by Geoff Wolak
Wilco:
Lone Wolf
Book 11
Copyright © Geoff Wolak
Started January, 2014
This book is historically very accurate in places, technically correct for the most part, yet it is fiction, really fiction, definitely fiction, and any similarity to real people or real events – although accidental - is probably intentional. Some characters in this book may be based on some of the wankers I have either worked with or unfortunately met over the years.
www.geoffwolak-writing.com
The horn of Africa
After two weeks in Cyprus the lads were getting bored, and their thoughts had finally returned to fitness – and to shooting people. But the stitches were out and their wounds had healed at least, suntans now displayed on faces and arms. And Desert Sands, they now had t-shirts printed locally with the words, “Ceasefire! Tea Break.”
After saying goodbye to our American cousins, and being suitably rude, we flew directly down to Kenya, to a familiar base under heavy armed escort; they were taking no chances this time.
Smitty and Captain Hamble met us there, along with Captain Harris and Whisky. Arriving at the same time were three of Robby’s lads, one having quit on us and gone back to the Regiment. The two Salties were back, but they informed me that they would rotate out in a month – orders from the SBS colonel. Mouri was no longer officially attached to the SBS, and they did not want Dicky back apparently.
I took Dicky to one side. ‘There a problem with your boss?’
He ran a hand over his bald plate. ‘I’m short time, six months, and they don’t see any point in me coming back.’
‘The point ... is that you have more experience than the rest of them put together.’
‘But not at core SBS work, water skills, and ... it’s all political bullshit.’
I held my hands wide. ‘They wanted to come along on jobs and get experience...’
‘And now they’ve got some experience, and gone back to core values.’
I shook my head, not understanding the problem. ‘Mouri, you happy to stay with us?’
‘Sure, Skipper. And the New Zealand press has woken up to the idea, a few stories about their boys on the jobs we do, New Zealand SAS getting good publicity.’
‘Boys? It’s just the one boy!’
‘Well ... they may have stretched it a bit, Skipper.’
Again I shook my head as Mouri and Dicky laughed.
Back up to full strength numerically with our new man, Sambo, we had been allocated huts and had settled in, weapons cleaned and tested, kit checked, the fitness programme steep – I needed them back to full fitness quickly for the planned job in Somalia.
Mahoney knew of the planned job and so wanted in, but the White House was not keen to send men back into Somalia, and Mahoney was not the decision maker.
I called the Deputy Chief one hot day at noon.
‘Ah, Wilco, just been talking about Somalia.’
‘And what has the nice man in the White House decided?’
‘They’re still considering it, but not keen.’
‘Makes no difference to me, we’ll take French Echo along, and we have Lieutenant Mitchel, so you can claim embedded men anyhow.’
‘That helps, yes. I’ll let you know if they decide something.’
The teams came back from their daily run soaked in sweat, Crab, Duffy and Whisky operating our mini stores area for me and now issuing bottled water.
I approached Hamble. ‘How’s the leg?’
‘It twinges a bit, the knee was jarred, but it doesn’t really slow me down. I ran at the FOB. Odd thing really, but I felt quite relaxed at the FOB.’
‘Home from home,’ I quipped. ‘None of this lot want to go back till the weather is better.’
‘And this next job?’ he asked as the lads stood puffing, drinks taken, water splashed over faces.
‘Somalia, but it won’t be easy; long walk in, lots of bad boys. They have APC, a few old tanks, so we have to avoid the head-on clashes.’
I stepped to Rocko as he stood sweating, his Kylie Minogue t-shirt soaked. ‘Staff Sergeant, how’s that arm?’
‘Arm’s OK, but my fucking head throbs a little where the stitches were.’
‘That’s normal, it did for me.’
‘How long till we go?’ he asked.
‘When we’re ready, and not before. Fuzz, that leg OK?’
‘It’s not 100%, Boss. I can feel the twinge, but it’s not slowing me down really.’
