Wilco: Lone Wolf, Book 10: Book 10 in the series

by Geoff Wolak

  Two Seahawks glided in, a third circling around us. They landed right in front of us, Franks and his buddies clambering down, Hunt with them, six Marines as escort, our two prisoners bundled aboard. With the Seahawks climbing away, our visitors walked over.

  I pointed. ‘Huts might have some evidence, and the hut on the right has a cave opening, probably something useful inside, maybe someone still alive down there. It blew, so those still alive in there might be pissed off with us. Caution is needed, and probably a respirator.’

  ‘You got many wounded?’ Hunt asked. ‘You all look like shit.’

  ‘Eight I think, from falling rocks. They’ll be OK.’

  ‘And the Deltas?’ Franks asked.

  ‘Eight of them got rocks on their heads as well.’

  A Marine ran in, a file of papers handed to Franks, plus a camera covered in blood. The Marine ran off, little outgoing fire now, Sambo sat with Rizzo, a brew on.

  Mahoney returned to us. ‘That was the White House. I briefed them, played down the wounded. They seem happy enough.’

  Additional Marines landed, a few additional CIA guys, these new guys intent on fingerprinting the dead. From what I saw, they could get prints off a few severed hands and arms.

  As we sat there waiting, additional medics arrived, but not for us, and ten minutes later we saw a wounded Arab being carried on a door as an improvised stretcher, IV drip in. If he knew where he was headed he would probably wish he was dead and on his way to paradise and, as we observed, six wounded Arabs were removed by Seahawk, one missing his lower leg.

  I had Mahoney’s remaining men withdraw, and after chatting to Franks I took my remaining lads back with Hunt. Off the helicopter and on the deck we walked to the same lift area, soon descending as Navy ratings peered at us. We looked a mess.

  Back to our old area, a corpsman came to us. I told him, ‘I’m a medic. Those with field stitches will need the stitches removed, wounds cleaned up. But there’s no hurry.

  ‘We’ll send you to anther ship, sir, busy below.’

  Kit off and stacked up with the help of Crab and Duffy, dust and sand everywhere, we double-checked weapons and placed them in crates, bandoliers and webbing off, and my team was soon led back up, a short ride to a second carrier.

  Down below, we threaded corridors that were taller, wider, and cleaner than those of the Kearsarge, and found ten keen medics waiting, several of them ladies.

  I held up a flat palm. ‘I’m a medic, and responsible for the field stitches – done under fire so don’t complain. We need the stitches out, wounds cleaned up, infection monitored.’

  I sat where directed, a lady officer having a look at my hairline. Swifty had not stitched it, just taped it closed. My lady now opened it wide, a good look, a thorough clean-up, two painful stitches in.

  ‘Got a bit hairy out there, Captain?’ she asked.

  ‘They had explosives stored underground, and some of it blew, rocks flying out at us. None of the men were shot, but some got ricochet.’

  She had a look at my legs, after she got over the initial shock. With my shirt off, she stepped back, the other medics all halting what they were doing for a few seconds.

  They led us to showers – plastic head-caps issued, old clothes bagged up, blue Navy t-shirts and shorts issued, and we now had beds to sit on for a day or two. We’d not be let go till we had been checked out thoroughly.

  Coffee brought in, we sat there chatting, the bustle of the ship heard around us, the drone of the engine felt.

  ‘This boat’s better than the other one,’ Swifty idly noted. ‘All clean and modern.’

  ‘First tub was older,’ I commented. ‘They have some very old tubs still running.’

  ‘We hanging around?’ Moran asked before sipping his coffee, his head bound up.

  ‘Got to, because they won’t release the wounded till they’re signed off. Maybe they could hand us to the French medics in Djibouti.’

  Mitch put in, white bandage around his head, ‘I never liked the idea of serving on a ship, but this ain’t too bad.’

  ‘This is a fucking great big aircraft carrier,’ I told him. ‘Most ships are much smaller and much older. I didn’t like the sub we were on in Somalia.’

  ‘That was tight,’ Swifty noted. ‘And when we went under you had that whoosh sound.’ He turned to Mitch. ‘We flew out to the French aircraft carrier by helo, then helo to the sub – rope down, then the sub inshore, then on deck at night and a dinghy, towed inshore and cut loose, and we paddled in. But I’m no fan of ocean inserts. Or caves!’

