by Geoff Wolak
The commander glanced at Franks and Harris. ‘Here, teamwork is everything, and the teams work very well together.’
‘I work for snakes,’ I told him. ‘Careers to be made, deals to be done.’ I faced Franks and waited.
‘Snakes fits well enough,’ he quipped. ‘And lower down than the snakes are the politicians.’ He took a call. ‘Traffic spike near that compound, CB radios being used, not secure, we’re listening in.’
I nodded. ‘We’ll thin them out a bit.’
Coffee brought to me, Franks took a call and frowned hard. Facing me, he said, ‘Someone in the group with CB radios is slandering the main man, Charall, some very colourful language used.’
‘Dissent in the ranks,’ I quipped, but did so with a smile. ‘Got a fix on Charall?’
‘To within ten yards.’
I faced the commander. ‘Drop a bomb on that location, please. Coordinate with the ship -’ I faced Franks. ‘- that’s monitoring him.’
Franks told the commander, ‘USS Clark, Intel Coordinator, name of Hamilton.’
Finger pointed, call made, and Hamilton was “real time and live”. I listened in, an F18 on station with his wing man, a bomb soon dropped.
I called Moran.
He gushed out, ‘Yanks just dropped a bomb on our visitors!’
‘I know, they fixed his radio chat.’
‘Well he’s toast then, but we got no line of sight, bomb dropped behind a ridge, loads of them sneaking up. I’m holding Tomo back and he’s complaining and being a pain in the arse.’
‘Let them get close, real close, but let Tomo smash up jeeps. How are they armed?’
‘Tomo says a few M16, some with just pistols, some hunting rifles and shotguns.’
‘Real professionals.’
‘One man with an RPG on his shoulder, but he tripped and dropped it.’
I laughed. ‘I want phones and IDs. How’s Rizzo’s arse?’
‘He tried soap, got a brown finger. He’s stood down at the moment and figuring a way to dislodge his turd.’
‘Tell him not to push too hard, that causes haemorrhoids. When he’s back here they can stick a tube up his arse, hot soapy water.’
‘I’ll give him the good news,’ Moran laughed. ‘Find a big male nurse for him.’
I called GCHQ. ‘Rick, it’s Wilco, you got any news on Charall because we think he’s a bit dead?’
‘Hold on, I have the updates here, I was having a break. Right, movement to the compound … yada, yada, yada … here, Charall and his lieutenants missing after bomb dropped, Dazo is in charge for now, talk of getting the money.’
‘Got some bad news for them, the US Marines took the money.’
‘Ah, so they’re after the cash, to nick it for themselves, yet there’s no cash left. They’ll be miffed.’
‘Keep the reports coming, I want info on the missiles.’
‘Hold on, latest position on the vehicle east of Mexicali.’ He read out the coordinates and I wrote them down. Call ended, map checked, and I could see that the jeep was on a certain road. I called Carlos to give him the road number, and he knew the road well, men in place and other men moving into place.
And the men in that jeep had no idea that an AWACS was high overhead, F15s sat ready, Apache attack helicopters sat ready with Blackhawks - and several hundred mixed special forces soldiers ready for a good leg stretch. That or a quick sixty seconds down and running from a helo.
After a coffee, and a big shit myself in a cramped toilet, Moran called. ‘We have loads of the fuckers now, they popped up from a drain, but they’re a bit crap – we just shot twenty of them.’
‘Be careful, could be other drains there, and these guys are motivated.’
‘Motivated!’ Moran scoffed.
‘They know about the cash in the floor vault and want at it.’
‘It’s gone, so they’ll be pissed off with us.’
‘Get me the phones,’ I urged.
‘Got some, no sat phones.’
‘Then call London with them if they have credit, it all helps. Zero-zero-four-four first.’
‘I’ll sit and make some calls then, these guys wives to get the bill and query their late husband’s calls to London.’
I called Colonel Mathews, and he was ready, the strike wing sat ready, updates to the White House situation room.
