Wilco- Lone Wolf 5

by Geoff Wolak

  They turned and jogged off.

  When the first man fired, the Major appeared next to me as I stood observing the wet Wolves.

  ‘Not even the Marines do that, fire from the water. I’ve not seen our lot do it either.’

  ‘We do a great many things others don’t,’ I proudly stated.

  ‘How they coming along?’

  ‘I have a policy of extra training for those at the bottom of the list. Some are good at everything, some fit but not great shots, some the other way around. So they get extra training where needed, I’m not binning any yet.’

  ‘They must have been suitable to get here,’ the Major noted as cracks sounded out, the first men now running back up the other side, some kicking their footballs along.

  ‘Suitable ... psychologically. Don’t know how Bob sized-up some of these, but one lad who’s not that great speaks three languages.’

  ‘He has the languages, just needs to get in and out of a place in one piece. And the civvies?’

  ‘Good overall, sir, two are shit hot, real spy types. That lad there, Hummington I think it’s pronounced, he has a prison record, lots of problems, but he is determined, and damned good with it, marathon runner.’

  ‘Next year’s psycho killer?’

  ‘So long as he goes psycho on the bad guys I don’t mind. Look at Smitty, sir, much better now. He was written off by the system.’

  After lunch I was back, and they were still at it. ‘Don’t stand up to shoot, you little fuckers!’ I shouted. ‘Float and shoot!’

  A queue had formed at the top end, so I had men speed up and get in, there was enough room. Problem was, some were faster swimmers. The slower swimmers were encouraged along, the faster swimmers told to slow down.

  At 3pm we halted them, tea and urn brought out, black plastic webbing cups half filled, the lads having collected a fair amount of mud.

  Teas down throats, they were given three laps of the range in a line before being started again on the canal, another hour.

  When finished, they formed two lines in front of me. ‘OK, you now know what it feels like to get in and out, and to shoot from the water. Develop your own technique, there is no right way or wrong way. Right way is that your kit is dry, that you are alert and can kill the enemy – and not get mud all over you.

  ‘If you’re in a cold climate then kit off, cross the river or lake, kit back on before you freeze to death, cup of tea, move off. If you fall into a river, get out, clothes off, spare set on, or freeze to death in twenty minutes.

  ‘If it’s very cold, then take off your shirt and jacket, shirt and jumper in the bag, jacket back on, cross the river, jacket off and swing it around, the dry shirt and jumper back on, jacket back on. Always aim to get the inner layers warm and dry. Later on you’ll cover cold weather survival. OK, spread out, ponchos down, unload, strip and clean weapons. Go!’

  Half an hour later, and Crab and Duffy had muddy four-man teams advancing and firing, withdrawing and firing, before a break for evening meal. After their evening meal they had more map reading, this time to plan routes based on terrain, and to work out times and plan for water sources, the maps being from Canada.

  As that was happening, my lot were in the canteen, a lecture being given by a mercenary who had worked in the Congo. And we questioned him at length, the man scathing about the quality of the militias; seemed like the greatest threat was from old ordnance lying around. That and nasty diseases.

  Thursday offered a better day for parachuting, and we hoped the wind would drop a little more.

  The Wolves were back in the canal, the water not cold, swimming in full kit down the canal, a lap of the range and back in, over and over for four hours, and tea brought out to them as they stood dripping. With tables brought out we waited, finally seeing Magsee drive around to us, bags – and dead animals - lugged. He looked like a beaver trapper on holiday.

  I greeted my old friend, introduced him to the lads, and he began with a small goat, rats in a cage and dead chickens to hand. I left them in his capable hands and headed for the para Portakabin, the wind low enough. It was not low enough to be legal, but close.

  Kit on and checked, Mally and his mates observing, we checked the kit bag, its chute and altimeter settings, and off we went. My team now included Mahoney, since that was how we would jump for real, and after being buffeted a little by the weather we gently fell out the back of the Skyvan at 15,000ft, and from up here I could see the Severn River bridge crossings some thirty miles away.

  This time, as I counted, I noticed that I moved towards Swifty and back again alternatively, we were certainly not static in our positions.

