Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Meaning ... what?’

  ‘Meaning ... why should I allow you to stay here?’

  They exchanged looks. ‘We’ve met Colonel Mathews, and we’ve run stories before, got access to the military – more than most, so ... our loyalties lie with a good story, yes, but we know we’ll only ever get one chance to piss off the military.’

  ‘That one chance with me will hurt. The military will bar you access, I’ll come find you where you live.’

  ‘Mean son-of-a-bitch, ain’t ya.’

  ‘When I have to be.’

  ‘We’re well briefed on you, read that book, you don’t need to be shooting at us,’ the second man said.

  ‘Gentlemen, do a good story on the teams and the conflict here and you get invited along on other missions, the kinds of missions where no other journalist will ever go. That’s your motivation. Now, go find Mister Morten the doctor, and ask him for some food and a coffee.’ I pointed them in the right direction. ‘When you’re tired, get someone to show you the underground tunnel.’

  They plodded off, the lights turned off five minutes later, a few fires going. I headed back to my hole.

  ‘Who’s here?’ Moran asked through the dark.

  ‘Legion, Deltas, 1 Para, ten British Wolves, and two American journalists, but they know the score.’

  ‘All teams here now,’ he noted. ‘Just need someone shooting at us. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if the gunmen stayed away.’

  Mitch, Ginger, and several others laughed through the dark.

  ‘It would cause some raised voices in many places,’ I told them. I eased up and stood on the runway. ‘Wilco to all teams, listen up and pass it on. Make sure you’re awake just before dawn, when it’s grey, and cooking before it gets light, and ready at sun up for company. During the day, alternate sleep in pairs when you need it, every second man.’

  I eased down, but it was not worth closing my eyes for just an hour, several of the team agreeing with that premise.

  As it turned grey I transmitted again, soon cooking with Swifty, and when I judged the distance vision good enough to be a threat I told men to stop cooking and to carry on digging, our lookout told to stay sharp – and to watch the south track especially.

  Half an hour later I instructed the Wolves and many others to fill more sandbags.

  ‘Might run out of sand,’ Crab told me, tired recruits laughing, and it was good to see that they were in reasonable spirits out here.

  Haines closed in. ‘We have company?’

  ‘Soon I think, but I guess they might take a sneak peek at us first, rally the masses.’

  He took in the flat horizon. ‘It’s as wide open as wide open can be, we’d hit them a thousand yards out, but what do they have that could worry us?’

  ‘Mortars, RPG, small rockets.’

  ‘Not that effective around here, unless they’re lucky. Mortars hit the soft sand and the shrapnel doesn’t go out sideways.’

  I nodded. ‘They’ll start simple, get kicked by us, then go away and think, then come at night. And they probably think they could surround us and stop re-supply, till they see the planes, then they’ll try and shoot down the planes.’

  He looked worried. ‘That could be an issue.’

  I raised my eyebrows and nodded. ‘Hell, yes.’

  The French continued to dig their trench, and soon it would be big enough for all the French teams. It moved north from the drain and curved around behind Morten’s subterranean surgery, heading northwest towards “B” Squadron, sandbags on the edges, a few ponchos rigged up to keep the sun off the men beneath.

  Finding the brown cloth I had asked for in a large canvas bag, a mass of it, I handed it to the French, and I had not noticed the cargo dropped off last night. There were planks, but when I tested them I found them weak. Splitting them down the middle, I split them again and took charge of a section of trench as the French observed me.

  Thin wooden sticks hammered in to the soil beyond the sandbags, I rigged up the brown cloth so that a man would have twelve inches or more of head room to fire out from. They got the idea and got to work, and soon more than half the long trench was covered.

  A shout in French, and men glanced around. I peered south after seeing our lookout point, a few men grabbing kit and rifles. I ambled along the runway to my hole and grabbed my binoculars as men stood peering south.

  More than a mile away came three jeeps, a dust cloud accurately pinpointing their slow progress towards us.

  ‘Wilco to all teams, get down and hide, no one shoot, no one panic, fingers off triggers. I want no one stood up, pass it on.’ I turned, ‘Nicholson, Tomo, Swan, front and centre.’

