Wilco- Lone Wolf 5 Read online

  ‘My specialist unit is, and don’t blab about that too much. My paymaster in Intel would shoot you.’

  ‘He would too,’ the Major added.

  Back at the airfield, I drove to the northern tip and halted. ‘See that field, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s ours, on loan back to the farmer. Could create a drop zone.’

  ‘Big enough.’

  We eased to a halt at the northwest end to have a look at the balance course, just about ready.

  Back in the Portakabins, phone lines being extended by Army Engineers, I listened in to a lecture till the lads split up. Some would be driving their own vehicles – so not going crazy, some on the range. Water would be splashed on the track, some oil on top – and hopefully cleaned up afterwards.

  After chatting to Bob on my mobile, observing cars skidding around, I called the farmer.

  ‘That Robert?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’m Captain Milton, from the airfield.’

  ‘Oh aye, how do.’

  ‘Listen, the field to the north of us, we’d like to use it for parachuting.’

  ‘Parachuting is it. Well I only use it now for lambs in spring, just moved them off like. Be fallow now.’

  ‘Could you turn the soil over, leave deep groves, be softer for landing, we’d pay your time.’

  ‘Oh aye, and you pay well enough, aye. I’ll have me lad do it ‘morrow.’

  ‘No hurry. And thanks.’

  Bob called that evening. ‘We have ... a lead on the shooter. This suspect flew in two days before, flew out two days after via Amsterdam. Airport cameras match his description, but the fake passport showed up under scrutiny.’

  ‘And he is..?’

  ‘Ex-CIA.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Let me guess; Panama?’

  ‘That would make no sense, they’re loving the tip offs.’

  ‘That arms shipment?’ I nudged.

  ‘Well, no one knows you’re Petrov, and if the arms suppliers found out they’d just tip off the press, not shoot you. Not even Chuck knows where you live, and you move around a great deal.’

  ‘Have you asked the CIA to investigate?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister sent a high level shitty note, we should know more soon.’

  I got used to my new daily routine, and was loving it. I would run in the mornings, use the gym up the road in the evenings sometimes with Swifty or others, eat in the canteen. On the Friday night a few of us headed to Cirencester to check it out, and found a great curry house, a nice wine bar nearby and a few nice ladies to chat to – no sign of Jacque or Travis.

  On the Saturday I drove to Brize and met Bongo, bringing him back, the armoury unlocked and looked over. He liked the houses, and the cabins, and if it was rent free he was keen.

  His boss had received notification of his ‘application’ to transfer to GL4, and queried where the hell it was, not happy about losing Bongo. Bongo told his boss that GL4 was Germany, and took accrued leave due – which meant he just drove off with his stuff, never to return.

  We helped him paint the walls of the armoury white and to move things around, cabinets painted white to make them easy to clean, and he now had his own little kingdom. But his first night was met with complaints of snoring - and lads threatening to shoot him, so he was moved to the last room of the second cabin, two empty rooms between his snoring and another living being.

  When he was not in the armoury he was in the canteen, but it was a small base, and so if we needed something he was easy to find. And the lads all got to hear about four years of my mischief at Brize Norton and in Riyadh, most not knowing the stories.

  ‘You were caught having sex in a rooftop pool when a scud landed?’ the lads had asked me.

  The mini parachute club was taking shape, a quick metal shed thrown up and a Portakabin dumped down, tarmac laid, and a day later our Skyvan landed and taxied around, Pete stepping down with a buddy.

  I peered up at the sky, a wet finger raised. ‘Got any chutes?’ I teased.

  ‘Eight, free fall,’ he said with a smile.

  I called, ‘Rocko, Rizzo, Stretch, Slider, Captain Moran, Swifty.’ I glanced around the lads. ‘Tomo, you got any freefall jumps in?’

  ‘No, Boss.’

  ‘Come with us. Rocko one side, Rizzo other side, hold his hand. Signal at four thousand, and if he don’t pull, grab him.’

  Kit on, Pete checked everyone, but these sport chutes were a delight to use compared to the military’s equivalent. Straps adjusted, you had a main release and reserve; it was not complicated.

