Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  They laughed.

  ‘We came to fight, not read about it,’ a man quipped.

  ‘We came to fight, not to be well paid for it,’ another man countered with, making them laugh.

  ‘So why’d you do it?’ the troop sergeant asked me.

  ‘Because being a painter decorator is even worse, just that sat here in the sand you lot sometimes think civvy life is good. It ain’t. It doesn’t matter what job you have, bricky or astronaut, there’s always some cunt wanting to make life difficult for you, and everyone hates their job.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you as a painter decorator,’ the troop sergeant quipped. ‘Some little old lady would tell you she don’t like the colour, and you throw her through the window.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m tactful?’ I queried with a smile.

  ‘There’s a few cemeteries around the world full of dead bodies going ripe that would argue the case, a few wives without their husbands.’

  I considered that last part, and exactly what he meant. ‘What you guys may not realise ... is that what we do, what you do, is far more honourable that you realise. We’re the global police, we go where there are no police or courts, and dispense summary judgement – a bullet between the eyes.

  ‘But if we don’t kill that terrorist fucker, he goes on to rape, kill and kidnap as a chosen career path, not holding down a day job at the local factory. In Sierra Leone we saw them massacre entire villages, and I often teach my guys that ... that what they’re doing is right, and that a high body count is good.

  ‘We cut short the lives of scumbags that cause mayhem around the world, and that’s the right thing to do. I tell my men ... for every idiot you kill, ten good men will live, not be murdered by the idiot we kill. You guys need to think about what you do with a pride. You’re doing good work.’

  They had sat quietly, listening, and now exchanged looks.

  I clambered up out the ditch. ‘Troop sergeant, how about you have feet washed and dried ... and inspected, eh.’

  At Rizzo’s position, I shouted, ‘Staff Sergeants, wash feet, dry them, and check them in rotation. And Staff Sergeant Rizzo, your five o’clock shadow is showing.’

  The men laughed, Rizzo rubbing his five day old beard.

  At Sasha, I told him, ‘Feet washed in rotation, dried out and checked. Let’s not get lazy, eh.’

  Back at the team I took out my soap, still moist in its plastic cover, and washed armpits and groin, soon smelling a little better. Knelt there, I washed the armpits of the shirt. I put the shirt back on wet, but it would dry out quickly. Sat back, I cleaned my rifle, wary of sand here, now seeing men washing feet, socks changed.

  When my sat phone beeped its warning I swapped the batteries, the old battery tossed away, and I called Captain Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, you all OK over there?’

  ‘Coping, a bit pissed off about Bateman and Robinson.’

  ‘Any word from the hospital?’

  ‘French say that Bateman will recover, bad stomach wound, arm hit, but Robinson is on life support.’

  ‘We evened the score up here, so we have that at least, they’re hurting, and running out of warm bodies.’

  ‘What’ll you do next?’

  ‘In the absence of some timely intel from you ... we’ll go for a walk and spot the rocket crews.’

  ‘We have intel from the French, targets over the border. They launched a small raid, twenty men, two killed, a few wounded, but they got the man they wanted, brought him back.’

  ‘For two men dead,’ I scoffed. ‘Makes what we do seem less effective.’

  ‘Can’t hold them back, and you can’t patrol the whole border.’

  ‘What about my wounded?’

  ‘Minor wounds, at the airport now, some to be flown back to the UK.’

  ‘Marines?’ I asked.

  ‘They went back to ship at dawn this morning, bit of a break, talk of a rotation. Their exercise on Ascension has been cancelled, they’ll stay a week or two.’

  ‘They’ll get more experience with us. Is the Major there?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  ‘Wilco?’ came the Major’s voice.

  ‘Yes, sir. You enjoying the heat?’’

  ‘God awful place – heat, sand and flies, and people shooting at us.’

  ‘And have you made any command-level decisions?’ I teased.

  ‘Not a one, unless it’s about food and water, waste of my time me being here.’

  ‘Perhaps you could mention that to Bob, I’m in favour of reducing numbers there.’

