Wilco- Lone Wolf 12 Read online

  By the end of the day the five of them had shown improvement, the scores creeping up, Ginger determined to someday beat Tomo.

  That night I got the weather forecast for the week and it was good, so plans were made, and my idea of “ever expanding circles” would now come into play, the detail planned out with Moran, Crab and Duffy, and with Rocko to overview everything.

  At 9am the Wolves were on the range, all issued with Valmets and plenty of magazines full of ammo, the day fine, a cool breeze, many of my lads ready to assist.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I began. ‘Deadly Lone Wolves. Fighting in a war is about shooting someone before he shoots you, but the problem is you’ll be tired, cold and wet, and hungry. In other words ... you’ll be focused on how uncomfortable you are when you need to be focused enough to shoot that man, when you need to be calm enough to snipe at someone.

  ‘You will now attempt a standard shooting contest, scores kept. Four rounds at 100 standing, four at 200 kneeling, same at 300, lying down at 400 and 500. You will need to do it quickly or lose points, so you run from point to point, breathing hard when you need to control that breathing to hit the damn target.

  ‘We don’t do this to fuck you about, we do this so that you know what a real firefight feels like, and that you don’t crap out when the time comes. After each session on the range you will have a set task, starting simple, the first task being a slow jog around the airfield. Those tasks will get ever harder and longer, the range work the same each time. We call it “ever expanding circles”.

  ‘First eight men get ready. And gentlemen, if you accidentally discharge a round you’ll get your arses kicked, maybe kicked off this course. Learn now ... that you only put your finger inside the trigger guard when ready to fire. If we see you running with your finger inside you get an extra ten laps around the airfield.

  ‘And if you shoot someone by mistake then you stand trial and go stay in the Glasshouse before being kicked out of the military. If you can’t switch your brains on and follow a simple command, you cannot be here.’ I nodded at Rizzo and he shouted instructions.

  With all the Wolves through once the scores were tallied, the best being 80%, the worst being 52%. Second time through, and a few men improved whilst others dropped a few points, and after four hours Brace and Tiller were improving slightly whilst others dropped a little. After a break for lunch, Lindon improved a few points, so his lunch was benefitting him. Grant jumped a few points as well, close on the heels of Tiller and Brace.

  The lad who hit 52% now lifted to 62%, so he was shooting better despite puffing, and I wondered if he had just started out being nervous.

  Sat with Henri and Rizzo in the canteen, I discussed the varying results.

  ‘Yes, nervous,’ Henri agreed. ‘They want to do well, they feel the pressure.’

  Rizzo noted, ‘They weren’t really pushed hard, so no drop off from fatigue yet. Some just took a bit of time to find their feet.’

  ‘I’m going to keep all the scores, have them analysed properly,’ I suggested.

  The next day we added two extra stages; a pistol test, and a heavy Bergen to carry when walking around the airfield. Twelve Bergens were laid out on the tables in front of the hangar, all the same weight, 30lbs. All twelve should not be in use at the same time if we planned it right – we had twenty-four candidates.

  The pistol element consisted of twenty rounds in two ten-round mags in the pistol range. But the Wolves would get good advice as they fired; this was not just a test but a learning curve.

  By the end of the day Tiller and Brace had improved on yesterday’s scores, and had swapped positions during the day, making me scratch my head as to why the variances were being seen. Lindon did better late in the day, Grant started off better and lost a few points.

  That evening, sat with Swifty and watching the TV, I said, ‘Their personalities are coming out in the numbers. Some are better in the morning, some are better after they get going.’

  He nodded. ‘Look at Rocko. Crap in the mornings and great when he gets going.’

  ‘So what do we say is best in a Wolf? Good at the start or good on average or better later on?’

  ‘Better late on, when he’s tired,’ Swifty insisted.

  The next stage was a slow jog with a 22lb Bergen, the remainder of the test the same format exactly. Tiller and Brace lost a few points and then recovered, and from their first attempts at this they were improving. Lindon had a very good day, Grant slipping, and when I sat with Rocko he suggested that every man has an off day – just a glitch.

