Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Use the APC to tow it, and the jeeps. Come on, Staff Sergeant, get a move on before another helicopter turns up and you get your bollocks shot off!’

  ‘Give me a sec,’ he said in a huff.

  Twenty minutes later the convoy was spotted, and I figured they had left a hell of a trail behind, a trail that anyone could follow. Many men stood up top, observing the floating mirage as the two jeeps led the APC, which towed a lorry, a second lorry following on, both lorries towing artillery pieces.

  They finally turned west, came in, hit the shimmering runway and came on, easing to a halt after solidifying into real objects, not seemingly floating ones.

  ‘Medics!’ I called, the last two medics running in. From the back of the APC two male nurses got down, a Wolf with arms over two shoulders, and he was walked to the medic’s bunker.

  ‘Mister Morten, get me an update in ten minutes,’ I shouted as the man was led away. I faced the second Wolf. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well done out there, I’ll be recommending you for a medal.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ I emphasized. ‘You risked your lives for us. Be proud.’ I closed in on Liban. ‘Do you have any men good with artillery?’

  He approached the French position and shouted. Four men came in. ‘They were artillery men before.’

  I said to him, ‘These two guns are now yours. Take them north three hundred yards, dig in, trenches, sandbags, have them aim south.’

  He gave instructions to the four men, but then shouted for other men to assist, and half the French moved north after two of their men claimed the lorries, shovels carried by many of the French lads.

  Doctor Morten walked out to me fifteen minutes later, blood-stained blue plastic surgery apron on over his desert browns. ‘He’s stable, it’s not too bad, but we need him moved.’

  ‘An hour, or dawn?’

  ‘He can make it to dawn, no issues, just depends on when it’s safe to get a plane in.’

  ‘I’ll make a call now, they tend to use rockets at night.’ I called London and asked for the Cheyenne, and if they could drop off some cement.

  Castille appeared at my shoulder, and we stared after the two artillery pieces trundling north across the sand. ‘That local market has some odd items on the shelf, that’s a fact. What’ll you do with the helo?’

  ‘I have some fuel coming, so then ... we fly recon.’

  A Greenie walked in as Max snapped the Mi8. ‘I can fly that, sir.’

  ‘You can?’ myself and Castille asked at the same time.

  ‘Got a shit load of hours in, sir.’

  ‘Great. The two pilots will cooperate, but you sit left seat when it goes up. My Captain Moran can fly one, but not ... fantastically well.’

  Castille asked, ‘Why are those pilots co-operating?’

  ‘Hard cash. Don’t you know, Boy, the US Dollar works wonders!’

  ‘Obviously,’ he conceded.

  ‘I take dollars wherever I go, they open doors, the universal currency.’

  I grabbed Casper. ‘The two Russian pilots think you are Petrov, working for Tomsk, fighting Islamists attacking his mines and oil. Go say hello, don’t hurt them, they’re working for us now.’

  He plodded off with a sinister grin on his face.

  I called London and left a report, at the end of which the Duty Officer asked me if I was joking. I told him, ‘Be in tomorrow’s Sun newspaper.’

  Paul MacManners called. ‘Wilco, you ... took possession of an Mi8 helicopter?’

  ‘Yep, belongs to an NGO in Mali – who will be a bit miffed. Pilots are Russian, and I offered them a good wage to fly it for us.’

  ‘A good wage..?’

  ‘Not paid by a traceable source, so relax.’

  ‘And you’ll use it for..?’

  ‘Recon.’

  ‘I see. And two artillery pieces.’

  ‘Yes, previously owned by the Nigerian Army.’

  ‘They may want them back.’

  ‘They would have to explain how they got all the way up here...’

  ‘Well, yes, that could be a painful Press conference.’

  ‘For now don’t say anything, they’re useful pieces to have.’

  ‘OK, but what’s your plan?’

  ‘No change, we see who gets annoyed. Oh, Belchov has a step brother who took over the family business, he’s involved, so track back. I don’t know who his paymaster is.’

  ‘Belchov the step brother, eh. OK, we’ll start looking.’

