The Watchman (3 page)

Undeterred, and against the advice of the other Western press agencies, the ITN team had decided to follow the West Side Boys into the RUF-held badlands and at dawn the next day had set off on the Kissuna Road in a hired car. No one in Masiaka knew what had happened to Roberts, Mills and Burge after that. No one had seen them and no one had heard from them, despite the fact that all three were carrying sat-phones.

From evidence later provided by militia members it seemed that the West Side Boys had followed the raiding party far into RUF territory and that a vicious but inconclusive firefight had taken place near Kissuna, after which the militia had withdrawn back towards Masiaka. During the battle, as usual, most of the combatants had been blind drunk; the RUF on palm wine, the West Side Boys on the plastic bags of raw gin that they habitually carried. A dozen or so fighters, several of them children, had been killed on both sides.

When the ITN team neither returned that night, nor contacted anyone in Masiaka, people began to wonder. At noon the following day, fearing the worst, a BBC news crew filmed an interview with a West Side Boys militia leader called "Colonel Self Loading. Within two hours of the interview, and following a swift triangular exchange of secure calls between Freetown, Whitehall and Hereford, an unedited video copy of the film was running at SAS HQ, Freetown. The HQ was a former security complex on the edge of Lungi airport -a scruffily anonymous cluster of tents, low Nissen-style huts and radio masts. Watching the video clip were Major David Ross, OC of the forty-strong detachment from "D' Squadron, and Captain Alex Temple of the Regiment's Revolutionary Warfare Wing.

The twenty-minute clip made for grim viewing.

Colonel Self-Loading's eyes were red with fatigue, ganja and trail dust but he was certain of his facts: no Western correspondent had spoken to any member of the West Side Boys since their departure from Masiaka two days earlier. And certainly no Western woman.

If the team had been anywhere near the Kissuna battle zone, the colonel told the BBC interviewer, then they had probably been lifted by the RUF. Even now, he said, the woman was probably being asked if she wanted 'long sleeves' or 'short sleeves' amputation above or below the elbow. Hacking off arms was the RUF's calling-card. Recently, they had extended the practice to genitals. Once mutilated, victims were made to sit in bowls of caustic soda.

"And maybe they eat them, you know." The young colonel shrugged, reaching under his Tupac Shakur Tshirt to scratch his belly.

"Food is short."

Colonel Self-Loading was in a position to know about the RUF's dietary habits. A year earlier the West Side Boys had sided with the rebels, sweeping down to occupy Freetown on a manic tide of blood and slaughter, and to the thumping beat of the RUF anthem "No Living Thing'. The conversion of the West Side Boys to the government's way of seeing things a conversion which was rewarded by British mercenaries with a thirty-five-ton sanctions-busting consignment of Bulgarian weaponry was comparatively recent. If Colonel Self-Loading said that the RUF ate human flesh, then they did.

"You see, this is a bad war," he declared to the camera with all the authority of his nineteen years.

"A

very bad war."

Excusing himself, he explained to the interviewer that he was off to find a 'popsicle' an iced lolly made of neat gin -and a woman.

"Doesn't look good," said Alex levelly, when the footage came to a close.

"Nor it does," said David Ross.

"And I've got a feeling it might be coming our way."

Alex nodded.

"I'll put my lads on standby."

"Do that," agreed Ross.

The Revolutionary Warfare Wing, from which Alex twelve-strong team had been drawn, is the most secretive element of the SAS and the unit's existence has never been officially admitted. Its purpose is the execution of officially deniable tasks and contracts, including the covert training of overseas 'friendlies'. These last have included the Mujahedin of Afghanistan and the Cambodian Khmer Rouge.

On this occasion, rather less controversially, Alex Temple's team were in Freetown as part of a training package for the Sierra Leone army. They found it uninspiring work and between exercises were glad to return to the temporary base they shared with the forty men of "D' Squadron.

At twenty minutes after 5 p.m. Alex was summoned to the OC's hut for the second time that afternoon. In a few succinct sentences David Ross put him in the picture concerning the kidnap of the ITN team. The squadron would be mounting a search operation that night, Ross informed Alex, and the RWW team would remain on standby at the base to help with the planning of a rescue.

