Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

He did not look convinced as he sloped off.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ Swifty asked as we helped ourselves to cold orange juice.

  ‘His cooks were at the FOB, and bombed a few times.’

  ‘Hey, there’s a menu,’ Swifty enthused, and showed me.

  The lads gathered, and a corporal chef stepped out to us. ‘No good looking at the menu, we have what we have. You want it soon?’

  ‘Please,’ I told him.

  And ten minutes later they started bringing out plates; steak, chips, pees and ketchup, bread on a side plate.

  The unhappy sergeant stepped out. ‘Food is a bit hit and miss, sir, but breakfast is OK, but we get what we get for evening meal.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ I told him. ‘But can you sneak in some beer.’

  He took a moment. ‘I may know a place to get some.’

  ‘I have cash,’ I told him. ‘US dollars.’

  ‘Ah, well they prefer that to British pounds around here. But there are rules...’

  ‘We won’t tell if you won’t, Sergeant. And of course, one in ten bottles held back for your lads.’

  He nodded, and slopped off, his lads bringing out our meals, everyone tucking in, the ‘diner room’ soon bustling as we lost the light.

  After ‘chow’ – as the Deltas called it, I wandered out with Moran and commandeered a jeep and keen driver, who took us to the main terminal, the RAF in residence.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ a cement-bomber pilot shouted as I entered their command room, faces turning, smiles adopted, greetings extended.

  ‘Para school boys here?’ I asked.

  ‘Due here tonight,’ I was informed.

  ‘Which Hercules crews have been assigned to me?’

  ‘None yet.’ They exchanged looks. ‘What’s the requirement?’

  ‘A few days HALO practise, then a HALO insert a long way off, hostage rescue, plus a road landing extraction.’

  ‘We’re up for it,’ the cement-bombers keenly offered.

  ‘Check the sheets, see if any more birds are flying in, and then decide amongst yourselves. First step, HALO.’

  A short walk outside to the single storey brick buildings, and we entered the old Intel Room that was still an Intel Room, just with a few different faces. I greeted everyone and asked about local action, but it was quiet enough now.

  Another short walk, and we stepped into the room used by 37 Squadron.

  ‘Wilco!’ came from several NCOs. ‘I mean, beer-stealing officer, sir.’

  We shook. ‘Seems like a long time ago, Riyadh.’

  ‘Four years.’

  The current CO stepped out, who had been a Fl Lt at the time. ‘By god, Wilco, it’s been ages.’

  We shook. ‘You got the bosses job.’

  ‘He retired, left it to me. So how come you never dropped in last month?’

  ‘Was damn busy, that’s why. I had a war to run.’

  I gave them the detail of the Ivory Coast hostage rescue, many keen young faces hanging on my every word, and one brought out a beer for me, everyone laughing.

  ‘It’s against the rules on this base,’ they told me.

  ‘Rules? Cheers,’ I offered before swigging.

  An hour later we left a raucous group, and flagged down a jeep to get a ride back, most of the guys just sat around the ‘diner room’.

  I told them, ‘Parachutes and instructors get here tonight, so we might get some practise in tomorrow.’ I settled down in my room with Swifty, a chair up against the door, pistols out just in case, several dodgy-looking spiders killed in corners and under the beds.

  Swifty set fire to a rolled up newspaper, because we could already hear the mozzies, a vent with no fan letting them in soon blocked with toilet paper. With smoke in our nostrils, facemask and gloves on, we tried to get some sleep.

  I woke as a Hercules came in at 5am.

  ‘Did some officer fucker request a Hercules?’ Swify complained.

  ‘Don’t know who that could have been.’ I eased up and stretched, facemask and gloves off. ‘Is that a gekko? Because they should be eating the spiders and mozzies for us.’

  After using the dated toilet I wandered downstairs, leaving Swifty to lie in, the dated cistern slowing filling – and making a racket.

  ‘Breakfast starts at 7am, sir,’ a grumpy chef told me before I had even opened my mouth.

  ‘Fine.’ I sipped some of the cold water available from a noisy fridge then set out, a long walk around to the taxiway in the grey dawn light, where I flagged down a jeep. In the RAF room I found newly arrived pilots.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, we’re here for your operation.’

