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

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘And our backup if we’re wounded?’ Slider asked, a natural question.

  ‘A ship full of French commandos and helicopters,’ I said. ‘If ... they know where we are, and if ... they’ll land with hostiles nearby, and if ... their government authorises a rescue.’

  ‘Fucking marvellous,’ he let out.

  ‘It’s either a shallow grave, or a medal and some glory, plenty of respect when you get back. Roll of the dice,’ I said.

  ‘Could die in a car accident,’ Rocko added with a shrug, as noisy with his food as Rizzo. They could have been twins.

  ‘The aim,’ I began, ‘is to do it well, to be the best of your ability, whether the hostages are rescued or not. Our job is not to rescue anyone, but to have a look, and to do that well – to be proud of ourselves that we did it well. You’re about to do something that few Marines will ever do, Falklands aside.’

  ‘I yomped a great deal, got fucking wet a lot, shivered, never fired a shot in anger,’ Slider recalled.

  ‘Here ... you’ll go in with ten full magazines, but probably expend fifty.’

  They stared at me. Swifty said, ‘Quiet recon, eh?’

  I focused on him. ‘If you were Bob Staines, would you send me ... for a quiet recon?’ He stared back. ‘Read between the lines. Bob would like, the UK establishment would like, that we get the hostages and make the French look bad.’

  ‘They said that?’ Swifty questioned.

  ‘No, but they didn’t need to. I know what they want, so do you.’ Slider and Rocko exchanged looks. I told them, ‘Not a word, to anyone, not a soul.’ And they nodded, Swifty blowing out. ‘We’ll do the job we’re supposed to do, and recon, but ... if the opportunity is there to help the hostages then we take it.

  ‘If we follow their plan, then we find the hostages and somehow give them a quick medical without anyone spotting us, wait an hour – undetected - till the French come in their very loud helicopters, and hope they don’t shoot at us as they land, get the hostages and leave.’

  ‘When those fucking choppers land,’ Swifty began, ‘everyone in the town with a gun will be on their roof, taking pot shots. Only need one guy close to the hostages to kill the hostages, or wound a few, then we’re fucked. Hostage rescue is tricky at the best of times – they usually get killed.’

  I nodded as I chewed my food. ‘Only way is to create a diversion and get the hostages out quietly, and to get them away quietly in a vehicle. Helicopter pickup a few miles away. I won’t be storming no fortress, nor expecting that any of us sneak in quietly and eyeball the hostages in their cells – and get back out alive. Four of us, a hundred of them.’

  After our grub we laid out ponchos and did a full kit check. I split up my first aid kit, making sure everyone had two tampons and a two tourniquets, Swifty having some antibiotic cream, all having antiseptic cream, all having field dressings. One bar of antibiotic soap between us, no other soap nor toothbrush or paste.

  Rations for just about two days, hence the goat killing practice, three bottles of water each, water purifying tablets, ten magazines 7.62mm x 20 Russian standard - stacked and checked, more to be found locally, two 9mm magazines - full, twenty rounds spare each, string, fishing line, knives, weapons cleaning kit, one pair spare pants, one pair spare socks each, small hand towels, compasses in metal cases to prevent breaking them.

  Small notepad and pencil, telescopic sites, site lens caps, pen torches each, condoms for keeping dust and water out of barrels ... and we were just about set, our field radios tested. They were only good inside a mile, but that was all we wanted them for.

  Our clothing would be that which we had on now, plus basic brown caps. Myself and Swifty would carry sat phones, tested now by calling the duty officer, then each other, one spare 9volt battery each, phones in plastic bags with rubber bands.

  I faced Swifty. ‘Anything you think we need, or don’t need?’

  He studied the kit laid out. ‘It’s light, for what could be a week, but -’ he pointed at the remaining goat. ‘- goats and sheep around, and a heavy backpack would slow us. And if we spot some local twat with a bandolier, we drop him and nick his ammo.’

  I nodded. ‘Rocko?’

  ‘Bog roll?’ he asked.

  I smiled. ‘If you want it, take it. The field rations will bung me up for days, then its small round lumps, dry, and we’ll be dehydrated anyhow.’

