by Geoff Wolak
‘About 500yards, sir. So that’s ... 20 lengths of the local pool for each length here, and they’d do ten lengths.’
‘Crikey,’ the same man let out.
Rocko’s troop jogged past, heading to the range, seemingly from the canteen.
‘And candidates for this Lone Wolf programme will come from all branches of the services?’ the JIC official asked, Bob eyeing him carefully.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And when completed they’ll be excellent snipers,’ he nudged.
‘The aim, sir, is to have a man that can infiltrate behind the lines, walk sixty miles, live off the land, blow up the local command centre and walk back out – by himself.’
‘Sounds like typical SAS work,’ the Air Commodore noted.
‘Yes, sir, but the SAS are more about team work and specialist targets.’
‘Would your man parachute in?’ the Air Commodore asked.
‘Yes, sir, they’ll get plenty of practice in, right here. We circumvented time delays by striking a deal with the local parachute school, and we jump a few times a week – weather permitting.’
‘You had my medics jump,’ he said with a smile. ‘And freefall.’
‘Yes, sir, they loved it.’
‘But why not use the RAF?’ he nudged.
‘Time, sir. If I wake-up and the wind is nil, we jump. If we call for a Hercules then its hours or days before we have one; those expensive RAF aircraft don’t just sit around waiting for us.’
‘No, quite,’ he agreed.
‘And how do you see a sniper working after they finish the course?’ a JIC official asked, being carefully observed by Bob.
‘They’ll return to their parent units, sir, then sit and wait a call. Their benefit is more for Bob here than the Army.’
‘How so?’ Dennet queried, a glance at Bob.
‘Such a trained man would be great in a small war or insurgency. We just need that small war, not the man going stale.’
He nodded. ‘And in Northern Ireland?’
‘They would patrol alone along the border of a damp evening. Put a dozen in place and the IRA would shit themselves.’
‘That’s a use for them in peacetime then,’ Dennet pointed out, men nodding. ‘And in support of your operations, or regular SAS operations?’
‘If they pass the course then they’re as good as regular SAS – so yes, excellent in a support role, sir.’
‘Candidates for your teams?’ the UKSF man asked.
‘Yes, sir, possibly, but we aim to have them back in their units. Within a year there could be forty-fifty. If a small war breaks out somewhere they would re-trained and then go off to cause havoc.’
‘And good future leaders?’ Dennet nudged.
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’
I glanced at Bob. ‘They’d be selected for the fact that they’re fit, but also a bit of a loner, not married with three kids and mentally stable.’
‘Seems ... odd,’ a JIC official noted.
‘Sir, if I asked you to altitude-drop deep into Iraq, walk fifty miles, blow a place up and try and get back out, your first thought would probably be your family – and never seeing them again. I need someone who’s stupid enough to see that as a fun week out.
‘We’re looking for a certain type of person, and most regular soldiers are not that type of person. My lot are all mentally unbalanced – they’d rather be in the jungle, fighting, than at home with the wife and kids watching TV. They’re good at what they do because they’re not worried about family left behind, they’re 100% on the job – and they love that job.’
‘Your successes suggest that it is a winning formula,’ the JIC man noted.
‘Good team, right attitude, good training,’ I listed off.
‘And how’s the attitude of the regular SAS?’ the JIC man asked.
‘Better now, because Colonel Rawlson got rid of a lot of the dead wood and has introduced new standards and more internal competition.’
‘And is he ... helpful to you?’ Dennet asked, a very cheeky question, and I could see the Major flinch.
‘As helpful as I need and desire, sir,’ I said with a grin. ‘And certainly not a hindrance to us. But, naturally, he would like his lads to get the good jobs.’
‘Last week one of his was banged up for cutting his wife’s ear off and throwing it to the family dog,’ a UKSF officer put in.
I nodded. ‘Such a man ... I would have spotted early on and got rid of. I need highly trained stone cold killers, but not nutcases. There is a fine line in difference to look out for.’
They collectively nodded.
‘This base benefits training?’ Dennet asked.
