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  CHAPTER SIX

  MAY 1993: SOYO ANGOLA

  For the next five days the lives of our South Africans hung by a thread. UNITA’s attacks crashed onto the Boers one after another. Like storm waves onto a wall. At some point, in the end, the wall will give. The fighting flooded closer to the inner South African trenches, and became fiercer. Grenade range. Then hand to hand. Each attack was perilously fought backward, then outward. Lost FAA trenches were counter-attacked, retaken.

  Those of the South Africans who had joined for grim battle (there were a few addicts) had found what they sought. Day by day the thread held. At each day’s end, it still held. By luck, skill and courage.

  Crazy things happened. An FAA boy soldier, undergoing instruction on the PKM machine gun, accidentally fired a burst into a tree top 200 metres away. He and his South African instructor cheered when they saw a UNITA sniper fall out.

  One of several white ex-Koevoet* Namibians, who were among the South Africans, felt a terrific blow on the shoulder while firing his PKM. He looked to find that his muzzle had been split open – peeled back, like a banana. An incoming bullet had precisely hit the centre of his muzzle, as he fired.

  A South African, standing in his trench, saw a grenade come flying in. He caught it and threw it back as if it was a one-day cricket match, like in a schoolboy’s war comic. Each of the first few nights of the battle saw frantic salvage work aboard the LCT. Its critical, sea-soaked cargo had to be brought into the battle: ammo, mortars, tanks. The swell, and the surf it caused, died down. With improvised cables, passed around the ragged shoreline palms, the LCT had been more or less secured, half in and half out of the water. But still broached against the beach.

  Salvage parties worked through the night. They rummaged the salty debris and formed a human chain up the beach, to haul away their prizes. As with the Mi-17 helicopter lifeline, the priority was always the same: ammo.

  Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!

  The second priority was the 82mm mortars on board, and their bombs. Meanwhile, on the main tank deck, wave-harried, the South African mechanics struggled to start the first of the two tanks.

  On D Day Plus 3, Steven Mason was hit by a rifle bullet in the forearm: Steven – the South African commander who had led the beach recce for the heli attack on Soyo. He came out on an Mi-17 casevac flight with Dom, another wounded South African.

  Dom had fired an RPG-7 with a seawater-damaged rocket. The first stage had fired, but the rocket had stayed attached to the launcher. The second stage had therefore fired straight into his face. I went to see them both as soon as they came in. They were to be flown to Windhoek by Crause, a ten-hour flight in his twin-engine Cessna Night Rider, with two refuellings. Eighty per cent of the flight was over UNITA territory. We prayed that our luck would hold. That there would not be a death as a result of the long casevac. That we would not lose an aircraft.

  The medic, a friend of both men, was busy telling Dom how ugly he had always been, so not to worry – now that his face looked like the inside of a Big Mac.

  ‘Hard enough for you, Steven?’ I could not stop myself from asking.

  On the Bangala, before setting off on his recce mission, Steven had pissed me off. Telling me how the op would be a piece of piss, UNITA a walk-over. Hardly fair that we were to use ball and not blank.

  Steven forced a grin. ‘What a fuck-up, eh?’

  Steven and Dom had news for me. There were 3,000 of UNITA’s finest on Soyo. They had been waiting for the attack. UNITA orders were to hold Soyo, at any cost.

  The helicopter assault had achieved tactical local surprise, even though strategic surprise had been well and truly lost. A sea assault had been the expected option. Also expected had been clear warning immediately prior to the attack taking place. This UNITA had not been given.

  Surprise, therefore, had been achieved. Kind of.

  Steven and Dom had no evidence, but were sure that South African soldiers were fighting on the UNITA side. They deduced this because of the determined way that UNITA were fighting, and because of the stories from questioned prisoners.

  There’s another twist: the presence of Moroccan troops, Moroccan Special Forces. This sums up the lunacy of what was going on in Angola. Barrel Boyz’ mischief.

  Oil companies were funding the MPLA, by paying to drill and exploit oil reserves off the coast of Soyo.

