Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Yes, got that,’ came an excited voice. ‘Any injuries for our lot?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I quipped. ‘Standby, Wilco out.’

  Swifty laughed. ‘French will be pissed off.’

  ‘With a bit of luck ... very pissed off, whilst we get back for tea and medals.’

  The flash caused us to slow down and to look, and I peered behind us, the prison area covered in a dust ball about half a mile wide, secondary explosions firing out bright sparks in all directions.

  ‘You’re slow cooking landmine did the trick,’ I commended as I pulled my head in. ‘All things considered, I think they’ll have more to worry about than us.’

  ‘They’ll need a new town, and a lick of paint,’ he laughed as we crested a rise and dropped down the other side.

  ‘Lights on,’ I said, and he flicked them on, the vehicles behind copying.

  Making good progress southeast, we eventually came across our first pair of oncoming headlights, and I got ready. We slowed to a decent speed, drove on the right and gave plenty of room, but whoever they were they stopped.

  As they opened their doors I could see three men in the cab with weapons, and as Swifty slowed down and drew level I fired a long burst at point blank range, Swifty speeding up as I thrust my head through the window to see the lads behind. They couldn’t shoot and drive. No fire came back as we sped on.

  Ten minutes later I could see the moon reflecting off the ocean, and I directed Swifty to slow and turn northeast down a track. It was hard going – probably hell for the hostages in the back, but we covered a mile or so, and I was confident that it was a sparsely populated area. We halted and I jumped down, sat phone out, engines off.

  ‘We close to the drop off point?’ Swifty asked through the dark.

  ‘If that hill is the one I think it is, then we’re ... a mile southwest of the drop off point. Hopefully.’ I turned. ‘Unload the hostages, put the jeeps in a line facing the sea, lights on.’

  Dialling #1, I waited, scuffing sand with my boots.

  ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re a mile southwest of the drop-off point, three vehicles in a line with their lights on, request immediate extraction. We’ll flash the lights when we see the choppers, area has no bandits, flat enough I guess.’

  ‘They’re standing ready.’

  ‘Tell them to have just a few soldiers, spare room for all of us, that’s fifteen warm bodies to transport. There’s no prison for them to storm, sir.’

  ‘They’re a little put out...’ he whispered.

  ‘Circumstances dictated, sir. Call me back when they lift off.’ I cut the call as the guys lined up the jeeps, headlights on.

  ‘Now what?’ Rocko’s dark outline asked as he exited his vehicle.

  ‘French choppers on their way.’

  ‘Ain’t been here long.’

  ‘Wanna book into a local hotel?’ I asked him.

  ‘No, just saying, that was quick like.’

  ‘That was ... very well executed, if we had planned it. Blind luck ... is not something the French need to know about, or how many men we shot.’

  ‘We blew up the whole fucking town!’

  ‘Which ... we will deny, or play down,’ I insisted. ‘You’re alive and well, and due a medal.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He seemed pleased.

  Waiting in the dark was hell, and I feared for the hostages. To get this far, to be this lucky and have one shot would be a great disappointment. I wandered around them, asking each if they were OK, and reassuring them that French helicopters were on their way.

  Swifty dragged me to one side. ‘The old lady with the bad legs, she asked after the two lads who cooked the food, said they were very kind to her.’

  I took in his silhouetted outline. ‘I saw no cookery lads, did you?’

  He took a moment. ‘No, and ... I guess that blast would have ... removed a lot of evidence.’

  ‘For certain.’

  ‘Wilco!’ Slider called, and we could all hear the choppers.

  ‘Get in the jeeps, flash the lights!’ I shouted, and the lads got to it.

  The choppers were heading up the coast but soon turned and approached, slowed and flared and gave the hostages all a face full of sand and dust, the group hacking and coughing and about to suffocate to death. The first Puma touched down with open doors, and I shoved the hostages forwards, six of them, French soldiers helping them inside. A bright light caused me to peer at a cameraman, and I laughed; they had a TV crew in the choppers.

