Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  I transmitted, ‘Two APC coming in, using the smoke as cover. Get ready.’

  The sand around us was again torn up, keeping our heads down, Max moving past with a video camera, soon holding it above the trench as he sensibly remained below the lip of the trench.

  With a break in the firing we eased up, hearing the APC before glimpsing them, the first one bursting through the smoke between the two burning APCs. It was met immediately with the loud cackle of four GPMGs, both tyres hit, shredded, and the APC nose-dived into the sand and halted.

  Sasha was above the trench, and I stared wide-eyed as he brazenly ran across the runway, knelt, and blasted an RPG into the side of the APC, the rear doors blown open, orange flame spewing out as a cheer went up. Sasha ran back, the second APC turning his way but getting the attention of the GPMGs, its tyres shredded.

  It turned in a tight circle and halted facing east. Movement to my left, and a French lad ran out twenty yards, knelt, and hit the APC in the rear doors, a shower of sparks the result, but the head had not penetrated the doors.

  Casper ran in from the right, onto the runway, knelt and took his time, a hit in the wheel arch, and when the smoke cleared I could see flames at the front.

  The rear doors opened, men out and shouting as they ran and fired, all hit thirty times in a just a few seconds, all performing the Spandau Ballet and flying backwards. And these were Arab fighters, not local boys.

  I turned my head to Liban. ‘Arabs.’

  ‘Dead Arabs. And maybe more in these other APC.’

  A blast from the artillery, and the damaged APC blew to bits, a chunk of metal hitting our trench and narrowly missing an unhappy Max. Lifting up, we peered out at four burning APC, our view east now blocked, our reporter cursing the artillery men.

  ‘Whose side are they on!’ he grumbled.

  With a break in the smoke I focused my binoculars at the distant jeeps. ‘Mortar teams, ten tubes aiming due east, 1,500yards, all fire together when ready!’

  Liban turned around to observe his men getting ready, and when they seemed ready he stared east with me, the smoke wafting past us, the acrid smell of burnt rubber mixed with burning human flesh. Ten tubes popped out rounds in close succession.

  Through my binoculars I could see the sand lifting up, and we heard the dull blasts register many seconds later. When the smoke cleared I could see that those jeeps at the front and on the southern edge were damaged, a few up-turned and on their sides, a handful on fire.

  ‘Mortar teams, go left one click, go longer, random settings longer after each salvo. Fire when ready.’

  Intermittent pops sounded out behind us, the distant jeeps getting hit, the idiots having all been bunched up. They got the idea, and they drove off, but not before we had damaged or destroyed thirty jeeps.

  ‘Ceasefire!’

  ‘That smell,’ came from one of the American journalists behind me.

  ‘Roast human flesh,’ I told him.

  ‘Jesus.’ He ducked back into the drain, his mouth in his elbow.

  ‘All teams, tea break,’ I transmitted, Liban smiling widely.

  ‘Ceasefire! Tea break!’ was repeated a few times.

  Lifting my phone, I gave a detailed report to London, and they would pass it on. And as I had given my report, Max had detailed a story to whoever was at the other end other end of his phone. But unlike my report, his was slow and deliberate, many pauses for whoever was at the other end to scribble the words down.

  When my phone trilled it was Paul MacManners. ‘Right Boss.’

  ‘You’re all over the BBC news, French TV running nothing but it, and it’s all over CNN.’

  ‘We’d best try and not fuck it up then.’

  ‘The BBC has been reporting that it just got an update..?’

  ‘That would be Max the reporter, sending out real time reports not notes on pigeons.’

  ‘We still use pigeons you know, cost savings an all.’

  ‘That I don’t doubt.’

  ‘Anything you need? You got all the supplies you asked for?’

  ‘Yes, we’re well stocked, and we tracked the phone of the man in charge here ... and dropped artillery on his head, wounded him.’

  ‘I’ll be in all night with a team, and GCHQ has a big team on it, and we got a note from the Americans about AWACS and bombers.’

  ‘The idiots we’re up against are in for a shock.’

  After the smoke had cleared I walked out, collecting ID cards, papers, and two sat phones. I called in with the sat phones, but an ID card caused me to stop and stare. I gave the man’s details to London, a British man.

