by Geoff Wolak
‘They planned to bring down a tall London tower with thermite-’
‘Jesus.’
‘- and they were behind the bomb on a truck in the French tunnel, plan being to have it found in the Hyatt Hotel. Mossad tipped off Gorskov knowing that he would tip off me, no track back to Mossad.’
‘Nice of them to share that with us, not!’ Franks complained.
‘This bank, its board includes many London old boys, influence on the government and on Mi5, hence the bomb on a van that got the boy. And the man they’re holding, Lewis, he killed Casper for them, a message carved into Casper’s chest. The kid was the bait, the plausible reason that the attack could hide behind.’
‘Bring down a building?’ Franks puzzled.
‘It was built faulty, will need to be demolished at great expense, billions. They jacked up the insurance, and were set to make a huge profit.’
‘A bit extreme, to bring down a building?’
‘We think there are factions, and that the factions don’t talk. We also think that the American faction … shot dead a few of them, a message for the others.’
‘American faction?’
‘I asked your boss to investigate the bank, but to be obvious about it. Senate Intelligence Committee shut them down.’
‘Shit…’
‘So where does that leave you, Mister Franks?’
‘With a headache.’
‘Well here’s something else you don’t know. The visit tomorrow will involve people that are Deep State.’
He stared back, appearing afraid or worried. ‘We hear things, but we don’t pursue them.’
‘And who would you label as being Deep State?’
He considered his answer, ‘A few Republican senators, a few rich power brokers, media moguls, right wing think tanks, a few generals.’
‘And their aim?’
‘Nothing sinister on the surface of it, and they are entitled to their political opinions.’
‘Opinions … about Russia being on its arse, China not interested in the Middle East, so why don’t you Americans flex your muscles and go destroy Syria and a few others…’
He glanced away. ‘That plan’s been there for a while. But so have many others, and they never get off the ground. Current administration has no stomach for conflict or empire building.’
‘And the next administration..?’
‘We got our fingers burnt in Vietnam, singed in Lebanon, our arses kicked in Somalia, so few have a stomach for a war, at least they didn’t till you came along.’
‘Me!’
‘Yeah, you. You taught them master class in managed small wars and media manipulation, so now they think it can be done.’
‘Me!’
‘Yeah, you gave them the hope.’
Wide-eyed, I looked away. ‘I should have stayed in bed.’ I shook my head. ‘None of this was planned, it just … came about naturally, no grand plan.’
He shrugged. ‘You gave our military a feel-good factor that was in sharp decline, recruitment is up, optimism is up.’
‘Optimism? To go start wars in the Middle East!’
‘White House would never get Congress to back a war,’ he pointed out. ‘Not a big war.’
‘But a small managed one,’ I realised.
‘If you could sort out some of the terror groups over there, would you?’ he posed.
I eased back and considered that, heaving a heavy sigh. ‘Probably, yes. They’re terrorists, not so much interested in free and fair elections. Oh…’
‘Oh … what?’
‘What do you know about the old Soviet States, and gas?’
‘That there’s a shit load of natural gas, but a fucking long overland route to get it some place. If it goes through Russia then Russia has a control over it, and Russia is lawless now. If it goes through Georgia then the Georgians have a hold over it, and they have the worst gangs in the world.’
‘And if it went south, through Afghanistan and Baluchistan?’ I posed.
‘That … idea is on the table, but we’d have to move some warring factions aside first. Then the pipeline crosses Pakistan, which is another lawless nation.’
‘Unless Baluchistan was split off and influenced by America…’
He seemed worried. ‘I’d love know where you get your intel.’
‘The newspapers,’ I told him. ‘I read between the lines.’
‘Afghanistan is land-locked, be hard to get in there and fight.’
‘Not for my men or the Wolves it wouldn’t be…’ I waited.
‘I feel that Pentagon finger up my arse again.’ He sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘They’re seeing your successes as adding hope to some weird old plans from decades ago, and that’s a worry. Some of the comments made lately, they’re starting to fit into place now.’
