‘Let’s just say he has no issues leaving the marital home behind during the week.’

  I smiled widely. ‘We have a house, and we have rent free huts.’

  ‘I’m edging towards rent-free.’

  ‘Can’t have him in with his lads, he’s the boss, so a house, and he can use the officers mess.’

  ‘Seems appropriate, yes.’

  ‘Anything happening at The Telegraph newspaper?’

  ‘The police don’t think that the paper owners had anything to do with it, but there’s no evidence either way. The insurance issue is enough to break them financially so they’re in talks with a buyer, but still out of circulation – and hurting. As for the dossier they got, they seem to have misplaced it.’

  ‘Well, you know how easy it is to misplace important dossiers.’

  ‘Actually, yes, working here I do. They go missing more often than you’d think, found again later having been filed away. An Iranian document was filed under Persia by a young lady clerk.’

  ‘A simple mistake to make, yes.’

  ‘Oh, Belchov-the-brother-in-law has been made an offer by the FBI. If he tells all he gets top quality burns treatment in the States at no cost, so he’s agreed and will be moved.’

  ‘A good result yes. And the ... man of interest?’

  ‘His body is back here, post mortem done. He was badly burnt, a lower leg blown off, lower arm blown off, shot twelve times, glass fragments peppered his body, lungs burnt, but what killed him was CS gas apparently. Not a pleasant way to go when you’re injured. Still, they chat around the water cooler here, about what happens to people who sell-out their country.’

  ‘A good warning delivered then.’

  ‘We like to let staff know what happens when they don’t achieve their monthly KPIs,’ he joked.

  ‘KPIs?’

  ‘Key performance indicators. An industry term, from the States. It affects bonuses and promotions.’

  In the morning the ever-lovely Captain Samantha Hedge showed up with her team, interviews to hold, cleavage to be stared at no doubt. I had lunch with her in the now-busy officers mess, and after lunch I found a large MP Captain waiting for me. He saluted.

  ‘Captain?’ I asked, and waited.

  ‘I’m assigned her now, sir, MOD want the security reviewed and tightened.’

  ‘Oh, right. Why do you look familiar?’

  ‘You were on the Close Protection Course I did.’

  ‘God, that was a long time ago.’

  ‘For us both, sir.’

  I raised a finger. ‘Unhappily married, need a room?’

  ‘Happily married with two kids, born and raised near Swindon, so this is my home patch. I’ll drive in every day, we live with my wife’s elderly mother, but she’s a great old lady and no trouble.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to review the place and make a few suggestions.’

  ‘That fence any good, sir?’

  ‘It’s kind of bullet proof.’

  ‘Kind of?’

  ‘The slats are see-through, but strong enough to stop a 9mm, and for a rifle round it will deflect the shot and spin it off.’

  ‘Weak spot is the entrance, people driving in and out.’

  ‘Feel free to trim the hedge.’

  ‘Was thinking of an access road, north, could join that lane and people go in and out without passing the village.’

  ‘Can only be a good thing, so go see Major Bradley and ask the MOD to make a road for us.’

  He headed off to do just that as I went to find Bongo in the armoury, my old roommate in his usual oil-stained grey overalls, and looking fat. I asked him, ‘Did you get an inventory from Sierra Leone?’

  ‘Yes, and I hope the weapons ain’t covered in mud,’ he complained. ‘It’s not complete though.’

  ‘The Americans took some Elephant Guns.’

  ‘Four are missing, so I’ll put them down as loaned to the Yanks.’

  ‘Loaned indefinitely, yes. And the grenade launchers are at Camel Toe Base.’

  ‘Four missing from the list. And I sent a fax to Mauritania, that base, and you left a shit load of weapons there as well!’

  I offered him a flat hand. ‘For us to use, and for British men to train on, yes.’

  ‘They’re listed as well, as on-loan.’

  ‘We have enough Valmets for us and the Wolves?’

  ‘If every man here had one ... just about. Ten are on loan to the RAF Regiment, ten to the Pathfinders.’

  ‘Get twenty more, just in case. We got enough ammo for these next two weeks and then Sierra Leone?’

  ‘There’s two crates of ammo sat in Sierra Leone, enough here just about.’

