Wilco- Lone Wolf 21 Read online

  Wilco:

  Lone Wolf

  Book 21

  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

  A deep dark wood

  I woke feeling rough, and I had to wonder why; it was not like me. Was I getting on in years, or was it an accumulation of old injuries? I finally decided that I had lost my zing, too many people screwing with me or trying to kill me. I was in two minds about getting out of bed.

  I did finally rise, simply because I needed a pee, and it was already 7am. Dressed in civvy clothes, I walked around to the canteen in light drizzle, finding quite a few of the lads in. Breakfast grabbed, I sat next to Henri, Tiller and Brace arguing with Tomo about night-sight accuracy.

  ‘Nowhere to go?’ I asked Henri.

  ‘My head, it takes a few days to decide. Now, France is cold like here.’

  ‘Maybe Tenerife.’

  ‘Pah, young English drinking and fighting. I am an old man.’

  ‘I feel like an old man most mornings.’ I chewed my food. ‘Do they not want you back and teaching?’

  He pulled a face. ‘French Echo, they think they know everything now. And 1st Battalion are all now heroes, to them at least.’

  ‘Well we appreciate you if they don't. You and Dicky, you can sing a sad song together.’

  ‘It is true, yes, old soldiers. Very sad.’

  ‘My body is older than yours, and I have more scars.’

  ‘Rocko is now a soldier again?’

  ‘I let him come on a few trips, but … if he hits his head he goes blind in one eye.’

  ‘Ah. The military doctors..?’

  ‘They don't know, I don't tell them. He can still help out around here.’

  ‘Outside, I do not think he would be happy.’

  We exchanged a knowing look.

  ‘None of us would be,’ I told him. ‘Old soldiers don't sit quietly at home. But that is next year’s headache, we have to survive this year first.’

  Up at the hangar I nodded at the MP, soon up in the Intel Room, the day shift starting to arrive, but a few had time off – they had slept here during the campaign and had worked eighteen hours straight.

  The Brigadier stepped in as I sat chatting to the nice lady captain. ‘Media has a few shitty stories.’ He handed me a copy of The Telegraph. ‘Lack of care of the mine workers, allegedly.’

  I started to read. ‘There'll be an enquiry I guess.’

  The article seemed to have been penned by the fat cunt I had a go at, and seemed to suggest I had no regard for the mine workers safety whatsoever. It suggested that the families of the dead could take legal action against the government.

  At 9am I called David Finch. ‘You seen the bollocks in The Telegraph?’

  ‘Yes, just read it, and others. The contract that the oil workers signed covers us, and it mentions that they know the risks and accept them in return for greater pay, and tax free pay.

  ‘But many of the men came from a Nigeria-based agency, and have no claim against us because we have no agreement in place with them. Liability rests with the agency first.

  ‘Hard to see how they have a case, it would be the agency taking us to court for some breach. And then the agency would need to take the Liberians to court, then us and the French jointly.’

  ‘Does the UK Government accept responsibility for our citizens in Liberia?’

  ‘Hell no. You could not get a visa, nor insurance for the country, and most UN nations don't even recognise Liberia as a nation. Men are allowed to work over there by signing a waiver and accepting some risk. If you rang an insurance company and asked for cover for Liberia they would laugh at you.

  ‘What that article is saying is that you kept them in place when they could have driven somewhere, but it does not say where they could have driven nor how safe it would have been during a coup.’

  ‘Driving to Freetown they might have made it, and flying there in a Chinook they might have made it,’ I told him.

  ‘And did you know the exact whereabouts of the rebels?’

  ‘Well … no.’

  ‘Then overland travel would have been a risk. The rebels had landed before you got back to the mine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the mine workers, you evacuated them an hour later...’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So the rebels had time to drive around and set traps. To drive from one end of Liberia to the other does not take long, it's a small place. And responsibility rests with the colonel in charge in Freetown. He may have taken your advice, but the buck stops with him and him alone.

  ‘At the end of the day, civilians have been caught up in war zones before, and the Army has seen them killed and wounded, and we've resisted legal action. I wouldn't worry about it.’

  ‘I worry about what the lads think about it, what their families read.’

  ‘I don't think they're the sensitive type, whereas you worry about the detail, well beyond their IQ levels.’

  ‘Are you trying to say my men are thick?’

  ‘Yes,’ came straight back.

  ‘Not all of them, some can spell and do joined-up writing.’

  ‘And Rizzo?’

  ‘Why does everyone use him as an example, eh, that's not fair. But our new man, American Wolf Murphy, did ask not to be in Rizzo's troop, on account of Rizzo's toilet habits.’

  ‘I shudder at the thought.’

  ‘Any word on Mgolo?’

  ‘No dead body recovered nor parts thereof, no live body either, no press statement making claims that he's alive and well and visiting his in-laws. And the Ugandans are worried, denying any link.’

  ‘So Kosovo is next?’

  ‘Probably, yes.’

  ‘Oh, add a Bannaczek to the records, he was working with Van De Berg till a ghost caught up with him, a five foot tall ghost. Check the papers in Jo-burg.’

  ‘I will, yes.’

