‘As you know, British law does not allow a British undercover agent to kill, not officially, but I killed rival drug dealers. That in itself was good, it was right, and I enjoyed it – fewer scumbags out there, and the men I killed were nutcase Colombian drug dealers who would hack up the family of a rival.

  ‘By training Russian soldiers and killing off the rivals I helped to build-up the boss of the gang, a short fat Russian who liked tall hookers, a real caricature of a man. When we hit the communists, the FARC, I knew I was doing a good thing, yet for a bad gang. So I hit upon the idea of tipping off Britain and America, not least so that I could open communications channels.

  ‘I started to tip off Bob Staines about rival drug dealers and drugs on boats, and the Navy in the Caribbean was kept busy and made to look good, so too the US Navy and the CIA – they got their tip offs. The gang boss grew in power and money, and became very rich.

  ‘When my helicopter was shot down by a heat-seeking missile fired by the FARC the Navy rescued me - and London didn’t want me to go back to the gang, I was needed here. But I stayed in touch, and I’m still in touch, and the network of contacts has grown thanks to my work in Sierra Leone and Liberia.

  ‘I went and met with the President of Liberia as Petrov and I worked deals, and during the Liberian war I was calling the shots, and that President helped set-up the Americans to look good, staged rescues. Some of those rescues we did - I knew the whole story ahead of time, could have rescued the hostages without the fanfare, but press coverage is key, key to it all, the reason we’re here.

  ‘At Camel Toe base I had calls from the gun runners telling me how many rockets they delivered to the Islamists, and I could have got the serial numbers of the rockets fired at us. I have a good network of contacts, soon to be expanded, and I take calls from the CIA and from French Intel all the time.

  ‘Those countries have a great deal invested in us, and those countries will pressure the UK Government, and you, about what I do, and how I do it. They want to stop the terrorists, sure, but they also want to look good, careers made, good newspaper headlines.

  ‘As for the future, the plan, that’s down to the Americans as much as anyone else, and they want my skills used to combat Middle East terror groups, not rescue mine workers in West Africa, and they’ll put a carrier battle group at my disposal, quite a responsibility on my shoulders.’

  He nodded. ‘It is a responsibility on your shoulders, yes, and unprecedented. The CIA should not be ringing a British serviceman direct, nor the French, nor you in contact with drug gangs, so it’s all damned irregular, yet important and vital. So, we do what we can in the playing field we have, get some hostages home to family, keep the Americans happy, fight in small wars.’

  ‘We start ... small wars, sir, we don’t wait for them.’

  ‘And Liberia was stage-managed for the cameras?’

  ‘Very much so, sir, and it benefitted the British military greatly. Recruitment up, feel-good factor up, and despite what some think about playing to the cameras, cooperating with film crews, me talking to The Sun newspaper, that publicity gives me power, and I can use it for more men, more kit, better budget, and go do some good, get some hostages.

  ‘And what people don’t realise is that the drug dealer in Panama, he offered me a hundred million quid to stay with him.’

  The Brigadier’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Yes, sir, and I have a slush fund with that amount in, used for dodgy jobs for Mi6.’

  ‘Rumours abound about you paying for functions and parties for your men...’

  ‘Money I take off dead drug dealers and gun runners, money from Panama and others, all highly illegal, but also hard to prove. At Camel Toe Base I wanted anti-personnel mines in a hurry, but the MOD were not keen about mines. I called a Russian arms shipper, he called his mate, and that evening I had a thousand illegal jumping-jack mines delivered to Camel Toe Base by Russian transport, on credit.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. I figure that I am supposed to stay out of prison ... right?’

  I smiled. ‘So you see, sir, we’re not as good as we seem, we get help from my friends in low places.’

  He shook his head. ‘And your ... particular desires for the future?’

  ‘Get as many hostages home as we can, put as many gunmen in the ground as we can.’ I shrugged. ‘That’s an aim, a desire. I like training men, forming teams, so I might do some good here before I take a bullet.’

  ‘You worry ... about taking a bullet?’

  ‘Not as much as I should. Miracle I survived this long, so ... I take each week as it comes, no plans to retire like the Major.’

