Wilco- Lone Wolf 10

by Geoff Wolak

  Franks said, ‘You do, and that came from the E Ring.’

  I pointed at Mahoney. ‘I’ve been a captain longer than him anyhow.’

  ‘And I’m a proper captain,’ Moran put in. ‘Neat handwriting, paperwork filled in.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I told Moran. ‘I do paperwork now and then.’ I faced Franks. ‘Back-up?’

  ‘Marines,’ he said, a nod towards the Major. ‘Sixty of them.’

  ‘Medics?’

  ‘Plenty on the ships.’

  ‘Have them on the helos that come out, IV drips, tubes’

  Franks nodded.

  I faced Mahoney. ‘How many men you got?’

  ‘Twelve. But the unit will grow. This twelve are a mix of those that volunteered, and those that passed my three-day.’

  ‘You have a three-day?’ I loudly teased.

  ‘I do, in the sand. We’re based in Dhohar. Hence Delta Sand Unit, hence Desert Sands.’

  ‘And the plan..?’ the Marines major nudged.

  ‘Plans are no good, sir, till you see the ground in front of you. We may not get to the camp, we may find a minefield and go around. We’ll see what the ground is like when we get there ... and then make a plan. And if the plan was a dawn raid by helicopter ... then many men would be shot as they got off the choppers, helos hit by RPG, a bad newspaper headline.’

  Mahoney turned his head to the Major. ‘Sir, Washington has complete confidence in Captain Wilco. I worked with his team for two years, and I have complete confidence.’

  The major considered that. ‘And will there be an opportunity for some of my lads to see some action, a good newspaper headline?’

  ‘There may well be, sir,’ I told him. ‘But if your lads came to our rescue, my lads would sulk for weeks.’

  Many laughed as the major cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘And this ... exotic mix of men you have?’

  ‘One New Zealander, two French 1st Battalion, one French Foreign Legion, a Yank, and one Russian.’

  ‘A Russian!’

  ‘To be correct, a wanted Russian gunman.’

  ‘Here on the damn ship!’

  ‘Yes, sir. But the naked black lady we left behind,’ I added, Mitch and Moran laughing.

  ‘Black lady?’ Mahoney queried.

  ‘Sandra,’ Moran told him.

  ‘Ah,’ Mahoney noted.

  Mitch put in, ‘She showers with the rest of us, which is real off-putting.’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘In the Congo she always had her boobs hanging out.’

  One of the CIA men asked, ‘Can I go chat to Sasha, some men he might know?’

  ‘That’s why he’s with us, so go chat.’

  Out on the deck later I gave London a sitrep, and chatted to Tinker for a few minutes. I had been allocated reasonable quarters with Moran, Mitch and Hunt, but checked in on the lads. Their accommodation was similar, but of a lesser quality, more of them close together, and noisy with it. And they teased me over the officer and men division here, Swifty asking if I had a butler.

  Each cubicle had four bunks plus storage space, a small sink, curtains around bunks and curtains for doors. At the end I found a common area, some floor space and seats, two Marines stripping Valmects, Crab and Duffy teaching them.

  Further on I found some of mine with Marines, Tomo and Nicholson sat chatting. After asking, I was led to the Deltas, and found the team – all in desert brown, soon sat at a table with them, coffee handed to me. They had lots of questions about past operations.

  One man asked, ‘Sir, you’ve been on a shit load of missions, but what was it like at the start, the fear?’

  ‘For me, the start was Northern Ireland, night patrols in the cold and the wet, and I did well. When I first joined the SAS they told me ... that the guy I was up against had received an hour’s training, lived with his mum, and watched old war movies. That guy ... would not be sure if the safety was on or not, how many rounds he had fired.

  ‘Here in Eritrea, you’re up against a hill farmer with an hour’s training, and if you get shot its bad luck not good aim. You must never give that guy credit for having the skills you have. If you take your time, if you think, you’ll get him – and at distance.

  ‘One of my lads will see an eight man patrol coming at him and think nothing of it. He’ll hit the first guy in the balls just for fun, then pick off the rest without raising his heartbeat. You could do the same thing, you just need to believe that, then practise it a bit.

