Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  Colonel Richards hid his smile, the guests not looking happy.

  The lady captain piped up with, ‘We will be seeking a psychological profiling of the serviceman.’

  ‘Well,’ Bradley began, ‘on behalf of Wilco, and in consultation with Colonel Bennet, you can go fuck yourself!’

  The guest Colonel lowered his tea as Richards quickly put in, ‘All attempts at any such profiling of my men will be met with the stiffest resistance, and we’ve successfully blocked any and all such attempts in the past.’

  ‘If there are court martial papers,’ she added, ‘then a medical and psychological profile is allowed.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Richards told her, holding his stare.

  She altered her approach. ‘Sir, your man Wilco is legendary, the best there is, even by SAS standards, some of his achievements being quite astounding...’

  ‘So?’ Richards asked.

  ‘So, sir, if we are to label him as being very capable, and an excellent sniper, as well as expert at escape and evasion, there remains the doubt about his actions – flight or fight. Or ... revenge.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Richards pressed.

  ‘Meaning, sir, that he lost his close friends, and may have decided to take revenge, using those abilities he is accredited with. Was there a chance for him to hide or to escape?’

  ‘Not according to my map,’ Bradley stated.

  Ten minutes later the guests departed, and Richards returned to Bradley’s office, slumping into a chair. The two men simply faced each other for a minute. Richards finally said, ‘That last message from Wilco.’

  Bradley eased back, and forced a breath. ‘He ... thanked me for all that I did, told me that he did not blame me – or you – or the Regiment, and that he knew what he had gotten himself into. He then ... made it clear that he would not surrender, and he labelled it as being from fear of what they would do to him – which is fair enough. That’s all.’

  Richards checked the flaky ceiling paint. ‘Was there any hint that he wanted revenge for the loss of the men, and the loss of Tyler?’

  ‘No, sir. But tell me this: what’s the difference – in practical terms – of a soldier defending himself, and a soldier wanting to inflict the most casualties?’

  ‘Virtually none. Inflicting the most casualties would be the best form of defence, because they’d have to carry their wounded out, and they can’t do that whilst hunting for him.’ Richards took a moment. ‘Do you think he could have hidden himself?’

  ‘Dogs, sir, lots of dogs. Thirty, forty. Not even Wilco could evade that many dogs.’

  Richards nodded. ‘We trained him to be good, you selected him because he was good, and then ... we’re here wishing that he was not so good.’

  ‘Right fucking attitude from above, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. They’re dropping bombs on Serbs by the dozen, and we’re getting shit for this. Double standards, and then some.’

  Richards nodded, looking sullen. ‘Half the general staff are amazed, and happy with us, half have concerns. Oh, make sure that the average enlisted man knows the story, keep leaking it.’

  ‘No need, sir,’ Bradley said with a grin. ‘Fucking Intel Sergeants gossip like old ladies. They’re on the radio to people in Germany and the UK, even Cyprus and the Falklands, gossiping till all hours about what happened. No such thing as a secret in the British Army.’

  Richards smiled. ‘Good old rumour service. The General is aware of it, and that’s adding pressure for him.’

  Half an hour later, and I wondered what had happened. Where were they? I had walked at least a mile, and I had not seen anyone save a farmer in a distant field glimpsed through a break in the trees. The area east of me was starting to turn into fields, so I altered course to the northwest, despite the fact that home base was a long way south west. On my mind was Croatia, just twenty miles or so away, and containing many people that hated the Bosnian-Serbs. There, on the border, I might find a farmer willing to help me, as well as the odd NATO patrol.

  I stopped, and for a moment I wondered if it could possibly be true; could I walk out of here? Could I live?

  My body was holding up, and maybe that long sleep had done me some good after all, the antibiotics having an effect, maybe the tin of meat yesterday. Could I make twenty miles? I had a tin of meat left, I could shoot animals, and I could shoot farmers and steal their livestock. So, could I make it I wondered, could I dare hope to think that I could live?

