Wilco- Lone Wolf 13 Page 8

  As we lost the light, the temperature dropping rapidly, a calm descended over the desert, no shots outgoing, no rockets coming in. Men got back into their routines of sleeping, eating, cleaning weapons, the Wolf recruits fixing the damaged trench, the Greenies fixing their part of the trench that had collapsed.

  I sat and enjoyed a cuppa, in no rush to do anything, chatting to those lads remaining, more cake enjoyed. Patrolling the southeast trench, Colonel Mathews called back.

  He began, ‘I explained it all, and they could see that the Press had exaggerated it. National Security Advisor was there, not the President, and the CIA explained the hoped-for intel benefits.’

  ‘So you still have your head...’

  ‘Yes, and the Joint Chiefs are happy about the publicity. What’s happening your end?’

  ‘We had a patrol of snipers walking towards us in daylight, so we shot them.’

  He laughed. ‘Not much good as snipers then, were they.’

  ‘We hit them a thousand yards out, that’s the advantage of this place. And we stole an APC, just sent it south to their lines to give them a piece of hot lead.’

  ‘They’ll be annoyed – their own people firing at them!’

  ‘That they will, sir.’

  ‘You got the supplies you need?’

  ‘We’re fine, sir.’

  Waiting for something to happen, I sat with some of the Wolf recruits, chatting away, and the hours ticked by.

  My phone finally trilled. ‘It’s Rizzo, we just pasted a camp. We had the headlights on an all, and as we approached they waved and smiled, so we shot them. Our two jeeps came around the side and stuck a thousand rounds into their camp, a few men running off, some of their jeeps on fire.’

  ‘Good work. Don’t take risks with close-up fighting.

  ‘There’s a truck, and we had a look, and it has anti-tank mines.’

  ‘Mines? What the fuck could they do with mines?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Shall we blow them?’

  ‘No. Get Stretch to prime a dozen, put them down the track - tell him to be fucking careful, then turn around and drive back 600yards and wait. And steal that truck. How many mines?’

  ‘Like two hundred.’

  ‘Bring them here. Oh, any mounted fifty cal?’

  ‘Two of them.’

  ‘Try and bring them up as well, pinch away any mortars or fifty cal, but be careful moving around that camp, double-tap them all.’

  He was back on ten minutes later. ‘Both the jeeps with fifty cal are knackered, fuel tanks hit and empty, engines fucked.’

  ‘Have the APC tow one, lorry tow the other. Is Stretch setting mines?’

  ‘Yeah, down the track about four hundred yards.’

  ‘Wait up the track as planned, but be back for dawn.’

  I was sat with my team back in our original sand holes and getting ready for some sleep when my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Rizzo. Some fucker drove up that track, jeep blown apart by a mine, then we fired on them for ten minutes. Gone quiet now.’

  ‘Come back in, or they might walk around you in the dark.’

  ‘OK.’

  Half an hour later the growl could be heard, men easing up. I saw the headlights south and transmitted a warning – for men not to shoot. The two British jeeps appeared first, parked up, Tomo and Smitty getting down, soon Henri and Jacque, the APC trundling along pulling a pickup, the lorry heard behind.

  On the runway the APC revved and turned east, dragging the jeep on 100yards, the lorry towing a second jeep, that lorry parked south of the runway.

  Rizzo walked over, in the light of jeep headlights. ‘Pasted the fuckers, twice.’

  ‘Drive that truck west 600yards, and leave it on the sand; if a rocket hits the mines it’ll make a big bang.’ He jogged back to the truck. ‘Put those jeeps back with the medics,’ I called. ‘GPMGs back to the RAF Regiment. Chop Chop.’

  I finally managed to settled down and get some sleep.

  When I opened my eyes it was dawn, but a bright dawn and not a grey dawn, the Americans blowing out reveille, two pickups with mounted fifty cal sat on the runway, their sides peppered with holes. I eased up and stretched, sand all over me. Kit on, rifle checked, I walked down to the runway towards southeast trench.

  ‘Sergeant Crab!’

  ‘Here.’ His head popped up.

  ‘Get the bulldozers to make a hollow up here near the runway, push that jeep in with the fifty cal, sandbags around it, aiming southeast. Teach some recruits how to use it. Go fetch the other jeep, and tow it back here, same deal. Have it aiming on the wrecked jeeps south. That’s after breakfast, of course.’

