Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Positive. Only danger would be someone phone-tapping me and Bob, or tapping the sat phones. But if they did tap the sat phone then it’s Tomsk chatting to Petrov. I doubt they could match my voice. Weak link is the Americans.’

  She nodded. ‘Well done anyway, another remarkable episode. But tell me, were you ever tempted to take control over there in Panama?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. The part I did like ... was cleaning the streets of gunmen. I love the old vigilante bit.’

  The bad news on Tuesday, just to dampen spirits, was that two of the skeleton hostages had died from heart failure. Bob had called me, but I kept the news from all but Moran and the Major, my lot not ones for reading the broadsheets.

  I had asked Bob to check, and he got back to me a day later with news that all of the injured young officers had recovered well from surgery in Freetown, at a private hospital just for the local rich folk – most of the officers having been flown out the second day.

  Oddly enough, some had been operated upon by US Naval surgeons off their carrier, the doctors having remained with the skeleton hostages in Freetown since the recovering patients were too sick to move.

  On the Wednesday night the police arrived at GL4 in force, housed in the barracks, and I had a call from Rawlson an hour later.

  ‘You’re training the new police hostage rescue unit, Captain?’

  ‘They’re not a hostage unit, sir, at least not yet, and they don’t have a remit to supersede your lot. They’ll get weapons training, house clearing, sniping, but I know they’re not yet on the Home Secretary’s list of assets for hostage rescue.’

  ‘And their specific remit?’

  ‘A slow-creep approach at doing away with the need for your lot.’

  ‘So they do mean to replace us.’

  ‘They mean to try, the police, but they are more keen than able, and any complex hostage situation will probably still come back to you, even ten years from now. My successes, sir, have been labelled as your successes, and the majority of MPs are not in favour of a dedicated police team – by a long way.

  ‘These coppers will deal with minor incidents, some nutcase holding his ex-wife hostage. You want to be dragged out for those, sir?’

  ‘No, definitely not.’

  ‘In the next few years, sir, nothing will change, but if you resist you’ll just drive a wedge between yourself and the police. My boys play nice with all sorts, so perhaps yours can learn to do that as well.’

  ‘They never have done in the past. How did it go with your young officers?’

  ‘A good first test programme, the generals were pleased, many officers to be sent down to Sierra Leone to train for a week or two, same patrol routes your lads tackled.’

  ‘I’m going to send more men down there, all good experience.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But please don’t cross the border.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Spies have struck a back-door deal with the idiot dictator in Liberia: if we leave him alone he’ll stay away from Sierra Leone.’

  ‘He was housing hostages!’

  ‘No, sir, that’s faulty intel; the hostage takers were gangs opposed to him. He rarely leaves the capital, no control over the countryside.’

  ‘Oh, right, well good we know that, would just be nice to hear it from London.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, it’s the tone of your questioning in London that needs addressing.’

  After a long pause, he said, ‘Maybe, yes. Goodnight, Captain.’

  Phone down, I went for a walk to clear my head, the puppy rushing at me and then running away when I charged at it. It needed to toughen up.

  Back in the house, Swifty could see my mood. ‘Problems?’

  I sighed loudly and blew out as I sat at the kitchen table. ‘I’ve passed intel between interested parties, and it’s gone well, but ... but if the law-makers knew what I had done I’d get twenty years. I passed intel to the Deltas without talking to Bob, and now I’m lying to Rawlson about things that could get me shot.’

  ‘So why do it?’

  ‘First, because they asked me to do it – or at least hinted firmly. Second, it saves lives and gets hostages out.’

  ‘Then if there’s an enquiry say that: fuck the law, hostage lives are more important. And besides, is anyone going to believe you did this on your own? They’ll blame Bob.’

  ‘If anyone ever pushes you, say that I would never discuss it, but that I hinted at things.’

  Swifty stared back. ‘Is it starting to get dangerous?’

  ‘Big players involved. But, at the moment, they all love me to bits.’