Alex heard Ross out and proposed an alternative plan. The RWW team would mount the search, he suggested, while "D' Squadron would stand by to effect the rescue.

Ross politely but firmly turned Alex's plan down. The RWW team were separate from his command, their presence in Sierra Leone was being paid for by that country's government and there would be an awkward convergence of responsibilities.

Alex countered that for the purposes of the operation he would be happy to place himself and his men under the direct command of Ross. If he led the search team "D' Squadron could be kept intact for the rescue.

"If we find them," he pleaded with the OC, 'it'll be a "D" Squadron success. If we don't, it'll be an RWW fuck-up." What Alex didn't need to add was that he had several years' more experience than Ross and was undoubtedly the best man to lead the search.

Ross considered Alex's suggestion. The two men liked and respected each other, and the lean-faced ex-Signals officer was aware that this would probably be Alex's last chance of leading his men into hostile territory. In the end, he gave Alex the nod. Intelligence reports from RUF informers suggested that the hostages had been taken to one of two possible camps. Alex was to divide his men into two six-man patrols and prepare for insertion under cover of darkness.

As he listened to the briefing an hour later and pored over the map table with his men, Alex felt the first fluttering crawl of anticipation. This, he knew from experience, would build to the taut excitement which always preceded action. When the time came, the excitement would give way to an icy, analytical calm. Then, for better or worse, he would do his job.

And on this one, he reckoned, it might well be for worse. Looking at the aerial reconnaissance photographs at the drab, swampy vastness of the jungle, the tiny gnat-bite settlements and the sullen clay-coloured waterways it seemed almost unimaginable that they would locate the ITN team.

How the hell could they find three people in all of that? And even if one of the patrols did locate the journalists, would they still be alive? Would there be time to scope the place out, accurately assess the enemy's strength and firepower, insert a rescue team and lift the hostages from under the noses of the notably well-armed

RUF?

"We have to think positive, gentlemen," said Ross briskly, as if reading his thoughts.

"The intelligence people have established a link with RUF commanders in the interior. We're assured that if they want to negotiate, the infrastructure exists. Having said that, of course, we can't count on any such thing. We've got to find the hostages and prepare a hard extraction."

He swept his hand over the maps.

"Now, it looks like a huge search area, but the probability is that if our hostages are still in one piece they're being held at one of a pair of jungle camps in the Kissuna sector.

These are located as follows' he overlaid the assembly of aerial photographs with a clear sheet marked up in china graph pencil 'and I've coded them Arsenal and Chelsea. Both, as you can see, are on the Rokel river, and neither is more than ten clicks from our LZ here on the ridge line, which we will call Millwall."

Carefully, Alex scanned the aerial phot graphs. The camps were just about visible if you knew exactly what you were looking for. They were surrounded by a hell of a lot of jungle though.

"Search teams will be dropped off at Millwall at 2330 hours tonight," Ross continued.

"By the time they reach their recce points, judging by past experience, the bulk of the RUF soldiery will be off their heads on dope and palm wine, and security around the camps will be piss-poor. We could approach earlier but the risk of the patrols being discovered would be much greater, with concomitant increase of risk to the hostages." He steepled his fingers and regarded them levelly.

"As it is you're going to have to go bloody carefully, and remember that just because these buggers are part-time cannibals who like dressing up in weird costumes and chopping toddlers' arms off with machetes, it doesn't mean they aren't at home with sophisticated weaponry. They've got RPGs and all sorts in those camps, thanks to their income from those bloody diamond mines they control, and I don't repeat don't want to lose any men. You will not, under any circumstances, risk a contact, is that understood?"

Everyone nodded. Alex glanced at the other patrol members. He was the only officer.

"From Millwall," Ross continued, 'patrols will tab in to their respective targets. Whether or not there's any sign of any hostages, we're going to need full reports concerning numbers, weaponry, fields of fire, disposition of buildings and all the rest of it, OK? By 0230 hours tomorrow, if we haven't located the TV people, I want both patrols back at Millwall for evacuation by Puma. If we have found them I want both patrols to converge on the camp in question and remain eyes-on. Alex, you and one other will then tab back to Miillwall and be choppered back to Freetown to brief the Squadron. Any questions so far?"

