by Geoff Wolak
‘You bet your ass it will!’
‘Then let’s hope that Delta Force do a good job, a good result in the newspapers.’
‘It just hit the TV news here, White House updated. President just spoke to the Prime Minister of Belgium.’
‘Do people over there still think that Belgium is in the Middle East?’
He laughed. ‘Fox News does!’
Sat in my house, watching the TV news – Sky News, I could see the Delta Force teams in facemasks, checking kit.
Bob called. ‘Police radio suggests that control on the ground has been passed to the Americans.’
‘That was quick, I had expected a few hours of this. I have popcorn!’
‘I think, given who the board members are, that permission was granted straight away. German TV is mainlining it, so too French and Dutch TV.’
The TV news did not show the Delta Force teams moving, but Bob reported that the teams were in the basement, and working their way up, no staff found hiding – and no gunmen found either, a few bodies stepped past.
He was back on ten minutes later. ‘Three men just went out the window, not shown on the TV news obviously.’
Miller called ten minutes after Bob. ‘You watching the TV?’
‘I am, yes, terrible situation in Belgium.’
‘Shocking, what a world we live in, eh. Seems that nowhere is safe anymore,’ Miller quipped.
‘True, very true. Do you have signals intel?’ I asked.
‘I’m listening in to the Deltas secure channel, so is the White House. Delta’s have infra-red cameras set-up as well. Wait … another jumper.’
‘Did he jump, or was he pushed?’
‘Pushed, definitely, man peering down to see where his victim landed. Oh, that’s weird.’
‘What is?’
‘Man that was pushed. He hit hard, legs first, but his arm and head are still moving, he’s alive but maybe paralysed.’
‘The bodies are still there?’
‘Yep. One … two … six … seven … eight of them.’
‘They may come to regret past decisions.’
‘I think that would be the case, yes; anything is better than being thrown from a tall building. Oh … hang on … terrorist just went out the window, looked like he was shot first. I can see movement, Delta Force. Guess the terrorists are all dead.’
‘Any radio calls for medics, for the Deltas?’
‘No, and they’re claiming the building is secure, asking for bomb teams and dogs and medics. They’re … listing eight civilians still alive.’
‘Bummer.’
‘Might not be board members, could be assistants.’
‘Let me know.’
The TV news was soon showing men in smart suits being led out, but young men, a hand on the shoulder of the man in front and in a line, police rushing in. And I was sure I could see which Delta was Castile.
A blast, and people were hit by falling glass, the TV camera focusing on a third floor window, smoke billowing. That was not part of the plan.
I called Bob in a hurry. ‘A bomb blast?’
‘Yes, just seen it on the news, not part of the plan.’
‘Then someone is making use … of the situation.’
‘Deep State?’
‘Who else.’
As I sat observing the dramatic scenes, the building started to issue a great deal of smoke, smoke soon seen coming from the boardroom windows and the roof. The Belgian police pulled back, the local fire brigade moving in.
My phone trilled. ‘Wilco, it’s Castille.’
‘Your men all safe?’
‘Yes, one ricochet, some hospital time.’
‘Hostages alive?’
‘Just eight, some wounded we left for the medics, lower floors.’
‘Good work, White House was getting a live feed, so expect a call. And if asked, intel came from the CIA. Be careful here, because the CIA like to play games.’
‘No shit.’
‘Get a cold beer, buddy.’
‘That’s at the top of my list!’
An hour later Miller was back on. ‘A good result, White House happy, my people very happy.’
‘The survivors?’
‘Junior staff only, no board members made it out.’
‘I’ll send a card, some flowers. And the fire?’
‘Is raging out of control, building will probably come down.’
‘Then I hope to get back to training some men, ready for Yemen.’
At 11pm, MP Pete and two coppers sat in with me, we observed as the building collapsed on one side, orange flames thrown into a black night’s sky - just as it started to rain in Belgium.
‘You know those Delta Force guys?’ a copper asked.
‘Yes, Captain Castille, he’s been here a few times, and we trained them up at The Factory and Catterick. They’ve done jobs with us in Liberia.’
Bob called, so I stepped out. ‘Shares in the bank have been suspended, for obvious reasons, but I did bet the downside and made some money. I also sold short some shares, got paid, but I have to hand over the shares when trading starts again, buying them much lower. It’s call short-selling.’
‘And Leon?’
‘Taped the TV footage with a stupid grin on his face.’
I called Prince Kalid.
‘Ah, Major Wilco, I am holding a party here in Dubai.’
‘Was the TV news to your liking?’
‘Indeed it was, very much so. I am alive, I have my money, and they are dead – I have my revenge. I had the last word!’
‘Enjoy your party.’
I went to bed worried, worried about what evidence was out there, and worried that I was becoming as bad as they were. Fighting fire with fire was one thing, but this had been a large-scale terrorist attack in the heart of Europe.
Fortunately, there were very few people that knew of my involvement and, at the end of the day, it would look to the intelligence agencies like it had been the Omanis; they had the motive and the means.
In the morning, both the French and German TV news were joining the dots with NordGas. Fortunately they were very short on evidence, most of that evidence burnt, the building unsafe - no one could enter it yet.
