Wilco- Lone Wolf 10

by Geoff Wolak

  Moran said, ‘Eyes-on for 24hrs at least. Might not find them anyway.’

  I put a finger on the map. ‘Hamble, here, east, with Robby and his lad, plus Sasha’s men. Two man hides spread out, test radios. Sasha will be with me. Moran, west. I’ll take the snipers, Sambo and Sandra, Stretch and Sasha, just them, small tight team.’

  ‘And your plan?’ Moran nudged.

  I eased back. ‘From here it’s about two hours south to the refinery. We park the truck a few miles away, walk in, trash the place whilst making sure that Sambo and Sandra show their skin colour to any cameras, and me and Sasha will talk Russian to anyone we come across.’

  ‘Fool them,’ Hamble noted with a nod.

  ‘I have remote detonators, so I’ll leave a little confusion behind, one bomb every day for a week should slow them up.’

  My phone trilled, a UK number. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Tinker. GCHQ has devices in place at both locations, but not many. One near the village, but we have chatter, three at the refinery – say six hundred yards outside the wire. So far just security patrols picked up.’

  ‘OK, it’ll have to do. And get me the frequency of those security patrols, and try and screw with them.’

  ‘We can have some fun with the guys, mimic some accents.’

  ‘Any useful traffic on the hostages, call Captain Moran, anything on the refinery call me.’

  ‘That refinery suffered two bombs the other day, no casualties.’

  ‘Talk to secret agent Scorpio when he’s back.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lard arse.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Wilco out.’ Phone down, I told them, ‘Listening device in place near the village, you may get some warning of activity.’

  ‘When do we deploy?’ Hamble asked.

  ‘If all goes well, tonight. I’ll make a choice later. Get some range time in if you like.’

  ‘Lard arse?’ Moran asked with a grin.

  ‘Mutch.’

  I grabbed Sasha, and we assembled our team, all to have folding stock AK47s apart from my snipers. Personal items would be left behind, ID cards taken for a few of us, not for Sandra and Sambo – who would be dressed in civvies and trying to look like local terrorists.

  I headed off to find the friendly base captain, and he had some old webbing – 1960’s era, a set each for Sambo and Sandra. With that dated webbing on over their civvy clothes, AK47s held, they looked the part.

  Pouches stuffed with ammo, they would also be carrying explosives, Sandra nervous. They already had water bottles, so I stepped out the gate and bought tins of meat from the shop, some biscuits, tins of Sprite. With simple bandages added to their webbing, they were ready.

  But having seen a tethered goat near the shop I got my first aid kit out and handed over some cash, a coke bottle full of goat’s blood taken, the shop owner not too fussed. It seemed that around here taking a goat’s blood was normal. I put it in Sandra’s webbing – and explained that it was not for a ritual.

  Stretch loaded the Semtex to a backpack, two each for Sandra and Sambo, detonators out. Thinking about the leftover Semtex, I had Moran bury it behind a ridge. If he wanted to use some he knew where it was. The Semtex box and wrapping paper was broken up and burnt, less evidence left behind.

  Tinker called me back as the noon day sun burnt our white skin. ‘We got some radio traffic. There’s a new security detail at the refinery, a bunch of bad boys, all Nigerian, about twenty of them, plus some South African mercenaries.’

  ‘You got anyone that can mimic a South African accent?’

  ‘We have a South African man working for us, and he just phoned the Nigerians to call them a long list of names. There’s dissent in the ranks.’

  I laughed.

  ‘And Scorpio is back. He was being coy till I suggested you had briefed me, then there was no shutting him up. You’d think he parachuted in, killed a hundred men, and destroyed the place’.

  I laughed louder. ‘Stretching it a bit, yes.’

  ‘What do you want done at the refinery?’

  ‘Screw with them, maximum effort. Listen in, get the detail, then toy with them. I’ll probably be there late tonight. Oh, get Scorpio up to GCHQ right away, and have him figure out which worker should open which valve to fuck things up.’

  ‘I’m not sure they have chairs big enough for him! We’ll put him on the sofa.’

  Smiling, I said, ‘Get him up there fast.’

  ‘I’ll call you later.’

