Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Next, what tricks can you use, and my men use tricks all the time. Maybe you mount a fake entry, a small explosion, a few shots fired, you pull back, they think they’ve won, but a small fire gets stoked, and soon they’re worrying about burning to death – and want out.

  ‘Unfortunately, your greatest asset would be to get near them unseen, but standard police tactics are to cordon off the streets and then bore them to death. If it was me, I’d get into the drains and the roof before the street was blocked off; I’d have them think the police are not yet on the way.

  ‘If no tricks are obvious, you then have a period of eyes-on, during which you’re looking for a way in, how many terrorists, how are they armed, are they alert, sleepy, wounded, any grenades, do they have a bomb. You make your observations as best you can. We like to have 24hrs eyes on, and during that time we get a good feel for things.

  ‘Maybe our hostage takers are smoking weed, maybe one is asleep, maybe two are arguing, one looks nervous – looks like he’s having second thoughts. Who’s the leader, how does he keep control, is he calm or freaked out, do they have an escape plan – or are they Islamists prepared to die for their cause.

  ‘Eyes-on gives us information, and what we’re looking for is something that points away from simply blowing the door down and rushing in. That is the standard tactic, but for me that’s the last resort. I’d rather find a sneaky way in, not least because they’ll be expecting you to do it by the book.

  ‘We’ll train you in blowing down that door and storming in, and hopefully train you well, but always try and find an alternate. Maybe you can see a man drinking, or smoking weed, his leader telling him off. Drop two empty cans of beer in a window, somewhere where the leader will find it, some weed. They have a row, a man killed, one less gunman to deal with.

  ‘I have, in the past, seen men arguing, got behind one and shot the other, the blame not laid on me, an internal squabble breaking out. And, as happened recently in north Oxford, you may have a call to an isolated house, trees and bushes, and then you need to play soldier.

  ‘So we have uniforms for you, and you’ll play soldier, and if a farmer is holding his wife hostage at an isolated spot – because she burnt his toast – you move in. You need to make it clear to your bosses that the concrete jungle will not always be your area of operation, and that a farm siege is very likely.

  ‘And if you approach that farm there may be cows, and cows disturbed at night are very loud and very aggressive – they will charge at you. If you set up an OP in a wood with badgers, the badgers will attack and bite, and take your fingers off.

  ‘I’ve gone hand to hand with a badger, and it’s not something I would want to do again – trust me. And swans; disturb them at night and they will attack, making a hell of a racket. So when you think about sneaking up on that farmhouse siege, think about your training – and a whole menagerie of dangerous animals waiting to piss you off.

  ‘So, consider the following.’ I handed out photocopied sheets. ‘You have an isolated farm, man holding Mister and Mrs Farmer hostage, shots fired at the local bobby, command post set-up five hundred yards away in line of sight. OK, move tables, teams of four.’ They did as asked.

  ‘Great, now make a plan of how you’re going to get the hostages out, and don’t worry if it’s wrong, it’s early days yet. For this scenario you have plenty of officers, maybe a small helicopter to hand, vehicles, police dogs, the usual.’

  I made a coffee with Moran, chatting about the set-up in north Oxford.

  Twenty minutes later, I called them to order. ‘OK, who considered the time of year in their plan?’ None had done. ‘If it’s January it will be cold and wet, so someone observing the farmhouse from the tree line will be hypothermic unless properly dressed, and then still damn cold.

  ‘If it’s summertime it will stay light later and dawn will be earlier, always note the exact times. Next, what’s the weather forecast?’ I waited. ‘Good weather, or a shitty storm for tomorrow. If it’s a shitty storm – great, use it to move in. Thunder and lightning – great, use the sounds to mask your entry. Always get a weather forecast. OK, who read the map contours?’

  A man raised his hand. ‘There’s a hill behind the farmhouse.’

  ‘Yes, and you should have all spotted that it rests on a slope. Learn to read a map! That slope will make it difficult to move down from behind, better to go up a slope unseen. OK, anyone considered the stream?’

  Many raised hands.