  They walked over.

  ‘Stand in the middle of the runway,’ I told them. Puzzled, they moved to the middle of the runway. Back in my hole I sat down. ‘I transmitted, ‘Nicholson, you’re in charge. I want one fresh magazine in, twenty rounds. At a time of your choosing, when the jeeps are close enough, you shout the action and kneel, and you’ll have twelve seconds to kill all the men in those jeeps.’

  They exchanged whispers and got ready, spreading out a little, all facing south.

  ‘Nicholson, I’ll be counting, and if you make the twelve seconds you get a bonus. Stand up when you’re done. Don’t hit engines or tyres, just the men.’

  I could hear bets being laid off to my left, Rizzo’s team.

  ‘Twelve seconds?’ Moran queried.

  ‘There are three of them,’ I pointed out. ‘About twenty rebels, that’s only seven each. One every two seconds.’

  ‘Be tight,’ Swifty cautioned. ‘Oh, they have Elephant Guns. Hit the men bunched up and kill two men for each shot.’

  Moran casually noted, ‘Getting shot is one thing, but getting shot with a long tungsten round will leave a fucking big hole.’

  The jeeps came on, someone with a French accent making a radio call to ask if our lookout should get down. I told them no. I could now see three white pick-ups with men in the back.

  ‘Driver and passenger, say six or so in the back of each jeep,’ I told the men closest.

  ‘Do these guys have a fucking clue?’ Moran complained. ‘They’re just driving straight to us, in daylight.’

  ‘In answer to your question, no – they don’t have a clue, but they will wise up in a few days. And they can’t see a camp here.’

  ‘They can see our three snipers,’ Swifty noted. ‘Like the standoff in the Good, The Bad, And The Ugly.’

  ‘We have two good and one dimwit,’ I suggested, my team laughing.

  ‘That’s six hundred yards,’ Mitch noted. Soon he called 500yards, then 400yards.

  The jeeps suddenly slowed and turned side on.

  ‘Fucking knobbers!’ Swifty cursed at them.

  I saw Nicholson whisper comments left and right. They knelt, rifles up, the blasts sounding out as I started to count out loud whilst peering through my binoculars. A side window shattered, and I figured on the passenger and driver killed with a single shot, men soon seen falling out the back of the jeeps, some flying out the back.

  ‘Nine thousand, ten thousand...’ I got out, and Nicholson stood, a glance at me. I eased up with a few others and we walked forwards. Level with my three snipers I studied the jeeps from left to right, no movement seen. ‘Wait ... a man crawling, far right, no ... he slumped, bleeding out. OK, you win your bonuses, if you live to get back that is.’

  I turned. ‘Rizzo, Slider, get shovels, go bury them, and I want papers and phones. And don’t just cover them with sand because the wind will blow it away!’

  ‘What about the bulldozers?’ Slider shouted. ‘Dig a deep hole, ready for a few more bodies.’

  ‘Yeah, do it.’

  The Echo lads walked past us and on, my snipers with them – off to see their handy work. Only now did I notice the French flag on the pole, no British flag, despite me asking for one.

  I transmitted, ‘All teams, carry on digging, more sandbags.’

  Castil
le came on with, ‘Wilco, your boys won me fifty bucks.’

  ‘So ... one of your men bet against us? Tell him he’s an arsehole.’

  A French accent said, ‘I won a bottle of good wine.’

  Excitement over, I patrolled the line, encouraging men to work faster while it was cool.

  The two American journalists stepped out to me, sand coloured clothing and beige utility waistcoats, cameras around necks. ‘OK if we photograph the bodies?’

  ‘Not really, because that makes them look like victims. They came here heavily armed because they knew there are Americans soldiers here. Those men out there wanted to kill us. Well, they wanted to check the rumours first, have a coffee and a chin-wag, then kill us.’

  ‘Those men … will be missed.’

  ‘Yep, hope so.’

  ‘Your boys are cool under pressure, and they shoot like Davey Crockett.’

  ‘Those three men are my best snipers, and I doubt you’ll find any soldier anywhere in the world that could match them. They have the skills, and the experience, and ... they like this shit.’

  ‘Do all of your men shoot like that?’

