Wilco: Lone Wolf - Book 2: Book 2 in the series (Book 2 of 10)

by Geoff Wolak

  Keeping to the dark forest, I found a useful central track, a few fallen logs causing me to nearly trip, but at least I could negotiate the area a little better now, so I headed to the east, right to the edge.

  Movement. Four men in a line being stealthy, peering into the dark interior, the men now just inside the tree line and silhouetted.

  I moved left, putting them on a direct course towards me. Around the next tree I halted, the men now almost in a line as they advanced towards me. I knelt and took aim.

  I was in the dark, they were highlighted, and they should have figured that as I let them get to within just five yards. I fired a burst at the mid section of the first man, swinging right and hitting all four before I ducked behind the tree.

  Listening, I checked my rear and the immediate area as they moaned and called out. Spinning around the tree, I put two rounds into each man, and silence soon reclaimed this part of the forest.

  I waited, staring intently around the dark interior, listening hard, five minutes passing. Advancing on the first body, I lifted out two magazines and withdrew back to the same tree. It offered a knoll at three feet so I knelt and took aim at to the east. At four hundred yards I could see the tops of four jeeps behind a hedge, and hedges were not bullet proof.

  I put three rounds into each hedge, where I figured the jeeps would be, where I figured the jeeps passengers would be. Nothing, no movement, no response. So I legged it, back along the path, trying to remember the fallen branches and missing one, landing on my face. I had to check my silencer to see if it was still straight, sure now that I had cut my lip and bruised my eye.

  Getting up I ran on, right back towards the patrol den before lying down behind thick logs. The whistling sound came, but the rounds slammed into the old boy scout’s camp, the second salvo further south. I eased up to the sitting position.

  ‘What the fuck?’ I asked the forest.

  Someone had given the wrong coordinates, or they had been mixed up. So much for predicting their artillery. I was about to get up when the whistling forced me back down, hands over ears, and now my last fire position to the east erupted, the dark forest even darker due to the smoke. I waited the second salvo, and it came two minutes later.

  I eased up, and despite the smoke and the devastation I made my way quickly back to that fire position. I found large holes in the ground, trees on their side, smoke lingering, and I coughed as I eased past the devastation and to the edge of the forest, finding a tree to take aim behind. There, at five hundred yards south east, were four trucks, a line of limping wounded, some senior officers.

  Aiming at the largest group, I fired single shots till my magazine clicked empty, then turned and legged it again, changing magazines as I negotiated the new assault course of fallen trees and deep holes. Back near the patrol den I eased down. And waited.

  Nothing. Fifteen minutes passed, and nothing. I eased up. So, I could not manipulate them after all, and I sat on log alone in the dark, and thinking.

  The one thing that was now obvious was that the massed hordes out there were badly trained and badly led, they were a shambles, and we – I chided myself – I, could get through their lines in the confusion. On queue it started to rain, but not on me, I was covered, but a bare patch some twenty yards away was seeing sheets of rain coming down, almost as if a man-made shower had been turned on. Drops started to hit my face mask and make it damp.

  I considered a brew-up, and I had my cooking kit in my webbing, but I felt OK, no need for a cuppa yet. Tapping my breast pocket, inside my magazine vest, I pulled out half a packet of chocolate Rolos, then put them straight back, figuring that I might need them later on; if I got through their lines I would have a long walk ... but walk to where? We were only twenty-five miles from the border, and I could cover that in a day.

  This was it, and I sighed; survive, escape and evade. I had not done the course, but this would be easy - once I got through their lines. I had benefitted from a good night’s sleep, I was fed, I had water and supplies, weapon and ammo, no injuries. Yes, I could make it. Just the small matter of five hundred men around me.

  Minutes passed, the rain fell and the forest darkened, and I suddenly realised that I still had my radio on. I pulled out the ear piece and un-threaded it through my webbing, pulled out the sleeve mic’ and the tossed away the radio. Retrieving it, I took out the battery and threw it, then smashed the radio, save them finding it and seeing what kit we used.