  ‘Right, Boss.’

  Back at my team, they were stirring. Moran stretched, ‘What the fuck they want mines for?’

  ‘Good question, since we don’t use the roads. Maybe they figured we might use the roads at some point.’

  ‘How many mines?’

  ‘Hundreds.’

  ‘What’ll we do with them?’

  ‘What does anyone do with mines? Create a minefield, force them to walk in certain areas.’

  ‘Out at 600yards or beyond, a strip of land,’ he approved. ‘And two mounted fifty cal now. We got ammo?’

  ‘We can take apart the chain ammo.’

  ‘Right bunch of thieves, aren’t we.’

  ‘Well, look, if they leave them lying around, keys in...’

  Later, I observed as the first mounted Duska was pushed backwards into a hollow, men shovelling in sand, sandbag walls begun. Sasha jumped on, checked everything, cocked it and let out a burst, all heads turning towards the source of the loud outgoing. It had a turn radius of about twenty degrees either way, so it would have to do.

  The APC loudly dragged the second jeep closer, another hollow dug by the bulldozers, and this Dushka sat facing southwest, Sasha again blasting out rounds.

  Castille stood near me on the runway, hands on hips. ‘We’re getting us some hardware, Boy.’

  I raised a finger. ‘At no cost to either of our governments, no requisitions, no delays, no whinging about the cost of us being here,’ I emphasized.

  ‘Boy, don’t you know we do our own shopping here at Camel Toe Base. Self sufficiency is the name of the game.’

  When my phone trilled it was the Squadron Leader in Mauritania, to ask about dispatching the supply plane.

  ‘Do it now in daylight, sir, they attack at night mostly.’

  ‘OK, I’ll check with the pilots. It’s loaded up. And we stuffed some fresh food on it for you.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Walking west, I heard the buzz, so did others, a plane. ‘Incoming!’ I ran, transmitting, ‘Incoming, get to cover, plane coming in!’

  I reached my hole, Swifty diving into his, rifles made ready, and we all peeked out south as men shouted, Moran and Mitch diving in and getting ready. I looked left and shouted, ‘Snipers, get ready!’

  ‘There!’ someone shouted. ‘West.’

  I stood tall in my hole and peered west, seeing a small prop-engine aircraft. Lifting my binoculars, I could see the wing rockets. I transmitted, ‘Sergeant Crab, get that Russian fifty cal going! RAF Regiment, get ready with GPMGs! All teams take cover, it has rockets!’

  It banked around and came at us in line with the runway, but as it reached the end of the runway it banked right and sped past the east trench at high speed, cracks sounding out. Its profile diminished as it flew south, a look down at the wrecked jeeps as it banked hard right and came around.

  ‘RAF Regiment, he’s yours!’

  Swifty said, ‘He can see the trench, he can’t see us out here.’

  The plane levelled off, coming down the runway at high speed, a sudden cackle of GPMG fire drowning out the sound of the aircraft’s engine, that aircraft suddenly losing its prop, its canopy glass turning white. It dipped, my eyes widened, and I dived down as it skidded past us on the runway, sparks flying. It veered off towards the medics, cart-wheeled, two
loud blasts, sand thrown a hundred feet into the air, a burst of flame, black smoke, and our attacker was down and out for the count.

  I stood and stepped to the runway as Echo lads stood.

  ‘Fucking bollocking hell,’ Stretch let out.

  ‘Another one!’ Moran shouted, men turning, a plane diving in, men scurrying back into holes, rifles ready. I took aim just as the sand around me was torn up, the runway hit, my face back down in the dirt.

  The buzz built, the firing ended, so I dared to look up, rifle ready, and as it banked east I began firing. Two blasts, puffs of smoke, and I thought we had hit it, but it had simply fired missiles.

  It sped east down the runway, two clouds of sand coming up from the area of the drain. I jumped up, seeing someone near the runway.

  Thud, thud, thud, sounded out as I lifted my binoculars; Sergeant Crab.

  ‘Crab, you crazy...’