  The tone started at the right time, I had been counting in my head, and we released and moved back, this time longer counts – and odd counts – before pulling. I pulled last, and we had enough separation this time to be safe.

  But our bag had a mind of its own and seemed to release the chute early and - as we observed - it keenly made its way towards the pub, and so we followed it. I could see men running and cars driving around, faces peering up as we moved well past the fence, MPs on the gate peering skyward.

  We were now in trouble, I knew that, our bag with a mind of its own, the wind stronger than we would have liked, the main road getting closer. Those in my team could land anywhere, but our bag was just drifting.

  ‘It’s going to hit the pub!’ Swifty shouted from twenty yards to my left.

  ‘We won’t be popular!’ I shouted back.

  ‘Is it fish today?’

  ‘Tomorrow!’

  The bag was now heading for the road, people in gardens looking up, the church getting closer, and it slammed down on top of a car that was turning into the village.

  I landed close by, chute pulled in as cars stopped, goggles and helmet off as the landlord came out with two old men. Swifty touched down smoothly, Moran and Mahoney landing in the pub car park as the bag’s chute engulfed the car, just our luck that a police car was coming down the main road.

  Bundle in my arms, I walked over and tried to move away the chute from the car, someone inside trying earnestly to get out. An old man appeared, wide eyed.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘What in blazes..?’ He looked around. ‘Why did you land here? It’s a main road!’

  I bit my lip, holding in the sarcastic reply. ‘We followed our kit bag, its parachute opened too early.’

  He looked at the damage to his car, which was considerable. ‘I was a pilot, RAF, Vulcan bombers.’

  ‘I’m Captain Milton, sir, and we’ll replace your car.’

  ‘Really. Oh, good timing, I was giving up driving this year. I’d rather have the cash.’

  ‘We’ll sort that, sir,’ I told him as the police stopped traffic, my lads pulling up and assisting. ‘But I’d love to see what you put on the insurance claim.’

  ‘What? Oh yes, that could be odd.’

  ‘Are you OK, sir?’ the police asked the old man, the chute fluttering.

  ‘Yes, yes, quite alright.’

  I faced the copper. ‘The MOD will cover the damage to the car.’

  ‘What on earth happened?’ the copper asked.

  ‘Kit bag is separate to the skydivers, and its chute opened early, so it drifted too far by ... half a mile.’

  ‘And who are you lot?’ he asked.

  ‘SAS.’

  ‘Really? My brother is a Para, he’ll love this story.’

  My lads lifted the bag and dragged it, and I bundled my kit into a car as Swifty tried and failed not to smirk. I approached the landlord. ‘We were hungry, so we thought we land closer. That OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, looking past me. ‘Got some fish left over from yesterday if you’re interested.’

  ‘Yesterday was Wednesday..?’ I puzzled.

  ‘No, did a fish day on a spur of the moment, same tomorrow.’

  Back at the para Portakabin, no fish lunch taken, Mally and his mates were grinning. ‘That could have gon
e better. I said the wind was too strong.’

  ‘Wind was not the issue,’ I told them. ‘That bag altimeter is accurate to 1,000ft, give or take a thousand.’

  ‘That’s a fucking big margin of error,’ Mally noted.

  I nodded. ‘Yeah,’ I let out slowly, sighing.

  ‘This’ll be in the papers,’ Moran warned, there were people with cameras.’

  I took out my phone and gave Bob the story, a D-Notice to be issued on photographs, and exact locations, a damaged car to be replaced – or paid for, Bob concerned about the altimeters.

  Swifty said, ‘On a live job, set the release to be 1,200ft. If it hits the deck the rifles will be OK, and we might squish one of the bad guys.’

  ‘In the Congo, we won’t worry about hitting cars,’ Mahoney noted. ‘Or donkey drawn carts.’

  ‘We taking Max along again?’ Moran asked.

  I considered that, nodded, and called our trusty reporter. ‘Max, you fit and ready for a job?’

  ‘About bloody time you called, I’m going stale. Where is it?’

  ‘Congo.’

  ‘Nice fucking spot. Any hostages on the Costa del Sol?’

  ‘Be here in the morning, and here ... is now a new base.’ I gave him directions.

