Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 4 Read online

  Wilco:

  Lone Wolf

  Book 4

  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

  Delta Force

  Two days after returning from Canada, I drove into work having had words with Ms Turner that morning, and the night before, and during the afternoon before; I had not rung her often enough from Canada apparently.

  ‘You’re back then,’ the Major noted. ‘Been quiet around here, I got some gardening done.’ He showed me the story in The Sun. “SAS out-class NATO allies”. They rubbed it in, “Rule Britannia” in bold letters, making me laugh.

  ‘The new Colonel is happy,’ the Major informed me as we made tea. ‘Had a few generals on the line as well, all happy enough, spoke to Bob yesterday, he’s happy as well, the Prime Minister happy.’

  ‘My girlfriend ain’t happy, sir,’ I told him.

  ‘No? She missed you?’

  ‘She missed me not calling every day on an expensive sat phone.’

  ‘They tend to do that, women. Oh, we brought down that corporal from the sniper school, had him up at The Factory with Sergeant Crab and the SBS, he’s got some training in.’

  ‘Good, he can hit the ground running. What about that Marine, sir?’

  ‘Bob signed him up, external member.’

  ‘We’ll need to organise a training exercise soon for the externals, sir, keep them sharp, and interested.’

  I spoke with the RSM then Rawlson, the first dozen regulars having been put through the new 24hr test, scores pinned up so that all could see them.

  That evening I avoided Ms Turner and had a curry with some of the lads, my new nickname being “Hen Pecked”.

  The next morning, after orders were issued, courses detailed, the Colonel stepped in.

  ‘Ten-shun!’ I called, a few of the lads a bit slow.

  I faced Tomo, and gave him a pointed finger. ‘If you’re that slow next time, I’ll dock Rocko’s wages by five hundred quid.’

  Tomo went pale, a glance at Rocko as Rocko stared back at him.

  I faced Rawlson, who seemed pleased that I chastised Tomo. ‘After me, sir?’

  ‘You and Major Bradley.’ He took a moment as I told the lads to either leave to duty or to sit. ‘We’ve had a request from the Americans. Their Delta Force is in Europe, got some free time and wanted to undertake a joint training exercise, new terrain, new people, that sort of thing.’

  ‘We’ve trained with them before, sir,’ the Major put in. ‘They copied our structures when they were created, their founder served with us in Malaya.’

  Rawlson nodded. ‘Nothing to do with Canada, and they don’t attend that sort of exercise anyhow. No, they read reports of your rescues, because apparently the CIA creates reports on all such rescues worldwide and all kidnappers, and uses them for analysis and training, so they’ve studied Somalia onwards I guess.’

  ‘We could put them through The Factory, sir,’ I suggested. ‘Depends on how much time they have.’

  ‘Be a dozen of them arriving next week as they leave Germany, be staying at Fairford, Gloucester,’ Rawlson informed us. ‘So you have till then to think up scenarios. And, apparently, some CIA guy that knows you will be popping down.’

  Faces turned towards me, puzzled expressions. ‘That would be the other day job, sir.’

  ‘Oh, right, that kind of work,’ Rawlson noted before he left.

  ‘You do work with the CIA?’ Moran asked, not looking happy.

  ‘Who?’ I asked him with a deep frown, turning away.

  Ten minutes later two armed MPs stepped in, and my heart skipped a beat. I stopped and stared at them, two big strong men with bushy moustaches.

  ‘Major Bradley?’ they asked for.

  The Major drew level with me. ‘Yes?’

  They saluted. ‘We’re assigned here now, another two on night shift, orders from the top. This room is never left unguarded, files and stuff, and a man on the door, sir.’

  ‘Ah, Bob did mention something,’ the Major said, a glance at me. ‘Need to keep the files safe, as well as a general tightening of security since we’ve pissed off all the world’s terrorists – and a few others.’

  ‘And a few of our own,’ I quipped.

  ‘You Captain Wilco?’ the first man asked.

