Wilco- Lone Wolf 5

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Since when have Intel got it right?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘We go with what we know, till we know more,’ I replied. ‘Check kit, have a rest. Rocko, Rizzo, you take off two hours before sun down, work it out. Sasha, try and make your team look Russian. Sandra, you are ... Henri’s lady, and a killer.’

  She cocked an eyebrow at me then glanced at Henri.

  ‘Sandra, after I give the signal, you shout at Henri and walk off. Henri, walk after her, pleading in French – then the shooting starts. All of you, put on civvy t-shirts if you have them. Look mean.’

  ‘What the signal?’ Moran asked.

  I gave that some thought. ‘I ... scratch the top of my head, and Sandra and Henri start a shouting match.’

  I took Sasha and his team to one side. ‘OK, when we land there may be men there, gunmen. Act the part, you’re Russian mercenaries and gun runners, fearless. Swear a lot, leer at the ladies.

  ‘If someone is in your face, curl a lip and swear, ready your weapon. If we blag them that we’re Russian, then on the signal we’ll kill them all, the rest of our teams close by. Now, anyone ... nervous?’

  ‘Nervous of not being thought Russian, Boss,’ one said.

  ‘Don’t say too much, leave that to us. And remember, if there are bad boys there ... then we’re on their side, we’re all criminals together, one big happy family.’

  We did not need to alter our clothing much to look like bad boys, and when Bradley saw us he shook his head.

  As “A” Squadron got ready, Rocko and Rizzo claimed the Skyan with their team, checked watches, and off they went.

  As they lifted off I figured I best call Bob. ‘Listen, I’m taking the four Russian speakers from the Wolves, and Sasha and Sandra, we’re going to pretend to be bad boys and land at a strip with Russians. Rest of the team will be in the tree line.’

  ‘It’s a risk, but ... well, this is what we want them for. Look after Sandra.’

  ‘She wants to fight. And she’s a brave lady.’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘Kill whoever we find.’

  ‘That keeps it simple; why did I even bother to ask.’

  ‘”A” Squadron are going after the hostages.’

  ‘Hope they pull it off, let me know.’

  When the Skyvan returned, an hour later, I boarded with my gang of international bad boys – and bad lady, Moran suitably dressed in a civvy creased t-shirt with shoulder holster over it. I had my sat phone and radio, as did Moran, but they were in pockets.

  I moved forwards to the pilots. ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘Found a road, no one about, dropped them and off.’

  ‘Drop us off at the strip and take off. Any shooting, take off. If you’re damaged, set down on a road.’

  They exchanged looks, and with the gang sat - a signal from me, we powered up and moved off, soon climbing, a thirty minute ride more or less, the sun low on the horizon.

  Descending and circling, the amber sunset blinding us, I got a view of lights, buildings and trucks. Someone was home, lots of someones, and I hoped that Rocko and the boys were in place; this was a hell of a risk.

  Lined up, we eased lower and touched down, but at least no one had opened up on us, and as we slowed I could see a cafe area like George’s place, trucks, as well as numerous single-storey brick buildings hidden in the trees. Black-faced soldiers were moving out to us, but I saw white faces as well in the half light.

  Side door opened, I eased out, Sandra behind me, then Sasha, and we must have looked less threatening, no weapons pointed at us as I led the team across and into the trees.

  ‘Preevyet,’ I said as I passed a black gunman, and he nodded. I aimed for the white face, but took in the cooking station. The Skyvan powered up and took off without me looking around. I closed in on the white face, a second and third white face emerging from a brick building.

  ‘Preevyet,’ I said to the first man, a bit obvious is his Russian t-shirt.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked in Russian.

  ‘Petrov?’ came from a man behind.

  ‘Petrov!’ the man closet repeated. ‘What ... what are you doing here?’

  I recognised one of the faces from La Palma. ‘Is the food any good?’ I held my stare on him.

  ‘Uh ... yes, please, sit.’

  The man who had recognised me sat with me. ‘There were rumours that you were killed, your helicopter shot down.’

  I nodded, a thumb towards Sasha. ‘We were thrown out, landing in trees, communists got us, sold us to the Colombians, but the police got us first. Tomsk got us out.’