  A roar of the engines, a taxi around as we sat on parallel benches, goggles fixes, and we took off in twenty yards, climbing and circling in a square pattern, a good appreciation of the base from up here, the airfield looking tiny as men adjusted gloves and goggles.

  I pointed at Stretch’s helmet, and he took it off, a pink sticker of “My little pony” on the side, the lads laughing.

  Levelling off, lights flashed, the ramp-door lifted, a roar invading the plane – even with helmets on, and we stood, myself and Swifty up first.

  Looking down, then up, the light flashed again and out we went. I tumbled to start, settled, back arched and hurting, arms out, and I found Swifty – twenty yards away, and we closed, a thumbs-up exchanged.

  The airfield looked tiny, the scene below like a road map, a patchwork of fields stretching out to the horizon.

  Left wrist turned in, four thousand already. But I was loving this, no longer harbouring a fear of heights as I did in my youth.

  Three thousand, knees bent slightly, we backed away from each other, the airfield now distinct.

  Two thousand, and I waited, then pulled. Jerked upright, a good oblong canopy – pink of all colours, and I located Swifty above me. Looking down, hands on toggles, I aimed at the airfield and slowly circled. Closing in, the aim being the field north, I decided to save a walk back and aimed at the parachute Portakabin, Swifty following me, the pub in view.

  There was hardly any wind, it was dead quiet, and as I came in I pulled down hard on both toggles and landed with a brisk walk, remaining upright, the chute collapsing to the smell of freshly cut grass. Swifty landed with a gentle step as I collected my chute, my pink chute, bundled into my arms.

  ‘Is that chute pink?’ came from behind me.

  ‘No, more of a red colour ... with some white mixed in.’

  I peered up, most lads having elected to follow me and coming in now as I stepped across to the Portakabin. I waited, bundle in my arms, everyone down without injury, a few falling over or sliding on the bums.

  Tomo came striding over, beaming. ‘Fucking excellent, Boss.’

  ‘Pulled your own release?’

  ‘Yeah, they let go of me, but were close by.’

  With the Skyvan landing, we placed the chutes in the bags and waited for their owner to come collect his property. I signed a form, asked for him to return the next day if the wind was light, and Pete flew the very short distance back to his aerodrome, a good morning’s work for him, and Bob would pay direct.

  Many of the younger lads jumped the next day, the rest on the long range, which was ready apart from some slow-drying concrete in the butts, no flag pole nor red flag so far deployed.

  Engineers returned to us the next day, two lorries stacked high, and a flimsy metal frame was clipped together in the hangar as we observed. Plaster board panels out, placed in groves and clipped in, the sides took shape, a thin wooden floor laid out.

  Roof on, supported by triangle above, and we had a briefing room by the end of the day. The walls would be painted, desks and chairs to arrive, all warned not to touch the walls or lean on them because they would fall out.

  Chairs and desks turned up the next day, second hand, placed in the new room as paint was applied to the walls, and the following morning we made use of it, Dicky managing to dent the wall with his elbow.

  ‘OK,’ I began, stood at the front
of our Spartan and clinically white room, plenty of room for everyone. ‘We are ... almost ready here. Killing House will be done this week, just waiting for infra-red cameras, and for the Army to say it’s safe to use ... and won’t kill the Major sat next door. Pistol range will be ready soon, and ... it will have some clever electric targets, as well as motion sensors that cause targets to pop up.

  ‘Cessna is here today, a light south westerly breeze for circuits and bumps. Swifty, Moran, Smitty, hour each, double up and observe as well. And ... Captain Moran, would you like to learn to fly the Skyvan?’

  ‘Sure. How many hours?’

  ‘Lots, and some books to study, but it would help if we had a pilot with us. Get the book from Pete the owner, have a nose.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go, yes.’

  ‘Swifty, get some hours in as well. OK, Slade and Gonzo, you’re booked into Stalag Luft 13 tonight with some “G” Squadron lads, drive up around 4pm. And ... good luck on your pending escape. It is, however, tougher these days.

  ‘Rocko, next week take your troop to Sennybridge. Day on the range, then a 24hr route march map reading exercise that I designed to be ... tricky.’ They moaned. ‘Rizzo, following week. And yes, different map course - so no cheating.

