by Geoff Wolak
‘When my men move out tomorrow, have some Marines in the treeline, but we need to set places for local patrols to move in and out of or they'll be shooting at each other.’
He nodded. ‘Sort that at first light.’ He peered over the wall and into the wrecked terminal. ‘We could have been in there at the time.’
‘Might be stood here when a rocket comes in. Best not to plan your funeral till it happens.’
‘That rubble is great for making small walls, I'll have the men use that.’
In the top left corner Rizzo already had a snug home, someone seen on stag. I had no doubt at all that they had a brew on, and that Rizzo would catch a few hours sleep.
Half an hour later my phone trilled. ‘It’s Franks, two Hercules inbound. They called that airport and asked what conditions were like, wind. Is it safe to land?’
‘Yeah, all quiet here.’
‘They'll be with you soon.’
I walked down with Moran and Morgen, stood on the apron as the drone built, soon seeing the landing lights as the two Hercules circled around to the south and lined up, soon down and loudly taxiing around to us, no one with an orange wand to guide them. Still, the apron was currently devoid of anything that looked like a plane.
Ramp down, American Wolves stepped off, familiar officers and NCOs first, the men trailing behind as the second Hercules touched down.
The captain saluted Major Morgen. ‘This where the action is?’ he asked me with a grin.
‘All quiet, nothing happening,’ I assured him, also with a grin.
‘That building, sir?’
‘Got blown up.’
‘That your idea of all quiet, sir?’
To a sergeant I said, ‘Take all your men due north to the treeline, rest of the Wolves are there. Make camp till dawn.’ To the captain I said, ‘You stay here with an NCO and comms, grab a spot.’
Formed up in a long line, the American Wolves we led north, many smiling and nodding as they past, and I greeted a few I remembered.
The first Hercules powered up, about to be hit in the arse by its colleague, and it powered around the taxiway. The second Hercules eased to a halt, ramp down, crewman out and looking around as a line of men with large backpacks appeared.
‘Here comes trouble,’ Greenie loudly stated.
I glanced at him. ‘They yours?’
‘Wish they weren't.’
A captain closed in on us and saluted. ‘You must be Major Wilco.’
We shook. I told him, ‘Major Morgen, Marines.’
‘Sir,’ the captain acknowledged without attempting to shake
‘How many men?’ I asked.
‘Forty, sir.’
‘Make a happy home for a few hours, you leave at dawn, a hike north. Don't bunch up, we're expecting rockets.’
He pointed at the downed building as he men bunched up in a fashion that I had warned the Marines against. ‘Hit by a rocket?’
‘No, a bomb in the drains, so be careful and search around.’
He looked worried as he led his men inside, Greenie shouting friendly insults as he joined them.
My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Colonel Mathews. Who's in place?’
‘We have my men down, American Wolves are all north in the treeline. SEALs are here, Captain Running Bear and his team, first batch of Marines, medics setting up tents, and the Greenies just landed.’
‘OK, that covers the first stage. After dawn we'll land a supply plane and more medics. All quiet there?’
‘So far, sir.’
‘Chat around dawn, I have a cot here.’
The next flight of helos dropped off more Marines, but also doctors in combats lugging heavy kit. I assisted one inside, two large tents already up in an area cleared of rubble.
‘What happened here?’ a Lt. Commander asked.
‘Bomb meant for us.’ He snapped his head around. ‘But they found it.’
‘Found it and tripped it!’
‘Two local soldiers killed, and … still under the rubble somewhere.’
‘Jesus. Should we dig them out?’
‘Bits of them, yes if you have time.’ I pointed at the wall Rizzo had made. ‘Make a wall like that, or get sandbags, expect some incoming late tomorrow or the next day.’
They got to work as I climbed the stairs to the roof, Nicholson observing the medics raise tents below, a platoon of keen young Marines now here and aiming out.
‘Marines, relax your eyes and your bodies, take it in turns. If you sit like that all night, concentrating, you'll be no damn good to anyone in the morning.’
