Wilco- Lone Wolf 8 Read online

  ‘Be worth mentioning this to your Australian counterpart as a courtesy, they have rescued people there in the past.’

  ‘Good point, I will do, yes.’

  ‘And if they wanted to send some men, we’d get them on board, blame shared if it’s a fuck-up.’

  ‘Did Bob share the blame where he could?’

  ‘That was always step one, before he even called me.’

  ‘I see. Then it’s something I should consider also.’

  ‘Very much so. Boss.’

  ‘Was that an ironic boss?’

  ‘Nope, because after the Cabinet Office give the go ahead and the UKSF send the details you control the tempo via intel, which makes you the boss man. Just that we don’t want the Select Committee accusing you of moving without those rubber stamps.’

  ‘It’s going to be interesting dealing with you direct, not least because I’m learning quickly. Talk soon.’

  Phone away, Henri approached. ‘Major Liban wants to come, he is talking to Paris.’

  I nodded. ‘It’s jungle, like Sierra Leone.’

  Mouri approached. ‘I did a quick little job in that part of the world, Skipper, but my old troop sergeant did quite a few jobs.’

  ‘Call your old CO, let him know what we’re up to, ask for that man as an advisor.’

  ‘Right oh, Skipper,’ he said, making me smile.

  As the men checked crates, Sasha approached. ‘We come along?’

  ‘Yes, but ... I’ll call London about you just in case.’

  I stepped away and recalled a number. ‘It’s Wilco, put me through to David Finch.’

  After a minute came, ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Yes. Listen, the Russian team here, I’d like to take them, but they’re yours not mine.’

  ‘I’ll chat to the man directly responsible for them, yes. But what would they be doing?’

  ‘They may be in the thick of the fighting, or holding a rear base. Good training for them.’

  ‘And what did Bob do with them in such cases?’

  ‘He wanted them given the maximum exposure and training so that they’d be a bad ass bunch of make-believe Russian gunmen that would pass close scrutiny – but with none killed or wounded of course.’

  ‘Then I give a provisional yes, but I’ll chat to their line manager anyhow as a courtesy. I’ll get back to you. Oh, what about these “E” Squadron men, the older ones?’

  ‘We’d not normally take them, but Bob did want them trained and kept fresh, and the problem always was one of under utilisation, men getting bored, skills lost.’

  ‘Then they could go with you, and stay in a safe area for some experience?’

  ‘Yes. There is a small tight group of about eight that have trained with us, rest are ... patchy.’

  ‘Then take those, I’ll sort it this end. Those men are no good unless kept sharp.’

  ‘That is very true.’

  The Major drove in and parked.

  ‘Overtime, sir?’ I teased.

  ‘O’Leary called me, told me there was a flap on, so I thought I’d check the paperwork save finding a mountain of it in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, we appreciate it.’

  ‘And this job is in Mindanao?’

  ‘Yes, sir, somewhere ... no idea where they put the hostages.’

  ‘There are two big islands, then Mindanao, then loads of small ones, so it could be a needle in a haystack, yes.’

  ‘FOB in northeast Malaysia, sir.’

  ‘Jungle and hellish swamp, but it was where the SAS made a name for itself. You might find some kit they left behind.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve been told to take Mally and his gang, so can you call them.’

  ‘I’ll do that now, see if they’re sober and awake.’

  I sat and had a coffee with him as we sent requests out to various units. A helicopter landing caused us to step out, Colonel Dean stepping down with the RSM. But at least the lads closest saluted. Myself and the Major met them at the mouth of the hangar, and also saluted the Colonel.

  ‘All sorted?’ he asked as he took in the crates.

  ‘Getting there, sir.’

  ‘I have two troops on standby, in Kenya, they can fly to Diego Garcia, and I sent a fax to both the Australian and New Zealand SAS, asking for advice.’

  ‘One of my lads is a Kiwi, sir, and he’s making contact with his old troop sergeant, who’s done a few jobs around Mindanao.’

  ‘Such men can only be a benefit. And if there’s any kit you need, let us know.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I offered.‘But perhaps, sir, you ring David Finch at SIS and offer those two troops, and ask if there is anything you can do to be helpful.’