  Overall, the majority of Wolves had improved, the lowest score now 65%, pistol scores improving for all of them after a bad start.

  I added a two-lap run with some sprints, the PTIs shouting at the Wolves, that run completed before breakfast. After breakfast the Wolves had the same format to tackle, now with 40lb Bergens and a fast walk required.

  When Grant and Lindon reversed positions I cursed long and loud, Tiller and Brace holding position, a new Wolf catching them – and he came out of the blue and surprised us; the little shit was saving it all for the right day. I called for Samantha Hedge, and asked for the best experts they had.

  The next day we had a team of shrinks, fitness experts, and the Wolves management team down, all pouring over figures, ten opinions from eight people.

  Samantha insisted that to get an accurate percentage we needed more time, something I agreed with.

  I told the team, as they stood at the back of the range, ‘We have one Wolf that is consistently better late in the day, two that are always better first thing.’

  ‘Personality traits and physiology,’ Samantha stated. ‘We’re all different. You’re great at 5am when the rest of us are terrible.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But what I’m thinking here ... is that the numbers can display a personality trait, a sought after trait, compared to a mean. One of my lads suggested that the best man was the one that did well late in the day, when he was tired. That trait is being displayed here in black and white.’

  An excited group discussed the science here, and a close monitoring would follow. Since I had kept all the scores, that was certainly possible. Graphs would be completed for each Wolf.

  That evening, as the Wolves finished, I told them that their weekend break was cancelled – just to gauge their reaction. ‘Does anyone have somewhere they need to be?’

  A man raised a hand. ‘My old man fell off a ladder, Boss, and I’m supposed to be helping out.’

  ‘Fair enough, you can go, you won’t lose points.’

  Another raised his hand. ‘I’m in an amateur triathlon, Boss.’

  ‘You can go, yes, hope we haven’t tired you out too much, tell us how you do. Anyone else?’

  ‘My brother is getting married, he’s a Red Cap, and if I’m not there he’ll kick the shit out of me.’

  I smiled widely. ‘You can go to the wedding. Bring back the photos.’

  The rest had nowhere urgent to go, so this weekend they would work straight through, starting with a ten mile tab with heavy Bergens before breakfast. But I had made a point of telling them they could use the local pub.

  I sat in that pub with many of the lads Friday night, my spies having been warned to keep eyes and ear open. Several of the Wolves wandered in, civvy clothes, and ordered pints, but as I observed they attached themselves to my lads, lots of questions asked.

  One cheeky lad came and sat next to me. ‘OK if I ask a question, sir?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘You trust the Intel mob in London?’

  I glanced at Swifty, who smirked. ‘I have plenty of leeway when it comes to planning the jobs, that way I sleep better. London tells me to get some hostages, where they are, not how to do the job step by step. And if Intel tells me there are twenty gunmen in a certain spot I’d assume fifty in a different spot. We never take anything at face value and the intel is always different to what you see on the ground.

  ‘As a Lone Wolf you’
re expected to think, and if you think the plan is a bit crap – say so, tell them to fuck off. It’s your life they’re risking, so ask them to clarify things, tell them what you’re not happy with, ask for more information. An idiot would blindly follow the orders.

  ‘If someone tells me ... go meet that agent in a certain cafe at 11am, I’d be there at 5am, on a rooftop, observing it, seeing if any ambushes are being set-up. Just because they tell you to do something doesn’t mean you have to, you can factor in some leeway. Did you ... have a specific concern?’

  ‘Well, some of the London mob I spoke to seemed to be ... complete twats.’

  Swifty laughed. ‘They are.’

  He shrugged. ‘So ... who do you trust then?’

  ‘Trust people you’ve worked with and know, trust no other fucker. If they say go meet that agent, assume it’s a trap and be pleasantly surprised if it’s not. Walk the block, check the cars, and if you’re not happy ... walk off. They may question why you did that, but it’s your life. So fuck them.’

  ‘Figured, sir, that we had to follow orders.’

