Wilco- Lone Wolf 5

by Geoff Wolak

  Mpanda finally became a spec on the horizon, and I was called forwards, headset on. ‘Our speed and fuel calculations are all to fuck, we’re well ahead and using less fuel – fuck knows why.’

  ‘Better than the other way around,’ I emphasised.

  ‘We’ll land and refuel, be off quickly, they’re expecting us, and I don’t think they get much traffic.’

  Our vibrating ride slipped lower through broken cloud till we could see the runway, and we touched down smoothly whilst glimpsing low buildings with red roofs, a simple metal fence around the airfield, half-naked kids stood watching us as we turned and taxied the short distance to the fuel truck. I had eased off my chute, the lads copying, and I pointed to the piss bottles.

  Engines winding down, we stepped out into late afternoon sun and stretched poor aching bodies, Rizzo dumping three full piss bottles behind a small shed.

  Five minutes later, Swifty tapped my arm and pointed. Three nearly-naked local boys ran in, grabbed the bottles and legged it away, getting to the outer fence before swigging from their stolen bottles. They stopped, looked back at us and dropped the bottles, no doubt cursing in the local tongue, most of the lads doubled over in fits as I playfully admonished Rizzo with a wagged finger.

  ‘That’ll teach them to take the piss,’ Swifty put in.

  Sat phone out, still smiling, I called Captain Harris. ‘We’re at Mpanda, taking off soon.’

  ‘OK, we’ll get a message to the Hercules, adjusted ETA, but it’s about as it should be.’

  I dialled Bob next. ‘We’re about to cross into the Congo, let your people know the ETA at Kabalo, we’re ahead of schedule by an hour or so.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Fuel topped up quickly, we boarded our ugly box of a ride, its engines started, and we took off as curious locals peered through the fence at us, soon heading west into the setting sun and across Lake Tanganyika, the narrow lake crossing our front from horizon to horizon.

  If grew dark, the lads now knowing that we were in bandit country, and we peered down at the detail below before it grew too dark to see anything. The ground below us was black, but we still had a brilliant amber sunset ahead of us.

  With the lads all settled back, a few dozing, I settled back myself, hoping this old bird would get us there without a hitch, and that damned drone came up through my feet. This was not the most comfortable of aircraft I had been on, it was worse than a Hercules.

  I was awake and stretching when the lights went out, which meant we were getting close, just dim points of light coming from the controls for reference, the lads soon adjusting straps and checking their chutes. The engines throttled back.

  Red light on, and we stood, the bags dragged towards the rear, teams formed up, torches attached to the bags and turned on. Each man turned on his own small green light till the cabin looked like a bunch of fire-flies had invaded it.

  I took a final drink from the water bottle, sniffing it first in case it was the wrong one, and handed it around. Straps tightened, release handle checked for the twentieth time, pistol tapped, the ramp-door powered upwards, a roar invading the cabin.

  ‘Radio check,’ I called.

  ‘Moran on.’

  ‘Mahoney on.’

  ‘Swifty on.’

  The bag was inched back to the edge, shoulders were held, wide stances taken due to some turbulence.

  ‘Don’t forget, aim for the centre of the airstrip, should see it below 500ft.’

  The green light came on and we gentled fell out the back, left hands holding our bundle, and we settled quickly, green lights in view, the white bag-torch clear and bright.

  Looking down, as my neck got a cold blast, I could see several towns and villages, a distant main road with vehicle headlights seen, some sort of distant factory with floodlights, maybe a mine.

  Passing through cloud we were blinded and moistened for a moment, and my legs touched some else’s briefly.

  The tone started all too soon, and at the continuous tone I called, ‘Three – two – one – break. One thousand ... two thousand ... three thousand ... four thousand ... pull.’ And I pulled my own release as I took in distant traffic on a road. A yank upwards, and I was relieved.

  ‘Sound off.’

  ‘Moran here.’

  ‘Mahoney here.’

  ‘Swifty here. And I can see the bag light below us.’

  I looked down, seeing the bag light, suddenly a grey tinge to it as the chute deployed.

  ‘At least it didn’t hit the deck,’ Swifty noted.

  ‘Follow it,’ I called.

