Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  At noon the tin shed was sweltering, the lads complaining, doors opened for a breeze, and at 3pm most everyone was asleep in the heat.

  At 5pm I had my lads in uniform as Liban looked on, kit tested, radios tested, teams formed. Rocko would replace Rizzo, his team being Slider, Henri and Jacque. My snipers would be in the dunes, and my own team would be east, on the isolated track, Rizzo on standby in the tin shed we called a home.

  When it was fully dark I led my team off east, soon in the dunes and soon slowing down, the sand very fine here, the dunes steep. I had to zig-zag and to follow the hollows rather than try and go up and over the damn dunes.

  It took forty minutes to glimpse the track, high dunes ducked into, the lads allowed to get a brew on, guards posted.

  ‘What time you reckon they’d come?’ Swifty’s dark outline idly enquired as he boiled our water. The lads were black blobs on a dark brown background, easy to see.

  ‘Past midnight,’ I suggested.

  The temperature dropped sharply, the hot tea helping, jackets put on, facemasks kept on. And we waited, the sand comfy enough. And we chilled.

  At 11pm came ‘Psssttt,’ from Sasha. Weapons were checked, magazines out and in, breaches checked, sights checked. All the black outlines of the team crept east, and to the tops of dunes. There in the distance came two cars trundling along the sandy track, headlights out. They finally eased to a halt.

  ‘Could just be camel shaggers,’ Swifty noted, men laughing quietly.

  Whoever they were, there were eight of them, and clearly armed. Kit was taken from a boot, a lengthy process before they finally started towards the dunes. On the course they set they would pass us south, about sixty yards away.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Spread out, line facing south. Go.’ I moved with Swifty, sliding down a dune on our bellies, up and running, soon awkwardly trying to get up another dune and aiming over the top.

  The line of poisoners was also having difficulty, their going slow in the dunes, complaints heard about sand in shoes.

  ‘Standby,’ I transmitted.

  ‘Wilco,’ Swifty called. ‘What’s up with the last man?’

  I had a good look, that man hanging back. ‘He has a respirator on.’

  ‘He has a full fucking rubber suit on!’ Swifty hissed.

  We observed the man, the front end of their column already level with us.

  I transmitted, ‘Listen up, last man is carrying the poison and he’s in a protective suit, so don’t shoot his backpack for fuck’s sake. If he needs a suit then it has vapours. Swifty, last man, headshot. Everyone else, get ready. Standby ... fire!’

  The cracks sounded out, no time for any shouts from the column, all dead quickly. It fell quiet, and we waited.

  ‘On me!’ I called, and led the team left and around a dune, slow progress through the soft sand.

  ‘Anyone left in the cars?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, but then stopped to study them. I transmitted, ‘Shoot up the car windows.’

  Cracks sounded out, glass breaking, and if anyone had been left in the cars he would be pissed off by now. The hire company would be pissed off with us as well.

  At the first body, the last man in the column, I shone my torch. ‘Shit, it’s leaking. Back up now!’

  We ran.

  ‘Which way is the wind blowing?’ I shouted.

  ‘Off the water!’ came a voice.

  I ran back north and around, stumbling through the sand, soon heading west towards the ocean, the poison vapours blowing inland. I called Nicholson and gave him the update, but told him to stay put, calling Rocko and telling him also to stay put, just in case.

  A long forty-five minutes of plodding through the soft sand, the cool ocean breeze in our faces, and we arrived back at the metal shed, finding Stretch on stag. Inside, the DGSE were waiting expectantly after our unexpected early return.

  I reported, ‘Eight men, we killed them. But the poison was leaking, so be careful when you go out there.’

  They shrugged. ‘We send the facility people, they know chemicals.’

  ‘Tell them to be careful, poison vapours.’

  The DGSE made a call

  Liban said, ‘These men are stupid, they come here after you kill men in Mali.’

  ‘If they knew,’ I countered with. ‘These men may not be the Algerians, just local men hired, men who never knew about Mali or anything other than this one well-paid job.’