  Tinker walked in five minutes later, looking tired. ‘You OK?’ I asked him.

  ‘I caught up on some sleep, got some days off accrued. Oh, my lot took delivery of CDs containing databases, mentioned your name on the letter, some very naughty databases.’

  ‘But would they be useful?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said with a grin as he headed into his office. Back out, less his coat he said, ‘One is a Europe-wide database of parking tickets. That puts a person at a place at a time and lists their vehicle license.’

  ‘Which could prove association with someone else. And phone proximity hits,’ I noted.

  ‘They'll run it soon, a cross-match.’

  ‘Spoken to Reggie?’

  ‘He's all settled in a place but said he could not reveal where it is, knee deep in old files. Like a pig in shit. He has a cat, loves cats.’

  I stepped out and called Bob. ‘Hey No.1. You have No.3 with you I hear.’

  ‘Yes, he has a room with a view, kettle and small kitchen, and a cat.’

  ‘This place ... it's your home?’

  ‘Not quite, but I was living here, now up the hill.’

  ‘I'll come visit soon, but … that might be putting you in danger.’

  ‘Not at all. We have a small hotel thirty miles away, and a person checks in, out the back in a van, securely here, no chance of being followed, and the van suppresses all phone
signals.’

  ‘Bob, you are indeed a sneaky shit.’

  ‘Road signs around here are wrong as well, police paid off.’

  ‘For when the Germans invade. When I get a free week I'll come.’

  ‘I won't be holding my breath.’

  ‘Keep asking mercenaries about Mgolo, maybe he's alive. Where's No.7?’

  ‘Feeding the penguins, she said, two days in a place where they have penguins. Five star no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Later, I had a look at the foundations for the new live-fire village, large mud walls created, a canal created as well as a by-product. I spoke to the Army Engineers being directed by an RAF facilities manager, and the canal would be extended towards the other ones, but with a bridge for a jeep or we'd have a long way to go to get to the south woods.

  The Army engineers showed me a sketch of the proposed village.

  I commented, ‘This gives the soldier the ability to see most all of it, and we don't want that. So throw up some houses in the middle. Those houses need to have strong concrete, or over the years they'll get worn down. We then need wood placed to stop ricochet. Have you seen the Killing House here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then like that, but I do want some outside concrete walls seen, insides to have wood. If they shoot the concrete and wound a mate they'll learn from it.

  ‘Here, at the far end, have targets pop up like the new range. They register a hit and drop, as now. And create a tunnel, so that someone has to get in and search it. I then want some old cars and a van. This has to look like a village.’

  ‘Pop-up targets in houses, sir?’

  ‘Yes, lots of them. Now, we can't place instructors in here – too dangerous, so how do we issue smoke and flashbangs?’

  ‘Electric circuit, sir, press a button. Your three day has them now, smoke effect.’

  ‘Great. Carry on. And that ditch come canal, make it wider, so that it deters a deadly assassin from trying to cross it.’

  ‘Barbed wire in it, sir?’

  ‘Hell no, the lads will fish in it. Make it wide and deep and suitable for fishing.’

  Nicholson approached as I returned to the canteen area. ‘Permission to go steal some fish, Boss.’

  ‘Steal them? From where?’

  ‘Up the road is an old water wheel, pond is stuffed full of fish.’

  ‘Anyone own it?’

  ‘It's abandoned.’

  ‘Let's go fishing then.’

  MPs grabbed, jeeps made ready, Nicholson and his gang had six large nets for landing fish and a large blue plastic barrel, plus small plastic boxes, all stuffed into the back of a jeep.

  A short drive, and we pulled in, no one about, a gate opened, the convoy let in, gate closed.

  At the old waterwheel I peered into the murky water. ‘I can't see fuck all!'

  Nicholson and Tomo used the big nets, soon fetching up a dozen fish, many large ones, dropping them in the blue barrel.

  ‘What are those?’ I asked, pointing.

  ‘Grayling,’ Nicholson said.

  Another attempt, and they lifted out a large thrashing Tench and some small Carp, all soon in the barrel, and we soon had fifty fish, the barrel loaded between four men.

  Small plastic boxes soon held dozens of small fish, hard to tell what they were. Downstream they caught dozens of Sticklebacks.

  ‘What the fuck do you want those for?’ I complained.

  ‘There's some Perch in the canal, and they like to snack on these.’

  ‘Ah. So I won't see you reeling in a tiny Stickleback, because that would be cruel and you'd look like a queer.’

  Back at GL4, they manhandled the blue barrel down, but an MP4 called a halt. He had small concrete pipes, most just twelve inches long. He started to throw them into the widest section, dozens of them.

  ‘What are those for?’ I asked.

  ‘The smaller fish hide in them, sir, and grow larger, so they get the chance to grow, not eaten too soon. We also went and got water plants, roots and mud, and dropped them in, and they grow quick, somewhere for the young fish to hide, or they all get eaten.’

  He lobbed more concrete pipes in, finally waving over the barrel, which was poured carefully, the fish seen swimming down, the plastic boxes emptied.

  I studied them, then pointed across the pond. ‘What the fuck is that?’

