Wilco- Lone Wolf 15

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘They may think the aircraft recon is for a ground assault.’ I stepped out as they debated the plan, and called Admiral Jacobs, figuring him aboard ship up the Red Sea.

  ‘Yeah?’ came a sleepy voice.

  ‘Admiral, it’s Wilco, did I wake you?’

  ‘Yeah, I landed in New York a few hours ago, jet lagged.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Hang on. OK, shoot.’

  ‘North of Sierra Leone is the lawless northeast part of Guinea, rebels massing for an attack south into Sierra Leone or another go at the capital. I need satellite images, then fixed wing photos.’

  ‘That’s easy, and I’m at the Pentagon tomorrow, or tonight. I’ll make the call now.’

  ‘If we find a juicy target, sir, I’ll request an air strike, so ask for permission.’

  ‘Comes under the existing permission – to put down the coup, we still have Marines around our embassy. So we can bomb the shit out of some jungle base.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Sorry to wake you.’

  ‘Hell, we got the game on!’ he enthused.

  We got the game on, I considered as I walked back into the Intel room. I announced, ‘US Navy will sort photographs and satellite images. Captain Harris, formal request to the Americans via the MOD, by the book, eh.’

  ‘You just fucking called them direct!’ he pointed out.

  I held my hands wide. ‘Yes, and now we do the paperwork, keep everyone happy, eh.’

  The Brigadier put in, ‘I’ll fax the UKSF Directorate and update them as well.’

  The nice lady captain offered, ‘I’ll fax the HQ in Freetown.’

  Mutch put in, ‘We have hostages up there, somewhere, perhaps we’d best not bomb them.’

  I glanced at the faces. ‘Human shield,’ I noted.

  ‘That could be an issue,’ Tinker noted, looks exchanged as I sighed, irritated.

  ‘Mutch, I want names of hostages, parent companies.’ I called Captain Moran. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Back at the FOB coordinating it all.’

  ‘Proper officer, eh,’ I quipped. ‘What about Tobo?’

  ‘We put a knackered old Toyota in a Chinook, and cheekily dropped him inside Ivory Coast, down and off.’

  ‘Captain, that was very clever,’ I teased.

  ‘I learnt a thing or two from you, not least how to hide a tin of pears.’

  I smiled. ‘How many men inserted?’

  ‘Three, civvy clothes, some money.’

  ‘Have the rest dropped by helo somewhere quiet, across the border with Guinea, have them split-up and go look for white hostages north of you. Have them ask for work, and put them in uniform, old AK47 – plenty of rebels wandering around up there.’

  Back in the Intel room I detailed the human intel teams now in Ivory Coast and soon to be in Guinea, Tobo’s men now listed on the boards, their movements to be followed.

  A call, and Salome was at the gate – and being rude to MP Pete. I had her driven around. Down from the jeep, MP Pete was not a happy bunny.

  ‘The lady … wanted to know if my rifle made up for my small cock,’ he began.

  ‘Does it?’ I asked him, hiding my grin.

  ‘It gets more attention than my cock these days!’ he told me whilst facing Salome.

  She huffed and walked inside as I thanked Pete, and I followed her cute wiggle, the MPs eyeing her. In the common room she sat, just us for now.

  ‘Tea, black,’ I stated as I made her a drink. Sitting, I began, ‘So what do we owe this pleasure to?’

  ‘They say you won’t assist with Sudan!’

  ‘The Americans blocked it.’

  She shot me a shocked and angered look. ‘Why!’

  ‘The man you wanted killed, he’s called Bin Laden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bin Laden has a paymaster, and that man is taking direction from Langley.’

  She let out a long list of curses in Hebrew, some of which I knew.

  I added, ‘I would guess that they want him to set off bombs so that they can justify their budgets.’

  She shrugged a shoulder, again reminding me of my daughter.

  ‘So your time and your plan has been wasted, I guess. Any … other jobs you want assistance with?’

  She puzzled my offer. ‘You want to help?’

  ‘I work in counter-terrorism. If you have a terrorist, I could go shoot him, yes.’

