Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  Screams and shouts went up, men thinking it was going to plough into this trench, but the Antonov levelled off, hit the runway, skidded, straightened up as it came towards me, skidded off the runway just a hundred yards from me, nose down into the dirt – its propellers throwing up sand. Arse end up, and it slowly fell backwards and plonked down as the pilots scrambled free, those two men soon being chased by the smoke.

  Two black pilots in smart white shirts were joined by two other black men, and they got twenty yards before the wing blew, a tall column of flame seen, black acrid smoke dispensed, and the plane burnt quickly as the lucky crew stood on the runway.

  ‘Not the best landing I’ve seen,’ Castille noted.

  I walked over to our guests, a few of the Greenies with me, French closing in from the other side. And the blacks looked anything other than gunmen or mercenaries.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked.

  ‘We are OK, yes, we were lucky, an engine fire,’ the captain said, accented.

  The co-pilot was suspicious. ‘Did you shoot at the plane?’

  ‘And ... who are you, exactly?’ I casually asked.

  ‘We brought these men from Nigerian TV.’

  I hid my grin, a look exchanged with Trapper. I transmitted, ‘This is Wilco. The men from the plane, from a Nigerian TV station, are asking if anyone fired at their plane. Did anyone shoot up at the plane illegally?’

  ‘No, Boss,’ came back. ‘No shots heard.’

  The second wing tank exploded, the crew moving back a few steps.

  ‘Must have been an engine fire,’ I suggested. I led them to Mister Morten, for him to look them over, and I called Tinker. ‘Tinker, you little shit, we just shot down a Nigerian TV aircraft!’

  ‘You did? Bloody hell...’

  ‘You said they mentioned it!’

  ‘They did. Give me ten minutes to read the transcript.’

  ‘Arsehole!’ I cut the call, Moran, Mitch and Ginger closing in.

  Moran began, ‘What were those fuckers doing overflying a war zone anyhow? We’re not exactly on the tourist map!’

  ‘Must have heard about the action and wanted an exclusive,’ I responded.

  ‘We’re in the shit now,’ Mitch suggested.

  ‘Their fault,’ Ginger suggested. ‘Should have warned us.’

  My phone trilled six minutes later, as the Nigerian crew stood looking lost.

  ‘It’s Tinker, and we were right. Transcript says that a legit TV crew would get a look and report back to the paymaster, so I’m not an arsehole!’

  ‘OK, I withdraw the arsehole bit, but next time brief me properly and read the damn transcript! Shout at whoever did read it – call them an arsehole!’

  ‘I have done.’

  ‘Get London to notify the Nigerians that we have the TV crew, held as terrorists.’

  ‘Don’t go shooting them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Phone away, I led my team towards the Nigerians, landing a punch on the pilot’s nose and sending him down into the sand. French soldiers closed in, rifles ready, Morten puzzled. ‘We have a problem, with these men. These men ... are the legit TV reporting crew and their pilots, and the TV station’s aircraft, but we got word from our sources that they would fly over us and then sell the information.’

  I waited as the pilot eased up, helped by his co-pilot.

  ‘Shoot zem,’ came from the French.

  ‘Ah, that would be rude, these men are only guilty of an act of terrorism against the American military. I think we send them to America, to stand trial.’

  ‘What? No, you can’t,’ they protested.

  ‘We have the tape recording of the detail of what you were going to sell,’ I pointed out. ‘That means you get fifty years in an American jail. But I am reasonable man, so I will let you go. If you walk south thirty miles you’ll find a village, a few dangerous Islamists there. They might help you.’ I stood to one side. ‘OK, good luck, start walking.’

  ‘We can’t walk from here, it is too dangerous,’ they protested.

  ‘Well, what do you suggest, because I don’t think my men will share their food and water with you?’ I waited.

  They exchanged looks. ‘We can call in another aircraft.’

  ‘This is a dangerous place, I cannot allow a civilian aircraft to land here. Sorry. Start walking, it is not too far.’

  ‘We cannot trust villagers in this area!’ the co-pilot protested. ‘We are Christians.’