‘Right, sir,’ a corporal offered. ‘No thousand yard stare.’
‘I think fear has a role to play, Corporal, so you need to relax the men till the action starts. Nervous men burn the calories.’
‘I read the book, sir, The Ghost. You kept going a long time...’
‘If someone is shooting at you, and sending dogs in to eat you, you keep going. Each of your men could go three days, they just need to know they can do it and have the confidence. Back at my base we have a perimeter track, and men walk for 24hrs, just to know that they can do it – and cover a great distance.’
I cradled my rifle. ‘For special forces operators, getting into trouble behind the lines is common, and when things go wrong you end up on your own, a long way from friendly forces, so you walk for 24hrs. More you practise it, better it gets.’
‘We often do us some 24hr exercises, sir. Boys can do it.’
The shot blasted out, a long casing; Tomo.
‘Tomo, what the fuck you doing?’ I shouted as I closed in on him, people looking around.
‘Dodgy guy in civvy clothes, by the gate. Then he goes for a piss, picks up a bag from the bushes, sat phone in it. He started to jabber away so I figured I kill the fucker.’
‘Go get the sat phone!’
Nicholson, Moran and Ginger joined him as the Marines nervously peered out, heads down.
Running Bear came up to me. ‘We got the game on?’
‘A spy,’ I told him. ‘Now with a large hole on his chest.’
Five minutes later Tomo and Nicholson ran back in, police at the body. I called London using the dead man’s sat phone. ‘It’s Wilco, trace this phone, all recent calls, and fast. Thanks.’
I turned the phone off. Facing Tomo, I asked, ‘Any weapons on him?’
‘Nope.’
Moran appeared five minutes later and came up to me. ‘Locals ain't happy, that man has been here twenty years, related to some of the other men. But they can't explain the nifty sat phone.’
‘He dead?’
Moran tipped his eyebrows. ‘Big hole through him, his blood in the grass – all of it.’
Ten minutes later, the Marines still wary, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘GCHQ. That phone has been calling someone over the border in Costa Rica. We had our Colombian impersonator call it, and it was a phone in a taverna, next to petrol station.’
‘Get me a fix on it.’ I wrote down the coordinates. ‘Try and link any other phones to that location.’
Ten minutes later the airport manager and his assistant, plus the local police, came up to me with Major Morgen and the Press officers. The locals were not happy.
I told the assistant manager to translate as the young Marines observed us. ‘That man was seen hiding in the bushes using this expensive sat phone, and we traced the last calls to a payphone in Costa Rica, close to where the rockets were being fired from. Explain that for me.’
After the translation, the manager had terse words for the police, but not for me. Arguing loudly, they walked back down, leaving Major Morgen watching them go.
‘Glad it was one of your men and not mine. That guy might be dirty and selling us out, but I doubt we have permission to just shoot people.’
‘Wait 24hrs, and think on that again,’ I told him. ‘When you're knee deep in bodies, blood, and body parts.’
A look exchanged w
ith Moran, and he stepped down looking worried.
Moran noted, ‘That guy reported our presence here.’
‘Yep, so rockets are likely, but they're not very accurate unless you're radiating the right kind of short-wave energy.’
‘More bombs?’
‘I doubt it.’
A Press Corp captain asked me, ‘Major, how does shooting that man fit into the rules of engagement here?’
‘Obliquely,’ I told him. ‘That man calls in mortars accurately, we have men killed. What’s the difference between him shooting a young Marine, or that young Marine being killed by a mortar?’ I waited.
‘I see what you mean, but I think we should have arrested that guy.’
‘My man saw suspicious activity, a sat phone being used. He ended the call with a bullet. Otherwise, mortars might have killed you five minutes ago. You see a man with a grenade, do you shoot, or wait till he pulls the pin, or wait till it kills someone. At what point do you make the judgement call?’
‘I see, sir.’
Moran turned his head like an owl. ‘What was that?’