  ‘Have more sent to Sierra Leone.’

  ‘There were three crates, but one got used by men at the FOB, they have AK47s there.’

  ‘Regular SAS there might have used it,’ I suggested.

  ‘No, the young British soldiers get some practise with the AK47s, they used it.’

  ‘Then make sure that the MOD knows who used it.’

  ‘I fricking do! They audit this place often.’

  Out of the armoury, I had to wonder why the MOD was so interested in auditing us.

  Wednesday morning, early, and Swifty boarded an RAF bus with the veteran Wolves, a pleasant two-day stint walking the Brecon Beacons planned, an armed MP on the bus.

  At 2pm he called as I stood outside the hangar, sounding frantic. ‘Shots fired, man down!’

  ‘Where are you?’ I puzzled, thinking him on a job, and annoyed when I could not remember the details of the job.

  ‘South side of Pen-y-fan, in woods,’ came out of breath, making me frown. ‘We noticed a man in combats trying to follow us, so we set a trap. Wolves had their pistols, last man hid and waited, fired warning shots, and this guy fired back. Our man is wounded, the gunmen dead, but I recognise him, he was “D” Squadron, name was Mitchell.’

  ‘Aw ... shite.’ I rubbed my forehead. ‘You can drop down to a road, there’s a pub, east a few miles.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Get the wounded man there, but hold position around the body, all round defence, watch out for others. Get a paper and pen.’ I waited. ‘Call this number.’ I detailed the duty officer number at SIS. ‘Get him to track your sat phone position, get him to call an ambulance for that pub. Do that now. How badly hurt is our man?’

  ‘Through and through, not pumping, and he’s in good hands.’ ‘Have four men take him down, rest stay put. Call that number.’

  I called David Finch. ‘It’s Wilco. An ex-SAS soldier just shot one of our Wolves on the Brecon Beacons, our men shot him dead.’

  ‘Aw ... Christ, not another one.’

  ‘Get moving on the containment, check the land, it’s public land but the MOD has rights, so maybe the MPs can handle it. South side of Pen-y-fan, the woods near the reservoir I think, Swifty is calling your switchboard now, get the position tracked back.’

  I rushed inside and up the stairs. To O’Leary I loudly stated, ‘An ex-SAS trooper just shot and wounded a Wolf, they shot him dead!’

  ‘Oh ... fucking bollocks!’

  In the busy Intel room I shouted, ‘Listen up. An ex-SAS soldier just shot and wounded a Wolf on the Brecon Beacons, south side of Pen-y-fan, Swifty calling in the location to SIS, so get the location, get a map, get the MPs from Sennybridge there, check with the local police and check that an ambulance is on its way, to a pub east two miles. Get me a map!’

  The Wolves line manager looked horrified as people grabbed phones or shouted comments, a map found. I pointed at the pub on the map - people grabbing phones, and then at the location of the shooting.

  Swifty called me back. ‘Men are moving down to that pub, I’m at the crime scene. And this guy has a service issue pistol.’

  ‘I’ll have him checked out now, stay put, police on the way, get a brew on.’

  We all heard a helicopter landing, so I rushed down, thinking that maybe I could grab an RAF helicopter. It was the Regimental helicopter, the Colonel come Brigadier with the RSM and Lt. Col. Marsh. I strode out to them, and they could see the look on my face.

  Without bothering to salute, I loudly sated, ‘You chose the wrong fucking week to quit, sir, should have gone last week. An ex-trooper just shot and wounded some of mine on the Brecon Beacons, we shot him dead.’

  His face fell, and his shoulders dropped. ‘Oh god, not again.’

  ‘London will want your bollocks on a plate, sir, so get ready for that phone call.’ I faced Lt Col Marsh. ‘Welcome to the world of politics and bullshit, sir.’ I shook his hand and led them inside. To the RSM I said, ‘Did you know a man called Mitchell?’

  ‘Yes, knew him well, he was a good man, happily married, kids, left to do first aid abroad, expeditions.’

  ‘Any contact recently?’

  ‘He does the reunions, popular man.’

  ‘Dead man now, his wife a widow.’

  ‘Jesus. I met his wife many times.’

  I led them up the stairs and to the Major’s office. To Brigadier Dean I said, ‘You can use the phone in there, sir.’

