Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

‘Who..?’

  ‘Five. She has an eye on a civilian intel future.’

  ‘Then ... she means us, not Five.’

  ‘She also wiggled her hips, and wants a position close to me – where the action is.’

  ‘Ah. I’ll check her out.’

  ‘See what she’s applied for, who she’s spoken to.’

  ‘Will do. Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Much better, but they’re feeding me green jelly, so it could be a slow recovery.’

  ‘Had me worried last night, at least Rizzo did; thought I had lost you and Moran.’

  ‘Perhaps you should plan for that day, it’s a dangerous game we’re playing.’

  ‘Can’t make an omelette without cracking the egg unfortunately.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘A good result with that sat phone, French have arrested a few people, god knows how they never found that cave themselves. And eighteen more bodies, so the count is rising.’

  ‘What was the finally tally on that convoy?’

  ‘I think it was a hundred and seventy five dead, a hundred and eighty wounded and captured, rest got away, but they found sixty bodies in various places, so men died from their wounds afterwards. All in a good tally, and no fresh attacks, it’s gone quiet.’

  ‘Any difficult questions from the press?’ I nudged.

  ‘French incinerated the bodies quickly, but the wounded have told the Red Cross that they were gassed. French have said that CS gas is normal, and so far no big stink, except explaining the cement. French said that the cement must have been on jeeps that exploded.’

  I laughed. ‘Better than the truth.’

  ‘You need replacement men, for the wounded?’

  ‘Not really, we have more than enough.’

  ‘Well ... get well soon, but Rizzo and Rocko are sending patrols I hear.’

  Two days later, and two visits from Samantha later, I was allowed to go, Moran released the day before, Swifty released with me, and we were soon on a Puma and heading back, our uniforms having been washed - and unfortunately now smelling of perfumed soap. We were like a couple of queers in combats and we kept sniffing the fabric.

  We jumped down with four French soldiers rotating and ran bent-double, soon kneeling as the Puma lifted off, then stood staring at the new building work. Breeze block and cement walls were being thrown up by French military engineers. It was quite the building site.

  Stepping across to my fox hole I waved at many of the lads from the various outfits. Henri unwrapped my rifle and webbing from a poncho; I had felt naked without it. Bandolier on, webbing on, Rifle checked, pistol tucked away, I felt better, and back to normal. He sniffed my uniform, and I shrugged.

  I went towards the Echo positions but found most out on patrol, Napoleon and Tomo explaining what had happened these past three days – which was nothing but non-contact patrols close in. I stepped across to Crab.

  ‘You back then,’ he quipped. ‘Had a nice rest?’

  ‘I did. Nice nurses and nice lady captains. How’s your hole in the ground?’

  ‘Got rubber mats now, and the fucking French are building a barracks here whilst it’s quiet. Never been quiet before, so they brought in a shit load of breezeblocks and cement by Chinook, engineers arrived by jeep. Going to be a tall tower, observation tower, and some rooms.’

  ‘Be cosy,’ I noted. ‘But we’d move on up the hills. I don’t want you getting comfy.’

  I took it easy that day, chatting to many of the groups, and then chatting with my teams as they returned from patrol, most enquiring after my health - and did I shag any nurses. And what was that odd smell. I had a headache, and my left ear was not 100%, but I was not about to tell anyone that.

  In the morning I got a call as I finished breakfast with Henri. ‘Wilco here.’

  ‘It’s Captain Harris, got some intel. Got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Hold on.’ I grabbed my small notepad, placing in on the compacted dirt in front of my fox hole. ‘OK, fire away.’

  He read out coordinates, a place some twelve miles away northwest. ‘The sat phone’s sat nav positioning tracked back to that location a few times, but there’s nothing there, so maybe a cave, it’s a nasty area of tight gorges.’

  ‘We’ll go have a look. Put two Pumas on standby after sun down to come fetch us if need be, or to bring up teams from here if it gets hairy.’

  ‘Will do.’

  I turned to Henri. ‘We have some intel, you come with us today. We leave in half an hour.’