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘We spent a day getting rockets and mortars dropped on us, then they attacked the base, but we weren’t in it at the time. We surrounded them and wiped them out, then moved north and circled their main camp, had at them from above, left a few hundred bodies in the sand, so they’re hurting.

  ‘But the rocket crews are still out there, we had a few rockets today. That French colonel thought he would impress the troops with a personal visit, till a rocket shook him, then he scampered off.’

  ‘That’ll teach him. What’ll you do today?’

  ‘Rest, clean, eat, go for a walk tonight maybe. My Externals OK?’

  ‘They all have the thousand yard stare, a bit strung out waiting the next attack, looking tired, bags under eyes.’

  ‘Good experience for them. Better than sitting in barracks.’

  ‘”D” Squadron doing OK?’

  ‘Yeah, no whinging, but two off wounded. Captain Hamble got a face full of rock, one lad with a scrape.’

  ‘And the Wolves?’

  ‘One off wounded, but the rest are solid, great teamwork, no whinging, and they’re getting a great deal of experience. Sasha is leading them, and doing well at it. I’d send the Wolves off on a live job and not worry, they’re a good bunch.’

  As the sun set we sat about eating, and I could tell they were in the mood for a walk rather a chill night sat around, so I had a look at the map. I suggested to my team that we would set out around midnight.

  An hour later my phone trilled. ‘Wilco, it’s Captain Harris. French helicopter went down, seen by the tailing helicopter. Gunmen were on them straight away, captured.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake; one step forwards and two steps backwards.’ I sighed loudly. ‘Where did they go down?’

  ‘About forty miles north of you. This just happened, it was part of a raid. They dropped off men and were heading back, mechanical fault. They hit the sand hard, all got out, but were captured. Two pilots, crewman and medic in the back. Locals hit it with an RPG after it crashed.’

  ‘And the reason you’re telling me this..?’

  ‘They want to know if you’ll go after the hostages.’

  I again sighed loudly, and took out my notepad. ‘What are the coordinates?’ I took down the details and read them back. ‘Send the three helos for us, just a crewman in the back. Reliable helos, eh, or the Skyvan and Nomads, the strip is OK again.’

  ‘I’ll check now.’

  Phone down, I said, ‘Get ready to move.’ Up from the ditch, I switched on the radio. ‘Henri, you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘I want you, Jacque, and your two best men, kitted ready to go, over here in ten minutes.’

  ‘OK.’

  I turned my head. ‘Sasha, get some of the Wolves to the strip, check for holes and rocks, we may have planes coming in. Use torches.’

  On the radio I said, ‘Echo, Salties, ready to move in ten minutes, take down the ponchos. “D” Squadron, standby to hold the fort here. If a large force moves on this place, coordinate with the French, or hide in the desert, we may not be back for a day. The Wolves will stay here, and yes – you can patrol out. Coordinate with Sasha and the French.’

  When Henri came over with his small team, I laid out the map and found the coordinates, Moran and my team listening in. ‘French helicopter went down here, two pilots and two men captured alive. There’s only one village n
earby, here, so we go take a look.

  ‘We’ll fly well away from villages ... here, and land in the desert here so we’re not heard, six mile walk in. If we think we can get them out, we do so around dawn, or we observe for a day. Explain it to the French contingent here. If Algerians come here, it is up to them what they do; fight or hide. The Wolves will be here, and “D” Squadron, so enough men.’

  ‘Yes, enough men,’ Henri agreed. ‘When do we go?’

  ‘When planes or helicopters arrive, forty minutes.’

  He dispatched a man, to go back and brief the French contingent.

  ‘You have enough ammo?’ I asked him.

  ‘Some more might be OK.’

  I grabbed four magazines from the pile and handed them over, his two colleagues with Famas rifles.

  Sasha’s dark outline approached through the dark. ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Over here.’

  ‘The runway is OK, some rocks moved, some jumping up and down.’

  ‘Look after the Wolves while we’re gone, maybe some small patrols, coordinate with the French.’

