Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  I focused on a particular major, and the penny finally dropped. ‘Major, in Riyadh, were you the gentleman that ran naked from the hotel massage room?’

  They all focused on him.

  ‘Damn right I did. Bloody Thai masseuse was a bloke, and he tried to massage my testicles.’

  I said, ‘Well the Italian Colonel thought the masseuse was great, kept going back for more.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Yeah, well you can fuck off; that’s not the kind of massage I like.’

  ‘When in Rome, sir...’

  He pointed a dangerous finger at me as they laughed at him.

  ‘Is it true,’ the colonel began, ‘that you were arrested in a Scud air raid, swimming naked with an American lady journalists?’

  ‘Well, sir, it would have been silly to be swimming fully clothed,’ I told him, making them laugh.

  ‘Did they cover that up?’ he pressed.

  ‘No, sir. I was stood naked, the lady with a towel around her, when one of the very few missile hits took place and shook the hotel. And the police, their respirators were in their patrols cars so they legged it.’

  ‘What did you do?’ the colonel asked.

  ‘Well, sir, I could show you a video of what men and women do together during air raids...’

  ‘Get him out of here,’ the General told Major Bradley as they laughed.

  Outside, Major Bradley said, ‘You handled that well, and your notoriety helped, good answer on the question about the border incident. But ... but it was damned cheeky of him to ask that, right out of order and probably illegal – certainly a breach of regulations, but he is the boss after all I suppose.’ He stopped. ‘What you said in there about trusting me?’

  ‘Oh, I made that bit up, sir,’ I said with a smirk as I headed to the Gazelle.

  On the Saturday night I wore my green lightweight trousers, a clean green shirt and an ironed jacket, Rizzo and Swifty the same since they were tagging along as protection for the VIPs. We all checked our pistols and tucked them into our shoulder holsters, checked that our boots were shined, but we wore caps instead of berets to avoid attention.

  A Puma took the three of us, plus Captain Tyler and the Major, up to Belfast, the officers in similar uniform, and we landed in the dark at Lisburn HQ, soon in a convoy of jeeps heading into the city to County Hall. They dropped us off at the rear, but it was nice and dark anyway, a handful of RUC officers present as we ducked inside and out of the rain.

  With the major telling us to take our caps off, we climbed wide marble stairs and entered a ballroom with a high ceiling, tables laid out with snacks, about two hundred or more guests in attendance, many of them senior officers in uniform. I recognised the General and his party, as well as the Scot’s Borderers officers, and said hello to them.

  A waiter offered us drinks, after looking me up and down, but we declined, Rizzo wanting to punch out the waiter, and getting a pointed finger from the Major.

  After half an hour of innocuous chit-chat to various officers the General tipped his head and signalled for me, and I eased through the crowds to him. Next to him was the Lady Mayor, a huge sparkling chain around her neck.

  ‘Lady Mayor, this is the SAS trooper that had to, unfortunately, shoot three cows.’

  She focused on me. ‘Such matters are often more cause for concern than the shooting of a terrorist.’

  ‘I had heard that, yes, Ma’am, but it was unavoidable.’ I gave her the story, in detail, and she accepted it.

  She finally said, ‘That dead cow – standing up – was most bizarre, and by time they had finished fussing about photographing it, its legs had rigor, and they lifted it up with a crane. Still, many argued that if it had been slaughtered straight away that the meat value would have been maintained, but since they let it stand for a few days ... it had to be incinerated.’

  ‘We have argued the compensation case,’ the General put in.

  I nodded. ‘Such instances are rare, Lady Mayor, and the chances of a similar incident again seem remote. We’ll be more careful where we position our snipers, and as a rule we avoid cows – their eyes and ears are far better than people realise, especially at night.’

  ‘I understand that you are young chap that was shot at the end of the London Marathon all those years ago.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am, I still have the scars.’

  ‘And that scoundrel of a Moroccan runner tripped you the year before. You should have won. And close to 2.20.’

  ‘Yes, I should have. You have a good memory for detail.’

  ‘My son is a marathon runner, he represented Northern Ireland in school and university.’

