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

by Geoff Wolak

  There was no way the life jackets would fit over our webbing, so I shouted to the lads through the dark, ‘Carry the life vests, don’t wear them, but keep them tight. If we fall in we’ll sink fucking quickly. If you do fall in, drop your weapons and get your webbing off - before you hit the sandy bottom!’

  Fortunately the ocean was calm enough, the rubber dinghy big enough for eight men, and we clambered across, each falling in a very undignified way, soon kneeling. We placed our rifles in the centre of the dinghy, already some water in it, and grabbed the paddles ready as they pushed us off.

  The zodiac came around the front, pulled alongside and fixed a rope to our bow as we waited. It pulled away slowly, took the slack as we bobbed up and down, and we were off, the black outline of the sub diminishing under a star-filled sky, a distant shoreline visible as a black line on the horizon, just the quiet buzz of the zodiac engine.

  They picked up speed, and we held each other’s shoulders, gently rising and falling over the ocean rollers, and less than six minutes later they turned around and headed off, the rope slack.

  ‘Merci!’ I shouted, and soon it was dead quiet. ‘OK, start paddling. Head for that black thing ahead.’

  I called out the timing, and we got into a good rhythm, sweating as we approached the shore. But there was a problem, and I could feel the waves lifting and dropping us around six feet. ‘Inflate those life jackets,’ I called. ‘But leave them off.’

  The jackets bust into life with a hiss. ‘Webbing off, bandoliers off, middle of the boat, we’re going to get wet.’

  ‘Why?’ Swifty challenged.

  ‘Feel those waves. At the shore they’ll break, and we could tip over. Last hundred yards will be dodgy.’

  The rise and fall through the darkness became more distinct, and now we could hear the waves breaking. I could leave it no longer. ‘Paddles down, grab a rope on the side, and over the side.’

  ‘Fucking sure?’ Rocko asked.

  ‘Yes, we need to anchor the dinghy or it’ll tip over. Hang on tight, and swim, but the waves will take us in.’

  ‘Are there sharks?’ Slider asked as he slid in after me.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ I said, soon up to my neck in water. But it was not cold by any means.

  We kicked our feet, the dinghy rising and falling with the waves, and we soon experienced the first breaking wave, our heads dragged under.

  ‘Watch each other,’ I shouted through the blackness. ‘Hang on tight.’

  The waves were not tall, about four feet, but were enough to have toppled us as they broke, my mind on weather forecasts – and on forgetting to check. The French must have figured it calm enough.

  When my feet hit something I panicked for a moment, then realised that it was sand. ‘I can stand up! It’s not that deep. Walk the dinghy in.’

  Up to our waists, the waves crashed against us, trying to rip the dinghy from our grasp, but we were soon dragging the boat through the shallows and up the soft sand.

  ‘Swifty, weapon, get ready,’ I whispered. ‘Rest of us, drag this up the beach.

  That beach was not deep, hardly twenty yards till we were under and natural overhang and invisible. I grabbed a weapon, handing out the others. Soggy bandoliers were placed on, wet webbing, and we made ready, all now soaking wet, boots and knees covered in sand.

  ‘We leave the dinghy there?’ Swifty’s dark outline asked.

  ‘Can’t check fuck-all till dawn,’ I replied. ‘Could be a holiday hotel atop us, or nothing for ten miles. So leave it. I think it’s above high tide. On me.’ And I led my patrol off, weapons ready, quiet movements, and south down the beach, a wary eye on the black cliffs above us.

  Finding a crevice wide enough, and what looked like a goat trail, we clambered up, the cliffs not high, barely thirty feet, and we opened onto a flat area, one hill in the distance, and no lights, no smoke, no nothing.

  ‘Right spot?’ Swifty asked, whispering.

  ‘Yes. Flat area, hill in the distance, it matches the map.’ I led them forwards and found a dip full of sand, two dead trees. ‘Perfect. Jackets off, shirts off, dry them over those trees. Swifty, when you’re ready, up the rise, first stag, one hour. Poncho’s out, webbing off, keep your weapons handy. And no need to whisper. If they’re that close we’re dead already.’

  Sat on my damp poncho, I fetched out the sat phone, opened the wet plastic and found it dry inside. Turning it on revealed a green light, and I pressed #1.