  She leant forwards to scratch an ankle, most of a boob revealed. I hid my grin. Sipping her tea whilst staring ahead, she began, ‘I wasted time on Bin Laden, they will complain. Money wasted.’ She sighed. ‘Every shekel accounted for,’ she complained.

  ‘Same here, it’s not just you.’

  She glanced at me before sipping her tea. ‘There is someone we want, in Yemen, maybe fifty miles across the border from Saudi, close to Oman.’

  ‘I have friends in Oman,’ I pointed out.

  She squinted at me. ‘That man, English man, taken from Belgium, he ended up there…’

  ‘He did, yes.’ I waited.

  ‘If you can take a team across the border and hit the camp, good.’

  ‘I think I could swing it, and get some American help. I can fake the intel.’

  ‘Then I bring the detail, soon.’

  ‘I have a mess here to sort out, then I’m free.’

  ‘I come with you, into Yemen.’

  ‘Ha,’ I coughed out.

  She shot me an angered look, but just managed to look sexy. ‘I’m a field agent!’

  ‘Ever crossed a mountain range?’

  ‘Yes, I have done all the courses. I am fit.’

  ‘If you want to come with us, you train here first and prove that.’

  Again she shot me an angered look, then relaxed and sighed. ‘I am not like your men, but I can keep up. And I am excellent with weapons.’

  ‘After I sort the current mess we can make some plans.’

  ‘I can help you.’

  ‘Your bosses would never agree to that,’ I suggested, trying to avoid staring at her cleavage.

  ‘Wait till they find out about the CIA, and the wasted time in this, then they let me help,’ she said with a sadistic grin, nodding to herself. ‘They worry more about wasted money than terrorists.’

  ‘I think we have the same bosses,’ I told her, and she giggled.

  At 5pm Tinker came and found me on the pistol range; I figured I would practise but the nice lady captain was distracting me. At one point I moved in behind her, arms around her, and corrected her stance.

  She asked, ‘Is that a sat phone in your pocket or something else?’

  ‘Sat phone, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ she let out, and I moved back as Mutch – now a pistol fanatic – shot me a look.

  Tinker took me to one side. ‘Company in Sierra Leone, name of Grayling.’

  I smiled. ‘Could be a fish or a regular name.’

  ‘We were not sure so we checked them out, their share capital hidden, had a GCHQ man have a look at the building, and he took the mail from their mailbox without being seen, three white men seen inside with the locals. Looks like offices, strong door, bars on the windows.

  ‘Letters were mundane, apart from a copy invoice for fuel and labour from a company in Guinea, its offices listed as Conakry and some shit little town in the north east. Only records on file say that the company provides risk assessment - and security staff for mines.’

  ‘Bingo. Ask GCHQ to bug it -’

  ‘Already in place, old style landline with wires to the pole, might have something soon. Got a device in place to note mobiles and sat phone calls. Some sat phone use already, blank registrations – so naughty sat phones.’

  ‘Good work, but we need to move fast on this before my men are killed. Write down that address for me.’

  He met me, and handed me the address, at the mouth of the hangar. I called Moran as I stood at the rope barrier, no longer a view of the north field tha
nks to the green fence. At least it kept the sheep out.

  ‘Note this address in Freetown.’ I detailed the address. ‘I need the white men in there picked up, and questioned, no evidence left behind - so don’t involve the regular army. This lot are planning your traps in Guinea.’

  ‘Then the boys will want a word, yes.’

  ‘Use jeeps, unmarked if you can, go in tonight after dark if you can, have a look and make a plan, grab the white men tomorrow. There are three, seen so far, so no good just grabbing one. Oh, doors and windows are solid. Create a diversion down the road when you go in, avoid the local police.’

  ‘I’ll have a look later, be dark in an hour or so.’

  ‘Any more action?’ I enquired.

  ‘Patrol of Wolves with Stretch, they pasted nine blacks.’

  ‘Stretch, out earning his keep?’ I teased.

  ‘Small miracles, eh,’ Moran quipped. ‘Oh, and Tiller and Brace, they killed six men from 600yards out, then got a damn brew on.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Should have made a report before getting a brew on!’

  ‘Stickler Moran, they’ll be calling you.’