  ‘Ah, that would it explain the interest.’

  ‘He’s keen to meet you...’

  ‘Anytime, Ma’am, I’m always happy to chat about sport.’

  A commotion caused me to turn my head with a professional interest, everyone soon focused on a side door as three men suddenly appeared with placards.

  The Major saw me move towards them. ‘They’re loyalists,’ he cautioned as he walked with me, and he followed me towards them, Rizzo and Swifty close behind.

  Three became eight, soon shouting a slogan of ‘No selling out, no peace accord!’ The elderly dignitaries on this side of the room were beating a hasty retreat, a gap forming, and I moved into the gap. But then I stopped, because this lot were just trying to get some publicity, they appeared to be unarmed - and they were loyalists.

  They started moving forwards, more appearing from the side door all the time, and this stunt must have been carefully planned. In range, the first placard waving man, a huge fat lump of a man, did not hesitate; he swung his placard towards my head. I ducked, came up the other side, and landed a powerful kick to his groin, the air leaving him like a balloon slowly deflating. His friends were not too impressed with me. They charged.

  Fortunately, the fat slob crumbled and gave me an obstacle with which to move around, and I caught the first man – slightly built – with a kick to the solar plexus, the man next to him – tall and thin – with a powerful jab to the chin, which knocked him off his feet.

  To the left, an old guy in his sixties came around the fat slob, his placard held high like an axe. I jumped towards him side on, a side kick to the ribs sending him flying, but no sooner had I put my leg down than another old guy reached for my face. I knocked his hands away with my left wrist, and hit him full in the nose with my right fist, sending him over the fat slob, now something of an obstacle course of bodies for the intruders to negotiate to get to me.

  From my right a fit young man appeared, and I back-fisted him as a reaction to catching his sudden approach in the corner of my eye. He had turned his face the wrong way and I got him in the mouth and nose, sending him down. His collapse saved me from the guy behind him, who stumbled, giving me time for a hop, skip and kick, snapping his chin back and sending him into the men behind.

  A placard rammed into my left eye, and I knew that I was hurt as I snatched at it, getting splinters as I tore it off the man swinging it. Holding it just below the sign, I swung it hard and smashed the base into the former owner of it, immediately swinging left and knocking the placard out of the hands of another man as if we were in some ancient sword fight, immediately swiping right and demolishing his nose with it.

  Jumping over him, I hit three men without placards in quick succession, sending them reeling before the wood broke. I tossed it at a man about to strike, and it distracted him enough for me to kick him in the balls.

  A hand grabbing my left shoulder, and my left arm came up and slammed into the man’s elbow, a yelp issued from him as he moved back, a kick to the knee adding a second yelp, a side kick sending him into two older men, and suddenly I was surrounded. I punched left, right, back-first left, then right jabbed as hard as I could and as fast as I could, four men down, soon replaced with three keen new volunteers.

  I stepped left and jabbed with my left, sending a young protestor into in older man, who tr
ied to catch the young man, a kick to the stomach of the older man taking him down.

  Moving to my right, and now not far from the door, I punched six times before I found a gap, and through the gap I found three men with bloody faces, two front shuttle kicks and a punch knocking them down as a placard hit me in the mouth from the side.

  I managed to grab it, yank it free, and then jab back at the startled guy who had hit me, smashing his teeth with the base of it. Grabbing it like a sword, I hit the same man so hard I immediately considered that I might have killed him, soon swinging left and knocking out two grey-haired men, a big swing to the right and a young man had his face caved in by a fast and powerful blow.

  I backed up a little, checked around me, and there now more men helping the wounded than there were showing any interest in me. The dignitaries were across the room, Rizzo and Swifty with them but stood a few yards forwards, the Major between them.

  I unzipped my jacket whilst tasting blood on my lips, pulled my pistol and cocked it, and with men diving down I put ten rounds high into the wall over the door, plaster falling down, a huge dust cloud created.

  ‘Next man to take a step forward gets his fucking bollocks shot off!’

  Silence.

