Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Swifty asked, now concern.

  ‘We got a ten mile perimeter track, hills and buildings. There must be fifty thousand people that can see us from their kitchen windows!’

  ‘That always helps,’ he scoffed.

  ‘Where that plane was, there’s a fucking public road ten yards away.’

  Doors opened, we stepped down into the heat, many local police cars around us, lights flashing, French soldiers in the mix. They led us to a huge modern grey hangar, one side hosting executive jets, one side full of tents being erected indoors by a hundred French soldiers, many dressed in black and looking like SAS regulars.

  Henri spoke to an officer, who directed us to a Portakabin in a corner, big enough for most of us. I left the teams there, and took Moran and the Major to go find whoever was in charge of this operation. I tasked Henri with having our kit delivered from the aircraft. Since that aircraft sat outside the hangar, I was hopeful that our kit would make it to us.

  Upstairs in the control tower, in a large and bustling room below the air traffic controllers, I met again the GIGN major and Henri’s boss, a few French diplomatic types and Intel types.

  One of the Intel types closed in on me as we were offered cold drinks. ‘So, Captain Wilco, we meet at last.’ I shook his hand. ‘I have had much input to your operations with our men, so it is good to finally meet you. I know Bob Staines.’

  ‘Are you in a similar position?’

  ‘No, a rank below that. I am not in the big chair, and few last long in that chair in Paris. It is ... a difficult position to hold onto.’

  ‘Success breeds success,’ I noted, sipping my cold water, a look exchanged with the Major.

  ‘And one failure ends a career,’ the Intel guy noted, and I was not sure quite what he was getting at, or why so many people were warning me about this job. It wasn’t my job.

  One of the diplomatic types called order, and seemed to be in charge. Most everyone gathered around.

  He stared at me for a moment, and then in broken English began, ‘Captain Vilco, SAS, welcome. What is ... your assessment of the situation here?’

  ‘It’s a fuck-up waiting to happen,’ I told him, eyebrows soon being raised by the audience.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Take a look out the fucking window. There are twenty thousand people watching us from their kitchen windows.’ He peered out at the nearby houses. ‘How many are in touch with the hijackers?

  ‘That plane is fifty yards from a public road that no one has closed yet, one simple fence, so terrorists could come here and shoot your men before you even mount a rescue.

  ‘And when we came into land we passed the hijacked plane. What fucking idiot allowed that? If the plane had been blown up, my plane would have crashed – and you would be explaining it to Paris and London.’

  He stepped to the window, the room quiet, a few shocked by my comments. ‘You are correct of course -’

  The crack registered, a spurt of blood, and we all hit the blue carpet, my body over the Major, our diplomat with a big hole in his chest pumping blood in a melee that he was unaware of. The life left him quickly.

  Henri’s boss turned to me as we lay there. ‘I think they hear you.’

  I told him, ‘If you want to fuck the GIGN, pull your men out, leave this to them.’

  The GIGN officers turned towards me, uneasy looks exchanged with Henri’s boss; they knew I was right as I eased off the Major.

  Ten minutes later, sirens wailing, Moran, the Major and I made it back to the Portakabin alive, our crates being opened.

  ‘Nothing good will come of being here,’ I told the Major as I grabbed my bandolier and webbing. ‘I’ll call Bob.’ Loudly, I shouted, ‘All of you, get ready, the man in charge was just shot dead by a sniper mid-sentence. This place may get lively.’

  They were all concerned as I checked and loaded my rifle. I stepped out the hangar, sat phone out. I punched numbers, wary of snipers. ‘Bob, it’s Wilco - now in sunny Algiers. The man in charge here was just shot dead by a sniper.’

  ‘He was? My god.’

  ‘I vote we pull out, nothing good can come of this.’

  ‘We promised Paris, so please stay for now, but what are the issues – snipers aside?’

  ‘The airfield is exposed, tens of thousands of abodes with a view of the plane, probably a few chatting by phone to the bad guys. There’s no way to sneak up on it, day or night. And we already have snipers in range, so any movement around here is life threatening.’

