by Geoff Wolak
Moran and I covered Swifty and Slider as they checked the bodies, but they came up short, soon running back up. Rocko found nothing.
‘Must be in the damn cave,’ Moran whispered.
I sniffed. ‘Smoke.’
Moran sniffed. ‘Farmers?’
‘No, cigarette smoke. Close.’ I stood, and peered around. ‘Look for a vent.’
Five minutes of searching revealed a gap in the rocks, and an ear to it revealed chatter, two men talking, but calmly. They had not heard anything.
I faced Moran. ‘Got any gas or smoke?’
He smiled. ‘French lads gave me two, small CS gas grenades, they’re like flash-bangs.’ He fetched them out, and they were small compared to the British equivalent.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Standby at the cave, we’re going to smoke them out.’ I nodded at Moran, and he pulled the pins, reaching his arms into the gap and then tossing down the grenades.
The blasts echoed, and we moved back and upwind, wary of the gas. A minute passed, and then several bursts of fire echoed around the hillside. We scrambled down to the cave mouth, finding one man dead outside, one just inside, Rocko knelt over them. And the guy inside had an old yellow sat phone with faded plastic, which I pinched away.
‘We go in?’ Rocko asked.
‘No, could be some other fucker in there,’ I said as I led them off and to the stream. Beyond it I could see tracks, boot tracks, and I followed them at a brisk pace, a winding path edging low stone walls, and it would take us to a house in the distance. Spotting it I got down, the lads copying. In front of us lay six hundred yards of open ground.
Sitting against a stone wall, I examined the sat phone, and using it I dialled the number I could always remember, the Mi6 switchboard.
‘Duty officer.’
‘It’s Wilco, SAS, in Djibouti. Trace back this number and try and see who it’s been calling, and its movements if you can. Is the number showing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do I need to stay on the line?’
‘No, we send the number over to GCHQ.’
‘Let Bob Staines know about it, we took it off dead fighters. Wilco out.’
‘They can trace it?’ Moran asked as he sipped his water, sitting now on parched soil in need of some rain, his back to a wall.
I took out a chocolate bar. ‘Maybe. See who the king pin is, and where he lives.’
‘And that house?’
‘I’d love to have a look, but not till after dark.’
‘Staging post?’
‘For fighters maybe, not for lugging rockets. It’s in regular use.’
‘Track near it, could be used for jeeps and rockets.’
I glanced over my shoulder at the house. ‘Maybe. ‘We’ll have a look after sun down.’
With the cold night taking hold I could see the problem - that same light brown sandy soil, and we would be black outlines on it. Peering through the dark, a chill wind blowing down the mountain, I could see a dog-leg route that would hide our outlines, and when ready I moved off at a brisk pace.
Approaching the house, I diverted left and up over a stone wall, crunching through dried husks of some crop and soon hugging the rocks as we moved quietly along. I could see lights on and smell cooking. About to get closer I noticed vehicle headlights and we got down.
A chill ten minutes was used up as the jeep trundled along. At first I thought that the track was poor, but then realised that the jeep was weighed down with men and supplies.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Reinforcements coming in, six men, so say that number again in the house, twelve of them. Standby.’
The jeep squeaked to a halt, a shout given, men coming out from the house and jabbering away, and we soon saw rockets being carried inside between two men, each rocket around eight feet long.
Moran tapped my shoulder. Whispering, he said, ‘If a stray round hits a rocket...’
I nodded. We’d have to be careful.
A good half hour was used up moving the rockets, six in all, some bags, and the jeep was left. Watching it, I puzzled my eyesight, then frowned at the jeep. It seemed to be slowly rolling backwards.
‘What’s that jeep doing?’ I whispered.
Moran snickered. ‘They left the handbrake off.’
I could hear laughing as the jeep slowly edged backwards, finally finding a ditch and ending up with a wheel in the ditch, the lads working hard to control their laughter.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Rocko, Slider, twenty yards out, around the front, lie down. Go.’
The scampered off.
