Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Nope. Cover me.’

  Silencer on, I took aim at a dark shadow, and quietly blasted a sheep through the heart. Over the fence, I walked to it, grabbed its heavy carcass and ran back, the two of us heaving the heavy creature over the fence.

  ‘Fuck, that’s heavy,’ Swifty whispered. ‘What about blood?’

  ‘All over the field,’ I said. ‘Not much left inside the damn thing.’

  We dragged it all the way back to the gate, knelt and waited, no sounds or movement, and eased it up and over the gate, leaving it resting against the gate, right next to the booby-trap.

  Fishing line out, Swifty back in the trees, I threaded the line around the trip wire, made a loop, and backed up ten yards. A yank, and a hell of a bang sounded out. Line recovered, I ran to the trees, Swifty handing me my rifle. We got ready.

  No lights came on in the house, but after fifteen minutes of sitting still against a tree we saw him move around the back of the house and into the trees.

  ‘Child, and his toy, are moving,’ Swifty noted.

  ‘He’ll come up behind us,’ I whispered, and we moved back to get a better hidden position, peering out from behind our face masks.

  A long twenty minutes later I heard a noise, the man no expert, and we saw him across the fence. He stopped at the edge of the woods, and peered at his gate. Inching out, rifle in hand, he stepped very slowly through the dark till he was above the sheep. Straightening, he cursed and kicked the sheep, a moment later his chest penetrated by a high velocity round, a quiet crack echoing.

  I sent Swifty down the road to have a look as I closed in on the gate. Leaning over the fence, I put a second round through our man, sure that he was now dead.

  I simply knelt and waited, listening, scanning the area. Where there two men? Did he have a mate with him?

  Swifty returned twenty minutes later. ‘All clear down there, and there is a post box, in a hedge.’

  ‘Follow me.’ I led Swifty away from the gate, over the fence as we covered each other, and across the grass on his side, an area too wide for trip wires.

  Gardening bag out, the man’s rifle moved away, we put him in the bag and I lifted him over my shoulder, Swifty using his torch to see where to pour the Coca Cola. He joined me a hundred yards down the grass, and we plodded on, almost back to where we left our kit.

  I unceremoniously dropped our friend, torches on, and we both diligently checked his body for ID. His mobile phone was duly switched off, battery out, and smashed up under foot, his wallet taken.

  Happy that there was little left to identify him, I left my torch on to illuminate our stiff, and we searched through the blackness for the tall tree - and our kit, finding it eventually. Shovels and bleach picked up, we returned to the stiff, found from the torch light, and began to dig.

  In the dim light we took it in turns, one wandering around on stag whilst the other was digging, and we soon had a modest hole. I had chosen a hollow so that our shallow grave would not stand out, and with the body in we poured bleach to hide the smell, plastic over the body to keep the odours in for a while.

  Covered over with dirt, we stamped down on the dirt, a light sprinkling of bleach, topped off with a covering of wet mud from a nearby depression, finally a great many pine needles.

  Standing back, torches on, it looked natural. Shovels back with our kit, empty bottles put down, we headed back to the farmhouse, but avoided the trees – or anywhere a trip wire could be placed.

  Cautious now, we came at the house from a side with no windows, and we tested his garden gate with torches, finding it clear. One garden path slab looked odd, so we avoided it, finding the house quiet, and we used up almost half an hour listening. If he had a girlfriend she was asleep, no dog barking.

  Torches on, we shone them in, not seeing wires or booby-traps.

  ‘I can see the back door clearly,’ Swifty whispered. ‘No wires.’

  We moved around to it, backs to the wall, and Swifty turned the handle, opening it with a click. As we waited, nothing went bang.

  Swifty eased inside, looking and listening. ‘Easy.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Wait there.’ He lit three candles in the lounge.

  ‘Very romantic,’ I quipped. ‘Mood lighting?’

  He shut the door, knelt down, entered the kitchen and turned the gas on. I backed up as he closed the kitchen door and knelt again.

  Outside, he whispered, ‘Gaps under the doors.’

  Job done, we ran, straddling the small garden fence and to the woods, along the edge of the woods and back the way we came, alert as if on patrol. It took a while to find our kit, but once there we knocked on torches and the lamp, unloaded weapons and packed them up, kit off, gloves off, facemasks off, muddy boots off, civvy clothes shaken out and then put on, shoes on.

