Wilco- Lone Wolf 18

by Geoff Wolak

  The MOD had sent us ten ground-to-air radios, small hand-held radios, Rizzo having used them in Iraq, and not impressed with them. Switched on, we could hear RAF traffic at Brize Norton, so they worked well enough. I handed them to officers and senior men.

  Magsee turned up unannounced, welcomed in, and in his car he had twenty lightweight desert sleeping bags, my teams to use them, and I pinched one for myself. They rolled up small but opened out and fluffed up nicely, reportedly warm at night.

  I gathered a few teams, thrust some cash in Magsee’s hand without anyone seeing, and he gave a lecture on Yemen and Oman. He warned us not to touch anything with left hands if we met tribesmen in the wadi, and not to look at the veiled ladies and girls – that would be a shoot-out.

  That night I took a call at 9pm from Admiral Jacobs, but it was later in Somalia given the time difference. ‘We had SEALs insert, and they reported armed men, crates offloaded, so the F18s made a mess, and we tore up the runway as well, and the taxiway, twenty-four bombs dropped, so no one will be using that strip for a while.’

  ‘SEALs get out OK?’

  ‘They walked a few miles and were picked up, no injuries. And we had an embedded reporter with them.’

  ‘Reporter?’

  ‘He was a Marines officer, now a journalist. We put him back in uniform. I’ll send him to you with those other two, men who were in Liberia at that mine.’

  ‘One was injured..?’

  ‘Minor wound only. He’s back at it.’

  By Friday afternoon we were set, the teams sore in a few places after two weeks of hard work, but all had expended a great deal of ammunition and got some laps in, all keen to get going, Salome complaining of a few aches and pains and that she had gained some weight.

  ‘Training produces muscle, which is heavier,’ I assured her. ‘But the toned body looks better.’

  ‘Does my body look better?’ she asked with a straight face.

  ‘How would I know? Ask the lads.’

  ‘How would they know,’ she quipped.

  The tall 14 Intel lady, Maggy, was now showing muscles, and was now referred to openly as “Butch”. Henri had lost a bet and had fucked her, giving a good report of it.

  I took Mitch to one side. ‘How’re the spies doing?’

  ‘Not as fit as some, but they have a good attitude, all got the years in. Two of them are marathon runners and fit, and the group would not slow us up any. They shoot well, some as good as Nicholson at distance, some great with a pistol, but they all use their brains compared to someone like Tomo.’

  ‘Not much of a comparison,’ I complained.

  He smiled. ‘They’re solid, no issues. If I lead them as a team I won’t be worrying any, and some have been to the desert before. Or as Rizzo wrote it, the dessert.’

  I smiled widely. ‘He left school at fifteen, what do you expect, eh.’

  Slider had sprained a wrist, but he would still be coming, the wrist bound up, a Wolf listing a sore ankle – but he would also be coming along.

  On Saturday afternoon we double-checked everything again, everyone in desert browns – most all with jackets on since it was damn cold, and we loaded the crates to the RAF buses, soon heading to Brize Norton with an escort, and on towards a warmer clime. At least it would be warmer during the day.

  Colonel Clifford and his team had flown Friday, with Major Harris and his team plus a few others, and they would get the command area started before I arrived. There would be soap and toilet paper ready for me, I was told.

  Rocko would be left behind to torment the SAS territorials, Robby coming with us or he would have nothing to do. Six RAF buses made two trips, the Departures Hall at Brize Norton crammed, not least because 2 Squadron was sat there with the medics. And Mister Haines, now a Flight Lieutenant, had not succumbed to pressure from his fiancé to take fewer risks.

  Spread across two Tristar, twenty Wolves to enjoy a C5 ride, we waited our slot, soon walking up the steps in a cold breeze and inside, Salome sitting on one side of me, Moran the other. When at altitude I walked back, a chat to Haines then his men - taking up an hour, a chat to Morten and his team - wasting another hour as we headed to Cyprus.

  Out of the aircraft in cool evening air in Cyprus, they refuelled our ride and swapped our pilots, and we were soon heading south in the dark, heading towards the Sharm el Shiek beacon at the southern tip of the Sinai. I maintained my discipline and waited till midnight, a few men having moved around to grab two seats, or even three.

