Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  Whispering, I began, ‘It’s Wilco, gunman behind my house, alert a few people before you sound the alarm, get over here with rifles.’

  I leopard crawled to the fence across damp grass. It was not a high fence, but it had reeled barbed wire beyond it, and would not be easy or quick for a man to get over. There were also cameras pointed this way, so someone was not paying attention.

  Movement. Left of me thirty yards, smoke in my twelve o’clock. There were two of them, and I was now in the shit big time, just a pistol to hand. I waited.

  Thirty seconds later a dark object lifted up, a burst of automatic fire at Moran’s house. They had the wrong house, a wry smile coming to my face as I fired four times, the man flying backwards, one of my rounds pinging off the fence.

  A burst of fire came from the left and tore up the grass around me, the base alarm now sounding out, and I rolled onto my side, seeing the dark outline moving. I fired six rounds, sure I hit the man.

  Rapid shots cracked out, an SA80 in action, someone aiming at the man on my left.

  Movement behind me.

  ‘Stay down!’ I shouted. ‘At least two of them, I winged them both.’

  Swifty slid down next to me.

  I told him, ‘Dead ahead, twenty yards, plus ten o’clock thirty yards.’

  A jeep roared in, its headlights lighting up the fields, a body seen, more cracks sounding out.

  I rolled onto my side and recalled the SIS number, giving away my position from the phone’s light.

  ‘Duty Officer.’

  ‘This is Wilco. Terrorist attack in progress at GL4, two intruders shot, get us some police helicopters!’

  Phone down, Swifty said, ‘Fucking drug barons know you’re coming.’

  ‘If they do ... then the job is scrubbed till I know a way in that doesn’t involve me getting killed.’

  MP Pete ran over and knelt. ‘Two bodies. Can’t see anything else.’

  ‘Need to sweep the whole perimeter,’ I calmly suggested. ‘We’ll get the lads armed and teamed up.’

  Moran and Hamble ran over bent double and dived down onto the damp grass, pistols prone. ‘They wrecked my fucking house!’ Moran spat out.

  ‘Move into the spare one,’ I said.

  ‘Why you smiling?’ Moran angrily asked me.

  ‘Because they didn’t wreck my house, they got the wrong one, unless that’s Hamble’s ex-wife out there.’

  ‘Fucker,’ Moran cursed.

  ‘My ex-wife wouldn’t have missed me,’ Hamble noted, Swifty laughing.

  Swifty said, ‘The newspaper-reading public actually think we’re stone-cold professionals.’

  A few minutes later were heard boots on the perimeter track, lads running in, rifles held ready. First was my sniper team.

  ‘You four, out the gate with the MPs, cover them as they look at the bodies.’ I lifted up and moved back to the front of my house, my clothes now wet from the grass, the base lights now on, the alarm blaring out, MP Pete leading the snipers away at the sprint.

  Henri and Jacque came running up, Sasha and his boys in a group behind.

  ‘Sasha, the hangar and behind, search carefully.’

  They cut across the airfield.

  ‘Henri, here at the fence, cover our lads, they’re going outside.’ They ran to the fence and knelt. ‘Swifty. Get the kettle on.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Swifty agreed, curling a lip at his damp muddy knees.

  I led Moran and Hamble back to their happy home, a look at the damage.

  Hamble began, ‘It reminds me of my marriage – full of holes.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ I commended, smiling. ‘Laugh in the face of adversity – and expensive solicitor’s letters.’

  The rear windows were shattered, the ceiling holed, the walls holed, the lounge door displaying holes. I tried not to smile too much. ‘Swap houses when we get back, or ask the MPs to move your stuff whilst we’re away,’ I suggested.

  Back at my house I left the door open and sat with Swifty, brew in hand now, a cold breeze reaching us.

  Rocko appeared with Rizzo. ‘Bit of a flap on?’ he said as he came in, rifle held.

  ‘Captain Hamble’s ex-wife was after him,’ I suggested.

  Swifty told them, ‘They hit Moran’s house, not this one.’

  ‘So who did he upset?’ Rizzo asked.

  I told them, ‘Organise the lads, thorough search, be careful. Looks for bombs.’

  ‘These bad boys, they ... from you know where?’ Rocko asked.

  ‘If they are then we ain’t going anywhere tomorrow,’ I told him.