  I must have stood still for five long minutes, wondering all the time, and then I plodded onwards. As if to dampen my spirits, a shooting pain knocked me off my feet and I woke up leant against a tree. It was a timely reminder, a reminder that I was not out of this, and that I was very badly hurt. Panting heavily, I took a sip of water, and for some reason decided to change my magazine for a fresh one; I had lost count of the expended rounds.

  I lifted out the magazine that had saved my life, and tossed it away, selecting a clean and full magazine and clicking it into place. One up the spout, full magazine loaded, I was ready to plod on just as it started raining.

  ‘Fucking marvellous,’ I let out as the cold rain registered on my face, the sky darkening, the forest track darkening even more.

  But the rain did not last more than twenty minutes, and I found myself in a difficult bit of terrain; easy to walk through, but also easy to get spotted. The woods had thinned out, and left and right of the path there were now large swathes of forest that had been felled, all obstacle courses that might need negotiating at speed if someone came at me front on. So, at the next clearing, I halted.

  ‘East, west, keep going north?’ I wondered out loud. I could see a dip to the north, followed by what looked like a heavily forested area, hills beyond. The east looked more like farmers’ fields. North it was then, and I changed course slightly, walking left ninety degrees then turning right ninety degrees after a hundred yards, following the best tree line I could find.

  Sounds caused me to pause, and my heart to flutter a little. I listened, then realised that the sounds were coming from behind me. Still, I was in the trees, and behind me lay many open areas.

  I turned, found a fallen tree, and knelt down with a wide grimace, the shooting pains almost knocking me unconscious, and for a moment I had to resist being sick. After a few big breaths, I took aim, and once again adopted the telescopic sight. A keen dog was following my trail, followed behind by a keen handler, and six or more men behind. I took a forced breath. The dog first.

  I took careful aim, the damn dog moving along at a fast human walking pace, so I aimed at the shoulder blades, just in case, a two hundred and fifty yard shot. A gentle squeeze of the trigger and the poor dog was knocked sideways, hit in the hind quarters, a yelp issued.

  His handler was a bit slow, and I hit him in the chest. The remaining men quite rightly panicked, and hit the deck. I could not see any of them, and I considered walking off. Problem was, it would not be a quick walk. So I waited, playing my mind game with my opponents.

  They waited, not knowing if I was one man or ten men, if I was hanging around or legging it. So I waited. After six minutes a head peered over a log, and still I waited. Shouts were issued between men and the words echoed through the trees.

  Two faces appeared, soon three, the patrol moving forwards, all bent double and keeping their heads down. They passed the dog and his handler and kept going, and right into an area some ten yards across that was bereft of fallen trees. I selected automatic, waited till three men were in the clearing, then fired, emptying the entire magazine as I swept right and then left.

  Reloaded, I stood, waiting a few seconds in silence before slowly plodding off, no rounds coming my way, and if even they had fired – if they had figured where the firing was coming from, I had a thick forest to play with, and I set a course that bent back around to the right, a course that they would not have figured on, and I picked up the pace a little.

  ‘Intel report, sir, fresh radio message, a call f
or help.’

  Bradley peered through his window hatch. ‘Where?’

  ‘Another mile north, more or less on track, sir. At this pace he’ll cross the border 2am tomorrow.’

  Rizzo knocked on Bradley’s glass door and stepped. ‘He still heading north, sir?’

  ‘On track,’ Bradley said as he sat.

  ‘We should be there on the border, sir.’

  ‘There are NATO patrols.’

  Rizzo took a moment. ‘And the real reason?’

  Bradley stared back, then made a face and blew out. ‘Top brass don’t want us sending any more men in.’

  ‘Why, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘They ... don’t want our presence known or reported, and ... the Serb casualties are getting us some shit from a few countries.’

  ‘Not fucking Wilco’s fault!’

  Bradley offered two flat palms. ‘Politics beyond both our pay grades.’

