Wilco- Lone Wolf 16

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Describe the layout.’

  ‘Runway is red dirt, runs east to west, trees on the south side, hills on the south side where we are, flat on the north side, some swamp, then a village and a road.’

  ‘OK, good, expect a helicopter attack. When you hear the helos coming in you kill as many rebels as possible, damage that Cessna and that Mi8.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘ETA, one to two hours. Update me if anything changes. After the helos leave, you stay and observe for a day or so. Wilco out.’

  I called Admiral Jacobs. ‘Sir, make a note of these coordinates.’ He wrote them down and read them back. ‘Send four or five Seahawks with Marines to assault the south side of that strip. That’s the south side only. Target the Cessna, damage it and search it, damage the Mi8 sat there and search it, your men search huts if they can do so without getting wounded.

  ‘My men are in the treeline and will offer sniper support, hitting anyone moving about as you come in. Huts on the south side have rebel soldiers, drug dealers, diamond smugglers. Some evidence would be nice.’

  ‘OK, I got all that. What about top cover?’

  ‘Could make a loud noise and scare them, sir, but you’re unlikely to see hostile aircraft. Might be a smugglers plane coming in or leaving, could force it down. Can you get the Hawkeye Airboss to call me on this number, because if we make a mistake here it’ll be a bad newspaper headline for us both.’

  ‘I will do, yes, I’ll have some top cover today.’

  ‘Village is north of that strip, sir, so if you want to tear up the strip and make a big bang you can - after your men leave.’

  The next Wolf team reported an empty strip, a man keeping pigs on it. They would look at the nearby village.

  That was followed by a report of a water-logged strip, a Cessna nose down in mud and going nowhere fast, a few rebel soldiers seen in huts. I ordered them to kill the rebels.

  An odd number called. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Major Wilco, it’s Mission Commander Tellerson, Admiral Jacobs asked me to call. Actually, he just barked at me and handed me this number, but I got the gist of it.’

  I smiled. ‘He’s polite enough to me on the blower because he needs my help – and I’m external, in Her Majesty’s British Empire.’

  ‘They call him Pit Bull behind his back, sir. But I heard he’s good to work for.’

  ‘Are you a Mission Commander or an Airboss?’

  ‘Airboss and Miniboss are ship titles, sir, out to five miles, for landing and take-off. I handle the aircraft beyond that, and on specific missions and intercepts.’

  ‘Did you start out flying?’

  ‘Hell no, but we get some flight training. I’m a desk clerk, I fly a radar screen.’

  ‘I had an AWACs commander over me at Camel Toe Base.’

  ‘He’d be the Air Battle Manager, sir, same position. I’m an NFO, Naval Flying Officer, but not a flying rank.’

  ‘Well I’m sure you know your stuff, but we don’t need any screw-ups today, or I’ll be shooting at you, not barking at you.’

  ‘What’s the mission, sir?’

  ‘We have two or three targets to hit, all in the eastern part of Guinea, north of Liberia and Sierra Leone. It’s rivers and swamps, so don’t crash land, the bare-arsed Pigmies will eat you.’

  He laughed.

  I continued, ‘Got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Shoot, sir.’

  ‘We’ll have three French Puma and two British Chinook, plus one British Hercules. Do they show NATO IFF?’

  ‘They’d be lit up like a Christmas tree, sir. They pump out the signal and we see it, we’d also get their comms traffic.’

  ‘There’ll be low and slow, and we don’t need one targeted by mistake. There are also French C-160 transports in the area, and commercial traffic at altitude. We also have 737s flying from Freetown to Sierra Leone, so watch for those.

  ‘The only aircraft I want you to even consider targeting are Mi8 helos, especially if they have rocket pods, as well as prop driven light aircraft with rockets under wings – like a Spitfire. You’re likely to come across both. We also have Cessnas being used for smuggling. You can force one down if you like but we’d have no idea who was aboard.’

  ‘Our electronics will highlight an Mi8 clear as day, they’re very distinctive, sir. As for the prop aircraft, can’t see an F18 slowing down enough to dog fight with one, they’d stall the damn aircraft.’

  ‘Our ground units may come under attack from such aircraft, we did recently. You could scare them off, but if you have helos on the deck then those rockets are a problem.’