  ‘Some men, before a battle, look at a picture of their wife and kids, say a prayer. If I saw that I’d bin the man. This is volunteer work, and my men love it, and they win because they’re not uptight, not burning the adrenaline, not worrying. They see it as a fun day out.’

  ‘Your bosses pressure you for a good result, sir?’

  ‘If they did I’d tell them to fuck off, and go work somewhere else. Pressure like that is a recipe for disaster, so is a tight plan. The French made that mistake a few times, a tight plan worked out in Paris and handed down, men on the ground slaughtered.

  ‘Commander on the ground has to have flexibility. Plan says to go one way, but it’s mined. River is swollen, can’t cross. I make a loose plan, then see the ground, then react. Does your E Ring try and give you tight plans?’

  ‘For most things, yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you need to nod, say yes, but then do your own thing. Look at the ground, then think of a plan. And think like a ten year old playing hide and seek. I’ve foxed a few groups by opening up on them, running back out of sight, going around in a big wide circle and coming up behind them. They never expect that.’

  ‘And Colombia, sir?’ he risked.

  ‘You’re not supposed to know, but my men were on the ground. So, you all use my Valmect rifles?’

  ‘It’s a heavy rifle, sir, but damned accurate at distance, got a punch to it.’

  ‘We’ve never had a stoppage, in the sand or in the jungle,’ I told them.

  ‘We’ve not had a problem yet, sir.’

  ‘You practise moving and firing?’

  ‘Yes, sir, over and over; pairs, fours, patrol. And we don’t use paper targets any more, we use metal plates or old helmets on sticks.’

  ‘How many of you have seen action?’ I asked.

  ‘Most of us were in Somalia, sir, and we’ve extracted embassy staff from a few places, but not many kills, not compared to your lot.’

  ‘You have Captain Mahoney with you, and he has way more than three hundred kills. And on this job I’ll put you near the front. But here’s a tip: it’s mountain goat country so take brown cloth and rags, wrap some around your forearm when you get a fire position on a rock, cloth over your head, cloth with holes in. You won’t have gilly suits, so you make do and stay hidden.

  ‘Brown cloth on your forend grip, so that your rifle doesn’t look like a rifle. That way you stay alive longer. How many big lenses have you got?’

  ‘In an eight man patrol we have four of them, sir, carried not fitted.’

  ‘You get on OK with the pipe sight?’

  ‘Was odd at first, but you get used to it quickly, and at short range and moving it’s great. Old M16 feels odd now.’

  When a man asked about Bosnia I gave them the detail, eight men sat close, some stood, and I was still there an hour later when Mahoney turned up.

  ‘They getting it from the horse’s mouth?’ he quipped. ‘When I tell them stories about you they think I’m exaggerating.’

  I told them, ‘Best way to learn about doing jobs is from other people’s experience, and in particular from other people’s mistakes.’ Grabbing pen and paper, I gave them a rescue scenario, and they debated it, and I could hear my own words and phrases on their lips – which they got from Mahoney.

  At the end of the scenario, Mahoney told them, ‘You wanna know what this crazy bastard did for real in that scenario? He got a Hercules to drop bags of cement on their heads, and when they were stumbling around blind and hacking – he shot them.’

  I
nodded at the men and smiled as I lifted up. ‘In Senegal, which Mahoney missed, the French dropped ten tonnes of cement on an enemy camp, from 1500ft. Try and imagine being on the receiving end of that lot.’

  ‘A forty pound bag of cement? From 1500ft? Jesus.’

  I faced Mahoney. ‘Have you trained these boys well, Captain?’

  ‘They’re all shit hot, I’m not worried about any of them – you can rely on them.’

  Finding a rating, and finding my way to the deck, I stepped out into a breeze, the aircraft and helicopters tied down, and I called the Pentagon.

  ‘Ah, Wilco,’ Colonel Mathews began. ‘You’re aboard the Kearsage, I got the reports.’

  ‘You following this one, sir?’

  ‘Planning and controlling it. At least ... the broad strokes, given that you’ll complain about interference. So what’s your plan?’

  ‘Plan is to hit them at dawn our time, sir.’

  ‘That’s kinda midnight here, so I’ll be in and sipping the coffee. And we’re hoping on some good intel from that camp, Israelis keen.’

