Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Gentlemen, some gunmen are amateurs, and you always look for the hammer and the safety before risking injury by shooting out the glass. And more than ten percent of all sieges were held with a fake pistol, or an empty one. Some forty percent of London armed robberies were carried out with fake guns – as you lot of useless fuckers should have known. See you in the morning.’

  The next day our coppers were split into three teams again and worked hard on pistols all day, aim and stance improving, scores creeping higher, and on the moving target pistol range they were improving - and starting to look more like professionals.

  At 9pm they were lined up outside the Killing House, dark interiors lit by flickering candles only, targets placed, and they went in one by one, Sergeant Crab behind them, scores noted – harsh words issued to a few. All were done by 11pm.

  Wednesday, and the worst six pistol shooters were back on the pistol range, Tomo and Smitty helping out as the remainder started with L96 and L115 sniper rifles, firing from three hundred yards at head-sized moving targets. With a good degree of accuracy achieved, we moved back to 400 yards and started over, scores dropping a little, but a hardcore of eight men could shoot very well.

  After lunch, that group were put in the Killing House for teamwork exercises, the worst of the pistol shooters joining their colleagues on the range. Two men were noted to be last in score in both pistols and rifles, but I was not ready to give up yet, they had a good attitude, and 70% of the time they hit what they were aiming at.

  In the morning, the day fine, they were all issued with combats, changed into them, and all got a lesson on camouflage, use of facemasks and gloves, painting rifles green. That led to creating an OP under the grass, everyone getting a lengthy lesson, and then trying it for themselves, left in their hides for two hours to get a feel for just how uncomfortable it was.

  Colonel Dean turned up unexpectedly with the RSM after lunch, keen to look around, so I gave him the ten dollar tour, chatting as we went about all sorts – including politics.

  Outside the hangar, taking in the runway, he said, ‘You have a running track, which is good. And I understand you get Hercules in here, which is also good. And a long range, so I’m jealous.’

  ‘Your lads can use it when we’re not using it, sir, as many have done.’

  ‘Odd, the new base is, just a bunch of modern buildings, not much in the way of facilities compared to this place. Still, very modern and clean as far as the Army goes.’ He turned. ‘How are these coppers doing?’

  ‘Some are very good, and they’re all moving along, but they have a long way to go. Most are starting off from the role of a fit street copper with some limited firearms training.’

  ‘So a big gap between them and us.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but they have good IQ levels, and they’re keen and professional.’

  ‘So they may get there.’

  ‘The police bosses won’t just give up, sir, they’ll create their best team and make do, with or without my help.’

  ‘But better to get some smarty points from the JIC with some cooperation...’

  ‘For us both, sir,’ I told him. ‘Opposing them will just piss them off, and they’ll do it anyhow.’

  He nodded. ‘You’re at The Factory, the place you created, next week?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll see you there, I want to have a look at it. Oh, how’d you feel about my mini-Echo team being based here?’

  ‘Here? Some will have families, sir.’

  ‘I spoke to them, and two have families, but live as close to here as Hereford, some have families but are renting or in married quarters.’

  ‘Seems like you’ve made your mind up, sir.’

  ‘Not without discussing it with you, no, but I wanted to check their circumstances first. There are houses free I understand?’

  ‘There are five free, which could be six because the SBS men on loan are in one. The men like the cabins and may move. How many men, sir?’

  ‘A troop; sergeant, eight men, but men would be fluid, changes every year.’

  ‘And your logic, sir?’

  He glanced at me. ‘Blurred lines, for one, a good little team for two – and I’d twist your arm to find them some suitable jobs.’

  ‘Jobs can always be found, sir. And your men here would make it hard for Bob Staines to stamp ever more control over this place.’

  ‘Really, I hadn’t considered that aspect,’ he said, less than convincingly.

  I smiled. ‘You’re starting to think like a politician, sir. The troop would be most welcome, and I hope I don’t shoot any of them in the first week.’

  ‘Yes, that always creates paperwork.’

  ‘How you settling in, sir?’

