Wilco- Lone Wolf 5 Read online

  Wilco:

  Lone Wolf

  Book 5

  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

  Bogota

  No sooner had I gotten used to Dr Sarah than she casually dropped into our dinner conversation one evening that she had been offered a short-term position to cover for someone else, in Borneo, and she was leaving in a week. And that it would be for “just three months”.

  I hid my disappointment badly, and sighed, and a few days later she packed her stuff, my fridge soon devoid of rabbit food. I went straight out and bought microwave burgers, my rebellious streak showing; my masculinity had been stamped onto my fridge once more, toilet roll no longer on the holder, the toilet seat up.

  But I was alone again at night.

  ‘I’ll be here when you get back,’ I told her before she drove off, but she could detect my tone, not that I was completely sure what my tone actually was, or why I now feared an empty apartment.

  I drove around to Swifty, who had been back from his holidays a few days; we had enjoyed a catch-up beer a few days before. He had gone to Majorca by himself, some time away, got a tan, relaxed for a few days, met a German girl and shagged her for a few days, then got bored – both of sunbathing and of shagging German girls.

  A tanned Swifty let me in, and opened a tin of beer for me. ‘Problems?’

  ‘My gal done gone left me,’ I mocked.

  ‘Get another one,’ he flatly stated.

  I sat with my beer as he studied me. ‘She’s coming back in three months.’

  ‘Get one for three months then, or one a week till she’s back.’ He sat and stared at me.

  I took a moment. ‘When I got back from Sierra Leone, I ... sat in a cold dark apartment for a few hours, wondering what I would do if I left all this behind.’

  Swifty eased back. ‘You and me both, I’ve had that day a few times.’ He took a moment. ‘Fuck’s with your head, doesn’t it, trying to be normal’.

  I nodded, and sipped my beer. ‘I can’t picture what I’d be like, out the service.’

  ‘Me neither, and there’s a few like us, that’s why the cemetery is full of ex-troopers, the prisons as well.’

  Again I nodded. ‘I’ve had nothing but contempt for the old timers, but now I understand it a little better.’

  ‘Battle fatigue, of a kind,’ Swifty suggested. ‘We see more action that anyone else, far more than the “E” Squadron wankers who lose it, so when we stop this shit ... we’ll be much worse than them.

  ‘Adrenaline Fatigue is another phrase, getting used to being at the top, on the edge, risking your life every day, feeling the buzz, then ... empty apartment, nothing to do. Why’d you think all the old wankers sit in a bar telling stories. It’s because they’re lonely and can’t cope.’

  ‘I don’t know when it happened, it just ... suddenly hit me,’ I told him.

  ‘Before Echo Detachment I was OK, your fault I’m fucked now,’ he told me. ‘Before you came along I had one dangerous job every three months.’

  I peered into my can. ‘Would you go back to how it was?’

  He took a moment. ‘No, I like what we do, addicted to it like the rest. We’re premier league football players, and we win each week, our audience loves us, our managers pat us on the back. Who’d want to quit that?’

  I nodded slowly. ‘I think, from now on, I’ll stick to casual relationships.’

  ‘She got to you?’

  ‘Not her per se, just ... having someone there when I got home was better than no one there.’

  ‘We’ll need to hit the clubs more, maybe rent an apartment in Cardiff, a detachment apartment, a few rooms, use it weekends. We’d not tell Travis and Jacque about it, senior staff only.’

  I smiled. ‘I’m sure Bob would accommodate us.’

  ‘I hear Rawlson is being sneaky...’

  I looked up and nodded. ‘He’s gotten rid of many seniors, more young lads in, and they do the twenty-four hour test, and now more of them doing the three day. He has in mind to create a team of volunteers to rival us.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ Swifty suggested. ‘They can support us. But I think he has in mind to replace us, at least take some jobs away from us.’

  ‘As he should, and I have no issues with that, but the powers won’t break up our ... winning football team till after a few fuck-ups.’

  ‘Best avoid the fuck-ups then,’ Swifty noted.

