Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

‘Hell no.’

  ‘Us Brits like to copy our colonial cousins, we copied a great deal from you. Fast food, the Sony Walkman, Disco – now rap music, coffee shops...’

  ‘OK, so some of our bad habits rub off on you Limeys.’

  ‘You’ll soon be back chasing planes, a quiet life for you,’ I told them.

  ‘I’m going to bed, gunna sleep for the next three days,’ Castille told me.

  The rest of British Echo wandered in, most looking a hell of a lot cleaner than this morning, Pathfinders and Paras wandering in still in their dirty clothes and looking half dead.

  After I had stuffed my face I handed Moran some beer money, and I headed to the former command room, still a command room, a ready team of Seals sat in the ready room - all puzzling who I was.

  The Squadron Leader began, ‘Your chap Max went on a Tristar a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Do me a favour, sir, call Brize Norton, have transport for him arranged, to get him to London with the tapes and film he’s carrying.’

  ‘OK, if it’s urgent. And your American Wolves just arrived.’

  ‘They did?’ I puzzled.

  ‘They went to Sierra Leone first, caught the Tristar here.’

  ‘If I had known I would have sent them back to the UK on it, then transport to the States. They’re due a holiday. When’s the next Tristar?’

  ‘This time tomorrow.’

  ‘See if there’s space for about a hundred of us, sir. We need to be there, not here.’

  Outside, I called London and asked to be put through to the Duty Manager at GCHQ.

  ‘Captain Wilco?’

  ‘Yes. Listen, how we looking on identifying the men who took part in the attack?’

  ‘London is collating the names, we’re checking phones and matching the groups with names, we have a few group leaders mixed in with the dead, so it’s a case of sorting them all out.’

  ‘Do any of the dead look like local farmers?’

  ‘Well ... no, not really. We identified three main groups, each of about two hundred and fifty men, all part of militias with a bad reputation. One group came from the west, and these chaps like to hack up Christians for fun, or just hack up most anyone for fun.

  ‘Another group came from the east of you, and we know that the leaders of both groups are dead – you have their phones. What were you looking for ... in particular?’

  I put a hand in a pocket. ‘The socio-demographic make-up of the men, and whether or not they were just hired for the day, or if they fought because they had been rallied by the local Imam.’

  ‘Well, we’d not have any data on the non-criminals obviously.’

  ‘Has the State Governor said anything yet?’

  ‘Funny you should ask, because the answer is no, he’s in hiding or has fled.’

  ‘If he put his name to the attack, and so many were killed, he’ll not be popular, they’ll blame him. Any news reports?’

  ‘We’re picking up and analysing the local radio stations, and they started at noon today, to list the large numbers of men not returning, reports from survivors of mass explosions - the horizon on fire, and Nigerian TV is reporting it non-stop, you’re popular with the Nigerians.’

  ‘Don’t want to be popular with the fucking Nigerians, they’re the cause of most problems around here.’

  ‘Well whether you want a medal or not, I think they want to give you one. The two main groups that had been killing their police and soldiers have been decimated, so they’re celebrating in the streets in Lagos.’

  ‘Fucking marvellous.’

  ‘What’s your main concern here?’

  ‘We killed a great many men, and if they’re all trained fighters – fine, but if there were three hundred local farmers and factory workers that were pressed into service then we’ll get some shit, pictures in the press around North Africa of wives and kids with no father.’

  ‘Well, in the Arab states they’ll spin it with or without solid evidence either way.’

  ‘Do me a favour, and work on the groups and numbers, those not returning, make estimates, I want the total dead, then the groups and factions, then the foreign fighters, then who’s left. Call me any time you like when you have some ideas.’

  ‘OK, will do. Are you ... wounded?’

  ‘Just a scratch on my head.’

  ‘MOD is listing six dead, two of which are British, around forty British men wounded.’

  ‘About right, we all have head wounds from ricochet.’

  ‘The White House spokesman has been at it for hours, and he made reference to Camel Toe Base, a few snickers from the gathered Press. The Americans are milking it, a hundred and fifty men up against three thousand, hardly a mention of our troops or the French.’