  ‘And is the Assistant National Security Adviser keen as well, given the source of the intel?’

  ‘It came from the Russians?’

  ‘It came from a questionable source, shall we say, extracted through torture.’

  ‘Well the satellite images had some of our guys jumping up and down, a new terror training camp.’

  ‘Don’t forget to mention up the line what a helpful little fucker I am.’

  ‘I won’t word it quite that way, but I’ll make sure they understand the source.’

  Back with my team, I tried to get comfy, but that was more of a hope; lying on my side, knees bent. From behind my blue curtain I said, ‘OK for you, Shortarse Moran.’

  ‘Suffer, Lanky.’

  Hunt began, ‘Did I tell you, I hate ships, and subs, and the water in general.’

  We laughed.

  ‘Bit late now,’ I told him. ‘And that throbbing sound goes on all night.’

  ‘We’re not – you know - going up and down,’ Hunt noted.

  ‘First, it’s a great big fucking aircraft carrier, and second – the Red Sea is calm most of the time, especially this week.’

  ‘This where Moses crossed over?’ Hunt asked.

  ‘Bit further up,’ I told him, ‘because most of the Red Sea is a thousand metres deep, and very rocky, sheer drops of hundreds of feet. You wouldn’t be getting a wagon full of Israelites across it, even if they had the right visa stamps in their passports.’

  I was awake at 6am and looking at my watch, and I eased down quietly, dressing quietly as the others slept behind their blue curtains. Carrying my boots, I wandered out and past the sleeping quarters, sat and put my boots on, suddenly lost and trying to figure the way to the officers galley. I stopped to ask a young rating with a crew cut and acne, and he led me there.

  Sat down, I greeted members of the graveyard shift, a chat about engine performance as I sipped my coffee; these guys were all keen to tell me about “their” ship. The Filipino staff brought me a good-sized breakfast, officers coming and going, the ship never sleeping.

  After breakfast I sat in the common area near my bunk and picked out a well-worn paperback from a two-deck library in the wall, and read for a few hours. Moran and Mitch wandered past, heading for breakfast, followed soon after by Hunt, and they joined me afterwards, an ensign bringing up coffee as we sat there.

  Later, in the large hangar, I grabbed Mahoney’s team and went through wear and tear on the Valmect, what to look out for, not that maintenance was an issue with it.

  With permission from the captain, all flight operations suspended for now as we repositioned, my lads threw bottles into the ocean from a rear lower-deck platform and tried to hit the bottles as they bobbed in the ship’s wake, all of the new rifles tested, after which the lads simply sat around or checked kit.

  Water bottles were topped up, bottled water to be taken. The Marines had grenades, a box handed over, fuses not to be put in whilst on ship. All of our 9volt batteries were tested, pistols were stripped and cleaned, ammo levels checked, Crab and Dufy busy helping out.

  An hour before sun down we were all kitted out in our browns, brown Valmects held, bandoliers full, and I checked the men over, Sambo’s kit adjusted, our Legion man keen and resolute. Most of my lads had brown cloth, the Deltas as well, but we also had some brown cammo netting in the crates and so tucked it into webbing. Extra water bottles were stuffed into back packs, a few lads to lug them, grenades in a bag – fuses out to keep the Navy happy.

  Rocko and Slider, Rizzo and Stretch, Henri and Jacque, they would all carry the extra large telescopic sights we now had.

  The US Navy insisted on life jackets around necks for all of us, for the helicopter insert. Given what our bandoliers and webbing weighed, we would sink quickly anyhow and drown.

  Franks, Hunt and the CIA turned up, and it was time to go, the deck lift rising after a warning siren, caps taken off and stuffed into bandoliers, naval ratings watching us slowly ascend. Four Seahawks sat waiting, rotors turning, but two additional Seahawks floated on the wind behind the carrier.

  Led across, we boarded in teams, weapons having been “seen to unloaded” before hand, and sat where directed, doors closed, and we were off, life vests on – just to please the US Navy. We hovered for two minutes, suddenly the nose dipping, and we were moving forwards, the dark ocean glimpsed below us as the sun set behind high hills ten miles to the west of us.

