Wilco: Lone Wolf - book 1: Book 1 in the series (Part of an ongoing series)

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘A trainee chef,’ I told them before pulling off, the Air Commodore laughing in the back of the car.

  He pointed me towards the Prime Minister’s retreat at Chequers, were he had an early meeting planned, and we eventually found a small country hotel in Kent that his wife had found in some magazine; he had paid by credit card over the phone, and would claim it back.

  I could have driven him early in the morning, but he admitted that he wanted a good night’s sleep, and not to risk being stuck in traffic; the Prime Minister would be at the meeting with the Defence Secretary.

  We dumped bags in rooms, not leaving files in the car, and whilst he ate downstairs I sat guard in his room with the files, “SECRET” stencilled in red all over them.

  When he came up I went down to eat, just making it before the kitchen closed, a good steak enjoyed on expenses – a perk of driving senior staff around. I downed a beer, just the one, bought some peanuts and chocolate, bottles of water, and headed back up.

  He asked me to sit in his room whilst he read the files, and he fired a few questions at me as he progressed through the detail.

  Sighing, he put down a file and knocked the room kettle on. ‘Meetings went well today, I paraphrased you and looked smart, quoted numbers. Will do the same tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it not an Army project, sir?’

  ‘Mostly, but when you get to this rank you cross-train. An Air Commodore must know a great deal about the Army and the Navy, an integrated approach. So, what do I tell the Prime Minister to make myself look smart?’

  ‘That if you send in troops now they’ll sit in the desert and bake, that NBC is the issue – and his advantage; he doesn’t need to use nerve agent, he just needs to mention it, and we all sit around in the desert in NBC suits, a massive disadvantage to us. And it’s his home turf, so his lads will be OK to fight, ours will all be asleep because of the heat.

  ‘And don’t forget his air defence network; Russian missiles, and lots of them. They would have to be dealt with first, and his officer class are good, ten years experience of battlefield conditions and command. This is not some Third World Country.’

  ‘Indeed, and people are concerned. Army think we’re crazy to even contemplate going in across the desert.’

  ‘Not many servicemen with desert training, sir, they all go up the Brecon Beacons,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Exactly, which was why we did so well in the Falklands. Our lads would need six weeks acclimatisation. Acclimatisation,’ he repeated, writing it down. ‘That was the word I was trying to think of earlier.’ He lifted his head. ‘So, a couple of weeks to get them there -’

  I coughed out a laugh.

  ‘OK, couple of months to get them there and organised, then a period of acclimatisation, then ... well, that’s not my problem, I’m logistics.’

  ‘Sea containers, sir, to the Saudi cost, bulk carriers, not air freight. That would be expensive, sir. Ten day sail through the Suez Canal.’

  ‘And the American bases in Turkey?’

  ‘For air power, fine, but for crossing the border in vehicles? Be hard work, tight mountain roads.’

  He eased back. ‘Syria?’

  ‘Traditionally Sunni, as are most of the power brokers in Iraq, but they don’t like or trust each other, so ... Syria would quietly love to see him clobbered.’

  ‘Iranians?’

  ‘Won’t help nor hinder us, and they’d be damn glad to see him fall.’

  ‘Jordan?’

  ‘Would sit on the fence because Iraq is just about their biggest export partner. They’re just about his only friends in the Middle East. And, if there was a conflict, they’d make a few quid selling him stuff.’

  ‘He’s low on friends,’ the Air Commodore noted. ‘Sanctions could hurt. Few believe he will do anything. It’s all posturing.’

  ‘I doubt he’s that dumb, sir.’

  At midnight I banged on the Air Commodore’s door.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘It’s Wilco, sir, open up.’

  He opened up, in a t-shirt and underwear. ‘What is it?’ he asked, bleary eyed.

  ‘The Iraqi’s just took Kuwait, sir, it’s on the news.’

  ‘He ... invaded?’

  ‘Yes, sir, so ... it’s no longer a scenario.’

  ‘Christ.’