  ‘I’ll update the Cabinet Office now. Hang in there.’

  Phone down, I took in the houses across the runway as Moran and Swifty appeared at my side.

  ‘We staying?’ Moran asked.

  ‘For now, the team staying in the damn hangar, tin hats on.’

  The crackle of automatic fire was unmistakeable, and we glanced around.

  ‘On me!’ I shouted, and I ran, breaking into a sprint, French soldiers copying me as I ran left, around the edge of the hangars, and into view of hijack plane. I kept going, hearing boots on tarmac behind me, and now I had a five hundred yard sprint ahead of me, rifle in hand, webbing on. Still, I was feeling better these days as I put the speed on.

  With a police jeep passing me, rails on the top and sidesteps, I jumped on and managed not to break a leg, or end up under the wheels. Stood on the sidestep, gripping with my left hand, I tried to get my rifle into position.

  What I could see was that a truck had punched through the outer fence, not a hard task, and it seemed to have rammed the plane, or stopped next to it. Men in the truck were firing at the local police. I could see bodies, men limping away, and now men on top of the truck.

  The aircraft’s front right-side door opened, and now I realised what was happening; the hijackers were fleeing. But as I observed, the men on the truck jumped into the plane, not the other way around.

  The jeep I was holding onto slowed right down so I stepped down, into a steady jog, but wondering about just what the hell I was doing here, and about to do next; they were inside the plane and had hostages.

  The jeep stopped, I stopped, now some three hundred yards away, and now out of ideas. This was back to being a standoff. I knelt and peered through my sights, seeing wounded Algerian police moving around. I started forwards, figuring I might get them men to safety.

  The blast took me by surprise, and I halted, shocked, the nose of the plane falling, the tail falling backwards, a huge plume of flames erupting.

  Recovering from my shock, I sprinted forwards, the jeep also moving forwards now, sirens sounding out from behind me, and I ran around the wings, the heat felt from even a hundred yards away, and I closed in on the tail section at a desperate sprint.

  Rifle down, I remembered what Mahoney had said. Red arrow, EMERGENCY stencilled on white. Finger in, pull open, grab the lever, yank it out. The door popped open. A hand inside, I yanked it for all I was worth, suddenly knocked back and flattened by a large screaming African lady, the wind knocked out of me.

  I managed to roll away, just about getting to my feet as the roar of the flames filled my ears, the heat pushing me back. On my feet, I got back to the door as people jumped out and landed in a pile, several semiconscious. Moving around the pile from the flames, I grabbed arms and dragged people a few yards as more tumbled out of the door.

  Swifty ran in, grabbed a black arm and dragged it, Moran lifting a youth over his shoulder. Between us, we moved three people, dumping them unceremoniously on parched brown grass, desperation in our movement.

  Flames bust from the door, a man on fire bursting out with it. He hit the pile of bodies and rolled off. One more body each, the heat intense, and we had no choice in the matter, perhaps ten saved, those still in the pile engulfed in smoke.

  The passengers we had moved now had air in their lungs and they crawled, walked, or ran away. And we went with them, backing up, the plane’s fire intense, the heat intense even at this distance.

  St
ood at around fifty yards from the tail, we simply stared at the flames as the fire trucks poured foam, French soldiers arriving, ambulances loudly arriving.

  ‘What the fuck did they blow it for?’ Swifty pleaded, and to no one in particular.

  ‘They didn’t,’ I said, still focused on the bodies. ‘Not intentionally. Truck brought in men and explosives, to join them. They didn’t do all that just to blow it. Some fucking accident.’

  ‘There were three hundred people on that plane,’ Moran noted, a quiver in his voice. ‘Nine got out.’

  I turned, a man knelt coughing. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said, grabbing my hand and kissing it.

  I moved to the large fat lady that had flattened me. ‘You OK, lady?’

  ‘God has saved me.’

  A dazed Arab walked back towards us. ‘My family,’ he said in Arabic.