I shouted, ‘Anyone got any injuries that are a problem? Say so now!’
They exchanged looks, but none volunteered a problem.
‘OK, Troop Sergeants, we’ll all be on the range in an hour, some practise needed for this lazy bunch of holiday makers.’
David called at 6pm, as we made our way to the canteen as a rabble, other groups of regular soldiers marching in neat blocks.
‘Right, Boss,’ I offered.
‘Just to say that an extra ten million pounds found its way into that Cayman Islands bank account.’
‘The Banker did say he’d send something when he rang last week. So we can buy some extra kit.’
‘Did you ... arrange to upset the FBI again?’
‘Not this time, no. What’s happened?’
‘FBI went to Marseille looking for Petrov, but met with a series of minor mishaps, and complained to the French about a lack of cooperation.’
‘Down to the DGSE maybe - they want Petrov out there and not in prison. And The Banker may have wanted the FBI tripped up.’
‘How’re the men shaping up?’
‘Getting back towards full fitness. Had some range time this week, getting sharper. A few days and they should be OK for Somalia.’
‘French are keen, ships to be made available.’
‘Yanks are dragging their feet, all politics and no common sense,’ I noted.
‘They never like to revisit a place after a mishap, and their reason for leaving Somalia is still a mystery. Shall I assume that French Echo will join you and send a note?’
‘Sure, but warn them in writing of the dangers, this will be a proper fight.’
‘I will do, yes, but do you see us taking casualties?’
‘I’ll try and plan it so that we avoid a head-on fight, but we’ll be a long way from support ... and they have lots of men to hand, a few old tanks, APC, the works. You need to risk assess and decide if it’s worth it.’
‘Well, hitting an al-Qaeda training camp is very much desired, more by the Americans than by us, but we want them set back as well, and it should get us some high-profile publicity.’
The next day I had Crab and Duffy take Sambo to the range for pistol and rifle work, the rest of us on a route march in full kit through the hills - led by Rizzo because he knew the way, and we worked up a sweat, an eight hour hike around in a circle.
That evening the CIA arrived as planned, Franks with them, and we sat down around a table in the SAS building and poured over maps and satellite images, “B” Squadron in residence and curious about the upcoming job.
Franks began, ‘The satellite images show a camp, complete with range and assault course, so they’re not teaching agriculture there. A dozen huts, so up to two hundred men, but there is a village nearby, and some odd huts in a uniform pattern near it, so it could be more men.
‘Trucks are seen, mounted fifty cal, Toyota pick-ups, and this village is run by a warlord who’s loyal to Aideed Junior in Mogadishu, so they could call in a lot of men.’
I held up a hand. ‘Aideed the younger was attacked a few weeks back in Mogadishu, lost a lot of men, but he is talking to the UN, so ... what’s on his mind?’
‘He is talking to the UN, yes, but he inheri
ted a rebel army with an illegitimate claim on the presidency ... and has not yet relinquished that claim, and it seems to be business as usual at the moment.’
‘Painful for you,’ I told Franks. ‘Seeing as Aideed the younger spent ten years serving in your Marines.’
‘Not something we advertise widely,’ Franks replied.
‘And has your Marine been training his men?’
‘He has re-organised them, but he’s got limited funds and limited manpower to train.’
‘And his links to al-Qaeda?’ I pressed.
‘He’s stated that he wants them gone, but will not throw away lives chasing them down.’
‘Ha,’ Hunt grumbled.
‘Odd,’ I noted. ‘Maybe he’s getting something in return for leaving them alone ... like Saudi money.’
‘We are aware of Saudi money making its way into Somalia, and Afghanistan, to hard line clerics and various hard line groups.’
‘And there was me thinking the Saudis were on our side,’ I quipped, getting a look from Franks and Hunt. ‘I hope there was no link to the Saudis found in Eritrea.’
