Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  The troop sergeant was known as Robby, not his real name, so now we had Rocko, Rizzo and Robby. He was time served, eight years, and knew Rizzo well. He was fit and strong looking, bald, a prominent scar through one eyebrow making him look sinister.

  The three men with families turned up Monday midday, in their own good time, vans used to move items, an hour or two to settle in. They were given time off till the morning to sort themselves out.

  I looked in on the range, the coppers running and shooting, kneeling and shooting, spinning and shooting, over and over - and still getting shouted at.

  After lunch, Bongo was dug out the armoury, and he gave a two hour lecture on weapon fatigue, proper care and handling, what to look out for, and pairs of coppers measured slides with callipers, barrels tested. Notes were handed out on weapon care at the end.

  After the evening meal, MP5s were issued, a quick lesson on the open-bolt 9mm weapon, and the teams split in three, the long range used close up, the 25yard range used, as well as the indoor pistol range.

  The morning briefing of Echo men required stacked chairs to be un-stacked, the room now housing more than thirty people.

  ‘OK, settle down,’ I called. ‘Today we have a new troop, regulars down from Hereford, and living with us here on the base – for those that have not noticed already. Troop sergeant is called Robby, rest of the men we’ll get to know soon, but we’ve seen their faces on recent jobs.

  ‘The purpose of them being here is that we expand Echo a bit, and that regulars are seen to be part of what we do. It’s anticipated that the men in this troop will rotate each year – so I am led to believe.

  ‘You will all get along and work seamlessly, or you’ll get a punch to the head from me.’ I wagged a warning finger. ‘New lads, I don’t tolerate men screwing around, screwing with each other’s kit, getting drunk and fighting. You’ll find discipline here much tighter, in so much as I won’t fine you ... but shoot you in the fucking leg and kick you out. Staff Sergeant Robby; if they dick about in a minor way I dock your salary.’

  ‘Then I’d shoot them in the leg,’ he firmly stated.

  ‘You, staff sergeant, check with Rocko and Rizzo about who has booked what facilities, don’t squabble. And as you will have seen, we have a team of coppers training with us. No negative words, no annoying them.

  ‘I hope ... that those of you with family were warned that this base had been attacked in the past, but also reassured that such attacks would be aimed at either me or Tomo -’ They laughed. ‘– and not you. Security is very tight, armed MPs, so your kids wandering around at night is a bad idea.

  ‘What you have to keep in mind ... is that a few of the Echo lads do naughty jobs for Mi6, and some of those we’ve shot-up would like to have a go at us. Security needs to be tight, and anyone blabbing down the pub about us risks being kicked out. In the past, Mi6 have tape recorded men in pubs, and will do so again.

  ‘Gentlemen, if you see something odd here ... don’t mention it outside. If you meet someone odd ... don’t mention it. We have a Yank with us, two French, and a Russian. You will not ... question who they are, what they do ... or why. If a strange face turns up in the canteen, be friendly - don’t quiz them.

  ‘If you hear that someone shot a man in a certain country, put it out of your minds. If you go back to Hereford and blab about it I will issue an RTU. And yes – I do have authority to do that.

  ‘Unlike regular squadron work, we deploy most every month, so you’ll see lots of action, and you’ll risk your lives every month, maybe twice a month. Since you volunteered for this ... I assume you’ve already weighed up the risks.

  ‘This week we’re training the coppers, and some of you may help out. Now, since most all of us are here ... how many of you think we should or should not be involved with UK domestic counter terrorism jobs?’

  ‘Role of the regulars,’ Captain Harris put in. ‘Sat in Chelsea Barracks as we speak.’

  The Major told him, ‘New colonel is not keen, because one fuck-up and they call for him to resign. And that role is being scaled down, men don’t like it, lot of sitting around.’

  ‘We don’t fuck up,’ Tomo put in, others echoing that.

  ‘And the politicians?’ Mahoney asked.

  ‘Most of them want the police to have their own team, but what I’m thinking of is a support role; planning, snipers. If the police call and ask for help, we help. It’s their show, their blame, we assist and advise. We would blow doors instead of them, but it would be their entry team.’

