Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 3

by Geoff Wolak

  I slammed the door on the way out, everyone in admin staring, people poking heads out of doors.

  Back in the unit, I closed in on O’Leary, and he could see my mood. ‘Tell Bob that I want a man or two, and we’ll deal with Hitchins quietly. If not ... I’ll kill him with my bare hands, and Bob may need to replace me if I’m caught and banged up. You understand me?’

  O’Leary nodded, and got on the phone. I grabbed Smitty and Tomo, as well as Swifty and Rizzo. I told Smitty and Tomo, ‘I have a job for you, a test, and it will get you in my good books; you have a car to do over without being caught. Get radios. Swifty will be down the street, Rizzo at the next junction looking for police. Get some gloss paint in the next hour, and not a word to anyone.’

  In the morning, Hitchins found his car trashed, gloss paint all over it, tyres slashed, windows broken, dog shit inside, seats slashed. It was a write off.

  He got a lift to work, and went straight to the Major, accusations made.

  The Major warned him, then came and found me, taking me outside. ‘Hitchins had his car done over.’ He waited.

  ‘Was anyone seen, any evidence left behind.’

  ‘No, nor would I expect there to be.’

  ‘Then ... it’s business as usual, sir, I have some training scenarios to plan.’

  That evening, Hitchins borrowed his father-in-law’s car, and parked it a street away, checking that he was not seen. In the morning he found it trashed. Getting another lift to work, he again assaulted the Major’s ears with his accusations, the police short on evidence or witnesses. This time the Major did not even bother to come see me about it.

  That evening, Hitchins went out with his wife and family, a kid’s play, after having apologised to his father-in-law for the loss of the car. Returning home, he found his house trashed, yet no signs of forced entry could be found.

  Every room has been covered in green gloss paint, every piece of furniture, all their clothes pulled out and covered in paint, even the cat was covered in paint. The cost would be huge, but the cost to his family life was the greatest, his wife hysterical, his daughter traumatised beyond reach.

  The police had a look, and managed to get paint on themselves, none too happy. The neighbours heard nothing - shouted at by Hitchins, no evidence left behind, no fingerprints, nothing. The family had to spend the night with the father-in-law up in Malvern, and Hitchins came into the base late the next morning, and in the clothes he had on during his kid’s play, everything else ruined.

  He stood in front of the Major and ranted at length, told that he would have to pay for the service kit that had been ruined, a large sum. He stormed over to my detachment, personal firearm down the back of his trousers, but not drawn. As he stepped inside Swifty cocked an AKM, Rocko doing likewise.

  ‘Something we can help you with?’ they asked, weapons levelled.

  Despite boiling with anger, Hitchins was not about to reach for his pistol. He left, and went AWOL technically, since he was supposed to be on a course – but he had no uniform.

  Driving back to Malvern at high speed and recklessly he was pulled over by the police, a mouth full of abuse for the police officers, who had to restrain him and cuff him, finding his pistol – which took some explaining. They also found heroin in the car, more than just for personal use, Hitchins dumfounded by the find – it was a hire car. Exploding with rage, he kicked out at the police, a bad idea.

  The Major came and found me at 5pm. I stood. ‘Tea, sir?’

  ‘No, just a quick visit, and to say Hitchins has been arrested, assaulting the police, speeding, and ... heroin found on him. Standard Army procedure is that they’re let go, any drug offence, so he’s gone.’

  I nodded, and I took a moment. ‘Remember my first day. I hit Rizzo.’

  ‘I remember it well. Money from some lad who had his ankle stamped on.’

  I nodded. ‘No one stamps on my ankle, sir.’ I made firm eye contact. ‘If I screw up, fine – I get it in the neck, and if I’m injured too badly I leave – fine, that’s the risk, but I’ll never allow someone to stamp on my ankle. They can have their captain pips and uniform back, I’ll go work for Bob.’

  He nodded. ‘Your early career and time in prison gave you that attitude,’ he noted. ‘But ... you were right, Hitchins with a gun in his hand would have been a risk. You upset the Colonel, but ... we had a long chat, and he revealed to me some of what happened to him, and I can relate to it, and the culture here is at fault, you’re right about that. But there are plenty like Hitchins here.’