  After some range work, a run, many of the lads slept in the midday heat, a few sat in the cafe, Swifty giving up on his quiz book after finding ‘Seel, Lyon, and Hoarse.’

  ‘Don’t you know what a hoarse is?’ I teased.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a horse with a sore throat.’

  He threatened to shoot me; I had bought the puzzle book for him.

  When Moran appeared with Hamble I took them outside into the heat. ‘That refinery just took delivery of twenty Nigerian bad boys, plus South Africa mercenaries.’

  ‘They know you’re coming?’ Hamble asked.

  ‘No, they’re just pissed off at the local terrorists. But, given what I know about the paymaster, he may assume we’ll have a go at his refinery. Would be a bit odd, but not beyond the realms of imagination for a backstreet gangster.’

  ‘What’ll you do?’ Moran asked, squinting in the bright sun.

  ‘Make use of it. Kill the Nigerians, put some Semtex in their kit, to be found.’

  ‘Would look like an insurance claim,’ Hamble noted.

  ‘I doubt they have any insurance,’ I quipped.

  ‘So any damage hurts them in the pocket,’ Moran suggested.

  ‘The Nigerians just arrived, so tonight they’ll be tired. I’ll go tonight, but might just abort.’

  ‘No back-up,’ Hamble pointed out.

  ‘It’s all a risk,’ I responded. ‘And I don’t want professional soldiers seen. Assume that we leave at sunset, check your water and rations, ponchos, radios. It’s your show. Oh, you might want a local soldier to drive the van back for you. And make a note of the nearest hospital. Town is south of here.’

  At 4pm I assembled my team and went over all their kit again, thinking about what was needed, a few items added. Taking them outside, no webbing or weapons, they stood around me at the back of the huts.

  ‘We’ll drive south when the others drive to a nearby village, two hours or more to a place near the refinery. When we get inside we can expect to find some South African mercenaries, and twenty Nigerian gunmen, plus the usual security – which for a place that size could be sixty men. They may have men up high, sniper rifles.

  ‘Sniper team: find them and kill them. Kill the armed Nigerians, avoid all other casualties, but wound if you need to. Don’t shoot any white people working there, wound if you have to. Snipers, if you see something that looks like an electrical control box – shoot it.

  ‘Stretch, leave some hidden charges, somewhere where it’s going to damage equipment other than pipes – pipes are solid. We blow them after we leave. Avoid being seen, facemasks on, gloves on, they can’t see our skin colour.

  ‘Sandra and Sambo, you must appear to be local terrorists. If you see a camera, walk near the camera but don’t lift your faces, and take a magazine out and in, make it look like you don’t know what you’re doing – and do so in front of the camera.

  ‘Snipers, stand-off and stay well hidden, avoid all cameras and avoid people. First objective is the control room, to shoot out the glass. See a wire, shoot it. See jeeps and trucks, shoot the tyres.

  ‘Sandra and Sambo, if you see a camera, place charges where they’ll be found, and seen on the camera. OK, any questions?’

  ‘Radios?’ Stretch asked.

  ‘For everyone bar Sandra and Sambo. Test them as we leave. Take water, no need for rations, leave them in the truck. In fact no, check the truck has nothing identifying us, wipe the prints when we leave it. OK, get
ready then rest, get an hour’s sleep.’

  At 5pm Tinker was back on. ‘Scorpio is telling us what valve to open, already some loud screams – and not just about Mutch eating all the biscuits. We have lots of mobile numbers, some sat phones.’

  ‘Have the Nigerians used sat phones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Track back and find Izillien if you can.’

  ‘Nigerians are now wary of any phone or radio messages, they know it’s a trick.’

  ‘Good, I can cry wolf later. Local police or army called in?’

  ‘No, but more security on the gate.’

  ‘Call the police, and ambulance, piss them off with false calls.’

  I had a plan, a loose plan, but I would judge it when I got there. Their communications were now suspect, their trust of radio messages gone, so when I moved in they would be slow to react The local police and ambulances services, from the local small town, would also be slow to react – if they bothered to respond at all.

  And it was an isolated place to start with.