  ‘Police are in the barracks,’ Rizzo complained. ‘This is their fucking job.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about them. Yes, arm them, ask them for SO13 senior staff here, hand it to them, make sure our lads get a good night’s kip.’

  With Rocko and Rizzo gone, Swifty put it, ‘Fact is ... it is their fucking job. They’re the anti-terrorist boys now.’

  I nodded, and sipped my tea, soon hearing a helicopter low overhead. Flashing blue lights lit my hallway ten minutes later, MPs from Brize Norton, followed by the local armed police.

  MP Pete walked into my house, someone’s ID in his hand. ‘They’re blacks.’

  ‘Blacks?’ Swifty puzzled.

  ‘How black?’ I asked.

  ‘Very damn black,’ Pete informed us, handing over the ID.

  ‘That’s a Nigerian name, a Ghana ID, so it’s a fake probably.’

  ‘Not ... you know who?’ Swifty nudged.

  ‘No, these boys were sent by a man who lost an expensive helicopter in Ivory Coast.’ I lifted my face to Pete. ‘There’ll be a car and a back-up man, have the helicopters go look.’

  He stepped out.

  Another MP stepped in, dog in tow, no longer a puppy. The human wiped his feet, the dog did not. ‘First body was hit in the neck and face, sir, second man had a dozen wounds, so no idea what killed him or who hit him. Leave that to the post mortem.’

  I nodded, and stroked the almost-grown Alsatian. ‘Let SOCO move the bodies, but I’m taking my pistol with me tomorrow.’ The MP stepped out, dog in tow.

  My phone trilled; David. ‘Right, Boss?’

  ‘You had an attack at the base?’

  ‘Two Nigerians, very dead, car not found yet. But at least that new police unit is here ... and earning their keep.’

  ‘New police unit?’

  ‘The one I’m training.’

  ‘Ah, yes, well ... their sort of work I guess. Hang on ... damn and blast it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Police officer shot and killed on the M4 near you, after they stopped a vehicle for speeding away. Two blacks shot dead in the car.’

  I heaved a huge sigh. ‘At some point we’ll have to deal with the Nigerians.’

  ‘I’ll add it to the list,’ he quipped. ‘But I dare say this will spark a COBRA meeting in the morning, a call for action.’

  ‘Get me a list of Nigerian suspects before I go meet our friend.’

  ‘Well ... yes, that may offer a form of a solution. I’ll discuss it with the PM.’

  Phone down, I stared at Swifty. ‘Getaway car, two blacks, shot dead a local copper.’

  ‘Fucking ‘ell,’ he sighed out. ‘All these fucks need to do to find us is to ask any UK citizen, or just read the papers. And if you hit these drug boys..?’

  I eased back, staring at the floor. ‘I’ve already warned a few people they may come for us. If we fail to get them, or most of the leadership, they’ll hit back.’ I lifted my head. ‘Look at this week: they lost some drugs to the police ... and bombs are going off. What’ll they be like if they lose some of their senior men? Good thing is, part of my plan is to blame the Russian gangs, and the Russian gangs won’t deny that – they want a fight.’

  ‘We have that at least.’

  At midnight I told all Echo to sleep, and told all the coppers they’d be on all night, some whinging evident, not least because it was now raining. But we ha
d extra MPs from Brize Norton, and the local police, so we were well covered.

  I walked to the guardroom and enquired after the cameras, SOCO now in the fields, lights rigged up, white tents erected over the bodies. The camera wire had been cut half an hour before the attack, a fault reported for the morning. ‘Guys, the next time a camera goes, assume the worst and step up the patrols, eh.’

  ‘Right, Boss. But we’ve had a dozen go and be fixed.’

  ‘Then I’ll shout at the relevant people and get some better fucking cameras.’

  A helicopter loudly landed, four men stepping down, and we greeted them warily, rifles held by the MPs.

  The first man flashed a badge. ‘SO13. London told us quite firmly to earn our fucking keep, so this is officially our first job with the new team – even if the stiffs are getting cold and wet.’

  ‘Over to you then, I’m off to bed, we’re flying tomorrow, live job.’

  ‘We got twenty armed men with you, and if they ain’t up to it there’ll be questions, loud fucking questions.’