  I sent the second team up anyhow, the altimeter set to 1,500ft, and it deployed around 1,000ft, which was fine, and it landed on the edge of the north field, everyone down safe, Sandra watching them with some trepidation.

  I told her, ‘You would go in by bus.’ She still seemed nervous.

  As I sat in the canteen with the Wolves, all looking tired, our third team went up, but landed the wrong side of the fence by a hundred yards, a bit of a walk around.

  As I left the canteen my phone trilled, Bob calling.

  ‘Wilco, a few slight changes to the plan. The Ugandans have withdrawn permission, but we still have permission to overfly Rwandan and Tanzanian airspace, and the Congo government in Kinshasa is happy to allow us in. So it’s Kenya.’

  ‘Well, the British military are in and out of Kenya all the time, so we won’t attract attention. Suitable aircraft?’

  ‘I’ve located an old Skyvan and an old Russian transport, plus an Mi8 or two, plenty for hire down there.’

  ‘Range and reliability of the Mi8 is an issue,’ I told him. ‘Short trips only.’

  ‘I have a man who’ll fly one in, and then you could use it in-country.’

  ‘OK, sounds better. And the Skyvan?’

  ‘Not so old, good service record. We’ve got two RAF pilots checked out on the Mi8, two on the Skyvan.’

  ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘You asked for it, so they had lessons at RAF Marham.’

  ‘Fine. And you need to sign off the chutes we’ll take from the Cirencester club, three each, so a lot of chutes.’

  ‘You’ll bring them back?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Use that budget, Bob. Combat chutes don’t come back. Oh, and Max the reporter is on his way.’

  ‘Some things he can’t see, like Roach.’

  ‘I can trust him.’

  ‘How’re the Lone Wolves?’

  ‘Coming along, getting plenty of good training in, and I’m stepping it up week by week. We might have a few hit barriers soon.’

  ‘What’ll you do then?’

  ‘Keep them at it, give them a second go. I’ll get them there. So far ... no whinging or fighting.’

  ‘They’re promising?’

  ‘They are indeed, Bob. There are seven or eight that could come work for me.’

  In the morning I led the Wolves on their run with Henri, the RSM to be here later, and he would handle some training whilst I was away. Monday would see an all-weapons course for the Wolves, and it would include old .303 rifles from WWII, Henri Martini .22 rifles, Uzi, the works. They would even have training on mortars, 66mm rockets and RPGs.

  Before the RSM arrived another two sheds arrived, and with the engineers to erect them. I asked the Major about them.

  ‘Territorials,’ he explained. ‘Central stores. A quartermaster major will be based here, the man responsible for all TA SAS stores and equipment, he’ll travel out – this is central. TA centres in London, Portsmouth, Newport, Birmingham and the north, so this suits.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yes, time served in Admin, been with us since forever.’

  ‘Need an officers mess,’ I joked.

  He made a face. ‘Lower level of the visitor centre is not in use.’

  ‘Fine by me, ask O’Leary for a small canteen and bar. SIGINT can eat in there.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I need my finger on the pulse, ear to the floor.’

  ‘You’re a captain now!’

  ‘Only within Echo, not a proper one,’ I teased.

  Max turned up at noon, let in and sent across to me. The MPs had called me so I met him as he pulled up.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asked as he got out, observing the Skyvan across the airfield.

  ‘My new secret base, no mention of where it is, select photos taken. Say that it’s ... near Leominster.’

  He nodded as he took in the hangar and the Portakabins. I waved Crab over. ‘Pistol and rifle work for Max, work him hard. Rotate it with others if you’re called away. And some trauma first aid.’

  I observed as the Wolves static-line jumped, all down safely, one twisted ankle, one twist to kick out of. Everyone jumped, many experiencing a tandem freefall.

  At 5pm I met Max in the canteen as he sat with some of the Wolves asking questions. ‘Max, this new sniper programme - you can photograph them at the end, or at least later into it. Give me a call.’

  He nodded, moving to sit next to me. ‘So when do we leave?’

  ‘Sunday, we’ll fly out to Kenya whilst making it look like a regular Army deployment.’

  ‘And the hostages?’

