Wilco- Lone Wolf 19

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘It’s Carlos, and the helicopters are on their way, jeeps gone, trucks going now. My men are watching the roads south of me.’

  I called Colonel Mathews, waking him. He was in a cot in his office. ‘Sir, get the package ready, but there are friendly Hueys in the area.’

  ‘On it now.’

  Five minutes later we heard the heavy drone, all men flashing torches up, the loud Hueys circling when they saw us and setting down ahead of us with their lights on. I loaded six men of Echo to one, six to the other, Moran to remain and lead the men east, to the pick-up point, but to wait for the Hueys to return as well.

  Lifting off, I got the spare headsets on. ‘You hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ the pilot responded.

  ‘Fly to the town of Carlos, but south, and then follow the road south and then west, look for a line of army trucks. If you see them, go down to 300ft, so that men in the back can fire down. You get a bonus.’

  ‘OK.’

  With the vibration coming up through my arse cheeks, a nasty chill wind circulating around the cabin, we peered out into the dark night, distant lights seen, soon to the town run by Carlos, lights seen out the left side before we banked right and followed the main road south.

  I took out a fresh magazine and swapped, the lads copying, Monster and Parker next to me, feet on the rail, safety rope across us. Loaded, they copied me and aimed down. I set automatic, they followed.

  At the main highway we banked right, and were now heading southwest roughly, a few cars seen.

  ‘Trucks!’ the pilot shouted, and I peered out and ahead.

  ‘Pass them on the left side, then come around in a circle.’

  We dipped lower, picking up speed, and I doubted that the drivers would see us till we were right on them. I had considered if these were regular army, but Carlos had told me that regular army only move by day with police escort, a fucking huge police escort, fifty call mounted jeeps front and back.

  I aimed, timed it, and from just 100yards out I poured rounds into the driver of the lead truck, soon firing into the canvas back, Monster and Parker copying. As we sped past I strained to see into the backs of the trucks with the available orange glow from the highway lights, and I saw armed men, green uniforms.

  Monster and Parker continued to fire down, the Huey behind opening up.

  Circling, I could see the lead jeep halted and at an angle now, the truck behind having shunted it.

  ‘Pilot, climb to the nearest hill and set down, well away from the trucks. Second helicopter to follow us.’

  He banked left and gave the message, and we climbed, soon slowing and turning, and setting down. Head down, I ran clear with the others, phone out, Colonel Mathews called.

  ‘Sir, target is on the main highway, ten miles south west of the Alamo. Eight … nine green army trucks, halted. As soon as you're ready, but they must avoid friendly Hueys on the deck nearby.’

  ‘They're minutes out, our side of the border. I'll update them about the Hueys.’

  I walked forwards as the Hueys made a noise behind me, the teams staring down at the trucks, but we were over a thousand yards away.

  ‘What we doing?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘See what?’ Rizzo puzzled.

  Two minutes later the dull drone grew, worried men looking around, and from behind us the drone resonated, nothing seen in the black night sky, but we could feel the helicopters.

  ‘There!’ Slider shouted.

  A flash, four flashes, and rockets passed over our heads, men ducking and loudly cursing. Lifting up, we observed as the trucks blew to pieces, the men out of the trucks and on foot being knocked down.

  ‘Fucking bollocking hell,’ Rizzo let out as a dozen missiles swept overhead, the blasts echoing around the valley and reaching us several times, Apache helicopters now right above us and shaking our rib cages as they passed over.

  A loud ‘blurt', and the ground around the trucks lifted up, a dust cloud created, each truck shredded, the area around them shredded.

  I ran back to the Huey and got the headset on. I put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. ‘Transmit. Wilco to Apache leader.’

  ‘Apache leader here.’

  ‘Job done, we'll mop up. Go get a cold beer. And thanks.’

  ‘Apache leader, Wilco, departing. Good hunting.’

  I told the pilot, ‘Go get my other men, drop them at the compound. We'll walk.’

  I ran to the teams and led them down in a hurry, finding a track and using it as the Hueys loudly pulled away above us.

  By time we reached the road we were all warm, men stopping to fire at the wounded, but there were not many, the men in the trucks shredded and burnt, many of the trucks burning, the highway a bloody mess.