  Slider said, ‘Me too; three day exercise on field rations and I’m all bunged up, small round lumps.’

  ‘Anything else?’ I asked as they studied the kit.

  ‘Anything else, we steal it,’ Swifty said. ‘One careless owner, a bit dead.’

  ‘What about ID cards?’ Rocko asked.

  ‘Take them, hand them in on the boat,’ I said.

  I drew a map in the sand, of the target town and of our planned approach, and they all studied it. I told them, ‘Northwest from the coast, south east back to the coast. Remember that. Slider, Rocko, if me and Swifty are wounded or killed, grab the sat phones before you leg it, otherwise no pickup. Don’t ... try and carry our bodies out; shallow grave, covered over, then leg it.’

  They exchanged looks, eyebrows tipped.

  Later, coming out of the block’s shower, I found that they were stood shaving, first time having seen me without my top.

  ‘Jesus,’ Slider let out. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’

  ‘Bosnia ... happened to me,’ I said as I got dressed. ‘I got shot, blown up, fragged, mortared on, bitten, and shot some more. That scenario you did is supposed to simulate some of what I went through, only I was shot a few times each day – and that slows you up.’

  Swifty said, ‘He hacked off his own testicle when it got infected.’

  Their eyes boggled as I nodded my head. ‘It was infected, black, size of an apple. Had to come off. I got a plastic one now.’

  ‘And they allowed you back to duty?’ Rocko queried.

  ‘Fitter than you lot, don’t challenge me to a run.’

  Sat on the sand later, I recanted some of the events of Bosnia, and described the cold dark forest for them, enough to give them nightmares.

  We were all up at 6am, cooking away, the final goat spared its fate. Being mischievous, we let it go outside, to wander around the base eating flowers. We did, however, fashion a green combat covering for it from a t-shirt that Rocko had.

  At 7.45am we were ready, stood like we were about to go off to war, items called out, the kit checked over and over. At 8.15am we walked out, many of the lads arriving - and gawking at us, all jealous as hell. We waited in the admin block, the RSM and others wishing us well, people querying the combat goat on the parade ground.

  The metal crates were brought over from stores, weapons and ammo placed inside, a couple of the lads lugging them downstairs for us, a large minibus with blacked-out windows arriving, two police cars as escort. Bob Staines was taking no chances that we get a flat tyre on the motorway or be stuck in traffic.

  The Major and the Colonel wished us luck – a few rude comments about the combat goat nibbling grass in front of the HQ building, handshakes given, and we felt like condemned men all of a sudden.

  And so much for a discrete operation, everyone on the base knew, which meant that it would soon be gossip in the local bars. We boarded the coach with the Intel and Signals team - some going on ahead, I took out a paperback, and we set off towards London, Rocko and Slider soon asleep; soldiers always slept on coaches, it was an unwritten rule.

  A long three hours later we drove into RAF Northolt airfield, the place very familiar to me from bringing the Air Commodore up here. I sighed; that it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Our ride was waiting, a small jet with enough room for twenty passengers and some cargo in the back, four men in suits already on board, and seemingly aware of our arrival – they did not panic at the sight of us. I could see the metal crates being loaded, plus other bits of kit, and when they slammed the door it seemed to have a finality to it.

 
; We climbed through turbulence to find some sunshine and soon headed south, and I was asleep when we bumped down in Cyprus, a man joining us, another leaving us, fuel topped up as we stood on the tarmac in pleasant Greek sunshine, Rocko recalling a pleasant holiday spent here with his ex-wife - wishing that he had taken the opportunity to drown her.

  Setting off again, we headed due south across the Med and soon down the Red Sea, and I was again asleep as we hit Mombasa Airfield in the dark. Stepping down to a blast of warm fragrant air, I could see that the dawn was trying to come on, a blue herringbone sky presented to us.

  Next, a waiting room was presented to us, poor tea and biscuits, plenty of flies, wobbly squeaking ceiling fans and hard wooden benches, and a three hour wait till the Pumas arrived. Another unwritten rule for soldiers was that you would always be sat around just waiting, perhaps a third of your military career spent just waiting.