  ‘Watch the French news later, they’ll claim to have done it all themselves.’

  I wandered to the bar and found my team as expected, a cold beer handed to me. ‘Max has gone back to the UK on a Tristar, and Crab and the Wolves just landed from Sierra Leone, so they’ll be bitching about their detour.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Tristar back tomorrow night, first flight. Tonight we sleep.’

  ‘That food has woken me up,’ Moran noted as Ginger wandered in, his head wound visible, no pad on it.

  ‘You still alive?’ I asked him.

  ‘Looking forwards to a nice sleep in a real bed. After a cold beer of course.’

  Henri stepped in with Sambo, Henri displaying stitches on both sides of his bald head, numerous faded old scars alongside the fresh scars.

  ‘Any word on Jacque?’ I asked.

  ‘With this eye problem -’ Henri shrugged. ‘- no more soldiering I think.’

  ‘He’ll have to stick to just pleasing beautiful women,’ I suggested.

  Moran asked Henri. ‘Do they pay a good pension?’

  ‘For us, yes, very good, help with apartment.’

  I bought them beers at the bar. ‘You OK, Sambo?’

  ‘Tired, sir, very tired.’

  ‘Beer will help you sleep, get to bed early.’

  ‘The sight of the sand today.’ He shook his head. ‘So much death.’

  ‘We’ve been identifying the men from their ID cards and phones. Most were hardened fighters and killers, a militia from the east that liked to hack up Christians for fun. Don’t feel sorry for them, feel happy for all the men and women who will now live safe lives.’

  He nodded. ‘That is good, to think of them that will be saved, yes.’

  Haines stepped in, looking clean. I told him, ‘You could have got a Tristar back, it left this evening.’

  ‘No hurry, needed a beer.’

  ‘No lamb shank here,’ I told him, getting him a drink. ‘How’re your wounded?’

  ‘One lad has his arm removed below the elbow, they did it in the drain, save the poison spreading, and two have nasty scrapes.’

  ‘Your unit has taken a beating these past few years...’ I floated, and waited.

  ‘We claim to be an elite fighting force, which means we’re training for war, so if war comes and men are wounded that’s a side effect of what we do, and they all accept that. We came to fight, not read about – as they say.’

  I smiled and nodded. ‘Does your CO worry about the wounded?’

  ‘No, because we had the discussion a while back, to march up and down and shoot paper targets, or support you, and all were in favour of supporting you, and you hear the buzz phrases bandied about, and men accept that they joined to do more than scare paper targets, and that men will get injured and killed.

  ‘Men will say: what you in uniform for, to scare a paper target and shine your shoes, or to fight? So we have it straight in our minds.’

  I nodded. ‘Your lads have a great deal of experience now, they can make some claims about being elite.’

  ‘We see more action than the Pathfinders, and the SBS,’ he proudly stated.

  ‘SBS have their heads up their arse at the moment, their colonel
wants them scuba diving not getting real experience.’

  Many of the teams wandered in, and I made a point of speaking to most. Crab and Duffy finally wandered in, the sand washed off.

  ‘Where you been?’ I teased.

  ‘Fucking plane went to Sierra Leone, then no fucker knew what we were supposed to be doing, so we got a flight here.’

  ‘My fault, I was keen to get men away instead of thinking about where they’d go. It’s not like the MOD would lift a finger and organise things.’ I got them a beer. ‘The recruits in bed?’

  ‘They had some food after a wash, all now taking it easy, to bed early, but they slept on the flight some.’

  Dicky and Mouri stepped in, both looking dog tired, both with heads bound up. ‘You guys OK?’

  ‘Need a cold beer and some quality sleep, Skipper,’ Mouri told me, but without the usual zest.

  ‘You staying on with us?’ I asked him.

  He shot me a puzzled look. ‘Trying to get rid of me, Skipper?’

  ‘No, but I figured that your government might want you teaching.’

  ‘Well ... might make some sense, yeah, I’ve seen some action now,’ he agreed.

  ‘Have they said anything, because you were sent for a year?’

