Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘I’m tired just watching them,’ a major noted.

  With all of the lads through the range they had timed runs over a mile, followed by timed sprints with the dogs chasing, Smurf and Stretch both bitten and tripped, points lost.

  Back on the range, Rizzo was up, practice grenades thrown, his score down on the first attempt, pistol work at 20yards, forgetting to count, rifle work at 100yards and 200yards and sniping at 500yards, four full magazines before the whistle went. He was stood down, allowed to clean up with some clearly evident relief, congratulations from the observers, the Major turning up with the Colonel.

  The RSM tallied Rizzo’s score, soon to be followed by Swifty, and so far Swifty was ahead. We set Swifty’s score to 85%, Rizzos made 80%, and that gave us a benchmark that we discussed with the Colonel and the Major.

  Rizzo was allowed to sleep in the back of a jeep as Stretch finished up, Swifty electing to stay awake till back at base, Smurf told to bed down – or else, after a hot drink. He was spent, and shivering.

  The final whistle blew just before sun down, the scores tallied. I assembled the observers, as well as the directing staff.

  ‘Gentlemen, that was the first batch, some of whom are ... completely spent, and they’re good men, the best we have. Others may struggle. We now have a scoring system, and so we’ll be able to judge those that follow quite accurately.’

  I took a moment. ‘This final day, the important one, they were cold, wet, uncomfortable and miserable as hell, but when things go wrong ... those are the conditions we find ourselves in. And in those conditions we may find a platoon of enemy irregulars coming at us across a field.

  ‘What’s needed ... are two things. First, the ability to turn off the distractions and to focus, and second ... a belief that you can kill every last member of that enemy patrol and walk out of there.

  ‘These three days aim to tests that first ability, to focus on hitting a target when you’d rather be anywhere other than here, and – hopefully – it gives the candidate the belief that they can shoot up that patrol and survive. Swifty?’ He stepped forwards cradling a hot tea, looking very pale and tired. ‘How do you rate it?’

  ‘I’m considered to be at your standard, and I’m fucking spent and ready to drop. It’s not just the three days exercise, it’s the concentration. That drains you, trying to alert all the time. And that fucking artillery gets to you, you really want that to stop. The final hour on the range took every ounce of energy I had, trying to focus and shoot.’

  ‘As tired as you are, could you take down that enemy patrol?’ I asked.

  ‘I was confident before, but I guess now I know I could hit the damn targets when I’m having trouble focussing.’

  ‘You’ve seen plenty of action, how does this rate?’

  ‘Worse, much fucking worse. Trying to focus and get anything done with sand and shit down your pants ain’t easy, and the dog bites sting like fuck. You’re a fucking sadist.’

  We laughed.

  He focused on the Colonel. ‘From now on, sir, I’m only going up against people that don’t have artillery.’

  We laughed. ‘Stick to the IRA,’ the Major told him. ‘Just a few old rusty mortar tubes. And no dogs.’

  The observers headed off, the Colonel thanking me, and I headed back for a much needed warm shower and a curry. I’d be back at it tomorrow, four Army sniper instructors slotted in.

  I got back late on the Sunday, a shower and to bed early, and attended Monday squadron orders.

  ‘How did the Army snipers do?’ the Major asked me, Rizzo keen to find out.

  ‘Not as well as our lot,’ I began. ‘But they have one lad that is shit hot. We scored him at 75%, under Rizzo. One quit, and one got into a punch-up with a dog handler.’

  The guys laughed.

  ‘What, did the dog bite him?’ the Major teased.

  ‘In the arse,’ I said. ‘Their CO was watching the final range hour, and one of his guys was stumbling like a drunk. He was not that impressed.’

  ‘When you back at it?’ the Major asked me.

  ‘Tomorrow, sir, four Marines, then our next four.’

  ‘They’re crapping themselves,’ Rizzo put in.

  ‘They can do that on the range,’ I added, Rizzo laughing. ‘They get extra points for that.’

