Wilco: Lone Wolf Book 9: Book 9 in the series Read online

  Wilco:

  Lone Wolf

  Book 9

  Copyright © Geoff Wolak

  Started January, 2014

  This book is historically very accurate in places, technically correct for the most part, yet it is fiction, really fiction, definitely fiction, and any similarity to real people or real events – although accidental - is probably intentional. Some characters in this book may be based on some of the wankers I have either worked with or unfortunately met over the years.

  www.geoffwolak-writing.com

  Stop shooting at me

  The day after getting back from Sierra Leone I was awake at noon, but stiff as hell. A look out the window and it was grey and raining, but cold rain, not like the tepid rain in Sierra Leone. After a shower, no sign of Swifty, I wrapped up warm and jogged to the canteen, finding a few lads in, all looking half dead.

  I sat with Bongo, Henri and Dicky and ate a huge breakfast that was actually lunch, and finally wandered up to the hangar.

  The Major was just leaving. ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ he noted.

  ‘In on a Friday, sir?’

  ‘Haven’t been in the rest of the week, so today I started the paperwork.’

  I nodded. ‘Catch up Monday then, sir, no dramas I can think of at the moment.’

  I sat with O’Leary for an hour and went through forms, mostly about kit, a cup of tea with Whisky - who had just returned from Botswana. Moran passed me as I left the hangar, and promised to get some paperwork done. The words seemed stronger than the man appeared.

  Monday morning at 9am everyone met, all in civvies, Swann and Leggit now with us, the move approved by London. Lassey was gone, as was Slade, but the mood was not down, and no one was mentioning their absence.

  ‘Settle down,’ I called, Crab and Duffy off to one side with Whisky, the Major on my left, Moran on my right. ‘OK, as before, you will each get two grand, and next week off, so ... go relax somewhere. When you’re back we’ll have a piss-up and a meal out somewhere, funded by some nice Nigerian warlords.’

  They laughed and cheered, the Major shooting me a disapproving look.

  ‘Sign the form, take the money, and ... fuck off.’

  With the room finally emptying, I faced Whisky and said, ‘You have another week off if you want it.’

  ‘Off to Cornwall, family thing.’

  I faced Bongo. ‘You have time off as well, but I want these new rifles tested. Rig up some sandbags, get some help, string on the trigger, and stick twenty full mags through on automatic, see if the barrel explodes, then look for wear.’

  ‘Something to do,’ he agreed. ‘I was so bored I thought about using the gym.’

  ‘You used the gym?’ the Major queried.

  ‘I said I thought about it, sir,’ he replied, making us laugh as he left, the Major shaking his head.

  I faced Moran. ‘You off anywhere?’

  ‘Portugal, 4pm flight from Bristol. Some sun, some hill walking, a few cold beers.’

  We stepped out chatting.

  I had spoken to David Finch and would meet him in the morning, travelling up tonight, my usual hotel booked. But I had also spoken to the Defence Minister, and cheekily asked for a meeting with certain people, ahead of other post-mortem meetings.

  In the morning, after chatting to David for half an hour, we joined a wider meeting in the MOD building. In on the meeting was the Defence Minister and his aid, my familiar JIC mandarin, the brigadier in charge of the UKSF directorate plus Colonel Dean, the Air Commodore, General Dennet and Colonel Clifford, the head of army Intel London, and the head of GCHQ and some of his staff. It took almost half an hour of greetings and chat before they settled.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I called. ‘I asked for this meeting, a meeting that we shall call – The Almost Fucked-it-up meeting.’ I took in their puzzled faces and quizzical looks. ‘Sierra Leone went well, great publicity, but we came within a hair’s breadth of a major fuck-up and a serious loss of life. The fact that no one knows outside this room, and that it never happened, should not prevent a post-mortem of an almost major fuck-up and a very bad newspaper headline.