  ‘If it’s winter, that stream may be a deadly torrent, summer it may be dry. In winter you’ll be hypothermic moving along it, fine in summer. OK, who spotted the cattle?’

  ‘What cattle?’ they asked, peering at the map.

  ‘Bottom right corner, cattle crossing.’

  ‘Ah...’ they let out.

  ‘Yes, ah...’ I mocked. ‘Cattle are a bitch to approach, always to be avoided by two hundred yards, or more.’

  Moran put in, ‘Wilco once shot a cow in Northern Ireland, and it stayed upright, its legs locked. He was hoping no one would notice it.’

  The group laughed.

  ‘Do they ... die standing up?’ a copped puzzled.

  ‘On occasion they do,’ I replied. ‘Legs locked. They sleep standing up every night. So, what’s the best place for an OP?’

  ‘Edge of the small woods,’ a man said.

  ‘Always avoid the obvious,’ I told them. ‘That would be expected. I would consider the stone wall to the east, you could get a whole team behind it, out of sight of the cows as well. OK, who can tell me what old farmhouses are like?’

  ‘Low ceiling...’

  ‘Thick walls...’

  ‘Small windows...’

  ‘Yes, and all of those things make it damned hard to get into. Can’t shoot through thick walls or blow them. Windows are too small to crawl in, low ceiling to move quickly past. Front door, back door, double glazing maybe – so a shot will not penetrate. So, how do you get in?’

  ‘One of the doors...’

  ‘Yes, and maybe by blowing both doors at the same time the occupants are stunned, and in you go – staying very low. I am alive today because I once peeked around a door on my belly. People don’t expect that. Learn it, stay alive.’

  I opened the door and six lads walked in with weapons. ‘Observe their weapons,’ I shouted.

  The lads walked around the room once before standing at the side with their backs to the group.

  ‘OK, 9mm Browning. Was it cocked? Raised your hands for cocked.’

  Few raised hands.

  ‘Raise your hands for no fucking clue.’

  ‘Most raised hands.

  ‘You’re all dead. Browning!’

  Smitty turned around, his pistol not cocked.

  ‘There are only Barettas and one other pistol make that can be fired with the hammer forwards. If you see the hammer forwards, rush him, don’t shoot him. OK, old FN SLR – long black rifle. Was it ready to kill?’

  ‘Can’t tell if it’s cocked or not,’ came a firm voice.

  ‘Correct. Was the safety on?’

  ‘Ah...’

  ‘Tomo.’

  Tomo turned around, holding the rifle left-handed, the coppers looking.

  ‘Safety is on,’ one said. ‘But could be knocked off quickly.’

  ‘Barreta.’

  Crab turned and pointed it at man’s head.

  ‘I can see the barrel blocked,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. If someone sticks a pistol in your face, look down the barrel, look for the hammer, look for the little green safety dot. Your lives depend on it. OK, AK47.’

  Nicholson turned around, holding the AKM right handed.

  I said, ‘If the lower lever is up, it’s safe. If you see a terrorist with it up ... he’s a knobhead who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Finally, Colt .45.’

  Rizzo turned around, and pointed the pistol at a few heads.

  ‘Little green dot,’ came from a few.

  I loudly stated, �
��Start getting used to looking, and get good at it. In an incident in Cirencester on a night out I came across a man with a shotgun – after he drove his car through a wine bar window. Hammers were forwards, so we kicked the crap out of him. Which just goes to show ... you should never go out half-cocked.’

  They cringed. ‘Please, stick to killing people, sir, no more jokes.’

  I held my hands wide. ‘That was an excellent joke.’ The lads trailed out, shaking their heads.

  Moran and I handed out black and white photos of an old house, a photocopied map, and a listed scenario.

  ‘OK, study the detail in your teams, you have half an hour to come up with a shit hot plan. Help yourselves to tea and coffee from the rear.’

  At the prescribed time I was back, Moran having remained – a newspaper to read. ‘OK, have we got our fantastic plan?’ They seemed confident. ‘Right, you see from the floor plan that the room holding the hostages is built like a vault, that only one terrorist guards the door, and that he is seen to lock them in and take a break most every hour.