The one terrorist outside the building, the man who had fallen, had been identified by the CIA – who now admitted they had been tipped off about an attack, but that they were not sure where the attack would take place.
Norway was in turmoil, the Germans now asking questions about their ministers sitting on the board of the bank – and what those men had known about NordGas.
As I walked up to the hangar I stopped at the oil stain where the boy had died. ‘We got you, you bastards,’ I whispered, angered for a moment, nodding to myself. An image came to mind, my father handing me ice cream on holiday, a sunny day remembered.
In the Intel Section, Tinker told me, ‘Smallhampton suffered a heart attack in a Belfast lock-up.’
‘So would most people,’ I quipped. ‘They’re Victorian.’
Major Harris, now wearing his rank, began, ‘With all these arrests in London, is that an end to it?’
‘I think so, yes, and I hope so. We’ve dismantled the body, and cut off the head, and the people who blew up the kid on our base are either dead or facing charges. Mi5 have cleaned house, and the Metropolitan Police are under intense pressure. No more bombs on vans at our base. Start studying Yemen, but that’s top secret for now.’
The Brigadier stepped out to me. ‘Colonel Marsh is going to recall his troop from here, send new men.’
‘That was the idea, sir, to rotate those with experience back to Credenhill.’ I faced Major Harris. ‘We’ll have some boards to update.’
A secure package arrived, the MPs worried, but it turned out to be four VHS video copies of The Battle for Camel Toe Base. Many of us went straight to a training room and put it on, teas made, seats arranged.
My character had the accent right, British and dry, and he was never flus
tered, ordering teams around. He often stopped to discuss things with the American officers, the story filled in via the dialogue, the producers having done a good job.
Some of the American Wolves came across as young and nervous, British Echo all seen as older men with bushy moustaches, Lt Col Liban seen as someone complaining a lot – which made me smile. His character waved his arms a great deal.
At one point the Army medics arrived by Hercules, looked around, and my character told them, ‘Welcome to hell.’
The detail was correct, the timeline was exact, the B2 bombers seen opening bomb bay doors, the final scene being my character – dusty and bloody - stood taking in the carnage. And they had got the desert heat across to the viewer, I was feeling parched just watching it.
The surprising facet was Max, named in the film, a dusty British reporter that followed me around. They had used our dialogue to explain the story, and the various units. As my character explained things to Max, so the producers explained things to the viewer.
Major Harris asked, ‘How accurate was it?’
‘Spot on.’
The Brigadier stepped in. ‘That film will be on BBC1 tonight, 9pm.’
‘Prime time?’ I loudly queried.
Harris suggested, ‘Someone making a statement? Prime Minister gave the BBC a nude?’
We exchanged looks.
At 9pm, most all of the men still here were in the canteen and watching the start of the film, our catering ladies hanging around.
At 8am the next day David Finch called. ‘I take it you saw the film?’
‘Yes, they all did, all the lads here.’
‘They’re reporting the highest viewing figures … ever, higher than Eurovision and election night, as high as the BBC news after the death of Diana. Streets were quiet last night, pubs empty, and the MOD had it shown in bases around the world.’
‘It was accurate, but I’m not sure if it helps with current problems.’
‘I’d say it gets the average citizen on your side, more so than before, and I certainly have a better appreciation of what you do – I could see and hear you in that actor. And the MOD are hopeful it will push up recruitment even further. The film about Angola will be ready soon.’
‘I heard, yes.’
‘There’s also the film about that senator’s brother, but from the brother’s life-story point of view, and his recovery. Oh, and tonight they show the film in the States. White House is set to be watching.’
‘The good old propaganda machine hard at work.’
‘Good for Great Britain PLC, arms sales are up, our advisory service is up, just this god awful debacle in London to deal with and move on from, and the debacle in Antwerp to move on from. Still, the average foreigner sees it as being a Norwegian and Belgian issue.’
‘And credit for Delta Force?’
‘Oh, they’re milking it something terrible, Delta Force recalled Stateside to meet the President. Seems that the brave American soldiers saved the stupid Europeans from the bad men, since we have no soldiers or police of our own of course…’
I laughed. ‘Most Americans don’t know where Europe is anyhow.’
‘Some good news,’ he began. ‘Several of those arrested are making deals, and those in protective custody are singing. Six people fled the country yesterday, and we have two former Scotland Yard commissioners ready to arrest. We’ll soon have a complete picture of everything they got up to, all the players, two of whom suffered heart attacks last night.
‘And, a point of interest to the MOD, we have the man who placed the sleeper agent at the school that the Director’s son, Tristen, shot. You were right, he was there to threaten people via their sons.’
‘End of an era, no more people trying to kill me.’
‘Well, let’s not go that far, there’ll always be people trying to kill you.’
‘Are the IRA men talking?’
‘No, they clammed up. When sentenced to life they may talk.’
‘And Lord Michaels widow?’
‘Can’t call him Lord Michaels any more, the Queen stripped him of that title. As for his widow, she plans to leave the country, permanently, and to use her maiden name.’
