by Geoff Wolak
‘No, that you ain’t. And your confirmed kills?’
‘Who’s counting.’
‘And Armagh, south of border?’
‘You know I’d never admit to anything.’
He nodded. ‘So what did you want to chat about?’
‘Your fondness for getting shot in far off places.’
‘Not sure my CO would release me, but ... if he did, got to be better than sitting around the base. No point in training just to shoot paper targets.’
‘True, very true.’
‘You could swing it, get me some place like Somalia?’
‘I could, yes. Keen for naughty jobs overseas?’
‘Fuck aye, was getting a bit bored. Done some close protection in Central America, never fired a shot in anger. I was starting to consider my future.’
‘We have something called Echo Detachment, funded mostly by Mi6. It’s my team, put together for naughty jobs mostly, some regular work. For the Somalia job we flew down to Kenya, helicopter across to a French carrier, then helo to a sub at night – down a rope, sub to the coast, dinghy in, thirty mile walk, firefight and withdraw.’
‘Sounds like loads of fun.’
‘We have a Marine with us part time. He quits regular work soon and comes across to us full time. Got a Para as well. My boss in Mi6 can call on anyone in the services – if they’re any good.’
‘My score was good?’
‘Very good; you can shoot and think when you’re tired. How’d your mates rate against you normally?’
‘We’re supposed to be the best, us four, that’s why we did the scenario, the first of our lot to try it. Boss wanted a good show. So how does my mate’s 76% relate?’
‘It’s OK, not fantastic. My team are mostly above 90%, and few troopers get above that.’
‘What would I have to do? Some form to fill in?’
‘Nope. If you’re keen - and you can think about it when you get back, I’ll have a word with my boss and he’ll check you out. Then it’s either part time or full time.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Part time ... would be us calling you a few times a year, full time means that you train with the team every day.’
‘And this team, they’re all as good as you?’
‘Most are, they’re the best the services can offer, but they get on OK, no rivalry that’s an issue.’
‘I’d wear an SAS beret?’
‘No, just a green cap, or your old beret. It’s not very formal.’
‘Same pay?’
‘Exactly the same.’
‘Pension and years served?’
‘Same, you’ll be taken care of, and you can go back any time you like.’
We struck out for a curry at 8pm - Swifty had called and joined us, and we chatted away till Elkin grew tired, and I waved him off in the morning.
I called Bob at 10am. ‘You busy?’
‘Was gardening, got a good sized garden.’
‘I got a new lad, go get a paper and pen.’
‘Hang on. OK, fire away.’
‘Elkin, SBS, he did the scenario.’
‘Score?’
‘93%.’
‘Very good score.’
‘Check him out, see if you like him. I’ve spoken to him at length with Swifty, lad is keen for full time secondment.’
‘Will do, and thanks.’
Monday morning the Colonel came and found me in the training room. We all stood. ‘Had my opposite number in the SBS on the line, not a happy bunny, says you’re planning on stealing some of his best lads,’ he said as he took in the posters.
‘I am.’
He nodded. ‘Good, fuck him. Should loosen a few cobwebs, make the unit look elitist.’
‘We try, sir.’
‘And you’re having flying lessons, I hear.’
‘Funded by Bob, sir, the idea being that we could fly in or out of a hot spot.’
‘Good idea.’
Smurf came back that afternoon, the MO handed a document from Bob’s MOD doctor, little he could do about testing Smurf, and I had a word with the MO anyhow. Tomo came with him, civvy clothes, arm in a sling, everyone taking the piss out of him something terrible, his fondness for small boys – and what he had done to upset the boy who had shot him.
The next morning a familiar face turned up, his arms full of chains and handcuffs. Those who had not had the lesson would do it, the rest of us brushing up on techniques for getting out of cuffs. I mentioned the man’s attendance today to the Major, who would have the man called back in the following day to teach the rest of the lads.
And at 11am Batman and Robin turned up at the gate in civvy clothes, O’Leary expecting them and bringing them to me and Captain Moran. Bateman looked the part, spitting image of Rocko, Robinson a copy of Smurf. Teas made, we sat in the office.
