Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 4

by Geoff Wolak

  Ten minutes later Rizzo came on after we heard the crack of the rounds echo down the valley. ‘Wilco, we got eight, and one had a GPMG.’

  ‘Pinch the fucking GPMG away, don’t leave it.’

  It fell quiet again, the odd shot fired as it grew hot.

  Half an hour later Moran came on. ‘Wilco, it’s Moran, we got two, no other movement seen.’

  ‘Stay down there, get a good position.’

  Every few minutes a shot would ring out, the sun soon low on the horizon.

  ‘Wilco, it’s Rocko, these ladies want to fetch their kids, they’re getting upset.’

  ‘Send them down, cover them, but take no risks.’

  ‘Sending them now.’

  I caught a glimpse of the ladies as they ran, and ten minutes later I could see kids running. When a man with a rifle tried to follow he was hit and spun.

  Rocko came on with, ‘Wilco, got a teenage boy coming up.’

  ‘Is he armed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He might want to get away from the druggies, see what he wants.’

  Ten minutes later Rocko came back on, ‘He wants to be away from the druggies, yeah, he was grabbed from Liberia, forced to work for his supper.’

  ‘We’ll take him back.’

  I called Haines, but somehow got Sergeant Crab. ‘Listen, drive those three jeeps back up to the same place, but make sure you have four armed men at least, leave one jeep for some hostages - two women and some kids.’

  ‘We’ll set off now.’

  I put my phone away. ‘Rocko, break camp sharpish, south down to the road and those burnt out jeeps, our jeeps will meet you there in ten minutes. Dump the hostages, then come up our side.’

  ‘Moving.’

  ‘Captain Moran, check that area south please.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Mahoney closed in on me. ‘We go house to house down there?’

  ‘No, because we’d soon have dead and wounded, some fucker firing out his bedroom window.’

  ‘Could be more hostages.’

  ‘If there are, then they’ve got a good chance now to leg it away, I’m not throwing lives away with some close-up searches.’

  Moran radioed in, the area south clear, Rocko chatting to Moran as he led his former hostages south, and they met up just before Crab turned up, the hostages mounted up and sent off. With all men now moving towards me I got everyone else ready to move, Stretch lugging a GPMG, a chain of ammo around his neck and very non-stealthy.

  ‘Could have given that to Sergeant Crab,’ I told him.

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  ‘Dump it in a river, we don’t need it, so long as they don’t have it,’ I told him.

  ‘Why, be useful this if we find trouble. At least fire the ammo and then dump it.’

  ‘It’s yours to lug about,’ I told him. ‘Rocko, Rizzo, form up behind me, Swifty Moran, Mahoney - in position, rest of you, usual positions. Any wounds, any problems?’

  I led them off, my facemask placed on, weapon checked, and we pressed north along the track.

  A mile on, some dense forest negotiated, we disturbed monkeys, who threw branches and small fruits down at us, some of the guys laughing, some wanting to shoot the monkeys.

  Another mile on, a deep stream forded and all legs wet, we came across a main road east to west, a heavy growl of vehicles disturbing the forest. Peeking down a ridge, we could see a large line of white armoured personal carriers snaking past, plus jeeps.

  ‘Can we shoot a few?’ Rocko asked.

  ‘Don’t temp me. Stay down.’

  My sat phone trilled. ‘Wilco, it’s Morten, what are we doing with these hostages, because there’s no one coming for them, and I’m sure the local officials won’t want them.’

  ‘Stick them in a room, feed them, and never forget that we have a reporter with us. Put them to work for now, I’ll take them back across the border at some point.’

  It took fifteen minutes for the column to move past. I waited, not wanting to bump into the Pakistanis, finally easing down the ridge, cover to cover, and to the road. Checking both ways, I ran across and into the trees, pressing on, Swifty always right next to me.

  Before we lost the light I found a suitable campsite near a stream, a cluster of small trees, a dry flat area, pulling off my facemask. ‘Make camp, flysheets up. Rocko, see that tree, two men up it, rotate them.’ I clicked on the radio. ‘Dicky, Salties, make your camp back down the track fifty yards but hidden.’

