by Geoff Wolak
I took out my sat phone.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘It’s Wilco, the final Nomad aircraft to land has engine trouble, send mechanics and parts in the morning.’
‘I’ll talk to the French now.’
‘Men are down safe. Wilco, out.’ Phone away, I said, ‘Sasha, walk due east 1200yards, spread the men in pairs about a fifty yards apart, a long line, shell scrapes - and hide. Second man sleeps, they rotate, eyes on. When you need supplies, come back in, four men at a time, phone first. Off you go. And Sasha, alter the radio settings, use them for yourselves.’
He led them off in a long line.
Swifty said, ‘All we need now is someone to play with.’
I sat in the dark, my legs dangling over the side, and as the Wolves disappeared from view my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘Duty officer. That phone was used to make a call an hour ago, to a phone in Algeria, about forty miles from you.’
‘Do me a favour, monitor that phone, and whoever it calls, link them all together.’
‘Already on it. If they approach your position we’ll report it.’
‘Sitrep for Bob Staines. We’re at the border, two local police uncovered as double agents – dead body found, Fifth Column tied up for now, flytrap set, now we wait. Send a report to the Moroccans about the body of a dead police officer, same to the French. Wilco out.’
Moran climbed up to us. ‘Shit load of kit there, four GPMGs.’
I clicked on my radio. ‘Henri, you hear me?’
‘I am below you!’ he said off the radio, Swifty laughing. I eased forwards and peered down. ‘Take the GPMG, any ammo, give it to your men.’
‘OK. What about these two pilots?’
‘In with the French officer, I guess, or your hut.’
Dark outlines came and took the GPMGs away, and then it fell quiet. Finally the lights went out, the generator silenced.
‘No flies up here,’ Swifty noted.
‘They don’t fly at night.’
‘Don’t they?’
‘I never had flies on me at night. They like the light.’
Mahoney climbed up five minutes later. ‘You know, we do have a hut to use.’
‘Cool breeze up here,’ Moran told him.
‘Be a chill breeze in a few hours,’ he replied.
‘Wilco, it’s Rocko, you awake?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘There’s a fire, like a camp fire, north half a mile.’
‘Stay where you are, it’s probably a trap, which means that the fuckers who set the trap are not far off.’
‘I can see one man sat at the camp fire,’ Rocko reported. ‘Looks white.’
‘White?’ I repeated.
‘Yeah, white guy.’
I glanced at Swifty’s dark outline, and I knew he was frowning. I clicked on the radio. ‘Nicholson, Tomo, walk out there, sneak up slowly, don’t kill him.’
‘Moving!’ came from Nicholson.
‘Rest of you, check your fire while we have men out there.’
‘White guy,’ Moran repeated. ‘French soldier, lost out there?’
‘We had the lights on, aircraft landing!’ I pointed out. ‘Is he deaf and blind, or just unsociable?’
Swifty got his tin out and sat cross-legged on the flat concrete roof, time for a brew, so Mahoney copied – it was his turn.
As the water boiled, the radio crackled, Tomo’s voice. ‘Wilco, it’s a white guy, British, he’s on a charity walk across the desert.’
‘What the fuck...’ came from the men of my team at the same time.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Bring the stupid fucker in to me!’
‘Charity walk?’ Moran repeated. ‘Here?’
‘A lot of people do it, cross the Sahara,’ I idly commented, water added to the tea bags, Moran handing out dried biscuits.
We had just about finished our brews when three dark outlines appeared below.
‘Up here!’ I shouted.
They approached the building, torches on as I sat on the side, my legs dangling. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m Peter Thompson, I work for the BBC.’
‘The BBC? You’re a reporter?’
‘No, a technician actually, but I often get involved in endurance events for charity.’
‘You’re in the middle of a fucking war zone!’
‘Well, it wasn’t when I left, but I haven’t seen the newspapers for ten days or so.’
‘Displaced Algerians over here are kicking off and attacking the French because we hit the rebel leadership across the border.’
