Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Captain Moran, translate please. First team, you will run to the next firing position, lie down and fire one round at one target, up and running, lie down – one round, thereafter kneeling till you get to 100yards, turn and run back up here as a team. Simple. One target, one round only, four shots fired.

  ‘When you hit a target it will go down, and we will score it. Don’t fire twice from the same distance.’

  The “heads” appeared above the sandy butts.

  ‘Standby.’ They got ready, the other teams up on the firing point and observing, the French major shouting advice. ‘Advance!’

  They jogged down to the 400yards point - myself and Moran following, they lay down - a few seconds to settle themselves, and they opened fire. Three heads were not lowered, team scores noted not individual scores.

  They got up, shouted messages to each other, and ran as a team, down and firing, this time two heads missed. At 200yards they knelt and fired, all heads knocked down, and again at 100yards, all heads knocked down. They turned around and ran back with us.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Butts, lower targets and rest for a minute.’ Moran and myself jogged back up, the day hot already.

  ‘Next French Team!’

  They moved into position as the first team passed them, words of encouragement exchanged. This team faired a little better, but missed one target at 200yards, their third team – mostly officers, not doing as well at distance.

  Echo was up, ten men, and they only dropped one target, back with smug grins for the French, insults exchanged – not least because all of my lads had telescopic sights. In a sense of fairness, I had Echo remove the sights.

  As 2 Squadron advanced with Moran I greeted Mally and the four new Externals, all displaying their works of art. I corrected a few small items. ‘OK, you will now join forces, Mally is in charge.

  ‘You will advance around the range, go wide around the enemy position, never closer than 400yards, and to the low ridge beyond, where you will check and enhance your maps and sketches. You will then go around and behind the cliffs, and up - they’re steep this side but gentle the other side.

  ‘From the top you will enhance your maps and sketches, back inside three hours. And you will move like professionals in a war zone.’ I held up a warning finger. ‘Also, watch where you walk, some old mines left over from the civil war,’ I lied. ‘And the local farmers carry guns, so be careful. Off you go.’

  I wasn’t sure about the last part, but it made sense.

  On the range, the Pathfinders did as well as the French, the first Wolves team level, the second team down a point.

  Teams finished, I stood in front of them. ‘Next, you will do exactly the same, but ... you will walk quickly in your teams east, up beyond the end of the range, where there is a deserted village. You will walk around the outside of it, right to left, back here, and then ... hit the targets as before.

  ‘Do not run, walk at a brisk pace. First French team of hard men.’ They jeered. ‘Off you go.’

  Each team was sent off at six minute intervals, enough of a gap to organise the shooting when they returned – hopefully still with six minute gaps.

  Hearing firing behind me, I turned to see Crab with our pilots, pistol drills in scrubland near the huts. I closed in on the French major with Moran. ‘How were things after the Congo?’

  ‘Ah, we are heroes of France,’ Major Liban joked. ‘All getting a medal, off to the Palace, all for the TV cameras, no.’

  ‘Politics and publicity,’ I said.

  ‘Pah, those hostages had been left to rot. Without zee information you got, they still be rotting.’

  I nodded. ‘Often the way.’

  ‘Paris never knows what it is doing,’ he complained.

  ‘We make our own choices.’

  ‘You are lucky, yes. I have to fill out a form to take a shit.’ We laughed. ‘You have Russian men with you?’ he asked.

  ‘No, they are English but speak Russian, but they practise Russian all the time. They can pretend to be Russian gunmen, as they did in the Congo.’

  He made a face and nodded his approval. ‘We don’t have men like this. And always AK47?’

  ‘Yes, but with 20inch barrels, nearly always optical sights,’ I explained. ‘Aim is to kill the enemy before they get close, and to have a reliable weapon.’

  ‘And your SA80?’

  ‘A piece of shit,’ Moran told him.

  The first team appeared, a stiff march maintained, back up to us, panting a little as they lined up, a shine on their forearms.

  ‘Advance!’ I called, and they were back at it.