  Off the radio, I said, ‘Swifty, Captain Moran, have look forwards, circle around. Staff sergeants, organise the camp and stag. Make safe weapons, and men sleep cradling them.’

  Seeing Max taking off his heavy backpack, I said, ‘Max, any problems and ask the lads.’

  I set-up a camouflage flysheet about five feet off the forest floor, many hands helping, Rizzo setting another, and they covered a wide area, the third in the middle and higher, creating a vast tent.

  Kneeling, I tied green chord around a thin tree and wove it through the eyeholes on my poncho, soon testing it by laying in it. My arse sagged almost to the floor, but it was good enough. Out the poncho, and sat on someone else’s poncho, and I got a brew on as the lads cooked rations.

  Moran and Swifty returned an hour later, just as it started to rain, but we were all snug under the flysheets. ‘Anything?’ I asked them as they sat next to me.

  Moran stamped on something crawling along. ‘Virgin jungle around us, no trails, but we could see a cultivated area northwest a mile or so I reckon, so some people around there.’

  Rizzo commented, ‘In Malaya, the SAS dug underground hides and slept in them, something solid to stop a bullet in case they were attacked at night.’

  I said, ‘They were up against motivated communists with indigenous trackers, we’re up against druggies in their underpants – so I’m not worried about sleeping here.’

  ‘My uncle was in Vietnam,’ Mahoney put in, all of the men just dark outlines as they sat sheltering from the rain. Under the flysheets it was dark, outside was lighter, even though it was night time. ‘Told me horrors stories as a kid.’

  ‘And you still wanted to join up?’ I asked.

  ‘Modern volunteer army, not like Vietnam any more, those days have gone.’

  ‘Take a look at where you’re sat,’ I told him.

  ‘Difference is ... we’re all volunteers who want to be here, and the best snipers, the fittest men. Vietnam was all about conscripts that wanted to be home, not fighting. We’re twenty something men, but we’d hold our own against two hundred; matter of training, motivation, and attitude. The Vietcong were well motivated, the local boys here are amateurs. I’m not nervous here at all.’

  ‘If we clear this area we’ll move over the border, and they have some better lads,’ I told everyone.

  ‘Get a proper fight,’ Rocko suggested. ‘Bit embarrassing, shooting a guy in his fucking underpants.’

  Max put in, ‘My grandfather was accidentally executed in the Second World War. They mixed up his name with someone else, but only realised after. It took me years to get an official pardon. His body is in Egypt somewhere, unmarked grave.’

  ‘Are you not anti-establishment?’ I asked him.

  ‘Nah, things were different back then, pompous officers. These days things are very different.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ I said, ‘because I often mix up Rocko with Travis.’ They laughed. ‘One’s a dangerous fucker, the other is a randy fucker.’

  I slept well, no insects penetrating my facemask or gloves, but I woke to find a large spider on my knee. Using my gloves I gently lobbed it towards a bush, wondering what other creepy-crawlies had made a happy home in my hammock.

  It had stopped raining, a few ponchos on the ground displaying puddles, one complete with a frog. I eased out and stretched, and wandered a few yards, taking in the delicate mist hanging around the trees. It was peaceful, and quite serene, and I realised that I loved being in the jun
gle. Someone in a facemask was sat up the tree and he waved, I waved back.

  Facemask off, I got a brew on, rations opened as men stirred. Slider had spotted the frog and offered it to Jacque and Henri to eat, the subject much piss taking.

  With the camp taken down and packed up, men down from the trees, I cocked my weapon and others copied, and I put one foot in front of the other through the mud as the light improved.

  Dropping down a ridge, I could see tracks at the bottom, but old tracks, so I followed them west half a mile. They circled around, which was odd, and they finally led to disturbed ground, numerous shallow graves. I clicked on the radio. ‘Max, come forwards, everyone else, take five, all round defence.’

  I could hear Max moving through the forest, and he appeared at my shoulder. ‘Photograph this area.’

  I placed down my rifle and broke a branch, soon moving the loose dirt aside, Moran helping with another branch. A uniform appeared from under the loose dirt, then a face. I grabbed the body by the shirt and lifted it up and out, the uniform that of a Pakistani peacekeeper. ‘Found our missing peacekeepers. Max, I want evidence photos, you won’t be printing these obviously.’

