Wilco- Lone Wolf 19

by Geoff Wolak

  Moran and Ginger were behind me, Mitch and Greenie behind them as we kicked up white sandy soil for fifteen minutes, soon at our first water hazard and crossing over. But at least the water was warm.

  Up the other side, I heard the shot and span around. ‘What was that?’

  ‘A fucking big croc,’ came from Dicky.

  ‘Silencer next time, idiot! Or go hand to hand.’

  ‘You go hand to hand with it!’ Dicky protested as they laughed at him. ‘That croc was like thirty feet long.’

  ‘How long was it?’ people taunted him.

  Shaking my head, a look exchanged with Moran, and I led them off, a hot hour of zig-zagging whilst trying to stay on course.

  The white sandy soil was firm under foot, but roots tended to grow across our path, tripping a few people. The bushes were all shoulder height and dense, the trees just over my head, and as we progressed a whole myriad of birds shrieked at us and flew off.

  We found a rise and got a good view, and I confirmed our location on the map.

  Pressing on in the heat, I moved west to avoid a nasty mangrove swamp, but found a handy shallow stream to follow for half an hour, millions of small fish peered down at, the lads wanting to catch and eat some – and asking about Piranhas. Out the stream I gave them all half an hour to rest, sat now on white sandy soil, all of them bitching about wet boots.

  ‘We close?’ Moran idly asked, taking a drink.

  ‘Five miles or less.’

  ‘Do they send out patrols?’ Ginger asked.

  ‘Not today, because today they got news that several drug gangs want them sliced up, that they won't be getting paid, and the US Navy has all of their drugs. Today is the day when they sit with heads in hands and sulk.’

  ‘You don't go upsetting drug gangs,’ Ginger noted, squinting in the bright sunlight. ‘Banks, OK, drug gangs - no.’

  ‘How much did they lose?’ Moran asked.

  ‘All of it, about a hundred million dollars worth.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Moran let out.

  ‘Oh, and they probably blame me for the loss, so if we meet them there could be harsh language used.’

  ‘How many men at this place?’

  ‘No idea, but it’s not a big place.’

  I checked the map again, and would head south to high ground then west, and we were soon plodding on, easy going here, tall grass and small bushes, a few large grey birds sent into flight by our presence.

  Sweating, I reached the high ground and snuck to the ridge, Moran and Ginger copying. Peering west, I could see several smoke columns, light grey smoke from someone's cooking. There was a tall tree in the camp, and someone had built a tree-house lookout, but there was no-one in it.

  ‘Nicholson and snipers to me.’

  I called Harris as they came up. ‘It’s me. Did they bomb those roads?’

  ‘Yes, and confirmed a road out and a bridge out, so your friends won't be going anywhere.’

  ‘We're a mile east of that camp, have helos on standby.’

  ‘Marines are at that port, searching around, TV crew with them. The US news is reporting North Korean weapons found.’

  ‘Yes, two rifles.’

  ‘Two!’

  ‘Evidence is evidence.’

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘We'll get eyes on for an hour then sneak in.’

  With the snipers to me I had them scan the ground ahead, telling everyone else to get a rest.

  Ten minutes later, Nicholson called for me. Knelt behind him as he peered through his large sights, he began, ‘I can see huts, armed men wandering around, not many, and a few jeeps – so there's a road some place down there, and a speedboat being worked on, so there's a river here some place, and a minefield.’

  ‘Where's the minefield?’

  ‘Between us and them, ground turned over, ground between the trees.’

  I had a look at the map, and a thin blue line south could be the river, obviously good enough for a small boat.

  ‘Wilco,’ Tomo called. ‘I can see a white guy, tall, silver hair.’

  ‘That’s our mark, don't kill him.’

  ‘Don't need to, they are.’

  ‘They are … what?’

  ‘Tying him to a tree, machetes at the ready.’

  ‘Shit! Snipers, silencers on, hit everyone but a white man. Fire when ready.’ I ran down the slope, ‘On me!’ I shouted. ‘Fast'

  I led them around to the south and through bushes till we hit mangrove, cracks registering through the warm air, and I jumped in, soon up to my waist and wary of crocs as splashes came from behind me. I found a channel and turned west, enough space for a small boat, and I fought my way along as quickly as I could, waist deep in water.