  The sun eased lower behind me, the desert taking on a brown colour, and a calmness descended over the base – apart from the burning APC, occasional loud sparks and small blasts witnessed.

  In the trenches, men sat on boxes or had their backs to the sand walls, drinks in hand, quiet words spoken.

  David Finch called me back as the sun started to set. ‘You gave us the ID of a chap down there, Mansoor Ali. What was that chap doing, exactly?’

  ‘He was in the back of an armoured personnel carrier that attacked us, and he was dressed in black, Russian webbing and an AK47.’

  ‘He’s a dentist from Bradford, clean record, police just raided his house – his family think he’s on a religious holiday to Pakistan. His brothers and extended family are all being picked up as we speak, Mi5 involved obviously, Cabinet Office being appraised.’

  ‘This dentist ... made his way down here, had some training, and was issued some kit, so if you track back we might get the pipeline.’

  ‘It’s a high priority, yes. If you can, get the IDs off the dead.’

  ‘Always, Boss, but not if they’re in a mine field.’

  ‘Well ... no.’

  I grabbed Max, and led him out to the body of Mansoor, Max soon knelt in the sand and taking close-up snaps of the bloodied face and of our man’s finger tips - whilst avoiding the wafting black smoke. ‘Send that back, but tell them it’s for Scotland Yard, Mansoor Ali, a British dentist from Bradford.’

  Max put his mouth in the crook of his elbow, the smell of burnt flesh a bit much. Muffled, he said, ‘A dentist! From Bradford! What the fuck’s he doing down here dressed like that?’

  ‘He has his cause to fight for, we have ours. And yes, you can slander the bastard, but first let’s make sure it’s him. Send those photos quickly.’

  I updated London as we kicked up sand back to the trench. Liban met me. I thumbed over my shoulder. ‘Dead fighter was British, respectable job and family.’

  ‘I think maybe we find some French-Algerian here, and it is no surprise I think.’

  In the drain, I had the teams that were just sat there clean their weapons, something for them to do as they waited, a few playing cards, many interested in the detail of the APC attack. At the south exit I stood with Castille, peering out.

  ‘I hate waiting,’ he told me.

  I coughed out a laugh. ‘This from a hostage rescue guy who spent the last five years waiting.’

  ‘Like I said, I hate waiting around. More now than at the start.’

  Hearing the whistle, I grabbed him again and we ducked inside, three rumbling impacts heard, and felt through our feet.

  The rockets kept coming, thirty seconds between salvos, but few of the men were bothered by it, they had all been through it before, and between salvos I ducked out with Castille, a quick look taken, but there were also men sheltering under the trench tops we had made, Sasha’s team further down - and hopefully undercover.

  To an Army doctor I asked, ‘Seen any action before today?’

  ‘We were in Sierra Leone during the main fighting, stayed on afterwards, did a little hearts and minds, plus soldiers with minor wounds, one lad shot in the leg to work on.’

  ‘Getting used to rough living?’

  ‘We all do the exercises, sleep rough, map read and walk, but here and Liberia are real conditions, valuable training for a doctor who�
��s also a soldier.’

  ‘I’ve nagged at the RAF to make people like Mister Morten here tougher, more combat ready, because they fly around in helicopters behind the lines, and if the helo goes down – as they do often, the medics become soldiers. Survive, escape and evade – as they say.’

  Morten proudly announced, ‘My lot all parachute, twenty mile walks with heavy kit, and they’re all a hell of a lot fitter than a few years back. Some even workout on the punch bag, and we all get to the range once a month, so we’re as ready as we could be.

  ‘And we’ve been with you on many jobs, so we have a pool of experience to call upon, all good at living rough and cooking. And now learning how to tend for a goat, although there was one in Djibouti as well. We’ll have to get some lessons on goat tending!’

  ‘Shepherding, I guess they call it,’ I told him with a grin.

  Half an hour later a blast blew sand and dust into the south side of the drain, myself and Castille rushing out, shouting at the men under the trench covers. Getting back garbled nonsense answers, we started to grab limp men and drag them away.

  ‘Medics!’ I shouted at the mouth of the drain, those men closest rushing in to grab the wounded off me.

