Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘He’s being accused of saving American lives,’ I told them. ‘If he’s forced out the media will crucify them. If he stays ... he’ll be emboldened.’

  ‘And with him being in regular contact with you...’ the Director floated.

  ‘That could only strengthen our working relationship, Ma’am.’

  She smiled and nodded. ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Some better weather...?’

  ‘This man who tipped you off ... used the name Philby, so he knows about you,’ David floated.

  I sighed, taking in their looks. ‘Yes, a worry, because he’s open to bribery. And he had my sat phone number!’

  On the way back I was reflective about both Bosnia and Panama, but never more sure that what I was doing was right.

  The next morning The Sun had a page-size story of the two Bosnia families, a plug of the book to be, some of the story of Bosnia, tales of families that escaped the horrors and that were re-united.

  Echo took delivery of a large radar set, a small radar set, and some nifty small devices for picking up radio chatter, everyone in on the lectures. Towards the end of the day we sent Sergeant Crab into the woods, and we set up a device on the north fence, and it lit up and beeped when Crab was using is radio, a rough direction given.

  The new kit would come in very handy, and we would be taking along the smaller items on each job, the larger radar set only good in jeeps or to be delivered by Chinook. 2 Squadron had several of the large radar sets, and would maintain them, their men set to have a great many lessons. They had the rifles I had sent, and would test each man to find the best eight marksmen for the sniper team.

  Credenhill had taken delivery of the Valmect rifles, Colonel Dean reporting the men keen to use them. The regulars had also taken delivery of a large radar set and the smaller kit, lessons in progress.

  “G” Squadron had seen a few men return, others still nursing skin grafts, but attending the base, and attending courses.

  On the Thursday, after the Major had gone, I had most lads up on the barracks roof, sniping at a target placed in the north woods, a 1200yard shot. Sergeant Crab was behind one of the log walls, so safe enough, radio in hand.

  Using the larger sights, I hit ten bulls for ten, a good grouping, happy with the new rifles, but I had thought up an innovation, and Bongo had cobbled together what I wanted.

  Taking the lads to the range the next morning, I displayed the innovation, Crab and Duffy loading magazines for us.

  ‘I’ve had a clip made up to hold a magazine on the right side of the fore end grip, ahead of the cocking lever. The idea is ... that when we know we’re about to ambush someone you put a magazine in there for a quick load.

  ‘Right, Rocko and Rizzo, forwards, two magazines of five rounds only. Load one, second in the clip.’ They loaded. ‘Kneel and aim. Right, you’re not allowed to move your left arm or take your eye off the target, you use your right hand. Click empty, thumb releases the magazine, new mag in, cock it and fire again, all done quickly. Standby ... go.’

  They fired five rounds quickly, clicked empty, dropped the magazines, grabbed the fresh one off the clip and in, weapon cocked and another five rounds. They finally stood.

  ‘Fast enough?’ I asked them.

  ‘Saves a few seconds, yeah,’ Rocko agreed. ‘Saves you taking your eye of someone as well.’

  Rizzo said, ‘Sixty rounds in the same spot, more than enough.’

  ‘I want everyone to practise it, and I’ll have some proper clips made up. Carry on, Staff Sergeants.’

  I made a drawing, added some text, and faxed Valmect. They faxed straight back to say they would have it soon, and thanks for all the business. I had to wonder if Tomsk was buying rifles for his friends in low places, a worry; I might come across them and be on the receiving end.

  O’Leary informed me that Colonel Dean had called, so I called the Colonel back. ‘After me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a problem with Captain Hamble.’

  ‘Problem, sir?’

  ‘He’s just being RTU’d. Pity really, he’s a good officer and a good soldier.’

  ‘What’s he being RTU’d for then, sir?’

  ‘A bunch of thugs had a go at him down on Newport train station; he was off to see his parents. He kicked the crap out of them, walked off, then returned and stomped on them – all caught by passing police officers and CCTV, little we can do. He’s facing a minor jail term. I figured you might have a use for him.’

  ‘I’ll make a call, sir, leave it with me.’