  ‘Each group is using you for its own ends, a few extra scars on your body. Does that not bother you?’

  ‘No, sir, because I figured it all out; I use the media for my aims, they get their benefit. CIA use me, I use them when it suits me, we all get what we want. And stopping that poison in Paris was a good example of what I can do. That poison could have brought down a dozen planes, killed thousands in Paris. If I do a job like that again and I’m killed, then at least I’ll be doing something worthwhile, making a difference.’

  ‘Few ever think like you, few ever get into the position you’re in, and I don’t know how you sleep at night.’

  I smiled. ‘Winston Churchill would always say fuck ‘em all, and get into bed. So do I.’

  He grinned. ‘Wipe away the thoughts of the day.’ He nodded. ‘I sometimes toss and turn all night worrying about things, so fuck knows how you cope.’

  ‘I say to myself: one more week, one more job, fuck the rest of it. That helps, sir.’

  ‘And your daughter?’

  ‘If I allowed myself to stop and think about her it would probably hurt, so I see her once or twice a month, send money. I have a frosty relationship with the mother. You never married, sir?’

  ‘I don’t discuss it normally, but ... I was married, good marriage, great lady, but she got cancer and ... I spent three years watching her die. I’ll not have a lady live with me again.’

  I nodded. ‘When my best buddy quit and killed himself, that was hard, and I blamed myself. If he had been killed in action that’s one thing, but to take his own life it ... pointed at the problem men like me face, and what we’d be in civvy life.’

  ‘I’m not looking forwards to civvy life, not sure how I would cope. When I get days off and go shopping for a new shelf I’m like a fish out of water, in an alien world.’

  I smiled. ‘I know that feeling, sir. When I fly, I look down at the tiny houses and wonder what the people do, you know, normal people.’

  He laughed. ‘Me too, I wonder what it’s like to be a civvy. It’s good to know it’s not just me that’s cracked in the head.’

  ‘Sir, every man on this base is just like us, especially Rocko. He dreads the great outside.’

  ‘Good job that psychological evaluations are not standard for us lot, not like the Wolves, we’d all fail.’

  ‘It was said long ago that ... good men sleep well at night because bad men patrol the borders...’

  By the end of the week the recruits had all snuck up on each other, inflicted pain on each other via high speed paint balls, and we had a few stars in the mix, a few of those at the bottom of the scale being natural game poachers and quite at home moving silently through the bushes. Some of the American recruits could have walked up to an alert fox and pulled its tail.

  Kit checked, crates packed, we boarded RAF buses Sunday afternoon, the Brigadier here to see us off, our 24hr Intel staff updating the battle board to show that we were all flying south but on two separate commercial 737s from Bristol Airport. The local pub would be quiet again.

  At dawn I stepped down from our 737, stretching my aching body, lungs full of warm and fragrant African air, already wearing my jungle-stripe greens. I strode across a damp tarmac, through puddles, to a waiting posse, and I saluted the colonel in charge, a new man, not Colonel Marchant.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he offered after returning the salute. ‘Are we ... expecting trouble?’

  ‘Yes, sir, a little trouble on the northern border to deal with, some hostages. Rest of the time will be training.’

  ‘Right, well, anything you need let us know, but the FOB is well stocked and they are expecting you, always an SAS team and some Americans there, and a French platoon.’

  ‘Chinooks available, sir?’

  ‘They will be in an hour, you’re early somehow.’

  I told him, ‘Time differences, sir, you know what the MOD is like at adding up and subtracting.’

  He cocked an eyebrow at me.

  The men gathered in teams on the tarmac, headcounts done, crates stacked up, and a jeep arrived with an urn of standard crap Army tea. Everyone got a cup as we stood around chatting, but we did so in webbing, weapons loaded and slung, pistols checked – a lonely 737 sat on the apron waiting some local paying passengers. It was odd to think that the plane was being operated by Libintov and Tomsk.

  Airport workers glanced at us as they started their day; we looked like we were ready to start a war as Crab recalled the story of us up on the terminal roof and firing down.

