Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Lieutenant Mahoney,’ I called. ‘Did you discus with your countrymen my walk into the camp?’

  He took a moment answering. ‘No. And if there’s a problem, I’ll be in Leavenworth.’

  ‘No you won’t, because those way above you are well aware of my actions here, as is my boss. Whether or not they choose to share that information ... is up to them. So if anyone asks, you simply mention that fact.’

  ‘And if I had told them?’ he asked.

  ‘Then we’d have to consider your position with us, but I would not have shot you in the leg or anything – you’re our guest after all. And I’m sure that the French will report it, and that the lads will gossip about it.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Colonel Mathews here.’ Again he sounded like he was on speaker phone. I stood and stepped away, taking in the camp below.

  ‘When do you sleep, sir?’

  ‘I cat nap, two hours at a time. When do you sleep?’

  ‘When the job is done, sir.’

  ‘Any changes on the ground?’

  ‘Your men are moving down the hill as we speak, and will move around the south side, then up to the hostage buildings, the idea being to get inside before the alarm is given. We have forty snipers on the wire, so we’re in a good position; we out-number the bad guys.’

  ‘Then it should be straight forwards.’

  ‘We can only hope so, sir.’

  ‘This is the CIA Chief of Operations.’

  ‘I am indeed honoured, sir, being just a humble captain an all.’

  I could hear laughter.

  ‘Our people have spoken to our friend, and thanked him, and we thank you for your role. As ever, you do impress, Humble Captain. If you get bored where you are, or feel constrained...’

  ‘Oh dear, I can hear my boss grinding his teeth and threatening to pen a letter of disappointment in you.’

  I could again hear laughter.

  ‘A letter of disappointment I can handle. Thanks once again, hope the operation goes off well.’

  ‘Colonel Mathews here again. How’d you rate these French copycats?’

  ‘They’re good, fit and strong, and now thinking like my lads, their planning coming along nicely. They have, in the past, had rigid plans handed to them, but Paris now realises that men on the ground need to make decisions.’

  ‘We were surprised that Paris would loosen the leash.’

  ‘They wanted to copy us, and I emphasised that flaw in their thinking.’

  ‘And the Algiers screw-up?’

  ‘An Algerian screw-up more than a French one, sir. French hadn’t even got their kit on.’

  ‘And you really warned that guy about snipers, and he walks to the window and gets shot?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Jesus. Someone warns me about snipers I’m under the table, not waving out the window.’

  ‘It was a mistake he’ll not repeat, sir.’

  ‘No. If you don’t mind answering, did you report the French hitting civilians in Morocco and complain, or did London complain?’

  ‘I complained, and leaked the story to the press so that my team would not get blamed. We avoid civilian casualties where we can. We like to shoot the bad boys, in abundance, but not their kids.’

  ‘Good to know. Mathews out.’

  I hit the red button and returned to the flysheet as it was taken down and rolled up.

  ‘Pentagon again,’ I told my team. ‘A sitrep.’

  Sasha closed in with his team. ‘We go?’

  ‘Yes, we go. Everyone ready? Major Liban?’

  ‘We are ready, yes.’

  With Swifty at my shoulder, Moran and Mahoney behind, I checked my rifle, magazine out, weighed in my hand and back in, and moved off slowly down the slope.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘All units stand by, main body on the move down. Dicky, gate guards when you see movement to your left, get close now.’

  ‘Dicky here, we can take these idiots with knives.’

  ‘Do so quickly. Tomo, see any movement?’

  ‘Two guards walking about, men on the roof, that’s it so far.’

  ‘Roger that, stay sharp.’

  I lifted my sat phone as we walked and recalled a number.

  ‘Captain Harris?’ came a tired voice.

  ‘Chinooks ready?’

  ‘They’re tasked to take off around 5.30am, waiting on your call.’

  ‘Vehicles?’

  ‘Column left a while ago.’

  ‘We’re moving to final positions now, all quiet so far. Wilco out.’

