Wilco- Lone Wolf 22

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Closes a chapter, eh. But do something for me, get me an audience with the King of Saudi.’

  ‘What for?’ he asked, sounding suspicious of my intentions, and my intentions were definitely suspect.

  ‘He needs to know who’s trying hard to get him killed. Get me a private chat.’

  ‘I’ll … see what I can do.’

  ‘Make it happen, and then he can clean his own damn house. Send him the fucking bill for this!’

  I called London to update them, then left Harris in charge of anything that might involve Her Majesty’s Military, and I headed down to the medical bay, Rizzo now sedated and unconscious.

  Finding the same doctor, I began, ‘I want something to knock me out for six hours.’

  ‘You look like shit already, so I think you’ll sleep well enough.’

  ‘When I turn over in bed the twinges wake me, and some bad language could be heard.’

  ‘I can give you something, and they can strap you in, cushions and pillows, put you on your side.’

  ‘Sounds bloody great.’ I stripped off to some incredulous looks, was injected after being offered some water, and they padded me front and back as I adopted the recovery position on a bed, straps pinning me down. The lights went out for me quickly.

  When I woke I felt like shit, just about carried to a warm shower, and that helped greatly. A large coffee later, a chocolate bar and my clothes back on, and I felt better, stood doing “the twist” for five minutes.

  ‘You OK, sir?’ a lady corpsman asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’ I countered with. ‘Still got a job to do.’ I pointed at Rizzo. ‘He stuck here?’

  ‘They’ll fly him off, sir, to Miramar. He’s stable.’

  I went and found Echo lounging around in a corner of the hangar deck, but at least they were clean now, and none were naked.

  Moran stepped up. ‘They said you were unconscious, so I spoke to the head quack and he explained putting you out. Your back still hurts?’

  ‘Now and then. How are the lad’s injuries?’

  ‘The Yanks, they’re not sure what to do with our wounded because we’re British, so they’ll fly us all back to the UK sometime soon. If we were Yanks then the injured lads would need time in a ward, test and assess or something.’

  ‘Rizzo is still asleep,’ I told him.

  ‘He had two operations, a third on his arse,’ Moran said with a grin.

  ‘Well, we can’t leave him, so I guess we find out if he can be moved, and when. We’ll go back to Miramar first.’

  I greeted the lads, many seen with white bandages, a chat to each - Stickler and Monster in good mood, before I walked to the bright moonlight pouring in from an open area. I called London. ‘It’s Wilco. What time is it there?’

  ‘It’s 5am. You alive, because Major Harris reported you unconscious?’

  ‘They gave me something for the pain, to knock me out. Anything happening?’

  ‘A sing-a-long, Vera Lyn numbers.’

  ‘You … what?’ I puzzled.

  ‘The airlines and the British Embassy staff in Mexico put up all the stranded Brits in a nice hotel, and they all had a drink and a sing-a-long, Press there and cameras rolling, and they fly today at midday.’

  ‘And … was it good-natured?’

  ‘Very, as seen on the news here and in the States.’

  ‘So no complaints against the British Government or me?’

  ‘Quite the opposite, they were all very rude towards the Mexicans and the cartels, mention of you shoving a few missiles up the cartels backsides.’

  ‘So no legal claims pending?’ I asked.

  ‘Many claims, from those who cancelled their flights, but there is a compensation fund and they’ll get a pay-out worth twice the cost of the holiday.’

  ‘Flights still cancelled?’

  ‘There’ll be a review by the European Union in five days. All European flights to Mexico were cancelled.’

  ‘And the Mexican tourist trade?’ I pressed.

  ‘Currently stands at a grand total of zero air passengers, no American flights, no Canadian flights. Nada. Hotels are empty, selling rooms to local people on the cheap, some out of work taxi drivers and airport staff – all lambasting the cartels.’

  ‘My man Rizzo is in the medical bay of the carrier, but when they can move him we’ll head to Miramar and then get a ride home. Anything happening in Monrovia?’

  ‘We get reports from 14 Intel and Lt. Col. Forester, and they shot a few people, recovered weapons. When your lot pull out then 14 Intel will keep a team there, to be bolstered, a regular SAS team with them on rotation.’