  He took a moment to consider that and nodded. I gave the lads a nudge, and half an hour later they were assembled outside my fox hole, most everyone sat in the dirt, rifles held erect, Moran checking the map and the coordinates given. I had also kicked up Crab and Hamble and the SBS senior staff.

  ‘OK, we have intel on a cave, twelve miles out, so today we’ll go have a look. Smitty, Tomo, Dicky, I want you on patrol today and late tonight, left ridge, usual routes and OPs – Dicky you’re in charge. SAS lads, standby towards sundown to come out by helo and support us, SBS as well if necessary.’

  ‘We need to come rescue your arse again?’ asked Crab.

  ‘Quite possibly. And when I knew that we were coming out here I considered my arse, and then thought of you, Sergeant.’ The lads snickered, Crab glancing at them. ‘Rest assured, Sergeant, that when it comes to matters of my anus, and its safe keeping, you’re uniquely qualified.’

  ‘Aye, bollocks,’ Crab let out as the lads laughed at him.

  ‘We could, of course, refer to you as Arsehole Bodyguard, or perhaps Arsehole Come Rescuer. Which do you prefer?’

  ‘Neither, so fuck off.’

  ‘Then perhaps, Sergeant, you should not have an over-inflated opinion of your rescue skills, or your need here, and make fewer references to my arse.’ I held my stare on him as the rest smiled his way.

  ‘As I was saying, before we digressed onto the topic of my arse. The SAS and SBS will be on standby to come join in the fight, or indeed to rescue us. But if there’s a target worth hitting then we’ll do it as you come in by helicopter, a distraction. Make sure you’re ready, get some rest today. Echo Detachment, form up ready to leave.’

  Five minutes later I led them off, Henri behind me, map and coordinates checked. I had memorised the route, and it was not hard thanks to some high peaks and the directions of the valleys. As usual, the muzzle of my rifle was pointing towards my left boot, the butt in front of my right shoulder, my left sleeve hooked onto my front webbing and taking some of the weight.

  The sun had hidden itself behind a low cloud layer, so we were not about to overheat as we trudged along the goat tracks and then down, mouths covered as we passed the remaining bodies, soon to the road and across in a long line, up the other side of the hill and to the cave where we had shot seven men. The bodies were still there, so we simply skirted around the cave and pushed on towards the farmer’s land.

  Moran asked, ‘These farmers, you think they’ll report us?’

  ‘OK if they do, we came for a scrap, but I doubt they’d figure us going on another twelve miles and then turning left.’

  Climbing steadily, we found a track on a gently sloping ridge of grey rocks and followed it, good visibility all around, and after two hours we had left behind all signs of earnest local micro-agriculture, so the next isolated field surprised me.

  Then I smiled. ‘The local drugs trade must be funding these boys,’ I told Henri and Moran. Shouting, I said, ‘Destroy it all!’

  The lads wandered into the small field and stomped on the tall plants growing there, Rizzo having a good sniff at a few, and soon we had a field of broken produce.

  Moving past a stone wall I spun and fired quickly, six quick shots as three men lifted up from their rest; they had been sat against the wall and should have heard us and ambushed us. Henri added to the firepower and levelled an automatic burst at the men.

  ‘All round defence!’ I shouted, and knelt. I could see no one else, and hea
r no movement, so after two minutes I eased up. ‘Forwards, stay sharp.’

  Climbing higher, we crested a rise whilst being pushed back by a keen cold wind, and we dropped down the other side, finding a brown field with nothing growing. Reaching it, I knelt and peered at it, since it had not been recently planted.

  Standing, I said, ‘Back up. Grab rocks, throw them at the field.’

  ‘Mines?’ Moran asked.

  ‘Don’t know, but it seems odd. It also seems that this is the only place a helo could put down around here. It’s flat and looks prepared yet ... no crops and no wild plants growing.’

  The lads starting throwing stones and rocks, and after a minute a blast threw soil and sand into the air, the echo repeating off the hills a few times as the smoke wafted by.

  ‘Mines,’ Moran unhappily noted.