  I knelt next to body, wallet retrieved. He was Colombian.

  ‘Who are they?’ Slider asked.

  ‘FARC rebels from Colombia.’

  ‘We fought them in Colombia,’ he reminded me. ‘When they had those heat seeking missiles. What they doing all the way up here?’

  ‘Working with the cartels. Hired help.’ I shouted, ‘Check the bodies, I want some ID, some phones. Quickly, before they all burn!’

  I stepped away from the carnage, and the stink of burnt flesh, and called Colonel Mathews.

  ‘Wilco, how did it go?’

  ‘Job done, sir, and I have Colombian ID cards and drivers licenses. You can release this to Reuters.’

  ‘Thank god, I was worried. I'll send it up the line now, a few generals sleeping at their desks.’

  ‘The detail is ... two hundred well-armed FARC soldiers, nine trucks.’

  Phone away, I took in the ugly scene, walking along to the lead truck. Remembering the cameras, I took a few snaps. Door open as it smouldered, I pulled out the headless driver and got his ID. He was Mexican. Around to the passenger side, and the man seemed to be white. His ID was Nicaraguan.

  I called Franks. ‘You awake? Good. Run a check on a white mercenary for me, but with the name of Hector Alos Manuel, DOB 23/7/1969, Managua. ID card number 120-3524455-2876D. Issued 12/11/1985.’ I used the camera to photograph his face after I poured water over it, and I snapped his tattoos.

  Franks called me back ten minutes later, as I stood upwind of the trucks.

  ‘That name is listed, known drug dealer associates, but his file photo is a local.’

  ‘This guy is white, aged forty-five, a few scars.’

  ‘I'll dig further. Just got an update about the Apaches.’

  ‘Two hundred FARC rebels, ID cards to prove it, all toast and … smelling bad.’

  ‘You could have hit them yourself...’

  ‘I know how the system works, and what your boss wants.’

  ‘He's claiming embedded agents with you.’

  ‘That’s fine. You're with me, in spirit.’

  Calling in the men, I led them off at a fast pace down the cold empty road, and if any armed jeeps came our way we'd open fire. After two miles I commandeered a truck, an old man at the wheel. I handed him a thousand dollars. ‘I'm Petrov.’ I pointed him east.

  He smiled, scraped the gears and gave us a lift to the start of the hill access road. Jumping down, armed men were seen, but waved to.

  With the old man driving off west, I led the team up, a smile at the guards, and they knew my face, a brisk mile walk up the hill, many pairs of guards passed – but all had radioed ahead to say it was me.

  At the compound gate Moran was waiting with Rada. ‘Where'd you go?’ he asked.

  ‘There was a convoy of nine trucks, two hundred FARC rebels in them, so we strafed the lead truck then I called in the Americans.’

  ‘The Americans?’

  ‘They had Apache attack helicopters on standby.’

  ‘Nasty that was,’ Slider told him. ‘Those Apaches made a right old mess of the FARC fuckers. Sliced, diced and burnt extra crispy.’

  The team filed past and inside.

  ‘They were coming he
re?’ Moran asked as we stepped inside.

  ‘Looks that way, or to attack the town. But I think they would have gotten bogged down in street fighting there, so maybe heading this way.’

  ‘Bad intel, we have a fortified hilltop position.’

  ‘Maybe they have mortars or rockets, or aircraft. Disperse the men as before, have some American Wolves go with Monster east, not too many men in here. Tell them all to get a brew on but not to sleep, could be trouble on the way.’

  I called Franks. ‘Check the radar for me, the Alamo. Fast.’

  ‘There's an AWACS overhead, this side of the border.’

  Up on the wall I peered out as the dawn turned the horizon grey, Murphy and his buddy joining me.

  Franks called back. ‘There were two transports, low and slow, trying to avoid radar, but they turned back.’

  ‘They lost contact with the truck convoy.’

  ‘It’s on Reuters and all over CNN east coast.’

  I called Colonel Mathews. ‘Target is a smouldering compound east of the target town, two crashed Hueys next to it. Splash the target.’

  ‘Splash the target is navy air wing, I'm Army.’

  ‘Go make a loud noise then.’

