Wilco- Lone Wolf 12

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Listen up. Last year my men and French Echo hit a rebel base just on the border with Senegal, six hundred heavily armed men intent on taking power – voters’ choice aside. We thinned them out a bit, their claim on power set back.

  ‘Some of those soldiers have re-formed, and have grabbed hostages. We know the terrain, and we’ll make use of previous caves to observe the camp, make an assessment and then move in.

  ‘Step one: HALO in, eyes on. We found a road when we were there before, and it could land a Hercules, but it’s a bit close to the camp. There is a road that goes north, and the map says that it’s long and straight, as they generally are around here.

  ‘So step one will be a combined HALO drop to secure that road and to secure the buildings we made use of before, a team to go get eyes on the camp for 24hrs at least. The Americans here will be tasked with securing the road, British SAS will secure the buildings, my team will get eyes on.

  ‘If all goes well, then our Hercules will set down on the road with men and supplies, and withdraw anyone with a broken ankle. When enough men are in place we’ll make a tight plan and move on the camp during the night, get in close and get the hostages, withdrawing the way we came, Hercules to pick us up on the road. Simple.’

  ‘Beyond helo range?’ Castille asked.

  ‘About three hundred miles from here avoiding Senegal airspace, so beyond safe operating range yes,’ I told him. ‘But there is French base we used before, closer to the target, and they had some Puma, so casevac from there is an option.’

  ‘No,’ came a French accent. ‘The Puma for them is here.’

  ‘OK, RAF medics, two or four of you on each Hercules with your kit, might have a broken ankle on the first daytime run, might have wounded men and hostages on the extraction. Most of you have done this before, it’s all routine. If there are enough of you, four medics on the ground as before.

  ‘Squadron Leader, group all Hercules pilots, figure out who’s doing what, they rest today and fly tonight, then again at midday tomorrow, then they’re on standby till dawn the following day – but if we have wounded we’ll want one sooner. It’s less than two hours flying time.

  ‘RAF Regiment, you’re in on this, you secure the buildings at the rear as before. And gentlemen, anyone with a camera – take it, I want lots of snaps, no faces without masks on of course, be a journalist here when we get back.

  ‘Pathfinders, “B” Squadron, 1 Para, I want a force back here for surprises, you train but stand ready to move out if needs be. “B” Squadron, you’re on standby for other rescue jobs in the region while we gone. Questions?’

  ‘Rations for how long?’ a Seal asked.

  ‘Couple of days. Have those men landing by Hercules carrying a shit load of extra rations and water, don’t HALO with it.’

  ‘The breach team?’ Castille asked.

  ‘See when we get there what we need. Tonight I want two teams of Americans HALOing onto the road area, make-up is up to you. You abandon that road the next day, we’ll put RAF Regiment there. Or Lone Wolves.’

  ‘Wolves?’ Moran queried.

  ‘They’d be way behind the lines,’ I assured him. ‘Good practise. OK, gentlemen, make some plans, get ready.’ Moran did not look happy, so I nudged him outside. ‘There are thirty men, light weapons, drugged up, one hostage.’

  ‘One fucking hostage!’ he hissed, a glance over his shoulder.

  ‘It’s a training exercise, should be simple. No mention of bad boys or hostages numbers, OK.’

  He reluctantly nodded. ‘All these men for one fucking hostage, the Major would go mad!’

  ‘As I said, it’s a big live-firing exercise, a really big one.’

  I headed for the hangars and found the Para School lads. ‘How many chutes do you have?’

  ‘We sent some off to the UK to be re-packed, got more off the last Tristar, so ... three hundred and twenty static line left, and your French HALO chutes, a hundred and twenty of them, and the bags.’

  ‘There’ll be a HALO insert tonight, plus static line maybe, I’ll work out numbers. Tonight will be my lot, two teams of Americans-’

  ‘They have their own chutes.’

  ‘Yeah, well that helps then. So we should have more than enough.’

  ‘French have some of theirs as well.’

  ‘Go ask, get me numbers.’

  With the Wolves on the range, I had their activities suspended, the NCOs grouped. ‘Listen up, we have a live job on, and you’re coming along.’