  ‘Fine so far, thanks to your comments. I demanded a meeting with the JIC and the MOD, and demanded that they define the exact role of the Regiment, and we finally agreed that 60% should be green field soldiering, our wartime role.

  ‘When I expressed a lack of interest in domestic terrorist work they were surprised, some pleased, but I emphasised the small wars – like Sierra Leone, not a man holding his wife hostage. They agreed.’

  As the Colonel left, Mally drove in. Out the car, he greeted me.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while?’ I asked.

  ‘Got a good little number going in Sierra Leone, and I was there when you were, in Freetown, bodyguard work at the embassy. Be back down there in two weeks.’

  ‘Any problems with any of the lads?’

  ‘One picked up a minor wound in Bogota, two got arrested and held in Dubai, some wrong stamp on a visa – all cleared up, two in Brunei.’

  ‘So no fuck-ups to worry me.’

  ‘Not this week,’ he quipped. ‘Any word on that fucker in Oxford? Was he put up to it by Colonel Roach?’

  ‘Roach is dead, and no – not put up to it, just felt aggrieved. He had AIDS, and was dishonourably discharged from the Army for fucking young girls in Bosnia.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it. These coppers any good?’

  ‘Getting there, slowly.’

  At 7pm, Captain Harris took over, a lesson on making sketches and interpreting maps and photos, the coppers quite good at 3D isometric drawings; IQ standards seemed to be well above that of the Lone Wolves. With a final chat about estimating distance, they were sent off.

  Friday morning, and the coppers now had an exercise combining map reading, stealth, and making sketches. The first group were issued webbing and bits of wood to simulate rifles, driven to a nearby wood and dropped off, instructions and maps handed over, plus one of my lads to observe – and not to intervene, or to laugh.

  The police were all back by 2pm, and muddy knees and elbows could be seen, boots muddy.

  ‘OK, settle down,’ I called as I stood at the front of the briefing room, Moran hiding his grin. ‘You were all dropped at a given point, you read the instructions and the map well enough, and moved quietly from point to point, sketches made of your target. So ... how many chimneys did the building have?’

  Sketches were checked. ‘Two,’ came from a team.

  ‘Just one team noted two chimneys..? A bit poor, gentlemen, always get the detail. So, how many windows upstairs?’

  ‘Six...’

  ‘Eight...’

  ‘Four...’

  They exchanged looks.

  ‘I think we all know what a bunch of knobs are sat in this room.’ I let them think about it. ‘How many cars were seen?’

  ‘Three,’ they all agreed.

  ‘And one under a tarpaulin sheet,’ I pointed out. ‘So four. So, distance from the OP to the building, assuming you might want to shoot someone in the building?’

  ‘Two hundred...’

  ‘Two fifty...’

  ‘Three hundred...’

  ‘The correct answer is ... two seventy five. OK, how many of my men did you notice within ten yards of you?’

  They exchanged sheepish looks.

  ‘My men were at the
drop off point, within eight yards, at the second coordinates – within four yards, and at the OP within five yards. So that’s about ... twelve heavily armed gunmen you failed to spot, knobbers. You’re all dead.’

  They all cringed.

  ‘Gentlemen, a month or two down the road the Home Secretary is going to ask me if you lot are ready for a job. Start sharpening up, because the hopes of many a senior police officer are riding on you.’ I wagged a warning finger. ‘Think like professionals, act like professionals. Right, see you all Sunday night at 8pm, when we’ll be heading to The Factory training base, a tough week ahead.’

  In the canteen, I sat with Swifty, Henri and Rizzo.

  ‘How the coppers doing?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘They ... could get there. I’m tempted to drop the bottom four, but I’m also conscious of the fact that I need to keep the cops happy with us. Next four might not be so much better.’

  ‘How bad is bad?’ Rizzo asked. ‘They seem like good lads.’

  I replied, ‘Bottom four are still good men, 70% scores, better than most coppers I guess.’

  ‘They all have a good attitude,’ Henri put in. ‘They are keen.’

