Wilco- Lone Wolf 21

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘They had more men. Americans lost one?’

  ‘Castile is here, bruised and sore, and they want him Stateside, President called him. His buddy drowned.’

  ‘The uranium?’

  ‘They said they would use the crane to drop it on a tug, then cover it in something and take it to Argentina. They'll process it apparently.’

  ‘My phone?’

  ‘Mutch had it, switched off for now. Then four heavies for London took it and are guarding it. You'd think that phone was a large diamond.’

  ‘If someone got hold off it, they could do some harm.’

  An hour later the doctors arrived and asked how I was, testing my left leg, which felt OK, at least laying down.

  Castile popped in afterwards, limping. ‘I'm shipping out, team goes back to Germany.’

  ‘You lost a man...’

  He nodded, and sighed. ‘Have to write that letter.’

  ‘Ship was wired to blow. If we hadn't dropped in and a destroyer ordered them to stop … it would have blown.’

  He sullenly nodded. ‘I know, but it stings anyhow.’

  ‘I think we were the first to drop on a moving ship.’

  ‘And for good reason – it's fucking stupid!’

  ‘Needs dictate, because I wasn't about to lose the Med nor see the European economy destroyed.’

  ‘Stock markets here crashed, now back up.’

  ‘Panic would have spread,’ I said, nodding, wondering how much Bob had made.

  The shots registered, but I could not even get up, medics running back and forth outside my door.

  Mutch finally stepped in, pistol in hand. ‘I got them both.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Two men came in, shifty looking, shot the police so I plugged them both, two high chest shots each,’ he proudly announced.

  ‘So all that range time paid off.’

  ‘Amateurs, because they hit both policemen just the once, and in the stomach.’

  ‘Amateurs,’ Swifty agreed.

  ‘Get me some food if you can,’ I asked Swifty as the melee increased in the corridor. ‘Not green jelly. And check if the building has a bomb in it. Where are we, anyhow?’

  ‘Near the runway, local hospital.’

  ‘Mutch, stand guard. Or in your case, take a seat.’ He took a seat, pistol held ready.

  The Governor appeared later, as I ate a sandwich. ‘Are you well?’ he asked, making it sound like he wished me dead.

  ‘Still alive.’

  ‘They'll move you by RAF Hercules today, so they said. Might be safe for my citizens afterwards.’

  ‘And how would your fucking citizens have fared with a radioactive beach to play in, your port facilities closed for the next thousand years, the sea breeze radioactive?’ I testily asked.

  ‘Well, that would have been an issue, yes,’ he reluctantly admitted. ‘Oh, they searched that oil rig and found a bag of blood diamonds, sent to London, said it was relevant.’

  ‘Yes, it confirms a small detail. But the danger is past, just that the men behind the ship want my head.’

  ‘Occupational hazard for you. Take up fishing.’

  ‘I do go fishing, at my base in South Gloucester, we have a canal and a pond.’

  ‘Can't quite see you sat fishing. Anyway, get well, and … good luck,’ he forced out, his smile forced as well.

  Max stepped in half an hour later. ‘You been causing trouble?’

  ‘Who me?’

  ‘Two wounded coppers in here, now fifty police around the building plus Marines. So what happened?’

  He sat as I gave him the story, with a little spin, Mutch adding some detail.

  I finally added, ‘I spoke to radiation experts on the phone, and they said that although the leaking radiation would not kill anyone, it would close the beaches for a thousand years and destroy the economy of Europe, and I could not take that chance, so the lives were worth it; we stopped the ship and tallied the material to see if some was missing.

  ‘I was concerned for the economy of Europe for one, not to let terrorists harm us in that way, and to know if the material was all together, and to get some answers about the ship and the crew. Simply sinking the ship was never an option to me, and the PM gave me operational control on the ground.’

  ‘They say he ordered you not to drop on the ship...’

  ‘He did, but I went anyway. We lost three men killed, but I have no regrets, the stakes were too high here.’

  ‘It's been all over the news around Europe and the States, and last night they held a tribute to Sergeant Micky Kablonski, Deltas. President held a minute's silence and gave a tribute. They say he'll get a posthumous medal, and Captain Castile will get a medal.’

