by Geoff Wolak
‘They never found out who shot down Mahoney!’ Moran snarled.
Swifty suggested, ‘If you get a nugget of intel about our friends, you accidentally leak it to the media. That’s what they fear the most.’
I nodded slowly as Forester took in the faces.
He noted, ‘More going on here than meets the eye.’
‘Always, sir,’ Moran told him. ‘The soldiering is the easy part, the bullshit politics is the hard part.’
I faced Swifty. ‘Do we go?’
He considered his answer as Moran turned to face him. ‘Another jump onto a ship?’ He sighed out. ‘If we don’t get these idiots they try again later, and you’re the only one that will get them. Not the fucking Yanks, not London. A year from now we might get a missile up the arse.’
‘Is that a yes?’
He reluctantly nodded.
I faced Moran and waited.
‘I’d do anything to hurt these fuckers, for Mahoney and the boys. I’m in.’
I faced Forester. ‘You’ll need to hold the fort here for a week more, sir, then return to the UK. Coordinate with Sanderson at GL4. I won’t take a large team with me.’
‘I can handle that, yes,’ he confidently stated.
I told Moran, ‘Get them all bedded down, Echo, I’ll pick a team in the morning, I’ll chat to London now.’ I stepped out to the empty hotel pool and called Langley first.
‘Duty Officer.’
‘It’s Wilco. Get the Deputy Chief to call me back, but first … first get all your senior staff in, spare shirts, and a shit load of coffee.’
‘Ah hell. We expecting trouble?’
‘Hell on earth is about to erupt.’
‘It’s never good news with you.’
I called Bob Staines and filled him in as I took in the empty pool. ‘I want those cartridges with the prints of Elvis, plenty of them, and get Car 55 ready, I have a list of names coming.’
‘London won’t be happy, nor Washington…’
‘I don’t give a fuck! They’re not losing men, I am! They’re not the target, I am!’
‘I’ll start to make some plans.’
Softer, I added, ‘I’ll probably head to the States soon.’
Call ended, it bleeped, so I called back the Deputy Chief.
‘Wilco, what the fuck now?’
‘Got a spare shirt in the drawer?’ I asked.
‘I do now, and spare socks and shorts. What’s the panic?’
‘I can’t give you the full picture, certainly not on the phone, and my sources need to be protected, very well protected, so … you’ll need to read between the lines and assume the worst. First part, that ship. It dropped off twenty-five Stingers.’
‘Stingers! For the Tijuana Cartel!’
‘Yep.’
‘What the fuck are they going to do with them?’
‘I would have started to guess that they target Mexican police helicopters, army Hueys, but … like I said … more going on here that meets the eye. My Israeli major suggested that they blackmail Mexico City, the threat to shoot down an airliner.’
‘Jesus, the holiday trade would be crippled!’
‘Where is the holiday trade? West coast?’
‘West coast for those living in California, east coast for pale New Yorkers and pale Europeans, some pale Canadians.’
‘The real target is me and my team.’
‘You’re not in Mexico!’
‘No, but they made sure I got the intel and would follow it.’
‘A trap?’ he asked.
‘Looks that way. But … but there are reasons I need to spring the trap, or someone else gets a missile up the arse. Can you arrange a discrete jet, Gulfstream, twenty men. From Freetown, Sierra Leone, to San Diego then to ship, fast as you can.’
‘Normally they would ask questions, but if it’s for your team ... no damn questions these days.’
‘Nice to be popular, eh. Sort the aircraft for 9am or later tomorrow, but I may chat to you during the night, things can alter quickly. Don’t go home.’
‘God damn, my wife will be after my hide again.’
‘Blame me.’
‘I always do!’
‘Oh, and I want operational control on the ground of intel coordination and special forces inserts. Send that up the line now.’
‘Why take the blame like that if something goes wrong?’ he posed.
‘Job needs doing, screw the blame.’
I called Miller’s boss. ‘It’s Wilco.’
