Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  I walked there with the Major and the captains, and roughly the same people were in attendance, a hangar used, many chairs laid out in a half circle, officers sat down. I greeted a few, and waited till everyone was here, our planning officer with a clipboard and pen, as were many others.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I called, and they hushed down. I took a moment to take in their faces. ‘I had a call from the Prime Minister and Defence Secretary last night, and on their behalf and my own ... well done.’ I started clapping at them and they joined in for a good sixty seconds, people exchanging smiles.

  ‘Where’s the pilot who hit he power lines?’ I asked, a few people laughing.

  He stood. ‘For the record ... it was deliberate, to cut power to the fucking town.’

  They all laughed.

  I said, ‘I think we’ll cover that one up and not admit to anything.’ I waited. ‘We’re all thankful that the crew survived the impact, and we mourn the loss of a lady medic, one French soldier killed.

  ‘Please don’t misunderstand my sentiment, their loss is not to be joked over, but I am counting the hostages we saved and the men we didn’t lose ... more than those two deaths. Given the situation, our losses and wounded should’ve been much higher. Those deaths aside, we’re allowed to be happy that we did the job, and did it well.’

  ‘Here, here,’ came from a few.

  ‘The plan worked very well, except that the number of hostages doubled overnight. If we had found just the original sixty hostages we would have been in and out in six minutes, a great operation, but as you all know ... things never work out as we plan them in wartime.

  ‘The refuelling at FOB worked well, and I’ll be encouraging those up the line to practise that more often. The RAF crew on the ground at the FOB did what was expected of them, they didn’t complain, and it worked as planned. Overall, I have no complaints against any element of the teams, the equipment or techniques, it went off well and could have been a great deal worse.

  ‘When the Chinook went down its pilots got their webbing on and grabbed their rifles and behaved in a manner expected of them; they switched from being pilots to being soldiers in one smooth motion.

  ‘But what I will be mentioning to the Prime Minister when I see him for tea and crumpets at No.10 -’ They laughed. ‘- is that all Hercules crews and helicopter crews get more survival training and weapons training. Although we didn’t lose any crew killed, all crews must be better prepared for something like this – going down behind the lines.

  ‘I will also be asking that joint exercises with our French cousins be held more often, and that we’re more interchangeable.’ I faced the French major. ‘Your men conducted themselves with professionalism, skill and courage, I could not find any fault with them. Thank you.’

  ‘Merci,’ came back as people clapped.

  ‘What some of you don’t know ... is that one of the hostages was a French security guard at a mine, and that he had served with the French Foreign Legion with one of the French soldiers on the rescue. They had not spoken for many years after falling out, after one had married the others sister ... and then divorced the bitch.’

  They laughed.

  ‘They have now made friends again, and both agree that she is a bitch.’

  They laughed louder.

  ‘I have met this lady,’ the French Major put in. ‘If she had come along with you, I think she would have frightened UNITA.’

  Everyone laughed loudly, the hangar echoing.

  ‘Next time, sir, next time. And I invite you and your men to come visit us, some traditional English beer and some traditional English Indian food.’

  The major laughed, nodding his head.

  ‘Gentlemen, the raid on Entebbe rescued one hundred and two hostages ... we got out a hundred and twenty nine!’

  They cheered loudly, the sound reverberating.

  ‘And it’s all over the TV news, all around the world, so you’ll have a few questions from colleagues when you got back, your role in the greatest hostage rescue ever! Don’t be modest, exaggerate a little, milk it.’

  I waited for them to settle. ‘I’ll be tasked with writing up a report, but I’m not sure yet what to write; we made a plan and kept to it more or less, there were no fuck ups. I’ll be recommending the two French hostage-soldiers for an award, along with an old hostage, a former soldier, who took up a rifle and helped us.’ I shrugged. ‘Any questions?’

  We debated a few procedural things for ten minutes, discussed options and alternative equipment, the RAF threatening to send me the bill for its refuelling buggy left behind.

