Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Cameras, yes. I’ll be back to you soon.’

  I walked along to Castille and dropped down into the trench. ‘You’ll be staying, unless the White House does something stupid, your lot don’t want you pulling out when the French are staying put.’

  ‘We’re a bit outnumbered,’ Castille pointed out. ‘We going to get any anti-personnel mines?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Well, if we plant a minefield at 300yards as you suggested they’ll get halted and bunched up for us.’

  ‘I have extra GPMGs coming in, grenades I hope, and we have starshell mortars. I’ve asked for trip flares and hand-held flares.’

  ‘If the flares are out at 500yards we’ll stop them dead, no matter how many they send. If they get close at night then grenades will slow them up.’

  I nodded. In the drain I found the two American reporters keeping themselves cool. ‘In a few days we’ll be attacked ... by three thousand heavily armed men, we’ll be surrounded, so you can get a ride out if you like.’

  They exchanged looks. ‘Well, what’d you think the outcome will be?’

  ‘If we get the supplies we need, we’ll win, but we will take casualties. If you two are in here you should be fine, you can photograph things in the morning. And before then – no reporting of the expected attack, or I will shoot you dead - and bury you with an arm sticking up.’

  ‘OK, Rambo, we’ll keep it quiet, keep ya panties on.’

  ‘Let me know if you want a ride out, staying may not be the best idea you’ve ever had – like volunteering to come here.’

  ‘We got us a shit load of coverage in the States, sold it and syndicated it, so we’ll be buying the beers back in the Keys when this is over.’

  ‘You’re freelance?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Yes, but we have our regular media outlets. If we get something good we place it with a broker, and he sells it on. Pictures from this place been selling like hot cakes.’

  ‘And ... how much do I get?’ I teased.

  ‘We were told firmly that Army officers could not take money. Sorry. Captain.’

  Smiling, I plodded off.

  At the medics bunker I told Morten, ‘Move into the drain, grab a section in the middle, rig lights – but don’t grab these lights till the morning. Find the French medic and tell him that on the night of the attack he will join you, and the Green Beret medic. But I have asked for surgeons to be sent down.’

  ‘Which surgeons?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea, I asked for men from Sierra Leone. Start moving your stuff, and set-up the stretchers like beds and get ready for casualties. Make a clean spot where you can look after wounded men.’

  ‘And when is this attack due?’

  ‘Hopefully not tonight,’ I told him as I walked north. There I found the bulldozers in use, a trench being dug from the existing French position and north, up towards the artillery. I drew alongside Liban. ‘You making a trench all the way?’

  ‘If we have time, yes.’

  I pointed north. ‘From what I could see when we walked north, that sand is shit for civilian vehicles, jeeps will get stuck. Your artillery is exposed up here, but I think it will be men on foot, south, and then around the sides.’

  He nodded, hands on hips. ‘I put extra men up here, aiming out. We see.’

  ‘I have more supplies coming. If they get here in time we’ll win this.’

  ‘And if they don’t get here..?’

  I faced him. ‘We’ll win, but with many casualties, maybe you and me next to each other in the ground.’

  ‘If you bury me, no hand sticking up, eh.’

  ‘If we leave your face exposed, you can feel the warmth on you face each day,’ I offered.

  ‘Ah, that would be nice, yes.’

  At the APC, I called in Sasha’s team. ‘Tomorrow night or the next night we’ll be attacked, three thousand heavily armed men.’ They exchanged looks. ‘You don’t have to be here, you’re spies more than soldiers, and valuable to London.’

  Sasha began, ‘Work for London, without you?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I like the soldiering more than I like London.’

  I turned my face to Casper. ‘You could be killed here.’

  He made a face. ‘Could be killed in many places. This battle, it will be widely reported?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we are against the odds, no.’

  ‘We are,’ I confirmed. ‘One hundred and fifty of us, three thousand or more of them.’

  ‘Like Sparta, and Thermopolis,’ he noted. ‘I stay and fight.’

  I faced the two remaining Intel lads, who were now more soldier than spy. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘What do you say are our chances?’ one countered with.