  I called David Finch. ‘It’s Wilco. SAS regular captain, Hamble, good man, is being kicked out the SAS after beating up a few thugs. I could make use of him.’

  ‘He got a good score on your three day?’

  ‘Yes, and has been with us on most jobs, he has the experience.’

  ‘I remember seeing the name a few times. He’s facing police action?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d be a character witness.’

  ‘If you stood up in court he’d never get convicted, no. OK, move him across, I’ll find out what the police are saying.’

  I called back Colonel Dean, and we would send Hamble down, and we’d have a new troop captain for Robby’s troop. Hamble arrived after 6pm with bags, and I made him a brew in my house. He seemed distant.

  ‘You OK?’

  He made a face. ‘Stupid mistake.’

  ‘We’ve all made those. In Liberia you led a mad charge, now you go all psycho on some thugs. Anything going on that I should know about?’

  He took a moment. ‘Wife is divorcing me.’

  ‘Ah, well of that doesn’t piss you off, nothing will. You miss her?’

  ‘No, she’s a cunt.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘She was cheating; a tanned-skinned Greek with black hair and a chain around his neck.’

  ‘Ah, and you’re not just wounded by her cheating, but by the low-life she was cheating with.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well we’ll even the score, and have some fun.’

  ‘What’d you mean?’

  ‘Lads like these things, so Costa will meet with an accident, and your wife will suffer some car trouble, house trouble, arrested on minor charges. Trust me, you’ll feel better afterwards.’

  ‘Well, if we can do it without getting caught.’

  ‘We can, and when your trial comes around I’ll explain to the jury that you were wounded in Liberia and stressed. You’ll get a suspended sentence at most – I have friends in low places.’

  He sipped his tea. ‘When I leave Echo, it’s civvy life.’

  I laughed. ‘What makes you think you’ll live long enough to worry about that.’

  He coughed out a laugh. ‘Cunt.’

  ‘Trust me, a year at most before you’re killed.’

  I allocated him Robby’s old house, and he knew where everything was anyhow. A few doors up I let Moran know we had a new troop captain.

  ‘Ah, good, someone to help me with the paperwork.’

  ‘I help you with the paperwork.’

  ‘A proper officer I meant.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I feigned.

  Back at the house, Colonel Mathews called. ‘Still awake?’ he asked me.

  ‘Not that late here, sir.’

  ‘I just left a Senate hearing room, and got a standing applause for something I never did, not been seen before. President himself commended me, and I have a dozen invites to the good dinner parties.’

  I laughed. ‘Sounds like fun, sir.’

  ‘Without you admitting anything, I’d just like to say thanks, but I guess there’ll be a trade-off down the line.’

  ‘That depends, sir, on what I am; humble Captain, or a spy.’

  ‘So a trade-off then.’

  ‘There is one small favour you could do for me.’ And I detailed it.

  In the morning the lads glanced at Hamble, but he had been here many times before.

  ‘OK, we have with us now Cap
tain Hamble, who’s now joined us after being kicked out of the regulars, and he’ll be troop caption for Robby’s troop, which evens things out a bit. If anyone objects to him being here ... tough fucking shit, you know where the gate is.’

  ‘What was he kicked out for?’ Rocko rudely asked.

  ‘He beat the crap out of some thugs on Newport railway station, had a sandwich, then went back and stomped on them.’

  ‘And they kick people out for that?’ Rocko scoffed.

  ‘It’s an officer thing,’ Moran told him. ‘Not supposed to get arrested on serious charges or ... go to prison.’

  ‘Anyway, you all know Captain Hamble, and he’s been with us on most jobs, and yes – Robby - you can call him Blood Thirsty Maniac behind his back.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Captain Maniac,’ Rocko noted. ‘Fit in well around here.’

  ‘Why?’ I challenged. ‘I’m totally sane.’

  They laughed as I exchanged a look with Moran. I faced Leggit and Swann as they sat together. ‘You two settled in?’

  ‘First night, and Staff Sergeant “Knobhead” Rocko put me in next to Bongo.’

  They laughed loudly.

  ‘Staff Sergeant, that was a very cruel thing to do.’

  ‘Hey, I’m right here,’ Bongo protested.