  I backed up, swapped magazines and kept going, twenty yards to the guests of the function. As I got there, Swifty smiling widely, RUC officers burst in, a dozen off them, and they went straight for the protestors.

  The Lady Mayor and the General stepped forwards, both looking a little stunned at the turn of events. ‘You’re hurt,’ she noted.

  ‘Nothing serious, Ma’am,’ I said as I put my pistol away, the pain increasing.

  ‘Why did you not draw your pistol?’ the General asked, sounding as if I should have.

  ‘They were unarmed, sir, and I’d never shoot anyone unless absolutely necessary.’

  The Lady Mayor pulled out a clean hanky and dabbed my face.

  ‘Sorry about the bad language, Ma’am.’

  She took a step back, glanced at the Major, then at the General, then said, ‘You knock down thirty men, shoot holes in the wall, and you’re worried about bad language?’

  ‘Ladies present, Ma’am,’ I insisted.

  She faced the Major. ‘We’re in your debt, Major, and lucky you were here, although I suspect that they would have simply damaged the place, overturned a few tables and ruffed up a few of the men – some publicity stunt.’

  ‘They swung for my man first,’ the Major pointed out.

  ‘And look where that got them,’ she quipped.

  I dabbed my face with her hanky, and looked over my shoulder. Facing the General, I said, ‘Please don’t tell me this means another enquiry.’

  ‘It certainly does,’ he said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find out who was handling security tonight - and beat them senseless.’

  I faced Swifty. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Major told us to stay with the VIPs,’ he said. ‘Besides, there were only thirty of them.’

  ‘Another bloody enquiry,’ the Major muttered, leading us out.

  ‘I could have just stayed in and watched the TV,’ I said as we left. ‘Oh, where’s Captain Tyler?’

  We looked, and found him coming out of the toilet. ‘Did something happen?’ he asked, the Major shaking his head and leading us off, a perplexed Captain Tyler bringing up the rear and now being glared at by Rizzo.

  Back at Lisburn a doctor checked me out, a stitch put in, and we were ready to go, the General and his team arriving back and we met in the corridor. The Major saluted.

  The General put his hands on his hips and focused on me, and sighed. ‘Well at least you didn’t pick one up and throw him through the damn window.’

  ‘Next time, sir,’ I told him.

  He stared back. ‘Rumour has it that Johnny Bristol organised it, local loyalist hot-head. And they had insider help.’

  ‘Are they not supposed to be on our side, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘They are, mostly, especially him.’

  ‘Then why don’t I meet with him, sir, apologise for the misunderstanding, and share a beer with him.’

  The Major was surprised at the suggestion. His eyes told me to stop talking.

  ‘That could do some good actually. I’ll arrange it.’ He nodded. ‘Good idea, and – up until the excitement – the Lady Mayor was putty in your hands.’

  ‘If you can arrange a meeting with her son, the marathon runner, I’ll do what I can to smooth things further.’

  ‘Yes, good.’ The General faced the Major. ‘He’s turning out to be an asset, Major. And I hate to think what the outcome would have been if these other two had drawn weapons.’

  Rizzo and Swifty exchanged looks.

  ‘Not to worry, sir,’ I began. ‘They can’t shoot straight, they would have missed and hit the wall.’

  Smiling, the General walked past with his officers.

  Outside, in the cold fresh air, Rizzo said, ‘You’re the fucker who shot at the wall.’ And they winged all the way back.

  After a wash, I sat in the Intel Section with Captain Harris and had a cup of tea, recanting the story as a few officers worked away in the dim light, picking at splinters in my palms. The Major came and joined us, and I made him a tea.

  He faced me, and took a moment. ‘You were right not to shoot, I can see that now, and ... well, we could not have let them clobber the General with a placard, so the other two lads may have discharged their weapons, which would have been a disaster.

  ‘So your Bruce Lee demonstration did the trick.’ He took a moment. ‘Sometimes I’m jealous of the likes of Rizzo, and what he can do, but I’ve never been more jealous of what you did earlier. I’m a pen pusher, and people like me would love to be able to taken down a room full of men.’