  ‘Fucking bollocks is what it is, sir.’ Rizzo slammed the door on his way out, cracking the glass. Re-entering, he sheepishly said, ‘Sorry about the glass, sir.’

  ‘It was loose anyway, just ... don’t make it any worse.’ Rizzo closed the door, half the glass falling out and smashing on the concrete floor, Bradley sighing loudly. A piece of flaked paint dropped from the ceiling and landed on his open file. ‘Oh, just fucking marvellous.’

  An hour passed, and every time I stopped to look and listen there was nothing behind me. So I plodded on, now back on a northerly course and avoiding the obvious forest tracks, paralleling them where I could. There was a deep dark forest west of me, but it looked like the kind of place where I’d need a train of breadcrumbs to find my way out of again, as well as a fairy tale miracle; this could have been where Brothers Grimm thought up their scary tales.

  Stepping around a large tree, my heart skipped a beat as I came face to face with a man sat on a log. I put two rounds in his chest, knocking him backwards, the after-image confirming that it was a farmer, and not a soldier. Still, he could have reported me.

  I scanned the area as I stood tall, and stopped to listen. Nothing. Approaching the body, I could see he had simply stopped to have lunch, and I lifted his half-eaten cheese sandwich from the dirt. Opening my face mask, I took a bite, savouring the taste. The bread was thick and dry, and so I washed down my stolen sandwich with a gulp of water, all the time staring at the sandwich’s owner, and wondering if his wife had made it for him.

  He had a flask, and opening it I smelt strong coffee. It was hot, and I sipped it before I started walking, a final forlorn glance back at the man I had killed by accident. After the last four days, what difference did it make, I found myself considering.

  The coffee cooled as I walked, my rifle slung for a change, and the beverage was having an effect; I was feeling better with each step taken. With the flask mostly empty I tossed it away and lifted my rifle, now grasping firmly to the hope that maybe I could walk out of here, but yet again I was kicked hard as a reminder, yet again I came too leaning against a tree, aware that my mouth was drooling into my facemask.

  There was nothing else to do, so I put one foot in front of the other, secure in the knowledge that if I blacked out during an engagement that I would wake up dead. Still, I had blacked out that third night and they had missed me, so maybe luck was a factor, as well as having really dense, dark and shitty forests for cover.

  Voices.

  I stopped, trying to get a direction, finally figuring that whoever it was they were in my 11 o’clock position. There was a path leading on, light woodland and bushes towards the sounds, so I stepped off the path and headed towards the sounds, hoping to get a fire position before they did.

  Thirty yards in, and the voices were now registering as screams and cries. Someone was either wounded, or being tortured by the sound of it. Either way, the sounds made it clear that whoever was out here did not know about me, so I crept through the bushes as the sounds grew louder.

  The ground suddenly dropped sharply away to my left and I narrowly missed a thirty foot steep drop. Cursing, and breathing hard, I edged very slowly along, and I was very careful where I stepped, moving from tree to tree, then around the trees, finally realising that beyond the bushes the ground dropped away sharply.

  I edged to the right, inched slowly between two bushes, and found a convenient stump to sit on. Lifting my rifle, I peered through the sights at a group of people some fifty to sixty yards below.

  Given the steep rise, there was no way they could get to me quickly, so I had the height advantage, not to mention the cover; they were out in the open, and behind them was a bare field of short grass.

  Six men knelt down, bound. Prisoners. No, one is a women. A soldier, dressed like a Bosnian-Serb, his erect cock in her face. He was now laughing, along with two men either side.

  I lowered the sight, counting ten men in total, none paying attention, no pickets or guards posted, all weapons slung except for the two men next to the guy wanting a reluctant blowjob. The soldier to the right of the woman lifted his AK47, and shot a prisoner in the head. I lifted up, soon seeing six bodies behind the prisoners, and realising that these six, now five, would soon be joining their friends.

  Easing back, I forced a breath, and considered the best course of action. That would be walking off, but I had come this far, and the border could be as little as fifteen miles away. And these poor people, they may be rebels, or maybe just locals. Either way, they could probably steer me in the right direction. Still, there were ten Serbs – and I was hurting.