  ‘Easy enough,’ Rizzo said.

  The Major put in, ‘We keep the police sweet, the politicians, but we’re not to blame. They make a plan, we find holes in it, they refine the plan – everyone’s happy.’

  Dicky began, ‘We can offer fifty cal, grenade launcher, as and when desired. And if a simple job suddenly turns out to be ten hairy-arsed terrorists with GPMGs, the cops run off and we handle it.’

  I pointed at him. ‘And that’s the heart of the matter, a surprise. What if a simple armed incident is something more, the police suddenly shot the fuck up, dead coppers everywhere? It would take a day for the regulars to get into position if they’re back in Hereford.’

  ‘Be based in London?’ Rocko asked.

  ‘A small team would, on rotation. I’d want the RAF to provide a helo here at a moment’s notice. But that’s if and when the police take over that role, and what the new colonel wants to do. Easier for the police and politicians to swallow it if we’re labelled as being in support.

  ‘Gentlemen, some day a well-organised group of bad boys will appear on British streets with heavy weapons. I don’t want anyone else going near them other than us. But being ready for that is at least six months away. OK, new guys, you’re with Captain Harris today in this room, thinking caps on.

  ‘Oops, almost forgot. I got an early call, and could we test the security at Didcot Power Station. It provides power for the Thames Valley and London, so the politicians don’t want terrorists blowing it up and turning the lights out.

  ‘Rizzo, put together a team of eight for that. Rocko, Captain Moran, help the coppers. And Rocko, organise the new lads so that they know our standard tests, and get some range scores going, as well as standard kit. We need them looking like us, training like us, fighting like us.

  ‘Oh, and Rizzo, get a map of Didcot, make a start. I have a few ideas, and we’ll go through them later. First, I need you shopping down in Swindon, some money from the Major, I’ll get parachutes.’

  ‘We dropping in?’ Rizzo puzzled.

  ‘No. Think ... D-Day, 1944.’

  Puzzled faces exchanged looks

  Rizzo returned with two large cardboard boxes containing sex dolls, everyone having a look, the Major not happy – they were expensive dolls. Para Pete had two old chutes that were about to be binned, so he dropped them in, cautioning us about their use.

  As Rizzo and the team got ready, silly smiles given, my mobile phone trilled. I stepped to the mouth of the hangar, angry dark clouds racing by.

  ‘It’s Bob. Have you spoken to Tomsk?’

  ‘Not since we spoke last, no. Why?’

  ‘Panama police arrested four DEA agents, cash and drugs found, details of bank accounts in the Bahamas. White House is reeling, US media crucifying the DEA.’

  ‘They tried to set him up, and they tried to set me up. So fuck ‘em.’

  ‘Despite the rivalry, CIA would appreciate less negative press for the DEA.’

  ‘I’ll chat to Tomsk this week, but it needs a blood-letting. DEA need to know not to screw around. You could have lost me, and lost Tomsk.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but stealth is required here,’ Bob cautioned.

  ‘Tomsk was never very stealthy in his approach.’

  ‘You’re going to test the security at Didcot Power Station?’

  ‘Yes, this week. Is it any good?’

  ‘High fences, tremblers, infra-red cameras, regular patrols, dogs. Probably take you
a whole five minutes to get inside.’

  ‘We’ll see, but a good exercise for the lads.’

  I set out with Rizzo’s team at 8pm, an hour’s drive. Finding a four storey building a mile southwest of the power station, we forced a door and got to the roof, all now dressed in civvy clothes, a hell of a rain storm brewing.

  Rope attached to a strong point, sex dolls filled with water and dressed in combats, facemasks and gloves on the dolls, the harnesses were checked, a final nod given, chutes opened. The chutes filled with air, tugged hard at the rope, a slash of a knife and the first chute was away, soon the second.

  Stood sheltering from the storm by a lift housing, binoculars in hand, we observed as the chutes flew off towards our target, soon over open ground and ditches, over the rail track, and over the hire wire fence towards the huge chimneys.