  In the morning the meeting was cancelled, the Prime Minister holding a war council at No.10, and I drove the Air Commodore back to the MOD building, security tight, everyone in a flap, the corridors full of people coming and going. I managed to find the canteen and get a meal at 11am, when I told the unfriendly ladies that I had been woken at midnight and I had not eaten. They took pity on me.

  At 2pm we headed west to Lyneham, the Air Commodore looking harassed. I handed him water and sandwiches, and he was most grateful, snoozing as we headed down the motorway. I filled the tank and paid, keeping the receipt.

  At Lyneham, the gate now heavily guarded, I dropped him off and told him that I would be in Admin section of HQ building. And the first thing I did was to try and get the petrol money back.

  I explained that I was assigned to the Air Commodore indefinitely, and they gave me a pad of chits to fill in for each petrol stop, and I got my money back. I had said to the clerk, ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on,’ getting a laugh.

  At 4pm we drove up to Brize Norton, the gate also heavily guarded, but they all recognised me. Dropping off the Air Commodore, I said I would go get some extra kit and provisions. I fetched some extra cash from my room, cashed a cheque at the NAAFI, grabbed extra clothing, and stocked the boot with water, chocolate and biscuits, wet wipes, chewing gum, and deodorant. I even grabbed some toilet paper.

  Waiting in Admin, I called my CO.

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Peters here.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, sir.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Back here, Admin, but I’m still assigned to the Air Commodore.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘No idea, sir, and with this flap on it could be a while.’

  ‘Well ... all regular training on the base has been cancelled, most of the NCO’s are on the wire with rifles and live ammo.’

  ‘I’ll let you know where I am, sir, but best guess is back and forth to London, Lyneham and here.’

  ‘Try and get him to sign a request to that effect, because we have no paperwork for you.’

  ‘Draw one up quickly, sir, I’ll come grab it; he’ll be in a meeting for another hour.’

  ‘OK, pop by in ten minutes.’

  I drove over, the building quiet, and the CO handed me the request in an envelope. ‘Get him to sign it and get it back to us.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  I rushed back, but needn’t have bothered, and parked up. One of the RAF police sergeants pulled up next to me a jeep.

  ‘Wilco, what you doing parking there?’ he barked.

  ‘That’s where the Air Commodore told me to park it, it’s his pigging car, and I’m his nominated driver. If you’re unhappy with that ... he’s inside.’

  I walked off, and they drove off, no doubt cursing me.

  Time dragged on, but I got a cup of coffee when I wanted one. At 6.30pm he came out, staying the night at the officers mess, and I was on-call all night – an unusual move. I waited outside the officers mess till 11pm, when he came out and said that he was going to sleep, but asked if I could read a document for him – he had no time.

  I slept in my own bed after a shower and a pack of biscuits, plus a tin of spam. At 5am I was up, showered and ready, and with a cup of tea in hand I read the document, a geo-political analysis of the region.

  At 8am he emerged from the officers mess, bags in hand, and clambered in. ‘London, Northolt, please, Wilco.’

  We set off. On the motorway he asked about that document. ‘Complete pile of shit, sir.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘It’s a ten year out of date assessment made by someone who read the newspapers back then. Don�
�t trust it. Got a question, sir, ask me.’

  ‘Could you highlight some of the errors in it when you have a chance, red ink and comments.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Just short of London we hit a queue.

  ‘I don’t have time for this shit,’ he complained.

  I could see a police car on the hard shoulder. ‘Let me see if I can get us an escort, sir.’

  I pulled onto the hard shoulder and stopped near the police car, and eased out. They wound down a window, not looking pleased.

  ‘I’m SAS, gun under shoulder, Air Commodore in the vehicle, need to be at a meeting with the Defence Secretary in fifty minutes. Can you get us through this fucking traffic, there’s a war on!’

  They exchanged looks. ‘Follow us.’

  ‘I want to get to RAF Northolt, take The Parkway up to the A40.’

  ‘I know it.’

  They put their lights on as I ran back to the car and jumped in.

  ‘That was a bit cheeky,’ the Air Commodore noted. ‘Still, it is an important meeting I suppose.’