  Four men were brought in, all covered in dust, the medics laying them out as I observed, no blood seen.

  Morten said, ‘Concussion from the blast, no shrapnel.’

  I headed back to the south exit, the dust lingering. ‘You men, after the next salvo, get to the first cover and get weapons and kit, you’ll have thirty seconds.’

  We waited, the three impacts registering nearby, men rushing out as Castille and I stepped to the trench wall, lifting up and peering out.

  ‘Jeep lights south,’ Castille noted, and I had a look with my binoculars.

  ‘They’re inside artillery and mortar range, but I don’t want them deterred, I want them in close.’

  Dark outlines rushed past with weapons and kit, and we followed them inside before the next salvo landed.

  ‘Make safe those weapons, place them next to the wounded men,’ I shouted. Back at the medics, the generator buzzing and the bright lights on, I had a look at those wounded men, most sat up with wide eyes poking out of dusty faces, those faces now being washed, two of the men coughing. ‘Report.’

  ‘Be OK in a few hours, maybe less,’ Morten told me. ‘But without specialist kit we can’t test ears, so ... it’s a risk.’

  ‘They fight, bad ears or not, because this place may be overrun – and if it is they’ll kill the wounded just like the rest of us. Keep your personal weapons close by.’

  The Army medics exchanged worried looks.

  I tapped the senior man on the shoulder. ‘To Hell And Back. Audie Murphy.’

  I resumed my place at the south exit, the barrage continuing. Between the next salvos I transmitted, ‘Wilco for Sergeant Crab.’

  ‘Crab here.’

  ‘You lot OK?’

  ‘All the rockets are landing at your end, we’re sat outside watching the show.’

  ‘I’m going to tell them where you are.’

  ‘This is Haines, nice and quiet up this end.’

  I turned to Castille. ‘We could move the teams if need be, those rockets are fixed in their targeting.’

  ‘For now,’ he cautioned.

  ‘It’s Haines, spoke too soon, mortar just landed west of us.’

  I transmitted, ‘Sergeant Crab, look south for those mortar tubes.’

  ‘Right Boss.’ He was back on ten minutes later. ‘We think we spotted them, about five hundred yards on from the wrecked jeeps.’

  ‘That’s 1100yards. Leave them for now.’

  ‘Leave them?’ Castille’s dark outline repeated.

  ‘I want the main force to close in before we show what we have. I want it to look like it’s just twenty men here.’

  An hour later, and Crab was back on. ‘There’s a traffic jam down that south track, stretches back a long way.’

  ‘Roger that.’ I turned my head to Castille. ‘The main force, soon to be out and on foot.’

  Four mortars landed in sequence in front of us.

  Castille noted, ‘That’s four new mortar tubes. Boys are gearing up.’

  Inside the drain, we glanced up as eight mortars landed in a tight sequence.

  ‘Eight tubes at least,’ Castille noted. ‘Boys have been shopping at that market you frequent.’

  Eight more dull thuds followed, and every five seconds.

  ‘They’re moving sand around!’ the Pathfinder captain scoffed. ‘Mortars against desert trenches is blind luck.’

  I told him, ‘Those mortars are keeping us in here while they approach on foot.’

  ‘While they approach a minefield ... on foot,’ he pointed out.

  ‘A minefield south, open to the north and west,’ I reminded him. ‘Let’s hope they don’t have a compass.’

  At the south exit, venturing out was now Russian roulette, the mortar teams not sticking to any particular pattern.

  My radio crackled, so I risked it. ‘It’s Wilco, say again.’

  ‘It’s Crab, and a mortar tube just blew, killed loads of them.’

  ‘Got a good fix on those tubes?’

  ‘Yeah, say 800-900yards.’

  ‘Put two GPMGs on them for sixty seconds then stop.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  I peered out with Castille, seeing the tracer arcing over and seeking out flesh. After fifteen seconds a jeep burst into flames, and now we could see the mortar crews. I transmitted, ‘British snipers, open fire, one minute.’

  A few seconds later the distinctive Elephant Gun discharges reached us, but I could not see if the mortar crew were being hit or not. The GPMG tracer eased and stopped, the Elephant Guns went quiet, and we peered south, no further mortars being lobbed at us.