  Sasha sat.

  ‘I remember you,’ the man told him. ‘You have a few extra scars though.’

  ‘That happens when you fall from a helicopter,’ Sasha quipped.

  ‘So ... what are you doing here?’

  ‘We ... are going to try and capture British soldiers,’ I told them.

  ‘They were here, they rescued hostages, now talk of them in Zambia’

  ‘Any information you have ... will be appreciated.’

  My gang sat at tables, hard stares offered.

  ‘These British, they are special forces, hard to kill,’ my host cautioned.

  ‘I have more men nearby, and we ... are hard to kill also.’

  Food was placed down, and as I tried it I counted the number of black soldiers at twenty three.

  Sasha and I recalled tales of action in Panama before I excused myself, heading for an outdoor toilet. Trousers down, I sat down, and clicked on my radio. ‘Rocko, if you hear this, wait for me to sit down again, then sound out a few distant shots.’

  Back at the table, I sipped my beer, distant cracks sounding out. I casually turned my head. ‘Hunting?’

  Our host looked worried. ‘No.’ he dispatched twelve men, the rest moving towards the strip.

  ‘Should I get my men ready?’ I asked as I ate.

  ‘No, no, we get some people here, drugged up and shooting. These blacks, no fucking idea.’

  I nodded, and belched. Standing, I made eye contact with a few people and scratched the top of my head. Hands moved towards weapons very slowly, and Sandra stood up, lambasting Henri and walking off. He went after here, shouting in French, a few of the blacks focused on them as I grinned, my hosts grinning.

  I moved past my hosts as Henri reached for his gun. A punch, and the black that had been staring at me went down. A burst of fire and I grabbed my pistol, spinning and very ungratefully shooting my kind hosts in the back as Sandra emptied her magazine at the blacks near the strip, Henri kneeling and firing.

  Sandra put ten rounds in our chef, and the chef’s wife, pots and pans flying; she was more spirited than accurate. Moran and two others knelt and fired at the blacks near the strip as I ran to the brick buildings, meeting a black coming out, two rounds to the face at point blank range. Magazine swapped, I spun in, two men hit as they grabbed for weapons, cracks sounding out all around.

  Pistol away, rifle up, I put in my ear piece. ‘Rocko, report.’

  ‘We knocked them all down, some hiding in the bushes, can’t see fuck all now.’

  ‘Keep at them, we need this strip secure.’

  It grew quiet after Sandra had finished blasting at wounded men.

  ‘Kneel down, all round defence,’ I called. ‘Search the trucks and buildings.’

  Henri moved off with Sasha and Moran in tow, Sandra keenly chasing after them.

  I sat amidst the bodies of our former hosts, lifting my sat phone and calling Captain Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, strip is secure now.’

  ‘Meaning ... that it wasn’t when you arrived?’

  ‘A few bodies to move. Tell “A” Squadron they have a go.’

  ‘Wilco!’ came Moran’s voice, and I ran. At the second brick building I halted, and moved inside cautiously.

  There, sat against the wall, were six hostages, all white faces, all bound up, bloodied and bruised.

  ‘Speak English?’

  ‘
Some,’ came a French accent.

  Henri dived in with quick sentences. Finally he faced me. ‘They were in the town, moved today.’

  ‘Anyone left in the town?’

  ‘Black hostages, twenty,’ Henri explained.

  ‘Twenty. How many soldiers?’

  ‘Maybe thirty.’

  I stepped out and called Captain Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, have they left yet?’

  ‘No, aiming to be there in the early hours.’

  ‘Intel update: twenty black hostages, thirty soldiers. We found six white hostages here.’

  ‘We abort?’

  ‘No, just ... explain it, and that I’d be mad if they aborted. Tell them they get the credit for all the hostages.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Phone away, Moran stepped out. ‘They aborting?’

  ‘Hope not, we’d get some shit. Any hostages hurt?’

  ‘No, all well enough, some bruising.’

  ‘Get them some water, tell them we leave at dawn.’

  ‘Did you see Sandra?’ he asked, wiping his brow with a sleeve.