  I took out my sat phone as Moran dug up another body.

  ‘Captain Harris here.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, run this call back and get the coordinates, we just found the missing Pakistani peacekeepers in shallow graves. Get the Red Cross to come out or something, I’m not carrying bodies around, not my problem.’

  ‘I’ll notify the French and the Red Cross here, and send it up the line.’

  ‘Tell Bob to notify the UN, and the Pakistanis I suppose. Wilco out.’

  Moran stood. ‘This guy has been castrated. Been dead just a few weeks I reckon.’

  ‘He pissed off the locals, fucking someone’s daughter. Cover them back over, leave a marker.’

  ‘I have that orange marker for aircraft,’ Moran said. ‘Leave it back down the slope a bit, peg it out.’

  With the marker pegged out, Max photographing it, I led the teams north again, and we climbed a ridge, soon peering down at the druggies day job, a valley with its skin missing - trees cut down, the soil turned over, numerous irrigation ditches dug, men and boys seen pan-handling for rough diamonds, some of the boys very young.

  ‘Rocko, Rizzo, fire positions, get ready. There’s a dozen men down there with AK47s, drop them when I say. Men in the jeep as well, they look like the gangmasters.’

  The lads moved along the ridge and took position. I waited for them to settle and finally gave the signal, all armed men quickly killed, the gangmasters killed, the rest scattering.

  I clicked on the radio, a glance back at the mining operation. ‘Follow the ridge north.’

  Two hours later, the day hot, we found a track and followed it, emerging in trees at a crossroads. I broke right, following the tree line, a few shacks seen, the smell of smoke hitting us, and we soon had eyes on a village.

  Peering through my lens, I could see four armed men about to meat out some punishment, a villager on his knees, his wife and family pleading for his life by the look of it.

  ‘Rocko, Rizzo, prepare to break left, across the road and around, edge of the village, but don’t go into the village. Rest move up, Salties watch our rear. Max, move up quickly.’

  Hearing cracks sound out, I looked to my right to see Mahoney firing, four fast shots. I focused my lens on the village, four armed men down, two still moving, villagers scattering.

  ‘Lieutenant?’ I calmly enquired.

  He turned his head. ‘They were about to cleave his head off, no time.’

  ‘You winged two of them, so finish them,’ I casually told him. ‘Rocko, Rizzo, move now, circle around the village – they know we’re here.’

  Mahoney fired again, Moran joining in.

  ‘On me,’ I called. ‘We’re moving around. Salties follow.’ And I broke right, just inside the tree line, moving around the village whilst looking for gunmen.

  Spotting a jeep next to a hut, I could see a face peeking out of a window, but I kept moving to get a better look. The face withdrew, two armed men emerging, both bent-double and moving slowly, eyes everywhere. I took aim whilst tucked into a tree and hit both men with headshots.

  We waited five minutes, many eyes peering from the trees.

  I finally clicked on my radio. ‘Rocko, report.’

  ‘Can’t see any gunmen, most every fucker is hiding.’

  ‘Move around to the north, we’ll meet you there.’

  At the north end of the village, stood on a small mound covered with long grass, I stared back at the village, people now out of their huts and looking around and wondering what the hell just happened.

  A small boy stood looking at the bodies till his mother snatched him away, the condemned man wandering around in a daze after his near death experience. I turned my back on the village and pressed north.

  ‘We don’t go into the village?’ Mahoney asked as we plodded along, our American colleague identified through his facemask by his voice.

  ‘No, we do what we can for minimum casualties, and there could have been someone hidden with a rifle – and we’d be a few lads down. It’s a case of attrition; see if they run out of gunmen before we run out of bullets.’

  Two hours of steaming heavy jungle led to a wide stream, but we found a bridge and crossed it, no one about, a suitable campsite found, muddy boots washed off. I washed my face in the cool stream water.

  ‘Max, send those pictures, ask your boss to send them to the UN, and to the Red Cross here. Make camp everyone, make safe weapons, change socks, dry feet and get the powder on. Troop sergeants - check all the feet, cuts and scratches. Let’s be the professionals we’re supposed to be, eh.’