  Ten minutes of hard work and I could see a small wooden jetty, ropes dangling, a canoe tethered. A man ran in, towards the canoe, my chest shot killing him. I pressed on as fast as I could, someone firing outwards, but they would never have seen my snipers.

  Past the jetty I whispered Moran, Ginger, Mitch and Greenie to stay there, the rest to spread out as I moved forwards. They moulded themselves into the bank and aimed north.

  Rizzo and Dicky were pointed into the bank, Tiller and Brace, soon Running Bear and his team.

  Shots rang out, followed by a loud volley from my teams, heads ducked by those still in the water, a short exchange.

  I clambered up the bank, soon knelt and aiming at distant huts as the splashes behind me indicated men moving up. Swifty appeared at my side.

  ‘Go left and around, watch for mines,’ I whispered, moving to a tree.

  Swifty and his Wolves moved left bent-double. I aimed, but I could see little, still the odd crack from my snipers. ‘Wilco to snipers, we're on the south side, Wolves moving northwest, check your fire.’

  ‘Can't see fuck all now,’ came from Tomo. ‘But that white guy is alive.’

  ‘Men at the river, leopard crawl, slow and steady, look for mines.’

  I glanced right and saw men in motion, and I moved to a tree to my left, still not seeing anyone to shoot at.

  ‘Wilco,’ came Swifty's voice. ‘Road here on the west side, a dozen fuckers running down it, already 600yards away.’

  ‘Circle around, put two men to cover that road in case they come back.’

  ‘I can see a mine field over here, either side the road.’

  ‘Everyone, be very careful here!’

  I moved forwards, tree to tree, watching where I walked, but the ground here was compacted down. Reaching the first long hut, I glanced inside, seeing beds and tables, no movement. Peering under the hut I saw the explosives, and the flashing lights.

  ‘Shit.’ I transmitted, ‘Huts are wired to blow, reverse back now! Fast!’

  I ran around the hut and into the centre of the camp, soon a startled face looking up from a trench. I fired twice, both head shots, and sprinted on, just twenty yards to Debonet, his clothes torn, his face bloodied. I untied him in a hurry as Moran and Ginger ran in, against my orders, checking a dozen bodies near us.

  Moran knelt and aimed as Ginger helped me drag Debonet, but after a few yards Debonet found that he could run with us, keen to get away. Reaching the stream, I launched Debonet in, jumping in myself, huge splashes behind me.

  Sputtering, Debonet surfaced and started swimming without any encouragement, very keen to be away from here.

  Ten minutes later I helped him up the bank, Swifty and the Wolves behind me. I waved them on.

  With the last man past me, on and knelt and now soaking wet, I punched Debonet and broke his nose. ‘We have some questions. And in case you're wondering, I'm Wilco.’

  He stared up defiantly as Swifty aimed at him, Wolf Murphy close by, wet knees displaying white sand.

  ‘You can make a deal, or we leave you here. Make a choice.’

  ‘What choice? Prison?’

  ‘I can let you walk away, I can drop you in Panama with some money in your hands. Depends on how valuable the intel is, and righ
t now London and Washington are very keen to hear all about the North Koreans.’

  He stared up, wiping blood from his nose. ‘There's a file, in a post box in Toronto, all the evidence.’

  ‘And you had it ready … why? To sell out your friends if you got caught.’

  ‘Screw them,’ he spat out.

  ‘Tell me about the North Koreans, and … Comrade Catfish.’

  He seemed surprised. ‘We never met him, just phone contact, but I taped a few calls, got his voice. I traced a payment made, and it ended up in Prague.’

  ‘Post Box number and place.’ I waited.

  After a moment, he reluctantly said, ‘Box 1326, Central Post Office, Windsor Boulevard.’

  I called Langley, the Deputy Chief. ‘It’s Wilco. Get a team to the Central Post Office, Toronto, box 1326, break it open. I'll wait your call.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Debonet’s get out of jail card.’

  ‘I'll send them now.’

  I led the teams back to the high ground. I transmitted, ‘Snipers, under the huts are explosives, try and set them off. Everyone else, get a brew on and rest. Any wounds?’

  No one screamed for attention, so I sat with Debonet.