  Moran turned to Mitch. ‘In Djibouti, we found a cave, so Wilco orders it blown. We stuck a truck full of weapons down the tunnel, blew it, and then realised our hostages were still inside the tunnel.’

  Mitch laughed. ‘You tried to blow up the hostages.’

  I told him, with a smile, ‘Intel had them twelve miles away.’

  An hour later the ship’s Exec stepped in with another officer. I stood. ‘Sir.’

  ‘You’re the British special forces captain?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Wilco.’ We shook.

  ‘The Marines are going through the cave complex, a few fighters found alive in there, treasure trove of intel. It’ll be all over the breakfast news Stateside, and it’s good to have something to do other than exercises. We got seniority, so this ship’s air wings will level the place tomorrow some time.’

  ‘Could you have the staff here contact the Tearsage and get me a list of wounds and recovery times, sir?’

  He turned to the second man, who made a note. ‘Will do. You take it easy for now, but the corpsmen said we’d fly you back tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Sat back down, we considered food, and if they would let us eat.

  In the morning we found that our uniforms had been washed and pressed, and that they smelt fresh. Uniforms back on, boots back on – our boots having been cleaned, I thanked the corpmen that had tended us before we were led up to a waiting Seahawk, the Exec waving us off, and we were soon slipping sideways onto the Kearsage.

  Back below decks we found Leggit with his head bound up, Nicholson and Swann in good spirits, Sambo and Rizzo in good spirits, Crab and Duffy looking after the walking wounded, Sasha with three of his team, faces displaying plasters, Mouri with his head bound – but smiling as ever.

  Crab reported, ‘Those who got a concussion have to stay in bed longer; Tomo, Slider, Dicky, one of Sasha’s boys. Rocko had an operation on his head, but he’s still ugly.’

  ‘And the Deltas?’ I asked.

  ‘Four in bed, rest walking around. Mahoney went back out, to give a blow by blow account.’

  I remembered the way, and I headed down to the lower levels, getting lost and asking, led to the medical bay, finding Rocko sat-up under a blanket. ‘Rocko, you still alive?’

  ‘Just about. They said they opened up those stitches you did and it was bleeding too bad, so the head quack did something clever, a few days in here. Ain’t too bad.’

  I moved a few steps to Slider, a corpsman taking his vitals. ‘You still with us?’

  ‘Bang on the head, cut and bruising, wicked migraine. What happened after I got hit?’

  ‘We made use of the smoke, six or seven of us running south, Sasha north, took them by surprise and held the ridge till the choppers came in.’

  ‘I don’t remember the chopper ride.’

  ‘They’ve been searching the cave, bodies out, some wounded fighters to stand trial. US Navy jets will level it today.’

  ‘Could have just done that in the first place,’ he complained.

  ‘If they did ... we’d be out of a job,’ I quipped. I moved along to Dicky, his head also bound up. ‘You still with us?’

  ‘Feel like shit, shoulder hurts like fuck, wicked headache.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you had a thick skull.’

  ‘Not thick enough for falling rocks. Anyone hurt bad?’

  ‘No, just cuts and concussion
s. We were lucky.’ I moved down the corridor and found Tomo.

  A lady corpsman asked, ‘Sir, are you responsible for this soldier?’

  ‘Yes..?’

  ‘If he makes any further lewd suggestions to my nurses he’ll get a large thermometer up his ass.’

  I hid my smile. ‘Tomo, you must be feeling better, but be nice to the nurses or you get your pay docked.’

  ‘I have been nice, Boss,’ he insisted with a cheeky grin.

  I faced the lady. ‘He would appreciate an ice-bath.’

  ‘What? No I wouldn’t.’

  ‘We can arrange an ice-bath for him, sir, all male corpsmen.’

  ‘Tomo, be careful,’ I warned him.

  I said hello to the Deltas, similar wounds displayed, but they were in reasonable spirits.

  Up on the deck, allowed on for five minutes by a man in a big helmet but closely observed, I called SIS London and detailed the wounded and our current status: stood down. Next call was the Major, wounded detailed for him – paperwork to start.

