Wilco- Lone Wolf 18

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘I’ll call them now.’

  I eased back into my old position.

  ‘We made a mess of that camp,’ Moran noted, no incoming bothering us now.

  I stared down at the black camp, lights still on a mile east. ‘You think it killed civvies in that village?’

  ‘Shrapnel could have got that far maybe. Anyway, their fault for storing rockets.’

  We heard the whistle and ducked down, the camp hit three times in quick succession.

  ‘Who the fuck fired that?’ Ginger shouted, a rhetorical question.

  ‘They did, aiming at us,’ I suggested, the lads laughing loudly through the dark.

  The second salvo flew over us and landed further into the camp, certain to piss of anyone still alive down there, the final salvo landing closer to the village, fires now seen.

  ‘That could have gone better for them,’ Moran noted. ‘Their men need some training, starting with how to use a compass.’

  It fell quiet, and soon all we had was the howl of the wind in the stunted bushes, men trying to stay warm up here on the ridge. Where they had shelter from the wind I let them get a brew on.

  Nicholson scrambled over to us. ‘I spoke to Mitch down there, no one about, mile to the nearest track, and they have it covered. Can’t see anything now.’

  ‘Wait till dawn, get a brew on if you can find a spot out the wind.’

  His black outline moved down the line.

  As the dawn came up I made a second brew, and it was much needed; we were chilling in the stiff wind. I could now see the contours and features of the hills south towards the artillery and MLRS, and now the dire situation of the camp below became clear, body parts everywhere.

  Those not shot by us had been killed by the rockets exploding or were shredded by the artillery, their own artillery, all of the huts damaged and down, jeeps seen on their sides.

  ‘Wilco for Liban.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Can your men see the mines in the sand and the string?’

  ‘Yes, behind us.’

  ‘Shoot at the mines, please.’

  I stood tall as the cracks sounded out, and after a minute a blast registered as a small pop, but it was followed by a dozen small pops, and over a thirty-minute period the French set off a hundred mines.

  ‘Liban, you see the square fields that look like farmers’ fields?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Shoot at them.’

  The cracks sounded out as men peered down, soon a huge blast followed by six more in sequence.

  Liban transmitted, ‘These idiots, they plant mines too close! They have no idea.’

  The blasts continued to disturb anyone still asleep in the village, fifty or more mines set off.

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco, it’s Mitch,’ came with some urgency.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Got an entire fucking infantry division coming up from the south!’

  ‘Get ready to withdraw.’ I transmitted, ‘All men get ready to move out!’ I called Swifty.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Get awake, get up higher, company from the south, thousands of them. Withdraw higher!’ I grabbed my aircraft radio as Moran and Ginger joined me peering southwest, a dust cloud seen behind low hills as the light improved. ‘Ground Wilco to any US Navy aircraft overhead.’

  There was no response. I called Admiral Jacobs, getting a commander. ‘I need an airstrike, twenty F18s, we have a massive column of fighters on approach, an entire fucking army. Get Admiral Jacobs to call me. Target where your planes bombed the artillery and MLRS. Got that?’

  ‘I’ll go find him now.’

  I called Harris. ‘You awake?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘I need every Lynx ready to go, rockets fitted, to the dirt strip and then south four miles or so, we have a small army on approach. Get the coffee on.’

  Phone down, Moran cautiously noted, ‘That’s a lot of men. I can see APC, 105mm, towed artillery, the works.’ He faced me. ‘If it was just us here … no US Navy?’

  ‘If it was just us we’d not be here,’ I told him. ‘Yanks wanted this, not us, it’s their show.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco, you OK?’ came Admiral Jacobs.

  ‘We’re on a hill looking down at an entire army, sir.’

  ‘Where the hell did they come from, we cut the road?’

  ‘Must have been local fighters, but hiding somewhere.’

  ‘We’re preparing the strike wing, can you hold?’

  ‘Yes, sir, these boys are not in position yet.’

  ‘Thirty minutes or so, but we have birds up that could strafe them.’

  ‘Any F18 that is about to return to ship, low on fuel, can strafe the column and have some fun before they return, one pass.’

