Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘It is critical ... that we make a tight plan, and a tight movement plan, one day at the ROB only, no local journalists asking questions about what we’re doing there. Helos on the boat need to be tested on the boat, so RAF crews go on the boat. When you leave that boat the job is live ... and you’re in danger.

  ‘You stop to refuel and pick up my team at the ROB, and we go – no waiting around, please use the toilet before you leave.’ They laughed. ‘Later in the day the Hercules go and drop the supplies, and the rest of you stand by. If the ships are late ... we wait. If the helos on the boat are not working, we wait. What we cannot afford ... is to wait at the ROB in plain sight of the curious locals. So if the ship is late and the helos are unserviceable, this job is aborted.’ I let them think about it.

  ‘Helicopter crews, RAF planning officer, you have a few days, so let’s make this as professional as you all claim to be in those RAF TV commercials for recruitment.’

  ‘They’re just fantasy,’ the planning officer said, a few people laughing. ‘In the real world we fuck up often.’

  ‘Trick, sir, is to pretend that you meant to do it. In Bosnia, when I assisted a rebel group – and when I was a bit tired, I accidentally shot Serbs in the foot, in the arse and in the arm, then told the rebels it was deliberate – so that those not wounded would have to carry the wounded, and they believed me.’

  The room reverberated with laughter.

  ‘Just need to practise lying when we fuck-up, sir.’

  The French Para Major said, ‘The Puma crash last night, we planned it, to simulate a crash,’ the men laughing loudly.

  When our former hostage arrived we assembled the SAS officers and troop sergeants, my team and the French senior soldiers, the man – a former officer, happy to be at the centre of things. He glanced at the pictures and drawings and confirmed that they were accurate.

  Over twenty minutes he gave us a rundown of the average number of guards and soldiers. ‘Those soldiers couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag. Drugged up half the time, drunk, couldn’t shoot straight. Last week, one accidentally shot another dead. One time, one was high on drugs and started shooting up the place from the roof, wounded a few soldiers and hostages, was then shot dead by his sergeant. Right fucking shambles they are.

  ‘But up the road is a brigade of the most blood thirsty killers you’d not want to meet. Those boys are well trained, lots of experience, like to kill. You won’t see them drunk. The self-elected President of UNITA often uses them as a bodyguard.’

  ‘How many?’ I asked.

  ‘Varies, but a hard core of three hundred.’

  ‘How far away?’

  ‘Ten or twenty minute drive depending on traffic.’

  ‘Any fifty cal?’ I asked.

  ‘You see them on the road now and then, not that often. Saw a compound with twenty sat going rusty, standards are not good.’

  ‘Men in the town with guns?’ I asked.

  ‘Thousands, they all have an AK47 under the mattress.’

  ‘Near the prison?’ Moran asked.

  ‘No special unit, but there is police station of sorts over the road, they have twenty men to hand day and night, all armed.’

  ‘Armoured personnel carriers?’ Moran asked.

  ‘At a base about twenty miles away, old tanks, RPGs.’

  ‘RPGs near the prison?’ I asked.

  ‘Haven’t seen any, but they do keep stuff like that at home. Some guy blew up his house and his family whilst I was there, hundred yards from the prison.’

  ‘What’s it like at night, around the prison?’ I asked.

  He made a face. ‘Locals go to bed around 1am, they’re busy at night and sleep in the afternoons. The soldiers in the prison go to sleep about the same time, often drunk and fighting, some using the whorehouse. They don’t wake much before 9am, and then bleary eyed.’

  ‘Quality of the guards?’ I asked.

  ‘Nasty bunch, well trained and hard, but often drunk. I could have escaped easily enough, but where would I go, hundred miles of their territory, roadblocks.’

  ‘How many roadblocks?’ I pressed.

  ‘Edge of every town and village, outside the towns ... every few miles, but usually outside a police station or a barracks.’

  ‘Lorries searched?’ I asked.

  ‘No, just a word with the driver, a bribe asked for now and then, some produce pinched away.’

