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

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Why not do that here?’ he puzzled.

  ‘Lads needed to learn a lesson,’ I said. ‘They won’t try that again.’

  Dripping wet, we drove a few miles, the Chinook coming for us, the next stage to hand as we took off. Gloves on, we observed the side door opening, a long rope made ready, the Loadmaster peering out and down as harnesses were handed out and slipped on like underpants as we sat. O-rings and carabineers set and checked, we stood, and I was up first as we came to a hover over a zodiac bobbing up and down in the waves.

  Rope in, I fixed my O-ring, clipped it to my carabineer, the Loadmaster tugging at it, and out I went, left hand high, right hand low and controlling my descent, a nerve wracking 120feet descent at a steady pace. The dinghy moved in and out of my landing area, and I timed it just right to hit the floor of the zodiac and loosen the rope, the carabineer unscrewed and unclipped in haste, the O-ring freed, and I sat looking up, relieved I had not screwed it up as the next man descended.

  Rocko got a leg wet, Slider almost got his arse wet, and Captain Moran was caught by a wave and soaked up to the waist, but we all managed to keep our pride, mostly, the zodiac taking us back to the cove, where I led a bunch of moaning soldiers over the side, a long cold swim in, a steep climb up, a field to cross, then to the jeeps.

  ‘Well?’ the SSM asked.

  ‘Our pride is just about intact,’ I informed him. ‘No fuck-ups.’

  They drove us the same route, the Chinook sat waiting, and our ride pointed its head north for a forty minute flight back, low level and high speed.

  The Major was waiting with Bob Staines as we exited the chopper down the ramp, all wet through and cold as hell, the Loadmaster and pilots thanked. The Major and Bob walked us towards the sand pit.

  ‘Well, how did they do?’ the Major asked.

  ‘Not too many fucks at all, sir, we didn’t embarrass ourselves in front of the Navy. Got on the sub and off OK, then capsized in the surf – but with no one watching us.’

  ‘That’s something,’ the Major commented.

  ‘Final rope down was a hundred and twenty feet, all down safely, long swim ashore.’ I glanced at Bob. ‘We all now have some experience of getting on or off boats and subs, and shore raiding in various ways, and we could have done with this before Somalia. But the teams are bonding, and they know each other well enough, and that matters on a live job.’

  ‘Damn right,’ the Major agreed.

  Wet clothes off, dry clothes on, I told everyone that there was a meeting at the curry house at 7pm for those that could attend, Rocko and Slider keen to hang around. Teas down, we cleaned the weapons carefully, handed them back in, and changed to civvy clothes, Stretch joining us at the curry house with a pronounced limp – and getting some shit for not being with us that final day.

  Some twenty people sat down for the curry, the RSM and SSM included, plus the territorials, Bob Staines hanging around – which was unusual. The Major popped in for a beer, and we stood chatting for a while about the lessons learnt. As the Major pointed out, in their service careers troopers should have practised all of the events we undertook, but often spread across many years – we had tackled them all in a week, and Boat Troop “should” have been skilled in all of the tasks covered.

  When he asked about Captain Moran I said, ‘He’s good at everything, sir, and a better shot than me half the time.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything till Monday, but Tosh has accepted a staff course, which makes him a Major at the end, so he’s going. Moran is your Troop Captain now.’

  I sought out Moran’s face and waved him over. ‘Congratulations,’ I offered.

  ‘Simple enough exercise,’ he commented, making a face.

  ‘No,’ I said, a glint in my eyes. ‘Your new position.’

  ‘My ... what?’

  The Major said, ‘As of Monday you’re troop captain. Welcome aboard. We had a slot, so ... you’re it, get used to it, learn fast.’

  ‘I’ll help you all I can, sir,’ I offered Moran, enjoying his look. I faced the gang. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ They looked up and peered around. ‘As of Monday, Captain Moran is troop captain.’ They cheered sedately, glasses raised. ‘He’s still wet behind the ears -’ They laughed. ‘- but then again, we all are this week.’

  Bob cornered me later. ‘How do you rate Captain Moran?’

  ‘Best officer I’ve seen so far, as far as skills go. He can do what we do, better than most.’

