Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 4 by Geoff Wolak

Author:Geoff Wolak [Wolak, Geoff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-01-08T05:00:00+00:00

Half an hour later I tested the new and improve latrines at the southern tree line, a bench with a hole over a deep pit with a lid.

Walking back, a wave given to the static guards, I could hear the distant drone of a light aircraft. It grew louder as I walked, but I had not remembered seeing any at the airport. Could it be smugglers coming in to land? They’d get a shock.

I lost my smile, lifted my rifle – no silencer, and fired a burst into the sky. ‘Stand to!’ I screamed, running towards the airfield.

The drone dropped away as I caught a glimpse of it, a low wing monoplane. I faced the flat roof. ‘Men up on the roof! Stand up with your GPMGs, fire from the shoulder at that aircraft!’ My men poured out the building, some onto the lower roof.

The roar built, the aircraft coming in at treetop height. It climbed, revealing missiles, and dived down, two streaks of smoke coming towards the building, and my heart skipped a beat as I took aim at the aircraft. The blasts sounded out behind me and I wobbled, squeezing the trigger as all hell was let loose around me.

I could see tracer rounds hitting the aircraft, clearly seeing holes made as it passed over, and I clicked empty. I had started the day with a full mag, and had emptied it into the aircraft without realising.

Twisting around, dozens of men still firing out, the plane banked hard over and dropped, hitting the ground a hundred yards beyond the gate, a plume of smoke rising.

Screams caused me to turn back around, a large hole in the side of the building, smoke billowing, the second missile having hit the rusted old digger. I ran, partly angered, partly in shock, partly blaming myself for this.

At the hole I bumped shoulders with some of the RAF Regiment lads, one down and badly hurt, and screaming. Inside the hole - the upper half billowing smoke, I could see legs and arms, small brown legs and arms; our Liberians.

The teenage lad staggered out covered in blood, a medic rushing to him and leading him away. There was too much smoke, so I ran around to the main entrance, passing many of the lads as I progressed, shouting people out of the way.

Two “G” Squadron lads were dragging a Liberian lady with an arm missing, medics rushing to her aid, Morten fighting the fire with an red extinguisher; our stove had been upturned and its contents scattered, burnt or semi-burnt bananas now scattered around.

Two kids were obviously dead, one might make it, an arm missing. I rushed out through the hole, my sat phone in my hand, and dialled.

‘Captain Harris.’

‘It’s Wilco, emergency medivac at the FOB now! I need helicopters, we had a rocket attack, we have dead and wounded!’

‘Christ.’

I hung up and stared at the bloodied RAF Regiment lad as he was worked on by many hands, and called Bob. ‘Bob, listen, we’ve had an attack at the FOB, a light aircraft with rockets, we have dead and wounded.

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