Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  Unknown to us, the dog could smell the Alsatians, and made a line for them just as the spy types were halfway out a window. The barking started, the lights came up, the escape called off, our crazed dog barking like mad at everyone.

  Playing the tapes back, we could see that our mad dog had accidentally screwed up the escape attempt. We all agreed to disown the dog and not admit to anything.

  The last Wolf clambered up the House of Horrors, and the cameras caught his “what the fuck” moment when he closed in on three dead animals. He shook his head and moved on, but as he reached the far side he found the dog below, just sat there. We laid off bets as to what he would do next.

  For five long minutes he just stared down at it, and finally threw meat down from his rations. Retrieving the dead rabbit, he threw it down, but the dog was not interested, simply sat staring up at him.

  More meat was lobbed and, as we observed, he pulled loose a large concrete slab, strained to lift it, and let it drop, the poor dog slammed into the grass and knocked out. Extra points were awarded, after we had stopped laughing – but no one had won the bet.

  We met him after he had finished in the Killing House, the lad puzzling the dead Alsatian in a room. ‘What was all those dead animals up on the roof?’

  ‘We put them there to see how other men reacted,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh, right. Bit fucking weird that was, and that dog had me stumped for a bit, thought it was someone’s pet – maybe the Range Warden guy.’

  I stared at him. ‘You thought it was the Range Warden’s dog, and you hit it with a fucking paving slab?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want his dog to lose me points or anything.’

  I exchanged looks with Swifty and Moran. ‘You would have killed the Range Warden’s dog – and got us banned from here?’

  The lad now looked worried.

  ‘What a cunt,’ Swifty said light-heartedly.

  ‘Shocking,’ Moran noted. ‘Could have got us all thrown off the base.’

  ‘But ... it wasn’t his dog ... right?’ the lad worried.

  ‘You were lucky,’ Moran warned him.

  ‘You did well, but always expect the unexpected,’ I told him. ‘Get some food, then rest. And if it had been the Range Warden’s dog ... we’d all be screwed.’ I walked with him to the accommodation, much debate going on about the animals, and who had killed what. We would drive back tomorrow, after a contest on the pistol range, the Mi6 lads yet to escape.

  Bob was on the phone at 4pm, and I could have timed it. ‘How did they do?’

  ‘Better than your lot in Stalag Luft 13, they took their time.’

  ‘They’ll get some experience. Anyhow, we have a problem, someone leaking a story to the press about the parachute accident – claiming that you’re not authorised to teach parachuting.’

  ‘And they’d be right, but I’m also not authorised to send Wolves into harm’s way, and a shit load of other stuff.’

  ‘There could be questions asked, because no official RAF instructor was on hand.’

  ‘Pete was there, he taught the lads, he checked kit then flew the plane. It was, technically, a civvy drop just using our base. Civvy chutes, civvy Skyvan. Besides, I think Rocko is qualified, I’ll check.’

  ‘We can label it as a civvy drop, but that may get this chap Pete on the stand at an enquiry.’

  ‘I’ll chat to him. Do we need a HALO instructor with us next time, because we know more than they do?’

  ‘I’m looking into it. How did the Wolves do?’

  ‘They all got extra skills on fences, door and windows, and they all stormed the killing house twice with a view to stealing documents, and they got more sneak and peek work done, so that’s all coming along. Next week they’re off to Brecon for the first real test, proper Lone Wolf stuff.’

  ‘Samantha Hedges will talk to some over the weekend, formal interviews week after, they’d face a panel.’

  ‘A daunting prospect,’ I quipped.

  I went and found Rocko. He was qualified to teach and lead HALO, so that was OK, and mentioned that Henri was also qualified. I called Pete and warned him, but he was not alarmed – he had a few students killed over the years, and his kit was not at fault.

  Over the weekend I sat with Swifty and Moran and we double-checked everything. Next week, each Wolf would be handed one of four objectives, and they would set off at staggered intervals across the Welsh mountains, told to be at certain places at certain times and to RV with the local resistance in the guise of Sergeant Crab, and it reminded me of the exercise in Scotland – when we had jumped from a Puma helicopter.

