by Geoff Wolak
Instructions were issued, gone over, slow practise taken.
‘Ready ... draw!’
Crab put his head in his hands and cracks sounded out, and an hour later he was still there.
‘Ready ... draw!’
Silence.
‘Well I’ll be fucked sideways by a ruddy great gorilla. Ready ... draw!’
Silence.
‘Anyone want a cuppa? Well tough shit. Ready ... draw!’
Forty-five minutes later he was happy, teams formed, and sent up and over the House of Horrors, followed by the Killing House, all done in silence.
My lads gave the coppers a slow mocking hand clap as they were dismissed for lunch.
In the canteen, I told the coppers. ‘I once drew my pistol and shot my own car’s wheel. It happens, just that it should not happen too often. And if you kill your mate by accident ... you have to explain it to his kids at the funeral.
‘SAS lad in Mali, he boarded a French Puma, didn’t make safe, put a round through the helicopter, could have killed them all.’
‘He faced charges?’ a man asked.
‘Yes, and the SAS are not very forgiving about stuff like that. And if I didn’t shout, my lads would all get on a helo with weapons cocked, safety off. They’re so used to being ready to kill, they forget, but none have accidentally shot a mate – not yet.
‘But the simple fact is ... if you keep your weapon cocked too much the spring goes, you get stoppages from fail to load.’
After lunch, the coppers being issued now with SLRs and blanks - the rifles with slings, they were first sent over the fences, a few weapons bashed around or dropped, Sergeants Crab and Rizzo shouting.
With a modicum of success seen, the four-man teams went up and over the House of Horrors, having to leopard crawl with rifles held ready, elbows sore, down quietly before heading up and over the Killing House. But at least there were no discharges.
The second team discharged a blank, getting shouted at, but the teams behind them had learnt their lesson well enough, all failing to discharge a round. They were not very quiet, but their trigger fingers were better at least.
With some light left I sent pairs into the House of Horrors, and this time they faired a little better, but Nicholson was dead quiet on his feet, Tomo a ghost who popped up anywhere, the coppers getting shot in painful places. One pair of coppers made it all the way to the end before being shot from behind.
The following pair were shot from above, very sore heads as they emerged, the next pair shot from below, testicles sore.
After every pair had been through, I sent them back in again, telling them they would be here all night if need be.
Now, at least, they were starting to cover all the angles, to look behind, and to listen more than look. After each pair I would get a radio message, a comment on how well they had done, and after an hour I was satisfied that they were improving, albeit slowly.
Nicholson now spread food for the rats as the coppers had a tea break, and the next pair had one eye on a large rat, and so missed Tomo – who shot them in the head at close range. The next team crawled through a hole, coming face to face with two big rats, backing up in a hurry, both shot.
After the radio message, I shouted at them. ‘You afraid of rats, you fuckers? Is your life worth a rat? You got killed because of a rat, and in real life you’ll find rats in all old buildings and sewers.’
The next pair ignored the rats, and passed them without incident, but hit a tripwire, a flash and bang, ears ringing, both men shot in the balls.
Sergeant Crab shouted at length, the next pair wary of trip wires. That pair made it almost all the way through, shot from below, and cursing.
But the next pair had had enough. One went up and over, making a noise, his buddy below being dead quiet, and his buddy shot Tomo in the arse, a cause for much celebration till I reminded them that pairs had to stay together.
The next pair, thinking laterally, dropped down, and ran so fast they were missed, making it to the end and walking around. I wasn’t quite sure if I should congratulate them or shout, so sent them off for a cup of tea.
By time we finished they were thinking, and determined to beat us. And if they could beat us, they might stay alive on a real job. With that in mind, I went to bed pleased with myself.
The next morning Donohue was back, very keen to push this along. That or he just wanted to get away from London. He sat with me in the gatehouse as pairs were tasked with clearing the Killing House with live ammo, the pairs encouraged not to shoot each other by mistake.
They stepped into the dark outer room, heavy door closed behind them, now just dull bulb light to see the way. They advanced, Donohue seemingly as nervous as the two men advancing.