  Twenty minutes later I eased through a broken fence and over rubble, past the remnants of a barracks, and to a wall created by two burnt out APCs from last year. The men gathered behind the APCs and bunched up, the APCs black, the parade ground concrete appearing a dark grey, the men all black blobs. Peering around an APC, I could just make out the Deltas moving around to the south.

  ‘Dicky for Wilco, I forgot to report we killed those gate guards.’

  ‘OK, watch that road. And don’t steal the men’s watches.’

  The men around me laughed quietly in the dark.

  Ten minutes later, came, ‘It’s Rocko, you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, good signal.’

  ‘Looks like the Yanks are about to move on the hostage buildings, so we’ll hit the roof guards from here, then the game is up.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Two minutes later I heard quiet cracks, suddenly a burst of automatic fire, the game well and truly up. ‘On me, slow and steady.’

  I walked around the APC and jogged to the burnt out Mi8, which had been hit by an RPG fired from Running Bear himself. I set automatic, told the others to do likewise and to kneel, and as lights came on we opened up, a hell of a racket created, windows shot out, curious faces hit, a fierce five minute volley.

  ‘Ceasefire. Single shot.’

  I could hear Tomo’s team firing, also the French, the hostage buildings quiet.

  My phone trilled. ‘It’s Running Bear, we have the hostages.’

  ‘Wait the dawn, I’ll organise the helos when we’ve cleared those buildings. Any wounded?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  Phone away, Swifty fired at something, most of the team with me not seeing anything worth shooting at, and I trod on dozens of brass cartridges.

  ‘It’s Rocko, we got six trying to leg it away.’

  ‘Roger that, don’t move in, keep outside the wire for now.’

  Cracks sounded out through the dark for half an hour, the black night slowly surrendering to a grey dawn.

  I made a call, and had the vehicle convoy move on up to us. Phone away, I said, ‘Major Liban, have your men on the north fence clear that first building, but slow and careful.’

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Rocko, clear the second building from the top, French are moving on the first building. Check your fire.’

  I called back Running Bear. ‘Can you clear that next building, we’re just about to hit the others.’

  ‘Sure, it seems quiet anyhow, bodies front and back.’

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up, Deltas moving on the building next to them, check your fire.’

  As we observed, the light improving minute by minute, six Deltas moved out of the hostage building and up to the next building. Windows peeked into, they ducked under the windows and to the door. It was not till they reached the second floor that they opened fire, several quick bursts.

  Bursts of fire came from the other buildings for just a matter of minutes before it fell quiet. Rocko appeared at the front of his building, so I walked forwards, the team spread out.

  As we neared, the Deltas appeared in doorways, glances taken left and right.

  ‘Any wounded?’ I shouted.

  No one responded, the French appearing from their building.

  ‘Rocko, set fire to it.’ He slowly turned around and disappeared inside.

  Major Liban shouted similar instruction
s, copied by Running Bear as he appeared.

  ‘Burn it down, guys.’

  I called Captain Harris and finally asked for the Chinooks. ‘Helos on the way,’ I told Running Bear, many men now just stood around with nothing to do. ‘Your Embassy Staff OK?’

  ‘More than OK,’ he said with a grin. ‘Fucking delighted to be alive. They did not ... enjoy that ride. And it was an internal flight.’

  ‘Did it run out of fuel?’

  ‘Pilots said so, they landed on empty.’

  ‘Burnt well enough for being on empty.’

  ‘Always a reserve I guess.’

  White men in shirts appeared from a hostage building.

  ‘Listen,’ I told Running Bear. ‘British and French were never here, this is a Delta Force operation, you get the credit. We’ll walk back.’

  ‘Politics?’

  ‘It’s all about politics.’

  ‘You ... going back into Panama?’

  I checked over my shoulder. ‘Unlikely, but possible. But Petrov came out the bag today, and it helped. Your lads..?’

  ‘Not briefed, never knew I was in Panama.’

  ‘Keep it that way. Mahoney don’t know, and things upset him – things he don’t understand. He thinks I’m up to no good on my day off.’

  ‘You probably are!’ Running Bear said with a grin.

  ‘Oh, don’t leave Sierra Leone, we may have other American hostages. Waiting intel.’

