Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  He made a face. ‘Well ... yes, we work well together.’

  ‘Sir, if you’re in this unit for two years you’ll pick up a few medals, but also a few extra scars.’ I let him think about that. ‘Alternate is that you get a regular troop, new lads, and fuck all respect.’

  ‘What about me?’ Rizzo asked.

  ‘You’re in it if you want to be in, Colonel has approved you and Stretch moving across.’

  ‘I’m in,’ Rizzo insisted. ‘You ain’t doing a job without me!’

  I faced Stretch. ‘You up for it?’

  ‘What’s different ... to what we’re doing now?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, exactly the same, just that if you stay where you are I might not take you on all the jobs, I might find others to make up the team.’

  ‘Well ... I’m in then. Someone has to keep an eye on Rizzo.’

  We laughed. ‘Guys,’ I said. ‘This new unit will get the best budget, no sitting around.’ I faced Moran. ‘Give it some thought, sir.’

  ‘I don’t want to be hearing about you doing jobs,’ he said. ‘Not without me, no.’ He sighed. ‘Front line, eh. Well, that was what I signed up for.’

  ‘You start at 9am in the morning, sir. Go see the Major first, but they have approved you doing it. And guys, there is no Prime Time in my detachment, we train hard.’

  ‘Who’d we answer to?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Same as now, no different, Bob sends us the jobs. When he has nothing for us we train, or the Major can make use of us. No different, just that Bob wants the team kept together and training together. “E” Squadron will be cut down in size.’

  An hour later and we were making plans on how we wanted to do things, training to be done, resources pinched away, the mood upbeat.

  When I got home, my mobile phone trilled. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Bob, got a minute?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I have a man that does my liaison to “E” Squadron men, and ... it would be better suited if he was with you.’

  ‘Not trying to spy on us, are you, Bob?’ I toyed.

  ‘I would hope that there’s no need.’

  ‘Colonel may not be happy to have a super-spy with us.’

  ‘Well, it would make things easier for me, because most of the men my chap deals with are in your neck of the woods, and I want him and you to work tightly together on recruitment.’

  ‘I’ll mention it to the Colonel tomorrow. But how about you put the guy in uniform, make him look like an Intel captain.’

  ‘He was an Intel captain, that’s where we got him from, and he worked on your base for a while.’

  ‘Then stick him back in uniform, and I’ll put it to the Colonel, shouldn’t be problem.’

  On Monday morning a training room was assigned to us, big enough for maybe thirty people, and it had two small offices to use, and a toilet. We created a tea and coffee area straight away, and over the weekend I had bought ten mugs that said ‘Make tea not war’, two second hand kettles, a load of tea bags and sugar.

  There was no longer a need for me and the lads to attend squadron orders, so we didn’t, our absence questioned and explained. The rest of the troop came straight to us to ask to be in, and to complain at length. I told most of them that entry was decided by good scores on the three-day scenario, and that put off most of them. They went off sulking.

  Sitting with Captain Moran, Swifty, Rizzo and Stretch – sergeant stripes now on my shoulders, I said, ‘How about this for starters.’ Captain Moran readied his pen and paper, Captain Harris listening in. ‘Every member of the detachment does the three-day scenario once a year, good score expected or they do it again. Once a month ... twenty mile run as now, timed, once a month ... ten mile run, timed, once a month ... 24hr speed march with full kit, timed.

  ‘Once a month, pistol contest, scores to be set, once a month sniping contest at 500yards, scores to be set. That would give us a benchmark, and if someone falls behind they get extra training, or a kick up the arse, or get kicked out. And, once a month, lads do the last part of the three-day scenario, the rapid targets. I’ll get the RSM and Army Sniper School to come up with a one hour test.’

  They were all keen, standards to be set, competitions always enjoyed.

  ‘OK,’ I finally said. ‘As troop sergeant I have orders for you all. I want large maps on the wall, first aid posters, diagrams of Russian weapons, all sorts of technical things that we should know, and from time to time glance at them to remind ourselves. I want a kid’s atlas or two, first aid manuals, posters of stripped down weapons, etc. I also want a load of foreign language phrase books, ask the Education Officer. Have a think, get organised.