  ‘A few days HALO, then we go.’

  ‘We have to rest now, eight hours. Could do a night drop.’

  ‘That Skyvan is still here, so we may use that, or one of the other Hercules.’

  ‘Where’s the job?’

  ‘Mali, but keep that quiet.’ I showed them the map.

  ‘Three hours, depending on headwinds,’ they told me.

  ‘There are French forces in Niger, so look at the alternate landing airfields and make a note, you could set down there or refuel. Plan is to fly from here, HALO night drop, then you loiter for fifteen minutes. If we have broken ankles you pick us up on a road. When we have the hostages you pick us up on a road.’

  ‘Pick you up under fire?’

  ‘I doubt that we’ll be under fire.’

  ‘Should we have a GPMG in the door?’ they asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t do any harm.’

  ‘Our crewman is a dab hand with a GPMG now, they all are.’

  ‘You’ll have medics in the back as well, for the hostages, plus any wounded men. Plus ... a man with a video camera, so no fuck-ups.’

  ‘Another documentary?’ they asked.

  ‘All good for recruitment. In the meantime, hush-hush about the job.’

  Breakfast did indeed start at 7am sharp, the lads coming down after I banged on doors. After a good breakfast spread over an hour, and plenty of coffee, I had the lads bend and stretch out front and get ready.

  Our chutes were here, but the para school lads were sleeping, so I grabbed the Skyvan and its keen commercial pilots, both Kenyan blacks, and we found our kit easily enough next door to the RAF command room, the lads checking it. HALO bags were made up as if for the real job, the first three teams gearing up, Captain Harris alerting the FOB to our impending arrival.

  I warned the RAF controllers of the Chinooks about our drop, and they warned the Navy, so I was almost happy that we’d not land on the rotors of a helicopter at the FOB.

  There was no need to train the Deltas, they had adopted our technique after I had borrowed the idea from the Americans in the first place.

  An hour later, and at 15,000ft, I had a hand on Mahoney’s shoulder, Swifty with his hand on mine, and we tumbled out towards broken cloud, soon getting a stable formation, and I was counting in my head as I peered down through broken cloud. Those cloud layers gave us the perception of great speed as we passed by the white fluffy lumps. The tone started at a time when we had no sight of the FOB due to cloud, and at the continuous tone we broke.

  ‘One thousand ... two thousand ... three thousand ...’ I pulled my release as I broke through the clouds, odd to see the FOB from up here. Looking up and around I saw three chutes – and that we were not about to tangle. Looking down, I saw the bag drifting, and so followed it. But with the bag wanting to go swimming in the river I changed tack and landed in the middle of the strip, soldiers running for the bag.

  My team scrambled to their feet, all seemingly OK, many hands grabbing our chutes as we released harnesses.

  ‘You lot OK?’ I shouted.

  They looked each other over.

  ‘Nothing broken,’ Moran reported.

  As I led them towards the building, quite a crowd stood watching, I peered up to see the next four, Rocko’s team, Rizzo to follow.

  Rocko’s bag also headed towards the river, and he la
nded at the end of the strip, no injuries. Rizzo’s bag looked like it might make it down on the strip, but snagged the trees. As we stood there, brew in hand, Rizzo was driven to us, a sprained ankle.

  ‘Dopey fuck,’ Rocko told him. ‘Off the job now.’

  ‘Be OK in a few days,’ Rizzo insisted.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I told him. ‘You’re off the job.’

  The rest of the lads were OK, so we sat and had lunch as we waited, chutes and bags in a truck.

  After lunch the first Delta team drifted down, and their bag hit the strip, one of theirs snagging a tree, but no ankles were sprained. The second team were close on the heels of their buddies, the bag hitting the roof of the FOB, a Delta flattening a tent to much laughter and piss-taking, a few men asleep in it at the time.

  The final two Deltas were with Smitty, broken cloud still an issue, and Smitty scared everyone by opening his chute two hundred feet off the deck, Rocko shouting at him. They had all opened low, the tone altimeter at fault.

