Wilco- Lone Wolf 5 Page 17

  On the drive back, I said to the Major. ‘Sir, how about you drive down four mornings a week, off after lunch, Friday at the new base.’

  ‘I’m not too worried by the drive, not too far, but yes – I’d need to be at the base a few times a week, and be close to the “E” Squadron men.’

  ‘When this base is operational we’ll get them back in uniform,’ I threatened. ‘And training hard.’

  ‘Some will take to it, they miss the action and the camaraderie,’ the Major noted.

  As I was leaving that evening, Sergeant Crab intercepted me. ‘You got a minute, sir?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well, you know, captain and all.’

  ‘What you after?’ I asked with a smirk.

  ‘Well, me an Duffy, we’ve been given notice, six months left.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. How long you been in now?’

  ‘Since seventeen, almost twenty years now, twelve years here.’

  ‘What’ll you do after here?’

  ‘Well, I don’t fancy mercenary work, nor bodyguard to some Arab twat, wondered if your spy friends had something.’

  ‘You really think you’re cut out for that game?’ I firmly asked.

  ‘Got to be better than nothing.’

  ‘Be a good way to get a long stay in some hell-hole prison. Never trust the spy types. But I may know of something for you, I’ll make a call.’

  At home, I called Bob. ‘Listen, Sergeant Crab and his mate, long served, got their marching orders, be out in six months.’

  ‘You want them in Echo?’ he puzzled.

  ‘There’d never pass the tests. No, I was thinking of the new base, logistics, stores and training – they’re perfect.’

  ‘They blab?’

  ‘Not as much as they used to, and they’ve been on all our jobs, we work well enough together. And ... we need someone in that role, someone we know, not an outsider, free the lads up.’

  ‘OK, we can chat about it again when the base is further along.’

  The next day, troopers Slade and Gonzo turned up, welcomed in, and they could have been twins. There were both average height, plain looks, medium brown hair - typical SAS lads straight from the mould. We asked them both questions of what they wanted, what courses they had done, and what their 3-day test scores were, and signed them up to replace Napoleon and Elkin.

  With the lads off to Sennybridge for a week, I was off to London for two weeks, to Greenwich and some book work, this time to focus on logistics and planning.

  When I got back, hoping for some danger instead of a classroom, I was informed by the Major that the new base was coming along quickly, and may be ready soon – Bob was going all out.

  On the Monday, after detachment orders, I drove with the Major to the new base, wondering what we should call it. We did not want to use the old RAF name, and since the postcode was GL4 we used that for now. Hell, we wanted to hide it anyhow.

  An alert MP stood with a rifle, but he was an RAF policeman. I wound down the window. ‘I’m Wilco.’

  ‘Ah, you’re him then. Sir.’ He opened the gate.

  The houses looked the same save for a painter emerging from one – suitably dappled in white paint, and now our future abodes displayed curtains in the windows. We stopped at the barracks as men in overalls came out, and we found the rooms to offer a fresh coat of paint, mattresses in plastic on beds, curtains on windows. The toilets were clean, freshly painted, and the bogs flushed OK.

  Next door we found the old HQ building having been gutted, men applying plaster or painting, a sign up: Visitors Centre.

  The barbed wire caught our attention as we walked behind the canteen, a building now isolated, windows bricked up and cement being applied. Wandering inside, Army Engineers stopping and standing to attention or saluting, we found strong metal cabinets being fitted, and these cabinets had seen better days. Still, they were solid, weapon racks being fitted to walls.

  In the canteen we were surprised to find a dozen civvy workers having a meal, and so we asked how the food was. They had no complaints, and we chatted to the three ladies, two from the village and one from Brize Norton, time-served in the canteen there.

  ‘Remember me?’ I asked her. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Oh my god, yes. And I saw them stories about you in the papers. What are you doing here?’

  ‘This will be my new base, my unit here. And they’re always hungry.’

  ‘We just feed the builders now,’ she pointed out. ‘Quiet some days.’

  ‘Don’t know when we’re moving across, but soon,’ I told her. ‘And no one is supposed to know, so hush-hush.’

