Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  Smitty would be here, in a tree, and now clambered up, Slade and Gonzo to cover the rear of the camp with the Salties in case we got flanked. Sasha would take his team west, but halfway to the road and the first French team, and to get position to snipe on the camp. The rest of us, Swifty, myself and the Americans, would move in close, facemasks off just in case.

  Checking my watch after ten minutes, my phone trilled.

  ‘It’s Captain Harris, helicopters just went, so under an hour to reach you. They’re set to go straight from here to the corner border of Sierra Leone, Liberia and Guinea, then southeast.’

  ‘OK, we’ll get ready now.’

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up. Americans will be here inside the hour. Get good solid fire positions, you may be fired at by mistake.’

  ‘I’m up a tree,’ came from Smitty, making us laugh.

  After calling Moran and giving him an accurate timescale, I faced Liban. ‘Don’t go yet, we can’t risk alerting them.’

  He checked his watch.

  ‘Wilco,’ came a whisper, Mahoney’s voice. ‘More villagers, some armed.’

  ‘Get ready, men with silencers only. But hold off firing till I say. Everyone move back from the edge of the trees.’

  I peered out from behind thick foliage, six men ambling along and chatting, some in an odd mix of uniforms, most in wellington boots, a wheel barrow pushed.

  One man ran straight at us, our rifles raised, but he stopped and took a piss, returning to his buddies and jabbering away. They moved past us, no reason to enter thick woods.

  ‘Wilco,’ came over the radio, Smitty’s voice. ‘Dog approaching through the long grass.’

  ‘Swifty, knife out, rifle down.’ I called. He got ready.

  I saw the grass moving before I saw the dog, a spotty-white terrier, and it came straight in. As Swifty was about to knife it in the back, he reached out and stroked it, soon rubbing its chin.

  ‘Feed the damn thing,’ I whispered, tinned meat soon offered, and ravenously accepted. Having eaten, the dog walked in circles on my poncho for a minute, and then settled down for a nap.

  I turned my head to Liban. ‘He had dogs as a kid.’

  ‘Ah, me too. I was born a farm.’

  When I could wait no longer we took down the flysheets, the dog rudely evicted, ponchos rolled up and packed away, Liban and his team sent off moving bent double, bush to bush, avoiding the man in the guard tower, Smitty having that man in his sights – and reporting that man asleep in a chair.

  With Liban in place, our watches checked for the tenth time, I led my team forwards in the tracks of Liban, but I aimed for a point at the rear of the camp, under the guard tower.

  A painstaking ten minutes was used up, no one having spotted us, and I adopted a large bush that offered me a view down between the huts and to the front gate. I sent the Deltas right five yards, and once in position we would be able to hit anyone either side of the hostage hut.

  A drone on the breeze caused hearts to race, rifles to be held tightly, fingers adopting triggers, lips licked.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Standby, standby.’ I took aim down the gap between the huts.

  ‘It’s Smitty. Tower guard is looking down towards you.’

  ‘Kill him now.’

  A few seconds later a crack sounded out, no one in the camp reacting, and the drone grew louder. I had expected a reaction, but only one man peered up at the sky, the rest wandering around as before, a few painting a hut and not having much luck – they were getting more paint on the floor than on the walls.

  The drone grew.

  I could see someone who looked like he might be in charge, stood facing south his hands on his hips.

  I got ready.

  Full breath, half a breath, first trigger pressure taken – but before I could fire he was hit in the testicles and doubled over, holding his balls. Tomo. I smiled, forced it away, and killed a painter, his tin dropped, his mates suddenly doing a little dance, the air suddenly full of sharp cracks, the Deltas to my right firing without silencers, the distinctive discharges in my right ear.

  A man ran out of the hostage room and stopped dead, his buddy rushing out, both falling over, both hit as they tried to stand.

  The drone of helicopters had become a roar, the ground vibrating. A Seahawk caught my attention, hovering at around three hundred feet over the road, three men in the door firing down, long rifles seen.

  In a dangerous manoeuvre, a Seahawk slammed down right under his buddy, men out and running, that Seahawk lifting away with little clearance and heading east, the second touching down in a matter of seconds, more men out, a third lined up, the heavy drone of Chinooks coming from somewhere.