  With all of the teams back, queued up then firing, standards had slipped a little from the first attempt, a few targets missed – men breathing too much, sweat in eyes. Those queued up were offered water from the plastic bottles.

  When all teams had fired, scores tallied, Echo were in the lead. I gathered the teams. ‘You will again fire as before, but ... you will first walk at a brisk pace around the hill you can see.’ I pointed as faces and shoulders dropped. ‘Yes, it’s hot today, so get some water in you, don’t cook. First French team, move off at a brisk pace.’

  Cursing quietly, they moved off in a line, and six minutes later we sent off the second team.

  The French major, Liban, said, ‘You will tire them first, to see how they shoot when not relaxed.’

  I nodded, ‘Yes, sir. And each day it gets harder.’

  ‘We have parachutes.’

  ‘Third day, sir.’

  With all the teams off we got a brew on – those few of us left, and we sat chatting. The Pathfinders officer wandered up, but since there was nothing to see he wandered back down, Crab now instructing our pilots in the use of the AK47 – and getting a tan at the same time.

  An hour later the first team was back, soaked in sweat, water grabbed and gulped down before I lined them up on the range. ‘Advance!’

  Again scores were down, but level with the last round. As each team came back up they were told to sit and rest or get a brew on. With all teams having fired, scores tallied, they all had at least thirty minutes to sort themselves out before being assembled.

  I began, ‘On the hill you walked around there is a clear and safe track that goes up and over. This time you will go up and over.’ They moaned. ‘First French team make ready. Off you go. And keep a good pace.’

  I exchanged a few words with Sasha as he led his team of nine off , and I encouraged the second team of Wolves, Tomo cracking jokes.

  With the last team dispatched, those of us remaining wandered down to the huts and enquired after cool water. The water tanker was coolish, and better than the bottles in the huts.

  Mally appeared with his team, coming down to the huts after finding no one on the range. Sketches out, maps out, Moran and I studied them, and they were not too bad, a few things to correct.

  ‘OK, Mally, you will take your team back up beyond the range, eyes on that enemy position, and make a plan to get the hostages that are ... somewhere.

  ‘I want a detailed plan, assuming eight guards seen, actual numbers unknown, occasional vehicle seen, civvys in the houses, dogs, two British hostages being held – medical state unknown, helicopter pickup three miles away across the desert – insert by helicopter three miles away. Off you go. And top up water if you need it, stop and cook lunch.’

  Morten pulled up in a jeep. ‘We borrowed this, you can use it.’

  ‘You two, hang around in case we get a broken ankle. Got a number for the French helo pilots?’

  ‘Yes, all set up. It’s not like we’re new to this.’

  I smiled. ‘I feel safer already. Oh, lads are out at the moment, up that hill in the distance.’

  Moran and I observed for a while as the pilots blasted tin cans, moving as a pair, and with Morten we wandered back up to the range, the 2 Squadron lads in the butts having a rest and getting a brew on.

  I asked over the radio. ‘You OK down there?’

&nbs
p; ‘Got some shade, sir, also got some snakes and scorpions.’

  ‘Be careful, a few things around here are poisonous.’ Studying the butts, the lane numbers were now obscured by a wicked shimmering effect as the hot air rose.

  When the first team appeared, I radioed the butts to be ready in five minutes, and French soldiers with distinct sweat stains marched briskly towards me, positions taken.

  ‘Advance!’ I shouted, no time for them to catch their breath.

  This time they actually increased their score by one point, the other teams mixed, Echo doing well, Sasha’s team doing well.

  When the last team finished it was 2pm, and roasting. ‘Everyone, two hour break,’ I called. ‘Eat, shit or rest.’

  Men crawled under their ponchos for some shade, kit taken off, bare backs seen, water splashed over hot bodies. The French lads looked fit and strong, the average man larger in build than a typical SAS trooper.

  I sat with Swifty, water boiling.

  ‘How we doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Echo is in the lead, then a French team, then Sasha’s team, then Pathfinders I think.’

  ‘That hill was warm, but a nice breeze on the top. Funny, but when I looked down at that dummy village I thought for a while we did a hostage rescue there.’