An hour later he was back on, and exasperated. ‘Just had a formal thank you note from the Americans for the intel provided … on the al-Qaeda attack on the bank.’ He waited.
‘I got some intel from my sources … and I tipped off the CIA. Must have forgotten to pass it to you, what with everything happening lately.’
‘Must have slipped your mind, yes, and now this is formally in the record, and the JIC will see it, and parliament may get to see it.’
‘It would have looked bad if I got the intel and failed to warn the authorities. Did the CIA warn the bank?’
‘It would appear not, no.’
‘Their issue, not ours, besides my … intel was sketchy, and I only got the target as being the bank just as the attack started.’
‘You can face the damn JIC yourself! And tell them that.’
‘Not to worry, I’ve faced bigger problems. These days I don’t care that much.’
‘This could leak to the Press!’
‘Half the population of this country think me and my men shot all those people in London anyhow, and they support it! So let the people judge me.’
‘And your listed intel source?’
‘The … President of Liberia,’ I smugly stated.
‘Well, the JIC will not be going down to interview him at least, or calling him as a witness.’
‘And the Germans?’
‘Are going to great lengths to play it down, they now realise how it looks, and how many of their ministers were involved. French have made six arrests, and Norway is on life support – early elections organised. You won’t have seen it yet, but the Prime Minister of Norway has made a formal apology for the conduct of NordGas – you’re mentioned in it.’
‘Too little too late, by twenty years,’ I scoffed.
‘Side note: a survey has put Labour thirty points ahead of the Tories in this country. The next election could be a landslide, so the PM is happy at least. And a man was arrested near No.10, hitting a policeman with a placard: Wilco for Prime Minister.’
I laughed loudly. ‘I can stand in a local by-election in a facemask! The Right Honourable member for South Gloucestershire!’
‘Labour, or Tory?’ he quipped.
‘Labour, I have muddy boots.’
No.1 Field Recon now had the staff in place, the stores, and the huts – water piped in and electricity turned on to them all now. We had the facilities already, and we had the men to start, and we had – or would have soon – two troops of 14 Intel attached to it. Things were looking organised.
The Air Commodore called me. ‘You saw that stupid fucking film last night!’
‘Sir?’ I puzzled.
‘We got no mention at all!’
I smiled. ‘You got the footage of your men in Liberia, sir.’
‘Would have been nice if we got a mention in that damn film,’ he said, a little calmer.
‘Americans, sir, I had nothing to do with it, they never asked me.’
‘Well the Angola film has “RAF” plastered right across it in ten foot letters. Our planes, RAF Regiment, our support teams at the FOB, the works. We have many minutes of RAF Hercules and crews, and I had a sneak peak at some of the footage, shot in Botswana.’
‘I haven’t been involved with that one either, sir.’
‘I was, keenly involved, checked the script before we sanctioned our Hercules to be used.’
‘That’s what the Pentagon does. Call you Stalin next.’
An hour later two CT police turned up, bags in hand. I was summoned, and recognised them both, fit marathon runners from our first intake of coppers – the first real intake and not the one I cancelled.
‘We’re assigned to 14 Intel, Boss, for training, but we’ll … work for Paul McManners if you know what I mean.’
‘
I do.’
‘But they did say that if there was suitable work going…’
I nodded. ‘I have jungle and desert you can train in.’
‘Saw the film last night. Was it accurate?’
‘Spot on.’
‘They had your character right, very close.’
‘I’m better looking,’ I insisted. ‘Oh, 14 Intel have a few very tasty ladies in the mix, so don’t be shocked.’
‘And are we … allowed to mingle, Boss?’
‘I would urge caution when mixing on a very small base with one canteen, one pub.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he sighed.
‘Still, you’re training to be spies, so if you can’t do it without being seen … you’re pants.’
They exchanged looks and grinned.
I found them rooms in huts and handed them to Major Harris, forms to be filled in, kit issued.
O’Leary stepped up to me. ‘There’s been suggestion that Mally’s bad boys could be labelled as No.1 Field Recon.’
‘If the MOD is happy with that, which I doubt.’
‘It is being discussed high up.’
‘Yeah? Well … I’m OK with it. Just a change of title anyhow.’
‘A handful of “E” Squadron men would not be averse to full time work…’
‘Bored, are they? Life in Civvy Street not as fulfilling as they figured?’
He tipped his head before he walked off.
The Brigadier grabbed myself and Sanderson, and we drove down the range and on a mile to the farmer’s now-derelict house, MP escorting us and wary out here. Inside, we found the farmhouse old and damp, but it was a large solid house, eight bedrooms.
I told the Brigadier, ‘Put the MPs in here, sir, CT police; that way anyone sneaking around at night meets them first. I’d not want the lads in here, or officers, they’d be targets.’
He nodded. ‘Have to decorate it first, get rid of all the old farm crap outside. Then it could house six or eight men, some with dogs. They can patrol this west area, and be close to home.’
‘Seems wise,’ Sanderson noted.
‘What about the land? What do we do with it all?’ the Brigadier asked me. ‘Apart from growing our own potatoes.’
‘Assault course may help, sir, but one with targets off to the side. Men, and now ladies, would go across the course whilst firing at targets that pop up.’