  At noon I blew the whistle, men settling down for a rest, apart from the artillery crew, they were hard at it, sandbag walls to erect, trenches to dig.

  At the medics I found the French cottage industry, concrete slabs now being turned out. They had bent, broken and hammered the aluminium trays and were now turning out eight foot long concrete strips that were about four inches deep. Once ready, the strips were placed over the French position, but slatted so that one supported the other for extra strength, around three feet of sand piled up on top.

  Liban wiped his brow. ‘When a mortar lands, no problem, the sand dissi -’

  ‘Dissipates.’

  ‘Ah, yes, dissipates the energy and force. Maybe the concrete breaks, but not shrapnel through I think.’

  ‘Sandbags, the world’s best bullet stop,’ I loudly affirmed.

  An RAF Regiment lad walked up. ‘We found something, sir, old cement bags.’

  ‘They any good?’ I asked.

  ‘Solid as a rock, sir.’

  ‘Good. Bring them all down here, get a jeep going. How many?’

  ‘Say ... a thousand.’

  ‘A thousand!’ I repeated. ‘Shit. Leftover from the construction work I guess.’ I faced Liban. ‘Have some men assist, you have more building blocks to play with.’

  He keenly nodded, men shouted at, jeeps moving, and they came back with solid bags, the French tearing off the frail old paper, the solid lumps used on top-off the recently made slabs, cloth covers moved from the trenches.

  Someone transmitted a warning, and we all peered around, a plane heard. Since one was expected I told them all to relax.

  The Cheyenne sped past us at 500ft, having a good look down before it circled around. Lined up, flaps down, it touched down with a slight skid, soon easing to a halt right next to me, Morten and the medics carrying out the wounded Wolf.

  Door open, the co-pilot stacked up several bags of cement on the runway, six in total, a trade for the wounded man. Door closed, they waved, we waved, and it moved past the Mi8, powered up and sped down the runway.

  ‘I like this aircraft,’ Liban told me. ‘Like a fast car, no.’

  ‘It is nice, very nice.’

  I grabbed a pair of Wolf recruits and had them walk to the east end of the runway, to count their paces to the drain, then to do the same from the west end of the runway, and to start digging at that spot. They took more than half an hour to measure out the location I wanted, and finally started digging down next to the runway.

  At 3pm I blew the whistle and walked along the shimmering runway west as men moved sluggishly in the scorching heat. The two Wolf recruits were sat in the hole they had dug.

  Telling them not to stand for me, I walked onto the sand and studied the area they had dug out already. ‘There, left, see that square bit of smooth concrete. Dig there for me.’ My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Deputy Chief, can you talk?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said as I stepped away onto the runway.

  ‘So Belchov the step-brother has taken over, already involved in some bad business...’

  ‘He hired out Russian pilots to the bad boys down here, so yes – he’s taken over the family business.’

  ‘He’s on our wanted list now, FBI notified. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Not yet, but we are looking.’

  ‘How’s it going there?’

  ‘Picking up a few minor wounds each day, but we’ve knocked them back
at every step, stole a helicopter, an APC, and two Howitzers.’

  ‘Howitzers?’

  ‘Nigerian Army hired them out to the bad boys, to fire at us.’

  ‘That’s a concern. Does the Nigerian Government know?’

  ‘No, just some officer on the make. And I don’t want them to know just yet, they might want their guns back.’

  ‘You’re going to use Howitzers against a patrol of Arab fighters?’

  ‘Hell yes.’

  He laughed. ‘Good luck.’

  Seeing an opening beyond the sand, the two recruits dug down faster, and I soon knelt to shine a torch in. The sand sloped down, smelling damp as hell, but I could see a faint light at the other end.

  Easing up, I said, ‘Go back, and bring all the Wolf recruits here with the NCOs to dig this out.’

  They plodded off down the shimmering runway as I joined my team, my hole in the sand reclaimed. ‘Found another drain,’ I idly commented. ‘West.’

  Swifty had his hat on his face as he lay back, arms folded. He said, ‘Make that one look like it’s where we are, a decoy.’

  ‘Need some decoy men. You volunteering to get bombed?’

  ‘Well ... not as such, no. Too warm to get bombed.’