  At 3am I closed the door on my apartment in Hereford, dropped my bag and grabbed a beer from the fridge, my bread stale and going grey, and I was soon sat in the dark and staring out the window as the rain drops ran down it in streaks.

  And for the first time ever I dozed in the chair, waking at 5am to find myself stiff. I stripped off eased into bed, the sheets cold. Issuing a heavy sigh, I drifted off to sleep, knowing I had an appointment at Gloucester General Hospital in the morning, the RSM to drive me there.

  The RSM woke me at 10am. He waited as I got a shower and some clean clothes, and I changed the pad on my leg since it was now wet. Ready, he drove me to Gloucester and we chatted on the way, the RSM wanting all the detail of the Angola operation. At the hospital they were expecting me, a few forms to fill in, the RSM signing as my CO, and in I went, stripped off with doctors and nurses wandering past.

  They all stopped and gaped as I got down to my underpants, the chief surgeon stepping in – and stopping dead.

  ‘You’re the SAS chap I suppose,’ he said, taking the pad off my leg as I sat on a bed.

  ‘No, but I do like dangerous sports,’ I quipped, getting a look from him. ‘You have a metal detector?’

  ‘We do, a small and finely tuned one,’ he said, turning his head, the nurse fetching it.

  ‘Then why don’t we do this with a local anaesthetic and I get back to my day off.’

  Again he shot me a look. Switching on the device and testing it over a paperclip, he waved it over my leg, finally drawing a red line down and one across, happy that he knew where the object was.

  ‘I injected myself with 5ml of antibiotic last night,’ I told him when I remembered, reaching across and taking the vial from my trousers, which he examined.

  ‘You’re a medic then.’

  ‘I am.’

  Fifteen minutes later I lay on the operating table, blue plastic sheets around me, a cold draft felt, the team all staring down at the wound as the doctor cut an “L” shape, which I could see on a TV monitor in black and white. Fingers in, he found the object and eased it out, happy enough that it had not opened up an artery in the process.

  Washing the object, he held it for me to see. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Part of the brass outer casing of a bullet, 7.62mm Russian standard.’

  ‘And you got it walking up a hill, I guess.’

  ‘Have you seen some of the people you meet up the Brecon Beacons? Armed to teeth they are, very jealous of anyone else in a red anorak.’

  ‘How many procedures have you undergone?’ he asked as he stitched me up.

  ‘Lost count. Fifty, sixty.’

  With a fresh pad on, trousers put on gently, I finished dressing and thanked the team, the RSM driving me back to my apartment, but we stopped for lunch and a long chat first. I drove into the base in my own car, my thigh hurting and twitching, which did not make changing gear easy – a few motorists frightened along the way.

  In the detachment room I found O’Leary and Moran, Captain Harris and our corporal.

  ‘Captain Moran, you have some time off,’ I reminded him as I made myself a tea.

  He came and joined me. ‘Got plenty done this morning.’

  ‘And ... your home is not appealing to you? Are you a workaholic, a little OCD, sir?’

  ‘She’s not there and ... we had words.’

  I pointed him to a chair, and we sat. �
��Is she ... concerned at the risks you take?’

  ‘She ... thinks I volunteer for the tough jobs, I never really explained this unit. She was under the impression that SAS officers don’t go into danger that often.’

  ‘They don’t, you do.’ I sipped my tea. ‘If it will save your marriage then ask to slide across to a troop.’

  ‘And be like Hamble?’ he noted, not looking up from his earnest study of the inside of his tea mug.

  ‘Like ... Hamble? Like a regular troop captain, not much respect, hardly ever firing a shot in anger, plenty of paperwork...’

  He glanced up at me. ‘I saw the way Sergeant Crab treated him and spoke to him, and I spoke to Hamble on the way back. Not sure I want that.’

  ‘Compared to being with us.’

  He nodded and sipped his tea.

  ‘Could sit out a few jobs,’ I suggested. ‘Might not be any for months, and you might save your relationship.’

  ‘Well ... I don’t want to sit them out, that’s the thing, and I don’t want to slide across to regular troop work.’