  At the same time, the US was financing and supporting the rebel force UNITA against the MPLA. The French obviously realised that, if UNITA won the civil war, then the US – by dint of supporting UNITA – would have control of oil production in Angola. To ensure they didn’t lose out in the event of a UNITA victory, the French had supplied UNITA with Moroccan soldiers.

  In West Africa, oil is everything.

  The French intelligence service Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure (DGSE) has a saying about the CIA: ‘Toute chose sale vous pouvez faire, nous pouvons faire plus sale.’ ‘Any dirty thing you can do, we can do dirtier.’

  This time there was some proof. French and Arabic soccer magazines, and music cassettes and cassette players, had been found in more than one overrun UNITA position. Dom, who knew UNITA well, said it was impossible for these to belong to UNITA troops. They wouldn’t want such things, even if they could buy them.

  Steven and Dom also told me about the FAA commander, Colonel Pepe. Convinced that some boy soldiers were inflicting gunshot wounds on themselves to escape fighting, Pepe had an answer. He would walk among those wounded and awaiting casevac by Mi-17. Any of his boy soldiers whose wounds looked self-inflicted, he shot dead.

  Much to his amusement, Dom had seen apparently badly hurt boys suddenly jump up and run back to their positions, as Pepe loomed into view. Dom was like Pepe.

  On D+3, one of the South Africans was killed.

  Willy Erasmus died instantly from a burst of machine-gun fire. There was a good side to this. He had died instantly. Not because of our slow casevac to Windhoek.

  Violent death wasn’t new to me. So why was I so shocked?

  It dawned on me. These men were not doing this for their country. They were not doing this as Tony and I were – in order to defend their property and livelihood. They were being wounded, being killed – in Willy’s case – purely for money.

  The money was not enough for some.

  Coebus sent 20 men out. To be flown home. They didn’t want to go on fighting. So Coebus didn’t want them. Meanwhile, Tony announced that the pay and bonuses of the 20 now departing would be added to the bonus total, and then distributed as a further increase for the rest. Tony had already upped the bonus.

  He, too, had been taken aback by what these men were doing. Just for money.

  Crause and two other pilots, Werner and Johan, were flying non-stop. Back and forth, and always over UNITA-held territory. They had two Beechcraft Baron 58s and the Cessna Night Rider: all twin piston-engine propeller light aircraft. They flew replacement men up, together with any vital stores, and wounded men down.

  In addition, Crause lent an unlikely hand by getting together the FAA Antonov An-12 cargo flyers in Luanda. One of the early nights, D+4, they flew their old cargo planes over Soyo, rolling bombs off the rear tailgate, Crause shoving.

  The sky was overcast. Bombs were dropped by rough calculations and Global Positioning System (GPS), trying to make sure that they did not hit our men. They could see the flashes of the bombs going off through the cloud cover. Crause was sure that this was a help. A morale booster, at least.

  When he arrived at Soyo, to pick up Steven and Dom, Crause told a strange tale. A well-known SADF officer, known to many of the men, had been killed in a car crash outside Pretoria. This officer, held in high regard by the South African Special Forces, was the son of a general. Except, it seemed, there had been no car crash. The story making its crawl around the bars of Pretoria and Jo’burg was that this man had been killed fighting for UNITA. At Soyo.

  Joaquim David, Tony and I slaved over t
hose five days. A ghastly routine of begging, pleading, scrounging, bullying, checking and loading held us in trance. Stores. Supplies. Logistics. Fuel. Ammo, and more ammo. It was the only thing to do. Every minute there was a sense of the needs of the fighting men in Soyo. Their lives hung on a logistical thread. Only we three could keep the thread strong. Then, in the middle of the morning of the sixth day, D+5, I had news for Tony and Joaquim.

  ‘We’ll win.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Simon?’

  ‘We’re winning. It’s going to work.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘No – Tony, please,’ said Joaquim, frowning at me. ‘Why do you say this? Please do not make jokes!’

  ‘Look!’ I pointed. ‘That Mi-17 crew, where I’ve just come from, what do you see?’

  ‘Don’t play games, Simon. What are you talking about?’ asked Tony.

