Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  I later found him with Tomo going through rifle drills, and he got time on the range, time spent on how to make a good shell scrape and to camouflage it. I then gave him to the medics for a crash course on trauma first aid, a promise that he might go to an OP in a few days.

  At 7pm two Pumas flew out, five teams inserted, three on the road north from the mine, spaced more than ten miles apart, two on the road west from the town, and that should have bracketed the town well enough.

  They all called in when settled, and we sat in the command room ready for some action, a team sat ready to respond near the Pumas, intel checking radio use to the east, or getting reports from the French. Another mine had been hit, but it was almost four hundred miles away.

  The dawn came up quietly, no contacts overnight, and I entered the command room at 6am, relieving some of the night staff, who yawned and stretched and cursed before heading off to bed.

  The sun came up fully, the day grew hot, and still no contacts, no gunmen seen. I spoke to all the teams after it got dark, all were OK to stay, and so we left them in place, our earnest flyers not reporting any movement.

  At 1am we got a call, suspicious movement seen by Rocko’s team, who were quickly closing in on that location through the dark. They got to within a hundred yards, and when they saw four men working in their vehicle headlights, placing down a device and a wire, they opened fire and killed the would-be bomb crew. They then called it in.

  I said, ‘Withdraw back three hundred yards, hide, and see who comes out to play.’

  I marked the position on the map, and called the other teams to inform them of the action.

  At 3am a jeep approached the bodies, a man getting down. He stole the watches and phones off the men, had a quick look at the bomb, then drove off. The report made me smile.

  An hour later, and another jeep pulled up. Its occupants searched the bodies, then stole the jeep, Rocko’s report making all of us in the command room laugh. He was waiting for someone to steal the bodies away, or their teeth fillings.

  At dawn a lorry trundled to a stop near the bodies, a man saying a few prayers nearby before loading the bodies and reversing course, the bomb left on the side of the road.

  Two hours later and a jeep pulled up, armed men jumping down and having a nose at the bomb. Rocko’s team opened up and killed the inquisitive gunmen. He then called me.

  ‘Hide their jeep, get their IDs,’ I told him.

  ‘How we going hide a fucking jeep, it’s flat as hell around here!’

  ‘Drive it into the sand half a mile and walk back. You stay put, we’ll rotate the other teams after dark. You OK on supplies?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not going down too fast.’

  Four replacement teams flew out, original teams brought back, men complaining of bad backs, insect bites, sunburn, dysentery, the works. Our medics had a tent full of whinging soldiers.

  I faced our intrepid reporter outside the medical tent. ‘Take a good look. You still want to go out?’

  ‘I’ve been training hard all day,’ he insisted. ‘Got webbing I borrowed, water bottles.’

  ‘Tomorrow night then,’ I offered him. ‘Tomorrow morning you create a shell scrape and show me.’

  Rocko lay in the desert, hot in the day and cold at night, but no one came to pay their respects, or to offer themselves up as targets.

  Our reporter made a shell scrape, rigged up a cover, lay down and took aim with a borrowed rifle. It was as if he had received some professional training. That evening he flew out with the teams, a long lens camera instead of a rifle, and he was part of the team that replaced Rocko at the hot spot.

  They called in after insert, all OK, and they called in again at noon, all OK, but at 3pm we got a medivac request and so sent out two Pumas, enough men to fend off trouble, and they brought back out keen reporter, leaving the team in place.

  I had the unenviable task of calling his boss at the newspaper. ‘This is Wilco, SAS in Mali, you have a reporter with us, Clifford.’

  ‘Yes, he dead?’ came a voice that suggested he would be happy for that news.

  ‘No, but has been injured and is now in a medical tent, so no story for a day or two.’

  ‘We have lots of photos and words not used, we’ll cobble something together. What happened to the silly cunt?’

  ‘Well, I promised not to tell, so ... you didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘Hear what? Is he dying, please tell me he’s dying.’

  ‘No, not dying, he ... had some training from us and then nagged to go out to an observation post in the desert.’

  ‘Just like the idiot.’