  ‘I’ll mention it up the line.’

  I clicked on the radio. ‘All Echo, withdraw to the west.’ Off the radio, I said, ‘Major Liban, withdraw back to the hill.’

  He nodded, soon on the radio, men walking across the parade ground as buildings burnt, smoke issued into the still dawn air and climbing lazily.

  When the line of jeeps and trucks appeared I led my team west, and beyond the burnt-out APCs. At the fence I looked back, the last man, hostages being loaded to trucks, a drone on the breeze.

  The Chinooks loudly circled around, making their presence felt and contacting me on my radio frequency. They touched down with ramps down ready, lines of hostages being led out of their buildings and herded aboard with some urgency.

  I was about to turn away when a black man knocked down a Delta, grabbed his gun as my eyes widened, and shot the Delta, spraying hostages, the black shot dead a second later.

  Welsh Guards ran in, Deltas, other hostages helping, the wounded being quickly loaded to the Chinooks.

  ‘We go?’ Moran shouted as he ran down to me.

  ‘No, they have enough hands.’

  ‘That black guy, he was one of the hijackers!’

  I nodded, and clicked on the radio. ‘Wilco for Chinooks, some of the hostages are hijackers, have the crewman watch the cockpit door, armed, be very fucking careful.’

  ‘Chinook, Wilco, roger.’

  ‘Get a Welsh soldier or two aboard!’ I added.

  The Chinooks pulled away little more than a minute later, heading north before banking west, peace reclaiming the jungle.

  ‘This is Tomo, we stay here?’

  ‘For now, wait for the Deltas to leave.’

  I led Moran up the slope fifty yards to Swifty and Mahoney, and as a group we paused to look back, the vehicle convoy turning in a big circle and heading off, soon no one left moving around, the top three buildings well alight.

  ‘OK, Tomo come in. Dicky, you there?’

  ‘Moving up the hill.’

  I called Captain Harris as we plodded up the slope. ‘It’s Wilco, wounded coming in, get four or five ambulances to meet the Chinooks.’

  ‘OK, will do. You lot OK?’

  ‘Yes, but a Delta was shot, some hostages.’

  Phone away, Swifty said, ‘I knew it was going too well.’

  ‘Damn rooky mistake, we know not to untie hostages!’ Mahoney complained. ‘Fucking “Day One” mistake.’

  At the top of the hill we formed up, a headcount done, Major Liban happy that no one was left behind, and we put one muddy foot in front of other as I updated the Duty Officer at SIS.

  A long six hours later we walked into the FOB as one damp muddy group, a few jeeps waiting, more men milling around than before.

  ‘Welcome back,’ the RTC captain offered me. ‘And quite a jaunt I hear.’

  ‘Hijack plane landed right in front of us. Still, we got the hostages out, a few wounded.’

  ‘I spoke to the airport; two dead hostages, one dead American soldier, one wounded, four wounded hostages.’

  I turned to Mahoney, who simply shook his head and walked inside. ‘He knew the man killed.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Protect this place while we sleep, eh.’

  ‘Will do, got a platoon here.’

  My phone trilled, so I stepped away as the men filed past, all looking tired, all with muddy boots. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Colonel Mathews. You not asleep yet?’

  ‘Right after some food.’

  ‘We have the detail of what happened, but we want an outside perspective as well. Did you see the incident?’

  ‘Yes, from about two hundred yards. A hijacker grabbed a weapon off your man, shot him and then sprayed the hostages, shot dead a moment later. According to my embedded Delta, a rooky mistake.’

  ‘Damn right, and I’m mad as hell because it is a rooky mistake. If it hadn’t happened it would have been a good rescue. Now we’re a man down. The captain will get his arse kicked.’

  ‘In fairness, sir, it seems that only a few of the hostages had been tied up by the gunmen. Your twenty men would have spent two hours binding them when we had fifteen minutes before the helos arrived.’

  ‘A good point, yes. No wounded on your side?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you walked back?’

  ‘A good leg stretch, sir.’

  ‘You asked our men to stay there?’

