Wilco- Lone Wolf 18

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Your opposite number, sir,’ Harris noted.

  ‘What? Well, yes, he would be I guess.’

  ‘Always shoot the senior staff first,’ Harris noted. ‘Disrupt command and control.’

  ‘Ha, they’d operate just fine without me - if not better.’

  I led him outside, the Greenies seen getting ready, the Pumas and Lynx getting ready, the drone reaching us. The three Pumas eventually slid over, eight Greenies and kit per bird, four Greenies to each of two Lynx on this insert, Hicks not along for the ride.

  Making a noise, they lifted off in sequence and flew low-level west, the Lynx buzzing as they lifted off, immediately climbing higher than the Pumas. When they were just a distant drone we returned to the HQ room, fresh drinks made.

  Fifteen minutes later, Holsteder reported his teams down, no one around, and that they were moving north - and that they were definitely earning their keep.

  When Kovsky reported the strike wing on its way I called Lieutenant Kravitz. ‘F18s on their way, ten minutes or less. What can you see?’

  ‘They’re all taking it easy, most asleep by the look of it.’

  ‘Warn your teams, heads down till the fireworks are over.’

  ‘Some deep gullies here for us. But we got a man up a cliff and he has eyes on the camp. He’s 400yards from the camp.’

  ‘Should be OK. Report the damage and the casualty numbers, make an assessment. Talk soon.’ I faced Jacobs. ‘SEALs have eyes-on, their men not too close.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Kovsky announced, phone to his ear. ‘Hawkeye has no active radar on the ground at this time.’

  Moran called me. ‘They’re all running around like crazy, someone alerted them!’

  ‘They looking for you?’

  ‘No, they’re getting ready for an airstrike.’

  ‘No airstrike coming your way yet, it’s west of you thirty miles. I’ll call you back.’ I faced Jacobs. ‘Men in the east camp are getting ready for an airstrike.’

  ‘I may know why,’ Kovsky told everyone. ‘Our birds are flying a dog leg to confuse anyone on the ground.’ He pointed at the map. ‘On course for that camp just about, then they turn southwest then north.’

  ‘They must have radar,’ I stated. ‘Maybe a small unit at the coast.’

  Jacobs reported, ‘Boys will have anti-radar missiles fitted soon, and will take out any ground radar units we find.’

  I called Lieutenant Kravitz. ‘Are they rushing around?’

  ‘A small group are rushing around, not the main body. Why?’

  ‘Fighters in other camps are rushing around. Stay on the line, get a good view.’ I held the phone down. ‘Some reaction in the target camp, but just a dozen men, the rest are not hiding.’

  Harris lifted his phone. ‘Yes?’ He listened. Facing me he said, ‘It’s Swifty, he couldn’t reach you. That Cessna is heading here, ten feet off the deck!’

  ‘Disperse the helos, fast, send Lynx after that Cessna! Marines and Paras gone, right?’

  ‘Yes, no one left.’

  ‘Tin hats on everyone,’ I said with a smile, leading Jacobs and Kovsky outside and up to the flat roof, still on the line to Kravitz.

  Jacobs quipped, ‘If they land, loan me a rifle; could be two of them in that Cessna.’

  ‘Should I get down?’ a familiar voice asked, and we looked up to the ATC roof.

  ‘No, stay there,’ I told the young Omani officer. ‘Look for a Cessna coming in from the southwest.’

  ‘God damn!’ came down the phone, and I heard the blast.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Shit … my ears are ringing. That bomb landed at the north end, close to us.’

  ‘Blame your Navy fly boys.’ I heard two blasts as I scanned the horizon southwest, the helicopters behind me making a noise, engines started. ‘Report.’

  ‘Tents were hit, covered in sand and smoke, can’t see much.’ Two further blasts registered down the phone. ‘Back end of the tents were hit. Wait, F18 now strafing, second bird behind it.’ I heard the screech. ‘Still coming in … strafing … some men firing up … body parts all over, jeeps overturned, some on fire. Shit!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Missile is chasing an F18 … flares fired … missile is diving away. Another missile!’

  I faced Jacobs. ‘Your F18s are getting missiles fired up at them!’ Back on the phone, I asked, ‘Any F18s damaged?’

  ‘Negative, they were gone fast, missiles veered off.’

  ‘Any planes left in the area?’