  ‘OK, last six men, weapons down, rocks thrown, rest of you – all round defence.’ I took out my sat phone and dialled.

  ‘Captain Harris.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, track back the coordinates of this call, there’s a minefield in the middle of nowhere -’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No, we spotted it. Mark it, let the French know.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Half an hour of effort caused six blasts. I stood. ‘Everyone, one magazine only,’ and I fired at random across the field, the result being just one blast, but the lads caused another seven blasts.

  ‘OK, all we can do, but might save some poor bastard in the future. On me.’

  Edging left, I was careful where I stepped, and we avoided the field, the mined area now displaying dark brown soil in numerous holes as we left it behind. Around to the far side I headed northwest, but we soon found poppies growing in clumps along a track and so destroyed them as we progressed, a mile of hard mountain trail traversed.

  Approaching the next ridge I could smell smoke and got down, rifle ready, the lads ducking into rocks. I clicked on the radio. ‘Men over the ridge, get ready, move right, up and over, stay hidden.’

  As quietly as we could we all broke right and wove between the rocks with our heads down before having to climb over the boulders. Reaching the crest of the ridge I peered down to find a small group of fighters stood chatting and smoking as a lorry trundled along a track towards us. The lorry turned off the track, revealing men under its canvass back, a shouting match then ensuing about something, a lot of hand waving.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Henri, Moran, take the men smoking fifteen yards left of me. Napoleon, watch our rear, everyone else, hit the truck. Shoot when I shoot. Move now.’

  I eased up into a fire position, every chance of being seen, waited as long as I could, then fired, knocking down the man I had aimed at as he turned my way, his colleagues shredded and spun, the cracks now permeating the air signalling that those in the back of the lorry were also getting shredded.

  The lorry driver jumped down, was hit and spun, and it was all over. We waited, listening, checking the area.

  ‘On me,’ I finally called, and I moved slowly across jagged rocks to my left and to the smokers, checking the bodies. Rocko lowered the tailgate of the truck, grabbed fighters by the wrist and dragged them out, soon a pile, and he had a nose into the back of the lorry, finding tins of meat and bags of flour and rice.

  ‘Provisions,’ Moran noted. ‘So someone is living in a cave.’

  ‘And I hate small spaces, like caves – and submarines,’ I thought out loud.

  Pressing on, we made use of the goat trails – despite the obvious risks, because there was no chance of crossing the rocks and surviving, and an hour later we approached the target coordinates. Halting at the head of a narrow valley, I peered down it, not seeing movement, nor any obvious caves, nor any steep sides that might house such a cave. All I could see was a rounded basin, some rocks and dirt.

  Moran and I both checked the map, nodded, and we moved down carefully, eyes everywhere. Reaching the bottom of the valley I knelt and stared ahead, a flat basin some fifty yards wide, gently sloping sides reaching up a hundred feet, and no signs of man nor beast – nor drugs growing.

  Standing, and turning full circle, I took out my sat phone and dialled.

  ‘Captain Harris.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, track back these phone coordinates and check them against the target area. Call me back. Wilco out.’

  ‘It can’t be the right spot,’ Moran concluded. ‘But it matches the map.’

  Five minutes later my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Captain Harris, you’re in the right spot give or take ten yards.’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing – there ain’t nothing here.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nada, not a sausage, so we’ll fan out and search the area. I’ll get back you if we trip on anything interesting.’

  Putting my phone away I walked forwards around small rocks, but noticed boot tracks, and fresh tracks. I followed them carefully, and after ten yards I halted. ‘Moran, see anything odd about these tracks?’

  He closed in. ‘They ... go under that rock,’ he puzzled. ‘As if the rock was moved afterwards.’

  ‘So why would anyone move a rock?’

  ‘Minefield?’

  ‘Don’t know about you, but I’d neither walk across a minefield nor place a rock on one.’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  I knelt and slowly pulled the rock over. A faint outline could be seen, and I ran a finger along its straight edge. ‘Trap door.’ I clicked on my radio. ‘Spread out, all round defence, there’s a trap door here.’

  The lads scattered as Moran closed in to have a look. ‘Question is,’ he whispered. ‘Is anyone home?’