  ‘I met with Bob, and he wants more spy training done, less mortars and 105mm, but many of the lads are not suited to that kind of work, not Rocko or Rizzo, not Stretch or the Salties. You and Moran, Slider, Smitty and Tomo, Travis, maybe Lassey, not sure who else would be good undercover.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Swifty let out a sigh. ‘Rocko in a tux being James Bond.’

  We laughed.

  ‘Not seeing it,’ Swifty added.

  ‘You like that kind of work?’ I asked him directly.

  ‘Done some, did OK. Prefer a stand-up fight. But ... it depends on the work and the team.’

  ‘There’ll be more bodyguard work coming up,’ I told him. ‘The kind of places where no sane man would go. Like Bogota.’

  ‘Pleasant spot,’ he quipped. ‘But the SAS has have a long standing relationship with Colombia, a few “E” Squadron lads out there regular on bodyguard work, some work with the Americans, raids on cocaine farms – but the locals always knew they were coming. Can’t trust the local police, or the politicians, or some of the Americans out there, a few DEA agents found with suitcases full of cash.’

  ‘Lads are back on Monday, I’ve seen a few around,’ I began. ‘But we might be off next week, a threat to the British Ambassador there.’

  ‘Who would you take?’

  ‘Just five of us. You, Rizzo, Tomo and Napoleon I figured, the lads good with pistols. One lad stands down always, four man team active.’

  ‘Tomo is good with a pistol I hear.’

  ‘He draws faster than me and hits what he aims at, so too Napoleon. Moran and the Major can run things, get some training organised.’

  The next day Rizzo rang me, back from his ten day holiday to Thailand with Stretch and Rocko. I met them in the curry house, the lads tanned and looking relaxed, loud shirts worn, and they gave me all of the detail.

  They had flown to Bangkok and then down to Phuket, to a nice hotel with several pools to flop about it, and had only been there an hour when hookers had knocked on their hotel room doors – jet lag massages offered. Well, when in Thailand.

  After that they had drunk a great deal, and paid for blowjobs three times a day – and at a great rate apparently, and all three admitted to having not fucked a little Thai lady since the massages and blowjobs were so good, and none admitted to a sexual disease.

  It sounded like they had a good time, and I was a little jealous after my ups and downs with Dr Sarah, but they admitted to getting bored at the end of the holiday, to getting some running and swimming in, and looking forwards to being back.

  I made sure I stayed late and drank a great deal, and getting a taxi back late I went straight to bed, not even checking the apartment for deadly assassins, no time to dwell on my sex life – or lack of it.

  On the Sunday lunchtime I met with Henri and Jacque. They had gone home to Lyon, met family, and had then hit the south coast of France with old friends from the Fore
ign Legion, both of my Frenchmen now tanned.

  An hour after leaving them I met with Mahoney, fresh back from Florida. He had reported in to his CO for a chat and a debrief, met with his buddies for a few days, and had taken an old flame to the Florida Keys, but things had not gone well.

  After a great start they soon ran out of things to talk about, and she had quit early, leaving him with a lonely condo, just one hapless burglar for company – who Mahoney had beaten to a pulp, a few days wasted with the police. Still, he got some fishing in and relaxed for a few days, and after I told him all my woes he felt better.

  Monday morning, 8.45am, and the Detachment was full and loud, and I made no attempt to call a meeting till 10am. Everyone swapped stories, a few showing photographs, a few boasting about how good their holidays had been, Travis having snared a pin-up model on a beach in Ibiza, nude Polaroid snaps shown around.

  They settled eventually.

  ‘OK,’ I began, the Major checking his file. ‘First we need to check kit, see what was damaged or lost. So, troop sergeants, you know what to do, full kit check, all weapons cleaned again and checked over.

  ‘Anyone with an injury still - see the MO, let us know if you need time to heal, and let us know if fitness levels are in doubt.