  My phone trilled just as my eyes closed, Swifty moaning. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Tinker, got some bad news for you.’

  I eased up. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’ve been monitoring the weather, and sand storm is moving your way, will hit you around midnight.’

  ‘There’s only a light breeze!’ I pointed out.

  ‘Won’t be later. It’s already reported north of you, visibility ... zero.’

  ‘Great, some fucker could sneak up on us. OK, thanks.’ I transmitted, ‘Listen up, tonight there’ll be a sand storm, visibility zero. Use facemasks, or cloth with eye holes, or you’ll choke to death.’

  ‘It’s Castille, and we have plastic glasses for maybe twenty men.’

  ‘Hand them to those on stag tonight, we’ll be blind and deaf.’ I walked to Liban. ‘Bring in all your men later, unless they have these glasses and facemasks.’

  ‘How long will the storm last?’

  ‘They’re usually only a few hours in these parts.’

  ‘If someone walks in close...’

  ‘Someone that can see in a sand storm..?’ I posed. I called for Stretch and a few men. When they arrived I said, ‘Get some mines, walk out to the bodies southeast a thousand yards, place them there, and be careful. Mark the spot with something. Go.’

  Moran pointed at the Mi8.

  ‘Shit...’ I let out. ‘It has no covers.’ I found the pilots, and in Russian told them to turn it so that it was facing north. I had the Greenie pilot sit in with them, just in case they flew off.

  With the Mi8 facing north, rotors winding down, I told the pilots about the sand storm. Their faces dropped. I transmitted for spare ponchos to be brought, and rope, and quickly, and with six men helping we tied off the ponchos over the engine in-takes.

  On the advice of the Russian pilots I had eight of the solid old cement bags placed in the back of the helo to weigh it down. The pilots looked, shrugged, and we made it twelve heavy bags. We finally placed sandbags around the wheels, and that was as much as we could do, not enough rope to tie down the blades.

  Moran approached. ‘Are the Wolves still out there?’

  ‘Christ, they’re due back tomorrow.’ I called London. ‘It’s Wilco. I have the veteran Lone Wolves out on patrol, but we have a sand storm coming in, so look-up their numbers urgently and call them, tell them to get back – and running. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll get a few people on it now.’

  I worried if I was doing the right thing by not calling myself, so I dug out the list I had and hit the numbers as I knelt.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Wilco, sand storm coming in, get back now, fast, or go to ground. You have a few hours.’ I cut the call and hit the next number, but they had just been warned. I worked down the list, calling two before they were called by London, so all had been warned. But two pairs were ten miles out; they would not make it back in time and would have to dig in.

  I considered the jeeps, or the APC, but if the sand storm arrived early the jeeps would be stuck, drivers stuck. Even the APC would be useless in a sand storm.

  At sunset I was at the west drain, Sergeant Crab and the recruits having dug out both ends and they had started a trench on the south side. I had a look inside, this drain a carbon copy of the other one. To Crab I said, ‘Quickly, get any spare sandbags, water, rations, and get back in here ready for the sandstorm. If men have facemasks on they should be OK on stag.’

  ‘Why don’t we block that end up,’ he suggested.

  ‘Sure, but leave a small hole to escape from, eh.’ Realising that the same problem applied to the other drain, I transmitted, ‘All men near the drain, get spare sandbags and build up the sandbag wall on the north side. Get the jeeps inside, cover over the artillery, cover the mortars, get ready for a sand storm. Use sandbags from the southeast trench, build up the walls in the drain, and quickly. “B” Squadron, come down here, you’ll die up there.’

  ‘We’re packing up now,’ came a distorted signal.

  At the RAF Regiment position I told them to block the access hole.

  ‘Already done,’ Haines told me.

  ‘Will it hold up in a force ten gale?’

  ‘Sandbags on it. So ... I hope so.’

  Walking back, I could feel the breeze freshening. ‘All teams, get to the drains or undercover, get ready, we have an hour before the sand blinds us.’ I stopped at the medics. ‘Get to the drain, poncho over this entrance plus sandbags to keep it down. And bring the goat.’