  He smiled a crafty smile as I took out my phone, and recalled a number. ‘I have Colonel Dean, SAS, for David Finch.’ I handed over the phone, and the Colonel stepped away, phone to his ear.

  The RSM closed in. ‘Wish I was coming with you.’

  ‘Try a week sleeping in the jungle, then say that!’ the Major told him.

  ‘Better than a desk, sir,’ the RSM cheekily suggested to the Major. ‘But my days of sleeping rough are behind me.’

  ‘Be an officer soon as well,’ I joked, getting a look from the Major. ‘Be going soft.’

  Colonel Dean spoke to the men in his troop, and sat in with the Major for fifteen minutes before flying off.

  At 7pm we got a call, to be at Brize Norton for a 9am flight. I assembled everyone in the briefing room, Mally and gang now here and suitably dressed.

  ‘OK, we have a 9am flight, so you sleep in your own beds tonight. On the flight, try and stay awake till I say otherwise, I don’t want fucking zombies getting off the plane at the other end, we might get a warm welcome. Troop sergeants, keep the men awake, and reading something, looking at maps.

  ‘We’ll fly straight down to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, refuel, then on to Sabah in Borneo, landing at Kota Kinabalu, where we should have a Hercules to take us a hundred miles southeast to the coast – and bandit country.

  ‘Diego Garcia is nine hours, from there to Borneo is another nine, plus one hour’s flight east. You catch a few hours sleep when we cross Malaysia, fresh when we land by Hercules.

  ‘Standard jungle kit, usual rifles, flysheets and ponchos. Take rations in the crates, not sure what they’ll have at the other end, plenty of ammo in the crates.’

  ‘And the plan is..?’ Captain Harris asked.

  ‘Plan is ... to get there, acclimatise, look at the map, get local intel and American intel, then make a plan. I want you to request intel from all agencies, and from the Filipinos.’

  ‘We on this job?’ Mally asked.

  ‘Possibly, but you will get a walk in the jungle at least, and some fitness work. OK, double check the kit, be ready here for 8am to leave. Mister O’Leary, request the buses for 7.45am, please.’

  ‘We coming along?’ Sergeant Crab asked, stood with Duffy, Whisky and Toby.’

  ‘No, you have the police to train whilst we’re gone, some time back up at the Factory. Borrow some regulars if you like, to help out. Tonight I’ll work out a training plan for you. But I want them all in the House of Horrors several times, Killing House work, map reading, etc.’

  Crab nodded.

  ‘Whisky, that’s not your area, so you come along with us, you can organise Mally’s troop for some training.’

  Little over an hour later, and Stretch came and found me in the busy hangar. ‘My dad just died, mum in hospital, no one to feed the damn dog. I gotta sort this crap.’

  I nodded. ‘Stay behind, sort it, and train the coppers; blowing doors and windows.’

  ‘Keep an eye on Rizzo, eh, because without me to wake him in the mornings he’s a useless cunt.’

  I smiled, and slapped him on the shoulder as he turned. ‘We’ll try and make do.’

  At 10pm, now at home with a cup of tea, the TV news on, my sat phone trilled, an American number.

  ‘Hello?’ I cautiously answered.
>
  ‘It’s Colonel Mathews.’

  ‘Evening, sir, or ... not quite evening where you are.’

  ‘Kinda 5.30pm here, so evening I guess. You’re off to Borneo.’

  ‘Yes, sir, some hostages to rescue.’

  ‘We have three missing Americans, but ... not a keen desire to send a team, not that we have a clue where they are. But ... some around the table are ... interested in reducing the capacity of various factions.’

  ‘I understand, sir. And perhaps you have some maps and intel for us.’

  ‘There’ll be a man or two to meet you in Borneo, assets available.’

  ‘And should this operation be quietly handled, sir?’

  ‘Well, the hostage part should be loud and public, always good publicity, but the other aspect should be tucked away.’

  ‘I understand. Leave it with us, sir. I guess we’ll talk when I get there.’