  I nodded and made myself a tea.

  ‘You still planning on using us for support?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course. If someone like Hitchins is in my way I’ll have Bob remove them rather than move away.’

  ‘I’d hate to upset Bob,’ he noted.

  ‘There’s too much invested in this for some little shit to shoot me in the back. Anyhow, new scenarios are just about ready, come up tomorrow if you have time, have a look.’

  ‘I will do, I’ve heard rumours.’

  ‘We call it “The Factory”, lots of games and tests,’ I said with a smile.

  In the morning I brought in a paint ball gun.

  ‘Is that thing loaded?’ Rocko quipped.

  ‘This ... is a paint ball gun,’ I began. I aimed at a poster on the wall and hit it with a green blob. ‘Accurate to twenty five yards, will reach out further, non-lethal, but the paint indicates a wound. You’ll all have a go very soon, up at The Factory. You sneak up on each other, first hit wins.

  ‘But be warned, a hit to the eye and it could kill you or blind you, goggles must be worn, a hit to the throat at short range could be fatal, a hit in the balls would hurt like fuck. So ... wear your sniper outfits, face veil, basic green overalls on top, because the paint will ruin uniforms.’

  I collected the Major and the RSM, and with the team we headed up to Leominster in a coach and a few cars, two Land Rovers, soon to “The Factory” as everyone involved called it.

  As we arrived we found two armed MPs with dogs plus a uniformed local police officer, the facility as well guarded as the base. Parked inside, we stepped down – I had my paint ball gun, and everyone took in the odd display in front of them, fences around blank areas, brick walls protecting nothing.

  With Sergeant Crab and two other directing staff ready, the lads were sent over to tackle the fences. Stood with the Major and the RSM, I said, ‘Fences, sir, lots of fences, many different types, so the lads go over all of them, individually and in pairs and teams. Some are electrified.

  ‘These brick walls, each has a dozen windows or doors to be blown open, or forced open, locks to be picked; Bob’s guy teaches all that stuff.

  ‘In this building on the right, ground level is a new killing house, wooden panels and rubber covers, metal removed, lots of permutations of rooms and doors. Second floor, small firing range with a difference, lots of holes in walls and small targets – size of your head, that are electronically controlled. They pop up and register a hit, for pistol work clearing rooms.’

  I led them down the central road.

  ‘Helicopter landing area for hostage extractions, which is the whole point of this place, in that we infiltrate, blow doors, shoot the targets, get the hostages, call in the helos and off. Over there in the corner is Stalag Luft 13.’

  ‘You what?’ the Major asked.

  ‘It’s a Second World War style prison camp; huts, mess hall, guard room, patrols and fences. The lads go in for a week, and try and get out.’

  They smiled. ‘Brilliant,’ the Major commended.

  ‘Second building here has been modified slightly, and it will be used for paintball guns.’ I handed my paint ball gun over to the Major. ‘Good inside twenty yards, leaves a nasty bruise if it hits skin though. Need to be covered up.’ He hit a nearby wall. ‘One pair go in from one side, one the other, and they try and find each other in the dark and shoot. There’s also a paintball pistol, good to ten yards, Bob’s spy ty
pes will use them here.

  ‘Imagine being here alone at night, looking for someone trying to kill you, sneaking about quietly – and trying to kill them. That’ll be to practise stealth. Mostly we’ll practise infiltration here, and all of the aspects of it, and we can live-fire here, local farmer don’t mind, no houses inside a mile, mud walls in a few places. Lads can blow doors and walls to their heart’s content. SBS and others will use it, and my new territorials.’

  ‘Territorials?’ the RSM puzzled.

  ‘We’ll recruit volunteers in various units, they’ll stay where they are but train with us a few days a month. If some of us are killed then Bob can pinch away the second tier of lads that are ready.

  ‘See the ditches and tunnels? There are many ways to infiltrate this, and we’ll have local army lads patrolling, territorials as well. Going to set up a basic canteen, the toilets already work, and we have electricity, can use floodlights at night. Up the tower and on the buildings are infra-red cameras, so we can see the lads sneaking about and we can comment on performance.’

