Wilco- Lone Wolf 14 Read online

  Wilco:

  Lone Wolf

  Book 14

  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.

  Email the author: [email protected]

  www.geoffwolak-writing.com

  War in the media

  Flying back from Georgia, low-level across the Black Sea, I had a crisis to deal with, the lads now worried about what had been leaked to the press, also worried about the poor state of the crappy old aircraft we were now flying in. And the man who had allegedly leaked that information, he was – hopefully – dead and burnt in the fine old winery we had just attacked.

  Unfortunately for us he had sent the press something before he left the UK, before he got blown up and burnt, that dossier now in the hands of The Telegraph newspaper, and flying back to Incirlik Airbase I had to wonder what he knew.

  He had worked in the Russia House, the joint group of Russian speakers that Mi6 and Mi5 shared, a group that had become somewhat redundant since the end of the Cold War. He had met and spoken to Sasha for sure, and he knew about Casper, so how much trouble were we in – I had to consider.

  During the Cold War we took in defectors, but in this case we had taken in members of criminal gangs and converted them to our side, past crimes ignored. I had to wonder what the legal position was, but neither man had committed crimes on UK soil, so it would just be Interpol who would be upset with us.

  Then there was the FBI, certain to be interested in Casper, not least because he had the features of Petrov, as photographed in Nigeria.

  Landing at Incirlik Airbase in a tatty old twin-propeller aircraft, I took out my sat phone and called Bob Staines as US Military Police personnel met us. ‘We’re back at Incirlik, but I just got word from London that our spy-on-the-make sent a dossier to The Telegraph newspaper.’

  ‘Oh hell. What department was he?’

  ‘Russia House.’

  ‘Then he knew Sasha for certain.’

  ‘What criticism could we come in for ... hosting Sasha?’

  ‘Well ... none really, we hosted defectors in the past, even if they had a criminal record, and we’ve handed immunity to terrorists if they assisted us.’

  ‘And Casper?’

  ‘If the FBI think he’s Petrov then it’ll be an international shit storm, but they have to prove it’s him. And if the Prime Minister says it’s not him – fuck all the FBI can do.’

  ‘The new Prime Minister doesn’t yet know about me being Petrov.’

  ‘The Americans will pressure him, don’t worry. Petrov is the golden asset, closely followed by Sasha and Casper.’

  ‘So it comes down to what else that guy knew about our operations..?’

  ‘They chat lunchtimes like old ladies, so he may well have known a great deal. Mi6 is no different to the SAS; tell a man it’s a secret and it gets around faster than a memo!’

  I sighed. ‘The Telegraph is in Fleet Street, yes.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re planning new printing presses away from the city.’

  ‘I need you to get a man inside their building.’

  ‘My lot will have a man or two inside, they always do.’

  ‘Do you have old contacts, people who don’t know you’re out?’

  ‘I could try them, yes.’

  ‘Offer a man some good money, to get inside one evening when everyone is in, all computers switched on, and to set-off the sprinklers.’

  He laughed. ‘That would cost them a great deal, and they’d be out of circulation for a week or two, time for the Home Secretary to get some notices issued.’

  ‘Do it, but try and get access to the water tank or the pipes, we need some red wood glue in there.’

  He laughed. ‘That would piss them off, but demonstrate a link to Nigeria.’

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ I told him. ‘Get me the editor’s home address, and I want to know who the owners are. Get back to me, work fast, we leave London out of this one. Well, silly to say that, you always leave London out, that’s the whole point.’

  I called London and asked for a discrete flight back, pronto, then called Max. ‘Listen, got a story. Remember my lady civvy worker that was tortured, Lesley?’

  ‘Yeah, I ran the story.’

  ‘The detail she gave up has been sent to The Telegraph, they’re going to use it,’ I lied.

  ‘What little buggers.’

  ‘Give them some shit whilst not getting yourself a lawsuit.’

  ‘Be a pleasure.’

  ‘And a quote from me: anyone with an ounce of dignity should stop buying The Telegraph. Any paper that uses information gained through the torture of a woman is beneath contempt. The Home Secretary should act to stop the release of secrets gained through torture and murder.’

  Sat with my lads in our transit hut, American MPs on guard outside, I told them, ‘If this guy knew about you – Sasha, as well as Casper, then it’s a damp squid because we can legally take in defectors, even if they have a criminal record. Question is ... what else he knew. Most likely he got third-hand gossip that was exaggerated. So ... we wait and see, but I have people lined up to fuck with that newspaper.’

  We slept most of the way back, a private jet that dropped us discretely at Brize Norton at 4am, few about, a bus waiting, armed MPs on duty and saying hello, asking after Camel Toe Base.

  I managed to get two hours sleep after a restless night thinking about what our spy friend had revealed to the press. I knew I was guilty of many things, but I had done those things for London, so I was feeling non-guilty. Mostly. Kind of. Apart from the fact that we had just murdered a house-full of people in Georgia.

  I ate in the canteen with a few of the lads, security still tight after the recent attack here, and at 8.30am I sat down with the Major to tackle some paperwork, including staff assessments, as well as a recommendation for a medal for the two Wolves who had shot-up the Nigerian artillery men.

