Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 4 Read online

  The exchanged looks, cursing under their breath, Castille laughing at them.

  The next two men were made ready, aware of all of the tricks. Still, they were apprehensive about going in. I led Castille to the gate hut, where we observed his men advancing room to room via grainy black and white images.

  They saw boots and pointed at them, checking the angles with broken mirror parts, all very quiet and professional, all angles covered. The boots were now just boots, no clown body attached, the mirrors were almost fired at, and they advanced, past an empty bathtub – closely inspected, past a wardrobe, checked quietly, and then past a septic tank, recoiling from the smell. They reached the final room, dark curtains swaying, boots seen, and were hit in the back, spinning around to find a very wet trooper in a re-breather.

  Castille threw his hands in the air. ‘That is so not fair!’ he protested with a huge smile. ‘Fucking sons of bitches!’

  ‘If we can do it, so could a terrorist,’ I insisted as the directing staff taunted Castille.

  The two Deltas hit with paint came out, protesting at length, cursing loudly, but smiling, and we led everyone to the canteen as we lost the light. Sat down with meals, the mood was buoyant, most conversations being about the house of horrors.

  I chatted to the lieutenant, Mahoney, a New York Irish lad who had come up through the ranks and who hated his major - who had gone to West Point.

  After an hour, two men were kitted out and sent to either end of the house of horrors - they would compete against each other, the rest to the range, dull yellow bulbs used to light it, plenty of practise with our Brownings received, our visitors then moving into the second floor shooting gallery one at a time, the rules given.

  A scorecard was set-up, and each pair of men faced off in the house of horrors – pitch black in places, the winners noted. They elected to stay the night on the camp beds, the canteen staff happy to put on some food at 9pm, a few cans of beer to hand. I grabbed a camp bed in the gate house, blankets to hand, after chatting to the guys about my rescues at length.

  I jogged around at 6am, and at 7am my guests stirred, soon heading for the canteen, where I joined them, Moran and others driving up and arriving over the next hour.

  After coffee was downed, I put them back on the range for a quick session, half of them then placed in the second floor gallery, half underneath and practising storming into rooms and live firing, many permutations covered by Sergeant Crab and his team, “Fucking Yanks” shouted a few times.

  They ran through the same scenarios many times, a great deal of ammunition used, and swapped over after lunch, a great deal more ammunition used.

  As we lost the sun, pairs were placed in the house of horrors, the scorecards adjusted, wagers made, insults given.

  After a good evening meal in the canteen, Moran and Swifty hanging around, we put our guests through the second floor range in the half-light, different pairs now across the way with the paint guns.

  I spoke to Ms Turner on the phone, explained I had guests, but she was not impressed, and I was starting to get irritated with her.

  In the morning we kitted out those guests for a full-on rescue scenario, and stepped through it all several times. When ready, a whistle blown, instructors withdrawing, our visitors started at the outer fence, approached a barbed wire fence on their stomachs and checked it, cut it and through, all round defence. They knew that such a rescue would be done at night, and they would do so later, this was the first attempt – the dry run.

  They slowly approached the Killing House, testing doors and locks, sniffing, checking windows, all round defence maintained, charges placed, men placed, respirators on, the ‘go’ signal given as we observed on the CCTV screens.

  Shots echoed out, flashbangs detonated, rooms cleared, hostages dummies dragged or carried, a withdrawal signalled, covering fire, smoke tossed, dummies carried to the fence, covering fire aimed at the building.

  As they made safe, Sergeant Crab and his team walked forwards, clipboards in hands. ‘Listen up! If you use too many flashbangs you get smoke, and then you make mistakes. You use a flashbang at most one per room, and not always after they know you’re there.

  ‘Halfway in you were struggling to see, and you had to keep low to fucking see anything, so think about when and where to use the flashbangs.’ He pointed. ‘Big lad, you checked the same rooms withdrawing as you did going in. They’re dead, or you fucked it up the first time. Kill the fucker, don’t check twice, you wasted time withdrawing.

