Wilco- Lone Wolf 18

by Geoff Wolak

  The French had searched the caves, some paperwork found, a few phones and IDs, but the real treasure was the horde of hostages - and their bad health. As much as I felt for the hostages, their condition would deflect interest away from any intel failings here.

  With the Chinook roaring away, six Seahawks returned, Marines removed, just the original teams left – but we had gained two pushy American reporters up for some adventure. They stood in jeans and beige jackets, beige utility waistcoats. I assigned them to Max.

  Morten was still with us, his team now washing hands and faces.

  I transmitted, ‘All teams, get some food on, get a brew, then rest in turn, we move out after dark. Medics, you sleep six hours whilst it’s warm – find a quiet spot in the sun.’

  Parker had received a few stitches from Morten, and now sat looking sorry for himself. I whacked the back of his head with a hand. ‘Stupid cunt!’

  ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time, boss,’ he told me, the lads taunting him.

  I sat with Moran and Ginger, brew kit out, the day bright and warm. ‘Nice here in the daytime, warm enough.’

  ‘With a pool it would be great,’ Ginger noted.

  ‘We got a result, the intel failing will be overshadowed.’ I turned my head. ‘Salome, thank your people for me.’

  ‘Do I get dinner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I do?’ she puzzled.

  ‘You like Indian?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Tough shit.’

  The lads laughed at her, getting some colourful Hebrew back.

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco, you in one piece?’ came Admiral Jacobs.

  ‘Yes, sir, we’re fine, a few scratches.’

  ‘Got this all over Reuters, CNN is mainlining it, hostages back here on ship being filmed and interviewed.’

  ‘Then we’re winning the war in the media, sir.’

  ‘We are today. What’s next?’

  ‘We’ll keep hitting the small camps, and we’ll grab that dirt strip and use it just to show we can. Send your Marines to it.’

  ‘I got a note about that, so we’ll pick up men in-country and move them over there. But rumour has it that a large force of local Islamists from the south coast are gathering to come attack you. I figured I might damage a road or two.’

  ‘Good idea, sir, slow them up a few days, we’ll be done by then.’

  ‘There’s a bridge over a gully, so they can walk to you.’

  ‘That would be mean, sir.’

  ‘It would yes, but fuck ‘em. They can shop local.’

  ‘Sir, the wounded SEALs, Marines and Green Berets, are the numbers starting to attract attention?’

  ‘Any man still alive is listed as having a minor wound, even with a foot blown off. White House thinks we have a dozen minor wounds for now.’

  ‘You are indeed a sneaky shit, sir.’

  ‘I learnt from you.’

  Smiling, I called Swifty.

  An out of breath man began, ‘We’re busy.’

  ‘What’s happening there?’

  ‘Like twenty jeeps, but we’re spread along and like 300ft above them, they can’t get to us. They had some box-fed and some fifty cal, so that kept our heads down, but we wore them down over twenty minutes and now they’re hiding, eight jeeps on fire.’

  ‘Need any help?’

  ‘No, we got the high ground, and they got nowhere to go.’

  ‘More than a hundred men north of you if you need help.’

  ‘I’ll call if we do.’

  I got two hours sleep in the heat, the area dead quiet for now. But I had dispatched my snipers around the hill east to get eyes on, and to alternate rest whilst they did so.

  As the sun dipped below the hill west, men were up and stirring, the temperature dropping. I made sure that everyone got a brew and used the toilets – also known as a patch of sand, our pushy reporters having photographed the inside of the caves extensively.

  Fifteen minutes later we started to form up in teams, the French leading us off and re-tracing their steps as Sasha came over to us, no one seen sneaking up on us. Mitch had fought his attackers to a standstill, and had managed to get some rest. They now scrambled up to us and joined the end of the line.

  At the furthest point east before we curled around the hill I checked that no one was left behind and I called Kovsky. ‘See if your F18 pilots can put a bomb in a cave. We’re around the hill, so blow the hostage caves tomorrow – wing camera rolling.’

  ‘I’ll pass that now.’

  On the south side I transmitted, ‘Wilco for Nicholson.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What could you see of that camp?’