  With the first Puma pulling away, again everyone hacking from the dust and sand, the second came in, five hostages put aboard, my lads waiting the last ride. We left the vehicle lights on, and knelt with our rifles, magazines tossed away, weapons made safe.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘We represent the Regiment, and the British Army, so no complaining, no injuries, let the French think this was a picnic.’

  We were beckoned forwards, clambering inside and sitting with four French commandos – friendly nods given, drinks taken, faces smirking at each other, a black ocean glimpsed below as we sped away.

  Twenty minutes later we slid sideways onto the deck, bumped down and jumped out, men with large yellow helmets directing us towards Captain’s Tosh and Harris and into the oval door again, and down two decks to our previous accommodation. We made a mess as we took the kit off, a bit of sand on the floor for the French to clean up.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Tosh said from the doorway, beaming. ‘Twenty four hours in and out, no casualties, and the hostages all out. Ship’s Captain is very happy, but that Foreign Legion fucker is not a happy bunny – you did his job for him.’

  ‘Just luck, sir. And I’ll give you a full debrief. There is ... one small problem.’

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Body count.’

  ‘Oh. Well, we’ll blame the French for that.’

  I glanced at Swifty. ‘We set a diversion, a fire under some anti-tank mines, failed to realise how much explosives were stored nearby...’

  ‘And...’ he puzzled.

  ‘We levelled the town,’ Swifty said.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Tosh let out.

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ I said, and I gave each lad a pointed finger.

  ‘What’s the big deal,’ Rocko said. ‘Fucking ragheads.’

  With my kit off, jacket off – but badly in need of a wash, Tosh and Harris led me up to the briefing room, and I was welcomed by the ship’s Captain, Major Ducat not a happy bunny indeed. But he did offer me a reserved ‘Well done’.

  ‘Incredible,’ the ship’s captain enthused. ‘Twenty-four hours, no injuries. Bravo, Wilco, Bravo.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but we were lucky.’ I attended the map. ‘When we reached the hills south of the town we found a large convoy of jeeps coming towards us, but they were holding a festival, fifty armed men dancing around – and odd sight. One of my men was spotted and shot at, so we returned fire and wounded many before moving off, and we stole four jeeps.

  ‘We drove to the town, walking the last half mile, and approached the prison. The engagement in the hills had caused all the towns fighters to go into the hills, and so the area was quiet, a bit of luck for us. We crept into the prison and found the hostages, but a fighter spotted one of my men and opened up, and the game was up.

  ‘We killed the few guards left, got the hostages to our jeeps, and set fire to a weapons depot, not knowing what was inside – we saw anti-tank mines. That depot blew, a large blast the demolished the prison, the resulting explosions a distraction that gave us time to drive away. Just lucky, sir.’

  ‘Incredible. Please, get some food and rest, we’ll take you back to Mombasa in the morning.’

  I faced Major Ducat. ‘There were three jeeps with Duska 50yardsm on the back. If you had flown in, your choppers would have all been shot down, your men all killed or captured.’

  They took a moment, the Captain’s look at Ducat suggesting that he figured Ducat lucky.

&nb
sp; With the Captain’s thanks in my ears I was led out and down, and found the lads washing, a shower much appreciated, a three course meal put on for us, Rocko telling our waiter that he did not want frog’s legs and making us laugh.

  Slider and Rocko were soon asleep, Swifty and myself sat with cold beers in hand, the French navy stocking them.

  ‘That was risky,’ Swifty softly stated.

  ‘Any one of us could have stood on a mine that first morning,’ I quietly commented. ‘Mission scrubbed, us looking stupid. Thing about plans ... is that it’s best not to plan. You study the options, then you make a choice when you get there. As soon as the shooting starts the plan goes out the window.

  ‘We got a result, but could have fucked up at any stage. Take the hostages; if they had been in poor shape we’d not carry them out, just the four of us. And if we had been spotted, someone might have just shot the hostages as a precaution.’

  Swifty nodded. ‘You had me worried a few times.’

  I sipped my beer. ‘Luck, just luck. Step left, landmine, step right, beetle. Artillery shell that killed the lads in Bosnia could have killed me and spared them, it was just twenty yards difference. Pointless analysing it. If you survive you’re a hero, step on a mine and ... he was a good man, never mind, very sad – he’ll be missed for a few days then forgotten.’

