Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Ready weapons, ready thunderflashes. Rocko, Rizzo, Slider, hut on the left of me. Stretch, Tomo, Swifty, hut on the right, go in front doors quickly when I say go or if we’re spotted. Moran with me.’

  I led Moran off and to end of the huts, seeing the dog handler chatting to someone. I waited, the dog glancing my way, but its handler held it firm. When the dog was led off we had our best chance, and we ran across to the mess hut, backs soon against the walls.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Count to ten, and go.’

  I counted down in my head, Moran turned the door handle ready, and on “five” I threw two thunderflashes at the tall guard tower, on “ten” he opened, my automatic fire surprising the soldiers sat there, tea cups in hand. Moran fired a long burst of blanks at the ceiling, and we could hear echoing fire around the camp, thunderflashes going off.

  ‘You’re all dead, gentlemen!’ I shouted before pulling off my face mask. ‘Take your thumbs out your arses and you may live longer.’

  A captain walked over. ‘How the heck did you get in, and so fast?’

  ‘We’re good at what we do,’ I told him.

  ‘British? SAS?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not had anyone take us by surprise before, except a French team one year. Well done, we’ll get the trucks to take you back.’

  ‘Jolly good of you,’ I said with an accent.

  Outside, the rest of the team walked over, all smiles.

  ‘Scared the fuckers,’ Rocko said.

  ‘Good work everyone,’ I shouted.

  ‘We can do this in our pigging sleep,’ Rizzo noted. ‘This place is like The Factory.’

  The trucks took us back, and we briefed the second team on exactly what to do, Moran figuring they’d be onto us. But no, the following evening Henri led our second team of eight men – three regular SAS in the team - and repeated our success step for step, the local infantry not that switched on.

  The next morning I heard voices, heard my name called, and stepped out placing on a soft green cap and finding a line of senior officers from NATO countries, as well as Clifford the reporter.

  I saluted the group, recognising the Colonel from the Joint Intel Committee, some time out of the office for him.

  ‘We brought your embedded reporter,’ the colonel began.

  Clifford was in combats, a bag on his shoulder, an ID card around his neck.

  ‘You missed it all,’ I told him with a smile. ‘We’re just about finished.’

  ‘We heard,’ the colonel noted, the other NATO officers studying me. ‘A near perfect score, some new course records.’

  ‘Not much competition, sir.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ came an American accent, the officer not looking happy.

  ‘Meaning, sir, that the men here are not pushed unless they push themselves, units don’t compete directly against each other but against the clock, and if they screw it up they can do it over – unlike in a war, where if you screw it up you’re a bit dead.’

  ‘You don’t think this is well planned?’ the colonel asked, and now I could see our trusty Canadian major – and he looked concerned.

  ‘I’m not sure what any of this achieves, sir, it certainly doesn’t prepare men for war. The only interesting thing we’ve done has been the night infiltration exercise, which was a modest test.’

  The colonel glanced at his colleagues. ‘And do you think that you could design a test that would be ... more useful?’

  Some of his colleagues seemed a little put out by that, our Canadian major looking worried.

  ‘Not much time left, sir. The other teams would have to finish quickly, and then we could make use of the time left for an exercise.’

  They faced the Canadian major. ‘Is that workable?’ the British colonel asked.

  ‘Well, yes, sir, there is time, depending on what you had in mind.’

  The colonel faced me. ‘A mini three-day test?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, sir, but maybe a twenty-four hour test.’

  The colonel faced his colleagues. ‘That’s the three-day test I was telling you about. A score above ninety qualifies men to work with Captain Wilco.’

  ‘Captain ... who?’ our Canadian major asked.

  ‘Me, sir,’ I told him. ‘Wilco is my cover name.’

  The French colonel began, ‘We have been preparing a similar test, and two of our men are working alongside Vilco for a year,’ he informed his colleagues.

  ‘They’re both here, sir.’ I turned my head. ‘Henri, Jacque, front and centre!’

