Wilco- Lone Wolf 8

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Any blood diamonds – throw them away. Get caught and it’s a long sentence,’ I warned them. ‘And don’t discuss this with anyone.’

  Back at my team, I opened Moran’s backpack and stuffed cash inside.

  ‘Cash?’ Mahoney queried.

  ‘Evidence,’ I told him. I called SIS, London. ‘This is Wilco. Send a message to David Finch: have recovered approx one hundred thousand US dollars, will bring it back. End of message.’

  ‘Why tell them?’ Swifty complained.

  ‘We’ll keep most of it anyway, but this way it’s logged and we can’t be arrested.’

  Half an hour later we pushed on, but soon heard helicopters. I transmitted, ‘Spread out. Rocko, go left, Robby go right, Rizzo hang back a bit, stay inside radio range all of you.’

  I plodded on, all eyes on the sky, and soon two Mi8 roared past, both fitted with rockets, doors open and men peering down. I called Haines. ‘Mi8 attack helicopters heading for you, get ready!’

  I heard a drone, and stopped dead. ‘You got to be shitting me,’ I told no one in particular.

  ‘What?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘That’s an Mi24!’

  ‘Fucking hell...’ Moran let out.

  I transmitted, ‘All teams, stay hidden, that’s an Mi24 attack helicopter, covered in armour, rockets and machineguns.’

  The trees ahead thinned, so I moved cover to cover, the team copying me.

  Mister Haines had panicked everyone at their strip, all eyes now on the sky, RPGs down tubes, 66mm made ready, men hidden. The roar grew, the two Mi8s circling, no one seen below. After a third circuit, the Mi8s stunned Haines by landing.

  Doors flung open, the first crewman was hit by an RPG fired from just twenty yards, everyone inside killed, a fire started. A 66mm hit the second Mi8, killing everyone inside, a GPMG opening up on it, it’s door open.

  With both Mi8s now on fire, bodies on the floor, the Mi24 stalked in from the south.

  Haines looked up, and crapped himself. ‘Run!’ Only after running did he warn those down the strip.

  The Mi24 opened up, previously held positions loudly torn up by missiles and guns as the 2 Squadron lads fled into the trees. The excited team in the middle had not heard the orders, but had moved back, only to find the juicy target just hovering there. They fired RPG and 66mm, a lucky strike damaging the tail rotor. The Mi24 started to slowly rotate, the pilot struggling to control it.

  GPMGs opened up on the stricken helo, the tail hit, another tail rotor lost. The Mi24 started to spin faster. With little choice, it set down with a thud.

  The jubilant 2 Squadron gunners ran at it, right to within fifty yards – a roar in their ears and being blown at by the downdraft, and they foolishly fired RPG and 66mm, several explosions seeming to indicate the helicopter damaged, but the Mi24’s armour was mostly intact, the pilot seen peering out the window – and now with sore ears.

  Seeing a hole in the rear cabin door, a 2 Squadron lad ran in and pulled the pin on a red smoke grenade, shoving it through the hole with a banged fist. He stepped back as the cabin filled with red smoke, best avoided by those hoping to breathe.

  A minute later the door opened, white-skinned pilot and gunner surrendering, and hacking their guts up as they dropped to their knees, eyes watering. The crew were duly kicked, and dragged away as Haines returned to the strip, men radioing that the Mi24 was down. What he did not know was that his men now aimed with a 66mm, and fired through the open door.

  The blast blew out of the open door, minor wounds picked up by the bystanders, but the helicopter was not on fire, which was disappointing because the two Mi8 were roaring. A corporal ran in and clambered up the side of the helicopter, opening a hatch. Cap unscrewed, he could smell fuel. Running back, four men got ready, and fired at the vapour-filled opening.

  A burst of flame, and they were jubilant. Not so Haines, who shouted at them to withdraw sharpish, the Mi24 – now well alight – carrying rockets.

  As everyone expected a big bang, nothing happened, and half an hour later the Mi24 was a burnt out Mi24, its frame and armour still intact. At that moment an electrical short fired rockets across the strip, tearing down several trees near the civvy huts. All agreed to stay away from it, just in case.

