Wilco: Lone Wolf, Book 10: Book 10 in the series Read online

  ‘Technically, mine can – but shouldn’t, so I told them to fuck off and to talk to my colonel.’

  ‘And your colonel..?’

  ‘Oh, I never tell him what I’m doing till after I’ve done it.’

  He laughed loudly as we headed inside.

  That evening I sat down with Moran and worked out scenarios for the police, and Mitch would be tested as well – on his ability to plan a rescue.

  The next day many of us travelled to the mine, and we checked each room in turn, evicting a family; it was not safe for them. Still, I gave them some dollars. Man targets were placed, ideas kicked around.

  Back at the FOB, the police were put into four-man teams in the canteen, the scenario given, a plan to be made, Donohue also given the same scenario, Mitch sat by himself to make a plan as Captain Harris and Mister Hunt arrived back.

  I listed the theoretical assets available to the teams, medivac drill, men available, supplies, weather conditions, local politics and local militias, the expected number of hostages. I left them to make plans as I spoke to Hunt and Harris outside.

  Hunt explained, ‘London wanted me to remain with the poison, see it through, get all the detail, the final questions answered.’

  ‘And were they?’ I pressed.

  ‘Not 100%, no. Have a name for the man who may have designed it, have a barrel missing, motive is sketchy, funds are all known and proven, but we don’t know why they did it. This guy Sedan was worth a lot of money, had a great life, no political interest. He was clean, and left a family in France, three kids, just broke contact and went nuts.’

  ‘Family killed in Algeria?’

  ‘No, and that’s the odd thing. Every Algerian had family killed, but not him, so motive is still an issue. What happened in London?’

  ‘I made it clear - my concerns, that something would leak and I’d face an enquiry, and they’ll muddy the waters and hide evidence before I get dragged off. Spoke to the PM about the same issue, and they all promised to help.’

  ‘It worries you?’

  ‘Of course it fucking worries me. Job done, here’s your medal, now wait for that policeman at the door a few years down the line.’

  He nodded his understanding. ‘When we get back I’ll look at muddying the waters as well. I know a few good sneaky shits. DGSE did say they would assist with something, at Hammad’s villa.’

  ‘It all helps,’ I said with a sigh.

  Back inside, the police gave their plans, and their reasoning, ideas kicked around, a few ideas shot down. Mitch gave his plan, a different take on the same scenario, ideas debated. That done, they all kitted out, to walk to the mine and sneak up, and to make detailed sketches.

  As they departed, the next team of coppers claimed warm seats and sat the scenario, and I stepped outside when Whisky signalled me with a tip of his head.

  Out of earshot of anyone else, he began, ‘I found an old trail, caked into the mud; no other humans had been through that part of the jungle. Your man walked north, never looked for his buddy, and to the road. At the road I could find no tracks the other side, and I spent a day looking.’

  ‘So he was picked up by vehicle, and at the time we had bridges and roads watched, so he had some good local help,’ I noted.

  ‘Size eleven boots, US Army issue,’ Whisky noted. ‘One discarded pack of cigarettes at the road, the plastic packaging still clear, French.’

  ‘Not a word to anyone, ever,’ I threatened, and he nodded.

  He handed me a piece of paper. ‘Chute serial number.’

  I grabbed Henri when I saw him, and asked him to call Paris on my behalf, with the chute number.

  The police returned at 9pm having snuck around the mine from several angles, and they sat making sketches for an hour. In the morning they would refine their plans, Mitch refining his own plan.

  Henri came and found me at 10pm and led me outside. ‘Paris says that chute was part of a consignment sold to a civilian club, near Marseilles, three years ago. They spoke to the club, and that chute was sold on to a club in Nigeria.’

  ‘I don’t think many fat Nigerians HALO drop.’

  ‘Of course not, no. It is for mercenaries, but few mercenaries HALO drop.’

  ‘You have the name of the club in Nigeria.’

  He handed me a piece of paper, but had to spell it, his hand writing as bad as mine.

  Stepping away, I called Gorskov.

  ‘Ah, Petrov, I have just been reading all about Hammad, and his untimely demise. Still, he was an idiot. Do they still suspect me?’

