Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘No, I can imagine, always looks easy when reading about it in the papers.’

  A shout, I turned, a missile streaking in from the southeast, the missile ten feet above the sand and seemingly floating along, a large white smoke trail seen before I dived down onto the hard runway, an almighty blast just fifty yards from me, the Mi8 hit. I lifted my head, seeing a dead pilot, or half of him, the Mi8 peeled open, on fire and roaring.

  Easing up to the kneeling position, I cut the call and put my phone away as I stared southeast; that had been a wire-guided missile. I turned to the mortar team and shouted at them, running to their position.

  I stood behind the first mortar and pointed, the men studying my arm and adjusting the tubes. ‘2,000yards. Fire when ready.’

  Adjustments made, they dropped a mortar, many heads lifting up to see where it landed as the Mi8 burnt fiercely, a column of black smoke climbing – and giving away our exact position.

  I saw the sand lift up. ‘Longer, one click right.’

  In a hurry they dropped another mortar, the blast getting closer to what I could see.

  ‘Longer.’

  Third mortar, and I was sure that it landed close to the odd objects I could see on the shimmering double horizon.

  ‘All tubes, same settings!’

  Bearings were shouted out, elevation, four mortars fired out, soon followed by four more before I called a halt.

  I lifted my binoculars to find Moran, seeing him at the wrecked jeeps. ‘Captain Moran, head for the smoke southeast, on the double!’

  I could see him lead the patrol off, jogging. Turning to the Mi8, I sighed, and I stepped closer to it, seeing a second body. The second pilot had been inside. A chill went through me. ‘Greenies, headcount, was your pilot with the Mi8?’

  ‘I’m here,’ came a voice over the radio, a live voice. ‘Those Russian pilots dead?’

  ‘They’re toasted, extra crispy.’

  My phone trilled; General Dennet. ‘Wilco, you alive?’

  ‘Yes, sir, missile hit our Mi8 helicopter. Killed the pilots.’

  ‘Who were the pilots?’

  ‘Two Russian’s who should have been elsewhere on their day off. They won’t be missed, nor reported. Got to go, sir.’ I cut the call.

  Finding Max taking snaps of the burning Mi8, I grabbed him around the neck and dragged him away from it. ‘What the fuck did you report about that Monty Python song, you little shit?’

  ‘What? I ... just told the truth about it, why?’

  ‘Because the fucking Queen is mad at us, and the top brass! They think we sang it instead of the National Anthem! So you, you little shit, you get a story on Reuters right now. Get a paper and pen.’

  Mumbling, he got his notepad ready.

  I began, ‘Quote from me. The Monty Python song was not sung instead of the National Anthem. French and American soldiers here raise their flags and trumpet out reveille, they do not sing their national anthems, British soldiers the world over do not sing the anthem when raising a flag at dawn.

  ‘Those who criticize the men here should come down and try the 45degree heat, the sand, getting rockets fired at them every day, attacks every day, mortars coming in, little sleep, and combat rations to eat. The men here need to let off steam now and then, they’re living in hell itself. In fact, I think this place is probably hotter than it is in hell.’

  ‘Not my fault they took it the wrong way,’ he complained.

  ‘Try and run stuff like past me, eh! And no mention of the Russian pilots!’

  I could hear distant gunfire, my binoculars soon focused on the area where the mortars had fallen. I could see men kneeling then running in. I called Moran.

  ‘Hello?’ came a man out of breath.

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Russian guided missile, wire guided, six men, but they were already wounded.’

  ‘I need their phones and ID, and fast. And don’t come straight in from where you are, Stretch put mines out there somewhere. See if he remembers where – put him at the front! Oh, what did you find at the wrecked jeeps?’

  ‘Body parts, so someone stood on a mine, and about six dead men, no wounds visible, most half buried, and two died in their jeep, shot by us last night, jeeps are riddled with holes. I got a phone from them, some ID cards.’

  ‘OK, come back in.’ Phone away, I could see the jeeps sent for the Wolves now returning, and I stood staring at the double image as that image shimmered, getting ever larger, the unwelcome news getting closer and materialising into something solid, the bodies being brought in. The jeeps stopped near the medics, the limp men offloaded, many of the French stopping to stare.