  I followed the police for two miles, and then we edged around the accident itself – a car on its side, and floored it, soon doing 90mph, blue lights flashing. They got me to the turnoff for RAF Northolt, and I waved, heading to our destination whilst being fashionably early, the Air Commodore amused at the cheek of it.

  A familiar waiting room greeted me, a familiar bunch of RAF clerks, and my backside reclaimed the same damn seat, and I was soon staring at the same damn clock on the wall. I lifted that document, and borrowed a red pen. It was not like I had anything else to do – I had forgotten my books despite placing them out ready.

  Back in the car at 3pm, he said, ‘I slandered that document, and so did a few others. Fortunately, I did not have to back up my assertions.’

  We set off back to Brize Norton, chatting about my Channel swim.

  I spent a week driving the Air Commodore around, eating at irregular times, not getting any exercise, and at the end of it I felt stiff. His usual driver took over on a Monday morning, and I reported back to my CO after handing in my pistol, the cheeky lads asking me to clean it first – and had I fired any rounds at civilians. They counted them.

  ‘Ah, Wilco,’ Flt Lt Peters said when he saw me. ‘You’re back.’ He took a moment. ‘Well, there’s good news, and there’s bad news – as they say. The bad news is, that as of next Friday night you’re back driving the Air Commodore, but the good news is – you’re off to Saudi with him.’

  ‘I am?’ My face must have been a picture, because he smiled.

  ‘Yes, you are, so ... pack what you need for a hot climate, we have notes on what to take, and you’ll take your service pistol with you, but obviously you hand it in before the flight.’

  ‘Saudi? For how long, sir?’

  ‘Two weeks has been listed, but no return flight is listed, so ... it’s open ended. Anyway, it’s a trip away from here for you.’

  ‘It’s Saudi, sir. No women, no booze, no nothing but sand!’

  ‘Ah, I was wondering when you’d notice that aspect,’ he said with a cheeky grin. ‘Still, you should feel honoured that they want you. And ... no one else around here wanted to go anyway.’

  I curled my lip at him, and headed off to find Marsh, to see what work he had for me. Marsh indicated that many staff assigned to the Gulf needed NBC refreshers, which I could pitch in and help with, as well as weapons refreshers. An hour later, and I was on the range with Corporal Williams, going through pistol drills with officers and pilots.

  After a quick lunch break, I cleaned the pistols, and we started with a second batch of officers destined for the gulf.

  The next day I assisted Marsh with NBC, and when one of the lady officers asked about heat stroke, I said, ‘It’s currently forty-two degrees in the shade in Saudi, so you’d collapse in ten minutes. With an NBC suit on, you’d bake yourself alive in five minutes.’

  They were all worried, if not horrified, that they might have to wear the cumbersome suits.

  I added, ‘And don’t forget ... in that heat it’s recommended that you drink one pint of water every forty-five minutes.’

  An officer barked, ‘How the hell are we supposed to work in those conditions, and drink the water, and fight?’

  ‘That, sir, is down to the planners,’ I commented. ‘But, since I drive the Air Commodore to his meetings, I can tell you that they won’t be ready for an attack to liberate Kuwait this side of Christmas. Then it will be cooler, and in January the midnight temperatures in the desert drop to ... zero. You could freeze to death.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ someone said.

  ‘When considering your clothing, always keep in mind that during the day it will be hot, then the temperature will drop rapidly – it’s not like the jungle. If you go out during the day in a t-shirt and hat, and don’t get back in time, you’ll get very cold at night. And ... sunburn is an offence.’

  ‘An offence?’

  ‘Yes, an offence. Any member of the armed forces that allows themselves to get sunburnt whilst on duty is charged with neglect. That’s the law. So ... hats, sun cream, and plenty of water. And a note about weapons. If you have a weapon, such as a pistol, it should be wrapped up against the sand blowing into it, and cleaned every day.

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘Sand particles blow into them all day long. If you try and fire your pistol after a week without cleaning, you’ll blow your own face off.’

  ‘Are there any positive things about where we’re going?’ someone curtly asked.

