Wilco- Lone Wolf 12

by Geoff Wolak

  The next morning a small private jet touched down, Colonel Mathews and his team arriving. I met them in the lecture hall at 10am, drinks organised, the Lt Col and his senior staff present as well as a few NCOs.

  ‘How are they looking?’ Colonel Mathews keenly asked me.

  ‘They’re in the test stage, sir, graphs being drawn, ability and temperament being measured day by day, but we threw in an extra stage – a moral dilemma. We had a man pretend to be injured, broken ankle, and half this lot ran past him and kept going, some gave first aid, and when I told them to ignore the wounded man – some told me to fuck off.’

  ‘So half of this lot are desperate to pass, regardless of a wounded man. That’s a disappointment, but it also shows their determination, so I’m not sure which way I’d vote on that. I’d say 60:40 in favour of helping the wounded man.’

  ‘I’d be 90% in favour of helping the wounded man, only because there are some situations where you keep going regardless. This isn’t one of them, sir, and your boys seem to be wound up pretty tight compared to their European counterparts – who think for themselves a little more.’

  ‘And the relevance to mission success?’

  ‘They need to think, not follow orders, they need to plan their own route, improvise, go around things. I’m thinking that some of these are a bit young. If they passed here ... they’d need a few years. I think this lot are a few years younger than my Wolves, on average.’

  ‘I’ll look at that, but how do you teach common sense?’

  ‘You don’t, sir, you find it. Later stages need tricks, lots of tricks. We need to know that a man alone, who finds a bridge down, will go around not go home. That means he makes his own plan, not follow a plan given to him. Organise another one of these, but add four years to the men.’

  ‘There was a debate about that, about a young man that can be molded, or an old dog set in his ways and with attitude.’

  ‘Try both ways, sir, and learn from it.’

  He nodded. ‘And the best of these men?’

  ‘Some are shit hot, and could be trained quickly.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘At least twelve, sir, probably twice that, but it’s early days yet.’

  ‘They all had the shrinks do their bit, so they match your psychological profile well enough.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to quite a few, and they seem well suited, all having some issue, all keen to get ahead, all feeling under-utilized, and all have a good IQ.’

  He nodded. ‘We have a shit load of weapons arriving next week, and trucks and jeeps, many European, so they’ll get tested on the learning curve.’

  ‘What have the powers decided about replacing Desert Sands, sir?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Same old Washington horse shit. Some argue that it should be the Deltas, some argue that it should be the Navy Seals, some argue for the Green Berets, some for the Rangers. Every senator has his favourite.’

  ‘Problem is, sir, that your well-trained men are well-entrenched into a way of thinking, most married with kids and wanting to live to retirement.’

  ‘In a war that would not disqualify them,’ he pointed out.

  ‘No, sir, but this is a specialist role, that of grabbing a good newspaper headline, and that requires a very specialised team – and some luck. We do it for the newspapers as much as practicality.’

  ‘Could we ... place a few more men with you?’

  ‘We had Mahoney, we have Mitch now, could fit two more maybe.’

  ‘Was thinking of eight man team ... and some good headlines, embedded reporter.’

  I smiled. ‘Where’d you get that idea, sir?’

  ‘From the sneakiest shit in the business. You play the media better than a whore of a Washington senator!’

  ‘It’s all about the media, sir, I learnt that lesson. Good stories got me more power, got me my own unit and base, freedom to do what I want. If I waited for London we’d do fuck all.’

  ‘So ... eight man team?’

  ‘Are you trying to strong-arm me, sir?’

  ‘No, horse trade. Is there ... something you want?’

  I gave that some thought. ‘If you want a good headline or two, then my team – with your team – would need logistical support.’

  ‘Got fucking planes and helos coming out our ears!’

  ‘How about two small groups, helos and fixed wing, west Africa and Middle East, call them ... Special Forces Support Team, but you allow French and others to play nicely. In West Africa at the moment the French military dominates, in Kenya the British dominates, Red Sea and you dominate, we just need a little cooperation.’

  He sighed. ‘It is all skewed, yes, based on historical interests – and fucking oil. We have no bases in Africa, we do in the Gulf, shit load in Asia.’

  ‘Would the White House get involved? And block missions?’

  ‘If we’re part of a multi-national force, less likely, and if we’re just giving you a ride even less likely. But if we’re giving you a ride we want some of our boys in on it. What I want ... is what you have, a track record and some shit hot media coverage so I can go knock on doors and ask for more toys to play with, get something done without the usual Washington shit.

  ‘If there was a strike force of ours dedicated to your kind of operations, ships and planes and men, that could be my baby, and maybe we’ll go get some hostages without worrying what the White House has to say about it.’

  ‘I understand your pain, sir, I truly do.’

  ‘So we can move this forwards...’

  ‘We can, sir. Just need to sell the French on getting you into West Africa without them shooting me.’

  ‘If I asked Washington to assist with something like that it would take ten years and the French would stone-wall it. And after West Africa ... you can assist us mend bridges in Panama.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘You think I have some influence there, sir?’

  ‘I know so. So it’s trade-off time.’

