Wilco- Lone Wolf 8

by Geoff Wolak

  The Chinooks started to bring back the Paras, and the French took up positions given up by those Paras, French Pumas landing supplies.

  Major Liban called me. ‘The rebels are south, no?’

  ‘Yes, in contact with the Marines, two miles south.’

  ‘We move down and attack them?’

  ‘You’ll lose twenty men killed.’

  ‘So what is best here?’

  ‘There’s a road going east. Send your Echo down it, then south in the tree line till you get near the British, then slow sniper campaign to wear down the rebels for no men killed.’

  ‘OK, we do that, we will be there for sundown maybe or after.’

  ‘Let me know when you get near the British, I will update them.’

  A Westland Commando helicopter landed at the FOB with boxes, my name on them. The FBI were curious, and these were odd boxes. After the boxes had been stacked up I opened one with Swifty, finding the Finnish rifles.

  ‘Where did they come from?’ the FBI demanded.

  ‘Finland.’ I taped my existing rifle. ‘Custom made for us by Valmet. Contact them if you like.’

  The lads started to collect rifles and magazines, all green, and I told the Wolves to each grab one, existing rifles to be put in our crates. There were four telescopic lenses, not the two I remembered ordering, so I issued them to Tomo and Nicholson, Swan and Leggit.

  Manstein asked, ‘So what’s different about these?’

  I gave him a rundown of what I had asked for.

  He handled one. ‘Heavy, damn heavy.’

  ‘More accurate that way,’ I told him.

  ‘So you want an automatic sniper rifle?’ one of the FBI asked.

  ‘We want accuracy, reliability, distance, and a punch. We also have the quick magazine release, so it ticks a lot of the boxes. My lads use these at 800yards, and with a grouping like an apple.’

  ‘With these you don’t need fifty cal,’ Manstein noted.

  ‘With these I would never think to ask for a fifty cal to support us.’

  The lads set up a range, and blasted away for an hour on and off. I handed Haines and Hamble rifles, theirs to keep, and they practised with them. When Crab and Duffy came in I issued them new rifles.

  Seahawks set down later and whisked the FBI away east. I hoped that the French would be right uncooperative with them – not so much as a cup of coffee and a tired smile offered.

  The Gurkhas, meanwhile, had left the Dragoons at key road junctions - the locals friendly and selling produce, and had moved east. They had found a stretch of road that had no trees within four hundred yards, farm land and swamp, and so had driven off down that road, and now set a camp just four miles from the Marines.

  Seeing too many RAF Regiment lads wandering around the FOB I asked Maven to take two flights east, and to find some transport. Trucks were made available, Dragoons in a jeep with a GPMG, and Maven took his men off towards the Gurkhas as Morten and his medics arrived back looking dog tired.

  Maven and his men arrived at the agreed spot around sunset and called in, and the RAF Regiment would hold a junction as the Gurkhas moved east towards the Marines, but the Gurkhas soon ran into pockets of rebels, another standoff created. I updated the map board.

  ‘All happening here,’ I told Moran as we stood over the board, a finger on the map. ‘Pockets of rebels in the trees.’

  ‘Echo is good to go.’

  ‘I could put you in by Chinook at dawn,’ I offered. ‘Pick a spot. Oh, take Captain Hamble and his last few men.’

  ‘I say we land northwest and walk in a few miles,’ Moran said.

  ‘I’ll put our four snipers in with the Marines, they’re pinned down. The lads can try the new rifles.’

  ‘And the Wolves?’ Moran nudged.

  ‘There’s a big square of trees in the middle here, almost ten miles square. Someone needs to go through it, and I don’t want regular soldiers wandering around in there.’

  Haines called me outside, a line of vehicles arriving, a familiar Sergeant and Captain stepping down; the Welsh Guards.

  ‘They dragged you back?’ I asked.

  ‘We know the area, so they agreed to let us come back down.’

  ‘I want you, Captain, and you Sergeant – with one platoon here, rest go join the Gurkhas over the border. How many of you?’

  ‘Sixty, a few at the airport.’

  ‘Kitted ready?’