  I exchanged a look with Marsh, and we both made faces and shrugged. ‘None, and you will get dysentery, and all snakes and scorpions are deadly.’

  The next day I had an idea, and I approached stores, knowing the staff well enough.

  ‘What I need ... are green lightweight shirts suitable for the desert.’

  ‘You off as well?’

  ‘Driving the senior staff.’

  ‘We have some by accident, they weren’t meant for us.’ The stores SAC fetched some, still in plastic. I opened one and held it up, and it seemed about the right size. They had four about my size, so I signed for them, and that was about all the extra kit I wanted apart from a holster that would fit to a belt, a traditional cowboy-style holster. They issued me one, green, and it had a chord to attach to a pistol, but my pistol had no ring on the grip.

  Back in my room, I adjusted my webbing to have no back pouches – no rations, no ammo pouches, two water bottles, and two first aid pouches. I would be taking my large first aid kit, and I packed my small armourers kit for servicing weapons. I would be taking three pairs of green lightweight trousers, one spare pair of boots, socks and pants, a set of civilian clothes, and some paperbacks.

  Asking my CO, he agreed that I would not be fighting in the desert, but hanging around hotels, but that my respirator would be essential. I bought extra anti-septic cream, and got fresh antibiotics from the medical bay, handing back my others – that were still just within the use-by-date. I was ready.

  Then I discovered that we were flying from Gatwick, so I considered civilian clothes, but was told that I would travel in uniform.

  ‘And my pistol, sir?’

  ‘In your suitcase, I would guess. Ask at the airport.’

  I was driven by Corporal Marsh to the Air Commodore’s home in Oxford at 3pm on the Friday and dropped off. He wished me well. The silver BMW was there, and inside I found the driver, dumping my kit down.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, m lad,’ the Air Commodore greeted me. ‘All set?’

  ‘I think I have everything I’ll need, sir, so long as I’m not required to do any soldiering.’

  ‘No, no, you’ll be with me in a nice hotel.’

  His wife stepped out of the lounge. ‘You take care of him, make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘No late night drinking!’

  ‘It’s Saudi Arabia, Barbara. No alcohol, no
girls, no gambling, just a paperback to read of an evening.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, a glance at her husband.

  Bags in the car, we set off half an hour later, an hour and a half to get to Gatwick, where we joined a queue of other military officers and NCOs, all headed to a place where paperbacks were the only form of entertainment.

  ‘Wilco,’ he began. ‘I hope I’m not dragging you away from anything else, but I figured you’d like a break from Brize Norton, something useful to do.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, nice to get away. And you need your best man looking out for you, or you’ll come back with three new wives.’

  He laughed. ‘One is enough, quite enough.’

  When we got to the check-in girl I asked about my pistol. She handed me a strong brown paper bag. ‘Write you details on the outside, weapon inside, unloaded of course.’

  I did as asked and handed it in, and she sealed it in front of me. Through security, eventually – since I beeped the machine ten times, we waited in Departures as a group, the RAF blues together for a chat, the Army greens together for a chat.

  ‘What do you do?’ an Army captain asked me as I sat reading a book on pre-industrial European history. Since I was in green, he may have figured me to be Army.

  ‘Driver, sir. RAF Regiment.’

  He nodded. ‘This is all a load of nonsense. We’ll put some troops in and he’ll withdraw, they’ll be no scrap. Just be sat in the desert collecting dust for a while.’

  ‘There is a good chance of that, sir, but how much of this is posturing on our side.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘We have defence treaties with many small Middle Eastern states, so this ... is under the spotlight, and they’ll be watching to see how we react. Since we get our oil from them, we’ll need a show of force.’

  ‘Hadn’t really thought of it like that? But yes, we need to show we’ll honour our agreements.’

  A big bull of a sergeant came and sat opposite, staring at me. ‘Wilco, right.’

  I eased upright in my seat. ‘Yes ... sergeant?’

  ‘You put a friend of mine in a coma.’

  ‘He did?’ the captain asked.

  ‘Boxing,’ the sergeant added, and I was relieved, but only a little.