Wilco- Lone Wolf 18

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘We then sent men down the only road into Yemen, British and American Wolves walking down the side of the road unseen, and they encountered a convoy or armed vehicles, plus an ambush point. Your Navy hit the armoured vehicles, Omani Lynx helicopters assisting, my men finishing off the fighters.

  ‘What is clear … is that the fighters expected us to simply drive down the main road into Yemen, but after we entered the wadi they had camps set-up to attack into the wadi, half an idea of how they might do that.’

  I put a finger on the Greenies hilltop. ‘I inserted your Green Berets here, a flat hilltop, and they’ve been attacking the small camps they’ve been finding, no serious wounds so far. Your SEALs are south of the main US Marine camp here, and pushing south towards known small camps of fighters.

  ‘But, I have to report that your Green Berets have been getting some pussy.’

  ‘They what?’ the general puzzled as Hicks stared at me, horrified.

  ‘They found an abandoned desert Lynx, a kitten, and have adopted it.’

  They laughed.

  ‘For a minute there I figured our guys found a brothel in the desert!’

  ‘Nothing but sand and rocks where they are, sir.’

  ‘Just as well,’ he added, Hicks relieved, and hiding his annoyance with me.

  I continued, ‘Our aim here … is denial of area, and to wear them down. After your Navy bombed them they split up, small groups spread out, and that favours our foot patrols. So far we’re wiping them out.’

  ‘You had a helo shot down?’ the visiting admiral asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, hit by three heat-seeking missiles. When your Navy bombed the first camp they had four heat-seeking missiles fired up at them.’

  ‘So they’re awash with missiles,’ a general noted.

  ‘Yes, sir, but we know that most all of the cruise missiles they were in possession of have been fired or destroyed.’

  ‘Saudi military is on full alert,’ the admiral noted. ‘Two missiles fired at them.’

  ‘More likely bad guidance systems, sir, twenty-year-old missiles with a user manual in Russian.’

  ‘One hit a tower dead on!’

  ‘Those missiles are supposed to fly a certain distance on a gyro-stabilised heading, then lock onto something – which is what it did, sir; it locked onto the radar tower and changed course as programmed to do, not good aim from the operators.’

  ‘And if one hit a ship?’ the admiral asked.

  ‘That ship would be at the bottom of the ocean inside thirty seconds, sir.’

  ‘So a hell of a worry for us. CIA need to track back those missiles.’

  ‘Off the record … they’re old Russian missiles that the Iraqis lost to Iran in their war, handed to al-Qaeda by Iran just to piss us off and to get Iraq some blame.’

  ‘Why is that off the record?’ a general pressed.

  ‘Because some on your side wish to … use the opportunity to blame Iraq, sir.’

  They exchanged knowing looks.

  ‘And the Iranian foothold here?’ a general asked.

  ‘There isn’t one, sir, they just hoped to cost us a ship or two. They also supplied short-range rockets, twenty miles and accurate. But since we have the border sealed up tight they can’t use them.’

  ‘And what do you expect to happen here in the next few weeks, Major?’ a general asked.

  ‘We’ll slowly wear them down, sir, then … then they’ll stick a bomb on a bus somewhere just to piss us off. They won’t hurt my men here, but they can strike back against soft targets.’

  ‘Like the tourists in Sinai,’ he noted. ‘CIA says that the fighters were not linked to al-Qaeda, just local nut jobs.’

  ‘Al-Qaeda is a small force, sir, the original men numbered less than two hundred, half killed. There are many look-a-like al-Qaeda men out there.’

  ‘Got all you need, Major?’

  ‘Yes, sir, more than enough.’

  They asked questions of Admiral Jacobs as if he was an underling, but this area was his responsibility, and he had urged them to support this operation.

  Outside, we drove around to the American medics, our wounded aircrew having been flown out already. The generals asked questions as visiting senior staff always did, half an hour used up. But as we stood there an F18 came in and landed, parking on the apron, an odd move.

  Taking a bus back around, we found a lonely pilot stood with his large helmet under his arm next to a broken plane, the visitors quizzing him.