  ‘Yes, keen, and a higher IQ than the Lone Wolves, so for now I’ll keep them all together.’

  ‘They’re starting from scratch,’ Swifty noted. ‘So doing OK from that point of view.’

  I nodded as I ate.

  Henri said, ‘All SAS now go to Sierra Leone?’

  ‘Yes, standard exercise for them,’ I replied, sipping my drink. ‘All men will have a sheet, their combat experience noted down, and those with the least will get the most patrols out, till it’s more even. Otherwise the standard varies.’

  ‘Yes,’ Henri agreed. ‘Some very good, some with no experience, but when war comes they must be all the same.’

  ‘How’s French Echo?’ I asked him.

  ‘They did one job, two weeks ago, Mauritania. One wounded, eight hostages free, none dead, one wounded hostage. So a good job.’

  ‘Yes, good,’ I agreed. ‘Gunmen killed?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Any shit from the GIGN?’ I teased.

  ‘Always,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But now, West Africa is for my men only.’

  Swifty asked, ‘Do they mention in the papers that we trained you?’ Rizzo laughing.

  ‘Pah,’ Henri let out. ‘They claim all the credit of course.’

  Swifty argued, ‘We had you and Jacque, yet your fucking papers claimed it was fifty-fifty on all the jobs!’

  Henri shrugged. ‘What can I say? What ours is ours, and what’s yours is ours.’

  Swifty wagged a warning finger at Henri as Rizzo laughed. ‘I’ve dated girls that were more reasonable than you.’

  I added, ‘And some had bigger shoulders.’

  Saturday afternoon I sat with Sasha and his team for a cup of tea, and a goodbye, they were off to Africa on a job – a job without me or Echo. I wished them well, and told them to be careful. Then walked back to my house worrying about them.

  Sunday night we waited the coaches and our police escort, kit loaded, the coppers all in one coach, heads counted, and off we set, a few regular troopers to make use of facilities here next week.

  Also making use of the facilities would be 7 Squadron and 47 Squadron RAF, plus the RAF medics, their monthly exercise extended to three full days. With me I took Rizzo, Stretch, Crab, Tomo and Nicholson.

  At The Factory we all grabbed camp beds, the standards of accommodation here much better these days, plenty of rubber mats and sleeping bags, two storeys to make use of, and many rooms to make use of, tea and coffee, fridges, microwave – even toilet paper in the bogs.

  At 7am I woke everyone with a very loud football fan gas horn, very much not appreciated by sleepy men. But at least it woke Rizzo.

  ‘Let’s be having you!’ I shouted. ‘Full English breakfast waiting for you, nice cup of tea, grey overcast day, what more do you want from life.’

  That breakfast was much appreciated by all, the mood buoyant, plenty of time given to get a brew or two down throats.

  Teams of coppers were duly split, the first team tackling the fences, the second team tackling the moving targets in the pistol house, the third team on windows and doors, something that they were all already very good at - having spent years nabbing house burglars. They found it amusing that the two men teaching them were time-served house burglars.

  After lunch they swapped, reasonable progress being made, but most all of them had cut both themselves and their uniforms on the fences.

  At 7pm, the light fading fast, pairs were sent into the House of Horrors with paint guns, informed that one of my lads would be waiting.

  Just two minutes later the first pair came out, paint on facemasks, heads sore, curses issued, the next pair sent in. They lasted less than two minutes.

  ‘You just got killed, fuckwits, so sharpen up,’ I told them.

  The next pair were more cautious, and lasted three minutes, both hit in the balls, both bent-double as they emerged, the next pair now looking nervous.

  None faired well, and I gathered them together after the last team limped out. ‘My men are good, but so are some of the terrorists out there, so sharpen up, or you’ll be killed quickly when the time comes.’

  The next morning, the loud horn having been used to wake them, they again tackled the fences, but did not need to worry about doors and windows. Instead, a team went into the Killing House, four man team tactics, pistols used.

  Donohue and six others turned up after lunch, and I welcomed them in, tea and coffee sorted.

  ‘How are our boys doing?’ Donohue asked after the pleasantries were out the way.

