Wilco- Lone Wolf 18

by Geoff Wolak

The Lynx set down away from us, and I finally opened my eyes as the final Puma left us. Groups of black outlines were out and down as the Lynx pulled away, the wadi soon quiet.

  I stood, and took in the features in a cold wind, but there were no features, just us. Seeing the Orion Constellation, I had my bearing and so started off southwest.

  I transmitted, ‘My team, radio check.’

  ‘Salome here,’ came before Sasha and his team, and I could hear other teams calling off as I picked up the pace, the sand firm enough.

  Fifteen minutes of fast walk brought us to the point where we could see dark rocks to the left of us, inside a hundred yards, and I closed in on them slowly as I led the teams west, sniffing the cold damp air as I went.

  I had been counting my paces, and now started again, telling the lads to do likewise. The sand was soft in places, and we all stumbled from time to time, but I was confident here given the ambient visibility.

  On the hour I halted the teams, telling them to get into the rocks and get a brew on, checking that Dick was still with us. I sat with Salome and Sasha crossed-leg, the others in a narrow gully set back from the wadi.

  Sasha’s dark outline noted, ‘Three thousand six hundred paces.’

  ‘Three thousand four hundred,’ Salome told him.

  ‘Your legs are shorter,’ I told Salome. ‘You should have more.’

  ‘I have a long stride,’ she insisted. ‘No balls to hamper me.’

  I smiled unseen. ‘And how is your father?’

  ‘My mother now admits that he is sick.’

  ‘You can fly home after this,’ I offered.

  ‘He does not want sympathy.’

  ‘Give him some anyway,’ I suggested. ‘You may miss him when he’s gone.’

  ‘He is putting his affairs in order, very Jewish,’ she complained.

  ‘My father left his garden unattended, and my mother is in Spain, so I hate to think what mess the garden is now. I might sell the house with my mother’s permission, she doesn’t want to go back there.’

  ‘She does not cherish the memories?’ Sasha asked.

  ‘No, the house reminds her of him, and she doesn’t want to be reminded of him.’

  ‘They got on OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but when you get old you change, everyday things become a chore,’ I told them. ‘Young love fades, and the body aches, and the daily battle with pain takes over.’

  After our brews, half an hour used up, I rallied everyone and we lined up on the wadi in a cold breeze, headcounts done just in case someone wandered off for a shit.

  ‘Wilco for Tomo. Did you shit on a mine?’

  Laughter rippled along the line, and I had to explain it to Salome as we started to walk.

  She told us, ‘I had a misfire one time, and I eject the round and look at it, I keep firing, then bang – it goes off. One in a ten millions rounds do that.’

  Sasha told her, ‘So you are one in ten million then, and special, we are lucky to have you.’

  I laughed, Salome cursing Sasha in Russian.

  Coming up to eight thousand paces I asked for averages and started to look south, soon finding a suitable opening within the dark hues and moving southwest slowly. After an hour of zig-zagging around gullies I was smelling smoke.

  I transmitted quietly, ‘They’re up ahead. My team forwards with me, second team to the high ground left, Slider’s team to stay here till called, all round defence. Everyone, dead quiet, dead slow, take your time, we don’t know how many there are.’

  I moved off bent-double down a sandy crevice and up, over smooth rocks whilst glancing left, down to a sandy base and south very slowly, every step measured.

  ‘Nicholson for Wilco,’ came ten minutes later.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘We’re up on the high ground, we can see the camp. Not many men by the look of it, but the launchers are spread out wide, like a thousand yards from the furthest ones. I count five.’

  ‘Can you see tents?’

  ‘Tents in the middle and near the launchers, and like one jeep and one truck sat near each launcher. Some men walking around like they’re on guard duty, but I counted just six.’

  ‘You see the access track?’

  ‘Yeah, in the middle, heading southwest.’

  ‘If you see anyone moving towards a launcher and switching it on, silencers on and kill him. I’m going to move launcher to launcher. Slider, you hear me?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Go left, east and around, back of the high ground, and be at the south end in an hour.’

  ‘Moving.’

  ‘Nicholson, use the time to count.’ Head down, I inched closer to the camp, soon seeing men walking about in the distance, the visibility good. Getting close to a tent I could hear snoring.