‘Well if the Deep State boys like what I’m doing, why are they blind to the bank trying to kill me and my men, eh? Useless fucks think they have power! Hah!’
‘I’m not party to everything, wasn’t to those Mi24s in Somalia, and the military don’t trust the CIA anyhow.’
‘Do you approve … of the gas pipeline plan?’ I asked.
His brow furrowed. ‘Whadya mean?’
‘If it came across your desk, to implement?’
‘Well … we need oil and gas. If the gas comes through a pipe left, right or backwards, who gives a fuck so long as it gets to us and Europe, cheap gas. And you?’
‘I agree, we need cheap gas, or our economy goes down the pan, but so far we’re not stealing it, just propping up the undemocratic Arab regimes that pump the damn oil.’
‘Plan won’t get off the ground,’ he stated. ‘Afghanistan. Russia didn’t fare too well there.’
‘Nor the British in 1840,’ I added. ‘But you’re missing something. The bank, with their American interest. They’ve been buying up land in the old Soviet States, land where a pipe might run. The money has already been spent.’
‘That land might just see the pipe go through Georgia. They’re hedging their bets.’
‘I’ll bet you a dollar you’d be stopped from finding out where that land actually is.’
He stared back, worried.
The Deltas took over the roof, a few walking around, but I insisted that my men would stay on the roof – or the visitors could fuck off someplace else. Walbeo checked the tanks, worried that the tank drivers might need checking out, till I told him to fuck off.
By 9pm the Americans were happy, at least they had ticked boxes on a sheet on a clipboard and had not cancelled the trip. We put the CIA in a house, and they ate in the pub later. I was not risking the pub at the moment, not with my luck.
I did the rounds myself with MP Pete, a stag rotation set-up, and I stopped to chat to the Deltas, Castille given Swifty’s room for the night, clean bedding available. At 10pm I sat with Sasha and Castille in my lounge, talk of Camel Toe Base – and what we got up to in Guinea.
At 6am I was up, and I went for a run for a change, an MP following in his jeep. I felt stiff, but warmed up after a lap and picked up the pace, determined to get some laps done – not least because some of the Deltas were observing me.
After ten miles I headed in for a shower, Tomo and Nicholson out running, but in full kit and armed – just in case, Castille stirring. I woke Sasha off my sofa with a tea.
At 8.30am a bus arrived with Regulars, including the RSM, and at 9am I used the main briefing room to detail the base’s added security measures and our planned American guests, yet to be updated on the arrival time of the American top brass. Baker, the RSM, would call down Colonel Marsh when we knew of a target time.
That target time turned out to be 2pm, calls hastily made, and I updated David - but he had just got a message about it. He was being notified, not asked, and his knickers were well and truly in a twist today.
At 2.15pm Colonel Marsh stood with the Brigadier and Major Bradley, the RSM and several Admin Captains and Majors from the Regulars as six loud Bl
ack Hawks came in and landed in a line, quite a sight. And Max would be pissed at missing this.
Bodyguards jumped down first, M4s held down, pistols on thighs, sunglasses on. I smiled at the absurdity of the macho sunglasses, today being overcast, the clouds at 3,000ft.
The generals and admirals clambered down, black or green uniforms, and they walked towards us whilst taking in the base. Since they arrived at the hangar mouth mostly at the same time, the Brigadier called “ten-shun” and saluted for us.
The lead general nodded, placing on his hat and stiffly saluting back. And his uniform reminded me of an old Wild West outpost captain, Indians on the war path.
They grouped together as I wondered about the reason for this visit, and the real reason behind it. I eyed them all, wondering which of them were Deep State – or connected to the bank.
The Brigadier continued, ‘I’m Brigadier Dean, in charge of this base and of Echo Detachment. This is Colonel Marsh, current head of the SAS, and his Sergeant Major.’ They nodded and smiled. ‘This is Major Bradley, head of admin here, and this -’
‘Is Major Wilco no less,’ the man in charge stated.