  ‘I’ll mention that now.’

  ‘Warn them that my Lynx helicopters are on the way, but probably forty minutes out.’

  I called Pritchard next, as we stood staring down at the distant column of vehicles. ‘Pritchard, it’s Wilco, you awake?’

  ‘Got some sleep after the rockets ended.’

  ‘Standby to run east very fast, entire division coming up the road south. Pack up, light kit, abandon the strip for now and any heavy supplies.’

  ‘Shit…’

  ‘US Navy will hit that column in half an hour, Lynx to follow, but some might get through to you - and they have APC.’

  ‘APC won’t get far in these rocks and dunes, they’ll get stuck, but there are some tracks.’

  ‘Make plans, get ready, you have no heavy weapons!’

  Five minutes later my phone trilled. ‘Major Wilco?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘SEAL Sergeant Mahon, we met.’

  ‘Where are you?’ I puzzled.

  ‘We HALO dropped, now well southwest of that strip, up high, can see a large force below us.’

  ‘Sit back and watch your Navy bomb them in thirty minutes. Hide, don’t be seen, and don’t attack them, eh.’

  ‘No shit.’

  Smiling, I cut the call.

  ‘Wilco!’ Moran shouted, pointing.

  I followed his finger, soon seeing a white Cessna coming in. I transmitted, ‘Snipers, Cessna coming in from the south, shoot it down! All men hide! Hide now, ponchos over you.’

  I pulled out Moran’s brown poncho and shook it out like a blanket, both of us under it as we aimed out; I did not want that column targeting us here.

  The engine drone grew, the stupid pilot coming right at us, and set to pass over us close enough for me to throw rocks at it. An Elephant Gun blast, a second, and the Cessna dropped, slamming into rocks 400yards away south, a pall of black smoke rising.

  I eased up. ‘Idiot. Why so low?’

  ‘Look!’

  We turned west, seeing three F18s arcing around and down, soon a delayed “blurt” reaching us, flashes on the ground, dust rising, the column getting a rude wake-up call. Three passes, and the column was scattered in places.

  Fifteen minutes later the ground around the column lifted up, vehicles tossed aside like toys, the blast reaching us many seconds later along with the screech of a jet as four rippling blasts tore the column to pieces.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ Moran let out.

  I nodded, staring down at the mess made, six further eruptions of soil, each reaching up 200ft or more, and they kept coming, bombs dropped in places where we had no line of sight.

  It finally fell quiet, a huge blanket of dust and smoke hiding the column, and I felt sorry for those on the receiving end.

  Turning, I saw Max and the reporters pointing video cameras south. A buzz, and from the north came a line of Lynx, twelve counted, and they sped past us to the west and banked hard right, over a ridge two miles southwest and banking over to the east, rockets fired down.

  Some of the action was behind a ridge, but we could see rockets hitting individual vehicles and APC, two passes made before the Lynx grouped and flew north to the dirt strip and out of sight.


  Moran noted, ‘I think their advance has been called off.’

  In no mood to celebrate the deaths of all those men, I faced him and nodded. I transmitted, ‘All men, turn north, start walking. Mitch, you hear me?’

  ‘We’re not far below.’

  ‘Get back up now.’

  ‘What about the Houthi fellas?’ came Slider’s voice.

  ‘They come with us. Tell them we’ll drop them someplace safe by helicopter.’

  I waited with Moran and Ginger till Mitch and his spies crested the ridge, all panting, and as a group we were soon running down the ridge-top track after the teams, the camp to our right now quiet. A final glance back at the dust and smoke south, at the carnage hidden beneath that smoke, and we followed on at a brisk pace, retracing our steps all the way back to the track leading to the caves, two hours used up.

  Where Mitch had fought his battle we found no fighters and so crossed over, soon pressing onwards, an hour used to get back to the sand dunes and in. There I called a halt and told everyone that they had four hours.

  I called Harris. ‘It’s me. Update everyone that we’re heading to the dirt strip, be there after dark.’

  ‘A Hercules dropped two pallets ten minutes ago, Pritchard was there, and they now have 66mm and two 105mm.’