  Turning, I whispered, ‘Salome, Sasha, knives out, rifles down here. Rest of you close up, aim in at the tent, silencers on.’

  Salome and Sasha quietly placed down rifles and took off webbing and bandoliers, following me forwards between rocks, and we were soon just ten steps from a tent. I walked around the front and avoided the tent’s guide ropes, aiming towards where I had seen men walking as Salome and Sasha rudely ducked inside.

  I heard a moan, a second, and twenty seconds later they emerged. Checking the camp carefully, and walking slowly backwards, I led them back up over the rocks.

  ‘Three men sleeping,’ Salome reported. They would not be waking from their slumber.

  ‘Someone,’ Sasha called with some urgency.

  We peered down the camp, a man walking over, a man wrapped up warm.

  ‘Cover me,’ I hissed, and I started towards him. Reaching the tent, the man approaching, I cursed in Arabic, ‘Fucking cold night.’

  ‘It shall be the death of me,’ came back.

  He saw my outline too late, my muzzle smashing into his throat like a bayonet thrust. A kick to the balls, and I shoulder butted him down, stamping on his neck then standing on it as I scanned the area, light coloured sand and darker rocks, no movement seen.

  I knew that staring at someone in the dark caused their image to disappear, the human blind spot, and so I turned my head, hoping to catch movement in my peripheral vision.

  Life gone from the man, I dragged him back as Salome and Sasha came down.

  ‘Sasha, he is your height, so get his headgear and coat on,’ I whispered as I removed the man’s slung rifle.

  I lifted the body by the neck as Sasha eased off the heavy coat followed the headscarf and woolly hat. Sasha’s general outline was soon that of the dead man. I took Sasha’s rifle and handed him the AK47. ‘Go kill someone quietly, pistol ready.’

  Leading Salome behind the tent, I transmitted, ‘The man now walking southeast through the camp is Sasha dressed up, don’t shoot at him. Nicholson, cover him.’

  We could see Sasha’s dark outline walk towards the next tent, swinging his arms to stay warm. A second dark outline closed in on him as we observed. We heard a thud, soon seeing one dark outline over another, and dragging something.

  As Sasha closed in we rushed out and grabbed the body, dragging it off behind the tent as Sasha walked off again, throwing his arms as if to stay warm.

  He now walked due east, soon a call made by a guard – a fellow guard. Sasha jumped up and down and swung his arms before walking towards the man, a swift kick to the balls delivered, a face forced down into the sand and knelt on. After two full minutes Sasha dragged the body towards us. We met him half way and dragged the body back whilst desperately straining our eyes to see movement.

  Behind the tent, Salome stabbed the man, just to be sure.

  Five minutes later Sasha killed another guard, hiding his body in rocks, the action described by Nicholson.

  I led Salome and our Russian speakers to a new tent, knives out, nods given, and we rushed inside, soon stabbing down and making a mess, gloved hands held over mouths of those getting rudely stabbed.

  Outside, no sounds coming from within th
e tent, we moved to a truck with its canvas flaps down. I got an ear to a gap and could hear the sounds of sleeping men. I left them alone and led the team to the rocks so that I could transmit the detail.

  Around the rocks, and now feeling the cold, I closed in on another tent, this time hearing voices. I placed the team at the sides of the tent.

  ‘Is that a helicopter?’ I quietly asked in Arabic.

  Men rushed out, all getting tripped and stabbed as they rudely got a face full of sand. Salome rushed inside, a man knifed through the neck, but as he fell he made a noise.

  Rifle up and aimed at the truck, I knew my silencer was on. I aimed, and I waited, my heart racing.

  Nothing.

  Five minutes passed, and no one gave up a warm bed for a cold look outside.

  ‘It’s Slider, and we have the south side covered, three tents covered then a gap.’

  ‘Move in close, get ready. Nicholson’s team, get ready, but the people you see moving about is us. I’ll hit the truck north, then you hit the tents. Standby.’

  Slowly and quietly, I led my team to the truck, a jeep near it found to be empty. With my team aiming out, Sasha aiming in with the AK47, I lifted my rifle high and fired eight quiet rounds, moans and calls being the result. Opening the flaps in a hurry, I fired at three wounded men and double-tapped others, an ear on the camp behind me.