  Fly sheets up, ponchos down, men dried their feet, Rocko and Rizzo checking them, dry socks on, old socks washed in a stream and hung up, hexamine cookers going.

  When my phone trilled it was Bob. ‘We’ve notified the Pakistanis and the UN about those bodies.’

  ‘Those men were up to no good, castrated and buried alive by the look of it.’

  ‘Well, not our concern, and the Pakistanis are leaving, and three hundred British troops are on their way.’

  ‘Peacekeepers?’

  ‘No, peace enforcers – they’ll shoot if they have to. They’ll be based in the city and will drive around, a show of force after the coup, a stabilisation force.’

  ‘Their jeeps could come in useful at some point.’

  ‘Helicopters on the way as well.’

  ‘Even more useful, so what you up to, Bob?’

  ‘There are not many government soldiers left, so we’re holding the security for a while. A few additional French as well. And I had a chat to your old friend General Dennet. He asks that the squaddies sent down get some jungle training, a patrol of two.’

  ‘The regular SAS can handle that, “G” Squadron.’

  ‘”G” Squadron are now at your FOB, got there today.’

  ‘That helps, we can now send out more men on patrol,’ I noted.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Halfway to Guinea and the border. We hit the main druggy village yesterday, few left to shoot at, found a few more hostages, and then we pressed north, shot a dozen gunmen at a diamond mine, shot six more in a village, making camp now.’

  ‘You’re wearing them down then day by day, slow attrition.’

  ‘That’s the plan, then we can look at Liberia.’

  ‘Good luck. Oh, The Sun ran a story on the Marines, good coverage, they’re happy.’

  ‘It at all helps with recruitment.’

  Before we lost the light I stood near the stream and dropped my trousers, washing my groin with antibiotic soap, followed by my armpits neck and face. With a clean shirt on I washed today’s shirt, in particular the armpits, and hung it up under the flysheet, several of the lads copying.

  ‘Stand to!’ came over the radio, men grabbing rifles and cocking them, all round defen
ce taken, kit placed on in a hurry. ‘It’s Dicky, ten men following our tracks, professionals.’

  ‘So are you!’ I countered with. ‘Let them get close and shoot the fuckers. Rocko, back along the track, Rizzo, skirt around. Go. Everyone else, in your teams, spread out, get solid fire positions.’

  A minute later cracks echoed through the trees, a burst of fire or two returned, a short exchange.

  ‘Report!’ I ordered.

  ‘It’s Dicky, we got seven, rest ran off.’

  ‘Double tap, be sure. Rocko, check the bodies for anything to identify them, Salties cover them.’ I ambled along the track till I could see the bodies.

  Dicky emerged from the trees. ‘They were switched on, Boss, reading the tracks, checking the angles, good kit.’

  ‘Which begs the question ... as to who they are, because they shouldn’t be around here.’

  Rocko came back up to me as Dicky as his team checked bodies. ‘Good kit, professional, maps in plastic, sat phone.’

  He handed over a sat phone and I inspected it. Turning it on, I waited for it to get past the test message, and I dialled Mi6.

  ‘Duty officer.’

  ‘This is Wilco, SAS, in Sierra Leone. I need this number traced, recent movement and all movement, fast as you can, call me back on my usual sat phone, details to Bob Staines. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, got that, we’ll get back to you.’

  I turned the phone off. ‘Grab some ammo,’ I told Rocko. ‘Leave their watches.’

  ‘We move camp?’ Dicky asked.

  ‘Hell, no, I want whoever sent these boys to come looking for us. And in the morning we’ll follow their trail – and go looking for them. Stay alert tonight, in your pairs.’

  Back at camp I cancelled the alert, but put a few men out at fifty yards, and got a brew on, the lads chatting about our visitors.

  When my phone trilled it was Bob. ‘Wilco, that sat phone, it’s been used at a village five miles northwest a great deal, and ten miles east, across the border. We traced a call to Brussels, and to a former president who was ousted, so where did you get it?’

  ‘Off a group of dead soldiers who were tracking us, professional soldiers, switched on.’

  ‘They were tracking you?’