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

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Four days ago,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Much fighting,’ the woman confirmed. ‘Many Serb dead. Maybe ... five hundred English men fight.’

  I shook my head. ‘Six.’

  ‘Six?’ she queried. She looked up the slope.

  ‘All dead, only me.’ I unclipped the side of my face mask and let it fall.

  She grimaced, made a sign of the cross, and I had to wonder what I the hell I looked like as the leader closed in. People did not generally cross themselves when they saw me.

  ‘You will not live,’ he said as he looked me over. He put a hand on several holes in my jacket.

  ‘One day only if no doctor,’ I told them. ‘How far ... Croatia?’

  The leader made a face. ‘Twenty kilometre only, but you are poor slow, many Serb at border.’

  The woman seemed to be giving him instructions, and he finally nodded.

  ‘Come, village man have phone for Engleeesh. You NATO, they come?’

  ‘Maybe, if no Serbs. Maybe when dark,’ I replied, and I wondered if they would risk a helicopter for me. I doubted it.

  They led me off, slowly, soon complaining about the pace, so I picked up the pace despite my foot, and they were soon trying to keep up with me.

  ‘Your foot is shot?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Everything is shot,’ I quipped.

  ‘Smell bad, smell like dead,’ she offered.

  ‘Yes, infection, four days,’ I confirmed as we skirted the edge of the field and headed down a slope.

  Crossing a small fence was difficult for me, but they were patient, and we edged along a wood, the former prisoners quite expert and holding their weapons and moving unseen. I had to wonder about their training, and where they got it. Still, if there was trouble ahead I was in good hands.

  Suddenly the lead man stopped and got down, kneeling behind a tree, his weapon ready. The rest got down, whispers exchanged, and they seemed to be studying something to the left. I could see across four hundred yards of open land, and finally spotted a four man patrol that became eight men. The former prisoners were in a heated debate, and I asked the woman what was wrong; we could just avoid the patrol.

  ‘They go village,’ she answered.

  After a moment’s thought I slid left to a fallen log and adjusted my sights as the woman reported what I was doing.

  The leading man crawled to my side. ‘You can shoot?’ he asked, seeming sceptical.

  I glanced at him as I tightened my grip, took careful aim, held half a breath, and then squeezed the trigger. The patrol leader went down. So did his men, thinking they were safe, and either not visible or out of range, so I let off a second round, hitting a man in the arse cheek, a hand placed on where my round had struck.

  The leader glanced at me, and exchanged a look with the woman, and I felt embarrassed. My third shot hit a prone soldier in the ankle, as was observed by my new friends, and my fourth round hit a Serb in the elbow.

  I faced my audience as they looked embarrassed for me. ‘If you wound a man, second man must carry him. Eight men, four men help three men, leader dead.’

  They exchanged words, and finally nodded, fully believing that I had meant to wound, which I hadn’t, my aim was crap. They led me off, my embarrassment – and the embarrassment of the Regiment – saved by some quick thinking. And if I made it out of here I’d not be reporting that incident at the debrief; if the Major got one more report of me shooting people in the arse he’d flip.

  The forest gave way to a patchwork of small fields, many filled with cows or sheep, and my new travelling companions opened gates for me and held them – I was starting to sweat from the effort and I felt even more nauseous than usual. We descended, skirting around fields that offered a view of earnest farmers tilling their soil, and we dropped down around two miles before joining a tarmac road, which I thought was dangerous to use.

  Turning off that road, we followed a tight valley stream, not much light getting through the dense canopy above, and finally crossed a field towards an isolated house, smoke rising lazily from its chimney. At the garden gate they halted, the woman going forwards alone.

  A grey-haired yet fit-looking man answered the door and exchanged a few words, finally a hug given before the woman pointed at me. The man questioned her thoroughly about me across several minutes, and then she brought him up to me as I scanned the field nervously.

  ‘You’re SAS?’ he asked in a refined accent, sounding as if he was British by birth.

  ‘Yes. Who are you, sir?’ I asked, figuring I had an idea who he might be.

  He looked me over, grimacing and sniffing. ‘That’s a British uniform, but odd markings, and not standard webbing.’