  ‘Excellent playground,’ the Major commended. ‘Well make use if it regularly ourselves, close at hand.’

  I faced the RSM. ‘I got a job for you. Remember that exercise up near Catterick?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘We’ll we have the same here, so put pen to paper and see what you come up with. You can work on the prison break as well, patrol timings, etc.’

  ‘I will, yes,’ he enthused.

  When the Major and the RSM headed off I observed half the lads going over fences, half picking locks or forcing windows quietly. They swapped after a cup of tea in a dusty old canteen, a few new appliances, and at the end of the day Tomo and Rocko remained behind with myself and Moran – plus our twenty-four hour guards, face veils and protective glasses on for our lads as the light was lost.

  Tomo went around to the far side of the second office block, Rocko got ready, and I blew a whistle. Rocko moved inside, unaware of a few dummies having been placed, a few mirrors, a few trip wires – just to piss them off.

  Twenty minutes later and Rocko came limping out and we rushed to him. ‘My ... balls,’ he forced out in a strained whisper, Tomo appearing.

  ‘Don’t let him kill me,’ Tomo pleaded.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I shot him in the balls by mistake,’ Tomo stated, making us smile, and we helped Rocko to the jeep, numerous threats levelled at Tomo by our wounded man.

  ‘That’s one nil to Tomo,’ Moran noted. ‘Surprised at you, Rocko, thought you were a pro, and the lad beats you.’

  ‘Next time,’ Rocko threatened as we mounted up and drove off.

  I began, ‘So, Tomo, how did you beat him?’

  ‘I could hear him, so I hid down low next to a dummy – after it freaked me out and I realised it was a dummy, and when he came around the corner he shot the dummy and I shot him, aiming up.’

  ‘Good lad,’ I commended. ‘You beat the pro, so don’t let him forget it.’

  The next day, half the lads tackled the new killing house in the morning, two trying to kill each other with paint ball guns in the second building, and in the afternoon they each tried the second level killing house with pistols, a scorecard set-up, Moran in the lead, Swifty second.

  That evening, after dark, Swifty battled Stretch in paint ball alley, Stretch hit high in the chest and complaining like mad. He’d have a bruise, and some paint to wash off, his collar undone at the time.

  The next morning I drove up to Brecon early, to Sennybridge, and the instructors all greeted me with a barrage of questions about Angola, followed by a barrage of questions about my new rank. I sat in and observed as Mouri did his final hour, and I caught him smiling a few times.

  Lined up, an hour later, were two men half dead, two cracking jokes - and taking the piss out of the instructors desire to put things down the candidate’s pants. Mouri scored ninety three, a man called “Snotty” scoring ninety one. I had to stop and ask about his nickname, because he looked mean, tough and fit, a boxer’s face.

  ‘Real name is Snitty, so ... Snotty is better, and it stuck,’ he explained. ‘And how come you’re a captain, you were a sergeant not long ago?’

  ‘Rapid promotion, Acting Captain within my unit, because the Prime Minister felt it odd that a sergeant planned elaborate missions. Anyhow, are you one of those who volunteered to be placed with us on loan?’

  ‘I am, Captain, but if you fuckers keep sticking stuff down my pants I’m out of it, yer bunch of fucking queers.’

  We laughed. ‘No interference with your pants will take place,’ I assured him. I faced Mouri. ‘What about you, Mouri?’

  ‘I heard about it, yes, but I’m here for a year, that any good to you?’

  ‘Can you extend?’

  ‘Not sure, is the answer.’

  ‘I can swing it, I have great influence. So, question is ... do you want to risk your lives on a regular basis?’

  ‘Well, I came over for some action, fuck all going on in New Zealand, so yeah. Captain. Sir. ’

  I faced the final two. ‘You did well, eighty two percent and eight one, and this is a realistic war-like scenario for you to learn from, but if you want to volunteer for some action you’ll have to pass a few other tests – and get good scores.’

  ‘We ain’t down for it,’ they said. One was leaving in a year and one was starting a family.

  I told Mouri and Snotty, ‘Let your CO know I’ve approved your placement with us, but you might just get kicked out after a few weeks, or shot and killed.’

  ‘Cheerful fucker,’ Snotty said.