  ‘That’s Marines,’ he quipped.

  Half an hour later, and the compound we had raided was reduced to sand, hit a dozen times by F15s, the explosions so loud that the poor weary pissed-off townsfolk were soon fleeing.

  Franks called fifteen minutes later. ‘NSA have radio chatter, and the cartel are running scared now, they think we'll bomb them.’

  ‘Bombing an empty hillside is easy to get permission on, a town would be a different matter.’

  ‘They don't know that.’

  ‘Send a helo to me here, grab the ID cards we got and the photos.’

  ‘I'll sort that soon. President will make a speech in an hour.’

  ‘I figured the cartel would get mad and come attack me...’

  ‘They hated Cholos, and don't give a fuck about his death. You did them a favour, and now some other idiot will take over.’

  ‘Best laid plans, eh.’

  Carlos arrived at 9am, looking tired. ‘You had a busy night,’ he began as we sat, coffee placed down. ‘Cholos is dead, his commanders, that town a mess, and I have his drugs.’

  ‘We nearly made a mistake. Two hundred well-trained FARC soldiers were on they were here, and aircraft which turned back.’

  ‘There is not much here. It comes in, goes back out within a few hours. We don't keep much here are night, and my men would run into the hills.’

  ‘And the cocaine we got?’

  ‘Same quality as Tomsk, and worth millions.’ He waved at a driver and that man handed me a big bag of dollars.

  ‘The men will appreciate it,’ I told him.

  ‘What will you do next?’

  ‘I have heard that the rest of the Tiujana Cartel will not take revenge for the loss of Cholos -'

  ‘Ha, they hated him. Many come across to my side from that town.’

  ‘Could you take control of it?’

  ‘I would not wish to, but the local mules will buy from me now. I set a good rate this morning, keep them happy.’

  I laughed. ‘You are selling them Cholos's drugs!’

  He shrugged. ‘They are mine now.’

  ‘So business is good...’

  ‘It is, yes, I recover my losses with that stupid bank.’

  ‘A lesson learnt.’

  ‘Yes, and we survived, so now we diversify. I import solar panels.’

  ‘Always pays to have extra revenue streams, yes.’

  ‘You will stay here?’

  ‘No, I will return to Panama and look for some people to shoot.’

  An hour later, men asleep, a Jetranger set down, Franks on it. I simply handed him the bag through the door, camera inside, and he flew off north.

  After sun down the trucks and buses were back, and we reversed course after thanking our hosts, soon to the border and crossing the stream, jeep headlights seen the other side.

  Franks and Dick met me. ‘Passport, please,’ Franks demanded.

  ‘I seek asylum.’

  ‘Granted, we like loonies over here, lots of room in the asylum.’

  ‘You run those FARC IDs?’

  ‘They don't actually have an ID card saying: I'm a FARC rebel,’ Franks cheekily pointed out. ‘They hold down day jobs mostly.’

  ‘So, Mister CIA super spy, man who's definitely worth his salary, what have you learnt?

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘They're from the right towns, and some have the right links.’

  ‘Good, so we didn't kill a truck load of tourists off for a re-enactment of The Alamo.’

  ‘That was in Texas.’

  Buses boarded, we were driven back to the airfield under cover of darkness, two grey Air Force 737s sat waiting. Crates checked and loaded, weapons unloaded and checked, Rizzo checked for cocaine, and we boarded with rifles, awkwardly placed under seats, webbing in the overhead compartments.

  Men settled down, arms folded, Salome next to me – so that meant her head on my lap. But she remained awake, a two hour flight across Mexican airspace, and we were soon touching down at La Ninga. Problem was the lack of steps, men laughing loudly. A truck finally pulled up and we scrambled across to it and down in an undignified manner.

  The Colonel stood smiling with his hands on his hips before I gave him a lazy salute. ‘Steps were in the hangar that blew,’ he told me.

  ‘All quiet here, sir?’

  ‘It is now, yes. And we have more tents and camp beds,’ he said as men filed past and into the brightly lit terminal, Wolves walking north to their tents. ‘Even got some circus tents to play in.’

  I pointed. ‘And a million sandbags, sir.’

