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

by Geoff Wolak

  They discussed operations, staff, supplies, and I had a cup of coffee handed to me by the nice lady telephonist.

  ‘Wilco,’ he finally called. ‘If the Serbs, the regular Serbs, disengage and pull out, what do think those left will do?’

  ‘Regular Serb Army pulling out would be like removing a battalion from Wales to Wiltshire and declaring a permanent end to access to Wales.’

  He considered that. ‘It’s a porous border.’

  ‘It’s a line on a map, sir, not even a fence up, and most of those over there are married to a woman from here, and those from here are married to a woman over there, weekend trip to in-laws across the border.’

  He made a face and considered that. ‘Border in name only, line on map - if that.’

  ‘Serb soldiers married to a girl this side of the border won’t be going anywhere, sir.’

  He eased back. ‘And the answer?’

  ‘Political and economic pressure on Serbia, not a punch-up with the Russians sat watching.’

  ‘We have in mind to start a selective bombing process soon, just aimed at tanks, artillery, stores. That way we reduce their hardware, make a few loud noises, but keep the casualties down whilst we are – as you say – applying economic pressure.’

  ‘Serbian economy is hurting, sir, a few more turns of the screw should do it, and fortunately Russia is in no position to assist financially. Croatian tourism was benefitting the old Yugoslavia, now gone, agricultural output slashed, taxes back to Belgrade down by 75%; only a matter of time before the voters apply pressure. Ethnic solidarity is good, but jobs - and food on the table - are better. A disengagement is inevitable whether we were here or not, just a matter of years.’

  ‘Unfortunately, our own voters don’t like to see ethnic cleansing on the fringe of Europe. So we have to put our policeman hats on for a while. Oh, have you eaten?’

  ‘Not since I got off that damned Hercules, no sir,’ I lied.

  ‘Rough flight?’

  ‘I’m driving back, sir.’

  ‘Come on, full English breakfast.’

  The breakfast was delicious, and when I got back I told the lads all about it, our improvised canteen a bit naff till fresh local sources were found. I slept midnight to 5am, slipped out quietly, and drove the civilian Range Rover I had been assigned back to HQ, checking under it for bombs.

  With the general still asleep I cleaned the car, inside and out, and then joined him for breakfast with the senior officers – I had phoned Johny Bristol at 11pm and had a long ‘mate’ chat, telling him that I was being pulled out of Bosnia for Londonderry. He got the message, and promised to be a good boy, so I promised not to shoot him in the arse.

  ‘Spoke to Johny Bristol in Northern Ireland, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes, what did he say?’

  ‘I told him I was on my way to Londonderry, and that I’d shoot any bad boys in the arse, sir.’ The officers in ear shot laughed. ‘They know that we know, so they’ll put back their plans a bit.’

  ‘It all helps,’ the General noted. ‘And the province is quiet now, relatively speaking. Plenty of marches and stone throwing, not so much the bullet and bomb, thanks in part to you.’

  ‘Well ... a team effort, sir.’

  ‘You must be mad to go out on patrol alone like that.’

  I took a moment as I chewed. ‘When I first got to the SAS, an instructor gave me some advice. He said – the guy in the woods has had little or no training, he’s overweight and he doesn’t train at the gym, he falls asleep in front of the TV after his tea has been cooked by some fat old wife, and he likes to watch war movies.’

  They were now all listening intently. ‘And ... he’s more afraid of you than you are of him. So it’s about knowing that, and believing that you’re better, and then things slot into place. He said to me: picture the terrorist stood in front of you in his underpants. He’s just an average guy, you’re not, and he’d crap himself and run away if he saw you close up.

  ‘And you know what, sir, when I snuck up behind these two particular IRA hard men they were chatting about which school to get their kids into, learning French or German and getting jobs away from the troubles. I felt bad when I shot them.’

  The General nodded. ‘Well, you got some good advice, and when you look at it like that you do lose your fear of the terrorists. Yes, damned good advice.’

  ‘So why did you shoot them anyway?’ an officer asked me.