  ‘Well, the men lie down and can’t stand in case they’re seen, and they pee lying down. When he ... when he went to pee he was bitten in the testicles by something.’

  I could hear hysterical laughter at the other end. The editor finally came back on. ‘Oh, you have so made my fucking day. If he dies, bury him in the sand, he’s a pain.’ The line was cut.

  Shaking my head, I went back to our intrepid reporter, a drip in his arm in the medical tent as he lay on a bed, his nether regions covered. ‘How ... er ... how you feeling?’

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘I ... er ... spoke to your boss, explained it, he wishes you well.’

  ‘Bollocks. He laughed, didn’t he.’

  I glanced at the medics. ‘Well, he only laughed hysterically for six or seven minutes.’

  They tried and failed to hide their smirks.

  ‘That guy never liked me, and I’m sure he was hoping I’d be shot out here.’

  ‘Well we appreciate you, and we like your reporting of us, so ... get better soon, eh.’ I faced the head surgeon. ‘What’s the prognosis, doc?’

  ‘Should be OK in a day, we got the anti-venom sorted in time. We won’t have to do a Wilco on his balls.’

  ‘Do a Wilco?’ our reporter queried.

  I explained, shooting the doctor a look, ‘In Bosnia I was hit in the testicle, it got infected, black, size of an apple, so I cut it out, a little DIY surgery. I have a rubber one in.’

  Our reporter lost all his colour. ‘I won’t lose them, will I?’

  ‘No, no, you should be OK,’ the doctor quickly assured him. ‘Wilco was without medical care at the time, different circumstances.’

  Clifford faced me, wide-eyed. ‘You cut off your own testicle?’

  I nodded. ‘No anaesthetic.’

  ‘Christ.’

  No one at the base failed to smirk all day, and a few cartoons appeared. Rocko and his team were taking it easy, till I shouted at them. Rocko had to make sure they spent time bending and stretching, and then he took them for a run, followed by more bending and stretching. I would not tolerate men with bad backs and aches and pains when it could be prevented.

  Our roving air patrols were finding nothing local and so ventured further out, and southeast, and the terrain there became a little more undulating, small hills and ridges, a few patches of green to be seen from above, crops under plastic sheets.

  On the second day they spotted a group of jeeps, armed men, and the men seemed to be preparing a roadside device. I rounded up eight men, Henri, Rizzo and his gang, and we set off south east in two Pumas, but split up as we neared the target area, one group setting down five miles north, one group five miles south, contact maintained with the Cessna as it circled at five thousand feet a mile from the men, binoculars used.

  Once in place I called Moran in the Cessna, and he buzzed the men at just a thousand feet, and reported them driving north, towards my team. Moran, low on fuel, headed home to base.

  The jeeps drove north, and eventually saw me stood alone in the middle of the road. They slowed, and eased to a halt three hundred yards away. Men stepped down, puzzled my presence – they could see my rifle, and discussed what to do. They took aim, but cracks sounded out before they could shoot at me, my lads left and right of them, two hundred yards out.

  With the men down I walked forwards, the lads running i
n from the sides, a few bodies double-tapped. ‘Leave the bodies on the side of the road, we’re taking their jeeps. Get their IDs.’

  Rizzo dragged bodies as I searched the jeeps, finding tools and bomb making equipment, no bombs, a few dated AK47, some well worn porn mags from 1980.

  Mounting up, I started the first jeep and slammed the door, Napoleon in next to me, and I peered out the window. With all the jeeps displaying a driver, Henri in the vehicle behind me, I pulled off and checked in the mirror that they were following.

  I called Captain Harris as I drove. ‘It’s Wilco, we shot them, nicked their jeeps, we’re driving back, be a few hours, keep a rescue team on standby. Oh, and send a chopper for the team dropped to the south, we don’t have them with us.’

  ‘OK.’

  Driving on, I had to stop and consider where our OPs were, and I knew there were none down this road, otherwise it would be embarrassing, being killed by my own lads. The air con did not work, Napoleon getting frustrated with it, so we drove north in the heat, and thirty miles on we turned west near the mine, seventy miles of boring road and a flat horizon that played tricks on your eyes – you could see two roads ahead, one floating above the other.