  ‘Who sanctioned that?’ I puzzled.

  ‘MOD, no request from us.’

  ‘That’s 14 Intel wanting something useful to do.’

  ‘Well, they’re paid to do a job, so they can damn well earn their keep.’

  ‘Well said.’ I called Langley, finding the Deputy Chief still in the office. ‘You living in that office now?’

  ‘I got four hours kip, just woke up.’

  ‘Anything happen when I was asleep?’

  ‘Been two border incidents, east of Mexicali, looks like revenge hits, but the Apache attack helicopters made a mess of the cartel men, bits of limbs all over the place. Soldiers will stay in place, emergency debate in Congress tomorrow – well today I guess, and the media is still going fucking crazy.

  ‘Was a report you were killed, then unconscious, so I called the ship and they explained it.’

  ‘Did that make it to the news?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Wankers,’ I sighed out. ‘And the Royal Family?’

  ‘They were put aboard a military flight, now in Los Angeles under heavy guard. They’ll be back in Washington in two days, and I could get you ten minutes.’

  ‘Do so, then send them the fucking bill. Who knows, in the White House?’

  ‘It may have slipped my mind, mentioning it.’

  ‘Just as well. And it’s just a theory.’

  ‘Ten coincidences end to end is not a fucking theory.’

  ‘We’ll need to deal with these boys, the Saudi dissidents; they were ready to shoot down your airliners.’

  ‘My next headache,’ he reluctantly sighed out. ‘Who’s prints would be on the cartridge case?’ he quipped.

  ‘Elvis, who else?’ I toyed. ‘But listen, if the King knows, and he cleans house, we don’t need to get Elvis involved.’

  ‘God rest his soul. Elvis, not the Saudi King.’

  I called Bob Staines next.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, we got the Liberian chap in his tacky Paris hotel. So far he’s holding out.’

  ‘Got his phone?’

  ‘It uses an exchange, dead end, clever stuff. Nothing useful found on him.’

  ‘Keep me updated. Thanks.’

  Up in the bridge I found the captain, his crew looking more relaxed.

  ‘You fit and well, Major?’

  ‘I’ll live, sir. Where are we?’

  ‘In our own waters now, close to the border – we’re due to stand down soon anyhow, got caught up in this, but it was all good experience for the teams and the aircrews, even the Marines got a run ashore. How’s your wounded man?’

  ‘Asleep, sir, but it’s not serious. How’s the news Stateside?’

  ‘We were featured, so that was good for the crew, and the crew have been calling family since we stood down from General Quarters. All in … it was a good mission, no screw-ups, no one killed on our side.’

  ‘A lack of screw-ups is medal winning conduct, sir.’

  He smiled. ‘It is, and they’ll all get a campaign medal, and hopefully they all learnt something, a few procedures tightened up.’

  ‘Nothing matures a soldier quite like a shot fired in anger, sir.’

  At 9am we got a nudge, crates packed, and we stood on the deck with those crates in brilliant sunshine as Rizzo was stretchered off. He was awake, I knew that because he gave Slider the finger.


  Boarded, our helo followed Rizzo, half an hour back to Miramar and down, and soon being met by familiar officers. I was led with Moran, Franks and Dick to the command room, which was still buzzing.

  ‘You still on alert, sir?’ I asked the same Admiral, the man now looking tired.

  ‘There were two major border incidents last night, so this operation is not winding down yet. White House has our aircraft here making a noise along the border. Your operation finished, Major?’

  ‘In the absence of some fresh intel – yes, sir. We knew about twenty-five Stingers, and that many have been recovered, so … this part of the operation is complete. And your Marines stole the cartel’s cash.’

  ‘Thirty million in used bills,’ the Admiral noted. ‘It was here, now in Los Angeles. They’re laundering it.’

  ‘Laundering it?’ I puzzled.

  He smiled. ‘Some of the bills still had cocaine on them, needs cleaning, but they said they’d burn it after the Fed makes a note of the value.’

  Outside, I called Spectre. ‘I’m in Miramar with the team, Rizzo a bit wounded but OK. I’ll head for Washington, tomorrow I reckon, so get Tiny to the same hotel, get a room, sweep it carefully. Then find me the contact details for the NRA.’

