Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  Deciding against going over the fence yet, they followed the river to a stone bridge and ducked under it when a jeep came past, and they circled around towards the far side of the enemy base. By luck they found a metal drain feeding into the river and had a peek inside, the drain large enough to crawl up. Torches out, they inched up the drain, finding a convenient manhole cover some fifty yards in.

  Lifting the heavy drain cover and peeking out they found themselves next to a hut, laughter heard coming from within that hut. Easing the cover back down, dog barks caused them to scamper along the drain and out in a hurry, back into the icy water and across the river as it rained like hell. Easing up through thick trees, they took the long way back around, calling Rocko on the radio and meeting up.

  Back at camp, half an hour later, they gave their report – and the exciting find of the drain before they got warm dry clothes on. The number of men inside was estimated, the number of jeeps, the map refined yet again.

  With Rizzo and Swifty now dry and cooking, Slider and Rocko were dispatched across the river and to the far side of the base to simply recon from a distance, and I took Elkin on patrol to check our rear.

  Slider and Rocko got back just before dawn, the map once again annotated and refined, numbers of men seen duly adjusted, dog patrols described. And they had found a section of fence that was broken, partly hidden by a tree. The camp could be penetrated quietly. Problem was the dogs.

  Moran was getting frustrated as we held a planning meeting. ‘OK, we go back down towards nightfall, use the drain, we throw food and smelly underwear out from the drain – rocks inside the clothing, and get the dogs going crazy and their handlers getting pissed off with the dogs.

  ‘We put smelly t-shirts in the dirt near those areas of the fence we’d never want to try and breach, get the dogs going mad. Using radios, we’d coordinate that, and we get a close look inside the camp. Today we sneak up and photograph again, avoiding roving patrols.’

  Everyone had their say, stag rotations were refined, and Elkin and Moran would sneak down to use cameras, backed by myself and Swifty.

  At sundown we were ready, the rain coming on, and smelly undergarments were placed in plastic bags, stones with them. Rizzo and Swifty returned to the drain under the road after avoiding a jeep, they crossed the river bent-double, and they tracked along the river, under the bridge and to the drain. Inside the drain, plenty of water sloshing around them today, they scrambled along to the manhole cover.

  Given the rain, and the time of day – chow time, there were no enemy soldiers around. Smelly pants were thrown in several directions, as well as meat from our rations, the manhole cover replaced.

  That part complete, they back tracked to the river crossing – now soaked through and chilled, but edged further along and placed torn pieces of Rizzo’s smelly underwear into the dirt at the base of the fence along a thirty yard stretch.

  Back across the river, and up through the drain, they moved twenty yards to the tree line and observed the camp as they shivered. Dogs barked like crazy near the manhole cover, an alarm sounded out, and our “enemy soldiers” ran around like crazy. Patrols soon ventured out, jeeps checking the perimeter, and a dog handler was seen to go ape-shit at his dog near the fence.

  At the rear of the camp the rest of us observed the amusing scene for half an hour, the enemy getting very wet, and rapidly losing confidence in their dogs.

  Seeing wooden poles - a phone line and electricity line, Stretch followed it away three hundred yards, used his belt, and snapped the lines with his bodyweight as he swung on them, soon running back to us – belt back on. The camp had fallen dark, much shouting of “Stand to”. So we lay quietly observing as we chilled, no intention of moving yet.

  They checked the power lines, out beyond a hundred yards, but could not be bothered to go further. They would have no cooked breakfast in the morning, no phone calls out.

  The patrols became haphazard, our enemy demoralised, cold and wet, and an hour before dawn we sent in Swifty and Elkin, cameras to hand, and they snuck about as the dawn came up, photographing every aspect of the base before withdrawing. The broken section of fence we had used was duly repaired with wire, to stop anyone coming through it – or believing that we had gone through it.

  Withdrawing back to where we had hidden our Bergens took more than an hour, the transport called in as we hiked up the ridge, and an hour later we knelt as the Chinooks came in. By sat phone I had given a sitrep to the RSM, and he shouted at the territorials at length – I had won the cost of a curry.

