Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Should we be jogging and acclimatising?’ Swifty casually asked.

  ‘Hands up those who want to go jogging,’ I posed. No one raised a hand. ‘The motion is carried.’

  As the sun dipped we stirred, and some jogging was on the cards when it cooled down. Being a desert, the temperature would drop sharply.

  Mahoney stood at my side as I peered out at the desert. ‘Nice spot,’ he quipped.

  ‘Bad spot to have an accident,’ I noted, seeing the bleached bones of dead animals.

  ‘All it needs is a pool, and it would be great,’ he added.

  Small holes dug, we sat cross-legged and cooked as the temperature fell and the stars came out.

  When my phone trilled it was Captain Harris. ‘How is it out there?’

  ‘Very basic, so just you and one other, some comms kit, wear your webbing, bring rations and water.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘There’s water here, local truck selling stuff, but nothing else, and you’ll be sleeping in the sand.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well the planes are heading back to you.’

  ‘They are? Shouldn’t the pilots rest first?’

  ‘The two transit pilots, and two others from nearby, they wanted the money, and Bob agreed it. Rest of your men and kit, some “A” Squadron.’

  ‘I don’t think there are runway lights...’

  ‘They checked, it has basic lighting, and ask them to switch on building lights.’

  ‘The building lights are on, quite bright, should see them miles away.’

  ‘Should be with you soon.’

  Phone away, I said, ‘Local transit pilots are bringing the rest of the team.’

  ‘Do they know where the fuck they’re going?’ Swifty grumbled.

  ‘We’ll find out soon.’

  Half an hour later, tea being sipped, we heard the drone and looked up, soon seeing a star that was moving. I walked around to the brightly lit apron with Moran and Swifty, Tomo now on stag at the kit and stood by the shed door.

  The Skyvan touched down smoothly and taxied around, the Islander not far behind. Rifles slung, we helped unload kit, crates and chutes, making short work of it, “A” Squadron not having brought crates, just themselves – plus large Bergens.

  I thanked the transit pilots and showed the newcomers where to make a happy home, the grumbling and moaning from “A” Squadron starting straight away. But I did hand them a stretchy brown flysheet, and they fixed it to fence poles, rocks used at the tail end, a home created.

  As I patrolled the line, ponchos were fixed to the fence, sticks hammered in, men soon sat cooking in the light coming from the tower, till that light suddenly went out.

  Grabbing Swifty, I went and fetched an oil drum I had seen, paper and rubbish in it, and we carried it back. Ten yards in front of the bivvy we enlarged holes in the rusted sides, set it alight, and added wood to it, soon watching as orange sparks drifted slowly up into the cool night air. It afforded us some light.

  ‘Hear that?’ I asked Swifty.

  ‘Hear ... what?’

  ‘No crickets.’

  ‘Nothing for them to live on around here.’

  ‘Wait,’ Moran called through the dark. ‘Hear it?’

  ‘One lonesome cricket,’ Mahoney noted. ‘And no damn mosquitoes – no water.’

  ‘You’ll all need jackets tonight,’ I shouted. ‘Get them from the kit.’

  ‘Cools down sharpish, Boss,’ Tomo noted. ‘Magsee takes a blanket.’

  Facemask on, gloves on, jacket over me like a blanket, I finally got off to sleep around midnight, quite comfy on my bed of sand.

  As the sky adopted a dark blue tinge I peered up, but remained under my jacket till the sky turned grey. Easing out, I walked off down the fence and took a pee, no one around. Around at the shed, Slider was awake but looking bored.

  ‘All quiet?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, not a soul, no animals, not so much as a fly. Fucking dead around here.’

  ‘Good, less hassle.’

  ‘Went off cold though.’

  I nodded, peering up at the grey-blue sky. ‘No moisture to hold in the heat.’ Looking down, I said, ‘Oops. Intruder you missed.’

  We observed a large black beetle walking past.

  Hexamine cooker working, water in, I sat watching it, and when it boiled I made two teas. ‘Swifty!’

  He crawled slowly out, eyes half-shut, and took a tea, soon sat cross-legged. He took several sips before opening his eyes, and he glanced up. ‘What’s the weather forecast?’