‘Very much so, sir. We run around the track each day, and that regular pattern helps with training. Regular SAS are jealous.’
‘Well, most of the time most of them are not at the base,’ the UKSF general put in. ‘Hence the downsizing. They’re all off on courses, in Kenya or on counter-terrorist standby in London, hardly any men at the base.’
‘That traditional pattern, three month cycles, not sure I agree with it as good practice.’
They exchanged looks.
‘What more do you need to keep standards up?’ Dennet asked.
‘Mostly we have everything we need, but I would like to create exercises in dangerous places and drag in more units. The RAF 7 Squadron and 47 Squadron monthly dispersal exercise is held here, but there’s no danger here.
‘May sound odd, but I would take fifty NCOs with promise, train them here, a few weeks in Morocco, two weeks in Sierra Leone, and back. That way those NCOs have some training and experience for the future.’
Dennet nodded. ‘A leadership course, but with an element of danger. Many have served in Bosnia though.’
‘Not much danger there, sir. If they stepped off a plane in Sierra Leone and were met by me ... they’d shit themselves.’
The visitors laughed.
‘And good young officers with potential,’ Dennet added.
‘Yes, sir. Small wars are great for improving standards, but also very costly. Need to effectively simulate a small war, sir.’
‘You could take a group of officers for four weeks and mould them?’ Dennet asked.
‘Yes, sir. And if my lads accompany them to Africa, my lads also get the benefit. Right, tea and coffee, gentlemen.’
In the canteen, several of the visitors grabbed meals as well as tea and coffee, and they asked innocuous questions of the Major and myself.
An hour later, and the roar built, the Pumas back, our guests running bent-double, hats in hand, waves given.
Bob remained, as I knew he would, and we sat with me in the Major’s office.
‘Have everything you need?’ was an obvious first question, and a stamp of authority.
‘I was thinking, Bob, about us offering a top HALO team, maybe even faking a live insert or two, say Sierra Leone.’
He made a face. ‘If you can get in some place safely by HALO, sure. But broken legs are an issue.’
‘Not if we choose the chutes, save having them dictated. Lads can all build-up HALO knowledge here, we design our own kit, and off we go.’
He nodded. ‘So what would you need?’
‘Pete, the local para school boss, ex-SAS, mentioned tone altimeters. When you hit 4,000 feet it gives a tone, faster tone at 2,000, warning at 1,000 feet, etc. Good for night drops.’
He made a note.
‘Then there’re kit pods. SAS and RAF have these fibre-glass pods, but the Americans have this big old sack with say four handles, kit inside. We jump together holding it, stabilize, break off at 4,000 and wait then pull, kit chute has an auto-release at 1,000 feet, a few flashing lights to find it when down, maybe a homing beacon.’
‘Never find it in the jungle!’ the Major noted.
‘We’d not jump over forest, sir, we’d aim for a flat area hopefully,’ I countered with.
Bob made a note. ‘If it’s in use, we can
get it.’ He looked up. ‘I was thinking of training some of the James Bond types to HALO.’
‘Why not,’ I agreed.
He took a moment. ‘Once the Lone Wolf types are ready, they are – technically – Externals.’
‘Almost, not quite, some training areas to fill in. Lone Wolves don’t do house clearing.’
He slowly nodded, thinking. ‘But they’d be good men, stood ready.’
‘That they would,’ I agreed. ‘Greatest danger is that they sit around getting bored back wherever they come from.’
‘We could start a programme soon,’ Bob noted.
‘What about the Congo?’ I asked.
He made a face. ‘Congo would be a week at most. A few hostages, other business, and gone. I don’t think you need to be there for experience.’
‘No,’ the Major agreed. ‘Got lots of jungle training done in Sierra Leone.’
‘We’d send you into the Congo when we have the right intel and plan,’ Bob added.
‘I have Moran learning how to fly a small twin engine passenger plane,’ I informed him. ‘Other men too. We could hire one, fly in to a dirt strip, do the job and out. No helicopters in range.’
Bob raised a finger. ‘I have an Mi8 available, here in the UK, some guy in Essex bought it, offers rides in it.’