  With our dead man’s AK47 unloaded we packed it up and moved ten feet, looking back. Knelt, I scanned the area with my torch, grabbing a branch and hiding our tracks.

  Bags lifted, we retraced our steps, waiting ten minutes before approaching the car.

  A distant dull blast registered.

  ‘Oops,’ Swifty’s dark outline let out. ‘Always pays to get a smoke detector.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ I said as I opened the boot, the bags in. ‘It saves lives, the man on the TV says so.’

  Engine started, fuel checked, I headed back to the main road, then south, away from habitation – and away from the direction the Fire Brigade might take, around in a wide circle and soon heading back towards the M25. The MPs welcomed us back at 4am.

  ‘Do we have a smoke detector?’ I asked idly Swifty as we pulled up.

  ‘Ain’t seen one.’

  At the house we dumped the bags, the car taken around to the hangar, keys put back after my tax disc was recovered. Tax disc back in my car, I helped Swifty sort our dirty kit – and the ceilings offered no smoke detector.

  ‘Keep the shovels,’ he said. ‘Might do some gardening here some day.’

  Bleach containers and empty coke bottles went into the bin, the map of Essex kept, the AK47 wiped down with coke. And I still had the guy’s wallet. We pinched the money, it covered what I had spent, and we burnt the rest of its contents after looking it over.

  ‘That money covers our milk,’ I told Swifty.

  He nodded.

  At 10am I was awake, but left Swifty sleeping, and I walked around to the hangar.

  ‘You back already?’ the Major asked. ‘You look knackered.’

  ‘Drove halfway there, meeting postponed, drove back, got here at 2am,’ I lied.

  ‘Bloody typical. Oh, Travis has done his back in, but they say he’ll be fine.’

  ‘I won’t ask how ... he did his back in.’

  After a cup of tea I tackled some paperwork, and after lunch I called Bob. ‘Hey Bob, how’s life at the top?

  ‘Not at the top yet. Anyhow ... some news ... a house demolished from a gas leak accident, no sign of the occupant.’

  ‘Well, you know what these occupants are like, he may never show up. Smoke detector is always prudent.’

  ‘Indeed, yes, I’m always telling people that.’

  ‘My house don’t have a smoke detector, Bob.’

  ‘What? They’re old married quarters, law says you must have one. I’ll look into it. How are my Wolves?’

  ‘I have those that are not so hot on pistols working on pistols, and those not so hot on map reading working on map reading, the rest are sniping and running. Tomorrow they’ll tackle another 24hr slog, but I’d say that they’re ready for final assessment or specialist training. I had expected some to quit, or to fight each other, but they’re good as gold with it all.’

  ‘A good job on selection then.’

  ‘Or good leadership from me.’ He laughed. ‘Come down on Friday as we bid them farewell.’

  ‘I will do, yes.’

  Later, I handed Bongo the stolen AK47; our man had stolen it, and we had stolen it from him. ‘Strip it, wipe all prin
ts, keep it separate.’

  ‘Romanian,’ he said. ‘Early 1980’s batch.’

  ‘You should be an armourer, what with knowledge like that an all.’

  He shot me a look. ‘Hope you’re not planning on using it, the barrels wobble. Shit manufacturing process.’

  ‘Label it as such please.’

  The Wolves had been told to get a good night’s sleep, a good breakfast at 7am, to be outside the hangar in kit at 9am – no rifles. At 9am we handed them old SLRs.

  ‘Gentlemen, Deadly Lone Wolves, you have but a few short days left – and none have quit yet. So, just to give you a chance to show what you have ... you now have another 24hr speed march to tackle. You will clock as many laps as you can, or until your feet tear up. You know the rules, so ... turn to the right.’ They turned. ‘On your marks ... go!’

  They began the long slog as Sergeant Crab brought out the table, clipboard in hand. ‘Nice day for it,’ he quipped.

  Sasha stood with me an hour later, encouraging his team along. ‘What happens to them after they finish?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re available for live jobs, but with further training, specialist training. Your four will stay here for a while, more training, and you’ll be helping; Russian vehicles, Duska fifty cal, everything, as well as Russian folk songs.’