  Satisfied, I sent Sasha back for his kit, and we waited. When his dark outline arrived and knelt I led the team south and along the edge of the rocks.

  A call, a guard, and the game was up. I hit him twice, silenced rounds, then froze; we had six tents to choose from.

  I glanced up over my left shoulder to the high ground, my men not seen, my knee in cold damp sand, a cold wind on my neck.

  Two dark outlines emerged from a tent, and I let them get halfway to us before I fired at each in turn. They went down quietly, but anyone awake would have heard me, and all soldiers knew that sound – the crack of a high velocity round.

  A shout, and a light came on, that particular tent suddenly raked by loud fire. I aimed at the next tent and opened up as my team joined in.

  ‘On me!’

  Running forwards and left, and aiming from the hip at a tent, I fired before sliding into a rock and dumping my magazine for a fresh one. Fire erupted south of us. And I half-expected a loud explosion any minute, a suicide bomber annoyed at being woken in the middle of the night.

  Moving around the rocks, someone behind me firing into the tent, I saw movement and fired at it, three rounds to take the man down, all of the tents now being hit, little movement seen in the middle of the camp.

  A jeep started up, I found it using my ears, and myself, Sasha and Salome fired together, the windscreen shattered.

  A final burst of fire south, and it fell quiet.

  I transmitted, ‘It’s Wilco. Look and listen, careful who you shoot at, we’re below the high ground, middle of the camp, east side. Cover all the tents and trucks.’

  I led my team into the rocks, up and around, and we lay down, staring out into the odd shapes of the camp, darker and lighter shades, black rocks, black tents and trucks, black bodies in the sand.

  Fifteen minutes passed, and we chilled.

  ‘It’s Nicholson, and we can’t see any movement at all now.’

  ‘Every second man get a brew on, we wait the dawn. Stay back, stay down, could be a suicide bomber here – or ten of them. Is our CIA friend, Dick, still alive?’

  ‘It’s Moran, and he’s OK, yes.’

  I led my team back to a gully and in, backs against the sides, brew kit out.

  Sasha asked, ‘Will they get re-supply in the morning?’

  ‘Maybe, yes, jeeps up that track.’

  Sitting still on cold damp sand we chilled, but fresh brews helped greatly. I called in to Harris, who was set to be awake, and gave him a report.

  ‘How many missiles?’ he asked.

  ‘Just one that we can see,’ I lied. ‘We’ll search at first light. Get some rest now, nothing happening, but keep a Lynx on standby for casevac.’

  ‘Only one?’ Salome queried.

  ‘I have a plan,’ I told them. ‘Wait and see.’

  As the dawn came up I was in a gully with Sasha, bending and stretching and running on the spot to stay warm. Timing it, I sent Slider’s team around to the track and down, orders for them to go down a mile and set ambushes.

  Left with me were the Russian speakers, Salome, and the men who had been in Mexico. I gathered them all together next to the high ground, Dick listening in.

  ‘What we do next might be seen by some as … naughty. Most of you have been with me on naughty jobs, so … you know not to talk, even to the other lads.

  ‘Dick, Salome, Sasha, as we search you try and get a missile ready to fire, and if you can – more than one. And don’t ask stupid questions.’

  ‘Stupid questions,’ Dick repeated. ‘Like … what direction?’

  ‘Which way is Saudi?’ I asked, the lads laughing.

  I led the search team off, trucks, tents and jeeps searched one by one, bodies dragged out, phones taken, IDs taken, and the day was bright when we finished. Salome had found the Egyptian experts, dead experts, and had pinched away their IDs, a call it in to Tel Aviv in Hebrew.

  I found Dick and Sasha playing with a missile. Dick began, ‘You get the truck going, jump leads to get the generator in the launcher going, build up battery power, electrics on, and generator off.’ He dangled a set of keys. ‘These arm the warhead and arm the missile.’

  ‘Could you fire it?’

  ‘This one, yes. What direction?’

  ‘Southeast. At your Navy, after you disarm the warhead.’

  Dick stared at me. ‘So … they shoot it down, no danger, good story in the papers..?’