  Outside, we walked to the hangars, finding a great deal of work under way. In the first sat two long yellow Portakabins, next to them numerous metal cabinets for stores. We stepped up into one Portakabin, a desk being screwed together.

  ‘Plenty of space,’ the Major noted. ‘I could have an office here.’

  ‘If there are no suitable brick buildings, take your choice, sir.’

  Wandering next door we found an RAF officer with a clipboard. ‘You must be Captain Wilco,’ he said, and we shook.

  ‘How’s it progressing?’ I asked as he greeted the Major, a metal skeleton taking shape, two storeys high, the second floor almost done, huge wooden slabs being placed down.

  ‘This is a copy, more or less, of The Factory – I was up there to take the details. But this has more space, so we have a few long sections, more rooms, a variety of sizes, some internal windows for variety.’

  ‘Good stuff,’ I commended as I took it in. ‘Have you finalised it?’

  ‘Not yet, and the wooden blocks can be moved. Heavy, but they move and then we clip them together, no concrete or brick being used, rubber to go on top.’

  I had a look at the plan. The right-hand side was as per The Factory, just with more rooms, bigger rooms, a zig-zag in the central corridor. ‘This area here on the left, leave this whole area free, we’ll put old trucks and cars in here.’

  ‘Right oh. And the design can be altered a year down the line.’

  ‘How’s the range coming along?’ the Major asked.

  ‘Basic outline is done, eight firing points, butts northwest, nothing beyond it for a mile. Concrete in the butts will take a while, metal frames due here from a range that closed. Old fashioned counter-weight push-up and pull-down I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s OK for now,’ I said. ‘Twelve inch metal plates?’

  ‘I can ask for them.’

  ‘And single man targets on wooden stakes, at least fifty,’ I told him.

  He made a note.

  ‘Coming along nicely,’ the Major commended as we walked around to the 25yard range. It offered new sand, freshly ploughed at 45 degrees, old wooden train sleepers now being placed to make side walls by Army Engineers.

  We stopped at the pub for lunch, finding it busy, a few Army Engineers stuffing their faces.

  ‘Ah, you’re back,’ the landlord greeted me.

  ‘You look busy,’ I noted.

  ‘Yes, booming it is lunchtimes, got two extra staff on. And we now offer cold pasties and pies, and cake and the like.’

  ‘You may soon have lots of extra men to serve,’ I said with a smile. ‘Can you squeeze us in today?’

  ‘Of course, what you after?’

  ‘Two steak and potatoes?’ I asked. ‘Two Shandies.’

  ‘I’ll sort it now,’ he offered, and we sat, right next to a captain.

  ‘Engineers?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he puzzled. ‘Who are you with?’

  ‘SAS.’

  ‘Just passing?’

  ‘No, we’ll make use of this base from time to time,’ I lied. ‘Helicopter operations.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Should be ready soon enough, we’re under pressure from above, some faceless Whitehall bureaucratic arsehole.’

  The Major and I exchanged looks, smiles hidden. ‘Threaten to shoot him in the leg,’ I suggested as our drinks were place
d down.

  After lunch we drove into the village, noting the shop and post office, the church and ancient graveyard, a hairdressers full of old ladies getting a blue tinge, a few old cottages and a small estate of fairly new houses.

  But up the road half a mile I saw a sign and turned off towards Cirencester, and found a large leisure centre with a pool and a gym, a useful find. After peering into the pool, a few old men doing lengths, we popped inside, our uniforms attracting odd looks.

  ‘Manager about?’ I asked, a middle-aged lady coming out.

  ‘Can I help you?’ came from a stern old face that would scare the life out of a hardened soldier.

  ‘We’re from the ... RAF base down the road,’ I began. ‘Could we ... hire the entire facility for a morning once a week?’ I asked, the Major shooting me a puzzled look.

  ‘Well, yes, it has been done. Pool and gym?’

  ‘Yes, pool and gym,’ I repeated. ‘How much?’

  ‘Standard rate is £75 plus VAT.’

  ‘That seems reasonable. Thanks, we’ll be back.’

  ‘You’d have to book ahead, and I could offer a discount for block bookings,’ she offered before we left.

  ‘Good idea,’ the Major commended. ‘Gym and swim for the lads.’