  ‘Your boys are good now, I can trust them on a live job.’

  ‘And the fuckers who came here?’

  ‘Nigerians, unhappy that we pushed them out of Liberia.’

  ‘Shit ... serious stuff this. International,’ a second man put in.

  ‘And a local copper was killed on the M4 by the getaway driver.’

  ‘Christ,’ the first man let out. ‘We need to step up our monitoring of Nigerians, and not just for money laundering and drugs anymore.’

  I left them to debate the matter in the chill night air, and had a bite to eat before I headed to bed, my pistol stripped and cleaned, second magazine in.

  I managed to get a few hours kip and woke at 5am, seeing our coppers patrolling around still, police cars still here. After a cup of tea I ventured out, the rain holding off. SOCO had gone, with their white tents, bodies removed.

  In the guardroom I found a bunch of cold-nosed local officers. ‘You look cold.’

  ‘Pigging freezing, been on most of the night, off soon.’

  ‘That colleague of yours, on the M4...’

  ‘Sergeant Mike Derby, married, three girls,’ the man coldly stated. ‘Was set to retire next year.’

  One asked me, ‘These Nigerians, what they after?’

  ‘They were behind the coup in Liberia, to get at the oil illegally, and our soldiers pushed them out ... and I was credited with planning the operation ... and people know where this base is.’

  ‘They lost, so what the fuck does this achieve?’

  ‘You need to understand the mentality of a drug dealer and gang member. It’s about saving face, and taking revenge, not some practical gain.’

  ‘So these dickheads want to show the other gangs they’re tough?’ the second copper snarled.

  ‘Pretty much,’ I told him, stroking an Alsatian. ‘An attack here won’t remove British and French troops from Liberia. It’s the IRA mentality. But after I get back I’ll ask the Prime Minister if we can go visit some of these boys where they live.’

  I checked the hangar, and that no doors or windows had been forced in the portakabins, then the smaller buildings, the SAS TA stores, and finally headed for an early breakfast, the ladies reassured that they were in no danger here. I promised them chocolates, they asked for dinner.

  ‘Try Captain Hamble, he’s single now,’ I told them. Since the ladies were all in their fifties I did not rate their chances with Hamble, and I did not rate Hamble’s chances if he upset them.

  Moran wandered in and joined me.

  ‘Where’d you sleep?’ I asked him.

  ‘Same house, plastic sheet up to cover the windows, taped up, curtains closed, lounge door closed, rest of the house was OK. Had a chair up against my bedroom door though, pistol out.’

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ I quipped.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘You heard about the M4 incident?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Local traffic copper shot dead by the getaway driver, two blacks shot dead.’

  He shook his head. ‘We need to sort those boys.’

  ‘I have something in mind, leave it to me. But ... this naughty job in Central America, if that goes wrong there’ll be more than just a few blacks coming for us.’

  ‘Need to beef up security here.’

  I raised a finger then made a call, waking Max. ‘Listen, we had an attack here, so get down here, story for you.’ Phone away, I said, ‘Two attacks, and we killed them all, so ... I can exaggerate that.’

  ‘So what exactly happened last night?’ Moran puzzled.

  ‘As I left your house I smelt the cigarette smoke.’

  ‘They were smoking! Useless fucks.’

  ‘They would have never gotten over the fence, so the plan was just to fire at us, maybe when a group was walking past.’

  ‘That fence don’t go all the way around!’

  ‘Yeah, but they don’t know that,’ I teased, getting a look. Thinking aloud, I began, ‘They came here, not Credenhill, so they had some help from an ex-trooper.’

  ‘Plenty of those around Africa, all wanting a few quid.’

  After breakfast, and stood in a cold wind, I called SIB, Captain Moorhouse. ‘It’s Wilco.’

  ‘Ah, just heard about your incident.’

  ‘Yeah, well get into gear, because they had some help from an ex-trooper. They knew we were here and not up at Credenhill.’

  ‘I’ll go see the people investigating it, ask for access and try and track back.’

  ‘Do so ... and quickly,’ I threatened.

  When O’Leary arrived at the Portakabins I said, ‘Right, paper and pen.’ He got ready. ‘I want a tower near the gate, my side of the road, thirty feet high or so, roof for bad weather, and the compartment for men needs to be bullet proof. Think ... Northern Ireland.