  The four Marines were qualified snipers, and supposed to be good at this, but on the final day they were shivering and fumbling, the strain showing. But one guy, named Slider, seemed to be on rocket fuel, his determination evident. He scored just above Swifty, his mates below Rizzo, and they were duly informed of how they did.

  They were, however, glad that they were above the Army snipers overall, and glad that one of theirs had taken the lead. They had whinged that I was making it tough on them, because they were Marines, but with one of their own in the lead they had no case – they had all done the same stages.

  Swifty and Rizzo were gutted that they had been trumped, and wanted another go. After an hour thinking back to the scenario, they changed their minds.

  Our next four lads did OK, but scored under Rizzo and Swifty, a scorecard pinned up in the squadron tea room, bets laid off, insults inferred.

  Then I took four Paras through it, two of them Pathfinders, and a guy called Rocko hit 95%, a surprise to us all. This guy was superman without the red pants, he and his mates greatly pleased that one of theirs had edged ahead of the Marines - just.

  Four officers tried next, two Paras and two Light Infantry, two having to drop out, one of those told to drop out. The best score was just about 45%, a bit lame.

  After a long weekend break, relaxing and seeing my parents, I found four more Paras, one an officer, no less than Captain Moran.

  ‘Captain,’ I welcomed him, a coy smile displayed. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Still no fan of yours,’ he offered with a snarl. ‘And I hope the stages will be ... fair.’

  ‘Your lad Rocko set the standard, sir, I have no prejudices.’

  They had travelled up the day before, as had many, and spent a day on the ranges with AK47s and pistols, and were now ready.

  ‘Captain Moran to the front of the control room, you two right field, you left field,’ I ordered, and they split up.

  On the third day my Colonel turned up with General Dennet and some of the top brass. I saluted and welcomed them inside, the kettles soon knocked on. The RSM was with the Colonel, no longer active as my assistant, the Army sniper school taking over much of the leg work.

  I reclaimed my chair, barked orders and flicked switches, advice given, stance altered, the final whistle blown as three men slept in jeeps, now cleaned up a bit. Captain Moran was last, and had surprised us all. I had him brought inside, his weapon made safe, a tea thrust into his hand. He looked a bit shocked to see the General, and snapped to attention.

  ‘At ease, Captain,’ General Dennet offered him. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Words could not describe it, sir. You could not pay me enough to do that again.’

  ‘You look like death,’ the General noted.

  ‘Would you like your score ... here and now, sir?’ I asked Moran.

  Captain Moran took a moment, and shrugged. ‘Why not.’

  ‘Ninety-two percent.’

  He digested that. ‘Shit...’

  ‘How does that relate?’ General Dennet asked me.

  ‘Best officer by a mile, and he’s above most of my lot.’

  Colonel Richards caught my eye. ‘He has his papers in with us. How would you rate him?’

  Moran looked worried, and a little annoyed.

  I took a moment. ‘If I was stuck behind enemy lines, sir ... I’d be damned glad of him next to me.’

  General Dennet closed in on Moran and shook his hand. ‘Well done, Captain. And endorsements like that don’t come easy.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  General Dennet faced me. ‘The scoring system is useful, damned useful, it means a great deal to some, useful to us to know whe
re a man stands in the scheme of things – without dropping him into a war zone someplace.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Just not enough days in the week, thousands applying for this,’ the General added. ‘We’re going to tighten up on who comes, we have to. So some tests first probably. I don’t want officers doing this just to crap out – as some did.’

  I nodded and made a face. ‘They learnt, sir, if only their limitations.’

  ‘Well done anyway, Wilco, you’ve made a name for yourself with this, but I guess the Cambrian March and others were already there. This is ... polish on that process, and based in fact, so I guess a better test.’

  ‘They also learn, sir, hopefully. They learn that they can fight back, and win.’

  He nodded, and chatted to the instructors for half an hour before heading off. I helped Moran get cleaned up – fresh trousers and pants, his eyes half closed.

  ‘Got to rush off anywhere?’ I asked him.

  ‘Uh ... no, why?’