  That left Salome with a spare seat next to her, so she lifted the arm rest and placed a pillow on my legs, soon curled up. I stroked her hair gently, getting no reaction from her other than the sounds of someone sleeping contentedly.

  Moran woke at 2am - waking me – and he peered past me and at her, at me, and then smiled as I shrugged.

  We were soon passing over Saudi territory, and I was worried. I was damn sure that they would not be shooting down this aircraft, but what if they had questions for me and asked us to land, an interrogation squad waiting for me, hot pokers ready? I dismissed my paranoia, but not entirely.

  I woke to find a hand fallen onto Salome’s boobs, and moved it before she woke, wondering if anyone saw it. Since the cabin was dead quiet, everyone asleep, I hoped not.

  The pilot’s announcement had people waking up and stirring, and we came in on approach as the dawn put in an appearance, the pilot stating that we were landing at Salalah Airport; the runway was big enough after all.

  Out the window I glimpsed parched brown hills and a desert landscape, that view soon spoilt by an industrial area, docks seen as we turned and lined up over the ocean. Down smoothly, we were soon taxiing to the small terminal I had seen on approach.

  Door open, legs and backs were stretched, and I stepped out squinting in the bright sunlight to find soldiers and police, plenty of them, so I relaxed. Two beige Hercules waited, and one maritime blue Hercules with a bulbous nose, the teams being led across the tarmac to the waiting Hercules.

  An Omani captain asked someone a question, and then saluted me. ‘Major Wilco, sir, the Hercules will take you and your men to the airfield at Hamjad, a short flight.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ I offered in Arabic.

  Sat aboard the Hercules, we waited for our crates to arrive and to be secured, all three Hercules loaded at the same time, engines turning over, soon taxiing around with a degree of planning and efficiency that the RAF often lacked.

  The flight was only forty minutes, and I stared down at the terrain, nothing but a sea of sand below us, one black tarmac road seen cutting through that sand. Lined up, we came in over a military airfield, police seen at the gate, soldiers and jeeps, and I glimpsed the ATC and some brick buildings near it, two large hangars, plus a row of regimented brown tents laid out in the distance.

  Taxiing around, I could see SAS long-axle jeeps and troopers, GPMGs fitted, and they seemed to be on guard duty. Ramp down, we stepped down as numerous Omani Air Force ground handlers moved in to get the crates, jeeps and bogeys available as we were led towards the buildings.

  I felt naked, not so much as a pistol, but there were many British soldiers and Omani police officers in blue dotted around. And I could now see the taxiway opposite the ATC side of the runway, eight Lynx sat in a row, three Pumas, tents set up a hundred yards behind them, and what appeared to be sandbag machinegun positions.

  Colonel Clifford walked over with a Para bodyguard in tow.

  I saluted him. ‘How’s the accommodation, sir?’

  ‘Not too bad, and I’ve made some changes. There are rooms in brick buildings, quite solid, I have men up on the roof and spread around, SAS are spread around, patrols on the perimeter, so far no issues.’

  I waved the teams to follow me as I followed Colonel Clifford, the men keenly taking in their new temporary home, a sparse and desolate home. I could see a tall water tower behind the ATC, a workshop of sorts, and we had a perimeter fence further out, so that was good, Colonel Clif
ford pointing out features, as well as pointing to a row of dated brick single-storey buildings for us to occupy.

  Clifford told me, ‘SAS, Marines, Paras and Pathfinders are in tents on the other side of the airfield, sandbag walls in some places, ditches dug ready. You can use these till you move out, bottled water inside, ration packs, blankets – soap and toilet paper!’

  ‘Home from home,’ I quipped, crates taken down from the waiting truck and identified, and when Swifty found ours I helped him lug it inside. We found metal bed frames with thin dusty mattresses rolled up and tied, blankets in plastic bags, small wooden bedside tables, and tall cupboards at one end of the room. And a bad smell.

  Crate opened, we got our bandoliers on, webbing on, rifles checked, loaded and cocked ready as the lads copied those actions. Unlike previous trips, I had allowed loaded magazines inside the personal crates – making the crates heavy.