  ‘That was the first job in Mauritania, very similar layout.’

  ‘Seems like a lifetime ago, that does.’

  ‘Two years.’

  He lifted his head to the sounds of gunfire.

  ‘That’s Crab with our pilots,’ I told him.

  Food in me, Swifty’s turn to clean the tin, I wandered the line, all of the men in good spirits, some men sleeping in the heat, some sunbathing, the sun blisteringly hot on my exposed skin. Morten had sun cream, so I put some on the back of my neck, nose and forearms.

  At 4pm I blew a whistle, men gathering themselves – a few yawning. Kit on, weapons checked, teams formed up, and they moved back to the firing point, men seen to be stiff and slow-moving.

  ‘First team,’ I called, and they moved forwards. ‘You will shoot the targets as before, but -’ I held up a finger and smiled. ‘- one of your men is injured. So ... first man, hand rifle to third man. Second man, piggy back first man.’

  They got ready, the first man jumping up onto the second man’s back.

  ‘Man carrying, two hundred paces and swap, and you will go around the hill – not over it.’ Moran translated. They nodded.

  ‘Off you go!’

  When we got to Echo, I said, ‘Rocko, don’t let anyone carry you,’ and they laughed. ‘Maybe Slider. Get ready.’ Mahoney lifted Swifty.

  ‘Ya ain’t too heavy, boy,’ came in an American accent.

  ‘Off you go.’ I stepped to the Wolves. ‘Sasha, if your back is an issue, don’t carry anyone.’

  ‘I can try,’ he said.

  All the teams were soon plodding off and scuffing up sand, a risk of injured ankles. The sand was soft, but not great for a secure footing.

  Crab brought up our pilots, and I radioed the butts to have four targets manned, our pilots sniping from 300yards as we observed, Morten and his medic also firing as the hills developed that late afternoon desert orange glow, the sun setting behind us.

  Mally returned with his team, some semblance of order to them, and they now had a plan. Moran and I sat with them in a circle, cross-legged like schoolboys, and they outlined their plan.

  Approach and assess, move after 2am, two men on sniper cover from the high ground and to cover the withdrawal. A fire would be started at the edge of the village as a distraction as the team went over the wall quietly, hostage takers killed, hostages out – allowing for carrying them, withdraw with covering fire.

  ‘OK,’ I began. ‘Sergeant Crab and I will place man targets and head targets later, maybe a tripwire here and there, and we’ll have two live pilots as hostages, maybe injured. You’ll be using live ammo, and if you injure those pilots you’re out the military after a long stay in hospital.’ I raised warning finger. ‘Be careful, especially with grenades clearing buildings. Make sure you know where the hostages are first.

  ‘OK, get kit, refine the plan, get food and rest, and after 10pm you’ll be taken by Puma to a grid reference Captain Harris will give you, turn around and walk back to carry out the rescue, hostages back to that point for a Puma extraction.

  ‘Before you attempt the rescue you give Captain Harris a good sitrep, update afterwards, and then call in the Puma. If all goes well we’ll chat in the morning, if not – wake me. And ... we will be watching of course. Off you go.’

  The teams appeared as the sun hung low to the west, the air still damn hot, but one French team had a twisted ankle, Morten called in, the man driven off as the rest assembled, a drink taken, the first French team firing.

  As each team finished firing they were given maps and coordinates, tonight’s map reading exercise, after which they were again to hit the targets. Each team was handed one of five sets of coordinates so that they would not meet up in the dark, a circular route that needed observations made at two points – they could not cheat or cut corners, the course approximately nine miles – but a hard-to-navigate nine miles, and all had to avoid the dummy village. When ready, we dispatched the first French team.

  All teams dispatched, I wandered down to Crab and we made ready targets, as well as some petrol cans, Morten’s jeep borrowed. Targets in place in the dummy village, petrol cans behind two of them, a few trip wires set, we returned to give the bad news to our pilots – they had been drafted. Kitted out, they returned with us to the village as we lost the light, one room to occupy, lamps and spare batteries, a fire lit.