  ‘I’ll leave you to rest, and ... to clear out whatever is lurking in your pants.’

  On the Friday the Major called me over. I found him with the RSM and Sergeant Dobson, known as Dobby, a real pain in the arse time-served NCO, three men lined up outside the door.

  ‘Sit,’ the Major told me, and then loudly announced, ‘Bring in the accused.’

  I sat, wondering just what the hell was going on, then realising it was a disciplinary hearing for a trooper – and was I there to stop the man hitting the Major. The man was marched in under escort, halted, and he saluted, soon stood at ease. He was almost as tall as me, broad shoulders, fit and strong looking, a prominent scar above his left eye.

  ‘Trooper Nelson,’ the Major began. ‘You stand accused of punching your troop sergeant, witnesses to hand. What do you have to say?’

  ‘Does it matter? Sir,’ he curtly came back with.

  ‘It does,’ the Major snapped. ‘So ... what do you have to say?’

  ‘He tampered with my kit, then charged me with neglect. It’s bullshit.’

  The Major nodded, a glance at me. ‘You did well in selection, a good performance. You ... ran marathons before joining us, six years in the Engineers, Commando Detachment, parachute trained. We had high hopes for you, but troopers don’t hit their troop sergeant, they come to me.’

  ‘Like he has any respect for you.’

  The Major took a moment, and the trooper shot me a puzzled frown as he waited. Bradley finally faced me. ‘Well?’

  I smiled. ‘I like him, I’ll take him on trial.’

  Bradley faced the accused, the man again shooting me a puzzled look. ‘Trooper Nelson, you are hereby kicked out of “D” Squadron, and all regular SAS work. You have one chance left, and that’s with Wilco here.’

  He faced me. ‘You’re ... Wilco? Sir?

  ‘I am, I’m afraid,’ I said as I stood. ‘Keen for some action?’

  ‘Fuck aye. I mean, yes. Sir.’

  Bradley said, ‘You are now officially out of the SAS, placed with Wilco, and if you fuck up with him he’ll bury you. I’d advise against trying to hit any of his lot, they hit back.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Nelson stated. He turned to Dobby and gave him the finger at close range. ‘Fuck you, you lying cheating piece of shite!’

  ‘On me,’ I told Nelson, grinning. ‘
And behave.’ I saluted the Major and led my new recruit out and across to the detachment. ‘Where are you living?’

  ‘Sharing a flat local.’

  ‘If the lad you’re with is an issue, move, some of my lads have spare rooms. Oh, what do they call you?’

  ‘Napoleon.’

  ‘Why did I have to ask?’ I said with a sigh. In our detachment Interest Room I called the lads together. ‘Everyone, this is Nelson, known as Napoleon - by those men that don’t realise that Admiral Nelson never fought Napoleon, and he’s on trial with us, just came across from “D” Squadron after he punched Dobby.’

  ‘That wanker!’ Rizzo spat out. ‘Well done on hitting him!’ Stretch echoed the sentiment and they adopted our latest man, the kettle on.

  I stepped into the office and found Moran, Harris and O’Leary. ‘New man with us, we’ll need to open a file and get the paperwork started, he was just RTU’d from “D” Squadron.’ I made eye contact with Moran. ‘We need two troops, you head the second one, call them ... Alpha and Bravo,’ I said with a shrug.

  ‘Make Rocko your troop sergeant, you have Slider, Smitty, Tomo and this new lad, Nelson, and the SBS lads on loan when they arrive, which could be soon. You could have eight men in a week or two.’ With a twinkle in my eye I said, ‘Be a proper troop captain then.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ came back with a smile as O’Leary laughed at Moran.

  Back to The Factory the following Monday, the lads practised climbing several low roofs quietly, weapons in hand, blanks in, weapons loaded and cocked, a few accidental misfires witnessed. They did it in teams of two and four, and got better as time went on, several pairs having a go at paintball alley, a few improving scores in the second killing house, Napoleon keen to try everything.

  Tuesday saw the first exercise, which involved an aggressive assault of the Killing House, no stealth required, doors blown, windows blown, CS gas and respirators used, dummies carried out as hostages, the second level “cleared” before withdrawing, live grenades used.