  ‘I can handle that, I can pose as your manager in SIS wanting some good newspaper headlines. Leave it with me, I’ve been researching the NRA and who they pay in Congress. Actually, it’s listed openly, so it was not hard to find. You friend Delaney gets a good amount at election time.’

  ‘What a shocker, eh. How about I offer to lecture a small group, thirty people, who all pay top dollar for it. That way we get the bosses not the gun nuts.’

  ‘I was thinking along those lines, yes. Leave it with me.’

  Piece of crumpled paper retrieved, and I called Carlos, the location given, some trusted men needed to recover the buried loot.

  ‘There are tourists all around that compound, so it will be easy to mix with them,’ he told me.

  ‘The package is hidden two hundred yards southwest, clump of rocks.’

  ‘That will make it easier then.’

  ‘Let me know the value, everything sent to Tomsk, five percent kept back by you.’

  Our hosts kindly offered us a barracks room, well fitted with furniture, airman corporals on hand to assist us, water provided, and we were soon being led to the canteen, being stared at as we ate a hearty meal, the team all starving it seemed.

  ‘Monster, you OK?’ I asked down the table.

  He sighed. ‘It still pisses me off, will do for a long time, but … he died with honour save getting old. And as Stickler says, I have to now demonstrate a good life to honour him.’

  ‘Bit of a poet, our Stickler is,’ I told them.

  Stickler put in, ‘I read a lot as a kid.’

  ‘Will Rizzo be stood down?’ Slider asked. ‘And be a pain in the arse?’

  They laughed.

  ‘His scrape and through-and-through will mean he’s off for four weeks,’ I told them. ‘But I was thinking … that we get two French Marine Commandos.’

  ‘They’re solid lads,’ Moran approved. ‘Someone for Henri and Sambo to talk to.’

  I told him, ‘MOD have taken over our operation in Monrovia, they’ll run it with 14 Intel and a regular SAS troop on rotation.’

  ‘You asked them to?’ Moran puzzled.

  ‘No, they did it without consulting with me.’

  The lads exchanged looks.

  ‘Does 14 Intel want to rule the world again?’ Moran wondered.

  I shrugged. ‘They have a role to play, so … let them earn their keep.’

  ‘They’ll keep the teams with us at GL4?’ Ginger asked.

  ‘They have enough teams, so I guess so.’ My phone trilled so I stepped out into the sunshine.

  ‘It’s David. Are you … well?’

  ‘Not unconscious, as was reported apparently.’

  ‘I checked with Major Harris, and puzzled your medical state since you never went ashore. Does your back still hurt?’

  ‘Some, hard to sleep.’

  ‘Well the doctor from the Kitty Hawk put in a formal complaint about you -’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘He complained that you’re not medically fit to serve.’

  ‘Ah, well … he’s right, you need to be in good health to get killed as a soldier.’

  ‘Media here has picked up on it, questions being asked.’

  ‘Should I stay here, in America?’ I teased.

  ‘No, but … maybe some tough questions. Still, military personnel missing limbs can still do desk jobs, and we have a man with a leg missing downstairs.’

  ‘In a few weeks I’ll be able to run, so they can do a medical then. The scars don’t slow me down or affect me, but they look like they might.’

  ‘We can get a friendly doctor involved, don’t worry.’

  ‘Any shit coming my way for what I did?’

  ‘No, nothing but praise from the media - and the tourists themselves. Those cancelling flights were damn glad to avoid Mexico, and our emergency flight landed back here a few hours ago, many happy smiling faces. Several had printed t-shirts, similar to the hostages you rescued.’

  ‘They have t-shirts printed up?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Echo Former Hostages Club, regular meetings, counselling. They fly in from all over Europe. What you may not know is that some … still have problems, shall we say; nightmares, flashbacks. It’s become a self-help group.’

  ‘Well, doing some good at least.’

  ‘Max is president of it.’

  ‘Ah, that would explain it, Max the superstar.’

  ‘He’s back here, we whisked him out.’

  ‘And the Kosovo mission?’ I pressed.