  ‘Second man on the advance, there was a black wardrobe in the second to last room, you missed it completely, could have been some fucker in there hiding.

  ‘Guys who went in the window, too damn slow. Blow it, man kneel down, second man uses that knee as a step to get in there quick, firing as he goes, pistol in one hand, one hand on the window ledge. You would have been shot dead coming in the window. Right, we’ll fix the doors and windows, then you do it again, get a coffee in the canteen, thirty minutes.’

  The guests ambled off chatting.

  Second time around, and Sergeant Crab had less to complain about, but he found a few things anyway. Techniques were modified, and in fairness they were using our kit more than theirs, I would not allow fancy gadgets and electronics to be employed because such items could fail on the day.

  After lunch we modified the scenario, the intel suggesting that hostages were in a certain room, just three of them. Grenades were issued, the detail left to Castille, and they made their plan as Chuck and his deputy turned up with one of Bob’s guys. I shook their hands and led them to the canteen.

  ‘How’re our guys doing?’ Chuck asked.

  ‘They’re switched on, know their stuff,’ I commended. ‘But they like to use the gadgets, and in real life the gadgets get lost, get wet, the batteries fail, so I’ve restricted their use here.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Chuck said as we fetched coffee, milk and sugar added, and grabbed a table. ‘What they been doing?’

  ‘Pistol work, room clearing. Tackled fences and doors on the first day, but they know most of it. Tomorrow they go to prison.’

  ‘They what?’

  ‘Stalag Luft 13,’ I said with a smile. ‘We have a made-up prison camp, they have to figure ways out.’

  ‘The Great Escape?’ Chuck asked with a smile. ‘Steve McQueen?’

  ‘It looks just like an old World War Two camp, and it teaches essential skills, promotes team work.’

  ‘How’s your back?’ he asked, sipping his coffee.

  ‘Better, I had an operation in a fancy hospital, just the odd twinge. One more scar to add to list.’

  ‘We have a man who knew Petrov, some extra detail to get, more for the legend.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You did well in Canada, but they’re not pushed hard,’ Chuck noted.

  ‘I gave them a 24hr test based on my three-day test, that taxed them a little.’

  ‘I’m not a great believer in combined exercises,’ Chuck stated. ‘Our men fight well in their own groups, so do others – in their own units, but when they come together it’s always a screw up.’

  I nodded. ‘I agree.’

  ‘God help us if the Russians invade Europe!’

  His assistant cut in, ‘All this publicity you’re getting, going to be a security breach soon,’ he complained.

  ‘Haven’t you figured it out yet?’ I rudely asked him. ‘My government doesn’t give a fuck ... about a few hostages, they do give a fuck about newspaper headlines.’

  Chuck faced his deputy. ‘It’s all horseshit and blame setting, one guy climbing over the next. And what does the White House care about hostages? As we speak there are a hundred US hostages in Africa and Central America, no publicity, no one gives us fuck. We pick and choose when to be offended!

  ‘If CNN reports some lame-arse hostages we have to do something, otherwise they rot. And the six that died in Congo, they were US citizens with black faces – no one gave a shit, CNN never ran it.’r />
  He eased back. ‘We’re hurting a bit from Mogadishu, could do with a set piece rescue.’

  Bob’s guy pointed at me. ‘You asking him, or me?’

  ‘Sorry, just ... failed to turn my head. Of course we’re asking you.’

  ‘And what exactly are you asking?’ Bob’s guy testily pressed as I hid my smile.

  ‘That maybe ... you and the French, and some of our guys, mount a rescue on some lame-arse hostages that are easy to get, we make a big deal about it.’

  ‘By forgetting to mention that British and French were there!’ Bob’s guy spat out.

  I held up a hand to him. ‘If it helps our American cousins, then ... favours can be asked later on.’

  ‘There we go,’ Chuck said. ‘Man knows his horse trading.’

  Bob’s guy was still not happy. He finally faced me. ‘How would we go about such a feat?’

  ‘Maybe an American embedded with us, we scan the papers for hostages in North Africa and Somalia, we go in and take a look, and ... if we’re up against a rabble of gunmen we send for an American team, who’ll do the rescue with us, reporter to hand, no mention of us.’