  ‘Captain, draw up a list of languages spoken, please, spoken well or not, tutors will arrive soon, priority being Arabic.’

  We were there till gone 6pm, trying to get sorted, the Major popping in before heading off home, and I had grabbed the little-used Education Officer. He would be kept busy, but he was delighted at the chance to be kept busy and to be involved.

  The next day I went and found the RSM. ‘Sir, got a minute?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll make time. Sit.’

  I sat down, grinning. ‘I’m now troop sergeant for the new detachment.’

  ‘Yes, I heard, base is alive with gossip, and complaints and whinging.’

  ‘Good, they can compete to be in it. Anyhow, I was after some advice and some training courses on how to be a good troop sergeant.’

  ‘It varies, what they do, as far as paperwork goes. Some are great, some terrible, and some leave most of it to the troop captain. Way to think of it is this: something happening causes a form to be filled in. Broken ankle, misfire, damaged kit, vehicle crash, two lads fighting, anything out of the ordinary and it probably has a form to fill in, so just ask when something odd happens.

  ‘Then you have the regular stuff: ammo requisition, weapons requisition. Most just go to the armoury or stores and sign it out, but you are supposed to give them warning, hence the form. Fuel, meal costs, travel costs, all have forms to fill in.

  ‘Then you have the men’s welfare. Think of it this way: bed and fed, clothed and trained, assessed and sent. So, they live somewhere, most off base, they eat – at home or here, they have uniforms and kit to be maintained, they do courses and are assessed, and are sent off to war now and then. All of those aspects have forms.’

  ‘That’s a lot of forms,’ I noted.

  ‘Can be, yes.’

  ‘Can you dig out one sample of all of the usual forms for me, and give me some of your time to go through them?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said with a nod. ‘I’ll do an hour a day in your new offices till it’s sorted, and I’ll assist Captain Moran, who should have done courses on this by now – but you’ve had him on jobs - or getting wounded.’

  After lunch we had an admin corporal placed with us on loan, lots of forms being filed in our filing cabinets under headings, Captain Moran being briefed on what went where.

  I went and found the Colonel. ‘Sir, Bob wants a man placed with us -’

  He threw his hands in the air. ‘Already the shit starts.’

  ‘Well, sir, this guy and myself – we’ll work through the “E” Squadron men and make assessments, and he’ll be working with the recruitment and – well – admin. It is Bob’s baby, sir.’

  He sighed. ‘You know this man?’

  ‘He was an Intel captain before, worked here for a while, so I told Bob to stick him back in uniform.’

  ‘That would be better, yes. And if he was Army Intel then he’s less likely to be a snake in the grass. I may even know him. OK, try it, but keep an eye on him. And no old “E” Squadron hacks back on the base, meet them outside.’

  ‘Will do, sir. But can old members do range work with us off base?’

  ‘Sure, just put them in uniform, no mention of who they are, and keep a good eye on them.’

  ‘Sir, if any of these old boys so much as look at
me the wrong way ... then they’re gone, after a good thump. I’m as wary as you about them – and those I met so far I wanted to kill.’

  ‘It’s the one good thing about you, you don’t tolerate old bull-shitters well, rather they don’t like you. It creates a good natural gap.’

  The next morning, after a cup of tea and chat, no orders to issue yet, Moran, Rizzo and Stretch were on basic Arabic lessons, Swifty was off to see the Army Sniper School lads, and I was having lessons on forms to fill in.

  After lunch I called Bob. ‘Had an idea,’ I began. ‘Flying lessons for the lads, Cessna 152 up at Shobdon. They’re not cheap, but if we were behind the lines we could steal a plane and be gone.’

  ‘Ex-major of yours, Tilley, did some work with “E” Squadron, lives near Leominster, has a Cessna parked at Shobdon getting dusty, would love the work, we just pay fuel.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a go then. Got his details?’

  ‘Ask my man Captain O’Leary, be with you today.’