Facemask on, I approached the Press as they were rudely nudged like sheep by Naval officers, armed Marines stood like statues nearby in the noisy hangar deck. At the make-do podium, cables running out, I waited as the cameras got themselves sorted, finally a nod from a Naval officer.
‘I’m Major Wilco, and my role here is to coordinate the intel with men on the ground in Mexico and with the various intel agencies. This operation came about when we learnt that the Tijuana Cartel took delivery of twenty-five Stinger surface-to-air missiles, and after the ship that delivered those missiles was blown up and sunk.
‘I do not believe that the crew blew themselves up, more likely that they were duped and didn’t know there was a bomb on board; they were silenced.
‘What I can report so far is that we located and then bombed an isolated compound on the coast - not far from where we are now, twenty miles south of the town if Tijuana.
‘The detail of that compound was expertly and skilfully confirmed … by a bunch of drunken old retired American Naval veterans who live in the area.’
They laughed.
‘The detail was also confirmed by various Intelligence agencies, and so the Strike Wing of this ship, the Kitty Hawk, dropped bombs near the compound as a distraction, followed by a Navy Seahawk firing a missile into the compound itself. My team then landed with your US Navy SEALS.
‘We secured the compound and found a locked room, and after getting inside my team found Stinger boxes, and four live missiles, which the team photographed and catalogued. The team found many more empty Stinger boxes, plus a vault, so we flew men with metal cutters to the compound.
‘In the vault we found six additional Stingers and a great deal of cartel cash, which your Marines liberated. My team is still in the compound and searching. OK. Questions please.’
‘Major, where did the Stingers come from?’
‘We should know that when the CIA run the serial numbers.’
‘Major, the ship that sunk, Evanco II, it was reported to have sailed from the Middle East…’
‘Yes, up through the Red Sea, its transponder switched on and off at various times.’
‘So the missiles came from the Middle East?’
‘That would be a good guess, but we don’t have the intel yet.’
‘Major, do you know if the cartel plans to shoot down civilian aircraft?’
‘Various Intel agencies have phone intercepts, and yes – the Cartel wishes to shoot down British civilian aircraft in Cancun.’
‘Will they shoot down Mexican aircraft?’
‘I have no intel on that at the moment. Next.’
‘Major, is this related to the action in Panama?’
‘Yes, directly related, the ship known to have been delayed. The Stingers were originally intended to shoot down Navy F18s whilst there was fighting in Panama.’
‘So the FBI mob were behind the Stingers..?’
‘That would be a fair assessment, yes.’
‘Have all the mob members been accounted for then?’
‘Obviously not, since the ship continued its journey.’
‘Are you in touch with the White House?’
‘Yes, regular contact with the White House situation room, and I spoke with the President overnight, a few people awake all night.’
‘Major, what do you expect to happen here?’
‘I don’t have a crystal ball, but I hope we get all the Stingers … and do the job that the Mexican Authorities are too damn lazy to do.’
The censors shocked upright by that last part, and their looks warned me, the Press smiling.
‘You blame the Mexican Gove
rnment?’
‘What happens in Mexico … is the fault and the responsibility of the people of Mexico and the Government of Mexico. They can’t blame Americans for buying the drugs that transit Mexico, and without a drugs trade Mexico would still be lawless and have other issues. Only the Mexicans can fix their internal problems.’
‘What do you know about the border incident?’
‘I have no intel on the incident, but it might be related.’
‘Are you warning-off tourists from taking holidays in Mexico?’
‘Speaking personally, I would not fly to Mexico right now, and I’m completely bloody crazy. That’s all for now, thank you.’
Carlos called half an hour later, as I stood on the viewing platform, and he reported a truck stopped, the driver and his mate a bit dead, suitable boxes in the rear. His men had withdrawn to a nearby hill. I urgently gave the coordinates to the officers here, they updated Colonel Mathews, and the US military swung into action, billions of dollars of hardware against two dead Mexicans in a jeep.
I called Colonel Mathews, wanting the man in charge of missile recovery to call me.
That call came ten minutes later, a great deal of background noise. ‘Is that the smelly-arsed Brit officer, Wilco?’