  I turned my head. ‘What use is it out here?’

  ‘Storing weapons,’ Moran suggested. ‘They move around the area as civilians in case the French pull them over, grab weapons here and go do some bother.’

  ‘Bit of a hike to Camp Bad,’ I suggested. ‘Cover me.’ I eased around the side and took out my pistol as Moran aimed at the trap door, Swifty close by. Finding a metal ring I got my finger into it and pulled gently, then simply yanked it open and moved back.

  Peeking in, I could see a ladder going down. Taking out my torch, I shone the light down, my face inside the hole, and I could see that it stretched down almost thirty feet in my estimation before heading off north.

  Easing back, I peered north and tried to work out where it might lead, soon seeing a square on the hillside, and there were no squares in nature. I closed the hatch quietly then placed a heavy rock on it, followed by four heavy rocks. Anyone inside would not be coming out this way any time soon.

  ‘On me,’ I called, and ran as best I could to the ridge, weaving around the rocks and up to the square I had seen, and reaching it I could see that it was a vent.

  ‘Caves?’ Moran asked.

  ‘Mines,’ I suggested. I dialled Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, check this area for old mines will you, and like right now.’

  ‘Hold on.’ After three minutes he came back with, ‘There’s an old mine half a mile north, nothing near you.’

  ‘Let the French know we found a mine shaft, hidden, and it’s in use. We also found a vent from the mine, so we’ll move north to the entrance and have a look. Call you back.’

  I inched closer to the vent and sniffed. ‘Warm air and cigarettes,’ I whispered.

  ‘I have some CS gas,’ Moran whispered back.

  ‘Won’t do much good in a cave a mile long. C’mon.’

  Climbing the ridge was hard going, no trails to follow, rocks to be clambered over, sharp edges to be avoided, and I was puffing a little as we reached the crest. Peering over I saw no movement, just another valley and basin, the opposite ridge some two hundred yards away. Something was not right. Adopting my rifle I peered through the sights.

  ‘Take a look at the dirt down there,’ I told Moran. ‘No crops, but nothing else growing.’

  He peered through his own lens. ‘I can see a mine.’


  ‘That figures. So ... why have a minefield here?’

  ‘Mine entrance to protect,’ Moran adamantly stated.

  ‘Why protect a mine?’ I thought out loud.

  ‘Something in there worth protecting.’

  I nodded, and called Captain Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, we found another minefield, next valley north from target coordinates, the valleys running east to west. Try and find out how big these mines are -’

  ‘There’re miles of tunnels I was just informed, some big enough to drive a truck through.’

  ‘So why the fuck haven’t the French blown up the entrances?’

  ‘They’ve never been that far north before. Camp Bad was only taken six months ago, and if you look at the front lines then it juts out ten miles, the furthest point forwards. Where you are now is bandit country, and no French boots on the ground have been there – nor would they have dared. You’re only there because you set them back, otherwise you’d have been tripping over them miles back.’

  ‘Have the French engineers on standby to come out and blow the mines, this mine is in use, men inside having a nice cuppa. We’ll take a look, but I have no intention of going inside a fucking mine.’

  ‘I’ll talk to them now. Standby.’

  I called forwards Henri, and we huddled around the map. ‘This next valley has mines, but over the next ridge is a mine entrance and a track, and it’s in use. My people say you’ve never been this far forwards before.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, the camp was the outpost.’

  ‘I’ve asked for French engineers to blow the mine entrance, then we need to find the exits, like the one behind us.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Henri asked.

  ‘Go around the minefield and have a look.’

  ‘Movement,’ came Swifty’s voice and we spun, soon ducking down and peering through telescopic lenses across the valley.

  Movement caught my eye and for a moment I saw a Duska fifty cal on a jeep. ‘Fifty cal,’ I whispered.

  Panning left, I found a gap in the rocks and could see heads, men in berets and uniforms, black skin and high cheek bones, weapons slung. They turned as a unit and moved off as a unit. ‘There are soldiers over there, not fighters.’ I held my stare on Henri.