  ‘No, you don’t, because mistakes can be made. You think on your feet; intel can be wrong.’

  ‘Well, I feel better knowing that, knowing that I can change things around. I spoke to the Intel mob, had the interviews, and they gave scenarios, and I kinda indicated that I would follow the plan, but I was not happy with that answer really.’

  ‘Good that you were not happy with it. Carry on being sceptical. But what type of work would you prefer? Spy work ... or a shooting war with me?’

  ‘Well, a shooting war with you I think, sir.’

  ‘Most of the time that would be the case, and when you have the experience behind you they can send you off on dodgy missions. The trick ... is to see it as a test, you against the next guy, and see if you can get the job done, done well, and quickly. After the job, think about what you could have done better, ask for some training courses on something, extra bit of kit. They will accommodate you.’

  Swifty asked him, ‘How are you finding it, your first week?’

  ‘Never fired so many rounds, getting used to it now, getting better I think. Thing is, when I got here I didn’t really know what I wanted, you know, a year down the line, still don’t, got a doubt about these spy types.’

  ‘You have time,’ I told him. ‘You don’t need to make a decision yet, and you’d accompany me on a few jobs before you ever did anything clever for Intel. That’s assuming you make the grade.’

  ‘And so far, sir?’

  ‘You’re about seven from the top, out of twenty-four, but that’s based on hitting the target, and it’s not all about just that. These tests are to get you in the mindset of shooting those targets, then improving, then being seen to make the grade. Way to go yet. And if the best shot is crap at map reading and first aid he’ll be kicked out.’

  Swifty asked, ‘Nowhere to be this weekend?’

  ‘Rather be here doing this, feel like I’m finally doing something useful instead of exercise after exercise.’

  Swifty asked, ‘What’s your parent unit?’

  ‘Light Infantry. I did six weeks in Kenya last year and that was better, I liked that. Some of the lads went out to Sierra Leone and did four weeks, back with tales to tell, made me jealous.’

  ‘And day to day life?’ I asked him.

  ‘Boring for the most part, sir, and my sergeant is right cunt. He’s never shot anyone but talks the talk like he has.’

  ‘I understand your frustration, I was just like that,’ I told him. ‘I wanted to do something useful, feel a pride in myself.’ I pointed at the other Wolves. ‘Any idiots in this group?’

  ‘They seem OK, sir, all keen, all switched on, no comedians, all a bit sombre I’d say.’

  The Wolves all departed before 11pm, which was a good sign; none were piss-heads.

  We had a week to go before heading to the States, and on the Monday the Wolves were back at it, a run before breakfast and a more strenuous stage between shooting; they would speed-march six miles with a 35lb Bergen – and of course their rifle. We staggered the starts, and there were soon men seen tabbing around the airfield after firing on the range.

  The end-of-day scores were similar, but two of the worst suddenly jumped up to better scores, and the group average ticked up two points. And now my lads were peering at the graphs after I had annotated those graphs.

  The next morning I sat with the Major, Moran and Ginger, paperwork to tackle. I told the Major, ‘The group average is climbing, but the daily scores are jumping around. Our lads are more consistent.’

  ‘Been at it longer,’ he suggested.

  ‘And so far, just to make it even more confusing, no significant drop off when tired. Some even improve.’

  ‘Odd,’ the Major noted. ‘But they need time to settle into a pattern I guess.’

  Moran put in, ‘Tomo and Nicholson could shoot every day for a month and their scores wouldn’t alter a point.’

  Ginger thought he should mention, ‘My 24hr was pretty good, for an officer.’

  I hid my grin. ‘You beat quite a few of the Echo lads, yes. But that is why you’re here.’ I eased back. ‘And your first action?’

  ‘Well, I was like a fish out of water to start, and thinking like a typical British officer, but you lot don’t use the same rule book, so I’m adjusting to that mindset. I thought you were fucking crazy to even think of attacking that town.’

  ‘Me too,’ Moran quipped without raising his head.

