by Geoff Wolak
‘Sambo! You call him Sambo!’
Rocko and Sasha laughed.
I explained, ‘That’s his name, sir, Sambonville, shortened to Sambo, his choosing.’
‘Christ,’ the Colonel blew out. ‘And Doc Willy?’
‘The name? His choosing, sir.’
‘Sounds like a practitioner for nasty diseases.’ He faced Salome. ‘You never told me how you ended up attached to Echo.’
‘I rescued her,’ Sasha put in.
‘I was doing OK,’ Salome insisted.
‘You were tied to a chair naked, beaten up and they were about to kill you...’ he pointed out.
‘I was waiting my moment,’ she insisted, making us laugh.
The Colonel pointed at Billy. ‘And you, Major, you almost seem sane.’
We laughed.
‘I’ve served twenty-five years with the Army, came up through the ranks, was the Regimental Sergeant Major. I served in Oman and the Falklands War. I do the paperwork for Echo, and yes – sane compared to this lot.’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘Where I work, if you lose a paperclip it’s an enquiry.’
I told him, ‘We’re irregular warfare, sir. And Rocko here, he hung out of a Huey with a fifty cal machinegun and brought down a Hercules.’
‘Nearly shot my toes off,’ Rocko recalled.
‘Where was that?’ the Colonel asked.
‘Classified, sir,’ Rocko told him. ‘We weren’t supposed to be there. Wrong side of the border.’
My phone trilled, Moran. ‘We can see the mortar teams, on a track, maybe a mile away, we’ll have at them now.’
‘Captain, don’t be a dope.’
‘What..?’
‘Is there a carrier battle group offshore..?’ I teased.
‘Ah, yes. They can bomb.’
‘Get me the coordinates after you look at the map.’ I took out my torch and my pad.
‘Some action?’ the Colonel asked.
‘The mortar crew. My men were going to sneak in and shoot them.’
‘What they’re paid to do,’ Rocko baulked.
‘Politics, Sergeant Major.’
‘Don’t you swear at me.’
Sasha laughed at Rocko as I took out my map from its plastic. Moran called back with the coordinates, and I wrote them down. The map showed a track, so they were the correct coordinates.
I called the ship as the others listened in. ‘It’s Major Wilco, I have a bombing request. Got a paper and pen?’
‘Go ahead.’
I read out the coordinates. ‘Three miles south of LZ2 roughly, confirm location with a curved track on the map.’
‘Standby. OK, got it.’
‘Mortar crew and trucks, real time.’
‘We have aircraft ready, have your people move away.’
I called back Moran. ‘Don’t get close, but get eyes on and damage assessment. Then I want phones and IDs.’
‘We pick through the damn bodies again!’
‘It’s what you’re paid for. Call me back.’
The Colonel noted, ‘You pass it over?’
‘Your Navy gets the credit. And the fact is, if this worked properly, the SAS would sneak up on someone and call in an airstrike or artillery. They’re only supposed to shoot as a last resort.’
‘That’s correct,’ Billy put in. ‘We shoot in self defence, because we assess and report mostly. We’re supposed to go unseen, like Wilco in Bosnia.’
Most laughed.
‘I read the book,’ the Colonel noted. ‘And I think they noticed Wilco.’
I gave him the story of the dogs.
‘Jesus, I would have been shit scared at a pack of trained dogs after me,’ he noted.
We heard a distant screech, soon a dull rumble. And the rumble continued, Rocko thinking he saw a flash.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s Moran, and what’s wrong with these fucking Yanks?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They hit the mortars and trucks with the first bomb, killed everyone, trashed the trucks and mortar tubes, then hit it eight times more.’
‘I’ll find out. Don’t forget the IDs.’
Phone down, the Colonel asked, ‘Problems.’
‘Navy dropped ten tonnes of bombs.’ I called the ship. ‘It’s Major Wilco, is the Admiral there?’
‘Standby.’
‘Major Wilco?’
‘Yes, sir. Your boys just hit a mortar team, good work, but my men on the ground nearby want to ask you why their ears no longer work. The first bomb destroyed the target…’
‘Practice, Major, because we don’t get live jobs very often. I know it’s overkill, but we don’t care, we want the pilots to practice.’