  I walked backwards and turned left, seeing villagers looking this way, but no gunmen yet. A full turn, and I checked our rear, no one to worry us.

  Facing the huts again, I could see Deltas knelt next to the hostage hut a moment before moving inside, many men following behind, perhaps twenty or more.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Smitty, 360degree sweep, have a look. Sasha, report.’

  ‘We see some men in huts, black faces, and shoot them. Some men shoot back, we shoot the wood. Americans inside the hut now.’

  The sounds of gunfire had eased.

  ‘Wilco,’ Running Bear shouted. ‘I have my men’s frequency, so let’s get in there!’

  I stared at him, wondering if this was wise, and he could see my look, a disapproving look; he was altering my plan.

  I finally ran forwards, to a stretch of fence that has been repaired with string, and tore it away, a gap made, Running Bear leading through his sergeant - as well as Mahoney.

  I tapped Swifty on the arm and he followed them through, and I glanced again at the village as I ducked inside the fence, following behind the Deltas, the three of them now bent-double below the windows of the huts, distant cracks sounding out, the helicopters roaring above us.

  On the radio I said, ‘This is Wilco, we’re moving inside. Hold your positions, check your fire! Major Liban, report.’

  ‘We see some blacks in windows, we kill them, now we see men in the village and we shoot them.’

  ‘Roger that,’ I said as I took off my silencer and pocketed it.

  Swifty spun and fired three times, a face at a window, and I started walking backwards, still bent-double. Seeing movement, I fired twice through the wood, and level with a door I kicked it in, firing as I went, two men on their bellies hit with head shots. I jumped out in a hurry and knelt, Swifty looking back at me.

  At the next hut Running Bear went in whilst being covered, several short bursts heard, Mahoney firing into a hut ahead.

  I ran a few steps and in through an open door and knelt, a man aiming right back at me. I fired a second before he did, a head shot, his shot hitting the wall above me. A man put his hands up, my shot taking the back of his head off. I spun out the door, Swifty waiting, knelt now at a corner.

  The Deltas moved down to the next hut, the Seahawk so close I could see the men sat in the side, and I hoped they could see us.

  Running Bear nodded at his sergeant, and burst into the next hut, several short bursts, but was dragged out a few seconds later. I ran forwards, Mahoney pumping rounds in through the huts thin wooden walls. I dived inside, a wounded man trying to re-load his rifle, my two shots stopping him dead. Two wounded men crawled away, both hit twice.

  Magazine out, weighed in hand, I tossed it away, a second in quickly, still a round in the chamber. I dashed out, and knelt over Running Bear.

  ‘Round hit my kit,’ he strained to get out. ‘I’m OK.’ His sergeant got him to his feet.

  ‘Be careful!’ I shouted at him. ‘This was not part of the fucking plan, Mister Hero!’

  ‘Airboss, Wilco. Receiving?’

  ‘Wilco for Airboss, go ahead.’

  ‘Status update.’

  ‘Still one or two gunmen alive, hiding in huts, but they’re not keen for a fight or venturing out, they’re
under the beds. We can cover your movement of the hostages close in.’

  ‘Airboss, Wilco, roger.’

  Deltas appeared from the hostage’s hut as we ran forwards, hostages carried over shoulders. I took one side of the hut with Swifty, Mahoney and Running Bear the other side. Without turning I could hear the Chinook, and then feel it, the idiot pilot landing arse first on the parade ground, almost hitting the hut.

  Swifty turned his head, wide-eyed, his hair blowing in the downdraft. ‘Crazy fucking pilot!’

  Deltas carrying hostages appeared in an ant-like chain, and I counted them out loud, sixteen hostages looking gaunt, many of them appearing unconscious or dead. Two Deltas came out with bodies in ponchos, which meant that the living hostages had been stuffed into a hut with dead bodies.

  The Chinook powered away, too loud for us to talk - a hair dryer blowing at me from behind, and as I glanced back some ten Deltas now knelt on the concrete, weapons pointing in all directions.