  I faced Jacobs. ‘Sir, we need to fix that plane or they’ll claim it shot down.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll send a crew. Electrical fault, just a part to replace. Try not to get any rockets tonight, build a sandbag wall around it, say … twenty feet high.’

  I shot him a look as the visitors laughed, their ride returning from Salalah ten minutes later, salutes given, hands shaken. They roared down the runway and off.

  I turned to Admiral Jacobs on the apron. ‘Some of that lot quizzed you like you’re a fucking lieutenant…’

  ‘They’re a few ranks higher, and I answer to those above me – we all do. I stuck my neck out a few times, screamed for support of your operations, and it was hard work to get the White House to budge.’

  We walked inside.

  He continued, ‘But we’ve got the track record now, and the media coverage has been great, and they all watched the film; the fucking idiot in the White House now worries less about his ratings and the size of his arse. And we’re seeing an uptick in recruitment across the board.

  ‘They made a mini-movie about our ships off Somalia, and we have men on ship from the studios doing the same as we speak, and that gets young men interested in the military. They finally realised that - after you shoved it down their throats.’

  I made him a coffee.

  ‘What can they throw at us?’ he asked.

  ‘Like I said, sir, they can hit a soft target.’

  ‘Nothing I can do about that. What can they do to me that I’m responsible for?’

  ‘Another ship, trying to ram yours, helo packed with explosives, something sneaky like that.’

  ‘They could bomb our Marine’s base?’

  ‘Only if the senior man there is a complete fucking idiot - and has them all in the same tent, sir.’

  ‘I’ll check anyhow, spread them out, dig trenches.’

  ‘That kind of attack is most likely, sir, and a lucky hit would cost us.’

  He considered that. ‘I’ll make sure they’re spaced out, or someone will face a court martial. What about something interesting for the media?’

  ‘There’s a dirt strip, sir, and if it’s empty we could parachute a force in, cameras rolling, helo Marines in, wait for a counter attack – and there would be one, you can be damn sure of that.’

  ‘So it would be the Camel Toe Base of Yemen.’ He nodded to himself.

  My phone trilled, Swifty. ‘You OK?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll never believe this. Wolf had a sandbag full to rest his arm on, slung it over his shoulder as he walked off, couldn’t be bothered to empty it and refill it, got shot – hit the sandbag.’

  I laughed. ‘Sergeant, have all your men wear several sandbags, front and back!’

  ‘That’ll come next.’

  ‘Any other wounded?’

  ‘No, and now we’re crossing sandy crags, good visibility.’

  Off the phone, I gave them the story, smiles creasing faces as they walked out to the expected Hawkeye. Their ride landed five minutes later, waves and salutes given, the Hawkeye soon heading south, F18s overhead – one F18 sat looking lost on the deck.

  An hour later three Seahawks glided in and down before we lost the light, landing next to their stricken colleague, mechanics out and down as the Seahawks shut down engines.

  The F18 soon had ten men fussing over it led by an officer, plenty of tender loving care dispensed, our RAF facilities guy ready with the bogey generator and some fuel. After dark the F18 came to life, no need for f
uel, and after running it’s engines for ten minutes it sped down the runway with an ear-piercing screech and left us an image of its engine exhausts as it sped south for home.

  Seahawks departed, we had a quiet base again, a relatively quiet base, Lynx coming and going.

  An urgent call came at midnight, a Greenie having stood on an anti-personnel mine as he was sneaking up on a small group of fighters. The gun battle produced two nasty scrapes and some ricochet wounds as the Greenies both tried to get their man out of there - as well as treat his missing lower leg.

  Lynx dispatched with medics, I paced up and down and finally headed up to the ATC. Fortunately, there were no attractive women on duty. ‘Let me know when the Lynx returns.’

  ‘Yes, sir, should not be long now if they could find the wounded man.’

  It made contact fifteen minutes later, so I drove around to the medics tent, twenty medics stood lined-up ready, many surgeons kitted out ready in blue plastic, facemasks on.

  The Lynx loudly set down fifty yards from the medics, a trolley rushed over, a soldier bundled onto it and pushed back, oxygen given as three walking wounded were led across. The Greenie missing a leg was soon on a bed and being fussed over by many hands.