  ‘Max ran a story on the Deltas; they ain’t shy about claiming the credit. He might still be down there.’

  I nodded. ‘Rawlson called me an hour after the coppers got here.’

  ‘He mad?’

  ‘I explained that the police would tackle the small stuff, not foreign terrorists, and he knows that and he doesn’t want those jobs.’

  ‘So what’s his problem?’

  ‘Us training the police after he refused, probably.’

  ‘Fuck him.’

  Again I nodded, making a face. ‘He’s tried to change attitudes, but he’s now behaving like the men he got rid of and he’s pissed off the police.’

  In the morning I found twenty five police officers dressed in black, having breakfast at a set time, my lot required to either use the canteen before or after.

  Assembled in the briefing room later, Rock, Rizzo and Moran in on the briefing, I formally welcomed our guests, a rundown of facilities and where everything was.

  ‘Gentlemen, we’re not going to push your fitness or test it, that’s up to you and your bosses, and you don’t need to be super fit, you’re not going to be dropped behind enemy lines. You will need to be fit to climb a building.

  ‘What will happen whilst you’re with us ... is that we’ll develop your weapons skills, widen the scope of your weapons experience, and cover building entry and hostage rescue. However -’ I raised a finger. ‘- there is currently a debate going on about whether you would ever carry out a hostage rescue, and certainly if there were foreign terrorists on British soil then the SAS would be involved.

  ‘What you may be tasked to do, is deal with the lone gunman and nutcase, bank job gone wrong. In such a case as a bank job gone wrong there may be hostages, but no foreign terrorists. In that case you may go in, still a subject of debate at high levels.

  ‘We will, however, train you in green-field soldiering because the principals are the same. Sneak up on a camp in a forest and rescue hostages, sneak into a bank and get the hostages out, all very similar in your thinking.

  ‘And, a subject that is to be kept strictly secret, you will accompany us to a foreign country and go on patrol, a very real risk of shooting someone, and being shot dead.’

  They exchanged looks.

  ‘If any of you have reservations about that ... then how the fuck are your superiors going to send you into a bank hostage situation, your lives on the line? Gentlemen, if you get that call and you arrive on scene there’s an excellent chance of some fucker shooting you dead, so deal with that or get a job as a fucking traffic warden.

  ‘You are, by definition, required to face down a gunman and kill him, and yet still operate, function and think, and go home to wives and girlfriends without some stress disorder. And that’s the difference between us ... that the politicians like to point to out.’

  I pointed at Rocko. ‘He’ll kill twenty men whilst thinking about what’s for lunch, cracking jokes at the end of a shootout.’ I pointed at Rizzo. ‘He’ll kill twenty men whilst complaining about what’s for lunch. If you want to be good at this job ... learn to deal with death and crack a joke. If you go in tense and nervous you’ll get your mates killed.

  ‘OK, I want two teams of eight, one of nine. Always with a buddy, teams of four plus the odd man. Get used to it. Feel your buddy at your shoulder, your team mates behind you, move as one. I want you eating t
ogether, training together. If you already know each other as buddies, buddy up and stay together.

  ‘When I’m in the jungle I know when my oppo wants a piss, when he’s hungry, and when he spots something – no words spoken. Get to be like that on a job and you might stay alive longer.

  ‘Right, when you have your teams, Team One with Rocko here, Team Two with Rizzo, Team Three with Captain Moran.’

  I tackled paperwork as Team One tackled the AK47 family of weapons, Team Two on the twenty-five yard range with pistols, Team Three having a lecture from Captain Harris about Intel structures and information flow.

  After lunch they swapped around, and I stepped into the briefing room as eight coppers tackled AK47s, AKMLs, and dated pistols, being pushed now by Rocko, Slider and Sergeant Crab.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I called. ‘You may find yourself with a stoppage, or no ammo left, and the gunman you killed dropped his AK47. You pick it up and use it on the gunman’s mates, you don’t run away. Get used to all the world’s weapons, especially the AK47 family.’