  Two days later, as I walked back from the local shop, it started to rain as I crossed the Abergavenny Road, and I ducked into a bus shelter. And that sudden movement saved my life, a crack sounding out, a tickle of my hair signify a round giving me a haircut.

  I hit the floor, the metal lower parts of the shelter protecting me from view, my shopping scattered.

  ‘Are you OK, mister?’ a teenage girl asked. I rolled onto my back, pistol out. ‘Run, there’s a man with a rifle. Run!’

  She fled screaming as I peered through a hole in the metal advertising hording, expecting rounds to pepper it. But none came. My phone was in my hand in a second. I dialled SIS.

  ‘Duty officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, SAS, shots fired, I’m pinned down. Abergavenny Road, Hereford, near the ... Black Lion pub, shooter with a high velocity rifle, silencer, get me some help out here!’

  I hit 999. ‘This is SAS officer Captain Wilco, Abergavenny Road, near the Black Lion pub, shots fired, terrorist attack in progress, sniper with a high velocity rifle!’

  Next came the base. ‘Duty officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, shots fired, attack in progress, Abergavenny Road, junction with the Black Lion pub, get me some fucking help out here!’

  People down the road were looking at me oddly, till they saw my pistol, then they ran off, no doubt to go call the police, traffic passing me normally – and I wondered when the next bus was due.

  I inched towards the metal again, and peered through a hole, soon focusing on a three-storey multi-storey car park. I figured out the angle, and where I had been stood. It was the only choice.

  I called the police. ‘This is Wilco, SAS, Abergavenny Rd. I believe that the sniper is in the multi-storey car park above Super Shopper. Got that?’

  ‘Got that, yes.’

  I hung up, a glance at my shopping, and I figured him gone by now. But he had a rifle and I had a pistol, so I stayed down, soon hearing sirens. If the sniper was still around, he’d be legging it away now.

  A police car screeched to a halt, and I moved around so that I could wave at them. They got the wave, and moved along the buildings till they were peeking around the corner and towards the multi-storey. They must have got the message.

  Peering underneath the metal I could see flashing blue lights beyond the multi-storey. I gave it a minute, lifted up and ran to the pub, pistol in hand, the officers worried till they recognised me close up.

  ‘What happened?’ one asked.

  ‘I upset someone’s wife again,’ I quipped, soon hearing a helicopter overhead.

  My phone trilled a minute later, people being moved back. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘You OK?’ Bob asked, sounding frantic.

  ‘Just, missed me by a millimetre.’

  ‘They have police moving in from all sides, roadblocks, second helicopter.’

  ‘If the man is a pro he’ll have a way out, they won’t get him. And I’m leaning towards pro.’

  ‘You’ll need another apartment.’

  ‘I’ll go live on that fucking airfield.’

  ‘Be ready soon.’

  Most every copper Hereford had was now on the streets, an armed team moving into the multi-storey behind six of ours, but I doubted the man was still around, or had left any evidence.

  Two green Land Rovers were let through the police barricade and they pulled up, the Major and Moran jumping down, the lads piling out, all heavily armed – a worry to the locals.

  ‘You hit?’ the Major asked me.

  ‘I got a haircut,’ I said with a smile. ‘Missed by a millimetre, and I was running at the time.’

  ‘A professional,’ the Major noted, a glance down the street. ‘Police on the way from Gloucester, London mob on their way, all hell breaking loose. Where did the round hit?’

  I pointed at the grass playing fields. ‘Be out there. Rocko, Rizzo, on me.’

  We stepped across to the bus shelter as a group. ‘I was stood here, sniper was in the multi-storey, say third floor. Rocko, put your rifle over my shoulder and aim at the third floor. Rizzo, look down the barrel and figure where the round went. Tomo, on the grass, twenty paces.’

  ‘OK,’ Rocko called, rifle now on my shoulder.

  Rizzo peered down the barrel. ‘Tomo, back a bit, your ... left. More. Stop. Back a bit. There.’

  ‘Smitty,’ I called. ‘That traffic cone, to where Tomo is.’ I dialled the base. ‘It’s Wilco. Get someone to stores and get the two mine-clearance metal detectors down here sharpish would you. Check the batteries first.’

