Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  Men jumped up as the plane hit, an eruption of yellow flame seen, a plume of black smoke racing skywards, the dull report of the explosion reaching us a few seconds later, the C160 having landed north of the burnt-out tanks, northeast of the runway by at least a thousand yards.

  Rizzo stepped up. ‘For fucks sake!’ he shouted. ‘We’re up against a bunch of fucking idiots with fucking crap kit!’

  I nodded. ‘The worse they are, they better we look.’

  He kicked the sand, and stomped off cursing.

  Swifty and Moran closed in. Swifty noted, ‘You kept pressing buttons on that phone before the plane nose dived...’

  ‘Who me?’ I asked, less than convincingly. I transmitted, ‘All teams, return to base quickly.’ We started walking back.

  ‘Someone interfered with that plane, didn’t they?’ Swifty pressed as we kicked up sand.

  ‘Who knows, and who cares.’

  ‘Little shit,’ Swifty called me.

  I called Tomsk. In Russian I said, ‘It worked, the plane crashed.’

  ‘Ah good, they will be hurt in the bank balance, no.’

  ‘They certainly will, and I have hurt some of Libintov’s competitors, so remind him of that. In fact, I’m going to kill most of his competitors. Thanks for what you did.’

  I called London and left an update, a few details left out, soon back at the runway and at the pile of stores - this place looking a mess, the jeeps arriving back, the lady medic holding the goat. I could see Haines and the Wolves returning, and “B” Squadron did not have far to go to reclaim their happy home in the sand and the rocks.

  The night passed quietly, no attacks materialising, and our enemies were hurting, in money, in manpower, and in the machinery they had lost. And the more they hurt, the more players I took off the table, the greater the risks the paymaster would have to take – at least that was my theory.

  David Finch called at 11am, as men busied themselves modifying trenches, the French busy moulding concrete. ‘We’ve had a complaint from the Nigerians. They saw their artillery pieces and trucks in the British Press – and want them back.’

  ‘Fine, they can collect them any time.’

  ‘A delegation will be with you today by aircraft, please be nice.’

  ‘I may be a little sarcastic. Is that OK?’

  ‘That we can live with.’

  He had been gone half an hour when Colonel Dean rang. ‘Hello, sir, how’s the weather there?’

  ‘Not too bad, we have men on the mountains doing selection. Anyway, reason for the call. People are still bitching at me over the National Anthem verses Monty Python. The Sun printed your comments, as did several others, but there are those who still complain.

  ‘The men and officers here thought it was hilarious, and someone played that song over the loudspeakers lunchtime yesterday. Still, if we can avoid such complaints it would make my life easier. And now there are generals and politicians complaining about your men wearing Hawaiian t-shirts on a live job.’

  ‘The men were not wearing their Hawaiian t-shirts on a live job, sir, I gave them all the day off.’

  ‘Gave them the day off? You’re in a desert, in daily contact with the enemy!’

  ‘Yes, sir, but there was a lull, no incoming, so I gave them the day off and we held a barbeque, beer and all.’

  ‘Beer? How’d the hell did you get beer delivered?’

  ‘We have our ways, sir.’

  ‘Jesus. Well I’ll try and explain it away as a day off.’

  ‘Men needed a morale booster, sir, some down time, some good food, they’ve been a bit strung out and tired lately, and since we’re surrounded there’s nowhere for them to go for some R&R.’

  ‘What’s happening down there?’

  ‘Quiet at the moment, sir, but we had a plane come in yesterday, a chemical on board to drop on us, but it crashed.’

  ‘You shot it down?’

  ‘No, sir, it ... just crashed. And the day before we had two tanks move in, but they were a bit crap and we destroyed them.’

  ‘The tanks are in this morning’s papers. Photos make it look like the desert is strewn with wreckage.’

  I took in that wreckage. ‘It is, sir, it’s a bit of a mess.’

  ‘And there was a photo of a fighter who died and was buried alive in the sand storm, hand sticking up.’

  I quietly cursed Max. ‘Yes, sir, many of the fighters moving towards us died in that storm. Can’t get to them, they’re in a mine field.’

