Wilco- Lone Wolf 8

by Geoff Wolak

  I called Captain Harris, his phone now being manned by a colleague whilst he slept. ‘It’s Wilco. I need a casevac Chinook, medics onboard, two soldiers as well – just in case. They fly to Lorax Hill, the Pathfinders’ sector. Call me back when they’re ready, to get the fix.’

  The Pathfinder captain pinpointed his men on the map, and that they were moving up the hill. ‘That round he took was from over six hundred yards out.’

  ‘They spray it around, so anyone inside a thousand yards could get a round,’ I told him. ‘I’m forever reminding my men: get behind something solid.’

  Swan stepped in. ‘We grabbed some extra ammo, and some 66mm, Boss.’

  I stared at him. ‘They ... ready to go now?’

  ‘Slept on the flight down, so not sleepy.’

  ‘Have them get ready, meet out front in ten minutes. Oh, you got sat phones?’

  ‘They issued them at Brize, SIS lads, and we tested them.’ Swan rushed out.

  ‘SIS?’ a captain repeated.

  ‘Secret Intelligence Service, which was Mi6, which I still call Mi6.’

  ‘Me too,’ Lt Col Marsh put in.

  ‘But SCS are the most important,’ I added.

  ‘Who are they?’ Major Taggard puzzled.

  ‘Special Cookery Service,’ I told him, the officers laughing.

  Captain Harris’s phone called me, his colleague pushing the buttons. I issued the co-ordinates, the man checked them twice, a distance given to nearby features, but then I asked him to land at the FOB for a troop movement to that location.

  Outside, the Wolves gathered in the available light, all looking just like Echo lads, all with cheery smiles for me. ‘OK, listen up. For this job you’ll be together. Swan, you’re nominated senior man, Leggit is 2ic.

  ‘You’ll be dropped at Lorax Hill, up near the Guinea border. You’ll find out where the Pathfinders are so that you can avoid them, cross the road and head southwest, a bearing of 205 degrees roughly. You have a twenty mile jungle slog to get to an airfield and barracks with hundreds of rebels sat around – no hurry.

  ‘Call in, I’ll fix your position and then guide you. Avoid being seen, steady walk, but I’d bet on no rebels in the area you’ll walk. Don’t ... approach that airfield without checking with me, it’s alive with bad boys. By time you get there a few other teams may have arrived.

  ‘See any black soldiers along the way, shoot them, hide the bodies, hide any evidence, try and hide your tracks from time to time, zig-zag now and then. Around that airfield is shit jungle and swamp, slow going, but the good thing is there’ll be no sensible people walking through it.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Gentlemen, I expect an excellent performance, a high body count, no bickering. Form pairs and teams now, stick to them. And call in as soon as you’re across that road and on your way. Good luck.’

  Back inside, the Gurkhas called, wanting some action, so I agreed small sneaky patrols north before the expected Chinook loudly announced its arrival, my Wolves taken off into the black night. The tents were once again less than fully utilised and had witnessed a great deal of temporary occupation, the chefs laying off bets as to who would arrive next.

  On a clipboard rested the scorecard, and as of 2am we had damaged or destroyed sixty-five vehicles, and we listed claims of over four hundred rebels killed. I stood and studied the scorecard.

  ‘We winning?’ Marsh asked.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘We winning?’

  I turned back to the scorecard. ‘We took them by surprise tonight, and it’s dead easy to ambush a vehicle convoy from a jungle ridge, but they won’t just sit and take it, sir.’

  ‘No. Come morning they’ll avoid the roads, or keep losing men.’

  The Para major stepped out of his side room. ‘We’re taking intermittent inaccurate mortar fire at that airstrip, they’re dropping them all over the place, but some are close.’

  Major Taggard was still awake.

  ‘Job for your lot, sir,’ I told him.

  He eased up and stretched.

  I continued, ‘If they go east through the trees, slow and quiet, then south, then the mortars must be on trucks on the road.’

  He lifted his sat phone and spoke for ten minutes. Turning to me, he said, ‘Lads were awake anyhow, some of those mortars a bit close. They’s off now.’