  Colonel Mush stepped out to me fifteen minutes later, not dressed up for dispensing medicine but in his combats. ‘The leg was blown off below the knee, and above the knee it’s fine, enough skin to close it over, and there’s no serious shrapnel wound on the other leg – or anywhere else.’

  ‘Lucky,’ I noted.

  ‘He’ll be released from the military, but he’ll walk OK with a prosthetic leg.’

  ‘The others, sir?’

  ‘Two scrapes, two bits of stone buried deep, being removed now. The men with the scrapes will be flown out, the final two might be OK to stay here, but the regs state that any minor medical procedure has to be checked, so they’ll probably get a ride to a hospital, Germany probably. They have to prove full fitness before returning to duty.’

  I nodded. ‘Mines in the sand were always a concern here, sir.’

  ‘The surgeons are qualified to amputate in the field, so they will – but on my authorisation, then the patient will be moved to a military hospital, not a local one. Some debate about that, since we could just stabilise him and fly him out. Thing is, in a time of war we’re supposed to do it all, and work on the assumption that help is not close at hand.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘It’s Pritchard, and our men got a close look after they snuck around south. Looks like twenty or more jeeps, some mounted fifty cal, more than a hundred men.’

  ‘How many jeeps with you?’

  ‘Fucking fifty or more! We have the Pathfinders behind us, then the Paras, then the Marines.’

  ‘So here’s the plan. The Americans hit the target position just after dawn, you put your jeeps in a line and move in, firing from distance as you go.’

  ‘Unconventional, but with the firepower we have here … they stand no chance.’

  ‘Put sandbags on the fronts of jeeps.’

  ‘Good idea, yes, someone suggested that earlier. Just need to find some sand.’

  ‘I’ll warn you about the air strike in the morning.’ I gave him the detail of the Greenies action, and the wounded.

  ‘Mines are a worry for us, anti-tank mines. Easy to plant mines in the desert.’

  ‘As that lot you’re facing may have done, so keep your distance. Might be worth shooting up the sand afterwards to find out.’

  ‘Ordnance is with us, they can have a look.’

  In the HQ room I updated them on what I knew, both about the Greenies wounded men and the SAS planned attack. I asked for a 4am call, and sat in Clifford’s office in a comfy chair, easing back and closing my eyes.

  I was nudged awake at 4.05am, a tea handed to me with cake by the lady Intel captain. ‘You’re like the wife I never had.’

  ‘When would you have time for a wife,’ she scoffed.

  In the quiet HQ room I asked questions of subdued men, no action reported, the SEALs reportedly making ready for a dawn attack.

  Kovsky joined me at 4.30am, less than fresh. ‘Airstrike is set for zero five thirty.’

  I nodded, sat quietly with my brew, Harris turning up at 5am and yawning, a glance at the overnight reports. I called Pritchard. ‘You awake?’

  ‘We all got to bed early, wrapped up warm. I have men on foot south still, they have eyes-on the track south, rest are ready to go.’

  ‘What’s the terrain like?’

  ‘We’re in a bend, quite wide, and once around it they’ll see us, say 1200 yards to reach them.’

  ‘Airstrike is set for five-thirty, but don’t be seen till after you hear a big bang. And spread your people out now, I always worry about a Yank pilot making a mistake and sticking a 2,000lb bomb where it shouldn’t go.’

  ‘Yes, a worry. They are spread out, but I’ll nudge them further out and back till after the strike.’

  ‘Have a torch ready, and if an F18 comes at you, flash a message.’

  ‘Another good idea, and you’re making me worried here.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry. Call me as soon as you hear the air strike.’

  Off the phone, Kovsky said to me, ‘You’re worried about a blue-on-blue incident, like the Gulf War?’

  ‘Always. Our people are 1200yards or so from the target. The fighters have jeeps in a group in the sand, so do we.’

  ‘I made sure they had the topographical features, bend in the wadi east, wide open space north of the target, track south. They’ll use the track as the confirmation.’

  ‘You are indeed a diligent officer, Mister Kovsky.’

  ‘I don’t need an enquiry here,’ he quipped.

  ‘Something I say often. I’ve sat … twelve, more.’

