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

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘You hold a grudge?’ I asked him with firm eye contact.

  ‘No, it’s the nature if the sport. Did they ... ask you to stop boxing?’

  I took a moment. ‘They did, but I stopped for my own reasons.’

  ‘And the offer of a sponsorship deal?’ he pressed, the captain listening.

  ‘Half a million quid for ten bouts.’

  ‘Half a million?’ the captain repeated.

  I slowly turned to face the captain. ‘Money is no good when you’re in a coma, sir, or have brain damage.’

  ‘Well ... no, I suppose not. You turned them down?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Eleven bouts, and none lasted more than thirty seconds, all knockouts,’ the sergeant informed the captain.

  ‘Crikey,’ the captain let out. ‘Your boss will be well protected then.’

  ‘I think that’s the idea, sir,’ I told him.

  The sergeant went and fetched his camera, and asked for a photo, the captain taking the shot. The captain then wanted one, and we were drawing attention, an Army officer walking over.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘Saw you fight, yet to see you actually box someone. Four seconds, and I had not even got to my seat when it was all over. What will you be doing in Saudi – punching Iraqi’s?’

  ‘Driver and bodyguard, sir,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘And well suited you are,’ he said with a nod.

  When I finally sat back down, another sergeant walked over, this one short, and thin in the face. ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’ I asked, the captain listening in.

  ‘Thought it was you. I was in the London Marathon that day, but behind you of course. The bullet holes all healed up?’

  ‘Bullet holes?’ the captain asked.

  The sergeant faced him. ‘Remember the London Marathon, sir, when a runner was shot?’

  ‘Yes, who could forget that day.’

  ‘That was Wilco, sir.’

  The captain snapped his head around, and I offered him a silly smile. ‘That was you?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ve put on some weight since then!’

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s been a few years.’

  ‘You still run?’ the sergeant asked me.

  ‘Most every morning, 5am to 7am,’ I said, stretching it a bit, quite a bit.

  ‘Every day?’ the sergeant asked. ‘Two hours?’

  I nodded. ‘Unless I’m driving someone around.’

  ‘How far do you run?’ the captain asked.

  ‘Twenty miles, sir,’ I lied.

  ‘Every morning?’

  I offered him an embarrassed nod. ‘No social life.’

  ‘Crikey.’

  The Air Commodore eventually came and fetched me. ‘Been making friends?’

  ‘My dodgy reputation precedes me, sir.’

  ‘I was chatting about you to some of the other senior officers, and they’re jealous as hell – I listed your skill set to them; I aim to get through this conflict without so much as sunburn.’

  ‘I’ll look after you, sir, but I forgot the sun cream.’

  The flight was seven hours, and I managed to read my book whilst most everyone slept, but an hour before landing I studied a street map of Riyadh and I memorised many of the best hotels. I also memorised the road numbers of those highways heading towards the east coast and Dhahran.

  Stepping down from the aircraft the heat hit us like a hairdryer to the face – and it was past midnight. We were sweating by time we cleared customs, but I had to wait for my pistol. When they handed it back I checked it and put it into the pistol holster, the holster on my hip. I was then handed a sheet in English that detailed what foreign bodyguards could and could not do.

  An Army officer directed people to cars with drivers, and the driver in traditional white robes and headscarf took us to a hotel, which he informed me in Arabic was the Sheraton on King Fahad Road, Route 505. It was central, the airport north east, I remembered from the map

  In the Sheraton’s underground car park he handed me the keys, and off he went without any further comment. And only then did I notice that he had been wearing sandals. We lugged our kit to the floor marked as “Reception” and booked in, two rooms.

  That caused a fuss because drivers should not be in the hotel, but the room had been booked, my name on it, so they complained about a shortage of rooms. Since there were twin beds in mine, would I mind sharing? I said no, and they would send someone else to my room.

  They also asked that I not wear a pistol on my hip, because half the hotel had normal civilian guests. I said I would discuss that with whoever was in charge of the British military, whilst having no intention of doing so.