  Blue lights flashed, jeeps careering along access roads, our pair of rubber commandos setting down in the huge coal mounds, a dozen police officers and guards scrambling over the coal as the team laughed.

  Job done, we headed down the road for a curry. Sat sipping beer, my phone trilled.

  ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Bob. Seems like a pair of sex dolls just parachuted into Didcot Power Station, mass alert, a dozen men covered in coal, ambulances called after the paratroopers were seen to hit hard and go limp.’

  ‘Nothing to do with us, we’re sat having a curry.’

  ‘Some very embarrassed and angry guards at the power station, local police amused, local ambulance staff not amused at the waste of time.’

  ‘At least you know they’re on their toes. Goodnight.’

  Phone down, I relayed the detail to the lads, our gang in hysterics, the beer flowing. And, just to be mean, I called Max the reporter and gave him a nudge.

  At the morning briefing the Major had a copy of The Sun. ‘It would appear that Didcot Power Station’s high security was rudely breached by two paratroopers last night. Turns out they were sex dolls, the security staff left red faced – under all the coal on them, clothes ruined.’

  The room reverberated with the laughter.

  The Major finally added, ‘I dare say that should they catch you sneaking in they’ll kick the crap out of you.’

  Rizzo raised his hand. ‘Could we get those dolls back, sir?’ he asked, the men laughing, Rizzo getting a pointed finger from the Major.

  I told the Major, ‘We’ll need the money for two more.’

  He shook his head and sighed.

  Later, as I observed the coppers in the Killing House, Rizzo and gang were off to take a look at the fence in Didcot.

  The coppers were now wearing pistols on thighs, MP5s used, respirators worn, and they looked just like regulars. Only one MP5 magazine was allowed, to simulate stoppages, the MP5s to then be slung, pistols to be used, two magazines allowed.

  Stood behind Crab as he observed the cameras, I could see that our coppers were coming along nicely.

  At midnight, Didcot Power Station’s large security team was in action again, cameras over the train line having spotted men in coal wagons, the cameras set-up for just that purpose, Max having blagged his way in after I tipped him off, our trusted reporter having interviewed the head of security – the man’s identity kept hidden.

  He was there as the teams rushed out, lights flashing, dogs barking, the train halted, security staff clambering up into the back of coal wagons – and getting dirty in the process. They dragged out soldiers in respirators, only to find two sex dolls, a few harsh words uttered, all of the wagons having to be searched in the rain, undersides as well, a two hour operations, all wet and black at the end of it. It was fair to say that we were not popular.

  Max snuck off, and in the morning the Major again had a copy of The Sun.

  ‘Last night, Didcot Power Station’s security was again tested, two commandos spotted in the coal wagons, suitably dressed in black fatigues, respirators worn. After a two hour search, the guards wet and covered in coal, the two commandos were found to be sex dolls dressed up.’

  The room again reverberated with laughter, the Major shaking his head.

  I began, still smiling, ‘Rizzo, have you found a way in?’

  ‘Won’t be easy, place is solid. There’s a stream, but we’d need scuba gear, supply trucks go in – but they have cameras pointed up from the road, the coal train is an option – but we’d need oxygen and be buried. They have it buttoned up tight.’

  ‘Keep thinking, and I’ll go have a look as well,’ I told him.

  Bob rang lunchtime. ‘Panama Government has kicked out all DEA, and will accept back only men that are not on the current list, a reduced team. Whoever was involved in the skulduggery, they won’t be in Panama after today, all discredited.’

  ‘Then maybe that will be an end to it, but someone there knows about me and Petrov.’

  ‘CIA are looking into that, they have a candidate. Unfortunately for that man, the Deputy Station Chief, a local woman is taking legal action for paternity money – and this guy is married to the sister of a Senator, posh family from North Carolina, related to the Kennedys. Somehow, she has three young kids and a DNA test proving they’re his – and an expensive lawyer in Washington.’

  ‘I think this guy’s wife will have something to say,’ I said with a smile. ‘His balls are about to be squeezed.’

  ‘Did you chat to Tomsk?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m enjoying this too much.’

  ‘And Didcot Power Station?’