  I met Liban at the mortars, the mortars tubes now gone.

  He said, ‘Artillery is covered over, I hope. This helicopter..?’

  ‘Is covered over, enough we hope. Intakes are covered, but sand might get in the top gears.’

  ‘You cannot fly it someplace?’

  ‘No, definitely not, we can’t explain it. It stays here. Get your men in the drain soon, please.’

  At the north entrance to the drain I found sandbags up to the roof on two-thirds of it, a gap, then more sandbags climbing higher, not quite to the roof yet.

  ‘Use ponchos and rope.’ I turned. ‘Casper!’ He came down the dark drain with Sasha, several fires going. ‘Move the APC to the sand above this entrance, it will help. Go.’

  They moved between the sandbag walls and out as men rigged up ponchos at the top of the remaining gap.

  ‘Still some wind blows,’ Liban noted.

  We had the two British jeeps inside, and the bulldozers, so I had the bulldozers moved first, up against the sandbag walls for support, finally the jeeps. They would disrupt a smooth air flow. I helped rig a poncho between the two bulldozers, making it tight. There were gaps, but it would have to do.

  ‘What about the south side?’ Castille’s dark outline asked.

  ‘Wind is north to south, so this side will take the brunt of it. Some sand will swirl around the south side, so you want to be this end.’ I transmitted, ‘All teams, headcount your people, and if you have a facemask – wear it, otherwise wrap cloth around faces. Men with goggles, some of you on stag. Rest of you, move away from the south side, come up this end.’

  At the south side I had men grab more sandbags from the trench walls, a ready supply to hand, the drain’s sandbag wall growing. With the wind picking up my thoughts again turned to the Wolves. With Swifty holding my torch and the list I started calling.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Running back, be inside the hour.’

  ‘If the wind gets up, or the visibility gets too bad, lie down on a ridge not a hollow, poncho over you, facemasks on. Go that!’

  ‘Yes, Boss.’

  I worked down the list, those that had been ten miles out told to dig in.

  One Wolf reported, ‘We fo
und a road, culvert under it, so we’ll duck in there tonight.’

  ‘Watch out for snakes and scorpions. Good luck.’

  The last team had just hit the runway west and were coming down it. They called me back five minutes later. ‘Boss, we can see lights, south a mile or so.’

  ‘OK, get back here.’ I stood tall in the dark, the wind picking up, sand blowing. ‘Sergeant Crab, you hear me?’

  Nothing.

  ‘RAF Regiment, you hear me?’

  ‘This is Haines, go ahead.’

  ‘Contact south, moving in ahead of the storm. Send a man to the new drain to warn Sergeant Crab. And fast.’

  ‘OK, sending someone now.’

  ‘Slider, you hear me.’

  Nothing.

  I dropped down. ‘Listen up, we have contact south. British and French Echo out here, rifles ready, facemasks on!’

  ‘It’s Stretch, you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah, where are you?’

  ‘Coming in now, shine a torch.’

  I scrambled back up, flashing a signal.

  ‘OK, we see it.’

  ‘It’s Lone Wolf Micky Dawson, can we have a signal as well?’

  I flashed my torch west down the runway.

  ‘We see it, we’re about ... ten yards from you.’

  Laughter could be heard behind me.

  I transmitted, ‘Men in southeast trench, patrol coming in, do not shoot,’ as the Echo teams moved out to me. I had them line up and spread out down the trench.

  Stretch’s black outline came to me and shouted a report in my ear.

  I transmitted, ‘All Echo men, spread out, form a line facing south-southwest. Picture in your minds the layout, and where those wrecked jeeps are south. Move right back, aim up just over the sand. Get ready.’ The instructions were repeated in French by Moran.

  I got up top, the wind howling, sand felt on my hands like ants crawling, and I peered through my binoculars. A flash, and someone had stood on a mine at the wrecked jeeps, the blast report very dull in this wind. I dropped back down. ‘All men, when I say, fire one magazine, aiming at the wrecked jeeps. Fire!’

  I could see the muzzle flashes and feel the discharges, but the wind suppressed the sound well enough. When the firing eased, we had loosed off a thousand rounds just about.