  They all peered across at a garden gnome. Then laughed. No one admitted to putting it there.

  ‘Do we need bomb disposal?’ an MP asked.

  I took out my pistol, aimed as they got down, and fired, smashing the gnome. A piece of paper fluttered. ‘Go get it!'

  Tomo sprinted up to the gate and down the other side. He finally lifted the paper and loudly read, ‘What has three legs but can't walk?’

  I exchanged a puzzled look with Nicholson. ‘Well at least it never came with a dead body.’

  ‘A tripod!' Tomo shouted.

  We all stared at him.

  ‘Was it on the back?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I thought of that, like a camera tripod.’

  ‘Tomo, did you read a book finally?’ I asked as they laughed at him.

  ‘I'm smart, I am.’

  I stepped away and called Bob Staines. ‘What has three legs but can't walk?’

  ‘Three legs … but can't walk? An oil rig.’

  ‘They have four legs.’

  ‘Some have three.’

  ‘No.1, find me a three-legged oil rig that's relevant to something I might touch upon, factor in Deep State, and then worry some.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I got another message at the fishing pond at GL4.’

  ‘Does this man not have a bloody phone?’ he complained.

  ‘He likes his games.’

  Back with MPs I began, ‘I want a camera pointed that way, set-up soon, or some of you forego next month’s wages.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘That gnome could have had a nuclear device inside it,’ I told them. They exchanged looks.

  Outside the hangar I called David Finch. ‘We just had another cryptic message from Deep State at the fishing pond, but thankfully no body this time.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A message in a garden gnome. What has three legs but cannot walk.’

  ‘An oil rig.’

  ‘That's what No.1 said. Do some research. Do we have any in the North Sea?’

  ‘No, but I'll check. They're mostly used for lifting or repairing other oil rigs. Like a crane on the water.’

  I remembered Mutch, so headed up to the Intel room and his office. ‘I want a list of three-legged oil rigs that may be in dangerous or sensitive places.’

  ‘There is one, Nome.’

  ‘Sounds like garden gnome,’ I realised, grinning. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It's off the coast of Croatia.’

  ‘Any disputes with it?’

  ‘No, Italians operate it mostly, for the Croatians.’

  ‘Is it large?’

  ‘No, small.’

  ‘And blowing it up would cause what?’

  ‘It's uncoupled, undersea pipeline there now. It's due to be scrapped.’

  I eased back. ‘Someone hinted that there could be trouble with it, so … figure out what that could be.’

  He got on the phone, and with the rain holding off I went for a run.

  At 5pm, Mutch came and found me in the canteen. He sat. ‘That rig is heading for Ivory Coast, it's been bought.’

  ‘Ivory Coast, my favourite people. They have oil?’

  ‘Yes, offshore, been piping for years. Not a great deposit found so far, same as the Liberian shelf.’

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘A consortium, which changed hands when a certain Belgian bank went under. Name of Coastal Oil Exploration MCE.’

  I stepped out and called No.1. ‘Coastal Oil Exploration MCE, you know it?’

  ‘I have shares, so does Leon.’

  ‘They just bought a
three-legged oil platform, called Nome, and my hidden message was found in a garden gnome.’

  ‘Oh hell.’

  ‘Start digging, assume the worst, assume that Deep State are involved, or a former faction. It's heading for Ivory Coast?’

  ‘I'll check.’

  ‘Check fast, or we lose a few quid.’

  Tiny called at 7pm. ‘It's me.’

  ‘Hey me. Did you feed the penguins?’

  ‘I saw some, sat on the beach for a while, now at the airport.’

  ‘Long flight.’

  ‘Night flight, Business Class, so I'll sleep.’

  ‘Have a safe flight.’

  ‘I don't worry about 747s, they're very safe. I'll be in Paris some time tomorrow.’

  ‘You have an apartment I hear...’

  ‘Yes, nice beach view as well, back view of the harbour. Any work for me?’

  ‘Not at the moment, but that can change quickly, very quickly, so be careful what you wish for.’

  The next day Colonel Bennet called at 10am.

  ‘My god, sir, I thought you had retired.’

  ‘I have, but I have a favour to ask.’

  ‘Something for your memoirs, or a lock of hair maybe, signed photograph?’

  He laughed. ‘No, I … kind of … found another Wilco.’

  ‘There's three of me already, I have two body doubles.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yeah, the bad guys found them. One is on board, rather than prison, one is still out there.’

  ‘Crikey. Well this one doesn't look like you, and he's in prison as well, the Glasshouse.’

  ‘So what's the favour?’

  ‘He needs help, and only you could get through to him. So … I spoke to the current colonel, mentioned the lad, and he has a high IQ, very fit, great soldier, yet … has temperament issues say we say. I was wondering if you could meet him, or mentor him.’

  ‘If he joined Echo I'd get him killed!'

  ‘Well, that would be an issue, you see … he's my biological son out of wedlock.’

  ‘Fucking … bollocking … hell.’

  ‘Yes, quite, wife still doesn't know.’

  ‘Shit, you old dog...’

  ‘I'd like to send him to you, rather than prison.’