‘You’re in Monrovia, and lost a man…’
‘Yes. Listen, got something that will keep you awake tonight and cursing loudly.’
‘Ah … shit. It’s never good news is it.’
‘Our Saudi friends just handed the Tijuana Cartel twenty-five Stingers.’
After a long pause came, ‘Do you ever wish you had chosen a different career path?’
‘No more than five or six times a day.’
‘Mother fuckers. They shot down Desert Sands, and that still hurts, now this. What they after?’
‘My team.’
‘So … why send the missiles to Tijuana?’
‘My source was fed some intel, and he fed it to me, and I’m heading for Tijuana, and they anticipated that.’
‘Sneaky little sand shitters.’
‘I’ll be on a plane a while, so you have some time to sleep and to think and to make some plans. Step one, talk to Delaney.’
‘What about?’
‘Congressional approval for the temporary use of your military on home soil.’
‘What … the fuck … for?’
‘You’ll need to close the Mexican border, so tight that not even a gerbil will get through.’
‘Why, for fuck’s sake?’
‘A hunch. Trust me, and panic. Wilco out.’
I called David Finch. ‘You at home?’
‘Yes, this about your man Parker?’
‘No. Your end secure?’
‘Yes, and checked regularly.’
‘Our good friends, the ones that shot down Desert Sands, they just handed the Tijuana Cartel twenty-five Stinger missiles, and fed my source some intel that would place my team in Mexico, and in target range.’
‘Oh … dear god. It’s never good news, is it.’
‘That’s what the Yanks said. I asked Langley for a plane, a flight to San Diego, transfer to ship. Unless you have something pressing for me, some … paperwork maybe, some filing.’
‘What do you anticipate happening?’
‘Not on the phone, but … hell on earth is about to erupt.’
‘Should I see the PM now?’
‘No, in the morning, nothing happening overnight. But he needs to know that I’m the target here.’
‘So why go?’
‘If they miss me, what’ll they do with the missiles? Target airliners and ask for ransom?’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but better that they target your team, you can look after yourselves.’
‘That’s what I figured; I’m a more tempting target. Chat tomorrow.’
My phone beeped, so I called back Langley. ‘Wilco, Duty Officer. That ship, it blew before it was boarded and it sank real quick.’
‘I don’t think the crew knew about that fact, I think someone in Tijuana was covering his tracks. Do me a favour, and assemble an assault force off San Diego, Marines, SEALs, helos, medics.’
‘You’ll go ashore, go after them?’
‘That’s what people think I do for a living. Wilco out.’
I called Carlos next. ‘Listen, I need a favour, no questions asked, very tight security, Tomsk will pay. Find a middle man, pay him to find someone not linked to you, and thirty miles east of you I want a small group of men to fire RPG and machineguns across the border, near border guards without hitting them. Make some noise.
‘And if you can hire some ex-Lobos men all the better. On a side note, the Tijuana Cartel just took delivery of twenty-five Stinger missiles,
to shoot down helicopters and aircraft.’
‘My god. We had heard that a shipment of weapons had landed, but not what was in the crates. What do these idiots want with missiles?’
‘To shoot down my team as we fly in to get the missiles. We are the target, the missiles the bait.’
‘They are mad at you some,’ he noted.
‘Keep paying your people in the area, get all the information you can please.’
‘The cartel lord is Charall, supposedly responsible for the shipment.’
‘Try and find out where the crates went.’
‘My man has an idea.’
‘Spend a lot of money, a great deal of money. But organise that border attack as soon as you can, get ready for more, no track back to you.’
‘You want the Americans tight on the border?’
‘Yes, and angry at the cartels. Be sure of your cross-border operations, there will be more police on the border, maybe Army as well, looking for Tijuana Cartel men.’
‘I can arrange blame to go their way, yes. And I have Tijuana men dead, on ice, the right tattoos.’
‘Warm up the bodies, arrange a jeep fire.’
‘I will make them look bad, yes,’ he offered.
‘And Carlos, don’t fly anywhere eh.’