  Moran took the long way around because Stretch couldn’t identify where he left the mines, blaming the shifting sands. When he reached me with the team I took charge of the phones, calling London with them, IDs read out. And these were Arabs, not locals boys. One of the IDs was Libyan, two were Egyptian, one was from Somalia, so London Intel would be getting an erection.

  Phones and IDs handed to Morten to bag up to take back, my own phone trilled. ‘Papa Victor, it’s No.1.’

  I issued a tired smile. ‘Hey No.1, how goes the investigation?’

  ‘We heard a rumour, so we paid some money, got a Russian-Egyptian fella as he moved into Northern Cyprus, a short interrogation followed by a shallow grave.’

  ‘Good work.’

  ‘He’s been providing discrete transport, mostly by ship, a pipeline to the West. He moved some Arabs to Somalia recently, a plane to Mali, the destination being your neck of the woods.’

  ‘We just killed a few Arabs, not local boys, some were Egyptian.’

  ‘Ah, so the pieces of the puzzle fit.’

  ‘Who’s the paymaster?’

  ‘A middleman in Zurich, but our chap confessed to knowing that the money came from a man in Dubai, not a Saudi, al-Hawadi.’

  ‘I’ll have London run the name.’

  ‘Got one more nugget, a friend of the Banker, and he knows of a plane that will be used to attack you soon.’

  ‘Nothing more than that?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Thanks anyway, keep at it.’

  ‘I’m following you in The Sun newspaper, having it delivered now. My neighbours must think I’m a British thug.’

  I smiled. ‘Talk soon.’ I called London, getting Paul MacManners. ‘Have a look at a man in Dubai, al-Hawadi.’

  ‘He’s a big fish, linked to groups in Yemen. What’s his connection to you?’

  ‘He sent Arabs to attack us; I’ve already sent you the phone numbers and IDs. His middleman was a Russian-Egyptian, now deceased, the pipeline given up, ships used. Spectre caught up with him. And these Arabs hit us with a wire-guided Russian missile, destroyed our Mi8 helicopter.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘The two Russian pilots, blown to bits.’

  ‘I hope they’ll be buried deep, no questions asked.’

  ‘In progress. Run the names I sent, send it to the Yanks, we might get a big fish here.’

  ‘I’ll have a look now.’

  I called Libintov.

  ‘Ah Petrov, how are things?’

  ‘I’ll be ordering more supplies soon, but first ... wire guided ground missiles, anti-tank.’

  ‘You are indeed a well-informed man. I heard a rumour just an hour ago, made a call. Man’s name is Ilan Cohen.’

  ‘Israeli?’

  ‘Jewish, from the Czech Republic, rumoured to be out of favour with Israel, his dual-citizenship revoked. Has a club in Prague for rich Russians.’

  ‘Is he a competitor of yours?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind if I kill him.’

  ‘Not at all. What supplies did you want?’

  ‘I want a flight from Europe, not Africa. I want five hundred frozen hamburgers, bread, sauce, enough beer for two hundred men, and some Hawaiian shirts – a variety of sizes.’

  He laughed. ‘This is not
illegal, so not my usual work.’

  ‘You’ll be well paid. Add some shampoo and soap, drop it at the usual place. And if there is room, which there must be, bags of cement, lots of cement. Drop it when ready, let me know.’

  I called Bob. ‘Man named Ilan Cohen, Prague, get all you can on him, we’re going to kill him.’

  ‘I’ll make some calls, we have a man in Prague.’

  I sat with my team for some food and a chat about our National Anthem, our original sand holes now having been dug out.

  When my phone trilled it was Tinker. ‘The phones you got, we have a match both to someone in the state capital where you are and someone in Yemen, London excited.’

  ‘We were attacked by a small group of Arabs, wire-guided missile.’

  ‘The regional commanders had high hopes for those men. You really are a spoil sport, you know that.’

  ‘Better luck next time, eh. And try and get us some warning!’

  ‘They’re not stupid, they’re careful, and getting more careful – they think locals are selling them out.’

  Phone down, two blasts had everyone up and looking, soon realising it was our artillery.