  ‘How’d he know where you’d be?’ the Major asked, taking in the street. ‘Had to be a second man following.’

  ‘That multi-storey is the highest thing around here save the church. You can see my apartment from it, my approach road, where I jog, my local shop.’

  ‘So he hedged his bets and waited the chance,’ the Major noted. ‘And if he was tracking your mobile, or had a tracker on your car, that would narrow it down for him. But why a distance shot, why not close up?’

  Moran said, ‘They know it’s Wilco, and what would happen close up - Wilco would get off a few rounds quickly.’

  ‘Yes, good point,’ the Major agreed. He faced me. ‘Who the fuck would pull a pistol on you and expect to live.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the multi-storey having been cleared and now being searched carefully, Sgt Crab turned up with the mine detectors. Batteries fixed, headphone on, he and Duffy walked across the grass and started swinging the round coils beyond the traffic cone, an officer with a shovel stood by, SOCO in white overalls stood nearby.

  ‘Here!’ preceded some shallow digging, soil sifted by the man in the white overalls, a round cleaned up. ‘5.56mm,’ Crab shouted.

  The SOCO guy bagged it up and came back to us. ‘Good condition, no rust or discoloration, shiny new.’

  ‘That’s our round,’ the Major noted. ‘OK, everyone back to base.’ He faced me. ‘Stop upsetting people, eh.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at him before walking towards my apartment, MP Peter waiting at the police barrier, and looking apologetic. ‘Nothing you could have done about a high velocity round,’ I assured him. ‘Save taking it for me.’

  ‘Well, let’s not go that far, eh,’ he quipped.

  ‘Would you take a round for me?’ I teased.

  ‘Well, maybe from a pellet gun ... in the leg.’

  A dozen calls later, and three hours later, the news was reporting a shooting incident, the Prime Minister appraised of the situation.

  Bob called, for the fourth time. ‘We have a lead, a car nudged not far from you, second vehicle didn’t stop. We have a basic description, car and man, man in his fifties and grey, moustache, white man.’

 
; ‘Ex-trooper, “E” Squadron? Do me a favour and check the whereabouts of everyone, all SAS, all ex-SAS, all 14 Intel, even my lot. Everyone. And ... SBS as well, they could be mad at me. Check the armoury here and elsewhere, see if any M16s were signed out.’

  ‘OK, will do, but I’d hope it was not one of ours.’

  ‘If not, then who? Colombians don’t know I’m Petrov. IRA, maybe, but they’d go for a bomb. Serbs, maybe.’

  ‘It’s a long list,’ Bob noted with a sigh.

  ‘Keep you busy. Anyhow, I’m packing my bags tonight, be on that base tomorrow ready or not, warn them.’

  ‘Houses are ready, barracks, canteen.’

  ‘That’s all we need for now,’ I assured him. I rang Swifty. ‘I’m moving to that new base in the morning, anyone that wants to come can join me – I need some protection.’

  ‘Tomorrow, eh? I’ll pack tonight, got fuck all anyhow, had a sort out on the weekend.’

  ‘I figured ... you and me rather than me and Moran.’

  ‘Moran might think ... officers together.’

  ‘I’ll put him in with Mahoney.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s a proper officer, I’m not, I’m more at your level. And after work I don’t want to talk about work.’

  ‘Well ... maybe, yeah. You explain it to him.’

  ‘I’ll just say I figured he’d wanted his own space.’

  In the morning, MP Peter having spent the night on the sofa – SA80 to hand, Smitty having slept on the floor with an AKM, police car or two outside, we drove into the base, most everyone packed ready, many planning on returning on the weekend for things.

  Posters were taken down, tea mugs boxed up, tea and sugar packed up, files boxed up, and by noon we were ready for the coach that turned up, blacked-out windows. Kit was loaded, boxes, and a few people sat on the coach as our convoy departed, a two-car police escort.

  O’Leary and our admin corporal would stay behind and box things up, and arrange vans for the filing cabinets, MPs to watch the room if it was empty.

  It took under an hour to reach our new home, A40 then A417 straight there, the lads about to see it for the first time. The gate was manned by two MPs, one with a rifle, and they checked us over diligently.