by Geoff Wolak
With orders given to release many of the men back to their units, travel plans to make, I called Colonel Mathews.
‘How are they doing?’ he asked.
‘I’ve selected thirty-five to go forwards, sir, next stage in Africa.’
‘More than we figured on. Are they good?’
‘They have great potential, sir.’
‘We have another two hundred to put through it, and we’ll try an older batch, and a batch of officers as well. Was the process refined any?’
‘Yes, sir, we have a reasonable set of tests now – and a benchmark to work with.’
After nagging at Colonel Mathews, a chat to London, we boarded a private jet for a smooth daytime flight to New York, soon in hired vans with private bodyguards and heading to the city in civvy clothes, a hotel booked, many of the lads doubled up in rooms. Our crates were on a military flight, and we hoped to see them again someday soon.
That evening we used the vans and our allotted drivers to go see a bustling and loud Time Square, a meal in a Chinatown afterwards. And Samantha had been at the wine, her cleavage a great temptation for me – the lads ogling her, Tomo trying it on without much luck.
Back at the hotel, I led Samantha and Swifty to the bar and we sat chatting about graphs. Bored, Swifty made his excuses and headed off.
With a coy smile, I told Samantha, ‘I have plenty of dollars with me, I could rent another room, one with a Jacuzzi maybe – and one with no room mates.’
She knocked back the rest of the wine. ‘Jacuzzi sounds good.’
$550 paid, key handed over by a puzzled clerk who knew we had rooms, I led Samantha up in the lift, feeling her up as her ascended. Out the lift we passed a few Arabs, found the room, and it was palatial. A shoe landed with a thud on the carpet, soon another, and she was now looking a lot shorter. Top off, her white bra was calling to me. I knelt and buried my face in her cleavage.
Bra off, I got a meal without milk, soon carrying her into the bathroom. We could not be bothered to fill the Jacuzzi, but the walk-in power-shower was big enough for six people. Stripped off, we stepped in, the buttons hit till we had a warm flow, the good captain moist when I rammed a finger in.
‘They might gossip,’ she playfully warned.
‘They know I’ll shoot them if they do.’
Knelt, she got her mouth around a wet cock, but she was too far down for me to cup a breast. Grabbing the stack of towels, I threw them down, the white towels getting soaked instantly, but they were warm to lie on – and I was in a hurry.
Led on my side, partly on the wet towels, I went for the “69” as the water cascaded loudly over us, and I was soon making her moan. One finger in, I hit the clit with vigour, and it was like being thirteen all over again. Louder moans, two fingers in, and I wiggled them about energetically, and the muscle spasms told me she had come quickly.
I relaxed my tense cock, but continued to lick her, coming in her mouth a minute later. She did not have far to go to spit, the drain was right there, warm water flowing as well. I spun around, my elbows on the wet towels as I entered her, but to start with she was way too moist – no friction. Change of position, and I could feel it, the sensation of the water hitting my back an added bonus and a whole new experience.
On the bed, still wet, I kept going, making up for lost time, or lost months, maybe a few lost years. She couldn’t see, but every time I pulled out I wiped my cock in the sheets, and she was soon anything other than moist. We had the friction and I made her scream, no care for the Arabs of this floor.
With a final gasp she slumped, and I lay to the side, a great pair of boobs in my face.
‘That was good,’ she gasped out, both of us damp, our hair wet, her hair a matted mess.
I rested my elbow on the bed, head on my hand. ‘No one in your life?’ I asked, stroking a breast.
‘Not for a while, no. You?’
‘Not very often.’
‘And Kate?’
‘I visit once a month, that’s all.’
‘Married to the job,’ she noted.
I fiddled with her belly button. ‘It’s one of those jobs that doesn’t make planning a life easy. But I enjoy rescuing people, seeing the families. Makes up for a crap social life.’
‘You’re in the envied position, power and influence...’
‘Too much power and influence, for a captain, but the axe hangs over my head, ready to fall any day. I have the envied position, but also the weight of expectation, many people wanting me to fail, waiting for me to fail.
‘London passes me the jobs, but mostly they leave the detail up to me, that way I can be blamed for going too far. Get the results, break the law, don’t get caught or you’re on your own.’
‘So why do it?’
I made a face. ‘Does the formula one champion give up the champagne lifestyle, or does he keep going?’
‘You like the trappings?’
‘What trappings, I sleep on the floor much of the time? No, no trappings, but I like the work, I have an anger towards the gunmen out there and want to do more each week, and there’s a never ending supply of gunmen, a never ending job.’
‘If your mindset is one of man against the terrorists ... you’ll always be striving, and you’ll never get them all.’
Dried off, she used the hair dryer on her hair, but her hair was short anyhow so easier to dry. Clothes back on, a kiss, and we headed down a few floors, her arse pinched as we parted company.
Swifty asked, watching the TV in his single bed, ‘Not getting your end away?’
‘We’re both professionals.’
‘Boring git. Could be dead next week.’
‘This from the guy watching Gunsmoke, 1995, Marshall Mat Dillon!’
‘How’d you know a show from 1955?’
‘Dad loved old westerns, so as a kid I had to watch.’