  ‘Coming along, sir! The recruits?’

  ‘You’ll be way behind the lines, guarding a road, but they don’t know that. You’ll static line in, you and them, live ammo, guard a rear area, ride out a few days later. Make sure they understand that this is a live job and that they’re watching the rear, maybe a shot fired in anger.’

  ‘No danger, sir?’

  I made a face. ‘Jeep of armed gunmen in the wrong place maybe. Get ready, aim is a dawn drop, so rest them today, a few hours sleep tonight.’

  Crap and Duffy approached. ‘We in on this?’

  ‘Yes, drop with the British Wolves.’

  There were three Hercules and one C160 available to me, but I did not want too many men on one aircraft just in case it crashed, so after chatting to the pilots we would insert aboard all three Hercules, and one would return at dawn with the Wolves - and be there to pick up anyone with a broken ankle. The Hercules would also loiter for fifteen minutes in case someone in the HALO team broke his leg.

  French Echo – with Moran, plus the small Deltas team, would be on one Hercules with Robby’s troop. The second Hercules would carry most of Echo plus one French team of four. The final Hercules would carry the large Seal team plus the rest of French Echo, Mitch dropping with them.

  At dawn the Hercules would static-line drop the Wolves and their NCOs, another would land with 1st Battalion and RAF Regiment men, all lugging extra kit – and things like GPMGs and box-fed. We were a large force, and those thirty men waiting for us were in for a shock.

  Echo grouped in the hangars and loaded the HALO bags, blankets and cloth borrowed as a soft base and placed around the rifles, extra water bottles placed in, extra ammo as usual. After chatting to a cautious Moran, Echo would drop an hour before anyone else, to check that the LZ was clear.

  Ginger was keen, and he had completed many HALO bag drops, so he would team up with some of Robby’s men. We then found that we had the bag altimeters and auto-releases, but nowhere near enough green lights. I handed the green lights to the less experienced teams.

  Castille and his men would be using our bag technique, the Seals would be using individual kit pods, rifles slung, a technique that now looked archaic and cumbersome.

  I checked in on 1st Battalion as they got ready, then the RAF Regiment – now formed as one group, and they would all benefit from a good nights kip before leaving here. I told them, ‘No beer tonight!’

  I made sure I had a good meal at 5pm, plenty of protein, and I would not sleep before the drop. Checking my watch, I called the Major at home and told him what we were up to, a sitrep for London, and a sitrep for Colonel Mathew’s assistant in the E Ring.

  Major Liban called me, wanting the detail, and we discussed the plan; he felt it was an easy job. Franks called because he had seen the alert, and we also discussed the plan. Captain Harris and his men were now asleep, and would be awake later on, as would a few others.

  At 10pm the RAF Hercules started it engines on a warm floodlit apron, many of the ground handlers milling around and making the place look busy – most with ear defenders perched on heads and not covering ears, the Para School lads to be busy as they checked and re-checked chutes and bags – the Squadron Leader taking many photographs. Some of the Para School lads wanted in on the job. I shook my head, but offered to let them drop with other teams during exercises.

  I head-counted my Echo teams, Sasha’s team and the Salties, and we pushed trolleys full of kit bags towards the rear of the Hercul
es as the Squadron Leader snapped away, ground crews keenly assisting. Bags aboard in sequence, the teams took seats together as I went forwards and knelt awkwardly in my chute, grabbing the spare headsets as the cement Bombers warmed up their bird, a myriad of green squares lit up. ‘You guys all set?’

  ‘Hey Wilco. Be ready soon, yes. Two hours flight time is approximate, wind variances, but you should be over the zone at midnight, other birds an hour behind.’

  ‘Check the map, drop us about three miles northwest of the dam, there’s a flat area. Dropping on the dam could see someone hit that concrete road – or the concrete building.’ I pointed the dam out on and the co-pilot marked a spot. ‘You’ll see the town lights in your two o’clock position, stay well away from it, bank left and around.’

  They nodded.

  I moved back and observed the ramp closing, a chat to the familiar loadmaster by shouting into each other’s ears - a nod at the two Para Instructors coming with us to check kit, before I finally sat with my team, our team closest to the rear. That team would be myself, Swifty, Nicholson and Tomo.