  ‘OK, M16s arriving today, some good old-fashioned SLRs, four GPMGs, 2inch mortars. Yes, you can use 2inch mortars on the range – so long as they hit the range, and not the sheep nearby.’ They laughed. ‘We have some that go bang, most don’t go bang – dig them out the mud and clean them off.

  ‘Rizzo, from Monday I want your lads speed-stripping each type of weapon, firing and cleaning, design a routine. We’ll get 81mm mortars that don’t explode, and 66mm that are not 66mm but 10mm practice rounds, and RPGs that don’t go bang when they hit something – like a sheep. I want everyone shit hot on everything, and let’s keep the fitness going each day.’

  Hearing a roar build, heads turning, I checked my watch. ‘They’re early. That sound ... is 7 Squadron and 47 Squadron - along with the medics, their first Standard Monthly Exercise here – which will happen regularly. They’ll be in tents, not allowed into the canteen or shop – be firm but polite, they’re supposed to tough it out.

  ‘Staff Sergeants, please organise range time, runs, weapons stripping, the works; they’re here to be worked and, if the wind stays light, they get a sport jump or tandem freefall to toughen them up.

  ‘Jacque, Travis -’ I held a warning finger. ‘- no nurses,’ I said, the lads laughing.

  When we stepped outside we found that we had been invaded by two loud Hercules and four very loud Chinook, the small airfield now looking full as bogey generators and refuelling buggies were pushed around, people getting tents out.

  Morten walked over to me with a smile. ‘Good set-up this,’ he said as we shook.

  ‘You’re not allowed to use the canteen or shop,’ I teased.

  ‘I know that,’ he said, taking in the facilities.

  ‘Pick four people that need ... some toughing up. You included, we have ... some parachutes coming.’

  ‘Parachutes?’ he asked. ‘We have six parachute trained now. Slow process, though, UK weather an all.’

  ‘Wind is light enough today, don’t have too much for lunch.’

  ‘What would we ... jump from?’ he puzzled, looking around.

  ‘Plane will be here after lunch. We can get twenty up today, landing in the field north.’

  After lunch, his lunch being rations cooked on the grass at the north end, Morten and three others stood ready, the Skyvan landing and being keenly observed by the RAF pilots. With no room to taxi around due to two Hercules blocking the taxiway, it spun around and turned, back up the runway, where it turned again.

  I led the four across, not having divulged the details, and they clambered into the rear of the Skyvan, four smirking civvy instructors waiting.

  Back at the Chinook pilot’s tent we all observed the box-shaped Skyvan lift off. ‘They’ll be back down in a minute,’ I said.

  ‘They jumping?’

  ‘From seven thousand.’

  ‘They qualified?’

  ‘Nope.’

  They exchanged looks. ‘What you up to?’

  ‘Tandem drop.’

  ‘Ah. Could ... we have a go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We can?’ they puzzled.

  ‘Budget is for all personnel on this exercise, time and weather permitting.’

  ‘How’d you swing that?’

  ‘Good budget, and a civvy parachute school on hand. We pay fuel as well.’

  Dots appeared high above, people craning necks, hands over eyes, others wondering what we were looking at, and in little more than three minutes chutes were drifting down, gentle landings welcomed by all no doubt.

  Morten came over with a big smile, helmet in hand. ‘Crafty sod,’ he told me. ‘If I had known about it I might have chickened out. But that was good.’

  A lady nurse bound over with a huge smile. ‘Best exercise yet, sir,’ she enthused.

  ‘You have some range work, and weapons cleaning next,’ I told them. ‘Rest of your lot can try a static line drop, but it’s a good two hours training first, so might not fit them all in, but we’ll take four more tandem.’

  ‘Most of us pilots have jumped before,’ the pilots pointed out.

  ‘We have extra tandem chutes from another club, enough I think.’

  Four additional medics jumped tandem, followed by four happy pilots, whilst a group of twelve had their static line lesson; practice landing and rolling, jumping and counting, emergency procedures, orientation and assess drift ... bend your knees!

  Forms signed by the Major and Morten, Bob having agreed permissions with the MOD, and at 5pm – the wind slacking – twelve big grey chutes opened in a line over the north field and drifted slowly down. Since all walked across to us I was confident of no broken legs, and I found a line of smiling faces.