  ‘All of the French Commandos volunteered -'

  ‘I know, the French have been milking it something terrible. 1st Battalion are happy, their man at the front.’

  Swifty put in, ‘I bet the SBS are not happy.’

  I turned to him. ‘You think those fuckers would have dropped?’

  ‘No fucking way, they're averse to getting wounded.’

  Max asked, ‘Should I give them some shit?’

  ‘Yes, because the taxpayers are paying them to sit around and do fuck all.’

  I sent Swifty to go get my phone, and he returned with two SIS minders, who handed over my phone but would not let Swifty have it. I switched it on and called London. ‘It's Wilco, get David Finch to call me back.’

  He called back after my five minutes of idle chat with the SIS minders. ‘You're alive then.’

  ‘Broken hip, that's all, I can still wiggle my toes. They said you had an executive jet for me..?’

  ‘A Hercules, leaves at midnight under close guard.’

  ‘Parachutes on board?’

  ‘I think it does have them yes, it's the aircraft you jumped from.’

  ‘Nice comfy Hercules ride, no good for my hip.’

  ‘I'll check the weather and the turbulence, since you should probably not be shaken around.’

  Phone down, I told Swifty about the Hercules ride.

  ‘How long to the UK?’ he asked.

  ‘Three hours I reckon. But at least they have parachutes!'

  ‘We're due to travel with you,’ the SIS man told me, Swifty laughing at him.

  ‘What..?’ he puzzled.

  ‘Ever been on a Hercules?’ Swifty asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You'll see, nice comfy ride.’

  The man looked worried as he stepped out with his buddy.

  I called No.1 and had a quick chat, and he had made a quick million quid on the market crash. He reported that Tiny had been worried, and distracted, but was now back with a nose in the paperwork.

  At 10pm we got ready, and I was hauled over to a stretcher and tied down after using the toilet. They had insisted on a bed pan, I had insisted on a toilet – or I would start shooting people.

  Walking was painful, but it was not the worst pain I had felt, and I had managed to use the toilet without any issues, thinking back to a certain cottage in Bosnia.

  With fifty police officers and a dozen Royal Marines stood ready, ten armed MPs, I was loaded to an ambulance with Swifty and Dicky for the short ride around to the waiting Hercules. In the ambulance I took Dicky's hand as he held his crutches, his face black and blue. ‘You used to be good looking.’

  He smiled, but that hurt his face, so he said not to make him laugh. ‘Henri went on the French C160,’ he told me. ‘To be met by their president.’

  ‘I don't think our Prime Minister will be meeting us,’ I told them. ‘Be lucky to get a cup of tea.’

  At the Hercules the doors opened, a blast of cold air, two familiar RAF lady medics stood waiting – yellow ear defenders placed on me, and they wheeled me up the ramp into the hold, the loadmaster securing the stretcher as the Hercules wound up its engines.

  I lay back, studying the ceiling, soon powering down the runway and up, and soon buffeted. I turned my head to
see four suited SIS guys looking pissed off and uncomfortable, yellow ear defenders on. I smiled, but then passed out from the meds.

  I woke as we bumped down, pleased to have slept, the SIS men looking relieved it was over. Out from the Hercules the cold air and rain hit my face, soon in a tatty old RAF ambulance and to the small medical bay here at Brize Norton. It looked very familiar.

  There were two other inmates for company on a ward for twenty people, six medics just for me, and they hauled me over to a bed, a pain shooting up my spine, which was not a good sign.

  Easing the bed upright, I asked for some food and a cup of tea – or I would start shooting. Swifty and Dicky both had beds, and were not allowed back to GL4 till they had been seen in the morning.

  After my cup of tea the Brigadier stepped in, and it was past 4am.

  ‘Christ, sir, you're up early.’

  ‘Had a sleep earlier, then came here to meet you, check everything was OK – and that they don't give you a medical discharge.’

  ‘I work for Intel, sir.’

  ‘Technically, the Army pays you, so I'll need to shout at the MO here and explain that. David Finch called yesterday and briefed me.’

  ‘I doubt Dicky would pass a medical.’

