Wilco- Lone Wolf 7 Read online

  The photos were studied, the power lines noted, plans revised, Moran wandering around and offering comments.

  At 5pm I said, ‘Gentlemen, keep your photos and notes and maps, refine your plans – don’t discuss them too much with other teams, because next week you move on that camp for real.

  ‘There is no right way or wrong way, but there are some mistakes that could be made. Tonight you have off, and if you want to go into Cirencester in groups then have one of ours with you, or an MP. And don’t forget, Brits like to get drunk and fight.’

  Major Liban stood, and wagged a warning finger about drunken fighting. He would be off to Credenhill with the TA major, to meet other SAS officers, as well as Colonel Rawlson, the French requested to be back here at 2pm Sunday.

  And 2pm Sunday a few of the French displayed black eyes and cut lips, Major Liban not happy, but MP Pete had explained that a bunch of drunk off-duty British soldiers had poured into their curry house and kicked off, ten British squaddies put in hospital by three French lads, the young British enlisted men no match for the French.

  Settled down, we started with dog evasion, and we moved on to creating hides, the French walked to the north fence, where Swifty dug out the grass and hid himself, bent metal coat hangers utilised. I described the problems a man faced in a lonely OP, eating and pissing, being cold at night and hot during the day, how to set decoys for dogs nearby, false tracks nearby.

  Back in the briefing room I detailed my work in Northern Ireland, several operations, “Crazy fuck” used a few times.

  At 5pm, the weather OK, we held an archery contest, some of the French lads very good, insults shouted between teams, Agincourt mentioned, the French puzzling Rizzo’s mention of Dunkirk. They did well at the spear throwing, but Rocko trumped them, the kit put away as it started to rain.

  Monday morning saw the French kitted out as if off to war, facemasks and gloves issued, rations issued, old FN SLRs carried, two Chinook loudly announcing their arrival, the men running aboard for an hour’s flight. Swifty, Moran, Henri and Jacque would be helping out.

  Once the Chinooks had settled down I went forwards, spare headset on. ‘This a safe bird?’

  ‘Hey Wilco. And yes, safer than a French Puma. Was it two that went down in Morocco?’

  ‘Two, yes. Sand in the engines probably.’

  ‘How come you’ve not used us recently, we’re training hard?’

  ‘That’s down to the MOD, who want to save money by using French helicopters.’

  At the same Catterick moorland area we set down, two tents set up ready, Crab and Duffy in attendance with the RSM.

  ‘Ready to lose some money?’ I asked the RSM as I shook his hand.

  ‘They’re French, so no – maps and road signs are in English to confuse these Norman invaders!’ We laughed.

  ‘TA ready?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, and some regulars, plenty of dog patrols to bite the French.’

  Chinooks departing, peace returning to the trees and heather, I gathered the French on the soft heather. ‘Listen up, there are dog patrols, and the English Army will let the dogs bite you.’

  Concerned faces stared back at me.

  ‘If this was for real you would have to fear the dogs, so fear them now. If you are caught you are not allowed to fight the English soldiers. They ... are allowed to tie you up and kick you. So don’t get caught!’

  They were now even more concerned.

  ‘OK, first test – split into pairs, spread out, cut an OP out of the dense heather, get inside, rifle pointing out. But ... you cannot walk to a good place, you leopard crawl, heads down. Go.’

  Turning around, they leopard crawled awkwardly away, pairs starting to cut into the heather after twenty yards, the Echo team observing many pairs, Major Liban stood observing, his two captains tasked with making a hide.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ I shouted. ‘Two men have two ponchos, so make it water proof!’ Moran, Henri and Jacque translated, and I observed the nearest pair as they cut under, moved inside, and then wriggled around as they got a poncho down, one above, the hide adjusted in a few places.

  I peeked into a few hides, advice given, then had Major Liban blow his whistle and bring them all in, ponchos rolled up and put away.