  ‘That helps.’

  ‘We got the detail of the column attacked by the US Navy, and it looks like up to a hundred vehicles destroyed – some SEALs were above the action with video cameras and still cameras.’

  ‘Yeah, I spoke to them. Call those dusty land-loving SEALs, have them withdraw north to the dirt strip. What else is happening?’

  ‘News is good, the hostage news, all across the world, but it looks on the TV like the US Navy rescued them.’

  ‘Does it matter? They get to go home.’

  ‘Two died on ship, some here not expected to make it – too far gone. French minister is flying here to meet his son and the wife.’

  I sat with Moran and Ginger and cooked, the day warm, the sun feeling great on my skin.

  Swifty called half an hour later. ‘What we doing? We got the chat from Harris about that force south of us, saw some of it from up high.’

  ‘Stay there, but send a team north to the strip for supplies and 66mm, we still need that track cut.’

  David Finch called next. ‘We tracked a phone to the UK, a Yemen citizen, now under arrest.’

  ‘I think he may resist questioning.’

  ‘Yes, quite. French have made four arrests, Americans set to make a few arrests based on phone use.’

  ‘We’ll probably wrap this up soon, they lost so many men today they won’t recover.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We had already killed six hundred or more, then they sent all their men in a large convoy at dawn, APC, the works, but the US Navy hit that column and left no one alive. Had to be five hundred men or more in that column, few left alive.’

  ‘Bloody hell. So what’ll you do?’

  ‘Secure the strip, run some exercises, assess the strength of those left – if there’s anyone left with a will to fight.’

  ‘Today’s Sun newspaper has a modest ten-page spread.’

  ‘And the blame game?’

  ‘FCO got its arse kicked, so too the embassy in Oman, half the blame laid with the Omani security apparatus – none with you or I.’

  ‘A result then. Send a letter of thanks to the Israelis, from you and me, mentioning Salome’s valued contributions.’

  ‘I will do, since it was their intel that helped us.’

  ‘It was their intel that saved three hundred NATO officers!’

  ‘Yes, quite. And my six men?’

  ‘Are doing well, some good experience, no issues so far.’

  Phone tucked away, men seen lying against the dunes and sleeping, Moran casually asked, ‘The blame game?’

  Faces looked my way. ‘I passed the warning to the Omanis, as well as London, three days before the bomb was found. Their blame. I joined the dots, they should have done that as well.’

  As the sun fell below the hill west my phone trilled.

  ‘Wilco, it’s Colonel Mathews, can you talk?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we’re in a safe area now.’

  ‘White House is withdrawing everyone, President spoke to your Prime Minister.’

  I eased up. ‘What the hell for?’ Faces turned my way.

  ‘The Islamists on the south coast are labelling this as an invasion, and they’ve mobilised their men – all sixty thousand of them, plus heavy weapons. Saudis are pressuring the White House, so too a few others, and we don’t want a war here.’

  ‘Shit…’

  ‘Can you withdraw in good order?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but it may take a day, and we have jeeps to drive back, three days.’

  ‘It’s unlikely the forces south will reach that wadi, and our Navy damaged a road which is delaying them – and pissing them off greatly.’

  ‘I’ll start to make plans, sir. How’s the media coverage there?’

  ‘It’s damn excellent here, we got more minutes than the NFL games! All the major outlets are running it, and the images of those hostages did the trick, justified what we were doing, got it all into focus, a great deal of anger here at the terrorists.

  ‘French President gave a speech, said: you take our people hostage, we send 1st Battalion and leave your rotting corpses in the sand. He got a standing ovation. French TV have their 1st Battalion down as rescuing the hostages.’

  ‘They had more men at the caves than I did, so they’re right in a way.’

  ‘Recruitment is still ticking upwards, Joint Chiefs very happy. All round this had been a good operation, low casualties, a high body count. They are questioning the lack of prisoners though.’

  ‘I’ll deal with that, sir, don’t worry.’

  ‘Let me know if you need anything, but get the hell out of Dodge City.’