‘Oh, right. Well ... am I under arrest or something?’
‘Yes, for being fucking insane,’ I told him. ‘If we have a plane tomorrow you’re on it, you can walk somewhere else. Try the damn coast. Tomo, walk him around to the huts, give him to Henri, ask Henri to keep the guy safe.’
They plodded off.
‘I wouldn’t mind doing something like that,’ Swifty idly commented as we sat in the dark. ‘Walk across the desert, all by myself, no fucker around. I fancied Canada as well, walk across it.’
‘They have bears,’ Mahoney warned. ‘And wolves, but wolves will attack anything but people.’
‘I heard that,’ Moran put in. ‘They’re easy to befriend as well. This one documentary suggested that domestic dogs escaped and became wolves – hence they like or fear people.’
‘Caves here in Africa show domesticated dogs,’ I idly commented. ‘So that goes way back.’
Half an hour later we climbed down, and we found the French cooking, a roaring bonfire going, our BBC man getting some tinned food off the French. Just as well, he looked thin.
Henri pointed at the fire. ‘It is a problem?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We want them to know where we are.’ I dug a hole in the sand and made a support for my back, sitting near the fire as it crackled, orange sparks climbing high.
‘You’re the Wilco fella I read about,’ the BBC man noted.
‘I am, and ... welcome to my life.’ I held my hands wide. ‘I spend a lot of time in places like this.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Bombs went off in Paris last week, a lot of people hurt, Algerian group. French wanted to have at them, they asked us to join them.’
‘I missed all that,’ he said. ‘Been camping out.’
Thirty minutes of idle chat was broken by my phone trilling. ‘Wilco.’
‘Duty Officer here. There’s movement towards you, several phones, approaching from the Algerian side, north east of you thirty miles.’
‘Keep the reports coming, thanks.’ I eased up. ‘Stand to! We have company! Get two GPMG on the roof!’ I clicked on radio as the French ran about getting ready, Henri shouting orders. ‘This is Wilco, we have a force moving on us from the north east, could be a large force. They could be here inside the hour, so get ready.’
I called Sasha on his sat phone.
‘Da!’
In Russian, I said, ‘We have a large force approaching from the north east, maybe to us inside an hour. Take four men from the south, move them to the north, watch all directions, get ready.’
‘We will be ready.’
I recalled a number.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco, we have a large force approaching us from the north east, have helos on standby, French support team, medics just in case. Get to it. Wilco out.’
Henri’s men clambered up to the roof, GPMGs clattering as they were made ready, chain ammo pulled from the tins.
‘Henri, do we have sandbags?’ I called through the dark.
‘I saw some, I get them.’
Five minutes later he dumped two down. I grabbed one, swung it and landed it on the edge of the roof, a French soldier grabbing it, and we soon had eight sandbags on the roof. I climbed up with my team, the brick building long enough for us all.
And we waited.
I finally called, ‘Henri, petro
l generator, lights on.’
The French lads turned to me, a question in their looks: was I mad?
Moran reassured them.
Time dragged on, men stretching or getting comfy, my team sat on the side, feet dangling like kids.
‘Those Moroccan soldiers?’ Swifty nudged.
‘Can’t trust them,’ I said.
‘They’ll notice the gunfire,’ he teased.
‘I’ll give them a sector if anyone gets close. But I’m planning on hitting our visitors at a distance.’
‘It’s Rocko, I thought I could see car headlights northeast, off now.’
‘You were probably right, that’s them, out and walking.’
I called Sasha. ‘We have movement northeast.’
‘I was about to call you, we saw lights.’
‘They’re walking, so get ready. Hit them at about 100yards if they cross your front.’
Phone away, we waited.
‘Hamble for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Should we re-position?’
‘Negative, they may move around us. Stay put for now.’
A long fifteen minutes later my phone trilled, everyone turning towards me. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Sasha, we see them, some small lights, maybe forty men. They are three hundred yards north I say, moving towards you.’