  ‘Hot this morning, damn hot this afternoon, damn cold tonight.’

  He nodded, and sipped his tea.

  I took out a packet of glucose tablets, one popped into my mouth, two passed to him. He let them dissolve on his tongue, adding some tea as a few of the lads took a pee in the sand, the far horizon slowly adopting an amber tinge.

  When Moran made a brew, he noted, ‘This ration pack has no sugar in it, but an extra chocolate bar.’

  ‘Happens sometimes,’ I said. ‘I once had a box with twenty six sachets of apricot flakes in it, and nothing else. I had to swap them with the other men – or go mad on apricot flakes.’

  An hour later, the sun fully up, a toot of a horn indicated the local opportunist, and several of us walked around to him. He was pleased to see new faces.

  ‘You speak English?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘French?’ Moran asked, getting back a toothy grin and a nod. After an exchange, Moran said, ‘English money is OK, he’ll give us 500 francs to the pound.’ Moran conferred with the French soldiers stocking up. ‘That ain’t great, but fair.’ Moran changed the money we had, tins of meat and tins of fruit handed over, as well as sardines – but they were expensive sardines.

  Sat back down, each lad now with two or three tins, I figured we had spent six quid - and that we had probably been ripped off. Still, the prices were better than in the UK. I had two tins of pears, looking forwards to them, and we had enough ration boxes for ten days.

  I took everyone for a run a little while later, the “A” Squadron lads not looking that enthusiastic about some exercise, and we worked up a sweat. Coming around for the fourth lap the planes returned, the rest of “A” Squadron’s volunteers offloading, our RAF pilots back, six medics with lots of kit, as well as an MOD guy in beige, a bag carried, sunglasses worn under his Panama hat.

  ‘Sir?’ I asked, and stood staring at him, hands on hips.

  ‘London wants me to risk assess.’ He seemed put out that I was in his face.

  ‘I’m not unhappy about that. Do you realise that you’ll be sleeping in the sand?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sand.’

  ‘There’re no rooms, not even the tents there?’

  ‘Nothing. Nada. Not a sausage.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the local shark about something for you.’

  ‘Shark?’

  ‘We have a man that sells stuff of the back of a truck. In the meantime, come with me before you cook.’ I made a space for him under my flysheet, and fetched him a plastic water bottle. ‘Toilet is any patch of sand away from here.’

  ‘Christ, this is ridiculous. I’ll talk to Whitehall later.’

  Our planes took off without so much as a goodbye, and I realised that we were missing SIGINT.

  Fearing that the overheating MOD whinge-bag may be an issue, I had Moran speak to the French. They rang the local shark, and he trundled in with a large white tent, UN stencilled on it in blue, one careless owner.

  Smiling, we erected it near us, and paid the shark for its weekly rental, one old camp bed supplied. I had the medics take up residency with our man from the MOD, and peace was reclaimed.

  Tent ready, medics settled, I told the lads to collect up empty tins cans, and to check the rubbish bins for more. With twenty cans to hand in a plastic bag, I left one lad on stag and we headed out, a brisk walk to a point some 500yards from o
ur fence.

  Can bag in hand, I paced out three hundred yards and lined them up, well spaced out, and jogged back.

  ‘Rocko, standing firing position, left-most can.’

  He fired and missed.

  ‘You’re pants. Slider.’

  He missed.

  ‘Still pants. Swifty.’

  He knocked his can flying, rude words exchanged. Half an hour later, the day warming up, I set up a black rock as a target, but out at five hundred. The lads knelt and fired - varying degrees of accuracy displayed, then had them lay down and fired – better accuracy achieved.

  Back at the bivvy, I called my lot and “A” Squadron together.

  ‘Listen up. Most likely we would move at night, sleep from say 11am to 4pm.’ I grabbed a brown poncho and cut four L-shaped holes in it, mounting it over two twigs. ‘You sleep under it, and if there’s a breeze you try and angle it so that the wind blows down it. Under the poncho it’s cooler than outside.

  ‘We’d see anyone coming a long way off, only need one man on stag, but hiding tracks would be an issue. If we’re off the roads and track, the locals won’t be out sniffing around like jungle trackers; they probably hate the sand as much as we do.