  Bob was dead, Smurf dead, and I took a moment to reflect, discussing them with Swifty.

  On the coming Monday morning, at the camp in Sennybridge, Brecon Beacons, each man would be required to make a plan, intel provided by Captain Harris and his team; the Wolves would have to plan their own route, but had to meet with members of the resistance at certain places at certain times. They would have to chose between going up and over mountains, or around them, across rivers or to use bridges.

  They would need to plan the timings, as well as when they would eat and sleep. A certain amount of rations would be issued, rabbits and chickens handed out by our good buddies in the resistance, along with raw carrots, spinach and cabbage.

  Each man would have a satellite tracker from Bob, as well as a satellite phone, and they were required to give sitreps at various points, Sasha’s team required to give sitreps correctly in Russian. They would also carry flares and a whistle, as well as an orange reflective ground marker for aircraft.

  Each would carry old FN SLRS, no ammo, two ponchos, and little more. No sleeping bag, no jumper, one change of shirt, one change of socks, plasters and a good first aid kit. Their facemasks and gloves would help to keep them warm, and since it was summer time they should not freeze.

  Standing, kettle knocked on in my kitchen, I said, ‘Is this too much for them?’

  Swifty and Moran eased back and exchanged looks. Swifty said, ‘If they eat as they should, if they rest as they should, then they can do it.’

  ‘Barring no sprained ankles,’ Moran put in.

  Swifty added, ‘But if they fuck it up, no sleep or proper food, then they’ll be dead on their feet.’

  I made a face. ‘We get the sitreps, so we can gauge a problem.’

  ‘If they chose to go up and over at night, we will have injured men,’ Moran warned.

  ‘We have a Puma for the week on standby, Doctor Morten and a team down,’ I reminded them as I made three brews.

  Teas down, I said, ‘First leg is thirty-six miles, some rough terrain, then four hours kip after food. Next leg is twenty-six miles, but with twelve hours in a hide – not allowed to sleep, eight miles and a rest, four hours.

  ‘They then have thirty miles, to the ranges and an hour’s shooting each, straight back out twenty miles before a four hour stop. That could all be done in sixty-five hours barring fuck-ups, a check-over at base, hour on the range, then the final forty miles round trip.’

  ‘Their feet will be sore,’ Swifty noted. ‘And if they get their feet wet three times a day, very sore.’

  ‘Smitty and Tomo could do it,’ Moran suggested. ‘Nicholson, Leggit and Swan, Gonzo should be able to do it, but those four civvies may struggle a bit.’

  ‘They use their brains, so they’ll avoid the fuck-ups,’ I insisted. ‘More than Tomo; he’s action first and think later. I’d bet on Nicholson for top score.’

  ‘Me too,’ Swifty agreed. ‘Fit, and a thinker.’

  Each of the Echo lads would be helping out, and many would be sat in hides observing the Wolves wander past – assuming that the Wolves were in the right place at the right time – and judging the Wolves stealth.

  Swifty and Moran helped me double check the map coordinates and work out the possible routes, times and distances, and everything seemed set, the weather forecast mixed; cold was preferable to being too hot when walking in the hills.<
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  On Sunday night everyone met at the hangar at 8pm, three coaches ready, kit checked and re-checked. We boarded when ready, a few people driving themselves there, and we set off as it grew dark, our MPs leading us in their Land Rovers – we were still taking no chances.

  We made good time up to Hereford, through the familiar town centre – glances taken at new pubs, past the new Credenhill base on the right, and on to Hay-on-Wye, down to Brecon, then across to Sennybridge, south at the village camp, pulling in to our designated area at 10.30pm, the RSM and the range wardens waiting, dated huts soon allocated.

  The range we would make use of this week was not the same as my three-day scenario since we only wanted the lads sniping at 500yards at 12inch metal plates. I greeted familiar range wardens, and the head of the army Sniper School, a cup of tea and quick chat in a small brick building for SIGINT as the lads all settled themselves in dated Nissen huts.

  Later, in the dimly lit Wolves hut, I began, ‘Listen up.’ They stopped and faced me, a few holding their issued SLRs. ‘Check kit, have a bite to eat, make a brew – the floor is concrete, then sleep in your clothes – boots off, you’ll be up at 6am, a long walk ahead of you.’