  ‘Marines were kept busy filling them, and we paid local men.’

  ‘Now it is like Vietnam.’

  He led me inside. ‘Your men all OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir, no wounds.’

  Major Morgen began, ‘Your trip south of the border was all over CNN. President made a speech and threatened to bomb the hell out of the cartels, and the FARC. And they had footage from aircraft bombing a drugs factory.’

  ‘That drugs factory was empty, burnt down by us, it was a stunt for the cameras.’

  ‘And the attack helicopters?’

  ‘They sliced up two-hundred FARC rebels, we got the ID cards.’

  ‘And the FARC were there … for what?’ the Colonel nudged.

  ‘I would say they were there for me, sir, but … they had to be in place before I got there so ... they were after a rival cartel by the look of it, Carlos the Jackal.’

  ‘Such dramatic names,’ the Colonel said with a sigh. ‘And Cholos?’

  ‘Was linked to the action here, sir, and the missiles, but it looks like the FARC fired the missiles.’

  ‘That’s an act of war, but we can't bomb Colombia – they're on our side.’

  ‘No solid evidence as to who exactly fired the missiles, sir.’

  ‘And the plan now?’

  ‘We still have a lot of people to catch, sir, a puzzle to unravel.’

  ‘You expect more attacks here?’

  ‘With Cholos gone, no.’

  ‘So we pull out?’

  I glanced around. ‘Don't forget the TV minutes, sir. And we wait for Washington to advise us.’

  ‘We had ABC news drop in, Panama TV, all sorts.’

  ‘Where's CNN?’ I asked.

  ‘In a beach hotel twenty miles away.’

  I laughed loudly and shook my head, soon up on the roof, but definitely not in a cold wind. There were now more sandbags, walls built, Marines aiming out, small sandbag houses made. I spoke to all of them in turn, and they all seemed to be in good spirits, keen to chat to me.

  Down below, I spoke to the Panamanian pilots and crew, cash handed out for expenses, the Colonel interested in my large bag of cash.

  ‘Sent by Washington, sir.’r />
  ‘Lying toad. They wouldn't even pay our coffee.’

  I handed cash to the American pilots for that coffee, a wad handed to the assistant airport manager, a smile the result, several large wads for Major Spencer. ‘For your expenses here.’

  He grinned and stuffed them in his webbing.

  I finally handed cash to the old ladies in the shop, and asked for a barbeque tomorrow, midday.

  After midnight I found a spot with Moran and Ginger, a camp bed available, and I settled down next to them.

  Moran asked, his eyes closed and his arms folded. ‘You did change that shirt, right.’

  ‘Yep. Not sure it was clean when I put it on, but I did change it.’

  ‘Showers in the morning,’ Ginger noted.

  ‘We'll have to get to them before Salome uses all the hot water,’ I noted.

  ‘Or we get there at the same time, and share,’ Moran noted.

  ‘Captain, you need a holiday,’ I told him.

  ‘I'll chat to the boss and ask him.’

  My phone trilled, men moaning. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Franks, and a dozen car bombs have gone off in Medellin, few hurt given the hour, a lot of damage to offices and cars, fires all over the city.’

  ‘I'll make some calls. Tomorrow. It’s Medellin, so fuck ‘em.’

  He called back five minutes later, men again moaning. I set the phone to vibrate.

  Franks began, ‘The body of Li Xing was fished up out of Kowloon Harbour, but he's been dead a week.’

  ‘As with Terotski, and whoever killed them was highly skilled and organised, and shy about publicity.’

  ‘And clues?’

  ‘Not really, no, I thought I'd ask you.’

  Phone away, I again considered Deep State.

  At midday, the sun shining, we held a barbeque in front of the terminal, men rotated off the wire to get burgers and beer, the Colonel not shouting about the beer.

  Men stood in small groups and chatted, a mix of units and nationalities, Max taking snaps of a few, distant snaps from behind, CNN filming from a distance, close-ups of Marines.

  I agreed an interview at 2pm, all of the news crews present. With my facemask on, the Colonel and Major Morgen flanked me. ‘This past two weeks has seen a new dimension to the word terrorism. The men behind this were not motivated by politics or ideology, but money and greed, and perhaps some revenge.