  ‘I’m enjoying that as well.’

  I set out with Swifty an hour later, and having spent an hour observing the power station with binoculars Rizzo was right – it was buttoned up tight.

  It would not hold up to an armed attack, but we could not shoot the guards, and so we were at a disadvantage. I did not want my team caught, our reputations tarnished, so this would need some thought, or an inside man.

  Back at GL4, I parked up, and then stopped dead as I got out the car.

  ‘What?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘Coppers. Didcot.’

  He faced the coppers as they walked to the canteen. ‘Ah. Need some uniforms. And a patrol car.’

  ‘Two of that lot live in Bristol.’ I nodded my head. ‘We need to cheat a little.’

  The next evening, dark and damp, an arrow fired by Rocko hit a camera on the second attempt, sparks seen, an arrow fired by Rizzo smashing a window, a third arrow knocking out a light. Alarm sounding out, the lads withdrew sharpish.

  Ten minutes later, and two uniformed officers turned up in their patrol car, gate opened for them, waved in, guard approaching them.

  ‘What you here for?’ the guard asked.

  ‘We’re from Slough, had a complaint about a lady burning her hand, being told she could not to leave. She called us, the press, and her local MP.’

  ‘What? Oh for fuck’s sake. Pull over there, please.’

  Patrol car manoeuvred, reversed to a bush, the boot lever was pulled. Officers out, hats on, their radios crackled, the security staff rushing around and hunting for Echo lads.

  ‘We don’t have all night!’ an officer complained five minutes later.

  ‘We can’t identify her,’ grumbled a guard. ‘And it’s probably a trick.’

  ‘A trick! What the fuck do you mean, a trick?’

  ‘SAS are trying to sneak in, so they probably called you, to distract us.’

  Another patrol car turned up, regarding a dog having been shot. ‘No fucking dog has been shot!’ a man shouted. ‘It’s those SAS arseholes trying to trick us.’

  The patrol car turned around. Shaking their heads at the guard, our coppers walked back to their car, boot pressed closed, and drove to the gate, let out, soon heading back to Bristol.

  Tomo and Nicholson were now in a ditch, and moving along, a slow hour taken up. Soaked through, they set charges against a door, and ran back to the ditch, the blast echoing. Sprinting in, they found what they were looking for. Cover up, button pushed, handle turned
, and the lights went out, cameras blind.

  Rushing the fence at its weak spot, Rizzo and Stretch cut it quickly as I knelt waiting, the lads soon easing through behind me, the fence held together and quickly clipped shut. My team, all dressed in black, moved to the coal mounds, ponchos out, plastic tube ready, respirators on, and we buried each other easily, the stacked coal slipping down easily to cover us – and very uncomfortable to be under.

  And we waited, hoping not to be scooped up and dropped in a furnace.

  The emergency generator had kicked in after just four minutes, jeeps with flashing lights rushing to the power house, the power turned back on. Figuring that we were inside, they started their search in earnest, the dogs going crazy over smelly cloth left behind, many a bush searched, nothing found, a long four hours wasted, the guards all wet, tired, muddy – and completely pissed off. A cuppa was called for.

  From the coal I led the team under the conveyor belt, climbing up and then along to the unloading station, a train engine sat idle, lights seen on in a hut.

  Wire pulled down, the hut light was lost. Door open, we stormed in, men winded, hands and legs tired.

  Pin pulled on a fake grenade, I put it under the foot of a terrified guard. ‘No sudden movements.’

  Keys stolen away, the lads loading into a van and laying down, guard’s jacket and hat worn by Swifty, we drove along the main perimeter road, a wave given to a passing security jeep, and to the control complex.

  Van parked around the back, low roof mounted, we taped over a window, rubber mat pressed gently against it till it cracked. Rubber mat down, tape pulled off, the pieces of glass were laid down quietly. In we went, muddy prints left on the nice clean work top.

  Ear to the door, few people about at this late hour, we moved out, paintball guns pointed ahead, one set of steps and a peek into the main control room. It offered a strong door and a keypad. Twine attached to the knob, we waited around the corner.