  That man turned up an hour later, in uniform and expected at the gate, but there was nothing Irish about him, he had inherited the name. I took him to see the Colonel, who did recognise him, then the Major, who also recognised him, so we were making progress.

  O’Leary got me the details of ex-Major Tilley, the ex-Major delighted to be of use. He would have two pupils in the morning, told to work them hard, lots of study material and homework.

  Tomo was out of hospital and back with the programme, so I drove over to see him and Smurf. Smurf was getting fitter day by day, little else to do, but admitted that the arm was still not 100% and that there was some loss of feeling now and then.

  ‘Not a problem,’ I told him. ‘You’ll be back in the new Echo Detachment, I’m now troop sergeant, and Mi6 will call the shots.’

  Tomo was keen to get back, and I briefed them on the new detachment.

  That evening I dragged out O’Leary, the man keen to chat anyhow. We sat down for a curry in civvy clothes.

  ‘You married?’ I asked him.

  ‘Wife and two nippers, Cirencester, because her family is from there. Long story. I stayed up in London three nights a week. Drive here is not too bad.’

  ‘You were here before?’

  ‘Four years back, a year here. Then I worked on a project that put me in with Mi6 operations, they had an opening and asked if I would come across, and I helped out with old Major Killeridge on “E” Squadron, but ... he is a bit of an old wanker.’

  ‘I haven’t met him yet,’ I noted.

  ‘He won’t like you, he’s a bit like that, he only likes men over forty. As he would say – seasoned.’

  I nodded. ‘Any current members that are any good?’

  ‘Depends on what you want them for. If you want someone to go to the Ukraine and shoot a man, there are plenty of good lads. If you want someone to go scale a mountain and then shoot someone, less of a choice. Most are forty or beyond, some fifty and beyond. There are two lads we’ll bring into meet you, Batman and Robin.’

  I smiled widely. ‘Batman ... and Robin?’

  ‘Batman is Bateman, big lad, thirty-four, fit and strong, Robin is Robinson, small and slim, marathon runner. They could be candidates for your detachment.’

  ‘It’s not my detachment.’

  ‘Without you there’d be no detachment,’ he pointed out. ‘You got the track record, and that makes all the difference. They like successes, because we’ve had a real shit record over the years. Fifty percent caught, and in prison or dead. You’re at 100% on your jobs so far.’

  ‘So far,’ I said. ‘We’ve been lucky.’

  ‘Did the RAF really drop ten tonnes of cement powder on a terrorist hideout?’

  ‘They did,’ I said with a grin. ‘Did our job for us.’

  ‘Well, that’s a new one for the books. But as Bob says - don’t care how it’s done so long as it’s done.’

  ‘Just two lads suitable?’

  He made a face. ‘Some are keen, but ... well, they’d clash with the others I’d guess, and fitness is an issue. They have the skills, did their time, but couldn’t run ten miles now.’

  ‘Fitness helps when things go wrong,’ I pointed out. ‘Always helpful to know that you can walk sixty miles to a border.’

  ‘Indeed, and some of ours that got caught were caught trying to get across a border. If they had been fitter, maybe a different result, and some got caught because they were drunk and blabbing, some caught with hookers. It’s been an embarrassment some of the time. Last week one of ours stabbed his wife, nearly killed her, cut off an ear. We’re keeping it out of the press that he was SAS – or with us.

  ‘There is a guy, Nichols, and he’s James Bond. Was a Captain with “B” Squadron, did well enough, fit and good at everything, then he shot a civvy, bit of a stink, so he was moved to us. But he loves it, any job, tougher the better. In Africa he stole a plane and landed it in a remote spot, walked fifty miles unseen through lion country, crossed the border unnoticed, did the job quietly and got back out, back to the UK under his own steam.’

  ‘And the problem with him?’ I nudged.

  ‘He thinks he is James Bond. He has the car, the clothes, and he blabs now and then, but most people just think him full of shit. He’s been warned a few times, but he’s very good at what he does, just not great on team work or following orders. Unbalanced ... would be an understatement.

  ‘He broke into my house and left me a note, which freaked me out a bit. Not least how he did it, I have good security. He’s a loner, no woman lasts more than a week.’

