Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  Tomo was a curiosity for many, but he simply said that he now worked for Mi6, assigned to me. He denied being “E” Squadron, as we were all supposed to do anyhow, till I pointed out that he was supposed to deny being Mi6 even more. Slider adopted Tomo as a younger brother, since Slider would soon join him.

  The Major chatted with him, finding Tomo smart, as well as respectful, the SSM chatting with the lad for a long time about past adventures. It passed the time.

  The Moroccans had allocated us a building on an airbase, the Hercules to be based there with their support teams, but I suggested to the Major that we make use of a range near the abandoned village in question, and that we bed down in the sand and do this properly.

  He agreed, and after landing we got a lift from the Moroccan Army to the range, tents unloaded, Signals not happy – there was no electricity and they had not brought their small generators. With the Moroccans providing generators later in the day, peace reclaimed the small tented city, armed stag rotations set up – just in case.

  I had my team claim a depression in the sand on the side of the range, branches brought over, ponchos set up, rocks used for a central fire, nine of us in it, space enough.

  Water trucks were provided, even fresh produce from a local farmer. I asked about chickens and goats, and the man came back with plenty of each, the Major sanctioning the payment – which was not much.

  My team broke the necks of two chickens there and then, they would be part of our evening meal, goats and chickens handed to the other troops, the lads simply told to eat them. My team’s goats were tethered, fed, given some water, and adopted and given names – till they got the chop, Rizzo trying to figure if they were male or female.

  I sat with Captain Moran, hexamine cooker going. ‘You feel OK, sir?’

  ‘Stomach is fine, but a twinge now and then during sit-ups.’

  ‘You’ll do the same as the team, sir, but tell me if something is hurting. This is an exercise, no need for heroics.’

  ‘And this new lad, Tomo? Is he in my troop now?’

  ‘No, sir. He is Mi6 technically, assigned to me to train.’

  ‘And when trained?’ he pressed.

  ‘Will operate like Swifty. One foot here, one foot there, available to both.’

  ‘They say he did the scenario?’

  ‘Yes, sir, got 78%, very respectable for a territorial. Feel free to teach and guide him, but he is not ... a people person.’

  I had studied the map before we left the UK, and had studied it again with the Major after breakfast in the sand. We had three miles of military land sectioned off, the abandoned buildings at the top end of that oblong, in the shelter of a hill and not unlike Mauritania.

  Today’s exercise would be repeated by three teams, my team going first. We would drive to the air base - they had been called, and parachute to a point just north of the range. There we would walk to the abandoned village, we’d make sketches as we circled it, walk back and make a team assault plan.

  The Moroccans had found five old cars for scrap, towed behind Army trucks, and had dumped them in the abandoned buildings for us yesterday. A fire had been started in two buildings, to give the idea that they were occupied, and the Major and I had driven up that morning to hammer into the ground man targets at various places.

  I placed an orange marker on a building, a blue carpet on another, and green carpet hanging out a window of a third. We were set.

  The drive to the airbase was thirty minutes, the Hercules engines already turning over as we arrived, the Parachute School instructors waiting with a line of chutes and helmets. They helped us get ready, not a repeat of the kit used in Mauritania, and we soon waddled to the waiting Hercules, crewman waving us on and sitting us down, Tomo looking nervous. So did Moran.

  We powered down the runway and climbed, hardly enough time to blink before we were waved up, static lines attached and checked, the doors opened, a breeze created.

  It was time, soon waved forwards, and I was soon out and falling. ‘Two thousand ... three thousand -’ I got the yank, no need for the reserve thankfully, and I peered down to orientate myself. I could see the range, and so turned towards the drop zone, a circle marked out with an orange marker in the middle – and coming up fast.

  I adjusted my course several times, trying to get close to the marker, and hit the sand in a most undignified manner, the air knocked out of me. My chute obliged and collapsed, not much wind today, and I released it, many lads on hand to collect it.

