Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Package will be delivered shortly.’

  I transmitted, ‘All teams, American Air Force is here, get to cover. Sergeant Crab, get your boys inside now. Haines, get your boys in the hole, one man left up top. Echo, get in the hole, everyone get down.’ I shouted down the trench. ‘Get into the drain! Now!’

  Dark outlines ran past, long shadows now being cast by the dying flares.

  ‘Mortar teams, keep the starshell going.’

  ‘You getting inside?’ Castille asked me.

  ‘Hell no. Those planes cost $700m each, I want to see what they can do.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said as Max snuck up, Max setting his video camera on the trench top ready.

  We all peered up and around as we waited, not seeing the aircraft, but then again they were stealth bombers and painted all black. I thought I could hear a jet, Castille as well.

  The first flash caught our attention, on the nose of the first jeep in the line, the flashes rippling up the line, one every sixty yards it appeared, the pressure waves then reaching us, and it felt like I had my chest on a wobbly old washing machine.

  ‘God ... damn,’ Castille shouted, being barely heard over the roar, and I had images of old movies about the First World War.

  The rippling flashes ended, the shock waves ended, a pause of ten seconds and they started up again, further out, the shock waves less this time, the flashes diminishing as they grew distant, and we counted four sticks of bombs, or three breaks between sticks of bombs.

  And whatever was in the minds of the survivors out there, I was sure that hanging around and attacking us was right down at the bottom of the list.

  My phone trilled. ‘AWACS Air Battle Boss here. Do you have a damage assessment?’

  ‘Bombs were spot on, very accurate, thank the pilots for me.’

  ‘We’re departing now, but we heard the casualty reports, so you have our thoughts at a difficult time.’

  ‘Thanks. Safe flight back.’

  ‘You take care down there. AWACS out.’

  I transmitted, ‘All teams, sort the wounded. Mortar teams, cease starshells.’

  Inside the drain I loudly announced, ‘You can go outside now, it should be over, the traffic jam out there was bombed, few left alive. Sort the wounded, then get some food on for the wounded and yourselves, but keep men on watch just in case.’

  At the north side I got up onto a dark runway, the APC bringing in men, and I called Colonel Mathews as the Mi8 burnt and crackled, casting an eerie orange glow around the area.

  ‘Wilco, you OK there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They came in close, we fired up starshells and opened fire, killed six hundred I reckon, and then your bombers hit the vehicles lined up, a hell of a spectacle and enough to frighten off all but the worst of the die-hards here. They must have lost fifteen hundred men.’

  ‘Jesus. Could we ... come in for some criticism for that?’

  ‘Maybe, but they attacked us, no reason to come out into the desert, and we’ve got some IDs off bodies already, some of the men being trained terrorists.’

  ‘That helps, yes. What about wounded?’

  ‘We have five dead, forty wounded.’

  ‘Christ. When you plan these missions you always hope for the best, you don’t stop to think about the dead and the wounded.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, sir, think about how many lives we saved by stopping this lot.’

  ‘A good point. What comes next?’

  ‘Assuming they don’t regroup, we wait the dawn and get IDs and phones, then pull out. Get me replacement teams, sir, twenty or thirty of your men, a major in charge, to be here in two days.’

  ‘I’ll get on that now.’

  I called the Squadron Leader, his phone answered by a French officer who spoke reasonable English. ‘It’s Captain Wilco. Have an aircraft land at 4am to collect dead and wounded. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, and there is the plane in Liberia, small flight.’

  ‘Have medics on board please. Bring body bags.’

  Next call was Tinker. ‘You awake?’

  ‘Of course, busy collating the intel. The radio traffic said that explosives had been planted and detonated, hundreds of vehicles destroyed. Was that the American bombers?’

  ‘Yes, they hit the line of vehicles. Any groups re-forming?’

  ‘All the senior men seem to be dead, or wounded. Most talk of withdrawing, a great many casualties, some blame setting going on.’

  ‘I’d say fifteen hundred died.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Warn me of anyone out there keen to keep fighting.’

  I called Paul MacManners. ‘You awake?’

  ‘Yes, and following Reuters. Your chap Max has been sending out many reports.’