‘Then sign him up for some intense lessons here,’ I firmly suggested. ‘If we can hire one, or steal one in Africa, we use it.’
Bob made a note. ‘Block book would be cheapest, and the guy will love you lot, a real wannabe, restored tanks in his garden.’
‘I just have garden gnomes,’ the Major put in, making us smile. ‘A tank would upset my neighbours.’
Bob turned to me, that look on his face, that he was not sure if I would agree with something or not – and annoyed for having to ask. ‘I’d like to start the programme, and if you’re called away for the Congo it’s a week or two, so those left here could carry on your instructions.’
I nodded. ‘I have it sorted in my mind how to train them, but also how to motivate them. Pep talk.’
‘And at the end, you’d report which were suitable...’
Again I nodded. ‘If a guy is a loose cannon I’d kick him out, if he’s another me ... I’d let you know.’
He nodded. ‘Did Rawlson ... try and stamp his authority on this place?’
I could have predicted that question. ‘No, he’s just jealous and feeling left out. But after the London MOD meeting he kind of apologised for being difficult, and now he wants to cooperate.
‘He wants to make use of this place, but he knows he’d not shut us down – so he’s trying the other route - and being nice. Oh, could do with another cabin of rooms for when his lads train with us. Barracks is fine for Externals for a week, but some of his lads might not like being treated like a new recruit.’
Bob made a note. ‘Parachuting going well?’
‘Very well, they get lots of practise in without all the crap at Brize Norton, Externals as well. It’s the one key advantage of this place.’
Bob seemed pleased. ‘Oh, Batman and Robin, they’re walking well enough, might be of use, both ... in need of some encouragement, the ... right environment.’
I smiled. ‘More cabins. There are a few rooms left, but some are close to our armourer, and his snoring is legendary.’
‘Next week, could you take ten “E” Squadron men and ... improve them?’
‘Easy enough here,’ I commended. ‘They going to work well together?’
‘Hopefully, and if not I’m sure you’ll clobber them.’
The Major told me, ‘We selected this lot, so we have high hopes. Best of the bunch.’
Two days later we had guests; one two-year SAS regular with a broken arm – his presence a puzzle to me, four new lads from Fort Wannabe, plus Batman and Robin – the lads greeting our former members warmly and chatting about past operations – and car crashes.
The SAS were in the barracks for now, but not complaining. I took the guy with the broken arm to one side. ‘You’ve done two years, you know the score, but if I hear one negative word from you to the new lads I’ll do your other arm. You got that?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘They’re here to be encouraged, not discouraged; let them make their own minds up about the Regiment. Likewise, if any of the new lads are ... fucked up in the head and wanting to kill for the fun of it, I want to know.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Use the canteen, walk the track, pistol work one-handed, see Sergeant Crab, he’ll help out. And study – languages, maps, don’t sit around doing nothing, and don’t get hammered down the pub and blab about us; that comes with a £500 fine and a broken leg. Our paymaster in Mi6 sends people to stand next to us in bars and tape us. One lad was RTU for that, some fined. Don’t get caught.’
I met and greeted the wannabes inside. ‘Listen up, and listen well. What you see and hear on this base ... you don’t blab about. Unlike the regular SAS, I’d kick the shit out of you, and no one will ever prosecute me.’
They looked worried.
‘Your careers ... are what you make them.’ I held my hands wide. ‘Train hard, sit in the pub, start a family, study in the evenings. Your choices. I got up early every morning and ran, studied in the evenings – a right unsociable git.’
They laughed.
‘You can do well, or sit and waste time. And my team - we got started because the regulars had a shit attitude. There were many men in the SAS who thought they were great, they walked with a swagger, they wore the beret, but when it came to volunteering for jobs – they didn’t. So why were they there?
‘You lot worked hard to get fit and pass selection, so what comes next? Rest on your laurels, drift along? If you listen to the time served NCOs in Hereford they’ll tell you it’s all a waste of time and you’re better off someplace else. That’s because they’re wankers.