  ‘Making progress. They have higher IQs than the average soldier, so some of the technical aspects are quicker to teach, and they have a good attitude - so that helps. Up against a druggy with a gun ... they’d do fine. Up against a hardened terrorist – they’re nowhere near ready.’

  ‘Well ... early days,’ Donohue noted.

  ‘What are they tackling here?’ a new face asked.

  ‘This place is all about hostages and house breaking. They did well on the doors and windows and locks -’ The group laughed. ‘- less well on the barbed wire fences, and they’re yet to learn how to sneak about quietly like James Bond.

  ‘What they’re doing, as we speak, are four-man house clearing tactics, which they’ll progress on this week – getting tougher day by day. They’ll also go into the House of Horrors each day, and start to think like James Bond.

  ‘We can’t simulate the fear, but the House of Horrors does get their pulse racing, and it simulates the real thing well – if they get hit it hurts. And my guys like to shoot your guys in the balls.’

  They laughed, tea sipped.

  Sat in the gatehouse, the visitors crammed around the screens as the next team went into the Killing House, Sergeant Crab trailing behind them, targets shot at, doors kicked open, ‘Clear!’ sounding out every ten seconds or so.

  ‘They look quite professional,’ an older police commander noted. ‘Just two weeks training.’

  I told him, ‘If a man has the right attitude, anything is possible.’

  Donohue turned his head. ‘This new colonel of yours, he’s not that keen on domestic terrorism for the SAS I hear.’

  ‘After Oxford, no one is keen for it,’ I told him.

  ‘Blame game can be a bit harsh,’ Donohue admitted. ‘Why did Rawlson go?’

  ‘Because he figured London would support him in his time of need. Instead he got nothing but shit. Wait till this lot shoot a housewife by mistake; they’ll be after your head before she’s cold in the morgue.’

  ‘It can be a tough field to be in,’ someone said.

  Donohue smiled. ‘Last week a dog bit a copper, armed unit turned up, shot the dog – wrong dog, neighbour’s dog, ex-copper an all.’

  I smiled widely, shaking my head.

  We chatted as my visitors observed their
men go over the fences, wincing when a man slipped, balls connecting with barbed wire, and they headed off an hour later, just a short visit. But they left with a skip in their step, their men doing well - and having not been kicked off the course was a good sign.

  Before we lost the light, every copper went up and over the House of Horrors, up and over the Killing House and down.

  After their evening meal, gloves and facemask on, they went up and over again but in the dark, shouted at if they could be heard. All over and down, they were paired up, and now helped each other up and over, still not being as quiet as they should be. Some even dropped coins from pockets.

  Finally they were organised into four-man teams, up and over as quietly as they could go. All down, pistols with blanks were issued, shoulder holsters, the teams now required to cover all the angles as they went, one man to top-cover the others.

  The first man made a start as his colleagues knelt, pistols pointed, and those pistols were all cocked. They got up and across, but coming down a blank was fired.

  ‘You’re all dead, ya useless fuckers!’ Sergeant Crab shouted.

  The team was sent over the Killing House after being shouted at, the next team now starting on the House of Horrors. They also discharged a round, Sergeant Crab having a fit and about to burst a blood vessel.

  By end of play they had all accidentally discharged at least one round per team. I gathered them together. ‘Gentlemen, if you discharge a round for real ... your mate may be killed, you’ll be spotted and shot dead, hostages killed, a major fuck-up. Get your brains in gear, and sharpen up.’

  Looking a little downbeat, they headed in for a brew before bed time.

  After breakfast, Sergeant Crab had the coppers lined up, shoulder holsters on, pistols loaded with blanks, cocked, safety off. ‘Upon the command, you will draw, adopt the pistol trigger, point without shooting, count to two, then put the pistol away. Draw!’

  Two blanks echoed out.

  ‘Fucking useless cunts! Think!’ Pistols back in holsters, Crab issued, ‘Draw!’

  Two different people accidentally discharged, one discharging as he put his pistol away, a common mistake.