  The Q&A went on for an hour, after which I told Bob’s guy that the job was a go, but asked about the “special beer” deliveries.

  ‘Being sorted as we speak, and ... Bob has it in mind for other places, he loves the idea – which he claims was his of course.’

  We smiled widely.

  ‘I don’t care, so long as we get the job done,’ I told him.

  The Chinooks and their crews, support staff and supplies in the rear, flew off an hour later, to the coast and out to the French helicopter assault craft, two Pumas with them, the craft offering eight Pumas below decks, as well as commandos. Now we would wait for the ship to reach Angola.

  Bob’s guy came and found me later, taking me outside the huts. ‘Some news. The SBS had a guy wounded, leg wound, he’ll live, and “G” Squadron launched a major attack, killed a hundred fighters.’

  ‘Internal movement of men?’ I asked.

  ‘None whatsoever.’ He waited.

  ‘None? Do they ... even communicate?’

  ‘They did during the war. Now ... it seems that they don’t give a fuck. And the fighters killed on the border ... drugged up and drunk, often killed in their sleep, probably didn’t even feel it. They’re being massacred.’

  ‘Then keep massacring them, because the guy in charge will hear about it eventually and react.’

  ‘Based on what they’ve seen, we think you’d have an easy job of it at the prison. These fuckers are a bit ... crap.’

  ‘No command structure, no regular pay, no regular training, low education standards,’ I listed off. ‘But near that prison is a good brigade. If they come out to play ... we’ll take casualties.’

  The next day the RAF Regiment borrowed the two remaining Pumas and dropped teams into the desert, a long hike back along a planned route, and I took my team and the French to the range.

  Weapons were zeroed, a competition held, followed by small unit attacks and withdrawals with covering fire, myself and Henri shouting at our units. Tomo and Smitty were worked hard, but seemed to be enjoying the challenge. By sundown everyone had got some good practise in, and we cooked outside the huts later, chatting away with the French and bonding.

  The GMPGs that would be used were stripped, cleaned and checked as the two SAS troops were on the range, the French familiar with the same model, the British GPMG made by FN in Belgium. Ammo levels were checked, and we had enough to start a war, plenty of grenades, plenty of smoke canisters and CS canisters - the strong formula; one whiff and your eyes would close.

  Progress of the ship, actually four ships in the group, was relayed to us, and we made a plan with the RAF, a Tristar to be used alongside a hired USAF C5. We would all hit the ROB at the same time more or less.

  Sat having a cup of tea with Moran, and his counterpart Captain Hamble, we discussed the supply drop. Since the Hercules pilots had US-made night sights, they could drop later, less time for curious locals to give us away. The helos could also land later.

  It was a risk, landing at night, and navigation would have to be shit hot. It was also a risk to the helos to be hit by the supply drop; timing would be a bitch, and any delays could be very costly in lives.

  We agreed on a revision and discussed it with the Major and the planning officer, Bob’s guy listening in. The Hercules would drop at midnight, our helos would land thirty minutes later, after a signal was sent, and no signal would be an abort; the Hercules would signal a successful drop or not. Problem was, no Hercules landing and the Pumas would run out of fuel. We would have to wait for a daylight to recover the Pumas, with all
the risks to hand, and so might just abandon them.

  So the final plan was that the Hercules would fly over us on their way back, thirty minutes out, and we would get the go signal by radio. It would mean that we’d be on the ground for less time, less time for locals to report us. Everything was set.

  I was glad to be at the centre of things, but was starting to feel the pressure, and this reminded me of my youth, that feeling of other members of my football team wanting me to score and for our team to win, but always laughing loudly when I tripped. I had to wonder how many of these would be pleased to see me fuck-up somewhere.

  But the plan had been agreed by all, and it was the only option we had, so there was little risk of the plan being criticized, and even the Major commended it. I had kept 2 Squadron out of FOB, and so any casualties on their side could not be pinned on me. Bob’s men on the ground were a real risk, and a chill ran through me when I considered just who we were trusting.

  I went and checked with Bob’s guy about our transport, and I stipulated a few things for him, explaining what would happen to Bob’s career if this was a fuck-up.