‘Leave them till they pass. When the shooting starts, break position, run east a thousand yards, then due north, find their vehicles, kill the men there, wait for any men to arrive back there.’
‘You have enough men?’
‘Yes, my friend, plenty.’ I cut the call and clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up, first group of bad boys are about eight hundred yards northeast of us. Rocko, look due east from where you are.’
‘It’s Rocko, I think I see tiny lights.’
‘That’ll be the phones they’re using.’
‘Fucking knobbers,’ he transmitted.
I turned my head to Swifty. ‘You been teaching Rocko bad words?’
‘He pinched my saying,’ Swifty mock-protested.
I eased forwards and lay down. ‘Get ready.’ I peered through my sights, soon seeing a dull green light, and I followed it till they were near the edge of the strip, four hundred yards out.
I transmitted, ‘Standby to fire, everyone set automatic, spray it at them. Rizzo, you have an angle?’
‘We see them, but they’re about six hundred yards.’
‘Stay in the rocks, spray it.’
I corrected the aim of the GPMGs in a hurry, then knelt and peered through my sights at that distant green firefly light.
‘Standby ... standby ... fire!’
The two GPMGs hammered out rounds and tracer, the GPMGs below joining in, my team all firing on automatic, our targets just about visible as black blobs on a lighter background.
Fire came back at us, cracking overhead, windows below smashed. Magazine swapped, I kept at them, but after the third magazine I called a ceasefire.
It grew quiet, not a sound, not even a cricket. I waited, a cool breeze on my cheek, my head moving side to side like an owl.
Nothing.
‘Rocko, you see any movement?’ I finally asked.
‘Not a thing. I can see the dark blobs, but they ain’t moving.’
‘Hold positions, the night isn’t over yet.’
I eased up, sat on the edge and sipped my water. I called Sasha.
‘Da!’ came a whisper.
‘Where are you?’ I asked, also now whispering.
‘We move north, can’t see them yet.’
‘OK, report after you find them.’ I recalled a number.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco, we hit the group moving on us, no survivors on their side, no wounded on our side. We’ll police up the bodies in the morning, update everyone.’
‘Are you expecting further attacks?’
‘I doubt it, but they could have split into two groups. The Wolves are moving on the vehicles the Algerians used, so we’ll know more later. Wilco out.’
Phone away, we waited under the stars as it cooled down, our eyes going funny as we stared at the same distant patch of desert.
My phone trilled. All eyes turned to me.
‘Wilco.’
‘Duty officer. Two of those phones are active, and ... well, within ten yards of where you are.’
‘We shot the men holding those phones, so they got a call out before bleeding out. We haven’ approached them yet.’
‘That would explain it, I thought we had a faulty reading. Good night.’
‘What was that?’ Moran asked.
‘London is tracking two phones out there with the bodies, switched on and in use. So they may have been wounded, gone down, tried to call out – or maybe they did call out.’
‘They’ll report being ambushed,’ Mahoney noted. ‘Won’t be too happy with their two agents here. Probably think those two boys came over to our side.’
‘Might be worth letting them go,’ Swifty said. ‘Let their own people slice them up.’
‘See what the French say tomorrow,’ I idly commented. ‘So, my turn to cook.’ We formed a circle.
‘Wilco,’ Henri shouted up. ‘They want to turn off the lights now, not much gasoline.’
‘OK.’
‘And the commander, he is ... not happy with you.’
‘Ask him if he would like to be shot in the foot.’
‘If I ask him that, then he is definitely not happy.’
‘Tell him ... I was in contact with the French colonel by sat phone, the detail of my plan approved.’
Swifty and Moran laughed.
‘I tell him that, yes. That is better.’
I clicked on my radio. ‘Jacque, you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that civvy OK?’
‘He is under the bed.’
Laughter filled the rooftop.
Swifty began, ‘Can you imagine him, at his campsite, fire going, marshmallows cooking, then we open up.’
