by Geoff Wolak
I nodded. ‘Took a little while after the death of Bob and Mickey, but I often wonder why I don’t care more, or miss them more.’
‘We move on, we cope, time heals. And in our business ... death and injury is expected. I never expected you to return to us, yet here you are, still causing trouble.’
I managed a weak smile. ‘I hope to be creating paperwork for you for a long while yet.’
He nodded. ‘Debrief Monday.’
‘You should be in on it.’
‘Might step on Bob’s toes, he’s a man with a big ego.’
‘Your men were involved, so be there, sir. I request it formally.’
‘Very well then. But as far as I can see there were no fuck ups, can’t help a mine in the damn road. And it doesn’t matter what happens on the job so long as we look good at the end. Those hostages made all the papers, been on the BBC news, families around them. That tall Welsh guy, he had six kids and nine grand kids with him. They were happy to get him back, so a good result.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, when you look at it like that. That second hostage, he found us, we didn’t rescue him.’
‘The public don’t need to know that.’ We smiled. ‘That Hercules episode is getting attention. They practise that with various regiments, but now they’ll practise it more I guess. RAF are milking it something terrible, talk of a re-enactment being filmed.’
‘Looking back, it was well executed.’
‘Sergeant Crab won’t shut up about it,’ the Major complained. ‘He wants a few confirmed kills.’
I smiled weakly. ‘He may have got a few, we’ll never know.’
‘Elkin’s boss got an injury report by accident, mad as hell,’ the Major noted. ‘Where’re Rocko and Slider?’
‘Off to family, and to take it easy. I told them they don’t need to be back for Monday. Bateman’s scrape could be painful for a while, skin graft.’ I sipped my tea. ‘I was thinking earlier, about the high rate of suicide amongst ex-troopers.’
‘It’s something we try and hide,’ the Major noted. ‘We have a high assault and murder rate, as well as suicide. In a war, such people are much sought after: point them towards the enemy and let them go off on one. In peacetime it’s a problem, and for some – OK, for many – civvy life is very dull.
‘They covet it, civvy life, and it looks good from the point of view of a cold wet dawn on the Brecon Beacons, but when they get there they regret it. There are a lot of hours in the day to sit and think, and to get bored. Many think they’ll get bodyguard work, but that kind of work pisses off most people after a year or two.
‘Some consider mercenary work, but they’ll only make that mistake once. Fighting the blacks in some jungle is not a barrel of laughs, no matter how much you’re being paid. No one does the mercenary bit more than once.
‘Then there’s government protection work, but the pay is no better than here, hours are worse, lot of sitting around, and they don’t stick at it long.’ He sighed. ‘No, the outside world looks great when you’re in a cold wet OP, but it’s not, and they learn too late. We have a lot of short-timers, two years and out, bodyguard work for two years, then they drift.’
I nodded. ‘Wonder what I would do.’
The Major focused on me. ‘You know too much. You’d get a bullet in the back of the head from Bob.’
Again I nodded. ‘That I don’t doubt. I’ll leave in a box.’
Monday morning I was fresh and alert, but it did feel odd without Smurf. Rocko and Slider were back, and in uniform.
‘You all better?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, back at it,’ they enthused.
I gave them a warning finger, and shouted a little in front of the team. ‘Don’t tell me you’re 100% if you’re not, there could be a job tomorrow, and if you’re hurting or limping you’ll get yourselves killed - or someone else. Now, how are the fucking wounds?’
Slider timidly said, ‘Week or so I guess,’ Rocko making similar noises, heads lowered.
‘Captain Moran,’ I loudly called. ‘The lads do not return to active service after being wounded ... unless they pass the ten mile, the twenty mile, and the 24hr speed march. If Mister O’Leary wants them for other things, that’s his choice. My choice ... is that we don’t go back on a job if we’re hurting – and fucking distracted. Everyone clear on that!’
Moran nodded, a glance at Slider.
Bateman was back, after an oblong of skin from his arse was grafted, and he had been told to take it easy for a few weeks, even Elkin turning up, a bit of a limp. I could not fault their keenness, or maybe they had been bored sat around doing nothing.