  ‘If they didn’t they wouldn’t be with me.’

  They asked about the various teams, notepads out, and I detailed the teams, and what each unit did when not here – their official wartime roles.

  ‘We got a briefing on the Wolves, but were asked not to report them yet, but your British Wolves were in the Press,’ they complained.

  ‘No great secret, call them snipers, say they have a recon and sniping role.’

  ‘And the American recruits here, they’re fresh?’

  ‘They’ve all served four years in their parent units, so they’re not exactly fresh, but they’ve not fired a shot in anger before. They had training and selection in Nevada, then Morocco, then Mauritania – where they saw some action, now here to see some more action. Idea is to see how they react to living in a shit hole like this, under attack.’

  ‘Bit of a risk...’

  ‘The other way ... is men like your Green Berets down there. They have many years in, millions spent on training, and now they’ll see some action, and maybe a few of them are not suited to it and would rather be someplace else. Hard to know.

  ‘What we’re doing with the Wolves is applying some careful psychological profiling, a whole team of shrinks on it, to select a man that would rather be here than checking out the disco Stateside.

  ‘My men don’t want to be anywhere else, they love this shit, and that’s the key ingredient. Training comes later, experience added on top.’

  ‘Don’t soldiers just follow orders and do what they’re told?’

  ‘In wartime, yes. In peacetime, if you want good results, you need volunteers and the right men or you get a bad newspaper headline. There’s no war here.’

  ‘This is a bit of an odd set-up, a bit ... unconventional,’ they posed as they took in the bleak horizon.

  ‘There’s more going on here than meets the eye. Maybe I’ll explain it at some point, but your papers would never print it, and Uncle Sam would kick your arses.’

  They exchanged looks, squinting in the bright sunlight, now very curious.

  I walked out to the rebel jeeps, the bulldozers digging a deep trench, and a long trench, bodies already being covered over.

  ‘There’s a guy’s brains all over,’ Slider complained, shovel in hand. ‘Those three fuckwits hit these men with expensive tungsten rounds.’

  Rizzo pointed, ‘Two men with one shot, right through the stomach of both, and the round kept going.’

  ‘That saves on ammo,’ I noted.

  ‘Jeeps work OK,’ Rizzo noted.

  ‘Search them, drive them over and on say two hundred yards, then ask the French to pitch tents near the jeeps, make it look like a Boy Scout camp.’

  ‘A decoy,’ Slider noted, taking a rest from shovelling.

  With the bodies covered over, bulldozers slowly trundling back towards the drain, the jeeps were driven across the runway and on, soon parked up. I saw the tents carried out and raised, and it did look like a camp when done.

  At noon I blew my whistle, and men knew what to do. I closed in on the French trench, men seen under the cloth and under the improvised roof covers, and it looked like all of them were here.

  Across the runway I found the bulldozers still working, but with different drivers now, the southeast trench stretching out, enough room in it now for a hundred men. I told them to turn north for 100yards, and to then stop and reverse.

  In the cool dark drain I found Trapper sat with his back to a wall. ‘After your break, go down the trench and pick a spot, make fire positions, rig up cloth over the top, get comfy. Try and cover the south. Go see what the French have done already.’

  ‘I had a look, yeah, and they’re all comfy in there. We’ll dig out some smaller holes, cover them over.’

  His sergeant asked, ‘We on the clock, sir?’

  ‘The men in those jeeps will be missed, so yes.’

  ‘What do you expect, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten jeeps, or ... they come at night, park up and walk in. Tonight we’ll need a good lookout, but there’s no cover for them. Dawn tomorrow you’ll need your game face on.’

  Along the drain I found Robby and his team, Castille and the Deltas, no French here. Ambling up the runway, a glance south, I waved at the man up on the perch, and he looked warm. Past Echo I found Haines awake.

  ‘After your break, I want your men digging positions here facing west down the runway. Wolves west of you will re-locate. Grab the bulldozers for an hour after dark or tomorrow. I want some of your lot facing south, some facing west. Be ready for dawn, man on stag tonight.’