  They loaded our gear to a chopper, and it took off with a loud blast of av-gas scented air, the second chopper taking the Intel team and captains, the third chopper taking my team and some bags. We flew over a built-up area, some tall apartment blocks, a shanty area, a quick glimpse of a deserted beach, and then just black ocean for thirty minutes.

  We hovered for few minutes then slid sideways onto the Charles de Gaul, and I could see fighter aircraft tied down. We hit the rolling deck with a bump, soon clambering down and walking as directed, through an oval opening and down two levels via steep metal steps, our guide sliding down them with practised ease. I did not try and copy him.

  At our temporary billets, our guide said, ‘I speak English, and I am your liaison for ... food and drink, supplies.’

  ‘Merci,’ I told him, selecting a bunk that could have been a bit bigger for me. I took off my jacket and made myself comfortable as our guide disappeared, crewmen walking back and forth past us. We exchanged looks, and just sat waiting.

  Captain Tosh appeared half an hour later. ‘Wilco?’

  I eased up and stretched. ‘Briefing, sir?’

  ‘You briefing them.’ He led me on, Captain Harris ahead.

  ‘I think, sir, you should be doing what your shoulder pips suggest, especially in front of the French. You know the plan, what it is.’

  ‘Well, see how it goes.’

  I sighed inwardly.

  We climbed up several decks, despite the fact that I saw signs for a lift, and entered a large briefing room; at least it would have been large without all of us in it.

  I stamped to attention. ‘Mon Cap-ee-tan,’ I offered the Captain, surprising him.

  He nodded back, and we stood about a map table. In near perfect English, he began, ‘This is Major Ducat, French Foreign Legion, he will lead the rescue team.’ I nodded and smiled at the man. His second in command was introduced, then the naval staff, communications and logistics. He finally asked, ‘So, what is your plan of action?’

  I turned my head to Captain Tosh, who caught it out of the corner of his eye. He straightened.

  Tosh began, ‘The plan, sir, is to insert by rubber raft, towed in by zodiac, released about half a mile offshore, and paddled in to an isolated spot. My men will then walk to the town in question and make an assessment. Little more can be added to the detail till they see the ground, the local conditions, and the town and its prison. They will then make an assessment and communicate that to me.

  ‘If they believe that the hostages can be rescued, and not killed in the cross-fire, we will report that fact. If they abort the mission, we’d like you to pick them up on the coast. They have satellite phones that give GPS positions.’

  The Captain took a moment. ‘And you believe your men can approach unseen?’

  ‘They are the best we have, sir.’

  The Captain focused on me. ‘You look fit, and strong, indeed.’

  ‘You remember the London marathon?’ Tosh began. ‘Where the lead runner was shot?’

  ‘That was you?’ the Captain asked me, clearly surprised.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You should have won, and set a record!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed with a nod.

  ‘And Bosnia?’ the Foreign Legion Major asked me directly.

  ‘Where’s that, sir?’ I asked with dead pan features, causing many smiles.

  ‘I read a report on you. It seemed ... exaggerated.’

  ‘Probably was, sir.’ And I waited.

  ‘We are risking the lives of our men, on your word,’ he added. ‘I would like to ... trust that word.’

  I very slowly nodded to myself, a bit annoyed, then unbuttoned my shirt, easing it off to raised eyebrows, and most of my lot had not seen me with my top off. ‘They sent nine hundred men after me in Bosnia, sir. I wounded three hundred, and walked through their lines four days later, having been shot six times on the first day.’ I eased my shirt back on. ‘You have no men that could reach my standard, Major.’

  He stiffened, but also kept his gob shut.

  ‘When will you be ready?’ the Captain asked.

  ‘Thirty minutes from now,’ I told him. ‘When you’re ready, we are, sir.’

  ‘So, tonight we transfer you to the submarine, and you go ashore at dawn, yes?’

  ‘As you see fit, sir.’

  We were dismissed for the moment, and Tosh led me back down.

  ‘You shut his trap well enough,’ he whispered, and coughed out a laugh. ‘Still, he needed a kick in the arse.’

  They collected us for breakfast, the Brit’s claiming the galley after the French crewmen had departed, and the food was top notch. Back in the cosy cabin, I told the guys not to sleep yet, and wondered where the metal cases were.

