Wilco- Lone Wolf 8

by Geoff Wolak

  Panting, the four of them now back, he said, ‘There’s a hostage.’

  ‘Hostage?’ I queried.

  ‘Black guy, beaten up, tied up.’

  ‘Some local deal gone wrong, more than a hostage,’ I told them. ‘OK, let’s assume that the hostage is a white official, kidnapped. What’s your plan?’

  They knelt in a circle.

  ‘That building looks solid, but the windows are cracked already,’ one man put in. ‘I reckon a man over on the left would have line of sight.’

  ‘OK, good, so that’s step one. What else?’

  ‘A distraction, to get the gunmen outside.’

  ‘How many gunmen?’

  ‘I saw three only.’

  ‘So maybe you get two outside. Rear way in?’

  ‘Rear window.’

  ‘Good, so someone at the rear, shoot inside, distraction at the front, snipers each get a man. Left sniper, left man. Don’t both shoot the same guy. So, what distraction?’

  ‘Singing,’ a man suggested.

  ‘Singing?’ they queried.

  ‘Yes, good; some drunk has wandered in. Who would believe that singing is a trap, eh? So, you get position, two at the rear, two near the front, two snipers with line of sight. And those at the front ... don’t get in the way of the snipers. Men at the rear, watch for a round going right through the windows.’

  ‘Who can sing, ‘cause I’m terrible?’ one man asked.

  They laughed.

  ‘I’m not bad.’

  ‘Don’t sound too English,’ I told him. ‘So, what’s the go signal?’

  ‘Two men or more outside. Or a shout.’

  ‘OK, off you go to get that hostage. Fingers off triggers till you’re ready to kill.’

  Two men went left, to get line of sight, four moving down slowly. I eased forwards to a ridge and aimed at the building, hoping this went off OK, and wondering how much trouble I would be in if it didn’t.

  I could just make out the pair sneaking to the rear, the second pair in front of the wooden hut, and soon the singing started, making me smile. A door opened, the light escaping, a face peeking out, a head scratched at the sound. A second man appeared, both armed but with rifles pointed down, and they listened to the singing, debating what to do.

  The third man appeared, unarmed. Six rapid shots, and the gunmen were down, shadows seen moving, my coppers to the doorway, a peek inside and in. A few minutes later they brought the hostage out, now untied, and pointed him off. The man rubbed his wrists, looked about, then ran. My coppers returned to me.

  ‘Text book,’ I told them. ‘Well done.’ And I led them back to the flysheet, telling them to get a brew on, the lads cracking jokes and in high spirits. I put two on stag and sat with the rest, having to tell them to whisper.

  Everyone got some tea in them, a stag rotation set-up, and I took first stag for two hours, just a black jungle and the creatures of the night for company.

  I kicked them up before dawn, cooking started, a few of the lads a bit bleary-eyed till after a brew. Kit away, I led them off, and we reversed our path, slow and steady, as if a gunman hid behind each tree. They moved well given that they were civvies, but halfway back one accidentally discharged, scaring the hell out of his mate.

  ‘There’s a reason we say fingers off triggers, Dickhead. It stops you killing your mate.’

  ‘You walk in front,’ his unhappy mate told him, positions swapped.

  A hot group of men made it to the strip at 4pm, facemasks off, and we relaxed as we walked towards the FOB. Moran was back, and Swifty had performed two one-day patrols.

  ‘Get inside, get cleaned up, some food - don’t sleep till 11pm. Unload weapons now, get in the habit. Don’t take loaded weapons into a building.’

  Moran closed in on me. ‘How did they do?’

  ‘They rescued a hostage.’

  ‘They what?’

  ‘I found a mine with a hut, local tied up inside, some local dispute, so I had them make a plan and storm it, three gunmen killed.’

  ‘Good first patrol then. We never saw any armed men, but came across a body. Swifty’s lot never fired a shot.’

  Sat in the canteen, Morten offered me some stew, and I sat with Donohue, who was now looking a little sunburnt and red. I told Donohue, ‘The six lads with me rescued a hostage, three gunmen killed.’

  ‘They did?’