  ‘Prime Minister would not be happy.’

  ‘The Prime Minister ... would like nothing more than a favour to ask later on,’ I told Bob’s guy, who could see I was right. ‘If the job was a fuck-up then it’s a British and French fuck-up.’ I faced Chuck. ‘I’d be right in assuming that the White House would not consider going back into Somalia.’

  ‘Not in a million fucking years. Nor back into Lebanon, nor Vietnam. We’d go back into Grenada though.’

  I laughed. ‘A war staged for the cameras. Six thousand Marines, twelve unarmed Cubans.’

  He shrugged and made a face. ‘You might think that...’

  I faced Bob’s guy. ‘Would Bob ... like Chuck to owe him a big favour?’

  Chuck turned from me to Bob’s guy.

  Bob’s guy told Chuck, with a sadistic smile, ‘That pound of flesh could make your eyes water.’

  Hearing dull explosions, Chuck looked up and around. ‘We under attack?’ he quipped.

  ‘That’s your lads assaulting a fine British brick building in rural Herefordshire.’

  ‘So long as they ain’t flying to Tehran, that’s OK.’

  Smiling, I said, ‘We’d best stay here till they’re done, might get shot.’

  When the whistle went I led them out, a man on the floor being worked on.

  I ran over. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Grenade fragment in the calf muscle,’ Castille noted, none too concerned.

  ‘You want a hospital?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, back at Fairford we can get it out, Lenny here is expert at these things, he even does nice stitches.’

  Bob’s guy said, ‘Wilco is surgically trained.’

  I faced him. ‘Yes, but I don’t want the responsibility. They’re Americans, they may sue me for medical negligence if I don’t do nice stitches.’

  Medic and wounded man in a jeep, they were driven off, the rest halting for some food as Chuck headed off.

  The medic returned after lunch and joined the team, and I had them practise pistol work or with the M4s they had brought, pairs sent into the House of Horrors till it grew dark.

  After evening meal they were kitted out and got ready, the morning scenario to be repeated, with a twist. A helicopter was heard, the team lined up, and a 7 Squadron Chinook touched down as I led the team on.

  It lifted off straight away and flew low level and high speed, a red light coming on and flashing, side doors opened, and I handed a map to Castille, tapping it. With a surprised expression he was nudged down the rope with his team, a twenty foot drop onto a farmer’s field. Rope recovered, off we went, and the Chinook dropped me back at The Factory.

  Castille studied the map and instructions using a torch, having found a ditch first. ‘OK, we have about two miles to walk, south, avoid all contact, only now there are dog patrols at the base – we’re not allowed to shoot them, dummies placed – we stab them or knock them down, and we look out for pop-up targets. Rest is the same as this morning.’ He stood. ‘OK, one foot in front of the other.’

  An hour later and we could see them on the infra-red cameras, and they hid when the dog patrols passed the outer fence. They timed it right, and snuck under the outer fence as the dog handler returned to the gate house. The isolated barbed wire fence was tested then cut, an upright dummy dragged to the floor and killed, they moved through, and slowly across to the Killing House, charges placed, signals given, and in they went.

  Sergeant Crab and his team made notes, smiling; they knew what was coming next.

  The final room to be cleared offered up a wild dog we had got from the kennels, the dog scheduled to be put down on account of the fact that it was completely fucking crazy. It bit two men before they shot it dead, Crab flicking a switch, the front door engulfed in flames. They had to beat a retreat out the window, dummies carried back to the fence.

  Whistle blown, the lights came up. We walked out, and over to them as they took their kit off.

  ‘Sons of fucking bitches,’ echoed out.

  ‘What did we do?’ I teased. ‘Dogs are common, you’ll come across them, and if you shoot the owner the little pooch will be mad at you. As for the fire, that can happen when you use explosives, so stop whinging and expect the unexpected.’

  ‘Got two nasty bites,’ Castille noted, men lifting trousers.