  Sat back, now a little damp and cold, I was amazed to see someone sneaking along just ten yards from me. I froze. He looked around, failed to see me, and plodded on, soon a second man behind him, and it looked like they had come up the dark track.

  Easing down very slowly I adopted a kneeling position behind a gnarled old tree, and very slowly lifted my rifle up and over. In a good fire position now, the third man appeared and stared right at me, none the wiser. Turning my head left, I could not see or hear anyone else, so was that it, three men sneaking along? And where were they headed?

  For a moment I considered that I could just let them pass, and my indecision gained them another ten paces, but at least they were moving away from me, and I was soon certain that there were just the three of them.

  With the three men bunching up, and almost in a nice neat line for me, I adopted the trigger and held a breath, about to fire when my left ear registered a twig breaking. I again froze.

  Turning my head, inch by slow inch, I was thankful for the facemask as a fourth and fifth man came into view, the two of them less than five yards away and not spotting me. Seconds passed, and they slowly crept along, close enough to almost reach out and touch, so close I could see stubble on their chins, and make out a name tag on a jacket. On more than one occasion they stared right at me, but always moved on.

  From my right eye I could now see that the first three had halted and had knelt down, but they were in the normal forest and I was at the edge of the darker forest; I had the advantage as the trailing two slowly inched towards their comrades. How many more, I found myself wondering. Since there were hundreds of men out there they had plenty to pick from.

  As the trailing two moved to join their comrades I faced east, away from them, staring intently and wondering if there were any more men in the patrol, and more surprises coming up behind me, and my left leg was going to sleep. I flexed the muscles in my leg to get the circulation going and, now happy that no further patrol members would be surprising me from the rear, I turned my head back to the patrol.

  As I waited they did my job for me, and they all moved into my sights as if I had asked them to. They bunched up and started whispering. I had solid logs around me, I was in the dark, so I had the advantage unless my weapon jammed.

  Then I would be dead. But I suddenly remembered my pistol, and a wave of relief came over me. Breathing a little too strongly, I forced deep breaths and calmed myself and considered my strategy here, finally considering that fast single shots might be best.

  I took a deep breath, and my fear of the men in front of me turned to anger, followed by that detached feeling I got when I was about to kill someone. My features hardened.

  Aiming at the last man in the group, I put my cross hairs on his back, his back filling the scope at this distance, and fired. Crack. He slumped forwards as I moved the end of the barrel just a fraction and fired again, and at this distance I could not miss.

  The third man, I hit him under the armpit as he turned, the fourth man high in the chest, the fifth man firing wildly towards the dark words, rounds splintering the trees above me. I hit him in the chest, dead centre, but just knocked him backwards against a tree.

  He recovered, and continued firing wildly, so I hit him in the face, blowing the back of his head across the tree. Silence reclaimed the forest and I turned almost fully around, staring and listening, and five minutes passed as I felt the rhythmical patter of water drops hitting my head.

  An Intel sergeant dared knock on Major Bradley’s door, then gingerly
entered. Bradley looked up from a file, and just waited, sat stony faced.

  ‘Wilco’s not dead, sir,’ the sergeant boldly stated.

  The Major stared back. ‘What?’

  ‘He’s not dead, sir. Just got a real time report, two minutes ago, dozen Serbs shot up from a sniper in those woods.’

  The Major stood.

  ‘You said he died when the artillery hit, sir. Well, that was more than an hour ago, and someone is still shooting.’ He handed over the report.

  Bradley quietly said to himself, ‘He could just be wounded, and fighting on.’

  A wave from next door to the sergeant, and he and Bradley moved next door. Three new Intel officers had arrived, much shouting at first – Rizzo threatening to kill them, promises of an enquiry, and now they were making themselves useful.

  ‘This is real time,’ the first officer said, headsets on, the man fluent in Serbo-Croat. ‘Fighting continuing ... wounded being moved, contact lost with patrol, shots heard, more men moving up to try and flank the sniper.’

  ‘Fucker is alive,’ Bradley let out.