  ‘I’ll warn the helos, sir, and keep an eye out.’

  ‘Keep this number, and you got my radio frequency.’

  ‘We can send to you on radio from many miles away, but we’re unlikely to pick up from you.’

  ‘Send a forward air controller this morning, drop him here.’

  ‘I’ll pass the request, sir.’

  ‘So, Tom Cruise…’

  He laughed loudly. ‘People don’t realise, sir, that an F14 would never dog fight, it fires its missiles fifty miles out. F14s have shot down enemy planes, sir, but they never saw them. I vector the aircraft into position, they set missile direction, get lock and fire from twenty miles away.’

  ‘You’ve spoilt my illusion. Do you … sing publically?’

  ‘Fuck no,’ he said, laughing.

  The next Wolf report was of a strip alive with activity, and a thousand rebels camped out in huts hidden in trees. There were Cessnas, Mi8, an An28, and all had armed guards.

  ‘Bingo,’ I told Sasha. To the Wolf I said, ‘Describe the layout.’

  ‘Runway is concrete, taxiway is red dirt, runway goes northwest to southeast, sir. Northeast side has hangars and aircraft, southwest has trees and huts.’

  ‘Any civilians?’

  ‘There are civilian men near the aircraft, and we can see white men, sir. Can’t see any women but there are civvy houses at the top end, north, a mile out.’

  I called Moran and gave him the coordinates, and he would pass it on to Freetown and to Captain Harris.

  Calling back Admiral Jacobs, I began, ‘Sir, write down these coordinates.’ I detailed them and he read them back to me. ‘We have Charlie in the treeline southwest of that strip, a thousand of them, smugglers planes and helos northeast, no civilians seen but there are civilian houses a mile north.

  ‘You can bomb the hell out of the northeast side without risk, maybe some families in the huts in the trees southwest. If you bomb between the runway and the trees southwest it will keep their heads down. My men will move in from the south after you make some noise, sir, so one pass only.’

  ‘OK, we’ll make plans now. What’s the timescale here?’

  ‘Any time you’re ready, sir. We’ll be in place in an hour, so timeframe is two hours plus. We’ll move in when you make some noise.’

  Off the phone I rallied all of the Paras, the French lads, and those Echo men fit and well, plus the remaining Greenies. The Seals would be on standby to move out. I had the teams assemble near the main building then stood on a box, Max and his new buddy close by, the Marines Press officers to tag along with Max, the RAF refuel team observing us.

  ‘Listen up. You will soon insert into Guinea, a mile or two south of a target airfield. You will then tab at double time north without being seen, to meet up with the Wolves already there.

  ‘At this airfield is a runway northwest to southeast. North side has hangars and aircraft, we want them destroyed after searching them, try and search hangars if you can, look for drugs, money, diamonds, weapons, missiles.

  ‘Southwest side has trees, and in the trees are enough huts for a thousand men, so don’t pick a fight unless you’re sure. Split into two teams, one east and one west. You will attack after the Americans bomb that strip – so hands over ears and don’t be too close to the damn runway.

  ‘When they do bomb, use the confusion to move into place, sn
ipe at people. Don’t get close to the apron, it’ll be bombed; you move in after the fireworks. American Marines may land in Seahawks and search as well, or strafe the treeline. Don’t be in the treeline.

  ‘Chinook will be on station for wounded, to land at the very south end of the strip, so get any wounded down there, and the Chinook will have your radio frequency anyhow. Don’t call down the helo if there’s a danger to it.

  ‘If a large force of rebels move out from the huts in a half-decent fashion, call it in and we’ll bomb them, but I think they’ll run into the trees and head for the hills. Don’t shoot at civilians.

  ‘You withdraw south for extraction if the strip goes quiet after the shooting, no incoming fire. If there is any incoming, you walk out south and get to a road or a field, then call for the Chinook, group up and stay sharp as a group.

  ‘No heroics, fire from distance, fingers off triggers till you want to kill someone. Paras, you’ve done it all before, so just relax and do it again.’

  A Para raised his hand. ‘What about GPMGs, sir?’