  ‘OK, this Wednesday the following people are off for some bodyguard work; myself, Swifty, Rizzo, Tomo, Napoleon. We’ll be off to Bogota in Colombia, a very unpleasant and dangerous spot for mere mortals, but not for us. Get plenty of pistol work in, and the M4 – which we’ll probably have down there.

  ‘Mister Moran, Rocko, you’ll organise the training whilst we’re away, but Bob wants more spy training tackled, and the Major has the detail, so you’ll be attending courses on surveillance and counter-surveillance, photography, listening devices, the James Bond stuff – all great fun.

  ‘You’ll be given exercises in tailing someone in teams in vehicles, on foot, and across the London underground. I expect you to do well - or else. Many of you will do a modified close-protection course, and I want everyone to get to a very high standard on the pistol, those already not there.

  ‘Major, if you could call in some of the Externals for those same courses, we’ll build the number of people who can operate in the surveillance role.

  ‘Also, Captain Moran, Smitty, get some flying lessons in, and we’ll be arranging helicopter lessons when I get back, for myself and Swifty as well, so that some day we might steal an old Russian helicopter, or use one for an insert. So, today, all kit checked, forms filled in.’ I turned my head. ‘Major.’

  The Major went through a list of injuries, notes taken, men to go see the MO and be signed off. The fitness tests would be in two weeks time, and many of the lads would be getting language tutors, tapes and books, exams to sit and progress to be made.

  On the Tuesday I took my Bogota team to the range, everyone stripping and cleaning pistols till fingers were sore, drawing and shooting with civvy jackets on, a great many rounds expended.

  Under a cold grey sky we practised teamwork, blanks in pistols, and the good thing about the blanks was that they caused many ‘jams’, in as much as the pistols did not always eject the round. ‘Stoppage!’ was heard often as we walked Sergeant Crab around the base posing as an ambassador, drawing weapons and firing blanks when ambushed by the directing staff.

  We were as ready as we would ever be after four hours of scenarios and practice, and we all packed up spare magazines, each to carry five full magazines when in the field. Our M4s were checked, test fired and locked into the metal crates with plenty of ammo, and on the Wednesday we set off from RAF Northolt in a mid-sized executive jet, parcel cages at the rear, a few diplomats on board.

  Unknown to us before the flight, we stopped off in Canada, then Bahamas, and finally touched down in Bogota a long eighteen hours after leaving London, fresh pilots taking us from the Bahamas south. My bum had lost all feeling.

  During the flight I had read books about the drugs trade, the guerrilla wars, and the CIA operations in Colombia and Central America, the paperbacks passed around like whores in Thailand. Rizzo snored much of the way, and I got five hours sleep before we landed, and I felt well enough as we taxied around Bogota Airport in the pre-dawn darkness.

  Jeeps were waiting, air conditioned and bullet proof, a man from the embassy meeting us. Just before we landed I had opened our metal box and issued holsters and pistols, as well as magazines, but no one was allowed to load whilst on the aircraft.

  Now, sat in the back of a large jeep, room for us all, we loaded weapons and cocked them, a quick glance over his shoulder from the embassy guy at the metallic clanking.

  ‘So you’re Wilco,’ he said as we drove off in a two vehicle convoy, the outside world a medium grey pre-dawn colour.

  ‘Real name is Captain Milton,’ I told the back of his head. ‘But few use it.’

  ‘Your reputation precedes you,’ he noted as we joined a main avenue heading east, and towards distant green hills. ‘We have a specific threat, from the family of a cartel member picked up in London -’

  ‘Charlo Rodrigiuez?’

  ‘You’ve been briefed?’

  ‘No, just read the newspapers.’

  ‘Well his family are powerful players, and they promised to get even, deaths of British nationals, so we’re taking extra precautions, if indeed that was possible – it’s all very tight around here anyway. VIP visitor in a few days, and he asked for you.’

  I knew who he meant as I peered out of the windows at a modern city, straight avenues with a central grass median. It all looked civilised enough, a clean and modern city, a few yellow taxis seen plying their early morning trade.