  ‘I am, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You get a driver and escort, sir, just in case.’

  ‘Just in case?’ Moran nudged, having drawn level with me.

  The MP Sergeant focused on Moran. ‘In case someone comes for him ... and in case he shoots them full of holes on a public street. Sir.’

  I exchanged a look with the Major. ‘Was inevitable I suppose.’

  ‘The way you upset people, damn right,’ the Major agreed. ‘And that’s just the women in your life.’

  I shot him a look.

  Moran focused on me. ‘Pissed your bird off?’ He shook his head and tutted.

  Over the weekend I spoke to the RSM, and he could slot a few of the Americans into the three-day if needed, and could also arrange the Catterick exercise if need be, but we did not yet know how much time we would have with the Deltas.

  On the Monday I took a team up to The Factory, including Sergeant Crab and some of the directing staff, and we met the Delta team there at 10am, The Factory not too far from Fairford. They came in a green RAF coach with a police escort, kit dragged down from their bus.

  ‘This your base?’ the first one puzzled, dressed in a drab green, no beret.

  ‘No, this is the rescue training centre,’ I told him. ‘No point going all the way down there just to come back up here.’

  They lugged their kit into one of the rooms with camp beds as I greeted their Captain, Castille, a pleasant-faced half-caste Hispanic.

  ‘Could stay here,’ Castille noted as he took in the room. ‘Save going back and forth.’

  ‘There’s a canteen, 24h gate staff, we stay up here often. No bar.’ They dumped kit onto beds. ‘How long do you have?’

  Castille shrugged. ‘Long as you like. We’ve stepped down, next team is up.’

  ‘Chasing aircraft that are never hijacked...’ I posed.

  He shrugged. ‘We sit around a lot, travel a lot, chase planes a lot, hardly fire a shot in anger.’

  ‘And Mogadishu?’ I asked as they opened green holdalls. Faces turned towards me.

  ‘Some of our teams were there, we missed it, we were here in Europe, Cyprus mostly. Your insert into Somalia went smoother.’

  ‘I read about your action in Mogadishu,’ I began. ‘High tech, well coordinated, well thought out and highly detailed plan, lots of units working together. All the right ingredients for a fuck-up.’

  ‘And your philosophy?’ Castille asked as men unpacked.

  ‘Keep it simple, judge the ground when you see it.’

  He nodded, looks exchanged with his men. ‘You have the track record, so maybe we are overcomplicating it.’

  ‘We have a week’s worth of scenarios for you here, we have a camp in the north of England with a set scenario, so it’s up to you what you tackle.’

  He put his hands on his hips, a look exchanged with a staff sergeant. ‘Treat us like your soldiers, being trained in hostage rescue. We might be re-inventing the wheel, or learning something new. And we can tackle this three-day test we heard about.’


  ‘Are you sure, it’s a bitch?’

  They seemed offended.

  ‘Guys are fit, we’ll do it,’ he insisted.

  ‘My guys are extra fit, and they have nightmares about it, they’d rather go fight in a war.’

  They exchanged looks. ‘Towards the end then, save injuries.’

  ‘We insist everyone uses AK47s for that test.’

  He nodded. ‘Lads are good with an AK.’

  ‘Right then, when ready. Webbing, weapon, live ammo, outside.’

  Ten minutes later they were lined up. ‘First six, to the left – Sergeant Crab, second six, on me.’

  The first six started with a basic barbed wire fence, and progressed individually and in teams whilst I started the second six on doors and windows.

  I approach a standard wooden door. ‘OK, it’s a door, wood, does not look reinforced. You’re out here, you want to be in there, or at least have a look at what’s in there. Could be hostages, could be the toilet, or a room full of kidnappers.

  ‘First, the sun.’ I pointed up, and they looked up, puzzled. ‘If I approach that door in daylight or moonlight, my shadow can be seen under the door. So, I approach from the side, quietly and slowly.