  ‘I customise my kit, and my C.O. tolerates it. I like to carry an AKM rather than an M16; plenty of ammo to be had off anyone you shoot.’

  ‘You sound like an officer?’

  ‘No, just a poorly paid enlisted man. Are you MI6?’

  He didn’t answer. ‘Who was your C.O. during the Falklands War?’

  ‘Before my time, but I think it was Colonel Barry Hodges, now General Hodges.’

  He nodded. ‘What shooting range would you find ten miles south east of the base?’

  ‘Sounds like you mean Ross-on-Wye range.’

  He peered at the blood and muck on my face. ‘Where’s the rest of your patrol?’

  ‘Dead. Six of us came in, just me left, artillery round landed in our camp while I was on stag.’

  ‘You were in a fight twenty miles south west of here?’ he puzzled with a deep frown.

  I nodded. ‘We were scouting for Serb artillery crossing the border with Serbia, and fixing targets to NATO air strikes, but we found ourselves at the southern end of the woods and suddenly surrounded by an entire division, men with dogs, the works.’

  ‘I’ve been getting reports, and some of those reports are incredible, claims of hundreds of Serbs wounded and killed. That was your patrol, just your patrol.’

  ‘That was just me. My patrol members and C.O. were killed on day one.’ I took a moment to study him. ‘You get reports, so you must have a way to contact London.’ He did not reply. ‘I have a massive infection from my wounds, about twelve hours to live, so either make a call, or fuck off out of my face.’

  He was shocked upright by the last part, and stepped back into the house, returning with a satellite phone, and the sight of it lifted my spirits. Now there was hope, real hope. He stepped away and pushed the numbers, soon chatting to someone, and then staring at me. He lowered the phone. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Wilco.’

  He spoke into the phone, and then stared at me again before continuing, finally approaching with the phone, which he handed over. ‘They want to speak to you.’

  I lifted the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘That Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and who are you?’ I asked as the grey-haired man consulted with the woman and her colleagues.

  ‘A controller, SIS, comfy desk in London. Met you once at a briefing, and I know Bob Staines very well of course -’

  ‘Any chance of a chopper, sir, I have a few hours left to live,’ I cut in.

  ‘You’re hurt bad? I’ve been following the action of course, it’s my area, and I have several people near those woods.’

  ‘I’ve been shot a few times, shit load of grenade shrapnel in my body, cracked skull, massive infection taking hold. If I don’t get to a surgical bay today I’ve had it, sir.’

  ‘I know exactly where you are, so I’m going to make some calls and let your lot know. Give the phone back to the other chap.’

  I handed it back, my travelling companions now staring at me as if I had grown horns. The grey-haired man, the SIS sleeper agent, beckoned me inside, the woman following, the rest taking up defensive positions. I ducked my head through the low doorframe and was greeted by an old lady with a cheery smile.

  Inside, I found an old stone floor, stone walls, a large and dominant stone fireplace with a l
azy dog sleeping in front of it, dated wooden furniture and a few black and white photos on the walls.

  ‘Given who you are, I’ve been ordered to offer ... every assistance,’ the grey-haired man offered, seeming a little put out. ‘What can we do to help you while we wait?’

  ‘Not much, and I don’t wish to endanger you and your family.’

  ‘We have people all around keeping an eye out,’ he assured me.

  I put down my rifle. ‘Get a bucket, some warm soapy water, paper towels or toilet paper, I need the toilet.’

  ‘We ... have a toilet,’ he puzzled.

  ‘When I try and go I issue a lot of blood, so I might pass out, and I’d like to clean up my arse. It’s ... messy.’

  ‘Oh.’ He asked the old lady for what I needed, and the woman I had rescued keenly assisted. He dragged over a chair, and then lifted the cushion from it, revealing a hole. ‘That should do.’

  I nodded, and eased off my webbing, placing it down as a fresh coffee was brought out to me. ‘Thanks,’ I told the lady that I had rescued.

  ‘You saved my life, and my husband,’ she got out in a heavy accent, and looked like she was about to start crying.

  ‘Duty Officer,’ Captain Sullivan said as he answered the phone at Hereford.