  I had plodded on, finally getting a report from Haines. ‘Excellent work, we’ll be there in a few hours.’ I transmitted, ‘2 Squadron destroyed three helicopters, so we’ll never hear the end of it. Close back up.’

  Reaching the river, everyone now hot and sweaty, I heard a drone. ‘More fucking helicopters,’ I let out.

  ‘Could wait till after dark,’ Moran suggested.

  ‘Might come to that,’ I said with a sigh.

  Sat in the tree line sipping water, we all looked up as an Mi8 drifted past looking for us, and we did not want to be caught out in the open. It came back across, but we all leapt up as the loud cackle of 30mm cannon filled the air, a Lynx rushing in, the Mi8 dropping like a stone and smoking.

  I transmitted, ‘Everyone up, soon be back for tea and medals.’ I rushed down and crossed the river without falling in, my team following. We covered the others as they crossed, Stretch falling in to much laughter and some very loud abuse.

  Plodding on, the day damn hot, we used up just over an hour to reach the strip, the three helicopters still smouldering, 2 Squadron lads emerging from the trees.

  ‘Been having fun?’ I asked Haines.

  He proudly stated, ‘We parachuted in, we shot down these three, so we have a good story out of it. Some of the lads have cameras, and we’ve photographed the scene, and we have a video camera.’

  ‘Next year’s recruitment poster,’ I quipped. Phone out, I called Captain Harris and asked for two Chinook, the lads looking over the burnt-out helicopters, and the burnt bodies within, two prisoners sat bound-up. The question now ... was where they had come from, and who was paying them.

  I stood over the Russian crew and questioned them in Russian, the men admitting to being training instructors for the Ivory Coast Army, and that the Mi8s belonged to the Ivory Coast Government. I shook my head and stepped away, phone out. I called Max.

  ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Listen, get this out on Reuters right now. Two Ivory Coast Army Mi8 helicopters attack British forces inside Liberia, both shot down, crew killed. An Mi24 helicopter also belonging to the Ivory Coast Army was shot down as it attacked British forces, pilots taken prisoner. Then get yourself a ride to where Mister Haines is and get some snaps. How’s it going with the Para’s?’

  ‘They killed a lot of rebels, took some prisoners, and about ten Paras have been wounded, none killed.’

  I called the Cabinet Office and gave them the story, and there would be shouting later at the Ivory Coast Ambassador.

  When the Chinooks arrived they offloaded supplies, our prisoners boarded, the Echo teams split, and twenty minutes later we bumped down at the FOB, our prisoners bound for Freetown – and some awkward moments in front of the TV cameras ahead for them. I had left the Wolves behind with Haines, his strip still under threat.

  Off the Chinooks, I could see the stacked weapons crates, but also the FBI. I ignored the FBI and walked inside with the lads, my weapon made safe, Colonel Clifford greeting me.

  ‘News in various places about the hostages, and the captives, a bit of a diplomatic row going on, American press having a go at Ivory Coast,’ he reported.

  ‘2 Squadron shot down 3 helicopters at their strip, all Ivory Coast Army.’

  ‘Oh hell. That strip is inside Liberia, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir, so Ivory Coast is in trouble.’ I accepted a brew from the young lad, and Clifford updated me on what had happened elsewhere. Stepping out later, I called the Air Commodore.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, my boy, how’s it going?’

  ‘Very well, especially for 2 Squadron.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘They parachuted onto an isolated airfield, then this morning they shot down three attack helicopters.’
/>   ‘They did? By god, we’ll get some good exposure from that. Any wounded?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have those MOD cameramen fly out to film it all. And the para school instructors are doing well, four drops, lots of experience.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it should all help greatly. Talk soon, Wilco out.’

  I placed the dodgy cash in my crate without anyone seeing and grabbed the cash off Moran before joining my team as they keenly grabbed food from the mess tent. We sat eating in the sunshine, all then turning in, the FBI still studying the weapons crates.

  I woke as the sun started to set, stiff all over, and eased out without waking the others, in need of a pee. Downstairs I was handed a brew, then had the keen young lad sit and clean my rifle as I instructed him on what to do.