  We loaded the trucks as the sun dipped low on the horizon, making sure that the local soldiers did not see Sandra and Sambo too clearly. I told the captain where we would be, which nearby village, and he wished us well. I asked him to maintain good security and tight lips, and he was overly reassuring.

  Fuel topped up, paid in dollars, and we drove left out the gate and north, then north east. Three miles up the road, Stretch tooted the other truck and we turned right, and due south. Now, the worry was a police or army checkpoint, even a rebel ambush - rebels keen on refrigerated fish that was. If they opened up the back they would get a shock.

  A police roadblock we could blag easily enough, but we would then have been noted heading south and so would have to abort for now. The same scenario would be a problem on the way back.

  I sat up front with Stretch, rifle on the floor ready, radio on and tested as the sun set in the west, over my right shoulder; navigation would not be difficult.

  The miles ticked by, the road dead straight for the most part, the stars coming out, the temperature dropping. I wound up the window.

  On the hour I had Stretch pull over at an isolated spot, people allowed to take a piss and to stretch their legs briefly. Setting off again down a lonely straight highway, we passed few other vehicles till we drew closer to the refinery, but we were coming at it the back way. Trucks and jeeps passed us, a small town passed through, its streets busy with stalls playing their trade, one police car passed.

  Beyond the town we found ourselves on a tree-lined road, some sort of orchard either side, a few heavy trucks passing us. Approaching a junction I could see a police roadblock off to the right, the way I wanted to go.

  ‘Keep going!’

  We passed the junction, and I glanced at the map with my torch.

  ‘That they way we wanted to go?’ Stretch asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Mile on, track going right.’

  Tense now, we found the turning just as another truck turned down the track from the opposite direction, and we followed that truck a hundred yards back. An industrial area appeared over a ridge, plenty of floodlit compounds, gates with guards, and the truck ahead of us turned into a compound. We carried on, past a petrol station and a cafe, up over a rise and down, soon in the dark.

  ‘Lights off. Dead slow.’

  Lights off, Stretch slowed down, but we were able to follow the road till it ended near a few dark abodes and sheds, soon a track heading on, but the horizon offered a dull yellow glow behind low hills; the refinery could be seen from miles away.

  When the track got rough I had Stretch turn off, and a minute’s study of the local topography had Stretch bump us slowly off to the right and between trees. The truck would be hidden to the casual late night observer, but not to someone searching for it.

  Halted, I jumped down and opened up the back, the roller door clattering loudly. ‘Last stop,’ I quipped. ‘All out. Check the back – nothing left behind.’

  Webbing on, weapons checked, they jumped down as I walked back up the track, looking and listening. There were trees and stone walls, so someone could be living in a hut nearby and guarding his valuable crop.

  ‘Tomo!’ I called and put my facemask and gloves on.

  He ran over. ‘Jog back up that track to the rise, look and listen for five minutes.’

  He ran off.

  ‘Swann. Go through those trees three hundred yards, sniff around and back.’ His dark outline moved off.

  I could sense Sasha, see Stretch from his backpack, and Sandra and Sambo were distinct in their civvy clothes – neither of them wearing a facemask. Nicholson and Leggit checked weapons.

  Tomo came back in after Swann, nothing seen or heard, no local farmers out and about. Radios tested, I turned on a heel and led them off, kicking up sand and dust through the dark, soon lifting legs over a low stone wall and plodding across what felt like dried crops.

  The agricultural area was soon behind us, hills in front, a few narrow dark gullies to avoid. Judging the hills by their colour, I chose a place to cross without breaking ankles, and we trekked up it, keeping ourselves warm with the exercise.

  Cresting the top of a ridge we were afforded a spectacular view of the vast refinery, all brightly lit up below us and stretching out miles. We were at the northeast corner if my map reading was any good, and below I could see pipes that would offer us some cover as we moved in. I could also see three security jeeps moving around.

  I transmitted, ‘OK, slow and careful. Stay sharp.’

  Sasha was behind me, then Stretch, my snipers, our would-be rebels at the rear as I moved down the sandy slope and into a sandy gully, some cover afforded us. I moved left behind rocks, bent double, and towards the pipes, but there was a security jeep right there, thirty yards away.