  At 7pm they were marched around the track with heavy backpacks, ten miles, then allowed to rest, and at 10pm I sat with the pilots and Morten on folding chairs inside large green tents, chatting away. Next month’s SME would be two days, and I would torture them, pilots included.

  I jogged past them at 6am, Mouri up and running, none of the RAF stirring, the MPs on guard, and after my shower the roar began. From my lounge, tea in hand, I observed as engines turned and warmed up, tents taken down, loud Chinooks pulling away, Hercules powering down the runway.

  Nothing was left, the airfield soon quiet as I headed over for breakfast with Swifty – who had been rudely woken.

  When Bob called, his tone was off from the start. ‘We ... have a line on the shooter, gained after his body was found. Been dead a week or more, apartment in Niagara Falls, States, on the border.’

  ‘So what are you not telling me?’

  ‘CIA insist he was not with them, some high level harsh words, and they love Petrov, so we don’t think they had a reason – and what reason would they have. CIA have a lead, to a gang in Moldova.’

  ‘Moldova? I’ve not been – so haven’t pissed off anyone there yet.’

  ‘We’re looking into it. Might get a lead.’

  The next morning we had the leisure centre booked, half the lads swimming for an hour, half in the gym, then a swap, Captain Harris with us since I insisted he keep fit. I also had Harris on the ranges, and set a weekly programme for the MPs, all to be kept sharp – but they were keen themselves. It was odd to see two men running the track with the dogs alongside, but they often ran on the grass, better for the dog’s foot-pads apparently.

  ‘Do the dogs keep up?’ I asked them.

  ‘For a few laps, then they get bored. They’re sprinters more than endurance animals. After a run they get a feed, and fall asleep.’

  ‘Some of my lads are like that.’

  Two days later, and Bob was back on. ‘We have a lead on the Moldova gang, and ... it’s not as bad as we thought. The gang leader is a Serb, and ... he lost two so
ns in Bosnia.’

  After a long pause, my eyes closed, I said, ‘Lost them ... to me.’

  ‘Yes. And he pieced together the story somehow. Someone blabbed, but much of that story is out there now.’

  ‘So why an ex-CIA shooter?’ I asked.

  ‘Before they kicked him out, unexplained cash, he was a double agent, supposedly infiltrating the Moldova gang.’

  ‘More like a triple agent,’ I quipped. ‘On the take. And he found me ... how?’

  ‘Still a work in progress, but there are plenty of loose mouths around Hereford.’

  ‘Could I go visit these boys before they come for me again?’

  ‘That could be an option, yes.’

  After the call I stood at the entrance to the hangar and stared at the rain for ten minutes. I had killed his two sons ... and they could have been some of the frightened young conscripts I shot, some of the Boy Scouts I aimed at, and I felt bad about that, genuinely bad.

  My reflective moment was broken by a convoy arriving, quite an odd convoy, and the vehicles came around and parked inside the hangar, out the rain. We now possessed - on loan, four green Land Rovers, two three-tonne lorries, four long axle jeeps – drivers soaked through, four old bangers to bust up, a minibus, and two foreign trucks to practise on – left hand drive, awkward gears.

  It made me think about Crab, and I dialled Bob back. ‘Time to get Sergeants Crab and Duffy, they can run stores and vehicles.’

  ‘OK, I’ll contact Rawlson now, he’ll have to loan them before they end their terms.’

  Crab and Duffy turned up the next day, obviously not wanted by Rawlson, a house claimed, bags unloaded, a nose around the airfield before we set them to work.

  ‘Crab joining us?’ Rizzo asked, none too impressed.

  ‘Stores and vehicles; he and Duffy were given a few months notice. Get them organised, play nice.’ I faced him squarely. ‘You want to do what your rank suggests, and sit behind a desk and fill in forms all day?’

  ‘Not fucking likely.’

  ‘Then let them do it,’ I loudly, and tersely, pointed out.

  Later, I found Crab and Duffy checking the long-axle jeeps. ‘Listen, I can’t guarantee you’ll be on every job, or training lads, but you have a job here for a few years save sitting in the pub. When we deploy you’d come along as before, maybe some action, but you’d be responsible for logistics. Any thoughts, gentlemen?’