  Swifty asked, ‘What if that post box is empty?’

  ‘We kill him and leave.’

  Debonet stared up, angered, but also afraid.

  I asked him, ‘Any of your Canadian friends in that camp?’

  ‘They were shot this morning.’

  ‘Good job we arrived in time, eh,’ I quipped. ‘I wonder what the Mexicans would pay to get hold of you?’

  He lowered his head.

  Swifty began, ‘You lost the drug cartel's drugs, you naughty boy.’

  The blast has us ducking, debris raining down. A chicken landed on Swifty, what was left of it.

  He lifted it. ‘Could cook that.’

  ‘Might have to if we've stuck here.’ I lifted up and looked down at the camp, now shrouded in smoke, many trees down, the snipers taking a break.

  Running Bear walked up, a glance at the camp. ‘What’s the plan here?’

  ‘CIA are checking a post box in Toronto, where this slime ball hid evidence against his comrades, his get out of jail card.’

  ‘Will Langley make a deal?’

  ‘Depends on the intel, and how useful he is to them.’

  ‘And evidence in that camp?’

  I cocked an eyebrow. ‘You wanna go search it, Mister?’

  ‘No fucking way!’

  ‘Well then. We have him, we shot some men, and the camp is kind of destroyed.’

  A full hour later, men sat around sunbathing, my phone trilled, the Deputy Chief. ‘We have the files, and they seem genuine and useful. What'll you do with Debonet?’

  ‘I think a croc ate him.’

  ‘Just as well. I'll let you know what was in those files.’

  Phone down, I called Murphy and his buddy over. ‘Murphy, this man was CIA, but betrayed his country and sold out, dealing guns for the North Koreans. Take him down to the river and … show him your appreciation.’

  ‘Wait!’ Debonet protested as they dragged him off, a few punches delivered.

  Running Bear walked up. ‘Did it pan out?’

  ‘Langley has the files, they look genuine.’

  ‘And our friend?’

  ‘Crocs gotta eat.’

  ‘Caimans, not crocs around here.’

  ‘There are crocs,’ Swifty protested. ‘One we saw had a round nose.’

  ‘They're endangered and rare,’ Running Bear told him.

  ‘Then we saw a rare one, not a thin nose Cayman.’

  I told them, ‘So let’s hope the rare one gets a meal today.’

  We heard the screams from up here, two shouts sounding out.

  When Murphy returned, he reported, ‘Fella has his tendons cut, and his knee caps shot out, so swimming could be an issue, sir.’

  ‘Ah, I'm sure he'll be fine,’ I told them, Running Bear shaking his head at me. I transmitted, ‘All teams get ready to move out, reverse your tracks.’

  I led them off, Swifty and his Wolves insistent that they saw a croc.

  ‘We done here?’ Moran puzzled.

  We kicked up white sand.

  ‘That man was the key player - the reason for being here, and to try and save his neck he gave up files to the CIA, hopefully useful files. Might stop the current North Korean arms deal, but we still don't know who the Russian middleman is. Might be some evidence in that camp, but it’s wired, so fuck it, I'm not losing men here.’

  As we walked through the heat I called back the planes, but they were two hours away. We were roughly two hours from the road. I had the teams pick up the pace, and since we had our own tracks to follow it was easy enough.

  Finally back at the high ground viewing the road, we were all sweating, boots covered in white sand. We halted, drinks needed.

  ‘What’s that?’ Moran asked, pointing.

  I could see a mile of road, and from the west came a convoy of green military trucks. ‘That would be our ambush.’ I transmitted, ‘Contact left, vehicles approaching, get to cover in teams, get a view of the road!’

  The teams moved into position as I called Harris. ‘We're at the drop off point, the road, job done, but the local army is here to grab us. See if there's an F18 that can strafe a vehicle convoy, ready helos for casevac.’

  ‘I'll get back to you.’

  I hesitated, but then called Langley again. ‘It’s Wilco. We're at the pick-up point, but the local army is here to stop us. Contact the nice lady running this country and see if they're genuine, or paid to attack us, and fast.’

  ‘Hang tight.’

  I called Tomsk and asked for the planes to be turned around. He was not sure they could be.