  ‘Are you settled now?’ I asked Swann.

  ‘Yes, Boss, nice rooms, far enough away from Bongo, good food.’

  ‘I might get a place off base with my bird anyhow,’ Bongo threatened.

  ‘Three extra rooms then,’ Moran noted. ‘Less structural damage, and more food for everyone else.’

  ‘What you all picking on me for?’ Bongo protested.

  ‘Because you snore like fuck!’ Moran told him.

  ‘No my fault...’ Bongo quietly protested.

  ‘OK, Monday morning early and we drive up to Sennybridge, we have the moving targets for a day. There’ll be a contest, and those coming last get laps, lots of laps. 7am here everyone, canteen will be open at 6am. Captain Hamble, you up to speed on the Valmect rifle?’

  ‘Used it in Liberia every day, so yes.’

  ‘Bongo ran some tests on it, and failed to break it, so we can rely upon it.’

  Bongo reported, ‘I stuck four hundred rounds through it, no jams, then had a good look. Barrel is solid, good metal, but I reckon the magazine release cam could wear.’

  ‘Set a test for it then, and if it wears – let Valmect know, they’re dead keen to please us.’

  After the briefing, many lads off to the range to practise for Monday, Mally drove in.

  ‘You just got back?’ I asked him as he clambered out from his beaten-up old car.

  ‘Yeah, week off then back down there.’

  ‘Anything interesting happening down there?’

  ‘Gone quiet, but still plenty of jungle boys to shoot up now and then. Marines had a few guys wounded near the border with Ivory Coast, small group, no large groups active. The Monrovia Army is spread out now, check points on all roads. Brits do the searching, the Monrovia lads hold the roads, and the Brits pay for some repairs and stuff, some medics doing the old hearts and minds.’

  ‘Another year and it’ll be back to square one.’

  ‘Good, I like it down there, and I get extra pay – wartime conditions. Got a local bird as well, half-caste black.’

  ‘Careful where you stick it, AIDS is rife down there.’

  ‘She’s a nurse, so I think she’s switched on.’

  ‘So what’s she doing with you then?’

  ‘Beats me,’ he said with a grin.

  Finding that Whisky had little to do, I asked if would teach in jungle survival Liberia, and he was keen. Bag packed, he set off for a warmer climate.

  Sunday afternoon, and after a two hour drive to RAF Lakenheath, my favour from Colonel Mathews was about to be realised, the base commander himself welcoming me. After a half hour lecture on safety, half an hour fitting clothing and kit, I was strapped into an F15.

  Ten minutes later we lifted off, heading quickly northeast to the North Sea and then up the east coast at low level and high speed, ships shooting past in a blur. At the Scottish border we flew inland, soon in deep valleys and starting the standard training-run course for fighter aircraft, high speed and low level.

  Half the time were on our side, or inverted, rarely straight and level as we tore down tight grey-sided valleys. At one point I could clearly see a stag stood proud on a ridge.

  After one tight turn the pilot shouted ‘Shit’ and lifted the nose a little, and we passed an RAF Chinook out on a training run, although at a slower pace. ‘Other aircraft use these valleys,’ he told me.

  Climbing to a thousand feet above the hilltops he throttled back and let me have a go. I weaved around the valleys, never a danger of hitting anything, and I recalled my time in a Cessna for my pilot.

  Back at Lakenheath the pilots were all keen for the detail of special op’s and Ivory Coast, so I detailed a white board with the hostage rescue there, soon talking about the Lynx. They wished me well, and realised that I could not be photographed, so they stuffed a helmet – visor down - on my head and all lined up for the pose.

  Monday morning we all ate early, a hearty breakfast before boarding two coaches with tinted windows, civvy police escort at the front, MPs at the rear.

  At Sennybridge I greeted the range warden at 8.30am, Crab and Duffy in the control room, the targets tested, up and down, left and right on the rails. The targets did not need to be patched up too often, a hit registering back in the control room. You could of course put a round through the same small hole, but they reckoned the shockwave would register a hit.