  ‘You can clean up fully at my place, comfy sofa, curry with your name on it in Hereford, sir.’

  ‘Oh ... er ... yeah, OK.’

  He slept all the way back, and I almost carried him to my apartment, thrusting him towards the shower. Cleaned up, his civvy jeans and jumper on, I nudged him onto the couch, where he slept soundly for just two hours before waking, as I figured he would. Being over-tired often had that effect on soldiers.

  After a shave, smellies put on, Smurf picked us up, his roommate with him, and we headed for that curry, Moran still looking tired. The food energised him, the beer relaxing him, and I taunted him something terrible about Northern Ireland. We all swapped stories, that was always the way, and when Moran’s eyelids grew heavy we drove back. He was soon fast asleep on my sofa, a blanket over him.

  In the morning I made him tea, his body now aching, a time lag that affected most endurance athletes, a long hot shower helping.

  ‘So why do you want to join our lot?’ I asked as I made toast.

  He sipped his tea. ‘Day to day life in the Paras is a bit mundane. Northern Ireland breaks up the routine, but it is all very routine.’

  ‘Last Captain to sleep on that couch, Tyler – a close friend of mine, got blown to pieces in Bosnia. The same could await you.’

  He took a moment. ‘It’s all a risk, and I missed a bomb in Belfast, caught the men behind me. Six seconds difference, that’s all.’

  I nodded. ‘Be sure of what you’re getting into, they won’t respect you. The lads are hard work.’

  ‘They’ll respect my abilities.’ He smirked. ‘And now my score.’

  I smiled. ‘They might, or they may just trip you up. Jealousy is a powerful motivator – I know.’

  He studied me. ‘You gave me a good write-up in front of the brass, and your colonel.’

  I shrugged. ‘It was true. You think clearly when others slow down the old thinking process. When some are tired they get angry, some get afraid, some want to go home, and some bungle along getting themselves and others killed. You think, and that’s good.’

  My phone went. ‘Major?’

  ‘You have Captain Moran with you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, had a curry last night, but we did wash him first.’

  ‘Tell him we bunked up his application, he’s on selection next week. And unless he brakes and ankle he’s in.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’ The call was cut. I faced Moran. ‘You application was pushed up the list, you do selection next week – assuming you want to. And, unless you really screw up, you’ve been selected.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Your scores impressed them. And I would guess that future officer candidates might tackle my scenario early on. From what I hear it’s harder than officer selection. Welcome aboard.’

  He smiled genuinely. ‘I’d best get organised, just a few days to get fit.’

  I laughed. ‘Officer selection is not that tough.’

  I drove him and his kit down to Newport station, wishing him well, and got back around 1pm, driving into the base with little regard for attending hours these days. I went and found the Major.

  ‘I just dropped Captain Moran off at Newport station, sir.’

  ‘He damaged?’

  I made a face. ‘A bit sore in a few places, sir.’

  ‘And you rate him?’

  ‘He’d kick Rizzo’s arse.’

  ‘Yes? Well, that would be a turn-up for the books, someone on my side as well.’

  ‘I’m on your side, sir,’ I teased.

  He eased back. ‘And up for a commission I hear...’

  ‘Nothing has been said yet, sir. What ... do you know?’

  ‘Just that the powers want you on a tight leash.’

  ‘You’re too kind with your words, sir, just say it as it is.’

  He laughed. ‘Why else would they give a hired gun like you a commission?’

  ‘They say ... so that I can do more like the scenario, and select men for Bob Staines and his gang.’

  ‘Yes, well ... select men to go off and never come back.’

  I tipped my head. ‘That is the game we’re in, sir, but I if I have any say in it ... then the risks will be sensible ones.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He took a call. ‘He’s with me now.’ He listened. ‘OK.’ Phone down, he said, ‘Big flap on, job for Bob Staines, political level, they’re coming down tomorrow, you and your inflated reputation are needed, so be here.’

  ‘I was not due back on the scenario till Monday.’

  ‘Might be scrapped, they have a job with you in mind.’

