Wilco: Lone Wolf - Book 2: Book 2 in the series (Book 2 of 10)

by Geoff Wolak

  I focused on Major Bradley.

  ‘Help him out, please, get him out of my hair.’

  I faced the Para major. ‘Sir, I could sneak into your house and circumcise you and you’d never know that I had been there. Put a company of men in a field and I’ll walk right through your lines. Give me ten minutes and I’ll disappear in plain sight.’

  ‘He does, you know, damned annoying,’ Major Bradley said. ‘Our best people couldn’t find him.’

  ‘So, sir,’ I continued. ‘It is not that your men lack ability, or were ever at fault, should they have ... theoretically encountered my good self. I am sure ... that Captain Moran was not at fault, nor should you have a lack of confidence in his abilities.’

  The Para major glanced my Major Bradley. ‘What kind of nutcase .... goes out in Armagh by himself, and would sneak up on a heavily defended position just to take the piss?’

  Major Bradley said, ‘The kind of nutcase that is quite capable of making a no-go zone feel like a walk in the park. And the most dangerous thing out there of a dark wet night ... is him.’

  ‘That’s two of our captains that you’ve pissed off now,’ the Para major mentioned.

  ‘Two, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘The captain who attended the accident after your so-called kidnapping, the one you tried to convince that you were an RAF medic, and then offered some chips to. He’s no fan of yours either.’

  ‘Good job he works for me then,’ the Major quipped.

  With the Para major gone, I said, ‘I’ll avoid them in future, sir.’

  ‘On the contrary, we live by reputation more than deed, and this helps greatly. They’ll all gossip about our abilities and that helps with recruitment, and helps keep the IRA scared of us. And God help us should we ever need to live up to that reputation.’

  It was time to experiment, my secret plan to screw with the minds of the IRA, psychological warfare on a small scale, one village at a time. On my last trip back to Hereford I had noticed something in a shop window, part of a fancy dress outfit. Well, the Major made it clear that over-boots were OK for a cold wet evening.

  I headed out on patrol alone, and returning to the tower I reported no contacts, a quiet night, the same again for the following night.

  The next day at 5pm the Major appeared in the canteen, holding something behind his back, a major from the Press Corp with him, and not with his happy face on.

  ‘Wilco!’

  The lads all smiled.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Belfast Zoo, and other various experts, have been called into the Newtown area to investigate the sighting of a strange creature, plaster casts of its prints taken away for study, a few people excited, many locals now very wary of what lurks in the woods, doors locked at night.’

  The lads were all puzzled.

  From behind him, the Major brought out my over-boots and held them up, the lads screaming with laughter for five minutes. The Major finally said, ‘Wilco, are these your over-boots?’

  ‘Hard to say, sir,’ I toyed. ‘What size are they?’

  ‘They appear to be extra large size. They also appear to the plastic mould of a ten foot Yeti. Local newspapers are referring to the creature as the Best of Armagh.’

  ‘I am allowed to wear over-boots, sir, my feet get cold.’

  The guys laughed.

  ‘Indeed you are, and we would not want your feet to get cold. My office!’

  Wednesday rolled around, and so did part two of the plan to call out those particular IRA gunmen after me – if they weren’t all after me. Captain Tyler gave the briefing, a re-run of the last episode, and Rizzo was ground commander again. Call signs were set, grid references noted and checked, questions were taken, Sergeant Crab making a few suggestions.

  Early Thursday morning the inserts went in, before dawn, and I checked my kit, firing a few rounds at the test range, Sergeant Crab double checking my kit – just to make himself involved. The same Borderers lads drove me out just after dark, and dropped me at the desired spot, but again later than advertised through Bob Staines. I was soon alone in dark, but at least it was not raining. I set off.

  After fifteen minutes I pressed the radio button and spoke into my sleeve. ‘Smurf, you awake?’

  ‘Yeah, and stiff and cold.’

  ‘Any movement?’

  ‘Negative. Ten quid says Rizzo has picked himself the best spot again.’

  ‘He’s at the most likely ambush spot, yes.’

  ‘Fucking glory boy.’

  ‘Wilco out, moving past.’