I saluted. ‘Welcome to GL4, sir, our base, and a quiet rural backwater.’
They laughed.
‘How’s the fishing in these parts?’ he teased.
‘Some good ponds, sir.’
The Brigadier asked, as the Black Hawks idled, ‘Would you like a tour, sir, or refreshments?’
In front of me now stood eight generals or admirals, twelve bodyguards, and eight assistants - or adjutants I considered, each adjutant with a heavy shoulder bag. And they looked like they owned this base.
‘Not much to see, and we got that from the air. Do you have a briefing room big enough for us all?’
‘This way, please, gentlemen,’ I called, and led them inside, and to the downstairs briefing room, wondering if they already knew the layout. Fortunately Rocko had organised its cleaning, and we had tea and coffee facilities ready. I organised chairs for the guests, but all chairs had handy desks, so files and bags were placed down.
Many hands helped with the tea and coffee as quiet conversations broke out.
Finally, the lead General, his name tag saying Boltweir, began ‘Major Wilco, could you give us a rundown of how things got started here, and led us to where you are today?’
Everyone settled, and I had to consider what this was about as I stood at the front. But I knew what this was about.
With the British sat or stood to one side, I began, ‘After the Second World War, British Intelligence – Mi6 – had its own armed men akin to the wartime SOE; parachute in to kill some German general. Prime Minister Harold Wilson disbanded those men, and so - if an armed operation was necessary - then Mi6 had to use the military, namely the SAS.
‘Later, the SAS made use of its former members, a group known as “E” Squadron, for such tasks, although the SAS could lend men to Intel. I came across Mi6 in the first Gulf War, and helped clean up a mess or two. They noted that I spoke Arabic and Russian, but I resisted their romantic advances.’
The group smiled.
‘Later, they asked the SAS to offer me a straight transfer from the RAF Regiment. Whilst with the SAS I saw action in Northern Ireland, some notable successes.’
‘Tell me, it’s true you patrolled alone there?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you left tracks like a Yeti?’
‘Yes, sir, to fuck with their heads. Some believed a local Bigfoot was on the loose.’
They laughed.
‘After Northern Ireland came Bosnia, where I was wounded, but I did manage to inflict some casualties on the Serbs.’
‘You took on an infantry division and toyed with them…’
‘I was trying to get out the woods, they were in my way, sir.’
‘The book, The Ghost, that’s accurate?’
‘Very accurate, sir, I edited it – but only after I found that we couldn’t stop its publication.’
‘Why block it?’
‘I was working for Intel, something best kept quiet – so we thought at the time, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘After Bosnia I devised my three-day test for soldiers, the aim being to find a few superstars.’
He turned to Marsh. ‘Do all your men go through it?’
‘I wish they did, sir, but no – it’s a bitch. Those that do well are often placed here.’
He faced me.
I continued, ‘We made the three-day available to all branches of the services, and that saw men from other units performing well, better than our own SAS men. What Intel wanted was for those men to form the new “E” Squadron.
‘A job came up, a job in Somalia, but it would be done as “E” Squadron, so if it was a fuck-up it would be put down as mercenaries not regular SAS, less bad publicity. That job went well, a hostage rescue, after which the Head of Operations in Intel realised that a good hostage rescue meant good newspaper inches – and that he might get promoted.’
They laughed.
‘So we launched more and more rescues, and I got to pick my men, a small select group that had all done well on the three-day test. And, from time to time, we handled irregular jobs for Intel. What you have to understand is that here in the UK our Mi6 is not allowed to have its own armed men, but has to make use of the SAS.
‘The problem … is finding the right men in the SAS, men that like irregular spy work and not green-field soldiering. What Mi6 wanted was a good team, and what everyone wanted was good publicity. Intel, the Army, the Government, they all wanted a good write-up, so I was selective in the men and the missions and I adjusted the mission as we went.’