‘I understand, sir, and I agree. I’ll explain it to them.’
‘Any collateral damage?’
‘None, sir. Goodnight, and thanks.’ I took in their dark outlines. ‘Navy wants to practice, they don’t get live jobs very often, so they dropped nine bombs on a small truck convoy.’
‘Good practice for the pilots, yes,’ the Colonel agreed. ‘They may not see action for ten years after this.’
Brew freshened, and we all looked up as the blast registered.
‘More mortars?’ the Colonel asked.
‘No, maybe a rocket,’ I suggested as I stepped out with Rocko.
A blast on the hill south, and we saw the shower of sparks.
‘That’s not a mortar,’ Rocko noted.
Back inside, I told them, ‘Long range rockets, as with the Costa Rican border. So there are some left.’ I called Major Harris. ‘Franks with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell him we have rockets coming in, long range, same as last lot. Send it up the line, the FARC have a few left to play with.’
‘Will do. And I got the report of the mortar crew.’
‘Call Moran in half an hour.’
The next rocket was north of us.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Rocko baulked. ‘That’s shit aim. That’s a mile from the last landing.’
Fifteen minutes later a rocket landed on the hillside near us, people ducking.
‘That’s better,’ Rocko commended. ‘They’ve had their coffee now.’
I had a look at the map. ‘Last two hits were on the sides of these hills … so … twenty five miles gives us … on that bearing … a track in a wooded area.’
I made a note of the coordinates and called ship. ‘It’s Major Wilco, I have a tasking for you.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Note these coordinates.’ I read them out and he read them back. ‘Twenty five miles inside Colombian territory, so check the political opinion first.’
‘Hold on … Admiral says screw the political opinion.’
‘Fair enough. I need eyes on, a search for rocket crews and trucks, rockets being fired real time, but you must be careful, we need positive ID first, and your pilot will be held to account. No farmers’ trucks bombed by accident here.’
‘We’ll specify a criteria with the Prowler, a go ahead signal.’
‘Could you have Marines or Seals in helos close by, and they swoop in and get ID cards and phones, five minutes on the ground only.’
‘I’ll add that to the mission profile.’
‘Great. Good hunting.’ Phone down, I said, ‘Talking to these Navy guys is like chatting to a fucking computer.’
The Colonel put in, ‘You get to be a Navy commander on carrier if you’re shit hot, top five percent. No mistakes.’
‘And your lot, sir?’
‘We’re grunts, we can make mistakes. But if you’re the guy with access to expensive planes and dangerous bombs they don’t allow mistakes.’
A blast west, and the Marines took a hit, Morgen on the radio. ‘No one hurt,’ he finally reported. ‘But that woke them up.’
My phone trilled, Bob Staines. ‘Hey No.1’
‘I spoke to No.2, he’ll be here in a few days.’
‘Good, some progress.’
> ‘Main reason for the call, I think Terotski gave us someone else. If the name is not a joke, it’s a Colonel Raywood.’
‘Why a joke?’
‘It was written down phonetically, like a simple code.’
‘Any clues as to who he is?’
‘Guess how I found out?’ he proudly posed.
‘Because you’re brilliant.’
‘Yes. I got the West point graduation rolls going back years, so I factored in the age to be colonel. M.J. Raywood. And, wait for it, they proudly list his achievements and postings, I even have a photo. He was signals intel, with gaps, so NSA or CIA maybe. Retired three years ago. And, for the coup de gras, he’s dead. ’
‘I think he may still be warm.’
‘Yes, but hiding somewhere.’
I stepped out. ‘I want his widow and kids, because he probably looks after them financially. Spend some money.’
‘Leave it with me.’
Back inside, the Colonel asked, ‘Something?’
‘A piece of the puzzle, sir.’ I called Tomsk, and asked for a delivery in Russian, Sasha and Salome laughing at the detail.
An hour later, Harris called. ‘They found the rocket crew and bombed them after a pilot got a visual, rockets seen in a truck’s headlights.’
