Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  Thick trees gave way to bushes, and a tall fence topped off with barbed wire. I knelt, now thankful for the camouflage jacket. The teams all knelt, and now I wished I had my snipers with me.

  The other side of the fence lay a hundred yards of concrete, no cover, then low single–storey buildings and sheds. I studied the windows, only seeing movement once, the usual workers all on a Christmas break no doubt.

  A look to the right, and I could see a way in that had better cover, so I moved bent double that way, the teams following in a line. Reaching a corner of the fence, I could see that the sheds had no windows.

  ‘Pull up the fence,’ I whispered.

  Moran and Swifty, Henri and Jacque, ran in and grabbed the bottom of the wire fence as I covered them, the soldiers aiming their Valmect rifles at the sheds. Fence up, I slid under and ran to a shed, my back soon to a wall as the lads all came inside, the last two men holding the fence for Sasha.

  Moving right, and around a part of the installation we had not seen yet, I found plenty of cover and few windows. At the end of the buildings I knelt, and around the building’s corner I could now see two black BMWs. Looking in the side window of one car, as if a mirror, I could see a third car.

  In front of me the apron stretched out, a hundred yards to the first cold Cessna parked there. An engine started up beyond the Cessna.

  Easing back, I looked up, seeing that we could get onto the flat roof. A car door slammed. I rushed to the corner and peeked around. It was Sedan, stood there, four men with him, two carrying what looked like folding stock AK47s. I gave hand signals that all of the teams could see.

  Back peeking around the wall, Sedan and his men all looked up as an aircraft lifted off, a blue and white Cherokee. My heart skipped a beat as I recognised a word, “Good luck”.

  ‘Moran,’ I hissed. ‘Run back, under the fence to the road and beyond, see what direction that plane is headed. Go!’

  He sprinted off, pistol in hand.

  ‘Henri, call Paris, tell them to stop all light aircraft approaching Paris!’

  Henri could see my look, a look that he soon adopted as he took his phone out. I waved forwards Rocko’s and Rizzo’s teams. ‘We rush them. Get ready. Twenty yard dash.’

  I stood, peeked around the wall - the men stood chatting, car doors being opened. ‘Now!’ I whispered, and ran along the wall bent double and up, and sprinted. They saw me too late, my pistol raised as I slowed down, two rounds into a startled Sedan knocking him backwards, one round each for the two armed men with him.

  Cracks sounded out all around me, Sedan hit again as he slid down a car, the armed men hit multiple times. Spinning left, I found a startled man emerging from a doorway and fired the same time as Swifty, the man hit four times.

  ‘On me!’ I shouted, and I ran to the door and in, straight down a shiny-floored corridor – my boots echoing, a man emerging from a room – and punched he was so close. I skidded to a halt and spun around, two rounds fired down as Swifty also put two rounds into the man, both of us swapping magazines. ‘Go room to room in pairs!’ I shouted.

  Swifty followed me into the first room, empty desks found, no one found hiding, footsteps heard from the corridor. Back in the corridor, the teams running past, we joined them till all had moved into rooms, and I kicked a door in, soon inside and knelt, pistol held level. It was clear.

  Four rooms later, and we had found a very empty building.

  Rizzo came running. ‘Wilco!’ he screamed in a panic. ‘There’s two men in fucking spacesuits with canisters!’

  ‘Show me,’ I urged, and we ran back along the corridor. Rizzo led me into a room and across to a window. Through the blinds lay a gap of twenty yards to another building, and it I could see two men in full chemical suits in the next building, moving a three-litre canister to a larger container. ‘Shit...’ I turned. ‘But they didn’t hear the shooting.’

  Swifty put in, ‘We get the French specialists in.’

  I nodded. ‘But if there’s two still alive, I want them alive to question them. On me.’

  Out the room and left, we ran to the door we had entered from, the bloodied bodies still there. ‘Search the cars!’ I shouted. ‘Maps, documents, phones. Get their mobile phones, get Sedan’s sat phone!’