I both frowned and smiled at the same time. ‘We met?’
‘At Camel Toe. Your men any better at washing their hands after a shit?’
‘No, in a word. Were you the big ugly fuck that slept with his teddy bear?’
‘Hey, I love that teddy bear.’
I laughed. ‘What’s your position, dickwad?’
‘A few minutes out, we were close, waiting the airstrike.’
‘Airstrike? We killed the drivers already, just need you to collect the missiles.’
‘Well here’s the thing. There are like eight F15s overhead, AWACS, twenty Apache attack helicopters, six Blackhawks, and twenty journalists…’
‘Good use of the tax-payer’s money,’ I scoffed.
‘Hold on … road blown either side of the jeep, say … two hundred yards, Apaches low and left, we’re going in now.’
‘Listen, aim and shoot at the dead drivers for me.’
‘Another staged action, just like Camel Toe!’ he complained.
‘Just like it. Make sure that you’re the first man at the jeep and that you shoot, and make sure the Press get the story – armed men aiming out at you.’
‘One bullshit story coming up. Gotta go.’
‘Clean ya teeth and comb your hair for the cameras!’
The commander was stood waiting. ‘Dickwad? That a code name?’ he teased.
‘No, I just like to insult him.’
‘Dead men in a jeep..?’
‘Live men, armed and dangerous, an heroic action, or careers will be cut short. We clear?’
‘Playing to the media,’ he scoffed.
‘There’s only one place to win a war … and that’s in the media, the guy in the White House happy, Pentagon hawks happy. It keeps the wheels turning, the folks back home happy as they watch the TV.’
Ten minutes later Colonel Mathews called. ‘We got two Stingers in the boxes, teams withdrawing north of the border, all caught on camera, be all over CNN in an hour.’
‘Good work, sir.’
‘Cut the crap. Did your people stop that jeep?’
‘They may have accidentally killed the drivers, yes.’
‘That won’t make it to CNN.’
‘If it does, you label the men who shot the drivers as CIA snipers, sir, keep the White House happy.’
‘What comes next?’
‘We hope to get a lead on the remaining Stingers. Two or three heading east, ten captured or destroyed, two with you, one fired at an F18, so … ten still out there somewhere.’
Off the phone, I gave Harris the detail, and he updated GL4 and London.
Carlos called next, after I changed the battery. ‘My men were sat watching that jeep. Someday you tell me how you make the Americans do what you want them to do.’
‘Someday, yes.’
‘My men were shitting themselves, ran from their jeep and hid. First the jet bombers, then a sky full of helicopters. They were expecting one helicopter.’
‘Americans, always making a show of it,’ I told him. ‘Keep spending the money, keep looking hard, the next 24hrs is critical.’
‘Shall I make some noise on the border tonight?’
‘Yes, in two places, west of you. How’s Rada and the hilltop?’
‘We have more places now, spread out, and my bunkhouse now has ten men and computers in it.’
‘Progress, eh.’
‘And your contact, he sends us stock market information, and we make good money. My son jokes: a few more years and we stop selling drugs and just trade these stock markets.’
‘That would be a wise move, my friend, to live to be old and to die in your comfortable bed. But don’t quit yet, we want the border area under your control.’
He cautiously asked, ‘How much … of the border area?’
‘As much as is practical. Up to you.’
‘And how much of what I do is known to the Americans?’ he knowingly asked.
‘They know what they need to know, and they will leave you alone to die in that comfy bed.’
‘I have had doubts about you, many times, but my son sees these things clearly, and I fear what you could do. I think Tomsk also fears what you can do…’
‘Neither of you need fear me so long as things progress nicely. The drugs trade will never go away, but if it can be controlled, made less violent, than that is a good thing.
‘Tomsk builds clinics and schools, he doesn’t kill people for fun – and neither do you. I do business with you because you’re not like Lobos or Tijuana, you’re a civilised man who loves his family.
‘Maybe you do more for your community with the money you have, and when you are dead they name a school after you, build a statue.’