  A captain faced Bradley, ‘Sir, you said he was surrounded, but they’re in a mess, no one knows where any other unit is, the senior staff on the ground are threatening each other, so why ... why doesn’t Wilco use that to sneak out?’

  ‘Seen the map?’ Bradley snapped. He approached the table. ‘He’s at the end of the forest, a thimble-shaped piece jutting out, and open land all around, hundreds of Serbs. Only way out will be after dark, or north through the woods, fighting all the way.’

  A sergeant stepped forwards. ‘Report, sir, one unit listing thirty-five confirmed dead.’

  ‘That’s what happens when you meet Wilco in the woods,’ Bradley loudly announced. ‘He’s wounded, pissed off, and he lost all his mates. Be more than thirty-five before this day is over.’

  ‘Why does he not use the sat phone?’ someone risked.

  ‘Might have lost if, dropped it when the artillery came in,’ Bradley suggested. He turned. ‘Keep me posted.’ Outside, on the balcony, he addressed the men. ‘Looks like Wilco is not dead and is fighting on. They’re reporting casualties by the hour.’

  The lads exchanged looks as Bradley returned to his office.

  ‘Colonel Richards.’

  ‘It’s Major Bradley, sir.’

  ‘Some news?’

  ‘Wilco’s not dead, he’s fighting on, and they’re reporting the dead and wounded by the hour, at least thirty-five confirmed dead so far.’

  ‘Christ, he’s behaving like a wounded tiger.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We could do without this. Might sound odd, but we’re not even supposed to be in the country, and we don’t need a major incident.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but he’s cut off and surrounded, and fighting for his life, maybe wounded and not thinking straight.’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing to think, and to say, but ... for simple political reasons, it would be better if he were dead.’

  ‘I know, sir, but I think you’ll be getting a call late today from upon high, because I have a feeling Wilco is mad as hell. He’s camouflaged, well armed, and in a dark forest.’

  ‘He could snipe at them all day, inflicting casualties, and if they get the bodies of the lads, and him, then ... well, lots of questions and no good answers. Keep me posted, I’m going to call his lady.’

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Haversham here.’

  ‘Kate, it’s Colonel Richards, SAS.’

  ‘Hello, sir, how’s the family? Oh, you must be calling about Wilco. Has he been arrested or something?’ she asked without sounding concerned.

  ‘He’s ... lost behind enemy lines in Bosnia.’

  ‘Lost...?’

  ‘His patrol was surrounded by Serbs, and an artillery shell landed. Captain Tyler is dead.’

  ‘Oh ... no, and I met the lady police officer he was seeing. They were getting serious.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s one of my odious tasks today. Wilco survived the artillery, the rest of his patrol all reported to have been killed, but then we lost contact with Wilco during another artillery onslaught. We thought he had been killed.’

  ‘And...?’

  ‘Intel reports a sniper in the area of the conflict, and inflicting high casualties on the Serbs.’

  ‘That would be him, without a doubt. You said he was lost...?’

  ‘There are five hundred men around him, he’s surrounded, stuck in a small wood, and their pouring artillery in; they mean to get him.’

  ‘Ah, well it’s a good job that I’m pregnant then.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘You ... you’re pregnant?’

  ‘Yep, just confirmed it yesterday, hoping for a girl, but if it’s a lad I’m hoping he’ll take after his father.’

  ‘Wilco ... is the father?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t tell him I was trying to get pregnant; I wanted his good genes, not to have him around to interfere in the raising of my kid.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was another long pause. ‘Well, I’ll ... I’ll keep you posted, and let you know when we hear anything.’

  ‘Don’t write him off just yet, Colonel, he’s an annoying little shit when he wants to be, and if he wants to get out of there he will.’

  Colonel Richards lowered the phone. ‘Bloody hell.’ He stepped out of his office and signalled the RSM with a look. ‘I’ve spoken to Wilco’s ... lady, and I’ll see his parent’s personally tonight. Oh, he’s not dead.’

  ‘Wounded?’