His men cleared the first room, a target hit twice in the chest, the second room empty. Door kicked in, two targets shot at well enough, the men spinning and covering the corridor. So far so good.
The last but one room, door kicked in, a crazed Alsatian attacked, a wrist bitten, a scream issued, Donohue on his feet - eyes wide, his men not knowing what to do.
‘Shoot it, shoot it!’ he screamed at the screens.
The second copper, the one not screaming, finally fired, three rounds into the dog, the dog’s jaws having to be prised open.
Donohue rushed around as his men emerged. ‘You useless fuckers! Always expect dogs in houses, you know that!’
‘Sorry, sir, took us by surprise.’
‘That’s the whole fucking point,’ he shouted. ‘Be ready.’
I had a look at the bite, the skin not broken, but the tendon would be sore for ages. Both men were sent to the gatehouse after making safe weapons, so that they could not discuss their mishap with the others.
Backdoor open, dead dog removed, blood wiped down, a caged Pitbull was placed in the last room, cage opened by Stretch as he withdrew, door closed. Rizzo opened a rat cage, depositing a large rat in the second room, a bottle placed behind a part-open door.
The two coppers moved well at first, rooms cleared, the bottle scaring them for a moment. Knelt, magazines swapped, the rat ran down the corridor, the men jumping up before settling themselves. They moved on, wary of the over-sized rat, and cleared the next two rooms, the rat seemingly pissed off at the noise and running at a copper.
That copper stomped on the rat without missing a beat, and moved forwards. Dog door kicked in, shots fired, they failed to look down, teeth sunk into a leg, screams issued, the bitten man firing at point blank range. The dog was killed, but the copper had shot a hole in his boot, missing his toe by a millimetre.
Outside, Donohue with me, the copper rushed to get his boot off, relieved that he still had all his toes, soon being sent into the guardhouse as the dead dog was removed.
The next pair through fired at a target that exploded, flames everywhere, the men unsure of what to do, and so came out.
‘You failed to finish, you useless fuckers!’ Donohue shouted at them. ‘You never stop, you keep going.’
Fire put out, Rizzo and Stretch laughing, the next pair were made ready, Donohue frustrated. This pair did well enough till the last two rooms, suddenly startled when they hit a fire extinguisher, seconds wasted before the last room was cleared.
Colonel Dean turned up with the RSM, both greeted, tea made, the facilities described in detail, the Colonel fascinated by Stalag Luft 13. ‘This camp is mostly about hostage rescue,’ he noted.
‘Yes, sir, but the skills practiced here are very relevant to all troopers, because your green field wartime role is infiltration, and in small wars you’ll always come across bases with fences and want to storm in – not to rescue hostages, but to kill those inside.’
He nodded. ‘From what I gather, every man has been here at least once.’
‘You need a score card, sir, and an annual review. They need to be here four times a year, three to four days, and once a year a test.’
He nodded as we walked back towards the gatehouse. ‘Scorecard helps to tell us whic
h men are any good. Oh, that route march you created for the Lone Wolves, that will be done once a year as well. It is a bitch, apparently.’
‘Hard if you miss the check points, so map reading must be spot on,’ I commented.
‘Oh, lads in Sierra Leone got some hostages last night, two whites and three blacks, so a good result.’
‘Small victories, sir, small victories.’
‘OK to send that troop down to you next week?’
‘Yes, sir, we’ll find space for them. No ... captain with them?’
‘I figured you’d clash, but I also figured that it would be best if you led them, trained them, and shouted at them.’
‘And got the blame for their actions...’
He shot me a look.
I asked, ‘Any captains with a good score on the three-day test, sir?’
‘Not really, and you pinched Captain Moran.’
‘And the French pinched the RSM here.’
‘Fuck off!’ came from the RSM.
‘Pinched ... the RSM?’ Colonel Dean puzzled.
I explained, ‘The RSM was camp commander at a base in Catterick, tasked with keeping my French Echo lads out of the camp, but they snuck in and kidnapped him.’
