Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  Back inside we chatted in small groups, ideas bounced around, questions asked, input taken.

  Stood with the Colonel and the Major, the Colonel said, ‘Big operation, lot could go wrong. And that prison won’t be easy to breach.’

  I glanced past him, and waved them in closer. ‘Bob has men in there, and day before the raid his men will put something in their food, a few local diversions to hand – free beer supplier to the barracks with some opium. Without that I’d be concerned, but we have a good plan to thin them out a bit.’

  ‘They’d all be high as a kite,’ the Major noted.

  ‘They like their substance abuse,’ I pointed out. ‘So we’ll give them a hand – a cheap local supplier.’

  The Colonel nodded. ‘Hit them an hour before dawn, and they’ll be struggling to see, let alone get their boots on.’

  ‘Bob has a dozen men to hand,’ I lied. ‘Whole fucking town will be high as a kite. Just a matter of timing; if we get the day wrong they get a free high - followed by a really fucking bad hangover.’

  The RAF left with promises to get back to us soon, a skip in their step, a lively debate about how to tackle various aspects of the plan. Bob would now enact the plan for the exercise in Morocco, and that would involve the French.

  The base was a hive of activity the next day, kit getting checked, men getting ready, jeeps tested. Late in the day we were told that we’d fly off on Monday, down to Morocco for the exercise, and that the French would meet us there, their ships being moved, their C-160 transports en-route.

  RAF Lyneham was reported to also be a hive of activity, 2 Squadron over at Abingdon on full alert to move for the exercise. Hercules at Lyneham were now flying around with mobile fuel dispensers that had been dusted off, but were now full of water – just in case.

  7 Squadron, meanwhile, had RAF volunteers dressed in civvy clothes, some pretending to be wounded, and the pilots would practise swooping in, grabbing hostages and taking off, simulated casualties worked on in the back by RAF medics who were earmarked for the exercise and the job. The pilots were getting an idea of times taken to load people, many of whom had to be carried carefully.

  “G” Squadron had been told to dispatch two troops and support staff direct to the Congo – not Morocco, the SBS asked to commit two troops at short notice for the Congo border.

  Bob had a few mercenaries that could make a noise, plus a few old timers from “E” Squadron keen for some work, and so the men were dispatched by various routes to the Congo, where they would be tasked with making some noise just across the border, in areas that I had picked. And that campaign could start in just a few days, the idea being to draw UNITA rebels towards the border.

  My team were practising hostage rescue, and they had pin-hole lenses and listening devices to hand, as well as thermal sights, all employed to determine which rooms were occupied before storming in.

  On the Friday our lecturer turned up, and he spent the entire day with us, a thorough briefing on the long Angolan Civil War, the factions and their areas, what areas were safe, a few local sayings. The team now knew it was Angola, all warned about security. And all took to studying the maps, Bob having sent down images of the prison, satellite images of the town studied intensely.

  Everyone was called in Saturday morning, and Moran drew a huge diagram of the prison, areas annotated after we studied the photographs with magnifying glasses. The walls were tall in places, falling down in other places, the various rooms listed; cook house, cells, exercise yard, barracks, commander’s rooms, and a brothel on an external corner – the photographs showing bored looking local ladies sat awaiting some attention from passersby in the street, not even Rizzo being impressed with the ladies in the images.

  Everyone had a view on the best way to enter, with or without explosives. By the end of the day we had agreed on two doors to get in, since they could be blown easily, and from there we could get to the roof of a long cell block that made up one side of the prison. We could even blow a hole in the roof and drop down.

  An assault on the front door was a possibility, as was just walking in through the brothel, but both had guards at night, if only a few to be seen in the black and white photographs. We would get inside, kill the guards and hold the prison, hoping for our helicopters to arrive. If they did not arrive we’d have damaged our future accommodation with a few extra ventilation holes, no one looking forwards to spending a few years in the place, although the brothel was a plus for Rocko and Rizzo.

  Stretch specified the explosive charges needed, the timers, and he requisitioned them from the MOD via stores, to be available for the exercise, then again for the job, extra to be taken just in case. The rest of our kit would be standard, bandoliers and webbing, AKMs with silencers, desert clothing. But as with Somalia, pistols with silencers would be taken – a promise made to the lads in the armoury that we would bring these back.