  ‘If the kit is delivered tonight, we’ll wipe out the attackers. I have a thousand jumping-jack anti-personnel mines coming, and we’ll plant a line at 300yards.’

  Casper smiled. ‘That will slow them up good. Then we shoot them.’

  Sasha pointed, ‘And the fifty cal?’

  ‘Use it if you like, if it’s safe, but I doubt it will ever be safe to use it.’

  ‘Where do we fight?’ Casper asked.

  ‘Bottom of the southeast trench here, this will see the most action.’

  ‘Then that is where we’ll be,’ Casper affirmed.

  I told him, ‘If you are killed, we bury you with a hand sticking out,’ the team laughing loudly.

  Casper held up his middle finger. ‘Like this.’

  ‘It’s your dying wish, so yes. Get a box-fed, and a grenade launcher, keep them with you, plenty of ammo.’

  At 11pm a call advised me on an inbound plane, the teams alerted, Sasha’s team told to meet the plane, the lights switched on after the generator was yanked a few times, kicked, then yanked some more.

  The An12 hit with a puff of grey smoke from its wheels, its four engines shaking my rib cage as the ramp came down, pallets pushed off, lots of pallets. Ramp closing at it moved forwards, we now had twelve large pallets.

  I closed in as the An12 powered away into the star-filled night, warning men to be careful. Wooden boxes open, Russian writing on them, we found the anti-personnel mines and moved them to the south side of the runway and lined up the boxes.

  From one box the lads pulled four Kevlar shields, riot shields, puzzling them till we found the mine clearance body armour – one set. The final four pallets were packed with sandbags.

  I transmitted, ‘All teams, come and get some sand bags,’ soon handing out bundles of twenty bags to a man. Boxes now moved off the runway, I stepped to Sasha’s team. ‘You any good with mines?’

  ‘I did the courses, yes,’ Sasha replied, Casper having done them as well. ‘These mines are not stable though, you pull the pin with a piece of string and a good prayer.’

  ‘We have body armour and bullet-proof shields to use.’

  ‘Ah, better than a prayer,’ Sasha approved

  ‘Get some sleep tonight, at dawn you start planting mines, and you’ll be at it till sun down.’

  Back at the French position I asked the 1st Battalion Captain if they had any men that were good with ordnance and mines. Questions were asked, names called, two men coming in, the captain interpreting.

  I told them, ‘We have Russian mines, jumping jacks.’

  They were not pleased. The word ‘shite’ I understood.

  ‘We have body armour and shields to use, but none for you, so we’ll try and find time to lay mines for you.’

  ‘We know how,’ came from the captain. ‘We start at first light.’

  ‘And the risks?’ I posed.

  ‘No risk, you see.’

  I pointed out the mines and left them to it, soon back in my hole and wanting to get some sleep ready for the morning.

  At dawn I was sat sipping a cuppa with Swifty, heads above the ground like Meerkats on guard.

  ‘What you reckon?’ Swifty idled asked.

  I studied the fine sand being blown gently across the
runway. ‘If the mines are placed today, and the supplies come in, we’ll hurt them and push them back. They won’t all come at once, and if we kill or wound a few hundred they’ll fuck off.’ I sipped my tea.

  Swifty sipped his brew. ‘Plenty of good lads here, good kit. Be fucking daft to attack us.’

  I observed the sand swirl as I cradled my mug, the wind depositing the sand and then lifting it away again. ‘But they will attack, since we’re an affront - us infidels sat here. Rockets might get lucky, mortar might land in the right spot, and to me ... a few dead men is a loss no matter how many of them we kill.’

  ‘Doing the officer thing a bit too much. Worry less, you’ll get wrinkles.’

  As I observed, the drifting sand formed a temporary circle, soon blown away. ‘And if you’re killed?’

  ‘Don’t bury me here, and not with my fucking hand sticking up – I’ll come back to haunt you!’

  I managed a weak smile, a moment to study a wispy line of cloud, a rare sight here. ‘I thought about visiting Smurf’s grave a few times, but I never went, I think it would upset me.’