‘No, no flying around here,’ he nervously agreed.
Tomsk called next, ten minutes later, as I sat on a plastic sunbed. ‘Carlos just told me about the missiles. What do these stupid fucks want to do now?’
‘They want me to go for the missiles and walk into a trap.’
‘Ha, you are too good for that,’ Tomsk suggested.
‘I’m flying to America, then my team will attack the cartel, so bribe some people, find out all you can, and have the Panama police watch the airport – where the planes come into land and take off, looking for men with heat-seeking missiles.’
‘You think they target me here?’
‘Maybe, they know the link and want back at you.’
‘My tourist trade!’
‘Yes, a problem, so have men looking for outsiders, Mexicans with large boxes in trucks. I’ll send Tiny over.’
‘Ah, good, she has a nose like a dog.’
‘I … am going to try and not imagine that,’ I told him. ‘Talk soon.’
I called Bob Staines. ‘Put Tiny on a flight to Panama straight away, she can sniff around.’
‘What is she looking for?’
‘What if a tourist plane is shot down in Panama..?’
‘Tomsk would lose his tourist trade for six months, yes. They might want to hurt him that way, or any way.’
‘Bob, you’re a smart man, so … what would be the maximum damage you could cause with twenty-five stingers?’
‘Get them into the States, shoot down one plane a day for a month, and then all air traffic would be grounded indefinitely, the US economy screwed.’
‘Why would the economy be screwed?’ I puzzled.
‘Politicians, celebs, and business leaders all fly around to important meetings. Buyers would not get to meet sellers, deals not done, contracts not signed. It would be chaos, big business grinding to a halt, mail and parcels not delivered. And millions fly every month, a lot of money turning over. And fear is the key.
‘People don’t like flying, we all fear a crash, but if you thought a cartel had missiles aimed at you … then you’d not fly for a year. They probably only need to down two aircraft before the panic spreads.’
‘The cartel has a secure pipeline north for the drugs,’ I told him. ‘So smuggling these small missiles won’t be an issue. But why piss off the Americans like that, they would face reprisals.’
‘Politics,’ he suggested. ‘With such a crisis in effect, people vote Republican.’
‘Bob, you are indeed a smart man. And FBI Deep State were in bed with the Republicans.’
‘A few missiles fired, a few planes down, news leaked, and the voters change tack. Election is in full swing right now, mid-terms, vote coming up.’
‘And here I sit, right in the middle,’ I noted.
‘Tread carefully, because someone over there is thinking and has had his coffee.’
‘These guys aren’t so smart. I got their fissile material, and … I may get a tip-off from our insider again, in a garden gnome. Their own people don’t want them involved in this shit.’
‘By flying there, and hitting the cartel,’ Bob warned, ‘you’re doing exactly what they want. The more police officers and tanks seen on the nightly news, the more they’re going to like it. Deep State as well.’
‘I can’t avoid the side show here, but I can get a few people some shit publicity.’
‘Win or lose, they get what they want,’ Bob noted. ‘Wilco rides to the rescue, good for the TV minutes, great for the Republicans.’
I sighed, loudly. ‘Wilco the puppet.’
‘Play the role, try to appear to be on their side, snuggle up to them as you did with Deep State,’ he suggested.
‘I don’t know who they are yet!’
‘They may make contact at some point. Go see the NRA, give a demo, meet some arms producers.’
‘Bob, you are indeed an evil, sneaky, conniving little shit. When I first met you in Riyadh they said of you that you’d not harm a fly - unless it was in the way of your career progression.’
‘True, very true, and now I’m sat in a good position, more so than being in London. Real work, real results, not forms to fill in.’
‘I’d bet my life on the fact that you have a daily tick list…’
‘Well … yes, need to be organised.’
I found my face moving into a weak smile. ‘Wilco out.’
Up in my room, I told Swifty to go spend some time with his nurse, and to sleep on the plane. ‘You could be dead next week.’
