"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.