  I banned the lads from drinking Saturday night, all told to study maps of Angola and to read a book on the civil war during Sunday. Most were told to take the paperback with them on the plane down to Morocco – Bob had teased us with a nice comfy RAF Tristar. Kit was placed into the metal cases ready, labelled up, locks on.

  On Sunday I ventured into the base in civvy clothes, much going on as people got ready to travel, and I found Moran studying our ping pong table come planning board.

  ‘Some further ideas?’ I asked.

  He made a face. ‘You often say just judge the ground when you get there, but in this case I think we know the ground well enough. What do you reckon to the smoke?’

  I pointed. ‘Chinooks will pass over the town, hundred yards from the prison, dropping smoke before they land. Later, if needed, they repeat it. If the men in the prison are dealt with, those outside won’t have anything to shoot at other than the helos going out over the swamp, and we’ll be on the walls – shooting at anyone shooting at the helos. Us and ten or more French commandos, plenty of firepower, and that prison is like an old castle, so we have the advantage.’

  He nodded. ‘Nearest barracks to the prison?’

  ‘They’re spread far and wide, so hard to tell. Nearest big barracks is three miles up the road, numbers vary. If they came out in force they could hit the prison walls with RPG, which would not do them much good, they could surround it, but we’d fly out. RPG aimed at a helo would be bad. Smoke needs to be heavy enough.’

  ‘Timescale?’

  ‘Shoot the tower guards quietly, blow the doors, move in, shoot static guards, charges on the barrack walls, grenades tossed in.’ I made a face. ‘Six minutes, or it’s a fuck up.’

  ‘So we call in the helos just before we fire on the tower guards,’ Moran noted.

  ‘Or five minutes before that,’ I suggested. ‘We don’t want a delay. But ... if the cells are difficult to open, we’d have a problem. Fact is, the guard with keys should be nearby, in the room we annotated on the drawing. Otherwise, we have a problem. We’d have to search for the damn keys or blow a wall.’

  ‘If it was me ... my plan ... I’d go for those keys first, and quietly,’ Moran nudged.

  ‘We’d have to go over the wall unseen,’ I pointed out. ‘A small team would be vulnerable if spotted.’

  He showed me a photograph. ‘There, drain cover, same inside the wall.’

  ‘And if it had a grill? Given that it was a prison, I think they would have thought of that.’

  ‘Worth a look perhaps.’

  ‘On the day, if we get there unseen, then yes – I agree, we get the keys quietly first if we can, or at least get men in place through the drains. But I would bet on a metal grill.’

  ‘Would seem odd,’ Moran agreed with a smile, ‘since someone in the exercise yard could slip into the drain and be gone. Ladders would be useful.’

  ‘Could possibly take lightweight aluminium ladders,’ I agreed. ‘But someone could scale the wall and drop a rope, it’s not a smooth wall. If there are ladders to hand, we’ll pinch them.’

&nb
sp; Peering at the map, he said, ‘Grenades, lots of grenades, and smoke. That barracks could house a hundred men, so we need to deal with them when there’ll be just a dozen of us plus the French.’

  I nodded. ‘Any leftover explosives, and we blow the barrack walls, a bit of a headache for anyone inside.’

  ‘Getting there is the biggest risk,’ Moran noted. ‘If Bob’s man in-country sells us out we’re fucked.’ He waited.

  ‘His most trusted men will drive us, less trusted men creating diversions. But yes, a forty mile drive, a few roadblocks to negotiate. It’s all a risk.’

  ‘Can’t go by helo and walk in?’ Moran asked.

  ‘Densely populated area, dogs, sprawling town, little solid cover, someone would see us. And then how do we get out? Be a running battle for ten miles till we get to somewhere a chopper could pick us up. Would be like trying to move from one side of Cardiff to the other without anyone seeing us.’

  ‘Have you considered a direct helo assault?’