  At 2pm I told them to relax and shut their eyes, despite the throb of the engine and of nearby machinery, and I did so as well, being nudged awake at 6pm by Captain Tosh.

  ‘Half an hour or so, then to some deck where our kit is,’ he informed me.

  I roused the lads, and we used the wash rooms one last time, soon led to an echoing hangar bay that smelt of oil, our metal cases being unlocked by the Captains. We had our jackets back on, and soon placed on our ammo bandoliers whilst being observed by young French ratings, webbing on top, checking the pockets, pistols checked and tucked away, pistol ammo, finally the rifles, checked without loading them. All was as we left them, little to do.

  The ship’s Captain appeared with his team, and with my desert soft cap on I came to attention and saluted, the lads copying. ‘You are ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You go like this?’

  ‘Yes, sir, not too much kit to slow us down.’

  ‘And Russian rifles?’

  ‘We take ammunition of the dead gunmen, sir.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. Oh, you can slide down a rope? You have gloves?’

  ‘We have gloves, sir, and if we can’t slide down the rope this mission will be over quickly.’

  He smiled nervously. ‘Good luck to you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ And I saluted again. With the Captain gone, I faced the lads. ‘Rope down from the Puma to the sub, rifles slung, gloves on. Slider, you’ve done this many times. Rocko?’

  ‘Once or twice, fucking years ago?’

  ‘Swifty?’

  ‘Couple of times.’

  ‘I’ve never done it,’ I confessed. ‘So catch me if I fuck it up.’

  Slider gave me a quick lesson on what to do, and not to do, and I was grateful as we placed on our gloves. They were not the right type for rope descents, but this was just the once, and we had no others.

  Led to a cargo lift, we ascended with the Captains – our caps off and stuffed inside jackets, soon on a noisy and blowy deck under the stars, rotors turning. I passed Captain Harris my rifle and took out my sat phone, calling Tosh. He answered, a thumbs-up given. Putting the phone back in the plastic bag, I made sure that the elastic bands were in the right place to make it waterproof; I had images of a Puma going down into the black ocean.

  With a beckoning wave f
rom a crewman with a big white helmet we bent double and jogged forwards, soon sat on the edge of the Puma before swinging our legs around and up. The door slammed shut, and my heart raced, images of a watery death at the fore.

  Peering at each other in the dark as we sat vibrating, just a red light above us, we glanced out the windows, dark grey above, black ocean below, and after twenty minutes we came to a hover. The door opened with a roar, a thick rope pushed out, the crewman peering down whilst on his knees, then standing. He waved us up.

  I went first – terrified of screwing up in front of the guys, and remembering what Slider had said I looked like a pro; left hand, right hand, look at the rope not down, left leg wrapped around, eased out and down. I hit the rolling deck on the black sub - cool salty sea spray in my face, hands grabbing me and leading me forward through the inky blackness, a stump of a ladder to descend backwards in the red unknown, rifle still slung and clattering against metal.

  Below deck, bathed in red light, I was shoved forwards with my head down, soon to a side room, where I sat holding my rifle in the dim red light, three other dark shadows joining me.

  The lights came up, it grew quiet, just a gentle hum, then a ‘whoosh’.

  ‘We under water?’ Rocko asked. ‘I’m not the best swimmer there is.’

  ‘Now he tells us,’ Swifty quipped. ‘We’re swimming ashore,’ he added, making us laugh and lightening the mood.

  ‘They’ll fire us out the torpedo tubes,’ I quipped.

  A man appeared at the door, so I stood as best I could. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Two hours,’ he said, heavily accented. ‘Need what?’

  ‘Cold water, some cake?’ I said.

  He made a face, shrugged and disappeared, a young lad back five minutes later with our refreshments. We eased back, and we waited in our cramped room with our knees touching, just the sound of the engine for company.

  A lot of activity, and the change to red lighting, signalled our surfacing with a ‘whooshing’ sound. Finally they called us forwards, and we ascended the same hatch, bright yellow life preservers handed to us – bright yellow condoms now over the muzzles of our AKs.