‘Oh dear, that must have stung a bit,’ the Colonel told the RSM with a coy smile.
‘Fucking TA wankers let me down,’ the RSM growled.
‘I’ll want the full story on the drive back,’ the Colonel told an unhappy RSM.
I faced the RSM. ‘We losing you soon?’
‘Yes, a commission,’ he responded. ‘Three months.’
‘I’ll have to pay for my own curries then,’ I teased.
‘I’ll be back,’ he promised.
We liked the fire extinguisher blast, so set up the next pair for a similar fate, but in an early room. They pressed on, the corridor behind filling with gas. Unsure of the toxicity of the gas, they ran through with mouths covered by elbows and out the door.
‘Gentlemen,’ I began. ‘All buildings have fire extinguishers, some have CO2 extinguishers, and yes – they could kill you. So be careful.’
By the end of the day they had all experienced a few tricks, and were all now wary, which was what I wanted. Donohue headed off frustrated, but happy with the training.
After dark, in teams of four, they were tasked with quickly and quietly getting over the outer fence, the training fences in turn, the House of Horrors and the Killing House, old SLRs to be carried.
Advice was shouted by my lads, the coppers shouted at – to watch their rear, to cover the angles, to move quietly, to work as a team, and by 11pm they were tired and sore, a few cuts and bruises picked up.
Friday morning, and the coppers were displaying tape on fingers, a few bruises on faces, all given an early breakfast. Teams of four were sent into the House of Horrors, Tomo and Nicholson told to annoy them.
One man stepped on a toy under a breezeblock that made a loud noise, his colleagues not impressed. One went through a hole, one snagged a well-hidden fishing hook and pulled the pin on a stun grenade, laughter heard down the corridor.
One team faced off a pair of manic killer chickens, finally breaking necks, several men fired at mirror images of Tomo, and one stepped onto tarpaulin covering a hole and fell through, a yelp issued, hands grabbing him, his team shot to the sounds of laughter.
They had all gone through once, all shot, so I had pairs of coppers put against each other, a scorecard set-up, but this time with paintball pistols. It was James Bond time.
At 5pm Friday they were laughing, and joking about who had shot who, spirits high – as I had planned for, coaches turning up, an hour to get back, many coppers off to loved ones, a hard core remaining, the weekend to recover from the numerous small injuries.
The regulars had been at the base this week, ranges used, Killing House used, but one man had fragged his team by mistake, hash words exchanged, ambulances needed, bits of metal to dig out, paperwork created for us. The RAF pilots and medics, however, had not fragged each other, but had spent many hours on the ranges, some even time spent in the Killing House.
At my house, I checked my sat phone, which I did twice a day anyhow, and I usually left it on at night. Now I noticed a missed call from Tomsk.
I called him back. ‘Hey Napoleon.’
‘Ah, Petrov, good. Listen, two things. First, my friends sent a ship with a drill to look at that place for oil, shallow water offshore, and they drilled down, not far, found some oil to analyse and did something with concrete -’
‘They pumped high pressure liquid concrete down the pipe, seal the hole.’
‘Yes, yes, that stuff. So there is oil, and they’re happy, and the President is happy. I put some money on your account.’
‘Thanks, but wait till the money is in your bank. You have to sell the oil through an embargo.’
‘Embargo?
‘That President is a nutter, UN embargo in place. You need to sneak the oil out, then move it from one ship to another at night. One good way is to sail up to Northern Cyprus and swap ships, sell it to the Greeks, they don’t give a fuck about embargoes.’
‘Ha, I’ll just bring it here. I think the Panama Government cares little.’
‘Be careful, cover your tracks, you don’t want the UN after you.’
‘OK, and next, I’ve struck a deal with the Medellin Cartel to buy their drugs and ship them. They want to meet -’
‘What! They’ll fucking kill you! Are you completely fucking mad!’
‘Ah ... well I guess that answers the question I was going to ask you about meeting them.’
