Wilco- Lone Wolf 7 Read online

  ‘We could make it look legit,’ Donohue insisted.

  ‘First I would train them at my base, then here, then abroad.’

  ‘How long?’ Morris asked.

  ‘Depends on the man. If he makes the grade, he makes the grade.’

  ‘And fitness?’ Donohue asked.

  ‘It helps, but they don’t need to run marathons to do what you want them for. No up and down the Brecon Beacons.’

  ‘And when are you in the UK?’ Donohue asked.

  ‘If I set a programme, my staff here can run it whilst I’m away, get all the basics covered. I’m not away more than a week or two typically if there’s a job on. Get together a team of say ten or twelve and let me know.’

  Donohue nodded. ‘Are you allowed to say what happened in Algiers?’

  ‘It was all planned ahead. The terrorists fooled people by flying to Mauritania, then on to Algiers, and the plane sat on the perimeter track just twenty yards from a flimsy fence and a road. Algerians had four police cars around it, they never closed that road, French had arrived an hour before us.

  ‘I warned the man in charge about snipers a moment before a sniper got him, and I warned the French about an attack on the wire a few minutes before the attack on the wire.

  ‘A truck crashed through the wire, men on the roof, and the aircraft door was opened, the additional hijackers jumping into the plane. But they accidentally set off their own explosives, plane cut in half and set on fire.

  ‘I ran, four hundred yards at the start of the fighting, and got to the plane as it burnt, opened the rear door and got nine out, rest burning as I watched, women screaming. Three hundred dead; families and kids.’

  ‘That could fuck with your head,’ Morris noted.

  ‘I’ve seen worse. If you know what you’re fighting for, and you know you’re right, it’s easy enough to keep going.’

  ‘So the Algerians fucked it up,’ Donohue noted.

  I nodded. ‘They should have isolated the plane.’

  ‘A bit fucking obvious,’ Donohue noted. ‘Even I would isolate a plane at Heathrow, we have done in the past.’

  ‘We often say, gentlemen, that success is simply the absence of a fuck-up. When men shoot at each other, there are always fuck-ups close at hand, and plans go out the window. And the Iranian Embassy siege was glossed over.’

  ‘I remember the detail,’ Donohue began. ‘And yes, a few fuck-ups, like setting fire to it, and men getting stuck on ropes. And they missed one terrorist, walked right by him.’

  ‘Those stories you see about us in the papers, they’re often sanitised as well, minor fuck-ups kept out the press.’

  ‘And the Farringdon raid?’ Donohue risked.

  ‘I was never there,’ I told him, my guests exchanging looks.

  I fetched them a cup of tea, and they observed the French on the pistol range for ten minutes, soon sitting behind the screens and observing the action in the Killing House. As they observed, soon puzzled by the raucous laughter, two French soldiers kicked away four mad chickens and a crazed rabbit.

  I turned to them. ‘We often put a feral dog in room so that when they clear the building they let it out, and it bites them. But that could happen in real life, as it has done, so they have to expect it.’

  As the two French left the Killing House, they lobbed grenades at the demon animals and closed the door, our monster pets shredded.

  ‘Chicken on the menu later,’ I told Liban, making him laugh.

  Donohue said, ‘We get an officer savaged by a damn dog every fucking week. Every hard man in London has a pitbull in his flat.’

  ‘Here, your officers can practise shooting feral dogs, just deny it, or the RSPCA will be after us all.’

  ‘That they fucking would!’ Donohue agreed.

  With the police gone, the French had a night exercise, some rest first. As with previous teams, they were tasked with moving up on the base as a small team, over the wire, over four fences in turn, up over the House of Horrors quietly, and to storm the Killing House, dummies inside pretending to be hostages.

  They finished at 1am, one minor wound to attend before they got some sleep, that sleep interrupted by whistles and dogs as one man got out of Stalag Luft, two bitten, the rest manhandled back into their hut. The lucky escapee quickly stuffed some food inside himself, followed by a warm cup of tea; he was starving.