  Salome stepped in, up early, but her phone was in her hand. ‘My people called, some signals intel. Something about a line of mines planted in the sand.’

  ‘Good fucking timing!’ I loudly complained, calling back Pritchard.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Wilco, and we just got signals intel, someone planting a line of mines in the sand.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘How lucky you feeling?’ I countered with.

  ‘Not very. So we go around, Ordnance set for a long walk.’

  ‘Shoot up the sand, but the airstrike might set them off. Ask your men with eyes-on to look for secondary explosions out in the sand. Wilco out.’

  Phone down, Salome asked with a straight face, ‘Do I get a big hug?’

  I exchanged a look with Harris as she stepped out.

  Kovsky told us, ‘I’d give her a big hug. Useful intel, damn useful.’

  ‘I often hug my men when they do well,’ I told him.

  Harris asked, ‘What would have happened without that intel?’

  ‘First jeep would have been destroyed, two or three men killed or wounded, rest would have halted and reversed.’

  Half an hour later, and Pritchard heard the huge blast, soon seeing a giant pall of dust rising beyond the rocks as the sky turned dark blue from its pre-dawn black, his excited men on the radio as a second blast registered, soon the screech of F18s as the aircraft strafed the fighters’ jeep convoy.

  When it fell quiet Pritchard called me, a background roar of jeep engines. ‘We’re moving forwards, jeeps in line in case of mines, south side. Men said they saw mines explode, so you were right. We’ll shoot up the sand ahead of us, then get in the fighters tracks, but there’s fuck all left to do - my men said the fighters were in bits all over the sand, none left alive.’

  ‘Lazy bastard.’

  He laughed. ‘Why should we do it when the very kind US Navy can do it for us, eh?’

  ‘Be careful, update me later.’ Phone down, I faced Kovsky. ‘Your pilots hit the right spot, and yes - there were mines laid out for our people. Thank your pilots for me.’

  ‘Thank the Israelis,’ he quipped. ‘With
a big hug.’

  As the Intel captains started to change shift Kovsky took a call. Facing me, he finally relayed, ‘F18s got a shock, six missiles fired up at them, flares deployed as they hit the afterburners and weaved around the valleys.’

  ‘None of the missiles hit?’

  ‘No, but one must have been faulty because the pilot was close enough to read the serial number; it nearly smashed his cockpit glass. He’s gunna need some new shorts.’

  ‘Lucky,’ Harris noted. ‘But the cruise missiles were badly maintained as well.’

  ‘Where were the F18s when the missiles were launched?’ I puzzled with a deep frown.

  ‘A few miles south of the target.’

  I jumped up and recalled the last number. ‘Pritchard, it’s Wilco. There’s a sizeable force south down that track! Have men turn south and get ready!’

  ‘OK, we’re just coming up to that track, hell of a mess here, can’t see a jeep intact but I can see a wheel.’

  ‘Be careful, turn south and deploy! If you don’t see anyone, start south till you have eyes on, but watch for mines again.’

  ‘These boys would never have mined their route out of here,’ he argued. ‘We’ll follow their tracks, update you later.’

  I faced Kovsky. ‘Let your people know that we’re going after the men who fired those missiles.’

  Colonel Mush stepped in, faces turning towards him. ‘Got a call, Marines hurt, none dead yet. They found a lone gunman, he put up his hands to surrender then blew. Got eight Marines with minor wounds, being looked after by our medics out there.’

  Shaking my head and cursing, I called Admiral Jacobs as I stepped outside. ‘Sir, got some of your Marines hurt because the stupid fucks let a suicide bomber get close. Shout a little, sir, or you’ll be getting some shit for dead Marines.’

  ‘God damn. I have someone to chew out, and loudly.’ He cut the call and left me stood there cursing the Marines.

  Back in the HQ room, Harris took an emergency call. ‘2 Squadron have men down!’ He wrote down the coordinates, an Intel captain running for the ATC. Harris lifted his face to me. ‘RPG hit the sand, an eight-man team then had a shoot-out with twenty fighters, most of the fighters dead and wounded. 2 Squadron have wounded, not sure how serious.’