  I passed two other checkpoints without incident, and approached Rizzo’s ambush point cautiously. Stopping, I froze. Up ahead was a small tight wood, streams either side, and I would have to go through it, but right now I was looking at a small orange dot. It got bigger, then smaller, then bigger. A cigarette.

  Could Rizzo be daft enough to taking a cigarette? I figured not, but was not sure. I moved left, and into the icy water, slowly inching along the side of the woods, and soon up to my arse in cold water, feeling my way along.

  Ten yards further, and I had a clean view of a dark outline stood against a tree, orange glow getting larger and smaller.

  Whispers, comments.

  Now I could see a second man. His nose outline was distinct, so he was not wearing a face mask. An elbow on the grass, and I slowly leopard crawled up the bank, between two bushes.

  ‘If I poot me kid in the better school, he learns fooking German and French, and gets a job outta this fooking place,’ came a whisper.

  I froze, the man in my sights, but that was a judgement since I was using the general direction of the weapon to aim; it was very dark.

  ‘Aye, be good to see the lad end up someplace warm as well.’

  Click, and a magazine was detached and reloaded by one of the men. A minute later, and two black outlines faced towards me, as if they might have heard me. I took aim at the first outline, adjusted carefully for the inside of the shoulder, and fired, quickly hitting the second man in the shoulder, applying some guesswork.

  I depressed the radio button as I slid back down into the water. ‘Rizzo, two x-rays down, wounded, get the RUC in here now. Don’t approach.’

  ‘We heard the shots, where are you?’

  ‘At the start of the woods, between the two streams.’

  ‘We’re at the other side.’

  ‘Withdraw, I’m coming to you. Don’t shoot.’

  I met Rizzo fifteen minutes later, a helicopter buzzing nearby with a searchlight.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, Stretch with him as we huddled in the woods, my legs freezing.

  ‘They were waiting at the far side, smoking. I could see the glow.’

  ‘Smoking? Tossers,’ Rizzo spat out.

  ‘You wounded them?’ Stretch said.

  ‘Yep, make for a trial, not a funeral.’

  Through the dark woods we walked back to the pick-up point, and thirty minutes later the jeeps appeared, and we were back within the hour – my legs and boots still soaking wet. Kit off, weapons handed back, we got hot teas and sat with the Major for the debrief. I gave him my account.

  ‘And Rizzo, you missed these two?’ the Major asked.

  Rizzo and Stretch protested their innocence of any implications; they were where they were told to be, no movement heard or seen.

  The Major nodded. ‘Both men will live, both hit in the same spot in the shoulder, weapons recovered - we might get some intel from them.’ He focused on me. ‘Two shoulder shots in the dark?’

  ‘I was six feet away, sir. I had considered kicking them in the balls.’

  ‘Surprised you didn’t shoot them in the arse.’

  ‘I didn’t shoot them, Rizzo did.’

  Heads turned, puzzled frowns adopted.

  ‘You what?’ the Major puzzled.

  ‘I have enough shit with the IRA, put them on Rizzo’s record.’

  The Major made a face. ‘If you like.’ He faced Rizzo. ‘You’ve now got an e
xtra two confirmed woundings. Well done.’

  ‘IRA won’t go after Rizzo,’ Smurf said, ‘he’s too ugly,’ and a bickering contest starting up.

  Rizzo accepted the action in his name, then realised that it meant he’d have to attend the enquiry, so he bitched at me at length.

  Bob Staines appeared the next day at 3pm, and I figured he would. He met with myself, the Major and Captain Tyler.

  ‘Our man reports that the intel has been appraised as being accurate,’ Bob cheerfully reported. ‘And, since the IRA themselves chose the exact spot, they are not seeing it as a trap. So ... if you have something else for my guy to sell, he’s keen, and the IRA are keen to buy.’

  ‘You seem happy,’ I noted.

  ‘We have a trusted supply line,’ he said. ‘It could be used for something big.’

  ‘Yeah, well sell the contact report, my contact report,’ I began, ‘which had the two men smoking and chatting. That way they trust the intel more. I saw them at twenty yards.’

  Bob faced the Major, and the Major nodded. A happy Mi6 officer left with a skip in his step.