  ‘You’re not harming your career by being here, quite the opposite; you’ll be highly decorated as a major, lots of respect, perhaps the most highly decorated major there is – if you don’t get shot that is.

  ‘You’re already in line for a number of medals for what you’ve done so far, and few majors get medals for action and for getting wounded. At staff college ... you’ll be telling them stories of what you’ve done and they’ll be jealous as hell, a bunch of pen pushers in comparison.’

  He nodded, staring into his tea.

  ‘It’s gets a bit addictive, doesn’t it,’ I quietly stated.

  He looked up and nodded. ‘But am I doing the right thing with my home life?’

  ‘If you can drop into a war zone, you can meet a girl in a bar, sir, it’s not as hard as a rescue.’

  He coughed out a quick laugh. ‘Guess so.’

  ‘So ... plenty of fish in the sea if she leaves you. What we need ... is a tight nightclubbing plan, some logistics, a few trusted men.’ He shot me a look. ‘Of course, when we get to the club and meet the girls the plan will go out the window.’

  He laughed loudly. ‘Cunt.’

  I helped with the paperwork for an hour, but at 5pm the Colonel dropped in. He led me outside.

  Taking a moment, he said, ‘This is between the two of us.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I’m good at keeping secrets, you know that.’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘Major Bradley is under pressure to go off to staff college, nowhere left for him to go here unless he moves sideways to the territorials, which he has considered, so a few months down the line they’ll make his mind up for him; he’s been here too long as it is, four years, and it’s probably harming his chances of promotion.’

  ‘Does he want promotion?’

  ‘Well, it’s a subject he’s discussed with his wife often. They would have to move, and they don’t want to – kids in school, but a year or so down line they plan on heading to New Zealand, so it’s hardly worth him moving to another regiment to be a Lieutenant Colonel.’

  ‘And the reason you’re telling me this?’ I nudged, a smirk evident.

  ‘You could do with a major in charge.’

  I nodded and made a face. ‘And you’d get to keep the detachment on a tight leash, not letting Bob run off with his own ideas.’

  ‘You might think that, I couldn’t possibly comment.’

  We smiled.

  ‘I think it would be a great idea, sir, after I discuss enlargement with Bob and make it look like his idea.’

  ‘You’d have no problems working under Bradley?’

  ‘I never did, and it makes my life easier as we get larger. Could he handle the “E” Squadron old wankers as well?’

  ‘I don’t see why not, and he knows many of them.’

  I sighed. ‘I wouldn’t get away with things if he was with us.’

  ‘Nor should you,’ the Colonel noted with a smile.

  ‘Let me chat to Bob about enlargement. But who would replace Major Bradley in “D” Squadron?’

  ‘There is a major that’s being nudged towards us, I know him, he was an enlisted man with us for two years, did OK, so he knows the ropes. Usually we have a captain made up after being with us at least three or four years – some time with the territorials, but the powers want this particular major in and we don’t have someone who we could say was better.’

  ‘Leave it with me, sir.’

  On the TV news that evening I saw the French soldiers returning, their president greeting them all, their president chatting to pilots and crew.

  When my mobile went it was Bob himself. ‘Bob, I was just watching the French president welcoming back his troops. I got no kiss on the cheeks from the Prime Minister, so tell him off for me.’

  Bob laughed. ‘I doubt he’d want to kiss you on the cheeks, but he’ll be at Lyneham on Tuesday and you’re all required to be there, and any regulars that were involved.’

  ‘I’ll shine my shoes,’ I offered.

  ‘Listen, any more three-day candidates any good?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard, but I’ll ask the RSM and the sniper lads, I’ll pop up there tomorrow if there’s a course ending. What size unit are you thinking of going to?’

  ‘Well ... just the eight of you is a bit limiting, if we had two jobs at the same time, or if there was an accident with a helicopter.’

  ‘True, very true. How about more part-timers, taken from the Marines and Paras?’

  ‘That’s one option, but I’d prefer men who are training all the time, and your kind of training, that way less fuck-ups.’