  Ten minutes later a single tube fired out every six seconds or so, his rounds falling short, and whoever he was he was joined by a colleague, two tubes firing out, both falling short. A third tube joined in fifteen minutes later, suddenly six tubes firing out, seemingly targeting the west drain and not us.

  ‘They’re aiming at where the firing came from,’ Castille noted. ‘They think we’re down that end.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘This is Major Kravetson, Air Battle Manager, AWACS overhead,’ came a calm and detached voice. ‘We arrived on station a little while ago and have a local traffic update for you. You have a helo inbound, bearing zero-seven-five, no other traffic at this time.’

  ‘Great, thanks, got to go, call me back in fifteen minutes.’ I transmitted, ‘Helicopter coming in from the southeast, get ready. Men with Elephant Guns get ready, men with RPGs get ready, all GPMGs get ready!’

  Inside the drain, I shouted, ‘Men with GPMGs, outside now, get ready, helo coming in! And ignore the fucking mortars! Move it!’

  I ran out, and down the trench, past men hiding under trench covers, and to the left, up the north spur, Sasha’s team emerging from under a trench cover. ‘RPGs?’

  ‘Here,’ they responded, clicking heads into place and spreading out.

  I got up on a box and peered southeast, an ear to the breeze, hearing a faint distance buzz. Mortars slammed into the sand fifty yards out, causing me to bend at the knee.

  I transmitted, ‘Sergeant Crab, keep those mortars busy for ten minutes! Your lot can forget the helo.’ Now I could hear the distinctive resonance of the Mi8. ‘Helo on approach, get ready.’

  Turning my head right and lifting up, I could see tracer arcing over and hitting the mortars, and I figured that should buy us some peace and quiet for a while, the dull resonating drone growing.

  ‘Sergeant Crab, flash torches east! Don’t ask why, just do it.’

  ‘There!’ Sasha shouted, and now I could see the Mi8, a small amount of moonlight available. And it seemed to be turning west – towards Sergeant Crab.

  ‘Casper, get up top, get a clean shot, aim in front of the nose, slightly high. S
asha, go to the southernmost part of the trench. Quick.’

  He moved past as Casper got up top.

  ‘Standby to fire, RPG and GPMG.’ I waited, the Mi8 less than 400yards out, moving left to right slowly. ‘Standby ... steady ... fire!’

  Casper fired in almost the same instant as Sasha, and I could just make out the RPG’s tail rockets as the loud cackle of two GPMGs registered, tracer seen reaching out to the Mi8, sparks seen on the skin of the helo. A bright flash, and the tail rotor had been hit as more tracer slammed into the stricken Mi8, the helo soon banking over, slowing and seemingly turning north towards us.

  ‘It’s going to crash, take cover!’ Off the radio I shouted for Casper to get down, Sasha running in, all three of us halting next to the trench cover as the Mi8 slid sideways out of control, veering towards the runway, suddenly hit by French GPMG fire from the north, flames seen.

  It banked left, wobbled, spun around, and dropped, two large blasts as I pushed Casper and Sasha under, debris flying past us and pinging off the sand. A third blast threw a mix of sand and burning fuel over us, Sasha rubbing sand into a boot on fire and cursing loudly. We waited, and finally eased out, up on tip toes.

  I laughed as the Mi8 burnt fiercely.

  ‘Fucker,’ Sasha let out. The Mi8 had landed on the last good Duska we had, Sasha having spent hours cleaning it.

  ‘Is that ... the one you cleaned?’ I asked.

  ‘You know it is, arsehole.’

  Fifty cal rounds started to explode, heads ducked.

  ‘Wilco to all teams, the visiting helo has landed, someone get the windscreen and check the oil for them.’

  ‘I hit the tail,’ Casper told his team.

  ‘That was my shot,’ Sasha insisted, leaving me smiling.

  My phone trilled. ‘Air Battle Manager again.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning, we shot it down.’

  ‘We know, we get your radio traffic. So don’t forget to check that’s helos oil and wipe the windscreen.’

  ‘It’s a bit warm at the moment, we’ll wait till it cools down, say ... morning time.’

  ‘Our radar scans ground targets real well in flat deserts, so we have ground movements to report as well.’