  ‘You will also note that the building has large windows, dated, not double-glazed, and that the main terrorist group are on the top floor aiming out.

  ‘So, you wait till the guard locks the terrorists in, you fire CS gas through the window above the corridor of that room, hit all the other windows with CS gas, open fire, storm into the lower level at the rear and secure the corridor. Hostages are all snug and safe behind you, terrorist are in front of you – simple. So, who made that their plan?’

  Faces dropped.

  ‘Dumb fucking flatfoots,’ I loudly stated. ‘You missed a very simple solution. So, you owe me two laps, and that’s an end for today, you all fucked it up.’ Cringing, they stood and filed out, soon on the track.

  In the morning they were on the long range, the weather OK, AKML each, ponchos down, and two hours later their fingers were sore, a great many rounds fired at the metal plates by time Donohue turned up, alone this time.

  He took in the scene. ‘So how’re my boys doing?’

  ‘They have the potential, the fitness, but are yet to switch their brains on and think like hostage rescuers.’

  ‘Well, early days, and most are junior.’

  I handed him a copy of last night’s scenario. ‘Sit and figure a plan. You have ten minutes.’

  He sat on a sloping firing point, reading the detail. When I returned, he said, ‘Wait till the hostages are locked in, get between them.’

  ‘Correct, but none of your lads got that.’

  ‘They’d not make the entry plan, not for years. Can I ... borrow this?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He stood with me and observed as his lads stripped, assembled, loaded and fired, and started again, over and over.

  ‘How long do they do that for?’ he asked.

  ‘Days and days, till it’s second nature. All weapons are similar, all procedures similar, so it’s valid for any weapon. And they need to get used to firing many rounds, hearing the discharge and not jumping.’

  ‘We always fire with ear defenders, it’s the law.’

  ‘It is for us, but we need the men used to that sound.’

  ‘And you see potential in this lot?’

  ‘I could teach this lot to rescue hostages, yes.’

  ‘How long?’

  I made a face. ‘Less than six weeks.’

  ‘You’d state for the record that they were ready?’

  ‘If and when they’re ready, yes.’

  The Major walked around, greeting Donohue. After a moment observing the coppers he faced me. ‘Colonel Rawlson has gone.’

  I made brief eye contact, and then returned to the coppers. ‘Waste of a good man. And now some unknown officer takes over.’

  ‘Caretaker colonel down from the UKSF Directorate, and our TA major is helping out.’

  ‘Fancy the top job, sir, we could do with a good leader?’

  ‘Ha! I have six months, then I’m off to New Zealand. Seen enough political wrangling to last me a lifetime. Hot favourite is a Colonel from the Paras, now down in Sierra Leone.’

  ‘Colonel Dean,’ I stated.

  ‘Met him?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s a good man.’

  With the Major gone, Donohue asked, ‘Your men don’t mind time off to train us?’

  ‘No, because we attend live jobs more than anyone else, almost every month, so this is rest time. And if they were just to train over and over they’d get fed up. Most like teaching.’

  That afternoon, one of the Wolves turned up, a wound to heal from a naughty job overseas, a room in the cabins.

  Stood outside the canteen, I asked him, ‘Did the job go off OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I was leaving, but this dog spotted me from two hundred yards out and started barking. Bit of a shoot-out in the woods, and I was hit by a stray round; they never knew where I was. Forty mile walk out.’

  ‘Where were you hit?’

  ‘Through and through, missed the appendix, but I was shitting dark blood. I injected myself with antibiotics, got cream in, taped it up and legged it away. I kept drinking hot sugary tea and chocolate, and kept going.’

  ‘Sounds like you did well. Don’t share too much detail with the others. Oh, there are SO13 coppers here, we’re training them up, so dead coy around them – Mister Bond.’

  He smiled widely.

  That evening, the coppers were in the briefing room again at 7pm. ‘OK,’ I began. ‘Who’s ready for a straight forwards hostage scenario?’