  ‘They don’t have radio the same,’ Henri warned.

  I gave that some thought. ‘Jacque, stay here with Sasha, coordinate, get both types of radio on you. There may be an attack here.’ Turning my head, I shouted, ‘Echo, get some water in you, take a shit, be ready to go soon. Check ammo levels, plenty of magazines up here with me.’

  When my phone trilled next, it was the Major. ‘We have that Skyvan thing and a Nomad, if you don’t want to use French helicopters.’

  ‘Skyvan, definitely.’

  ‘We’ll send them off soon.’

  I checked each of my magazines, weighing them in my hand, and I had six full and one half full, which was enough, and I still had two grenades, my team still having their grenades. Pistol checked, spare magazines, I topped up my rations and double-checked my team’s first aid kits and tourniquets. Torches checked, we were just about set, and I led them off.

  Clicking on the radio as we scuffed up sand, I transmitted, ‘Echo, form up in teams on the strip.’

  On the strip, we used torches to inspect leftover supplies, and made a bonfire in two places, the brick building – what was left of it, now dark. As we waited, I had men start other fires.

  Twenty minutes later we heard the drone, all eyes seeking out the planes, the Skyvan putting its lights on at about a thousand feet, circling twice before lining up, a slow gentle approach and a gentle touchdown.

  ‘Team One, Team Two, French soldiers!’ I shouted above the roar of the engines and led them off, counting them in. I moved forwards to the pilots and thrust my map over their shoulders. With a finger on the map, the base we were now in, I showed them the route to take to avoid villages, and where to set down. They nodded their understanding, so I eased back and sat down.

  Power up, brakes off, and we moved slowly, gaining speed, and we hardly seemed to be moving fast enough when the nose came up, soon banking hard left and around, and soon seeing the Nomad land, its lights blazing.

  With the Nomad lifting off, we finished our box-circuit and headed northwest, flying at little more than a two thousand feet, and as I peered down I could see that we were following the lighter coloured sand and avoiding the darker hills as best as possible.

  Little more than fifteen minutes later the lights flashed.

  ‘Hang on tight!’ I shouted, and I gripped the flimsy aluminium frame. I could see the terrain ahead, a black road cutting through dark brown desert, the pilots easing down without the aircraft’s lights on, the nose angled up, a bump and we shimmied left and right before settling, the ramp powering up.

  I was last out, men having moved off to the right, and I joined their black blobs as the Skyvan powered up and left us. It grew quiet as we waited, hearing the Nomad but not seeing it till the last minute – my torch flashing towards it, and it touched down smoothly. Men out, it powered up in a hurry and blew sand over us, caps held down, faces turned away, eyes closed. It was now just us, knelt in a wide and flat-bottomed valley.

  A quick look at the stars, and I led the teams off due east, a radio headcount performed. Sat phone out, I gave a report to Captain Harris, asking him to update Bob.

  An hour’s hard slog saw us starting to climb the sides of the valley, distant lights dead head, and finding a suitable track we followed it, the rocks around here in layers that formed natural barriers, and deadly sharp with it.

  Spread out now, we moved quietly, nothing said, the track leading northeast and then bending around, and an hour’s quiet and cautious movement brought us to a road running across our front. Running across the road in teams, we hid in rocks and waited for everyone to get across, and now it would get interesting.

  I transmitted, ‘Sling rifles, gloves on, facemasks on, be careful, these rocks are sharp as fuck.’

  With my rifle over my back, gloves and mask on, I moved around the rocks, placing hands on each black outline so that I knew the distance; I was feeling my way.

  It took over an hour to cover just three hundred yards, but at the top we found a plateau, some sort of crop being grown, a few stone walls discernible in the dark.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Don’t walk inside the stone walls, they’ll see our prints at dawn.’

  Edging left around the walls, I could see the target village nestled into the base of a cliff dead ahead, high peaks to the left of it, gentle hills to the right of it, to the south. I moved north, and towards the high ground.