  The Chinook had barely cleared a path when two Sea Hawks slid in low and touched down, the Deltas withdrawing in small teams out the gate, a few steps taken before kneeling and aiming.

  ‘Running Bear, go!’ I shouted.

  He took a moment to consider what to do, his mind made up by his sergeant, who man-handled Running Bear away.

  ‘Wilco, it’s Smitty, we just hit six men from the village,’ came over the roar of the Seahawks.

  ‘Keep hitting them, and watch your rear! Sasha, move inside now.’

  ‘Moving.’

  Knelt there, I glanced over my shoulder, the Deltas boarding their rides and lifting off, Running Bear the last man - and almost carried. The Seahawks pulled away, heading south, the top cover helo banked away, and it grew quiet.

  ‘Airboss, Wilco, we’re departing. Do you have wounded?’

  ‘Wilco, Airboss, negative on the wounded, leave now.’

  I stood as Sasha and his team appeared. ‘Go into that secure hut, see if there are weapons in it.’

  ‘Wilco, it’s Moran, you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘You watch those roads, I’m going to try and blow this place or burn it down. Tell the French to watch the roads and the village.’

  A burst of distant fire echoed, the odd crack, Sasha blasting at a locked door, not the best of ideas given that there may be weapons inside. He appeared a minute later with RPG launchers and rockets.

  ‘Hit the huts with them!’ I shouted, and moved back, Swifty and Mahoney backing up, eyes everywhere.

  Sasha knelt and got ready, little aim needed, and hit a hut just twenty yards away. The rocket detonated inside the hut, windows blown out, smoke billowing, one of his team hitting the next hut, a similar effect witnessed, soon three of Sasha’s team firing as I walked towards the front gate.

  One of Sasha’s team appeared with a box-fed Russian machine gun, and opened up on the command huts, those huts on the side of the parade ground, smashing the windows. The huts closest to us were soon alight, Sasha running left to get an angle on other huts further back.

  ‘Smitty for Wilco; you OK in there, Boss?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re demolishing the place. Withdraw around to the west, come to the front gate.’

  ‘Moving.’

  ‘Major Liban, report.’

  ‘Still some men from the village, not many men now.’

  ‘Move towards the road.’

  ‘OK, we move now.’

  ‘Rocko, Moran, group your men together in one place, cover the roads.’

  ‘Roger that,’ came from Moran as blasts sounded out.

  Noticing a jeep that appeared free of bullet holes, I shot out its glass, moving down to the tyres, finally hitting the engine grill.

  Smitty, Slade and Gonzo, Lassey plus the Salties, could now be seen running parallel to the fence.

  ‘Sasha!’ I shouted, and then waved him over. On the radio I said, ‘All men group in teams south of the road! Move it!’

  Sasha’s team dropped the RPGs and grabbed rifles, running to me as I led Mahoney and Swifty over the road, Smitty’s team running in, a French team to the west seen crossing the road, Liban’s team crossing over, still the crack of the odd round registering.

  We jogged steadily a hundred yards, till we found Moran. ‘Form up in your same teams, headcount!’

  Tomo came in from the side with Nicholson.

  ‘Tomo, did you shoot that camp commander in the balls?’

  ‘No, Boss, not me. Honest.’

  I glanced at Moran, and we both eyed him suspiciously as the teams formed up. When Major Liban was happy I led them all off, and only then did he mention two scrapes. His medic had bound the wounds, so I left them for now, one foot in front of the other, back to the high ground that Rocko had used.

  Beyond it, I called a halt, wiping my brow and sipping my water. To Moran I said, ‘How far to the road you reckon?’

  ‘Three fifty-ish.’

  I shouted, ‘Get fire positions, aiming at the road, fresh magazines. Dicky, your men watching our rear – the south.’

  Dicky took the Salties thirty yards south as I glanced at the rising smoke, and at the curious villagers, all of whom must have thought themselves bullet proof.

  ‘Any Americans wounded?’ Moran casually asked, sipping his own water.

  ‘Running Bear altered the plan a little, wanted to get some action, and got a round in the chest – but it hit some kit. Few bust ribs.’

  ‘That’ll teach him,’ Swifty put in. ‘Smartarse.’