  Liban made a face a shrugged. ‘You go now?’

  ‘In the morning, up to Western Sahara.’ I called London. ‘It’s Wilco, at the French desalination plant on the coast in Mauritania. We just shot dead eight naughty chappies who came here to poison the water, so get the forensics from the local police and the French. We’ll move to Western Sahara tomorrow.’

  The lads lay down, facemasks kept on, and got comfy. Another chill night in the tin shed to look forwards to, but we were definitely more comfy than my snipers and Rocko’s team, hidden in the cold sand.

  I called the RAF at Freetown and requested a ride for us, but they were not keen given the distance, suggesting a local aircraft. They would contact the French. I spoke to the DGSE men, and they pointed towards a French military base not far, C160s available to take us north. I asked that they arrange a plane for the morning, curtly pointing out that my men were doing their jobs for them.

  At dawn I was up and heating the water, one of Sasha’s lads on stag, and I shared my tea with him. Men finally stirred, Liban up and yawning.

  At 8am a jeep pulled up, a French facilities manager of some sort coming inside. He started yelling in French to the DGSE men, arms waved.

  I closed in on Liban. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They sent men to the bodies, with respirators and gloves, but they all died.’

  ‘Don’t they know how to handle dangerous chemicals?’ I complained.

  ‘There are more men getting ready, respirators.’

  ‘Stupid fucks,’ I cursed.

  An hour later we drove off, a half-hour drive along straight roads to a French base, weapons ready – just in case. Halting near a C160, we man-handled the crates down and stacked them, French airmen loading them for us. Our DGSE pair pulled in behind us in a jeep, backpacks with them. Seemed that they were coming along, Major Liban as well.

  The first man said, ‘Another two men died from the poison. A special team is going there.’

  I faced Major Liban. ‘The men who were paid to put that poison in the water, they would have been killed – maybe even the guy in the rubber suit.’

  ‘So the boss of the men does not ‘av to pay them, eh,’ Liban noted.

  I tapped my chin with my phone, Liban observing me, and called London. ‘It’s Wilco. I need to speak to a specialist from Porton Down labs, and right now. Call me back.’

  ‘Something?’ Liban asked.

  ‘Something doesn’t seem right here,’ I told him as we sat about waiting some pilots.

  My phone trilled ten minutes later. ‘Is that Captain Wilco?’

  ‘It is. Are you an expert on poisons and chemicals?’

  ‘More or less, fire away.’

  ‘I’m in Mauritania, West Africa, tracking a group that has been poisoning French desalination plants to piss of the French. They succeeded a few times, especially in Egypt, made a lot of people sick, some old men died.

  ‘This last group of men, we shot them before they could poison the water, but the canister was leaking vapour so we pulled back -’

  ‘If the canister is leaking vapour then it’s no good at all for poisoning water. What was the air temperature?’

  ‘Night time, cold as fuck.’

  ‘Very odd. If they had poured it into water then it would have simply evaporated. A poison suitable for water is stable enough to wash your hands in it without ill effect, it has to be ingested in sufficient quantities. Your stuff sounds nothing like that.’

  ‘What if they put the canister in the water, closed the pipe hatch,
and it leaks slowly?’

  ‘Yes, good idea, poison spread over time, but it would still evaporate.’

  ‘Pipes are sealed.’

  ‘Yes, but they all have small air pockets or the water would not flow, they’d be a suction effect. Poison would be airborne in a junction somewhere.’

  ‘Would some be in the water?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, for a short time, but if you poured it into a cup then most of it would evaporate before drinking.’

  ‘Men approached the canister with respirators on, and died.’

  ‘They did? Well ... that means that this stuff has contact properties, skin contact, so it’s not a poison.’

  ‘Second group of men went fully suited, and they died as well.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that is odd. But certain vapours will go through a cheap commercial respirator. Need a decent respirator. We have a team for this sort of thing, so I’m going to send them. I’d like to know what the heck it is, especially if it’s in the hands of terrorists. That and the fact that we have fuck all to do this week.’