  ‘They’ll live,’ I told him. ‘Get cleaned up, some food, next exercise starts at 7am, and you’ll need a good night’s sleep tonight.’

  ‘More tricks?’ a man asked.

  ‘Life is full of tricks, you need to be prepared.’

  In the morning they were denied any breakfast, lined up, jackets off, old brown trench coats given - the smell complained about, and they were led into Stalag Luft, the RSM waiting, territorials with replica German weapons stood ready. I went in with them.

  The RSM read out the rules, warned them that food and fuel would be withdrawn if they tried to escape, and then locked us in the hut.

  ‘OK, listen up,’ I loudly began. ‘In order to infiltrate a place you need to be able to escape from a place. When thinking of a way in, think like a hostage wanting to get out. This ... is the most important part of being here.

  ‘First, you study the guards and the layout, and the land beyond. Day shift, night shift, changeover times, how many guards, where are the static guards, what routes do the guards take, which guard is switched on, which guard is slovenly.

  ‘What time do they have chow, how often are there dog patrols, how often are there searches of this hut, are there weaknesses in the fence or outer fence.

  ‘Could you slip away during chow, could you fake a head count. Gentlemen, think like Steve McQueen, find a way out, because if you get to be good at finding the way out ... you found yourself a way in to mount a rescue. Get to it.’

  Castille organised his men, soon peering out the windows, hushed conversations taking place, things peeked at, distances judges.

  After an hour they figured that they had most of it. Patrol times, patrol routes, which guards looked bored, dog patrols, blind spots.

  Evening meal was a shock, the food terrible and not much of it, a head count afterwards, the hut searched.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I called. ‘What’ll you be like after a week here, on that food?’

  ‘Starving and weak,’ came from the medic. ‘Like most hostages.’

  ‘We need to break out soon,’ Castille noted, the lieutenant and the men agreeing, two men with sore legs from the dog bites.

  They tested the windows, the roof and the floor boards, bits unscrewed from beds, tools made and discussed.

  A search at 2am turned up the tools, confiscated, the coal taken as punishment, no breakfast allowed.

  ‘Fucked that up,’ I told them, faces fallen.

  There was no breakfast, just water, stomachs rumbling, a debate raging about the ni
ght patrols and their timing, and how they differed. The night guards were definitely lazy, after the 2am search there were fewer patrols.

  Many slept during the day, another search conducted, evening meal less than appetising, plans made. After the 2am search they enacted their plan, I offered no comments, four men to the fence and up and over it before the alarm was given, two men caught.

  The men who escaped were now out of the exercise, the two caught were given ice water treatment, their trench coats confiscated, and they sat on their beds wrapped in their smelly blankets, shivering.

  The window panes were replaced, and things went back to the routine, but the two men who had received the ice treatment were weak, escape would be harder, Castille frustrated – and I was not helping.

  The next evening all of them were tired and hungry, especially the two captured men, but they would have to make a go of it, staying was not an option. I decided to help when their plan seemed doomed.

  With my help they constructed the ladder - for speed getting up the fence, tied together the blankets, timed the guards, and off we went, all out quickly and quietly, a warm meal much needed – so rations were cooked.

  Sat with a hot tea in the canteen – self service, blanket around his shoulders, Castille said, ‘We should have done better at that.’

  ‘My team got out the second night. You didn’t think bold enough, to use the beds and blankets as tools. But, it’s good for you, to think like a hostage.

  ‘The layout, the static guards, the patrol times, the gaps, characters of the guards – it all makes a difference. We observe a place for days if we can, then move in. And every time we rescue a group there are elderly or injured people, slow moving, or we carry them. Imagine what you’d be like after a month in that hut.’

  ‘Too weak to get out,’ he noted. ‘Malnourished, dysentery.’

  ‘Get some sleep today, you have today off, tomorrow we fly off to a similar scenario. Think about what you’ve learnt, might come in handy someday soon.’

  ‘What I’m learning ... is that our people testing our people is ... predictable and repetitive, whereas training with you throws up things we never thought of. We need variety. As they say – thinking outside the box.’