  Trucks loaded, we drove back, arriving after dark. Kit handed in to the para instructors - that were awake now, we booked a night drop, the same teams, and I elected to use the Skyvan again, the Hercules booked for the morning.

  In the ‘diner room’ we were served fish with steak and pees, thinking the chefs taking the piss.

  ‘Don’t blame us, the local deliveries are a bit crap, and the chip fryer broke.’

  The steak was OK, and we filled up on bread, sat around for a few hours before I led them out, Rizzo off the drop. Swann had not been on the day drop, so would now step up, neither him nor Leggit having completed many HALO drops.

  An hour later I again had a hand on Mahoney’s shoulder, Swifty holding my shoulder, and we shuffled out again, a stable position formed after a brief bump. I could see the lights of the town northwest of the FOB, and thought I could see lights at the FOB itself.

  The broken clouds hit us like someone turning the lights below on and off, sudden darkness followed by the lights below suddenly appearing again. It was damn reassuring when the lights came back on.

  The tone started on time, in synch with my count, and we broke on time, chutes released on queue.

  I transmitted, ‘Sound off.’

  ‘Moran here.’

  ‘Mahoney here.’

  ‘Swifty still alive. But where’s the fucking bag?’

  The bag light had failed, and so we had to drift. I caught site of the dark strip, and transmitted corrections, and we landed well enough. Many hands again grabbed our chutes and assisted us.

  ‘Your bag is in the trees, sir,’ a man reported. ‘They’re trying to get it down now.’

  ‘Bugger,’ I let out.

  Stood in the dull yellow bulb light of the FOB we looked up, Rocko’s bag heading for the trees as well.

  Neck craning upwards, I transmitted, ‘Rocko, you’re drifting south, turn around, leave the bag, it’s in the trees.’

  They landed in front of us, young enlisted men grabbing chutes, no injuries reported, the first Delta team using the radios to ask where their bag was headed.

  ‘It’s drifting south like the rest, turn north and look for the strip,’ I transmitted.

  They hit with a thud and a curse in the dark, nothing broken, a brew made for us as we stood around chatting. The final two teams made it down alive, their bags also drifting south, Smitty opening at a respectable altitude, Henri now with a bruised elbow.

  We got back at 1am, and most went straight to bed, but I made sure that the bags were all back and that the chutes were back, and that the RAF was not whinging. But in the morning, when they noticed half the forest in with the chutes, they would be whinging.

  With Swifty already asleep I put the chair against the door and lit a newspaper, creating plenty of smoke to piss off the mozzies as they tried to feast on us. All night I could hear a buzzing.

  I woke at 7am and wondered why, soon kicking up Swifty and heading down to breakfast. After I had eaten I sent Nicholson up to bang on doors, the last few coming down, Rizzo, Stretch, Rocko and Slider amongst them – as expected, Rizzo limping badly.

  After breakfast, Henri greeted four of his colleagues from French Echo, all the faces known to us, and two would drop with us. Castille and his men introduced themselves. I got the French a coffee and some leftovers before we headed out, and we were handed a crate full of brown facemasks and gloves, some brown trousers and caps – courtesy of the Major.

  The para school boys were now switched on and keen, and had selected a new drop zone, closer to Freetown and offering soft grass and mud. British enlisted men were already there checking it out.

  The French lads were familiar with our bags, but Henri went through the routine with them, all four to drop as a team for now. Also to drop were two teams of para instructors, just for the practise, and our MOD propaganda team was on hand, video cameras checked.

  Kitted ready, young servicemen assisted us get the kit on a bogey being towed, and we walked to a loud Hercules with its engines running, para instructors at our sides. Ramp closed, everyone sat, and we taxied around and lifted gently off, circling for ten minutes to get the height, the ramp opening and letting in the bright sunshine, crewmen wearing harnesses peering down.

  Teams formed up, but only one at a time to drop because we could not steer the bags. My team went first again, the green light coming on – the video cameras focused on us from behind, para instructors waving at us, and we tumbled out at 14,000ft, little cloud today. I began the count in my head, a good position maintained, and I could see Freetown in the distance.