Bob turned up, the Major came across – which I had to explain to Bob, and we got started, a two hour debate about the job, and what we might have done differently. There were no raised voices, some laughing and joking, but at the end of the day – without helicopters – we had few options to choose from. Everyone had their say, few complained about anything – other than the lax security around our base of operation, and we finished on a high note. The team ... was still united as a team.
At the end of the debrief, Smurf having been mentioned as if still on the team, I stood. And took in their faces. ‘For those of you who don’t know, Smurf’s arm never recovered, he ... quit last week, he ... got drunk and ... he took his own life.’
Some of them were a bit stunned, and the positive mood was destroyed, which was why I had waited till after the debrief to discuss it.
Bob asked me to join him, and we walked over to the Major’s office, leaving the lads discussing Smurf. Sat down, he said, ‘I see little wrong with the job, yet ... you were not happy with the way it went, still not 100% now.’ He waited.
I looked past him and out of the window, down towards the helicopter sheds. ‘I think ... what bothered me, and still does, is that if we had hit an anti-tank mine that the entire detachment would have been lost, all the time and effort and training I’ve put in, all wiped out. I think what bothers me ... is anything that might see the whole unit destroyed, all my efforts here, like that Hercules going down.’
‘That’s becoming a great concern for me also,’ Bob said. ‘And upon reflection, it scares the hell out of me that we could lose everyone in one go. It would set us back years. So, you are hereby ordered not to allow more than half the team in a helicopter or plane, I’ll worry about extra costs. Nor a bus, if there’s a chance it will go over a ravine, we have too much invested in this.’
‘Sound like a sensible approach,’ I commended.
‘Damn right,’ the Major added. ‘Taxpayer has a hell of a lot invested in you lot.’
‘What I think we need,’ I began, ‘is a situation where – if we have say ten men in my team – we split into two teams of five and have five regular troopers with us for support. There are driving jobs, support jobs, watching the rear, and the regulars here should cope with the tough stuff anyway. If a unit goes over a mine, the risk is spread.’
‘Major?’ Bob called.
‘We’re always in support anyhow, makes no difference, saves the lads sat around some of the time, and we usually have a team on rescue standby. Not much would change.’
‘Let’s consider that a firm plan then,’ Bob suggested. ‘A few regulars in support, teams split. I’d sleep better. And if the team did go down in a plane ... the Prime Minister would roast me alive.’
I pointed at the Major. ‘Your saw those old Mi2 helicopters, would you put the team in them?’
‘Not if I wanted them back, no,’ the Major noted. ‘Even their pilots were afraid to go up in them.’
Half an hour later, and with Bob thanked and gone, I was summoned to the Colonel’s office. I saluted and sat, the Major in with him.
‘A good result,’ the Colonel noted.
‘The job?’ I puzzled.
‘No, this new arrangement with Bob,’ the Colonel explained. ‘Some of ours always in the mix. Damned good.’
‘Why ... is that damned good?’ I puzzled.
‘We get more jobs, and we get a tight control, and Bob doesn’t get his own team,’ the Colonel explained. ‘Well done.’
I shrugged. ‘It wasn’t done with that in mind, sir, just the practicality of the jobs.’
‘Good result anyhow,’ the Major noted. ‘By design or otherwise.’
‘What we want,’ the Colonel began, ‘is more to do, and not to be left out. There have been times over the years when we’ve had fuck all to do, and that’s not why we’re here. We’re here to be busy, off shooting people, not going stale.’
‘We’ll be putting more lads through the three-day test,’ the Major stated. ‘Try and get them all up to speed, could then offer you a second line support team.’
I nodded. ‘You want me to try and recruit internally?’
‘Yes and no,’ the Colonel said. ‘For some jobs, Bob can use his part time mentally-unbalanced lads, so ... we’d want to pick what jobs they went on where possible. Let’s say ... that a job in uniform where team tactics are required, like the West Africa jobs, we’d love to attend, spy jobs - or any job that’s going to be a fuck-up - not so much.’