‘So,’ I said, facing Bateman. ‘What would you like to do for the next few years?’
‘If I had a choice ... I’d probably want to be back in uniform, regular training. Miss it a bit, but not the bullshit. And the ops you go on ... love to come along. ’
‘Keep yourself fit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Heard about my three-day scenario?’
‘It’s a bitch, apparently.’
‘You’d both be put through it, a few others tests, and then we can chat further about your careers. But assuming that you get yourselves fit, rest is down to attitude. We’d bring you in and assess you, and the first time you get pissy you’d be gone.’
They exchanged looks.
‘We’re keen to give it a go,’ Robinson said. ‘And we only give attitude when we get attitude.’
I nodded. ‘Me to. But clashing with me would be ... painful for you, so best avoided. You’d address the captain here as sir, you’d salute majors and colonels, and you’d not consort with those on this base that are bit long in the tooth. You’d also not blab down the pub about this unit.’
‘We’re tight on security,’ they assured me.
‘So, how long before you could see yourselves fit enough to do the tests?’
They exchanged looks. ‘Now I guess,’ Bateman said. ‘Not sure I’ll get any fitter.’
‘Ten mile run in gym kit timed, twenty mile jog in gym kit timed, 24hr speed march timed in full kit, then the three-day test. Come back tomorrow with gym kit and the PTIs will take you out. Once you have the three-day nailed we’ll talk. If your scores are low you can go away, train and try again, it’s not all or nothing, and we can get you on the ranges.’
I turned my head to O’Leary. ‘Can you organise half day AK47 and some range work?’
He nodded.
I faced the two candidates. ‘Any ... questions?’
‘We get more ops overseas?’ Bateman asked. ‘Like Somalia?’
‘Yes, just like that. That’s the whole point of this unit.’
‘And we’d train here day to day, under you?’ Robinson asked.
‘You’d be kept busy,’ I agreed.
He glanced at Moran. ‘And the ... bullshit?’
Moran cocked an eyebrow. ‘You won’t be expected to clean your kit and display it ... ever, you’ll be expected to be self starters, and you’ll be expected to be good enough to be in the team, and they set very high standards.’
I put in, ‘Captain Moran here will out-run you and out-shoot you. He’s shit hot, for an officer – that’s why he’s here.’
Getting in a call to Bob later, I arranged a two-day course for all the lads, Moran as well.
The next morning we were at a detached house near Gloucester with two time-served professional burglars, learning how to break in, to disable the alarm, to cut glass, pick locks and force doors, move conservatory windows – all great fun.
By the following Monday Batman and Robin had completed the first three tests well enough. Robin could run like the wind anyhow, but Batman beat him on the 24hr speed march, their times good, the PTIs reporting a good attitude.
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bsp; I found a slot by moving people around, a few favours now owed, and Batman and Robin attended the scenario that Thursday morning with two Regiment troopers.
On the Saturday morning I drove up, finding Robin on the range, Batman asleep, and I checked their scores carefully. Robin finished on 79%, Bateman on 81%. The scores were OK for now, the two troopers getting 76% and 78%. I told Batman and Robin to turn up for work on Monday morning at 8.45am – in uniform.
On Monday, Captain Moran did the detachment orders, courses noted, questions asked.
I welcomed Batman and Robin, introduced them, but then said, ‘Your scores are OK, but not fantastic. You’ll do the scenario again in four weeks, and we expect better. If you want to be in this group, you excel. But, for a first attempt, you beat most troopers, so well done anyhow.’
Slider called me that night, a threat of a court martial hanging over him for telling his boss to fuck off. I called Bob, who said he would sort the paperwork in the morning, and Slider went AWOL the next day, driving to our base with his kit – a room issued. The MPs in Deal, Kent, had him down as AWOL till late in the day.
He knew Bateman, sort of recognised Robinson, and they chatted away for hours about bases, courses attended, and who they knew.