  He turned as the plane sped past, still firing, the plane suddenly dipping, a huge pile of sand thrown up, two blasts, black smoke rising. I focused on where Crab had been stood, wondering if he was dead, but he was now visible, more than a hundred yards away from the crash site.

  I shook my head as my lads all stood tall and peered down the runway, two fires now burning. I transmitted, ‘Sergeant Crab, you shot it down, so you go clean up the mess. I want that sand looking good as new.’

  A French voice said, ‘We shot it down!’

  An American accent said, ‘We hit the damn thing a dozen times!’

  I transmitted, ‘So you can all go clean up the mess.’

  ‘This is Doctor Morten, and you are all wrong; I saw the goat shoot down that plane.’

  The men of Echo laughed loudly, heads shaking down the line.

  ‘This is Captain Castille, and we concede that the goat shot it down.’

  ‘This is Haines. We handed the goat the GPMG, so we get some credit.’

  I faced Moran. ‘Do you ever get the impression that some of this lot are not taking it seriously?’

  Scanning the horizon, I jogged to the medics, finding them emerging from their hole, burning fuel spotted around, debris, and the goat was right there, stood tethered. ‘How the fuck did that goat survive?’

  ‘It has nine lives,’ Morten suggested. ‘It’s used up three.’

  I transmitted, ‘Report any wounded.’

  No reports came in as both planes burnt fiercely, the French grabbing mortar tubes to re-locate them, and dragging mortar boxes – just in case, as I called London and gave a report, to be sent on.

  Moran drew level. ‘What about the supply plane that’s due?’

  ‘Well, we ... could delay it till after dark, but then the rockets might come in.’

  ‘If a small plane like this turns up with a Hercules on the deck...’

  I nodded. ‘A problem, yeah. But the chances are slim, and these don’t come cheap.’

  ‘Why’d the stupid pilots think they could attack us?’ Moran wondered.

  ‘Amateurs, offered a lot of money, lied to about what we have here. And these two are short range aircraft, no drop tanks.’ I stepped away and called Libintov. ‘Listen, that base in northern Nigeria just had two small planes attack it, planes like a Spitfire, both shot down. They had a short range, so ... where would they come from?’

  ‘Many small strips around the area.’

  ‘Ask around, I think these were Brazilian, Tucano.’

  ‘Ah, I think I know someone with such planes, I will get back to you, but if you don’t mind me asking ... there are Western soldiers at that base - I saw on the news, so why are you assisting them?’

  ‘The base is a trap, to entice in Islamist fighters, and I don’t like Arab fighters, don’t like them at all.’

  ‘Well, the only people who like Arab fighters ... are other Arab fighters. I would not deal with them.’

  ‘Once this operation has finished you will have far fewer competitors.’

  ‘That sounds good. Talk soon.’

  A blast had people diving down, the medics getting back into their hole, the burning plane a little close.

  It was 4pm when the Hercules made contact, the fires having burnt out, the smoke now just a wisp of grey. The RAF Hercules touched down with a roar, reverse engine for ten seconds and the ramp came down, the lads stood waiting. Pallets pushed off in a hurry, they were grabbed and pushed to the side, a fuel bogey and water bogey pushed off.

  A wave, ramp closing, and the Hercules powered down the runway and off, a C160 on approach, and it slowly and gracefully hit the runway. Ramp down, and Liban stepped off with a platoon of men, heavy bags carried on backs, Valmets displayed.

  Four pallets pushed off, and the C160 powered up, soon lifting its nose as I closed in on Liban, my nostrils full of the smell of aviation fuel.

  I saluted. ‘Welcome to Camel Toe Base, sir.’

  He laughed, and saluted me back. ‘What is the food like?’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Ah, so good that we brought some, eh.’ He glanced around. ‘You have made a mess, captain.’

  I stood pointing out the features as his men joined their colleagues, and I recalled what had happened here over fifteen minutes as we stood on the runway, the pallets being opened and the cargo moved.

  Morten approached, greeting Liban in French, hands shaken. He informed me, ‘There are tins, and fruit, so I’ll hand it out before it goes off – the fruit I mean. There’s more concrete as well, water bogey, fuel bogey, some odd aluminium things, and a flag for us.’ He handed me a cassette tape. ‘Had your name on it.’