  As the cars and bodies were being turned over, I snuck a peek around the building corner. I could see the window in question, but not inside at this angle. A heavy sigh issued, and I figured I would have to chance it. A look at Swifty, and we sprinted across to the door. A signal exchanged, and Swifty opened the door for me.

  I rushed inside, pistol first, a young man in a suit walking towards me, rifle slung. I aimed at his chest, but then hit his soft spot. Rushing at him, I kicked him down, rifle removed, and knelt on his groin, eliciting a loud moan. Pistol down, I grabbed a wrist and twisted till he screamed, then broke his wrist.

  In Arabic I began, ‘What was the plan here? Are there chemicals anywhere else or just here?’

  ‘Here,’ he cried. I put a round through his knee.

  ‘Tell me what I want to know and you get an ambulance and a hospital. There was poison on the plane that took off?’

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘Some to be driven by the Chinese, some to be driven by an Algerian boy from Rennes? Yes?’

  ‘Yes...’ he strained to get out.

  ‘Any other drivers?’

  ‘No...’

  I grabbed his remaining good wrist and twisted hard. ‘Just two consignments of the poison to be driven?’

  ‘Yes...’ he strained out.

  A door opened, a shaft of light seen. Swifty fired before I could scream at him not to. The man in the yellow spacesuit was hit in the chest and fell back. Swifty was up and running, and kicked the door in, two shots fired.

  ‘Shit!’ He slammed the door shut and knelt, a blast heard. ‘He had a grenade!’

  I leapt up and scrambled over the young man, running to the door. I opened it to find one spaceman on his back, one having fallen into a chair, the window blown out, a canister issuing vapour. I slammed the door. ‘Run,’ I said as I shoved Swifty on. ‘It’s leaking. Grab him!’

  We grabbed the injured man and lifted him, dragging him out as faces peered in the doorway.

  ‘Get out!’ I shouted. Out the door I shouted, ‘Everyone move back now, the poison is leaking!’

  A car sped towards us, and screeched to a halt, Moran at the wheel. I helped Swifty put our wounded suspect in the back.

  ‘Which way is the wind blowing?’ I asked as I straightened. We all turned to the windsock. ‘West,’ Swifty said.

  ‘We need to stay upwind,’ I told everyone.

  ‘Upwind? Why?’ Moran asked as he eased out.

  ‘Fucking chemicals inside, and leaking,’ I told him.

  ‘Other side of those trees is a fucking town,’ Moran shouted. ‘I ran past it and saw it.’

  I turned to Henri. ‘Get the specialist chemicals team in here! Fast! And have this area evacuated.’ To the teams I said, ‘Move east, over the runway. Jacque, go tell the pilots here to evacuate, and why!’

  Jacque sprinted towards the hangars, the rest moving towards the runway and facing into the chill fresh wind, Moran moving the car slowly that way. We walked after it, glancing back.

  Henri shouted, ‘The chemicals team has a problem with the helicopter, they set down. A team from Paris is one hour!’

  I halted. ‘In an hour that shit will be in the town, the window is gone.’

  ‘What the fuck you thinking?’ Swifty asked, and not with his happy face on.

  ‘We need to do something,’ I told him.

  ‘Like what, for fucks sake! We wouldn’t be safe even in a suit!’

  I faced the buildings, and pointed at a building being renovated. ‘Building materials! Cement!’ I ran.

  ‘Cement!’ came from behind as Swifty followed me.

  ‘Cement has lime, it neutralises chemical poisons!’

  I reached the building, shot off
the lock and rushed inside. We found bare concrete walls and floors, tools abandoned for the festive holiday, and six bags of cement. I tore one open, lifted it and poured it all over me whilst holding my breath.

  Bag down, I shook my face and rubbed my hands. Bending over, I grabbed a full bag and ran back out, rudely shouldering Henri out the way as I went, the stink of cement powder in my nostrils and in the back of my throat.

  Ten yards, and in I went, past the blood stain on the floor and to the door at the end of the corridor, breath held, door handle turned. In I went without a second thought, tearing open the bag over the canister, a huge cloud of grey cement powder created, the canister covered.