  ‘I’m a proper officer.’

  ‘Ouch.’ I put my phone away as a sheep wandered past. I stared at it, then turned to the MP. And waited. He shrugged. ‘If a sheep can get in, so can a deadly assassin!’

  ‘It pulled the wool over our eyes, sir,’ he suggested.

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t give up the day job, Mister.’

  Back in the Intel room I found Tinker. ‘We’ll hit that place in Freetown on the quiet, but no mention to anyone in here yet. Moran will have a look tonight, raid it tomorrow night on the quiet, we need to move fast.’

  Stenson came and found me. ‘Navy boys took some photos, experts had a look, found a camp, big camp, could get a thousand men in there. They saw tracks leading into the hills, jungle on the sides, and the thermal imaging has lots of small outposts in the hills.’

  ‘Ambush points, hidden,’ I noted.

  ‘Them boys got themselves some APC, 105mm mounted, Duska, thirty trucks and fifty jeeps.’

  ‘They’re part of the rebel army, left over from the fighting.’

  ‘Navy analysts reckon they can hit the hills and the trucks without civilian casualties, just a question about the barracks – and who’s bedding down in there.’

  ‘I have men closing in, we’ll know soon.’

  He was back to me later, as I sat in the canteen. He led me outside with a silly grin. ‘If you go up that valley a mile and turn east, there’s a small dam full of water.’

  ‘Are you suggesting … that we flood the valley with mud, water and debris?’

  ‘They reckon on about four feet of water,’ he reported with a grin. ‘Water level would drop in a day or two, just a nasty muddy mess left behind. And northwest three miles is the local electric sub-station, sat isolated.’

  ‘Stenson, you’re a little shit on the quiet, aren’t you.’

  ‘Do I have a go?’ came with a broad smile.

  ‘You have a go.’

  At dawn the US Navy made a loud noise, one poorly constructed concrete dam burst, one sub-station blown to bits. The camp lost its electricity, no toast and tea for the hungry soldiers within, a wall of muddy brown water about to spoil their day.

  Moran called at 11am. ‘I got a call from Ow-bang-go, one of Sergeant Tobo’s men. He found the main rebel camp north of us, then this morning jets were heard – so they’d have to be American because no other fucker has jets around here, and the electricity went off, then the camp was hit by a tidal wave of mud and trees and sewage, a few men drowned.

  ‘He took the initiative, him and three others, and they shot dead a few men in the confusion, got ten white hostages and led them out and into the trees – all head to toe covered in mud. They’re walking south as we speak, Chinooks ready. I suggested the wash in a stream first!’

  ‘Have handcuffs ready or cable ties, those hostages may not be who they seem.’

  ‘OK, I’ll warn them, have some boys on the Chinook.’

  ‘Any progress last night?’

  ‘We had a good look, but that building is fucking solid. But we followed the white men to a big old house nearby, and they live there or stay there, and that place is easier to enter, so we’ll go back tonight.’

  ‘Good, some progress. Any action overnight?’

  ‘Thirty six blacks killed.’

  ‘Makes you wonder what they’re being told, and what they’re told about their mates that don’t come back, empty beds in the barracks – albeit muddy and smelly beds now.’

  ‘Different units, or they’d be suspicious, yeah.’

  ‘Swifty OK?’

  ‘He’s being a smartarse; he hit a claymore and set it off, killed most of the rebels in the patrol.’

  I smiled widely. ‘Good work, saves on ammo that does. Gotta watch the pennies – as Bradley keeps reminding me.’

  ‘Captain Harris said you had a nice sexy lady visitor…’

  ‘Mossad, and yes – she’s nice.’

  ‘Are you…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You getting old?’

  ‘Getting cautious, she may want to kill me in my sleep!’

  In the Intel room I detailed what had happened to the camp, and the well-planned hostage rescue, a few rude words heard before I called Max and gave him the story. Only I detailed that it had been my men getting the hostages. Still, the US Navy would get a good write up.

  Admiral Jacobs called, questions asked of ground conditions, and he was a happy bunny, a statement for Reuters soon. ‘Any civilians in that muddy camp?’