  ‘Considered it, yes, and rejected it. The helos could lay down smoke, even inside the prison, but all you need is one man with a rifle in the right spot and we’re fucked, or a guy with an RPG and we lose everyone.

  ‘Besides, we don’t want too much shooting inside the prison, there are hostages nearby. If you have reservations about the plan, then wait till after the exercise, refine your ideas – then shout a little. If you can argue the plan around ... then fine, that is what you’re here for.’

  Monday morning I was up at 5am, a quick run along the Abergavenny Road to get my muscles working, a long hot shower and a good-sized omelette to set me up for the day. Kit on, I drove into the base, few people about yet, and I studied the ping pong table battle board for an hour, then the maps and the photos. I knew the town and the prison as well as the locals knew them, and I could have gotten a job as a taxi driver in that town.

  The lads started to arrive around 7.30am, tea mugs nursed, and our buses turned up just before 9am. Kit was lugged, much in the metal crates already and on its way, and we made reasonable time to Brize Norton, and to a familiar Departure’s Lounge, transport orders handed in as the regular troops arrived with the Major, two troop captains with him, RAF personnel sat around with bags. One of the new troop captains, Hamble, was supposed to be good, and would attempt the three-day scenario soon.

  Sat around chatting, we whiled away an hour, and no matter how much notice was given our flights were never on time. We eventually boarded the Tristar, despite Bob’s rule about not all flying together, and if this plane went down the MOD would be seriously set back, and a few hostages would be waiting around for rescue – no doubt glancing at that brothel as they exercised in the yard.

  Paperbacks out, a glance at the thirty of so RAF personnel sat at the back of the aircraft, and we whiled away a four hour flight down to Morocco, and as we taxied around a familiar apron – but now a very busy apron - I could see Pumas and French C-160 transports. Stepping down from the plane in glorious sunshine, we all peered across at a huge American C5 Galaxy disgorging a Chinook with its rotors off.

  ‘They our Chinooks?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Looks like it,’ I said. ‘USAF must have helped out. RAF is thinking of buying the C5 anyhow I read.’

  A bus took us to familiar run-down huts, but there were noticeably more local police on the wire and patrolling around. Our metal crates arrived, unlocked and opened, the lads claiming weapons in a familiar routine, Smitty a bit lost and just helping out, Tomo copying Rocko and getting some good advice, the lads soon seen cleaning weapons.

  I went and found the Major, his “HQ” hut full of officers. ‘Why the Americans helping out, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘RAF hired them, paid fuel apparently,’ he answered. ‘They have been used before, RAF thinking of buying some. Should all be here by the morning.’

  ‘They available for the trip down to Angola?’

  ‘Not sure, is the simple answer. But that French helicopter carrier has been booked for the trip, so I guess we use it.’

  I nodded. ‘“G” Squadron?’

  ‘Two troops going direct to the Congo, some “E” Squadron old boys to meet, some havoc to create. You really think it will pull men away from that town?’ He seemed sceptical.

  ‘If it pulls ten men away it helps, sir. But Bob’s mercenaries are also on the border as we speak, and soon the SBS.’

  ‘SBS?’

  ‘I requested they help out, save us men. They’ll make a noise, hit and run.’

  ‘Well, with all that lot on the border the UNITA boys will think they’re being invaded!’

  ‘That’s the idea, sir,’ I said.

  I set-up stag rotations, but just the one man since there were dozens of local police officers buzzing around. Whether those men could be trusted or not was another matter.

  Stood outside the hut, Swifty at my side, we surveyed the scene as another monster C5 landed.

  ‘There’s a small army here,’ Swifty noted. ‘Fucking local gunmen must be shitting themselves.’

  ‘Feels odd.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘I pulled this together, and they follow my lead like I’m a fucking general.’

  ‘You got the string of good results for them,’ Swifty noted. ‘A few fuck-ups and you’ll be forgotten soon enough.’

  I smiled widely. ‘Thanks for that, cunt.’ He smiled. ‘Success breeds success, and failures don’t make it to the papers. I shall have to try not to drive over a mine, again. But look at it, all the expense, the men. I caused this. I could have told Bob it was a fuck-up waiting to happen.’