  ‘When I say go, I want everyone to prepare a poncho, holes in it, twigs found – and take the twigs with us, and right here I want you sleeping from noon till three. Get used to it. Go!’

  “A” Squadron spent an hour sniping at distant rocks, but then crawled under ponchos as I had requested.

  Tomo had dug out a shell scrape, got his twigs in and poncho over, eased under it with his rifle, and got comfy, rifle pointing at the horizon. His water bottle - he buried it deep under the sand, a trick from Magsee.

  I was about to lie down when our planes returned, Captain Harris and his mate greeted. They were suitably dressed, backpacks to hand. I fetched them water and put them in with the medics, plenty of room for them. But seeing the medics sweating I cut holes in the side of the tent.

  ‘Let some air in,’ I told them. ‘Sleep from noon till three, get most of the work done at night. And it gets very chilly at night.’

  Captain Harris dumped his kit and took out a map. ‘We have some detail for you.’

  I led him to my flysheet, just myself and Moran under it, and we sat cross-legged around the map.

  Captain Harris began, ‘This is us here on the left, ill-defined border ten miles away due east, then sixty odd miles as the crow flies. Road goes due east, then north a bit, small town, and that’s where GCHQ had traffic relating to our kidnappers. Here, twenty miles due south of that town, is the strip that was used for the exchanges.’

  ‘Didn’t happen to bring some money with you, did you?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, a few thousand francs ready, and gold coins.’

  ‘Gold coins are worth ... what?’

  ‘Each one is worth a hundred quid.’

  ‘Fetch me two.’ I followed him to his kit, and he handed two over, Moran tasked with calling back the local shark.

  When the shark arrived I led him to my flysheet, and we sat down as if a local Shura was underway. I pointed at the map. ‘You know this town?’

  ‘Some,’ Moran translated.

  I handed over a gold coin. ‘What do you know of the Islamists here? They take western hostages.’

  ‘Yes, bad men,’ Moran translated. ‘North of the town a few miles is an old mine, they go there.’

  I handed over the second gold coin. ‘Make some phone calls, find out what you can, more gold coins to be had.’

  A happy shark headed off home.

  ‘Local intel,’ I told Captain Harris. ‘Always the best. Now, go with Captain Moran and see if we can’t hire out that Cessna in the hangar.’

  ‘What about the other two aircraft?’ he puzzled.

  ‘A bit big and loud for a quiet recon.’

  Moran eased down near me fifteen minutes later, the day damn hot. ‘We got the Cessna, fuck all use being made of it.’

  ‘Pilot?’

  ‘French pilot.’

  ‘Four o’clock-ish, fly down that road, five thousand feet, peer down for roadblocks and bad boys – be easy after dark to see headlights and camp fires. Try and get some binoculars off Air Traffic Control, or use your rifle sights, have a look north – but never closer than two miles to that mine or the town, we’ll spook them. Just want an idea of where it all is. Make sure you have all your kit, plenty of water, just in case you go down with a fault.’

  He nodded, and settled down. And it was easy to sleep in this damn heat.

  Moran’s Cessna took off at 4.15pm as I stood watching with Captain Harris, and it arced gracefully across the northern sky and headed east, soon just a fading drone.

  Our doctors stood watching. ‘Need us for anything?’

  ‘We have the use of a jeep, so two on standby till the Cessna is back, just in case it has to put down on the road. Besides that, not much happening yet.’

  As we lost the sun we lit the oil drum, men sat cooking rations, and hearing a commotion I stepped the very short distance around to the front of the medical tent. A French soldier had burnt his hand, and was getting good care. Drama over, I returned to cooking with Swifty.

  At 6pm, the air cooling rapidly, I took the lads for a run around the perimeter, a firm hint to “A” Squadron to do the same, and at 8pm I had my lads wash and dry off any sweat, a map reading excise on for tonight.

  With all the men gathered around the oil drum, “A” Squadron off to one side, I began, ‘OK, those with sat phones, call Captain Harris and myself before you leave. Swifty, Slider, standby here with me to rescue that Cessna if need be.