‘Mouri, right here, watch your fire. Rizzo, Stretch, around the rear to the far corner, cover the door. Go.’
Rizzo and Stretch moved past me and then off to the left, and around to the rear of the farmhouse. With their dark outlines just about where I wanted them to be I moved forwards with Moran and Swifty, right up to the house. With a back to the wall I knelt and tapped my knee.
Moran gave me his rifle, placed a boot on my knee and reached up for a peek into a high window. Back down, he said, ‘Looks like four of them, gang-raping a local woman.’
‘Yeah? Well ... that’s four distracted for two minutes at least.’ I eased up. ‘Standby.’
I edged along the front of the house, all the windows high up...
I woke as a bright light was shone into my eyes, hearing strange accents, sniffing strange smells.
‘Can you hear me?’ came from a man, grey haired, white coat, a strange accent. A man with him was in uniform.
My memories started to return, and I wondered why I could taste dirt and sand. I started to spit.
A plastic bottle with a curved spout appeared as if from nowhere, water squirted into my mouth. I instinctively turned my head and spat, but did so into a grey cardboard bowl of some sort held by a lady with a nice face.
They squirted more water, and my mouth returned to something that tasted like a mouth, not like I had been licking the road. I stared at the grey-haired man.
‘I’m a doctor, you are safe now,’ came in that strange accent again.
Turning my head to the right I could see a line of beds, new beds but an old building, people moving around. Turning my head left I could see a face smirking at me, a bandage around his head. Moran, Captain Moran. I knew his name and his face.
‘Cap-ee-tan Vilco,’ the grey-haired man said. ‘Are you feeling better?’
I nodded. ‘I ... think ... so. Wha ... what happened?’
‘You had a concussion, from a bomb blast. You are with our French military hospital, near the coast. Djibouti, Cap-ee-tan. Take it easy, just rest.’
I lay there at an angle, and my memories came back over ten minutes. Needing a pee, I instinctively eased up and let my legs down from under a blue blanket. I had pants on, nothing else. My feet hit the cold stone floor.
‘No, no, back to zee bed,’ came from a good looking girl with a sexy accent, a nurse.
‘I need zee toilet,’ I said, making fun of her accent.
She grabbed a grey cardboard bottle from the end of my bed. ‘Here, on zee bed.’
‘You have a wonderful accent,’ I told her as I took the cardboard bottle, Moran laughing. She shot him a look as I examined the thing I was supposed to pee in. ‘I can walk to the toilet.’
‘No, no, in zee bed.’
‘Turn around,’ I told her, taking out my cock and peeing into the bottle.
‘I am nurse. You are difficult patient, yes.’
‘Yes,’ came from behind me.
Finished peeing, I handed over the bottle. ‘Don’t take the piss.’
Moran laughed loudly, my nurse not appreciating the humour, and off she went – taking my piss, the grey-haired man striding over with reinforcements behind him.
‘Cap-ee-tan, please, back to bed, or vee bring here a French Paratroop Brigade and put you back to bed!’
‘Just the one brigade?’ Moran asked.
I eased back onto the bed, only now noticing Swif
ty looking at me from where he lay. He seemed subdued, but waved lazily. ‘Any of my men hurt?’
‘You three only; concussion.’ The doctor closed in. ‘Did the English Army use you for target practice, Cap-ee-tan?’
‘The Bosnian Serbs ... used me for target practice.’
He nodded. ‘You have a concussion, and I am informed you are a medic, so you know what not to do, eh?’
‘I won’t fly a helicopter for twenty-four hours or ride a motorcycle or scuba dive.’
The doctor gave a loud theatrical sigh. ‘Be a good patient, yes.’
‘I will, if I can have some food, and some drink.’
‘OK, but you may be sick, so a little.’
As he headed off I turned to Moran. ‘What the fuck happened?’
‘We went out on patrol, down the hill and up the other side, found a cave and shot the men there, then reached a farmhouse, the rebels moving rockets inside. As we snuck up and took a look it blew, so ... some accident with a rocket. They heard it all the way back at camp.’