  David Finch called. ‘The story in The Sun this morning is most agreeable, The Telegraph getting slandered by the BBC and most everyone else.’

  ‘And the documents?’

  ‘We’re not supposed to know about them, but the Home Secretary can at least ask questions now.’

  ‘Any clues as to what they say?’

  ‘All we know so far is that Sasha is detailed, and your alleged shoot-to-kill policy.’

  ‘Few people in the UK worry about my shoot-to-kill policy, it’s old news, and the UK is allowed to take in defectors.’

  ‘Then we wait and see if they have something of substance.’

  At 10am General Dennet called the landline. ‘Your local member of parliament has lodged a complaint with the MOD, and the police, that you used heavy weapons to deal with your latest attack.’

  ‘We did, sir. Mortars and GPMG.’

  ‘Firing mortars at civilians is not allowed, even if they are terrorists, so there’s an MOD enquiry under way.’

  ‘Then, sir, tell the plonkers up there to stop wasting time because the heavy weapons were all used on MOD property, none went onto private land.’

  ‘You fired them over your fence!’

  ‘Sir, outside my fence is MOD property stretching on another mile, leased back to the farmer.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and you being the MOD I figured you’d have the map and the deeds of this place.’

  ‘No need to take the piss, Captain, a nd I’m going to beat a few people senseless and check a map.’ He hung up.

  An hour later the Major got a call, the local MP wanting to visit - with the police chiefs of Gloucester and Oxford. He had, apparently, been granted access by the Defence Secretary this morning, and been told that we would cooperate.

  ‘No big deal, sir,’ I told the Major as he held a hand over the phone receiver. ‘Let them in.’

  At midday the convoy arrived, expected, no one shooting at it, and I waved them down near the canteen. The sour-faced MP got out of a police car, a man in his fifties, no less than six senior officers present, two of them being Chief Constables.

  ‘Gentlemen, welcome to GL4. And let me first say that I cannot guarantee your safety here. If there’s an attack we’ll shoot back, but – you know – car bombs and the like are not always spotted.’

  ‘You’re expecting another attack?’ an unhappy Chief Constable asked.

  ‘Around this place? Always. Follow me, please.’ I led them a few steps to the barracks and up the stairs to the roof. From the roof they keenly took in the base, as well as carefully eyeing the two Wolves with Nicholson, rifles in hands.

  I pointed south. ‘The first sniper was spotted in those woods, day after the car bomb north ... and the French journalist with an exploding car and an exploding phone.’

  ‘Exploding phone?’ a copper asked.

  ‘We got the phone off him after shooting him, but it felt too heavy, so I threw it, and when it landed it exploded. Was full of Semtex.’

  ‘Don’t recall that in the report,’ the Chief Constable of Gloucester nudged.

  ‘Would have been in the MOD report, but I was not involved with that. The MPs write them up.’

  The Member of Parliament began, ‘And you fired mortars onto farmers’ fields...’

  ‘It would have been wise for you to check your facts before opening your gob, because my friends in The Sun newspaper are going to crucify you.’ He blinked as I pointed south. ‘The MOD property here extends a mile in all directions, leased back to the farmer under agreement, and if you had half a fucking brain you would have asked first before making allegations.’

  ‘It’s MOD land?’ the Chief Constable repeated.

  ‘It is, and anyone making allegations or comments will be dealt with in the press, or in the courts.’

  The same man asked, ‘You tried to keep our officers out of it, but this is the UK, not Africa, this is our patch.’

  ‘And just what the fuck would an unarmed officer do up against a trained Russian sniper with an assault rifle?’ I snapped at him. ‘You try and tackle men like that and you’ll have a cemetery full of officers!

  ‘The men that try and kill me are not local house burglars with a screwdriver, they have high-power assault rifles and Semtex bombs. Just what fucking chance do you think you’d have against them? I’m training your counter-terrorist armed officers, and they could survive the encounter, your local Bobby won’t live to tell the tale, so I tried to keep you out of it.

  ‘In Hereford I reported a suspicious car and your officers drove up and got their fucking heads blown off. On the M4 near Swindon your officers stopped Nigerians and got themselves killed. What’ll happen next time? If I get a tip-off about heavily armed men coming for me we get ready and we meet them head on, only we’re more heavily armed than they are, and you’re not explaining the deaths of your officers to the grieving families.

  ‘And London knew of my decision and did nothing to contradict it. We’re trained, equipped, and paid to do this, your officers rescue cats from trees. So let us do what we’re good at, and you all don’t go around in flak jackets carrying rifles and scaring the British population. Unless you want every copper to be armed..?’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ the Chief Constable of Oxford cut in. ‘And you’re the ones supposed to deal with such men, not our local village bobby, so I have no issue with you taking the lead on such matters. We just all want a quieter life.’

  ‘You could ask the Prime Minister to stop sending my men abroad...’ I toyed. ‘Leave a few hostages to rot.’

  ‘We’re not on opposing sides here,’ he emphasised. ‘And your men have done an excellent job in bringing hostages back home to their families, we don’t deny that.’