  I updated the map with a fresh post-it note.

  Franks put his head out of his room, bleary-eyed, the rest of him following behind, sat phone to his ear. ‘Navy is tracking a transport plane, appeared out of nowhere, heading roughly this way.’

  I turned my head. ‘Wake up everyone here, get them to the tree line, we have incoming!’ Panic followed. I faced Franks, ‘Can they intercept it?’

  ‘Could just be an innocent transport.’

  ‘Then have them fly alongside it, lights on.’

  ‘I’ll ask now.’

  I rushed out through the melee, and to the medic’s tent. ‘We have incoming, get yourselves and your patients to the tree line and in! Move-it.’ I lifted my head. ‘Men on the roof, get ready to shoot at an aircraft!’

  I ran to the mess tent, a few chefs sat there, others sleeping next door. ‘We have incoming, get to the tree line at the far end and wait! Move it!’ Banging on the bonnet of a radio Land Rover, I shouted, ‘Drive off down the road and wait a bit.’

  Back inside, Lt Col Marsh was still with his Major, Taggard still here with Haines.

  ‘It’s a transport plane, that American said,’ Marsh pointed out.

  ‘And can open a door and drop things, sir, as we did to them.’

  ‘You did what to them?’

  ‘Last time, we flew over their camp in a Chinook, and threw RPG heads out the back. They fall nose down ... and go bang when they hit the ground.’

  ‘You hand-threw RPG heads out of a fucking helicopter?’ the major queried.

  ‘It proved very effective, sir, and we destroyed a dozen personnel carriers.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ The exchanged looks.

  ‘What’ll an RPG do to this place?’ Marsh asked, a glance up at the concrete ceiling.

  ‘Two levels above us, and a structure, so very unlikely to penetrate here, but the people outside are in tents.’

  Franks stepped out of his room again. ‘F18s moving to intercept, no authority to fire.’

  ‘Gentlemen, the roof.’

  I led them up, the 2 Squadron lads holding GPMGs like rifles, ready to fire up at an angle, and we stood staring out at the black sky and listening, broken cloud above us.

  The indistinct screech grew closer, but did not build, the unseen F18s a mile away east; we heard them, but could not see them. Franks appeared, his face green from his phone, voices heard coming from within it.

  ‘They just buzzed it head on, lights on. They’re circling around. It’s a Fokker something?’

  ‘F28 maybe,’ I suggested.

  A few minutes later, someone shouted, ‘There!’

  We all looked east, soon seeing three sets of lights, two small jets and one transport. All had their lights blazing.

  Franks put in, ‘It’s going to land.’

  ‘Land?’ people queried.

  ‘It’s surrendering.’

  We rushed down, rifles grabbed by many.

  ‘2 Squadron, on me!’ I shouted, men running in from all sides, the Paras and Taggard with rifles ready. We rushed to the edge of the strip and waited as the F18s screeched overhead at low level.

  The transport lined up, straightened, wheels down, flaps down, and made a smooth landing, its small rear jets whining, soon powering down as we stepped out. It juddered to a halt, a door soon opening, steps kicked out, and down stepped a slim grey-haired man in civvy clothes.

  ‘Pa Ruski?’ he asked as he lit up.

  In Russian, I began. ‘Yes. Who are you?’

  ‘We fly cargo shit, illegal shit.’ He shrugged. ‘But we were offered good money to steal it, but then the jets come for us.’


  ‘What’s inside?’

  ‘Weapons of course.’

  I closed right in. ‘Who paid you to steal it?’

  ‘Powerful man, in Panama.

  ‘Tomsk?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Very well. And ... you’re welcome here, we’ll get you out the country, no questions asked.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  I turned. ‘Stand down, everyone back to as you were, get the men out the trees – and the medics and the fucking chefs. Go on, back to as you were.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Marsh asked.

  ‘Russian arms smugglers. But Intel London offered them a bribe, so they stole the fucking plane from the rebels. It’s full of weapons.’

  ‘They stole it?’ Marsh repeated.

  ‘They were paid to fly it in, so they ... landed somewhere else.’

  ‘We arrest them?’