  The lights went out, a slight jolt and the chocks were released and we were moving forwards – a view of the apron and the ground handlers through the windows, a spin to the right and our ride powered down the taxiway, a spin left at the end, a pause, power on, a roar, and we were off.

  Through the small windows I could see the floodlit apron, the other Hercules, the ground handlers, a glimpse of the ATC, a building that I thought might have been the bar, but then I was robbed of interesting features, just the blankness as we climbed.

  Levelling off, I peered out of the window but saw nothing; no roads, no car lights, no villages. Men got comfy, as best you could in a damn uncomfortable harness, a few closing their eyes, some trying to read paperbacks by torch light.

  I folded my arms over my chest, over my reserve, and I sat thinking about what could go wrong, and what the strategy was here. Well, the strategy was to get a good story and some good photographs, the quick massacre of the thirty drugged-up gunmen was irrelevant, one hostage not worth the lives risked.

  Red light flashing, and we eased up, moving back towards the bags, the Para instructors running hands over us as they mumbled to themselves in a well-worn routine. Bags shuffled back, the ramp powered down, a cool breeze invading the hold, nothing but blackness seen below and behind us; I couldn’t see a single point of light.

  A flash, and the loadmaster took a snap.

  ‘Radio check,’ I called.

  My team sounded off, others doing likewise in sequence, more camera flashes in the hold.

  Green flashing, and we shuffled to the edge, shoulders held, legs wide for stability, nods given through facemasks and non-oxygen oxygen masks, heads craned around to the dispatch light – another flash from the camera. Solid green, and we fell back into the black unknown, a roar in my ears, cold air blasting me, a shoulder pushed, and we settled.

  Looking down, I could see the town, and that was my reference point. ‘I can see the town, we’re in the right spot.’

  A look up, and I could finally see the next team, far enough away not to be a risk. Looking down, counting in my head, the perception was one of floating, not one of falling since we had no depth perception up here, nothing seen moving.

  I could see a black road below, black hills, and at the tone we broke. ‘One thousand ... two thousand ... three thousand ... four thousand.’ I pulled my released, the pressure in my back reduced, soon a jerk upwards.

  Guides grabbed, I looked up and around, no one about to tangle with me. Relieved, I looked down, hearing other teams break, and we were drifting east, the town being my reference point.

  ‘Wind is pushing us east, all teams turn west just before you hit, away from the town lights!’

  Still seeing the bag, and hearing a thud, I pulled hard on my left guide and came around, knees bent, and I landed softly enough, left guide released quickly, my chute collapsing as I knelt in the dark. It was deathly quiet, dark desert under a myriad of twinkling stars, that familiar smell. Right guide released, reserve off in a hurry and dropped, harness off, and I walked forwards across the sand, pocketing my non-oxygen oxygen mask.

  The bag chute was quietly fluttering as someone landed unseen with a thud and a curse. I released the chute, bag open in a hurry, a quick look around, no lights seen. Bag light off, I lifted the first bandolier; mine because it had a pistol in an inside pocket. Bandolier on, footsteps registered. Webbing on, and Swifty was grabbing for his bandolier. Next bandolier out, and I handed it to Nicholson, the next to Tomo, and I could easily detect who was who in the dark.

  Kitted ready, we quietly loaded rifles and walked fifty yards east, finding the road, where we waited, the visibility always good in the desert – I could see the other teams, chutes fluttering. East of me I could make-out a black ridge, and that fitted with the map and with what I recalled from last year.

  Rizzo came in with his team, Slider, the Salties, a French team, finally Sasha’s team. They were all accounted for, so I led them south down the road, the teams spread out and ready.

  The ridge finally gave way to a more distant view, a black square in the distance - the concrete damn building, the old rusted barn-type building to the right a little closer. I couldn’t quite make out the burnt-out huts, but the black background in the distance had to be the hills with the caves.

  Turning left towards the dam, we crossed sand – the concrete road unfinished in places, finally finding the concrete road by accident and soon feeling that uneven concrete under our boots. We slowed down. The burnt-out huts were soon on my right, no lights on anywhere nearby, no sounds.