  ‘Do I need to involve myself with these freaks?’

  ‘Not really, that’s my burden. What Bob wants from you is new blood. When we have it, we can let go some of the nutcases.’

  I nodded. ‘Get Batman and Robin in to see me.’

  ‘They know your reputation well enough, should go OK.’

  ‘Where did they serve?’

  ‘Marines, but they had issues and court martials, clashing with their sergeants.’

  In the morning I despatched a surprised Rizzo and Stretch up to Shobdon Airfield, which all troopers knew well enough. They would learn to fly a Cessna, Swifty and Moran pencilled in for the next day – weather permitting.

  Swifty and I had advanced Arabic lessons for two hours, my level of Arabic much higher than Swifty’s. He would have more lessons, I would brush up myself, Moran asked to work on his French and Romanian – when the paperwork had settled down.

  I left Smurf where he was for a week, company for Tomo, and we settled into a routine – a routine of trying to think of interesting things to do rather than slope off home. Everyone had completed at least four hours of flying lessons, and I had arranged through O’Leary for an old Mercedes truck to come in, instructor with it, since I had seen them in Mauritania.

  We all learnt to drive the noisy beast around the base – the gears horrendous to master, and we learnt how to maintain it. When the Major noticed it I had it brought back the next day for other troopers to practice on.

  With the weather a factor we got one day on the range at Sennybridge when it was not in use, our new standard test sorted out with the RSM in attendance, scores compared. After we had all tried the test, we put two Army Sniper lads through it, and they scored well below us. Our lowest score was 82%, Stretch, so we set 82% as being the benchmark.

  Over a cup of tea in our training room you could hear people talking about Cessna aircraft, Arabic phrases or Mercedes trucks, the lads all keen to expand their skills.

  Knowing that four SBS lads would be finishing my scenario Saturday morning I drove up early, greeting the Army Sniper lads and gossiping as the SBS finished the scenario, three already down and sleeping.

  When the final lad was done we tallied scores, and I lined them up, clipboard in hand, four men dead on their feet.

  ‘OK, gentlemen, hope you had fun,’ I began. ‘We have your scores here.’

  ‘You Wilco?’ one asked.

&nb
sp; ‘I am, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Fucking sadist,’ he uttered, making us smile.

  I read out three scores, 76%, 78%, 79%. ‘Who is Elkin?’ A man raised a tired arm. He was average height, slim, a thin face with a scar through an eyebrow, dark brown hair that pointed forwards over his eyes like a sun shade. ‘OK, you scored 93%.’ I waited as it sunk in, and his face brightened a little, looks exchanged with his buddies. ‘Elkin, you married?’

  ‘Er ... nope, why?’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Er ... none that I know about, why?’

  ‘Planning on leaving the military for a job as a painter decorator?’

  ‘Er ... nope, why?’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘In me little car.’

  ‘Can you hang around for a beer and curry?’

  ‘Bit early for that, ain’t it?’

  ‘After you clean up and rest.’

  ‘Uh ... why?’

  ‘I may have a job for you overseas.’

  ‘Oh. Would I ... have to hack off my own testicle?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Oh. Uh ... sure, I can hang around.’

  One of the others turned his face. ‘CO would never release you.’

  ‘Your CO does what the MOD tells him to do,’ I pointed out. ‘Elkin, stand fast, you three, dismissed. Back to the huts, get some sleep, some food, don’t drive as you are.’

  ‘No shit,’ one quipped, and they sloped off.

  I drove Elkin back in my car, one of the Army lads driving Elkin’s car back since he was going that way anyhow, and Elkin slept all the way.

  I woke him at my apartment, his kit lugged up, and he took in the apartment, clearly surprised. ‘Bit fucking posh ain’t it?’

  I shoved him into the shower, his dirty kit in a bin bag. With fresh clothes on, a sandwich downed, he claimed the sofa and went out like a light.

  At 6pm he was awake and fresh, mug of coffee cradled. ‘We don’t normally get on with your lot,’ he mentioned, taking in the apartment and its view.

  ‘I’m not like the rest of the Regiment.’