  At Mombasa field we were met by a British Deputy Ambassador and his Military Attaché. They took me to one side.

  ‘Bit of a stink brewing; you demolished an entire town.’

  ‘We set fire to a weapons dump, as a distraction, not knowing what was stored in it. If they stored ten tonnes of explosives in one place, we were not to know, sir. Things flew out and exploded around the town ... and, sir, that could have happened at any time from a stray cigarette.’

  He smiled. ‘A good story.’

  ‘It’s true, sir.’

  ‘Right, right,’ and off he went, making me want to kick him in the arse.

  A reverse of the flight, in the very same aircraft, took us to Cyprus, a familiar routine copied in pleasant sunshine, then onto London, where we landed on cold and overcast day – no pleasant sunshine to hand.

  Stepping down, there was quite a reception committee, a dozen police officers flanking them. I recognised the Air Commodore, and strode towards him with a beaming smile. He smiled back genuinely and we shook.

  ‘Good to see you again, sir.’

  ‘Damned good to see you again,’ he offered. ‘Someone saw your name on the transit sheet and mentioned it to me, and I was due here today anyhow.’

  ‘And there’s me thinking you made a special effort...’

  He laughed. ‘I got some of the detail of what happened, I am a staff officer after all, and well done – eleven hostages out, no injuries. Prime Minister is happy, it’s all over the papers.’

  ‘Was supposed to be secret, sir.’

  ‘Not any more, someone leaked it: SAS rescue hostages in joint operation with the French Navy. And they hinted that you headed up the team.’

  ‘They named me?’

  ‘As Wilco, not your real name obviously, and they used the words believed to cover themselves.’

  I sighed. ‘So much for a quiet life. My inflated reputation will get a boost.’

  ‘Deservedly so.’

  I could see Bob Staines and his line manager, and excused myself as the Air Commodore spoke to Swifty. ‘A good result for you, Bob,’ I teased.

  ‘I planned it, it was my responsibility, and my credit.’

  I faced his line manager. ‘Does he get a knighthood?’

  He laughed. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You stole the limelight from the French,’ Bob noted.

  ‘I figured that was what you wanted, asked for or not.’

  ‘Well ... yes, fuck ‘em. Corridors of power are grinning, makes us look better than the French.’

  ‘Milk it, Bob, milk it.’

  He led us inside, tea and coffee waiting, some sandwiches, a quick debrief given to Bob and his boss, a long chat with the Air Commodore, soon onto the coach with our police escort, and the lads were soon asleep. I stared at the fields as they shot past, and at the cold rain as it streaked down the windows.

  Approaching the base, the time now 4pm, I stood and faced the gang. ‘Guys, you’re still on the clock and under my command, so I order you to attend a curry with me, and to drink some beer.’ They cheered. ‘Officers as well. Get cleaned up, usual curry house at 7pm, first customers.’

  The Major met us off the coach with the RSM and quite a crowd, cheers and jeers from many of the lads.

  ‘How was the holiday?’

  ‘Shag any camels?’

  ‘Eat any goats?’

  I saluted the Major. ‘Brought my team back safe and well, sir.’

  ‘Excellent work, our reputation is confirmed, the French pissed off – a good result all round.’

  ‘How’d it get leaked, sir?’

  ‘The damned hostages, some of whom claim you were a bit heavy handed with the gunmen. They sat waiting an uncertain fate, yet sympathise with the ragheads who captured them - a ruddy disgrace.’

  I nodded. ‘This one old lady befriended two cooking lads, and asked us about them after we’d stuck ten rounds in each lad. We denied having seen the lads.’ The Major and the RSM laughed. ‘Curry later, gentlemen, if you’re available.’

  After a cup of tea and a chat with the regular lads, I drove to my apartment with Slider and Rocko following in their cars, the three of us stinking by now, and I let them use the shower first, my posh bathroom in need of a good clean after I had finally showered, sand in the bath.