  I sighed loudly. ‘She has anger issues I think.’

  ‘She shot the woman as well – and the pots and pans!’ He headed back inside.

  At the Russian-speaking Wolves, I said, ‘You lot OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came confidently back.

  ‘Was nerve racking,’ one admitted.

  ‘Your first spy job, and you lived to tell the tale. Just don’t tell anyone else, not even in the intake.’

  Ten minutes later Rocko led his team in, facemasks off. ‘Think we got them all, left some lads out there. Any chicken left?’

  ‘Look around, help yourself, Sandra shot the fucking cooks.’

  ‘Food not up to scratch?’ he joked.

  The hostages were led out and to benches, most rubbing wrists where they had been bound, and all smelling of stale piss.

  Henri stepped across to me. ‘They were captured north.’

  ‘North?’ I shook my head. ‘Nothing ever goes right, does it?’ I turned. ‘Rizzo, put a team on the junction with the road.’

  Names were called, men moved off.

  ‘When do the rest get here?’ Rocko asked, tackling a dead man’s meal.

  ‘They’re going to drop in the early hours. So set a stag, get some rest. And all of you, move some bodies away from here, eh!’

  Sandra came and sat down, and stared at me. ‘I am sorry, I ... shoot the woman too.’

  I nodded. ‘She could have been spared. But, she worked for the bad men, so ... maybe she was one of them. But, heat of the moment, these things happen. Move on.’

  She lowered her head and nodded.

  I added, ‘We have hostages here, so that’s good. We saved the good people.’

  I called Bob as I sat there. ‘Bob, we got six French hostages.’

  ‘French?’

  ‘Yep, at the airstrip. And those left for “A” Squadron all have black faces.’

  ‘They’re aborting?

  ‘No, I told them to go ahead.’

  ‘Well, it’s a result either way. I’ll let the French know now.’

  Henri waved me over. ‘They know of other hostages, further south, a town. And those hostages are British.’

  I wrote down the details, then handed a French mine manager my phone so that he could chat to his wife.

  Phone back, Henri said, ‘His wife is a politician, and she will talk to the DGSE and the press.’

  An hour later and the road team warned of a convoy.

  ‘Get ready, everyone. Sasha, Russian speakers, stay, rest of you hide, set an ambush here. Move those fucking bodies! Go!’

  I clicked on my radio. ‘Road team, let them in, then we open up on my signal. Get behind them. How many vehicles?’

  ‘Four.’

  I checked my rifle, placing it onto a bench next to me, Sandra now pretending to cook.

  ‘Sandra, take your top off!’ I hissed.

  ‘What!’

  ‘It will distract them.’

  She gave that some thought, shrugged, and took off her top, but returned to the cooking.

  Lights appeared beyond the trees, soon headlights coming on, the vehicles squeaking to a halt as I ate something, not quite sure what it was.

  Black irregulars stepped down, smiling, and I sized up the situation – and the capabilities of my guests. I waved them over. They approached slowly, a glance at Sandra.

  ‘Some good good smell, yes,’ one said, rifle slung around his back.

  ‘You want a plane?’

  ‘What?’ he puzzled.

  ‘A plane, to fly somewhere, my friend?’

  ‘We have de kidnap, men from de mine.’

  ‘You have hostages? From the town?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He looked about, now suddenly suspicious. As I was about to go for my rifle, Sandra threw boiling water in a man’s face. They all turned to the screams, I grabbed my rifle and fired, a hell of a racket created – and not by me.

  I clicked on the radio with some urgency. ‘There are hostages in the trucks, watch your fire, hostages in the trucks!’

  The truck’s cabs were hit as I moved towards the vehicles, suddenly men at my sides as we moved around tables and trees - plus an assortment of bits of junk, a right obstacle course. The firing quickly eased.

  I ran around to the rear of the darkened trucks, unclipped the tailgate and let it drop as Henri and others covered me.

  Terrified faces peered out, all bound. A torch was shone in.

  ‘It’s OK, we’re British soldiers, you’re safe now.’ I turned my head. ‘Help them down, untie them.’

  Walking back to the cooking area, I lifted my sat phone.

  ‘Captain Harris.’