I cocked an eyebrow. ‘I’ll ... keep that in mind, sir. How about ... I design some combined exercises, and I help you select that second line team.’
‘Good, get to it,’ the Colonel loudly suggested. ‘And Wilco, don’t drive over mines, that’s an order.’
Again I cocked an eyebrow.
‘Have someone else drive and you walk behind,’ the Major quipped.
I pointed at them. ‘Remind me, how did you two ever get to be senior officers?’
‘It’s still a bleeding mystery to us,’ the Major said with a smile.
Walking back, Tomo drove in, all smiles, a visit from The Programme. My heart sank, that emptiness in my chest returning; losing Smurf was like losing a younger brother, and I wondered if I could have done more.
Tomo could see my expression, and stopped dead. ‘Something ... wrong?’
I heaved a big breath. ‘Smurf ... his arm never got better ... and he quit last week.’
‘He’s gone?’ Tomo asked, clearly hurt. They had been best mates, if only for a short time. Smurf had obviously gone without saying anything, and that must have stung Tomo.
‘He ... went home to his family ... got drunk ... drove his car into a wall and a hundred miles an hour.’
‘He’s ... dead?’
I nodded. ‘It’s OK to be upset, it’s OK to care, you don’t have anything to prove by putting on a brave face. Go back to The Programme for now, but ... if you’re not happy there then leave it, explain to them why.’
‘I ... I don’t want to go back without him there, just me. Would be a bit odd.’
‘Go back and pack up then, explain it, thank them, and come back here. How’s the healing?’
‘I can do sit-ups, and I run just as well as before,’ he proudly stated.
‘You’ll need to do the ten mile, twenty mile, and the endurance march before active duty.’
He nodded affirmatively. ‘Just say when.’
‘Do you ... think Smurf’s death will affect you?’ I asked, and I realised that I now sounded like the Major.
‘No, I ain’t quitting or anything,’ he insisted, almost offended by the idea.
‘Smurf was a close friend of mine for a long time, and my performance will be down for a while because of his death. We’re allowed to care, and we’re only human,’ I pointed out, Tomo nodding.
That day I spoke to O’Leary and the Major and organised a new training programme. Number one on the list was mine detection and clearing, followed by bomb disarming, followed by demolition – Stretch in charge, he was our resident expert.
The next day, and with the Sand Room still full of sand, the lads took it in turn to find mines whilst being attended by Army Ordnance staff, good advice dispensed while other lads were up at Shobdon and bouncing Cessnas.
By time Friday came around, talk around the kettle was about nothing but flying or about bombs. Tomo had completed his ten mile and twenty mile runs in good time, Rocko tackling the ten mile on the Friday and getting a good time, Bateman running with him.
Four O’clock Friday, and O’Leary shouted out the window for me, some urgency in his voice, men seen running around. I jogged inside.
‘Helicopter on its way for you, counter-terrorist teams to standby,’ O’Leary began. ‘Got a nasty team of gunmen planning a job in London, and an opening for Petrov.’
‘What? Why would these boys know Petrov, and terrorism was never his style?’ I challenged.
‘Not sure, Bob will explain, but Mi5 want you.’
I heaved a sigh and nodded. ‘I need clothes, so I’ll be back in ... twenty minutes or so.’
I drove out in a hurry, back to my apartment, and I changed – into clothes that Petrov may wear. I had my Petrov ID pack ready and I put the various items into pockets, my pistol back on, and I was ready. And if pulled over by the police I would be held, since I appeared to be Europe’s most wanted gunman.
Back at base, I parked up just as the Squadron’s Agusta made ready from the helo sheds, the regular lads running around and getting ready. I handed my car keys to O’Leary, waved at some of my team as I finally got into the bird, and off we went in a hurry as I sat next to one of Bob’s men, headset handed to me.