‘Do it by phone, small deals every day, location changed, phone ahead an hour before.’
‘Ah, good idea, yes. You should be here with me.’
‘If I was there I’d kick your fucking arse around the room!’
‘OK, OK, I’m not meeting them face to face, I was just considering it. My DEA contact said it would be OK.’
‘He ... what?’ I hissed. ‘Panama DEA?’
‘Yes ... why?’
‘There was a hit on me, but I dodged it. Americans, but my people here thought it was DEA Panama, not so much the evidence. Now it makes sense.’
‘I’m going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another,’ he threatened. ‘And if someone here killed you ... I would strip their flesh very slowly, maybe a year taken to kill them.’
‘You can’t kill DEA, the Americans will break their deal and come after you.’
‘No, but I can spend some money and get answers. If these shits want me dead, I push back, not take it up the fucking arse.’
‘Watch yourself, because the CIA are happy with the deal, but someone in the DEA isn’t, and these fucks don’t talk to each other.’
‘So these men don’t have authority to do it...’
‘No.’
‘That I can use, I send it to the fucking White House!’
‘Do so, don’t shoot them.’
‘I miss you around here, and you save my arse once again.’
‘If you go, I’ll have no one to take the piss out of.’
He laughed. ‘I get a hat like Napoleon and wear it around town.’
Call ended, I selected Bob’s number on my mobile.
‘Wilco?’
‘Yeah, where are you?’ I asked.
‘In the car heading home.’
‘Listen, DEA Panama tried to convince our friend that it would be safe to meet a certain cartel face to face. I just talked him out of it.’
‘Would have been a very dangerous meet, yes, and the DEA would never take the risk of getting involved with such a thing unless it was a sting operation, and I doubt they have the authority for that.’
‘Chat to your opposite number, because the boys down there are playing their own game.’
‘My next call, yes.’
‘And double check how secure our comms are. I think Uncle Sam may be listening in.’
‘I will do.’
S
aturday morning a bike courier turned up, and I signed for a package, a Chinese sat phone. At 6pm, checking my watch, I loaded a number and pressed green.
‘Hello?’ came from Big Sasha.
‘It’s Petrov, this number is my new Chinese sat phone, make sure the dwarf uses only this number.’
‘OK, I write it down.’
Bob called me Sunday 5pm. ‘My opposite number is furious, and someone in the Panama DEA is dicking around, an internal investigation underway – not least because film emerged on Panamanian TV last night of three DEA agents having sex with girls just about the legal age, cocaine snorted. White House is furious as well – not least about the bad publicity.’
‘I think we know who organised the film, and its release.’
‘Teach them a lesson, yes. But there are real dangers here, dangers of exposure.’
‘Nothing written down, no paper trail or money trail. Danger is someone taping my calls, but I speak Russian and sound Russian.’
‘So how are the police doing?’
‘They’re getting there, good attitude, high IQ to start with, and that helps. I’ve not pushed their fitness, they can do that in their own time, but we put them through a 24hr slog, no quitters.’
‘You’ll endorse them?’
‘If they meet the standard, yes. But that’s a way down the road. Oh, regular SAS moving in tomorrow, just a troop.’
‘I heard, yes. And the logic behind the move?’
‘Colonel Dean is ready to cooperate with me any which way, which is great - compared to Rawlson. He wants some jobs back, but he doesn’t want us gone, and he’ll concentrate on green field soldiering and small wars. After what happened to Rawlson he’s not keen on domestic jobs.’
‘So what will this new troop do?’ Bob asked.
‘They’ll become our third troop, the men all volunteers who got a good score on my test. Echo just grew by thirty percent, and if there are any superstars in there they’re available to you.’
‘And they answer to..?’
‘Me, no troop captain, so relax.’
‘Well that sounds OK, yes.’
‘I’ll organise a joint exercise soon, somewhere dangerous.’
Some of the new men turned up Sunday night, bags in hand, the single men given rooms in the cabins for now, the troop sergeant to have a house with his wife and two daughters, so we now had an extra problem with security.