Wilco- Lone Wolf 11

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Sasha, Casper -’ The room rocked with laughter. ‘- you’re Polish soldiers on an exchange posting. Avoid the film crew. Drab and Scruffy, get the barracks ready. Major, extra batmen from Brize Norton for the officers mess, extra food please.’

  O’Leary put in, ‘This base is a bit fucking sensitive to have visitors like this!’

  ‘MOD approved it, and are apparently ... dead keen for the publicity. OK, normal training till we find some hostages, and Intel – don’t find hostages till these actors leave, we keep the MOD happy.’

  Sunday afternoon, and we received a small team from the MOD, a colonel in charge no less, and a large team from the studio, no sign of any famous actors yet. The studio people looked around the base, the MOD followed them like hawks, and the two groups stood arguing from time to time as my lads glanced at them.

  At 6pm the actors turned up, but with private security staff, some of who turned out to be ex-SAS bodyguards when they protested not being let onto the base. I told the colonel to fuck off, and that they were not coming in, so they were sent to a hotel in Oxford. The actors got rooms in the officers mess, along with the senior studio staff, the rest in the barracks and not pleased at all. They would get a hotel and commute.

  I had them all assemble in the hangar, after threatening to shoot some of them. They stood in a group of twenty, taking in the hangar. Myself, Moran and Mitch stood at the front, two armed MPs on duty, Crab and Duffy called in and stood waiting.

  ‘Shut up and listen!’ I shouted, and they quietened down whilst looking annoyed at me, the MOD team to one side. ‘This is an operational military base, weapons and ammo, things that go bang, but this is also a special forces and Military Intel base, and we’ve suffered several terrorist attacks right here, bullets and bombs. If you’re here overnight there’s a chance of some shooting.’

  They looked worried.

  ‘On the gate you saw armed men, a guard post with a machine gun, used to kill a few joy-riders by accident. We ... are a hostage rescue team, and the people we attack to get back those hostages often get pissed off with us, and send men here. You are at risk, so if that’s a problem then don’t stay at night, or just fuck off and don’t visit at all.

  ‘You studio people, talk to your insurers, but I doubt they could work out a risk assessment percentage for this place.

  ‘Now pay attention.’ I stepped closer. ‘There are things here you’re not supposed to know about, men from Intel, exchange posting officers - as Mahoney was. If I hear you ask the wrong question I’ll kick you off the base, or shoot you in the leg, or both. You ask about that which is relevant, and you forget what you hear about some of the things we do. If in doubt, ask myself or Captain Moran here, and you can chat to Lieutenant Mitchell since he’s a Yank and in a similar exchange posting as that which Mahoney undertook.

  ‘But Mahoney was Delta Force, Mitchell was Army, there is a big difference. Now, you actors. I assume you want to learn how to move like us, talk like us. Fine. We’ll organise some training, no risk of getting shot, at least not much. You fired weapons before?’

  ‘Yeah, had a few film roles, some good training,’ came from Jackman, Clooney nodding.

  ‘If there’s something specific you need, ask, I’m sure the lads will be keen, but we don’t spend much time here, we’re usually in the deserts or the jungle.’

  ‘We’ll be filming in Sierra Leone and Morocco,’ they informed me.

  I pointed up at the offices. ‘Senior staff are up there, but it’s out of bounds, sensitive files and documents. Rest of the base is OK, but don’t wander around at night and get lost, you may get shot dead.’

  ‘Can the guards not be armed for a few days?’ a studio man asked.

  I closed in on him. ‘Just where the fuck do you think you’re stood? And with who? We get regular attacks here, Dumbass, so wise up or fuck off someplace safer.’

  ‘MOD said they would cooperate-’

  ‘Not by getting my men killed!’ I shouted at the man. ‘We need our security.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ a hard-faced lady suggested.

  The colonel closed in. ‘Please don’t shoot any of this lot,’ he asked me.

  ‘That might be hard, sir,’ I warned him. ‘OK, actors, go with Sergeant Crab, get the uniforms we wear, webbing, get used to them. When he was with us, Mahoney wore our uniforms, used our kit. So you can at least be authentic.’