  I told Crab what I wanted, and each man would have a ten minute test, four magazines used. Rocko was first up, his weapon checked, tube sight to be used. I marked a spot at fifty yards, and he adopted that spot, a nifty cold crosswind from the west for shooters to endure.

  Back in the command room, Moran and Hamble in with me, I grabbed the microphone, and the rest of the lads – now sheltering from the wind – would hear my broadcast.

  ‘Shooter has for magazines of thirty rounds. One round hits should register. If the target fails to drop you may fire again. You will be presented with targets at one hundred, two hundred and three hundred, often several at once. Hit as many as you can, and the test will be the same format for all shooters. Get ready.’

  Crab held a finger to my instruction sheet, and started to throw up targets, Rocko firing. When he finished, he had scored 112 out of 120, the score to beat.

  Rizzo went next, and scored a point under, Swifty a point over. Stretch was at 106, getting told off and insulted, Slider at 114. Mahoney hit 115, Moran levelling him, Hamble getting a good 111 at his first attempt.

  Nicholson topped Mahoney with 116, Leggit drawing level, Swann at 115, Tomo at 114. Dicky hit a respectable 109, Mouri at 113. I was last, and hit 115; I had not lost my touch since Bosnia.

  Packed lunches were nibbled, the Army Snipers turning up with tea urns, and for a chat, not least because they had been playing with the Valmect rifles I had sent them.

  Second time around Rocko gained a point, as did Rizzo, Mahoney hitting 116, level with Nicholson, Moran dropping a point, Nicholson edging into the lead with 117, Swann and Leggit at 116, Tomo at 115. I went last again, and made an effort, as if my life depended on it, and hit 116. I made Crab and Duffy have a go, both hitting 104.

  As we lost the light I had men sent off for chips, and after the chips were devoured, the wind picking up and the rain starting, we turned the lights on for the last round. Conditions were poor, the light poor, a proper test.

  Nicholson came top with 109, Swann and Leggit a point under, and I hit 106. That left Stretch with some laps to do. Crab and Duffy were under, but they were not members of Echo. Cold men with cold noses and cold fingers boarded the buses, Rocko complaining that he’d do better in a warmer climate.

  The next morning, the wind westerly at 20mph, I had
the lads snipe at 600yards on our base range, a contest held, and when the Major left I had them snipe from the barracks at 1200yards, the scores tallied for all to see, Nicholson in the lead, followed by Swan and Leggit, Tomo, me and Swifty, Slider trailing us – no real surprises there.

  The pistol range came next, and the next day Tomo hit just about 99%, Rocko and Rizzo doing well after me, Nicholson, Swann and Leggit not so good with a pistol.

  Taking the bottom six rifle scores, I had them sent back up to Sennybridge for a hard day’s training; Stretch, Dicky, Henri and three of Sasha’s team. Sasha’s aim was good, but he was no superstar.

  I got an unexpected call from Mike Papa at 5pm.

  ‘Mister President,’ I answered.

  ‘I have some information on hostages, twelve hostages, some Europeans, but only two Americans we think. One is an American soldier.’

  My brow furrowed. ‘What did you just say? A soldier?’

  ‘Yes, a soldier.’

  ‘That’s ... very odd. Where are they?’

  ‘Southern Mali, close to the Niger border.’

  ‘And who’s holding them?’

  ‘An Islamist separatist group.’

  ‘How many armed men?’

  ‘More than a hundred, in a small town.’

  ‘Airstrip?’

  ‘Not that I know.’

  I wrote down the name and the grid reference he had. ‘OK, I’ll let the Americans and British know, they will be grateful. How’re things in Liberia?’

  ‘We are cooperating, yes, and for the first time in ten years I have no groups north of me.’

  ‘Oil going OK?’

  ‘Yes, we ship it to Panama, good money coming back now.’

  ‘Thanks for the information, but keep looking for other hostages.’

  ‘I will do, yes.’

  ‘Papa Victor out.’ I called Colonel Mathews.

  ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Listen, are you missing a soldier in Mali, west Africa, or nearby?’

  ‘Missing a soldier, no.’

  ‘Are you sure, not some CIA operation gone wrong?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘I have intel on a US soldier being held.’

  ‘A US serviceman, or a US official?’