Slider chatted to Rocko that evening, and I got a call at home. Jealous, Rocko wanted to move across now. Bob was happy enough, and Rocko went AWOL the next day. Actually, he gave his boss a mouthful, kicked his RSM in the balls, then went AWOL, the story making us all laugh when we heard.
Bob came down the next day and proudly looked over eleven men - his team technically, and he was pleased that the project was now off the ground. Before he left he told me that Elkin from the SBS would move up the following week. We’d need more tea cups.
Bob had been gone a day when he called O’Leary. O’Leary then shouted, as the guys were having a tea break, ‘Full kit check, operation on in the morning!’
The lads rushed around getting kit ready, weapons tested, Batman and Robin in at the deep end – and in need of some kit.
I sat with O’Leary, Harris and Moran. O’Leary began, ‘Back to West Africa, Western Sahara to be exact, Hercules being made ready. BP refinery was shot up, PM not happy.’
‘Hostages?’ Moran asked.
‘No,’ O’Leary replied. ‘You go after the terrorists and shoot them full of holes before they attack another refinery; this is the third refinery hit. First time they took hostages, bodies found weeks later, no ransom demand. They’re not the most organised of fighters.’
‘How many are there?’ I asked as O’Leary produced a map.
‘Hundred irregulars, but we don’t think they all bed down together. Did get an aerial view of some sort of meeting, hundred fighters sat about gossiping and taking tea. Rest of the time they till the fields, or do whatever these boys do as a day job.’
‘Be hard to get them,’ I began, ‘if they melt into the population.’
‘We have a target village, or three, and they’re all from it. So, anyone wandering around with an AK47 is fair game. Main man always has twenty men around him, stronghold in the hills.’
‘No para drop this time,’ I quipped
‘Unlikely,’ O’Leary replied. ‘Steep sided mountains.’
‘We’ll label this as a hostage rescue,’ I began, ‘since we’re not allowed to just go execute people for Her Majesty’s Government.’ I held my stare on O’Leary.
‘Yes, quite. Hostage rescue,’ he timidly agreed, a glance at Moran.
I went and found the Major, who had already been notified and was busy organising kit for us. ‘Jeeps, sir, need four jeeps, but I’d like to take Mobility Troop along for support and another troop for rescue.’
He nodded, making notes. ‘Two jeeps per Hercules, so four birds needed I’d say, or two trips. Would have suggested some support anyhow. Leave it with me.’
Getting a call in to Bob, the base now a hive of activity, I asked that he get Elkin up, just for experience and to make the tea. Bob promised to make a few calls.
The lads made sure that Batman and Robin had desert garb, bandoliers and suitable webbing, AKMs issued, Smurf glad to be in the mix. Old unused metal crates were grabbed from stores since we did not have any of our own yet, and they were soon labelled up, kit placed inside. We had no locks, so suitable locks had to be bought at a local shop, keys issued to Captains Moran and Harris.
We were at the base till 9pm, Elkin driving in with his kit, informing us that his boss considered Elkin to be “on temporary loan” only. Our metal crates had been sent over to Brize Norton, and we all agreed to get some fish and chips and to use either the allocated rooms or the camp beds available, since we’d be off at 5am in the three tonne lorries, there was no point in going home.
Elkin was informed he was along for the ride, but might see some action if we could swing it, Slider calling him Tea Boy – not least because they had met. Smurf was keen, but I could see a doubt in his eyes.
Our convoy trundled into Brize Norton at 6am, on time partly thanks to a police escort arranged by Bob, and we were told that from now on that would be the case, no risks taken with Echo Detachment – save the obvious one of getting shot.
Assembling near the dead quiet Departures Lounge, a light mist hanging around the lights, the Major pulled up with the RSM.
I saluted. ‘Here to see us off, sir?’
‘No, we’re coming along. Team has been enlarged.’
‘Change of plans, sir?’ I asked, concerned.
‘Cabinet Office wants a larger operation, show of force. When we’re down there I’ll meet with various anti-terrorism police units, offer some advice. It’s all politics, you should know that.’
‘I am but a humble soldier, sir, no briefcase.’
