Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  Wilco:

  Lone Wolf

  Book 1

  Copyright © Geoff Wolak

  Started January, 2014

  This book is historically very accurate in places, technically correct for the most part, yet it is fiction, really fiction, definitely fiction, and any similarity to real people or real events – although accidental - is probably intentional. Some characters in this book may be based on some of the wankers I have either worked with or unfortunately met over the years.

  In order to make this more interesting, and to flow better, some of the command and control structures have been altered, standard operating procedures ignored or replaced. Real life is quite dull, and a book about real life soldiering would be quite dull for the most part.

  www.geoffwolak-writing.com

  This is a soldier’s story, from his teenage years to the world of Special Forces, Intelligence agencies, and being centre stage in the fight against terrorism.

  The book is long, and it charts the life of an individual struggling against the system, and against jealous individuals around him. From prison, to being promoted to captain, this story charts his life, his social life, and his struggles – the least of which are facing armed men.

  The book is technically accurate and contains accurate political and historical aspects, accurate geographical descriptions and equipment descriptions.

  Glossary of abbreviations

  MI6 - British Intelligence, aka, SIS - Secret Intelligence Service, for overseas operations (non-domestic), aka, ‘Circus’.

  MI5 - British Intelligence (domestic)

  CIA - Central Intelligence Agency, USA, overseas intelligence service

  SAS - Special Air Service, British Special Forces

  SBS - Special Boat Squadron, British, similar to US Navy Seals

  DOD - Department of Defence - USA

  MOD - Ministry of Defence - UK

  NSA - National Security Agency, USA, aka ‘No such agency’.

  SOE - Special Operations Executive, British WWII covert operations OSS - USA, like SOE, WWII, overseas

  DGSE - French Secret Service/counter terrorism - domestic and foreign

  IRA - Irish Republican Army, terrorist movement

  INLA – Irish National Liberation Army

  SIB - British Military Police

  SVR - Russian Intelligence, formerly KGB

  Special Branch - British Police, anti-terrorism/organized crime

  SO13 – armed British police unit (as was)

  COBRA - Cabinet Office Briefing Room ‘A’, used by British Prime Minister for meetings with security staff.

  FARC – Colombian guerrillas/communist

  British military slang

  Oppo - opposite number/close working buddy

  Pongo - soldier – derisive

  Crabs – airmen – derisive

  Monkeys – Red Caps – military police

  Ponce/poncey - upper class/educated/effeminate - derisive

  Regiment - he was ‘Regiment’- he was SAS

  Rock Apes - RAF Regiment - defensive unit of airfields

  NAAFI - Navy Army Air Force Institute - shops on British military bases.

  Rupert - officer/upper-class - derisive

  Beast - punish soldier

  Billets - accommodation/food

  Civvy - civilian

  Badged - qualified entry to SAS, receipt of cap badge

  Best bib and tucker - best suit/outfit/military dinner suit

  QT - on the QT, on the quiet

  Stag – on guard duty

  2ic – second in command

  CO – commanding officer

  Sandhurst – basic Army officer training UK

  Cranwell – basic RAF officer training UK

  Glass House – military prison

  HALO – high altitude jump, low opening

  1982, Gloucester High School.

  ‘Michael Milton,’ the headmaster called, rolling his eyes as he stood perched on the edge of the stage at the far end of the school’s assembly hall. In his black gown he looked like a Raven perched on a branch.

  Laughter broke out, a few wild cheers and jeers – I wasn’t quite sure which they were, some ironic applause from bored teachers lined up along the sides of the hall and, as I ambled along the aisle smiling, most of the pupils from Year Five turned towards me and also smiled, grinned, or smirked.

  They were knowing grins, because they knew what I was like, they knew my past history – many had been on the receiving end, and they knew that I – the student from hell – had come third place overall in the school’s ‘O’ Level exams; I would be leaving with 10 ‘O’ Levels and going onto my ‘A’ Levels, something that both the teachers and my parents found infinitely puzzling.

  I had gained the prize of ‘most detentions’ and ‘most sent out of class’, and had done so easily. The Headmaster had once told me: ‘There you go, 98% in maths, the highest score, now get to detention.’

  I was a puzzle to them all, perplexed teachers and amused pupils alike, because I was always in trouble - yet my exam grades were excellent. It was a pattern for life that would follow me around.

  As I walked I smirked back, a few nods given to lads I knew and listed as friends, a few smirks for girls that I knew, had known, or was hoping to get to know during the summer holidays. Cathy Turnball turned her head, a secret look exchanged, a look that acknowledged the fact that less than an hour ago I had my hand up her skirt, down her knickers and a finger insider her.

  The annoying thing about Cathy was ... that would be all I could get. She was not as obliging as her older sister had been, and when she eventually found out about me and her older sister I’d be in trouble, since her parents knew my parents; Gloucester was not that big a city, barely a town really.

  Susy Hoffman lifted her gaze, and I remembered Christmas. My parents had been away, visiting my Nan in hospital, and I had remained at home to check for burst water pipes. Paranoid, my dad was.