  ‘You remember how pathetic, but how typical, it was that the Angolans could give their air crew a bloody great helicopter to fly, but no flying overalls? How we used to laugh at them – flying in their ragtag civvies… I’m sorry, Joaquim!’

  ‘Is OK, Simon. No problem,’ said Joaquim.

  Tony stared at the crew who were today – for the first time – wearing overalls.

  I carried on: ‘I’ve been talking to them. I asked them why they had been flying in civvies but had now put their overalls on.

  ‘The pilot speaks French as badly as I do – that’s how we could talk.’

  ‘What’s the reason?’

  ‘They wore civvies before because the chances of being shot down were so great that they expected to have to escape on foot after a crash. The civvy clothes might help, so they can pretend to be civilians themselves!’

  ‘Makes sense. So…’

  ‘So, today is the first day they feel safe enough to wear their uniform overalls. They think we are winning.’

  At that moment, as if on cue, a signaller appeared with a message from Coebus. Last night they had got one of the tanks on the LCT started and offloaded. It had done some useful work that morning. Furthermore, there had been a small, but noticeable, slackening in the determination with which the UNITA attacks of that night had been pressed home.

  A PC-9 rocketed over the shacks, then shot upward over the town – executing a V roll as it went. Another safe return from a CAS sortie over Soyo.

  ‘V roll! He thinks we’re winning too.’

  ‘Or he met a new girl last night, and that was for her.’

  ‘I do wish that they would not feel they have to beat us up every single time they land,’ said Joaquim.

  Each day survived by Coebus and his band of heroes was its own victory. Although still a far-off mirage, an overall triumph, in the end, now seemed just possible.

  Logistics were the weak point. As always, logistics were the key point.

  In the plan, the LCT was to be the logistics linchpin. The Bangala was to be the back-up. Without those two assets, the resupply burden fell upon the Mi-17s. But these were the only Mi-17s in Angola. Don’t forget, the war between the MPLA and UNITA was nationwide. Angola is twice the size of France, with no road or rail network. These Mi-17s were being called for by every commander in the war: a war that the MPLA were losing.

  Then there was the question of security at our base, Cabinda International Airport. Our security.

  Each day that passed without an attack on Cabinda itself was a huge relief. UNITA had an ally in Cabinda who could have attacked us at any time: Front for the Liberation of the Enclave of Cabinda (FLEC), the local guerrilla force, demanding independence from Angola.

  If they hit us hard at Cabinda, they’d strangle our supply line to the Soyo battle front. They could destroy the air support that gave us our all-important edge. Yet, despite this threat, the FAA chiefs at Cabinda didn’t put a guard on the planes at night. Or on us. Or on anything else.

  Despite these shortcomings, that now-uniformed Mi-17 crew had proven to be a true tell-tale. From that day, the tide turned. Slowly UNITA’s ebb had begun. At a meeting with Coebus, it was agreed that he should go onto the attack whenever he could.

  Taking the fight to UNITA made sense. However, the casualties among the South Africans grew because attack exposed the men more. Which was how Smith was killed. An Englishman, and one of Coebus’s three platoon commanders, Smith had fought in the British Army’s Parachute Regiment, the Rhodesian Army Fire Force and the SADF Special Forces unit known as the ‘Recces’. He was noted for a laconic humour and professionalism.

  That day, he had led his platoon on a counter-attack. The UNITA withdrawal was a trick. Smith’s platoon hit an ambush. He was hit twice in the chest. He knew he was dying. As he died, he said to his sergeants that they must not let his death put off any of the young ones, and their enthusiasm for this, their chosen line of work.

  Gradually UNITA’s fight drained out of them … then all but disappeared. Logistics again. UNITA’s logistical chain – from their headquarters in Huambo, in the centre of Angola – some 600 miles away – all the way to Soyo, in the extreme north-west – on foot – proved their undoing. They couldn’t get weapons, ammo and supplies there as well as we could from Cabinda. Their casualties had a long walk to anything like a doctor.