  ‘Can’t see any now.’

  ‘How many missiles?’

  ‘I saw at least four fired.’

  ‘Move in now, pick them off, report casualties.’ Off the phone, I reported, ‘Four heat-seeking missiles fired up at your planes, so that’s four per camp maybe, ten camps.’

  ‘Forty fucking missiles!’ Jacobs queried, a look exchanged with Kovsky.

  ‘And they don’t come cheap,’ Kovsky noted with a worried look as the Pumas flew off southeast. The Lynx lifted up and climbed in a slow circle till they were over a thousand feet up, our necks craned up, hands over eyes.

  ‘There,’ someone shouted, and we peered southwest, seeing the Cessna following the road.

  I readied my rifle. ‘Where we’re stood will be the main target.’

  ‘Can I get down now, sir?’

  ‘No!’

  A cackle of fire, and Omani soldiers were firing at the Cessna. The Cessna came on, just ten feet off the road, but clipped a wing on a tall roadside light, lost the end of that wing as it spun around, hit the ground and buckled, soon upside down and smoking.

  ‘What the fuck was that lame-ass pilot up to?’ Jacobs complained.

  The Cessna blew, the blast reaching us, a hell of a blast, soldiers knocked off their feet closer to the scene.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ Jacobs commended. ‘Not so lame after all. I give them … five for the approach, eight for the bomb, eight for the plan, two for the execution of the plan.’

  ‘Harsh but fair scoring,’ Kovsky noted as dust and smoke spread outwards and up in a huge brown cloud.

  ‘Now can I get down, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  Holsteder called me in a panic. ‘Wilco, they launched an old Russian cruise missile, it’s flying south!’

  ‘Shit.’ Phone down, my expression saying it all, I told them, ‘Cruise missile heading for your ships!’

  Kovsky got his phone out in a hurry. ‘It’s me! Cruise missile launched, heading south towards you, flight time is fifteen minutes!’

  I had turned on my ground-to-air radio in a hurry as a horrified Admiral Jacobs stared at it. ‘Ground Wilco to any US Navy birds overhead, emergency call!’

  ‘Alert Five to Ground Wilco, receiving.’

  ‘The fighters launched an old Russian cruise missile from the target camp that was bombed, heading south to your ships! Find the fucking thing, or you’ll have nowhere to sleep tonight!’

  ‘Alert Five, we’re moving to intercept.’

  I faced Jacobs, and heaved a worried sigh. ‘Points for their plan?’ I dryly asked.

  ‘Ten out of ten for ingenuity, my sphincter is twitching!’

  ‘It could be an old anti-ship missile, so it’ll try and lock onto something big, radar lock. If there’s an oil tanker between the coast and your ships … it’s toast. How far out are your ships?’

  Kovsky answered, ‘Forty miles off the coast, plenty of picket ships, your Royal Navy frigate there, French warship.’

  The Lynx came in and landed in a row as we stood observing them, the Pumas circling before landing.

  I could see Morten and his team near the Omani soldiers. He eventually drove around to us and we got down of the ATC roof.

  ‘No one hurt badly,’ he reported, cap off as he wiped his forehead with the back of a sleeve. ‘Just shocked, blown off their feet, dust in mouths and eyes.’

  ‘Get back to the Lynx because we’ll have casualties soon, four large teams
in action as we speak. And tell the Lynx I’ve cancelled the plan ground attack for now, the fighters have a shit load of surface to air missiles.’

  He rushed off back to the Lynx.

  Kovsky took a call as we entered the HQ room. He listened, nodded, then finally lowered the phone. ‘F18 caught the cruise missile, hit it, it blew, but the blast wrecked the F18 – metal in the engine intakes, pilot ejecting into the sea.’

  ‘God damn!’ Jacobs hissed.

  I told him, ‘Report it as a bird strike, sir.’

  Jacobs nodded at Kovsky, who made a call. When he returned, Kovsky reported, ‘Picket ships will now be positioned close to shore, radar active.’

  ‘Till someone targets the picket ships themselves,’ I quipped.

  Sandwiches were brought in, men stepping out and using the toilets.

  Kravitz finally called me. ‘We’re picking them off easily enough, some random fifty cal fire our way, some RPGs fired, but we’re spread out in the rocks and moving in. Many of them are walking south, helping the wounded walk that way.’