  Back at the huts, I stood in the sand, staring at the aircraft across the runway, and the Major appeared at my side.

  ‘All set?’ he asked.

  I glanced at him, and returned to facing the aircraft. ‘Feels odd, sir, all this. It’s as if it’s my own private army, but with it comes responsibility. I don’t worry about myself and the job, but then I start thinking just who’ll take a round on this trip, will a helo go down and kill a bunch of people...’

  ‘It will age you, so don’t worry about it.’

  I glanced at him.

  ‘I send men off all the time, no different to this. I get orders from above, I pass them on, and we go do something foolish and dangerous, men hurt or killed. I’m a cog in the wheel, so are you, and you didn’t ask for this, Bob pushed you into it, you’re following orders.’

  ‘I could have told him no.’

  ‘He’d find someone else, someone less capable, and they’d fuck it up. In the past, and in general, if one job in three went off well we’d be happy. Iranian Embassy siege was a fuck-up, but we were lucky, Falklands had a few fuck-ups, covered up, and the Gulf War was embarrassing. One of ours spent three days trying to cross a sand barrier, and was replaced by the RSM, who spent an hour to dig a hole in the sand barrier.’

  I smiled. ‘I remember him telling me. In fact, he’s told me a dozen times.’

  We laughed.

  ‘I observed you in that briefing and I was jealous, you were flawless, and the plan is the only one that would work. You have a knack for all this, just wish my troop captains had the same knack.’

  ‘Hamble seems good,’ I noted.

  ‘Yes, he’s switched on, and fit with it. If he does well on the three day scenario you can’t try and pinch him away.’

  I smiled. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’

  ‘SBS getting some action, and “G” Squadron,’ he noted. ‘All valuable experience.’

  ‘2 Squadron are keen to get a few men killed,’ I said with a sigh.

  ‘All units are like that. When there’s no war it’s just exercise after exercise. Half the men in the Army volunteered for the Falklands, less inclined to volunteer for anything afterwards – after seeing your mate with his leg blown off. War is no fun till after it’s done and you’re looking back at it. Except for someone like you.’

  ‘Like me, sir?’

  ‘You live and breathe it, cool under pressure, and you shoot people like it’s making the tea. Those 2 Squadron lads, they’d be nervous as hell the first time they shot someone, and when I shot a guy I had a look at him afterwards, made me puke – my round had taken half his head off. You ... wouldn’t miss a heartbeat.’

  ‘Not sure that’s a good thing, sir,’ I said, squinting across the airfield and scuffing up sand with my boots.

  ‘As people here often comment, you’re about getting the job done, not ego, and you’re building up a following, even the 2 Squadron officers spoke highly of you. You’re keen to get the job done, minimum casualties, whereas in the past we’ve had a few officers that did it for the wrong reasons and got men killed.’

  We got ready that afternoon, and I double-checked the boxes of grenades and smoke canisters, as well as CS gas. Each soldier that might fire a shot in anger was lined up, the Major stood watching, and in their pairs they named each other’s bits of kit, everything double checked.

  I then marched them to the small base range and each man fired off a few rounds, pistols as well, one stoppage recorded. From the range we moved directly to the aircraft, the weapons made safe again and double checked, and I checked that no one had a smoke canister or grenade on them.

  The RAF stewards on the Tristar were unhappy about the weapons until we assured them, the planning officer called – and he assured them. Two French platoons and two SAS teams would fly in the C5, my team on the Tristar with RAF support personnel and others, and in a carefully co-ordinated move the Hercules had left first a few hours ago, the slowest aircraft, followed by the French transports, then the monster C5, finally the Tristar, leaving the apron empty except for a handful of RAF support personnel, ground crew responsible for our Tristar.

  Full of trepidation, we powered down the runway and lifted our nose as the sun hung low on the horizon, the guys closing their eyes and trying to relax for a planned four hour flight.

  The time passed quickly, I dozed for an hour, and I woke wondering where Smurf was. Then it hit me, his death, and I found Tomo and Smitty smiling back at me. Tomo would be at the FOB, Smitty at the ROB just for experience.