  The FBI were now gone, Colonel Clifford preventing them taking crates, which made me smile. He had consulted with London, and had then told Manstein to fuck off.

  My phone trilled, a US number. ‘Wilco here.’

  ‘Colonel Mathews. Can you talk?’

  ‘Yes, sir, just woke up. You got your hostages?’

  ‘Yes, two Americans, two Germans, and some Africans, who we dropped in Freetown. One of the Americans was CIA, but the captors never knew that.’

  ‘I’m sure the guy will claim that he allowed himself to be captured.’ I could hear laughter in the background.

  ‘Claims along those lines have already been made, yes.’

  ‘And the prisoners, sir?’

  ‘We have a big fish. Most were wanted men, but one is a Nigerian oil billionaire, so he’ll have to explain what he was doing at that airfield.’

  ‘British Government might want to chat to him as well, sir, and I’d like a few minutes alone with him.’

  ‘I bet you would. What happened near the border?’

  ‘Two Mi8 and one Mi24 attacked our men, but got shot down. They came in too close.’

  ‘The State Department is kicking up a shit storm about it, and about that base you hit, the Ivory Coast labelling it an unprovoked attack, African Union set to meet, White House just about threatening to stick a nuke up their asses.’

  ‘Did your boys get a good write-up, sir?’

  ‘They did, all over the breakfast news, so we owe you another one. But we had a complaint from the FBI, again, but this time they also complained about our Marines as well.’

  ‘If they had remained any longer those attack helicopters would have been an issue, sir. Do they think they’re bullet proof?’

  ‘Fucking FBI think the badge is enough. So what’s next in your campaign?’

  ‘Still stragglers out there, sir, that will take a few days, then it’s peacekeeping.’

  ‘Senator Lieberson was on the breakfast news, mentioned that he met the President of Liberia and asked for intel on hostages, kind of implied that this rescue was down to him.’

  ‘Politicians the world over are all the same, sir. But we might have intel on the hostage takers in Mali soon, the one’s that held the skeleton hostages.’

  ‘We’d be very interested in that job.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir.’

  ‘Well done, and thanks for everything, we got the story we wanted. Take it easy, Captain.’

  Phone away, Clifford enquired as to who the ‘sir’ was, a little put out that the Americans called me.

  ‘We need their cooperation, sir, and their aircraft from time to time. All one big happy family in NATO, and all that bollocks.’

  ‘Those FBI strutted around like they owned the damn place!’

  ‘But at least you were nice to them, sir,’ I said with a grin, the lad still cleaning my rifle.

  Lt Col Marsh called me. ‘We think we’ve cleared this area, so how about we move east.’

  ‘West, sir, there are rebels hiding west, none east of you.’

  ‘In that case, we move west then.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Move 1 Para five miles west and north two miles, move your lot five miles due west and south two miles, and comb the area, and keep moving west till you hit your old base, sir.’

  ‘We’ll move in the morning.’

  ‘Let the Gurkhas major know, sir, he has men on all the roads. And any excess stores at your current location, have the Chinooks move them over or the MOD will whinge.’

  ‘Hah, I’m a movie star now, destined for the silver screen. They put make-up on me, then cam cream over it, and I had to clean my teeth.’

  I laughed. ‘I’m sure you looked very pretty, sir.’

  ‘That’s what the cheeky bastards around here said.’

  Studying the map, I had a task passed to the Marines, forty men to be moved to 2 Squadron tonight, just in case. I asked that they be well armed with GPMG and 66mm, and updated Haines, his strip still quiet for now, and affectionately known as the ‘helicopter graveyard’.

  Many of the Echo lads wandered down during the night since most had slept during the day. They cleaned kit and replenished, and I spent twenty minutes with Dicky and Mouri describing the action on the map board. Smitty still had a sore face, but Army medics passing through and had a look. I shouted at Rocko, Rizzo and Robby, and they would check each man for infected wounds or see their pay cut.

  In the early hours I received word that the Prime Minister would be making a secret visit today, landing at dawn. I spent half an hour trying to clean myself up, but that was just a hope, and I grabbed a jeep heading to the airport at 4am. This was the first time I had driven this route, and it was good to take in the countryside and the towns – albeit in the dark.