  Unknown to me, but curiously observed by the gate guards on their screens, that same man went sleep walking, smelly rags around stones thrown at the dog patrols, the dogs going nuts all night long, and at dawn three men made it out when the dog handlers could not be bothered to respond.

  I laughed when I heard, and had the remaining prisoners released, Sasha and his boys sent back to GL4 for a rest, the TA assistants and dog handlers thanked.

  On the Thursday, paint ball pistols were issued, pairs sent in to the House of Horrors, a score card set up. Problem was Swifty, and his fondness for deranged animals. One man had his position given away by a chicken pecking at him, and he was shot – complaining at length. One man crawled through a hole to find our resident family of giant rats coming at him, and as he fled he was shot in the back – again complaining.

  A tripwire got one man, down and hurt before he was shot, a pressure pad explosive stunning another man before he got shot by his countrymen, Major Liban fielding complaints with some choice English phrases. Those about to enter the House of Horrors were on-edge to say the least – which was what we were after.

  The remainder had finished off the pistol contest, one group of eight getting good advice from two time-served house burglars on how to get past double-glazing windows and doors, and how to pick locks.

  At 5pm a Chinook loudly landed, all of the French told to look out of the windows when the cabin lights flashed. They did so, those on the left looking down at a small camp, followed by those on the right, the camp sitting some ten miles away. Back at The Factory, those from the Chinook were all sat down in the canteen, and told to draw a sketch and a map of what they had seen, and to judge distances, and not to confer.

  After twenty minutes, a drawing of the camp was displayed, the French drawings marked. The accuracy ranged from very good, to crap, Major Liban shouting at a few men.

  At 7pm, still light, the Chinook was back, and this time the men had another camp to peer down at – but had two quick chances. Back at The Factory they got to work, their sketches a little better this time.

  After a meal, and after the sun had set, they moved out on foot, a four mile walk to the large antenna array near Leominster. They jogged past it, had a quick look, and jogged back to the factory, where they sat and again made sketches, now starting to think about distances.

  After twenty minutes, photos and maps were passed around, and the men could see how their depth perception was often out, and how a quick look at a place often led to entire barracks being drawn in the wrong place.

  In the morning we packed up and headed back, some time off due our visitors, the next study date to be Saturday 2pm.

  Saturday morning saw kit being checked over ready for Sierra Leone, as well as for visitors next week. I would be away with the French and many of the Echo lads as twenty-five promising young officers would be housed in the barracks, training given by Crab and Duffy, Rizzo staying behind with Stretch, Captain Harris and his team, the Major set to give a few lectures.

  I had detailed the training that the blue-blooded young men were due to receive, and the Major was in charge of making sure that things ran smoothly for our country’s future colonels and generals. Those blue-blooded young men would join us in Sierra Leone in a week’s time.

  Sasha and his team checked kit ready for Sierra Leone, but they would have slightly different kit, and a slightly different programme. They now had Russian boots, underwear and t-shirts, a few bits of Russian kit, and in Sierra Leone I would task them with map reading exercises and, if the intel was right, with approaching gunmen up near the Guinea border and trying
to sell arms – simply to practise such a move.

  Saturday afternoon, after a leisurely lunch, the French ambled into the briefing room, papers and pens ready, Moran and Henri translating. Teams of four were created, the officers put together, Major Liban sat ready and keen.

  I handed out packs to each team; a map, a sketch of a village, notes in French from an escaped hostage, technical details, right down to the time of year.

  ‘OK, listen up. You are onboard the Charles de Gaul off the coast of Somalia, tasked with getting out a group of hostages. You can make use of any or all of the men in this new unit for the rescue. You can use helicopters, boats, scuba gear, or a submarine, and ... the rest is up to you. You have one hour, so begin.’

  Hushed conversations broke out, hands waved, small arguments over detail, and for this exercise the French Intel support team was in on it.

  Coming up to the hour I reminded them off the time, a few hushed arguments still taking place, and finally called time. ‘OK, how many would go in by helicopter?’