  At sundown we turned into the base, waves given to the RAF Regiment before they shot us, and we parked up in the hangar being observed by those SAS teams not out in an OP.

  I headed to the command room, and found our RAF logistics guy. ‘Four jeeps in the hangar, sir, we nicked them. There’s bomb making kit in at least one, so have the French go over it.’

  He headed off to find his opposite number, who was averse to doing anything – anything at all.

  ‘What about the roadside bomb?’ Captain Harris asked.

  I shrugged. ‘Still in place maybe, I have no desire to walk up to it or drive up to it. Let the French know the position of it. The second team back?’

  He nodded. ‘Been back hours.’

  I headed off for some food, I was starving. I found our intrepid reporter sat eating, and he had a hell of an appetite by the look of it, so he must have been recovering I considered. ‘You all better?’

  He nodded as he ate. ‘Bloody medics starved me.’

  ‘Good for losing weight, being strapped to a bed,’ I told him.

  ‘So what’s been happening?’ he asked with a mouth full of food.

  ‘We spotted a team placing a bomb, so we dropped into place and then ambushed them, nicked their jeeps, killed ten of them, and that helps, the slow attrition. If we could do that every day we’d be winning, but so far we’ve only killed around twenty. And the more we kill the less often the rest come out.’

  ‘More OPs?’ he asked as he ate.

  ‘We’d need fifty of them, across a thousand miles of road, and we’d need them in place for weeks and months, so ... we do what we can whilst we’re here. Might get a lucky break on the intel.’

  That night, as the Pumas returned from swapping teams, I was called, the French not happy, very not happy, a great deal of shouting and arm waving in the hangar.

  ‘Sergeant Crab, report,’ I loudly stated as I approached. I offered the French officer a flat hand and a stern look.

  ‘One of the lads, he ... didn’t make safe, and ... he put a round into the skin of the Puma.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ I let out. ‘He goes back, he faces your new major, you know the score. If he was a junior he’d be RTU for that.’ I wagged a finger. ‘Get a grip of your fucking men, he could have brought a helo down.’

  I led the French officer away, and to the command room, Henri explaining that the man would be sent back and face severe charges, and that I was very sorry. The French sloped off cursing under their breath, leaving us exchanging looks.

  I called each team by sat phone and shouted a little, then found those of my teams resting and shouted some more, then went next door and shouted at the Paras, all warned about a court martial.

  The reporter came and found me in the hut later. ‘Bit of a drama?’

  I sighed, a look exchanged with Henri. ‘SAS lad put a round through the skin of a Puma, basic mistake, didn’t make safe when the helo came in. When men are tired, that happens, and that’s how accidents happen, he could have brought down the damn helo.’

  ‘Does that happen often?’

  ‘No, thankfully, it’s rare. When you see soldiers training, they follow drills over and over, and then some more, so that when they’re tired they don’t make mistakes like that. Anyone could do it, I’ve accidentally fired rounds, you do when you’re tired.’

  ‘It’s a serious offence?’

  ‘If the man had only been in a year he’d be kicked out; it’s a very serious offence, he could have killed someone. He’ll be charged, fined, shit jobs for a week maybe. But, at the end of the day, he’s only human, and we make mistakes when tired, even the SAS.’

  I faced Moran as he sat cleaning his kit.‘No more OPs, I think we try something else, or this could drag on.’

  When the insert teams returned the next night I sent no more out, but I had started a regime of training, long speed marches in the heat, sniping practise, everyone worked hard, but I also made sure they had plenty of food and water and that they slept well.

  The range got plenty of use, plenty of ammo used up, everyone getting in plenty of training as I discussed ideas with Intel. I kept sending up our high quality spy planes in the hope that they might spot something useful, and my lads were getting in the flying experience, so I was happy with that.