  ‘Lot of huts and houses, like a barracks, lot of men, but there are loads of civvies at the east end, a little town, water derrick, sheep pens. Some fifty cal, mortars still, no rockets seen yet.’

  ‘Wait for us, to join up.’

  ‘Water derrick?’ Ginger queried.

  ‘Like an oil derrick, only for water. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘I’d call it a water well or water pump.’

  ‘If it has a tall metal frame above ground, it’s a derrick, dope.’

  A mile on, and we had a view of the hills south, and the hill that hosted the caves – now behind us – could be seen snaking west then south but with breaks in the ridgeline, jeep tracks seen in tight gorges. And we could already see lights to the southwest.

  I led them slowly west, now on the exact opposite side of the hill to the caves, the lads all told to look for caves this side as we plodded on. With little choice we were forced down towards the valley floor, cliffs ahead of us, and I followed the contours of dirt and sand mounds dotted with stunted bushes, on to the point where we were eventually forced southwest.

  Moran noted, ‘If a large force comes at us we have our backs to the cliffs here.’

  ‘Yep.’ I lifted my phone and called Kovsky, asking for an airstrike, but to hit the hills behind the camp and to make some noise.

  As we carefully and quietly moved south, high cliffs above us on the right, I tried to figure a safe route, but there wasn’t one, the east side being pretty damn flat. We crossed a jeep track at a jog, looking both ways, and plodded slowly on through a cold night.

  A flash, and the sound reached us a few second later, followed quickly by three blasts, and I could see the cloud of dust from way over here, the lights in the camp turning brown before being shrouded, the men in the camp not getting any sleep – and not feeling loved.

  Half a mile on and I found a few places on our right where we could hide or climb up.

  ‘What’s that?’ Moran hissed.

  I knelt, they knelt, and we peered east, seeing lines in the dirt.

  ‘Crops maybe, small plants growing like a greenhouse.’

  I walked forwards to the edge of the lines, torch out, hidden now from the camp and in a dip. Back with Moran I transmitted, ‘There are ten thousand Russian jumping jack mines on the left of us, all connected with string. Follow the man in front closely.’

  ‘Shit…’ came from behind me.

  Fortunately, the dirt mounds became small hills with dry brown bushes and we skirted the mines, walking right into a guard. I fired first and cut him down, but he fired a burst into the air.

  ‘All teams, move forwards quickly! Get to cover!’

  I rushed up and down the small hills, soon hearing voices, and over the next mound I saw two black outlines, both hit quickly, my shots silenced – but still loud enough for someone close by to recognise.

  Pressing on at a dangerous pace, we were climbing higher now and I found a footpath and followed it, wary of mines, but there was little I could do to search the path. It snaked higher till we were looking down at the large camp on our left, and the path came to a halt at an odd area of hillside agriculture covered in plastic.

  Beyond the vegetable patch I found a ridge line and followed it higher till the men strung out behind me were spread the
length of the camp below. I halted, transmitting, ‘Get some cover, they have fifty cal, get ready, aim down. French teams, aim in close, British beyond 500yards. Snipers, hit jeeps and then huts, avoid civilians and that village. Standby.’

  ‘It’s Sasha, and what group do I fall into, eh?’

  ‘You can’t shoot straight anyway,’ came from Slider.

  ‘You have a fake British ID, so you’re British,’ I told him.

  I ducked behind a ridge with Moran and Ginger and took aim, and this was a bad spot to have men wounded. Still, there was a way down behind me, and a place a helo could land west of us down the hill.

  ‘All teams, get ready to fire. Anyone need time to get to cover?’

  There was no response as the cold wind hit the back of my neck like a knife. Below me I could see huts with lights on, perhaps three hundred yards away at the closest point, six huts set out like a military camp in the bottom right corner as I faced the camp, a few small brick buildings, jeeps and trucks parked up, tents seen.

  Further out the huts looked more like houses, but the men seen wandering around were armed, some stood next to mounted Dushka, some near sandbag walls. This was no agricultural training college.

  ‘Open fire!’