  They stepped out, and stamped to attention when seeing their colonel. He led them to one side, chatting away.

  ‘You have French soldiers embedded with you?’ asked the American.

  ‘As well as a New Zealander, sir. He was on a year’s placement with our SBS, but he did well on my test so I borrowed him, and he does well in action. The French sergeant, Henri, I came across in North Africa several times, joint operations, so I requested him.’

  ‘And how’s the back now?’ the British colonel asked.

  ‘Much better now, sir, thank you.’

  The British colonel proudly stated, ‘Wilco broke the world marathon record, as well as the record for swimming the English Channel, and most every other record we have.’

  Clifford had been listening, waiting patiently. ‘Nothing compared to Bosnia.’

  ‘Bosnia?’ the American asked.

  ‘I’ve written a book about it, got a lot of detail from Serb soldiers that faced Wilco, not much detail from Wilco. Yet.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at the dig, and faced Clifford. ‘Like I said, print it when I’m dead, you won’t have long to wait.’

  ‘A bit ... defeatist, Captain,’ the American noted.

  ‘Myself and my men undertake rescues every month, sir. I’ve seen action every month straight for two years, sometimes three jobs a month. My luck will run out sooner or later.’

  ‘I voz in Bosnia at zer time,’ came a German accent. ‘My unit voz recording radio traffic, zo ... it is strange to finally meet wid you.’

  In German, I said, ‘The Serbs were badly led, all bunched up, it was not all down to my skill, sir.’

  The American officer said, ‘So your unit works like our Delta Force?’

  ‘Partly, sir, yes, but we also do undercover work for Intel, or a simple shootout, we don’t always go for hostages, but sometimes target the hostage takers regardless.’

  The British colonel said, ‘Have a think about a 24hr test and let the major here know, would you.’

  ‘I will do, sir.’ I saluted as they walked off.

  Back sat on my bed, I considered how we might run a 24hr test. There were ten nations here, and time was a factor.

  Clifford came back to us an hour later and claimed a bed, chatting with the guys.

  By the morning I had a plan, and I went and found the Canadian major, and we sat with a cup of tea as I outlined the detail, some of it surprising him a little, but he did think it could be worked, a few extra men brought in.

  He informed me that the other teams had been given a nudge, and that they would tackle most events soon, those yet to try them, and that we’d have three to four clear days for my test. My test was a 24hr scenario, so we’d have time for a rest afterwards.

  Two days later the senior officers were back and the various teams were informed of a slight change to the plan, a final ‘special’ scenario, and that it would be very tough. The best four men would compete, three reserves in case of injury, two men voluntarily swapped, and two only.

  All was set for the next day, and Clifford would get snaps of the men in action. I would take part with our first team, with Swifty, Moran and Mouri, and in reserve was Rocko, Rizzo and Slider, Slider to be first up, a second team to have the four SAS lads with Tomo, Napoleon and Jacque as reserves.

  The course was set, white tape used in many places, a chalk board illustrating the ‘course’, and what was required, a second boar
d listing teams and scores. Every team started at 100%, and lost points as time went on, so the scores could be seen ongoing during the 24hrs, and scores could be affected right up till the end.

  Teamwork was required, in so much as all the team had to cross the line within the allotted time or lose a point, and – theoretically – if the men hit every target and ran quickly without injury they could keep their 100% score.

  I had written a speech for the major, and indicated that it was what I used back in Wales for a similar scenario.

  At 10am the next morning the teams gathered, their kit weighed, adjustments made, and I made sure that my team was not overweight this time. Each team was required to jog around the course and familiarise themselves with it, a closed five mile loop with two shooting ranges, and two streams to cross. Everyone got wet before they had even started, complaints to be heard on the breeze on this pleasant day.

  All teams were allowed to zero weapons, a few not bothering, which was odd.

  At 11.30pm the teams were lined up, the senior officers off to one side, the Canadian major stood on a jeep.