‘If there was it would have been buried deep,’ Franks suggested. He tapped the map. ‘How will you do it?’
‘It’s a thirty mile walk across shit terrain,’ I began. ‘But that terrain has no roads and few tracks, so no bad boys will be chasing us down. Greatest danger is a broken leg. But from the shit terrain to the camp is a few miles, and there we could be caught out. Question is ... will Aideed send men?’
Franks replied, ‘It’s a hundred miles from Aideed, so it’s more than a day’s travel. And how would he find you in the hills?’
Captain Harris put in, ‘He’d go to the coast and wait there.’
‘Coast has no road, a few tracks,’ I told Harris. ‘And the French will have helicopters from their dated tub Joan of Arc, and we could be picked up at night by dinghy.’
‘And casevac?’ Hunt pressed.
‘A risk, because a wounded man would have two hours at least to get somewhere offering a doctor, maybe three hours. But we’ve always had that risk, and on many jobs we never had helos close by.’ I pointed at Franks. ‘You have a tub nearby?’
‘The same carrier group - it was never supposed to go up the Red Sea, so they turned around and headed towards the Gulf. Kearsage, an escort warship, and a support ship have been turned around.’
‘You anticipated that,’ I teased. ‘Or the White House has an agenda?’
‘Pentagon and CIA wanted the move, and it didn’t need approval,’ Franks explained. ‘It’s down as a training exercise. If you’re wounded they would want you picked up.’
‘Me ... or my men?’ I teased.
‘You, since they value certain projects.’
‘The other day job,’ Harris unhappily noted.
‘The highly valued other day job,’ Hunt told him.
With a dead-pan face I told Harris, ‘I get time and a half, two weeks off a year.’ I faced Franks. ‘When will the tub be in place?’
‘Three days.’
‘We won’t be inserting before then,’ I told them. ‘Boys are stiff-legged. Let’s aim for five days from now.’
He made a note, and left me the satellite images to have a look at.
The next day I tasked Mitch and Moran, Harris and Hamble, with making sketches and maps from the satellite images, and to start on the ground detail – good approaches to the camp.
The rest of us set out again for another route march, this time faster, and finding a steep dusty track I led them up and down several times, everyone soaked in sweat.
At 8pm, when it was cool, we all met in a training room near the SAS building, and Moran detailed the target Somali camp, the terrain, the compass bearings and the distances.
I asked, ‘Best way to approach that camp?’
Moran began, ‘By going all the way around and coming in from the north, but that would mean the risk of getting spotted ahead of moving on the camp, a road to cross, as well as eight hundred yards of open ground. Could be done at night.’
‘How much open ground to the south?’
‘A mile.’
‘We’d have to cover it at night,’ I agreed.
‘There are a few isolated houses, farms, so it would be tricky,’ Mitch noted. ‘How about getting them out the camp?’
I said, ‘If we had someone dressed like a local, taking pot shots, they’d send men, but not everyone. And if they lose those men they’ll be cautious.’
‘There is the road,’ Captain Harris put in. ‘Stop a truck, mount up and drive in.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘So long as there’re truck movements at night, which I doubt.’
‘And the objective here?’ Mitch asked.
‘To kill them all, get some paperwork.’
Mitch responded, ‘So we cut the road north and south, trick them, wear them down, slowly move in from all sides.’
‘There are reinforcements in the village,’ I told him, ‘in so much as every adult male has a rifle. There are also very heavily armed reinforcements a day’s drive away, so we can’t take a day about it. They have APC.’
‘I say we avoid the APC,’ Rocko put in, others nodding.
Moran explained, ‘We have plenty of men with French Echo, so four men to each road, the rest moving in slowly at night from different sides, dawn attack, hold off the villagers whilst we get the paperwork, withdraw in teams.’
‘That’s as close to a plan as I think we’ll get, rest to be decided when we see how they’re set-up.’