  Past him I found the Pathfinders, their captain awake. ‘After your break, move to the trench beyond the drain, grab a spot facing south, dig in and make hides, aiming south. Be ready for some company at dawn, man on stag tonight. Take 1 Para with you.’

  They had not had a chance to gossip, so they asked questions and slandered their major, their unit still full of political bullshit. I chatted to those who had been my externals, and still were technically, the plan here discussed.

  I headed north, all the way to the ridge, a few faces turning my way or peeking out from under ponchos. The ridge was just about four feet tall at most, but rocky outcrops reached up to six foot, making a view north impossible from the runway.

  ‘Might have some company at dawn tomorrow, so stay sharp, and dig down, keep in mind rounds fired at us going over the top and hitting you in the arse up here. Expect mortars.’

  ‘Not a bad spot this,’ they told me. ‘Rocks, hard dirt to pile up. As well as some fucking huge spiders, and scorpions.’

  ‘Need your facemasks and gloves on when you sleep, yes. Any bites, get to the medics, they have anti-venom.’

  ‘Could use those jeeps for casevac.’

  ‘Your two jeeps are next to the medics, so just shout and they’ll come up here - with anti-venom if needed.’

  ‘Anyone coming from the north and we’d see them two miles out!’ they insisted. ‘Be daft to attack this place.’

  ‘The bad boys will be coming, and they will be determined, and they will have rockets and mortars.’

  I kicked up sand as I walked back, a quick look at the empty tents, and I finally stood at the end of the French trench. We had the north covered, the northeast, the east, and when the southeast trench was occupied we’d have the southeast and south covered.

  Sighing, I wanted more time, and more bulldozers.

  At 3pm I blew the whistle, and I encouraged hot and bothered soldiers to do some work. The French extended their happy home, the bulldozers turning north in the southeast trench, the Wolves and others filling sandbags.

  I gathered the veteran British Wolves. ‘OK, who’s got a listening device?’

  Four men had two devices each.

  ‘If they’re placed a mile south, does London get the satellite data uplinked?’r />
  ‘Yes, on continuous, but with a battery drain, good for four days, Boss. In passive mode they switch on after a strong radio signal is picked up nearby.’

  ‘After dark, team of four goes southwest two miles, drops a device, on another three miles, drops a device. Four man team does the same southeast, back before dawn, avoid any contact. Let people nearby know you’re going out, I’ll transmit it. Coming in, torches on just in case, the last four hundred yards, use radios. But how does London know where they are?’

  ‘When we place the device we have to call GCHQ and give the coordinates and the set number, and they test it before we move off.’

  ‘Good, you know what to do. Make sure it’s fully dark before moving out. Oh, who shot those two men in the UK?’

  They gave me the story over ten minutes, not looking forwards to the enquiry.

  Walking down the runway, my phone trilled. ‘It’s Colonel Mathews, how’s it going?’

  ‘Three jeeps of gunmen drove straight up to us, sir, so we killed the men and stole the jeeps.’

  ‘Those men will be missed.’

  ‘Yes, sir, so tomorrow might see an escalation. Intel does have radio use fifty miles south, and they’re chatting about us.’

  ‘Teams getting along?’

  ‘Not much interaction so far, no issues, men busy digging in.’

  ‘Those two reporters there?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and they seem OK.’

  ‘Oh, there was a one-hour special on that oil platform fire last night, the Navy very happy, the White House happy, some good footage. Couple of the Navy pilots up for awards, big awards. Admiral Jacobs got a thank you from the White House, and he chatted on the phone to the President for ten minutes – no mention of you.’

  I laughed. ‘Just as well, I like to keep a low profile.’

  ‘Chat tomorrow.’

  I sat with the lady nurse as she baked bread and handed it out, the smell attracting the French lads.

  ‘Can’t make it fast enough,’ she playfully complained, her shirt falling open as she leant forwards, no bra on.

  Noticing a large canvas bag, I opened it, finding brown camouflage netting, the British kind of netting. Lifting the heavy bundle, a French lad grabbed to assist - plus some wood, we crossed the runway and walked parallel to the ditch for twenty yards, stopping just short of the Greenies as they dug in. I dumped the load, hammed in two bits of wood, and we eased down into the ditch.