  ‘Certain mishaps were avoided by luck, or many in this room would be feeling the heat, difficult questions being asked, the newspapers wanting to roast some of you. So, first off, ex-SAS soldiers trying to kill me.’ I held my hands wide. Loudly, I began, ‘How many more times do I have to deal with ex-SAS men trying to fucking kill me? I’ve had more near misses from ex-troopers than enemy bullets, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘SIB are supposed to monitor them -’ General Dennet began as several people spoke at once – and loudly.

  ‘Supposed to my arse, sir!’ I cut through with.

  ‘They’ll get their arses kicked...’ he started as others grumbled loudly.

  David cut in with, a pen raised, ‘In the past we were directly warned-off spying on ex-troopers.’

  ‘Bollocks to that,’ the Defence Minister put in. ‘You spy on them, and this SIB unit - treble it in size and give it teeth. We had enough embarrassment with Colonel Roach, now a car bomb. If someone is in your way – tell me.’ He turned his head to Colonel Dean.

  The Colonel began, ‘I can’t talk for my predecessors, but I’d like to see such men shot and buried, so spy on the fuckers by all means.’

  ‘What’s needed,’ I cut in, ‘is that when a man leaves the SAS an assessment is sent to SIS, or to this SIB team. Maybe the guy is married with three kids, going to teach first aid, maybe he’s a psycho. That’s the start point.’

  ‘I’m happy to implement that,’ Colonel Dean put in. ‘They embarrass us the most.’

  ‘My man Captain O’Leary knows most of them,’ I began. ‘He should be consulted, and given a budget to go buy some men a beer when he feels like it, an ear to the ground, a cheap way to avoid a great loss of life. If that car bomb had gone off ... Echo would cease to exist.’

  ‘And all the money and training wasted,’ the Defence Minister noted.

  ‘I’ll monitor progress on this,’ Dennet threatened. ‘I want these shits off the streets.’ Others agreed with him, heads nodding.

  I took a breath. ‘OK, next issue. On most every job my team goes on we get a helicopter about to attack us. Is there such a thing as man-portable radar?’

  The Air Commodore replied, ‘Not small enough, not as small as you’d like. Americans have some kit, could be driven in or taken by helicopter, size of a wardrobe, and it would give you a ten mile range.’

  ‘I want one, on evaluation, a second on evaluation with 2 Squadron, a third with the SAS. 2 Squadron support my men, they hold the FOB, so they should have radar on a building.’

  David put in, ‘There’s a kit the size of a large suitcase, limited battery time, could have an external generator.’

  ‘Can we get one or two on evaluation?’ I pressed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If it gives me sixty seconds warning, that could save lives. In Sierra Leone I got half a report from the US Navy of maybe a radar contact, and I called it right – and panicked. Without that radar contact we could have lost thirty men killed, a major fuck-up and a bad newspaper headline. I’d like one soon, because we may have a job soon, and you can bet that some arsehole in an Mi8 will be flying around trying to stop me.’

  ‘Make it a priority,’ the Defence Minister told David.

  ‘Next, I know the army has a type of radar that tells when artillery shells come in, and from where.’

  General Dennet put in, ‘Yes, and it works well, but it’s bulky at the moment.’

  ‘On some of the jobs, sir, we could have used that, and must consider it for FOBs in the future. If
we get a mortar attack, we could do with knowing where they are. OK, next – radio detection.’ I pointed at the head of GCHQ. ‘How do I know if there’s a man with a radio a mile away.’

  ‘Our men were with your Captain Harris, and we dropped bundles by helicopter. They snag in the trees, pick up signals and send them out. We also have a small device that will tell you of an active radio, and a rough direction, but distance is not accurate.’

  ‘If I’m in the desert or the jungle, I just need to know someone is active.’

  ‘That it can do.’

  ‘I’d like some, and the training, and some for the SAS, and some for 2 Squadron, please.’

  ‘We can organise that.’

  ‘With those two elements, radar and radio, I could have eliminated the ... almost fucked-up the entire mission aspects, so they are important, and urgent. And whilst on GCHQ and Intel, the spooks have done a good job of saving my arse in the past ... by tracking satellite phones used by the bad guys. That aspect should only ever be pushed forwards, but it brings us onto my next gripe.