  ‘All kitted ready, yes.’

  ‘Then send them off over the bridge and east, there are men at every junction, and they’ll send you to the front line. Stop at the junction with the RAF Regiment tonight, move up to the Ghurkhas at dawn. Don’t go pissing about in the dark.’

  One truck parked, the rest turned around and headed off. I tasked the Sergeant and his platoon with helping to protect the FOB – which they were familiar with, leading the captain inside and introducing him to Colonel Clifford and his team, the map board detailed.

  I had two flights of 2 Squadron here at the FOB, the remainder of 2 Squadron and their officers at the airport, protecting Hercules for now. I stared at the board for a while, then called Captain Harris.

  ‘Go see the Para School boss, see how many chutes he has left, and then the 2 Squadron CO and tell him that I’ll try and get his squadron a para drop soon, but half his men are here protecting the FOB. First, check the chutes. Have the 2 Squadron boss and the para boss make a plan, I’ll find a suitable target.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you. Marines are still pinned down?’

  ‘Yeah, but the Gurkhas are close, and I sent the Welsh Guards to join them. So after dawn tomorrow we might see some movement down that road, and I’ll drop Echo in northwest. French are circling the rebels as well.’

  ‘Box them in. But questions are being asked in some quarters about the low number of prisoners.’

  ‘They don’t surrender, they run off into the jungle. Where they did surrender the Paras looked after them, no massacre, and the medics gave them first aid in the rebel HQ, so I’m not worried about it.’

  Off the phone, I stared at the map, and worried about who was asking questions. No white flags had been seen, and now the French were burying the dead rebels at the camp, not the British, so the excessive number of bodies would be less of an issue. Fact was I wanted them all dead, not going home; I just could not let anyone know that.

  Before dawn a Chinook took Echo off, all flying together, a Westland Commando picking up my four snipers whilst on a supply run to the Marines. That left the Wolves, and I briefed them on what I wanted. They made sure they had extra food in backpacks, plenty of ammo, and split into teams of four, a Lynx inserting each team in a different spot for me.

  Each Wolf team called Captain Harris, and he checked exact positions before the Wolves started searching, looking for tracks. Moran reported in, all down safe and moving off as three teams southeast, but that it was raining.

  Tomo, Nicholson, Leggit and Swan were now being stared at by the Marines; odd uniforms and odd rifles.

  ‘Right, Boss,’ Tomo offered the Marines major. ‘Where’re the bad guys?’

  ‘Over the road.’

  Tomo made ready his rifle as the other three started up trees, the Marines observing them. ‘Here we go, sir, try that.’

  The Marines Major adopted the rifle standing up, a branch used for support. ‘Christ that’s a good lens, I can see them.’

  ‘Then hold it tight with your left hand, relax the pistol hand, deep breath in, half a breath out, first pressure, and fire.’

  The Major hit a rebel in the head. ‘Fuck me, I blew a hole in his head.’

  ‘Well carry on then, Boss, I’ll get a brew on,’ Tomo cheekily told him, and he sat with the Marines.

  The Major killed six rebels with six shots, a sergeant having a go, Nicholson, Swan and Leggit soon running out of people to shoot. They climbed down, handed over rifles, and got a brew on as well. When the Marines Major called in he gave me the story, which made me smile, the M
arines queuing up to try the rifles.

  Echo got to within a mile of the Marines, three teams moving parallel a hundred yards apart, Captain Hamble and his remaining four men with Robby. They found a clearing, and could hear distant blasts. With Echo hidden in the tree line north of a clearing a column of rebels moved into view, moving west as if to circle the Marines that way.

  Moran waited till some sixty rebels were in view, the lead man about to disappear, and Echo opened up, all sixty rebels killed quickly, the tail end running off. Bodies were double-tapped, wounded finished off, the clearing falling quiet. They waited.

  After half an hour, and with no counter attack materialising, they snuck off west through the trees and pushed a little further south, turning east. Moran updated me, I updated the Marines, and I told the FAC to keep the Lynx away.