  Unclipping my rifle, helmet dropped, I loaded up and got ready, jogging to my team as they headed off the drop zone. We knelt a hundred yards away, heads counted.

  ‘Any injuries?’ Moran called before I had the chance.

  Slider had jarred his elbow, Tomo had sand up his nose somehow, but that was all. I lifted up and led them off east.

  Thirty minutes later and we got down, leopard crawling to a ridge. Everyone apart from myself was now tasked with analysing the abandoned buildings and making a sketch, and they all got to it, peering through telescopic sights.

  Twenty minutes later we broke left and moved bent double, leopard crawled some, and walked around the edge of the zone of interest. I stopped them, we got down, sketches to be enhanced.

  That done, we walked up the hill to a ridge, and peered down some 1200yards, the sketches again enhanced and checked. Right around the far side we walked, and back down to the range, the last mile jogging along. In the command tent we grouped at tables, a set of pens and papers ready, the lads tasked with making an attack plan for a platoon, hostages to be rescued.

  I left them to fetch myself a cup of tea, soon chatting to the Major from “G” Squadron, and we peered up as his lads floated down in the distance.

  My team were forbidden to discuss the plans with each other, and brought back one at a time to sit in front of me and the Major, Captain Harris, and to explain the plan of action. There was no right way or wrong way, but some ideas were challenged, Tomo wanting to use explosives for diversion and to blow out a wall – till we pointed at the dangers to hostages.

  Sliders plan was good, Rocko’s was a bit of a frontal assault, and Captain Moran’s was in great detail, and well thought out. His sketch had the buildings identified by numbers or colours or features, distance indicated, routes in and out, the Major impressed.

  Back at my temporary happy home, hexamine cookers going - Smurf being camp attendant, we could now discuss the scenario at length. How many men on sniper support, how many would move in, what would be the fall back position, signals to give timing, what would be a good diversion.

  We learnt that a guy from “G” Squadron had badly twisted an ankle on the drop, and whilst sat being seen he was bitten by something, his hand swollen. It made us check the sand around us with keen interest.

  The next day, whilst others dropped to recon, we walked the long way around to the hills behind the abandoned buildings, found a steep path, and I had them going up and down in the heat, then carrying each other up and down in the heat, a sweat worked up.

  After resting, I led them to the top and asked that they enhance their sketches again, but from this angle, many plans changing from this new perspective. I did, however, discuss it with them all, and we used telescopic sights to peer down and check on ideas and distances.

  All had missed the dead donkey at first, till Rizzo spotted it, its white bones showing through its grey hide. ‘Dobin Lane,’ was marked on the map, after Dobin the Mule of the TV.

  A speed march back worked up an appetite, so Fluffy the goat was shot through the head by Tomo after I asked him to, his new name being ‘Psycho Goat Murderer’.

  Fluffy was gutted and cooked over an open fire at dusk, and cut up and dished out, the Major coming and sitting down for a chat, and for some goat meat. He also knew what I had planned, and we exchanged a look.

  At 2am I woke everyone with a kick, jeeps driving towards us, the lads complaining and asking what was up. I shouted, they got read
y, kit checked, jeeps mounted, and we were off, back to the airfield, chutes placed on, soon on the waiting Hercules and to the drop zone, only this one was ten miles out from the range.

  Bleared-eyed faces had become concerned faces as we stood and clipped on, last minute checks, and we were out the door and drifting down, a featureless desert below us. They followed me down, but I tried to guess the wind direction and mucked it up till I saw the waiting jeep – sand coloured, and I was soon just a few seconds from landing. I turned in time to slow a little, hitting soft sand.

  With my chute collected up in the dark, I handed it to the lads waiting at the jeep, handed over my helmet, unclipped my rifle and got ready, the lads copying. I counted heads in the dim light, seeing someone walking towards us. Tomo had managed to land away from us, and got some leg pulling – had he been looking for more goats to kill.

  ‘Nice of you to join us,’ I told him. ‘OK, any injuries?’

