The Watchman (7 page)

A moment later, however, a long volley of 7.62 SLR and Kalashnikov rounds smacked into Alex's position. Heady with the destruction of Puma Alpha, the defending RUF troops had decided to take the battle back to their tormentors in the jungle.

As the firestorm swept their position, spattering himself and Sutton with bark and falling leaf fragments, Alex pressed his face and body into the damp coffee-ground soil. Beside him he heard the unmistakeable whip crack of physical impact and a shocked gasp.

"Ricky?" he said, fearing the worst.

"I'm hit," muttered Sutton through clenched teeth, 'in the fuckin' arse.

Alex's heart sank. How many bloody more, he thought. If I run into Sally Roberts, the bitch'll wish she'd never been born.

Another volley raked the tree line. Somewhere behind him, the bound woman keened with fear.

Reaching for the shell-dressing pack in Sutton's smock pocket and the clasp-knife in his own, Alex cut through the young signaller's blood-sodden DPM trousers, slapped on the dressing, and ordered him to sit tight. To his right Stan and Dog returned fire, pouring a steady stream of armour-piercing rounds on to the RUF positions around Hut Two.

A moment later Alex saw four SAS men slip out of the door of Hut One and disappear around the far side.

From the generator area he heard the crack of 203 grenades launched by Dog and Stan and a moment later the familiar stutter of Mi6s on rapid fire as the assaulters completed the movement. The RUF were now under sustained assault from three directions, trapped in a lethal cage of noise and shrapnel. No RUF man was going to risk standing up for long enough to aim and correctly discharge an RPG in all of that, Alex reckoned. Quickly, he called in the reserve Puma.

The pilot acknowledged the signal and sixty seconds later the big snout-nosed chopper swung in fast and steep, dropping down next to the twisted and still burning wreck of the first. It had hardly touched the ground when the rescue team sprinted out of the barracks-block with the ITN crew over their shoulders. Hurling the journalists through the open doorway like so many sacks of coal and dragging themselves in afterwards, they were away within seconds, dipping and swaying across the grey-green jungle canopy to safety.

On the sat-com, Alex called up Ross.

"Hostages airborne," he told the GO, 'but we've taken casualties." Quickly, he brought him up to speed with events.

"Keep me posted," said Ross tersely, and broke the connection.

Silence now from the RUF all of their remaining strength pinned down in and around Hut Two. Above them, the sky seemed to be darkening again. Stalemate.

Alex slotted a fresh 30-round magazine into the belly of his weapon.

Does the fight have to be to the death, he wondered. The fierce anticipation of the night before was entirely spent. The camp was a butcher's shop now and one or two of the RUF corpses looked horrifjingly young. All that he felt now was revulsion a desperate longing for the whole thing to be over.

And then Dog Kenilworth's Brummie tones were in his earpiece.

"They're jacking it in. Slinging their rifles out."

Alex exhaled, permitted himself a moment of relief "Any men followed the rifles?"

"No, not so far. Yeah, hang on, one's just shouting to Stan now.

"What's he saying?"

"Dunno. Something meaning "No shooting!", I'd guess. He's coming out."

"Watch yourselves, OK?"

"Don't worry, Alex."

One by one the RUF soldiers processed out of Hut Two and the other outbuildings at the eastern end of the camp. From the tree line Alex saw the line of disarmed men, hands raised, shuffling towards the smoking wreck of the first Puma. There, under the watchful eye and trained Mi6s of the assault team, they waited in disconsolate ranks.

"Andy," Alex ordered, 'cut across and join Stan and Dog. When it looks as if all the prisoners are under guard, I want the three of you to do a quick house-to-house, check for stay behinds

"Understood," said Maddocks.

Alex turned back to Ricky Sutton. The trooper was pale and clearly in shock, but managed a wry grin. An SLR round had torn a furrow over the hamstring muscle at the back of his thigh, and despite the two shell-dressings blood was still welling hotly through the gauze.

"Right," murmured Alex briskly.

"Who had the patrol med pack

"I'm lying on it."

Carefully, Alex eased the pack from beneath the trooper's chest, found a morphine stick, and angled it into Sutton's thigh. Within seconds, the taut, fearful strain in the young trooper's eyes was replaced with a dreamy vagueness.