  Final call was David Finch. ‘Right, Boss.’

  ‘Ah, Wilco. I just got a report from Hunt. They found wounded men in the caves, some quite young, and some are talking, names given up, so the intel community is excited about the find. Got some paperwork as well, sat phones, so it’s a good find.’

  ‘Listen, team is stood down, ten days I’d say, lots of stitches to get out – me included. How about Djibouti or Cyprus for a week?’

  ‘Djibouti is hardly sanitary or safe, so Cyprus. If they drop you back in Djibouti, or somewhere to fly out, RAF Akrotiri would be best. I’ll send a note to the MOD now.’

  ‘Any trouble in Sierra Leone?’ I asked, taking in the helicopters along the flight deck.

  ‘No, all quiet thankfully.’

  Three days later, and after a flight north from Saudi Arabia, I sat on a sun bed in t-shirt and jeans. This time of year Cyprus was warm during the day but not hot, chilly at night.

  Swifty brought out another two cans of beer and cracked one open with a hiss, Slider sat with his head still bandaged, Nicholson and Swann trying the cold sea water. Swifty said, ‘There a curry house here?’

  ‘Bound to be, it serves British tourists.’ I looked over my shoulder at the ten bedroom villa, the lads doubled-up, some next door. Two Deltas sat on a balcony playing cards, heads bound up.

  Hunt came and sat, Mahoney back from the toilet.

  ‘Mister Hunt, did you wangle a nice holiday for yourself?’ I teased.

  ‘Where you go, I go,’ he insisted.

  ‘But we’re stood down...’

  ‘Yeah, great ain’t it,’ he enthused.

  Mahoney put in, ‘I spent half my life here, waiting a plane that was never hijacked. Here to Saudi and back again. Had a few small holidays in Tel Aviv, Crete, Athens.’

  Swifty said, ‘Tomo’s not going to pull a bird with a bandage on his fucking head.’

  We laughed as Moran walked out of the villa, newspapers in hand.

  He handed me one. ‘Still getting newspaper inches, that place.’

  I glanced at the story before handing the paper to Hunt. Standing, I walked around the pool to the wall, and peered down at the beach. ‘Tomo is chatting to those German girls.’

  Walking back, I said, ‘I was here when I was RAF Regiment, based at Brize Norton, met a German model. Back then I had the muscles, but not the scars, so pulling birds was easy. I was here when I was training to swim the English Channel. Bird was impressed by my swimming.’

  Rocko stepped out, looking sleepy, head bound up, arm in a sling.

  ‘Head any better?’ I asked him.

  ‘It throbs, and keeps me awake.’

  ‘When you want to sleep I can give you a sedative or a local anaesthetic. Watch the booze, it won’ help.’

  He nodded, and took in the view down to the beach. ‘That fuckwit Tomo is stood there trying to chat up birds with a fucking great white bandage on his head.’

  We laughed.

  ‘Ten out of ten for effort,’ Mahoney noted.

  ‘How long is your lot stood down?’ Moran asked him.

  ‘Two weeks, starting two days ago, then we have a month’s rotation here, training ranges in the hills.’

  ‘Should have a base here,’ Rocko grumbled. ‘We get fuck all done when we’re snowed in.’

  I told Hunt, ‘Rocko came here for his honeymoon.’

  ‘And I should have drowned her while I had the chance,’ Rocko grumbled. He dipped a hand into the pool. ‘Fuck that’s cold.’

  At 8pm we flooded the local curry house in Aiya Napa, half of the lads looking right silly with their bandaged heads, the young Greek waiters puzzling the headwear – none of the waiters Indian. Hunt still had hold of the £20k I had asked for, which I had intended using on bribes around Freetown. Now it would pay for our rehabilitation.

  ‘Thirty four pints of beer, please,’ I asked the startled waiter. ‘Two poppadoms each, chutney trays, and chicken tikka starter for everyone.’

  As the drinks were placed down I considered that all the world’s terrorists would need was just the one small bomb and we’d all be killed.

  Three hours later, several men stood at the bar, some on the terrace and smoking, a few debating what we could have done differently. Approaching that camp whilst radio silent was one idea, but if I wanted to warn everyone about something it would have been hand signals in the dark and whispers passed back and forth.