  We hit the runway with a jolt, and coming in I had peered out the window at the many aircraft now on the flood-light apron, the twinkling orange street lights of a nearby town covering the horizon. Waved in by an RAF controller with orange wands, our aircraft halted, steps pushed up, doors open.

  In disorder, and rubbing shoulders, we placed on bandoliers and webbing and stepped down with our weapons, waiting near the Tristar as the cargo hold was opened, boxes moved by RAF staff, a few local blacks to hand in their orange safety waistcoats, RAF Regiment gunners patrolling.

  Grenade boxes were carried between two men towards our temporary accommodation, as well as smoke grenades, the boxes not to be opened till at the FOB - for safety. With the boxes down, beds claimed, we had nothing to do but wait the helicopters, hoping that they arrived in good repair.

  I went and found the temporary control room, a large briefing room under the air traffic control tower, finding the officers, the Major, and Bob’s guy.

  ‘Any mechanical problems?’ I loudly called.

  ‘All down and OK,’ the planning officer announced.

  I focused on Bob’s guy. ‘Status of the helos?’

  ‘On time, actually ahead of time, so they’ve slowed down a bit. They aim to be here late afternoon tomorrow, refuel and off you go.’

  I nodded. ‘Local security for this place?’

  ‘Not many people close by, police cordon around us, so no one able to look over the fence. Fuel trucks are here and ready. We have one day of daylight here to risk exposure.’

  ‘Local four star hotels and restaurants?’ I asked, men laughing.

  ‘Wouldn’t risk them,’ Bob’s guy said with a smile. ‘RAF have a canteen set up, basic rations.’

  ‘Time is very slow for those who wait. So we wait the morrow, good people,’ I quipped.

  ‘Shakespeare?’ the Major queried, a debate starting up.

  ‘The quote is wrong,’ said an RAF officer. ‘Don’t the SAS teach Shakespeare?’

  I left the raging debate and checked in on the lads, most eating cake and drinking tea, and we soon claimed camp beds for some kip.

  In the morning I managed to get a lukewarm shower, a half decent breakfast, and then I checked with each unit about readiness, chatting to each at length. The day dragged on and I wanted it over with.

  At sun
down the drone of helicopters grew, and four Chinooks and four Puma came into view, the added surprise being two platoons of French Navy commandos aboard our helos. They would be held in reserve.

  With the helos cooling down, crews refuelling them, the pilots joined us in a briefing in a hangar, the only place large enough to get together those involved in tonight’s action.

  I stood on a box in front of two hundred men, and a few ladies. ‘Gather around please!’ They inched closer. ‘Chinook crews, any mechanical issues?’

  ‘No,’ came back.

  ‘French Puma crews, any mechanical issues?’

  ‘No,’ came back, but accented.

  ‘Hercules crews, any issues?’

  They exchanged looks. ‘Revised time still a go?’ one asked.

  ‘Yes. OK gentlemen, and ladies I see, this is the slightly revised plan. The Hercules with the supplies to drop will take off at 10pm, the aim being to drop the supplies at exactly midnight. If you’re early then circle, please don’t be late.

  ‘Chinooks will take off about the same time, and will fly at the speed of the Pumas – and they will not go to the border. Two Chinook, two Pumas, and that leaves four helicopters here for rescue. From 10pm I want rescue squads ready, sat in the aircraft for two hours before rotating, teams of French and RAF Regiment, or French commandos, always one helicopter with a team ready to take off very quickly.

  ‘The four helicopters travelling to FOB will aim to meet the returning Hercules along part of the Dog Leg and inform us if they dropped the supplies in the right place – and that the FOB is not full of enemy soldiers. Please ... make sure you have the correct frequencies.

  ‘If we get the positive news we carry on to the FOB and secure it. The second pair of Hercules, with the portable fuel tanks and generator and the rest of the FOB team, must take off and aim to pass the returning Hercules halfway back, signals exchanged. They then head on to FOB, where they will land and unload, and take off again.