  ‘OK, when you make such a hide, have one man crawl out the front without damaging the heather, walk forwards twenty yards, use small bits of cloth on your groin and armpits, walk left thirty yards and put some cloth in a dense area, same to the right, walk back in from the front if you can.

  ‘If a dog follows your trail, best to have that trail at the front, not behind you. Remember that trick for later, you will do it for real, real dogs that will bite you. Get some small bits of cloth ready, they don’t need to be big.

  ‘OK, dog evasion. The dog is on a lead, so if you have to run away ... look for deep heather to make the dog stumble, look for fences to go over many times – the dog cannot easily follow, put bits of smelly cloth up a tree after wiping the trunk of the tree with it, piss on the tree, piss in a bottle and throw the piss up a tree.

  ‘Don’t think that going into a stream will help much, or crossing a river, you just get cold and wet. And have many rabbit snares ready, made from fishing line, and put them down for the dogs following you, some smelly cloth nearby. If the dog gets stuck, its handler will be wary of following you. You can also set trip wires for handlers; that always pisses them off.’

  They laughed.

  ‘If you hear a dog, get the fuck away from it, but you can’t do that too well in a hide, so use decoys. OK, I want teams of four made up. First team to me, team two ready, rest get a brew on right here.’

  I issued the first team with OP instructions, made sure they had notebooks and pens, and sent them off with Henri, to be back in two hours. The second team had a similar briefing, map coordinates given, but to set-up an OP half a mile away. I sent them off in a different direction with Jacque, Sergeant Crab handing me a cuppa.

  ‘They turned off Bateman’s life support yet?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not yet - was the last I heard, but I’d not want to go on like that.’

  ‘He went to sleep in Morocco, never woke up, but maybe he’s having some nice dreams.’ I sipped my brew.

  ‘I knew them coppers was odd when I saw them, they had eyes everywhere. But I got the fuckers.’

  I nodded, Moran and Swifty sat with the French.

  An hour later I sent off two additional teams, the first team back showing me their sketch, Moran translating, a few details queried. The team was now tasked with moving north a mile and observing for four hours without being seen, getting there and back without being seen – or bitten by a dog.

  At 3pm a Land Rover pulled in, two bound French soldiers thrown to the ground by the TA SAS, old SLR rifles handed over.

  ‘Did you get bitten? I teased.

  The bound men complained – at length, Major Liban less than sympathetic as I treated the bites.

  Half an hour later Henri brought back two smirking men, Henri and the pair having escaped the dog’s gnashing jaws. I gave the team a new task, that of getting down to and across the river, observations to be made no closer than four hundred yards to the camp from the south – and not to get bitten!

  I drove Liban to a point above the camp, and had him consider his rescue plan, binoculars used, the land around the camp surveyed. I asked questions, and he looked for the detail, dog patrols noted, vehicle patrols, distances inside the camp, blind spots, best approach routes.

  I began, ‘Step one, patrol timings and access points. Two, throw smelly cloth at the fence, have the dogs go nuts, the handlers getting annoyed with the dogs. Power and phone lines can be taken down, but will be noticed – but not at 4am so much.’

  Liban said, ‘If we kill the men there, we take the jeep and truck, hostages in the truck.’

  ‘Yes, if the roads are not full of enemy soldiers. It depends on an isolated area, and time of day. Border crossings will be manned. In S
omalia we saw little traffic, no roadblocks, and we only needed to get somewhere for the helicopters to come in.

  ‘If you get ten hostages, and five are sick, you have to carry them, and you need more than five men to carry them – and you cannot carry them twenty miles. Some of the hostages we rescued were sick or wounded, most could walk OK. In Sierra Leone they walked three miles through the jungle.’

  ‘I would assume hostages are always sick,’ Liban noted, peering through his binoculars.

  ‘On more than one rescue, hostages picked up guns and used them. Hostages are always keen to fight back, and many are weapons trained.’

  ‘Ah, good point, yes.’

  ‘In Mauritania, four hostages were your men, and they fought with us. Are the two men still with you?’