  ‘My fucking shoulder twinged on landing,’ Slider reported. ‘First my fucking elbow, now my shoulder.’

  ‘Don’t tell any fucker. Anything else?’

  They were OK, Rocko mentioning a knee pain, so we set off west, the going damned hard because of soft drifting sand, our speed terrible, and anyone would have been able to follow our trail. Ten miles on, the dawn trying to put in an appearance, I halted the team at the right spot.

  ‘OK, we’re going to set-up an ambush for the team behind us, and scare them. Myself and Captain Moran only ... will fire near them.’ I handed Rocko two thunder flashes. ‘Use those.’

  Leaving a trail that should remain visible, we walked on half a mile and circled around using an area of hard rocks, no tracks left, and picked a spot in drifting dunes. Ponchos out, we got covered, sand thrown over the front team, air holes kept open, and we tried to make ourselves invisible, Slider and Rocko fifty yards out and watching for the approach.

  It was more than an hour before they spotted anyone, my eyes closing as I lay under warm poncho, not getting enough air.

  The radio piece in my ear came to life. ‘Patrol coming in, looks like they’re following our tracks.’

  ‘Since they were told to track us, that would be correct,’ I replied. ‘Stay down, get ready, thunderflashes ready.’

  Ten minutes later I heard, ‘Here they come, passing us now.’

  I waited, and into view they came, four men from “G” Squadron that had been dropped by jeep. I took aim, and held my breath in anticipation, the first man walking into view. With silencer fitted, rag over the end, I put four rounds into the sand near their feet from just ten yards, scaring the crap out of them. Two bangs echoed as I stood.

  ‘You’re all dead!’ I shouted as we ran down.

  ‘What the fuck you shooting at us for!’ they protested.

  ‘Because that was what I discussed with your CO,’ I replied. ‘If this was real, you’d be bleeding out in the sand, so pay attention. And your CO will get the report.’

  Cursing, they plodded on back, my team smirking as I led them around the hills and back down the opposite side, a two hour slog.

  We found that the ambushed lads had complained at length, and had been firmly told to fuck off - at length. This was an exercise, but they were expected to take it seriously, and to keep their eyes open like the professionals they were supposed to be. It made all the teams wary of ambush, which was the whole point. I let my team get some sleep, smirks fixed, Smurf on stag.

  After breakfast, Bob Staines appeared, walking up to our happy camp in the desert.

  ‘On your feet.’ I called, people wondering why. I greeted him with a handshake. ‘Time out the office, Bob?’

  ‘Met the Moroccans, pressed the flesh, assured them that we’re available to help if need be. How’s it going?’

  ‘Completed a few stages, got some sand in our boots.’

  He pointed at Tomo. ‘Can I borrow Tomo for five minutes?

  ‘Of course.’ I waved Tomo over, and he stepped away with Bob, a five minute chat before Bob called Slider over.

  Bob then led me away from the team. ‘How’s Tomo coming along?’

  ‘He’s keen and willing, no problems so far. He likes the team, they like him well enough, no clashes yet.’

  ‘How does ... your CO view my involvement?’ he asked, a very odd question, and I was wary of what I should say.

  ‘You’re part of the process, Bob, and he’s not said anything detrimental about you. Why?’

  ‘He has reservations about an enlarged “E” Squadron.’

  ‘Do you plan on trying to pinch work away from the Regiment?’

  He made a face. ‘We can call on them when we need, but I have a few ideas. You see, in the past ... “E” Squadron members have been fluid, not the best discipline for some, and I guess that part time work has that effect.’

  ‘You want full-time part-timers with a good attitude,’ I quipped as we scuffed up sand.

  He laughed. ‘I want results, don’t care how we get them. Some are self-starters, like Swifty, who will keep themselves fit, good attitude, others drift in and out of ... phases of fitness and good attitude.’

  ‘Put them through my scenario once a year,’ I joked.