  ‘Green Berets are south, so the walking-wounded won’t get far.’

  ‘One of our snipers saw a missile sat on a box, hit it and it blew, two destroyed at the same time.’

  ‘Good work, now look for more. How many dead their side?’

  ‘I counted sixty bodies, can’t see the south side too well, rocks in the way, but the way they were strafed – had to be hundreds killed and wounded.’

  ‘Make a full assessment later, but don’t get close. Move your men south inch by careful inch.’

  I called Holsteder. ‘You in action yet?’

  ‘Just this last five minutes, jeeps coming south, which we shot-up and halted, then wounded men behind seen walking along.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to have a shoot-to-kill policy, but … you know what to do.’

  ‘I do, leave it with us.’

  Phone down, Jacobs asked, ‘What was that?’

  ‘Wounded from the air strike are walking south into the Greenies.’

  ‘I hope they don’t just let them walk off,’ he gruffly noted.

  ‘Technically, sir, we can’t do what we want to do – or be seen to do it.’

  He nodded, a glance at the men in the room. ‘Fucking terrorists, not soldiers. First chance they get they’d blow themselves up - and us with them.’

  Outside, I found a quiet spot and called Libintov.

  ‘Ah, Petrov, my rival is hurting, his planes lost – cargo and all.’

  ‘Good. Listen, what do you know about rockets that can fly twenty miles, accurate ones, and old Russian anti-ship cruise missiles, sent to Yemen?’

  ‘You are an annoyingly well-connected man. Yes, I heard, but they are not what they seem. They came from a man I know, but not one I want killed, and he made good money to make it look like they came from him, but they were donated … by the Iranians.’

  ‘Iranians? They hate al-Qaeda!’

  ‘Yes, but the enemy of my enemy … is my friend for a few days. The weapons were grabbed from Iraq in the war they had, old stock, serial numbers matching back to the Iraqis.’

  ‘And maybe someone wants to make Iraq look bad.’ I sighed. ‘Thanks.’

  I called Admiral Jacobs outside and led him to a quiet spot. ‘Iranians supplied the rockets and the cruise missile.’

  ‘Iranians! They don’t side with al-Qaeda!’

  ‘The enemy of my enemy, sir. If they supply weapons here, we fight al-Qaeda and kill them, and maybe you lose a plane or a ship in the process, some men killed.’

  ‘They want to stoke the fire.’ He looked away and sighed.

  ‘Another wrinkle … is that the weapons all have Iraqi serial numbers, so that Iraq would get the blame.’

  ‘CIA might use that fact,’ he noted with a shrug. ‘So what else did the Iranians deliver?’ he wondered.

  ‘Whatever it was, the Saudis got to know about it and were set to warn me, then changed their minds.’

  ‘Some other fucker playing games. Great.’ He made firm eye contact. ‘If I lose a lot of men here, or get a ship damaged…’

  ‘We’ll have to be smarter than they are, sir, or face the enquiry – death by media, death by a thousand words in print.’

  He sighed. ‘We got the fucking Iranians screwing around here, and the Saudis, and we’re sat right in the middle of it.’

  I arranged for a Lynx to be sent to pick-up Max, and he would have to walk north across the wadi to meet the helicopter.

  Next call was Langley. ‘Wilco, you got a problem?’

  ‘A big fucking problem – for us both. The Iranians dumped a shit load of weapons into Yemen through a middle man, hoping to see a large scale fight here. Already lost an F18, and we had an old Russian cruise missile fired at your ships, four heat-seeking missiles fired up at your F18s, a shit load of missiles sat on the deck waiting.’

  ‘Christ, and I was having a quiet day. You do like to spoil my day, don’t ya.’ He sighed loudly. ‘I’ll have to discuss this with the White House.’

  ‘If this gets out there…’

  ‘Yes, blame thrown around by all sides.’

  ‘I’m sure that the Saudis knew, and failed to warn us.’

  ‘That dead diplomat in Vegas,’ he noted.

  ‘The weapons were grabbed from the Iraqis in the Iran-Iraq war, they track back to the Iraqis.’

  ‘And the Iranians want us to use that fact. Fuck, this will be messy. I’ll get back to you.’

  I called Moran. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Still sneaking up, they’re all at action stations, but I think they just realised that someplace else got hit.’