  Captain Harris then received intel from Bob Staines, and his pals at GCHQ had been busy without informing us, a device or two placed on a ridge above a mine without anyone noticing, the mine a hundred and sixty miles east. That device intercepted local phone calls, it identified sat phone numbers and their positions, and it recorded radio messages, all compressed, encrypted, and sent back to the big-brained scientists at GCHG near Cheltenham via a satellite.

  I checked my watch, 10am, so stepped out the command room and called Bob back. ‘It’s Wilco, you got something?’

  ‘Yes, a lucky break with the signals intel. Seems that one or two individuals working at a particular mine are planning to allow their mates in to attack it, a big raid.’

  ‘Do we know when?’

  ‘Soon, a few days.’

  ‘If we insert we’ll be seen, and the men on the ground will report it.’

  ‘How about you hide nearby, there’s scrub land and depleted mine areas.’

  ‘OK, I’ll look at the map and we’ll approach in the dark,’ I offered. ‘But what about timing, can you call it accurately?’

  ‘Should be able to, if the men using the radios continue to be indiscrete. Day of the raid there should be some signals traffic.’

  ‘We nicked a few jeeps, we can use them to insert or drive around. But we’ll be pushing the range of the Pumas with loiter time for casevac. Could take one of those manual fuel pumps, if there’s one here. Or ... we send a fuel truck to an isolated spot, with some protection, half way. Or to that first mine, that’s seventy miles, so half way.’

  ‘The first mine sounds workable, as a staging post,’ Bob commented.

  ‘OK, we’ll insert today, arriving after dark.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Back in the command room I said, ‘Gather everyone in the hangar in ten minutes,’ and I sent 2 Squadron lads running with messages.

  Ten minutes later we had most everyone gathered, some soaked in sweat from a run, some dusty from the range. I stood on a jeep. ‘Listen up!’ I shouted, my words echoing. ‘We have intel on a raid on a mine, next few days, a large attack, so most of you will be going out today to set an ambush.

  ‘The mine is roughly a hundred and sixty miles east, so we’ll drive now when ready and approach after dark, get hidden, and wait. RAF Regiment, I want eight men, well armed, jeeps, to protect a fuel truck at the first mine that was hit, seventy miles east. Make sure there are enough men left here to protect the base, but we have French soldie
rs around. Take some ground crew with you who know how to operate the damn fuel truck.

  ‘My flyers, you’ll maintain patrols, but at greater height and just around that mine, we don’t want you spooking them. Rest of my detachment, ready to leave inside the hour. Paras, SAS, jeeps stacked up with rations ready, GPMGs, but leave some men for a team on the Pumas if necessary, always an armed man in a Puma if we need wounded brought out.

  ‘Make sure that you have enough supplies for a week, we don’t know exactly when the attack will be, and if it drags on we’ll need resupply, but we can’t just sit there forever, so we wait some final intel. Get ready to move out.’

  I jumped down and headed to the pilots room, and I informed the senior French officer what we had planned, and that when we knew the day of the attack they should send out two Pumas, one to wait at the mine, one to refuel at the mine and go on, and to overfly the mine just after the fighting started - in anticipation of being needed.

  Back in the command room I grabbed a map, and Captain Harris indicated the mine in question, the route and distance, the navigation easy enough, a town or village to be avoided, so it would be a dog-leg route.

  I could see that the sprawling mine sat south of the access road, and I made a sketch of where the main admin area was, the area that housed the white foreign workers; I had little doubt that the hard working locals would not be the target.

  A fax came through, a sketch from Bob’s team, and it showed the mine’s disused areas, its access roads, water storage area, truck park and digger parking area, processing plant. The sketch had a scale on it, and from the disused area to the admin block was less than half a mile, the mine some five miles across.

  Pocketing the sketches, I checked my sat phone, checked the spare battery, and headed out. The hangar was a hive of activity, boxes being loaded onto jeeps, but our French jeeps and the stolen jeeps would carry much of the supply burden, a great deal of water stacked up, as well as fuel cans.

  I told the SAS to line-up their jeeps outside when ready, same for the Paras. In my hut I collected my kit as the lads rushed around, bandolier on and checked, webbing on and checked, weapon checked, silencer tucked away, rags and cloth checked, pistol checked finally.