  I looked up to the roof. ‘Borrow two, and plenty of ammo.’

  ‘Engineers have two in a jeep, sir.’

  ‘Go pinch them away, clean and test, fire a few rounds.’

  Men ran off to the jeeps.

  I faced the Marines Press officers. ‘Don’t get wounded, keep your heads down, follow the men in.’

  They nodded, M16s slung, webbing on, Tomo wanting a documentary made about his exploits and pestering our reporters.

  A call in to “D” Squadron, and they would join us up here for today, Chinooks thundering in as I ended the call. But the Chinooks were not in need of the resident RAF team here, at least not yet.

  Our Mr Fixit arrived after the Chinooks had departed, so a collision on the runway was avoided, and his men got to work on the trees and the timber after I shouted – his trucks moved off the runway.

  Mitch called in after landing, to say that they were quickly moving north along a muddy track, one curious farmer killed to save him alerting anyone.

  He called back after forty minutes. ‘We’re on a ridge, we can see the strip, French going west and down, we’ll go east and south and around to the far side. I can see helos and fixed wing, people moving about.

  ‘Below me is a stream, quite wide – you’d get wet, marshland and reeds then a camp, hundreds of huts hidden under the trees, many in use and blowing some smoke up a chimney. There are bigger buildings like mess halls, and I saw what almost looked like an organised group.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘A sergeant or officer formed them up, then one of the men punched him and knocked him out. The rest walked off.’

  ‘Sounds like they’re switched on,’ I quipped.

  ‘Looks like they ain’t been paid or fed for a while,’ Mitch noted.

  ‘Any fixed defences?’

  ‘There are a couple of sandbag positions with chickens in them, not manned – unless we’re worried about dangerous chickens, but there are two APC sat in a puddle, many jeeps and trucks, and some concrete buildings up the top end. No guards seen posted so far for this sleepy bunch.’

  ‘Hit as many men as you can, starting with the guy in charge – broken jaw or not.’

  ‘The stream below will slow them up. We’re going to spread the French left and right then wait for the show, we’ll move around, got some cover to move through.’

  ‘Have Sambo keep his facemask on, in case he gets shot. In fact, leave him with the French.’

  Mitch was back on an hour later, the sun high and bright now as I sat at my desk in my outdoor office. ‘We moved around, used a ditch and a stream, and now I can see a dozen white men.’

  ‘It’s Christmas! I want them alive, wounded but alive. I want IDs and phones.’

  ‘Figured you would. Are these the paymasters?’

  ‘No, middle managers, but we live in hope of a big fish. Stay down, don’t be seen.’

  An hour later Admiral Jacobs signalled helos inbound to Strips #4 and #6, having decided to hit both at the same time in case one group of men warned the others. The Hawkeye was up, top cover ready, F18s laden with heavy bombs, no sign of a forwards air controller yet.

  I called back Strip #4, the smaller operation. ‘Get ready, helos are inbound.’

  ‘Not much happening down there, Boss, twenty or thirty men, most half asleep or drugged up. But I did see a white guy put a bag in that Cessna.’

  ‘Then I want that bag, and the white guy. Wound him, drag him off if the Americans miss him or if he tries to leave -’

  ‘Hold on … he’s walking back to the Cessna … he’s getting inside.’

  ‘Silencer on, shoot the fucking plane!’

  ‘Standby.’

  I waited, hearing several quiet cracks.

  ‘You there, Boss?’ finally came.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Shot his wheels out. He’s now out and looking at them, he can’t figure who shot out his tyres, he’s shouting at the blacks. Wait … helos coming up behind us … fuck!’

  I heard the blast.

  ‘There’s a crater in the dirt strip like sixty feet across, mud up a two hundred feet and raining down. It’ll need a sweep-up afterwards. Shit … another hit.’

  ‘What’s our white guy doing?’

  ‘Running this way.’

  ‘Wound him when he gets close. I’ll call you back.’ I called Mitch.

  ‘Fucking bollocks,’ came an American accent.

  ‘Mitch?’

  ‘Yeah. Hang on…’

  ‘He’s swearing like one of ours now,’ I told Sasha with a proud nod.

  ‘You there?’ came Mitch.

  ‘Yeah, you OK?’