  ‘Yep, and they did very well, but one lad accidentally discharged on the way back, scared his mate.’

  Crab had heard. ‘He did what?’ he growled, and stormed off. We could hear the shouting down the corridor, and I smiled as I ate.

  ‘So they’re shaping up,’ Donohue noted.

  ‘They’re doing very well,’ I told him. ‘And now some have live kills as well.’

  ‘You think they’ll get there?’

  ‘I think they’ll get there soon.’

  He was pleased, but looked to be in pain, struggling with the heat, as was the para instructor officer. When I caught up with a sweat-stained and muddy Rizzo and Stretch I asked about progress.

  ‘Got a lot done,’ Rizzo began. ‘Covered all the basics, small patrols.’

  ‘My lot killed three gunmen at a mine.’

  ‘How’d you arrange that?’ Stretch complained, wiping his face in a sleeve.

  ‘I walked twelve miles north. Anyhow, have the instructors HALO with bags on this strip if that Hercules is here. I’ll call the man in charge there tonight. If they have time, and if the RAF cooperate, do two or three drops right here, then a night drop here. Then we see. Oh, and the border is just a mile, so make sure they land in the right spot.’

  After chatting to the para school officer I called for transport, and he would now be based at the airport, checking parachutes and aircraft. He drove off an hour later through the dark, no doubt glad to be gone.

  I received a call at 10pm, Skyvan ready, preferred over an expensive Hercules, and he wanted a military ambulance on scene as well. I could not be bothered arguing with the guy and agreed it. I also doubted whether I could get the para instructors some action, limited risk action.

  In the morning I gathered the para instructors and gave them the plan, and they would practise HALO with our bags, weapons and supplies inside, Rizzo and Stretch to jump with them.

  I left them to make plans as I led off my coppers. At the east track north I placed on my facemask and gloves, the others copying, and I led them up the track again, but now with radios. ‘OK, sound off.’

  They each gave a name.

  ‘OK, who has their finger on the trigger?’ I asked as I walked backwards.

  None admitted to it, looks exchanged.

  At the bridge I risked crossing over, no one seen, and we turned south, back towards the FOB, but now on the Liberian side of the slow-moving river. It was hard going to avoid people, this area mainly farmed, but I managed to find a ridge and some dense jungle, so we adopted that instead of bushes and fields.

  At 3pm, the day hot, the storm from hell descended, but I got the flysheet up as day turned to night, all snug underneath, all-round defence taken. The rain only lasted half an hour, the sun coming out, the flysheet taken down, shaken off and rolled up. But as we moved off we squelched underfoot, and tracks were now mini-streams.

  Cresting a ridge, I suddenly stopped dead, a small camp of armed men below me. And in the midst was a white guy, speaking French down a phone. He was dressed like a mercenary. As I observed, they mounted up and drove off northeast, leaving me staring after them.

  I had the coppers hide, all-round defence, and took my phone out. I made a call.

  ‘That you, Wilco?’ came David Finch.

  ‘Yes, Boss. Listen, check for me, very quickly, French Intel working in Liberia, officially with the French Government’s blessing.’

  ‘French Intel? I met with them recently, and we discussed Sierra Leone and Liberia, and they have some people in the capital, yes. Why?’

  ‘I just saw a white French guy with a
group of irregulars.’

  ‘A white French mercenary? He’d be a freelancer maybe.’

  ‘Do me a favour, check right now, see what they say about this guy. If he’s with them I don’t want to spoil some operation.’

  ‘No, quite. I’ll get back to you.’

  We sat and got some food going as we waited, something not right here, and half an hour later my phone trilled.

  ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s David. The French have no white agents in the country. When I suggested it was a mercenary they flippantly suggested you shoot the man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They don’t want him doing what Colonel Roach did, and dragging Paris through the mud.’

  ‘Fair enough, but I have six coppers with me.’

  ‘You’re in Liberia, near soldiers and mercenaries, with UK bobbies?’

  ‘Yep. Talk soon.’ Phone down, I stared out at where the soldiers had been. I called Tomsk, finding that he had just gotten up.

  ‘Petrov?’