  ‘They fired an old Russian cruise missile towards the US Navy, F18 brought down by accident – got too close, and they fired up four heat-seeking missiles. Don’t tell anyone there, but the Iranians supplied ten tonnes of weapons, hoping we’d all kill each other here.’

  ‘They don’t like al-Qaeda, or us, so yeah – they’ll let us slug it out.’

  ‘If you do engage, snipe from distance, I want no casualties. Silencers on, rags on, slow and steady. Up to you on the ground to decide, SAS north of you sneaking in.’

  ‘These ragheads are not switched on, we can kill most of this lot and move north. And I want to kill these fucks for the amount of fucking litter they’ve left behind!’

  ‘At your discretion, but no close-up fighting.’

  Major Pritchard called fifteen minutes later. ‘Max has gone, picked up, but the Lynx noise spooked them, they’re running around. We can see shoulder-launched missiles.’

  ‘I’ve told my lads south of you I want no close-up fighting, just sniping. Let my men shoot first, then you attack when they’re distracted; they’ll be no helicopter strike because of those missiles.’

  ‘Too late for that, they have a foot patrol out, and they’ll see our tracks in five minutes.’

  ‘Then start sniping, and hit those missiles – or you’re pants.’ I called Moran. ‘SAS are about to get a close-up visit, so open up.’ I could hear, ‘Nicholson, open up now!’

  Back on the phone, Moran said, ‘Wait … man in charge just fell to a head shot, his second in command holding his balls.’

  I smiled. ‘Call for casevac if you need it.’

  Jacobs stepped out to me. ‘Anything?’ He looked worried.

  ‘My men are sniping at them, to wear them down. That could take all day.’

  ‘What else can they throw at us?’

  ‘Another transport plane, this one stuffed full off explosives, but we only have the Lynx helicopters here, command staff, no one else to injure.’

  ‘And your men in the field?’

  ‘Too spread out - to get hurt.’

  ‘Ships are at general quarters. But if one gets hit it’ll be me kneeling front of the President and begging for forgiveness before he chops my head off.’

  ‘Fly back, sir, and let’s make some plans, starting with boring them to death. I’ll let them ma
ke a move, not do what they expect me to do. If I have to, I’ll shoot them one at a time.’

  He nodded and headed back inside as the Lynx returned, setting Max down.

  Max walked over lugging his heavy kit. ‘What’s the panic?’ he complained.

  ‘You’re missing all the damn action, so go see Major Harris, photograph the damage and do your job.’

  ‘What damage?’ he puzzled as he headed inside.

  The Omani major walked past. I stopped him, and pointed to the man up on the ATC roof. ‘That poor man up there, have him swapped and brought down.’

  The major stared at me. ‘Earlier he lodged a complaint about you keeping him up there!’

  ‘He must have misunderstood me,’ I said with a grin, getting back a scowl.

  ‘I read about your exploits, and watched the film, but I never thought I would be in the middle of such a surreal story. By time this finishes all my hair will be grey! Rockets, bombs on trucks, a plane that explodes!’

  I smiled and patted his shoulder. ‘Something to tell your grandchildren.’

  The Hawkeye set down half an hour later, Admiral Jacobs waved off, and we returned to the HQ room, fresh tea made, cake handed out as we sat quietly.

  ‘Where are the Marine Press officers?’ I idly asked.

  ‘They were on a Lynx last time I heard,’ Harris noted. ‘SEALs have some press guy with them.’

  Clifford stepped in. ‘I had the access road cleaned up in case we needed it, right old mess of that Cessna, just small parts. Tail was intact, body parts far and wide. Further down they nudged the burn-out trucks aside, so the road is clear now. Max the reporter is down there now.’

  I nodded. ‘I think they may have more sweeping to do in the days ahead.’

  Clifford was worried. ‘More rockets?’

  ‘More everything.’

  ‘Is it safe get a Hercules in, supplies?’he asked.

  ‘For the next few hours, more or less safe, safe-ish. But there won’t be a time when it’s better.’

  ‘I’ll have them land at dawn,’ he decided. Stepping to the door, he added, ‘They’re bringing tin hats for us, and some gecko spray.’

  The two GCHQ men stepped in. ‘Something we can be doing, rather than just getting bombed?’

  ‘Any of those radio scanners left?’