  The green column of trucks came on, halting beyond us, east of us; they did not seem to know where we were. A drone, and the Skyvan was on approach.

  ‘Shit!’ I let out.

  ‘That our ride?’ Moran asked.

  ‘Yes. Got no aircraft radio.’

  My heart stopped as a missile climbed towards the Skyvan, which banked away too late, hit, soon on fire and soon corkscrewing down.

  ‘They're not regular army,’ I told Moran, now mad as hell. I transmitted, ‘Snipers, do you have a shot?’

  ‘This is Tomo, and I can see the man in charge.’

  ‘Kill them all!’

  The cracks sounded out. I aimed high and let off a full magazine, angered at the loss of the plane, and the loss of the pilots, and annoyed at my own lax planning. Others opened fire, the convoy peppered.

  ‘It’s Nicholson, and we got the men in charge, rest are running and hiding, no organised resistance, men in the back of the trucks are all wounded. Not the most switched-on bunch.’

  Ten minutes later the Hercules circled at two thousand feet, but then departed south.

  ‘Are we walking?’ Moran asked, none too concerned.

  ‘Some of the way, yeah.’

  A screech, and two F18s flew by, eyeballing the smoke from the Skyvan. They came past a second time, a look at the ambushed convoy and the bodies, before heading home.

  I called Tomsk and gave him the bad news.

  He responded, ‘Well, the owner of the plane doesn't know it was shot down, we say it crashed, mechanical fault.’

  ‘Up to you. The Hercules is returning, we'll get to the coast, US Navy is there, don't worry.’ I transmitted, ‘Go easy on the water, we're walking for a while. Form up.’

  I led Moran and Ginger down to the side of the road, and we followed the road, reaching the trucks and finishing off a few men.

  ‘Why not steal the trucks?’ Moran asked.

  ‘This road goes north, we need to be southeast. No roads where I want them to be. A few miles on we can stop and call in the US Navy.’ I transmitted, ‘Snipers, break right and check the pilots in the Skyvan, fast as you can and back here.’

  We waited, Moran not ex
pecting good news.

  ‘It’s Nicholson, and the pilots are toast,’ came a man out of breath.

  I kicked a tree. ‘Should have had aircraft radios and been expecting trouble, this was all done too quickly!’

  ‘Stop second-guessing yourself, we had to move quickly,’ Moran told me. ‘Best laid plans always go out the window when men shoot at each other.’

  Cursing, I followed the road, one long line of men, but we had a good view both ways. When the road turned north I led the men into the bush southeast, and halted them for a rest. Looking at the map, we had fifty miles of shit terrain, but there were water ways and tracks on the map. Question was, how navigable they were.

  ‘Wilco, someone coming.’

  ‘What direction?’ I asked.

  ‘Behind us. Naked guy.’

  ‘Naked?’ Moran repeated.

  I peered around and moved that way, peering down a clearing. And there came a local tribal Indian carrying a spear, a dark-skinned young man. ‘Don't shoot,’ I transmitted.

  I walked to where he could see me, and he came on, a smile offered. Running Bear walked up to my position. We waited.

  ‘Como esta,’ Running Bear offered.

  ‘I speak English,’ the man offered, aged around twenty-five, naked apart from a loin cloth. ‘I went to school in America, sponsored by the Catholic Church. They wanted us tribal Indians to be … more Western.’

  ‘They failed,’ I noted.

  He smiled. ‘I have a TV and a phone, but … I respect my ancestors and my parents.’

  ‘Where is your village?’ I asked.

  ‘About twenty miles.’

  ‘Long walk.’

  ‘Oh, no, I have a boat.’ He pointed past me. ‘I saw the plane and then the smoke.’

  ‘Shot down by soldiers loyal to drug smugglers.’

  ‘I know who you speak of, yes, I sold them fish sometimes.’

  ‘They won't be buying any more fish,’ I told him.

  ‘You … are American Army?’

  ‘British and American Army, and we sometimes hunt down drug gangs. These men were shipping weapons for North Korea.’

  ‘Ah, bad practice, yes. But they are no more?’

  ‘Dead, for the most part.’

  ‘I know of a crashed plane, but I have not reported it. It crashed a few weeks ago, east of here. I suspect it was for these bad men.’

  ‘What type of aircraft?’