  Back at base we got the kettle on, most legs and boots sodden, a post mortem held.

  I began, ‘Objective was to observe and report, and we did that - be interesting to see the photographs when they’re developed. We found a way in by accident, actually two ways in, and that just shows that a plan comes together when you get there, not before hand.

  ‘Captain Moran’s idea with the dogs was good, and we fooled them, causing them to lose faith in the damn dogs, and with the power out and the weather bad they couldn’t be bothered to patrol – which is normal for soldiers the world over. During the night they couldn’t be bothered to patrol in the rain – lessons learnt for you I hope.

  ‘The RSM was inside the base, observing, and making sure that they behaved like enemy soldiers, not as if they had been expecting us. And ... the RSM had no cup of tea and warm breakfast the final evening.’

  The lads cheered and jeered, rude comments bouncing off the walls as I smiled.

  ‘All-in-all I’m happy, because I was keen to see if you would be over-eager and fuck it up. You pulled back our camp instead of being brazen, you took your time and stuck to the objective. Captain Moran, well done, well executed. Right, get cleaned up, get warmed up, go home, take tomorrow off if you like.’

  With most of the team gone the Major wandered in. ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘They did well, sir, held back on contact, used a few good tricks on the dogs.’

  ‘RSM was pissed off, cold night and no hot food or drink,’ the Major noted with a smirk. ‘He had breakfast in a roadside cafe this morning, cold and stiff. I’ll use the same scenario next week, regular army lads from the camp nearby as guards.’

  I nodded. ‘Lesson one was a pull back to avoid contact, lesson two was to find the drain under the road, a good river crossing, and the drain into the base. Main lesson ... was to adjust the plan when they saw the lay of the land. We distracted the dogs and cut the power, and that disheartened them, after that we photographed it close-up unseen.’

  The Major nodded. ‘See how Boat Troop does next week. This week they’ve all been going over fences or cutting fences ready, one lad in hospital with his arm gashed after falling.’

  ‘Trick is not to fall, sir.’

  ‘Damn right. Elkin better?’

  ‘Leg wound is fine now, his fitness coming up.’

  ‘And this new lad, Smithson?’

  ‘Keen, sir, and he and Tomo are joined at the hip, they’re inseparable,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Slider?’

  ‘Does his ten mile next week, sir, then we’ll see, but I think he’ll be fine.’

  Two weeks later, and with most of the team now back to full fitness, I was informed that Bob was on his way down in a helicopter. It meant a job in the offing, the lads keen for some action after a great deal of training after training.

  I observed his helicopter touch down on the heli-pad, a red civilian Jet Ranger with someone’s logo on the side – it looked like a castle, and it appeared as if it had been hired for the day. Certainly, MOD office staff had no dedicated helicopters, budgets were tight.

  I shook his hand and nodded at his assistant, leading them into the interest room, most of the team on the range today. With the kettle knocked on O’Leary joined us with Captain Moran. Bob had his concerned face on.

  ‘Problem, Bob?’ I asked.

  ‘No, just that ... we have a job potentially, but it won’t be simple.’


  ‘And ... where would this job be?’

  ‘Angola.’

  ‘Ah,’ I let out. ‘And no ... it won’t be simple, I’d guess.’

  ‘UNITA raided a mine, or ten, and they have a few engineers we’d like back, us and the French – as well as he Belgians and Portuguese and a few others. All in ... they could be holding a hundred plus hostages.’

  ‘A four man team might struggle to get them out,’ I quipped, placing down the teas.

  ‘Yes, they would, so it would be a larger operation, and probably take the form of several diversionary raids, and some ... thinning out of the rebels. There are mercenaries to hand that could organise diversions.’

  ‘The warring parties signed a peace accord last year,’ I pointed out. ‘It is – supposedly – quiet now, Cubans have left.’

  ‘The rebels have taken to hostages and ransom to make a dollar,’ O’Leary pointed out. ‘Although they always did I suppose.’

  ‘Large country,’ Moran pointed out. ‘Do we know where the hostages are?’

  Bob nodded. ‘Yes, their location is hardly a secret, and we have sources embedded that will sell their mothers for a few quid.’