  ‘How are my men doing?’

  ‘“B” Squadron is on a ridge north, haven’t seen much action, no wounded yet.’

  ‘You’re keeping them out of the fighting?’

  ‘Not as such, sir, it’s just that most of the attacks come from the south and east. Luck of the draw.’

  ‘Well good luck.’

  At midday I blew the whistle, transmitting for men to get some rest in the heat, and I had just sat down myself when my phone trilled.

  ‘It’s Admiral Jacobs,’ came a distorted voice. ‘OK to land?’

  ‘Yes, sir, all quiet at the moment.’

  ‘Be there in fifteen.’

  I sighed loudly, and stood. I transmitted, ‘All Americans get ready, US Navy admiral on his way. Shine them shoes.’

  Mitch eased up. ‘We getting inspected?’ he complained.

  ‘Just a flying visit. He’s the admiral responsible for North Africa, which is where you’re stood – and you’re American. Come with me.’

  I led him off down the runway, and to the medics, soon hearing the drone as I called for Liban. I could see the Hawkeye with its distinctive radar dish, but these planes also doubled-up as transport and crew movement aircraft for a carrier.

  It touched down smoothly, some reverse engine, the engines powering down a few notches as the team clambered down, a man in a large helmet stood on the runway and taking in the messy stores area. Two Seals stepped down, M4s held, followed by Admiral Jacobs and two officers. They walked around the wing tip to us, taking in the wreckage.

  I saluted, Mitch saluting. ‘Welcome, sir.’

  ‘Fuck, Captain, you made a mess here.’

  ‘It may need a sweep up before we leave, yes.’

  He pointed, ‘Wrecked APC, a transport aircraft, two other aircraft.’

  ‘More wreckage further out, sir.’ I pointed back along the runway. ‘Down the runway are the British, medics in a bunker just here, French north of us here, French mortar positions.’

  Liban closed in and saluted, hands shaken. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Liban, sir, French Echo special forces.’

  ‘You in charge of the French contingent?’

  ‘I am making a one-week visit to my men, sir. Time out of the office.’

  Jacobs laughed. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

  I led his team across the runway till we were above the drain exit, Castille leading men around to us. ‘Under the runway are drains and structures, we’ve been hiding in them during rocket and mortar attacks. This is the southeast trench, Deltas then Green Berets, then more British men.’

  Castille saluted for his group. ‘Captain Castille, sir, Delta Force Southern Europe and Mid East.’ He thumbed over his shoulder. ‘Lieutenant Trapper, Green Berets.’

  ‘You made a mess, Captain Castille.’

  ‘It has been a bit lively around here, sir, regular attacks, but we’re doing OK, few casualties.’

  ‘Food OK?’

  ‘We get tinned food, and hamburgers, sir, and the Brit medics baked bread. Can’t complain about the chow, sir.’

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Jacobs asked, pointing at the hand sticking up.

  ‘What’s what, sir?’ I asked, feigning ignorance.

  ‘There, a hand sticking up out the sand.’

  ‘Ah, a dead fighter, sir.’ He snapped his head around to me. ‘Heat of the battle and my men buried him quickly, incoming rounds an all, sir.’

  ‘Was he dead when you buried him?’

  �
�I think so, sir.’

  ‘Jesus, can’t you re-bury him or something?’

  ‘Lots of bodies out there, sir, and there are mines, so we don’t go far.’

  ‘Mines? Well that would make it hard to dig a grave, yes. Jesus.’

  ‘Follow me, sir.’ I led them down to the drain. ‘This is where we sleep when we have rockets incoming, sir, and we store munitions here, and this place is good to keep the water cool.’

  ‘Are those empty beer bottles?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we had some delivered.’

  The two American reporters came out, Hawaiian shirts on, cameras around necks, beards on faces, and dusty as hell.

  ‘You two on holiday?’ Jacobs testily asked.

  They glanced at me. ‘Press, sir.’

  ‘Maybe some sand coloured clothing would help you to avoid getting shot.’

  ‘Shirts were dirty, sir, we ... washed them.’

  ‘We had a barbeque, sir,’ I explained. ‘I gave them all a day off, some beer, burgers, good for morale.’