  ‘Do Christians sell information to terrorists?’ Moran asked.

  That shut up the co-pilot.

  ‘We will make a deal,’ one of the TV crewmen suggested. ‘We will ... tell you who asked us to do this.’

  The pilot snapped at him, ‘He will kill us.’

  The man snapped back, ‘You want to walk out of here?’

  The pilot had no response, his nose bleeding into the sand.

  The TV crewman began, ‘If we co-operate, would you fly us out of here?’

  ‘Maybe.’ They exchanged looks. ‘Take a few days to think about it, but tomorrow morning we expect a large attack here, mortars and rockets, many gunmen.’

  ‘We need to go!’ a TV crewman hissed at his colleagues, their former ride now just a smouldering wreck.

  ‘Let’s bury them alive in the sand,’ Trapper suggested. ‘No one will know.’

  ‘We will make a deal,’ the captain finally offered.

  I took out my phone and called London. ‘This is Wilco. The pilot of a crashed Nigerian TV news aircraft wants to make a full confession on tape. Standby.’ I handed over the phone. ‘Make it clear, and make it truthful. State all of your names, occupations, addresses to start.’

  The pilot started to list his details, the phone passed around as the others did likewise. Back to the pilot, and he detailed the man who had approached them, money offered, how much and how it would be paid. He finally handed the phone back to me.

  ‘This is Wilco. Type that up, have David Finch look at it then send a transcript to the Nigerian Interior Minister for me. Tell him I have four prisoners who will be moved to Lagos soon. Wilco out.’

  I called the Squadron Leader in Mauritania as I stepped away. ‘It’s Wilco, sir. I need a plane, we have four Nigerian prisoners, need them back in Lagos, and quickly.’

  ‘Plane in Liberia is closer, I’ll make some calls.’

  ‘Explain to the crew that these men are to be handed to the police, and watched carefully on the flight.’

  ‘OK, will do. Do you need anything brought out?’

  ‘A large Union Jack flag.’

  ‘We asked for one, I think it’s here somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, and a stereo tape player, and a song on a tape.’ I detailed it.

  ‘What in blazes do you need that for?’

  ‘Just try and get it for me, sir. And that flag.’ I called Tinker and gave him the name of the intermediary. He would search the name. Next I called Paul MacManners.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, how’s it going?’

  ‘Not good, and I’m passing the buck since you’re my boss.’

  ‘What? What’s happened?’

  ‘This Nigerian TV plane came over, and well ... we didn’t know who it was, so we may have accidentally shot it down.’

  ‘You ... shot down a civilian aircraft, a TV crew?’ came a strained whisper.

  I laughed. ‘Just kidding.’

  ‘Jesus, Wilco, I’m having a heart attack here, you little shit.’

  ‘We did shoot it down, but it’s OK.’

  ‘You did shoot it down?’

  ‘Yes. Then we checked the transcript of the call that GCHQ monitored, and the TV crew were working for a paymaster, sent to spy on us and report back. Crew crash-landed and are sat tied-up as we speak, confession made on tape to your lot.’

  ‘So ... you shot down a civilian plane, but then found out they were up to no good? Proof of action after the fact!’

  ‘GCHQ’s fault, they warned us about the plane, so we thought it was hostil
e. They didn’t give us the full detail.’

  ‘What did they warn about ... exactly?’

  ‘That radio intercepts south had the bad boys discussing a plane for us. Just that.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit vague, so yes – I can see you shooting it down.’

  ‘Don’t worry, the crew thought it was engine trouble after one of my snipers hit the engine. They don’t think they were shot down.’

  ‘Well, we have that at least, but as a rule – please avoid shooting down civilian aircraft, I think it’s against a few laws in a few countries.’

  ‘A low flying plane in this shit hole has to be dodgy, and suspect. We’re damn hard to find, and in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Well, yes, I guess so. And please, no more jokes like that, I need a cup of tea and quiet moment.’

  Laughing, I hung up.

  Back at the Nigerians, I had them tied up, French to guard them, our prisoners sat in the sand.

  Across the runway, smoke still rising, Trapper said, ‘You know what you ordered, about us camouflaging our position...’