  ‘No, you are in the clear. But I want a small favour. This is the name of a parachute club in Nigeria.’

  ‘I know it, Belgian special forces, mercenaries, some ex-Foreign Legion. It was shut down six months ago, illegal guns found there.’

  ‘I’d like a list of men who would have been there when Henri Gohort was planning his drop into Sierra Leone.’

  ‘You are still investigating that?’ he puzzled.

  ‘I do what I am asked. Will you assist?’

  ‘It is just a few phone calls, and maybe I’ll have a small favour from you in the future.’

  ‘Get back to me please.’

  The next morning, after a brief downpour, teams again moved to the mine. Stretch sorted the explosives, guards were set so that we’d not be disturbed by either gunmen or local scavengers, and the first police team got ready, Donohue stood keenly observing.

  His men took up sniper positions, the breach team sneaking in. Charges set, diversions set, they made a loud noise, and with medics close by – my lads behind them, they stormed the building, targets fired at, rooms cleared with pistols, shop dummies carried out, covering fire laid down.

  A break for lunch - rations cooked as we debated their performance, and the second team launched their loud assault, one ricochet for the medics to deal with, stitches needed in a painful small wound.

  At 3pm, after a downpour, Mitch took command of eight Echo lads and two coppers, and briefed them on his plan, soon setting diversions and blowing doors, rooms cleared under his direction, dummies carried out, covering pairs used, covering fire. His plan varied in that he blew three doors at the same time, his team close by and rushing in, the coppers having blown a diversion first, then the doors, being further back to start with.

  I grouped a sweaty team of Echo lads at the edge of the mine. ‘Well, how’d he do?’

  Rocko began, ‘If the three doors are blown, the bad guys get a fucking headache all at once, so that buys the breach time a few seconds, and we were close, so ... unless spotted by some guy out for a fag it would have worked, but the assumption was – they’d all be where he thought they’d be. If two were kipping in the end room they’d be ready to react.’

  ‘Mitch?’ I called.

  ‘True, if they had been down there, sure, but I would have got close-up eyes-on and numbers first.’

  Back at the FOB, after a team run back with the coppers, my phone trilled.

  ‘It’s David, got a minute?’

  ‘Sure, fire away.’

  ‘Senegal, just up the coast, has been seeing some political problems, the usual for Africa in that the current president is not accepting the latest election results. Still, the Western powers want him kept in, but there’s a group up north ready to attempt a coup.’

  ‘And you’d like my lads to thin them out a bit...’

  ‘They grabbed a few hostages this week, so that’s the pretext.’

  ‘And how many are there – rebels I mean?’

  ‘Six hundred, well trained, a former army unit. When their CO was dismissed by the president he led his whole unit off northeast, where they now sit about the camp fire. But since moving to a town they’ve wrecked the place, many locals killed, so they’re not doing the hearts and minds bit.’

  ‘Have the Lone Wolves sent down, and “D” Squadron are here so they can join in. Six hundred well trained men is a tough task. What’s the terrain like where this pretender to the
throne is hiding out?’

  ‘Mostly desert scrub, small villages, hills, sparse population. South is jungle in places, but a stark contrast to the desert north. Around the Gambia is a rain valley, rest is arid.’

  ‘And the timescale?’

  ‘He’s grabbed hostages this week, and signals intel suggests he’ll start moving south soon.’

  ‘I’ll get the men ready, you check the transport. But the incumbent will help us?’

  ‘Yes, he has a vested interest.’

  ‘Tell him no help, we land someplace isolated, or someone on his staff will report us.’

  ‘Well, yes, they might do.’

  ‘Find a French base in Mauritania, there are plenty there.’

  ‘OK, leave it with me.’

  My next call was O’Leary. The lads had some desert browns from the French, we needed more. I asked for more to be sent down. I then called Tinker.

  ‘Right, Boss.’

  ‘Listen, we’re deploying to Senegal, so get all the info you can, local politics, hostages. SIS have detail of hostages, and your lot have some signals intel, so get the team on it. Make this look like a hostage rescue.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘It is, but we’ll thin out the bad guys as well. Get the team on it in the morning.’