  ‘You gave them a day off’? Here?’

  Castille put in, ‘We had a radio, burgers and beer, and the weather was good for the event, sir.’

  ‘The weather was good,’ Jacobs repeated, laughing. ‘No shit. Was it sunny?’ He faced a Greenie. ‘Facilities OK, Sergeant?’

  ‘Got sand everywhere, sir. I had a look at my shit the other day, and it had sand in it as well. It blows onto your chow.’

  ‘I can imagine, yes. This place is a bit basic.’ He spoke to several Greenies in turn, one of his team taking snaps – which made me smile, a check of his watch, and he had to fly, literally fly. We shook hands, and he ran to the Hawkeye with his team as we stood on the side of the runway. I waved as they moved past, the Hawkeye’s nose up and climbing, banking south but flying off southwest.

  ‘I’m not under his control anyhow,’ Mitch complained as we walked back to our holes in the sand.

  ‘Joint effort, Lieutenant, all playing nicely together.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Good to see that you’ve picked up our language, and our attitude, just ... don’t take it back with you.’

  I had just sat down when my phone trilled. ‘Bugger.’ It was an odd number. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Captain Wilco?’ came a base baritone voice almost drowned out by background roar.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Colonel Ngombey, Nigerian Army, we will land soon. Is it safe to land?’

  ‘Yes, it’s safe at the moment, sir.’

  ‘We will be landing soon.’ The call was cut. I sighed again, and eased up. I transmitted, ‘Nigerian Army are flying in, so no one shoot at them, even if tempted.’

  I waited by the medics, the goat staring up at me, soon seeing another Antonov An38, but in military colours, or at least a non-commercial shit-brown colour. It circled once, lined up and came in, halting close to me, the door opening, silver steps down, and a colonel stepped out with a captain – both wearing jumpers despite the heat, but they had no bodyguards with them – nor cameras to hand.

  I saluted as they walked in, their eyes wide as they took in the supply area, the mortars and the wreckage. ‘Captain Wilco, at your service, sir.’

  He returned the salute whilst not being able to take his wide stare off the wreckage. ‘There has been much fighting here.’

  ‘The Islamists attack most days, sir, but we have killed many.’

  He pointed at the APC. ‘That is ours,’ he noted with a frown. He straightened. ‘You have our Army property here, Captain.’ He waited.

  ‘Your soldiers took cash from the Islamists to drive up here and hand over the APC to men to attack us. We destroyed three and captured one. When we were attacked by your artillery and your soldiers, we circled around and killed your soldiers and officers, finding cash in their pockets,’ I lied. ‘But, we did not wish to cause you embarrassment, so we have not given that story to the Press.’

  ‘That is ... good of you, yes.’

  ‘You can take back your APC and artillery and trucks any time you like.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  ‘Tell me, how will you get it south, since there are thousands of Islamists fighters, and it is five hundred miles of hostile terrain?’

  ‘Well, we will make plans and discuss it with the government.’

  ‘I see. Then let me know when you want to take it back, we’ll ... clean and polish it for you.’

  ‘That is not necessary, Captain.’ He pointed northeast. ‘What is that plane?’

  ‘It flew here with a chemical on board, to drop on us, but it crashed.’

  ‘To drop a chemical?’

  ‘Yes, that is what our intelligence sources told us. And the two wrecked tanks came from the Army of Mali Reserve. The men were bribed, and are ... now a bit dead.’

  ‘The Army of Mali ... sent tanks against you here?’

  ‘Yes, but the men were bribed, not sent by the government there.’

  ‘I see,’ he said as he stared wide-eyed east. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Captain, we must go while there is no fighting here.’

  ‘Let me know when you want to take back your artillery, sir.’ I saluted, hiding my grin as he walked back to his ride. Door closed, I stood back on the sand, and it powered off down the runway, sand blown up, men staring after it.

  Liban closed in. ‘What do those idiots want?’

  ‘They want their artillery pieces back.’

  ‘We hand them back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘How will they move them through five hundred miles of enemy territory? I don’t think they’ll get any volunteers to come get them, and the artillery men only got up here because they had permission and safe passage from the local warlords.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You agreed to be helpful knowing this, no.’