  I smiled. ‘Talk to SIS, get the detail. Wilco out.’ I faced Liban and Henri as they waited. ‘Not a poison, it was designed for short term effect. That desalination plant, there would have been a big opening ceremony?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Liban suggested.

  ‘French Ambassador to taste the nice clean water?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘President?’

  ‘I don’t think so, they would have said.’

  After a mechanic had a look at the plane, not a good omen, we boarded finally and took off, a short enough ride north – just under three hours, soon bouncing along another basic strip. From the windows I saw two French Pumas being worked on, and a row of huts with soldiers milling around, one group marching.

  Buses met us, the gang loaded, a short trip to huts on dusty soil backed by distant orange mountains, two huts allocated to us. The beds had mattresses, and between each bed stood a wooden cabinet, each bed with a chair, so it was not too bad. Bottled water was stacked up ready.

  ‘Vee ‘av zee canteen,’ our soldier bus driver told us, and pointed at a brick building.

  ‘Captain Moran, go enquire about meal times, please. As well as serviceable and reliable helos.’

  I had a look at the map, and we were less than an hour’s flying time from the Moroccan border. But my map showed very little in the way of towns or villages near the border. In some ways that made it easier to find a nice villa – there were few around.

  When my phone trilled it was David. ‘Porton Down team on the way, they wangled a few days out of the office.’

  ‘They said they were bored.’

  ‘French team got the canister in a safe container finally, but they’ll burn the bodies near the scene just in case – which has caused a local outcry apparently. Local workers suspect foul play.’

  ‘It was foul play...’

  ‘On the French side I mean – not releasing the bodies.’

  ‘French problem, not ours.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘If and when we think we have a suitable villa we’ll move over the border, and if we don’t find one then we drive up to the border and have a look. Problem will be police checkpoints.’

  ‘In that part of Morocco they do stop and search, so be careful.’

  ‘And your man in the area?’ I pressed.

  ‘He arrived near the border, asking around. Up from the border there is one small town, harbour, some nice villas nearby.’

  ‘Let me know if he finds anything, Boss.’

  I called Tinker. ‘I’m now near the Moroccan border. Get CCHQ working on all the phones, try and link one to the south coast border of Morocco, and fast.’

  ‘Will do.’

  We sampled the canteen at 4pm, the food good, the lads boisterous and in good spirits, Rizzo asking about a trip across to Lanzarote, just thirty miles off the coast.

  ‘You have sand here,’ I told him. ‘What more do you want?’

  ‘Beer, girls...’ he listed off.

  ‘Captain Moran, try and find a bucket and spade for this man, it helps to maintain moral,’ I instructed, the lads laughing at Rizzo.

  At 5pm, still sat in the canteen and sipping coffee, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s David again. We have a problem. French team in Mauritania ran an experiment, and they were damn glad that they did. They put a rubber glove in with the poison vapours, and it ate away at the rubber.’

  ‘That kinda makes it hard to handle the stuff – or analyse it.’

  ‘They noticed a sticky white milky substance, clear fluid on top, so they think that it comes in several parts, one part being to eat away at rubber suits, next part to poison a man, third part to poison water.’

  ‘They didn’t do that in Egypt or Mali,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Not that we know about, there would be no residue. Maybe they’ve stepped up their game because they know we’re onto them.’

  ‘So that villa could come with a booby trap. Great.’

  ‘No good you using respirators either. Just have to stay upwind.’

  ‘OK, we’ll be careful, we’ll shoot the fuckers from distance.’

  That night we waited in the huts, waiting on some intel, and a plan that was better than just driving around looking at nice villas.

  Tinker called at 9pm.

  ‘Working late?’ I asked.

  ‘We all are. Anyway, GCHQ had an idea, and traced Hammad’s family name, found his grandfather – exiled to Morocco – and we have a burial registered in Marrakech, for a grave at a town down by the border.’

  ‘Good work, because Hammad will be within a mile of that grave. Send the detail to SIS, they have a man nearby.’