  ‘Nicholson, here.’ He moved up and behind the rocks. ‘Silencer on, and hit something way over there, at least a thousand yards.’

  Sling around his forearm, rifle into his shoulder, he peered through his large sights and cracked out a round.

  ‘Got it. A light.’

  ‘Hit a few more.’

  He loosed off five rounds, and now jeeps with flashing lights were tearing around below.

  I peered right. ‘Aim right, see the fence, go along, some sort of radio or phone tower. See if there’s something delicate to hit.’

  He took aim, and a minute later loosed off a round. I saw brief sparks. Three additional rounds, and he was sure that the kit was out of action, whatever it was. The jeep below sped off.

  I was about to move when I saw a worker in a white helmet wander past the fence. I waited. Thinking. I transmitted, ‘All snipers, aim at the far side on the right, hit the floodlights where you can. In your own time.’

  Cracks sounded out, and as I observed the refinery with Sasha the available illumination diminished, and after ten minutes an entire section lay dark, jeeps with flashing lights tearing around.

  I called Tinker after calling a ceasefire. ‘It’s Wilco, what are they saying?’

  ‘Lots of radio chat now about lights going off, electricity cut in one area.’

  ‘We shot them out, not cut the damn power. I’m at the north east corner, where are the Nigerians?’

  ‘Near the main admin building.’

  ‘The South Africans?’

  ‘Outside the wire somewhere.’

  ‘Track my phone, see who’s close by. Call me back.’ I set my phone to vibrate, not to ring. ‘Tomo, Nicholson, go left five hundred yards and back, might be a cheeky sniper in these hills. Swann, Leggit, go right, thirty minutes and back.’

  They scurried off kicking up sand and dust. The rest of us sat with our backs to the rocks.

  Tinker called back ten minutes later. ‘There’s someone east of you, five hundred yards.’

  ‘OK, got that.’ I transmitted, ‘Tomo, someone east of me five hundred yards, hidden, so right in front
of you.’

  ‘It’s Tomo,’ came a whisper. ‘I can smell cigarette smoke.’

  ‘Find him and kill him, should be two of them. Oh, and nick all their kit and IDs. Swann, Leggit, come back in, slow, eyes open.’ I swigged my water.

  ‘They have men waiting?’ Sasha asked through the dark.

  ‘Two South African mercenaries. Well, two we know about, maybe more.’

  Five minutes later came, ‘It’s Nicholson. We shot two of them, nicking their kit now.’

  More than twenty minutes later Nicholson returned with Tomo, the kit dumped, webbing and rifles.

  I noted, ‘These are M4s, 5.56mm, so we can shoot people with them.’ I grabbed a radio and turned it on, fiddling with the controls.

  ‘...Four-Seven, Sector Two, still no lights, be no lights, Boss...’

  I transmitted, ‘Fucking Keffer.’

  ‘Four seven, Admin, say again.’

  ‘Useless fucking Keffer!’

  ‘Bad language,’ Sandra admonished.

  Sasha got the second stolen radio working, so I had Sasha move around the rock.

  I began, in Russian, ‘Yuri, where are you?’

  ‘North side, the lights are out now.’

  ‘Where’s Petrov?’

  ‘South side.’

  I turned the radio off. ‘Maybe someone in there speaks Russian, and is now worried.’

  The security jeep returned. I checked the M4, the weapon fitted with optical sights and silencer, and shot up the jeep. The driver staggered out, shot twice.

  M4 slung, I adopted my AK47. ‘On me,’ I called, and we inched slowly down the gradient, rock to rock, till we reached the pipes, soon in their shadow. ‘Nicholson, some lights near here. Hit them.’

  Three cracks sounded out, bright yellow lights smashed. ‘Fuck, my eyes are going funny,’ Nicholson reported.

  ‘Swann, shoot two.’

  Two cracks sounded out. ‘Now my fucking eyes are going funny, Boss.’

  ‘OK, to the fence, lift it, get to that jeep, all round defence. On me.’

  Bent double, we ran across to the fence – the area now darker, grabbed and lifted it, men under, Sandra and Sambo under, Sasha then myself, and to the shadow of the jeep and to the body.