  I glanced at the smoking plane. ‘Does it look conspicuous? Maybe they won’t notice it.’

  With his men laughing, one asked, ‘Your boys using fifty cal?’

  ‘No, Valmet long-casing 7.62mm Elephant Guns. We got some spare if you want one.’

  ‘I’d love one,’ he said, so I dispatched him to Moran, to look in the boxes we brought.

  At midday I blew the whistle, soon no one seen on the horizon, and I sat with my team just as my phone trilled.

  ‘It’s David Finch, and we’ve registered a complaint with the Nigerian authorities, faxed them the transcript, and they’ve promised to investigate. The men are still with you?’

  ‘Yes, but I asked for a plane for them, to take them to Lagos.’

  ‘Be embarrassing for the TV station, so we sent the newspapers there copies of the transcript.’

  ‘David, that was mean of you,’ I teased.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine so far, but the gunmen are not up to speed yet, and they don’t know our strength here. Teams are getting along, Wolves are getting some training and experience and they seem like good lads, none asking for a ride out.’

  ‘The name you passed, he’s throwing up some interesting links, people not on our radar before, a link to Yemen – and the Nigerians don’t normally talk to Yemen.’

  ‘We might catch a big fish.’

  ‘Hot there?’

  ‘Forty-two in the shade.’

  ‘Ouch. I’ll take the British weather any day. Good luck, talk soon.’

  Phone away, I took it easy for a few hours, staring across the shimmering runway and dozing off for an hour. After a tin of corned beef and a cold drink I wandered along to the medics, and with cold water available I had a strip wash, the lady nurse not at all trying to hide her grin, Sasha and Casper waiting to take a shower.

  Smelling better, and dressed, I plodded off, a glance at the Nigerians as they sat looking very hot and bothered, and very uncomfortable. I kicked sand over them before walking on.

  The French Echo captain stood and wiped his brow. ‘Hot here, this place.’

  ‘As hot as it gets in the desert.’

  ‘Major Liban will visit?’

  ‘He said he would yes, next supply aircraft in a few days, so maybe he’ll be on it.’

  ‘What comes next for these fighters?’

  ‘I would guess they come at night, or use mortars.’

  At dusk I got a call, Hercules on its way, supplies on board. I pondered on just which supplies it was bringing us as I waited in the southeast trench.

  The radio crackled into life half an hour later, soon the bright lights of a Hercules spotted, our prisoners led to the edge of the runway, the C130 touching down with a roar, a louder roar of reverse engines, and it halted close to us. Ramp down, supply pallets were pushed off, three of them, our prisoners loaded, four of them, two armed British MPs on board to receive our prisoners.

  With the Hercules powering away we opened the cardboard boxes to find milk and eggs - powdered milk and powdered eggs, jam and butter, so I had it all handed to the medics. I also found a large ghetto blaster with a tape deck, no tapes, but spare batteries.

  The second box had lengths of wood, all pieces uniform at about five foot long, not long enough for the trenches, but then I noticed the instructions for barbeque benches - and the screws. Smiling, I handed the instructions to the French with the box.

  The final pallet contained inner layers of boxes, all soon cut open, and inside I found a large inflatable paddling pool. Someone in the RAF was taking the piss, but it would come in handy, more so if it wasn’t pink. It came with a foot pump.

  When my phone trilled it was Libintov. ‘I have some information regarding Northern Nigeria. A shipment of towed rockets was delivered today.’

  ‘How many rockets?’

  ‘Four hundred.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on. And I heard that a plane was shot down at that airfield.’

  ‘Shot down? I’ll have to find out whose plane it was.’

  ‘An38.’

  ‘An38? I have two, not in that area – I hope.’

  ‘Thanks, talk soon.’ Phone away, I transmitted, ‘Listen up. Intel has the fighters south of us taking delivery of four hundred rockets. Make sure you’re all near a bunker and well dug in tonight, minimum number of men on stag tonight. British Echo, relocate to the drain apart from those that’ll fit up Slider’s hole.’

  Laughter came through the dark.