  We claimed our rooms, and they were five star and sumptuous; I was afraid to touch anything. I decided against unpacking too much kit in case they moved me - or kicked me out of the hotel and made me sleep in the car, so I had a shower, put my kit back on, the mini-bar raided of chocolate and fizzy water.

  The Air Commodore knocked a while later and suggested food in the bar – which was supposed to stay open this late. I decided to leave my pistol in the room, hidden in my kit.

  At the bar we were directed to a posh restaurant that was open late for just us, and we were asked not to come down in uniform next time, but with a crowd gathering behind us - all in uniform, they had no choice but to let us in. One look at the menu and I told the Air Commodore to order for us, doubting I would find anything I liked.

  He ordered chicken, and I tackled the bread, absolutely starving. The main course took ages, but was OK, and we washed it down with several beers that were not beer, or alcoholic.

  ‘I read the notes for bodyguards,’ I said as we sat there. ‘Basically, I cannot – ever – use my pistol, under any circumstances, unless we’re under a hail of bullets from persons known to be terrorists and not law abiding local citizens.’

  ‘How are you supposed to know the difference?’

  ‘It says to question them or to ask the police.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous.’

  He had files to read, and an early meeting, so we hit the rooms and I got the air-con working. A knock at the door, and a short and stocky Army Major stood there with his bags, and I had my shirt off.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He blinked, and then frowned. ‘You ... Wilton?’

  ‘Milton. Yes, sir.’

  ‘We’re sharing.’ And he barged in.

  ‘Welcome to Room 102, sir,’ I quipped as I closed the door. ‘And I don’t snore.’

  ‘Good to know. I do.’

  ‘What do I call you, sir?’

  ‘Major Morton, Signals’.

  ‘Wilco, RAF Regiment, driver and bodyguard.’

  ‘Picked up a few rounds over the years,’ he said, pointing at my scars.

  ‘Not quite, sir. You remember the London Marathon where the idiot runner was shot?’

  He stopped dead. ‘That was you?’

  ‘It was, sir, but since then I have learnt to zig-zag more as I run.’ I made a zig-mag motion with my hand.

  He nodded. ‘Nice rooms,’ he said as he looked around. ‘That a mini-bar?’

  ‘Not so much as a sniff of alcohol, sir.’

  ‘Figured that. Are you part of the motor pool?’

  ‘No, sir, special assignment, Air Commodore, he’s next door.’

  ‘Air Commodore, eh?’ he said as he started unpacking. ‘I’m only here for five days, bit of a break from the wife.’

  I resisted a smirk. ‘I sleep midnight to 5am normally, sir, and then I go for a run.’

  My new house-guest had a shower, put on a tracksuit, and I made him a coffee. We were soon sat chatting about Pirbright Barracks and his early career, since he had started with the Engineers on signals, then moved over to signals.

  Tired, he went to bed at 1am, and was soon snoring, so I sat reading, hoping to be very tired before I put my head down, and managing to get off to
sleep despite the snoring.

  At one point I woke and said, ‘Bongo, turn on your fucking side,’ before I realised where I was.

  At 5am I eased out of bed quietly, got my tracksuit on, and took the lift down to the gym. It was empty, just an Indian lady cleaner around, who basically told me that I should not be here. I ignored the cleaner, grabbed a running machine, and completed a fast hour, soon enjoying an empty pool of crystal clear water.

  At 7.30am I was dressed and ready, and I woke the major because he had asked to be nudged at this time. I grabbed my webbing and placed it on, checked my pistol and knocked on the Air Commodore’s door. He was awake and ready since he had asked reception to wake him.

  Down at the car, another jeep pulled alongside, the Air Commodore’s staff, and they offered him a lift.

  ‘I’ll use the time to orientate myself with the city,’ I said, and off he went.

  I drove the jeep around the hotel and, finding a quiet street, went up and down it, practising parking and reversing – it was left hand drive and automatic. Finding a bored looking taxi driver, young and fluent in English, as I asked him his rate for one hour for a driving lesson. He looked at the jeep, and quoted me the equivalent of £25, soon sat next to me in his white robes as he directed me around the city. First, airport and back.