  I moved backwards and eased down behind the stump, sitting in a damp hollow, an elbow on the stump. From this lower level I could see through the lower branches of the bushes, and I could see that they would have little chance of flanking me before I got off a few rounds, quite a few rounds.

  My head nodded itself as I made sure that my weapon was set on single fire, and I took a careful note of where each man was as the woman held out on that much sought after blowjob. Making a plan, despite being fogged, I figured I would get the two men on the far right first, because they had the best chance of flanking me, and I had to act quickly because Romeo was getting louder and angrier, the prisoners about to be reduced in numbers.

  Aiming at the man on the far right as he smirked towards Romeo, I kept my left eye open, realising that most of the guys were in a line. I took aim, forced a half breath, and fired, a quiet crack issued, and I shot the second man before anyone realised that they should maybe run and duck. Swinging my rifle to the left I squeezed off two rounds in quick succession and caused the third man to spin around, before squeezing off three rounds to get the fourth man, who had been running for a tree.

  Romeo was putting away his cock in a hurry as I hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around, my second shot hitting him in the arse, my third shot hitting his mate in the foot as I fired wildly.

  A burst of rounds peppered the trees to my right, and I realised that they had no idea where I was. And why would they; my camouflage was excellent, my weapon silenced. I found a face peering around a tree and fired, making a mess of the man. He fell back, hands to his face and screaming as I fired again, this time hitting him in the crotch my accident. Cursing my crap aim I fired again, hitting him in the liver before swinging my rifle left.

  I fired erratically, five shots to hit a man that was running, not sure if any were kill shots, and then found myself counting; how many had I hit. I was just about to fire on a guy now laying down and blasting off rounds into the trees when he was hit from the side. I lifted my gaze.

  A prisoner had gotten loose, and had grabbed Romeo’s weapon. The man know knelt and fired several bursts, hitting people that I could not see. Lifting up and running forwards, he finished them off, checked the area and returned to the prisoners, two rounds for each Serb as I observed the action from above. Whoever this guy was, he could shoot.

  The woman, now untied, emptied a magazine into Romeo’s crotch area, obviously working out some anger I con
sidered. Each prisoner was untied, each grabbed a weapon, and each vented their anger on the wounded or dying Serbs, and I could not blame them; if I had not come along they would have joined their dead friends in the cold wet mud.

  Shouts, directed my way, but I could not understand. I eased up, and wondered if this was a good idea. The shooting pains then reminded me that I was on the clock, and rapidly running out of time. I had no choice, I had to trust these people and try and get to the border.

  Edging through the bushes, they caught sight of me and called out again. There was a slope off to the right and I limped slowly down it as the former prisoners grabbed webbing and ammunition off the dead.

  They called again, and halfway down the slope I stopped. ‘English!’

  They exchanged looks. ‘Engleeesh?’

  ‘English,’ I confirmed as I limped down.

  ‘You are ... British soldier? NATO?’

  ‘British soldier, yes.’ I hobbled closer, and closer to their cautious stares.

  ‘You are hurt.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where you come?’ the leader loudly asked.

  ‘South, ten miles.’

  ‘South. You have big fight Serb?’

  ‘Yes.’ I was now very close, the woman studying me intently. After all, they could not see my face, and did not know if they could trust me.

  The leader pointed at my weapon. ‘Not Engleeesh.’

  ‘No, but good. We choose our weapons. S – A – S.’

  ‘SAS?’ They exchanged words, and the woman closed in, and I could see that her top had been ripped, her cleavage exposed, red marks where someone’s nails had scraped the skin. She also displayed a cut lip and had a wicked black eye forming, but considering her previous intended fate she was lucky.

  ‘You shot.’ She pointed a finger. ‘Here, here, here.’ She sniffed. ‘You very sick, shot many days, yes?’

  ‘Four days ago,’ I confirmed.

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