  The roar of the Chinooks starting their engines could be heard from this side of the airport, so it came as no surprise when they finally slid across to us, some of our crates already sent on ahead on jeeps and trucks.

  I loaded men and crates, Echo first, and we set off east, low level and high speed, familiar terrain glanced down at, kids seen tending sheep and goats, small villages whizzing past, dirt tracks noticed, sparse roads, shanty towns with rusted metal roofs, and finally we slowed, nose up, and we hit with a rolling bump on the red dirt runway.

  Crates lugged out the back, it was good to be back here, and it had not changed - they had not painted it, the windows were still boarded up in a haphazard way. We passed a few green jeeps and trucks, a tall thin captain waiting with his staff, and I noticed green tents dotted about. A few extra bushes seemed to have sprouted, large green leaves that appeared plastic.

  He saluted, I nodded. ‘Captain Bright, Engineers, resident CO for another six weeks, Major.’

  ‘Glad to see you’ve not painted it.’

  ‘Trust me, we were very tempted to clean it up a bit.’

  ‘Who’s resident?’ I asked.

  ‘One of the SAS teams left yesterday, another arrives today, there’s a platoon of French lads, and the American Seals rotate every two weeks, tents around the back. The tents are better these days, waterproof and snug. Army have sent cooks for you, and there’s due to be a few medics here.’

  ‘Ammo?’

  ‘Inside are crates and boxes, and we had a look, and it’s short 7.62mm ammo.’

  ‘That’ll be for us.’

  ‘Also got about ten thousand old AK47s, most at the airport, sent from your Camel Toe Base. We’re instructed to teach everyone how to use the AK47.’

  ‘All good experience for the young lads. Top rooms empty?’

  ‘They are now, they said you would want them.’

  I lugged my crate inside with Swifty, up familiar bare concrete steps, and we claimed our old room, Moran and Mitch joining us as the other rooms were noisily occupied. With the kit we would need taken out of the crates we stacked the crates up against a wall, green rubber mats down.

  ‘Mess tent here,’ I told them. ‘Save cooking.’

  Downstairs, I found room for the veteran Wolves, but the recruits would be in the trees, those recruits now landing by loud Chinook. Formed up, I led the recruits and NCOs across with Sergeant Crab to the lush green tree line, moist leaves glistening, a section of jungle selected, recruits put in pairs and teams of four created, flysheets raised, ponchos placed down, a happy home made.

  Rota set-up, pairs were placed on guard, weapons cocked ready as I showed the recruits a tree frog.

  ‘Take no chances,’ I told the recruits. ‘You may be attacked here at any time, rockets and mortars, or just a drunk local with a rifle. Never let your guard down. Those not on guard - get a brew on, fresh water over at the building, and a make-do shower around the back.

  ‘There is a mess tent, and you use it when I let you use it. Instructors and officers, you can use it of course, and officers can sleep in the building; it’s basic bare concrete, but it has a roof. All of you, gloves and facemasks on when you sleep or something will crawl up your nose and bite you ... and you’ll die.

  ‘When in the jungle, watch where you walk and what you touch, there is old ordnance, and one of mine had his arm blown off when he touched something. Avoid stepping on mines, it damages your boots.’

  They laughed, but looked nervous, checking the ground around their feet for dangerous animals.

  ‘Today you’ll acclimatise to the heat and the humidity, some lessons from Sergeant Crab and my lot on jungle survival and jungle hygiene, tomorrow some weapons work, and then we go on patrol.’

  Crossing the mud strip again I could see targets set-up and now backed by dirt, distances marked out, a proper firing range created, yet a Hercules could still land here. At the mess tent I found my Echo lads keenly queuing up. Inside I found a familiar Sergeant Chef.

  ‘You still here, Sergeant?’

  ‘Ah, you. Well, sir, Major, I was back on Salisbury Plain for six months, got back yer a month back. We, er, expecting trouble, sir?’

  ‘Up north, not here, so relax.’

  ‘You said that last time, sir,’ he mentioned whilst studying his feet.