  ‘Gentlemen, you will soon start the 24hr test scenario, the detail of which you should already have. You will have already run the course, five miles, no risk of getting lost, and we have at the east end an improvised shooting range, the same at the west end, and all the usual rules of weapons handling must be observed, so that when you run your weapons are made safe. If not, you lose penalty points or could be withdrawn.

  ‘If you suffer an accidental misfire, you will lose more points, an accidental wounding and your team will be withdrawn of course. If a man is injured, such as a twisted ankle, you can swap that man up to a maximum of three times, after which your team is withdrawn, but ... you can only swap that man here, so you would have to carry him to this location.

  ‘You can elect to swap two members at any time, but just two, so it would be unwise to swap early in case of injury – you would have no one left to swap with.

  ‘The contest will start at noon, and go on till noon tomorrow. You are required to run or walk the five miles inside a set time, otherwise points are deducted. After midnight tonight that time is extended a little, as it is in the final two hours.

  ‘On this shooting range you will see metal plates, grey with white circles, and you are required to knock down at least eight to avoid losing a point. They are placed at one hundred and fifty yards, and are six inches across, telescopic sights may be used, but you are only allowed to fire ten rounds.

  ‘Regarding ammunition, you can elect to carry as much as you like, but will obviously be heavier, and ammunition will be issued in batches of thirty rounds here, so you should always have twenty or thirty rounds on you.

  ‘You will see other teams during the test, and two teams will always be side by side on the range, but you will not need to race each other. Trick is to be fast enough, without expending too much energy.

  ‘You will all now place on orange strips so that you can be seen at night, and there are umpires all along the route, and here. Instructions given on the range must be kept to, for safety.

  ‘Now, there are a few things that we will do to make life difficult for you. After four hours, your will have sand and water put down your clothing, to make you uncomfortable.’

  I smirked at the looks he was getting from the teams.

  ‘That is to simulate being wounded and uncomfortable, as you might expect in a war. When you shoot you will have thunderflashes set off near you, to simulate artillery and to distract you – as would happen in a war. When you are tired, your thinking will slow down, you aim getting worse, as would happen in a conflict spanning many days. What is required is that you think straight and shoot straight when cold, wet, tired, uncomfortable and distracted.

  ‘All teams can step down and withdraw at any time, but that will affect your overall performance report here obviously.

  ‘Now, teams will set off at staggered times, and teams will be held back at various times so that the teams don’t mix. Please move forwards in your teams in the following sequence. British One, American One, British Two, German, French, Canadian, Belgium, Norway, Turkey, Greece, Netherlands...’

  I stood at the starting line, four full mags on me and on the lads, so no worry about extra ammo for a while, and I was looking forwards to this, I always liked a challenge.

  Led forwards with the Americans, I was up first. ‘Cock your weapons, adopt the kneeling position, safety off. When the first whistle blows you may fire, but must stop at the second whistle, and you will have fourteen seconds. Standby...’

  My heart going, I waited, soon a whistle. I raised, aimed and fired, a metal plate knocked down, cracks in my ear from the American’s M16, and I hit my first four in time, a thunderflash going off between us. I managed to ignore it, my shooting buddy missing a plate. I hit ten and stood up a second before the whistle went, my buddy on seven, a point deducted already.

  ‘Make safe weapons!’

  I unloaded, catching the expended round, re-loading as I stood at the rear, Moran up. He was ten for ten, his buddy on nine, Swifty dropped one, the final American on seven, so they had dropped two points.

  Led to the start of the white tape, warnings given about weapons made safe, safety on, we were sent off first, a steady jog adopted.

  ‘What pace do we set?’ Moran asked.

  ‘I’m working on it, but from what I told them to set, this is it, steady jog should do it.’

  At the mile mark the tape led off the track, wooden poles to the water’s edge, umpires sat in jeeps.