  ‘Is set to ramp up, but there have been few massacres detailed in the media lately.’

  ‘We can review it when I get back. And the MOD pissing about in Monrovia?

  ‘You heard. Well 14 Intel want an enlarged role and the MOD agreed, and Forester agreed a troop, and we’re happy with it since we can call upon 14 Intel men. You have two with you?’

  ‘Yes, Muscles and Dobbin, and both seem well-suited for Echo. Oh, I was going to invite in two French Marine Commandos, so send them a memo.’

  ‘Same chaps as that ship drop. They do have a good reputation, yes. And our good friend Mister Rizzo..?’

  ‘Will recover in a few weeks, a slight pain in the arse.’

  ‘A Sunday paper has a pull-out page of Rizzo, for ladies who wished a bit of rough – so it said, a good view of his body.’

  ‘So now he’s a celeb, eh,’ I teased.

  ‘It makes people think that all of your men are built like that.’

  ‘Most are better built, and solid with it.’

  ‘My daughter’s friend had a copy. I’ve banned my daughter from having a copy … or putting it on her bedroom wall.’

  I laughed loudly. ‘They still don’t know what you do?’

  ‘No, and I’ll try and keep it that way. Admitting to having some influence over Rizzo would just be too much.’

  Call ended, my phone bleeped, but then rang; Miller. ‘Mister Miller, long time no chat.’

  ‘I figured you were busy, and not able to answer the phone without company close by.’

  ‘Partly true, yes. So how goes the evil empire?’

  ‘You know who drove the Stingers north of the border?’

  ‘Ex-FBI Deep State men, paid by a rich Saudi that wanted the plane carrying the Saudi Royal Family to be shot down on approach to LAX, along with a dozen other airliners - to hide the real target.’

  After a long pause came, ‘And the facilitator Stateside?’

  ‘A middle manager we missed, someone with a list of suitable men to recruit. Look at Mathew Fisher and work backwards.’

  ‘I knew Fisher, but we cut him loose, he was unstable.’

  ‘Did he know who you were?’

  ‘No, he figured us DOD or CIA.’

 
‘Whoever recruited him is your man, and needs to be hung up by his thumbs and questioned.’

  ‘That’s my next task, to find him.’

  ‘Draw a phone link between the old FBI Deep State bosses and this guy, and then Fisher down the food chain.’

  ‘I have an idea already.’

  ‘It was a good plan, kind of, but I could see through it, and I think others would have as well. The Deputy Chief was onto it as soon as he found out that the Saudi Royal Family was on its way to LAX, and the ship was a bit lame – leaving a trail anyone could follow.’

  ‘So these people are not that good.’

  ‘These people shot down Desert Sands, and have a shit load of money, often chucking a few dollars to al-Qa’eda as they sit about the tent on sandy carpets, oil lamps burning, lamb being cooked and seasoned by the harem.’

  ‘We can’t touch royal princes, in this century or the last.’

  ‘I know a few people that can, no evidence left behind, so … have a think before they do this again. Oh, I should be in Washington tomorrow if you want coffee, and let Delaney know.’

  I called Langley and asked for a flight to Washington, a military flight. That flight was scheduled for 3pm, and I was informed that Rizzo would be aboard, in his stretcher, medics with him – to hold his hand and to swap the smelly pads shoved up his backside.

  Colonel Dehavilland came and found me midday. He looked tired.

  ‘They have you doing some proper work, sir?’ I asked as we shook.

  ‘Been a long few days,’ he sighed out. ‘I have teams along three hundred miles of the border, some here, calls to the Pentagon all day long and all night long. Still, it beats that damp hilltop in Panama.’

  He drove me to the Officers Club chatting about Camp Nada, and we sat with cold beers - some lunch as we chatted, a few other officers introduced.

  I got back to our holding room at 2pm, the lads packed up ready, my crate ready – so Swifty reported, and we were bussed around to a waiting USAF 737, soon sat down, Rizzo at the rear and strapped down.

  ‘I can smell him from here,’ Slider complained, the lads laughing.

  ‘Be thankful he’s asleep,’ I told them.

  ‘He doesn’t need a sedative to sleep on a plane,’ Moran pointed out.