  ‘Well ... yeah, I’d not go, all a bit too morbid. We do this shit without thinking too much of the consequences, or we wouldn’t be doing it.’ He pointed. A small gerbil emerged from a hole. It examined us carefully and made a risk assessment – hunger getting the better of it, hopped along and grabbed something, soon running back. ‘I’ve been leaving out biscuit.’

  I wondered what it found to eat, and I remember a documentary about the sand being full of dried seeds, some of them hundreds of years old. ‘Might get a bit loud later on, the poor little thing will be hiding in its hole.’

  ‘Like the rest of us.’

  Half an hour later, and I kicked up Sasha and his team before I walked down the runway and to the southeast trench, a gentle flow of sand crossing the runway in front of me.

  Castille was sat on the side of the trench. ‘Wilco, you shit, come here.’

  I wandered over. He pointed. The arm sticking up now had the fingers bent except the middle finger, and a smile took hold of my face all by itself.

  ‘I saw your men near it last night,’ he complained. ‘And that finger is aimed at my position!’

  ‘I’d love to say it’s nothing personal, but ... that would be lying.’

  He shook his head at me. ‘We got the supplies to win the war, Boy?’

  ‘We got the supplies,’ I confirmed.

  Half an hour later the French waved me over, ready to lay mines.

  I told them, ‘Down the runway 300yards, then go north, but first ... get a long wooden box, sand inside, rope on the handles, drag it and make a flat area, plant the mines in the flat area.’

  ‘But ... they will see it?’ they puzzled.

  ‘We want them to stop, we don’t care why they stop. Do it.’

  Four French lads then lifted a large concrete section, a fabricated tunnel support shaped like a letter “n”, and walked down the runway as Liban closed in, more men following on and carrying the mines. I followed on, halting some thirty yards back.

  They dragged a long box north, flattening a strip as I had requested, then moved the concrete structure and dumped it down 10yards back from the strip as I frowned at them. A man grabbed a mine, dug a hole and placed it very gently, string attached, sand moved in but leaving the trembler exposed.

  He walked back to the concrete structure, got inside, and eased the pin out with the string. Nothing exploded, they waited, I waited with Liban, and finally they moved the concrete structure a few paces north.

  ‘French ingenuity,’ came from a proud Liban.

  ‘If I filmed that, and sent it to Paris?’

  ‘Ah, please no, we look very stupid.’

  Shaking my head, but smiling, I walked off down the runway. Stretch and a few lads were now ready, Sasha’s team were ready, and I had a long wooden box and some rope to hand, leading the men out along the track south.

  At three hundred paces I halted them, the box filled with sand, Tomo and Nicholson sent off dragging it east. Sasha got his armour on as I instructed Stretch to place the anti-tank mines on the west side, but to mark out the area first.

  Mines out of a box, no fuses in them yet, the box was used to draw a line west, past Crab’s drain position as his men stared curiously out at us. Stretch made a start, Henri assisting, everyone else told to move back as Casper handled a jumping-jack, string ready, his team holding shields for him.

  I was back on the runway with Moran when Sasha pulled the first string, no explosions to worry us.

  At 9am my phone trilled, aircraft inbound, to be with us in an hour or so.

  I called Tinker.

  ‘Ah, I was just about to call you. They’ll attack tonight, or so the chatter suggests.’

  ‘We have the supplies now, so we’ll be ready.’

  ‘They received a delivery of weapons, we have phone numbers, trying to trace them now.’

  ‘Good work, let me know.’

  A blast had me rushing to the side of the runway south. ‘Sasha, you OK!’

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK, but we felt it ping off the shields.’

  ‘Be careful!’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ came from Casper.

  The Hercules made contact an hour later, and I could see three aircraft circling. The first plane down was an RAF Hercules, powerful reverse engine employed, breaking hard, the ramp powering down as men gathered.

  First off were Army medics, six of them, lots of kit, but behind them came ten men from “D” Squadron in green jungle wear.

  I waited as they came up to me. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, gentlemen. And you’re in green.’