  ‘I was firmly nudged towards a higher body count, so long as it could be justified. They had weapons in hand, so....’

  They exchanged looks. ‘Did they ... live?’

  ‘Yes, I put a round through their soft spots.’

  ‘Soft spots?’

  ‘Inside of the shoulder. If you can hit it, it makes a man go down, but with very little chance of them dying on you.’

  ‘Would there be a danger that they could fire back?’ an officer asked.

  ‘Ever been shot, sir?’ I asked, without trying to be rude.

  He seemed a bit offended. ‘No, thankfully.’

  ‘When a rifle round goes through your shoulder, you flop like a fish. It ain’t like the movies, sir, no one ever shoots back.’

  ‘How close were you?’ another officer asked.

  ‘Ten feet, sir. And it’s always been my personal policy to wound, because a good trial is better than a long funeral procession followed by a riot. I have, on many occasions, been ... told off for not killing.’

  They exchanged looks.

  I drove the General to a meeting with local Bosnian-Muslim leaders, then to a meeting with militia leads, and it all seemed to go well for the General. Driving back, we were on a long straight road, just about to turn off for HQ, when I called for the driver to stop; I was now left seat, the General and his adjutant in the back.

  ‘Keep your head down, sir. Driver, get ready to reverse.’ I eased out, unzipping my jacket ready.

  I walked forwards, people milling about outside a factory that was still in use, and straight up to a man with his arms folded. I had my pistol out and at his head before he could react, civilians screaming and running for cover. Around here, you ran when you saw a gun.

  I just stood and stared at him. ‘Speak English?’

  ‘Some,’ he answered, looking terrified.

  ‘You have a gun?’

  ‘It is not for NATO.’

  ‘Who ... is it for?’

  ‘My ... father brother son -’

  ‘Cousin,’ I corrected him.

  ‘Yes, he fuck my woman.’

  I lifted an eyebrow. ‘Will you kill him?’

  ‘No, shoot cock.’

  I again lifted an eyebrow. ‘Ouch. Put the gun on floor, wait till we are gone, or I kill you.’

  He nodded, eased out his pistol and placed it on the floor. I waved the Range Rover on and they stopped just past me. I hopped in and we sped away.

  ‘What was that all about?’ the General asked, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘The guy’s cousin is banging his missus, so he’s going to shoot his cock off.’

  ‘And you left him his gun?’

  ‘Sir, if we got involved in every local domestic, how much work would you get done?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but ... Jesus.’

  ‘It would not have done anything for relations with the local population, sir, if I had shot him.’

  ‘No, quite.’

  That evening the adjutant recanted the story for everyone, the officers in hysterics, and I relayed it to the Major and the lads when I got back. From somewhere they had found some strong local beer, and it helped me to sleep through Rizzo’s snoring.

  Three days later, and settled into a routine, I was sat enjoying a great breakfast when the window in the officers mess at HQ cracked, not much sound issued, but the ceiling plaster was punctured, much of it falling on me – and my half-eaten breakfast.

  ‘Oh, for fucks sake!’ I complained as officers ducked under their tables. Figuring it local kids, maybe an
air rifle, I walked to the window and opened it. ‘I’m trying to eat my fucking breakfast!’ I bellowed, and returned to the table as the General lifted up of the floor.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? Are you mad?’ he asked.

  ‘Take a look at the angle, sir. Low window crack, ceiling hit. Someone on the road outside. Can’t hit anyone in here, no tall buildings. And that was an air rifle or .22.’

  The officers glanced at the window, the ceiling, and calculated the angles.

  ‘This is outrageous,’ I quietly complained. ‘My breakfast is ruined.’

  A second quiet shot came through, more plaster falling.

  ‘Wilco?’ the General firmly nudged.

  I glanced at the General, sighed, walked to the window with my pistol out, spotted someone next to a vehicle, an old van, took aim high and fired eight rounds, shattering the glass of the vehicle. It drove off.

  ‘They’ve gone, sir.’ I sat, taking in my breakfast. ‘Old bolt action rifle.’ I pointed at my breakfast. ‘Will it be OK, sir, if I ... get another one?’