  ‘This is SIS, London, East European Section, Bosnia. Your man Wilco just arrived at the home of one of our agents near the Croatian border.’

  ‘My god.’

  ‘Got a paper and pen, these are the exact coordinates.’

  ‘Fire away.’ Sullivan wrote down the coordinates and double checked them, thanking the SIS controller. Placing down the phone, his lifted face to the admin staff. ‘Wilco made it to the border.’

  Rushing to the window, he peered out, certain that he saw the Colonel leaving, now spotting the Colonel at his car with his driver and two Intel officers. ‘Colonel!’ Sullivan bellowed, and faces looked up. ‘It’s Wilco!’

  The Colonel rushed back in, the Intel captains hot on his heels, the RSM bursting from his office.

  Unzipping my jacket, I fumbled to get my trouser button and then pulled down the zip. ‘Do you have scissors, or a sharp knife?’ I asked as I lowered my trousers, the smell hitting them just as the old lady placed the bucket under the chair. I did not understand what she said, but I could guess. Accepting a knife, I cut away both sides of my green underwear, that was now black in most places, shit covered in others, and let it drop into the bucket.

  The man pointed at my crotch. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Grenade fragment in my left testicle. It became infected, so I amputated it.’

  ‘You ... cut off your own testicle?’ he asked.

  ‘Had to.’

  The old lady dipped a cloth in the warm water and started to wipe my arse area, mumbling as she did so. I grabbed a second cloth handed to me, and assisted, cleaning the shit away from my balls and inner thigh area.

  After five minutes of earnest effort I smelt a little better, but just a little better, and I eased onto the make-do toilet. I tried to open my anus, then tried to relax and do it again, then squeezed – which resulted in me throwing my head back in pain. Liquid hit the bucket’s water, followed by something more solid. And it just kept going.

  The old lady had her face close, and reported something, the man simply stating, ‘Much blood.’

  ‘Dark red or bright red,’ I asked through clenched teeth.

  ‘Dark,’ he got from the old lady.

  When the pain eased, and the water splashes eased, I drank the coffee, catching my breath. ‘I think that will do,’ I said after five minutes of being stared at. I grabbed a clean cloth and shoved it between my arse cheeks as I bent forwards, then pulled up my trousers and buttoned them.

  The satellite phone trilled. ‘It is for you,’ I was informed.

  ‘Wilco here.’

  ‘Colonel Masters, MOD, London. Glad to know you know you made it, we’ve all been following the Sigint reports with keenness I can tell you. Your patrol C.O...?’

  ‘Captain Tyler. He’s dead, lost and arm and a leg when the artillery came in, the rest of the patrol ... I found a hand, a foot, some kit, little else. Shell landed right in the middle of them, sir. But if you tell my C.O., Major Bradley, to track back the last call made on Captain Tyler’s sat phone, it will give the coordinates of where I hid his body. I’d like his body recovered by the Red Cross, if we can, sir.’

  ‘Of course, but don’t worry about that. What condition are you in?’

  ‘I have five or six hours left, sir. If I’m not on a surgeon’s table before midnight I won’t be taking anymore calls.’

  ‘We’re trying to get a chopper, your lot have been informed, and there are two Lynx available. Fortunately, your action to the south has drawn away all of the local Serbs from where you are now, and the weather may hold for a pick-up. So, fingers crossed, we’ll call back on this number when we’re ready.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Don’t go anywhere, sit tight. London out.’

  I handed back the phone. ‘They’re trying to get two helicopters in here.’

  ‘They want you back,’ the man noted, and waited.

  I shrugged. ‘We try and get our soldiers back, wouldn’t be good for morale otherwise.’ I eased down on a seat, winching at the pain coming from my backside, and accepted another coffee.

  ‘Major Bradley!’ Captain Harris shouted, everyone looking around and up, since it had been more of a scream that a call. Bradley spun around. ‘The MOD just had a phone conversation with Wilco. He’s near the border!’ A loud cheer went up, almost drowned out by the scraping of metal chairs on a stone floor echoing around the factory. ‘They’re organising two Lynx helicopters.’