  ‘You’re a smart man, so get on with it.’

  Half an hour later, the truck growling and belching smoke, Dick pulled a cable, set a time and ran. We were all behind rocks 200yards away, and he joined us with some urgency.

  A whoosh, a huge cloud of white smoke, and it was off, something falling to the ground.

  ‘Is that supposed to happen?’ I asked as I studied the smoke trail.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the sled.’

  I called Admiral Jacobs. ‘Sir, cruise missile launched, heading south!’

  ‘Shit!’

  I cut the call, the team grinning. ‘OK, Dick, set-up another one.’

  ‘What direction?’

  ‘Bearing 295.’

  ‘There’s a town in Saudi near the border…’

  ‘What’s the range on that missile?’

  ‘Four hundred miles on a good day.’

  ‘That town is inside two hundred miles,’ I noted.

  ‘If it gets a good radar lock it will hit it. Does that town have an airport, with a control tower?’ he testily asked.

  ‘Maybe. Fire a missile and see.’

  ‘Armed, or not?’ he teased.

  ‘Not armed, please, but I am tempted.’

  Admiral Jacobs called twenty minutes later. ‘Wilco, your navy shot down that missile.’

  ‘A good story for the papers.’

  ‘We got thermal images overnight, dropped at your base at dawn.’

  ‘We’re out looking for that camp now, we saw the missile so we’re sneaking in.’

  ‘You need an airstrike?’

  ‘No, sir, we want some evidence and some papers. Keep your ships at alert, sir.’

  ‘Alert? They all need nappies, they’re shitting themselves here! If one of the missiles gets through we’ll be at the bottom of the damn ocean.’

  It took an hour, the day warming up nicely, and a truck was used to re-position a launcher. When ready, Dick hit the switch and ran to us, a whoosh signalling a good launch, the sled falling to earth as the missile flew off north.

  Ten minutes later the call came, from Paras in the wadi. ‘Sir, a missile just went right over us! Nearly took our fucking heads off!’

&n
bsp; ‘What direction was it going?’

  ‘North, northwest.’

  ‘Nothing but sand north, must have been a misfire. Relax.’

  Men sat around cooking, a brew on as Dick, Sasha and Salome worked on the next missile, this one aimed at a Saudi base that Dick knew of, no US forces based there, bearing 045, just about three hundred miles from us.

  Truck revved, battery power built up, the switch was thrown, the would-be engineers running for cover. A whoosh, and the missile flew off, but suddenly climbed and veered left.

  ‘Shit!’ came from Dick.

  ‘Get to cover!’ I shouted as the missile circled us at about 500ft before climbing away and heading west. It came back over five minutes later, the team in hysterics as my phone trilled.

  ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Slider, we saw a missile!’

  ‘What direction?’

  ‘Came from the west, heading east, but was erratic.’

  ‘OK, I’ll warn them.’ I took out my aircraft radio. ‘Ground Wilco to any US Navy in the vicinity of previously bombed camps.’

  ‘Ground Wilco, this is AWACS, receiving.’

  ‘Cruise missile has been launched, shoot it down!’

  ‘We have a radar contact, looks like an aircraft not a missile.’

  ‘It’s a fucking missile! Find it!’ I turned the radio off.

  Moran said, ‘Let’s not report this one, eh.’

  Dick pointed, and we looked up, a con trail seen as the missile climbed and curved around south, heading west, now up at around 7,000ft.

  ‘Look!’ Nicholson shouted, and we peered west, two F18s seen chasing the rogue cruise missile west.

  ‘Dick, another missile, please, a good one this time.’

  ‘These missiles are older that I am!’

  ‘You’re fifty, and they’re not fifty years old!’

  ‘I’m not fifty till next month, asshole!’

  With the teams still laughing, he got to work.

  Admiral Jacobs called fifteen minutes later. ‘Wilco, we shot down the missile you reported, air to air missiles. It hit the deck.’

  ‘Thank god. What direction was it going, sir?’

  ‘That’s the funny thing; the pilots think it was being radio controlled, it was evading them.’

  I held the phone away as I laughed, trying to compose myself. Phone up, I said, ‘Got to go, fighters seen.’