  He stared wide-eyed at me, and nodded.

  With the General in the UK for six days, I was released back to the other factory, and to food that had improved tenfold. Rizzo was team leader on Alpha Team Rapid Reaction Force, which made me laugh because there were just two teams of four men, and so far they had not so much rescued a cat from a tree. They sat and waited for a call that never came.

  The old foundry that adjoined this factory took my interest, as well as its thick walls and piles of old iron ore. I pressed the Major, and he agreed to a live firing range in there. We made up targets, many keen volunteers to hand, and I placed them strategically around the dim interior, then used white powder, no idea what it was – or how poisonous it was, to mark a trail that the lads would have to follow. All were banned for two days as I set up the final targets, all keen to have a go since me and the SSM had devised a points system.

  On the big day, Rizzo and his rapid reaction force were jealous as hell, but they were sat kitted ready and could not join in the fun. I took some pleasure in teasing them.

  I would follow each man in turn, and mark the targets, and time it. Sgt Smith, a veteran from Mobility Troop known as ‘Walter’ - because they had called him Smitty at first, which became Walter Smitty because of his tall tales after a beer - was first. He had an AK47, my insistence, and twenty rounds.

  I had blocked up a few holes in the foundry walls, and made a few extra holes, a broken mirror strategically placed to blind them as they turned a corner.

  ‘Load your weapon,’ I called, my words echoing, the lads bunched up around the door, the only safe place in case of stray rounds and ricochet. ‘Advance and follow the trail at a steady pace, you’re on the clock as well.’

  After ten yards of gloom, most images just grey outlines, I stood on a black metal plate that he had not noticed and four targets came down. He knelt and double-tapped each one, a horrendous echo report given, then eased back up.

  ‘Advance,’ I nudged.

  Around a tight bend he spotted the target and fired twice to the chest whilst standing.

  ‘Behind you!’ I shouted and he spun around, finding the other target and hitting it twice.

  ‘Fuck, it’s realistic, and spooky in here.’

  ‘Advance.’

  He pressed on, following the trail, then put his boot through a trap I had set. ‘Fuck!’

  I pulled a chord. ‘Get up, target!’

  I ducked as he swung around and fired twice, but I was not sure if he hit it. ‘Advance.’

  Grumbling about the foot trap, he was now careful where he walked, and around the next twisting bend he spotted the targets and fired.

  ‘How many rounds left?’

  ‘Eh... fuck knows.’

  ‘None. Unload.’

  He unloaded. ‘That it?’

  ‘No, but you used up your ammo.’

  ‘What? I double-tapped them, that’s normal.’

  ‘I never said that, or how many targets, and 7.62m will kill someone with a single shot, it’s not a pistol.’

  ‘That ain’t fair,’ he grumbled as we returned.

  ‘Don’t tell the others, and you can have another go tomorrow.’ I made sure that he walked the long way back, not chatting to anyone. He went straight to the SSM and bitched at length, firmly told to fuck off. He sat with Rizzo and complained at length, but would not reveal anything, making Rizzo even keener to try it now.

  Smurf came up next, fired twice at some and single shot at others, fell into the trap and started to limp – cursing as he went, missed the one target with the sun in his eyes, and fired at the mirror image of a target, not the target itself. I kicked his arse out the door, sworn to secrecy. He went and sat with Rizzo and said that he did OK, and that it got your nerves going.

  Bob did quite well, puzzling the mirror image and then peering around the corner, and missed the target because of the sun in his eyes. Taffy used up all of his ammo on the first four targets, thinking that was it, so I shouted at him and booted his arse out.

  Tabby was keen, having heard all the winging, and he did well, although he puzzled the mirror image target for too long. So far he was in the lead, which pleased him no end. The next four were a disaster, but then Mickey surprised me with a flawless execution.

  ‘Excellent, Mickey, best so far by miles.’ He went back and boasted, winding up the others. I locked the foundry at 4pm, no one allowed in till the morning

  They all did much better the second time around, and it made a dull existence here bearable. So I added more targets, more ammo, and a pistol to be worn in case the ammo ran out. Rizzo stepped down from standby and had a go, loving it, and doing well – as expected.