‘They left the detail up to you?’
‘Yes, sir, and that helped greatly, since people like the French – and your lot - often had rigid plans worked out by some faceless officer in some office in the Paris or the Pentagon. The plan said cross the open ground, but the plan did not mention the newly planted minefield and the razor wire.
‘What’s needed … is for the man in charge on the ground to use his eyes and his brain, and not to follow orders, but to adapt. Until you see the ground and get the detail of the enemy you cannot make a plan. In Africa, my men will see a hundred blacks coming at them. We shoot the officer and his sergeant, and the rest run away, when there are just four of us hidden in the trees.’
I pointed at the general. ‘What would your well-worked-out plan state, for an attack against a hundred men, sir?’
‘That we have two hundred men and some heavy weapons.’
‘Local intel is important, sir; to know your enemy. We have an objective given to us by London - get some hostages, and that’s as far as the outside planning goes. We make a loose plan here, then wing it when we see what we’re up against. Fixed plans are a bad idea.’
‘So we’ve been learning, we follow your missions. And you have an embedded reporter?’
‘Often, sir, yes, and he knows that he prints what I let him print, and we made his career for him, a symbiotic relationship.’
‘You want the media on your side,’ he noted.
‘It’s more than that, sir. Good media coverage gets the politicians fired up, permission for missions, support for equipment and men, a feel-good factor for the soldiers involved. It also gets the recruitment stats up, the Army happy since they can recruit better candidates, and it adds to our national prestige when selling weapons abroad. Would the incumbent in the White House give you permission for a large scale operation up the Red Sea?’
‘Fuck no. He’d not give us permission to take a dump. You call us in to pick up hostages and we do, a note to the White House afterwards: we had to work fast, Mister President. But, they are softening a little thanks to some good TV coverage this last year or so, after a setback with Desert Sands.
‘Major, what core elements would you say have led to your successes?’
‘First, choosing the men, men that are good special
forces operators, but men that also have the right attitude. That attitude is a willingness to do the job, nothing more.’ I pointed at Colonel Marsh. ‘He has special forces operators, experienced men, but when I ask for volunteers to go see some action he gets modest interest.’
Marsh put in, ‘They are better these days, and we’ve reduced the old timers and the dead wood, but there are many men with families, and they don’t want to get shot – which baffles me as to why they worked hard to get into the Regiment in the first place. For some of my men it’s a job, for Wilco’s lot it’s a calling.’
Boltweir noted, ‘Most time-served NCOs have families -’
‘And I would choose not take them on a job, sir. My men love the work, and they’d all fail a psyche exam. If I ask them what they want to do next – jungle or desert or mountain - none want to be back here, none want to phone home and see how the kids are. And that’s key, sir, a willingness to push forwards - not think about home. For my men, home is where you are at the time.’
He nodded. ‘We have a team of shrinks, ones that worked with the Lone Wolves, and it makes some interesting reading, but it’s not something for the regular army, just special forces, and even then they’re mostly married.’
‘You have two hundred and fifty million people to choose from, sir, and the existing special forces regiments are not the place I would look – as with the Lone Wolves.’
‘How are they developing?’ an admiral asked.
‘They’ve had the training, sir, my kind of training, and they’ve seen action in three places. I’d put them up against your veteran Rangers any day, because they have it right in their minds now – your married NCO doesn’t.’
The admiral asked, ‘How big a unit could that go to?’
‘At least a company or two, sir, maintaining the quality levels.’
Boltweir nodded. ‘Brigadier, Colonel, remain please. Everyone else that’s not security cleared, please step out.’
The bodyguards were ushered out, the RSM and Major Bradley, and the adjutants. That left eight American senior officers, three of us Brits. Oddly enough, Franks and his buddies were ushered out.
Boltweir began, ‘Do you think of yourself as soldier, a trainer of men - or as a spy?’