  Shaking out the bag and creating a cloud of grey dust that enveloped the body in the chair, I ran back, about to close the door as a grey object slammed into me, my eyes mostly closed now.

  Passing me, the grey object tore open his own bag and emptied the contents, but all over the room as he span. I held the door as he followed me out. I had closed the door, coughed and spluttered, soon a shout and I was pushed aside, the door opened again, two grey men rushing inside, the room now full of cement powder, visibility reduced to zero.

  Bags torn open and thrown around, the two grey men stumbled towards me, so I grabbed them and pushed them past me as I hacked up cement powder. The door was finally closed, so I shouted at them to run as they hacked up their breakfast.

  Into the daylight we stumbled, all hacking, eyes barely functioning.

  ‘Help us!’ I shouted. ‘Move up wind! Close your eyes!’

  An arm grabbed me and led me off, and we were soon running.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Rizzo said. ‘You’re smoking grey fucking cement like you’s on fire.’

  We halted, and someone bumped into me. I blinked my eyes open. ‘Don’t use water on your eyes!’ I took my jacket off, and lifted my shirt, wiping my face. Bent over, I rubbed my hair, a cloud of grey dust created, men hacking nearby, but my eyes were again mostly closed.

  Wiping my face again, in my t-shirt now, I was finally able to open my eyes, and lifting up I breathed welcome cool air. I could see Swifty, Henri and Moran, all covered in cement.

  ‘What the fuck was all that about?’ Rocko asked me.

  ‘Cement powder has lime, which would help to neutralise the chemical. Otherwise the local town loses its inhabitants.’

  ‘Stupid cunt,’ Stretch said. ‘Could have been killed.’

  Moran wiped his face with some assistance, and coughed.

  I asked him, ‘That plane, which way did it go?’

  ‘North.’

  ‘North? You sure?’

  ‘Sun in the west, so yeah. Straight course till I couldn’t see it anymore. North.’

  ‘Shit.’ I shook my head, a grey cloud created, and clapped my hands together to get dust off them. ‘Henri, call Paris, tell them a plane has poison on it, heading north. It was a Cherokee light aircraft, partial registration was G-15.’

  He stared back from behind a grey mask. ‘There is some on the aircraft?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took out his phone as I took out mine, and without my jacket on I was chilling rapidly. I called SIS London. ‘It’s Wilco, at the airstrip previously described. We killed Sedan and his men, but a plane took off with chemical on board, and it’s flying due north from here.

  ‘If it’s heading to the UK it will hit the Cornish coast in one hour. I want every police officer in Devon and Cornwall, on the coast, binoculars, looking for that plane.

  ‘It’s a low-wing monoplane, a Cherokee, blue and white, partial registration G-15, that’s all I got-’

  ‘You think it’s heading for us?’

  ‘Fuck knows where it’s heading, could be Jersey or Guernsey, or it could turn east for Paris, but it flew off due north without turning. Update David and the Director! Now!’

  I remembered a number, and called the Air Commodore.

  ‘Hello?’ came his wife.

  ‘Barbara, it’s Wilco, get me the Air Commodore! Now!’

  ‘Hang on,’ came a worried voice.

  I could hear music.

  ‘Wilco?’ came another worried voice.

  ‘Get a paper and pen, sir, fast.’

  ‘Hold on. OK, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m in France, chasing a gang of Algerians who’ve been poisoning the water in North Africa -’

  ‘I saw it on the news.’

  ‘They were headed for Paris -’

  ‘Ah, that explains what I saw on the news, soldiers in Paris.’

  ‘They loaded some of the chemical poison to a plane. Write this down.’ I gave the detail. ‘That plane flew north from Rennes in France half an hour ago, heading due north.’

  ‘North? That would take it to ... Plymouth.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and it has enough nerve agent onboard to kill everyone in Plymouth! You must intercept that plane and shoot it down.’

  ‘Shoot it down?’

  ‘Yes, sir. An enquiry we’ll survive, but the people of Plymouth won’t survive the nerve agent being released from a plane. Sir, intercept that fucking plane at all costs! Do you understand me?’ I shouted.