‘Marshmallows?’ Mahoney queried. ‘He’s a fricking Brit, not an American boy scout.’
‘I do marsh mallows sometimes,’ Swifty admitted.
‘You do?’ I questioned.
‘Yeah, don’t you?’
‘Never. Wouldn’t know what they tasted like. Once, in the Scouts, we cooked sausage in foil, but I put bangers in a few.’
Moran and Swifty laughed.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Mahoney puzzled.
Moran told him, ‘In the UK, bangers are firecrackers.’
‘Ah,’ Mahoney let out. ‘What a little shit you were.’
‘I lasted a week,’ I told them. ‘No merit badges.’
With the water simmering, my phone trilled, the French GPMG crew turning their heads.
‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Sasha. We found the vehicles, eight, and killed six men. What do we do now?’
‘Drive the vehicles south about four miles, then west, then around to us. Put the lights on.’
‘OK, we come now.’ I put the phone away.
‘They nicking the jeeps?’ Swifty asked.
‘Might have a use for them,’ I idly noted as I poured in my alleged chicken curry. The packet said chicken curry at least.
Swifty sniffed. ‘I have beef curry.’
‘Hell, it all tastes the same,’ I told him, so he poured it in.
Twenty minutes later Swifty tapped my shoulder and I turned, a convoy approaching.
I clicked on the radio. ‘”D” Squadron, relax, that convoy is our Wolves.’
The vehicles trundled in, right up to the brick building, parked, lights off.
‘What’s that?’ Swifty asked. ‘Fourth jeep.’
‘Sasha, what’s on the forth jeep?’
‘A mortar!’
‘OK.’
We clambered down and had a look. It was a French-made 50mm, left from the civil war or captured somehow.
&nb
sp; ‘What we do now?’ Sasha asked.
‘Top up water, go back out to where you were, same deal, rotate sleep, stay there tomorrow.’
He shouted orders, the Wolves forming up and moving off in a line, a Gerry can pinched away, the dark outlines receding.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Rocko, Rizzo, “D” Squadron, every second man gets some sleep. Rocko, Rizzo, watch the bodies – but watch the north as well. Henri, tell the French to rotate sleep and stag.’
Back at our hut, kit off, I lay down on a dusty mattress on dodgy springs, my arse sinking towards the floor. Moran was on first stag, two hours, and sat outside the hut with the French.
I was nudged awake at 4am, and groaned loudly, my back aching from the god-awful bed. I needed to stretch for ten minutes. Outside, the two French lads on stag had water boiling, more than enough for me, and I sat with a much-needed brew as the star’s brightness faded.
At 6am I got everyone up, and we formed up, moving out to the north, towards the bodies.
‘Wilco for Rocko’s team.’
‘Go head,’ came Slider.
‘We’re moving on the bodies, cover us.’
‘I was just looking through my sights, no fucker moving.’
‘Good to know.’
Spread out, we approached cautiously, and I found a sat phone in a hand. It was as dead as its owner, so I pocketed it, soon moving on a second dead phone. The French collected up rifles and magazines, but I said we’d bring a jeep up. They put the rifles in a pile, a French lad sent back for a jeep.
As that jeep was loaded up with rifles, I checked bodies for paperwork and IDs, dumping the items in the back of the jeep. And I counted thirty-four bodies, most having been hit a dozen times, large patches of black blood in the sand, already a few flies buzzing around.
Back at the huts, I asked the Moroccan soldiers to bury the bodies. Looking terrified, they got to it, shovels taken.
‘No mortar rounds,’ Henri commented.
‘What?’
‘They have a mortar, welded to the jeep, but no mortars.’
I nodded, considering that as the sun came up.
When my phone trilled, it was Captain Harris. ‘The French want to know if it’s safe to come out?’
‘Yes, all safe enough, nothing on the horizon. Get some engineers for that plane.’
‘OK, will do.’
I lowered the phone, and stared at Swifty.