  ‘Next, I want a small greenhouse type thing up on the barracks, night sights on a mounting, big binoculars on a mounting, and ... a heater for when it’s fucking cold, tea and coffee. And I want them in the next few days. Then ask for a local armed unit to drive around the outside of the base, the roads, every hour after dark - permanently.’

  He lifted his eyebrows as he wrote it down. ‘There’s a type of green fence, with slats in it, but it’s bullet proof, cheap enough. You can see through but not shoot through.’

  ‘Great, have it strung along behind the houses, ten feet tall. And a camera in the roof of Robby’s house, facing the street, wired back to the guardroom.’

  ‘Families might be concerned,’ he noted. ‘Second attack.’

  ‘If they are ... tough shit, they move someplace else; this is Echo, not a fucking nursery. And think what they would have been like if they had been living on the base!’

  The lads appeared in groups, kit being checked, our police counter-terrorism unit now asleep in the barracks and not in the least bit protecting our base nor investigating anything, but at 10am Donohue landed with his mate by sleek Augusta helicopter. We shook hands and I got him a cup of tea in the briefing room.

  ‘We’re handling some aspects of the case,’ he told me. ‘MI5 are involved, their turf, SIS of course because it’s international, COBRA meeting now.’

  ‘How about we kill two birds with one stone, and have some of your men here always, and assisting with counter-terrorism patrols and investigations locally.’

  ‘We can do that,’ they keenly put in. ‘Second batch of men ready, thirty two, same criteria as last time.’

  ‘We’ll start them here, then up to the Factory,’ I suggested. ‘I think I can refine the process a little, speed it up.’

  ‘If our men are here, it’s a live operation,’ Donohue noted. ‘Home Secretary has to label it as such.’

  ‘If he don’t I’ll give him a nudge,’ I assured them.

  By noon we were ready to depart, the kit all sorted and crated up, but then the silencers suddenly arrived, so we had to open a crate and get them in, not enough room, a
second crate opened. There was no sign of the optical sights yet.

  Max drove in looking tired. I got him a coffee and detailed the story, then detailed the second story – which would be true within a few days anyhow. I let him photograph Sergeant Crab kitted out and armed - and knelt near our fence, facemask on.

  Before he left, I took Max to one side. ‘Start researching the Cali Cartel in Colombia.’

  ‘I know a man that wrote a book on it!’

  ‘Get him involved, do your homework, start to put together stories, but not a story out yet, not a word about my interest in them.’

  ‘Will you go after them?’

  ‘Maybe, someday, when permission comes,’ I lied. ‘But do the research ready.’

  At 4pm the buses turned up, plus our police escort, the coppers twitchy today. I made sure a few of the lads had pistols to hand. MP Pete would be escorting us as well, heavily armed.

  O’Leary and Harris wished us well, and we set off for Brize in the rain, no one shooting at us on the way, just damp green English countryside to look out at. But, as usual, the RAF had no clue we were coming and rushed to find the paperwork.

  We boarded after a few calls had been made, thirty one of us, finding a hundred Paras off for some jungle training.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ a familiar major loudly stated as he eased up from his seat.

  We shook. ‘You all recovered from Liberia, sir?’ I asked, all the Paras looking my way.

  ‘A few wounded men off still, handful we had to let go, some awaiting the medicals and physicals. You off for some jungle training?’

  ‘Some HALO in the jungle, yes, sir. Change of scene.’

  ‘And this attack at your base?’

  ‘We spotted them, we always do, and we killed them. Boys up from Liberia, sir.’

  His eyes widened. ‘They came for you?’

  I nodded. ‘We’ll have to deal with them at some point soon.’

  ‘They wanted revenge?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And there may be further attacks.’

  ‘And what about us? We featured heavily in the press.’

  ‘Worth tightening up a bit at your bases, sir.’

  He sat down looking concerned, whispered debates breaking out around him.

  The flight was damn long at ten hours, but I broke the tedium by chatting to groups of Paras – all keen to hear about my past exploits, a chat to the para school instructors – some of whom thought themselves soldiers these days, and I slept for five hours. We landed in the dark, early morning, coaches to take us to the British jungle training base. Two hours later we arrived, the sun now up, and the kit was offloaded as my lads stretched aching backs.