  ‘Mi6 was originally there to spy on the Russians, then the IRA, and I often feel that their direction is ... outdated. The chances of a conflict with Russia are slim, the chances of more action in Liberia is an absolute certainty. The government needs to budget for passive intel in the region so long as British troops are on the ground, a far greater role for GCHQ monitoring the neighbouring countries.

  ‘Gentlemen, we should have known about Ivory Coast, and we came very close to a large number of casualties because we didn’t know about that base.’

  ‘We had no remit,’ the GCHQ boss put in. ‘We follow our remit.’

  ‘I understand, and my dig is at the historical attitude of our government. That needs changing, and today, because you can be absolutely certain ... that right now some bad boys are sat in Ivory Coast wondering what they can do next.’

  ‘I can look at that with some urgency,’ the Defence Minister agreed, making a note. ‘A short term budget operation, till we leave.’

  ‘And a similar approach in Morocco, the Congo, and any place we may end up operating,’ I suggested. ‘If Echo is sent to a country, GCHQ should be notified that instant, and looking at passive intel. In Mali they got us signals intel on the attackers at the mine. Great. Just that we need more of that to avoid casualties.

  ‘Next, I would like to ask that 2 Squadron be enlarged slightly, and a sniper team created.’

  ‘Been thinking along those lines,’ the Air Commodore told me.

  ‘I’d also suggest that the medics train with them, and that a flight of medics be based with them, and practise parachuting into a place.’

  ‘We have eight qualified, I think.’

  ‘Having the medics embedded saves lives,’ I told everyone. ‘And it gives them something interesting to do.’

  ‘This “G” Squadron problem,’ the brigadier in charge of the UKSF nudged. ‘Was it a fuck-up?’

  ‘No, sir, it was an heroic action. What I didn’t figure on ... was that six hundred rebels, including their best men, would run off at the first shot fired. They all ran south, and right into fifty men of “G” Squadron. The SAS fired so many rounds they ran out of ammo and beat a few blacks about the head with their rifles, then picked up AK47s off the dead and fought on.

  ‘The lesson, the fuck-up, was that if they had AK47s in the first place they could have simply grabbed magazines off the dead, as my men do.’

  ‘That has been discussed,’ Colonel Dean put in. ‘And you do it for good reason. If you’re behind the lines, grabbing ammo off the dead is a damn good idea.’

  ‘The SAS still favour the M16?’ General Dennet asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Colonel Dean answered.

  ‘And these new rifles?’ General Dennet asked me.

  ‘Proving to be damned excellent, sir. The men found that they’d shoot one man, and kill the man behind – saves on ammo that does. They pack a punch, and are damned accurate at distance. You’d be wise to consider them for Army sniper teams, sir.’

  ‘We’ll get some on evaluation,’ he agreed, making a note.

  The Defence Minister pointed at Colonel Clifford. ‘You were there throughout?’

  ‘At the planning table, yes. And we dodged the bullet three times, we should have all been killed. And radar would have been good, because without the Lynx that Para drop could have been a disaster. Helicopters and fixed wing came from Ivory Coast, and took us by surprise. Some warning would have been nice, or we could have lost a Chinook shot down, thirty men in the back killed, lots of Paras killed on the ground.’

  ‘I’d call that an intel failing,’ the Defence Minister noted.

  ‘We have no assets in Ivory Coast, Minister,’ David defensively put in. ‘Few in Africa, plenty in the Middle East,’ he cheekily added.

  ‘As has been suggested, a short-term budget should accompany our soldiers,’ the Minister echoed. ‘Or we would have all got some shit instead of the praise we received.’

  The JIC mandarin said, ‘The American role in Liberia ... was a puzzle to many.’

  ‘Still a puzzle to me,’ I replied. ‘Mostly, they want a good newspaper headline, and they analyse what my team does and learn from it.’

  ‘Cheeky buggers,’ the Defence Minister let out. ‘They fucked up enough of their own operations. Somalia, Lebanon.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, sir, so I stage-manage rescues for them, and they pretend we never assisted.’