Reaching for his UHF set, Alex pressed the transmit button.

"How's it going, lads?" he asked.

"Fine," came Andy Maddocks' voice.

"No stay-behinds, all bad boys disarmed. What shall we do with the weapons? We've got a hundred-odd SLRs, few AKs, RPGs, odds and sods."

Alex removed a saline drip assembly from the med-pack.

"All weapons, amino, and comms kit goes into the river." He thought of the women and children who, raped, traumatised and with one or both arms hacked off by men such as these, were still arriving daily in Freetown.

"And that includes all pan gas machetes, bilihooks, whatever. Anything with a blade."

"Understood."

Turning to the bound woman, whom he now saw was probably no more than 16 or 17, he fingered the gag from her mouth and tied it round Sutton's thigh to reinforce the shell-dressing. Then finding a vein at the trooper's wrist, he worked in the IV needle. Beside him, crooning distractedly to herself as if to comfort a child, the girl sat blank-eyed.

Within minutes the secured camp had taken on an ordered and familiar aspect, with sentries posted, SAS casualties stretchered and ammunition checks underway. The mood was sombre even the irrepressible Ricky Sutton lay in morphined silence on his stretcher. Where the bonfire had raged the night before, the captured RUF soldiers sat in subdued lines with their hands plasticuffed behind their backs. Others, moving with dreamlike slowness, stacked the bodies of their dead comrades.

Beyond them the rain hissed and steamed as it met the smoking shell of the Puma.

On the sat-coin, Alex arranged the details of the return to base with David Ross. It would probably be a question of two Chinooks, they decided one for the SAS team, one to deliver the RUF dead to the government forces HQ. A few yards away, Stan Clayton and Dog Kenilworth manoeuvred Don Hammond into a black body-bag.

Four.

At breakfast the mood was sombre.

They'd de-bussed at SAS HQ shortly after 6 a.m. and, calling for hot coffee in his hut, Ross had debriefed Alex immediately. Alex's account had been detailed but unemotional and Ross had heard him out in near silence, only occasionally interjecting a brief question. When they were done, an hour or so later, Ross had nodded, his lean features expressionless, and sat for a moment in silence. Alex knew he had liked Don Hammond as much as any of them.

"You did well, Alex. Bloody well. All of you. Another few hours and we would have had three dead UK nationals on our hands, not to mention egg all over our faces. Bearing in mind that we were hitting a hot DZ, it was always going to be a very high-risk operation."

Alex nodded. At times like these, as both men knew, there was not a great deal to be said. Violent death was the everyday currency of their profession and there was no sense pretending otherwise.

"Just remind me of the daughter's name, Alex."

"Cathy. I think she was seven last birthday."

Ross looked tiredly down at his notes.

"Right. Thank you.

Would I like that job? Alex wondered. Would I enjoy sitting up and watching the clock as my men risked their lives? Would I be able to write the letters of condolence that David Ross always made a point of writing?

The phone at the OC's right hand buzzed. He listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece and turned to Alex.

"It's Hugh Gudgeon at Para HQ. The TV people are all in one piece, apparently. They want to thank the leader of the rescue team personally."

"I haven't got much to say to them, David, to be honest."

Ross nodded and looked away.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Hugh, nor do I want any mention made of the Regiment in connection with this business. Would your chaps very much mind taking the credit? No? Excellent. All right, then.

"Bye."

Alex had left the CO's hut to shower, shave and clear himself of leeches. This was a rather simpler process than that shown in films like Bridge Over the River Kwai. One touch of army-issue insect repellent and the fat, purple-black bloodsuckers fell off. The repellent was useless for anything else it positively attracted mosquitoes but it did have this one killer application. Stripping to the skin in the makeshift outside shower area, Alex managed to rid himself of twelve bull-leeches a personal best.

In the mess tent he joined the rest of the patrol, who had got a head start on the NAAFI baked beans, pale yolked local eggs and monkey-bananas. And beer, of course. It may only have been seven in the morning, but after a mission it was understood that you popped a few cans.

Alex helped himself to a plate of beans, one of the doughy, locally baked bread rolls and a can of Carling.

The food looked none too appetising in the tent's greenish light, but at that moment Alex could have eaten practically anything.