  They headed off towards Sergeant Crab with a few studio staff, a man closing in on me. ‘Good to meet you, read the book, The Ghost.’

  ‘You’re British?’

  ‘Yes, but I work for the studios, London scenes and sets, and I’ll help with Africa. Father was a Major, brother is an officer, so I’m familiar with the military.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’ll be overshadowed in this movie, but – you know – Hollywood likes it’s heroes to be American.’

  ‘Why do you say overshadowed?’

  ‘You’re the real story here, not Mahoney. From what I gather he just tagged along.’

  ‘He did more than just tag along. To start with, he got a top score on my three-day test, and he saw a lot of action, never let me down. He’s a good soldier and a good officer.’

  ‘But you planned all the missions, led from the front...’

  I made a face. ‘Pretty much.’

  Several of the studio’s people asked me questions, one man being a character coach, and he mimicked my accent, not that I thought I had an accent till then. With the actors in combats, webbing on, Jackman wanted to chat to me, Clooney and his character coach off to meet Mitchell, many of this lot off to comfy hotels.

  I walked across the airfield with my new shadow.

  ‘You’ve seen a lot of action,’ he noted.

  ‘More than most, but I’m still sane.’

  ‘Why’d you say sane?’

  ‘Modern life is soft, kids grow up soft, join the military, march up and down, shoot a gun in anger once in their careers. If they apply to the SAS they have to pass a tough selection, they’re encouraged to be aggressive, and then sometimes they go fight a war. Many are wound up to tightly, and they snap, kill wives and girlfriends, shoot up people in the street. And many ex-SAS can’t handle the quiet life after the military, and they lose it. Suicide is high.’

  ‘Suicide, for ex-special forces?’

  ‘Imagine you’re a top actor for ten years – women and fast cars, but then you do your spine in, soon sat in a wheelchair day after day, no visitors, smelling of piss. How would you cope?’

  ‘Well, would be a hell of a come down, yeah, I see what you mean. From top of the game to just sat in a room – smelling of piss.’

  ‘You know what makes a difference? The reason you’re fighting. In the Second World War men fought for years, fought hard, saw more action that any modern-day special forces guy, yet went home and started a family, never lost it. Why? They had a cause to fight for, and they believed in it. There was no stress after the Second World War, plenty after Vietnam.’

  ‘Men didn’t want to be there,’ he noted. ‘And your men?’

  ‘I explain to them what we’re fighting for, and I look for the stress. If I saw a man nervous I would get rid of him. These lads enjoy it, they all need their heads examined, but they fight for each other, they enjoy the training, the buzz, the excitement, but back in Civvy Street, slowing down, some of mine would lose it. One of mine took his life recently after leaving us.’

  We reached the house, Swifty welcoming our guest, kettle knocked on, webbing dumped down. Jackman wanted my life story, so I started at the beginning, our guest in hysterics much of the time.

  He finally noted, ‘You clashed with authority a lot then, but did OK.’

  ‘Wherever you are, there’s always someone that will make life hard for no particular reason. Military tends to exacerbate that because an NCO can do what he likes, he can bully the man under him.’

  ‘Studio has ex-SAS men as advisors, and they say you�
��re a bit of a loose cannon, that you do your own thing.’ He waited.

  Swifty put in, ‘Regular SAS have a bad attitude, a bad culture, been like that for years. I was regular for two years before Wilco came along, and they bitched at each other like kids, damaged kit, competed and were sneaky. They have set ways of doing things, but that don’t mean they’re right. Wilco gets results because he thinks, not sticks to some agreed way to do things. He dropped cement bags onto kidnappers.’

  ‘Cement?’

  I explained the story, our guest amazed. I told him, as I stared into my tea, ‘One day, in Angola, I looked out across the airfield at all these helicopters and aircraft, all the men and teams, all there because of me. I should have been happy, happy at the power I wielded, but you feel the eyes of blame on you every step of the way, you worry sick about your men getting killed, and that takes the edge off.