  Finding a convenient track, I adopted my rifle, those behind copying, and we advanced slowly and quietly up the steep gradient, circling the hill till I found a natural fire position facing the village, a deep gully, and we were some five hundred yards from the edge of the village, a deep ravine between us and the sleepy villagers.

  ‘Get hidden, all of you, in the gully or near it, hide from the village.’

  I found a flat area some three feet across, shaped like an old castle battlement and, standing on the flat area, my head and shoulders were peeking out over the rocks. Binoculars out, I scanned the village, not seeing much whilst hearing men moving around behind me. But there was one building much larger than the others, so of interest. I ducked down.

  ‘Nicholson, watch the village, rest of you ... stay down, dead quiet, no lights.’ Off the radio, I said, ‘Captain Moran, Mahoney, follow this track up, have a look and back, dead quiet.’

  ‘Moving,’ Moran whispered.

  I sat on the ledge with Swifty, just about enough room for us both.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ he idly asked, swigging water.

  ‘Eyes on first, then maybe we have a plan, they might not be here.’

  ‘Smell that?’ he asked.

  ‘Burning oil,’ I said. ‘So that helo is smouldering, somewhere down there.’

  ‘If it was hit with an RPG quickly, then some fucker here has RPGs to hand.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘This is not a great spot to be caught in after sun-up,’ he nudged.

  ‘True,’ I agreed. ‘But we’re kinda limited in time and terrain. And I’m hoping they load up the hostages at dawn to move them.’

  ‘Hit them on the road and be away,’ Swifty noted.

  Moran appeared an hour later, as the night air cooled. Whispering, he said, ‘Track branches east, drops down to the other hill and goes around, we could get above them, but the rocks look difficult, and the ravine below looks deadly – so they won’t be coming to us in a hurry, and we won’t be getting to them in a hurry either.’

  I began, ‘How about ... one team here, one on the road, hoping that they move the hostages?’

  ‘All comes down to them moving the hostages,’ Moran noted. ‘Team by the road could be exposed as well.’

  ‘It’s Nicholson. How many hostages were there?’

  ‘Four,’ I transmitted. ‘Why?’

  ‘When a door opened over there the light was better, and I saw four men hanging from a tree.’

 
Whispers shot around the gully, and I lowered my head, sighing loudly. Facemask off, I sipped my water in the dark, nothing said for a while.

  Binoculars out, I stood on the ledge and peered across, finding the only tall tree, and after five minutes a flash of light illuminated four men dressed like soldiers hanging from the tree, their hands bound behind their backs.

  ‘Standby to withdraw,’ I transmitted, no energy in my voice. Binoculars away, rifle adopted, I clambered over the rocks and to the track, soon leading my team back down again, slowly and quietly. At the field of produce we again skirted around it, a slow and difficult climb down, rifles slung.

  Hitting the sand after a tortuous climb down the rocks, harder than climbing up, I called Captain Harris.

  ‘Hello?’ came a sleepy voice.

  ‘It’s Wilco. We got to the village, but we’re aborting, have the planes back here in an hour and a half.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Four French hostages were hung from a tree.’

  ‘Oh ... hell. I’ll .... I’ll let the French know.’

  ‘Let me know about the transport, same spot, we’ll flash torches.’

  Plodding on, I called Sasha.

  ‘Da!’

  ‘It’s me, all quiet there?’

  ‘No, there is a sniper or two, long way off, distant shots, and a mortar.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No, these boys fire at maximum range, no good aim. From the east, they fire from the east.’

  ‘Be careful if you send patrols out, a hidden man will always have the advantage over a moving patrol. Are the fires on the strip still going?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We may be back soon, but not on the strip, can’t risk a plane to a mortar. Keep me updated.’

  Phone away, I clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up, base is taking sniper fire and mortars, so we can’t land back there, might need to land on a road west of the base.’

  ‘Helicopters!’ Henri whispered, and we all looked west. We could hear them, but not see them, and they came in fast, and at height, but were obviously not tasked with picking us up.

  As the drone of the first Puma abated we turned back towards the desert, but the crackle of automatic fire caused us to pause and to turn.