  ‘Moving off now, sir.’ Phone down, I transmitted, ‘We are leaving, double time, move around the dunes and then northwest, all Western forces in Yemen have been ordered out.’

  ‘Ordered out?’ Moran repeated, he and Ginger packing up ponchos.

  ‘The population of Yemen has mobilised, sixty thousand men on their way.’

  ‘Ah, in that case we should probably leave,’ he noted.

  As we started walking I called Swifty. ‘Move north double time, to the dirt strip, we’re leaving, huge force south of us.’

  ‘I was just getting comfy.’ He sighed. ‘OK, I’ll get them together now. See you after midnight then.’

  I called Harris as we kicked up sand. ‘It’s Wilco. We have orders, and all teams are to leave Yemen pronto, so start recalling them. Send Chinooks for the British teams – to recover the jeeps. See if you can get me some Hercules for the dirt strip, might risk a landing - talk to Pritchard about what state it’s in. If you have to, get the Hercules for dawn, or the Chinooks.

  ‘Leave 2 Squadron where they are, they stay. What’s happening with the hostages back there?’

  ‘Many in the tents, or they were, most get flown out when stable, to Muscat. Some just need a wash and a hot meal before being flown out, but there’s a BBC film crew here now, CNN, a few others.’

  ‘Tell Colonel Clifford to keep security tight, no names and details to the press that they don’t need!’

  ‘There are some MOD minders with them doing that.’

  ‘Get busy, start planning an organised withdrawal.’ I called Pritchard. ‘It’s Wilco, and we’ve been ordered out of Yemen, the population is rising up and heading our way, sixty thousand of them.’

  ‘Shit … how’d we get out?’

  ‘Chinooks will take you to your jeeps, and then you drive - no one will enter the wadi, just that this strip will get some attention in a day or so. Pack up ready to leave, we’re coming to you, and the Hercules can get any heavy kit.’

  ‘The 105mm are well south, covering that track.’

&nb
sp; ‘Leave them there for now, we’ll cover your withdrawal. Chinook could be with you in 40 minutes, so take the first batch of men back to the jeeps.’

  ‘Have to blow some sand off those jeeps!’

  I called the American Wolves Captain as we plodded around the dunes. ‘It’s Wilco, and we’re leaving. Form up the men close to the strip, should get a Hercules ride in the morning, if not we’re walking. British teams will go by Chinook to their jeeps soon.’

  ‘I’ll call them all in now, they’re spread out.’

  Plodding on quickly with my team, I eventually ended up at the front of the line as we reached the northwest corner of the volcano, the light failing, soon clambering up the dirt diagonally, breathing hard at the top, a cold wind hitting us from behind.

  I led them down slowly and wove west a little where I could, the hills now low and rounded as the sun set.

  An hour on and I heard radio chat, British Wolves.

  ‘Wilco for Swifty.’

  ‘Go ahead – and where fuck are you?’

  ‘We’re east of you, must be close, don’t go shooting at shadows.’

  ‘Can we shoot at Rizzo?’

  ‘I heard that, fucker!’ came as the lads laughed back done the line.

  Ten minutes later I flashed my torch, getting flashes back, and Swifty had his Wolves halt and join the tail end of a very long line. Still, that line was now moving quickly, our Houthi guests keeping up with us – even those in sandals.

  Seeing the airstrip track to my left, I dropped down onto it, a glance south, and I turned my torch on, clipping it onto my webbing as I tabbed north.

  ‘Wilco to any British teams ahead.’ Nothing. I plodded on for five minutes. ‘Wilco to any British teams ahead.’

  ‘This is “B” Squadron.’

  ‘We’re coming up the track, torch on, so fingers off triggers – or else.’

  ‘We’re in the rocks, three hundred yards northeast a bit.’

  I saw their torch flashes. ‘Rizzo, I want you and your team here, man the 105mm and 66mm. SAS, pack up now, go north on the double!’

  The SAS teams came down from the rocks as Rizzo led his troop up, rude jibes exchanged, the SAS men sent north, and we followed on behind them, thirty minutes to reach Pritchard, soon hearing the heavy dull drone of the approaching Chinooks.