‘A statue? I … had not thought of such a thing.’
‘You have the money, and the local influence, so maybe a clinic could be built.’
‘I’ll … chat to my son and wife, yes.’
‘Get back to me quickly with any news please.’ I cut the call. Inside, I reported, ‘Two Stingers recovered at the border, all caught on camera. Ten left out there somewhere.’
When my phone trilled it was Moran, calling for extraction; Rizzo had been shot twice, a dozen men with ricochet. Medics were nudged into action, six helos dispatched, but they were tailed by six more helos, Marines and SEALS ready, top cover overhead.
I told the Admiral. ‘You can level that compound if you want, sir.’
‘Why?’ he challenged.
‘It helps appease the folks back home, sir, it pleases the guy in the White House – your boss, and it helps to scare the cartels into not fucking with us.’
He considered that, a nod at the commander. ‘Turn it into dust. Something for the tourists to see.’
When Echo returned I glanced down at the helos, Harris on the platform with myself, Franks and Dick.
I was back inside when Harris stepped in.
‘Rizzo came off the helo naked,’ he told me with a pained expression.
The Admiral stepped in, and not with his happy face on. ‘Major Wilco, why the fuck is one of your men naked on my flight deck?’
‘Well, sir, I have no idea.’
Moran stepped in, being led by an officer, no webbing or rifle, sweat stains under his arms, his face muddied and bloody.
‘Sir, this is Major Moran, he led the operation.’
The Admiral squared up to him. ‘Why was one your men naked, Major?’
Moran glanced at me sheepishly. ‘Well, sir, there was a grenade thrown, and … my troop sergeant was on the toilet – trouble with a blocked colon, and … the shit went everywhere, his uniform soiled. He didn’t have his webbing on at the time, rifle down, so he discarded his shirt and cut away his trousers.
�
��We … then poured washing-up liquid all over him and threw buckets of water over him, which helped with the smell, and I’m sure that you’d not want him back aboard in that state, sir. He was then shot twice in an action.’ Moran glanced at me. ‘Which he fought naked, a shock to those attacking us I think.’
‘I saw his lily-white arse as he got off the helo, and it would shock me as well!’ the Admiral barked. ‘But the man is wounded, so I can’t chew him out.’
‘Rizzo?’ I asked Moran, and he nodded. I faced the Admiral. ‘Mad Dog Rizzo, one of my best men, sir, and it sounds like it was not his fault.’
‘His fault or not, the fucking news teams were there, filming your men from behind!’
I hid my grin. ‘Then they might have got his lily-white arse, yes, sir,’ I noted, Harris looking despondent. I faced the commander. ‘Can I get an update of wounds at some point? And Mad Dog Rizzo needs a colonic irrigation.’
He glanced at a second officer, who made a call, the colonic irrigation queried.
‘I’ll check in on them myself,’ the Admiral stated. ‘And if he had been shot twice, what the hell was he doing walking, he should have been in a stretcher!’
Moran cut in, ‘Through-and-through, sir, side of the stomach, and not his first, scrape on his arm – definitely not his first, and some ricochet wounds.’
The Admiral faced me. ‘Well he certainly looked the part, he has the muscles and the scars. If I saw him naked and aiming at me I’d run!’
I smiled. ‘I’m sure CNN would not be allowed to show his arse, sir.’ I faced Moran. ‘Perhaps you could update the Press with his wounds after an heroic action against the odds. Facemask on of course.’
Harris led him down from the flag bridge as reports came in of the strike on the compound.
I addressed the Admiral. ‘Can we move north, sir, closer to the town of Tijuana.’
‘What comes next?’ he gruffly asked.
‘We hope to get a lead on the remaining missiles, sir, perhaps a helo raid into the town.’
‘Isolated compound is one thing, the town is a different matter,’ he cautioned.
I lifted my phone and shook it. ‘Direct line to the White House, sir. And I’ll check with them before launching such a raid.’ I waited.
He stared at me, as if I had trodden on his toes, then faced the commander. ‘Begin recovery, then steam north. Standby for helo assault.’