‘Wilco to Swifty, you hear anything?’
‘We shot two men. Standby.’ Two minutes later he added, ‘Two men with binoculars, and a sat phone.’
‘I want that sat phone, send a man with it. And any ID.’
‘Be with you soon.’
Moran noted, ‘I would have figured a man in the treeline.’
‘So what could they do, their rockets are not that good?’ I wondered out loud.
‘Mortars?’
I nodded. ‘Wilco for Swifty.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I want patrols out, four man patrols, all compass points north, east and west, three miles, looking for mortars. They'll need a track for a jeep, so look for tracks. East is a road going northeast. I want eyes on that road, pairs of men, and a patrol along the edge of it tonight, three miles no more – fast as you can please.’
‘On it now.’
‘Mortars?’ the Press captain asked.
‘Closer in, and more accurate. They know we're here, they anticipated us using this airfield, hence the bomb below us. I'd guess at mortars next.’
‘And if they land..?’
‘We duck, men get killed and wounded.’
‘And … is there nothing we can do to stop that?’
‘Is there anything you can do to stop a terrorist putting a bomb on a bus?’ I waited.
‘That comes from intelligence work, I guess.’
‘Correct, and we have some here, but not all the pieces and the players, hence we'll lose people till we do. My strategy here is what’s best to save innocent lives here in Panama, and to stop the rockets.
‘If we had not arrived here, but inserted men by helo, we'd still lose men in some close-up fighting, two helos might collide and crash. It’s all a risk, a gamble based on experience, and my experience says that the fastest way to end this and save innocent lives here is … what you see around you.’
‘A judgement call,’ he noted.
Fifteen minutes later an American Wolf ran in, sweating, and was sent up to me, handing me the phone and the ID cards before he ran off north.
I checked the sat phone, in case it was a bomb, and called London. ‘It’s Wilco, trace back this phone, and fast please.’ I called Tomsk and gave him the IDs. He would check them quickly. He would delegate, making me smile.
Down below I got myself and Moran a cup of tea from the shop, plus sandwiches.
When my phone trilled it was Franks. ‘Ship's Captain for you.’
‘Major Wilco?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Status report.’
‘Teams are down, plus American Wolves and Green Berets, dug it ready. But we killed a man spying on us at the main gate, and two in the treeline north, so they know we're here. We'll get rockets or mortars before dawn I think.’
‘How does that alter things?’
‘It doesn't, sir, I expected the odd rocket here.’
‘Helo Air Wing moves to you next, men and kit.’
‘Safe enough, sir, but a mortar or a rocket is a possibility. If you're waiting for a risk-free time … there'll never be one.’
‘I understand that, so they insert anyhow.’
I sat chatting to Marines and medics for half an hour, then observed as men made walls around the medical tents, as well as small walkways through the rubble. A sign had appeared: “Kansas, 1,000 miles north. Click them heels.”
The Lt. Commander told me. ‘We found an arm, bagged it up before it started to smell.’
‘Hand it to the locals, when you find the rest of him. Fella probably had a family. Are you ready?’
‘Triage area is ready, surgical tent, kit laid out ready.’
‘Seen action before?’
‘Not on the front line, no.’
‘Pace yourself, rest when you can, keep getting the food and drink in you, and smile and joke with the staff under you – they can sense fear.’
He nodded. ‘Father was in Vietnam, Navy as well, saw some action when he was ashore – got bombed.’
We heard the whistling, three blasts north of us, everyone glancing around, some ducking unnecessarily.
I shouted, ‘We got the game on, so keep your heads down!’ Up on the roof I peered north.
Nicholson casually reported, ‘Halfway to the treeline, and that dicker won't be reporting the correction.’
The next salvo landed west of the first salvo, some 600yards north.
‘That’s pants aim,’ Tomo noted.
‘Slider for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Someone aiming at us?’
‘Where are you?’
‘West side, walking around.’