  ‘Yes, listen. Call the President in Liberia right now, tell him that your people reported French mercenaries and irregular soldiers on his border with Sierra Leone, and did he know about them. Then get back to me urgent.’

  ‘OK, but I have a coffee first.’

  He called back twenty minutes later. ‘Petrov, the President is concerned about those men, but happy that I’m on his side - you made me look good. He says there is someone in Guinea, north, planning attacks on him, Nigerians behind it – not happy about my oil platform.’

  ‘I think maybe London and Paris would let the outsiders attack him, but I’ll chat to them about it.’

  ‘I want those men gone, if you can assist, or they fuck up my oil platform.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Boss.’ I called David Finch. ‘Listen, I got some intel off Tomsk. There’s a group in Guinea, backed by the Nigerian oil barons, wanting to remove our idiot tin pot dictator. We need the PM to consider this.’

  ‘If they get rid of him, then fine, we all want him gone.’

  ‘And what about Sierra Leone afterwards, and the border? The current idiot won’t touch Sierra Leone, he agreed that with Tomsk, but what about the new guy? Will British enlisted men be killed here in a few months? If the intel was known, what’ll you say to the Select Committee?’

  ‘I think you just helped me avoid an enquiry that could have been painful. I’ll chat to the PM.’

  ‘Whilst making it look like your intuitive concerns, not mine.’

  ‘You are cut out for this, aren’t you. OK, I’ll think it through before I brief him.’

  ‘Be fast, Boss, things could change here overnight. And I’ll bolster the border patrols just in case.’

  ‘Very well. Talk soon.’

  I called Colonel Marchant. ‘It’s Captain Wilco, sir. Got a minute?’

  ‘Yes, fire away.’

  ‘We’ve had intel on movements across the border, maybe a civil war or attempt to oust the current idiot. Could I ask that you take all reasonable steps to safeguard the border till London directs you on the matter.’

  ‘I have authority on the ground, and if there’s trouble over the border again then I’ll shore up the border, just in case.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and no small patrols – make them larger just in case, but avoid the north east corner, close to Guinea, you may pick up wounded if the groups up there are moving around. They won’t target our people, but you may drive down a wrong road and come across them.’

  ‘A prudent approach, yes. We’ll be making plans and getting ready.’

  Phone away, I said, ‘Guys, there’s trouble, and so we’re going on a spying mission. Stay sharp but - you know - fingers off triggers.’

  ‘When you say trouble...’

  I stopped and faced them. ‘Someday soon someone will ask you to enter a building filled with armed men, your life on the line. This is no different.’

  ‘So ... this is dangerous then?’

  ‘Very.’

  I led them off at a brisk pace, back-tracking, and when I found suitable ground I moved east and through dense jungle, a road glimpsed from a ridge. Hearing gunfire ahead I figured it the same group, and pushing hard up a steep slope I found a view down to the south east, a small army camp wiped out, smoke rising, the camp probably an outpost of the president’s militia – keeping the locals in order.

  Finding a huge tree root I got behind it and fitted my long silencer after peering through it, my new prototype now to be tested. Turning my head, I said, ‘All-round defence, ten yards apart in pairs, solid cover.’ They moved off. I took aim through my basic telescopic sights, wishing now for the larger sights.

  Below, I could see through tall trees the dead Liberian soldiers, some still alive and now being decapitated with machetes. I spotted my white face, and he was walking this way, lighting a cigarette. I checked my sights and set them for three hundred, magazine dropped with the thumb switch and weighed in hand, and I got comfy.

  My mark stopped to look around, a puff of his cigarette, his rifle slung, then he stepped between two trucks. My shot hit him in high in the chest, knocking him back, but the round had gone straight through the man and punctured a tyre. Looking up, no one had noticed. Thinking on, I started hitting tyres, the trucks on my side, no one paying attention as they hacked up the wounded something terrible.

  I hit the tyres of two jeeps, but suddenly a man jumped out of one jeep, wondering why it was now lopsided. I hit him in the back. A man ran in and knelt, my shot taking half his face off. With no one else noticing, I checked the vehicles, hitting a fuel tank. I could see it leaking, but it had not caught.