‘They could all be at the sausage fest,’ Rocko noted, the lads laughing.
‘Sausage fest?’ Mitch queried.
I explained with a smile, ‘The first time we did a job in Somalia we came across an all-male sing-along in the hills, young boys dancing for older men.’
‘Ah,’ Mitch noted. His faced soured. ‘I suddenly don’t want to be back in Somalia.’
Meeting breaking up, I told Harris to study the satellite images and maps for anything we missed, and to get what local intel there was available.
The next day we undertook an inventory of kit, extra brown cloth handed out, a few ripped facemasks replaced. One of the large sights had a scratch, but no one was admitting to it. When peered through the scratch was not noticeable, so we would take it.
Backpacks would be taken by many men, extra water, extra rations, spare ammo. And we knew that it would be warm during the day, a little cold at night in the hills.
In the afternoon heat I had the lads on sprints, some aggression displayed as I shouted at them; they needed to build capacity back up. They were fit by Army standards, but if we got into trouble we would need to call upon that fitness.
I had them diving down into the dirt, rolling over and getting back up, the kind of stuff beginners learn during basic training. Later, on the range, I had them sprinting, firing, reloading, just two rounds per magazine, a few a little slow and getting shouted at, a sweat worked up.
That evening, after “chow” as the lads now called it, Hamble brought me a satellite photo. He pointed. ‘What do you make of that? It looks like a man sunbathing, a white man, since I don’t think the wogs sunbathe.’
‘It does look like someone sunbathing, but it’s not clear. And it could be a Russian arms dealer, there a few in the region – AK47s don’t come by mail order.’
‘So they’re well armed.’
‘They’re as well armed as they can afford to be, which is not well armed at all, and they lost weapons and men a few weeks back in a battle northwest of Mogadishu. No government is funding them, they have no resources or oil or ... anything but sand. Neither the Americans, Russians or Chinese want into that shit hole.
‘Places like Sierra Leone attract British interest because they have mines and oil, Somalia has sand and camel shit. It’s all about the strategic value on a map to some idiot in the Pentagon.’
The next day I finalised transport with London via Hunt, and they final
ised it with the French, French Echo to meet us in Mombasa. GL4 had sent down more 7.62mm Russian standard ammo, as well as four pairs of binoculars and four spare radios, sixty new nine volt batteries – not trusting the local Kenyan shops.
The lads had again been on the range, worked hard, scores tallied, a few people shouted at – namely Stretch. Sambo lacked the skills, but he was not far behind, and his speed was excellent, his stamina to be marvelled at. He didn’t get any shit from the lads because he was built like me, and with his top off he was a big scary black man.
That evening we packed-up ready, even if the lads could have done with a few more days training. Key to winning a battle was attitude, and they had the right attitude, so I was not too worried.
In the small hours we made use of two coaches with tinted windows, stealth being our only weapon. We departed at 4am, the lads soon asleep on the coaches, pistols to hand just in case, and we made good time down to Mombasa, arriving at the airport just before 9am. Off the coaches, we all stretched our legs and took a piss.
A few Army officers, and two embassy officials, were there to greet us, Hunt liaising with them, a room provided near the apron – no sign of French Echo, the spare kit stacked up with the crates. The first Puma landed just half an hour later, the helicopter finished in desert brown but with streaks of black - looking like oil leaks - running from the engines. The lads were not impressed. Eight men and four crates went aboard, the noisy bird soon lifting off as another glided in.
I hitched a lift on the second sand-coloured Puma, a thirty minute flight out to sea and then northeast, and we eventually found the Joan de Arc and an escort frigate, the carrier an odd looking ship, and a very dated ship.
Our new happy home looked a bit like a large long tug boat, with a high bridge at the front, a helicopter carrier deck on the rear two-thirds, looking as if that deck had been bolted on sometime after the ship had been built. There was space on deck for maybe four or five Pumas, an open exposed area under the deck for equipment.