  Nearing the concrete building I knelt suddenly, everyone copying. ‘Someone is home, get ready, but it could be a civvy. Rizzo, go left and around, dead quiet. Slider, right and around, check your fire. Rest of you close up.’

  When the black blobs that were the teams had moved off I inched slowly forwards and to the entrance of the concrete building, that entrance being a large square at the northwest corner, the only entrance and exit. Back to the rough concrete wall, my team behind me, the next team ten yards away and knelt, I put my head in. Down at the far end of the building sat perhaps twelve gunmen, fires going, weed being smoked, a white guy tied up.

  I eased back out. ‘Listen up, there’s a white hostage inside, twelve gunmen I can see. Sasha, Casper, forwards. Nicholson, Tomo, hold back.’ They had Elephant Guns, not much use on a breach.

  Two dark shadows approached and knelt next to me. I transmitted, ‘We’re going to rush them, so all of you watch out for other gunmen nearby, someone might be out having a shit. Me and Swifty will start left and work in. Sasha, Casper, start on the men on the right and work left. We’ll move in slow and steady, then kneel and fire. Don’t shoot the guy in the white shirt!’

  The two dark outlines eased up, I eased forwards, Swifty at the edge of the concrete door.

  ‘Now,’ I whispered and we stepped briskly inside the wide entrance with shoulders rubbing, wheeled left in line and knelt, suddenly a hell of a racket as we fired without silencers, the concrete reflecting and amplifying the loud discharges. I hit the second man in from the left, twice, onto his buddy – hit in the back, the next man standing and slammed against the wall, final man reaching for a rifle and taken with a head shot.

  ‘Forwards!’ I shouted, and we ran. Stood over the bodies, I doubled-tapped, our white guy cowering down. It fell quiet, everything bathed in the orange light from the flickering flames. I transmitted, ‘All teams, spread out and search. Salties inside, up on the roof, French inside, Sasha’s team inside.’ I knelt next to our hostage. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Where ... where did you come from?’

  ‘Base nearby. What’s your name?’

  ‘Peter Bowles. I ... I’m an oil geologist, I was kidnapped.’

  ‘Where did they grab you?’

  ‘On a road, near The Gambia I think, it’s a blur, I was blindfolded for days
.’

  I handed him my water, aware of teams behind me. ‘Take it easy, you’re safe now.’ I eased up. ‘Drag the bodies outside, search for papers and phones!’

  I walked outside and called Captain Harris. ‘We’re down safe, OK to the land the others, send back our RAF Hercules – it’s loitering at altitude, but we got the hostage already. Don’t tell anyone that yet.’

  ‘You got a hostage?’

  ‘He was in the dam building, not the camp over the hills.’

  ‘Bloody hell. OK, I’ll call the planes now.’

  Fuzz asked, ‘Permission to take a monster shit, Boss?’

  ‘Should have gone back at base, dope.’

  ‘I did, but I got the runs.’

  ‘Go run then – and well away from here.’

  Bodies were dragged past me and out, torches used, and we soon had a body-free happy home. I called in the teams after they checked the area, a stag set-up, a brew on. We had papers and a sat phone from the bodies, so I wondered why Tinker had not detected or reported the sat phone usage here – but I knew that there was a delay in finding such data.

  I called London. ‘It’s Wilco, and we just picked up a Peter Bowles, oil geologist, safe and well, hostage takers not quite so well. Get the FCO to notify next of kin, etc.’

  ‘OK, will do.’

  I turned on the sat phone, waited for it to get past the self test, and dialed London. ‘It’s Wilco again, using a hostage taker’s sat phone, track back his number. Thanks.’

  Inside, I approached our relieved hostage as the guys got a brew on for him. He looked to be in his forties, tall and slim, a mop of dark hair. I asked his dark outline, ‘You have a wife to call?’

  ‘Er ... no, divorced.’

  ‘Kids, anyone worried about you?’

  ‘Not really, only the office – job comes first. Will there ... will there be publicity about me, British newspapers?’

  ‘Bound to be. You worried about something?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been an expat for a few years, no declared UK tax, been kind of avoiding the UK taxman.’