  After evening meal they swapped again, and kept at it till 9pm - as I headed out to see my nurse.

  In the morning, our coppers were presented with old FN SLRs, Famas 5.56mm and SA80 rifles, all needing to be mastered, and with the day fine we made use of the long range.

  After an hour’s basic training, ponchos laid out at the 100yard firing point, metal plates placed, our coppers were tasked in teams with stripping, assembling and loading the first weapon, two rounds fired, unloading and stripping the weapon before moving onto the next weapon as their colleagues looked on.

  After three weapons and six rounds, plates put back up, but not many plates, the teams swapped. After three goes each they were getting better, now shouted at to go faster – and to hit the damn targets.

  By 1pm they were tired, and whinging a little, an hour given for lunch. Back from lunch they were required to each clean a weapon under supervision, and were straight back at it, their aim not impressing anyone, and I kept them at it till 6pm.

  Weapons collected up and carried back, I had my doubts about our coppers. Still, it was early days. They had Friday night off, but were due to be back in the morning, some off to wives, some drinking in the pub – wives lied to about the course structure.

  I heard about the trouble from Swifty when I got back Saturday morning, two coppers slugging it out over a joint interest in a lady back in London. I had both kicked off the base, but one was not impressed with that decision and squared up to me. I winded him and knocked him down, my pistol taken out.

  ‘Do you know who the fuck you’re talking to!’ I barked at him, his colleagues urging me not to shoot him.

  The MP’s escorted the man off the base before we started the morning session, more pistol work for some, sniping for others.

  Donohue called me an hour later. ‘You kicked two men off the course I heard?’

  ‘First, they were fighting in my local pub, risking my lot getting banned, and second – they were not at all apologetic for their actions. I learnt long ago that disciplined men are disciplined on the trigger.’

  ‘Well, sorry about those two, and I’ll pop down later to warn the others.’

  ‘Those two had a love interest with the same girl. What the fuck would happen if they stormed a building together, had each other in their sights, no witnesses?’

  ‘Probably shoot each other, yes. I’ll try and tighten up on it a bit.’

  He did pop down, I met him at 3pm, a cup of tea and a chat about the men, and I detailed the men’s inability to hit the damn target. And these were the best they had. He shouted at the assembled coppers before he left. Now we were down to twenty three, teams adjusted.

  I let them go at 6pm Saturday night with dire warnings of any shit around the base or at the pub.

  Sunday morning I threw my arms in the air in frustration, two brought in by the local cops, no charges brought, just a night in the cells for their fellow officers.

  Sunday afternoon, and many were in no fit state to study anything, and having sat listing to them in the canteen I had seen enough. MPs called in, the entire group were kicked off the base, the course cancelled.

  Monday morning I explained it to the Major, and he was not impressed with the coppers, but I was summoned to London, a 3pm meeting, the Regimental helicopter to be made available.

  After changing into civvy clothes, Rawlson called, and I could tell how smug he was before I even lifted the phone.

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘You kicked out the police I hear.’

  ‘Yes, sir, useless bunch of drunken wasters.’

  ‘So, I guess this sets them back a bit,’ he gloated.

  ‘Maybe, sir, but I am on my way up to London to discuss it. They will push back.’

  ‘Be so kind as to let me know the outcome, Captain.’

  ‘I will do, sir.’

  Phone down, the Major said, ‘You didn’t think you could train them up to the right standard?’

  ‘As with the Wolves, good men get better, great men become excellent, men with a shit attitude stay as they are. I was sat in the canteen and listening to them, most on the course just to get away from the office or away from wives.’

  ‘A bad attitude to have yes, especially with a gun in your hand.’

  ‘And most importantly, I don’t want wankers with guns walking around with a label on their backs saying: trained by Echo Detachment.’

  ‘No, damn right.’

  The Regimental Augusta picked up myself and MP Peter, a short forty minute flight, cheekily setting down on Horse Guards, a car waiting, a short trip around to the MOD building. Signed in, Peter had a paperback to read as I was led up by one of Bob’s team.