  ‘Kneel down, ear to the door. How long? What’s your life worth? Could be some fucker in there reading a book, rifle on his knees. So you listen. Can’t hear anything, still want a nose inside, have a look at the lock. Can’t see a bolt, maybe the door is open already, so don’t blow it open.

  ‘Lean in, top of the door, gentle press. If there’s some give, there’s no bolt. Kneel down, gentle press, a little give, no bolt. If you can’t move the door, then either it’s solid or bolted, either one being less than straight forwards.’

  I pointed at the first man. ‘Next door, tell me what it is. Off you go.’

  He glanced at his colleagues and walked over, remembering to avoid a shadow. He listened for thirty seconds, pushed high and low, and studied the lock, backing up. ‘Not locked, bolt at the top, flimsy door, no sounds.’

  I nodded. ‘So why bolt a door at the top?’

  ‘Lock busted,’ someone said.

  ‘No key,’ another offered.

  ‘Either,’ I agreed. ‘Someone pulled it closed and pushed the bolt, so that someone does not have a key or did not want it locked. That tells us that maybe they’re a bit sloppy, or not expecting company. Either way it’s good. Depending on where that door is tells us something about the kidnappers. Maybe there’s an inner room, strong door. Would there be hostages the other side of that door?’

  ‘No, because one could unbolt it and be away,’ Castille suggested.

  ‘Right, so ... if you thought that room housed hostages, what next?’

  ‘Reassess the fucking shit intel,’ a sergeant said.

  I nodded. ‘If you thought they were in there, think again.’ I waved forwards one of the directing staff, and he led everyone around to the other side of the wall, a long line of locks nailed to wooden boards, and he went through each type. Could they be kicked off, shot off, or blown off.

  That done, he led them along to doors with high mud banks behind. ‘Each of you, study the lock, then either kick it open or shoot the lock.’

  The consensus was to kick it open, which a man did. We moved down a door.

  ‘Have a look.’

  The consensus was modest lock with two modest bolts. Kick and shoulder. The biggest man kicked off the lock and shouldered the door, two big shoves breaking the bolts.

  We advanced along.

  ‘OK, study the door.’

  An ear to the door and a frown caused a finger to lips, a signal that someone was inside. The door was tested gently, the lock studied.

  Backing away from it, Castille said, ‘Someone inside, radio playing, good lock, bottom bolt closed.’

  ‘So ... your strategy would be?’ I posed.

  ‘Blow the lock and bolt at the same time.’

  ‘Your explosives are at the bottom of a river you crossed,’ I told him. ‘Improvise.’

  ‘Shoot the lock, the bolt, and shoulder it,’ a man suggested.

  ‘And if there’s a man inside, weapon ready and cocked? And you have M16s, 5.56mm, not a lot of power against that lock. And there are hostages inside.’

  ‘And your strategy?’ Castille curtly asked.

  ‘First - try and get them outside, second – reassess and come back later. It’s not worth shooting the hostages you came to rescue, and you can always look for a different angle. We nearly always use decoys, we’re not big on storming into places using force, although we train for that.

  ‘Storming in is the last resort, sneaking in is the second option, getting them outside is even better, and on occasion we’ve caught them moving the hostages by jeep.

  ‘And let’s consider the politics here, the real reason we mount rescues. My bosses like successes, they don’t like fuck-ups and bad newspaper headlines. My worst case scenario is when my boss tells me that we must get the hostages, and quickly. That’s where fuck-ups come from, and dead soldiers and dead hostages.

  ‘The hostages in Somalia we rescued had been there months, another day would make no difference, so if I hadn’t liked what I saw I would have pulled back, I may have even gone home, because dead soldiers and dead hostages is not worth it, and if we had aborted no one would have known.

  ‘One of my team, wanting to get into a heavily fortified base, almost gave up trying to find a way in that would not have been a shoot-out, but then noticed the drains. He blocked the drains, and when they came out to have a look he put a bomb on their jeep, which they drove back in as he headed home.

