Wilco- Lone Wolf 22

by Geoff Wolak

‘When will it get to Cancun?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow.’

  ‘So some time to stop it. Anything in Tijuana?’

  ‘We got a chap killed unfortunately; we told him things he should not have known. They shot him, we know, because we got the gossip about it.’

  ‘Does that place twenty miles south still look good?’

  ‘Yes, definitely.’

  ‘We hit it at dawn our time, so seven hours from now I guess.’

  ‘I’ll make sure they monitor the chat.’

  ‘US Navy think that there’s a compound, a dozen men sat playing cards.’

  ‘Correct, we have a man chatting to someone there. They’re guarding crates in a building, and bored. Charall visited once, yesterday.’

  ‘Let your people know, action at dawn, stay sharp tonight, or whatever time it is there?’

  ‘Early morning here, dawn just about.’

  ‘Does your shirt smell?’

  ‘Well … I have a spare, but yes – I do sleep in it. Needs ironing. They call me Wrinkly Rick now.’

  I smiled. ‘Job comes first, lives on the line.’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.’

  Back inside, I informed them, ‘British intel confirms the compound, they have contact with a man inside, who thinks he’s chatting to a cartel lieutenant. They’ll warn me of any movement before we insert.’

  The commander unhappily reported, ‘That border incident is a damn full-scale attack!’ He waited.

  ‘Wait a day, then you’ll crap your trousers,’ I told him as I studied the map. Heads turned inwards. ‘You’ll have the White House shouting at you, the media on your backs, lives on the line.’ I finally lifted my head. ‘When the action starts, well laid plans go out the fucking window.

  ‘You may have two F18s clip wings, a helo goes down in a bad place, all things out of your control and your neat tick list.’

  He looked worried, a glance at the Admiral. ‘We plan as best we can, we react as best we can. That’s all we can do.’

  ‘Correct. But I keep telling people … luck is a factor.’

  ‘You look tired, Major,’ the Admiral noted.

  ‘Long trip to get here, sir, after a bad day in Africa, and my hip hurts.’

  ‘You broke your hip,’ he noted.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Medics can get you some pain killers, then you can rest.’

  ‘No, sir, I need to be awake a while longer, my phone is key to this operation.’

  ‘Then sit quiet, coffee in hand.’ He nudged me towards a comfy seat, a major appearing ten minutes later, a doctor. I undid my belt and showed him the scar.

  ‘It’s healed, no infection. Guess it still hurts to move.’

  ‘It does,’ I confirmed. ‘Got some pain killers that won’t make me sleepy.’

  ‘Could give you a local..?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  After injecting me he returned to his sick bay, or wherever he hung out, and I sat as the duty officers sent and received messages. We were heading southeast from our current position, which was a hundred miles off San Diego it seemed. I could just about feel the huge carrier moving, and a hand on the desk confirmed the gentle vibration.

  Harris asked intelligent questions, and he knew what he was talking about.

  I heard the word “pollywog”. ‘Pollywog?’ I repeated, getting smiles from the officers. ‘Numerous wogs? Because us Brits call Somalis wogs.’

  ‘A rating or officer that hasn’t crossed the equator,’ they informed me.

  I nodded. ‘My men all went across the equator a dozen times in Kenya and Somalia, plenty of wogs seen.’

  ‘Is there an initiation in the British Army?’ an officer asked me.

  ‘Yeah - you keep your head down and try not to get killed. Which is what my men do most days of the week.’

  ‘And that film, Camel Toe Base?’

  ‘Dead accurate, timeline to the minute. Hard part was the sand storm, a few men choking to death in their facemasks.’

  ‘That goat is still there they say,’ a man put in. ‘Grown now, I guess.’

  An officer handed me a green shirt, and led me to a washroom. Clean shirt on after a quick wash, and I returned to the command room, less officers here now, Harris awake and alert, sat phone in hand. I sent him to warn Moran of the timescale.

  Franks and Dick sat near me, not many seats in here. It seemed that the officers here worked standing up. Franks began, coffee in hand, ‘What we hoping for here?’