  I told him, ‘Most of those we come up against are drugged-up farmers with an hour’s training. Don’t give them too much credit.’

  ‘As I’ve been learning, yes.’

  The next day the scores ticked up on average, two of the good lads slipping a little, one of the worst having a good day on the ranges, the graphs for some of the Wolves now looking very odd. A hardcore of twelve, however, had steady lines, and lines that were inclined upwards on my charts. I called them my “control group” and I telephoned Samantha to tell her so, a copy posted to her, but she would be with me on the weekend, heading to the States with a colleague.

  ‘Comfy C5 from Fairford,’ I told her. ‘Eighteen hours.’

  ‘What! Oh gawd...’

  ‘That’ll teach you to volunteer,’ I laughed.

  By Friday night my graphs had settled, and my control group was still producing neat straight lines. I had the graphs photocopied, two sets, we would be taking them with us. I briefed Moran and Ginger, plus Slider and Rocko, and they would handle the Wolves training.

  Map reading and route planning would come next, desert and jungle navigation and hygiene, first aid, and then they would be off to Morocco two weeks from now. I would be taking Swifty, Rizzo, Tomo and Nicholson, the inclusion of Tomo coming with some loud queries – was I mad! He might start a war with America!

  I had told Tomo that any problems and Rocko would get a thousand pound fine. And since Rocko had taken on his new role he had been extra mean to Tomo, firmer with everyone else.

  Saturday morning we got an RAF bus and escort up to RAF Fairford, meeting Samantha and her colleague, Samantha back in uniform, and after a two hour wait we boarded the monster C5 as its engines noisily idled. I had wound her up about the seating, so she was pleasantly surprised by the seats she found. But where were the windows?

  I also asked if her top was too small, or if she had put on weight, our lady captain spending hours worrying about how she looked.

  Four hours later, mid-Atlantic, I handed her a small pack of wet wipes and a packet of Opal Fruits, the items much appreciated. In with us were American servicemen, “rotating out” as they told me, and I spoke with many of them. Chatting to the officers, including a Marines officer, I told them who had shot down Desert Sands, but that they were not to reveal that. They tentatively agreed, not knowing that I wanted them to blab, and with me knowing that they would blab.

  A long twelve hours later we touched down in North Carolina
, the huge C5 being as fast as a 747 if it wanted to be, and we could get off and breathe fresh air. A leg stretch was not needed because we had walked around the huge C5 hold. The C5 crewman had whinged about us moving about, and they restricted us to two at a time, the hold big enough to play football in.

  After two hours on the ground we were driven in a small bus to a 737 in grey USAF colours, the flight almost full of servicemen, mostly Army, a few blue uniforms.

  Settled, a major across the aisle asked, ‘What kind of uniform is that?’

  ‘British special forces, sir.’

  ‘Exchange posting?’

  ‘A ... kind of new training programme in Nevada based on one we created. The captain that led Desert Sands ... he was placed with me for two years.’

  ‘Captain Mahoney,’ he noted. ‘A dark day that was, I was in Dohar, heard the news. These terrorist boys are stepping up their game.’

  ‘What do you do, sir?’

  ‘Communications, all very sophisticated these days, you need to be technical man more than a military man. My father served the full term to retirement, but it was very different in his day.’ He smiled. ‘He thinks that us computer users are not proper soldiers.’

  ‘I have my sat phone, sir, couldn’t live without it.’

  We landed in Texas and disembarked, a man with a sign for me, so I grouped my team, all now jet-lagged. Faces dropped when we were led to a Hercules, Samantha cursing many different people with some very un-ladylike language, still tugging at her top. With our crates loaded, weapons and ammo, we were off.

  A three hour flight for just us, and we touched down at a small base with a very long runway, the Hercules landing just a hundred yards from the taxiway, soon turning. Halted, ramp down, we stepped down into the sunshine with a bags, a reception team waiting, a Lt Col at the head, jeeps waiting with Army drivers.

  On the horizon north I could see low hills, desert brown in colour, the roads here clean and modern, but they cut through brown sandy soil.