  ‘I'm OK,’ Dicky insisted.

  ‘And when was the last time you had a medical..?’

  ‘What year is this? 1998? So … fuck knows, years back.’

  ‘I'll smooth it,’ the Brigadier offered him, Swifty closing his eyes and folding his arms. The Brigadier faced me. ‘How badly are you hurt?’

  ‘Broken hip, now with a pin, so it should be OK to move around, a few weeks rest.’

  ‘MOD all had a go at me for you risking yourself.’

  ‘And do the MOD have a go at you when our own people try and kill me..?’

  ‘Fuck no, but they want you teaching more than doing.’

  ‘With this injury, sir, I'll be doing it slowly for months. So the assassins sent to GL4 will have a slow-moving target.’

  ‘We have a fence being put up beyond the canal, and barbed wire, and they're buying that land. More barbed wire around the outer perimeter as well.’

  ‘So that will stop people using our fishing pond,’ I noted.

  He got a coffee and we sat chatting quietly as the others slept, and when I said I was about to pass out he opened a paperback.

  I woke to find him still here, the dawn with us, Swifty being checked by a nurse. The Brigadier stood as the doctors arrived, all eight of them, so they were not the usual base medical officers.

  ‘How are you?’ the main man began, and I was soon surrounded.

  ‘I've had worse, sir.’

  ‘I know, I was in Bosnia. How's the hip?’

  ‘Hard to tell, with the meds, I keep falling asleep. If we cut out the meds I can give you an accurate diagnosis, sir.’

  ‘We'll ease back on them, yes, and test the range of movement, but you have stitches so we have to go easy.’

  ‘And the graphite pin, sir?’

  ‘Very tough, screwed in, so no danger of the crack widening, but bones take time to heal, weeks and weeks, so some pain whilst it knits back together. You're young enough, many old ladies crack a hip on a wet pavement, takes months to heal at that age.’

  ‘I'll ask all the world's assassins to wait a few weeks, sir.’

  They smiled. ‘Only you could make a joke like that, but unfortunately it's no joke. So get some protection.’

  ‘I have condoms, sir.’

  They laughed.

  ‘I don't think you'll be using them for a while, Major.’

  ‘Bugger. I had a few super-models lined up.’

  They laughed.

  ‘You're married to the job,’ the main man noted.

  ‘Can I heal back at GL4?’

  ‘Today we'll test and assess and then see, but it's not wise to move around too much, in and out of bed, but we can have medics at GL4.’

  ‘We have spare rooms, sir. Send Doctor Morten or some of his team – they were on the Hercules, they can get some range time in when not tending me, and my new man Doc Willy can look after me.’

  ‘Doc Willy?’

  ‘He's an Army doctor, Captain, but now with Echo.’

  ‘In which case he can take formal responsibility, yes.’

  An hour later I was stood up with assistance, a range of motion gently tested, a note of what hurt and what did not hurt. Standing was OK, but twisting left or right was very painful. Bending forwards was agony. My upper body was OK, arms OK, just the painful ribs on my left side. Legs and feet were fine, no signs of nerve damage.

  The Brigadier was now gone, but Doc Willy turned up in combats, soon glancing at charts and chatting to the visiting doctors. Swifty and Dicky were discharged into his care and sent off to GL4 just as the MP Captain arrived from GL4 with Graveson, pistols on hips.

  Graveson smiled and said hello, then sat, a paperback opened.

  The captain asked, ‘You gunna walk again?’

  ‘Yes, just need time for the stitches and time for the bone to knit back together. Send a note to the world's terrorists for me, ask them to stay away a few weeks.’

  ‘More fence going up, more cameras, ambush point set-up. Henri was on the news, in a wheelchair but in uniform – facemask on, meeting the French President. They promoted him to captain.’

  ‘They … what?’ I puzzled, worried.

  ‘Captain now.’

  ‘I … guess he may not come back to us.’ I sighed. ‘Gap to fill.’

  ‘Three men died on that mission, sounded tough...’

  ‘HALO onto a moving ship with fissile material on board. Yes, tough mission profile, but we got it turned around, saved Europe – or wherever it was headed.’