  The cracks built quickly to a roar, many of the lads not bothering with silencers. I aimed at a hut with lights on, men seen moving about within, and I emptied my magazine into it, a four hundred yard shot, and I was at an elevation of maybe two hundred feet above the camp.

  Jeeps caught fire as we fired down, RPGs coming in at us but hitting the hill below, the two reporters getting a ring-side seat – and now wanting to be someplace else. Rounds cracked overhead, sounding like fifty cal, keeping our heads down.

  A flash lit up a large area, men seen and quickly shot at in the available light.

  ‘It’s Tomo, and I got the cooking gas canisters.’

  ‘Get some more, smartarse!’ I told him.

  A few minutes later an RPG flew left to right and demolished a hut.

  ‘Someone we know down there?’ Moran asked with a lilt.

  ‘Man with an RPG got shot before he could aim,’ I suggested.

  Another RPG flew out, another hut hit, the lads laughing.

  ‘It’s Nicholson, and I can see fighters shooting at other fighters.’

  ‘Ceasefire! Ceasefire!’

  The cracks ended, and we all peered down, a gun battle in progress. Two RPGs flew out, huts hit and set alight.

  ‘It’s Wilco, and the men firing are concentrated left of the two burning jeeps. Don’t fire at that area, aim at least 100yards from them. Open fire!’

  I aimed at huts 800yards east, emptying a magazine over ten minutes.

  ‘Nicholson for Wilco. There’s a group of men running north, our left, firing at the camp as they go.’

  ‘Support them, don’t shot them! Liban, you have Arab speakers?’

  ‘Yes, several.’

  ‘Send them down and left, shout in Arabic who we are, use torches!’

  ‘I send them now.’

  Ten minutes later, rounds intermittently fired out and a few rounds cracking overhead still, came, ‘Sergeant Pascal for Major Wilco.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘These men are Houthis, captured a day ago. They escape and kill the guards.’

  ‘Bring them up, give them medical care, food and water. Max, get their stories. Everyone else, slow and steady, wait the dawn, don’t waste ammo. Mitch, up to me with your team, but keep your heads down.’

  When Mitch arrived I sent him west down the hill behind us, to search the area. ‘Go slow, don’t break any ankles.’

  I took out my aircraft radio and glanced up at the stars. ‘Ground Wilco to any US Navy aircraft overhead.’

  ‘Alert Four responding.’

  ‘Do you have the position for the hostage caves?’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘And the large camp southwest of it?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Fly low over that camp and drop some flares for us please.’

  ‘Alert Four, Ground Wilco, standby.’

  Three minutes later we heard the screech behind us and looked up, about to get a haircut from two F18s, flares soon bursting out, night turning to day.

  ‘Open fire! Pick your targets!’

  A moment later a gas canister blew, followed by two more, Tomo and Nicholson having fun. I aimed far right and hit men running around, and I punctured two jeeps before the flares died. But a huge fire was suddenly raging in the camp.

  Moran said, ‘Look, that fire, that’s cooking oil or jeep diesel.’

  I transmitted, ‘Save ammo, but use the illumination if you have a good shot.’

  A hut caught fire from the burning oil, a long wooden hut, the illumination spreading.

  ‘Alert Four, Ground Wilco.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I transmitted.

  ‘You need a second run?’

  ‘They probably have heat-seeking missiles, so how lucky you feeling?’

  ‘We’re under orders to try and trick them into launching, so we’ll play chicken.’

  ‘Roger that, I’ll look for missiles as you pass. We’re on the crest of the hill west of the camp.’

  A few minutes later we heard the screech, flares deployed by a lone F18, but this time higher. The radio was in my hand, finger on the transmit button. A flash, a streak, and I pressed that button. ‘Missile launched!’

  I could not see the F18, but flares burst into life a mile east and south a little, falling behind a ridge. The missile veered off and disappeared into the distance.

  ‘Ground Wilco to Alert Four, you just used up one of your nine lives.’

  I heard, ‘Slammer, you’re up.’

  ‘Coming in now,’ came a different voice.

  A screech overhead but north, and the flares burst out, this time two missiles fired.

  ‘Two missiles fired!’

  ‘Banking south.’

