Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 4

by Geoff Wolak

  Out of the stream, water bottles topped up, faces washed, I found a trail and followed it, soon finding a banana plantation, easy paths to follow, and we made good time as we lost the light. Checking the map, we soon hit the road I was interested in, and I risked a speed march for an hour, finally finding a crossroads I had noticed on the map.

  With the lads inside the tree line, all round defence, I called Captain Harris.

  ‘It’s Wilco, we need a chopper.’

  ‘They’re standing ready.’

  ‘Track this call back, give them the coordinates, it’s a crossroads about two miles north of a village.’

  ‘OK, stand ready, should be with you soon.’

  Sat phone away, I sat. ‘Choppers on the way. Any other injuries?’

  ‘Twisted my pigging ankle,’ came Smitty’s voice.

  ‘Bust me left wrist, Skipper,’ Mouri reported.

  ‘I got shits and cramps,’ Travis reported.

  ‘All of you, see the medics when we get back.’

  Sat quiet in the trees we waited, a few vehicles passing, as well as a man on a bike singing to himself, and half an hour later the dull resonating drone of helicopters could be heard.

  ‘Everyone up, in your teams, headcount, torches on. On me. And make safe your fucking weapons!’ I unloaded mine, cleared the breech and pulled the trigger, the sounds permeating the dark now confirming that everyone was copying.

  I led them out of the tree line and through long grass, checking the dark road in each direction, finding it all quiet, a signpost offering local motorists directions. I pushed it over, since it could damage a helicopter.

  The Pumas put their lights on, we waved torches, and the first Puma touched down right in front of us as we knelt.

  ‘Rocko, Salties, forwards!’ I shouted, and they moved passed me and on, the Puma lifting up and turning.

  As the second Puma landed I shouted, ‘Henri, Rizzo, your teams!’ watching them board and lift off.

  The third Puma hit the road, a car having to stop, and we ran to it, soon sat on the edge, a careful eye kept on the inconvenienced motorist.

  Less than ten minutes later we touched down at the FOB, but a string of lights now lit our happy home. I ran forwards bent double and eased up, Haines waiting with Morten and Captain Taggard of “G” Squadron, the Pumas heading southwest.

  ‘Where’d the lights come from?’ I asked.

  ‘Got a petrol generator and some bulbs and wire, from the villagers,’ Morten enthused. ‘Paid for in medical treatment.’

  ‘Excellent work,’ I commended as we turned towards the buildings.

  Morten added, ‘We also have pots and pans and bowls for washing, a shower area, some detergent; the locals are quite inventive and keen to help. Got some camp beds off the French.’

  They led me to a room now labelled as HQ Room, a trestle table covered in a map, Sergeant Crab offering me a cup of tea.

  I placed down my rifle. ‘All mod cons. Be going soft soon.’

  ‘Been hearing some of what you encountered on your patrol,’ Taggard began.

  I sipped the tea, and drew on the map, giving them the story.

  ‘Ex-Regiment,’ Taggard repeated. ‘Bad business, and damned embarrassing.’

  ‘This place is now a target,’ I told them. ‘They know who we are, where we are, and they know that to move on the capital they need to hit us first.’

  ‘They lost a lot of men,’ Taggard noted.

  ‘They have a lot more,’ I countered with. ‘They could put three hundred men in that tree line by dawn. They’d snipe at us and wear us down.’

  ‘I have patrols out,’ Taggard assured me. ‘My lads and yours, we’d get some advance warning, and there are not many trails back there in the wee woods, damn dense in places. We have a swamp south, a nice wide river east of us.’

  ‘Just a matter of time before they come for us,’ I told him. ‘And they could have mortars and rockets, we know they have fifty cal.’

  ‘So we need to take the fight to them,’ Tagged suggested.

  ‘They have a base ... here,’ I said, a finger on the map. ‘After I’ve rested the men I’ll go hit it, and I’ll keep hitting it till they have no men left. But ... but the worst case scenario is that they have their white mercenaries sneak up on us, fifty cal sniper rifles, kill a few men and disappear into the trees.’

  Morten did not have his happy face on. ‘And those men are ex-SAS.’