In the morning we paid to get up a tall tower that was not the Empire State Building - we could see the Empire State Building a few blocks away, and we peered down at the manic traffic. A short ride in the vans, a boat ride in pleasant weather, and we joined a tour at the Statue of Liberty, listening in to a lady with a thick accent for us Brits. Rizzo asked her what country she was from - and how they got a statue this big all the way from France.
Embarrassed, I led Rizzo away and explained a few things as Swifty laughed.
We got to the airport for 4pm, and we had seats booked at the back of a 747 full of tourists – but no arrival passport stamps so we had to explain our military ride to get here, and we arrived at Heathrow in the early hours, passports shown, MP Pete waiting with airport security staff. Samantha and her colleague headed one way, we headed west to GL4 in our base mini-van, MP Pete wanting all the detail.
It was Saturday morning, and I turned over expecting someone to be there, but the bed was empty – as usual. I sighed, and remembered Samantha’s large firm boobs. Awake now, I went for a run, a few lads joining me later on.
After a shower I checked in with Moran, and the flight to Morocco was booked for Sunday afternoon.
‘How’re our Wolves?’ Mitch asked, meaning the American Wolves.
‘I selected thirty-five, the best thirty-five, and they’ll be in Morocco with us, save pissing about and training two sets of Wolves. Overall they’re young, keen and fit, but with “high and tight” haircuts and wound a bit too tightly.’
Mitch said, ‘Our military is not like your SAS, we do as ordered – or else.’
‘Yeah, well if they want to stay alive they’ll need to think, not just follow orders blindly. How are my British Wolves?’
Moran put in, ‘Same as the first batch, no issues so far, they’re keen and good.’
‘And the worst of the bunch?’ I asked.
‘Still good enough to go forwards with us,’ Moran insisted.
‘In Morocco, you take the lead with training our Wolves,’ I told Moran. ‘I’ll handle the Americans.’
‘And the objective?’ Ginger asked.
>
‘We want them comfortable operating in the desert, good at navigation, living rough in the sand. Parachutes and instructors will join us the second week, and some recruits haven’t jumped before.’
‘Nine out of twenty Brits have wings,’ Moran noted.
Outside, I called Paul MacManners as I stood on the perimeter track. ‘Right, Boss?’
‘That sounds odd, you calling me boss. And David warned me that it was a facetious boss.’
‘Get used to it. Listen, the Americans want more good newspaper stories, at least certain individuals do, and they’re willing to avail us some helicopters and planes if we help them, some material assistance – which is always useful. Their Colonel Mathews is an American version of you, ambitious and sneaky.’
‘You see me as being sneaky?’
‘Not so far, but your colleagues do.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Got a paper and pen?’
‘Fire away.’
‘I’m proposing that a base in Mauritania be utilised; British, French and Americans, the French already there, French Echo already there anyhow. Each country contributes a Hercules, a helicopter, support crews, some drinking water and toilet paper. The British rotate for a month ten men from the RAF Regiment, SAS, Pathfinders and 1 Para, plus RAF Medics.
‘If there’s a rescue to be launched the group launches a rescue, if there’s an insurrection on a border they get involved, otherwise they train together, standard patrol routes in the desert. French and Americans lend the same types of men.
‘When the format is settled, same again in Liberia, at the base now held by the French. Then – and this is the good part – the Americans invite us in to their bases in the Middle East.’
‘I’d be surprised by that last part, very damn surprised.’
‘Me to, so we just live in hope. Step one is West Africa, where there are no American boots on the ground.’
‘And when the French scream loudly?’ Paul posed.
‘I’ll talk to them, they owe me, so they can scream behind closed doors. And from Monday there’ll be American Lone Wolves in Morocco, so I hope none step on a mine. Be a love and pass that up the line, to the Prime Minister. After he’s digested it I’ll chat to the French.’
‘And what do we get out of this..?’
‘Hardware, as in Somalia.’
‘And they claim embedded men with you?’
‘No, since they now want a platoon placed with me.’
‘A fucking platoon! The Prime Minister will need a stiff drink to digest this.’
‘We’re all in NATO, all allies getting along, and what the PM wants is the same as the French President and the Americans – joint missions and shared blame, cost savings witnessed. And Paul, they want this done at military level, no contact with the White House or State Department.’
‘What the hell are you up to?’
‘The US military don’t need permission from the White House to move one Hercules around and a platoon of men, and if they asked it would take ten years to get a decision. If you need to talk to anyone Stateside, talk to Colonel Mathews direct – he’ll be your contact point. And Paul, if you need some concessions from the CIA, now is the time to ask.’
‘They’re behind this?’
‘They’re behind getting a good newspaper headline now and then.’
‘So ... which of my colleagues thinks I’m sneaky?’
‘Talk soon,’ I said with a smile.
I went and found our own Wolves’ graphs, and sat studying them for half an hour. My control group was still climbing, and the more erratic men had settled down a little.
I walked down the apron and found many of the Wolves in the canteen, so I sat chatting to them, getting their views on what they had tackled so far. I detailed the American Wolves programme – men they would meet soon.