  I glanced at it and pocketed it, leading Liban to the French position. He started asking questions of his men as I examined the goodies that had been delivered. Taking out the lightweight aluminium, looking like giant baking trays with sides, I had an idea what it was for. At least, I knew what I would use it for.

  I waved over the 1st Battalion captain. ‘You mix cement, put in here, let it dry, use it for making walls and a roof for the trench. He examined the aluminium trays, made a face and shouted instructions. And we had about fifty of these trays, each about four feet square.

  I handed the flag to Moran, and raising it would be his duty.

  ‘Got no bugle,’ he complained.

  ‘I have a song on tape,’ I assured him, leaving him looking puzzled, very puzzled.

  Everyone got a tin of mince meat and a tin of pears, a banana and a pineapple. I wolfed down the banana straight away, as did most men, the peel thrown on the burnt Tucano, its crispy pilot the subject of some debate by the medics - to get him out or not, and just how to go about that. They decided to let the plane cool down first.

  I sat with Swifty and the team, both of our mince meats combined, and we had bread to dip into it, so a feast was on the cards – provided no one attacked us. After eating I felt full, leaving the tinned pears for now, and we sat back in our sandy holes, brew in hand as the sun set.

  ‘What comes next?’ Moran posed as he took in the horizon south.

  ‘Helicopter,’ Swifty put in without looking up.

  ‘Helicopter?’ Mitch challenged. ‘We’d shoot it down.’

  Swifty suggested, ‘Helicopter at 1500ft, a guy dropping RPG heads.’

  I told him, ‘As soon as I hear a helicopter we’re all in the drain.’

  It grew dark, men taking it easy, but all of us were expecting rockets. The lookout reported lights south, but after half an hour the lights were still south. I peered through my binoculars, and the light was a fire.

  ‘Someone went over a mine,’ I told the team.

  Ten minutes later a few rounds cracked overhead, men ducking lower.

  I transmitted, ‘1s Battalion, get ready, one starburst south 1,000yards. All teams, standby to fire out, I think they’re south of us.’

  We waited in the dark, aiming blindly for now. The pop came, we waited, night suddenly turning to day, twenty fighters caught out in the open, this side of the wrecked jeeps and east a little. The cracks sounded o
ut, those twenty men dead a few seconds later, the brilliant flare drifting slowly down on its chute.

  ‘1st Battalion, starshell 2,000yards southeast, please.’

  Adjustments made, the pop came, the southeast lit up, ten men caught on approach at about 800yards, all shredded, not least by Sergeant Crab and his fifty cal – or maybe a Wolf recruit handling that fifty cal.

  The shadows of men’s heads grew long across the sand, only heads visible above the sand, and the shadows slowly disappeared, peace reclaiming the desert, night vision lost for many minutes.

  ‘What chance they got,’ Swifty scoffed. ‘Who the fuck is in charge over there?’

  I began, ‘I would guess that we’re seeing several different groups, from different areas, they’re not all one group, that comes later. Only been a week.’

  ‘So what do they have in the way of groupings?’ Moran asked through the dark, all of us blind till our night vision returned.

  ‘We’re in the state of Zamfara, and its leaders want to be independent of the Christians in the south, and there are more Muslims than Christians here. Lagos is disproportionately Christian.

  ‘So we’re looking a state-level response, and they have a police, a militia, a sort of army, and they do what the fuck they like. In this area they practise Sharia Law, and they massacre Christians for fun after Friday Prayers.’

  ‘A bit of a Crusade then,’ Mitch noted.

  ‘I hope not,’ I told him. ‘We’re not here to kill Muslims, we’re here to see which Middle East paymaster is pulling their chains, and which Christian oil baron is pulling their chains.’

  Moran put in, ‘And the Christian oil baron has no issues with the bad boys here attacking mines, so long as they’re rival mines.’

  ‘Correct,’ I confirmed through the dark. ‘We’re after the little shits, not the general populace.’

  ‘And if the State Governor mobilises the masses?’ Moran posed.

  ‘We would leave.’

  No further attacks materialised during the night, the grey dawn light finding me up and peeing in the sand. Noticing French lads awake, and finding out that they been up a while, I asked if they were fit, the men soon noisily driving the bulldozers south towards the line of wrecked jeeps. One turned left, one turned right, and they started to dig trenches in the soft sand, east and west.