  A ring tone preceded, ‘Allo, wee?’

  ‘This is Wilco, is Captain Tosh there?’

  ‘Moment.’

  I sat in the dark, wondering why the French had Tosh’s phone, the dark shadows of Slider and Rocko moving around.

  ‘Hello?’ came Tosh a good five minutes later.

  ‘It’s Wilco, sir, we’ve landed, safe and sound, but sopping wet.’

  ‘You capsized?’

  ‘No, we jumped over save the dinghy capsizing in the surf, four foot waves. No big deal.’

  ‘All quiet there?’

  ‘Yes, sir, all quiet, right spot, no fucker around. Why the French answering your phone, sir?’

  ‘It doesn’t work below decks, so some young ensign has it high up, only way.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Tell them we’ve inserted, all OK. Next call scheduled at noon. Wilco out.’

  I set about drying my kit, my rifle slung over my naked back - a serious crime in SAS circles, and I wolfed down a chocolate bar as I chatted to the lads.

  ‘Why aren’t we moving at night?’ Rocko asked.

  I took a moment. ‘In Northern Ireland you have grass, roads, paths - no snakes, rocks or precipices, so moving around at night is fine. Deserts are OK as well, but here we have sharp rocks, and one twisted ankle or deep cut and this mission is scrubbed, and we look stupid.

  ‘Risk in the daylight is being seen, but to see us they need to be within sniping range – and we’d shoot them. I’m not leading you over sharp rocks at night, be hard enough in daylight.’

  Slider swapped with Swifty, the dawn putting in an appearance as I checked my drying jacket. With the sun up I scanned the bleak horizon, nothing of interest to be seen, no movement, a lunar landscape of jagged rocks. The sun dried us off as we started walking, and I checked my map; it had survived the water in its plastic bag.

  Cresting a rise, and seeing a vast shimmering expanse ahead of me, I pointed at a distant tree and told the lads to zero their rifles, silencers on, five rounds each. I went last, aiming at a small white rock, happy with my sights. Dropping into a tight-sided gorge, we each fired a few rounds through the pistols, soon happy enough.

  Three hours later, and at a brisk pace - the day warming up, the first obstacle was reached, a highway running east to west, and not much cover. We broke north and found a gulley, following it towards the road, and when a distant vehicle was spotted we ducked into the gully, the vehicle not slowing. And they would have needed excellent eyesight to see us anyhow.

  Cautiously running across the road, and definitely looking both ways as we crossed, we jogged to the next cover, finding a cultivated area, but no one about. Avoiding the signs of human activity we plodded on, but west, soon following a track heading in the right direction.

  An hour later and Rocko, behind me, hissed, ‘Wilco!’

  I spun, and turned to see what he was pointing at. A teen lad stood on a small rise some three hundred yards away, a tatty blue t-shirt. And he was staring right at us. I took aim, but Rocko beat me to it, a crack issued, the lad knocked backwards.

  ‘On me,’ I called, and we ran in formation to the body, soon in all around defence.

  ‘There,’ Swifty called, and he pointed at the small goat herd, no one else around.

  When the lad moaned I dragged him by an ankle swiftly off the rise and into a gully, a round put through his chest before I started kicking dirt over him. Swifty joined in, a look exchanged with me, Slider and Rocko covering us.

  With the body covered I led them off at a jog,
working up a sweat. Clear of the scene, I called them in and we knelt. I stared at Rocko. ‘You OK?’

  He shrugged. ‘He would have reported us, and we’d be in a shooting war.’

  I nodded. ‘Slider?’

  ‘I wouldn’t choose to drop a kid, but ... but I’d like to get out of here in one piece, and his in-laws might want to chop bits off me.’

  ‘Swifty?’

  ‘Cause and effect. His in-laws kidnap people, so people like us come here and shoot. They started it. And how many die around this shit tip when the locals go at it?’

  Rocko focused on me. ‘You thought it might affect me?’

  ‘First time I’ve seen you drop someone. First job together. That was no paper target.’ I waited.

  He shrugged. ‘Them or us.’