  ‘Why put up with that?’ the brigadier from UKSF asked.

  ‘First, the Prime Minister told me to keep them happy. Second, we made good use of their radar and aircraft, so we got something out of it. They put bombs in a runway for us, so ... great. And in Borneo they assisted directly.’

  ‘Because it suited their interests,’ the JIC mandarin put in.

  ‘If they asked for something without offering something I would tell them where to go,’ I told the JIC man. ‘And I call David here to discuss what the Americans want, unless it’s a risk – then I tell him afterwards.’

  They laughed, David shooting me a look.

  ‘Plausible deniability,’ David told them.

  ‘And how do you see that relationship developing?’ the JIC man pressed.

  ‘They’ll want more jobs where their men are along on the rescue. My men do the hard work, take the risks, they get the publicity.’

  General Dennet faced the Defence Minister. ‘And we’re happy with that?’

  He sighed. ‘It’s political, not based on sound military judgement. But they give back, so ... we cooperate.’

  The JIC mandarin asked me, ‘And have they tried to tempt you away from us?’

  ‘I turned them down.’

  ‘Cheeky bastards,’ the Defence Minister let out.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, when I finish with Echo I’ll go back to driving the Air Commodore here. Easy number.’

  ‘The wife keeps asking, she worries for me.’

  I faced the Defence Minister. ‘Am I to carry on setting-up the Americans to look good, sir?’

  ‘Yes, we need them onboard. And the bloody French have two men with you, yet claim it’s always fifty-fifty on jobs!’

  Many laughed.

  ‘I have a New Zealander as well, sir, but so far the New Zealand government is not claiming credit for any of the rescues.’

  ‘And a Russian?’ General Dennet asked.

  ‘No, sir, he just has a heavy accent. He’s from ... Cumbria.’

  General Dennet cocked an eyebrow at me.

  ‘And the police?’ the Defence Minister nudged.

  ‘Are now well trained, and almost ready. But ... what has been suggested is that they have a base somewhere, that they wear combats, and that they train like SAS when not doing police hostage work. They can use my base for training, and The Factory in Leominster.

  ‘That way, sir, I can move my men in and out, and SAS, and we offer support as assets. If the police plan a job, and want two snipers,
I loan them two snipers.’

  ‘Interchangeable men,’ the Defence Minister noted.

  ‘Would make it seamless,’ Colonel Dean put in. ‘They ask for my men as and when, and we train together some of the time.’

  ‘And you’re happy to do that, and relinquish that role?’ the Defence Minister asked Colonel Dean.

  ‘Yes, sir, back to green field soldiering for us, not sitting around London wasting time.’

  ‘Damn right,’ General Dennet put in.

  The JIC mandarin began, ‘But how will the public react to police officers in uniform carrying large guns?’

  ‘That we’ll have to see,’ the Defence Minister told him.

  With the Defence Minister gone, we got a brew on, and chatted. I thanked the GCHQ bosses before he left, and discussed enlarging 2 Squadron with the Air Commodore and General Dennet.

  At the end, Colonel Clifford said, ‘I often wonder what motivates you, and I observed you in Sierra Leone, and you just wanted to get the job done, and now shout for the tools to get it done. Admirable qualities.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. There’s already enough politics and bullshit out there without me adding to it.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried at the time, but at night I think back to how close I came to being killed. Does it affect you?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m always trying to fix things, so onto the next job, no time to dwell on it.’

  The next meeting was an inquisition, me sat in front of the entire JIC board, the American delegate sat in on it as always, and I answered questions for an hour, and they often questioned me as if I had started the damn campaign. I had to remind them that I consulted with the PM most days.

  I had a curry with MP Pete later, plenty of beer, and back to my hotel room before midnight. Calling Tomsk after sitting in my room with a tea, I asked that he buy fifty Valmect rifles and donate them to the British SAS as a thank you.

  ‘They are good rifles?’

  ‘The best, especially for sniper work.’

  ‘Then I buy some for my men here.’