  Inside, I shouted, ‘Staff Sergeants!’ Rocko, Robby and Rizzo appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Pack ready to leave, we’re off on a job, in the desert, I’ve asked for more desert browns. We leave when we have transport, most likely tomorrow morning.’

  Donohue had heard. ‘You off again?’

  ‘We all are, so I suggest you get back to the UK, they’ve done enough here. We could be gone two weeks.’

  He nodded. ‘Been here three weeks.’

  ‘Sergeant Crab,’ I called. ‘You, Duffy, Whisky, you come with us, hold the rear area. Get packed ready.’

  Outside, stood in the dark, I called Credenhill.

  ‘Duty Officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco. I have a job in the desert, Mauritania, so ask the Colonel if “D” Squadron can tag along. Live hostage rescue, but a big job, plenty of people to shoot. Say ten days in-country.’

  ‘I’ll call him now.’

  Back inside, I grabbed Captain Harris. ‘We’ll need good maps of north eastern Senegal.’

  ‘I’ll have them sent down. And I’ll get a LOCINT brief over the phone.’

  ‘The team back at GL4 are on it as well. French must have maps, so ask the DGSE. We’ll be heading to Mauritania, a French base. And ask Tinker for some radio interceptors to drop near the rebel base.’

  ‘Rebel base? They well organised?’

  ‘Six hundred well trained men?’

  His eyes widened. ‘And you hope to sneak the hostages out without a bloodbath?’

  ‘We’ll judge the job when we get there,’ I told him.

  After evening meal I checked my crate with Swifty, and I had brought fresh socks and pants, a few new paperbacks, socks for Swifty, as well as a new puzzle book for him.

  Robby came and found me. ‘We’re not a whole troop...’

  ‘You come along anyway, make do, form a team with Sasha maybe.’

  ‘Four of us, five of them, so it’s a troop.’

  ‘You’ll be in charge. Go see Sasha.’

  Everyone was packed ready before we bedded down, and I made sure they went to sleep early, to be up early. The final thing I did was to call Max and ask that he fly down to Mauritania and to call me when he got there. He made several loud threats about us not moving on without him before he rang off.

  Our loud Chinook arrived at 7am, the lads lugging crates aboard, backpacks worn over webbing and bandoliers. We left the police stood watching, waving us off, Donohue stood there with his bags packed ready for his own ride out.

  I had thanked the RAF Regiment lads and medics, explained that we had been called away, and thanked the few Army lads based at the FOB.

  At Freetown we moved crates from the loud Chinook to a loud waiting Hercules, the loadmasters strapping down the crates as we took seats, rifles in crates but bandoliers and webbing worn or carried. I took off my webbing, others copying, and tried to get comfortable for what should be just a two hour stint.

  Some of the lads dozed off, as I knew they would, Rocko and Rizzo able to sleep anywhere – even on a Hercules. I envied them that ability. Swifty tackled his new quiz book, but pointed out that on one page “Rhino” was spelt “Rhhino”. Looking at the back inside page, at the bottom, it has been printed in China. He was not hopeful of finding the “Liion”.

  Two hours and ten minutes after take-off we landed on a dusty arid base, low hills seen in the distance, a town near those hills. As we had come in on approach I had noticed that this was a civilian strip, at least part of it was, an airport name displayed, a small single-storey departures lounge, buses on hand, a few light aircraft sat on the apron.

  Taxiing to a halt, brakes applied, we put our webbing back on, crates lugged down the ramp after it lowered, and we had gone from lush green jungle to desert sands. A coach and truck awaited, French soldiers there to assist us, two Puma sat getting a tan, and a familiar face walking over, the man with the DGSE.

  I shook his hand. ‘No time off for Christmas?’ I teased.

  ‘I had three days with my family, which is enough, no.’

  I laughed. ‘This place secure?’

  He shrugged. ‘Never been problems here.’

  ‘But there are civilians around, so ask the French soldiers for extra guards, and to stop people taking an interest in us.’

  ‘At the far end, a compound, it is isolated, outside the airport.’