  Bradley pointed at Rizzo. ‘Put together two teams of four for the helo pick-up, light kit only,’ he said before he rushed off towards the metal steps, bounding up them. Rizzo shouted names, men rushing to the improvised armoury, the factory floor soon bedlam.

  I sat and sipped the coffee, some cake brought out and sampled, little said apart from questions about the action in the woods, but I was cautious about what I should reveal, even to this guy.

  When the sat phone went, he again handed it over. ‘A Major Bradley,’ he flatly stated.

  I smiled widely. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re alive, you little shit!’

  ‘Yes, sir, just about, but badly cut up.’

  ‘And ... the others?’

  I had to puzzle his question, and his meaning. ‘As you already know, sir. I found a few body parts, and I put Captain Tyler in his poncho and buried him so that they wouldn’t find the body.’

  ‘We’ve been intercepting all of the Comms, and no bodies have been reported as being recovered, none at all, just some webbing. They sacked the officer in charge of the operation due to the heavy losses you inflicted.’

  ‘Yeah, well there’s a story there, and I’ll discuss that if I make it.’

  ‘Is that in doubt?’

  ‘I may die on the operating table, sir, I’m in a bad way. But you can help. Got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Hang on. OK, go ahead.’

  ‘I have a cracked skull, both sides, infected, occluded left eye, nerve damage right eye – an eclipse, left foot shot, no feeling, couple of gunshot wounds, but maybe thirty grenade fragments in me, a few in the spine, and a massive infection. Oh, and I amputated my left testicle -’

  ‘You ... what?’

  ‘It had gangrene.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Yes. So can you contact wherever they may take me and ask for two full surgical teams. That’s two, sir, and they’ll need to get the shrapnel out whilst they fight the infection, and that’s a long slow process, eight hours on the table, maybe twelve.’

  ‘Jesus. OK, don’t worry, we’re organising choppers and a recovery team, Rizzo will be there to welcome you.’

  ‘Got anyone better looking, sir?’

  ‘He’s keen to come get you, don’t kn
ock it. And I’ll talk to the NATO hospital now, they have quite a good set-up apparently, some existing hospital they took over or make use of. Oh, and I’ll put in a call to your parents, and Kate.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. What were my parents told?’

  ‘That you were missing behind the lines. I spoke to them, and I told them you were still alive, because no one else could piss of the Serbs that badly.’

  ‘How do you mean, sir?’ I puzzled.

  ‘We got the Sigint updates every hour, and it was obvious that it was you, and that you were still alive. Worried us last night, no word, and then this morning we got reports of a lone sniper causing havoc again, so we figured it was you. Boys have been glued to the radios, and we have all of the maps laid out.’

  ‘Good to know I wasn’t forgotten, sir.’

  ‘Never, Wilco. Never. Right, I’m going to call that hospital, be back on to you soon. You take care.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ I handed back the phone.

  Bradley stepped out of his office, everyone waiting expectantly, two teams formed ready to go. He gripped the rusty old railing and peered down. ‘I just spoke with Wilco on the phone, he’s alive ... but badly hurt, not least because he cut off his own testicle when it got infected.’

  Faces grimaced, and people moaned.

  Bradley continued, ‘We’ll be off for him as soon as the choppers arrive. Oh, and ... you already know that the others did not make it, so ... no change there.’

  The spy took a moment to study me. ‘How many men did you kill?’

  I took a moment, a sip of coffee. ‘Hard to guess.’

  ‘There are hundreds of wounded Serbs.’ He waited.

  ‘You can’t say too much to me, and I can’t say too much to you.’

  He waited a moment. ‘There was only you, and you shot a great many Serbs.’

  I sipped my coffee. ‘That is what I am paid to do.’

  ‘You are paid to be stealthy and go unseen, only shooting as a last resort.’

  I stared at the crackling fire, and sipped my coffee, wondering about his meaning - and if he was right. Without making eye contact, I began, ‘I was ordered to hide and to sneak out, but I was surrounded, no way out. I ... saw what the Serbs were doing with the lady.’ I pointed at her as she sat staring back at me. ‘And ... I figured that if they caught me it would not be pleasant, my body never found.’ Now I made eye contact.