  ‘It went well,’ Mahoney noted as he found a dirt mound to fire from. ‘In and out quick.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks to us,’ Swifty scoffed.

  Mahoney countered with, ‘Given the idiots in that camp, they could have pulled it off with a few minor wounds.’

  ‘But they never knew the intel on the ground,’ Moran countered with.

  My phone trilled, a “001” dial code. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Colonel Mathews, you’re on speakerphone again. Your men OK?’

  ‘Fine, sir, we’re now south of the road, be moving south before we call in our ride.’

  ‘It went off well, for which we’re all grateful, no casualties.’

  ‘Not quite, sir. Captain Running Bear was hit in the chest, but a piece of kit saved his life, two French soldiers with scrapes.’

  ‘You need casevac?’

  ‘Negative. Running Bear went in a Seahawk, and the scrapes are not serious.’

  ‘What casualties amongst the hostage takers?’

  ‘Perhaps forty dead, sir, hard to tell. And we set fire to their camp as we left, and destroyed vehicles.’

  ‘Why that particular course of action, Captain?’

  ‘To diminish their capacity, sir, so they’re less able to operate in a similar manner again. They may need to get a day job.’

  I could hear laughter.

  ‘Yes, swords turned into ploughs perhaps. Tell me, Captain, how do you feel right now?’

  ‘Feel, sir?’

  ‘You’re a long way from home, enemy territory, some angry people out there ... and you could have booked a Chinook out.’

  ‘I feel ... comfortable and relaxed, sir, as always, but thanks for asking.’

  Again I could hear laughter.

  ‘Good luck, Captain, and thanks again.’

  Phone away, I explained to curious faces, ‘That was a Yank colonel in the Pentagon E Ring, the guy in charge of the Deltas.’

  ‘Comfortable and relaxed?’ Mahoney queried.

  ‘Feeling afraid, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Not really...’

  ‘Tomo, you feel afraid, nervous, isolated out here?’

  ‘I got a monster shit coming.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘Why did I even ask?’ I focused on Mahoney. ‘Your colonel was interested in whether I felt vulnerable ... here and now.’ I turned to Moran. ‘You feel vulnerable?’

  ‘Nope. But two yea
rs back I would have.’

  ‘Vehicles,’ someone shouted.

  I eased down and checked my rifle, magazine out and weighed in hand, sights set at four hundred. From the right, the east, came two jeeps and two trucks, and they must have seen the smoke billowing from their former home, it was a mile high already.

  The convoy stopped short of their camp and seemed to be asking questions of villagers, after which they formed up into slovenly group and walked forwards. Men at the back had rifles balanced over shoulders.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Standby.’

  They thinned out into a long line, the keen at the front, the lazy bastards at the rear, and when the man in charge reached the main gate I issued, ‘Open fire!’

  A roar of cracks sounded out, men on the road hit and spun, a few firing into their own camp in reaction, a few trying to remember the safety catch. The group leader had been hit, now kneeling, my shot taking a chunk out of his head.

  After thirty seconds there were few moving around, some fire coming back out way.

  ‘Withdraw in teams, form up, on me!’ I ducked down and moved back, the ridge high enough to protect us as we stood up. Glancing back, I led the group off at a steady walk, magazines swapped as it started to rain.

  Half a mile on and day turned to night, the rain so hard I was squinting.

  ‘A Chinook ride is looking good right now,’ Swifty told me, his words drowned out by the roar.

  ‘Yeah, it does. Whose idea was this?’

  By sundown we had reached our former camp, but it was hard to tell when sundown had occurred because it had been so dark from the rain, everyone soaked through. I pushed on, not stopping for a brew, but the rain did finally ease up, and I again spotted the isolated border crossing.

  I took out my damp phone and recalled a number whilst trying not to trip in the dark.

  ‘Captain Harris.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, get us the Chinooks for say two hours. Roughly the same spot.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go talk to them now.’

  ‘What’s happening back there?’

  ‘Media shit storm all over the world, the state of those hostages, people comparing them to the Holocaust. One died on the way here, some not expected to make it. They said that they were anorexic, and that the heart muscle lost too much fat.’