  Almost half raised hands.

  ‘How many would land inside of six miles?’

  Most of those who had raised hands did so again.

  ‘Anyone by submarine and dinghy?’

  Three groups raised hands.

  ‘By small boat from the ship?’

  Two teams raised hands.

  ‘How many would task both platoons with the rescue attempt?’

  Most teams raised hands.

  ‘How many would leave a rescue team behind?’

  Three teams raised hands.

  ‘OK, Major, what was your plan?’

  ‘We have two platoons on two helicopters, the reserve men ready for rescue. The helicopters follow the areas with no people, and land about five miles away, a road in the hills at 2am. We walk the five miles quietly, and eyes-on for a day – but with an option to make a quick assessment, to abort or to go in.

  ‘If all looks OK, a small team moves forwards at 3am the next day, four men with pistols at the front, to have a close look, four man sniper team at 500yards – there is a ridge. We come from the southwest, the hills, avoiding people.

  ‘If the front four men give the signal, they go over the wall, the support men move up, streets north and west covered by two pairs. We kill the guards with silencers, and try to get the hostages. We expect at most six hostages, at least two – as the witness describes.

  ‘If that goes well we try and take vehicles nearby, and drive southeast and wait, covered by our men, who withdraw in pairs covering each other, to meet the vehicles, and we call the helicopters, to meet us on a road.’

  I nodded. ‘OK. On the sheet you have there is a date, and it’s full moon.’

  Liban made a face. ‘So it is light at night, but we also see them a long way off.’

  ‘Would you modify your plan?’

  ‘If it was possible to wait a week, I wait, a dark night. But if we have orders ... we go.’

  ‘If you have orders ... you mention the full moon. OK, the hostage witness says that there are between two and six hostages typically. I would not risk my team for two hostages, I’d say no – unless those men are high value. In this case they are Red Cross.’

  ‘You say no go?’ Liban queried.

  ‘For two hostages, I say no go. If a helicopter crashes you lose eight men, and for what – two hostages? If there is a shoot-out you lose two men and rescue two. I say no.’

  They exchanged looks, a few nodding.

  ‘OK, I would always try and have a rescue team on standby, not least because a helicopter could go down with a fault. I would also not choose to go ashore by helicopter, they can be heard miles away, and villagers could report them. I would choose the boats first, submarine and dinghy second – as being the quiet way ashore.

  ‘The hostages are just twelve miles inland, so they can be reached by walking slowly and avoiding people. On the map you will see the word “barracks”, and it is just five hundred yards away along a straight road. They could be on you in five minutes. That road would need to be blocked, or you have three hundred men coming at you.

  ‘I would be cautious about a small team up against a barracks, unless you had RPG and explosives maybe, GPMG. You had two men covering that road, three hundred men to hold off. I would want to know more about that barracks first.

  ‘You will also see on the map a ditch and river, on the road to the barracks. That small bridge could be blown, to stop reinforcements arriving. Who had that detailed?’

  They exchanged looks; none had.

  ‘Who considered the barracks?’

  None had spotted it.

  ‘Gentlemen, most likely - you just got yourselves and the hostages killed. Fifteen minute coffee break before the next test.’

  As coffee was made they loudly debated the pros and cons, and whether two or three hostages was worth it.

  Sat back down, I handed out the next test, the detail in French. I began, ‘Gentlemen, you are again on the Charles de Gaul off the coast of Somalia, tasked to recover an American aircrew, two men. They are hidden in the hills, alive and well. In four days the American Navy will arrive, a carrier battle group.

  ‘You have – a week ago – rescued hostages from a town nearby, two wounded men, some slight wounds, the pilots reportedly six miles northeast of that town. You have only two serviceable helicopters, one additional helo to be ready late tomorrow.

  ‘Signals intel has reported Somalis out looking for the pilots, who would ransom them back - usually. The weather is poor, rain and storms, the last known position of the pilots recorded, but their last message said they were moving position to avoid Somalis hunting them. Plan your rescue.’