  We turned due south on a main avenue, a steep hill on our left beyond the high rise blocks, and we passed a few parks.

  ‘It doesn’t look that dangerous,’ I noted. ‘I’ve seen worse in Africa.’

  ‘For the average citizen life is OK, it’s just when you touch upon the gangs, the officials and corruption, that life gets interesting. Unemployment is high, so well-paid gang work is a draw for some young men.’

  ‘The Ambassador goes everywhere in a bullet-proof car?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Only way to stop it would be a fifty cal or an RPG, so little chance of taking him alive after such a hit.’

  ‘This glass, it’s supposed to stop a fifty cal, shatter but not break.’

  ‘You believe that?’ I asked as I took in the empty streets. I had studied the street map, so had the lads, and it was all very straight forwards - long parallel avenues, a tall hill to the east being a great navigational aid.

  ‘I’d rather not put it to the test. Had a shot fired at me in a jeep like this a year back, crack on the window. Makes a bit of a racket on the inside, unnerving, but before I came out I did all the courses and they demonstrated various weapons hitting this glass, so I was confident enough.’

  I nodded. ‘This glass is good for a glancing blow, but two fifty cal at ninety degrees will punch a hole if they hit the same spot,’ I said as we passed orange-brown high rise apartment blocks and glass fronted office blocks.

  We turned off the main avenue, tram lines visible down the green median, and we pulled up at a barrier, two uniformed local police officers on duty. Windows down, ID shown, barrier up, and we were waved in to a parking area that was at street level, two British Royal Marines on duty and eyeing us warily, rifles held.

  We pulled up and jumped down, car doors slamming and echoing, our kit retrieved from the rear, plus metal cases, and we lugged the kit to a lift, up three levels and into what looked a lot like a hotel corridor, a few doors down and to a common room with doors coming off it.

  ‘This is yours, a team of ex-SAS bodyguards already here, asleep now I guess.’ He handed out keys to rooms, and we placed the metal crates in my room, the small room much like any hotel room the world over.

  ‘You’re on stand-down till tomorrow, so you can get some rest. There’s a microwave and gr
ill in the common room, a well stocked fridge, and a full canteen on this level at the end. Be a full briefing in the morning so ... just take it easy I guess.’

  I told the lads to get a shower, to unpack, to sleep if they wanted to, and not to go anywhere.

  After a shower I made use of the common room, Swifty joining me, coffee made as the sun came up, and we sat chatting, a street map studied.

  An hour later a man stepped in yawning, and he looked us over. He was in his early forties, but looked the part – an ex-trooper. ‘Cavalry here then,’ he quipped as he knocked on the kettle.

  ‘You must be ... Malcolm, known as Mally,’ I said.

  He squinted my way. ‘We met?’ he asked as he fixed his coffee.

  ‘I read your file, since I am indeed in charge of “E” Squadron. I’m Wilco, otherwise known as Captain Milton, and your continued gainful employment depends on my say so.’

  ‘Oh, right then. I’d best shine my shoes,’ he said as he sat opposite me.

  ‘Your shoes .... I don’t care about, your attitude I do, so lose it quickly or be on a plane, never to work for us again. If I have any doubts about you ... you’ll not work alongside me and my lads. So down your coffee, splash some water on your face, and have a think about what you’d like to do ... short term career wise.’

  He took a moment, a glance at Swifty. ‘Well, short term career wise ... I quite like it here, it’s warm and cheap, job pays well. Captain. So I’d like to stay.’

  ‘All you need do ... is be a professional, accept our presence here without wanting to measure your dick against ours, and I’ll put a recommendation on your file.’ I made myself another coffee.

  ‘I’m Swifty,’ Swifty put in.

  ‘Ah, thought I recognised you.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘So you’ve been busy rescuing every hostage that needs rescuing. We get the papers here, and we get the gossip.’

  Swifty said, ‘We have a good little team, two troops, and we work well together. Wilco won’t tolerate idiots around him, all the lads hand-picked, carefully trained. We make the regulars look bad.’