  ‘We have five dead so far, forty wounded, I’ve asked for a plane.’

  ‘How does that compare to what you expected?’

  ‘Less, given the scale of this, it could have been worse. And to make their deaths worthwhile I hope to get IDs and phones in the morning, a great many of them.’

  ‘We found terrorist material at the home of that chap in Bradford, and his brother is facing charges. We have detail of the pipeline and the training camp, southern Afghanistan.’

  ‘That fits. Send a note to the MOD, and to the SAS, to get teams to rotate in here in two days time, they’re unlikely to be shot at. Get me thirty or forty Paras, a major in charge.’

  ‘I’ll send a note now, plenty of men in Sierra Leone.’

  ‘Make sure they have desert browns.’

  I patrolled the line, men sat warming water for a brew, and I told them to stay sharp just in case. The veteran Wolves had a brew on, and I sat with them.

  ‘Is it over for tonight, Boss?’ a man asked, sounding tired.

  ‘I think so, maybe a few fanatics in the mix. Stay sharp, watch the horizon.’

  ‘I ran out of ammo I shot so many,’ he noted.

  ‘I used three full mags,’ I told him. ‘In those first three minutes I think we killed six hundred men.’

  ‘They walked right up, across open ground.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Why do you think I chose this spot? Anyway, fewer gunmen in the world,’ I stated. ‘And some of this lot came from far and wide to have a go at us. One was a Pakistani dentist from Bradford.’

  ‘Yeah? Shit...’

  ‘We’ll get IDs in the morning, a treasure trove of intel hopefully.’

  ‘On this side they ran at the mines when the shooting started, but I guess they never knew about the mines. Mines were popping all over, men screaming out there before we shot them, couldn’t miss them they were so close together.’

  ‘Wounded men out there will still shoot at us, so be careful, double-tap any movement.’

  A blast sounded out.

  ‘Just such a wounded man,’ I suggested. ‘He just crawled over a mine.’

  ‘More wounded now,’ a Wolf commented, sounding drained.

  The line of injured men in the drain grew, as did the small line of bodies, five laid now out, and after an hour it seemed like every man here had a white bandage on his head.

  Walking back to the Echo position, I sat next to Swifty, Moran and Mitch, all with bandages displayed, clearly visible in the dark. ‘How bad are your wounds?’

  Swifty replied, sat with a cuppa, ‘Got a piece of stone, they removed it, cleaned it, a few stitches.’

  ‘Same here,’ Moran noted.

  Mitch’s dark outline said, ‘Got a scrape; they cut my hair for me. Stings like a bitch. And a hole through my cap!’

  To Swifty I said, ‘Get your torch, check my head.’

  He eased up, cup down, torch on as I took off my cap. ‘Not bleeding much.’

  I put my cap back on. ‘We’ll be out of here in a day or two, job is done, they won’t try that again – a real shortage of warm bodies and keen volunteers to call upon.’

  ‘Be a few empty villages around here,’ Mitch floated.

  ‘That l
ot came from far and wide, and other countries. One was a dentist from Bradford.’

  ‘British?’ Moran queried. ‘Fighting on their side?’

  ‘Yep. Dressed up like a terrorist, the weekend warrior dentist.’

  A blast had us look south, distant fires seen burning down the south track.

  I suggested, ‘Some poor bastard just crawled over a mine, and many of those men will die slowly tonight.’

  ‘Their choice,’ Mitch scoffed.

  ‘How many of our lads are dead, in total?’ Moran asked.

  ‘Five dead for certain, some that may not make it, and just about everyone has a head wound.’ I eased up. ‘Stay sharp, might be a few fanatics out there crawling around. Don’t sleep yet.’

  I walked along to the RAF Regiment, a few men cooking. Haines stood up, and I recognised his dark outline. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Minor cuts and scrapes with the men left here,’ he replied, sounding tired.

  ‘Stay awake, stay sharp, sleep in the daylight, you’ll be out of here in a day or so, some cold British weather to look forwards to.’

  ‘Looking forwards to a good lamb shank, new potatoes, and a beer,’ Haines told me.

  ‘Hold onto that image, you’ll be there soon.’