  ‘RSM could take my place, he likes to get out from behind the desk,’ I suggested, the Major nodding.

  ‘Oh, your new pay schedule is here.’

  ‘My ... what, sir?’

  ‘You’re now a pay-Sergeant, no stripes on your arm. Some others have it, a reflection on past rank. Bob Staines requested it, firmly. Some compensation money for injuries accrued working for his lot.’

  ‘Making me feel appreciated, sir,’ I quipped, handed a sheet of paper.

  I took the rest of the day off, few noticing, and no one giving a shit.

  Off to war, in a private jet

  The next day I was in attendance in uniform, a teaching room used to get in myself and the Major, the Colonel, Captain Harris and a lady captain from signals, Bob Staines and his line manager, plus a junior minister from the Defence Department – but despite being “junior” the guy was old and grey.

  Bob began, ‘We have the Junior Defence Minister with us today, and time is key.’ He faced me. ‘Somalia. We have ... as of today, two British hostages and countless French and Belgian hostages, could be twelve still alive. A joint operation has been requested at the political level, government to government, so this is top priority.

  ‘We have in mind to send a small SAS team ashore to scout the area, and to ascertain if the hostages are alive, where they are, and how viable it would be for French commandos to land by helicopter and effect a rescue.’

  ‘How far inland?’ I asked.

  ‘Thirty miles, an isolated coastline, sparse villages.’

  ‘And the welcoming committee...?’

  Bob took a moment, looking concerned. ‘Up to two hundred irregulars.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ I told him. ‘They’re farmers with a rusty old AK strapped to their chests.’ But then I wondered about my own bravado, and was it the company here today causing it.

  ‘You know the area?’ the Minister asked me.

  ‘I’ve studied what I can about it, sir. There’s no organised army, nor is there any skill level to the men. They’re just bandits, and they spend most of their time fighting each other.’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ he agreed. ‘You can cover the thirty miles without incident?’

  ‘Two days to cover it, one day recon. Then it’s either a rescue, or we pull out, sir.’

  He nodded. ‘We want a small select team and ... we don’t want any mistakes, no new
spaper headlines, no ... anything other than a good result.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  He sighed. ‘There are many in the corridors of power who see the risks, dead or captured soldiers, another rescue screw up -’

  ‘Others have tried,’ Bob cut in with. ‘Not much success I’m afraid.’

  ‘According to some you can walk on water,’ the Minister noted. ‘And if you’re half as good as they say ... then you should not get captured or killed. And that’s what we want - a lack of fuck ups.’

  The Colonel shot him a look, unnoticed by the Minister.

  ‘I may stand on a mine, sir.’

  He took a moment. ‘Don’t.’

  I waited.

  ‘And the insert?’ the Major cut in with.

  ‘French submarine or helicopter,’ Bob said. ‘Both are available.’

  ‘Zodiac to within a mile, then paddle if the current is right,’ I said. ‘Nice and quiet, done just before dawn. Helicopters can be heard a mile away by some villager.’

  ‘And when the French commandos go in ... by helicopter?’ the Minister pressed.

  ‘They’d be heard, the hostage-takers tipped off,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Not much of a bloody plan, then,’ the Minister shot back.

  ‘The plan, Minister, would be to give the hostage takers something else to think about.’

  ‘A diversion,’ he stated. ‘Well, that is what you lot are trained for I guess.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’d set fires, set off some explosions the other side of wherever the hostages are. And the French helicopters could dog-leg.’

  The Minister made a note, and I exchanged a look with the Major and Captain Harris. ‘How soon could you have a team put together?’

  ‘I believe, sir, that you should be asking my Major that question, or he may think I have an ... inflated reputation.’

  ‘This is “E” Squadron work,’ Bob cut in with. ‘Off the books.’

  ‘Oh,’ I let out, a bit too sarcastically.

  Bob quickly cut in with, ‘You can pick the team, just four of you – we think. Swifty would be a candidate.’

  I nodded. ‘And two irregulars?’

  Bob nodded.

  ‘And the timescale?’