  I lifted up and led them off at a brisk pace, no one else seen, some huts and houses avoided, and at sundown we entered a more hilly area, which meant – if I was reading the map right – that we were way ahead of schedule, and that over those hills was the town in question. It also meant that Intel could not judge distance well.

  Reaching the highest peak of the gentle hills, we peered down at the town lights, the old fort come prison clearly visible. I faced the lads as we enjoyed a cool breeze on the ridge.

  ‘Are you good to go, anyone need some rest?’

  They exchanged looks in the dark.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘We go tonight, slow move into position, two of us forwards with pistols and silencers, two covering. We make an assessment on the spot. The hostages could all be dead, most could be dead, the town could be swarming with fighters, or empty. Fuck knows, because the intel is light.’

  They were in agreement, they were keen and fit, and so we crested the rise and followed a path down, careful where we trod, the town lights being our helpful guide. An hour later we halted for a rest and a drink, some chocolate and glucose tablets, the town no longer visible. I called Tosh.

  ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re in the hills just south of the town, two miles or so, be doing our recon tonight.’

  ‘Christ, that was quick. Any trouble?’

  ‘Local goat herder bit the dust before he could report us, sir.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well I’ll let them know that a dawn insert in possible.’

  ‘I’ll call you when anything changes, and if we see the hostages. Stay awake, sir, holding the phone. Wilco out.’

  ‘Wilco!’ Swifty hissed, and I stood, soon staring at a long column of vehicles heading our way. ‘They know we’re here!’

  ‘Possible,’ I said. ‘Someone we missed.’

  ‘The whole fucking town is coming out!’ Swifty noted. ‘Got to be twenty jeeps.’

  ‘There’s no road close by, and the rocks down there will slow them up,’ I puzzled. ‘Be suicide for them with us up here, and in the dark.’

  ‘We fight?’ he asked.

  ‘No choice, if they know we’re here. Get ready!’

  The guys knelt, all round defence, but as we observed the convoy it turned east, snaked along a path – only noted from their headlights, and twenty minutes later the vehicles formed a circle, their headlights illuminating a central area.

  ‘They’re not after us,’ Swifty noted. ‘That’s a ... whatsit, traditional fucking sing-a-long with a few goats sacrificed. Should have checked the fucking date for festivals!’

  ‘It is a festival,’ I agreed. ‘All male adults, and all in one place. On me!’

  I led the lads off at a steady pace, following a well defined trail – which was a risk, but all of those most likely to ambush us were having a sing-a-long down below. We lost sight of them twice before finally cresting a rise and seeing them below us. Actually we heard them first and so slowed up, soon smelling cooking and hearing music. It was an all-male affair, no women, men dancing around and be clapped at by other men, Rocko making a few rude comments.

  ‘Radio test,’ I called, and up to know we had not used them. Ear pieces were placed in, radios turned on, mics attached to chests. ‘Sound off.’

  ‘Swifty here.’

  ‘Slider here.’

  ‘This thing on?’ came from Rocko.

  ‘I can hear all of you, so raise your hands if you can hear me.’ I got three hands. ‘OK, what comes next is ... what you trained for, and what that frigging scenario should have taught you. Only now you’re not tired, wet or hungry – too much. Rapid accurate shots, make them count, and don’t stop till I say.

  Stay down, stay hidden, no risks. Swifty, around to the right about seventy yards. Slider, right round to the left, about eighty yards, Rocko go left about twenty five yards, position yourself well – allow for ricochet’s, wait for me to fire first. If you’re wounded then sing out.’

  Their dark outlines scurried away, soon out of sight, and I eased forwards to a boulder, kneeling behind it, something unseen scurrying away. On the boulder’s flat-ish top I placed three magazines. Rifle upright, I checked the silencer and added my rag, soon taking aim at the brightly lit spectacle below, or the “cock fest” as Rocko had labelled it.

  I waited. Figuring now that the lads had enough time, I pressed the switch on my radio. ‘Thirty seconds.’

  Aiming at those closest to me, I took a breath, worried for a moment about what I was doing - then forced it away, checked that I was on single shot, and re-aimed. I had a guy in my sights, conveniently illuminated by his own jeep, the man now stroking the hair of a youth. I curled a lip, and curtailed his grooming with a head shot, the youth hit the back.