‘Very professional rocket crews, not!’
‘SEALs landed, got a phone and some bloodied ID cards. Franks has them.’
‘Well, so far we’re making good progress. What are the officers there like?’
‘All stiff-arsed and no sense of humour. Glad you’re not here.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘You’re not like them, different … style. They’d shoot you for not filling in a form when you use the toilet.’
As the dawn came up I was wandering around in a cool breeze, checking the men on stag. Taggard was awake and sipping a brew.
‘Your patrol called in?’ I asked.
‘Aye, all snug over there, nay anyone to shoot nor even shout at. The rockets stopped during the night.’
‘Stopped after the Yanks bombed them. Yanks got the mortar crew as well.’
‘These FARC boys will adjust their thinking, and try something else. Or they’ll have no one left.’
‘Yes, they’ll be … inventive.’
After breakfast, I had Rocko dispatched to the American Wolf recruits, a lecture or two to give. The medics were now dug in well, and had some free time to organise themselves.
At 11am a Skyvan was on approach, everyone prepared ahead of time, the Navy called - just in case they shot it down. It touched down smoothly, six local men soon unloading. I went forwards, grabbed a heavy white toilet bowl and lugged it back to the medics, dumping in front of the lady doctor who had complained.
‘What am I supposed to do with that, Major?’ she asked, hands on hips.
‘Would you like me to demonstrate?’ I asked as her colleagues smirked at her.
‘Does it flush?’
‘You use water by hand to flush it. There’s wood, so go build an outhouse on a slope. Use that degree of yours.’
‘My degree was in medicine, Major, not plumbing!’
I went and fetched her planks of wood. ‘Don’t get a splinter in your arse.’
We now benefited from extra-large plastic water containers, wooden planks, hammers and nails, saws, and sixty corrugated metal sheets. We also had chickens in cages, and pigs. I had Crab and Duffy grab the animals, the new American Wolves to get some practise in.
The final item was my pizza; pepperoni. I sat in the command area and opened it.
‘You ordered out for fucking pizza!’ Morgen asked as the Skyvan powered away.
‘Why not.’ I tucked in, jealous men glaring at me, Max taking snaps from the side.
‘Major Wilco, that is not fair,’ the Colonel complained, stood with his hands on his hips.
‘OK,’ I sighed out. ‘You can have a slice.’
‘Great.’ He took a piece as Morgen complained about pulling rank, and I let Salome have a piece, a piece for Billy and the last piece for Sasha – his men complaining loudly.
Pizza finished, I asked Trevor how he was getting on.
‘It’s like being back on an exercise on the Brecon Beacons. Dig a trench, cook rations, stare at the sheep, thunderflashes thrown by the NCOs, stand to. Only these are rockets.’
‘Wait till it rains, then you’ll remember Wales.’
Morgen grabbed wood and placed it across the now long trench, two pieces of corrugated metal on top, dirt piled on, two feet high.
I did the rounds, and when I returned to Billy, a.k.a Bob the Builder, had a wooden triangle frame up over a trench, metal sheets against the wood at forty-five degrees, dirt being piled up.
‘We’re starting to look organised,’ I told the command team, Robby grabbing metal sheets and dragging them off.
I grabbed metal sheets, bent them in the middle and placed them over Wolf trenches so that they could see out. ‘Get some more made up,’ I told them. ‘Dirt on top so that it doesn’t shine.’
Sat with a brew, a pig walked past, looked up at the Colonel as he stared down at it, and walked on, soon being chased by a Wolf recruit, men laughing.
The pig was soon running the opposite way, the SAS lads taunting the young Wolf something terrible. Fed up, he raised his rifle and blasted the pig, to loud complaints. He dragged it back north.
Billy noted, 'So the big bad wolf never huffed and puffed and blew the house down, he thought – fuck that, and shot them with a Valmet, cooked them and had bacon.'
My phone trilled at noon, as I considered that the nasty black clouds to the east might bring us some rain, or a lot of rain. At least many trenches now had a metal roof.
‘It’s Moran, transport plane coming towards you, something slung under it!’