  He led the RSM inside as I got a brew on for Lt Col Marsh. ‘In at the deep end, sir.’

  ‘I know all about the problems with ex-troopers, so this is the first lesson, and a loud one.’

  ‘I’ve had more ex-troopers try and kill me than enemy soldiers.’

  ‘As we did in Sierra Leone,’ he noted. ‘That chap got twenty-five years, serves him right.’

  I placed down two mugs of tea in front of the Brigadier as he was on the phone, and withdrew.

  The RSM finally stepped out to us, having used O’Leary’s phone. ‘Mitchell had problems recently, his business went under, wife moved out a week back.’

  I asked, ‘So why shoot at men that look like SAS soldiers? He had a grudge?’

  ‘No, never, I would never have believed it.’

  ‘And yet here we are,’ Marsh noted.

  Captain Harris walked past and stopped when he saw me. ‘We diverted an RAF Puma, due to find the wounded man any minute. They’ll take him to Abergavenny Hospital, five minute flight.’

  I nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘MPs from Sennybridge to be airlifted to the scene.’

  ‘As much as we can do for now.’ I called Swifty.

  He began, ‘Puma here, buzzing around, I think it picked up our wounded man.’

  ‘Phone the men who went with him, recall them, wait for the MPs. The man who fired, he hands in his pistol, but he does not make a statement without counsel present, he can make a brief statement to the MPs. And it’s OK if the civvy police take his pistol and the pistol that Mitchell had, and the body of course. We’ll get you transport back here, arrange something with the MPs.’

  ‘OK, we’ll wait here.’

  Off the phone, the Brigadier stepped out and joined us. ‘Everyone who knew Mitchell is stunned, not in his character at all. They’ll talk to his friends, and Captain Moorhouse and his team will investigate.’

  I said, ‘His business collapsed, wife kicked him out.’

  ‘Not enough to want to kill,’ the RSM insisted.

  ‘Your men OK?’ the Brigadier asked me.

  ‘Your men now, sir. One through-and-through, not serious, RAF Puma diverted, MPs on the way, nothing left to do save deal with a shite enquiry ... and try and figure out what made him snap.’

  Dean faced Marsh. ‘An eye-opener for you.’

  ‘First lesson, and a swift kick to the balls,’ Marsh noted.

  ‘Anyway, welcome abroad, sir,’ I said, making Marsh laugh. I showed Marsh the Intel room, people introduced, his new role explained, and he knew Major Sanderson well. Tour of the offices complete, we all sat in the Major’s outer area, the young admin corporal making fresh brews.

  ‘When do you take over, sir?’ I asked Marsh.

  ‘There’s a hand-over period,’ he began. ‘Couple of weeks, although in the past some colonels never met or briefed their replacements, that was down to other ranks. So, apart from homicidal ex-troopers, what do I have to worry about?’

  ‘You saw in there a table with maps and models, and we now have counter-terrorist and hostage rescue teams in Mauritania, at the old FOB in Sierra Leone, Liberia, and technically Camel Toe Base, although it’s not really a base for launching missions from.

  ‘You’ll have teams there on rotation, fewer men in Kenya than was traditional, and the Kenyan-Somali border is still simmering and in need of a few men.’

  Brigadier Dean said, ‘Don’t have a team there now, no formal request yet, and I think they have in mind your men patrolling in small teams.’

  ‘Yes, sir, probably the Wolves mixed in with some of mine.’

  Marsh asked me, ‘And this issue with the ambitious police counter-terrorism unit?’

  ‘Their men have come a long way, sir, and you don’t want your men on a job where a man is holding his wife hostage with a bread knife.’

  ‘Fuck no, waste of time.’

  ‘But they are whinging that the Home Secretary has ruled them out for terrorist action, at least so far. Fact is, they’re first on scene, and we only know it’s a terrorist incident when ten coppers are suddenly shot dead.’

  ‘How good are their men?’ he asked.

  ‘Very good, and most have experience in Sierra Leone, shots fired in anger, and they work here on night duty, enough to mature a man with the inherent dangers. When it comes to a bank job gone wrong they’re up to it, domestic incident, man with a sword, and let’s face it ... we see very few terrorist incidents in London like the Iranian Embassy siege.’