  Ten minutes later, and we banked left and around, and I could see the sandy coastline clearly. Lifejacket off - everyone copying, I adopted my rifle ready, magazine out and held. Coming in to land, magazines were slapped in, the door opened – a roar invading the cabin, crewman peering out and down at dark brown sand as we lost the light.

  A bump as the wheels touched, and we were out and running bent double in a sand storm, eyes mostly closed, rifles cocked, heads lowered, all of us kneeling in the sand.

  Our ride lifted off in a roar, our eyes still closed, and the storm abated. I opened my eyes and took in the terrain, seeing no humans except us, not so much as a lonely camel on this desolate stretch of coastline as the trailing helicopters came in and landed, another sand storm created, caps held down.

  When those three trailing helicopters departed I lifted up and led the teams off, threading my ear piece. Turning, I pointed at my ear piece, the lads threading theirs, and seeing a gully I ducked into it. Ahead of me the sand stretched out half a mile to black hills in shadow - the hills rising steeply, behind them distant mountains, their grey peaks still brightly lit by the setting sun.

  I transmitted, ‘Headcount your teams.’

  Behind me I could see Swifty, Moran and Mitch, behind them stood Rocko, Slider, Henri and Jacque – Sambo with them, next came Rizzo and Stretch, Tomo and Nicholson, Swann and Leggit, Fuzz and Smitty, Robby and his lad, then Sasha’s team, Dicky and Mouri. Further back I could just make out Mahoney.

  ‘Mahoney, you read me?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re on the same frequency.’

  ‘OK, one foot in front of the other, guys, long walk up some steep hills tonight. We have sand to trip us, sharp rocks to cut us.’

  I moved off southwest, the helicopters having landed well north of the target camp, and we crossed the sandy valley bottom in a long line, no distant lights seen, nothing seen nor heard nearby as night came on. Across the valley I could see a gentle rise of sand and bushes, the bushes appearing black, and so I began a diagonal climb, a steady plod. In some places the sand was fine, the going tough, but mostly it was a sandy-dirt under foot.

  Calling a break, I phoned Franks as I stood on a steep slope looking down at the Red Sea, a cool breeze blowing. ‘It’s Wilco, we’re down and walking, a few miles southwest of the drop-off point. All quiet, no one around, no lights seen.’

  ‘Roger that. I’m going to get some kip now, be up at 5am. But this phone will be manned.’

  ‘S
leep well in your little bunk. Wilco out.’ I called Colonel Mathews just to give a brief sitrep, followed by London, before I plodded on up the darkened sandy slope.

  Finding a goat trail of sorts I followed it, and in a deep crag I checked the ground with my torch; no one had used it since Moses – so I reported to my team.

  The trail wound west and higher so we followed it, climbing steadily and keeping ourselves warm, no need for jackets. Now I could see lights down the coast, but no lights in these hills, the black ocean stretching out to the western horizon, lights of ships seen, maybe fishing boats.

  Cresting a rocky ridge, the chill wind picking up, we were presented with a small valley followed by a steep rise the other side. Stood there in the dark, I could see the light and dark areas, and so I planned what I figured to be a less-dangerous route.

  A long hour later and we were struggling up steep sandy slopes, and slowly. Two hours later, and the sand gave way to rocks, and picking our way through was tricky. At several points I had the team halt, and I went forwards by myself, only to find a sheer drop or tough rocks to pass, so I would have to back-up and go around.

  I slowly threaded the rocks northwest, then west, finally south, and cresting a rise at 4am I was looking south at the distant camp, some two miles away, it’s position estimated from the shape of the hills. But the camp was blacked out – I had expected to see lights.

  ‘That camp is blacked out,’ I told my team.

  ‘Abandoned?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Only today, and only if they knew we were coming.’

  Moran said, ‘They want to stay hidden, not seen by passing planes.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s a bit extreme,’ I told them. ‘It would look like a village from the air, a few huts.’

  ‘They know we’re coming?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘If someone saw the helos, then maybe. But who would figure us stupid enough to be walking all this way over dangerous rocks?’ Phone out, I called GCHQ. ‘It’s Wilco, in Eritrea. Track back this position and see if you have any data on anyone close by, south of me a mile or two.’