  ‘Can’t be a good pen pusher and a fighter, sir.’

  ‘You seem to manage it,’ he countered with.

  ‘You’re handwriting is much better than mine, sir,’ I teased. ‘And you don’t have the scars that go with fighting.’ I showed him the palms of my hands.

  At breakfast, and now sat with a black eye and cut lip, stitches visible, everyone was talking about the fight.

  ‘Wilco!’ the Major bellowed as he appeared with two familiar captains.

  I sighed, and stood. ‘Sir.’

  He held a newspaper, turned it over, and started reading. ‘Infamous SAS soldier, known by the codename of Wilco, and known for his fondness for shooting cows - as well as shooting terror suspects in the backside, last night hospitalised almost thirty men, most of whom were elderly loyalist dignitaries, after the dignitaries attempted to stage a peaceful rally, protesting against the planned peace accord.’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s easier to hit older men than young ones,’ I said as I sat, the guys snickering.

  He carried on, ‘Many are in a critical condition in hospital, their families at their bedsides.’ He lowered the paper. ‘Well, you’ve pissed off the loyalists and the republicans. The good part is ... no one left too piss off.’

  The lads laughed.

  ‘The Army Press Corp would like you returned to the mainland, or someplace else ... like Ascension Island.’

  ‘Is it warm there, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then I’m up for it.’

  ‘Police will be here shortly for statements. That’s you as well, Rizzo and Swifty.’

  I got a call in to Colonel Bennet, but we considered that it was straight forwards self defence, and I was there to protect the dignitaries. He had to be in Belfast soon anyhow, and promised to pop in.

  The Major then called me in. ‘The General has agreed a meeting with you and this Johnny Bristol idiot.’

  ‘Bring him down here, sir.’

  ‘Here! Are you mad?’

  ‘He’s a loyalist, and he’d probably love to meet the guys and look around. So why not bring him down in a chopper, red carpet treatment. He’s probably a big kid at heart.’

 
‘Well ... yes, might work. General is keen, so I’ll arrange it.’ He pointed at my face. ‘Are you out of action?’

  ‘No really, sir, but my knuckles are a bit sore, hands a bit stiff. Be right as rain in a few days.’

  Johnny Bristol was flown down in a Gazelle, a treat for him – after he had been frisked of course, and he was led in to see me, but in one of the huts and not the main building. He was younger than I had expected, perhaps late thirties, and young for the leader of a loyalist movement, albeit a violent splinter group. He had a square face and jet black hair, and could have been a trooper; he looked menacing.

  ‘Come on in,’ I said as he looked around. ‘These are not the usual quarters for us, but security ... you know, and you being a bad boy loyalist gunman and all.’ I pulled out two beers courtesy of the Scots Borderers.

  ‘Gunman, eh? And there was me thinking I was a politician.’

  I handed him a bottle. ‘Politicians are old boring and stuffy, and you don’t look like that. Take a seat.’

  ‘That they are,’ he said as he sat. ‘So, you wanted to meet, the infamous Wilco none the less.’

  ‘Since I’m as against the peace accord as you are, and we both like to shoot IRA gunmen in the arse ... we should be helping each other, not fighting. And Saturday night was your fault.’

  ‘Our fault?’ he challenged.

  ‘That big fat slob swung for me with his placard, would have taken my head off. Otherwise I would have done nothing.’

  ‘Seamus, a bit of a hot head, aye, but he’s learnt his lesson, so he has.’

  ‘Your lot came at me, even the old boys, swinging at me with their placards like some knight of old with his broad sword. They attacked me, I defended myself.’

  ‘That what you call defending yourself, eh.’ He sipped his beer.

  ‘I had a gun, as was used at the end. Standard procedure would have dictated that I use it on your people – so be thankful I didn’t.’

  ‘Aye, it could have been worse. Still, there’s a bunch of fellas that won’t be looking so pretty afterwards.’

  ‘Tell them I’m sorry, but they shouldn’t go around attacking SAS troopers.’

  He sipped his beer. ‘That kidnapping...’