  I faced the Major. ‘A trusted snitch is good. Anything ... we could use it for?’

  He eased back and considered that. ‘How do we get twenty of them to bunch up?’

  ‘Offer them a juicy target somehow.’ I lifted a finger. ‘Or ... we let Mi6 use it for something else, in return for ... cooperation and favours in the future.’

  The Major nodded. ‘I’ll give it some thought; it’s currency in our hands. Oh, someone from Belfast Zoo, an eminent chap, has declared the Yeti footprints to be genuine.’

  ‘Was he drinking?’

  ‘They all drink around here. But, unfortunately, the Army Press Corp released a statement today stating that SAS troopers would now be banned from leaving false imprints of exotic animals in muddy Irish fields. So they know it’s you, and are referring to you as The Beast of Armagh, a title that I’m sure will catch on, a tale to be told over a beer or two on a wet night ... and greatly exaggerated.

  ‘Amazing to think that several people claim to have actually seen the beast, one even claimed it mauled his cattle and he wants compensation.’

  I laughed as I left the office.

  Turning point

  The Major, at very short notice – an hour, informed me that I had a week off for being a good boy, and I flew back Friday afternoon with two other lads, soon reclaiming a bed that did not suffer much abuse by my heavy carcass. But I found it hard to sleep that first night, after a curry with the RSM and Taffy Davies.

  Early the next morning I got to the gym and stretched my legs, not having run much in recent weeks, and Saturday afternoon Kate rang. She was bored, and had been drinking wine. After sighing loudly I drove over, just thirty minutes to get there.

  I soon got into a routine of early runs and evening gym sessions, trying to get my fitness levels back up, and I popped into the base a few times for a chat and a brew.

  Thursday morning, and I woke at 4am needing a pee, having been drinking with some of the new lads in a local bar. At the kitchen sink, and drinking water, I noticed a familiar orange glow coming from a parked car. Someone was sat smoking inside. Back in bed, I told myself not to be paranoid.

  Unable to get back off to sleep, I got up, but with the lights off, and stared at that car for ten minutes. Two men, windows down. The other cars had a slight frost on them, a shine, this car didn’t. I checked the front of the flat, peering down at the cars in the street. All had moist surfaces.

  Back staring at the car, I decided that it could not do any harm to call the police, but I also took out my pistol and placed it on the kitchen table, wondering if I was just being paranoid; for all the IRA knew I was still in Northern Ireland.

  Maybe it was some of Bob Staines people, keeping an eye on me, I considered. I felt better, and considered going for an early run in the streets and lanes.

  ‘The gym,’ I said to myself. ‘Bob’s people know I go early.’ I studied the car. ‘But why would they observe that?’

  For five minutes I watched the car.

  ‘People know I run early.’ I sighed. ‘Fuck it.’ I called the police.

  ‘Which emergency service do you require?’

  ‘Police.’ I waited.

  ‘Police operator.’

  ‘This is SAS soldier known as Wilco, I live on Cowbridge Road, and there’s a car park just off the end of the road. There’s been a suspicious vehicle sat there for an hour, two men inside. Could you check it out, please.’

  ‘Have the men done anything?’

  ‘They’re just sat waiting, but I have specific IRA threats against me. So either you have a look, or I go out armed and have a look.’ I hung up.

  About four minutes later a patrol car came down the road, turned in a big circle around the car park, and as I watched in amazement it ended up alongside the car in question. From the suspect car a man appeared, and as he lifted a rifle I screamed as loudly as I could, a hand on the cold window glass, my fear solidifying into a terrifying reality as he emptied half a magazine into the patrol car.

  I turned and leapt, grabbing my pistol and cocking it just as my window shattered. I dropped in an instant, a pain in my scalp indicating I was hit. Knelt behind my kitchen sink, glass flew around my kitchen, the wall behind me spitting plaster.

  Getting a hand to my head, I felt the warm blood. Sliding across my kitchen I grabbed the phone and dialled the base.

  ‘Duty officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, I’m shot, I’m hit, at my flat on Cowbridge Road, two gunmen in a car, they shot and killed police officers. Get me some fucking help out here!’