  Sat with coffees in hand, in civvy clothes, Rocko said, ‘Bit fucking posh this place, ain’t it?’

  ‘Was a gift from Intel, for being a good boy.’

  ‘Yeah, get me one,’ Slider insisted.

  I studied them, and they exchanged looks. ‘If you blab about this, beyond what the fucking press is saying, you get no more jobs. It’s as simple as that. Your CO is to be told that it’s classified, and all enquiries to the MOD.’

  ‘That’ll piss him off,’ Slider noted. ‘He don’t like me now.’

  ‘What about ... other jobs?’ Rocko nudged.

  ‘May be none going, or ten, so fuck knows. They crop up when they crop up, but I’ll keep you in mind. You ... want more jobs?’

  ‘Fuck yeah,’ they said.

  Rocko said, ‘Get’s me away from my boss, something interesting to do.’

  ‘Well, no guarantees, but I’ll give you a good write up.’

  ‘There were no screw ups!’ they insisted, and I agreed.

  At the curry house we met Swifty, Smurf, Rizzo and Stretch, the lads keen for an update and, since it was all over the damned papers, we could chat about it. The RSM turned up before the Major, joined by the captains, and the four operational lads gave various funny takes on what happened – and loudly – since we were the only customers.

  Swifty got told off by the Major for shooting a man in the balls, and I mocked the voice of the old lady looking out for the two cooking boys. Captain Tosh recalled what the French said when he informed them that we’d got the hostages out safely, a few “Rule Britannia’s” sounding out.

  I stood alone with the Major at one point, drinks in hand.

  ‘Excellent job, Wilco,’ he commended.

  ‘Luck, sir, I keep telling people that. If it wasn’t for the cock fest we would’ve had a hard time, might be dead now. A plan is a desired effect, not hard and fast rules. You see the ground in front of you and you go with it.’

  ‘You’ll make a good officer, because you have the experience of plans gone wrong before they try and teach you how to make a good plan – and to stick to it!’

  ‘Well, my over inflated reputation is growing, sir.’

  ‘Currency to us, my boy, currency. Makes us look invincible, which we’re not. Makes our enemies fear us, when half the time we screw it up – like in the Gulf.’

  I
nodded in agreement. ‘Be a tough day if we ever need to live up to that reputation, sir. I clicked empty a few times, shot at many men and winged them instead of killing them, but no one saw it thankfully.’

  He laughed. ‘Your reputation is intact, and it has even reached the Prime Minister.’

  My eyes widened. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘If it had been a shambles, we would have denied you were with us and played it down, labelling you as a mercenary. But because it was such a good result I’m claiming all the credit for my squadron, and the Prime Minister ... he’s now claiming he planned the mission and sent you. Colonel has been congratulated by many in high places.’

  I smiled widely, shaking my head.

  I thanked Captains Tosh and Harris for their participation, and spent ten minutes with the RSM discussing my scenario. The last four lads attempting it were a disaster, four from “G” Squadron, and I pointed out how often I clicked empty in the Somalia. I suggested that I do my own scenario, making him laugh.

  Slider got the sofa after a tossed coin, Rocko the carpet, but he did not mind, and I waved them off in the morning, stood in the rain. Somalia seemed like a dream, not real, and I was due back on the scenario the next day, a heavy sigh heaved.

  A few days later I arrived at Sennybridge Range at the usual time, in time for breakfast, and the Directing Staff were all over me wanting to know about Somalia. I told them I had been to Brighton on holiday, but with a coy smile. The young soldiers helping out were in awe of me, even more so now, and treated me like I was both a visiting general and their favourite uncles all rolled into one.

  A surprise that morning was Rizzo, mixed in with three lads from “B” Squadron. I wondered how he had wangled it, and had the RSM taken a bribe.

  ‘Mister Rizzo.’ I waited. ‘You’re stood in front of me ... again.’

  ‘I wangled it, and I’ve been training hard. Major cleared it.’

  ‘You want to beat Rocko’s score, eh?’

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘Rizzo, front of the Control Room, you – left field, you two right field. And good luck to you all.’