"Cheers, lads," he said, thumbing back the tab.

"Here's to a daring rescue!"

"Who was responsible for that, then?" asked Lance Wilford.

"The Paras," said Alex.

"Ah." Dog Kenilworth smiled.

"Fine body of men."

There was silence for a moment.

"Any news on Ricky Sutton?" asked one of the troopers from Zulu Three One patrol, who had been tasked to recce the Arsenal camp.

"Should be OK, is my guess, barring a very sore arse," said Alex.

"And Steve Dowson?" Dowson was the "D' Squadron corporal who had been hit while attempting to rescue Hammond.

"Shoulder's a mess but he'll live."

There were relieved nods, followed by another protracted silence, then Stan Clayton raised a fridge frosted beer can.

"To Don Hammond," he said loudly.

"Bloody good soldier, bloody good mate."

The others raised their own drinks and then everyone started talking at once and the mood lifted.

There was no shortage of good Don Hammond stories and it had been one hell of a successful mission.

As Alex drank and listened in silence, the elation of the successful mission faded, to be replaced by the sombre reality of his friend's death. After the third can his mood had not improved and, unwilling to spoil the others' celebrations, he slipped from the mess tent, collaring a bottle of rum as he went.

In his own tent he raised the mosquito net overhanging his camp bed, sat down and took a deep hit of rum straight from the bottle. He would say goodbye to Don alone and in his own way.

He was about to neck a second swallow when a trooper ducked through the tent flap.

"Sorry, but the Boss wants you.

Again? thought Alex, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. Bollocks. Glancing regretfully at the ruin bottle, he followed the trooper from the tent.

In the hour since their last conversation, David Ross had clearly suffered a change of mood. Irritation now etched the spare features.

"You're going home," he told Alex abruptly.

"Don't ask me why because I don't know. All I've been told is that you're wanted in London as soon as you can get there."

Alex stared at him, mystified. What the fuck was going down? Whatever, he'd had enough of this sweaty shithole.

"Can I take a couple of the lads back with me? We can jump a Hercules."

"No on both counts," said Ross testily.

"They want you quicker than that. You're being choppered to Banjul and boarded on to aBA civilian flight to Heathrow. For that reason you're taking civilian clothes and cabin luggage only."

"I didn't bring any..." Alex began.

"One of the liaison blokes is picking some stuff up now. Should be back any minute."

"Is this to do with last night's operation?" Alex ventured.

"Not unless there's some element to the whole thing that I haven't been told about."

That such a possibility even existed, Alex saw, clearly rankled bitterly with the CO.

"I'll get packing," he said.

Ross nodded.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a flowered bush shirt, over-tight slacks and plastic sandals from Freetown market all that the liaison guy had been able to rustle up at ten minutes' notice Alex was watching from the passenger seat of a Lynx helicopter as Kroo Bay and the curving northern sweep of Freetown fell away beneath him. The rain of the early morning had given way to sunshine and now the whole country seemed to be steaming in the heat.

Beside him, the khaki T-shirt of the special forces pilot was dark with sweat beneath the arms and where it was in contact with the plastic seat cover.

"Another hot one," said the pilot laconically over the intercom.

"Looks like it," Alex replied, settling himself back into his seat. They had the best part of two hours' flying time ahead of them. In twenty minutes they would be in Guinea airspace and in half an hour would be overflying the capital, Conakry. Thereafter they would follow the coastline northwards through Guinea-Bissau and touch down at Banjul at 9.30.

He determined to enjoy the view.

At Banjul he was the last one on to the British Airways flight.

"You must be important," said the stewardess who met him at the door of the 777.

"They've held this plane for fifteen minutes!" She looked down at his plastic sandals with a lemon sucking smile.

"Ready to walk the gauntlet?"

His appearance prompted a slow hand clap. Around him, the sea of faces was hostile. They had been waiting for him, one angry woman informed him, for over twenty-five minutes. Perhaps next time he travelled he might bring an alarm clock with him?

His seat, needless to say, was right at the back of the aircraft. Toilet class. He was shown there by the lemon-sucking stewardess, and had to endure the eye-rolling and barely disguised impatience of an almost entirely female complement of economy class passengers.