  ‘Careful, watch for ankles and knees, help each other.’ I helped up Moran, he pulled me up, and I pulled up Swifty, Swifty pulling up Mouri. We ran on, legs and boots wet through.

  We were panting at the three mile mark, our time noted, no time warning given so we were OK. We stood and waited for the Americans. They came jogging in, the umpire telling them that they were close to a time penalty. Standing and firing this time, targets at 150yards, I hit ten for ten in time, Moran hit ten, Swifty got ten, Mouri nine, our buddies replicating their earlier performance, two of their lads hitting seven, points lost.

  Jogging off, I set the pace, counting in my head. All those hours spent running around the airfield at Catterick and counting was now paying off.

  At the four hour mark we had the aforementioned sand dropped down backs, down chests and in pants, water added, none of mine complaining, the Americans cursing at length. With an enforced ten minute toilet break, I grabbed a cup of tea and peeked at the board. We were still at 100%, the closest to us being the SAS at 94%, the Belgians at 92%.

  At sun down we were holding up, the steady jog not taxing us, but Mouri had hit eight twice, a worry for later. The targets were poorly lit, and so losing points during the night was just about certain.

  After midnight the time to hit the targets was extended slightly, as was the time allowed to run, but we kept the same pace, and Swifty dropped a point on the east range, Mouri dropping a point on the west range.

  Every time we hit the east range my reserve lads would check that we were OK, and this time around they informed us that one of the SAS lads twisted an ankle, Napoleon now in the game.

  At 3am, Mouri was hitting seven or eight, I was hitting eight, Swifty alternating from ten to seven, Moran almost perfect still. I made a choice.

  ‘Mouri, swap with Rocko,’ I called at the next pause, not Slider.

  Rocko received his sand and water, and we hit the range. Rocko hit nine, Swifty and myself hit eight, Moran hitting nine.

  And for the time up to dawn we held just above the line. We had not dropped any points for jogging, but hitting the damn small plates was dodgy even in good conditions.

  Swifty then went and spoilt our day, tripping somehow a mile from the east range, his knee jarred. Rocko carried him a mile back, and we made it just in time, Slider up. One more injury before noon and we’d be screwed.

  At the next toilet pause I grab
bed a tea and stared at the board, tired muddied faces glancing at the figures. We stood at 93%, the SAS at 83%, the Belgians at 81%, the Dutch disqualified for not one but two accidental discharges.

  At 11am I encouraged the lads on, all now tired, but the jogging was not the issue. The water had made our feet sore in places, legs were chilled from the night, sand rubbing, and we were as uncomfortable as on my three-day scenario.

  Minds were focused on the ranges, eyes tired, faces determined, and we kept the scores up, a few sevens hit, but not too many, a crowd gathering near the east range, men loudly encouraging on their national teams, and our final jog was done at a fast pace, almost a sprint as we finished.

  The British colonel approached through the crowds with his American counterpart, moving through a sea of dark green uniforms. ‘Well done,’ he offered. ‘Not least because I won a hundred dollar bet.’

  I smiled widely. ‘Should have made it more, sir.’

  ‘Any injuries?’

  ‘Damaged knee to one of the lads, fell over, nothing major, sir.’

  ‘Well done,’ the American colonel offered. ‘Hell of a performance.’

  ‘In the UK, sir, we undertake a three day scenario just like this.’

  ‘Three days? No sleep?’

  ‘They’re allowed an hour’s rest, sir.’

  ‘Jesus. This lot are all half dead after twenty four hours.’

  Back at the tents we stripped down and cleaned ourselves up, Henri organising hot tea and cake, and in fresh clothes - clean and fed, I lay down and slept for six hours, waking with a terrible back, my legs stiff from the cold water, all of the lads complaining about bad legs and feet. Swifty was in the medical bay at the distant base, knee bound up.

  Clifford popped in later, taking comments and making notes, and he had uploaded many pictures to his paper, the story in front of British working men as they had a greasy breakfast in some roadside cafe, he had just been waiting the final scores before they went to print.