  ‘So, I earn my breakfast, no.’

  I smiled. ‘You earn your breakfast.’

  ‘I get money in the bank, but here no costs.’

  ‘Those who are condemned to die get a free last meal.’

  He laughed loudly. ‘We are Gladiators in Roman country, no.’

  I stayed up late and walked with some of the teams, Batman and Robin on duty, Moran set to be up early with Mahoney; it was no good asking Rocko or Rizzo, interrupted sleep made them grumpy.

  At 7am I was up, walking with a few of the Wolves, the strain showing on their faces, but they had all completed more laps than their previous effort, all eager to get a good number.

  At 9am, Tomo and Smitty had beaten their previous record, but were dead on their feet, almost delirious, Nicholson close behind them, one of Sasha’s team next, Gonzo doing well.

  After washing - and being checked over, they got biscuits, chocolate and a cup of tea, and were allowed to sleep.

  At 10am a much-awaited truck arrived, our new mortars. The Wolves were too tired to care about a few loud pops anyhow.

  ‘Law says ammo and rifles shouldn’t be kept together,’ Bongo idly noted. ‘And mortars need to be in a separate building, hundred yards from anything else.’

  ‘Send a memo to the Major,’ I told him. ‘Could always build a little bunker.’

  Many hands helped stack up the armoury, Bongo noting shipment numbers on his clipboard, many of the Echo lads soon on the range, bets laid off, a 2inch mortar contest held – my team verses Moran’s team. Since these mortars did not go bang, and were bright yellow, the lads would retrieve them later.

  Sergeants Crab and Duffy were down range, and marking, but stood off to the side ten yards.

  After lunch, Henri gave a quick rundown of the French 50mm mortars we had taken delivery of, just two of them, but the first dummy round flew off beyond the butts and into the farmer’s field.

  Crab ran up the butts to have a look, happy that we had not killed anyone – or hit a sheep.

  Henri got some serious shit, the sights adjusted, and the next shell landed next to Crab and close to the target. I threatened to send Henri to go fetch the first one.

  When my phone trilled it was Bob. ‘Wilco, got a situation with Mally.’

  ‘He’s in Niger, swapping hostages?’

  ‘He was, but four of them flew north, made the exchange, but as they were walking back to the plane a rival gang attacked, plane shot up, pilot wounded but got a message out.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  Swifty could see my look.

  ‘They’re now hostages, as well as our original hostages.’

  ‘Mally will try and escape, and get himself killed in the process – it’s a long walk.’

  ‘Probably. Listen, I know it’s asking a lot -’

  ‘Get a plane for us, not least because your Lone Wolves know about Mally, and if he’s left to rot it won’t look good for you. Won’t sit well with my lads either. What part of Niger are they in?’

  ‘The north west border with Mali.’

  ‘Fucking wonderful, sand and flies – no water for a thousand miles. Find me a Skyvan down there, request my pilots, and there’s a French base on the border inside Mali, in fact a few.’

  ‘I’m putting together a team this end.’

  ‘How soon could you get us a flight?’

  ‘Probably midnight.’

  ‘We’ll get ready, you get the flight.’

  Phone away, I shouted, ‘Pack up the mortars, we have a live job on! We leave tonight! Move it!’

  ‘What’s the job?’ they asked as we lugged the mortars to a Land Rover.

  ‘Mally and his team have been kidnapped, in Niger – near Mali.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’ Rocko asked. ‘How’d those fucking idiots let themselves be kidnapped?’

  ‘Unarmed hostage swap,’ I explained.

  ‘Unarmed?’ men repeated.

  Within an hour we all had our kit checked, rifles ready, ammo boxed up, metal crates filled, desert garb on, maps dug out on Niger and Mali, the SIGINT team suddenly in the game and keen.

  ‘I come with you?’ Sasha asked.

  ‘No, you train the four Wolves next week if we’re not back, that’s important.’

  He nodded.

  After discussing it with Moran, I called the Credenhill base and got Rawlson to call me back. It was after hours.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘I have a hostage rescue in Niger to attend, sir, some “E” Squadron lads grabbed during an unarmed hostage swap. If you want your lads in on the job, I’d suggest Air Troop “A” Squadron, plus another troop on support.’