  Major Liban said, ‘You have some headache tablets first?’

  Moran and I smiled.

  ‘Make your plan,’ I nudged, many hushed conversations breaking out, maps pored over.

  On the hour I stopped them. ‘OK, who considered that this is an American problem, and to wait?’

  A third raised hands.

  ‘Who considered telling the Americans that your helicopters were unserviceable?’

  Two teams raised hands and smiled.

  ‘Who would use the two remaining helicopters?’

  Most raised hands.

  ‘Who would wait for better weather?’

  Only one team raised their hands.

  ‘You will see from the detail that it is mid January, so cold at night, it gets dark early, and it rains hard for a few short weeks, roads washed out – quicksand a problem in the deserts – vehicles getting stuck. When it rains the visibility is just a hundred yards, so you could be within two hundred yards of the pilots and not find them by GPS.

  ‘The pilots have sat phones, no radios, so no close-up radio work to pin-point their position. So, who would suggest to command that you must wait?’

  Half raised hands, including Major Liban.

  ‘Who thinks Paris would bow to pressure from Washington?’

  All raised their hands, faces drooping.

  ‘Who thinks it would be a fuck-up?’

  Most raised their hands again.

  ‘My plan would be to wait till I have both a break in the weather, and a fix on the pilots, and send the helicopters. I would not want to put a ground unit in to walk around looking for the pilots in those conditions – freezing temperatures and freezing rain, no shelter, quicksand under foot.

  ‘And I would tell the Americans that conditions were bad, helicopters were broken, but that we were keen to help as soon as possible.

  ‘You must then consider that every Somali within twenty miles will be keenly looking for the pilots, because capturing them is worth a hundred year’s wages. A pilot will fetch a million dollars, more than the GDP of the entire fucking country.

  ‘OK, you now have free time till Sunday night, no drunken fighting please. Check kit, and you will be issued with AKM rifles when we get there, plenty of ammo, and you have the bandoliers. We do have a live mi
ssion planned for next week, a group of a hundred gunmen across the border in Liberia, and you will be tasked with that operation – we will work in support of you.

  ‘If you need to check with Paris before firing a shot, do so today, because you will attack the enemy base.’

  They exchanged concerned looks.

  Liban said, ‘I talk to my colonel today.’

  Sunday afternoon I called a meeting with the French and their support staff, Captain Harris and some of his team in on the meeting since this was a live operation. We had photos of the base in Liberia, and so the French were tasked with creating a plan, this time an operational plan.

  ‘OK, from the FOB you allow one day to walk to the enemy base and get above it, one day eyes-on. Have a look at the map and consider the river crossings, which may have guards.’

  Considering those river crossings, I stepped out and called Bob. ‘Listen, the bridges over the rivers in Sierra Leone; are there peacekeepers there or British soldiers?’

  ‘There were peacekeepers for a while, now random stop and search, but the locals don’t like that so the stop-and-search has been cut down. The peacekeepers do very little now, and there were never Brits on the border.’

  ‘So we can cross without being seen.’

  ‘Unless the gunmen have men on the border, and some gunmen were seen.’

  ‘Similar to last time. French Major here spoke to his colonel and they have permission to shoot in anger.’

  ‘There are no hostages there that we know about, but we can label this as going after the arms dealers.’

  ‘Send a note to your French counterpart, Bob, labelling it as such. Let’s cover all the bases before the blame game starts.’

  ‘Thinking like a politician,’ Bob quipped.

  ‘Thinking like someone who knows how you lot work.’

  Back in the briefing room, routes were being considered, vehicles or helicopters. There were two Chinooks in support of the British force already there, so they were an option – just a very loud option.

  ‘Gentlemen, if you are in soft-skinned vehicle and hit by an RPG, you will lose six men,’ I told them. ‘My men went in on foot, shooting border guards as they went, having a look around as they went. On foot, you pick up detail you miss in a vehicle and a helicopter.’