  ‘Some good news; twenty missiles found and checked, just a few left out there, some on their way east. We’ll know at dawn.’

  ‘And if it’s a trap, that compound wired to blow?’

  ‘We still go, and we still have a look, even knowing the risks. We have no other option, we can’t bomb it.’

  ‘Could bomb it and sift the wreckage…’ he posed.

  ‘I’ve seen what a 2,000lb bomb can do, and there wouldn’t be much left. We need serial numbers, not bits of plastic.’

  ‘They could land a bomb fifty yards away, leave most of the compound intact,’ he suggested.

  ‘That was part of my plan, to shake the building, maybe set-off a trap, and to concuss the sleepy men inside.’

  Franks took a call on a large and dated wall phone after they called his name. Returning to me, I could see officers observing him as they worked. ‘That border incident is coast to coast, SWAT teams moving in, National Guard called up, talk of assault helos being sent there.’

  ‘Is there still fighting on-going?’ I puzzled.

  ‘It went on an hour, twelve jeeps destroyed or damaged.’

  ‘A distraction, maybe,’ I told him, knowing the truth here. ‘To draw your people away. They crossed over ten miles away.’

  ‘Maybe, yeah.’

  A quiet hour later and he took another call. Returning to me, he began, ‘They found a body, Tijuana Cartel tattoos. Langley is gearing up, White House has the lights on, coffee machine working overtime.’

  I was beckoned to a wall phone half an hour later.

  ‘Pentagon, sir,’ an officer told me.

  I took the receiver. ‘Major Wilco.’

  ‘Colonel Mathews. And that border incident was major, heavy weapons used. Army got permission, and Apaches have been dispatched to the border. Right now there are five hundred National Guard and a hundred cops there, units being called in from all over.’

  ‘Sounds to me like a distraction, sir.’

  ‘They had people cross over someplace else?’

  ‘That would be my guess, sir.’

  ‘We would need permission from Congress -’

  ‘You’ll get it.’

  ‘You sound sure…’

  ‘I am, so wait the permission, sir. Wilco out.’

  My phone trilled straight away, so I stepped onto the windy platform. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘British Ambassador to Mexico. Where are you, exactly, up a mountain it sounds like?’

  ‘On the USS Kitty Hawk.’

  ‘We’ve been having loud chats to London after your comments were reported on Reuters, and now our helpline is inundated with nervous tourists,’ he complained.

  ‘GCHQ is tracking surface to air missiles moving east to Cancun, they got the intercepts and the voice confirmation, British aircraft the target – which you may not repeat to anyone.’

  ‘Dear god. And will London stop the flights?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I hope so. Why don’t you ask them? Wilco out.’ I cut the call.

  When it trilled next it was David.

  ‘You up early?’

  ‘It’s 7am here, so my usual time. What’s happening there?’

  ‘We’re aboard the Kitty Hawk, dawn insert to where GCHQ fixed the location, then we may find some missiles, hopefully most of them. And GCHQ has a solid track on those missiles moving east, voice confirmation.’

  ‘PM is aware, meeting today pencilled in, but a travel warning is seri
ous, flights cancelled, compensation claims, and complaints from the Mexican authorities.’

  ‘Be more complaints when a plane is shot down!’

  ‘You deliberately released that story to Reuters?’

  ‘Yes, might do some good, save some lives.’

  ‘It’s on the breakfast news, people already cancelling holidays.’

  ‘And how many will cancel if a plane is shot down?’ I posed.

  ‘All of them, and Mexico will suffer an immediate loss of its entire tourist industry … and for a year or so.’

  ‘Then maybe the Mexican government should get up off its arse and do something. Pen them a stiff letter.’

  ‘Their President is due to call our PM today.’

  ‘You have the GCHQ intercepts…’

  ‘They may want more solid evidence.’

  I sighed. ‘Fuck ‘em, I’ll do it my way.’

  ‘If you do, the politicians here may want your head,’ he warned.

  ‘Which part of the fucking intel do you doubt?’ I loudly asked.