  He shouted a few times and I hit the brakes, but then he pointed out the crazy local drivers, and we passed a few accidents. It seemed that around here driving licences, and driving lessons, were optional. So was common sense.

  After an hour of bustling city streets, most long and straight, I got used to the road signs and traffic lights, filter lanes and how to turn left – always an issue. If it came to it, I’d turn right three times rather than turn left across the damn Riyadh traffic.

  Back at the hotel I found the major gone and so ordered room service, which I signed for as “Loughton”; steak and eggs. That set me up nicely for the gym, where I found a few other Brits and Americans, mostly well built, a pleasant hour spent working-out before another swim.

  Sat on the side of the pool I got chatting to an American driver-bodyguard, Hank. He’d been here a week already, and he could get booze and weed. I declined the offer.

  When I mentioned that I was qualified as an armourer, and that I had my tools with me, he offered me $20 to look at his M4. He came by the room half an hour later and I used a nice expensive table with a white tablecloth to strip his M4.

  Running the slide, I could feel something scraping, and found it, but was unable to identify what it was. It was almost like a clear melted plastic, but he had no idea how it got there.

  ‘First rule of cleaning a weapon, Hank – always wash your hands first!’

  I removed the offending item, scraped down the surface and oiled it, put the slide back in and checked it. ‘All good as new.’

  ‘Thanks, buddy. Owe ya.’

  The Air Commodore got back at 4pm and he found me sat reading in my room. He needed a nap, so later, at 7pm, we headed down to eat in civilian clothes, less hassle this time, Hank saying hello – a bit too loudly, and waving, leaving me having to explain him to the Air Commodore.

  Leaving the restaurant I was grabbed by a British sergeant and told to attend a briefing for drivers and bodyguards. I eventually found the right room – a large and posh seminar room, a dozen nationalities represented here, and we sat waiting for fifteen minutes, Hank turning up with a group of loud Americans.

  The British sergeant returned. ‘OK, settle down,’ he barked. ‘Right, I’m in charge of NATO drivers and bodyguards, so long as they’re not officers.’ He waited, people looked around, and then we laughed.

  ‘Fine. Moving on, there are some local rules that you need to be aware of, and traffic laws, and other bullshit. First: if a local Saudi citizen drives into you, it’s your fault. If you drive into them, it’s also your fault, and if you look at someone the wrong way they’ll call the police and want to lock you up.

  ‘Don’t stand for any shit, tell them there’s a war on, and that when Saddam’s tanks come here ... you’ll be there to protect them. And, if they’re dumb enough to buy that, ask them for a cash donation towards the war effort.’

  We laughed.

  ‘OK, firearms. The Saudis are not happy about us carrying firearms – especially in posh hotels, but the general in charge has told them we shall – or we shall leave the kingdom and they can defend themselves from Saddam. The rules are vague, so it’s best not to shoot at anyone unless absolutely necessary. If someone cuts you up on the road, and they always do, then don’t shoot at them.’

  ‘You’re taking all the fun out this, buddy,’ Hank told him, people laughing.

  ‘OK, booze. There ain’t none, but it can be found on the black market, but it’s a serious offence. A serviceman found with alcohol will be sent back and charged. If you get time off and get to Bahrain, then there’s plenty of alcohol and hookers to be had.

  ‘OK, reporters. There are a dozen reports in this hotel, more around the city, and they will ask you questions. Unless you’re a Major or above and registered to address the Press ... you don’t say nothing. If you do, you get yourself a court martial.’ He waited, letting it sink in.

  He rambled on for half an hour, pages handed out, and then asked if there were any questions. People were about to leave when Hank loudly said, ‘There’s a Brit armourer here for fixing weapons.’

  ‘There is?’ several people asked, and Hank pointed me out.

  I had three requests there and then, and told them to bring their weapons to my room. With the major out somewhere, I entertained two Americans and one ex-SAS guy as I checked another M4 and two pistols, one a Browning.