  ‘And his ... attitude, towards things like “E” Squadron?’

  ‘I have no idea yet.’ I shrugged. ‘In time maybe, but I guess that he wants a good two years first.’

  ‘He speaks Fluent French, but also some Romanian,’ Bob casually mentioned. ‘Some Russian. Had a Romanian grandmother. They were close.’

  ‘Do you have him down for some dodgy undercover work?’ I toyed.

  ‘If need be, and if his attitude is right. We’ll wait for you to guide us on that.’

  I nodded. ‘As I said, he probably wants to get some time in, but he could pop off and do jobs now and then, it would get him more respect from the lads. And success breeds success, Bob. He has the makings of a real James Bond, he just needs to believe in himself.’

  Bob sloped off nodding to himself, and I wondered if Moran would end up in some Romanian jail, or in a shallow grave somewhere. That caused me to think of where I would end up, a shallow grave somewhere seeming like a real possibility.

  Slider got the couch after a coin was tossed, Rocko got the floor, and I waved them off Saturday morning after coffee and a chat, the pair of them keenly on standby for the next job.

  Panic stations

  I got a call at 11pm from the duty officer the following Wednesday evening. ‘Wilco, grab your kit, get here, full squadron recall.’

  I got my uniform on in a hurry, grabbed all of my usual kit and lugged my Bergen down to my car, soon speeding towards the base, a line of cars going in, people running around. Parking up, I left my kit and headed for the squadron interest room, the lights seen on and people seen moving about inside.

  ‘Ah, Wilco,’ the Major called. ‘We’re at panic stations, live job, most of the lads, back to your holiday spot with the Prime Minister in sunny Mauritania – had a Deputy Ambassador and his staff kidnapped, plus a coach load of British oil workers, three nurses.’

  ‘They’ll be driven inland, sir.’

  He nodded. ‘No doubt, some well defended spot. Lucky break is Ark Royal, she’s off the coast somewhere, was turned around, couple of helicopters we can use, range of a hundred miles, Marines on board for a diversion if need be.’

  ‘We’ll need a team for close recon, sir,’ I pointed out as people studied maps and checked kit. ‘A team ... that will come back out in one piece.’

  ‘Had you in mind, so pick a team, already chatted on the phone to Bob Staines. He has a trusted man or two in the area. Main force would be in the choppers standing ready for your signal.’

  ‘Slider and Rocko?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, this is SAS, an official op, not off the books.’

  ‘Deputise them for a few weeks, sir,’ I firmly suggested. ‘They have a good chance of making it there and back. And for that many hostages the local ragheads have a hundred plus men, so I’d take two teams of four, as per my recent exercise. Four men would be a bit light if we run into trouble, sir.’

  ‘OK, drag them in, but ... we’ll make a plan when we’re down there and know the score, they may just sit around and get a tan. They can meet us at Brize Norton, early morning flight, I’ll sort it.’

  I nodded and headed to the busy admin section, grabbing a phone and waking Rocko. ‘It’s Wilco, got a live job, meet us at RAF Brize Norton in a few hours.’

  ‘What, tonight? Fuck. Er ... OK, I’m up and sipping the coffee. What kit?’

  ‘All the usual, but desert kit if you have it.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  I hung up and called Slider, hearing a woman’s voice
in the background. ‘Slider, it’s Wilco, job on.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, so get rid of the bird and get to RAF Brize Norton.’

  ‘What ... tonight?’

  ‘Yes, tonight. Rocko is on his way, so do you want him to get a medal and not you?’

  ‘Fuck no. I’ll be there.’

  Grabbing my kit, I found a quiet corner and changed into my desert browns, claiming my AKM from the armoury, telescopic sight, silencer and rags, and ten magazines. Back in the interest room I placed down my kit at the back, and started to check what I wanted to take, dumping a few items in my car. I had a paperback I had not started, and it would be essential to stave off the madness of sitting around.

  Seeing me, the lads all changed to desert gear, desert wind cheater jackets and brown caps, Swifty turning up in desert gear, lugging his kit. He sat with me, his personal AKM soon being checked with quiet professionalism, Rizzo sat near with Smurf.