  ‘GCHQ has a man there as well, he was ... elsewhere and moved. Arabic gentleman. He’s at the graveyard as we speak.’

  ‘Excellent work, let me know what he finds.’ Thinking on, I called Hunt. ‘Listen, we may be here a while, so you and Captain Harris should fly here.’

  ‘OK, I’ll see what transport is available.’

  I briefed the team on what we knew, and what we might soon know. All changed into civvies, to be ready, but then just sat about chatting, a few paperbacks tackled, old and worn newspapers passed around.

  At 9pm David was back on. I asked, ‘You working late as well, Boss?’

  ‘Panic here, a plane has gone down with three hundred people on board. Pilots reported passengers falling sick and dying, hostesses collapsing, a strange sell.’ A chill went through me. David continued, ‘Pilots had oxygen masks on, but died, plane ploughing into a suburb near Casablanca. And it took off from Algeria.’

  ‘So one of these idiot poisoners had it on him, in the fucking cabin?’

  ‘Seems that way, or that they meant to bring down a plane.’

  ‘More likely their stupidity!’

  ‘European ministers are in a flap, COBRA meeting just broke up. Call for whatever resources you need, we need to find them and stop them. French are mortified, national state of alert, all water works to be guarded.’

  ‘So far, these stupid fucks have just targeted North Africa. If they could hit Paris they would have done. And will London really sanction a raid into Sudan?’

  ‘Yesterday I would have said no, but this changes things dramatically.’

  ‘Give GCHQ a nudge, all out effort on linking the phones together.’

  ‘I’ll send a note now.’

  ‘Oh, and GCHQ have a man just across the border. He found Hammad’s family grave plot.’

  David sighed. ‘They do play their cards close to their chests.’

  Next call was Credenhill. ‘It’s Wilco, I need two troops down to Western Sahara immediately for counter-terrorism work, more on standby. Those in Kenya, warn them that we might launch a raid into Sudan.’

  ‘Sudan! Are you fucking mad!’

  ‘PM has sanctioned it.’

  ‘He has? Fucking h
ell. They have a large army, jets, helicopters, surface to air missiles!’

  ‘Just have to sneak in and out. Update the Colonel.’

  I gathered all of the men in one hut, Major Liban with us. ‘Listen up. The idiots with the poison were flying on a commercial flight, but the poison leaked, killed everyone on the plane – including the pilots, and it ploughed into the ground.

  ‘French are shitting themselves, all water works guarded, big panic in Europe. And what we now know is ... don’t approach any of these idiots. They have a deadly poison, just not that clever at keeping the lid on the tin. If we raid a villa, be damn careful, approach up-wind. See any chemicals, vapour, run like fuck.’

  ‘What about respirators?’ Rizzo asked.

  ‘The chemical was designed to eat through rubber.’

  They exchanged worried looks.

  I added, ‘By morning, Intel may have got us the address of the villa, or late tonight. Have plenty of water, lay down and kip, we may go suddenly.’

  A minute later the two DGSE men came and found me. ‘French Echo, they come here to work with you.’

  I exchanged a look with Henri and Major Liban. ‘Who has operational control?’

  ‘You do ... but with consultations with us.’

  Liban shrugged a shoulder and made a face. ‘I check some huts for my men, no,’ he said as he stepped out.

  David called back half an hour later.

  ‘Christ, Boss, you getting double-time for these extra hours?’

  ‘I wish I was. Listen, low-ranking US Embassy staff on that flight that went down, so the FBI are now in the game, big team on their way to Morocco, and to you ... to get all the known intel.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to just to brief them on what we know and they go off and screw up some raid to arrest Hammad..?’

  ‘Just for once, play nice with the FBI, or I get it in the neck from above after they get it in the neck from Washington.’

  ‘And who has jurisdiction here?’ I pressed, loudly.

  ‘The FBI think they have jurisdiction over the entire world, you know that.’

  ‘And if they ask us not to go on a raid?’

  ‘Don’t tell them where you’re going. Tell them you’re off on a training exercise.’

  ‘With live ammo?’