  Cracks sounded out, followed by shouts and screams. I found illuminated targets everywhere I peered and I went through a magazine quickly, swapping with practiced ease as loud fire erupted; they were firing off in all directions.

  Aiming at a man firing towards me, he was knocked sideways before I could fire, but seemed to be crawling so I hit him twice, soon onto head shots as they all knelt or crawled, a few hit in the arse.

  On my fourth magazine, a final burst of fire signalled a lull, and I struggled to find anyone to shoot, so I took to hitting bodies that appeared too well, in case they were playing dead.

  Someone got up and ran, my shot spinning him, someone else knocking him down. A jeep reversed, suddenly hit from all sides the glass shattered, the driver killed.

  Moans, cries, the haunting calls permeated the air.

  A jeep door opening, and it was hit from all sides again. A few cracks of the air, and I lifted my mic. ‘Cease fire. Sound off, any injuries?’

  ‘Swifty here, still in one piece.’

  ‘Rocko here, fucking peachy.’

  ‘Slider, no injuries.’

  ‘Move forwards very slowly, don’t shoot each other, single round for every prone body.’

  I eased up and around the boulder, skidding and sliding down the dusty slope, and soon putting a round into a body. Other cracks disturbed the calm night, and we all used a magazine before we reached the parked cars, headlights still on, no music for us now.

  Swifty closed in on me. ‘Townsfolk may have heard the gunfire.’

  ‘Possible, but it’s more than a mile, and we’re in a dip. Sling your weapon, pistol out, find some car keys,’ I ordered before opening a car down, the keys inside to keep the lights on. ‘Shit. Swifty, check that, pigging keys are in the ignitions. Rocko, Slider, grab a jeep each. Quickly.’

  I slid in, Rifle over my legs, and started the jeep, soon reversing at speed, turning and heading for the road along a bumpy track. Lights appeared behind me, three sets, then a burst of fire.

  ‘What was that?’ I shouted into the mic.

  ‘Someone shot at me,’ Slider shouted.

  ‘Jump down, get him!’ I shouted before easing out, the engine running, and taking aim. It grew quiet. Five minutes passed, then a double crack.

  ‘It’s Slider, I think I got him.’

  ‘Get back in the jeeps,’ I said into the mic.

  ‘Wilco!’ Swifty ca
lled as he jogged over. ‘They’ll be missed, we’re on the clock here.’

  ‘Missed, yes, found, yes, but who they going to blame?’

  ‘What’d you mean?’ his dark outline asked.

  ‘Will they think it a hostage rescue team?’

  ‘Well, no, probably think a rival town gang.’

  ‘Exactly. Let them find the “cock fest gone wrong”, and get mad at some rival cock suckers. Around dawn would be good.’

  ‘Are we that lucky?’ he pressed.

  ‘So far, yes, we just wiped out most of the adult male population. Get your jeep.’

  I jumped back into mine, and we bumped along the track to the road, up onto the tarmac road and we were slowly pulling north as my side window shattered. I hit the mic. ‘Slider, you sure you got the fucker?’

  ‘Not anymore!’ he shouted back.

  A mile down the road I turned off and followed a dusty track, scaring a few goats. Something similar to maize was growing tall on my left, and so I turned into it and stopped, spoiling some farmer’s hard work. The lads copied me as I jumped out, engine off, key left in it.

  ‘We leaving them like that?’ Slider asked, his dark outline ahead of me.

  ‘If they’re not found, and we’re back this way, they’ll get us to the coast in forty minutes,’ I said through the dark.

  ‘Room in the back for hostages,’ Swifty noted as we walked back along the dusty track.

  When a man in a long white robe appeared out of nowhere I put two rounds into him, and we knelt for a moment.

  Rocko, behind me, said, ‘That was probably the farmer. First we drive over his fucking crops, then we shoot the poor fucker.’

  ‘Yep,’ I sighed, and led them on, back to the road.

  We all saw the car coming at the same time, and got ready. The lads waited, and when I fired – at 100yards – they fired, the windscreen shattered, the jeep screeching off the road and somersaulting a few times, well and truly smashed to pieces.

  Rocko, aside me, said, ‘And that was his cousin, in his jeep –which he borrowed for the cock fest,’ Slider laughing.