  ‘Our fucking Navy just landed a bomb on the twin prop aircraft, most of our white guys sat in it at the time.’

  ‘Shit. Get me IDs off the body parts if you can.’

  ‘Bits of them all over … fuck.’

  I heard the blast. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Maybe a little too close. The apron is just a cloud of smoke, aircraft blown to bits, body parts far and wide. I got some guy’s boot and leg in front of me.’

  I heard the blast. ‘More hits?’

  ‘That was the runway, not so loud, the bomb seemed to detonate underground and lift up a shit load of concrete. Second hit … third, so the runway is out of use for a decade or two.’

  ‘What about the men in the huts?’

  ‘None seen this side, but I can hear distant firing. Wait … helos coming in, so I guess they’ve stopped the bombing.’

  ‘Show your white faces, wave nicely, don’t get shot by some gung-ho Yank with a high and tight haircut.’

  ‘Shit, I need a haircut, and soon,’ he realised. ‘I’ll call you back.’

  I called strip #4.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Wilco, what’s happening?’

  ‘Helos strafed the tree line and hit the Cessna and the Mi8 as the pilots ran to that helo, helos now landed and at the tree line. We shot most of the blacks as they ran, and we’ve grabbed the white guy.’

  ‘Hang onto him.’

  ‘Right, Boss.’

  ‘Oh, any ID on him?’

  ‘Hold on, Boss, he was jabbering away in Russian. Here’s his passport.’ He read out the details and I noted them down.

  ‘Great, keep him alive for when you’re picked up.’

  Sasha checked the phone list and I called the French captain in charge of the 1st Battalion men.

  ‘Oui!’

  ‘It’s Wilco.’

  ‘Ah, sir, we are turkey shooting, I think they say.’

  ‘They do. How’s it going?’

  ‘They run this way, we shoot them, some run the other way. Now helicopters land on the far side.’

  ‘How many rebel soldiers?’

  ‘Maybe two hundred, more hidden, some go north or south.’

  ‘If you have wounded, call me.’

  ‘Oui.’

&nb
sp; An Engineer drove up, hit the brakes and skidded a little, and jumped down. ‘Sir, they found a body, the blacks cutting down the trees did.’

  ‘How old is this body?’ I asked, expecting a skeleton.

  ‘Fresh, sir. White man.’ He handed over an ID card.

  ‘Callus?’ I repeated, hiding my shock. I took in the view of the mine. ‘Fuck.’ I faced the Engineer. ‘I want the body, in a poncho. Move it! And get Doctor Morten back here!’

  He jumped back into his jeep and sped off.

  Fifteen minutes later they were back, Morten stepping down and around to the rear of the jeep, body in poncho carried out and placed down.

  ‘Dropped from a plane,’ Morten told me. ‘No gunshot or stab wounds, just every bone smashed.’

  ‘How old is the body?’ I asked.

  ‘Say a week. They go ripe quickly in this heat.’

  ‘A week. So … when we were being bombed. They shoved him out, a message for me.’

  ‘You get up to some odd stuff, you know that,’ Morten told me, shaking his head.

  ‘I want the body preserved, so a provisional autopsy, get these experts looking at it – enough of them around here. Then send it back to the UK.’

  ‘You know who it is?’

  ‘I have an idea, yes.’

  I stepped away and called David Finch. ‘It’s Wilco. We just found a body in the treeline, white man, been dead a week, died from … having been thrown out of a plane at height.’

  ‘Not a pleasant way to die I don’t think.’

  ‘He’s Mossad.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He’s the man that tipped me off through Gorskov. Send the name Sergio Callus to Mossad, last know location to have been Northern Cyprus.’

  ‘And he just happens to land next to you?’

  ‘A message, yes, but … we have the lady Mossad agent here.’

  ‘Oh gawd, she may know him.’

  ‘Maybe the message was not for me. Get an opinion from Mossad, tell them the body will be taken back to the UK.’

  My phone trilled, Swifty. ‘We got some IDs, but the fucking Yanks blew everything to bits. Got some papers in Russian, and a big bag of blood diamonds and some cash were grabbed by a Marines captain. Marines are looking through everything with us, body parts all over.’