  Outside, I followed Colonel Clifford and his bodyguard towards the ATC.

  He told me, ‘The Omanis won’t let any locals near this place, no civilian workers, but there are some civilian aircraft workers – even a few men from British Aerospace supervising.’

  SAS lads in a jeep waved as they drove past us, and Clifford led me inside and to a room that was crammed with warm bodies and littered with maps.

  ‘Major Harris,’ I called. ‘One bomb in here and we lose a great many people…’

  ‘Just getting sorted, then we have three shifts, so … a third of this lot will be here at any one time. Walls are solid as well, we checked, guards posted by the window and back door.’

  I nodded, but did so with a disapproving look, soon introduced to an Omni Army major. ‘As-salaam alaykum,’ I offered.

  In Arabic he began, ‘A great honour to meet you, I have heard many stories.’ He led me to the ATC and up, explaining his time at Sandhurst and his fondness for damp English forests, four Omani Air Force officers here with one lady RAF officer in blue/grey. I had to look twice since she looked a little like Trish Deloitte.

  They had radios, but no radar, no fancy electronics flashing away, just notepads with flights and times listed - and large binoculars.

  I peered down at a dark grey tarmac runway that was light grey at the edges, a great many black skid marks visible on it, parched brown sand and scrub either side of it, but dirty brown sand and not a pleasant scene from Lawrence of Arabia.

  The major began, ‘South is the gate, and down that road is a roadblock, no one will be allowed in. Around us is empty land, miles in any direction. If someone appears on the horizon … we shoot.’

  I took in the flat horizon, low hills seen a few miles away northeast - perhaps six miles, no houses seen, no nothing.

  ‘Across the runway, southeast, is a shooting range, your SAS have already been there. Across the far side is the Army Air Wing, the helicopters. The men and officers live in the tents. Behind them, four hundred yards, is a sand barrier, the other side are tents, your SAS and Marines, a wide area, a water bogey from your RAF there.

  ‘Near them is the lorry park, twenty trucks and thirty jeeps. The trucks will not get all the way through the wadi, the jeeps will. There are long-axle jeeps we bought from you, some French style, and some simple civilian jeeps with good air conditioning.

  ‘North is a small shooting range. Behind us here are tents for use of transit men, enough for maybe two hundred men, behind them we make a sandbag wall, and ditches to hide in if we need them.

  ‘There are infantry here, our men, good soldiers, you do not need to patrol the perimeter and the base.’

  ‘Good to know. How far is the border?’

  ‘West, maybe twenty miles. To the start of Wadi Kallam is maybe twenty-five miles northwest.’

  ‘Is there a road or a track?’

  ‘Not a good one, no. From here a track goes west to the border, and the border itself has a track in places going north.’

  ‘Good enough for jeeps?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, with some patience.’

  ‘And civilians around here..?’

  ‘None close by, but the sheep herders and camel breeders move around. We have no idea where they are, and you may come across them. They will be no trouble.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A team came two weeks ago, we came a week ago. We have searched as requested, and there were no signs of tracks, we have found no booby traps so far.’

  ‘Good to know, and never underestimate al-Qaeda; they get good outside help.’

  ‘From our good neighbours to the north,’ he whispered.

  I nodded. ‘The Lynx are at my disposal?’

  ‘Yes, pilots trained by your army,’ he said with a grin. ‘We will be expecting a good report on them.’

  I smiled widely. ‘If not, our army is to blame. What weapons do they have?’

  ‘Missiles can be fitted, yes, and door guns. Not fitted yet. What will be the primary configuration?’

  ‘Just door guns, men to insert. Do you know the land around here?’

  ‘As a boy I camped in the wadi here, and as a young officer we tore around the wadi in jeeps making a noise.’

  I led him outside. ‘How likely are we to come across someone on the camel trail?’ I asked as the third Hercules landed.

  ‘Very unlikely, but the camel herders do use it, yes, mostly for traditional reasons. Most have houses and satellite TV these days!’

  ‘And what do your Intel people say about activity across the border?’

  ‘That the al-Qaeda men left their homes more than a week ago, not seen since, the camps only housing a few men now.’