  ‘Well at least they still work,’ Moran noted, easing back down.

  The noise of the Cheyenne approaching had men up and looking till I transmitted the detail, the medics lugging one body and two limp men, drips in arms.

  It took a while to fix up the IV drips inside the aircraft, but the Cheyenne would be met by ambulances at the other end. They had brought oxygen as requested, our two limp wolves seen in oxygen masks as the Cheyenne powered off down the runway, men staring after it.

  I called Colonel Mathews. ‘Sir, we have a Wolf recruit dead.’

  ‘Shot in action?’

  ‘No, sir, suffocated in a sand storm.’

  ‘Jesus, what a way to go.’

  ‘Body on its way to Niamey in Niger, notify the embassy there quickly, to take charge.’

  ‘OK, I’ll send it up the line now, get the State Department on it. How’s it going?’

  ‘We just had an attack by a bunch of Arab fighters, Egyptian, Yemen, Somalis, and we have track-back, so London Intel is excited. We also have a middle man, arms dealer, and a paymaster.’

  ‘So it’s working then, I’ll chat to the CIA today. This is my project, my credit.’

  ‘Milk it, sir.’

  I rallied the men to carry on digging, but had them halt at 10pm, when I told everyone to sleep. My team reclaimed a familiar patch of sand in the drain and stretched out, soon asleep. I checked the men on stag, spoke to Haines down at the far end, spoke to Crab at his drain, and we had many eyes peering outwards and looking for unwelcome guests.

  Stood with Castille and Trapper, Castille asked, ‘What they want a wire-guided missile for?’

  ‘Probably figured we’d have planes here for re-supply, helicopters, something above ground level. They can’t figure this drain or the trenches, and they can’t get the angle to hit us.’

  ‘Lost the pilots as well,’ Trapper noted.

  ‘They were helping the terrorists technically, so ... they might have been shot down by us lot. No great loss.’

  At dawn Castille called me over. He pointed out into the sand, and there – twenty yards out – was an arm, the hand reaching skywards. ‘Your boys buried the fella yesterday. You sure he was dead because my guys think he tried to climb out the shallow grave he got.’

  ‘More likely my lot taking the piss.’

  ‘It’s kinda freaky.’

  ‘With the rigour mortis I doubt his arm will go down. And at least it’s not a penis.’

  After breakfast, the men looking better now, they resumed digging-out fire positions and trenches, the bulldozers busy, and we would need more fuel soon.

  I walked all the way along to the west drain, finding that they had dug a narrow trench down five feet, two spurs, and it stretched out twenty yards in both directions, fire positions made, sandbags employed, cloth up. ‘Good work, Sergeant Crab, good work men, looking professional around here.’

  ‘We expecting company today, sir?’ an American recruit asked.

  ‘Does the day end with a “Y”?’

  He smiled, but then frowned. ‘What the heck day is it, sir?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  I stepped to the RAF Regiment, Haines sat with a brew in hand, their two access holes now dug out.

  He explained, ‘We had to dig the sand backwards into the room, so now we have a soft bed of sand to sleep on at least.’

  ‘Use those solid cement bags, make some solid walls on the side of the runway.’

  ‘Plenty of them. What’s the plan today?’

  ‘Plan is ... try not to get killed.’

  ‘Good plan,’ he approved, now heavily tanned, white crow’s feet around his eyes.

  Peering down the shimmering double-horizon runway, I could see the APC turning in circles, so I figured they must have sorted the filters out. I transmitted for the APC and the bulldozers to move the wrecked Mi8 off the runway.

  At midday I held off blowing the whistle since they had all gotten a good night’s sleep, and we made ready for a delivery. The drone of the An12 disturbed the peace, soon lining up and touching down, sand being blown at us by the big monster of an aircraft, but at least the backwash was cleaning sand off the runway.

  Pallets appeared, many hands grabbing them, Sasha and Casper greeting familiar crewmen, hands shaken. With the An12 powering off down the runway, men pushed pallets to the side, soon tearing them open as if they were Christmas presents.