  ‘You get all the action here!’ he noted.

  ‘Yes, sir, and that’s a good thing, no dead coppers. We shoot back.’

  He nodded. ‘Better they meet you than some local bobby.’

  ‘You’ll have a massive head start, sir, with Brigadier Dean here, and me as well. And it helps that we both know you and like you, no axe to grind – save your snoring at the FOB.’

  Baker laughed, the Brigadier smiling.

  ‘I was the senior officer on the ground, so if I want to snore I’ll fucking snore!’

  ‘Right, sir,’ I mockingly agreed.

  He sipped his tea. ‘Those films they made, the documentary style, that tripled recruitment, so the MOD was happy, and I received two medals and a commendation.’

  ‘And claimed to have shot down that Mi8 helicopter...’ I teased.

  ‘I hit it, so did others, but I like to think my shot did the damage.’

  ‘I’ll back up your claim, sir.’

  ‘So what are the issues behind the issues with this nutcase shooting at your men?’

  ‘Those people - and politicians - that think we should not have an SAS will be out in force, one more example of a Rambo incident, the new government exercising its muscles and publically giving us all some shit whilst behind doors talking softly to us.’

  ‘So they play to the press.’

  ‘Always, sir, always.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I remember you warning me about the press in Sierra Leone, and since then I’ve done the courses on how to deal with the vultures in the press.’

  ‘It’s a double-edged sword, sir. We use the press for our means, and they help with recruitment, but they also bite us on the arse at times like this. The enquiry will ask why that man had a pistol at home, and most ex-SAS troopers have a pistol at home, quite illegal.’

  Dean turned to Marsh. ‘The men argue that they’re targets for terrorists, and given the attacks here they have the ammunition to justify that claim, and successive colonels have turned a blind eye to pistols for ex-troopers.’

  I faced Marsh. ‘After the Gulf war the police in Hereford organised an amnesty, a large metal bin in an isolated spot, and it was filled with weapons, grenades, an RPG or two.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Marsh let out. ‘All that lot stored in the homes of men, kids and wives watching the TV in the lounge. Still, after the Falklands War we had to confiscate trophy weapons.’

  ‘You’ll face the issue next week, sir, so how about another amnesty. Your first act.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Please hand in your bazookas, chaps.’

  Brigadier Dean pointed out, ‘It’s a tough issue, because there is a real threat to the men.’

  Marsh noted, ‘I don’t think they need an RPG at home.’

  ‘Not an RPG no, but a pistol for the two years whilst under orders, to be handed back.’

  I asked Dean, ‘Did you force anyone to hand them back, sir?’

  ‘I was advised not to,’ he admitted.

  ‘And so shall I be advised,’ Marsh sullenly noted. ‘By the all-powerful Sergeants Mess.’ He held his stare on the RSM.

  The RSM began, ‘A long tradition, sir, and the sergeants serve their time when officers rotate every two years. In, take a piss, and piss off – as the men say about young officers.’

  I put in, ‘Things are better now, but ... I could never re-integrate, there’s still a divide between us, still some attitude now and then.’

  ‘And the SBS?’ Marsh asked.

  ‘Their boss has his head up his arse, he wants them swimming and not involved in small wars, something that he’ll regret down the line. I have men here doing the jobs that they could be doing, and should be doing.’

  ‘And you had a go at the Pathfinders..?’

  ‘Their Major did not want them fighting in small wars.’

  ‘What a fool,’ Marsh said. ‘I know the man, and he’s wrecked his own career; I can’t figure out what he thinks he’s there for. I saw first-hand your magic touch in Sierra Leone, and you were right – I realised that later on. Get men involved with small wars, get the Press involved, make the men proud, get them the experience. It shaped my thinking, yes.

  ‘And after Liberia the attitude was ten times better than before, men keen to get fit and to work hard, a serious step up in gears, yes. And recruitment for the Paras trebled overnight. A managed small war, I think you called it. Brilliant for morale and recruitment.’

  I began, ‘The RAF Regiment have a good culture now. They say: did you join to scare a paper target or to fight. And they all keenly study first aid to a very high standard because they know they’ll need it.’