  ‘We would be interested, I’ll make some calls.’

  Phone away, I stared at Swifty. ‘Rawlson is being very helpful all of a sudden.’

  ‘He wants us gone, and if he can’t do that then he can try and claim credit for jobs, so he’ll stay close.’

  I nodded, tapping my chin with the phone as people ran around.

  ‘What about Tomo and Nicholson?’ Rocko asked.

  I gave that some thought, then nodded. ‘Go wake them, get our four lads ready. They can sleep on the flight down.’

  ‘They can sleep in Brize Norton for six hours,’ Moran quipped.

  ‘You have no faith in the RAF?’ I teased.

  ‘No!’ came from several directions at once.

  Bob called back half an hour later, some sleepy Wolves getting ready. ‘I’ve got the medics alerted, and they have a team on standby always. You want Externals?’

  ‘Are we planning a large scale shoot-out?’ I countered with. ‘Then no. Small team tactics. Oh, get our chutes, lots of them, HALO kit as well. Hang on.’ I lowered the phone. ‘Pack our HALO bags!’ I lifted the phone. ‘And some local jeeps, not Army, but something that will blend in, and old truck or two.’

  ‘I can arrange that, yes.’

  ‘Any ransom demands?’

  ‘Last lot took six weeks before they made demands, and this lot are Islamist extremists.’

  ‘You know where they are?’

  ‘Roughly. It’s sparsely populated, only so many places they can be.’

  ‘You’ll have to sort the Wolves, we’ll be out the country, but Sasha is here.’

  ‘I’ll sort something, yes.’

  ‘Mouri, Dicky and the Salties are all down at the SBS base, but I think some are on holiday, so we go without them.’

  ‘You have enough men?’

  ‘Yes. And Rawlson agreed some men from “A” Squadron. In fact, he was overly keen.’

  ‘Why’s he trying to impress us?’

  ‘As Swifty said, if he can’t get rid of us he’ll claim cre
dit for jobs.’

  ‘If he cooperates, then fine.’

  Fishy, from “A” Squadron, called our main line, asking for me. ‘Wilco, it’s Fishy, you got a job on.’

  ‘Yes, Niger, lots of sand, maybe a HALO insert.’

  ‘The Colonel asked us if we’d like to go, and we have twelve volunteers.’

  ‘Liaise with Intel at the base. In fact, some of your Intel are based here now, so get yourselves a plane. We’ll be out of Brize around midnight, supposedly.’

  ‘We were told to be ready for 9am, so I guess they’re making plans.’

  ‘Then we’ll see you down there. Desert kit, take your HALO gear.’

  ‘Jeeps?’

  ‘We’ll hire local ones, military jeeps would be reported in a heartbeat.’

  ‘Rifles?’

  ‘Something compatible with us would be good, so folding stock AKMs or VEPR.’

  ‘We have VEPR, good for the desert, hit them a long way off.’

  ‘Take those then, brown ponchos, any brown cammo netting.’

  ‘Be at it now, speak tomorrow.’

  Bob confirmed a flight time, and we would again break his rule of not travelling together, a Tristar grabbed in a hurry. The RAF buses turned up at 10pm, loaded with kit, and our police and MP escort took us the short distance to Brize Norton, and to a familiar Departures Lounge, the RAF unloading our kit for us.

  An officer asked me, ‘Ammo in the crates?’

  ‘Yes, in wooden boxes.’

  ‘Explosives?’

  ‘Grenades, no fuses in.’

  ‘Uh ... OK. Fuel or flammables?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘CS gas, stun grenades?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Anything else that goes bang?’

  ‘Auto-release altimeters on chutes?’

  ‘They’d be inactive,’ he assured himself, nodding at his own comment.

  ‘Have you seen our chutes around here?’

  ‘They are on the manifest, yes.’

  Inside Departures, no paperwork to hand in when asked, blank looks offered, we got tea and coffee from the machine. A few SIGINT staff from Hereford turned up - greetings exchanged, as well as two harassed MOD types in civvy clothes. They did have papers to hand in.

  I sat near Tomo and Nicholson. ‘You OK?’