  A French soldier stood holding up a Hawaiian shirt, puzzled looks exchanged, the men soon laughing as I handed the shirts out. The frozen burgers were starting to defrost obviously, all handed to the medics – who were told to start cooking.

  The beer was stacked up in the drain to keep it cool, no one allowed to touch it yet, the cement bags lugged to the French, who had to dig out their former cottage industry.

  To the 1st Battalion captain I said, ‘Can you make a shape? Five feet square side, five feet square top, five feet square down the other side?’

  He made a face and shrugged. ‘It is all the same, yes. We can made a hole of this shape, put cement in. It is for trenches, no.’

  ‘To make tunnels. Try one.’

  I transmitted, ‘All men are required to wash, and to do so with their clothes on. No burgers or beer for any man that is not washed. And your clothes will dry on you quickly in this heat. Use soap on the armpits and groin. Get to it.’

  My lot strode directly to the water pump, the water soon flowing. Kit down, they stood under it in shirt and trousers, shirt armpits washed, inside armpits washed, hair washed, Rizzo stepping away soaking wet, kit and rifle carried and placed on a part of the runway free of sand.

  Many of the French helped with the cooking, and we soon had ten barbeque sets going, a few fires lit. Rizzo put his wet shirt down on the runway and tried on his Hawaiian shirt, rifle slung over it, Max taking snaps from behind.

  An hour later I had the beer brought out, men stood with burgers in one hand, beer in the other hand, but I had them disperse in groups to the nearby French trenches – just in case. The ghetto blaster had a radio station tuned in, pop songs being played, and I rotated men down from “B” Squadron.

  Stood with Moran and Liban, burgers and beer in hand, I noted, ‘Not so bad here.’

  ‘When you have the supplies, the desert is OK,’ Liban agreed, now in his green flowery shirt. ‘Did you ask them not to attack today?’

  ‘Yes, I sent a note.’

  They laughed.

  I grabbed a recruit in a bright blue Hawaiian shirt, rifle slung. ‘How you getting on?’

  ‘Fine, sir, and better now with a beer and a burger; feels like home. My old man, he always dresses up like this for a barbeque.’

  ‘Where were you raised?’ I asked.

  ‘Amarillo, sir. Hot as hell in summer, just like this place.’

  �
�Do you think ... that if I sent you on patrol ten miles with some men to shoot at the end of it, that you could do it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, easy enough.’

  Moran told him, ‘After your time here, regular soldiering will seem easy.’

  ‘Kinda like it here, sir, not sure why.’

  ‘Get in line with the rest of us ... to have your head examined,’ Moran told him.

  The young recruit laughed and walked off, chomping on his burger.

  Casper and Sasha were on their second burgers, ketchup on cheeks, but at least their team was in high spirits, and I knew that they had chatted on the phone to the two wounded men back in the UK.

  As the sun set, men were stood around chatting, or sitting around chatting, no one in the mood to dig sand, that was for sure.

  I called the Squadron Leader in Mauritania. ‘Need a delivery, sir. Got a paper and pen.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘More cement, lots more. The usual water bogey, fuel bogey – forget the av-gas, our helo was blown up.’

  ‘Blown up?’

  ‘You can read about it in The Sun newspaper.’

  ‘We get it delivered!’

  ‘Ask for a dozen respirators, then two hundred good masks for sand storms, and medical oxygen to be left here, and some stretchers. More combat rations I think, and some tins of proper food. That’s about it.’

  ‘I’ll let you know when we have all or some of it, some can come from Sierra Leone obviously.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Admiral Jacobs called after the dark night took hold, the temperature dropping quickly. ‘Captain, can you talk right now?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Had a briefing from the CIA, and they’re all excited, seems that the local boys are all dead and there are now Arab fighters moving in to attack you.’

  ‘Yes, sir, we killed the first six to arrive – after they destroyed our Mi8 helicopter.’

  ‘You had an Mi8?’

  ‘We captured it, along with two artillery pieces.’

  ‘Jesus. So you’re now well armed.’

  ‘Well armed and dug-in, sir.’

  ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘Just a matter of time, sir, and the bad boys getting annoyed with us.’

  ‘These Somali and Yemen men are of interest to us, we want to track back and go stick a missile in some place.’