  Moran had the teams form a line, and to advance slowly, tree to tree. Cooking could soon be smelt, voices heard. Moran moved to within twenty yards of a make-do camp, fifty men sat around, RPGs leant against trees, something of a squabble going on within the rebels about what to do next.

  Silencers fitted, Echo got as close as they could before being spotted, and opened up. None of the rebels survived, all double-tapped as Echo moved through the make-do camp.

  ‘Hang on,’ Rocko called as Moran moved off. Rifles slung, he and Slider lifted the RPGs, aimed high and fired east, ten heads lobbed, the blasts heard through the trees.

  Echo was so close to the road now that Tomo was picking up the radio chat, and reported that fact back to Moran. The Marines were told to check their fire.

  I called Major Liban, and he was on the opposite side of the rebel position, half a mile away, moving slowly in, a pincer movement now in effect. Major Liban made contact first, the battle heard by Echo. That battle caused those rebels remaining to face east, many to run off west.

  With the stink of dead bodies in their noses, severed limbs and downed trees everywhere, Echo waited as movement was heard. Disheartened rebels, and often unarmed rebels, ran towards Echo, all cut down, none surviving.

  But the rebels further east had not heard the silenced rounds taking down their colleagues-in-arms, and so were unaware that they were being flanked.

  The man in charge - of those rebels that could be considered organised - decided that enough was enough, and he led his men west, hoping to turn north and get the hell out of Dodge City. Tomo found a line of sight to those rebels through a gap in the trees and opened up, causing the rebels to move further north – and faster.

  The main body of rebels, a hundred and fifty left standing, moved towards the left flank of Echo, but were seen and heard a long way off. Moran waited till some had passed him then opened up, Captain Hamble and Robby leading a charge around the south end, their backs to the Marines.

  Tomo could actually see some of them, shouted that fact, and my snipers ran across the road to join the battle. Seeing that action, two platoons of Marines went with them.

  My snipers caught the tail end of the rebels, some close-up fighting, Robby and Hamble on their left, and seeing the Marines they sent those Marines east – and to hold the tree line.

  French Echo were still in contact three hundred yards east, those rebels running away soon being hit by the keen Marines.

  Ten minutes of contact saw it fall quiet, Moran shouting for everyone to check their fire. I got the report from the Marines Major, and was worried. I called Liban and updated him, then called Tomo to get an assessment, finally Moran.

  ‘Check your fire, black faces only!’ was shouted through the trees.

  With two wounded French soldiers reported I sent a Lynx for them, to land on the road, the Marines told to expect it. The Marines took charge of the wounded French Echo lads and bundled them into the Lynx, rifles and webbing left behind, the Lynx departing, to take the wounded back to the airport.

  After chatting to Moran, Echo made camp in with the Marines south of the road, to send out patrols north, the north tree line now held by the Marines. French Echo made camp nearby, and sent patrols northeast.

  I had Morten re-locate his team and their kit, and they landed by Westland Commando helicopter half an hour later, just in time for a wounded Marine, the man hit by a rebel that had been hiding in the bushes.

  Captain Hamble had picked up a scrape, but was soldiering on, Robby reporting Hamble as a ‘blood thirsty maniac’ for the charge he led.

  Calm descended over the Marines position as French patrols started to leave the old rebel camp and venture south, masks over mouths essential due to the bodies. When they found the area where “G” Squadron had encountered the rebels they reported the remnants a massacre on a biblical scale.

  Looking at the map board, I was now happy that we could drag this out for fewer casualties, the Gurkhas making slow progress east, the Welsh Guards fighting up a side road, periodic contact with disheartened rebels, some of those rebels surrendering and being sent back to the Dragoons camp.

  My phone trilled, a familiar number. I stepped out. ‘Papa Victor here, Mister President.’

  ‘What news from the fighting?’

  ‘It is almost finished, a few small groups hiding in the jungle, but most are dead now.’

  ‘That is good to know. I watched the British television, and was ... shocked. Is there a danger that they will turn their attentions towards me?’

  ‘No, none. You are a friend of Mister Tomsk, you are quite safe, and soon the British will make contact, and spend some money on roads to help you.’