  ‘Last minute move,’ their captain explained. ‘We stepped down as Ready Team in Sierra Leone.’

  ‘Well at least you have Valmets, that’s something.’ I pointed north. ‘500yards north is a ridge, “B” Squadron there, go say hello, then spread out to the right, the east, you watch the northern approaches. Dig in fast, we’ll be attacked after dark. And send men back here for supplies and water.’

  ‘In at the deep end, eh,’ the captain said with a sigh before he led his men off.

  One man said in passing, ‘Always look on the bright side of life, Boss,’ making me smile.

  The Hercules powered away, many pallets having been pushed to the side, the opposite side of the runway hosting the mines.

  I closed in on the Army medics as Morten spoke to them. ‘Welcome to hell,’ I offered.

  They took in the mess, and then the desert. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Mister Morten, lead them to the drain, get set-up, we expect an attack after dark, an attack that will last till dawn. If you lot can grab some sleep today, do so.’

  Morten led them down the runway, chatting away, Moran and Ginger opening boxes. They found rations first off, but then GPMGs and ammo.

  I transmitted, ‘Pathfinders, 1 Para, two men to me at the stores. Sergeant Crab, two men to me.’

  Lifting out the GPMGs, I handed one to the Paras with six tins of ammo, one to the Pathfinders with six tins of ammo. ‘Clean and test, get them set-up aiming south. Go.’

  I waved in a few French lads, each handed a GPMG and ammo, and I told them to take the weapons up to the artillery position as a C160 landed behind me, soon passing me and halting, a brief moment of shade offered to us by the wing. Out from the rear stepped twelve French soldiers, several assisting with the pushing of large pallets.

  Liban stepped closer as the plane’s engines roared. ‘They are mortar team.’

  I nodded, heavy pallets pushed off and dragged to the side, a wave from the crewman, and it powered down the runway, men holding caps on heads. When it grew quiet the French opened the boxes, mortar tubes lugged, six of them. That gave us ten in total, so we could do some damage.

  Sergeant Crab appeared with two recruits. I duly handed them GPMGs and ammo boxes, Crab lifting heavy ammo boxes. ‘I want these aiming at the wrecked jeeps. Clean and test them ready, c
ome back and get more ammo.’

  They plodded off, the next C160 landing, the ramp powering down, four medics stepping down, six pallets pushed off, most of the pallets being mortars.

  The final C160 got its awaited slot and landed, six pallets pushed off in a hurry, a wave given. Some of the pallets contained tins of food and bottled water, but three pallets were goodies from Valmet.

  I transmitted, ‘All teams, send two men to me at the supplies.’

  The French were first, two box-fed handed over, plus ammo. ‘Artillery position,’ I told them.

  Castille came in with his sergeant, a box-fed handed over with four boxes of ammo.

  I told them, ‘Light machinegun, 5.56mm, stable – no muzzle rise, good at distance, and reliable. I can have a man teach you if necessary, but it’s just like an AK47.’

  ‘We’ll figure it,’ he assured me as he walked off.

  The Greenies got one, the Paras and the Pathfinders one each. I told them, ‘In the dark these will help, short burst at any movement, good at distance as well, telescopic sights.’

  My lads took two, and Crab came back for two. The RAF Regiment did not need them. I transmitted again five minutes later, grenade launchers handed out, heavy round magazines handed out.

  I transmitted, ‘Listen up. All teams should have a box-fed light machine gun unless you have a GPMG. All teams should have a grenade launcher, and there are flares in with the grenades, plenty of ammo here.’

  I called down “D” Squadron men, and they had used the Valmet weapons at GL4, taking a box-fed and a grenade launcher back to their position, along with two Jerry cans of water and boxes of rations.

  Many hands were still opening boxes, grenades found. I carried a box of twenty-four grenades to the French and dumped them down. ‘Every man, two grenades.’

  Lugging a box to Castille, I repeated my instructions, a box lugged to the Paras and the Pathfinders. Grabbing a jeep, I took six boxes, two for Echo, one for the RAF Regiment, three for Sergeant Crab and the Wolves.