  ‘I’m surprised that the Prime Minister would risk British troops in Angola...’ I floated, and I waited, staring at Bob.

  ‘Your successes in recent years has tipped the risk balance,’ Bob explained. ‘They think it can be done with limited casualties, whereas in the past ... it’s been a bloodbath for all sides.’

  ‘And could be again if we’re not careful,’ I pointed out before sipping my tea.

  ‘Could you come up with a plan,’ Bob asked. ‘We then price it up, look at logistics, look at risk, and then present it at a high level. We have the maps with us, airfields to use, rebel locations, hostage locations.’

  ‘Is this just about hostages?’ I pressed.

  Bob took a moment. ‘If Angola goes quiet there are mining concessions, maybe oil, so the business leaders are pushing the government, people like Rio Tinto – who are large party donors.’

  I nodded. ‘They want to get in there before anyone else does.’

  ‘They have been back in for a few years, some areas,’ O’Leary pointed out. ‘But costs are high due to the rebel activity.’

  ‘And, no doubt, if we thinned out the rebels a little it would help,’ I quipped.

  ‘Well, there are two hundred thousand rebels on paper, so ... your actions won’t have that much of an effect,’ Bob pointed out.

  ‘How many around the hostages?’ Moran asked.

  ‘Couple of hundred at any one time, but many are part-timers from the local town – day jobs and wives, most of those at the prison location are drunk or drugged-up half the time,’ Bob explained. ‘If this place was on the coast we would have launched a rescue before now. Problem ... is three hundred miles of bad roads and bad terrain and ... hostile villagers.’

  ‘There are UNITA units right up to the border with the Congo,’ I considered. ‘Could apply some hit and run tactics and draw them away from other areas.’ I sipped my tea. ‘Bob, if we do this ... then some of the team will be lost. We’re a small team, good at surgical rescues, do we want to full-on fight?’

  ‘That’s where the plan would come in,’ Bob suggested. ‘If it was a good plan, and well resourced and you were happy, then we’d present the plan higher up. I have no wish to lose half the team in this.’

  ‘Show me the hostage location,’ I suggested, Bob’s assistant pulling out a map. I studied it for a minute with Moran. ‘Safe operating airfields in-country?’

  ‘There is a base east of Luanda we could secure,’ Bob said. ‘Surrounded by MPLA and free from attack.’

  I could see it on the map. ‘That’s ... two hundred miles to the hostages, so beyond safe operating range of a Chinook, but not a Hercules. But the prison is close enough to the northern border for a helicopter assault, or at least a helicopter rescue. Any useful bases in the Congo?’

  ‘Some,’ said Bob’s assistant. ‘But security is an issue, a few UNITA lads wandering around, and they would report our presence.’

  ‘From what I gather,’ I began, ‘UNITA is made up of towns and factions and fuck all central command, hence a very long war to get nowhere.’

  ‘There is a leadership,’ Bob stated. ‘They fund operations, but yes, cooperation is limited at times. They have less money now that the Russians have stopped funding them, still a few African supporters with a vested interest – but funds are low, hence the extortion racket.’

  ‘They have surface to air missiles?’ I asked.

  ‘They did have,’ Bob replied. ‘Various factions, Russian missiles, but I doubt they have any left that work, or people to work them. Cubans took them away with them.’

  I sighed. ‘What’s needed, once we have a tight plan, is maybe some jungle training, and I suggest we do it right on the border, a few cross-border raids to hone our skills. That would allow us to gauge those we’re up against as the plan is being refined. But what about regular SAS support?’

  ‘For the hostage rescue attempt we’d ask for full support, probably a few Paras and others,’ Bob explained. ‘For your cross-border raids we would limit numbers.’

  I nodded, ‘First, send us an expert on the Angolan crisis for a series of lectures as we think up the plan. Second, get us a few old mercenaries who fought there and know the terrain, local customs.

  ‘Third, let us know what the French and Belgian input would be, and we’d need to train alongside their soldiers if they’re offering some. We can’t make a plan till we know what helicopters and fixed wing assets we could use, jeeps, local signals intel, eyes-on intel, the works.’