  ‘And it all has to be done without the White House noticing!’ I whispered.

  ‘Fuck yes, or we’ll get nowhere fast.’ He took a moment. ‘I figured you were a one-in-a-million soldier, good results, but then I realised that what you did on the ground was nowhere near as important as how it was reported, and you manipulated the media like a pro. I learned from you ... where the real power lies, and that’s the media and Hollywood. Reputation is everything, the bullshit is everything.’

  I smirked. ‘Indeed it is, sir. So how are the DEA?’

  He tipped his head back and laughed, attracting looks from the others. ‘Some little shit destroyed them in the media. Be twenty years before they get back into the groove, and a hundred years before they get back into Panama! They’re now known as the Drug Enjoyment Agency!’

  I toured the facilities with our visitors, recruits seen firing on the range or speed-marching with heavy backpacks. At the pistol range I found Tomo and Nicholson observing, so I halted proceedings, and I had Tomo put through the recruits’ standard pistol test.

  With a smirk, Tomo fired twenty times, five rounds at four targets, the targets placed from twelve to thirty yards out. We walked forwards as a group, the instructors marking the targets, and Tomo had put four rounds in the white square on all targets.

  ‘Score?’ Colonel Mathews asked.

  ‘Score is 100%, sir.’

  ‘And the recruits?’

  ‘Best are around 80%, sir.’

  ‘Some room for improvement then,’ Mathews noted.

  Onto the dusty long range we walked, observing the recruits. With the last man finished I put my four lads up with M16s.

  ‘Their scores?’ Colonel Mathews finally asked.

  The NCO replied, ‘His men are smartasses, sir,’ making us smile.

  ‘They’re recruited and trained to be smartasses, Sergeant,’ Colonel Mathews told him. ‘Keeps them alive longer.’

  I had Nicholson fetch an Elephant Gun, Colonel Mathews soon lying down and b
lasting away, his score not bad.

  Easing up, he said, ‘It is a fucking Elephant Gun. Tungsten round would kill a charging elephant for sure.’

  ‘We have one of these per platoon, sir,’ I explained. ‘No need for a fifty cal or separate sniper rifle.’

  ‘I’m going to get some on evaluation.’

  After a quick lunch he was back in his executive jet.

  That evening, Swifty asked, ‘What will these recruits do when ready?’

  ‘Once selected they get more training, the idea being that they would eventually operate like our Wolves but that any superstars would be pinched and used for special operations. Oh, and the Pentagon wants to place a troop of Americans with us.’

  ‘A troop! Has London agreed that?’

  ‘Not yet, and there could be a few raised voices, so ... I need to be clever. What Colonel Mathews wants is what I have, the ability to go after hostages without the political bullshit and the interference. We get some political interference, but he has to get permission to take a shit.

  ‘He wants a team to go in when he says, not when the White House says so. What we discussed was an American support brigade, helicopters and planes, some men. They would assist us, we host a troop and get them some good newspaper inches.’

  ‘They support us now,’ Swifty noted. ‘Helos and stuff.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the French, get a base somewhere, a joint training base.’

  ‘Not much room for an extra troop at GL4,’ he cautioned.

  ‘Be a waste of time them being at GL4. I’d have them in West Africa, another team in a Red Sea base. They won’t be fighting in damp English countryside!’

  I added an extra stage the following day, after seeing an area sided by sandbanks. Targets were set-up at the sides, numbers on the tops of targets in black and white squares, trestle tables set-up as well as glue and paper to cover the holes.

  At my request, the recruits would use a Valmet, twenty rounds. Fifty yards back from the mini-range, and my lads would give a quick lesson on the Valmet.

  With the first sweaty recruit ready and sent to me, Valmet pointed down at 45 degrees, I instructed, ‘Candidate will walk forwards at a steady pace, two rounds at each target, left then right and back again in the numbered sequence you can see, speed as well as accuracy displayed, then unload – without dropping the magazine, then back here. Ready.’

  He moved forwards a few steps.

  ‘Advance and fire!’

  He spun left and fired twice, spun right and fired twice, walking on a few steps, the same procedure repeated five times. He unloaded as he walked quickly back, and made safe the weapon without killing us, the weapon placed down on a trestle table.

  ‘Off you go,’ I instructed as an NCO with a clipboard marked the targets, a second man with glue and paper patching them up, the next sweaty recruit running in kicking up sand.

  By the end of the day they had all been through these targets three times, and by 8pm Samantha had adjusted a few graphs. I sat with her team, coffee in hand.

  The best twelve had displayed mixed results, six good, the rest slipping, the best scores coming from men that were average compared to the top twelve.

  I began, ‘What the graphs are showing ... is that some of these men are used to standard firing drills on a range, less capable to adapt to new scenarios. We’ll keep that stage in for at least a week, and add to it.’

  By the end of the following day the recruits in the top twelve had improved some, the graphs settling down, so the following day I had them shoot with an eye-patch over their left eyes, the results all over the place. Some of the recruits from the bottom of the pile scored 100%, half the top 12 struggling.

  But as the days progressed, those in the top twelve that had dipped got back up till they were 100%.