  ‘It’s hard to enjoy the job when the powers and the press expect so much, and there’s always pressure on me – for another good result. And that takes the fun out of it. So most of the time I just focus on the hostages, and to hell with the powers, and I keep going as long as I can, till I’m killed.’

  ‘A bit ... morbid for an officer.’

  Tea down, I stood, my shirt off.

  ‘Fuck ... me,’ our guest let out.

  Shirt back on, I said, ‘You’re not allowed to discuss the state of my body, it could get me killed. People could identify me from the scars.’

  He nodded. ‘Studio has some fake gunshot wounds for me, two, but nothing like ... like you.’

  ‘Don’t tell them,’ I insisted.

  ‘You’ve seen a shit load of action,’ he noted.

  ‘And I’m not stressed, I like training men and rescuing hostages. What I don’t like is sitting and being grilled about what I did.’

  ‘They do that?’

  ‘They do,’ Swifty told him. ‘Like he’s a criminal. Government sends us off, then they question us like we did it of our own accord. Why that plan, why shoot that man, could you not have taken that man alive? All bollocks.’

  I told our guest, ‘I have the fame now, the track record, so I can tell London to fuck off and just do the job. But after each job there’s always an enquiry.’

  ‘You don’t sound happy,’ he noted.

  I shrugged. ‘Happy to do the job with the lads, not happy when the politicians grill me, or someone in London tries to trip me up. London sends me, but London has ten opinions from ten different groups. In my early days in the SAS, someone kicked my car window in. Why? Just jealous. If you have the fame, someone will want to cut you down to size, even in the military.’

  ‘Been good to get the perspective, for the character.’

  I walked him back, worried about the safety of my visitors.

  In the morning the actors appeared in the canteen at 8am, less than fresh, but in uniform, and they sat with the lads asking questions. After breakfast I had Rocko, Rizzo and Slider put a few of our lads through drills, the actors observing and then trying it themselves, blanks in rifles.

  The two actors knelt in the damp, ponchos down, AKMLs stripped and cleaned, over and over, parts named. Moving to the pistol range, the studio agreed live ammo, men and women stood with clipboards, and I put the actors through the pistol range, a great many rounds fired, their aim improving, stance corrected. Tomo was observed firing, his score 100%, and fast.

  Onto the Killing House, we adopted blanks, and Rizzo took them through, the studio staff observing on the screens. Both actors handled the MP5s well, benefitting from previous movie training.

  That evening Jackman stuck to me like glue, finding out I spoke Arabic and Russian after hearing my phone calls, and he sat with us in our lounge, chatting for hours about our past operations.

  The next day, the weather OK, our actors were using real ammo, sniping from 500yards, both quite good. And with real ammo they spun and fired at the 100yard point, Tomo and Nicholson in the four-man team, a video camera recording the action. Facemasks on all men, they moved in pairs, covering fire, reloaded, and moved again. After a while they looked just like my lads.

  Breaking for lunch, I had our actors learn to cook combat rations and make a brew, four men sat cross-legged.

  ‘We take it in turns,’ Nicholson explained. ‘Don’t know why but we always do.’ And he issued handy hints on how to light the hexamine tabs and how to avoid wasted food and a dirty tin.

  The studio men photographed my men in facemasks, several angles, so that they had a reference point, but I issued them with webbing and facemasks anyhow, the webbing filled with authentic items - less the live ammo.

  That evening Jackman brought the chunky script to me, so I went through it, correcting my own supposed words, and laughing at some of the dialogue. Some elements were just plain wrong, and I wrote over it in red ink.

  The studio men were not happy with my suggested changes the next day, but the senior studio lady was OK with it, and once kitted out – my lads as extras, Jackman played me, welcoming Mahoney to the unit and listing the dangers he faced. I correct his stance and his hand movements.

  Listening in to the next practice scene, I interrupted, shaking my head. Rudely nudging Jackman aside, I stood where my character would have stood, my rifle held in front of me. ‘Lieutenant, you know why I do this, why I get wounded and carry on? And no, it’s not because I’m ordered to do it, I have never been ordered to do it, they ask if it can be done and I have the chance to say no, to weigh up the risks.