  Phone off, I turned to Swifty, who had been listening in. ‘Americans want the various factions shot full of holes. They’re keener about that than the hostages.’

  ‘We cooperate? Why the fuck don’t they move into those islands?’

  ‘First, the Filipino government just wants a quiet life, not a stoking of the fire, no bombs going off in Manila. Second, the American bases in the Philippines would probably be attacked.’

  ‘So we do their dirty work for them?’

  I made a face. ‘We go for the hostages, but if we see armed men in uniform we drop them.’

  He shrugged. ‘Would have done that anyhow,’ he noted.

  I called SIS and asked for David Finch to call me back.

  He called ten minutes later. ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, Boss, hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘At a function, stepped out onto the balcony.’

  ‘Listen, Americans called me, with a request.’

  ‘Why are they calling you, they’re not allowed to do that!’

  ‘You’ll probably get a memo in the morning, they’re not trying to cut you out the loop, and never did so before. They probably assumed I’d make this call.’

  ‘So what were they after?’

  ‘They want us to reduce the factions when we get the hostages.’

  ‘There’s oil in the area.’

  ‘Ah...’

  ‘So they, and us I suppose, would like the area quiet, but that’ll never happen, more communist soldiers will come around in a year’s time. And half of them are Islamic extremists as well.’

  ‘Give it some thought, chat to the PM, because we may alter the political map if we go after the factions instead of just the hostages.’

  ‘I’ll memo the PM now.’

  ‘And the Americans offered assets in the area, so please don’t shout at them for contacting me direct, we need those assets.’

  ‘A fact they knew, and so put the pressure on. Use our assets, do our bidding!’

  ‘Sounds to me like you live in a world of intrigue and double-dealing, Boss. Goodnight.’

  I was up at 5.30am and keen, so went for a run, a few lads on the airfield, and I kicked up Swifty as I got back.

  We were all stood ready at 7.45am, the rain holding off, a much larger group of men these days, forty men ready to depart plus support, Signals and Intel. Robby looked mean and keen, and he felt that he needed to tell me how keen and ready he was.

  The buses were just about on time, two of them, and many hands made light work of getting the crates into the baggage holds, some kit on the bus seats, and off we set, armed police escort front and back.

  A familiar Departures Lounge greeted us, and we were the only ones there, an overweight JIC official turning up in suitable summer clothes for the tropics. An RAF officer came and found me, informing me that half the team would go on a Tristar, half on an American C5 that had to be repositioned to the Far East anyhow.

  When 2 Squadron turned up with the medics I had them split both their teams down the middle, as I would now do with Echo. I choose The C5 for my troop, who started to whinge about uncomfortable aircraft till I informed them that it had seats like an airliner.

  We boarded our monster C5 after being taken around to it in a bus, in through a side door and led up narrow tight stairs to the upper level, finding seats just like an airliner, aircrew to assist us, even a lady. But no windows.

  Settled in, we all got a quick lecture on aircraft safety and safe egress in an emergency before a heavy whine of engines drowned out conversation. The engines settled, and ten minutes later we taxied around, soon heading down the runway at what seemed like little more than walking pace – no windows to peer out of, the nose lifting.

  ‘Don’t seem fast enough,’ Swifty noted.

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ I told him, then moved seats to chat to Morten and his medics.

  An hour later I was sat with Haines and one of his flights, the gossip caught up on, finally opening my paperback.

  They brought us a meal after four hours, and it was not bad, juice to wash it down with, then coffee. I kept an eye on everyone, Rizzo’s eyes starting to close, a nudge given.

  A long nine hours later we were informed of our approach, and we bumped down smoothly enough. After halting, which could have been anywhere – no windows to look out from, we were led off as the plane was refuelled, and we found ourselves in the dark, the smell of the ocean a pleasant surprise.

  ‘Why’s it dark?’ Rizzo asked as we stepped towards a holding area.

  ‘We flew nine hours from 9.30am, but the world is turning, so added about six hours, and at this latitude it gets dark earlier.’

  Inside the transit area a shop was open and so I bought snacks and tea with the money I had brought along, and they readily accepted English pounds.

  ‘No security around here,’ Rizzo noted.