  I nodded at Sasha as he sat with his team before I addressed my lads next door, equally as dimly lit under their low round ceiling. ‘OK, nothing doing tonight, so sleep, up at 6am, Wolves on their long walk, and some of you will be allocated tasks as we discussed, some on rescue standby. Study maps and RVs so that you know where they may be – if in trouble.

  ‘Some of you will then be sent out to spy on them, and to take off points if they’re seen to be dicking about, or being less than stealthy. We’re here all week, so get comfy, as comfy as you can in this nice four star accommodation.’

  ‘Thought I’d seen the back of these shit tip huts,’ Rocko said. ‘I was here in basic training, and they ain’t changed any. I think the turd I left in the bogs is still there.’

  Next door, I found Swifty, Moran and Mahoney, plus two Intel captains – both male, and I claimed a bed with an old mattress, one black blanket allocated, one damp old pillow. If nothing else, the British Army was consistent.

  ‘Lady captains in that nice brick building?’ Swifty asked.

  I nodded. ‘All snug and cosy. Oh, there’ll be times when some of the lads are not needed, so we can get some range time in.’

  Moran nodded. ‘Get some practise in, maybe go up a mountain, or over that assault course like on Krypton Factor on the TV – some spandex on.’

  Swifty lifted his head. ‘Who’s the fit bird that hosts that show, nice arse?’

  ‘Penny something,’ I said. ‘That the same assault course?’

  Moran nodded.

  ‘Tomorrow would be the best day for that,’ I told him as I checked my dated bed. ‘Fuck all happening back here on the first day.’ Sat down, I faced Mahoney. ‘Do the Yanks have anything like Lone Wolves?’

  ‘To operate alone?’ He made a face. ‘You don’t come across it, it’s all small team tactics and specialists; radio, demolition, medic. But I guess some of the Rangers would fit this scenario.’

  ‘And the Green Berets?’ I asked.

  ‘Again, you have your teams, and in the Deltas we rarely did lone trips. We were tested alone, long distance map reading, but we don’t operate alone – for the obvious reasons; one broken ankle and you’re screwed.’

  Swifty said, ‘Broken ankle with a team, and the team turns around!’

  ‘But some could go on,’ Mahoney insisted. ‘If the situation dictated.’

  ‘Which is best,’ Moran thought out loud as he read a map. ‘Four man team, or one man? One man is less likely to be spotted, four gives you options, and you could split up – set a decoy.’

  ‘Four is the standard,’ Mahoney noted. ‘One man is a spy, not a soldier.’

  ‘The Lone Wolves are spies,’ I pointed out. ‘At least some of these will be, after further training. But they’d usually go in by car and by bluff, only going across country if something went wrong. If the police are after them, they get to a place near the border, and go up and over the hills without getting caught.’

  ‘And the recon element?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘In a small war, yes, in a big war, yes, but peacetime spy work – would seem unlikely. Take the Falklands. The SAS team that landed in Chile walked off without even attempting to infiltrate Argentina. Lone Wolves would have gone in – hopefully not giving up before they started.’

  ‘The captain was bollocked for that,’ Swifty noted. ‘They risked helicopters and lives to land on the coast, then chickened out after an hour looking at the map.’

  ‘Another great SAS fuck-up that never made it to the press,’ I noted with a sigh.

  ‘Max coming?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘What for?’ I asked. ‘Not much to see or photograph, and do we want this out there?’

  Moran lifted his head. ‘All the Army units know about it, it’s just a sniper course, harmless enough.’

  I made a face and shrugged.

  At 5am I was awake, one of the Intel captains snoring, and I eased my boots on. Outside, a delicate mist hanging in the cool air, I took a pee on the dirt and stretched my limbs, the landscape bleak. In the nominated SIGINT building I made myself a tea, and I stood outside with it for ten minutes, visibility limited to a quarter of a mile or less as the sun came up.

  An armed MP emerged from the mist, his dog alert to my presence.

  ‘Where’d you sleep?’ I whispered, letting his dog sniff my hand.

