South Africa after he left the regular army and before he signed up to the mercenary game.  They’ll be clean but not polished and will have had insect and leech repellent applied to them for years.  The soles will be worn but not too worn - he will have climbed on and jumped down from a thousand different vehicles over the lifetime of his boots.  There will be traces of petrol and oil, and several different soils in the tread pattern. They will feel like kid glove leather and if you find an authentic pair, then one of us is quite likely to keep them. If you can get us those things, we’ll see what we can do. Oh, and as you were just saying to me, you’ll have to move fast.’ He winked at the others.

‘Is all this detail strictly necessary?’ Parker said. ‘Feels to me like you’re using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. The Liberians are hardly going to be subjecting this kit to Scotland Yard-style forensic examination.’

‘It’s necessary,’ Jock growled. ‘If the Liberians are not convinced and start making allegations that British troops are behind a breach of their sovereign territory then the diplomatic shit will hit the fan big time, at which point your future promotion prospects may not be looking too rosy. So, you know what? Just do as Spider says and get the fucking kit we need.’

Parker flushed with anger and opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and with a curt nod, he turned and hurried away, sliding his pen and notepad into his pocket as he went.

Jock waited until the SIS man was out of earshot before speaking.  ‘So what have you got in mind, Spider? You’ve obviously been hatching a plan, because I could hear the cogs whirring.’

‘I’ll tell you, but before I do, I just want you to know that I’m going to do it anyway.   If any or all of you want to come along for the ride, then fine, but if not, there’ll be no hard feelings from me.’

His three patrol mates looked affronted. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Jimbo said. ‘Of course we’re in with you. We’re mates aren’t we?’ The other two nodded in agreement.

‘We’re the three and a half musketeers,’ said Jock. ‘All for one and one for all.’

‘Who’s the half?’ asked Jimbo, frowning.

‘If you’ve got to ask,’ said Geordie, and he laughed.

‘That’s just offensive,’ said Jimbo, crossing his arms and scowling.

‘Great,’ Shepherd said, ignoring the banter. ‘Though you may not be quite so keen when you hear the plan. Whatever we might think about their fighting qualities, we’re not going to defeat an armoured column of mercs with AK-47s, and since the Boss isn’t going give us any resources, we’re going to have to find someone else who will.’

A slow smile spread across Jock’s face. ‘Go on, though I think I’ve already guessed where this is heading.’

When Shepherd had finished outlining his plan to them, there was a stunned silence for a few seconds, before Geordie found his voice. ‘What? You want us to invade a whole country? Are you off your head?’

‘It’s not an invasion. Just a brief incursion. And who dares wins, right? We’re the SAS, the best of the best. They’re just a half-trained rabble. All we need is one of their Russian Hind helicopters.’

‘Oh, that’s all we need?’ said Jimbo. ‘Spider, we’re probably short of everything we need for this op. But even if we can manage to sort all that out somehow, and assuming we can get ourselves a Hind, then who the hell is going to fly it for us because the last time I checked none of us has a pilot’s licence.’

‘The pilot’s the least of our problems,’ said Shepherd. ‘Providing our Czech friend Jerzy is still around.’

‘He flies a Hoplite, remember?’ said Jimbo.

‘Maybe so,’ Jock said. ‘But as an old Cold Warrior, I can tell you that the Mi2, Mi8 and Mi24 - the Hoplite, Hip and Hind as we call them - were all manufactured by the same Russian company. Apart from the weapons systems on the Hind, they’re pretty similar mechanically. The engines may be bigger but the controls are much the same, so in theory if you can fly one, you should be able to fly any of them. And though most Soviet kit is rubbish, the Hind is a real quality chopper. It’s faster than any equivalent Western helicopter and more manoeuvrable - I’ve even heard you can do barrel rolls in them, though I’d pay good money to see that. Their armour’s good too - anything smaller than a 23 millimetre round bounces off - and though the muj I trained shot a lot of them down with Stinger missiles in Afghanistan, the armour’s now been upgraded enough that they’ve even been known to survive impacts from Stingers.’

‘But even if Jerzy can fly a Hind, he’s a civilian now,’ said Jimbo. ‘Why would he want to risk his life for us?’

‘Because we’ll make it worth his while,’ Shepherd said. ‘Jimbo, mate, you need to stop with the negativity.’

‘I’m just playing devil’s avocado,’ said Jimbo.

‘Advocate,’ said Geordie.

‘I was joking,’ said Jimbo, flashing him a tight smile.

‘Hard to tell with you,’ said Geordie. ‘But I’m with Jock. I reckon Jerzy will do it for money. He’s a merc when you get down to it.’

‘To be fair, we get paid for what we do as well,’ said Jock.

‘We’re professional soldiers,’ said Shepherd. ‘We fight for queen and country, there’s a hell of a difference between us and mercenaries. Right, we need to get moving. I’ll drop you guys at the base so you can get to work on the detailed planning and grab some kit, while I find Jerzy and put a deal to him.’