  ‘Only military personnel on this island,’ I told him as we sat on benches. ‘Islanders were kicked off in the sixties. No civvies, so no guards on buildings. It was a British base, but the Yanks took it over and pushed us Brits out.’

  Stood at the window later I could see the ocean, and this looked like a nice spot to be based, apart from the lack of local girls. I chatted to some of Robby’s troop, trying to gauge attitude, but they seemed OK. Half an hour later and we were boarding a bus, taken around to the C5 and led on by crew in orange safety-vests and ear defenders, the same seats grabbed.

  ‘New pilots?’ Swifty asked, seemingly concerned.

  ‘They have a crew of about eight, and bunk beds,’ I told him. ‘They’re used to long flights.’

  At what would have been 10pm UK time I told everyone to sleep, and I figured they would get four or five hours. The leg room was not great, so I moved seats and stretched out, soon dozing.

  We hit with a bump, waking me, men rubbing faces and yawning, and off the plane we found glorious sunshine, a bus waiting, short and dark-skinned Malaysian police aboard it as well as patrolling around, again the smell of the ocean greeting us.

  In modern tourist buses we were driven to a small building that just about housed us all, set away from the terminal and its valuable tourists, cold water provided, plenty of police milling around.

  I could see our kit on a truck, its driver soon asleep as we waited in a cramped room, one toilet for men, one for ladies, and it was hot as hell. I called SIS and left a brief report of where we were.

  A Malaysian Air Force Hercules touched down, so spirits were lifted, and it taxied around to us, kit soon being loaded – after the driver and his mate were kicked awake. The aircrew waved us over half an hour later, and we walked as a large single group to the rear, and if this plane went down we’d be set back.

  Seeing us, the pilots had us get off, and would make two runs, since we were close to the limits. I made sure Echo was on the first flight, and that we had our kit from the crates, a delay that annoyed the pilot, who then warned us not to load weapons.

  I reminded him of the possible dangers at the FOB, he shrugged, and we finally got going, a few of mine re
ady to shoot our pilot. The fact that he had “Maverick” on his helmet in bright yellow did nothing for our confidence in the guy.

  After taking off we could see a big city, tourist beaches, soon jungle, miles and miles of jungle, tall trees - and densely packed with it.

  Little more than an hour later we banked hard, circled around, lined up and came in, and as soon as the wheels were slowing I had the men up, weapons loaded, the Malaysia crew not happy - again. Ramp down, we walked out, weapons cocked when off the plane, and we took in the distant tree line.

  On the way in I had seen that we were a mile or two from a muddy inlet leading east to the ocean, a small village spotted in the distance north, a few fields cut into the jungle south – a scene from a dodgy Vietnam War movie.

  I found a lonely air traffic control tower that had seen better days, but at least there was someone in it. Behind it sat a few single storey brick buildings, a few huts, a large black hangar with a twin-prop Nomad sat in it, and two dozen Malaysian soldiers stood around looking bored and hot.

  The main gate sat on the west side, and was manned, a good hundred yards to a road and then the tree line, so it was not too bad, numerous green military jeeps sat around.

  An officer approached, short and brown skinned, reminding me of a Ghurkha. ‘I am Captain Wey. You are Captain Vilco?’ came heavily accented.

  ‘Yes.’ We shook.

  ‘Come, please, they bring your equipment,’ he offered, and they led us to the huts, several of which had been cleaned out for us. They were basic but OK, a fresh lick of paint noticed, the toilets and showers clean enough.

  ‘OK, grab a bed!’ I shouted, most of Echo in one hut, the medics planning on erecting tents till I told them to use huts for now, 2 Squadron grabbing a hut next door. That left our JIC mandarin asking about rooms and making me smile as people took the piss out of the guy.

  There were rooms for officers in a brick building, and off he went as our kit was moved by soldiers and airmen. I called in to SIS and notified them that we were down and sorted.

  Thinking about the men, I asked the captain about bottled water, and he reported a good supply of cold water bottles. I had the lads go collect some, enough for at least one large bottle per man, and pointed out the water bottle’s location to Haines.