  ‘None of it, it’s just that the missile might be stopped and found en route to Cancun, you may get them at your end, and that’s an end to it.’

  ‘Well … maybe, yes. Besides, I think the missiles will go north of the border.’

  ‘To target American airports?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do they know that?’

  ‘No evidence to support my hunches, so they have a hint only.’

  ‘People panic at your hints, so they may well panic. This overnight border incident?’

  ‘A decoy maybe, someone crossing over up the road,’ I lied.

  ‘With a missile in a box maybe.’

  ‘Look, if you don’t act I will, I can’t have them shoot down British tourists because of my actions in Panama. And if the worst comes to the worst I join the CIA and stay here.’

  ‘Well, we don’t want that, no one wants that, so don’t do anything rash just yet.’

  ‘Let the PM know my concerns here, and tell him that … six hours from now we’ll have some answers. But make sure that he doesn’t talk to the Mexicans till after the operation is launched, eh.’

  ‘Yes, quite, they have been known to suffer corruption from time to time.’

  ‘From time to time, yes, the little rascals.’

  Another coffee was brought to me, plus a sandwich, the ship busy. When we went to General Quarters that all changed, Franks worried.

  An officer told him, ‘Standard operating procedure temporary order, within fifty miles of the coastline here.’

  I asked for a guide and was led up to the bridge, helmet offered but no life vest, then insisted upon. On the busy bridge I met the captain, Fooks, as many officers peered out with binoculars.

  ‘What are the origins of that name, sir?’

  ‘Irish. They meant to spell “folks” but got it wrong.’ I waited, he smiled. ‘Not sure, but it is Celtic.’

  ‘I have no intel on any cruise missiles, sir, they took delivery of Stingers.’

  ‘To target our F18s?’

  ‘Not … quite, no. The original plan was to do just that, but the ship broke down and was delayed. Now, now they have another plan, and that’s to target British tourist airliners in Cancun.’

  ‘Jesus, civilian targets. But they’re a gang, not an army. Fuck, the tourist trade will die quickly, Mexicans will be pissed.’

  My phone trilled, and I wondered how I got a signal in here with all the metal above me. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ I stepped to a window and put a finger in my ear. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s David, and the Mexicans are at panic stations, talk of the Stingers in the hands of the cartels. They fear that police helicopters could be shot down, so they’ve grounded them all.

  ‘And what you may not recall, is that the cartels threatened to down an airliner a few years back, to try and get one of theirs released from federal prison, so the Mexican authorities put two and two together … and have warned that civilian aircraft could be the target.

  ‘British news just picked up on that, people starting to cancel flights to Mexico, raised voices in Heathrow this morning.’

  ‘And the travel warning?’ I complained.

  ‘Now looks likely since we’re just confirming what is already out there. Should have a flag up within the hour?’

  ‘Flag?’

  ‘Foreign Office travel warning. It appears on screens at Heathrow.’

  ‘Do you mind if I accidentally get quoted again..?’

  ‘No, since it’s an accidental quote not a statement.’

  ‘Talk soon.’

  I called Max. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘It’s 8am, and I’m sat having a shit on a log outside the cave.’

  ‘Release this straight away. Major Wilco heard warning people not to fly into or out of Cancun, civilian aircraft will be shot down by the cartels. That is not a quote or a statement, you overheard it from the lads there. OK?’

  ‘I’ll run it now, then get myself back to the UK.’

  ‘Fed up there?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’d like a hot shower and a large pair of breasts.’

  ‘They can arrange a helo quickly. Get you back to your woman!’

  Back with the captain, he asked, ‘Good news or bad news?’

  ‘The Mexicans have realised what’s about to hit them, sir, and they’re crapping themselves. Flights will be empty or cancelled. And with a bit of luck your own travelling public will wake up to the idea.’

  ‘Has the State Department released a warning?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, and we hope that my dawn raid ends this, or at least gets most of the missiles.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘Then planes north of the border may drop from the sky, shot down by your own fucking missiles, paid for by US taxpayer’s dollars.’