They piled into their Landcruiser with Shepherd at the wheel. He dropped them at the compound the SAS had requisitioned within the Sierra Leone Air Force headquarters compound near the head of Aberdeen Creek, then drove on to the civilian airport at Lungi to find Jerzy. In a decision that defied all logic, Lungi, the country’s only international airport had been sited on the far bank of the Sierra Leone River from the capital, Freetown so that the only way to reach it was by an inland detour that added several hours to the journey, or by using one of the rust-bucket ferries across the river. Shepherd took the latter option. He drove down to the waterfront at Kissy and inched his way onto the ferry among hordes of foot passengers making the crossing. The ferry was so packed there was not a single inch of deck space unoccupied when the ferry set off with a mournful note from its siren.

The water seemed to be lapping dangerously close to the gunwales of the overloaded ferry, but Shepherd’s fellow passengers didn’t seem to be concerned and the ferry duly clanked and wheezed its way across to the far bank.

Once the human tide pouring off the ferry had ebbed to a trickle, Shepherd drove on to Lungi. There was very little other traffic making for the airport. The tourist trade had died when the Civil War had started in 1991.

Shepherd found Jerzy in the crew room of the civilian helicopter company that employed him. A Czech national, Jerzy had been a military helicopter pilot with the Soviet Pact forces but since the end of the Cold War he’d been ferrying passengers between Freetown and Lungi airport in a tiny Hoplite helicopter. Business wasn’t good and he spent most of his time drinking beer in front of a whirring fan in the crew room.  He sipped his beer and listened as Shepherd outlined what he wanted him to do. He was shaking his head even before Shepherd had finished speaking. ‘I’ve never flown a Hind and I’d struggle enough with that, without trying to fire the weapons systems as well.’

‘You fly it and I’ll take care of the weapons systems,’ said Shepherd ‘It’s a gamble, I know, but if it comes off I’ll make sure that you’re handsomely paid - in diamonds, if you like.’ He paused. ‘So, what do you think? Can you fly a Hind gunship?’

Jerzy thought long and hard, then gave a shrug of his shoulders. ‘I can fly a Hoplite and I can fly a Hip. I’ve never sat in a Hind but I suppose that the only difference  is the fact that the Hind goes faster and is a bit more complicated. Yeah, I can probably do it. Might be a bumpy ride, but what is it you say, buggers can’t be choosy.’

Shepherd grinned.  ‘Beggars,’ he said. ‘Beggars can’t be choosy. But then again you might be right the first time.’

A slow smile spread across Jerzy’s face. ‘Who knows? I may even enjoy it. I was sitting here the other day, thinking that this civilian life really isn’t for me. I miss the comradeship of the military, but most of all I miss the adrenaline and yes, even the danger. You know what, Spider? Count me in. And not only can I fly your Hind when you find it, but I can get my compatriot, Piotr, to fly the five of us up to the Liberian border in one of the company’s Hip cargo choppers - they’ve got much more range and payload than the Hoplite.’

‘How much will he want?’

‘I’ll pay him out of my share,’ said Jerzy. ‘But I’ll be wanting diamond.’

‘You’ll have them,’ said Shepherd. He shook the pilot’s hand. ‘But we have to move fast. Can you and Piotr be ready to go in twenty-four hours?’

‘I can be ready in two, if that’s what you want.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Twenty-four will be fine.  We’ll lift up from the base at 0100 hours local tomorrow night.’

* * *

The SAS men spent the evening and the next day fine tuning their plans and assembling the equipment, weapons and ammunition they’d need. They opted to take AK-47’s to match the Russian weapons being used by the enemy.  This allowed them to cut down on the amount of small arms ammo they would have to carry themselves as they were confident they would be able to obtain resupplies from enemy stockpiles. As usual, they had cleared the op with the Operational Squadron’s Boss, and as usual, as soon as he had established that they would not be depriving him of any of his own air assets or other precious resources, he nodded distractedly and waved them away. They were planning a fast, in and out operation, so took minimum rations and water, but maximum ammunition.

Parker appeared in the late afternoon and laid a bundle of kit, including a bush-knife, a weapon cleaning kit and a pair of worn, but expensive looking hiking boots on the table in front of them. He then added to Russian grenades to the pile. Shepherd checked the kit over. ‘It’s not perfect,’ he said, ‘and there’s certainly no danger of any of us nicking these boots, but I suppose it will have to do.’

‘Thanks for your gratitude,’ Parker said, with heavy sarcasm. ‘I had agents in half a dozen different countries, scanning the shops and bazaars for bits of kit and getting it all back here from all over the place was a complete logistical nightmare.’

‘I know,’ Jock said. ‘And all us ungrateful bastards have to do now is go off and risk our lives taking on first the Liberian armed forces, and then a bunch of battle-hardened mercenaries armed with heavy weapons supplied by our new best friend. Life just isn’t fair sometimes, is it, Parker?’