  ‘Rocko, take half the men north two hours, stop and get a brew on, turn around and back, the success of your map reading being if you hit this place on the nose without following your tracks.

  ‘Rizzo, northeast two hours and back. “A” Squadron, two teams with sat phones, one due east, one south east, you may hit the border. And all of you, weapons ready, might find some aggressive camel shaggers out there. If you bump into each other ... no shooting. Off when ready. No accidents, no fuck-ups.’

  I stood with Captain Harris next to the roaring oil drum, and we watched as teams formed up and headed off, the area soon quiet.

  The cute lady doctor appeared next to us, her face orange from the fire. She warmed her hands over it. ‘Temperature drops quickly.’

  ‘No clouds, no moisture to hold in the heat,’ I commented. ‘Are you ... coping?’

  ‘Haven’t done much yet, save a burnt hand, and a splinter.’

  ‘Might have some intel later, so we may move on the hostage takers tomorrow,’ I told her.

  ‘Don’t you normally practise things first?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, as the lads are now doing, but maybe the hostage takers are killing one man a day for fun – hard to know. In the Congo we risked our lives to attack a large group of men holding hostages, only to find that the hostages had all been beaten to death – one alive.’

  ‘Horrid business,’ she commented. ‘My sister is a doctor with Medicine Sans Frontiers, and she sees some horrific things, villages wiped out.’

  ‘We came across a village wiped out in Sierra Leone, women and babies all shot. But we rescued a few.’

  ‘And an albino baby,’ she noted, warming her hands.

  Captain Harris put in, ‘Black women dump albino babies in the bush. They’re seen as evil spirits.’

  ‘So why RAF?’ I asked her.

  ‘Don’t like hospitals.’

  We laughed. ‘Can’t be a doctor and not like hospitals,’ I teased.

  ‘I like medicine away from the sterile environment, as well as away from the politics. This is what I wanted to do when I started my medical degree – Africa, making a difference, like my sister.’

  I nodded, soon hearing the drone of our Cessna. Captain Harris and I walked around to see it land and taxi across.

  ‘Well?’ I asked as Moran closed in.

/>   ‘Static vehicles in two places, could be roadblocks, and that mine has jeeps, trucks, and lights on. Again, vehicles on the access road to that mine. Looks rocky around it.’

  We walked back around to my bivvy.

  Moran added, ‘Easy to navigate at night, black roads and dark brown desert.’

  ‘Could you land on those roads?’

  ‘Yes, no street lamps to worry about, wide enough.’

  The three of us settled around the map, torches out. Moran pointed, ‘Here, off the road a mile, is the mine, say three miles north of the town.’

  Captain Harris said, ‘That mine was depleted like a hundred years ago.’

  ‘So that’s our target,’ I said. ‘Question is, best way to have at them.’ I pointed. ‘Rocky terrain around it, desert is ... two miles away, but here, north five miles is a good landing spot. Problem is broken legs on landing, no helicopters.

  ‘So ... maybe we have the aircraft circling fifteen miles west, we drop here ... walk in east, and if anyone has a broken leg we need only get them to this road, aircraft takes them out after ... the shooting starts.’

  ‘Two hour’s wait with a broken leg?’ Moran posed.

  ‘Not ideal, but soldiers have suffered worse. I have morphine. No splints.’

  ‘Take some wood from here, there’s small two inch strips that are suitable,’ Moran put in.

  I nodded, looking at the map. ‘Can’t drive in, can’t land nearby.’ I put a finger on the map, a point between us and the mine. ‘What’s that?’

  Moran said, ‘Those words, in French, mean salt lake.’

  ‘Ah...’ I let out. ‘Flat and hard.’ I faced Moran. ‘Just after dawn, go take a close look. And if it looks OK, set down.’

  ‘Set down? Could fold the undercarriage!’

  ‘Like I said, have a good look first. I want to put the Skyvan down on it.’

  ‘Then what?’ Captain Harris asked.

  ‘We walk in, OP for a day, move on them the following night, walk back the same way.’

  ‘That’s almost thirty miles of desert,’ Captain Harris warned.

  ‘We can walk that in less than ten hours,’ I assured him. ‘Keep us warm.’