  I told the Lt Col and the assembled team, ‘The recruits that were in the top twelve fell when we gave them a new scenario, others adapted quicker, but after a few days the previous top twelve regained that position and now hold that position.’

  ‘They were slow to adapt,’ the Lt Col noted. ‘But when they got it down they’re shit hot, yes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. A few of these lads are poor on the static ranges, good on moving targets, simple biology having an effect - and the man’s ability to get the depth perception right with one eye.’

  ‘And overall averages?’ the Lt Col asked.

  ‘By the end of this week you’ll be able to draw a clear line between the recruits as far as ability goes, temperament will come later.’

  The keen young recruits were given driving lessons on a wide assortment of vehicles, some of the recruits being naturals and some were just plan fucking useless, getting shouted at. Graphs were annotated.

  I then insisted on a change to the programme, and these poor lads would suffer a 24hr day followed by the same tests.

  At 9am the following morning all of the available NCOs were called in, medics on standby, recruits seen to be a bit wobbly after their all-night route march. They had plenty of water, they had food, but they had not enjoyed a good night’s kip.

  Each recruit attempted the standard straight range contest, all loudly encouraged to hit the target, but scores were down for many. They jogged directly to the sandy bunker in small teams, my lads on hand, and a few recruits put rounds into the dirt, one recruit putting a round past an NCO’s ear and frightening the man.

  Moved to the assault course, one recruit punched another, both led away. The strain was showing. Times over the assault course were slow, a lack of effort shown, and they were sent back to the straight range, scores carefully checked. A final trip to the sand bank range, and they were allowed to sleep – after they got the sand off their boots.

  In the HQ building we collated scores and annotated graphs, several of the top twelve having given a shit performance this morning, a few of the top twenty climbing steadily on average. And it had been one of the top twelve that had snapped and punched another man. Without consulting with me, the Lt Col had the man kicked out.

  I sighed when I heard, a look exchanged with Samantha.

  With my phone trilling I stepped out. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s No.1.’

  ‘You still don’t sound sinister.’

  Bob laughed. ‘I’ll have acting lessons. Anyway, some progress. I have two alternate identities, one being the primary, and it’s the same name just about as I used as a young agent, so I have it all memorised. We created a back trail, and I have the bank details now, money put in a few places, some gold coins bought, and some of the money has been invested in annualised Asian bonds, so a good rate of return.’

  ‘Bean counter Bob.’

  ‘I was always good with keeping the books. I met with the chap from Belgium and we have sat phones linked, I have ten from Tomsk and some from Leon, and I have a few men to call upon for dodgy jobs, and Leon has introduced me to a few people with specialist skills, so I’m building up the network.

  ‘Those three names you asked for, we created eight in the end and we have some good people working the back history, and two of these were bad boys that got a shallow grave – or indeed a deep grave, and one is now of interest to the police in Zurich.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re back in the groove. Good. I’ll send French Intel to you soon. But listen, your house, is it safe?’

  ‘Old cottage on the coast, small village, would be easy to spot strangers.’

  ‘Local pub or hotel?’

  ‘There’s a good hotel, bar and restaurant, local coffee shops.’

  ‘That hotel manager, hand him enough cash to be interested, get him to alert you of anyone taking an interest in you, any odd strangers.’

  ‘He’d like the money, he has a wife and an expensive mistress; I can still put my spy hat on and figure out the body language.’

  ‘And get someone who’s good at tailing, and have him tail you from time to time to see if anyone else is tailing you. Local taxi driver is always good.’

&
nbsp; ‘Local taxi driver is an ex-cop that likes his hookers in the next town. I spied on him as well.’

  ‘Give him some money, explain that you ... eh ... buy and sell paintings, some a bit dodgy. And double back every now and then, eh.’

  ‘I know the drill, and Leon has found a body in the morgue, right height and weight for me. We’ll put it in the water for a week first, no prints, but we’ll need help with the DNA.’

  ‘I can sort that, just tell me when. And, Bob, happy funeral, you’ll be a whole new man afterwards.’

  Later, I called order and stood at the front after the Lt Col had arrived. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what this latest test has done ... has revealed those men that are more robust and have a better temperament. When a man is tired he can either shut down, get aggressive, or function normally to some degree – albeit slower.

  ‘One of the most important aspects of these tests is how a man behaves when he’s hurting, and trust me – all contact with the enemy is when you’re dog tired and unprepared for it.

  ‘Some of those that were in the top twelve are slow to adapt to new weapons and vehicles, some of those below the top twelve were more robust and therefore more consistent. And some of the superstars crumbled when we gave them a real test. There are thirty-five men I would like to move forwards with.’

  The Lt Col stood. ‘Thirty-five from two hundred is more than we figured, we figured we go forwards with the best dozen men, but thirty-five is manageable, and there’ll be injuries and drop outs.’

  ‘I’ll be recommending that this operation wind down and that you move those men to Africa, sir, a test of their attitude when they have a perceived risk factor.’

  ‘Perceived?’

  ‘We’ll exaggerate the risks, sir, see how they react.’

  He nodded. ‘What we’ve done here will be used for the next batch, and there could be a next batch soon.’