  ‘They’re happy for a New Zealander to be here, they run the stories like there’s ten of us with you.’

  ‘If you’re happy to stay, we’re happy to have you. But ... you could go back and teach, live to a ripe old age, or get killed on the next job...’

  ‘Well ... not really given it any thought, Skipper.’

  ‘Do so, be a shame if you were killed and all the skills you’ve picked up are lost. If you teach others it will help the world.’

  Dicky put in, ‘I’m staying till you kick me out, I got nowhere else to be.’

  ‘Don’t fancy a quiet cottage, some fishing?’ I teased.

  ‘Fuck no.’

  Castille and his men ambled in an hour later, washed and clean, even shaven, and I bought them all a beer, the men managing to smile as they recalled the lighter moments at Camel Toe Base.

  When Trapper appeared with a few of his men I got them a beer. ‘How was your first action?’

  ‘Some of us were in Somalia, but never fired a shot in anger,’ he responded. ‘This was a proper fight, and tough conditions, Somalia was good food and proper sleep at night.’

  ‘So now that you’ve seen what it’s like, will you be volunteering for more of this?’

  ‘I think I need some sleep first, head is bit fuzzy, but I wouldn’t say it was hell, or that we’re all gunna quit the job and go home to mamma just yet.’

  ‘And if I had another job like this, soon..?’

  ‘I’d give it some thought, yes, after I clear my head. As your rude sergeant asked: did you join up to fight or to read about it in a paperback?’

  ‘It’s a valid question, and most soldiers go their entire careers without a shot fired in anger. So when your head clears, think about scaring paper targets or doing some proper soldiering.’

  Most of the teams headed off early, the beer accelerating the need for sleep, and I hit my bed at 11pm after making sure that the French had extra men on patrol, and around the barracks. 16 Squadron RAF Regiment had men here, and they were on the wire.

  I woke at 6am, but felt rough, no one else stirring. After a quick and quiet wash I got dressed as quietly as I could and stepped out with my boots in my hands, sitting on the stairs to put them on. Rifle slung – but no bandolier or webbing, I walked into the grey dawn, finding two French lads on patrol, greetings exchanged.

  The canteen was open 24hrs, so I grabbed a breakfast and sat with some of the 16 Squadron lads, and they wanted all the detail. After my second large cup of tea I headed to the command room, getting there after 7am. The French Intel team were awake and nursing cups of coffee, nibbling on croissants, and looking tired.

  ‘You look tired,’ I told them.

  ‘We have much to do, these identity,’ a man said, pointing at the desktop strewn with ID cards and sat phones. ‘Paris wants it quick quick.’

  They had made piles based on country, and had typed up lists of names, passport numbers where we had them.

  A man said, accented, ‘We go to each telephone, look what number before, sometime ... twenty number, we write down.’

  I accepted a coffee and nodded. ‘London has identified the middle men, the numbers called most often, and the leaders. Men in Egypt and Cyprus and Europe. They hope to catch a few big fish.’

  Coffee in hand, I stepped to the ready room and found a familiar troop from “A” Squadron. They noisily – and rudely – greeted me, then wanted all the detail, so I sat with them for half an hour.

  At 9am I checked in on the Wolf recruits, finding that they were up, washed and fed, all now busy cleaning kit, Crab and Duffy organising with the four American NCOs, the NCOs all displaying bandages on heads – as were most of the recruits.

  ‘Listen up. Pack your kit, leave behind ammo and rifles when you leave here, you should be flown from the UK back to the States. Sergeant Crab, get boxes for the weapons, make safe and check them, ammo to be left here. There are doctors here, so I want every man seen, and before lunch.’

  Back in the command room I found the Squadron Leader chatting to a Seal lieutenant. ‘Sir, can you contact Brize Norton, and have buses take the American men to RAF Fairford when they arrive back – with a police escort, then ask for transport from Fairford to the States for them.’

  ‘I’ll call now.’