  ‘Got a nice cosy brick building up the main camp, sir.’

  ‘No intruders?’ I teased.

  ‘Not around here, sir, no public access, but we were alert.’

  Back in my hut I crept quietly and retrieved my papers and maps, and I quietly claimed a large desk in the SIGINT building; this would be command central for the week.

  At 5.45am I opened the Wolves door, finding most awake and getting ready. ‘Let’s be having you then, my deadly Lone Wolves, 6am out front.’

  Next I roused the officers and Swifty, finally Echo, Rocko and Rizzo needing a good kick as usual.

  Back in the command building I found two lady captains, less than fresh, but pretending to be alert. I hid my smile, badly, getting squinted at.

  Sergeants Crab and Duffy appeared first, pulling up in a Land Rover, its surface moist. They started to unload boxes, as well as cages full of live rabbits.

  With the Wolves lined up outside in a fresh morning air, rifles held, I began, ‘OK, you should have ... map in a map case, notepad, pen and spare pen – or you’re fucked, compass, spare small compass, flares, whistle, orange marker, sat phone and GPS tracker. Anyone ... missing anything?’

  They all shook heads.

  ‘Excellent. Now pay attention. Lose your map when tired ... and you get your arse kicked. Lose a GPS tracker and you pay for it, lose a sat phone and you pay for it, use that phone to call your mum and you’re dead meat.’ I held up a warning finger.

  ‘Don’t get the map wet. If you think you want to cross a river, double plastic around it. Always check pockets and pouches are secure and, if you rest some place, check the ground around you before you leave.

  ‘Sat phone and GPS tracker in plastic as well, take good care of them, don’t sit on them or lay on them. In a war, damaging that kit would cost you your lives.

  ‘Now, the routes you’ll travel have been worked out so that you can walk them at a brisk pace, no need to jog. If you need to jog to get somewhere in time then you’ve fucked up your calculations somewhere, so double check them.

  ‘You’ll meet members of the local resistance at certain points at certain times, usually in a green Land Rover and looking a lot like Sergeant Crab. He will hand you a rabbit now and then. Drink when you like, eat when you like, stop and get a brew on when you like – up to you. Fill up water bottles from streams – puri-tabs in.

  ‘In certain places you may see dog patrols, avoid them or get bitten. If
you’re captured, it’s a good kicking and a loss of points. Avoid civvies, but in a few places you may need to walk past them. See soldiers, run like fuck or hide.

  ‘If you sprain an ankle, call the number programmed in, it will give us your coordinates, and we’ll double check your location with your GPS tracker. If you fall down a ravine and kill yourself, we will recover the valuable kit – you won’t be charged for it.’

  A few laughed.

  ‘You may come across each other if one is a bit slow and the next a bit fast. If you proceed together you lose lots of points. Guy behind, stop and make a brew. Guy in front, jog some - you lazy bastard.’

  They laughed.

  ‘In a short while you’ll sit with a map and be given instructions by Intel, and you’ll be required to give sitreps as you go, as you would in a war. You may also receive updates, so make sure the damn phone is on and that you can hear it. Miss an update ... and lots of points could be taken off.

  ‘If you read the damn map properly, if you plan your route well, you’ll get rest stops and sleep. If you fuck it up you’ll be walking from now till Saturday.’

  They exchanged worried looks.

  ‘OK, you should have rations, water, first aid, plasters - be sure before you go, take a shit if you want – time is not that critical, a few minutes won’t harm. And don’t forget, you’re supposed to be stealthy and not seen. We have people out at certain points, checking to see just how stealthy you are. When you plan your route, remember what you learnt up at Catterick. OK, stay there till we call you, relax.’

  With Captain Harris ready, I led the first four inside. ‘Sit at the desks, don’t talk, don’t confer, rifle on the floor, maps out, notepads out. You’ll see a piece of paper on the desk.’

  They clattered down.

  Captain Harris began, his SIGINT team nearby, ‘You are hereby tasked with moving from this FOB to scout an enemy area and report what you find. You will avoid all enemy contacts as best as possible, and send in updates of any enemy seen – soldiers in green, Land Rovers, etc.