  Up on the roof I found two Engineers with rifles, young lads keen to chat to me about past actions here. Up the ladder I climbed, no one in the top position, and I sat looking out at the lush greens, leaves as big as a man, a flight of long-tailed red parrots squawking by. It had not changed, and it brought a smile to my face.

  Back down, I placed two Echo lads on the roof, just in case; I did not need recruits shot dead, and to be explaining it. I called in a Sitrep to Captain Harris, who was manning the battle board back at GL4, little need for him being here in person.

  I gave Swifty a nudge since he said he was awake and with it, and he rallied his troop of Wolves, supplies checked, radios check, water topped up, and off they went up the old west track. Robby said his boys were good to go, so they headed off up the east track.

  At midday the Seals walked in covered in mud, sweat on faces, and I recognised the man leading the patrol as he held a green M4, his webbing pouches high on his chest.

  ‘Been having fun?’ I asked.

  ‘Hello again, sir. And fun? Rained last night, came in sideways, bringing slugs with it. This place rains slugs, damned annoying.’

  I smiled. ‘You get some useful practise in?’

  ‘We all do your listed standard patrol routes, sir, and now we have to make sketches about a few places we’ve seen – or no chow. As far as useful practise goes ... it’s better than being on ship, damn sight better, bugs an all.’

  ‘Been to Camel Toe Base?’

  ‘We’re listed for it in a few weeks, sir, looking forwards to the swimming pool.’

  ‘Watch out for large burrowing spiders in the sand. Poisonous.’

  The men exchanged worried looks as they headed inside.

  An hour later, and a muddy French patrol came in, 1st Battalion, faces familiar.

  ‘Cap-ee-tan Crazy Fuck, no.’ They offered mocking salutes.

  ‘Major Crazy Fuck now.’

  ‘Major eh, we shine shoes.’ The men looked at their muddy boots and laughed.

  ‘Where you been?’

  ‘Up zee dead village, now some people live zere, on six miles, camp, come back. Patrol route One Bravo your people say.’

  ‘All 1st Battalion come here now?’

  ‘Ah oui, and patrols in Mauritania, and Liberia, so we not march in cold France.’

  ‘And Camel Toe Base?’

  ‘We go next month, four weeks.’

  ‘Hopefully there will be some action for you.’

  ‘This we don’t hope for, no, we hope for quiet sleep, Major.’

  ‘Lazy bastards,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Ah, but it is tradition, soldier not volunteer for any shit, no.’

  I smiled as I left them.

  In the tree line, groups were split, Rizzo with one group and making animal traps, Crab lecturing on hygiene and anti-septic cream, Slider with a group and talking about camouflage – not to hide behind a bush, bushes were not bullet-proof. New man Parker was listening in, but Greenie had his own team of six recruits to lecture to.

  That evening many of us sat in the make-do canteen, no Liberian women cooking for us, the Army making the tea, the American officers and NCOs getting the story of what happened here, and what happened to the wall they now sat against.

  When my phone trilled I stepped out, a familiar number. ‘Da!’

  ‘It’s Libintov.’

  ‘How goes the airline business? I saw a 737 at Freetown airport.’

  ‘It is growing yes, moving legit cargo now as well.’

  ‘And your rivals..?’

  ‘Polchok got his brains splattered across his nightclub. That was you?’

  ‘One of my men, yes. My man did not like the fact that an old church was now being used as a whore-house.’

  Libintov laughed. ‘Your men are all good Christians, yes?’

  ‘One is.’

  ‘And Belchov?’

  ‘We hit his nice house.’

  ‘A mess made yes, and no evidence left behind. They say he is badly burnt.’

  ‘The FBI cut a deal with him, to get him treatment in America and amnesty, if he tells all he knows.’

  ‘Well, he knows about me, so I must be careful.’

  ‘Always pays to be careful, yes.’

  ‘Reason for the call, one of my rivals just supplied a group in Guinea with weapons, so I was wondering if anyone you know could pick them up. Second shipment in three days.’ He gave me the name of an airstrip.

  ‘I think I can arrange something, yes.’

  ‘The weapons are to be used to set a trap for some English soldiers.’

  My heart stopped. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Yes. Claymores and mines around hostages.’