  ‘Unknown, but the Serbs are taking casualties by the minute by the sound of it, so that has to be him sniping at them. Get the car.’

  With the chaplain in the back, they set off out the gate, soon to Hereford police station. Walking in, they came across Constable Moore coming out.

  Moore adopted a heavy frown at the visitors. ‘Colonel? Who ... were you after?’

  ‘You, to start with, then ... then your sister.’

  ‘Wilco?’

  ‘No -’

  ‘Captain Tyler?’ he puzzled.

  The Colonel reluctantly nodded.

  ‘He’s ... dead?’

  Again the Colonel nodded.

  Moore stared back. ‘Come on inside, she’s ... on a break I think.’

  Inside the room of a senior officer they waited, and Sue stepped in smiling. She stopped smiling when she saw the uniforms, the chaplain instantly identifiable. She got a hand to her mouth as her eyes watered, her brother putting an arm around her.

  ‘Captain Tyler is dead,’ Constable Moore informed her as heads were lowered.

  Back at Hereford, the Colonel and the RSM entered the communications room, finding many warm bodies huddled around, the Comm’s officer looking harassed.

  The Colonel took in the faces. ‘Any news?’ he flatly asked.

  ‘Wilco is alive,’ Sergeant Crab informed him. ‘Steady stream of bodies. Can we ... not go in and get him, sir?’

  ‘And throw away ten lives to save one? There are hundreds of Serbs around him.’

  ‘What about a NATO air strike, sir?’ a man called.

  ‘Those NATO airstrikes have political permission to knock out tanks, artillery pieces, armoured personal carries – they have no permission to just carpet bomb infantry positions. And at that close range they may just hit Wilco.’

  ‘We have to do something, sir,’ a man complained.

  ‘The die was cast when Intel failed to pass on the message. The rest ... the rest is just the consequences of that, and Wilco may be bleeding to death as we stand here, so ... we have no cards to play. And Wilco, he was like a son to me, I knew him from when he was a kid, living next door to my ex-wife. I knew him better than all of you, and no one wants him back more than me.’

  General Dennet was sat eating when an Intel major approached.

  ‘Problem, sir.’ The major sat, and the general waited. ‘Six man SAS patrol have been killed, and one ... one was your driver, Wilco, sir.’

  The
general stopped eating, taking a moment, those in earshot facing him. ‘It’s confirmed, they are all dead.’

  ‘Five were killed by artillery fire, one man surviving and reporting via a sat phone, then he was lost to the sounds of more artillery, no contact since.’

  ‘Hell...’

  ‘Slip up somewhere, sir, because the Serb moved half a dozen battalions to where the SAS lads were, surrounded them, poured in artillery.’

  ‘Half a dozen battalions? To intercept one small patrol?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And ... the SAS are now mad as hell, someone failed to pass on the movement. The ... patrol could have slipped away but were not informed in time.’

  ‘Start an enquiry, quiet and discreet. Have the Serbs recovered the bodies?’

  ‘No, sir, that’s the odd thing, no mention of the bodies or that they were British.’

  ‘Then they’ve buried them already, trying to keep it quiet.’

  I found myself thinking of Colonel Richards as I sat there in the dark, now damp and cold, and I could picture him stood here. I wondered what his advice would be to me right now.

  Since I had few options, I was not sure what he would say, but I now had a plan of action, and I was sure that it was the correct plan of action, as well my only choice.

  I would keep them busy all day, and keep them out of the forest, then sneak out at night to the north, through the woods. There were more of them than me, but they were just a bit crap at this soldiering lark.

  I found myself considering the man in charge, stood now over a map and considering his strategy, and I still wondered why they had come here. Could they have known about us, wanted a show trial? That made little sense, and neither did the boy scouts or the snipers to the north.

  His plan may have been sound, his officers on the ground cocking it up – as was often the case. Well made plans were often badly executed. They were half an hour late, and they had paid a heavy price for that, their certain victory turned into a rout by a lone sniper. Well, when you moved that many men across open fields in daylight you were asking for trouble.