  I chatted to the Seal lieutenant for ten minutes, then stepped outside onto the sand as the day warmed up, calling the E Ring, Colonel Mathews not in yet. ‘Can you arrange transport for the Wolf recruits, from RAF Fairford in the UK, sometime tomorrow daytime, they’ll be arriving at Fairford around midnight tonight UK time. Leave a note for Colonel Mathews to call me. Thanks.’

  My phone trilled almost straight away, David Finch. ‘Your chap Max got some photos to his paper last night, a six page spread, and the news is running nothing but the story, but I now realise what you meant yesterday – about us coming in for some criticism. Many of the world’s papers have an image of you, the back of you, looking out over a desert full of bodies, and some have it down as a massacre.’

  ‘I don’t think a hundred and fifty men can massacre three thousand.’

  ‘No, but they are spinning the story, some talking of B52 bombers being used. And when I saw the video footage this morning I was as shocked as the rest of the nation. It showed a sweeping shot from left to right, and the bodies. We’ve had discreet calls from several politicians, the JIC concerned, less about what happened and more about how it looks.’

  ‘The bodies are still in the sand, so wait a few days and the real criticism will start.’

  ‘And ... what should we be doing, burying them?’

  ‘No, the bodies need to go back to their families and home towns. We need to send men and medics from Sierra Leone, bodies put in body bags, then stacked up and sent to the south by truck, Red Cross involved.’

  ‘I’ll send a note to the French, asking for extra men to do that, and a note to the MOD before this blows up in our faces. When are you back?’

  ‘Midnight tonight.’

  I found the French Intel boss and asked that he call the senior French officer at Camel Toe Base. He finally handed over the phone, the man speaking reasonable English. ‘Major, the outside world is being very critical of the fact that the bodies are just laying in the sand. I have asked for more men, and body bags.’

  ‘We can bury them.’

  ‘No, that is not allowed, they must go to their home towns or you are breaking the law and will face an enquiry, France will face United Nations protests.’

  ‘Then ... what do we do?’

  ‘Wait till the body bags get there, put bodies inside, leave them south. There are three trucks, you have fuel, drive them south and stack up the bodies, but watch for mines.’

  ‘
We have the mine area with rope and wood, and sign about the mines.’

  ‘Good. Have the men there wear masks and gloves when moving bodies.’

  ‘I talk to my commander now.’

  ‘Do not bury the bodies, that is illegal. Thanks.’

  At 1pm Colonel Mathews called. ‘Captain, we’ve got a plane for the Wolves from this place called Fair-ford.’

  ‘They should be back around midnight tonight, sir.’

  ‘And their wounds?’

  ‘Most will be fine in two weeks, after the stitches are out.’

  ‘And how many would you keep on?’

  ‘All of them, they’re all solid, sir.’

  ‘So ... twenty-five good men ready to advance to the next stage, that is good.’

  ‘When they’re healed, send them to me for technical training, a few weeks. Then they need the jungle work they missed, but all could be on live jobs inside of six months.’

  ‘I gave a briefing to the Joint Chiefs last night, all very pleased, if not amazed. They puzzled the Lone Wolfs, and it took some explaining, and they were shocked that you threw them in at the deep end, but saw the sense of it. Breakfast news here is running nothing else, a great deal of syndicated video footage.

  ‘And I never knew about this young man with a link to Audie Murphy. That gets a lot of air time as well, pictures of Audie Murphy in uniform. There’s going to be a two-hour special on it later, and yes – they label it as The Battle for Camel Toe Base.’

  I smiled. ‘I’m going to have some t-shirts made up, sir. Oh, while you’re on, can you get a campaign medal made up for your men that were there?’

  ‘That has to go through channels, but every campaign where shots are fired usually comes with a ribbon anyhow. I’ll look into it. What’s next for you?’

  ‘Some rest for the teams, a debrief, then I’ll finish off training the British Wolves and your lot. And hopefully the intel will pan out.’

  ‘CIA are reporting it as a treasure-trove of intel, White House very happy. I’ve never been more popular!’

  I smiled. ‘Milk it, sir.’

  At 4pm I spoke to each team, loudly in many cases, ammo to be left behind, rifles in metal trunks, men to get ready to leave.