  ‘I’ll make a call and find out.’ I called Moran, and asked, Owbango having reported civilians in a village half a mile north, none seen in the camp itself. I called back Admiral Jacobs. ‘No civilians in the camp, but they are half a mile north, a village.’

  ‘Then we can flatten it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, aim at trucks and barracks.’

  ‘Turkey shoot time. F18 has a camera pod as well! So it’s CNN turkey shoot time.’

  Tinker came running. ‘We got signals intel, some angry British men mentioning that their camp in Guinea was flooded, a burst dam. They’re heading there now in a helicopter.’

  I hit RECALL for Admiral Jacobs. ‘Sir, there’s a helo on its way to the muddy camp, bad boys on board, need to shoot it down.’

  ‘I’ll order that now.’

  ‘Wait till the helo is near the camp, sir, can always say it was armed.’

  ‘And the people on it?’

  ‘Paying for that camp, sir.’

  ‘Then they’re crispy burnt and toasted. Their career choice, their chosen ending.’

  Their chosen ending, I wondered about as I glanced at the map. ‘Those that live by the sword.’

  ‘Huh?’ Captain Harris asked.

  ‘Helo on its way to the camp, the men who organised the trap. US Navy will shoot it down.’

  ‘Not a pleasant way to go,’ he noted. ‘But yes, those that live by the sword.’

  Forty minutes later I received a call from Admiral Jacobs, the helo hit close to the camp, seen to crash and burn. He reported the valley looking like melted chocolate as the F18s attacked, six aircraft plus top cover.

  The barracks had been bombed, the trucks and jeeps blown apart, the hillside positions strafed with 20mm cannon, several passes – under-wing camera pod active.

  I had the nice lady captain send a fax to HQ Freetown, to raid the offices of our dead suspects, before I called Moran. ‘Forget those three white men, they’re dead. The US Navy hit that camp in Guinea, then we got signals intel that your three white guys were flying up there in a helo, and the US Navy shot it down. It crashed and burnt. Army in Freetown will raid those offices.’

  ‘Job done then. And the trap?’

  ‘Sprung I guess, we wait and see, but stay inside the border and be careful, they have more tha
n just the three white men.’

  Tinker came and found me at 4pm, as I sat having a cup of tea with Harris and the nice lady captain. He handed me a sheet, which I read without my companions seeing. Interpol’s sex crime unit, Africa, had an arrest warrant for Burgess.

  I handed it back, a coy grin for Tinker. ‘What some people get up to, eh.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Harris asked as Tinker headed off.

  ‘Someone involved with the Mi5 shits. We checked what he did when posted in Africa, found that he had a fondness for local small boys, and we didn’t even need to invent the evidence. At the time he was a lieutenant, Guards.’

  ‘What does he do now?’ Harris asked, clearly worried. ‘He’s a senior officer?’

  ‘No, he organises coups in Africa and runs ex-SAS men up to no good.’

  ‘Screw him them,’ Harris huffed.

  The muddy wet hostages were duly picked up from a hillside, and tied up to some protesting, soon back at Freetown after a short unpleasant ride and handed to the MPs there, medics on standby.

  With Mutch checking the list and getting physical descriptions from the MPs in Freetown, he was finally satisfied and reported so. He would now call his friends in the oil industry and gloat and boast, a funny tale to tell over a beer.

  I made sure that the Freetown news outlets had people at the airport, and Reuters would get the muddy faces of the happy hostages, Admiral Jacobs to be sat with a smile in his Pentagon meetings. He just had to explain away the blacks as being black soldiers, British and American black soldiers.

  David Finch called me. ‘A good result in Sierra Leone, all over the news.’

  ‘Yes, one small victory.’

  ‘Now tell me, exactly, what you did, because what I have on my desk is puzzling.’

  ‘We figured the camp a trap, and it was, positions in the hills to ambush us. I got my new black soldiers up there and they had a look. North of that camp was a dam and an electrical sub-station, so I tasked the US Navy with hitting them this morning. The lights went out, wall of muddy water engulfed the camp, and my black soldiers grabbed the hostages in the confusion and got them away.’

  ‘I’m just wondering if they teach that at Sandhurst,’ he toyed.