‘How did we get here?’
‘Rizzo grabbed your sat phone and he dialled all of the numbers stored in it -’
‘That won’t be good,’ I quipped.
Moran laughed. ‘No. He rang Bob Staines and gave a quick frantic message, then Major Bradley – but just said “Bollocks”, then finally got Sergeant Crab, and Crab got Henri, and Henri sent down a vehicle convoy to fetch us in a panic. Rizzo took charge.’
‘How long were you out?’
‘Minutes.’
‘And me?’
‘Hours.’
‘Swifty?’
‘Like you, still a bit dazed.’
‘No shrapnel wounds?’ I puzzled.
‘Wall of the farmhouse hit us, knocked us down and half buried us. Your head gave the medics a problem when they brought you in.’
‘My head?’
‘They felt your skull and figured it was all smashed up inside, major brain surgery an option till I explained your old injuries.’
I nodded, a hand run over the ridges in my skull, and I found a bandage wound around my head. ‘Did Rizzo call the Cabinet Office, because their number is in the damn phone?’
‘We could be in trouble, yes, but they probably just got a quick “Bollocks” out of him, Bradley did.’
‘So now Bradley thinks I called him and shouted “Bollocks” at him...’
Moran laughed. ‘I spoke to Bradley a while ago, explained it, and I spoke to Bob. Had him worried for a while because Rizzo said Wilco is down, Moran is down.’
‘That would have caused Bob to shit himself, yes,’ I noted. I sighed. ‘If they bring me green jelly I’m heading out for a steak.’
Moran started laughing five minutes later as the nurse brought me green jelly, and I held the plastic child-sized dish in my hands, the nurse stood with hands on hips.
A few hours later, and after I had dozed for a while, Captain Harris came in with the good looking lady captain.
‘You still alive?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Just a headache, but I’ve had worse.’
‘Getting blown up is an occupational hazard for you, you should be used to it,’ he quipped.
‘Did anyone go to that cave or farmhouse?’ I asked.
‘Yes, French Army were all over it collecting intel. And that phone you got gave up a treasure trove of information, a long list of numbers that both us and the French have been going through, a few arrests made in towns, so you’re popular with French Intel. We got its satellite logs and have movements of men, so the maps are being checked, already have the French raiding some village as we speak.’
‘Where’s my kit?’
‘Clothes are here, webbing and rifle left on the jeeps after they were met by a Puma, so back at the camp I guess.’
‘Are they sending out patrols?’ I puzzled.
‘Yes, Rocko and Rizzo are taking patrols out, and Sergeant Crab, so the perimeter is covered.’
‘Didn’t bring any food with you, did you?’ I asked.
‘Food here poor?’ Harris asked.
‘No, just ... not much of it. They gave me green jelly.’
‘You supposed to eat with a concussion?’ the nice lady captain asked.
‘Look at the size of me.’ She laughed. ‘You’re in Intel, so sneak back later, tell them you’re my girlfriend -’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘- and bring me a tin of meat, there’s a love.’
She exchanged a look with Harris as he smiled.
I added, ‘It’s an operational order, and I have control here, remember. The future state of this war depends on me, and I depend on my stomach.’
‘See what I can do,’ she offered.
‘Excellent,’ I commended. Facing Harris, I said, ‘Try and fetch my sat phone, I don’t want Rizzo calling the Cabinet Office.’
He laughed. ‘Bradley called me, asked why you were swearing down the phone at him – and were you drunk.’
I turned to Moran, who had been listening in. ‘Fucking marvellous.’
Two hours later and the lady captain was back; things were looking up. She spoke to the doctor, waved a sat phone, and was allowed to see me.
Closing in, she began, ‘I told them you have to take a call, that it was vital.’ She handed over the phone and a list of numbers.
‘Wow, you really have neat handwriting,’ I said as I glanced at the numbers.
‘It’s an officer thing,’ she cheekily commented.
I cocked an eyebrow at her, Moran asleep. ‘Anything ... else, Captain?’