  ‘I can see the runway,’ Mahoney called out. ‘Bag is ... moving north of it I think.’

  I turned, to make sure I was ahead of the bag, and observed it closely.

  ‘There’s a fucking plane taking off!’ Swifty screamed. ‘Look.’

  ‘I studied the runway, peering down between my knees, and there it was, a black outline of a plane getting faster, no lights on.’

  ‘It’ll miss us,’ I assured them.

  ‘That fucking strip is in use,’ Swifty called. ‘Look, lights to the south, looks like a small camp.’

  ‘We’re drifting north,’ Moran put in. ‘It’s black there, no lights.’

  Silently drifting down, we heard the plane take off and pull away, the ground coming up fast. I could still see the bag, and when it stopped I pin-pointed a landing area, a lighter colour to the black surrounding area - which had to be trees.

  Knees bent, hands on the toggles, I judged the distance and started to pull down on the toggles till my hands were down by my knees, and I touched down gently.

  Goggles, mask and helmet off, chute off in a hurry, I heard the others land, but they were all quiet enough. And now I had a good appreciation of that camp across the grass strip.

  Pistol out, I ran to the bag, still seeing the bag-torch - covered now by the chute. I tore the chute away, Swifty there a second later, the bag unzipped. I grabbed a rifle from inside a blanket, magazine in, cocked and ready as I scanned the horizon.

  Moran and Mahoney ran across, soon grabbing rifles and ammo.

  I looked up, and clicked on my radio. ‘Anyone still in the air, land on the north side of the airfield, away from the lights, we’re down and safe.’ I could see chutes.

  ‘This is Rocko, we’re drifting away from those lights.’

  ‘Something smells good,’ Mahoney noted. ‘Cajun Chicken I reckon.’

  I studied the camp for a few seconds before a thud next to me was followed by a chute collapsing on top of me.

  ‘Good aim,’ Swifty said, laughing. ‘Any closer and it would have killed you.’

  ‘Watch out for the next bag,’ I whispered, looking up.

  Four dark objects drifted down and landed within arm’s reach, Mahoney knocked off his feet and cursing. An apology came back in French.

  I grabbed a bandolier and placed it on, someone’s webbing – they were all the same on this drop, facemask out and on, gloves on, and I was ready, moving towards the strip as a thud came from behind – followed by a few quiet curses.

  I took out my sat phone and dialled Captain Harris. ‘We’re down safe, no injuries, but hostiles nearby, be moving out soon.’

  ‘Got that.’

  By now, the Skyvan should have been down at 5,000ft and circling a mile out, and listening in on our frequency. ‘Wilco for Skyvan, receiving, over?’

  ‘Skyvan, Wilco, update over.’

  ‘We’re down safe, no problems, no injuries reported. Loiter ten minutes, this strip is clear and in use. I repeat, it is clear and in use, a camp nearby. Is the Hercules there?’

  ‘Yes, we’re in contact with them, they’re loitering a few miles north east at twelve thousand.’

  ‘Standby.’

  Knelt, I peered through my lens, seeing women cooking and kids running around, several fuel trucks, a man working on an engine, other men sat eating. And there were no weapons visible, no uniforms worn.

  I clicked on
the radio as chutes were rolled up and stuffed under the drop bags. ‘Listen up, cover me from here, all round defence, I’m going over there for a chat. Someone sort the kit.’

  I lifted up and started walking, taking off my facemask and gloves, my rifle held down. As I neared the camp a dog barked, soon chastised, and a woman glanced at me - none too concerned.

  Kids ran towards me, stopping and running away giggling. I passed old oil drums and new oil drums, lean-tos and tents, and to an area that looked like an outdoor cafe in the trees.

  The two shiny-faced local men sat eating now looked up, and then looked past me, puzzling me.

  ‘Good evening. You ... speak English?’

  ‘Yes,’ came from the older man as he looked past me again. ‘Where you come from, man?’

  ‘Parachute.’

  They looked up, as if they might see something.

  ‘You drop from de sky?’

  ‘Yes, I came from England.’

  ‘England? You drop from the sky from England?’

  ‘Yes. Tell me, any ... gunmen around here?’

  ‘Gunmen? No, this is my business, my airfield. I am George.’