  ‘Yes, but they were beaten in the tests by others to be in this unit.’ He faced me. ‘It is correct what you say, we make a plan step by step, because maybe we have ten hostages that are soldiers, fit and well, maybe ten sick women. How can we know till we get here and see them? We could have them fight with us, or have to carry them.’

  ‘Whenever we were told how many hostages there were, the number was wrong,’ I pointed out as we peered down at the camp.

  Liban nodded.

  I added, ‘But you must never give the kidnappers too much credit. They have guns, but they’re shit. If you are hit it is bad luck, not good aim.’

  Again Liban nodded. ‘In Africa we have killed many, some just boys.’

  ‘At night they’re asleep, and if it’s raining they’re inside. If you think of them like our soldiers you’ll make a mistake in planning. The men down there right now are far better disciplined, so it is a harder test.’

  Back at the camp, another team came in, and inside the tent I sat and went over their sketches, asking them about distances, effective firing ranges day and night, where a good OP could be positioned. Their next task was an overnight OP, coordinates issued, the team to be back at 9am, sleep rotated, observations of patrol times to be recorded.

  ‘And don’t get caught!’ I warned them.

  At 9am the teams were all back, one having spent a full two hours being chased around before they made good use of smelly cloth and trip wires. We had again been listening in to the radio chatter, and the two dog patrols chasing the team had been snared, both men and dogs, the curses loud and often.

  After breakfast was cooked, three teams were formed, each with an officer, the task of two teams being to get close to the camp down the hill and to make detailed observations, one north and one south, the third team handed a map reading test, observations to be made about an unsuspecting unit of Royal Artillery encamped in the woods six miles away northeast.

  Both recon teams surprised us – and disappointed us - by not getting bitten or chased off, their notes gone over, sketches and maps checked, distances corrected, some patrol timings challenged. Both teams would now go back, and they now had to identify which hut held the hostages, both teams aware that the other team was out there – and to avoid them.

  With the teams dispatched, Liban said, ‘They will wait for the other team to make a mistake, and then move in.’

  ‘Yes, but how long can they both wait for the other to move?’

  He laughed. ‘They sit all night waiting maybe.’

  Sat listening to the radio after dark, one team had been chased off through a woods, but a follow-up dog patrol had not found them, half an hour wasted looking up trees that had been smeared with urine, Liban laughing.

  ‘They piss up a tree,’ he noted with a smile.

  ‘Good tactic,’ I commended. ‘It always pays to take the piss.’

  Food on, water boiling, Swifty and Moran sat with us as we listened in to the radio, routine reports given from time to time. The teams had sat phones linked to Moran’s phone, so we were covered in the event of a broken ankle.

  At midnight the radio went crazy, a team chased off south but not caught, false trails left for the dogs. That gave the team north a chance to get close.

  The radio crackled into life. ‘Someone knocked off the handbrake on my Land Rover and pushed it into the river.’

  The tent reverberated with laughter.

  ‘Did you leave the handbrake off, idiot?’

  ‘No, Boss,’ came back.

  ‘We’re sending out another Land Rover to tow it, stay there.’

  ‘Dogs have movement west!’ came a new voice.

  ‘Send a patrol due west,’ the RSM responded. ‘Half a mile, then south and back.’

  I said, ‘The camp will now have the least men in it.’

  Liban suggested, ‘Maybe my team knows that.’

  Half an hour later came. ‘Anyone seen the RSM?’

  ‘Is he in the bog?’

  ‘Ain’t seen him.’

  ‘North fence is cut!’

  I said, ‘If they cut the fence, then they got inside to have a look, and should be returning soon.’

  Half an hour later, and the RSM was listed as missing, a worry for me, but he would not have gone after anyone alone. Twenty minutes later he appeared at the tent, bound and gagged.

  I stood in front of him with a smug grin in torch light and folded my arms as the lads took the piss something terrible. ‘Oh dear, did you allow yourself to be kidnapped?’ He mumbled something, so I removed his gag.

  ‘These bastards took the cash from my pockets, and my watch!’