  ‘How many were on board?’ I asked in Arabic.

  ‘Twelve. We ... we were on our way to France to start a new life.’ He collapsed into a heap as the ambulance crews ran over to us.

  ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here,’ I told Swifty and Moran, and we started walking back. I pulled out my sat phone and punched numbers with one hand, rifle in my left hand. ‘It’s Wilco, we’re leaving, plane blew up.’

  ‘It ... blew up?’ Bob queried. ‘They blew it up? Any survivors?’

  ‘Nine, I got nine out in time, rest burnt to death.’

  ‘The Brits on board, the French?’

  ‘None made it. A few black Africans, a few Arabs.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Get our ride refuelled straight away, get the team out before we lose someone for nothing. Wilco out.’

  Phone away, we walked in the heat, all soaked in sweat. I pulled out my bottle and drank, passing it around, and we walked all the way back in the late afternoon heat - many vehicles passing us, and to the hangar, the team assembled outside, expectant faces waiting.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ the Major asked.

  The three of us stopped, dead tired, everyone listening in.

  ‘When I heard firing I figured maybe an attack on the wire, went to have a look. Then it looked like an outside attack on the plane, a truck used to ram it. But the truck wasn’t there to ram it, it had men and explosives, and they boarded the plane.

  ‘Five minutes later, some accident with the explosives, plane blew, cut in half and set on fire.’ I took in their faces. ‘We got nine out, nine out of three hundred, Brits - and French passengers - all dead.’

  I exchanged a look with Moran. ‘Pack the kit, quickly, we’re leaving.’ And I led them into the cool dark interior of the hangar, French soldiers observing us.

  Henri’s boss stepped out to me. ‘Survivors?’

  ‘Nine, none French.’

  ‘There were forty-six French nationals on that damn plane! Children!’

  I nodded, no energy in that simple motion, and we moved on. At the Portakabin I took off my webbing and bandolier, eased inside and sat against a wall, water bottle out, water poured over my face, Signals and Intel observing me.

  I slowly turned my head to them. ‘Pack up, we’re leaving.’

  ‘You look like hell,’ Captain Harris noted.

  I nodded slowly. ‘I just watched three hundred people burn to death.’

  The Major entered the Portakabin and stared down at me.

  ‘Sir, go see the pilots of our ride, ask them to check the outside for bullet holes, then have the crew search for bombs.’

  He turned and stepped out.

  ‘Our plane was hit?’ a lady captain asked, seemingly both horrified and terrified in equal measure.

  ‘There was some shooting, it was in range.’

  Ten minutes later Nicholson stepped in, lifting my webbing and bandolier. With a characteristic smile, he said, ‘Put these in your crate, Boss.’

  ‘Have the senior staff keep rifles ready till the last minute.’

  ‘I’ll tell them now, Boss.’

  Swifty stepped in, just a shirt on – no webbing, and sat next to me, handing me a freezing cold water bottle. I rubbed it across my face and forehead before drinking some as the team clanked around outside.

  ‘You OK?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Feel like ... I’m trying stop the Titanic sinking by using a bucket of water.’

  ‘Frustrating, yes.’

  ‘With a job like this ... I get focused on a good result, maybe too much, maybe I expect good results too much.’

  ‘We’ve had a good run of luck, so yeah – I expect to see happy smiling hostages thanking us, not burning to death. But this was not our job, not our responsibility.’

  I sighed loudly. ‘Yeah, I know.’ I coughed out a laugh. ‘That fat lady, she almost killed me, I was stunned for a minute. Fucker landed on me.’

  Swifty also coughed out a laugh.

  ‘I think she broke a rib,’ I told him before swigging the water.

  When my sat phone trilled, I wondered how it got a signal in here. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Chief Cabinet Secretary, passing your through to the Prime Minister. Hold on.’

  ‘Captain, are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir, just about, maybe a broken rib or two.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A truck with additional hijackers in it rammed the outer fence and approached the plane. The plane door opened, and the men jumped from the roof of the truck into the plane, carrying explosives. I think it was an accident, because if they wanted to kill everyone and themselves they could have just crashed the plane.