  ‘Rizzo, Smurf, Swifty,’ I called, and they faced me. ‘If this happens the way I think it will, and I discussed it with the Major a while ago, then I’ll take two teams inland for a nose around, same people as the exercise we did. Rizzo, you’d head up the second team.’

  He nodded. ‘Stretch better?’

  ‘He’s not limping anymore,’ I noted. ‘We’ll see when we get there.’

  ‘And Captain Moran?’ Smurf asked.

  ‘Is our troop captain, and you will ... all respect that, or get a thump from me. He hasn’t been with us more than a week, but he’s shit hot, and he was a good officer in the Paras.’

  With a coffee in hand, waiting transport, the Major approached me and led me to a quiet corner. ‘Captain Moran...?’

  ‘Is paid to do a job, sir, and he’s damned good at it. He doesn’t know how we do things yet, and most don’t know him, but my team knows him and trusts him, and I know him and trust him. If I was his Major, I’d make him earn his keep, and make him plan and lead my team.’

  Nodding to himself, the Major sloped off.

  A meeting was called half an hour later, a briefing given by Captain Harris on the known situation before he handed over to the Major.

  ‘Till we get there, nothing is certain, but the Prime Minister wants the hostages back. Unlike most hostage takers ... these unhappy chappies tend to get bored of waiting the ransom from HMG and kill their captives. The Somalis will wait ten years, these boys will wait a month or two.

  ‘So, if things are as we believe them to be we’ll do close recon, set a diversion followed by a helicopter assault of the compound – wherever the hell it is.’

  I raised a hand. ‘And if the hostages have been split up, sir?’

  ‘Then we have a fucking great big problem,’ the Major loudly announced. ‘We’d need to move on both locations at the exact same time, or one set of hostages will get themselves a shallow grave in the desert.’

  He took a moment. ‘So, if things are ... in our favour, Captain Moran will plan and lead his troop on a close recon. And by his troop I mean Wilco’s bad boys. Wilco will be our eyes and ears on the ground, and if he says it’s a no go ... then you can be damn certain it is a no go, because - as we all know - he likes to tackle large bodies of armed men.’

  They laughed, Captain Moran swallowing, a sideways glance at me.

  ‘OK,’ the Major called. ‘Buses here soon, off to Brize Norton for some sitting around, then a comfortable ride in a Hercules.’

  We all moaned. Loudly.

  I eased up and collected Captain Moran, leading him outside without anyone noticing. Stood in the dark, I began, ‘You’re new here, sir, in at the deep end, but you were seasoned in the Paras, action in Northern Ireland. If that lot in there were young Paras you’d have no problems, and that’s how you have to treat them.

  ‘Get angry if you need to, shout, punch someone in the head if you have to, and never forget your scores on my scenario – you’re better than most of that lot. Just need to keep that in mind.’

  ‘It is ... in at the deep end, and not an exercise. If I fuck up the mission, people die.’

  ‘Risk we take, and Somalia was blind luck. Make a loose plan, keep it flexible, always emphasize that a tight plan goes out the window when the shooting starts, and that we adjust the plan when we can see the ground in front of us.

  ‘My team won’t give you any shit, but ... do the logistics and leave the field leadership to me most of the time. Say things like ... Wilco, recon and report, rather than how I should recon and report. Give the broad stroke orders, leave the detail to the lads to fill in.

  ‘And, sir, if you can move a body of Paras, you can move this lot. Work on three miles an hour steady march, plenty of water, ration packs for however many days plus one, ponchos and light kit only – no Bergens, first aid kit, plenty of ammo, and use local goats and local water supplies.’

  His dark outline nodded.

  ‘You’re good at this stuff, sir, you just don’t know that yet,’ I assured him. ‘And no one will give you any shit with me around. Be tough, sir. I know you can do it, and don’t worry about casualties too much, that always fucks up a plan.’

  We set off an hour later, rifles labelled up by individual and by troop and placed in the metal crates, and our convoy drove off into the damp black night, arriving at Brize Norton at 2am, a long wait ahead of us, a coffee machine given plenty of coins.