  I walked across to the west trench, finding many men staring out south. In the dimly lit drain I found most everyone with a bandaged head, spots of bright light where the medics were working.

  Sergeant Crab eased up from a wounded recruit, the medics still tending sore heads. ‘Have they fucked off?’

  ‘Yes, should be quiet now, we’ll all be out of here in a day or so, fresh teams in. And I think my report will say that the Wolf recruits all passed the course.’

  ‘Fuck aye, they’re good boys, never faltered.’

  ‘They’ll get a holiday, time to heal. And a t-shirt, from Camel Toe Base.’

  Crab laughed, and I spotted the NCO I had chatted to last night, his head bound up.

  I pointed at him. ‘You holding up, Sergeant?’

  ‘Got a sore head, sir, damn sore. I want to scratch at it, but the medics said that would be a very bad idea.’

  ‘You’d open up the stitches. Where’s Murphy?’

  ‘Here, sir.’ He moved to get up.

  ‘Don’t get up.’ He eased back down. ‘We won a great victory in your relative’s name.’

  ‘Kind of you, sir.’

  ‘He helped promote PTSD, so we owe him. I had a captain with me get injured, and in hospital he took his own life; men in special forces don’t cope well in hospital. He lost a leg, then he lost his mind.’

  ‘What comes next, sir?’

  ‘You go home and enjoy a holiday, with your campaign medal.’

  ‘Medal, sir?’

  ‘All the men here will get a campaign medal, I’ll make sure of it. And you may not realise it, but this fight has been all over the news in many countries, White House following the action. What you did here you can be proud of.’

  I closed in on Tiller and Brace, both nursing head wounds as they sat with backs against the grey concrete wall, dim light coming from the medics area, a pervasive smell of damp concrete in here. ‘You guys holding up?’

  ‘Got a wicked headache, sir, and it stings like fuck,’ Tiller told me.

  ‘Don’t scratch it.’

  Brace said, ‘I almost ran out of ammo earlier, sir, was more worried about that than getting killed.’

  ‘Do you think you’re cut out for this, could cope with more live missions?’ I floated.

  ‘We’re not quitting, sir,’ Tiller emphasised.

  ‘But could you parachute into some place, take a look at it and walk back out sixty miles?’

  ‘Can’t be any harder than being here, sir.’

  ‘True, very true. And you’ve done well, no bitching, you all just got on and did the job, a job harder than most British soldiers will ever face. So you can be proud of yourselves.’

  ‘You ever get tired, sir, you’re always on the go and alert?’

  ‘Sometimes, and I catch an hour here and there.’

  ‘Could you try and look a bit more tired in the future, sir, it really is annoying, makes us feel bad when we’re tired.’

  I smiled widely. ‘I have a few years on you yet. Trick with being tired ... it’s all in the mind.’

  ‘I think it’s in my body, sir, I can hardly bloody move.’

  At 4am the C160 from Liberia touched down as men stood with torches, a few fires lit on the side of the runway. Medics stepped off, the worst of our wounded led on, body bags taken off, bodies brought up in those bags, a great many spare body bags now available to us.

  With the C160 departed it grew quiet, men sitting quietly, eyes starting to close, and I had to nudge a few awake.

  As the dawn approached I stood on the runway staring south, a fine grey mist blocking my view – at least the illusion of a mist, but minute by minute that view improved, lifting the veil on the death and destruction that had been hidden by the dark night, and I stared out at the bodies, and the body parts strewn around.

  It had not been a dream, it was just as real as the nightmare it seemed to be, and I wondered why the sight worried me so much. Stood there, I considered the men out on the sand, and whether or not they were just local farmers pressed into service, or if they were the die-hard terrorists I hoped for. What worried me was the not knowing.

  I called London. ‘It’s Wilco. Pass a message up the line, to contact the Red Crescent and Red Cross in Nigeria, and to tell them they can collect bodies tomorrow - we need to be seen to be caring. Pass that note to the French and the Americans please, because right now I’m stood looking out at anywhere up to six hundred bodies in the sand.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Aptly stated. Get on it please.’

  Next call was the Squadron Leader in Mauritania, finding him awake. ‘Sir, I need rope or string or wire, about 3,000yards of it, more, and wooden pegs or wooden stakes, and ask for signs that warn of mines.’