  I took out my phone, but then put it away. There were thirty men, and a great deal of smoke. I sighed heavily, glanced over my shoulder at the coppers, and wondered how much trouble I would be in.

  On the radio I said, ‘Close in on me, aim down, get a solid fire position. I need each of you to shoot six men quickly.’

  They ran in and got down, all kneeling.

  ‘OK, figure your position in the line left to right. If you’re far left, aim at men on the left and work in, same on the right. Deep breath, blow it out, relax, don’t hold the pistol grip too tightly. You’ve got pipe sights, so aim top of the chest. If the guy is still moving around, second shot at him. If rounds come in, ignore them, keep shooting.

  ‘OK, standby, and don’t fire till I shout.’ I aimed at a man taking a piss, and no one noticed him slump. Another man, stealing a watch, the smoke wafting, and I hit in the heart.

  A black face appeared next to a truck, looking at the tyre, my shot leaving a big hole in his head. Six men, all bunched up – this was the best it would get. I aimed, and fired rapidly, the game up.

  ‘Open fire!’

  The blasts sounded out, no silencers in use by the police as I panned left and right, hitting anyone I could. The tree above me was torn up, the ground below me registering thuds. I kept looking, and kept firing, the guys to my right pumping out rounds till they found it hard to spot anyone. I noticed a few men run off, and I let them go.

  ‘On me!’ I shouted as I turned around, and I ran through the thick trees, putting some distance between my coppers and the scene. Slowing down, I stopped at a tree root and looked back, my team still with me. And most had fingers on triggers as they ran.

  ‘Get your fucking fingers off the triggers before you kill each other!’ I barked, not being stealthy at all. ‘Wake up, for fucks sake! On me.’

  I led them off west, a steady pace, sweating under my facemask, vehicles and people avoided, farms skirted around, and we made it to the river. The bridge was a mile north but there was a large canoe sat tied up, one careless owner.

  ‘First four in the canoe, one comes back. Go!’

  The first four rushed to it, a shove off, drifting downstream straight away, paddles grabbed, rifles down, and they sped across as I covered them.

  The guy coming back struggled a bit to control it, but made
it as I waded out and grabbed the canoe. ‘Rest of you in.’

  I held it as they scrambled in, then eased in myself without toppling it, and off we set, soon across, but downstream fifty yards, the others moving down to us through thick reads. Out of the canoe, which I pulled up the bank, we set off south.

  I took out my phone as we walked, a number coded under laminate plastic in my pocket.

  ‘Hello?’ came a voice.

  ‘Mister President?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Petrov.’

  ‘Ah, good to hear from you again.’

  ‘No time to chat, sir. There is a bridge over the river to Sierra Leone, the main crossing, ten miles up from the coast.’

  ‘I know it, yes.’

  ‘If you go southeast three miles there was a small camp with your men.’

  ‘Yes..?’

  ‘Rebels hit that camp a short while ago, a French mercenary with them. My men did not get there in time, but my men killed the attackers and the French mercenary. Please send soldiers immediately to that camp.’

  ‘I will do so, thank you.’

  ‘I may have further information for you soon. Petrov out.’ I hit the red button and made sure it was off.

  Finding dense jungle, I had the men rest. I called David Finch. ‘It’s Wilco.’

  ‘Ah, I just sent a note to the PM, he wants to meet.’

  ‘There’s been a development. I came across that French mercenary and his men, after they wiped out a local army camp. We killed the attackers, and the mercenary.’

  ‘And ... why that particular course of action?’

  ‘You said the French wanted that guy gone, and those men were a threat to the border, and to young British enlisted men. Whichever side London takes, armed gangs around here are bad news.’

  ‘Yes, quite. Well I’m off to brief the PM, had a chat to the Director. I’ll call you back soon.’

  ‘Question now is what to do about the rest of the gangs up north, planning a civil war. Wilco out.’

  Facemask off, I sipped my water before swapping my magazine. ‘Any injuries?’

  They exchanged looks, all seemingly fine.

  ‘Gentlemen, if you run through a forest with fingers on triggers you kill your mate. Switch your fucking brains on.’