  ‘Where was it headed?’

  ‘Aden, they said, to be used for something very ... very nasty.’

  ‘And the people behind it?’

  ‘Still a work in progress.’

  After a ten minute chat he left us, Graveson reading his book or fetching me water now and then.

  The base commander stepped in, a Group Captain I did not recognise. ‘Ah, Wilco, you're awake. We have met before, years back, and I know Group Captain Black, now retired, and the Air Commodore of course. So, you've come a long way from driving senior officers.’

  ‘I'd go back to it, sir, easy number.’

  ‘Well you've shaken this place up often enough, new attitude, and a better attitude amongst the air crews. And you keep the MPs busy. Recruitment is up; you made being in the military look like a sexy career.’

  ‘A week in a cold wet trench in Brecon will change their minds about the sexy part.’

  He smiled widely. ‘Yes, it would, so keep that part quiet eh. What have they said about your injuries?’

  ‘A month or two taking it easy, sir.’

  ‘Not too bad, could have been much worse. But I guess you're used to it.’

  ‘Unfortunately … yes I am, sir.’

  The Cement Bombers popped in an hour later, taking the piss and making a noise till they were told to hush down by a nurse.

  At 8pm the Brigadier was back with Doc Willy, papers signed, and I was given a wheelchair. Outside, six armed MPs stood guard, a medical minibus with a powered ramp sat there, and I was placed aboard with Graveson, Doc Willy and the Brigadier, police cars front and back for the short ride to GL4.

  At the house, Swifty was waiting with Moran and Ginger, a cold wind hitting me in the face.

  I faced Moran. ‘You cut short the exercise?’ I asked on my garden path, my feet freezing.

  ‘Got it all covered, and David Finch suggested we return and be on standby. Got back yesterday. American Wolves are here.’

  ‘Got enough space?’ I asked as they wheeled me inside.

  ‘They're in the barracks and huts,’ Moran told me.

  Doc Willy cut in, ‘You sleep downstairs, there's a bed in the lounge, medic will use your bed, 24hr care for a while.’

 
‘Where's my pistol?’ I asked Swifty.

  ‘Those intel men had it I think. And your uniform and boots.’

  Doc Willy told me, ‘Parcel with your name on it back here, could be your uniform.’

  ‘Find out please, and someone ask about that pistol.’

  I inspected the bed but then eased over to the sofa, the TV news turned on as men sat, Swifty making the tea, the minibus departing.

  A very familiar lady medic stepped in, one of Morten's, a pleasant-faced corporal. ‘Sir, you're in my care for a while, and any crap and I slap you around the room.’ Moran and Ginger laughed. ‘You take it easy, and no shooting at anyone.’

  ‘I'll try and be a good patient,’ I promised her. ‘What happened to your mate with the scrape?’

  ‘Up in Catterick, sir, but she won't be coming back, it's a medical discharge and pension.’

  ‘Pity. Can she use that arm?’

  ‘Yes, sir, desk work, but she'll not lift a wounded man.’

  ‘Remind me, I have some cash for her.’

  ‘She's pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant!' three of us said at the same time.

  ‘Found out when she got back, not planned, so she would have been kicked out the unit anyhow and put on simple tasks. Not a planned pregnancy, and she might have had an abortion she admitted, but now … now she'll have the kid, said it was meant to be.’

  ‘And the father..?’ I asked.

  ‘A civvy, sir.’

  Moran faced me. ‘If she had been killed in Liberia, and the media found out...’

  ‘Yes, we'd have some awkward questions,’ I noted.

  Swifty handed out mugs of tea, my nurse sat in with us.

  At midnight the nurse went up for a shower, it was just me and Swifty.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked him.

  He glanced at me with a frown. ‘Not busted up.’

  ‘Not what I meant.’ I waited.

  He stared at the TV, now with a beer can in hand. ‘Not sure what it was, but … I held back, didn't want to jump.’

  I waited.

  ‘Water I think, the idea of hitting the water, drowning. I hate the ocean, at least the cold wavy ocean.’

  ‘Another job like that and you won't be on it, so put it behind you.’