  I observed a police jeep on the apron as they observed us, the Hercules drone reaching us. ‘Would you assume they’re setting traps above the main road southwest?’

  ‘I would wager on it, yes.’

  ‘And al-Qaeda in the desert, how well trained are they?’

  ‘Not well trained at all, they hate the sand and like their jeeps!’ he said with a grin. ‘They are said to have been raised in the cities, maids on hand to do everything! The local fighters refer to them as soft.’

  ‘And since the end of the civil war..?

  ‘The west of Yemen is the home of the Houthis, but the president is not popular with any other than those he pays off; there have been attempts on his life. Those outside Sanaa see little of the government, and the tribes east have a religious leaning towards Saudi Arabia, and a paid leaning – they get money from Saudi Arabia, schools and mosques.’

  ‘And those around Al Mukalla?’

  ‘They want the president gone, the Houthis gone, and they side with Saudi Arabia.’

  ‘They side with al-Qaeda?’

  ‘No, but tolerate them since al-Qaeda bring money from their rich relatives. In your country, some soldiers claim to be SAS to strangers when they were not, and here men claim to be al-Qaeda when they are not.’

  ‘And the Islamists, their will to fight?’

  ‘They are crazy, and will do anything; they will fight to the last.’

  ‘Numbers?’

  ‘A few thousand, but a hard core of maybe six hundred. They have designs on Sanaa someday, a caliphate in Yemen.’

  ‘And al-Qaeda men penetrating this border?’

  ‘Not heard of so far, there are only so many places to cross. The desert has no fences, but unless you are well prepared and know the land you will not make the journey across.’ He raised a finger. ‘We say: al-Qaeda fly first class, not come on camels.’

  I smiled widely. ‘Spoilt rich kids wanting some action.’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘You heard the name, Bin Laden?’

  ‘Another spoilt kid, and out of favour with Al-Qaeda’s leadership. He is reported in Yemen?’

  ‘No, hiding in Sudan.’

  ‘He will miss the Hyatt Hotel and room service.’

  ‘When do the Americans get here?’

  ‘They are offshore, some men landed in Thamrit already. They will fly her
e, but I don’t know when.’

  I could see the men gathering in front of the brick buildings, kitted ready. ‘You have some sergeants I can use?’

  ‘I will fetch them now.’ He headed off as I closed in on the teams, a large body of men now bunched up – despite my warnings. ‘Listen up, there’s a range to use to zero weapons, so you’ll walk around and use it, and get some leg stretch. I want no one sleeping till I say, you had a rest. Form teams ready.

  ‘Mister Haines, there’s no need for you on the wire, so you’ll probably deploy somewhere dangerous. In the meantime, some acclimatisation and exercise. Medics, take it easy for a day. Robby, oversee the Wolves and 14 Intel, men on stag. Crab and Duffy, go sniff out the supplies here and start a system; food, water and ammo.’

  ‘Right Boss,’ came back.

  When three sergeants appeared, all with old FN SLRs, I spoke in Arabic. ‘Take the men for a walk around the base, they need the exercise. Then to the range to zero weapons.’ I pointed at the first sergeant. ‘Once around, starting north.’

  I faced the teams. ‘14 Intel, Mitch and your team, 2 Squadron, follow this sergeant.’

  The sergeant saluted Mitch and led them off.

  ‘American Wolves, fall in. When you walk, spread out in case of mortars falling on your heads.’ The next allotted sergeant led them off south when I directed him to.

  ‘Echo, British Wolves – without Robby, form teams, spread out, walk north around with the sergeant in a few minutes, use the small range to start, then walk to the long range later, don’t bunch up!’ The sergeant saluted Moran and led them off.

  ‘Robby, have a look around, check supplies and who and what is where. You’re a Sergeant Major now, so act like one – and be a pain.’

  I asked the major for a driver, and a police jeep drove me over to the Lynx. I stepped down in front of the bustling tent area being curiously observed by mechanics and I asked for the commanding officer.

  A white face appeared from a tent, grey flight suit overalls, and he looked familiar. He smiled. ‘Remember me? Commander Phillips.’

  ‘You do look familiar.’

  ‘I was in Sierra Leone, Navy, shot up that rebel base in Liberia.’ We shook.