  ‘That is good to know, yes, it was ... a most great spectacle on the television.’

  ‘Have your men move forwards, up to the British, white flags on jeeps, and hand over some chickens and pigs. Say hello. Have your flag on any jeep, with a white flag.’

  ‘I will arrange this, yes.’

  ‘If you hold certain road junctions, the British can run down those left hiding.’

  ‘A good idea, yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Be in touch soon, Mister President.’

  After my lunch I received a report from the Gurkhas that the Monrovia Army had driven up to the Gurkha position, pigs and chickens handed over, a cup of tea shared. I told the Gurkhas to cooperate, since we were guests in someone else’s country.

  News of that friendly gesture hit the airport, and they called me to clarify the situation, and an hour later the British Ambassador flew in, Mally and three old timers stepping down.

  ‘Where you been hiding?’ I asked Mally.

  ‘Been here all along, but busy.’

  I shook the Ambassador’s hand. ‘Welcome to the FOB, sir.’

  ‘I’ve heard a great deal about it,’ he said as he took in the small base.

  ‘These men performing OK?’ I asked, pointing at my “E” Squadron lads. ‘They work for me, so if you have any comments...’

  Mally and the others looked worried.

  The Ambassador glanced back at them. ‘No, they’re fine. Shall we ... talk in private?’

  I led him away, and onto the strip, grinning at Mally’s discomfort.

  ‘I’ve had a briefing, the detail of which quite shocked me, and then they said that the rest of the detail was down to you – detail about our good friend the dictator over the border.’

  I considered what to tell him, taking in the tree line. ‘Many years ago a Russian gunman was killed in London, his body on ice. I took his place, and I built up a network of contacts, both London and the CIA involved, the French to a lesser extent. As that alter-ego I have a close personal relationship with the dictator.’

  ‘I see. And you could arrange a meeting?’

  ‘I can take you over there, yes, you’ll be safe.’

  ‘London would like to discuss with him the proposed peacekeeping plan, and a quiet border.’

  ‘London would like to get closer to the oil...’ I pointed out.

  ‘Well, at the moment the country has sanctions -’

  ‘But if they were lifted London would be well placed,
’ I said with a grin.

  ‘You may think that, I could not possibly comment.’

  ‘Just let me know when you want to go over there. Could drive from here, or fly in. But over there you have to refer to me as if I’m my alter ego.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, you have to maintain that persona. But British ambassadors don’t normally associate with such men.’

  ‘Tough.’

  He shot me a look. ‘Could fly over today, a quick chat?’

  ‘I’ll pause the war and arrange a helicopter.’

  ‘How’s it going anyhow?’

  ‘Just pockets of small groups now, mopping up.’

  The Ambassador took a call on his sat phone. ‘He is ... now .... oh, well best not to upset him ... yes, send him down ... I’m there now.’ Off the phone he said, ‘Bloody pushy Americans.’

  ‘Americans?’

  ‘A US senator is here, chap whose brother you rescued from Guinea.’

  ‘Ah, him. I was expecting him at some point. Still, their Navy helped us, so we all have to play nice together, eh.’

  I fetched the Ambassador a tea before a Seahawk set down, our senator helped down by two Marines armed with what looked green M4 rifles. The Senator wore blue jeans and a smart white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, carrying a blue jacket.

  ‘Senator Lieberson,’ I greeted, shaking his hand. His ride took off, so I figured he was here for lunch. ‘This is the British Ambassador to Sierra Leone.’

  They shook, pleasantries exchanged. The Senator then turned back to me. ‘You’re Captain Wilco?’

  ‘I am, I’m afraid.’

  He sized me up. ‘I had a briefing, unofficial, then they told me that you might just shoot me, and that if I saw and heard things I shouldn’t ... that they might shoot me.’

  ‘There is ... more going on than the public realises.’

  ‘I sit on the Intelligence Committee, so I would have hoped for greater disclosure.’

  ‘Sometimes, Senator, Intel stretches the law for a good reason,’ I told him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ our Ambassador told him. ‘I was kept in the dark as well, and also threatened, but not with being shot.’