  I nodded, and finished my tea, Morten showing me the new canteen and wash area. The Liberian ladies we had liberated were still here, their kids running around and screaming, but the ladies now offered a clothes washing service, and they also cooked. I cocked an eye at the thin t-shirts they wore, boobs hanging out. The teenage lad was now a conscripted handyman for Morten, and I was informed that the lad often procured supplies from the local village.

  Morten got me a bowl of local broth, and I sat to sample it, the broth almost like a curry, hot and spicy, Max sat checking his pictures, ready to send them. He had good snaps of the damaged vehicles.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he suddenly asked. ‘Did someone put a spider on my head while I slept?’

  I denied all knowledge of it.

  After checking in on our walking wounded, Dicky to be sent back home in the morning, I reclaimed my small corner of our room and checked my kit, a few slugs thrown out the window, a few millipedes and spiders killed.

  Happy that my clothing and kit not longer harboured anything poisonous, I double-checked my face mask and gloves, quickly downed a tin of meat and lay down, the past few days catching up with me.

  I was awake well before dawn, and stiff as hell, my back killing me. Bandolier on, webbing on, I picked up my rifle and slipped out quietly, and outside in the pre-dawn grey I bent and stretched for ten minutes, the tree tops shrouded in mist.

  Back inside, in the canteen, I found two cheerful RAF Regiment lads and two “G” Squadron lads just back off patrol and I sat with them. They made me a cuppa, the lads keen to hear about the action up north. With the cuppa inside me I felt better, and I wolfed down a banana.

  Outside, the dawn now fighting to put in an appearance, I wandered across to the forward trench, faces turning around to peek at me.

  ‘Cosy in there?’ I asked.

  ‘Not too bad now, sir, we made it bigger, got some wood, and benches to sit on.’

  ‘Stay sharp, we’re expecting trouble. If you see white men in odd uniforms coming towards you, they could be mercenaries – and not on our side.’

  I wandered off and found the static guards and chatted for ten minutes, a quick look taken at the new shower area. I would test it later.

  Back inside, I clambered quietly up onto the roof, the four men there well dug in with sandbags, three GPMGs facing out, ammo stacked up. ‘This place is looking organised,’ I commended.

  ‘Bit better now, sir, more sandbags, got places to sit, ponchos for when it rains.’

  I could see a face peering down at me from the tower, one of the Pathfinders.

  ‘Up there, sir, we made a platform on the inside, and we got a little ladder on the inside, can get up and down. Always two men with sniper rifles up there.’

  ‘Good, because we’re expecting trouble. Stay sharp.’

  I joined Moran and Swifty as they made breakfast, Mahoney having tested the new shower, clean clothes now on.

  ‘Now I smell better,’ he said as he joined us. ‘Not a lot of water, just a trickle, but it’s nice and cold and it does the job. There’s shampoo and soap down there.’

  ‘What’s on the agenda?’ Swifty asked me as he cooked.

  ‘Some rest for the lads, re-stock kit, and then ... then we hit their base in Liberia.’

  ‘They won’t be too happy,’ Swifty cautioned.

  ‘It’s what we came for, and it’s what we have orders for, so ... we hit them till they have no men left.’

  ‘Could hit that first compound again,’ Moran suggested. ‘Finish them off.�
�

  ‘That has been on my mind as well,’ I told them.

  Half an hour later I tested the new and improve latrines at the southern tree line, a bench with a hole over a deep pit with a lid.

  Walking back, a wave given to the static guards, I could hear the distant drone of a light aircraft. It grew louder as I walked, but I had not remembered seeing any at the airport. Could it be smugglers coming in to land? They’d get a shock.

  I lost my smile, lifted my rifle – no silencer, and fired a burst into the sky. ‘Stand to!’ I screamed, running towards the airfield.

  The drone dropped away as I caught a glimpse of it, a low wing monoplane. I faced the flat roof. ‘Men up on the roof! Stand up with your GPMGs, fire from the shoulder at that aircraft!’ My men poured out the building, some onto the lower roof.