  I redialled, now the police.

  ‘Emergency operator. Which -’

  ‘POLICE!’ I shouted, having to wait.

  ‘Police -’

  ‘This is the SAS trooper, Cowbridge Road, your two officers in the patrol car have been shot dead, two gunmen in a second vehicle, get an armed response team, and an ambulance – I’m hit!’

  I slammed the phone down and peeked over the broken glass, the car screeching off. Standing, pistol in hand, I stared down at the patrol car. It was slowly inching backwards, its engine running and exhaust blowing, and it scraped another car. I could see two people in the patrol car, but they were not moving.

  Grabbing my clothes, I dressed as quickly as I could, trainers on, and with pistol in one hand and first aid kit in the other I rushed out without thinking, and straight to the patrol car. If there had been a second group of gunmen they would have had me.

  I opened the car door, the light coming on, and found a bloody mess, both men hit several times in the face, head and upper chest. I checked pulses, a forlorn hope, and backed up, pistol in hand. I checked the car park as I went, soon turning as a car screeched to a halt, a face peering at me.

  ‘Wilco!’ It was Taffy Davies, pistol in hand.

  I stepped to his car. ‘Get me to the hospital,’ I said in a weak voice, my first aid kit dumped, my front door left open.

  Sat in his car, he could see the blood as he pulled off, and I just stared at the dashboard. We passed flashing blue lights and an ambulance, but they hardly registered with me, I was stunned into inactivity by the loss of the two police officers, and their deaths were my fault.

  ‘You OK?’ he said as we raced across town.

  ‘They’re dead because of me.’

  He took a moment to puzzle that. ‘What do you mean?’

  I tapped the dashboard with my pistol. ‘I ... I saw the suspicious car, two men in it, I was about to go out with my pistol, but ... but I thought – no, be sensible, this is not Northern Ireland. So ... I called the police.’

  ‘Which is the right thing to do,’ he emphasised. ‘It’s their turf, their responsibility.’

  ‘They sent two unarmed officers.’

  We sped through a red light.

  ‘That’s ... that’s down to them. Did you warn them?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said
after a moment. ‘Told them I was SAS and that there were IRA threats.’

  ‘Then those stupid fucks should have sent an armed response team, not two local bobbies. Their screw up, not yours.’

  ‘I could have taken those two men,’ I said softly, still focused on the dashboard.

  ‘Not everything in the world is your responsibility. Snap out of it, man.’

  We pulled up outside the ambulance station.

  ‘Put your pistol under the seat,’ he urged, and I did so, soon walking through to reception. Taffy faced a paramedic coming out. ‘Soldier, gunshot wound to head. Get someone out here!’

  The paramedic led us through, two doctors appearing, and they sat me down, my face now covered in blood, also my t-shirt and my left leg.

  ‘Were you knocked unconscious?’ the first doctor asked.

  ‘No.’

  He wiped my scalp. ‘That’s a piece of ... glass?’

  ‘From my window,’ I said. ‘They shot through the glass.’

  ‘Looks like that’s all it is, not serious, a few stitches.’

  They set about cleaning me up, a pad held on my scalp after the glass had been removed, a suture prepared, my scalp tugged at, making me wince. They checked both eyes with a pen torch, no pain, my vitals OK.

  Police officers rushed in, and stopped in front of me. ‘What happened? Cowbridge Road, what happened?’ the first officer asked, sounding almost frantic.

  I lifted my gaze, still being fussed over. ‘I spotted a suspicious car, and called your lot. I’m SAS, just back from Northern Ireland.’

  ‘You’re Wilco?’

  ‘Yes. Your lot sent a patrol car, and they ... they just drove straight up to the gunmen, shot dead a moment later.’

  ‘They’re dead, both officers?’ he challenged.

  ‘I grabbed my first aid kit and checked them, both shot in the face a few times at point blank range, AK47.’

  They rushed out, Taffy Davies watching them go, the medical staff staring at me.

  Cleaned up now, Taffy fetched me a tea in a plastic cup, just as two bodies were brought in on trolleys under bloody sheets. I almost puked over the shiny floor as I stood.