  ‘I may have stretched the helpfulness a bit.’

  He laughed as he turned away.

  At 3pm I blew the whistle, men not keen to get up in this heat, many yawning and stretching, many still in Hawaiian shirts. Beyond the medics I examined a dozen drying slabs of concrete covering a wide area, the French having been busy.

  The 1st Battalion captain waved me over. He knelt in a trench, I copied. He pointed into a dark tunnel, explaining, ‘The tunnel is long, high, the old concrete bags on top then much sand. Good for mortar and rocket.’

  ‘Yes, it’s looking good, home from home. Now build a hotel and a pool.’

  ‘That is next week.’

  As I stood observing Sasha’s small and frustrated team trying to clean the Duska, my phone trilled.

  ‘It’s Tinker, you in a battle?’

  ‘No, gone quiet these past few days.’

  ‘I know why; they’re massing their forces. They’ve called in men from all over, and fighters from Mali and Niger and further afield, talk of Arabs, but they’ve been set back, their latest weapons delivery was grabbed by American and British special forces. Did you get the intel on that movement?’

  ‘My Russian friends.’

  ‘Good to have friends like those. So they’ve been delayed a few days.’

  ‘How many men?’ I asked.

  ‘Three thousand.’

  ‘Might need some more ammo. What weapons do they have?’

  ‘We’ve compiled a list. They have mounted fifty cal, mortars, they have a few mounted anti-tank weapons, they have RPGs obviously, and they have Russian fifty cal machine guns, single man operation. They did get, last night, more rockets and more mortars, so they’re well stocked, now waiting more weapons to arrive. You ... going to stay and fight?’

  ‘Maybe not. Send that report to London.’

  ‘Just did, a minute ago.’

  ‘Keep the intel coming.’ I called Paul MacManners. ‘It’s Wilco, and we have a problem.’

  ‘Wounded?’

  ‘Not so far today. No, you’ll see the report soon, and the locals have thrown together an army of three thousand well-arme
d men to throw at us.’

  ‘Bloody hell. What’ll you do?’

  ‘I thought I’d call my boss and see what he wants me to do.’

  ‘Oh, right, well ... I’ll discuss it with the Director, today.’

  ‘And with the MOD, we have regular military personnel here.’ Call ended, I hit the numbers for Libintov as I stood on the runway.

  ‘Ah, Petrov, Polchok is hurting badly.’

  ‘Good. Listen, the Islamist fighters in Nigeria missed their weapons delivery, so there’ll be another one. I’m keen to know who delivers it, and who the middle men are.’

  ‘I am keenly listening to the grapevine, yes. I’ll let you know. Polchok wanted to loan some of my planes, but I turned him down – said they were busy.’

  ‘When I get a minute I will go kill him anyway. Let me know if you hear anything.’ Next call was Colonel Mathews. ‘Got a problem, sir.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That worst-case scenario we spoke about.’

  ‘They’re massing for an attack.’

  ‘Yes, sir, three thousand men, well armed.’

  ‘Ah, that does seem like a bad bet, for you to tackle them I mean.’

  ‘Well, we’d take casualties, sir, so the question is ... is it worth it?’

  ‘The stated benefit was the intel, and we’re getting that, it’s a case of what more we could get, but at what price.’

  ‘There are Arab fighters in the mix, fighters from other areas, and if we kill that lot then we’re not rescuing people from them next year, and they’re not shooting up buses next year.’

  ‘That is a positive facet, yes. And we can run their names afterwards. But how many casualties do you expect?’

  ‘Hard to tell, sir, but fifty wounded and ten dead at least.’

  ‘That ... seems like a lot, and I’d have to explain it up the line, why we took the risk for the intel.’

  ‘If it goes wrong, sir, if they overwhelm us, we’ll all be killed.’

  ‘We could bolster your position, more men.’

  ‘Fresh men, sir, and they’d be fighting the heat when they should be fighting the enemy; we’d still take high casualties. But ... if I got certain supplies delivered in time we could seriously thin them out. I’ll make some calls.’