  The roar built, the aircraft coming in at treetop height. It climbed, revealing missiles, and dived down, two streaks of smoke coming towards the building, and my heart skipped a beat as I took aim at the aircraft. The blasts sounded out behind me and I wobbled, squeezing the trigger as all hell was let loose around me.

  I could see tracer rounds hitting the aircraft, clearly seeing holes made as it passed over, and I clicked empty. I had started the day with a full mag, and had emptied it into the aircraft without realising.

  Twisting around, dozens of men still firing out, the plane banked hard over and dropped, hitting the ground a hundred yards beyond the gate, a plume of smoke rising.

  Screams caused me to turn back around, a large hole in the side of the building, smoke billowing, the second missile having hit the rusted old digger. I ran, partly angered, partly in shock, partly blaming myself for this.

  At the hole I bumped shoulders with some of the RAF Regiment lads, one down and badly hurt, and screaming. Inside the hole - the upper half billowing smoke, I could see legs and arms, small brown legs and arms; our Liberians.

  The teenage lad staggered out covered in blood, a medic rushing to him and leading him away. There was too much smoke, so I ran around to the main entrance, passing many of the lads as I progressed, shouting people out of the way.

  Two “G” Squadron lads were dragging a Liberian lady with an arm missing, medics rushing to her aid, Morten fighting the fire with an red extinguisher; our stove had been upturned and its contents scattered, burnt or semi-burnt bananas now scattered around.

  Two kids were obviously dead, one might make it, an arm missing. I rushed out through the hole, my sat phone in my hand, and dialled.

  ‘Captain Harris.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, emergency medivac at the FOB now! I need helicopters, we had a rocket attack, we have dead and wounded!’

  ‘Christ.’

  I hung up and stared at the bloodied RAF Regiment lad as he was worked on by many hands, and called Bob. ‘Bob, listen, we’ve had an attack at the FOB, a light aircraft with rockets, we have dead and wounded. Try and get a Royal Navy chopper with medics aboard. I’ll call you back.’

  I lifted my head. ‘Men on the roof! Keep your fucking eyes open, listen out for another aircraft! Rocko, Rizzo, spread the men out!’

  Taggard closed in, taking in the scene, smoke still billowing. ‘Got one of my men with a nasty leg wound, what about helicopters?’

  ‘I’ve requested them, French and British. If the Navy get here, stick him on that, better care than the local shit-tip hospital.’

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘That wee plane must have been hit a thousand times, hard to miss at that height.’

  ‘That wee plane,’ I mocked, ‘probably had an ex-SAS pilot at the controls.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Max had been taking snaps, but seeing me he came over. ‘Is it ... OK to photograph this?’

  ‘Yes, Max, get the story out there.’

  The fire was extinguished, Morten picking up body parts and bagging them, Mouri with a leg wound that would need treatment, a medic with a serious wound, a second RAF Regiment gunner with a stomach wound.

  The Navy Lynx touched down just a few seconds before a Puma, Navy medics jumping down with a stretcher, French medics jumping down and closing in.

  The serious case, the RAF Regiment lad, I put in the Navy Lynx, along with the stomach wound and the Liberian lady with an arm missing, the rest on the Puma, many hands assisting. It grew quiet as the helicopters pulled away, and I noticed the smoke still rising from where the plane went down.

  ‘Rocko, get to that crashed plane, see if there’s any ID on the pilot, or a phone.’

  He led his team off at the double. I hit #1. ‘Bob, it’s Wilco, we got the wounded away, but we’re five men down.’

  ‘Who died?’

  ‘A hostage we rescued, a lady. Plus two of her kids. One of the RAF Regiment lads might not make it, one other wounded, Mouri has a leg wound, “G” Squadron lad has a nasty leg wound, a medic hurt. Listen, that plane was not about practicality it was about emotion, so your ex-president in Brussels reads The Sun newspaper, and he wants us moved aside before he moves on the capital. That plane could only have come from his base in Liberia.’

  ‘I’m on my way to a COBRA meeting, Prime Minister is very concerned, he’s seeing this as an attack on our interests there.’

  ‘It is, but we hit them first.’

  ‘Can you disperse people?’

  ‘Sure, and have them sleep on the floor,’ I testily agreed. ‘Bob, the next step will be a ground attack on this place. And I can’t take my team to Liberia and defend this spot at the same time.’