  He repeated it till he got his time better. Then I introduced a night firing scenario, just candles for illumination, and they found that spooky. I repeated it with just pistols, one spare magazine, and everyone’s name was on the board, each trying to climb a little higher, wagers made.

  The Major then called me in. ‘Good idea, Wilco, damned good, because they were getting stale just sat around. Make up some more games if you like, fuck all else happening.

  ‘Oh, bombing campaign starts next week, and we’re trying hard to press for patrols on the ground to laser designate or to report. You ... could mention that to the General when you see him.’

  I smiled as I left.

  Back on body-guard duty, I discussed the bombing with the General, and he was always keen to chat with me.

  ‘Bombing will work, sir,’ I began. ‘Till they get pissed off with losing kit.’

  ‘And ... then?’

  ‘And then ... what would you do if you were losing expensive kit each day, sir?’

  ‘I’d hide it.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and move it around at night, and put in next to hospitals.’

  ‘Well, so far we’re hitting stuff in green fields, but I take your point; they won’t sit and take it for long.’

  A week later, and the Serbs had got fed up with being bombed, and so hid their artillery and tanks, a few sorties coming back empty handed.

  ‘They’re hiding their damn kit,’ he grumbled to me.

  I nodded, and tapped a map. ‘How far is that, sir?’

  He measured it. ‘Fifty miles near as damn it.’

  ‘So they can drive the kit back over the Serbian border in an hour.’

  He studied the map. ‘Bugger.’ He eased back. ‘Your lot fit and ready?’

  I made a face.

  ‘No?’ he queried, clearly surprised.

  ‘Oh, they’re ready, sir, training hard, but if you insert a patrol they’ll search an area of no more than five miles, if that, and it’s a big bloody area. Best use would be a team watching a road junction, but then ... then the traffic can turn left or right.’ I waited, staring at the map.

  ‘What...?’

  ‘Need to up our game on the radio intercepts and direction finding, sir; that way we don’
t waste time with a specialist unit like the SAS counting blades of grass.’

  ‘I issued an order to sort that last week!’

  ‘You did?’ I said, having overheard it.

  He bellowed for his adjutant and made sure that the Intel boys had the kit hidden on the Croatian border and that we got all the radio intercepts.

  With the adjutant gone, I said, ‘If I had some expensive kit I didn’t want to lose...’ I stared at the ceiling.

  ‘You’d hide it well.’

  ‘But how do you hide well tanks and artillery, sir?’

  ‘Forest would be no good, our planes would see them on infra red clear as day.’

  ‘An old factory unit, like this, foundry on the side, big old place to drive kit in and out, invisible from above.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh...’ I let out, and I tapped the map. ‘Old mine workings across this northern area, big enough for anything.’

  ‘And bomb proof with it!’

  ‘Could bomb the access road, if and when you are sure they’re being used.’

  He studied the map. ‘So, mines, old factories, and triangulation of signals.’

  ‘Easy,’ I said. He looked up. ‘Any mine or factory that has a military frequency radio in use -’

  ‘Is not producing soft toys for export!’

  ‘You’ll only need our lads for the mines and roads, sir, to have a sneak peak and out, factories will be easy enough once the intercepts are in place.’

  ‘What have your lot got in place?’

  ‘There are enough lads for two or three patrols a week, and you have Lynx for inserts. Should be minimal engagement and low casualties, sir.’

  ‘No mention of this, you don’t want to be seen to be stepping on your major’s toes.’

  ‘Bring him in then, sir, and ask his opinion, making it look like all this was his idea,’ I said with a smirk.

  He smiled. ‘Sneaky shit. Yes, invite him around tomorrow.’

  ‘If the intercepts are spot on, it’s down to the fly boys, you don’t need to risk any action behind the lines, sir.’

  He nodded, considering that, and I knew the concerns that the Intel boys had about their new kit, and how stretched they were. All we needed was for the Intel boys to whinge.