  ‘I do it for the hostages, and for the families, that look in the children’s eyes when daddy steps down from the plane. My bosses in London ... they like good newspaper inches, and for every inch of good newspaper copy my men get another inch of scar on their bodies.

  ‘My men ... they fight for each other, not London, not because they’re ordered to go – they’re all volunteers. They like the camaraderie, they love the training, they compete for the best kill shots, and they rely upon each other in a way that no civilian ever will. They bond, and it’s damn hard to break that bond; none of my lads wants to leave, to go get a job in a factory, to live to a ripe old age.

  ‘The politicians have their reasons, the military has its reasons, I have my own, and my lads have their own personal reasons. In Bosnia I nearly didn’t make it out, I took a detour to save a group of Muslims from being slaughtered. Later, the woman I saved turned up in London, baby and husband in tow, all smiles, a far cry from the shallow grave she was knelt over when I stumbled across them.

  ‘What we do, Lieutenant, has meaning after we do it, when we meet the family, the kids and grandkids of the hostages. I say to my men: for every terrorist you kill, ten men will live, not being killed by that terrorist. What we do in the heat of the moment has an effect years later, when the grandson of the hostage we saved grows up. What you need to do, Lieutenant, is to figure out why you do it, why you volunteer and risk your life. And it’s certainly isn’t for the pay.’

  I waited, Clooney staring back, and I finally turned to Jackman. ‘Do you understand?’

  He nodded his head and smiled.

  ‘I got that down,’ came from a lady with a clipboard.

  ‘Then I should be on a commission,’ I quipped before I left them to it.

  At the hangar mouth, Lancaster stepped in with MP Pete, and I had almost forgotten we had invited him down. He was as tall as me, a weathered face with bushy ginger eyebrows, a ginger moustache, and he looked like a caricature of a Wild West small town sheriff with a mean attitude. He stared at Clooney, saluted myself, stared again ... his mouth opening.

  ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘Bunch of Hollywood actors learning how we do it, film to be made.’ I walked him to the stairs, and sent him up to the Major, my visitor glancing down at the actors. Grabbing Jackman, I had him place on his facemask and follow me, and to say nothing.

  We stepped into the Major’s office, Lancaster getting a tea, the Major puzzling whoever was in the facemask, Lancaster frownin
g at whoever was in the facemask. I pointed Jackman to a seat, Lancaster and the Major soon sitting. I sat, the Major frowning at Jackman.

  I turned my head to Jackman, gesturing towards Lancaster. ‘This is Second Lieutenant Lancaster, Royal Marines. He did well on my three day test, a high score for an officer – but he came up through the ranks. He’s now a candidate for us.’

  Jackman nodded.

  I faced Lancaster. ‘Keen to get your head blown off?’ I rudely began.

  ‘Well ... no, but it’s all a risk. Sierra Leone was a risk, but that’s the job we do, what I signed up for, not barracks duty. I don’t consider this a one-way trip, but with managed risks.’

  ‘And if you lost a leg..?’

  The Major eased back and cradled his tea, studying our guest.

  ‘Same as in the Marines, and a friend of mine broke his back rock climbing. It’s all a risk. Driving down here I saw a dozen accidents.’

  ‘Parents alive?’

  ‘Yes, old and slow, and no – not worried about me, we talk infrequently.’

  ‘Let me give you a scenario. You’re in an O.P. studying a hostage building, six hostages. Before you’re ready to move you witness five out of the six hostages being executed. It’s your call as to what happens next. What do you do?’

  ‘The flippant answer would be to rescue the last hostage and shoot dead the bastards who murdered the other hostages, but if it was my call ... I’d weigh up an assault and men hurt against the value of just one hostage.’

  The Major asked, ‘You’d leave the hostage behind?’

  ‘For three men killed ... yes, sir.’

  The Major exchanged a look with me.

  I asked, ‘What about the idea ... that killing the hostage takers would save the lives of next year’s hostages?’

  ‘A punishment?’

  ‘No, a pre-emptive move. You know they take hostages, you know they kill those hostages, you know that next year you might be back to do the same job, and ... you should know that if you leave them in place they’ll rape, kidnap, and kill for years to come.’