  Three Hercules had been tasked, and they surprised us by being on time, kit loaded up – which included cross-country motorbikes and quads, large command tents with folding chairs and folding trestle tables, weapons for everyone and plenty of ammo, the works. Slider and Rocko had been detained at the gate, explained that they worked for me, and eventually led to me, the MPs told firmly to fuck off – and that there was a war on!

  We were soon on a brightly flood-lit apron, a roar of engines and the smell of av-gas – the Hercules plugged into a mobile generator, soon boarding our noisy vibrating ride with our yellow ear defenders on. I sat opposite Captain’s Harris and Moran in the dim light, my team near me. Harris handed me a map, and shone his torch on it. The target area was a long way from any large towns, it was hidden by a range of hills, but it was only thirty miles from the coast, that coast very sparsely populated.

  I looked up and nodded through the dim light; a helicopter insert or helicopter borne attack seemed very doable.

  A long seven hours later we touched down at an isolated air base, sixty miles from the target area and five miles from the coast, a few dated aircraft dotted around, including a lonely squadron of dated Northrop F5s, Vietnam era.

  Our hosts had allocated us a large metal hangar to use, a few jeeps and trucks on hand, and our kit was lugged or driven from the apron into the hangar and out of the midday sun. Many hands erected the drab green tents, musty smelling camp beds set up, a command tent set-up, our hosts offering us extra tents and camp beds, which we accepted since we were somehow short – of most everything as usual.

  They had a water truck conveniently parked in the shade, but the hangar offered a few dripping stand taps, and a toilet that had seen better days, a bit smelly. There were no showers to hand, but some were to be found in the officers’ quarters on the other side of the base – we were informed.

  Staring at the perimeter fence in the distance, I went and found the Major. ‘Sir, we need men on stag right now, we’re being watched by dodgy locals. And around here they don’t stand in the heat all day unless they’re paid to do so.’

  He barked orders, two armed lads on stag, and I fetched my AKM, silencer and telescopic sight.

  ‘Wilco, don’t shoot anyone!’ the Major called when he saw me.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,’ I replied as a curious Rizzo and Smurf followed me. In the shade, being observed by the guys on stag, I lay down and took aim – a 400yard shot, and put a round into the ground at the feet of our two local watchers. They legged it away, and I eased up.

&n
bsp; ‘Wilco?’ the Major bellowed as he came out.

  ‘Just scared them, sir. And you can be damn sure that if we lift off in helicopters ... that the bad boys will know a minute later. Sir, I’d keep the choppers on Ark Royal, our ace in the hole. If the choppers come here, those fuckers on the fence will report it.’

  The Major looked past me and to the fence, hands on his hips. ‘We’d need a decoy. And some luck.’

  ‘We could drive north by truck, somewhere isolated, the choppers picking up the lads there,’ I suggested. ‘Or they’ll know we’re coming, sir, they’ll shoot us full of holes, and the press will label it as a major fuck-up.’

  He shot me an angered look, but then took in the distant fence with renewed interest. ‘Be daft to assume that those idle hands over there are just bobby aeroplane spotters, yes. Just one more thing to make life difficult.’

  Settling in, we got the extra tents and camp beds set up, water issued, stag rotations given, scorpions stamped on, and then we sat around playing cards as we waited, my paperback opened.

  Bob Staines turned up the next day with his team, a rare trip out of the office, and the Major sent for me. He did not have his happy face on as he led me and Bob outside into the heat.

  ‘The government,’ the Major began, ‘is conscious of the fact, that the government likes good results ... and not fuck-ups. So, the government does not want any fuck-ups.’ He stopped and faced Bob. ‘That about sum it up?’

  Bob was looking apologetic. ‘They’re politicians...’

  ‘What’s changed, Bob?’ I asked.

  ‘This started as a top level priority, but people have whispered in the PMs ear that ... it appears tricky and that your squadron may suffer heavy losses, and not get the hostages out alive.’

  ‘Based on what?’ I asked.

  ‘Based on ... assessments made by the French - the former colonial masters here, and the Americans. There’s never been a successful hostage rescue here, let alone a large one.’

  I heaved a breath and faced the Major. ‘Sir, let’s stop pissing about with Whitehall, we know what needs doing, so drop my team in tonight, we take a look, and no one will expect you to do anything for a week anyhow.