  Still, it gave me a house with no parents, access to beer and spirits, and a cold-nosed Susy Hoffman wanting help with her homework. One thing had led to another, the alcohol may have helped some, and I had licked her pussy till she screamed.

  She then attempted a blowjob, but after I came in her mouth – after promising I wouldn’t – she had vomited all over my mum’s best rug. Christmas was spent trying to clean the damn thing, and worrying a great deal about my parents return. I had learnt a valuable lesson: it’s important to find a girl that can swallow without puking.

  My success with Susy, and countless other girls, started when I was thirteen, and that success was all down to my Uncle Richard, who my dad always labelled as ‘a waste of space’. Richard was five years younger than Dad, and he changed jobs every six months. According to Richard, he was waiting for the right one, to find his calling. And, at 48, he was still waiting.

  We had gone on holiday together once – and once only, me and my parents, Richard and some lady with big tits and a big arse. We had driven down the M5 motorway to Bude in Cornwall, and the weather had turned out OK. What was not OK was my father trying to body-board in the surf – at his age.

  He caught a chill, and was then hospitalised the same day that Uncle Richard’s lady friend decided that Uncle Richard was a twat. And she told him so in front of me before she walked off and left the holiday. It was just me and Uncle Richard, so we got drunk in the local pub. I was sick that night, but that might have been down to the curry that I tried to tackle.

  The next day, having woken in our holiday cottage around noon, we made coffee and promised ourselves never to do that again – Uncle Richard feeling worse than I did, and we set out exploring. That took ten minutes – Bude was not such a big place – so we s
at on the rocks for a while, but opted for something to eat in a dodgy little cafe.

  As we sat there, two girls plonked down opposite, and my heart skipped a beat. They were around nineteen years old, tit’s visible through skimpy tops, short denim shorts on the bottom, both girls chewing gum and smoking at the same time.

  Uncle Richard turned his head. ‘Christ,’ he loudly let out. ‘What are you two, porn models or Page Three girls or what?’

  I figured they might hit him, or leave, but they giggled.

  The better looking of the two, yet sounding as common as muck, replied, ‘Wha I ‘av to do for lunch and a cuppa?’

  I blinked.

  ‘Show us your tits for a cuppa each for starters,’ Uncle Richard suggested, as if he had done it a hundred times before.

  And they did. Despite the fact that they were common as muck, they were stunners, and I was about to explode.

  Uncle Richard stuck five quid on their table, and I watched and learned from an expert; I learnt things that parents and teachers hoped that a young man may never learn. After lunch, and after my dear Uncle had groped both of the girls, he dragged them back to the holiday cottage. They sized it up, hands on hips chewing gum, and then my world changed forever.

  Uncle Richard told the shorter of the two girls, ‘Twenty five quid if you educate my nephew here for a few hours.’ He counted out the money as I stood terrified, trying not to show that I was stood terrified.

  She took the money, shrugged, and whilst chewing her gum she then led me by the hand, asking which room was mine. With the day hot, glorious even, the sun beating through the window and the calls of seagulls echoing, I got to have sex, real sex. I had groped a few girls, hand a hand job off a girl in the year above, but basically I was – at thirteen – just as useless as the rest of the boys in school.

  She gave me an anatomy lesson, named bits, and showed me what to do, and did so several times. She also showed me how to go down on a girl. Her pussy was shaven, nothing like those hairy monsters I saw in Penthouse Magazine, and it was just a thin slit.

  I did as asked, not finding that it smelt terrible - as I had feared, unlike the hair on her head, which was rank with the smell of smoke. Her pussy didn’t taste terrible either, another fear soon overcome. She told me to put two fingers in when a girl started to make a noise and breathe faster, and I did.

  Uncle Richard went on from that holiday to plough his car into a tree when drunk and, confined to a wheelchair, he drank himself to death a few years later. I lamented his loss, because he had firmly put me on the right track.

  That summer holiday, rather just that one particularly glorious hot day, would always be with me, and it set me up for a great time in the upper school.

  After that particular holiday, and now swaggering around and being oddly nice to my parents, yet remote to lads I knew, I met a girl in the local park. We chatted, because she recognised me from somewhere, and because we would both start upper school in a few weeks. It was not that big a town.

  A stroll led to a kiss goodbye, and the next day a stroll led to a snog, followed by a hint that her parents would be away for a few days, her older sister minding the house, and that her older sister had a boyfriend that she wanted to visit each night that the parents were away.

  The two sisters had struck a deal, and I was invited around. I was told the rules right off; there’d be no screwing, but we could fondle, and she would toss me off. I had other ideas, and pointed out that she would still be a virgin if I went down on her.

  After some debate she agreed, and I made her scream. She did toss me off, then, and at any point in the next three years, anytime and anywhere I asked, even though she knew I was seeing other girls.

  So the day I started at the upper school in my blue uniform, the hushed rumours started between girls. When the lads asked I denied it, saying – yuk. But the girls knew, and I got sexy smirks from complete strangers; I was the lad who’d go down on a girl, and I was the only lad who would. Not even the lad’s in the Sixth Form did that.