  At the tone we broke, and I counted out over the radio, finally pulling my release. A sharp jerk, and I looked up, relieved to find an open chute. Peering around, I could see the others, all turning towards me.

  Looking down, I could see the green square of grass we were supposed to aim at, and then the line of jeeps and trucks. Since the bag was aiming for the jeeps I followed it, trying to figure the wind.

  The bag, with a mind of its own, made me smile as enlisted men darted out the way, the bag slamming onto the bonnet of a jeep, the windscreen shattered. I was still grinning as I landed, many hands assisting me.

  Facemask off, I shouted, ‘Who left their jeep there!’

  ‘Can’t you steer that damn thing?’ came from a captain inspecting the damage.

  ‘No!’

  Swifty, Moran and Mahoney walked slowly over with heavy bundles, smiling at the jeep.

  Rocko’s bag landed in a respectable spot, his team right next to it, Rizzo’s team – without Rizzo and now with Swann – landing a little ways north of us. Castille worried the Army with another near miss and some cursing, the second Delta team managing to snag their bag in the only tree for a mile in any direction – and getting some serious taunting.

  With all of the teams down, the French team executing a flawless drop, we mounted up for the shorter trip back to Freetown. Back at the airfield the RAF took the chutes, and I decided not to send Echo up again and risk ankles. Swann and my snipers would go back up, as would the French. With that news, the para instructors had more of their men kitted out for the drop.

  I sent the lads back to our dilapidated hotel, myself and Moran remaining, and by 5pm the French and my snipers had completed two additional drops without breaking bones, a night drop planned for them, the para instructors to drop as well.

  Echo sat about playing cards or cleaning weapons after their evening meal, the French lads and my snipers getting back at 11pm after two drops, one French lad spraining an ankle. That left three French lads available for the drop itself.

  In the morning, myself, Moran and Castille met with the RAF, we made a plan, and the RAF would insert us tonight. One Hercules would drop us, one on standby in case the first Hercules had to set down somewhere inhospitable.

  Fact was, most of Mali was civilised, especially the south, and that the police and army there could be trusted, in was just a few areas that were lawless, a few kidnap gan
gs in residence, so the Hercules was not in great danger – as Captain Harris pointed out to them.

  The alternate airfields were all noted, as was the main airport in Bikino Fasso, and a road near the drop zone isolated for the pick-up.

  ‘OK,’ I finally began. ‘We leave here at 10pm, and adjust speed to suit, aiming to drop at 1am or after over the target LZ, four miles east of the town. Second Hercules will be five minutes behind, in radio contact, medics and RAF Regiment aboard, survival gear to hand. Hercules will loiter till we’re all down, signal given by me, sat phone call to the lead aircraft’s crewman – test the damn thing today.

  ‘We drop whilst heading east down the target road, half a mile north of that road. Teams will be ready on the ramp, dropping with at least three second intervals, all in one go. When the teams hit the ground they walk till they see the road, then west to me.

  ‘Each team will call me via sat phone to confirm no broken bones, then we send back the Hercules, so ... say that’s fifteen minutes roughly. We then have 24hrs to spy-out the place and make a plan.

  ‘If and when we get the hostages, or we abort, the target time will be sometime after dawn the following day for a pick-up on the road. We will, however, need you arriving just before then and loitering. Aim is to launch our attack when we know you’re on the way. So ... pilots and crew, get some sleep today. Any questions?’

  ‘Alternate pick-up point?’ a pilot asked.

  ‘There isn’t one,’ I told him. ‘We have ten miles of straight road, and that’s it. If something goes wrong we have French helicopters, or we steal a truck and drive to the border, but – as Captain Harris pointed out – it’s not enemy territory anyhow.’

  The RAF got the phone number of the French base and a French-speaking pilot chatted to them, radio frequencies swapped. The French base had two Puma helicopters, infantry, and now a platoon of French Echo – who had been pressed straight into a gun battle a few miles north. They also had a few medics hangng around at their base.

  That base was just fifteen minutes flying time from our target town, an hour’s drive, but that the road was reported to be ‘bandit-central’. I just hoped those bandits would be asleep as we landed next to their tents and goats.