  ‘And so long as we keep doing that a few terrorists will want to get back at us.’

  ‘And this latest attack, who was behind it?’

  ‘A Russian middleman who supplied weapons to the Islamists in Nigeria to use against us. He was paid to send men here.’

  ‘Paid by who?’

  ‘You know I can’t answer that. Ask Mi6.’ I pointed at the politician. ‘Get your brain in gear before opening your gob.’ To the officers I said, ‘You’re all welcome here any time, to look around, to make plans, and we can get your officers on the ranges.’

  ‘Kind of you. I’ll be sending our nominated Counter Terrorism officer down regular from now on,’ the Oxford Chief Constable told me, a nod exchanged with is Gloucester partner.

  I led them down the stairs, a few practical questions asked of me, agreement for closer cooperation, the politician lost for words for once. I thanked them for their SOCO teams and officers, and waved them off.

  The Major pulled alongside in his car, just heading home. ‘All OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir, police are fine, and that politician will get his balls kicked. Business as usual.’

  ‘Try and stop upsetting people, or we’ll need a much bigger fence.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ I said with a smile as he pulled away.

  I received a call at 5pm, police arriving at the offices of The Telegraph, questions to ask. But I was informed, in the same breath, that the paper could stall the police and could probably print the detail legally. Stopping a British paper from printing something was hard work for the authorities here; a D-Notice had to be valid and could be challenged in court, the result of an independent legal system that the British were proud of.

  At 7pm, Major Whitworth called from Camel Toe Base.

  ‘How’s it going down there, sir?’

  ‘It was hell, I was tempted to take my men out of here and tell London to fuck off, but the French got more medics in, and about a million body bags, and some of my lads volunteered – gloves and masks on. They moved bodies into bags, powder on them, then all the bags were roped to the bulldozers and dragged south a mile or so, jeeps dragging bodies as well, and then the Red Cross turned up and decided to earn their keep.

  ‘But the Red Cross are complaining that you took ID cards and that they can’t identify bodies, so we didn’t tell them that we also took ID cards and phones and sent them to the French Intel people.’

  ‘Those ID cards are important, sir, makes the deaths of our men worthwhile.’

  ‘Yes, some Colonel from Intel dropped in with his French counter-part and we had a cuppa and a chat. And the French lads, they dug out a swimming pool and made concrete sides. They say it’s for water storage, but we all swim in it, almost twenty metres long. First thing in the morning it’s damn cold, perfect around 3pm.’

  I laughed. ‘Your men will go soft, sir.’

  ‘They will now, US Engineers landed with a million tonnes of concrete, metal supports, thirty men, so they have a tall tower with firing points and six pill boxes about two hundred yards out in all directions, fifty cal inside, so we’re well covered.’

  ‘Any attacks?’

  ‘We get rockets every other night; no wounded yet, we all sleep in the drain. Oh, had a herd of camels today, odd beasts, and they drank from the pool for twenty minutes. We fed them chopped fruit and they loved it.’

  ‘So there are no bodies left in line of sight?’

  ‘No, we dragged them all south, and boxed up the weapons.’

  ‘Do me a favour, and identify our Valmet rifles, box-fed and grenade launchers, and have them shipped to Sierra Leone. Keep four grenade launchers, and some ammo for them. MOD wants the rest back. There are also a two crates of AK47s in good condition-’

  ‘I’ve seen them, yes.’

  ‘Send them to Sierra Leone, sir, and then have your men check and clean the ones taken off the dead, and when ready they go to Sierra Leone as well.’

  ‘OK, gives us something to do other than bake and then cool down.’

  ‘US Navy still there?’

  ‘No, they left, there are twenty-five Rangers, Major in charge, a chap born to Scottish parents but in California.’

  ‘Stay sharp, Major, they will probe you once they’ve recovered a little.’

  ‘We have the new tower, and there’s electronics in it, small radar up top, so the Yanks are confident they’ll see trouble a long way off. Got an aircraft radio in there as well.’

  At 9pm, sat with Swifty and watching the TV, my new troop sergeant having gotten bored with fishing, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s David Finch, and it seems like the Fire Brigade are on their way to the offices of The Telegraph...’

  ‘Someone smoking set off the fire alarm maybe.’

  ‘They’re reporting that the sprinklers activated, but with a nasty red liquid...’

  ‘All my men are accounted for, it was not us, you can be quite certain of that.’

  ‘Good to know, just in case anyone draws a parallel with a poor company in Nigeria.’

  ‘Who got the blame for that mishap in Nigeria?’

  ‘Islamists.’

  ‘Must be a few Islamists in London.’ Off the phone, I said to Swifty, ‘That newspaper; some cunt just set off their sprinklers.’

  He sipped his tea, focused on the TV. ‘Would ruin their computers.’

  I nodded. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Maybe even electrocute a few people.’

  ‘We can but hope, yes.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco, it’s Max. Are any of your lads up to no good in London?’ he asked with a lilt.

  ‘No, all accounted for. Why?’

  ‘Odd really, but the sprinklers were set off at The Telegraph, but a red smelly liquid came out, same as in Nigeria.’