  ‘The plane broke in two with the blast, and caught fire. It was all over in two minutes, but I got a door open and got nine out, so ... that was something.’

  ‘Yes, something at least. And how was the plane guarded?’

  ‘Four local police jeeps around it, that’s all, the plane sat on a perimeter track just twenty yards from a main road.’

  ‘Sounds ... a little inept.’

  ‘Very much so, sir.’

  ‘And the French were not surrounding it?’

  ‘They just got here half an hour before, but no ... they were not surrounding it. Not even sure if the Algerians gave them permission for anything in that time.’

  ‘And a senior figure was shot?’

  ‘Right in front of me, sir, as I warned him about the dangers of such things.’

  ‘I think the blame lies with the Algerians in this case, little anyone else could have done.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘We’re recalling your team obviously, nothing to gain by hanging around, hope to have you out of there soon. Bye for now.’

  Phone away, I eased up. ‘I need a wash.’

  Swifty eased up. ‘You and me both.’

  Outside, I found that most of the crates had gone, and most of the team, a few still moving kit. I walked through the hangar with Swifty, and to Henri’s boss.

  He stepped towards me. ‘I will see you in a week, in England, if all goes well. Our new team is called Echo as well. One Major, two platoons with platoon captains, sergeant and nine men, support staff, and eight men in reserve for injury and death.’

  ‘Major, your rescue plans have – in the past – suffered from being too rigid, and being set for you. How much freedom do you think you will have?’

  ‘We will have operational control on the ground, we aim to operate like you, Paris knows this. They will not give us plans.’

  ‘If you are successful, the GIGN will shoot you.’

  He smiled. ‘We compete like cats and dogs, but many of the GIGN started in the Paras. So we are family.’

  ‘We’ll have some games and exercises for you, Major.’

  At the plane, the team stood around, some searching our ride. The pilots approached, short sleeves and sunglasses.

  ‘We’ve checked the skin, can’t see any bullet holes, no bombs found so far.’

  ‘Then maybe we’ll make it back in one piece.’

  ‘This
runway is closed, other is in use, and we have permission to take off in thirty minutes. You can board.’

  ‘Some of us will keep weapons handy till the last minute, and then unload,’ I told him.

  He nodded, taking in the airfield. ‘Hellish day.’

  I waved the lads aboard, but kept a careful eye on the cargo handlers with Swifty till the cargo door was finally closed, and I stood watching the local men withdraw. I even had a look at the undercarriage before I made safe my weapon and boarded, the Major waiting at the top of the steps.

  ‘Get inside, sir, snipers out there.’

  The door closed and we sat in the same seats as the way out, many eyes on me, and taxiing was hell, the take-off being one of the most frightening things I had ever done.

  ‘Is it just me,’ I asked, ‘or is anyone else suddenly afraid of flying?’

  ‘I’ll be damn glad when we land this thing,’ Swifty put in.

  ‘My fucking heart is racing,’ Moran put in. ‘Got images of a burning plane on my mind.’

  Levelling off, the Major stood. ‘Got a minute.’

  I followed him to a quiet area.

  ‘I’ve not seen you affected like that for a while. You OK?’

  I made a face and tipped my head, holding on to seats to steady myself. ‘As I explained to Swifty, I tend to expect good results, that I can save people, and when the plane started burning I got the door open but could only get nine out.’

  ‘That’s nine more than would have got out if you had not been there.’

  ‘I was desperate to get them out, sir.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, you care, like any human being would.’

  ‘I could see faces through the windows, and hear their screams, but there was little I could do.’

  ‘You were frustrated.’ He nodded. ‘You’re used to being able to achieve things, then this happens – and you’re stuck, just one man against the odds, people burning to death in front of you. But that was not our plane, not our job.’

  ‘It felt ... like it was our job, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I felt the same, we didn’t come down here to get a tan.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir, just starting to think the wrong way a bit.’