  ‘I’m Wilco. Are there any ... Zambian gunmen around here?’

  ‘We hear bad words about them, now you come here from de sky. Bad magic.’

  ‘They kidnapped many people, brought them here.’

  ‘Ah, I hear words, bad men, very bad, in the town.’ He thumbed over his shoulder as the kids ran about screaming.

  ‘Would you ... like to help us with the bad men?’

  He looked past me. ‘Who is you?’

  ‘My men are in the trees, more will come, and ... with money. American dollars.’

  ‘American dollars is good good, yes yes. You want food?’

  ‘That would be nice.’ Rifle down, I fetched out the dollars I had, twenty dollars handed over. ‘Some food for my men.’

  He looked past me and puzzled that.

  I clicked on my radio. ‘Come across to me, fingers off triggers, weapons down, the food smells great.’

  Dark shadows preceded the team, my host staring at them wide-eyed.

  ‘You come from de sky?’

  ‘Parachutes are across the runway. We’ll collect them in the morning.’

  The gang closed in, some sitting. ‘Rocko, Slider, right side, down the runway, sniff around half an hour and back, try very hard not to shoot anyone. Rizzo, Stretch, left end and back, we’ll leave some food.’ They plodded off. ‘Rest of you, sit.’

  Plates were brought out, the lads smiling at the hospitality.

  I faced Moran. ‘No hostiles nearby, ten miles to that town, Zambians in it.’

  ‘No, no,’ George said. ‘The road go to the town, on the left, and on the right is the old prison, a mile mile, they be there.’

  ‘Good local intel,’ Moran commended with a smirk.

  ‘Skyvan for Wilco!’ came a shout in my ear.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘We just lost an engine, we’re coming down, are there lights?’

  ‘I’ll talk you down, put your lights on, locals are friendly.’ I walked out to the strip and stood in the middle, peering around till I saw their lights. ‘OK, keep coming, I’m ... in your ten o’clock position.’

  They changed course.

  ‘Any hills nearby?’

  ‘No, just gentle hills further out, but lots of trees. Keep coming, you look like you’re at two thousand, so drop to one thousand.’ I waited. ‘Keep coming.’ The sound grew. ‘OK, you’re just about to fly over the top of me ... now. Hard left turn ... straighten up ... steady ... OK, very hard left turn, 180 degrees.’

  I observed them bank steeply around till they were facing me. ‘Set your approach, flaps down, throttle back ... you are ... coming up to the end of the runway ... down a little ... more ... your left a little ... more ... good track.’ I moved to the side of the strip. ‘Ten seconds ... steady ... drifting left again ... that’s it.’

  ‘We see it now.’

  They touched down smoothly, and eased to a crawl right in front of me, turning right and halting – the only way since the right engine was out. I ran around to the side door and clambered in as the last engine was shut down. The pilots, and Mi8 pilots, looked relieved to be down, but concerned at just where they were down.

  ‘Any juice in the radio?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell the Hercules you’re down safe, and my operational order is for them to return to Kenya and standby to bring the main force out, we’ll make this our FOB.’

  I led the Mi8 pilots out, both they and the Skyvan pilots in civvy clothes.

  George was waiting. ‘Only de one engine. I have a man, he is good good with de engine.’

  ‘If you get it to work my government will pay well,’ I told him.

  ‘We look in de morning, yes yes. Come.’

  I handed him the rest of my dollars. ‘That truck, can we borrow it for a few hours?’

  ‘Sure, it good truck, but slow.’

  I sat with the Mi8 pilots, who took in the bizarre scene with ironic smiles.

  ‘Hardly a hostile area,’ they quipped.

  ‘The people back home don’t need to know that,’ I told them, dishes placed down, broth spooned out by a large local lady. I dialled Captain Harris. ‘Sitrep. Skyvan lost an engine, it landed, it’s with us, no injuries. This strip will be our FOB, it’s safe enough. We’ll move out in an hour and make an assessment of the Zambians. They’re in an old prison a mile northwest of the town.’

  ‘OK, got that. And the Hercules?’

  ‘I ordered it back. Have it loaded ready tomorrow, wait the call, update London.’