  The night passed without incident, most of Echo having slept in the drain on a bed of comfy sand. I was just thinking of getting a brew on when the drain shook from a blast, men suddenly awake.

  I ran to the north side, seeing our look-out getting down in a hurry, men darting for cover in the grey half-light – early morning ablutions interrupted, trousers being pulled up in a hurry. The runway had been hit, a small crater left, and I scanned the horizon quickly, the next blast hitting near the crashed plane and causing me to duck. I lifted back up, jumped up onto the runway and did a full 360 with my binoculars, finally jumping down.

  The next blast was east, well away from anyone, and the rockets kept coming, every twenty-four seconds or so. Back with Swifty in the drain, I sat, his turn to cook.

  ‘They got our range,’ he idly noted. ‘But do they use the rockets to sneak up on us?’

  ‘No, they hope for casualties and a newspaper headline.’

  The two journalists walked by and stopped, looking like they were still half asleep. ‘Getting lively.’

  ‘Get some coffee in you, you look like shit,’ I told them. ‘Sit, relax, nothing you can do.’

  A blast registered through the drain, coming from the trench. Trapper came and found me a few minutes later. He knelt. ‘No one hurt, but a wall came down, half-filled the trench.’

  ‘We’ll fix it later, when they get bored, or run out of rockets.’

  ‘You said four hundred, so that’ll take all day at least.’

  I could hear music, and Robby had the ghetto blaster working near the entrance, a radio station somehow picked up. He had turned it up because of the song; Credence Clear Water Revival, Bad Moon Rising, a Vietnam war song, the lads laughing, laughter echoing down the drain.

  Trapper shimmied away, dancing. Since the next song was Kylie Minogue, Robby turned it down.

  After an hour of rockets we had two French 1st Battalion wounded. They had not been hit directly, but they had been too close, middle ear damage. I had the French move some men into the drain, and we built up sandbag walls at the entrances to the drains – just in case.

  A call for me, and I ran to the entrance and up; radio contact requested of me.

  ‘Haines for Wilco.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘We took a direct hit, the roof held, but the boys inside have a headache, a little dizzy.’

  ‘Stay there unless it’s urgent
.’

  ‘They’ll live, just woozy.’

  ‘Stay down. But check the horizon every once in a while.’

  After the next blast, which was near the tents, I rushed up and stood tall, checking the horizon. There, more than a mile south, came twenty jeeps. ‘Wilco to all teams, we have movement a mile south. Standby.’

  Down, and inside the drain, I shouted the same detail as I moved along to the south side.

  Castille asked, ‘They using the barrage to get in close?’

  ‘They’re not that smart, and they won’t get close with the barrage in effect.’ Out the south side I waited for the next blast then ran to an empty position, soon covered on three sides. Peeking out, I used my binoculars south.

  The jeeps had halted. ‘Bollocks,’ I let out when I saw them setting up mortars. I stood tall in the hole I was in. ‘Mister Haines, engage the jeeps south with GPMG, hammer them for five minutes.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Back down, I checked my rifle, aimed high, and fired off well-aimed rounds, not sure if I was hitting anyone. Still, it would give them something to think about.

  I heard the cackle of the GPMGs, and it soon sounded like three of them firing out. Re-focusing my binoculars, something exploded, a flash and then lots of smoke beyond the jeeps, so someone either dropped a mortar, or they put two down the same tube with no striker pin set up.

  Nicholson called my name and eased into a position near me. ‘We got something to shoot at, Boss?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  I continued to fire, aware now of several Elephant Guns firing out nearby. A blast to the front, and I was breathing smoke and tasting dirt, and coughing. Eyes firmly shut, I turned and spat, taking my water out.

  ‘You OK?’ Swifty asked as he closed in.

  ‘Don’t breath in sand, bad for you.’ I washed my face and swilled my mouth, my lads streaming past and grabbing positions, despite the risk.

  The Elephant Guns blasted out every few seconds, and when I lifted my head I could hear the GPMGs still. Smoke now clearing, I aimed and fired, getting through two magazines, and no mortars had landed, three of the jeeps south seen to be on fire.