  ‘I’m waiting intel on further hostages, sir. That may or may not materialise, but I’d give it a few days.’

  ‘We will do, and we’ll have more men there soon, and ships. Get some chow and some sleep, Captain, and thanks.’

  ‘I heard that you snore during your cat naps, sir.’

  ‘What? Who told you that?’

  I cut the call, smirking. Sighing loudly, I reclaimed a rubber mat, muddy kit dumped down, things crawling away and being stamped on.

  ‘Our crates here?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Yeah, downstairs somewhere.’

  ‘I need to jump in the river and then hang this lot to dry,’ Swifty added.

  ‘It’ll dry on you in this heat,’ Mahoney noted.

  ‘Get some shut eye,’ I suggested. I folded the mat in two along its length whilst being curiously observed, lay on my side on the double-thickness mat and cradled my rifle, facemask and gloves put back on, my rolled-up webbing for a pillow. ‘Comfy enough.’

  When I woke, the sun now down, I eased up stiff, a mini-aerobics session as I sat there, few others stirring. Easing up quietly, I prised off my facemask and gloves and pocketed them before heading downstairs.

  The Welsh Guards were sat around the canteen, all eyes on me as I entered, Whisky sat with a brew – a nod my way.

  ‘Anyone seen our crates?’

  ‘Down the bottom end, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I eased past, found the crates, opening the one I shared with Swifty. Fresh shirt and trousers for us both, soap kit, I headed back up, dumping Swifty’s clean clothes over his knees as he slept, his trousers now dry and caked with mud.

  Back downstairs, I was handed a bucket of warm water and stripped in a dark side room, rifle leant against the wall. Stood naked, I washed my groin and armpits, neck and face – hands and finger nails, and dressed in clean shirt and trousers, boots back on. My old clothes I left to soak in the bucket with my facemask and gloves.

  In the canteen they made space for me, warm mince meat in a saucepan handed over with some bread, as well as a fresh brew.

  ‘Keep sp
oiling me like this and you might get a good review,’ I told them.

  Whisky began, shaking his head, ‘You go out on a simple recon, and you start World War Three.’

  ‘We were in the right place at the right time,’ I told him with a grin. ‘Or the other way around, depending on your outlook.’

  The RTC captain began, ‘Hostage rescue was all over the news in the States apparently, and on the BBC World Service, but they said it was America soldiers..?’

  ‘We provided cover for the Americans. On jobs like this they take priority, and we Brits do what we’re told by our Uncle Sam.’

  ‘Hardly seems fair,’ the captain noted.

  ‘What matters ... is that the hostages got out, not the size of anyone’s ego.’

  A young lad pointed at my rifle. ‘What exactly is that, sir?’

  ‘AKML. Basically an AK47 with a long barrel, and still 7.62mm, modern Russian rifles are 5.45mm. More reliable than any other rifle, and we pick up ammo off the dead. So if we’re on a job for three weeks we don’t need three weeks of ammo, which would be more than we could carry.’

  ‘And you don’t have backpacks, sir?’

  ‘Hard to fight with a backpack on. Normal soldiering involves tabbing some place with a heavy backpack, dropping it and getting your webbing on, going off to fight then returning to your kit. We might cover a long distance, constant fighting, no time to drop kit and pick it up all the time.

  ‘And here, and in the desert, it’s hot – so no need for sleeping bags and tents, and we’re not usually around for more than a few days. If you’re going to be some place for weeks then you need Bergens. We brought our crates, change of clothes, boots, some bits and pieces, but it’s normal to do a three day job in the same clothes you travelled out in – a bit stinky on the plane back for the RAF.

  ‘Sergeant Whisky here has been known to make long journeys with little more than he’s wearing – and a pocket knife.’

  Whisky smiled widely. ‘In my youth; these days I like a good sleeping bag and a hot water bottle. For troopers, your lot carry very little. And I prefer the AKM as well, more damn reliable than the M16. You deliberately use bandolier mags as body armour?’

  ‘Not at first, just wanted to carry mags without webbing, but after it saved my life – six times – it made sense. French lads have copied it. You have extra mags, and some body armour.’