  The lads smiled and joked as they tucked in to the chicken broth, chatting to George about Man Utd football club – he was jealous that they had been to the stadium, his kids at our sides and asking questions.

  The Skyvan pilots joined us, and Rocko and Rizzo came in – all dead quiet out there, others sent out on stag nearby.

  When stomachs were full I gave Swifty the job of mastering the truck, and its gears, and I sat next to him, the lads mounting up. I had told the pilots to relax, but if strangers showed up to run across the runway into the bush and hide – and to stop whinging about their safety.

  Gears crunched, we trundled down the jungle track, shaking the lads in the back, and finally bumped onto a road, turning right and picking up speed, ten miles to go more or less. I checked my compass, and we were heading southwest, so I was happy enough.

  Many vehicles passed us, and we swerved to avoid the odd donkey with no lights, the odd man on a pushbike worried by Swifty’s driving.

  The town neared, lights seen on the left, and at the main junction - if it could be called that, we turned right. A mile down that road we passed tall white walls – no one about, and as we passed those walls we could see that it was the prison. Swifty knocked off the lights and pulled up, turning off and into the scrub.

  I jumped down. ‘Everyone out! And carefully, no twisted ankles.’ Stood there, I peered at the distant prison through my lens, seeing a few lights on, but overall it appeared unoccupied, dilapidated, abandoned for decades.

  Rifle slung, I clicked on my radio. ‘Listen up. That’s the prison, Zambians supposed to be in it, looks quiet, some lights on. Where the wall meets the three-storey building the wall is down, so we go in that way and split up, some up on the roof, and we have a look. If you see a large force, call it out.

  ‘Form up in teams, Rocko behind me, then Rizzo, last man watches our rear. Moving off now.’

  I led Swifty away, and we skirted bushes and ducked under trees, sloshing through water a few times, the tree frogs serenading us. At the hole in the wall I stopped to study the prison, not seeing anyone but now smelling cooking. I snuck forwards for a closer look, peeking inside the wall.

  ‘OK, there’s an exercise yard with four jeeps and two trucks in it, two men stood smoking, rifles slung. To the left there are a few lights on, p
eople cooking, and I can see four sat around a fire on the ground level. And so far that’s it, rest must be inside somewhere.

  ‘Moran, Mahoney. Up the broken wall to the first roof, then quietly up to the top. Go.’

  They moved past me as I aimed into the exercise yard, up the broken wall – conveniently shaped like a staircase, and onto the first landing. Rifles slung, they clambered up to the second level easily enough, helping each other to the roof.

  ‘This is Moran. Two men on the front gate, sat down. Two men at the trucks, four below us, and that’s all for now. Wait.’ He came back on with. ‘There’s a big hole in the roof, and we can see down, a few groups sat around cooking and jabbering away, maybe twenty men. Some are asleep already. No hostages. Standby, moving position.

  ‘Wilco, there’s a dead white guy on the far side, blood all over him, maybe two, can’t quite see. There is a way down for us to the next level, it’s empty apart from rubble, looks like it was built and never used. Moving down.’

  We waited, and I observed the men near the trucks.

  ‘Wilco, I can see four dead hostages, all white.’

  I exchanged a look with Swifty.

  ‘It’s Moran, found the main barracks, small hole down to it, maybe sixty men in it. And a hell of a pong of weed, they’re all high as a kite.’

  ‘Access points?’ I asked.

  ‘One main door.’

  ‘Ready your grenades. Rizzo, Stretch, round to the front, you take the two on the gate and move inside. Try and cover the main entrance to the building. Everyone else, follow me.’

  I scrambled slowly up the broken wall and onto the first level, moving around rubble till I could see Moran’s dark outline, and he was knelt some twenty yards away. This level was just bare grey concrete pillars and a roof, little else.

  ‘Rocko, Slider, Travis, Slade, down those steps on the left, very quiet, get a good fire position. Go slow, dead slow.’

  They moved off bent-double, crunching rubble underfoot in a few places.

  ‘Henri, Jacque, here on the right, aim at men coming out the barracks.’ I led Swifty on, and to Moran.

  Moran silently pointed at vents in the roof. I took out my grenades, Swifty copying.

  ‘Hostages?’ Swifty nudged, and we exchanged looks.