‘Was nearly dead today,’ he complained. ‘Could have been me. Could have been her hit as well.’
‘So get a room.’
‘Actually … yes,’ he said with a grin as he left the room.
I lay down, phone on my chest. Thinking. I woke as it trilled.
‘Duty Officer, Langley. Plane will be in Freetown around 8am, sat waiting for you.’
‘And the route?’
‘Across the pond to the Caribbean then Texas.’
‘Make sure it avoids Mexican airspace, eh.’
He laughed and cut the call.
I called GL4 and requested that Major Harris be put on a flight for San Diego straight away.
In the morning I had Echo assemble at 7am. ‘OK, listen up. I’m taking a small team, maybe a small insert, and a dangerous insert, drug cartel territory.’ I took in their faces. ‘Moran, Ginger, Swifty, Mitch and Greenie, Rizzo, Slider, Mouri, Tomo, Monster and … Stickler.’ I pointed at Stickler and faced Rizzo. ‘He up to the job?’
‘The little fucker runs better than me, and shoots better.’ He shrugged.
‘Stickler, stay close to Monster, use him to block the sunlight, avoid sunburn.’
They smiled.
‘Tomo, are you still a pain in the arse?’
‘I’m OK if I’m lying on my front and shooting,’ he retorted. ‘Need a cushion for the flight.’
‘Go fetch Brigson and his mate, and Muscles and his mate, they come along. Rest stay here and help Mister Forester clean up this city, a week, then back to the UK. Doc Willy, you’re senior.’
‘What about me?’ Salome complained.
‘I don’t see you being on the ship helping out, nor on the insert and getting wounded. Find some people here to shoot for a week. OK, get crates loaded up, make safe weapons, no grenades on the plane, no water in the crates, ready to go in ten minutes. Have a good shit if you need one, don’t drink too much before we fly, they should have food on board.’
I had already made the call to Freetown, and our Chinook loudly touched down twenty minutes later on the road outside the hotel. I helped Swifty carry our crate, our new white t-shirts inside. His nurse watched him go, a cauti
ous wave issued.
‘Good night last night?’ I asked.
‘I’m bleeding knackered,’ he responded over the roar of our ride.
We thundered low level and high speed across Sierra Leone, a glimpse of the old FOB, fond memories coming back. And that was odd, odd in that memories of living rough and getting shot at could be fond memories, but they were, and I smiled briefly.
At the airport we were met with a line of alert MPs, and the colonel. Crates out, we glimpsed the sleek Gulfstream, its co-pilot stood at the base of its steps and observing us.
I saluted the colonel.
He began, ‘Your ride got here more than an hour ago, refuelled and checked, and well-guarded. And that major is on his way back to the UK, my boot firmly up his arse. His sister, the nurse, is in trouble with the hospital, disclosing patient details.’
‘At least it was nothing sinister, sir.’
‘Where are you off?’
‘America, sir. Some bother to sort out south of the border.’
‘Well good luck.’
Before boarding I called London and told them I would be out of touch for a while.
Crates in the hold, straps tightened, and we boarded, a wave at the colonel from me. I went forwards and found the pilot, noticing two lady airhostesses. They were pleasant-faced, yet tough looking, and in their thirties.
The pilot looked up.
I told him, ‘There are men out there with heat-seeking missiles. When you take off you skim the trees, down the estuary, and stay at ten metres off the deck till we’re well out to sea.’
‘I fly for the company,’ he assured me. ‘Ex military.’
‘These air hostesses…’
‘Company as well, so be careful. They bite.’
Finding a seat in a block of four with a table, I told the lads, ‘Air hostesses are CIA. Be nice, or it’s going to hurt.’ The lads were all in our jungle stripe green shirts, most with sweat stains showing, most unshaven.
Doors closed, men with orange wands glimpsed, and we taxied around, soon lined up, a roar and we were forced back in our seats, soon skimming the trees, but then we dipped, the water seen.
‘What the fuck is this pilot doing?’ Rizzo worried. ‘We swimming there?’