Along with the others, Alex shook his head.

"The timing of the assault will depend on the intelligence you get back to us and the outcome of any negotiations that take place," Ross continued.

"It's still perfectly possible that the RUF can be persuaded to return the hostages Roberts and Co. are an international press team, after all, and the RUF aren't completely indifferent to world opinion."

Oh no? thought Alex, who had seen the school-age amputees on the streets of Freetown and Masiaka. You could have fuckin' fooled me.

"Assuming the negotiations fail, the "D" Squadron assault team will go in between twenty-four hours and a week from tonight. Again, any questions?"

And again there were none.

At 11 p.m." the two RWW search patrols boarded a Puma. Showing no lights, fitted with low-noise rotor blades and flown by a pilot in night-vision goggles, the helicopter slipped silently inland, overflew Masiaka and swung eastwards into RUF territory. At 1130, precisely on schedule, the twelve soldiers de bussed crouching in the rotor wash as the Puma lifted away from the ridge line and turned back towards Freetown.

Thirty minutes after caching the Bergans the patrol halted for a scheduled comms burst from base. As Ricky Sutton looped a plastic-coated aerial wire over a tree branch, a damp, overbearing heat pressed around them. The sporadic bursts of rifle fire were clearly audible now and over the smell of decomposing vegetation the air carried a faint drift of woodsmoke.

Were the ITN team being held at the camp ahead of them? As always in the presence of danger, Alex felt tautly, intensely alive.

Checking his watch, he joined Don Hammond and Ricky Sutton who were huddled over the 319 patrol radio, waiting for the burst to decrypt. In silence, the three men stared at the miniature green-lit VDU screen.

Black letters leapt into view. Ricky Sutton wiped away the rain.

"HOSTAGES TO BE EXECUTED 14th 1200.

INFORM WHEN LOCATED. SEARCH PATROLS

TO SUPPORT D SQN ASSAULT AT 1ST LIGHT.

ROSS'

"Fuck me!" breathed Alex, his heart pounding.

"The fourteenth is today. First light's in about four hours.

And we haven't even found them yet."

He'd wanted an adventure.

He'd got one.

TWO.

Assault at first light.

That turned everything everything on its head. The RUF must have issued some impossible ultimatum the freeing of all prisoners taken by the Sierra Leone army, for example.

The patrol had moved through the remaining jungle as fast as humanly possible. They were very close to the camp now and Alex recognised the random discharges as being those of British-issued SLRs. The sound was a good sign. Unless the RUF were fighting among themselves it meant that they were in party mood, emptying their 7.62 rounds into the river and the surrounding jungle out of a kind of stoned machismo. And perhaps, Alex thought, in anticipation of the killing of the news crew at midday.

"Left a bit," murmured Don Hammond behind him.

Alex raised a hand in thanks. As lead scout, he was the only member of the team not responsible for navigation all his concentration went into watching and listening: for the unexplained movement, the shadow that wasn't a shadow, the tiny suck of a boot in clay, the oily straining of a cocking lever.

Listening was becoming harder. In addition to the rifle fire, there was the faint thump and whisper of music. Straining his ears, Alex recognised one of Sierra Leone's big summer tunes -a favourite of the RUF, the SLA and the militias alike called "Titti Shaggah'.

Had they posted sentries, he wondered, stilling the five men behind him with a hand gesture. For two minutes the patrol crouched unmoving in the animal track, but there was no sound that shouldn't have been there. They moved on and the ridge line began its gradual descent towards the Rokel river.

Step by silent step, Alex negotiated the gradient. The rain was still holding off, but splashing rivulets streaked the treacherous clay incline. They were five hundred yards away from the camp now and through the dense foliage below them Alex could see the yellowish flickering of electric lights. Surely, he thought, they must at least have some bloke on stag.

They had and Alex almost missed him. All he saw, in fact, was the tiny swing of a cigarette coal at the side of the track twenty yards ahead. Stilling the patrol again and deliberately steadying his breathing as the adrenalin flooded his system, Alex moved silently down the skiddy clay, feeling with his feet for the rocks and tree roots that would noiselessly support his weight. One squelch, he thought one snapped branch or kicked stone and we're buggered.