  ‘Not every solution ... is the force solution. Be good at storming in, then try damn hard at finding a way that doesn’t involve storming in.’

  Back to the locks, they had a lesson on picking locks, strengths and weaknesses as I had a nose at those going over fences – they were progressing with varying degrees of success.

  After a lunch break, everyone observed a team of four Deltas going at an electrified fence, long bolt cutters covered in rubber employed, the fence cut after the live wires were bypassed. That was followed by an electric fence with sensors, their electronics expert carrying handy gadgets, till I took them off him. They would have to do it the hard way.

  Silver foil from gum was used on lasers, tumblers had their wires stripped and bypassed, the fence quietly cut, and they knew what they were doing.

  Teams of four were then tasked with climbing a building and entering a window, the window to be cut out – very quietly.

  Back down, I said, ‘OK, what did you miss?’

  They exchanged looks. ‘All went well,’ Castille insisted.

  ‘When you cut the glass, a cold breeze would have blown through the building, alerting people to an open door. If you want to be clever, rig up a poncho or blanket, or very gently widen the opening, allowing the inside air and outside air to equalise slowly over ten minutes, first man in makes sure the internal door is closed – or cold draft and people alerted.’

  ‘Good point,’ Castille noted with a smile. ‘When my lads sneak out for a cigarette I can feel the cold draft on my cheek.’

  Sergeant Crab nodded a signal, and I led them off to three doors in a hut.

  ‘OK, tell me which door has a gunman behind it. Your lives depend on it.’

  Exchanging looks, they inched forwards using hand signals, doors looked at, listened to, hands placed to test for warmth.

  ‘None of them,’ Castille said after five minutes.

  ‘Go back and sniff the locks.’

  The exchanged looks, and did so, Castille smiling. ‘Middle door, guy is smoking.’

  ‘You just threw away your lives for not sniffing. Learn something now, gentlemen; most enemy soldiers are crap. They smoke, they chat, they lounge around, and the last thing they expect is for you to come in the window. Sometimes, people like you give them too much credit.’

  Moran brought over a paintball gun, fac
emask and goggle.

  ‘OK, captain, mask on, goggles on, and search that building for a lone gunman, and shoot him before he shoots you. Remember, a hit to the throat can kill, collar done up, don’t fire at point blank range – it hurts.’

  Off he went with Moran, the rest split up. A team of four, with blanks loaded, clambered up a building, no accidental discharges, and came down, one accidental discharge.

  ‘Do it again!’ I told them, walking off. At the brick wall I observed as two Deltas cut the plastic on a double-glazed window and prised out the glass panes, both sets.

  Castille came out ten minutes later with a smirking Moran, paint on our guest’s chest. ‘I walked right into that,’ he said after taking the facemask off. ‘Saw a pair of boots, fooled by them.’

  ‘You’re still alive, so learn from it.’ I grabbed the next man and handed him the facemask and goggles, sending him in.

  He came back cursing, paint on his back, Moran again smirking.

  ‘Don’t tell me, the mirror.’

  ‘I saw my own damn movement in the mirror. That place is like at a damn carnival hall of mirrors.’

  Smiling, I sent off the next man, and he came back with paint on his head, cursing. He’d have a bruise. Next I sent two men in, to move in covering positions.

  They cleared three rooms then spotted the pair of boots, already aware that the boots were a trick. Moving to the corner next to the boots, they used a part of a broken mirror to scan the next room, finding it clear, the boots attached to a dummy with a clown mask on. They advanced. Then they saw their own mirror reflections, puzzled them, but figured it out.

  One turned around, checked, and turned back. ‘Hey, where’s the clown gone?’ he whispered.

  They turned and backed up, the clown gone, looks exchanged, just as a clown face popped out from behind a door. They fired, suddenly both hit in the back, laughter heard.

  ‘Sons of fucking bitches!’ loudly echoed through the building as they came out.

  I stood with Castille and the directing staff, arms folded as the two men took masks off. ‘Tell me that you were not fooled by the clown.’

 
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