  I pointed at two soldiers walking past, distinctive red shoulder epaulettes and white hats. ‘Legion?’

  ‘Yes, a brigade is based here. You will be in with them.’

  ‘Then we’ll be well guarded at night.’

  ‘There are about fifty here at any one time, a training area nearby.’

  Truck loaded, lads in the coach, our DGSE man followed me onto the bus, and we set off down the edge of the runway, out a gate and down a tarmac road a quarter mile, through a second gate guarded by the Legion, and to huts. But these huts had sandbanks around them, so we were not in the line of fire from anyone outside the wire.

  Kit off the truck, we grabbed two huts, and they were clean, decent beds and mattresses, cabinets, on par with the barracks back at GL4.

  ‘First time I seen mattresses in a place like this,’ Rocko approved. ‘Clean and all.’

  ‘Let’s keep them that way,’ I told him. ‘Staff Sergeants, two men on stag right away, trust no fucker.’

  Crates opened, weapons grabbed, we sat and checked rifles, and we all loaded – our weapons all green. Fully kitted, I grabbed Hunt and Harris and followed our helpful DGSE guide to the base HQ, Legionnaires puzzling us, several of those Legionnaires being blacks.

  It was not a large base, one central road with huts on either side sat on brown sandy dirt, and at the end of that road sat a few brick buildings, a canteen, stores, the HQ building, a twenty-five yard range, a long range mentioned as being a mile away.

  Inside the HQ building we found an open plan ground floor area, a dozen desks, ceiling fans turning, officers glancing up at us – a few with the red shoulder epaulettes, a black lady at a typewriter, a computer in use by an officer.

  The Major in charge stepped out, and we shook. ‘Captain Vilco, your reputation precedes you, and well done in Paris – we thank you.’

  ‘Hope I stay out of prison, sir, I stretched a few laws in a good cause.’

  He made a face and shrugged. ‘When soldiers shoot, there is always the law to consider, yes. Come.’ He led us into his office, seats taken, the DGSE guy stood leaning against a wall, cold drinks offered and taken as I introduced Hunt and Harris.

  ‘We have requested maps, sir,’ I began after sipping cold lemonade. ‘But do you have some here, of eastern Senegal?’

  ‘We have a good col
lection yes, and Paris says to assist any way we can. Some of the men know that area, from three years back, some small problems there.’

  ‘If you have one to assign to me, sir, that would help. And are there bases closer to the border with Senegal?’

  ‘There are small outposts, yes, one might suit.’ He took out a map, so I held a finger on the town in question. He informed me, ‘Here, just twenty miles or so, is a small outpost, used a few times but abandoned now I think.’

  ‘I’d like to take it over, sir. How long to fly by Puma from here?’

  He made a face and shrugged. ‘Twenty minutes only I think.’

  ‘Can we deputise some of your men?’

  ‘Of course, and they need some – how you English say – leg stretch.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, sir, leg stretch.’

  ‘If you can make use of them, and we get some credit?’ He held his hands wide as we smiled.

  ‘Yes, sir, some good newspaper reports.’

  ‘You are seeking hostages?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but we will have a look at the target town first. They have six hundred well-trained soldiers.’

  His eyes widened. ‘You will fight with these men?’

  ‘No, sir, we will try and get the hostages out quietly.’

  He nodded. ‘You bring thirty men, so I hope you don’t wake these soldiers,’ he cautioned.

  ‘We’ll find a way that does not involve my men being killed, sir. Or your men.’

  ‘There are another fifty that I can bring here, they are stretching their legs on exercise.’

  ‘If you want them involved, then bring them here soon, sir. They will get some valuable experience.’

  He showed us around the small base, officers and NCOs introduced, and our assigned man was a black sergeant, the man built like a pro boxer.

  The sergeant saluted me. ‘I am Sergeant Sambonville. They call me Sambo, sir.’

  I smiled. ‘Er ... in England, Sambo is a bad word for a black man.’

  He shrugged. ‘It is my name, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be surprised if the English boys smile at the name. And please don’t start a fight.’ I sent him off to my lads, to take them to the canteen – smiling no doubt, a liaison officer sent to find Captain Moran.