  I left the Browning to last, and found little wrong with it, the guy reporting miss-fires, which was odd. I tested the spring strength. ‘Spring has gone. I have a couple spare.’

  ‘Life saver,’ he said. ‘But I could have borrowed one. My own silly fault.’

  ‘Don’t carry it cocked, and don’t sleep with it cocked,’ I told him.

  ‘Need it in hurry, so we always go cocked.’

  ‘Then you’ll weaken the spring, and get a misfire when you need it, and get yourself killed.’

  ‘How long will that new spring last?’

  ‘If it’s always cocked, months.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  I shook my head at his attitude. ‘Try and unload it at night.’ I started on his spring. ‘You still in?’

  ‘No, not technically, but we can be semi-official bodyguards for diplomats and senior officers, “E” Squadron. Same rate of pay pro-rata, hotels and travel, so it’s OK, but the private guys here earn twice as much, and tax free. A few years of that and they can get a bar someplace. I fancy Thailand.’

  ‘Sounds nice, a bar on the beach.’

  The major returned, and I explained the DIY maintenance. He headed to the shower. Out the shower, he chatted to the SAS guy about Northern Ireland, and 18 Signals unit.

  The next morning I had to drive the Air Commodore all the way to Dhahran Air Base, just over three hours of long straight roads, a few checkpoints of Saudi Military Police. But we made good time.

  Whilst I waited, I covered the jeep in a bed sheet, and whiled away my time with other drivers, most of who just slept in the chairs. Returning to the jeep, the Air Commodore asked me where the sheet had come from.

  ‘Best not to ask, sir,’ I said as I put it away.

  An hour down the road, the sun low and almost directly ahead of us, we came across a car on its side, not much traffic near us, and no one seemed to have stopped. Either that or the accident had just happened.

  I burst out and grabbed my webbing, putting it on as I approached the car. Inside were four American servicemen, two in uniform and two in Hawaiian shirts, and I could smell the skank. They seemed to be in bad way, the driver bleeding badly.

  ‘Sir,’ I shouted. ‘Get that sheet, some water, my large first aid kit. And flag down some cars.’


  A lorry thundered past but did not slow as I eased the driver out, the man groaning. I should have got a neck brace on first, but I didn’t have one. The sheet was shaken out and laid down like we were about to have a picnic, soon bloodied by the driver’s facial injuries. His pulse and breathing were OK, so I grabbed the front passenger, laying him down, his vitals OK, a cut on his forehead.

  The rear passenger was smiling as I lifted him out, no visible injuries, but his buddy had a bad cut above his eye. Another lorry thundered by, dust thrown up.

  ‘No bloody cars,’ the Air Commodore complained as he helped me, kneeling on the sheet.

  ‘They’re all stable, sir,’ I assured him as I set about checking necks for obvious damage, followed by pupil responses. Their pupils were wide and fixed, a result of the weed. ‘Sir, can you check that vehicle for weed and alcohol, and then bury it a few yards away.’

  He stared at me. ‘This is a serious offence, especially in this country!’

  ‘Which should be dealt with internally, not by the local police or in the press!’ I held my stare on him.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ And off he went as I dealt with the cuts, four large stitches used to close a cut above an eye, some antibiotic cream applied, and a dressing. The second cut was easier, the Air Commodore returning after fifteen minutes of earnest effort.

  ‘Weed and alcohol. I buried it twenty yards away.’

  ‘Could you check their pockets, sir,’ I requested as I cleaned up bloody nose.

  He did so, and removed more weed, disposing of it, just as a British military convoy eased to a halt, many pairs of hands to assist me, and fifteen minutes later a Saudi police patrol turned up with an ambulance, a lorry driver having called it in. I left them to it as we lost the sun.

  ‘Did you note their IDs, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I have better things to do than piss about with those idiots.’ A minute later, he added, ‘You’re right of course, best kept from the press, something like that.’

  Three hours later we parked up, stretching as we got out, a warm shower needed.

  Back in my room, the major handed me a note. ‘Some guy wants you to look at his weapon,’ he informed me. ‘Is that ... blood?’ He pointed to my shirt.