‘I have a brief,’ he began as pleasant green farmland sped by below us. ‘Petrov ... was mentioned by a gang of gunmen, no politics involved. They have his M.O. wrong, but Mi5 wanted to make use of it. The bad boys think you’re a blood thirsty killer, good with a pistol, and they have some job lined up, four or five men, lots of firepower. Two of them – get this – argued over a card game and shot each other dead.’
I lifted my eyebrows and glanced at him. ‘Amateurs.’
‘Like I said, this is not political; a few Russians, a few East Europeans in the gang we think. One of the men knows an Mi5 plant, not in on this job, and some of the men know the Petrov name, but not his correct M.O.’
‘If it’s not political, then they’re after something worth their while,’ I pointed out.
‘They’re talking about a sixty million payoff.’
‘What the hell is worth that? A bank?’
‘Wouldn’t get that amount in a high street bank.’
‘Armoured car?’ I wondered.
‘Again, too high.’
‘What’s the Mi5 guy doing?’
‘When asked if he had a way to contact you, he said yes – first thing that popped into his head. He works for Pamela.’
I smiled, glancing down at roads shooting by. ‘And she considered me, eh.’
‘It’s an important job, these guys are tooled up and ready to shoot, so we want them.’
‘Why not move on them now?’ I pressed.
‘We want all the players, to know the target, the mastermind and the middle men. Mi5 are – technically – pushing this along, COBRA met.’
‘Why COBRA, if this is not political?’
‘The bad boys have AK47s, and a bomb apparently.’
‘A bomb!’
‘Yes. Reported to be several blocks of plastic, and that could demolish a building.’
‘What the fuck do they need a bomb for if this is about money?’
‘We don’t know, so we’re worried. PM is concerned, he wants to trace the bomb and its maker.’
‘Why are the Regiment on alert?’ I asked through the headsets.
‘If this is some sort of bank robbery, and it goes wrong, or however it goes, the SAS will disarm them.’
I glanced at him. ‘You don’t send the SAS in to disarm people, my lads would kill them all stone dead.’
‘That result ... would not cause any lost sleep in the Cabinet Office,’ he pointed out. ‘As soon as we know how the pieces fit we move on them.’
‘And that’s where I come in, to get some answers.’
‘Yes. And if you get those answers, and are satisfied, then ... kill the fuckers. Can
’t have shits like this on London streets.’
‘Backup?’ I asked.
‘This is top level. There’ll be a hundred people sat listening in and sleeping their desks, a hundred police on standby, two bomb disposal teams, your lot.’
‘Oh, that all. No pressure then.’
‘Can’t risk bugging you, but certain places are bugged already.’ He studied me. ‘Do you even feel pressure?’
I glanced at him and made a face. ‘It unfolds the way it unfolds, no point stressing over it.’
‘You get nervous?’
‘I ... fear a screw up, I ... fear letting down the lads. Do I fear getting shot – no, do I fear jumping out of a plane behind the lines – no. Maybe I need my head examined, or maybe I’ve seen too much. Bosnia ... was like being killed fifty times over. You get used to it.’
‘I’m nervous just knowing how many people are following this.’
We made good time to St. Mary’s hospital helipad, cheekily touching down, and we were soon in the back of an unmarked car with a police escort, halting near a run-down hotel Petrov used several times, the Russian night porter having been bribed many months ago.
As I entered the familiar porter nodded his head, and we closed. ‘Your man is in room 112,’ he whispered in Russian. ‘Waiting.’
‘Good, thank you,’ I replied, a twenty note placed in his hand. I climbed the stairs and knocked on 112, stood away from the door, hand on my pistol, giggling coming from another room.
The door opened, and a short and grey-haired man checked the corridor – ignoring me altogether, finally moving aside and letting me in.
‘I work for Pamela,’ he said in Russian as I sat, the man stinking of European cigarettes. ‘They caught me, years ago, now I have regular work from them, fake ID.’ He made a face, his features weather worn, and he shrugged.
‘You know these men?’ I asked in Russian.
‘One I know for some years, rest I don’t. They’re bad men, watch yourself. They have good weapons, good funding, but are a bit crazy.’
‘And they know of Petrov?’