Sat around – the RAF staff on duty looking half asleep, we chatted about the upcoming operation and what would be needed, quietly making plans, and we finally boarded at 7.30am, not too much of a delay – and not too much spare room with two jeeps in the back of the Hercules, soon powering down the runway and turning south.
Levelling off, I went forwards and grabbed the spare headsets as I knelt. ‘Morning,’ I said. ‘Any cement on board, sir?’
‘Wilco?’ the pilot said with a smile. ‘No, that’s the bird behind us.’
‘Is it all true?’ the co-pilot asked.
‘It is, they did a superb job, and they killed six terrorists.’
‘They don’t stop winding us up about it, so this trip is our turn.’
‘Doubt we’ll get the need, sir, be going in by jeep.’
‘You must have friends in high places, because we were pulled of other jobs,’ the pilot noted.
‘Politics, sir.’
‘You what?’
‘Show of force, followed by a leaflet handout on the arms we sell. I’m starting to think of myself as a salesman with a briefcase.’
I managed to get some sleep, a few hours, woken with a coffee from Smurf. Peering out of the window I could see coastline, and a long four hours later we touched down at a military airfield in Western Sahara, two lonely old Mi2 helicopters sat awaiting some attention, bored police escorts waiting for us in their blue and white jeeps.
Mobility Troop helped to unload their jeeps under the direction of Sergeant Crab, fuel put in – not allowed on the aircraft, and the jeeps burst into life, soon bundled high with kit. Dated buses arrived belching smoke, and we boarded for a short trip to an army base a few miles away, huts allocated. Since we had a small tight area and a fence we felt secure, but armed stag rotations were set up straight away.
The huts were part brick and part metal roof, so they would be cold at night and hot during the day. Metal bed frames were available, no mattresses, so we placed the camp beds down flat on top, rubber mats on those camp beds, sleeping bags, and we were set.
The hut toilet needed cleaning, but we had running cold water at least, no one keen to drink it. For washing it seemed OK. The Major came past after sundown, findin
g us sat cooking in the sand outside our hut.
He told us, ‘We’ll have the jeeps ready tomorrow, so have a look at the map and make a plan. Not my show technically, but let me know the plan.’
‘Would have done so anyway, sir.’
The hut next to us had a dozen Intel officers and NCOs – a bit of overkill, Signals in next hut along, Captain Harris in with his buddies.
The mood was upbeat as we sat cooking, stories told to the new lads about past trips down here. Not happy with just two regular troopers on stag I set up my own rotation, a chair outside the hut with a man on it.
We bedded down at 11pm after trying to kill moths buzzing around the lights, most of the lads still tired from the flight, and I firmly told everyone to be quiet - we’d be up at dawn. But at 2am shots rang out, people jumping up and grabbing weapons, soon outside barefoot and questioning Stretch as lights came on, flashing blue lights approaching.
‘Fucker tried to sneak up to the fence, I fired into the dirt,’ he explained, and we were all suddenly wary of locals.
The police drove around, stag was doubled, and we settled down, most sleeping with weapons cradled.
In the morning the news was not good, the local police having stopped a man up the road from us in the early hours, the man armed with a pistol and a grenade.
‘How the hell did they know we were here?’ I asked the Major.
‘How could they know, we just got here,’ he replied.
‘Someone sold that information before we got here,’ I insisted, a tight stag rotation set up, and I had to wonder if the bad boy in the hills was expecting us.
Intel reached us that day, from London, and we studied the maps of the target area, and how we might get there – it was a seventy mile drive on shit mountain roads and tight bends.
Moran could see my look as we sat studying the maps in our dark hut. ‘Something on your mind?’ he asked me, others focusing on me.
I took in their faces. ‘It’s a fuck-up waiting to happen.’
They exchanged worried looks.
‘He knows we’re here,’ Swifty put in. ‘And how easy will it be to ambush us on those hill roads?’
‘Very fucking easy,’ Rizzo said. ‘And it’s his fucking turf, every villager reporting our movements. Fuck, he even got a guy coming to our fence.’