  My technique was simple. To a new and curious girl I would say, ‘Well, you’re very nice looking and all, but I was kinda seeing someone, although she’s been seen with a guy from the Sixth Form.’

  ‘Then you should get your own back,’ they would always hint.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I would sigh. ‘Doesn’t seem right, no official break-up and all.’

  ‘She doesn’t care, and I won’t say anything,’ would open the doors to a new experience, and open a new pair of legs. I would always go down on the girl, then make it seem like I should probably go, only to have the girl insist on at least a hand job.

  Some tried a blowjob, most being terrible practitioners, but Cathy swallowed the first time, and kept going till I was the one screaming. I learnt that some girls did swallow, and that some puked on your mum’s best rug.

  I also learnt that if you were the guy with the pretty girl on your arm, half the lads would want you as a friend, the other half wanted to kick your teeth in, including lads from years above.

  I could equally be found having a blowjob in the bushes - or fighting with some idiot because he thought I had been with his girl. I probably had been with his girl, but I often lost track. Asking an angry boyfriend ‘Which one is she?’ did nothing to calm them down.

  That school prize day, I reached the stage and stepped up, an even louder and more raucous jeering erupting.

  ‘That’s enough!’ the Headmaster shouted, the assembly eventually settling. He sighed loudly, and then faced me. ‘Milton, it pains me greatly – it really does – to award you third prize for your ‘O’ Level grades, and I understand that we shall enjoy a further two years of your company as you undertake your ‘A’ Levels. God ... help us.’

  He handed me the prize, a book token for WHSmith, and I waved it at the assembly before stepping down. On the way back down the aisle I nodded at Smitty and Blob, both lads about to keenly join me on the next adventure, that of Cheltenham Girl’s School.

  Our school had no computers, and fuck all else - we all agreed, and it was run down to say the least. Cheltenham Girl’s School had a new computer suite, but apparently very few of the blue-blooded little debutants had opted to use it, so it was available to other schools in the catchment area.

  My school, Gloucester Shit-Tip High, was just three miles from Cheltenham Posh Girl’s School, which sat closer to Gloucester town centre than it did to Cheltenham town centre. So come September, three of us boys and four girls would go on to attend Cheltenham Girl’s School one day a week to study ‘A’ Level Computer Science in their smart new – yet under-utilised - computer suite.

  I had opted for Maths, Computer Science and German because I figured that money was in computers and maths, and German was better than a science subject – and the physics teacher had threatened to kill me if I tried to sit ‘A’ Level physics.

  The police had been called to the school, but the man remained in his job, and the threat remained. So what if I electrocuted his dog, the damn mutt recovered, and it was a really annoying little dog that had no place in a classroom during a physics practical lesson.

  Fate’s hand

  As school broke, actually it had broken three weeks before that noteworthy award assembly, I had a long hot (and occasionally rainy) summer in which to do whatever I wanted. And whatever I wanted generally meant something sexual.

  But a new couple had moved in next door, and I said hello over the garden wall. The man was an army officer in his late twenties, a Captain Richards, and the house was his ex-wife’s, but they were still together some of the time – he explained – but he appeared to be in pain as he explained it.

  So the occasional ex-husband visitor would visit, and sometimes in uniform, and he’d stand at the end of the garden and smoke a lonely cigarette, tipping his head back as he exhaled. He explained to me that the good lady of the house did not like cigarette smoke indoors, and sometimes did not like him being indoors, and I explaine
d that my mum hated smoking; I had never taken up smoking.

  One day, stood leaning against the garden wall, he explained that he was thinking of leaving the Army, that the doctor had threatened to give him something called a ‘Section’, and that he was not feeling too great. I had images of a difficult child birth ‘section’ but must have heard it wrong.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I naively asked.

  He regarded me for a few seconds then sighed. ‘You have your life ahead of you, and from your angle it probably seems pretty bloody good – I’ve seen you in the street with half a dozen different girls already.’

  We exchanged a smirk, a man-to-man smirk. I was just a teenager, but he was treating me like an adult, and that I liked.

  ‘But when you get older you ... you get stuck in groves, you spend a great deal of time and effort on what you think is the right career path, the right woman -’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘- and ... and sometimes it doesn’t work out quite as you had it planned. You see, no matter where you are or what walk of life you find yourself in, there’s always some cunt who just wants to make life difficult for you, and for no reason.’

  He focused ahead. ‘You do well, you stand out, people want to cut your legs out from under you. Why? Good fucking question. Why? Probably because they can’t be bothered to make the effort to stand out, probably because they’re jealous.

  ‘If you drag your feet and try and blend in, you’re accused of not making an effort, and then someone gives you shit for the opposite reason, albeit a genuine reason. And sometimes ... sometimes someone just doesn’t like you for a reason they could never explain, not in a million years.’

  He sighed again and glanced at me. ‘So you see, what you do ... doesn’t matter so much as the reaction you cause from those around you. You ... can try and do everything right, and still get crap from people.’