  ‘I’m on it, I’ll get back to you.’

  A grey-faced Henri approached me as I finished the call, the car with our wounded man being driven across the runway, all of us walking slowly across. ‘They will launch fighters around Paris. They are looking for that plane.’

  ‘The prisoner said there were no more vans on their way to Paris. I think this is all of it. And some on that plane.’

  Moran wiped his face in his lifted t-shirt. ‘That was a dumb thing to do.’

  ‘Very dumb, Captain, so no more silly ideas like that,’ I told him, the lads laughing at Moran, Swifty still hacking.

  Swifty asked, ‘Is cement powder poisonous?’

  ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘But at least you’ll shit solid lumps for a while.’

  Cars burst onto the airfield, vans behind, and sped towards us, screeching to a halt.

  Major Liban ran over, shocked by four us having turned grey. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Cement powder,’ I told him. ‘Listen, call Paris, have the town near here evacuated, a ten mile zone. Quickly!’

  ‘There are roadblocks, some evacuations, yes,’ he said as he lifted his phone.

  My phone trilled. ‘Captain Wilco?’ came an accented voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Minister of the Interior.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What can you tell us?’

  ‘We found Sedan and his men, one taken alive the rest killed, but one man pulled the pin on a grenade which damaged a container of poison. It is leaking, so evacuate this area, but we covered it with cement powder.’

  ‘You went inside the building ... with a leaking canister?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and spread cement powder around the room. That should help, but a plane took off and we could not stop it. It is heading north.’

  ‘We have aircraft up protecting Paris -’

  ‘Minister, what will the British people do to you if that plane reaches a British town?’

  After a long pause came, ‘We will find it, and shoot it down.’ The line went dead.

  I told Liban to move his vehicles out of here, and we mounted the mini-vans, our state the subject of many questions, and a few complaints as we drove back to the army base, this time driving through the city, flashing lights at the front, and by now the average French citizen must have been well pissed off with the disruption we were causing.

  Back at the canteen, I needed a coffee, my filthy state causing shocked looks from the catering ladies.

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s SIS London. Update: Jersey radar has that plane heading north at five hundred feet.’

  ‘I got a call in to the RAF, so hopefully they’ll intercept it.’

  ‘Panic stations here, COBRA meeting in progress, Condition Black on all UK military bases, NBC suits being dusted
off.’

  ‘Good practice for them.’

  ‘And the French just closed all roads in and out of Paris, all light aircraft banned for seven days.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I faced Henri. ‘I told your government there were no more fucking vans, but they’ve locked down Paris.’

  He shrugged. ‘They take no chances.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Air Commodore. We have two Nimrod aircraft up, from RAF Saint Mawgan, and Tornados flying down as we speak. Any Tornado that can fly is being dusted off right now, and two Hercules have been sent to search. Also had a Frigate about to enter Plymouth, so she’s turned around and is steaming south, a destroyer turned around and tasked.’

  ‘I asked the French to assist with intercepting it as well, sir.’

  ‘Well you’ve turned every RAF base upside down in one go, and on Christmas Eve, so you won’t be popular, but it might blow the cobwebs off a few units. I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Five minutes later, my face washed in the toilets and my hair in danger of becoming a solid mass, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Passing you over to the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Captain Wilco?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What do we know about this plane heading for us?’

  ‘I was there when it took off, and a wounded suspect suggested it was carrying the chemical agent.’

  ‘Can we be sure of that?’

  ‘Can you afford to take the chance, sir?’ I curtly asked.

  ‘No, given what has been reported. And we’ve just heard that the French have launched most every plane they have. Paris is on lock down, so heads will roll if mistakes are made here. Still, I’ve just authorised for that plane to be shot down.’

  ‘One man in a plane is a tragedy, sir, but a hundred thousand dead in Plymouth is a holocaust.’

  ‘Yes, quite. So let’s hope the RAF intercept it. Speak soon, and well done on the investigation, fast work and good work I’m led to believe.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  A minute later my phone trilled again. ‘Wilco.’