  A long two hours later, the roads poor, we pulled in past two separate checkpoints, and I was impressed as we drove along the line of Hercules, RAF Police with dogs guarding them with 37 Squadron lads in the grey half-light.

  At the Intel section it was quiet, the night duty staff puzzling my sudden appearance.

  ‘Prime Minister is on his way down,’ I told them, a sudden panic to tidy-up the room, a few people woken early – and not appreciating being woken early. I sat with a coffee, a microwave burger handed to me and much appreciated, the Intel staff asking about my trip into the Ivory Coast.

  An hour later, the day shift starting to arrive and notified about the visit, a plane landed and I stepped outside, grabbing a jeep. We drove towards the plane and waited for it to come to a halt, a HS748 small passenger jet, RAF colours.

  With the engines winding down the door was finally opened, just as jeeps came around with Colonel Marchant and his senior staff.

  I saluted. ‘Did the PM get you up early, sir?’

  ‘He did. But he’s the boss.’

  The PM stepped down looking casual, the Defence Secretary with him, the head of the Air Force and the head of the Joint Chiefs.

  I saluted. ‘Welcome to Sierra Leone, Prime Minister.’ We shook.

  ‘Is it quiet today?’ he asked, shaking hands with Colonel Marchant.

  ‘So far, sir, but it is early.’

  We mounted jeeps and headed to Colonel Marchant’s office, guards stamping to attention outside. Inside, tea and coffee was made, cake offered, plenty of chairs laid out around the edges of the office.

  Still cradling my rifle, I sat with a coffee, everyone soon seated.

  The PM faced me. ‘Overnight the Americans bombed two bases inside Ivory Coast, hit helicopters and other aircraft, but avoided casualties, an escalation I’m still not sure about. The helicopters that attacked our men...’

  ‘I spoke to the Russian pilots that survived, and they worked for the Ivory Coast Army, training other pilots – there was no doubt about that fact, and that base I hit had been there for decades.’

  He nodded. ‘The African Union meet tomorrow, the UN debating it, calling for peacekeepers.’

  ‘The last lot of peacekeepers were dealing in blood diamonds and raping the local girls,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yes, quite, so we’re resisting. What’s left to do?’

  ‘There are small pockets of
rebels, sir, but not a threat. They are a threat to our men driving down roads, so we need to try and remove as many as possible, but of the four thousand originals ... about five hundred are still alive.’

  ‘Jesus,’ the head of the Air Force left out. ‘Are we likely to get criticised for that?’

  ‘Possibly, sir, but the French buried most of them, no Red Cross poking around, and most of those killed in the jungle will stay and rot where they are.’

  The PM said, ‘And our friend in Monrovia?’

  ‘Happy to assist any which way, and if we want to keep the Red Cross out he could police his own borders, letting us in and no one else.’

  ‘That’s one option,’ the PM mused. ‘And I hear his men meet ours and chat?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and they hand over pigs and chickens.’

  ‘No future threat from him?’

  ‘He saw the BBC programme about our para drop ... and shat his trousers.’

  They laughed.

  ‘It was good footage, yes,’ the PM agreed. ‘And this RAF unit of soldiers?’

  ‘2 Squadron RAF Regiment, sir,’ I corrected him. ‘They parachuted into a remote airfield at dawn, secured it, then shot down three attack helicopters – or so the story will say.’

  ‘What really happened?’ the head of the RAF asked.

  ‘The helicopters failed to spot your men, sir, landed and opened doors, then got a missile in the head from twenty yards away.’

  ‘We’ll gloss that over,’ he suggested, the men laughing. ‘And 1 Squadron?’

  ‘They joined the Gurkhas and saw some action, sir, still deep inside Liberia and living rough, some contacts.’

  ‘And the Paras?’ the head of the Army asked.

  ‘Are moving west as one large force, sir, searching the jungle for stragglers, a few minor wounds being picked up.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ the PM asked.

  ‘A few days, sir, unless ... you want me to drag it out.’

  ‘Cost is one factor, wounded men another, but once this is wrapped up they go back to barracks,’ the PM noted. ‘We’ve decided to cancel some large exercises and send men here instead, even the Marines and Navy.’