‘If you work hard, study hard, get fit, you could be on a job with me. And my Detachment motto is: we came to fight, not read about it. You lot can fight, or you can read about my lot doing it.
‘The thing to do is to listen to the advice from the time served NCOs, but not the bullshit. If someone says – you’re better off elsewhere, tell him to go elsewhere then. Ask him why he’s here.’
I held my hands wide. ‘I’ve heard old timers telling new lads like you that you’re wasting your time. No, you’re not, he was. He was a wanker, he wasn’t fit, he didn’t get selected for the good jobs.
‘If you have a good attitude, if you stay fit, then you get asked along on the good jobs. Up to you. Most regular SAS troopers have never shot anyone, my lads have each shot hundreds. Who’re the professionals here?
‘What you do, and how far you go, is up to you, but never forget: no matter what you do in life there’s always some cunt that will make your life hard for no good reason. Maybe his wife is leaving him, maybe he’s fed up. You’ll come across time-served NCOs with attitude. Trick is to fight back.
‘Go to the Colonel, tell him that this NCO keeps encouraging you to leave. If the NCO is underhand about it, do his house over one night, and his car. If you’re not capable of doing that without being caught ... you don’t deserve to be here. Whatever you do, don’t just take it, don’t think of leaving. And if you’re really stuck come see me; I’ve dealt with many regulars, had them kicked out.’
I had a long chat with Batman and Robin, their facial scars obvious, and they were damn glad to be alive and back with me. I assigned them to Sgt Crab and stores for now, for which they were grateful.
Back in the Major’s office, he said, ‘Bob has enough lads to start a programme in two weeks.’
I sat, thinking it through. ‘He is keen on it.’
‘He wants a few James Bond types. If there are any real stars he’ll pinch them away, shallow grave someplace a year later.’
I slowly nodded. ‘If we train them right, no shallow grave. At least a good chance to avoid it.’
Again I slowly nodded. ‘It’s what we’re here for; next year’s psycho killing machines.’
‘And if some of these go off on one back in Civvy Street?’
‘I would hope ... we should spot such men first.’
‘They go back to barrack duty somewhere, bored stiff. Then what?’
‘There would probably be an annual re-train, maybe twice a year.’
‘They’d still be bored,’ the Major insisted. ‘Let’s just hope that “Lone Wolf” doesn’t become synonymous with serial killer in the British press.’
I stared out the door. ‘Most of the soldiers who became killers were failed SAS, not time served.’
Batman and Robin began helping out, as well some steady jogging, some time on the range. Our guy with a broken arm helped out Crab, often to be seen in the canteen of an evening, and our newbies ran as a group, used the range with supervision, or drove off for courses somewhere.
On Monday morning a loud roar preceded the Mi8 coming in to land, the helo painted a bright red and blue, with red, white and blue Russian stars on the sides. The pilot and co-pilot jumped down as its rotors wound down, and they came over as I walked out to them with Moran and Swifty.
‘You must be Ricky Hartness,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘I’m Wilco.’ The owner was a little overweight, early forties but grey, his hair spiked up.
‘The ... Wilco?’ he asked, and I wondered if he was gay.
‘The one and only.’
‘Great to meet you.’ He took in the hangar. ‘This the new SAS base?’
‘No, we just use it for parachuting and flying, a few exercises,’ I told him, not sure what Bob had told him.
‘Well she’s fuelled, serviced, ready to go. Oh, this is Mike, commercial pilot, I’m not allowed to fly around the UK with just me at the controls, all bureaucratic red tape. He’s got a lot of hours on my lovely girl.’
I tried not to smile, or to punch him. ‘This is Captain Moran, and Swifty. I want a day’s intensive study, break for lunch.’
Ricky keenly nodded, leading Moran and Swifty away.
I called Bob. ‘Get me two 7 Squadron Puma pilots who want to learn to fly this Mi8, be useful in the future, and we might use them in the Congo. And those pilots that flew the Cessna in Mali, get them back and learning on the Skyvan, might use them in the Congo, Moran is not that confident of long journeys, night flying, bad weather.’