  ‘Might need to pull back to the airport for a while.’

  ‘Could do,’ I agreed, sighing. ‘Better bet might be to go on the offensive, and soon. See if the French will let us use their helicopters.’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  I stepped across to Haines. ‘I want that canteen cleared up and rebuilt, block up that hole. Life goes on, and we still have a job to do.’

  Upstairs, I joined Moran and Mahoney on the roof, our rooms empty, the lads dispersed around the airfield for now.

  ‘Could have used that fifty cal,’ Moran noted. ‘But it doesn’t turn too well.’

  ‘Not much defence against a sneak attack,’ I idly commented as I took in the lingering smoke rising from the crashed plane. I put in my earpiece and clicked on the radio. ‘Ambush point, you hear me?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Stay sharp, we may have company soon. If you’re approached by a large force, lay covering fire and leg it away back here.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  I could see Rizzo and his team halfway to the east end of the runway. ‘Rizzo, patrol northeast, just inside the tree line.’

  ‘Moving.’

  ‘Could camp out in the tree line,’ Mahoney quietly suggested.

  ‘If a large force comes in we’ll damage them, but we’ll lose men in the confusion,’ I said. ‘Need to fight on our terms.’ I turned my head to Moran. ‘You think the men are rested enough to go out today?’

  He made a face. ‘All got fed and a good night’s kip, clean clothes on. What you thinking of?’

  ‘See what Bob says, we may be ordered back to the airport.’

  Rocko came in waving something, and brought me the pilot’s wallet. ‘Guy is all smashed up, decapitated and burnt to fuck, but I got this away.’

  ‘White guy?’ I asked as I opened the wallet.

  ‘Yeah, his hand was clear to see.’

  I dialled.

  ‘Duty officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco in Sierra Leone. Run a name for me, Michael John Trelassy, possibly ex military, he’s a mercenary pilot.’

  ‘Hang on ... there was a Captain of that name, SAS, left eight years back.’

  ‘Let Bob know, he’s the pilot that bombed us.’

  ‘Will do.’

  I lowered the phone. ‘Pilot was SAS.’

  ‘Fucking bombed by one of ours,’ Rocko noted before he stepped away.

  I called the Major and gave him the detail, he remembe
red Trelassy. ‘Let Rawlson know that one of his lads is hurt, and update the file; Mouri has a leg wound, Dicky has a scrape, not serious. Thank you, sir.’

  Phone away, I went down and checked in on the baby; she had slept through it. With several medics having left with wounded on the Pumas, one being wounded, their room was now spacious and empty.

  Morten stepped in. He took a moment. ‘We buried the kids around the back. Figured that the local authorities would do little.’

  ‘You’re right, they would do little,’ I told him. I took in his blood-spattered face. ‘If this is all too much, camp out at the airport or head back.’

  He took a moment. ‘If we leave, and you get a serious wound, time is critical, and you may lose someone.’

  ‘If you stay, you ... may lose someone.’

  Again he took a moment to consider that. ‘I remember your speech in Angola, and what’s required. I’m a medic and an officer, we are – technically – at war, so ... we have a job to do. We stay.’

  ‘Within a few days I’ll strike at them, after which it should go back to being boring around here.’

  An hour later Bob called. ‘Prime Minister is not happy about that pilot, a few raised voices. Rawlson has been told to send down the rest of “G” Squadron and two troops from “B” Squadron, more Intel and Signals, Navy will cooperate with you.’

  ‘Quite a ramp up.’

  ‘We want the country quelled. Pressure being put on the French to assist.’

  ‘If I can get those French helicopters today I’ll go hit the same base, finish them off.’

  ‘Powers want you to wait till the reinforcements get there -’

  ‘How long will that be?’ I testily asked.

  ‘Should be there in the morning.’

  ‘And time to acclimatise and check kit?’

  ‘They can watch the FOB, rest can support you.’

  Calmer, I said, ‘Well, yes, that could work. I’ll make up teams ready. See if the French have some big green tents we can have, and to deliver the medics tents stored at the airport, we’ll be tight on space around here.’