  More flares burst out, perhaps a mile or more east, the missiles veering off north and disappearing, my lads still intermittently firing down into the camp at movement.

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco, it’s Pritchard, and we have artillery coming in!’

  ‘Where are your men?’

  ‘Some in the trenches, most are in the rocks to the east and dug in already.’

  ‘Got an idea what direction the artillery is?’

  ‘South, we think.’

  ‘Spread your men out, move east, abandon the hides if you want to. How accurate is their aim?’

  ‘Shite, they’re landing all over, three hundred yards apart, most across the strip and south.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’ I lifted the aircraft radio. ‘Ground Wilco to AWACS, receiving?’

  ‘AWACS, Ground Wilco, go ahead.’

  ‘We have artillery hitting the dirt airstrip, random and ineffective for now. Can you track artillery radar signatures?’

  ‘AWACs, Ground Wilco, affirmative, but it’s not an exact science, we see the apogee of the shells.’

  ‘Give it your best shot, starting five miles south of the dirt strip.’

  ‘AWACS, Ground Wilco, roger.’

  I put away my aircraft radio. ‘Nicholson, to me.’

  He came up three minutes later, his head down, rounds hitting the dirt below us.

  ‘Get over the ridge, look south for flashes, artillery or rockets.’

  He scrambled over the rocks and down.

  ‘Max for Wilco.’

  ‘Go ahead, Sergeant Max.’

  ‘These Houthis reckon they know the building with rockets in.’

  ‘Bring a man up to Tomo. Swan, Tiller, Brace, group with Tomo.’

  ‘It’s Nicholson, and I can see the flashes, two miles or more south, bearing 195. Line of jeeps on a track, some huts, low hills.’

  I grabbed my aircraft radio. ‘Ground Wilco to any F18, artillery is two or three miles due south of where your boys dropped flares, if you can go get eye
s on. Look for a line of jeeps.’

  I had just lowered my aircraft radio when the flash shocked me, the camp suddenly lit up clear as day as a radial wall of white mist flew outwards, huts blown away as if made of paper. The blast reached us as I closed my eyes and turned my head, and it jolted us, even up here, heads ducked as rocks and bits of metal rained down on us.

  The camp was plunged into darkness as Moran let out an astonished, ‘Bloody hell...’

  ‘It’s Tomo, and I think something exploded, boss. And that was my shot.’

  ‘You get a bonus. Cease fire, everyone, wait the dawn.’

  ‘Ceasefire?’ Moran scoffed. ‘You think there’s anyone still left moving around down there after that!’

  I eased up and moved across the rocks towards Nicholson, no incoming now, the camp below dark and quiet. I saw the flash south, the sound of the artillery reaching us many seconds later, a screech heard overhead first. A rude “blurt” registered with me, a 20mm cannon rudely disturbing someone’s artillery practise, a ten second burst, jeeps seen on fire.

  ‘No one could survive that,’ Nicholson firmly suggested.

  ‘Stay there, scan the area.’ I clambered back towards Moran and Ginger.

  ‘Wilco!’ Nicholson screamed, and I turned back, seeing a dozen bright streaks of light arcing over.

  ‘Shit! That’s MLRS.’ I grabbed the aircraft radio. ‘Ground Wilco to any F18, we have MLRS a mile west of the artillery you hit! Bright as day, you can’t miss them!’

  I called Pritchard in a panic.

  ‘Hello?’ came a worried voice.

  ‘Pritchard, we got the artillery but they’ve started MLRS!’

  ‘It landed over the strip, spectacular from here, but scary as fuck. We need deeper holes!’

  ‘US Navy shot up the artillery and they’ll shoot up the MLRS now.’

  ‘I have no team of bigger than four men, nor closer than fifty yards to another, most east of me, well away from the strip.’

  ‘You’ll need to fill in the holes in that strip in the morning. Where are the SEALSs?’

  ‘Two miles southwest, and closer to that artillery and those rockets than we are I think.’

  ‘Go to go.’ I called Harris, getting a captain. ‘Contact the SEALs and the SAS HALO teams, have them move south at the double, two miles, then search for rocket launchers.’