  Having achieved a miracle for them, the MPLA paid us in full, and on time. Then they made us a proposal. We’d helped them win the Battle of Soyo. Now could we help them seize the rest of the country from UNITA?

  Could we win the war? Could we finish the war?

  *Koevoet, the South West Africa Police Counter-Insurgency Unit, which operated in what is now Namibia during the Border Wars 1966–89. Koevoet in Afrikaans also means crowbar: an allusion to their mission of prying insurgents from the local population.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JULY 2003: THE EG COUP

  Plan A: GO GO … STOP!

  The Boss loves it. He has the money to make it go ahead. He just doesn’t have the money today. Or he doesn’t choose to have it today.

  Why not?

  He assures me that the money is coming through. Any day now. He’s been saying this for weeks. I’m getting twitchy. What’s he playing at?

  The key elements of Plan A – to invade Equatorial Guinea from the sea – are in place. LURD, the Liberian rebels, and their weapons, are on stand-by. The gnarly old South African dogs of war are on stand-by. The purchase of the cargo ship and the RHIBs is on stand-by. Everything is flashing amber. We just need a green light.

  And enough greenbacks to make it all happen.

  I warn the Boss that his GO STOP GO STOP is steering us into rocky seas. The operation is in danger of smashing into a reef. The longer we wait, the more likely that we will be compromised.

  Mercenaries gossip. Soldiers network. Shady crooks. Dodgy businesses. Spooks.

  They owe a policeman a favour, or they’ll be nicked.

  It’s likely that rumours of an op are already leaking to intelligence agencies. To the major oil companies. Maybe even to Obiang himself. Each has the money and the power to kill the op. Or to ambush us. Kill us.

  If Plan A is going to succeed, we need the elements of speed and surprise. We need to move fast now, to avoid springing too many leaks. We need to move fast now to ensure that unfriendly agencies, who have guessed about the operation, don’t have time to stop it.

  This is what won the day in Angola. In Sierra Leone. Speed and surprise are our most vital weapons. This is what I’ve been at pains to explain to the Boss. From the get-go.

  I explain it again. I need the money. Now.

  I have a black book of specialists who are crucial to this operation. Sailors, soldiers, pilots, suppliers. I can’t hire any of them until the money is in the bank. Yet if I wait until the money’s in the bank, I’m then facing a checklist, stretching to pages, that will take man-days to work through. More delay, more leaks.

  The worst of this is that we have men on the ground in Equatorial Guinea. If the operation is leaking, you can be sur
e the information will eventually find its way to EG intelligence. Any moment, our men could be captured, tortured, killed. The operation sunk.

  I had wanted to go into EG for the recce myself. But I know my arrival could have triggered an alarm. By all accounts, Obiang has survived/repelled/foiled about a dozen coups. If a coup-conscious secret state like EG spots my name on an inbound pax manifest, they’ll surely act.

  We have a bunch of black EO mercenaries, from our Angolan and Sierra Leone adventures, who come originally from São Tomé. This is the island republic some 300 nautical miles south-west of the coast of EG’s Bioko Island. These men had been originally recruited by the SADF to fight against the MPLA Angolans in the Border Wars.

  Then the SADF dumped them. Disbanded many units. They discarded men who’d fought a war for them. They callously stripped these men of their source of living, and their pensions. Then EO recruited these tough São Tomé fighters, along with the other 32 ‘Buffalo’ Battalion men.

  Since then, some of them had also become businessmen. Now Niek and I have recruited them as spies. These men have been able to slip into EG unnoticed. They have the right skin colour. The right dialect. The right backgrounds. The right businesses.

  By now one of the men has been in there for more than a month. His reports are frightening. Obiang wants to outshine the nastiness of his predecessor. Francisco Macías Nguema’s brutal rule came to an end when his nephew Obiang murdered him in 1979.

  Four years earlier, Uncle Francisco had plumbed depravity’s deepest depths. The venue: a Malabo soccer stadium. The occasion: the execution of 150 alleged enemies. The twist: Francisco had a soundtrack to the executions, playing over the stadium loudspeakers: Mary Hopkins’s hit ‘Those Were the Days’.