  They moaned. ‘They’re always tricks.’

  ‘Then spot the fucking trick ... and stay alive!’

  Moran and I handed out packs to the teams; an ordnance survey map, a close-in map photocopy, a detailed scenario. ‘OK, you may begin.’

  They started to read the detail.

  An hour later I was back, Sergeant Crab having sat and observed our coppers. ‘OK, have we all got a shit-hot plan?’

  They looked positive.

  ‘So, we have an old factory in a rural setting, hostages in the office block.’ I pointed at the first team. ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘We make use of the waste area to get in close, an OP for 24hrs – or till we see an opportunity. We can get in close unseen, an elevated position, snipers in place, second group in the trees opposite, a hundred yards away, snipers again.

  ‘If all goes well, entry team uses the old walkway to get onto the lower roof, multi-point timed entry. Hostages are held in the canteen, which can be partly isolated, no more than two terrorists in the canteen at any one time, windows are vulnerable to the slag mound snipers.

  ‘Main entry team opens a fire door quietly, bit of plastic, and in, two terrorists shot, CS gas thrown down the corridor to the stairs, position held as upstairs entry team does its job.’

  I nodded. ‘Good, you’re starting to think.’ I pointed at the second team, and they detailed a similar plan, with a decoy of bringing in food. ‘OK, good ideas.’ The next team was similar, and over twenty minutes we went right around the room.

  ‘OK, some good ideas there, but you all fucked it up.’ They exchanged looks. ‘What does that factory do?’

  ‘It ... makes aluminium sheets.’

  ‘Correct, and the manufacture of aluminium involves one of the most poisonous and corrosive chemical processes known to man. Those slag heaps are toxic, and you all had men there for 24hrs.’

  They all moaned loudly.

  ‘Are we learning anything, gentlemen? Are we learning to do some research first, to ask questions? Two laps from everyone, see you in the morning. Go.’

  With the moaning students gone, Moran and I collected up sheets and rubbish.

  ‘You do like to torment them,’ Moran noted with a grin.

  ‘They need to think. And look at the French Echo – they now over-think about all the possibilities, and that’s good. Think first, storm in later. Or in the case of the UK police – think first, wait the permission, deliver sandwich
es then bore them to death.’

  Friday morning, and the police were sniping from five hundred yards at metal plates, telescopic sights used, advice dispensed, every one of eight firing positions having one of my lads dispensing that advice. And by midday the scores were not looking too bad.

  After lunch, and in teams of four, the coppers were advancing and shooting in teams, withdrawing in teams, dragging a wounded man in teams with covering fire, over and over, useful advice loudly shouted. They were getting the hang of it, but had a way to go yet.

  Friday 5pm they were released till 9am Monday morning, most driving off, six remaining since they would have endured a six or seven hour drive to get home – or they simply wanted time away from wives and girlfriends. I cobbled together a group of my lads to act as volunteers for range work over the weekend.

  On Sunday afternoon Colonel Dean arrived unannounced, having been dragged back from Sierra Leone early, a tan to his forehead. His hair was receding, but still light brown, and he offered a pleasant face, strong crow’s feet around his eyes, the man always reminding me of a Victorian explorer on some adventure. All he needed was a pith helmet.

  I made him a tea in my kitchen, odd to see him in civvy clothes. ‘Any trouble in the jungle, sir?’

  ‘A few minor skirmishes, which we always win. Regular SAS were down for a week. They walked north on the first day, slept out, walked back in on the last day, having shot a few gunmen – a handful of Liberians liberated and set free. They learnt that trick from you.’

  ‘Good to see they were doing some hearts and minds.’

  ‘And this odd story from Oxford?’

  ‘It was a set-up, a relative of the late Colonel Roach. The man was terminally ill, major chip on his shoulder and a grudge against the Army in general and the SAS in particular. He hid in his chimney and fired out when the lads stormed in, climbed up and out. For a while it looked bad, people calling for Colonel Rawlson to be sacked. I heard about it, and something was off, so I drove up there and spotted what the police had missed.’