  ‘It’s Wilco.’ I sighed. ‘For some reason, the rest of the hostages were just brought here, and we have them, twenty black faces.’

  ‘We abort?’

  ‘No, they can drop on the strip, good practice, they escort the hostages back. Max can write it up as them. Put Max on a Hercules, to come get the hostages and “A” Squadron after dawn.’

  ‘OK, will do.’

  Moran closed in. ‘Two hostages dead, stray rounds.’

  I heaved a sigh. ‘We didn’t know who was in the damn trucks.’

  ‘And “A” Squadron..?’

  ‘Will drop here now.’ I looked past him. ‘Sandra?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Eh ... put your top back on, love.’

  She threw a hand in the air. ‘Take my top off, put my top on, wear a bar. What is this study of my boobs, eh.’

  Many puzzled faces turned towards me. I shrugged and shook my head.

  After some debate, and raised voices apparently, “A” Squadron decided to drop anyhow, and we would not have heard them or seen them if we had not been expecting them – one sprained ankle the result of their drop.

  Kit recovered, chutes recovered, a Hercules landed an hour after dawn, hostages loaded, “A” Squadron loaded, Max taking photos. After the Hercules had roared away the Skyvan landed, half the team sent off, the rest picked up two hours later.

  Stepping down from the Skyvan, the Major fell into step with me. ‘French hostages have gone on the Hercules to the capital, to be flown out, their embassy handling it.’

  I nodded. ‘Two were hit in the crossfire. We can admit to that.’

  ‘Way the French hostages recall it, a plane landed, tremendous automatic fire, fifty dead gunmen and your ten men liberated them.’

  I smiled. ‘Most of the guys were on the perimeter, so they wouldn’t have seen them.’

  ‘The one small hitch being that they reported five French and five British soldiers.’

  I smiled widely. ‘French government will be happy.’

  ‘Max is reporting “A” Squadron men and a HALO drop with a distraction from your lot.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  I popped into the “A” Squadron room, most awake.

  ‘Listen up.
’ They faced me. ‘The hostages were moved, not our fault, and that does happen. Get Intel to find some other hostages, go for those instead.’

  ‘We can?’

  ‘Yes, you can. Now get some rest.’

  Moran fell into line as I walked back to the hangar. ‘Those Russian men, last night, they ... recognised you ... and feared you.’

  ‘My other day job.’

  We walked on.

  ‘And you don’t tell anyone here about it. CIA work?’

  ‘The kind of work it is ... would get me twenty-five years to life, and Bob would not be able to help me.’

  ‘So why do it?’

  ‘Good question. I think the answer for me ... is the same for you, in that you never envisaged this, just that it slowly crept up on you. And you’ve done enough to get a long prison sentence as well.’

  ‘If I live that long,’ he quipped.

  I halted and faced him. ‘Any doubts?’

  ‘Lots, what sane man wouldn’t, but I couldn’t imagine quitting this, as insane as this is.’

  I nodded. ‘We’re both drug addicts of our own making.’

  In the hangar we found Haines. ‘When the Lone Wolves get back, drive the weapons over to them – some of them at least, and to use them on the range. You grab some for target practise as well.’

  An RAF regiment corporal ran in. ‘Sir, dickers on the wire.’

  I said, ‘Fire warning shots near them.’ The corporal ran off. ‘Mister Haines, teams of four men, hidden, try and grab the dickers, hand them to the Zambians here.’

  ‘Would the gangs come here?’ Moran puzzled.

  ‘A sane person wouldn’t, but it depends on who we’re dealing with,’ I told him. ‘Go back and stick some of ours on the roof, set a rotation.’

  In the command room I sat with Bradley, being passed a cold drink by Samantha. ‘Dickers on wire, sir.’

  ‘So next come mortars over the wire,’ he cautioned, people glancing around.

  ‘Could be, sir. And something about last night’s operation has been bothering me.’

  I called Bob as I sat there, Bradley listening in. ‘Bob, last night was odd, in that the hostages were handed to the Russians. Never heard of Russians dealing in hostages.’

  ‘Me neither, and I’d say they would never get involved, UN Security Council would give them some shit.’