‘Find a hole and hang tight for a bit, or walk back across the runway. Treeline north has American Wolves in it.’
We soon saw Slider's team walking casually across the runway.
The next salvo landed further west again, almost in the trees.
‘That’s pants aim,’ came from Slider over the radio.
I transmitted, ‘We caught the dickers and shot them.’ My phone trilled ten minutes later. ‘Wilco.’
‘Wolf Brigson, Boss,’ came a man out of breath. ‘We got the mortar team, road northeast. Two trucks and a jeep.’
‘Bust up the transport, set it alight. Get me sat phones and ID cards.’
‘Right, Boss.’
I transmitted, ‘All teams, we got the mortar crew.’ Over the wall I shouted down, ‘We got the mortar crew, so back to playing cards.’
‘It’s Tiller, and Rizzo slept through it.’
Those around me laughed, but we soon heard helos on approach.
‘Good timing,’ I noted.
The Seahawks landed on the apron, eight of them, and shut down engines, men out with heavy bags, fire extinguishers set-up near the helos, the teams coming inside to make a happy home.
I met the pilots, and met their looks as they took in the shop, the locals sat around the shop, and the broken wall. ‘Gentlemen, you improvise and adapt. Grab furniture, make a happy home as best you can, we got the mortar crews.’
‘Mortars?’ they queried, Major Morgen organising things – and explaining the mortars, the Press officers filming from the side.
Outside, I called Franks and relayed the detail of the mortars, and he would update the Captain.
Finding the airport assistant manager, asleep in his room, I offered dollars and he made a call to the town, mattresses ordered, bottled water and fruit. I declined the chickens he offered.
An hour later and the helo crews were organised, benches moved around, and Marines had made a wall of breeze blocks waist high around several parts of the room, the pilots joking about pig pens.
The mattresses turned up – varying in quality, handed out, men told to share, bottled water handed out, plus the fruit. In one pig pen I found three wooden benches pushed together, a mattress on top, two pilo
ts sharing and very comfy, two ratings under them on green rubber mats – but at least they were joking about it.
I told them. ‘If a rocket comes in it'll get the officers, you'll be fine under there.’
‘What?’ the pilots queried, joking about swapping places.
Seeing too many people in here, I discussed a dispersal with the Greenie captain.
He offered, ‘I'll go take a wander around, sir, see what’s to hand.’
He was back twenty minutes later. ‘Big old hangar south 500yards, running water, and inside are cabins, most clean and empty.’
‘Great, move your men out, but be back up here yourself for dawn as we plan things.’
He had his men pack up, and they filed out five minutes later, all looking as old as my men, a stark contrast to the young Marines.
In a corner I found my four spies, a brew on. ‘Get some rest for morning, then you get a leg stretch and a chance to shoot someone.’
‘We told that Press officer not to film us.’
‘I should fucking hope so! Be hard to explain you lot.’ I sat and shared a brew, chatting about tactics here. They had some wooden chairs best suited to a school, and an old leather chair to recline in.
I finally told them, ‘Part of this is politics, my politics. We get a mini-movie out of this, the Yanks feel better, and they don't hold back so much. I could have just sent my men in, from ship, but this way we get some exposure, some TV minutes, hopefully not too many casualties.’
‘I used to think the Americans were all gung-ho and ready to go fight anywhere anytime...’
‘The military are, but the guy in the White House sees coffins draped in flags rather than seeing what needs to be done. It’s all about his ratings, not common sense or practical need.’
Later, up on the roof, I peered up at the stars, the clouds gone now. Nicholson was sat peering down at the medics, his rifle cradled like a baby.
‘All quiet?’ I asked him as I sat on the wall.
‘We got the dickers by the look of it, mortar team were crap.’ he glanced past me. ‘Will you fine Tomo?’
‘Maybe, he should have grabbed the guy, but … as I said to the Press officer, that guy could have been calling in mortars or rockets, or adjusting aim, or … something else. He could have been calling a phone-detonated bomb.’