  ‘One of you, pretend to be injured, make them carry you,’ I instructed.

  They were not too happy, but had little choice, and they settled down into dusty corners to get some sleep, and to wait some loud noises around 2am.

  Back at the huts, I double-checked with Captain Harris and he checked with the Puma pilots, medics to be on standby as well in case of broken ankles in the desert. All was set.

  We ate with Crab, who had bought some local bread from a roadside vendor, as well as some lamb chunks, a Puma touching down at 10pm with its lights on.

  ‘Make safe your weapons!’ I bellowed at Mally, who had forgotten, and they all made safe, soon in the Puma and off in a cloud of dust.

  At midnight we returned to the range and lit fires, the first team potentially back in half an hour, give or take an hour, the guys from the butts now at this end - having cooked a meal and gotten some rest. They would be on till 1am, hopefully no later.

  When the first line of black images appeared against a dark brown desert I sent the 2 Squadron lads down to the butts and to get ready, fires lit on the butts. The tired French team got ready, and dark outlines moved off down the range when told, shooting at poorly illuminated targets. When done, they were stood down till 9am.

  Oddly enough, Echo came in ahead of the next French team, so they took the next position and fired before also being stood down, a few moaning about the sand.

  All teams back, all having fired – teams of nine having a man firing twice, all were now stood down and most were seen sat cooking, and as Moran and I escorted the last team back towards the fence dull blasts registered from the east, Duffy now observing the action from this side of the village.

  Duffy returned to us later with a smile. ‘Who put petrol cans behind targets then?’

  ‘Must have been Crab,’ I said. ‘How’d they do?’

  ‘I could just about see them, but they were very quiet and stealthy. They set the distraction fire, waited for it to get going, then two went in for the hostages while six hammered the targets and threw grenades into rooms. They carried that one pilot out, covering fire, grenades thrown, so they did OK. Where they off to?’

  ‘Back to the Puma pick-up, if they get the coordinates right,’ I told Duffy. ‘You stand down now till 8am-ish.’

  I was lying down next to Swifty when th
e Puma loudly dropped Mally and his team back near the huts, and I heard them scuff sand as they passed me, but they did not call for me, so no one was hurt. I tried to get some sleep, men on stag all night.

  As the light came up I stirred, hearing Rizzo snoring. I turned on my side and eased out slowly, wondering where my rifle was, but then remembering I had handed it to Haines. I waved at the lads on stag, clambered over the firing point and took a pee as the sun tried to fight its way above the hill.

  I let Swifty wake naturally, and when I saw his legs move I got a brew on, the same hole in the sand used. He wandered off for a shit, rifle left with me, and by time he was back I handed him his brew. Sat on the slope of the firing point with me, we sipped in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Did a helicopter come in last night?’ he finally asked.

  ‘About 3am I think, brought Mally and his team back. They didn’t wake me, so no injuries.’

  He nodded, sipping his tea. Ten minutes later I had the water boiling again, the goo being stirred, men stirring as well.

  Half an hour later I patrolled the line, men cooking, Mally and his team left to sleep, and at 8am I blew a whistle – a subtle hint to get a move on. Men started to clean rifles.

  Approaching Haines, I had his flights swap, the second flight to help out in the butts today, and I explained what I wanted. We’d also have radio communication.

  With the teams gathered, I gave out the scores so far, the French major encouraging his men on, and threatening them with all sorts if they lost to us. When Haines was ready I had the first French team line up.

  ‘You know what to do, one round at each firing position, four rounds. Ready. Advance!’

  They jogged down the range as Crab and Duffy drove up in Morten’s jeeps, medics and pilots helping to unload metal crates before heading back for more kit.

  When the first team was done, they were dispatched from the 100yards firing point to walk quickly around the village and back. Second French team ready, butts ready, they made a start, instructions on what do after firing.

  As the last team fired, the Pathfinders, the first French team was back, a shine of sweat displayed on foreheads. Crab and Duffy were also back, and had laid out ten old FN SLRs and magazines, as well as many ponchos.