  ‘Your first action,’ I told two Deltas.

  ‘Wasn’t so different to an exercise we did, and not that difficult. In by helo, long walk, hide in the rocks and shoot. I shot twenty of those fighters and felt nothing, wasn’t afraid till that second blast – then I thought the world was coming to an end.’

  ‘You have the experience now, the confirmed kills - and the scars to go with it.’

  A group of British girls on holiday walked in looking for a curry, all Newcastle girls with thick accents, a few with thick arses as well. I told them it was a private party, but that they were welcome and that all food and drink was free. They did not need to be asked twice.

  We were still there at 1am, Tomo with a nice girl despite the silly white bandage on his head, Sergeant Devil with a large girl with a big pair.

  Swifty saw my look. ‘Some guys like a lot of woman,’ Swifty noted.

  I hid my smirk, Mahoney horrified at his sergeant’s taste in women.

  The manager was happy for us to stay late, his best guests in many quiet winter months, and he was doing great trade. I had even paid up-front and given him a large tip. He had a drink himself, and put the crappy Greek music on, men laughing as they lined up with girls and soon kicked legs high.

  Our host gave a solo performance of a traditional Greek dance; he had grown up in a small village north of Athens before moving here. But when Tomo smashed glasses on the floor our host asked what the fuck he was doing, making us laugh.

  I paid what extra was due at 3am, many of us walking back slowly, but it was all downhill at least.

  In the morning I noticed a few of the girls from the night before having a coffee or tea in our villa kitchen. I was hoping the guys had not blabbed about who we were.

  At 3pm our host came and knocked on the door of our villa, not that I remembered telling him where we were, but it was small resort and off season. He spoke for ten minutes, sold me on the idea, I handed over some cash, all of the guys told to be ready for 7pm – and yes they could bring along the girls, two coaches to be laid on.

  Hunt was cautious, so I had six armed MPs tag along, and our seven girls had become fourteen somehow, all from the north of England, the Americans with us needing translators at times as we set off into the hills.

  We arrived at large restaurant with a stage, the only patrons save three old couples, the MPs searching the place for bombs as we stood around drinking and chatting. Tables claimed, food was brought out, traditional cheeses, and the cabaret started, traditional Greek dancers.
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  A local singer took to the stage after we had all tried the local rabbit, all of my lot very familiar with rabbit. The lady singer was young, curvy, and quite good; she sang for more than an hour.

  As more traditional Greek dancers hit the stage many of us were stood at the bar and chatting.

  A cute twenty-five year old with a big pair hooked her arm through mine. ‘You’re the boss of this lot, then.’

  ‘Some of the time, and some of the time I try and disown them.’

  ‘I see the way they check stuff with you first. And you’re all soldiers?’

  ‘Mostly, yes, from RAF Akrotiri.’

  ‘I’ve had eight different tales of how them lads got the silly head wounds like.’

  I smiled, Swifty laughing. ‘What stories have they used?’

  ‘Well the one fella with the silly moustache said he crashed in the Space Shuttle.’ We laughed. ‘And one said it was a coach crash, one said it were a plane crash, and one said it were you who hit them all as a punishment.’

  ‘The last one I like,’ I told her.

  ‘And the real reason..?’

  ‘On a training exercise there was an explosion, lads too close, rocks fell on us.’

  ‘Ah ... more like it. Not Space Shuttle pilots then.’

  We laughed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And these Americans?’

  ‘Exchange posting. Next year we go to them.’

  ‘And they called you Wilco, and one called you Captain. So I called me dad, and he was “B” Squadron SAS, served in Oman. And you, you’s a little fibber.’

  ‘Lots of people called Captain Wilco,’ I told her.

  Swifty said, ‘I have a goldfish called Captain Wilco. Looks like him an all.’

  She would not let go of my arm, not that I minded, and when I sat down she sat on my lap, a great pair of boobs in my face, Swifty shaking his head at me.

  When the coaches dropped us back at midnight she came into the villa, something of a party soon going on, but she mentioned that she had a hotel room all to herself getting cold, a short walk away. We slipped out unseen, out the garden, and up to her hotel, a shit tip two-star, and she did indeed have a room all to herself, and it was just about big enough for one person.