On Sunday, midday, the Prime Minister called me direct. ‘Can you talk?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir, just getting ready for Morocco, we fly tonight.’
‘I received a lengthy note from SIS, but it had your name plastered across the top in large letters, so that was either to grab my attention or to shift blame for the detail.’
I laughed. ‘Probably the later, sir.’
‘What are the Americans really after?’
‘The man driving this along wants good newspaper stories to strengthen his arm, and in return we get extra use of the ships, helicopters and planes, which saves lives. It’s a win-win situation.’
‘Strengthen his arm to do what?’
‘He’s frustrated, because he wants to do what I do but he has to ask the White House before he takes a shit. He wants to able to send a rescue team without clearance from above.’
‘I understand his frame of mind, yes, but you consult with me about jobs.’
‘I think you and I see eye to eye on things, sir, whereas the White House makes decisions after ten people have put in twelve opinions. You tell me good luck and be careful, they tell him – no mistakes, or else.’
‘They can be a bit unforgiving like that, yes. So we create a base and share it, then what?’
‘Train men there, launch a few rescues, reporter to hand. If that process works well we repeat it inside Liberia, then the Red Sea region.’
‘I’m not seeing a downside, but I am a skeptic. The American military machine is an odd creature, an octopus with ten legs. And no head.’
‘I can’t see a downside at all.’
‘I trust your judgment on these things. And how did these American Wolves do?’
‘Still too early to tell, but they’re a bit too disciplined – compared to ours. They need to think for themselves more. Americans tend to plan out missions in great detail, we launch a mission with a loose objective.’
‘Be interesting to see how they do. And our first batch of Wolves?’
‘Disciplined, keen, and good at what they do – a real success story, sir.’
‘But small in numbers.’
‘As the Americans have figured out, it’s about what the papers say more than what we achieve.’
‘As it is for me, and most of the time the good news is never reported, only the bad. Well good luck next week.’
‘What do I tell the Americans, sir?’
‘Tell them yes, but step by step. And I saw the note about avoiding the White House. If they whinge I’ll blame you.’
I laughed. ‘And what’ll you do after the May elections?’
‘Some gardening, some cricket to watch, and to hell with them all...’
I went and found Henri in his room. ‘Where is the base that French Echo use?’
He dug a map out of a drawer and pointed out, and I made a note of the name.
‘What’s there?’
‘It is a good airfield, good barracks, good canteen yes.’
‘How many men can it hold?’
‘There is barracks for five hundred men easily. Why?’
‘Americans want to place some men there.’
‘Americans! Pah, we shoot at each other!’
‘Hope not.’ I headed back to the house and dug out my secret phone list. The head of the DGSE was down as “Dogsy Frog-1”. I hit the numbers.
A French voice answered.
‘Speak English?’
‘Moment ... allo?’
‘This is Captain Wilco, I want to speak to the Director.’
‘Moment, I will re-direct.’
I waited.
‘Captain Wilco?’
‘Yes. Can you talk?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘You have a base in Mauritania, French Echo there, runway and barracks...’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m creating a new joint special forces task force, and the Americans will supply aircraft and helicopters and fuel and men. I’d like them based there.’
‘And what will this new task force do?’
‘It will make the French voters think we all get along, and that we’re all fighti
ng hard against the terrorists and kidnappers, and - if things go well – the Americans will support us with ships as they did in Somalia. And ... I get the Americans to allow British and French into their bases in the Middle East.’
‘I like a man with a good sense of humour, Captain. So now you walk on water and will cross the Red Sea.’
I smiled. ‘Trust my judgment, sir, and play nice with the Americans, and let’s see what rewards we get.’
‘And reading between the lines..?’
‘Future rescues have French and Americans along. You report it as your team’s hard work, the Americans report it as their bravery, and my team doesn’t give a fuck.’
He laughed. ‘And if a rescue goes wrong ... someone to blame.’
‘That would be the attitude of a cynical man, sir.’
‘I will discuss this with the relevant people, Captain.’
‘Ask the relevant people to say nothing to the White House.’
‘American military wants to cut the cord some, eh, I know they are tightly controlled.’
‘Like you’re not!’
‘Not any more, we learnt that lesson after this English upstart kicked us in the balls a few times and told our colonels to ... go fuck themselves.’
‘That man will be training American special forces in Morocco next week, so progress can be made.’
‘I am surprised, so yes, maybe some progress can be made.’
‘Talk soon, sir.’
With Sergeant Major Rocko checking kit inside the hangar, stood with a clipboard and shouting at people, we got ourselves sorted, many of the lads along on this trip, Robby’s troop off on courses with the regulars. And whilst we were away the regulars would be making use of the base for their own 24hr speed marches, as well as range time.
The RAF coaches were early, crates stacked up, our crates from Nevada having been picked up by the MPs late last night from RAF Fairford. It seemed that the USAF was more organised than our own RAF – who would have probably lost the crates, or sent them to Cyprus by mistake.
We were soon at Brize Norton and sat in a familiar departures lounge, and none were surprised that our flight was delayed. These days they didn’t even moan. Casper found it funny that the RAF was flying him around the world.