  ‘I’ll see who’s getting good scores, but if we take on more we should probably have two troops, another officer maybe.’

  ‘Is there another officer you know of like Moran?’

  ‘No, but what I mean is, an officer in charge, free up me and Moran to get on with shooting people; each job like this creates a week of paperwork for us.’

  ‘Moran might be a good candidate in time.’

  ‘Desk bound? I doubt he would like that, and it would be a waste, he’s a field officer – he shoots people. Some of the paperwork is done by Bradley at the moment, and the support paperwork, maybe he could take more on, he’s winding down anyhow.’

  ‘Winding ... down?’

  ‘He’s been a major too long, they want him in staff college, but he doesn’t want to go, wife settled, kids in school in Hereford. A few years and he’ll retire rather than being a senior officer. But when the new major gets here Bradley will sit with him for a few weeks, and could do paperwork for us – no one knows the job better, or the teams.’

  ‘Bradley wants to stay in the area?’

  ‘He does. He could replace that part-time major you have now with “E” Squadron – who we all know is a bit of a twat, and do some paperwork for us, and stay local – kids in school. Be good for a year or two till he retires.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him Tuesday, sound him out, I know you and he work well together.’

  ‘If you want more men we need the paperwork done, Bob, and the logistics sorted by a veteran, not a keen wannabe.’

  ‘And Moran, long term?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Not sure what his aspirations are, but he does admit to not wanting to go back to regular army work. If he learnt from Bradley, then two years down the line he could head up the detachment, sure.’

  ‘Under you, your commission is due.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘They keep mentioning it. Don’t be surprised if it’s not soon, Prime Minister and others find it odd that operations such as the last one are headed up by a sergeant.’

  ‘If Bradley is involved, he can carry that responsibility,’ I suggested. ‘Leave me to go shoot people.’

  ‘Bit late for that, they want you teaching and organising. Your three day scenario is the standard, and you invented QMAR.’

  ‘I should have kept myself to myself,
eh, and stayed in Brize Norton.’

  ‘A waste, we both know that. I’ll see you on Tuesday.’

  ‘A kiss on the cheeks..?’

  ‘Don’t frighten me, please.’

  ‘Oh, Bob, while I think of it, find me a large disused factory someplace around here, for an exercise, get me some of them paintball guns I saw on the TV the other day, and then ... then find me a deserted island off the coast of Belize and some jungle training instructors.’

  ‘Thinking like an officer already.’

  On the Saturday I got a call from the base, and they asked me to call back the Air Commodore, which I did on my mobile.

  ‘It’s Wilco, sir.’

  ‘Ah, good show last week, all over the TV.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, we were lucky.’

  ‘Listen, before Monday, give me a quick rundown, I have meetings. Any screw ups with the RAF?’

  ‘No, sir, they did well, it all worked as planned.’

  ‘The medic you had a go at apparently..?’

  ‘He’s a medic and a nice chap, and when he saw a female colleague killed he lost it a bit.’

  ‘He’s not allowed to ... lose it a bit.’

  ‘Can’t judge them as you would judge me, they don’t expect to go to war that often, so how do you toughen them up?’

  ‘I see your point, but still ... what’s needed?’

  ‘More weapons training and survival training for those that might end up in a helicopter over enemy territory.’

  ‘That’s most of the pigging RAF!’

  ‘Then you need to prioritise a few people, sir. Oh, got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Hang on. OK, go ahead.’

  ‘What I think would help ... is that crewmen on Hercules and Chinooks – the rear crewmen not the pilots, should have training in weapons in general and the GPMG in particular, and each Hercules and helicopter has a locked box in the back with a GPMG plus say four hundred rounds, rifles for the crew, ammo, smoke grenades, CS gas.

  ‘If they go down, which they do, they become soldiers and they fight, and they need to get back to our lines in a war. Crewmen in the rear don’t have that much to do day to day, so lots of training on the GPMG - and some practise firing it out the door. I know the Americans do that, they have a machinegun suspended on a wire. We need the same, a mounting, and the crews practise strafing a place before landing at a place.