  Bob made notes. ‘I’ll send down the man to lecture you in a few days, and I know plenty of ex-troopers who spent time in Angola. A few are still alive, and sober some of the time. I’ll talk again to the French and Belgians and draw up a list of assets.’

  ‘How about,’ I began, ‘a dozen of the best French commandos come join us for a cup of tea - and exercise or two, just in case this goes ahead.’

  Bob made a note. ‘That would keep the Prime Minister happy, and us, because risk is shared.’

  ‘So if it’s a fuck up,’ I began, ‘it’s not seen as just your ... fuck up.’

  He shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. ‘Politics.’

  I asked, ‘Who would have operational control, of the plan and the execution of it?’

  ‘You would.’

  ‘A sergeant, a new sergeant with no sergeant-type courses under his belt, in charge of foreign soldiers, Paras, RAF, regular SAS teams..?’ I waited.

  ‘This is about your team going after the hostages,’ Bob stated. ‘Rest is just transport to get your there, logistics, diversionary raids and support.’

  ‘And we would take French or Belgians in with us?’ I asked.

  ‘That would be the best idea, since it is a joint operation, their aircraft involved.’

  ‘And they’ll follow my orders?’ I pressed.

  ‘The French know your reputation from West Africa, and they all respect the SAS greatly, so it shouldn’t be an issue.’

  ‘Make the French team have just a sergeant in charge,’ I said, Moran cocking an eyebrow. ‘Be easier.’

  ‘Most SAS teams are like that, officers don’t often go on such missions.’ Bob faced Moran. ‘You’re the exception.’

  I nodded a mocking approval at Moran. ‘And Bob, that training area we made use of in Morocco, dust it off, build a make-do prison with walls and guard towers. Then ... then find me an abandoned airfield near that training area, and a non-abandoned airfield an hour’s flying time.

  ‘If all else fails, you pay for a large training exercise, which would be worthwhile anyhow, and those in West Africa that you’re selling arms to would think we have their safety in mind.’

  Bob smiled and started making notes. ‘You should be a politician.’

  With Bob gone, I had the lads recalled from all of their
various activities, and at 3pm we gathered, tea mugs in hand, lots of expectant faces looking up at me.

  ‘What we’re about to discuss is secret, and if you discuss it outside you’ll be gone from this unit.’ I let them think about it. ‘OK, we may have a job, a joint venture with the French and Belgians in Africa, after a large joint exercise to plan for that job. For now ... we’ll just say that it’s West Africa if anyone asks.

  ‘From tomorrow morning I want you in teams in the Killing House, training to be planned along the lines of another rescue – and I’ll come up with some scenarios once we’re a bit further along.

  ‘Keep yourselves fit, but don’t risk broken ankles before the job. Tomo, Smitty, you’d come along, but probably not on any raid, certainly not you Smitty, but coming along will be good experience for you.’

  ‘Someone has to make the tea,’ Rocko told him, Smitty giving Rocko the finger.

  ‘If anyone else is in the Killing House, tell them we have priority for a live job, I’ll smooth it with the CO.’

  ‘We need to practise our Arabic?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied, making them think about where the job was. ‘But I want you – Stretch – training the lads on small charges to blow doors and mud walls. Get to work – after your tea obviously.’

  I went to see the Major. Sat down, he waited for me. ‘We may have a job, sir, a large job, Africa again. Don’t mention this to anyone yet, but it’s in Angola.’

  ‘Angola! Be a fucking bloodbath!’

  I lifted my eyebrows and nodded. ‘If not done properly, yes. I am ... in two minds about doing it.’

  ‘Damn right. No sensible army would go there. Are there hostages?’

  ‘A hundred plus hostages, a variety of nations, and this would be a joint venture with the French and Belgians.’

  ‘Be a big show then, your team could never handle a hundred hostages, we’d need two hundred men on the ground. And we don’t have two hundred men for that, nor would we take the damn risk.’

  ‘Prime Minister is keen, as are some large corporations interested in mines, and the French are keen.’