  ‘No, Intel will spirit them away. Don’t ask questions that could end your careers.’

  Haines stepped into the light from the aircraft.

  I told him, ‘Have your men start unloading the weapons from this plane, get the pilots some food, no questions asked.’

  He went aboard with two men.

  ‘You move in some very odd circles, Captain,’ Marsh told me as we walked back. ‘And you speak Russian.’

  ‘And Arabic,’ I told him.

  Franks was stood waiting by the door.

  ‘Thank the Navy, but it was not a danger to us. London intel bribed the pilots to steal the plane from the rebels. It’s full of weapons.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He grabbed my arm, and led me to one side. ‘London..?’

  ‘Panama.’

  ‘Ah. Well, he’s loaded, he can afford it.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Colonel Mathews.’

  ‘Colonel, how’s the weather in Washington?’

  Franks lifted his eyebrows, a question.

  I stepped away.

  ‘Was fine earlier. We just got the detail of the Navy intercepting a transport, forcing it down at your base.’

  ‘Yes, and I extend thanks from the British Government, but it was not a threat.’

  ‘Not a threat?’

  ‘No, it was stolen. A third party bribed them to steal the plane out from under the noses of the rebels. It’s stuffed full of weapons.’

  ‘They stole it?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Who are the pilots?’

  ‘The plane landed without pilots, it was quite devoid of pilots, and from now on no record of the pilots will be found.’

  ‘Oh, I see. What else has been happening?’

  ‘Our teams are deployed, hit and run ambushes taking place, a great deal of damage done, most roads blocked, but the rebels will modify their tactics tomorrow. We know where their HQ is, men moving towards it.’

  ‘You asked us to damage a runway.’

  ‘And will you?’ I pressed.

  ‘It’s been sanctioned, yes.’

  ‘That runway is the lifeline of the rebel’s command and control, the man in charge with huge epaulettes and a ten gallon hat, gold-enamelled pistol on his hip.’

  Whoever was now assembled at the other end laughed.

  I said, ‘No, seriously, he probably looks just like that, around here they do.’

  ‘He’ll be pissed at those pilots, the ones that don’t exist.’

  ‘He’ll be more pissed at you tomorrow.’

  ‘Could be, yeah. Any casualties?’

  ‘A few minor wounds so far.’

  ‘You have a great number of differing units with you?’

  ‘You spying on us?’

  ‘Read it in the British papers.’

  ‘Yes, we do, because each unit get’s some press exposure, a boost to morale, a help with recruitment.’

  ‘You specifically target press exposure per unit?’

  ‘Absolutely. Great for recruitment, and for next year’s NCOs.’

  ‘Interesting. I’ll be back to you in the morning, we’ll get a live feed on the Navy airstrike.’

  ‘Thank them for me.’

  I returned to Franks, who had waited. ‘In the morning, your very kind Navy will make a hole in someone’s nice runway. Pentagon will be awake and observing apparently.’

  ‘They always do.’

  The pilots wandered over. ‘Engines are shut down, cargo door open. Anything you need?’ they said in Russian.

  ‘You got a good look at the base in Kame?’

  ‘We landed once in daylight.’

  ‘I need you to draw me a picture, then in the morning we drive you to the President of Monrovia, who is a close business associate of Mister Tomsk. You will be well taken care of, and flown out.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  Inside, they sat and drew pictures, and we compared them with the other sketches of the Kame base. They detailed sandbag fifty cal positions, mortars, personnel carriers, watch towers, everyone very interested in the detail.

  Haines stepped in, sweating. ‘Tonnes of weapons on that plane; rifles, RPG, some fifty cal rifles, some nice telescopic lenses, binoculars.’

  ‘Bring the expensive kit in here, RPGs stacked down the strip away from people.’

  Those officers still awake all soon had a new pair of binoculars each, the rest stacked up, telescopic lenses fiddled with.

  I conducted a tour, and I reassured people that it was probably kind of safe-ish now, 2 Squadron lads suddenly appearing with new AKML rifles with telescopic lenses. I told them, ‘Take them with you when you go back to the UK, ours now.’