I dropped my phone, raised my rifle and fired a burst. ‘Incoming! Aircraft incoming, get to cover!’ I pointed at the radio man. ‘Hostile aircraft on approach from the south!’
He got on the radio as I grabbed my phone and led Rocko quickly south. As we reached the end of the strip we could hear a distant drone, straining now to see it, Max running in.
‘Max, stay down!’
‘There,’ Rocko pointed.
The twin-prop transport was low, barely two hundred feet above the hills, and it could have been a drug runner.
‘What’s it got slung?’ Rocko puzzled.
‘Not drugs,’ I noted. ‘Maybe a bomb.’
‘How’d it take off with something slung?’ he puzzled.
‘Where are my snipers when I need them, eh? Running Bear, aim at that plane.’ I transmitted, ‘All men on the south side, aim at the approaching aircraft, check the angles and don’t shoot each other. Get in your trenches ready.’
I peered south. ‘Distance?’
‘Mile.’
We knelt and got ready, sights adjusted, Running Bear’s men aiming out from their tranches.
Robby appeared at my side. ‘What’s that lump under the plane?’
‘A bomb most likely,’ I told him as he got ready. ‘Or the local mail delivery.’
‘We’ll be in trouble if it’s the postman,’ he quipped as he knelt and aimed.
As the transport cleared the hill south I started to fire, aiming high at the cockpit, but then I considered that the bulge could be a bomb and so I aimed at it, ten rounds pumped out, Rocko and Robby pumping out rounds.
A screech, a shout from Max, and I opened my left eye to see two heat-seeking missiles streaking in, large white smoke trails behind them. The white pressure-wave ball expanded outwards quickly from the plane, and right towards us as my eyes widened.
We all turned away, heads down, soon kicked by a mule, ears ringing. Turning around, the plane was in small bits and floating down, some parts spinning down, a large cloud of smoke lingering.
‘The jet!’ Rocko shouted. ‘It ain’t right.’
I looked up, the F18 wobbling at about a thousan
d feet, directly above the smoke cloud. And it was silent. ‘Flame out. His engine is off.’
As we stood tall and observed, the F18 banked hard right and came around, over LZ2-west.
‘Its wheels are down,’ Robby noted.
‘It’s going to land?’ Rocko puzzled, Max filming with Trevor.
The F18 curved around as it quickly lost altitude, and came tightly around, flaps down, and looked like it would smash into the medics tent.
It managed to avoid clipping their tent with its wheels, banked hard and straightened up, soon touching down smoothly and quietly, the nose dipping up and down as the pilot hit the brakes, the F18 easing to a crawl a hundred yards from us, coming to a halt just twenty yards from us as we walked around to the side of it.
The canopy popped up a few inches, the pilot seemingly hitting buttons for twenty seconds, soon getting his harness off, the cockpit rising, and he scrambled out arse first, a step found in the aircraft skin, then he simply lowered himself down as the command staff came running.
Helmet off, he took in the faces, the man in his later thirties, slightly overweight, and with thinning light brown hair.
‘Good landing,’ I told him. ‘And welcome to LZ2. But I think a board of enquiry will establish that you should have ejected. As you came around you had zero room for manoeuvre and nearly killed yourself – and some of us with it!’
He nodded. ‘I should have ejected, yeah, but … I saw the strip and made a choice. Had a flame out over a small island strip once, got the bird down.’
‘We’ll get you back to your ship,’ the Colonel offered.
The pilot saluted. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We can’t leave that thing there,’ Rocko told me. ‘Push it over the side.’
‘Push it over the side?’ the Colonel complained.
Rocko told him, loudly, ‘This great fucking dildo is sat on the highest point of the highest hill around here, they can see it for miles, and all the dozy fucking mortar and rocket teams will aim for it!’
‘That’s an expensive plane, Mister.’
‘He’s right,’ I told the Colonel. ‘They’ll target it because it is an expensive plane, and they’ll get some of us, ten men killed or wounded. Is that plane worth your life, sir?’
The Colonel stared back. ‘Pilot, can it be pushed back, down the other end? We can throw flysheets over it.’