  ‘Jesus, what a screw up. Where’d they get the Stingers?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir, but a friendly nation.’

  ‘Friendly my ass. Stingers don’t go missing without some careful planning!’

  I gave him a tired nod.

  Back below, Franks took a call. He reported, ‘President signed an executive order to send soldiers to the border, got the backing of Congress an hour ago, late emergency session. News has hit, and it’s fricking panic coast to coast.’

  Officers had stopped to stare, all with families to think about.

  I took in their faces. ‘My dawn raid might get the missiles. Fingers crossed.’ They did not look reassured as I had Harris lead me down to Echo and to a cluttered and loud hangar deck smelling of oil. I found Moran, Ginger and Slider and gave them a rundown, to pass on to the team.

  ‘They drop you by helo after dropping some bombs, the locals a bit pissed off and deaf. You’ll see a compound, isolated, so surround it and get inside, kill the men – not the women and kids if there are any. Look for booby traps, careful when opening doors - use a torch and look for wires, then report what you find, real Stingers or empty crates.

  ‘Damage the Stingers, then call extraction, then they bomb the place. All clear?’

  ‘The terrain?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Undulating low hills and scrubland, a mile down to the beach, a few tourist hotels around and some retired Yanks in nice holiday condos, no dense trees, it’s dusty brown grass apparently. One access road, so cover it.

  ‘If you have to withdraw, go down to the water’s edge, Marines will pick you up, helos available for extraction, lots of them. And if you’re hungry there’s a few fast food joints open 24hrs they said.’

  They smiled.

  Moran noted, ‘The retired pensioners nearby won’t be happy.’

  ‘If some white-haired Yank has a go at you, duff him up. Call me as soon as you insert, and with what you find.’

  When the commander appeared, back in the planning room, I asked him, ‘Can we bring forwards the launch time?’

  ‘Why the change in plan?’ he asked, and not with his
happy face on.

  ‘CNN is running this coast to coast. And they get CNN in Mexico!’

  ‘They could move the missiles, yes. OK, we’ll try and get all assets together in an hour or so.’

  I faced Harris as he stood in his silly blue-grey helmet. ‘Get Echo ready, kitted, but sat down waiting.’

  He rushed below.

  ‘They won’t be sleeping,’ Franks quipped. ‘Not at General Quarters.’

  ‘You don’t know my men,’ I quipped. ‘Some can sleep during a battle.’

  I ditched my silly helmet, being told off for doing so, Franks and Dick also ditching theirs.

  When Harris returned he reported, ‘They were ready anyhow, sleeping, and now sleeping in helmets and covering their faces to hide the fact that they’re sleeping. Rizzo slept through the General Quarters alarm anyhow, so they just put a helmet on his face.’

  I shook my head, a peeved look exchanged with Franks.

  The commander returned, and they started to make plans, many buzzwords used which I failed to understand, but I got the gist of it.

  When my phone trilled I stepped to the viewing platform, aircraft being made ready below, the deck busy. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘David again, and the Mexicans are threatening to mobilise their army and declare a state of emergency, roadblocks up. They’ve done that before, this is not new, but they now suggest that the army can move into Tijuana and go house to house.’

  ‘So the missiles could be moved first,’ I told him. ‘We brought forwards the insert, that will happen inside an hour, then we’ll know if the missiles are there at all. I’ll update you.’

  ‘I’m on the way to the COBRA meeting, ABTA been informed.’

  ‘ABTA?’

  ‘Travel agents association, the governing body. They’ll have people at the COBRA meeting, Foreign Office as well. Expect a call in half an hour.’

  ‘I’m here and awake,’ I assured him.

  Inside, I told Franks, ‘Mexican Army is getting mobilised, to go house to house in Tijuana.’

  ‘For all the good that will do,’ he scoffed. ‘Soldiers will sell the movements intel first.’

  I nodded, a glance at the map. A request from an officer, and I sent Harris to get Echo ready, helos would be here in ten minutes. Out on the platform with Harris and Franks I saw Echo appear below, and be directed to kneel in lines, and I was soon aware of the helos coming in, four of them.