  ‘Funny you should say that ... but yes, we will, possibly as a condition of continued service.’ We plodded on. ‘There is a base we could make use of, down in Dorset. Could have a full time admin staff, and people come in now and then for training courses to keep themselves sharp. And they’d get extra basic pay as an incentive.’

  I had been nodding my head. ‘Why re-invent the wheel? Have that part-time Major work out of Hereford, an enlarged role for my major, weekend training at the base when no fucker is around, and set quarterly exercises, set by me. Not least because I have no intention of working out of a base in Dorset, not yet.’

  He glanced at me, and seemed a bit deflated. ‘That could work as well.’

  ‘Don’t re-invent the wheel, Bob, and learn from 14 Intel. They became a monster that couldn’t be controlled. Do you want “E” Squadron to grow, only for some day to be taken away from being under your control, working under the Intelligence Committee or the Army?’

  ‘Yes, that is a good point.’

  ‘I know what you want, Bob, and I can help, but rescues come along a few times a year, if that, and the rest of the time the teams needs to stay sharp. We can find more people like Rocko, pinch them a few times a year. Put Rocko in “E” Squadron and there’s every chance he’ll get bored, get fat and drunk.’

  ‘I have a few good lads I’d like to send to you, but they’re all approaching forty and have seen action, they may not like you setting them exercises.’

  ‘Leave them to me. We can but try.’

  After lunch he was back, but not with his happy face on. He called me to one side as the lands competed on the range. ‘A French newspaper is claiming that you failed to warn about that ambush.’

  ‘We gave no warning, we simply reported movements, and from 1200yards – in the dark.’

  ‘French public could be an issue, and those two French soldiers you made use of is being questioned.’

  I sighed. ‘Find a French journalist here, bring him down, I’ll explain a few things, straighten it out.’

  ‘That’s ... not been done before, would have to check up the line.’

  ‘Bob, we need the French onboard, and twice now we’ve made use of their hardware. We can’t afford a rift.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, and Whitehall is mad as hell -’

  ‘Trust me, get me the journalist, worry about the consequences later. There are Brit reporters here, even a fucking camera crew. Oh, and have the Brit reporters here at the same time.’

  Looking worried, he sloped off. I returned to the range and called in the team. They waited, noticing my expression.

  ‘A French newspaper is claiming that we failed to pass on a warning of ambush to the French Commandos, and ... that it was all our fault.’

  I waited as some very
colourful language was used, threats made, and I let them get if off their chests. Even Captain Moran was fuming.

  I finally raised a hand. ‘We have reporters embedded with us, and some French reporters on the way – I think, and I’ll chat to them with Captain Moran when they get here. Fact is ... we issued no warning, we just described what we saw -’

  ‘Saw men with RPGs at 4am,’ Rizzo pointed out. ‘They weren’t sleep walking!’

  ‘And that was reported,’ I agreed. ‘It is also true that I was ordered just to observe, and not to get involved. Anyway, get back to it, we’ll see what the journalists say.’

  Just before sundown a group of reporters came out to us, the Major with them, and they were allowed to photograph us from behind in a variety of poses, before questions.

  The French guy, quite effeminate and in an odd white suit and smoking a rolled cigarette, began, ‘What do you say ... about the reports ... that you gave no warning.’

  ‘We gave no warning,’ I stated.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. We were on the hill, 1200yards away, and it was dark. We could only see those men who stood in the house lights and street lights, and we could see vehicles with lights on. We reported what we saw, short messages by sat phone.’

  ‘And you spoke to Major Ducat many times?’

  ‘Five or six times during the day, three times during the night. We reported men with RPGs at 4am, and movement – unusual at 4am.’

  ‘You expressed your concerns?’

  ‘No, we gave quick technical reports, numbers, facts. We did ask if the French wanted us to create a diversion or offer sniper support, but they gave no answer on that either way. Major Ducat asked for facts only.’

  I focused on the French journalist. ‘The sat’ phone calls are logged, timed and recorded, so if I got permission you could listen to them.’

  ‘I could do that?’

  ‘If my government agrees, that is not up to me.’