  ‘You’ll peg out the area.’

  ‘Yes, sir, we will. And I want the bulk of the men here extracted tonight, or as soon as replacement teams are ready; London, Washington and Paris are aware of the move. And some lime and more body bags, or just plastic bags, sir, lots of them.’

  ‘I’ll make a start on it soon.’

  Max appeared at my side, looking dog tired. He was heavily tanned in certain parts of his face, dusty all over, some blood on him, now displaying a beard – but a ginger beard. He waited.

  ‘Photograph it, send it, we can’t hide what happened here.’

  ‘I took a picture, you in the shot, back of you. That ... OK?’

  ‘Why not, we can’t hide the truth? And do a panoramic video shot when it gets light.’

  ‘I filmed the wounded being worked on, got a shit load of still images, many sent out, fuck all battery power left. Going to create a book, picture book and timeline like with Liberia.’

  I glanced at him through tired eyes, no comment to make. I transmitted, ‘All teams, get a brew on, then get ready to do some work, I want all teams on the runway at 06.30, plus any wounded that can walk.’

  Sat back with Swifty and the team, Swifty asked, ‘What we doing?’

  ‘The job we came to do; getting the IDs off the dead, the phones, and figuring out who was pulling the strings for that lot. We already have some good intel, and there’s a few people I’ll go visit, and ... kill.’

  The team enjoyed a quiet and uninterrupted brew as the sun slowly rose over the carnage, the sand turning brown then yellow, and our gerbil was still alive; he had made it. Swifty placed down a tiny piece of broken biscuit, the offering grabbed and taken away.

  Brew in hand, I could hear no jokes from the lads, and all displayed grey dusty faces, all eyelids heavy, the men being introspective. My tea helped, a few biscuits munched on as I stared out at a man with no legs, his entrails littering the sand, and I hoped he was a hardened fighter and not a local that
just needed some money, conscripted for the night’s work.

  At 06.30 I blew the whistle and transmitted, teams forming slowly, men moving slowly, most of them nursing an injury. ‘Captain Moran, take British Echo south down the track, on 400yards from the wrecked jeeps, then carry on south a few miles, I want phones, ID cards. Be careful, double-tap. Off you go.’

  He led the slow-moving team off across the runway as I waved in the Wolf recruits and their instructors, a sorry looking bunch. ‘For the next few hours you need to be awake and with it, then you can sleep. Sergeant Crab, get some empty wooden boxes, ropes attached. You then go south down the track, past the mines – be very fucking careful!

  ‘The mines are in the strip of sand that is level, and in the ditch near the wrecked jeeps and behind the ditch, so organise the men carefully. You spread out, two hundred yards south, then work east. I want phones, I want ID cards, then in a box I want rifles made safe. If you find grenades, bury them – carefully.

  ‘You go east then north, meet the French, and you’ll probably need twenty wooden boxes. And Sergeant, I want half a dozen wounded men brought in alive. Get to it.’

  A tired bunch of dusty men were led off, Tiller and Brace nodding at me as they passed, heads bound up.

  Next I waved in the RAF Regiment lads. ‘Go west, and north. Collect IDs, phones, rifles, find some wooden boxes or a bag for the IDs. If you find a live one, bring him in. Go.’

  To the Pathfinders and Paras, their teams a few men down, I said, ‘Go south down the track, till you see the minefield going east, the sand is all flattened down. Don’t go near the ditch south, it has mines. Get some wooden boxes and bags. I want phones, ID cards, rifles made safe, in the boxes. Go west till there are no more bodies, and if you find a live one bring him in.’

  They traipsed slowly off, hardly a word spoken. I stepped to the French, three teams formed up. To Liban I said, ‘Get wooden boxes, bags, I want phones and ID cards off the dead, all rifles to be collected, made safe. They know where the minefield is, but remind them, and tell them we want a few wounded men alive brought in.’

  He shouted orders, tired men grabbing wooden boxes, slowly trudging off north and east. Seeing the veteran Wolves, Sasha’s team coming in, I said, ‘Spread out, watch the far horizon for a few hours.’