  The lads surrounding him roared with laughter.

  ‘Well, these things happen when you get kidnapped,’ I told him. ‘Get another watch, and the money will buy some beers. Release him.’

  Crab untied our complaining RSM, a jeep sent for, the French team congratulated by their major.

  ‘I think, Sergeant Major, that I’m going to have to let everyone at Credenhill know you got pinched.’

  ‘Let them know as well that I murdered a few territorials.’ He stormed off towards the road, to meet the jeep.

  ‘He don’t look happy,’ Swifty noted.

  ‘No, and he needs a new watch – or he’ll sleep-in late.’

  The team that had gone south turned up an hour later, not having got very close, no idea where the hostages were, the team sent off to spy on the Royal Artillery back around dawn, an assortment of items stolen away.

  At 8am I requested a jeep, and with Swifty I drove to the Royal Artillery camp, shouting for the senior man. A captain appeared from the trees.

  ‘Captain, I’m Wilco, and last night my lads paid you a visit.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it, had men complaining of lost kit.’

  ‘And that kit will stay lost, and you’ll have to explain how your sleeping lads were so lax as to allow someone to walk right up to them and pinch their kit. And you, Captain, best pull your finger out. You can expect a call from General Dennet.’

  The young captain swallowed.

  Back at camp, the French were gathered together, the Chinooks on their way.

  Touching down back at GL4, the French were given the rest of the day off to sleep and clean up, to be back at 2pm Saturday afternoon. I met the Major in the hangar.

  ‘RSM is not happy,’ the Major noted with a grin.

  ‘He allowed himself to be kidnapped.’

  We started towards the Portakabin.

  The Major added, ‘And he will suffer some serious piss-taking. Already a cartoon drawn about it, but Rawlson was amused by it. Rawlson has penned an official letter to the RSM, offering counselling for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after his kidnapping.’

  I shook my head. ‘He is so ... never going to live that down.’

  ‘How did they do?’

  ‘Well enough, sir, some better than others, but they have a good attitude, they think like Tomo.’

  ‘That’s not so good,’ the Major quipped as we entered his office. ‘Be shagging on the runway.’

  ‘They snuck up on a Royal Artillery group camped out, and pinched away kit without being seen. And they fooled the dogs, so t
hey learnt a thing or two and practised them, their maps and sketches OK, and they’re now thinking about infiltration and rescue in new ways. I wouldn’t worry about them on a live job.’

  ‘They may take jobs off us.’

  I shrugged. ‘We’re tasked with British hostages, sir, not French.’

  ‘Damn right, let them earn their keep for a change. Factory next week?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  After checking in on stores, I was called to the Portakabin. The Major began, ‘”B” Squadron lads in Sierra Leone shot dead four gunmen, one man off to hospital – something bit him.’

  ‘If they have their fucking masks and gloves on, things don’t bite them!’ I complained. My sat phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Bob, some news from Sierra Leone.’

  ‘I just heard; bitten man.’

  ‘No, not that. They followed the patrol route you gave them, and reported that base in Liberia as having a hundred irregulars in it, occupying the buildings not destroyed.’

  ‘Probably men belonging to the idiot in Monrovia.’

  ‘No APCs seen, so might not be his men.’

  ‘If no APCs, they’re local bandits.’

  ‘Perhaps that route could be modified, we don’t need young officers tackling that group.’

  ‘If they follow the route, they never get closer than a mile.’

  ‘Still, a bit dangerous.’

  ‘I’ll think about modifying it, or ... when I take the French down we wipe out the irregulars and have a look at their paperwork and phones.’

  ‘That would be best, just in case they’re a threat to the border.’

  ‘I’ll let French Echo have a go, after planning the job, a good test for them.’

  ‘How’re they doing?’

  ‘They infiltrated our mock enemy camp and kidnapped the man in charge without being seen or heard.’

  Bob laughed. ‘I’m guessing that he was not amused.’

  ‘He’ll never live it down, we won’t let him.’

  ‘They shaping up?’