  ‘I had twenty quid on the coppers fucking it up,’ he told me as we climbed wide steps. ‘We know what they’re like.’

  I nodded, and sighed, not looking forwards to an argument with the police bosses today. I was led into a large room, a large oval table with around twenty men around it, one lady, Bob sat to my right, General Dennet to my left, and I seemed to be opposite the police Deputy Commissioner, the guy tasked with counter terrorism.

  I recognised a Cabinet Office guy, two men from the JIC, Donohue and his mate, but few others.

  ‘If I may kick things off,’ the Commissioner began, and seemed to have an authority in this group, Donohue and his colleague sat near him. ‘We’re here today to ... try and salvage an idea that ... our police officers take on board a higher level of weapons training and their use in the domestic environment – no one is suggesting that they tackle foreign terrorists.

  ‘We did have a course structure and some plans, which seem to have been thrown out the window after just a few short days.’ His dig at me was clear. ‘But we would like to discuss how we take this forward with MOD assistance, if indeed we can do that. Captain, perhaps you can outline the problems you encountered.’

  I considered my answer, and took in the faces. ‘I’ve trained many men, many groups, and ... I have a good feel for that. I also have a good feel for a man’s attitude, which I think is key.

  ‘Sat in the bar and canteen with the police ... it was obvious that some considered the course a chance to get away from wives, some to get away from the office, some expressed a desire to shoot up niggers ... two got into a fight, two got arrested for drunkenness in Cirencester, and men turned up for training being hung over and bleary-eyed.’

  ‘I have made a written representation of my displeasure ... and the men will be dealt with,’ the Commissioner put in. ‘But could they not be ... inspired and led, the training pushed along?’

  ‘Inspired and led?’ I threw back at him. ‘Ha!’ He did not like that one bit. ‘A week ago I was in Sierra Leone, inspiring and leading a group of young Army officers, the difference being that they all wanted to be there, that they all wanted to do well, that they were all keen to impress me. The differences in attitude were stark.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Gener
al Dennet put in.

  ‘And many months ago I trained our Lone Wolves. The difference between those Lone Wolves and your men ... was that the Wolves asked questions. Sir, how do I get fitter? Sir, how do I shoot better? Sir, what more can I be doing?

  ‘The only questions I ever heard from your men was: What time is lunch? How much free time do we get off? Is there a bar on this base?’

  ‘I see, and a valid point I guess. You’re trying to say that they lacked commitment.’

  ‘Why don’t we cut the crap,’ I suggested, Bob stiffening. ‘The police have never liked the SAS, and would like to do it for themselves. The rest is just hot air and political wrangling. But if the police are going to get the right standard then they need good men with good attitudes, who will need to train well for years.

  ‘And let’s get this in focus. Consider a bank raid gone wrong, hostages taken, someone killed. You may send a man in, and he kills two gunmen, blood up the wall, brains visible, an eyeball hanging out, women wounded and screaming, an officer shot dead, half his head missing. Your man ... is required to be dead calm, focused, and get the job done.

  ‘The SAS can do that, and go for lunch afterwards without puking. My men will do that whilst cracking jokes. The difference ... is a great many years hard training and a single-minded determination.

  ‘My men get fit, pass selection, and know they have to stay sharp. Your lot signed a piece of paper in the hope of a jolly, some beer away from their wives. The gap between where you are ... and the SAS, is a very wide gap, and your men stumbled at the first hurdle.’

  ‘So how do we, over the years, narrow that gap?’

  ‘First, some sort of internal selection process. You need to be sure that a man is determined, that he’ll endure the pain and keep going, not quitting. You then need a weapons test, again internal, and someone who is a natural good shot should be considered. Despite what some believe, men cannot be taught to shoot well, nor play football well. They’re born with it.

  ‘What I found with the Lone Wolves was that I was not capable of turning an average soldier into a superstar; they either came with the skill or without it. I made the average soldier good, but not a superstar.