  ‘Inside the Congo, so we’ll be flying in, small aircraft. But we’ll plan a few operational HALO drops, not done before – least not by the Brits. And no, you can’t drop with us. How’s your aim?’

  ‘Getting better, yes, hope I don’t need it.’

  ‘Congo is a bad spot, no safe areas,’ I warned. ‘You’ll have a pistol issued.’

  He nodded, taking in the bustling canteen. ‘How long you been here?’

  ‘Months. We moved because the new SAS base is smaller. Better facilities here.’

  ‘And these Lone Wolves?’

  ‘Sniper course, specialised, some aspects classified, don’t print anything without showing it to me.’

  He nodded. ‘How long you in the Congo?’

  ‘Not long, week or so if it goes well. Make sure you have the same kit as Sierra Leone.’

  ‘I brought it. And this black lady?’

  ‘No mention of her, she’s Intel, our guide in the country.’

  ‘And the Russian guy.’

  ‘Same deal. Mention them in your paper I’ll kill you myself.’

  ‘OK, OK, keep your panties on.’

  When my phone trilled I stepped out, the Air Commodore calling. ‘You’re off on a job I hear.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Sunday, down to Kenya.’

  ‘Not taking many of mine with you...’ he nudged.

  ‘It’s a short job, and ... a naughty one.’

  ‘Still, if things went off OK, some photos in the papers of my lot would help.’

  ‘If things did not go OK ... it could be bad publicity, sir.’

  ‘Your end, but my lot would be at some rear base,’ he pressed.

  ‘What did you have in mind, sir?’

  ‘Couple of flights of RAF Regiment, medics. Even if they do nothing but get there and turn around its all experience.’

  ‘When could they be ready? We leave Sunday.’

  ‘I just so happen to have them on standby to go at a moment’s notice.’

  I smiled widely. ‘Fine, sir. Send them to Nanyuki, Kenya, to start with, and
then we move to Mwanza in Tanzania – small backwater airfield. But Intel says no military to be seen armed there, but we can fly through it.’

  ‘FOB in-country?’

  ‘Not established yet, I’ll have a look at the map. Are you prepared to stick your neck out, sir?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If something goes wrong over there then backup is a long way off, and if a plane had a fault it would be abandoned over there, and that’s not a headline we want. I’m taking in a beaten up old civil transport.’

  ‘Well, I’d rather not lose a Hercules, but Angola went off OK.’

  ‘You could prepare a rescue team for us. How’d that sound?’

  ‘Yes, we can write it up as such. And if it’s a round trip, we could drop supplies. Any missiles in-country?’

  ‘No chance, just a few old rusted fifty cal, if that.’

  ‘Local capabilities?’

  ‘Drugged-up militias, gunmen and mercenaries, gun runners.’

  ‘So we get a good headline for less risk.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, sir. Move your people, I’ll see what I can stage for you.’

  I called Bob. ‘Just had the Air Commodore on the phone, not happy, wants a headline, so he’s sending a force, RAF Regiment and medics as our rescue squad, but they won’t leave Kenya. Still, we’ll spin the story.’

  ‘If it keeps him happy, then fine, we need his cooperation. And they go to Kenya all the time.’

  ‘What about Externals?’ I asked.

  ‘They needed?’

  ‘Not really, it’s a small team operation.’

  ‘There’s no FOB for them.’

  ‘No, but things may change on the ground, as they often do, and 2 Squadron will send theirs anyhow. They could get a tan, or be called forwards.’

  ‘OK, I’ll see if the Pathfinders want to deploy, but it’s a bit late in the day.’

  ‘They always have kit packed,’ I insisted. ‘Oh, you know about the SAS TA major?’

  ‘Yes, and Rawlson is being sneaky, a slow creep of influence. I’m going to check if he’s an Israeli.’

  I laughed. ‘Out-sneaky him, Bob, you’re a spymaster.’

  Back inside, I called for the senior Echo lads – as well as Mally, a briefing in fifteen minutes. In the briefing room I pushed tables together and laid out a large map of east Africa. Swifty had come across with me from the house, Max tagging along, the rest turning up in groups, and sitting around the table.