  With a jeep convoy pulling in, Paras after some supplies, I had them issued with RPGs still in the factory wrapping paper. Problem now was a plane blocking our runway. It would have to be pushed back, then flown off somewhere. Its owners, and its insurers, would not be happy. Then again, if they had known what it was being used for they would not have been happy anyhow.

  As the dawn came up I was still awake, taking calls from the teams, ambushes effected, scorecards tallied, but unwary rebel road traffic had died to almost nil. My Russian pilots had slept on camp beds after being fed, Major Taggard getting some sleep, Lt Col Marsh and his major still awake and still with me.

  A “G” Squadron captain took a call. Facing me, he began, ‘The lads went for those mortars, found two on the back of an open-top truck, killed the men with it, then drove the truck off and parked it close to where they were before.’

  ‘What they planning on doing with it?’ I asked.

  ‘Plenty of mortars, so they could lob them ... at something.’

  I made a face. ‘Fair enough.’

  I headed to the mess tent for breakfast, few about at this hour.

  ‘We need our tin hats?’ a chef asked me. ‘And what’s that plane doing there, sir?’

  ‘Tin hats, always a good idea around here. That plane? Tourists from Ghana, ran out of fuel.’

  ‘Them tourists, they take a lot of boxes of ammo with them then?’

  ‘Always pays to be armed around here.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be fibbing to us, would you, sir?’

  ‘It’s on a need to know basis, lads, so don’t ask. A lot of the time I don’t even tell myself what’s going on.’

  I sat with a few of the police, all curious about the plane, and we munched away on a tasty breakfast, washed down the extra-bland tea, plenty of steak still on offer – but I could not stomach the thought of it for breakfast.

  As the dawn came up my Russians stirred, so I took them to the mess tent, chatting away in Russian and getting odd looks from all sides. There was a hard-point fixing on the rear underside of the aircraft, so I delegated a few men and a jeep, and they towed it very slowly backwards as far as they could.

  My pilots were anxious to go, asked a favour, and I agreed. I walked them to their aircraft and they disappeared inside, the engines turning and slowly building up the whine. I stepped away.

  Full power selected, brakes knocked off, they pow
ered down the runway as many observed and they barely cleared the trees at the far end, soon pulling a tight circle and heading the short distance to Monrovia low level.

  I made a call.

  ‘Hello?’ came a sleepy president.

  ‘This is Petrov. There is a small plane heading to your airport, the men working for Mister Tomsk. It will be there in minutes. Make the men welcome, then chat to Tomsk about them later, after 2pm.’

  ‘Oh ... er ... OK.’

  ‘Papa Victor out.’

  At the prescribed hour, the command room full of expectant faces, Franks detailed planes in the air ... approaching target ... bombs gone ... runway potholed. He stopped and frowned, then faced me. ‘They dropped a two thousand pound bomb, which hit a plane sat on the runway, went straight through it, blew it to pieces and left a big hole.’

  Lt Col Marsh glanced at me. ‘There was a plane sat waiting?’

  ‘Not anymore,’ Franks quipped. ‘Three good hits, runway out of use. No radar lock, no tracer seen, Navy hit them too quickly.’

  I announced, ‘They won’t be getting any resupply by air, and the roads are all blocked. Max, put out a good story on those F18s. Put in on Reuters now, please.’

  ‘That plane last night...’ Max asked.

  ‘What plane?’ I faced Marsh. ‘Did you see a plane, sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘Helicopter, one of ours.’ He faced Max. ‘Were you dreaming?’

  Max frowned. ‘I heard a plane, it woke me. And then it took off this morning.’

  Men shook heads, Max eyeing them suspiciously as he got his kit ready.

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Passing you over to the Prime Minister.’

  I stepped out.

  ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We just heard that the US Navy struck some rebel base.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and they put three big bombs in the runway, so it’s out of use – we hope. Unfortunately, a plane was in the wrong place and took a direct hit, so we’ve set them back.’

  ‘And a plane was forced down.’

  ‘My friends in low places bribed the crew not to deliver the arms to the rebels, but to steal the plane. I think it was on its way to Freetown. So we offloaded the weapons, which will come in handy.’