  ‘It better go off well then, or there’ll be a few sour faces, some harsh words.’

  ‘It’s Bob’s responsibility, I’m just a sergeant – and not a proper one at that; I haven’t done any of the courses.’ I faced him. ‘Do you think I show leadership potential?’ I toyed.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘You have the fame, that’s all that matters, that human desire to follow the guy with a reputation.’

  I nodded as I took in the busy apron. ‘You know any of the “E” Squadron men on the border?’

  ‘Some, yes, and I’m glad I’m not there; they’re more likely to rape the local girls than the local fighters are. Ten quid says some get caught or killed.’

  ‘That’s Bob’s problem, not ours.’ I faced him. ‘What would you be doing now if I hadn’t come along, if the detachment hadn’t been created?’

  He sighed. ‘Might be on that border with the old wankers, or waiting a job, or some regular deployment work. Seems like a lifetime ago, a different life.’

  ‘Which do you prefer?’ I asked, and he puzzled my meaning.

  ‘I’d not rather be anywhere else; this is it, the cutting edge, we get all the good jobs.’

  ‘But you’re senior to most, yet work like an enlisted man?’

  He made a face. ‘I never wanted to lead a team, but part of that was the old system, and some old wankers in “D” Squadron. These lads, our lads, I could lead a team and not worry about personalities, so it’s different.

  ‘You selected this lot for the most part, and you keep them in check, and they’re terrified of being kicked out. Regular troopers can argue and spite each other; I’ve seen jobs screwed up just so that someone looks bad.’

  ‘I don’t think I would have lasted long with the regulars,’ I commented, just as a police jeep turned up with a lady RAF corporal.

  ‘Bread,’ she simply said, holding a tall pile of flat round loafs. ‘Local supply.’ And she handed it over.

  ‘Thanks,’ I told her before she rushed off, and we handed out the flat circular bread, a few for the Major.

  That evening I took a jeep over to the hanger housing the RAF detachment, the Major and Moran with me, familiar faces greeted – our Hercules had landed earlier, four of them. The crews showed me their portable fuel buggies, now full of fuel, and the RAF crews would practise using them on this exercise.

  The Chinook ground
crews had flown down in the Hercules and were now rigging up rotors to the craft in their charge, the hangars a hive of activity, camp beds set up, desks, officers and NCOs busy with forms.

  The next Tristar brought in 2 Squadron, plus a load more RAF personnel, the RAF planning officer coming to find me. He had a brick billet to make use of with other RAF officers, showers an all, and he had brought me the Squadron Leader and flight officers of 2 Squadron, some of which I recognised. Both the planning officer and the 2 Squadron officers were in combats, not RAF blue, but with blue berets on.

  I had saluted the planning officer and now saluted the Squadron Leader.

  ‘I didn’t think the SAS saluted,’ he noted.

  ‘They don’t, I do,’ I said. ‘I set my own standards, sir.’

  ‘I see. And are we all ready for the exercise?’

  ‘We will be in the morning, sir, or as soon as the Chinooks are ready, but you have a separate exercise as well. You’ll parachute to a remote airfield and secure it, but that technique will not be used if the live job comes off.’

  ‘So I understand, and why is that?’ he pressed.

  ‘Because you’ll take casualties, maybe a lot of casualties, and your boys have not fired a shot in anger.’

  He seemed obviously offended. ‘And whose decision is that?’

  ‘This is an Mi6 operation backed by the MOD, sir, backed by the RAF and the SAS. That Mi6 operation is my small team going after the hostages, the rest is just support. So it’s my call, sir. You ... keen to write a letter to some parents?’

  He stiffened, but took a moment. ‘Of course not,’ he loudly responded. ‘But we’re trained to do a job, not worry about it.’

  ‘I understand that, sir, but we already have SAS and French support on the forward airfield in question, so if you were there as well ... we’d have too many people milling around, all targets for local gunmen.’

  He nodded, and led his team off, the Major and Moran watching them go. We exchanged looks, mounted up and found the French HQ building, a nice quality brick billet but with some large sand-coloured tents at the rear. Inside, we were directed to a major, but not one I had met before.