She checked the nurse at the end from under her eyebrows, opened her bag and slipped a tin of meat under my blanket, depositing between my legs and brushing my cock with it.
‘For a minute there I thought I might get some light relief,’ I told her, and she squinted back her mild disapproval of the idea.
‘You have a woman, an officer, and a child.’
‘I was a sperm donor, little else, she tricked me into getting pregnant, but doesn’t want me involved with raising our child – her child.’
‘I’ve heard bits and pieces.’
‘If you want the full story ... just ask me. We’re both captains in the Army, so long hot showers together are permitted.’
‘Behave!’ she quietly admonished, checking Moran was asleep.
‘What’s a nice girl like you doing the Army anyhow?’ I quietly asked as she stood at the side of the bed, also checking Moran was asleep.
‘Father and older brothers in.’ She shrugged. ‘Was never the type to play with dolls.’
‘You don’t look all butch and lesbian.’
‘I’m not. I mean ... neither.’
‘Good to know,’ I said with a smirk. ‘Although, if you were, I would have an excuse why I couldn’t get you on a date.’
‘You’ve not asked me on date.’
‘Well, that’s ... because I live in a hole in the ground at the moment, so let’s call it a hypothetical date.’
‘Some might see such a date as ... me furthering my career.’
I frowned and looked away. Looking back, I said, ‘You lost me there, I’m not a general.’
‘You’re where the action is, careers made or lost. No one wants just research projects.’
‘Ah, so you’d like to be where the action is, like Captain Harris.’
‘His position would be better than where I am now. Not that I’m after his position, but one like it.’
‘What is your name, by the way?’
‘Captain Samantha Hedge.’
‘I’m Captain Michael Milton, pleased to meet you.’
She smiled. ‘Seems odd, your real name. You’re written down as just Wilco in the manuals.’
I lifted my eyebrows. ‘They have manuals on how to date me?’
‘No, dummy, manuals on your operations. Every operation you’ve been on has a large manual, for training purposes and reference.’
‘That’s a worry, I’d have to read them. And
I’m sure that not every operation I’ve been on is in there, I’d be in jail.’
‘Rumours do abound about naughty jobs, but they’re light on detail.’
‘I won’t be embellishing them, not even over dinner.’
‘No, you’re known for keeping secrets,’ she agreed.
‘Because some day I may not get the protection of those who sent me on the missions, and I might just get a lengthy jail term.’
‘Why do them?’
‘Good ... question. When I have a good answer I’ll let you know, might take some years yet to figure that one out, but it was a slow process of seduction.’
‘Seduction?’
‘Yes, you seduce a lady slowly, and the operations I was involved with slowly moved from plain old military to plain old illegal killing. Take this week: I killed men preparing rockets, when – theoretically – there was no legal mandate for military operations in this country, and I might have arrested them.’
She nodded. ‘It’s a grey area.’
‘Keen ... to work in a grey area?’
‘I have an eye on civilian intelligence work. You ... could assist with that.’
‘I could, yes. So ... when I’m not wearing a bandage, or living in a hole in the ground, we should discuss the matter over dinner.’
‘A date then,’ she said with a coy smile and headed off.
I turned my head to Moran. ‘Stop pretending to be asleep.’
He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘How did you know I was awake.’
‘Facial muscles and breathing patterns. I am a medic, remember.’
‘So you got your tin of meat, and a date.’
I nodded, losing my smile. ‘I suspect that she’s working for Mi5, her next employers.’
Moran lost his smile. ‘She’s a plant?’
‘No, she’s genuine, just that you should always be suspicious of a girl snuggling up to you. And I have a sixth sense for these things.’
I lifted the sat phone, turned it on and dialled Bob Staines, knowing that it was around 8pm in the UK.
‘Hello.’
‘It’s Wilco, lying in bed.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Popular. Listen, do me a favour, open an active file on a Captain Samantha Hedge, she’s here with the Army Intel team, but I suspect she has other paymasters.’
