by Geoff Wolak
‘At least not get caught doing so,’ Bob emphasised, getting a look. ‘Prime Minister ... when Wilco calls in, what are your ... desires in the region?’
The PM sat back, and stared out the window. ‘And end to the drugs trade will never happen, and if you remove one gang another comes around. Setting back the communists on the border would benefit the region, but what you’re hinting at is ... what we would do if a single all-powerful entity controlled that border.’
‘That entity, Prime Minister, seems willing to talk and to negotiate. All sides want the Colombian gangs gone, all sides want the communists set back, and all sides would agree that there will always be a drug trade, so...’
‘Could that drug trade be influenced any? The voters would string us up for even trying. This meeting never happened, but keep me informed.’
When Bob got back, there was a message, the CIA demanding a meeting, today.
At 5pm Bob and his assistant met with Chuck and his team in a hotel room off Regent’s Park. Let in, Bob sat where shown.
Chuck stared at Bob for a few seconds, then began, ‘Petrov ... is in Panama. Petrov ... is shooting the hell out of anyone in a loud shirt, in Panama. Petrov ... has struck some sort of deal with the government there, a surprise to us, if not a fucking shock, because it’s our back yard, and those fuckers in Panama should be telling us this shit.’ He sat back and waited.
Bob hid his grin. ‘We sent Wilco in to infiltrate a particular group, since that group had shipped weapons to the UK. But ... well, Wilco doesn’t do things in half measures.’
‘No shit.’
‘He ... has been playing the part of Petrov, and as such he was put to good use by eliminating the competition, and training men.’
‘He’s training men?’ Chuck loudly asked.
‘He is, and the Panama Government has furnished him with a base, helicopters, trucks and suppliers.’
‘Why the fuck would they do that?’ Chuck loudly demanded.
‘Because ... Petrov struck a deal to attack the communists in the border region, and to wipe out drug dealers, in return for the Panama authorities leaving him alone.’
‘He’s hitting the communists?’
‘Hitting them hard. As such ... we’re happy to allow that to continue for now. As for the rival gangs, we’re happy for them to be moved aside.’
‘What’s his remit?’ Chuck’s assistant asked.
‘His original remit was to find out everything he could about this Russian group, with a view to taking them down.’
‘Taking them down! Fucker is building them up!’ Chuck stated.
‘He is, for now, gaining their confidence.’
‘And where does this end?’ Chuck demanded. ‘We get to take down this gang with some timely intel?’
Bob hesitated.
‘No? What the fuck’s going on, Bob?’
‘What happens if this group gets to be top dog, and then you arrest them all?’
‘We get a good trial,’ Chuck said. ‘Good press coverage.’
‘And what happens on the ground, at the border.’
‘Another group comes up,’ Chuck’s assistant stated.
Chuck stared at Bob. ‘Are you suggesting ... we leave them alone?’
‘At least till the communists are dealt with, then ... we discuss things with Wilco, and decide.’
‘We might just send in the fucking Marines!’ Chuck suggested.
‘Not without permission of the new Panama Government, and not without alienating the population – again, and all South American nations to boot. Does the White House have a stomach for that?’
‘White House thinks Petrov killed our people,’ Chuck pointed out.
‘If push comes to shove, you can enlighten them, or we will,’ Bob threatened.
Chuck’s assistant eased forwards. ‘You said ... he’s wiping out drug dealers. Where does that leave the drug dealers ... he’s working for?’
‘In a ... negotiated state with their landlord.’
‘Are you shitting me?’ the man asked. ‘You saying ... that the Panama Government will tolerate them – in return for them keeping down the commies?’
‘Tolerate them,’ Chuck spat out. ‘You mean ... take a cut.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Bob called. ‘Whatever the final outcome, we hold all the cards.’
I got two things sorted quickly. One was a pair of Hueys and pilots, second was a new shooting range in the jungle nearby. The pilots of the Hueys were offered girls and money, and could not have been happier, and I soon had the my lads abseiling down from the Hueys at sixty feet, and practising moving wounded men on and off via stretchers.
With Tomsk observing, the Hueys came into the base, eight men rushing aboard, the Huey lifting off inside of three seconds, and we practised that over and over.
That evening, and with another villa to hit, I flew out with four men on each helo, dozens of RPGs heads dropped from a thousand feet, the villa demolished and burning, vehicles hit. We moved in by road an hour before dawn and picked off the survivors, the Hueys called into collect us, and to collect the bags of cash and cocaine. We were back in time for breakfast, and slept in the heat of the day.
The new firing range got plenty of use, teams moving as one, firing as one, over and over, and on a nearby hillside my lads would snipe at targets beyond 600yards.
That evening two teams ventured out, one by road, one aboard the helicopters. I was in the road convoy, and we dismounted a mile from the target, some hard jungle and deep streams to cross to approach the villa from the rear as it sat on the coast – a nice beach-front property apparently.
At midnight a helicopter could be heard, the distinct resonating drone of a Huey, and the men in the villa peered up as RPGs floated down. Amidst the confusion and the explosions my team hit the villa with shoulder launched RPGs, jeeps hit and set alight, the villa well alight, and we sniped at them for an hour before moving in.
In our teams we coordinated the move inside, wounded picked off, the angles covered, but had to wait for the villa to burn down to enter it smouldering shell. We found the cellar door intact, smoke grenades thrown down, the women and kids allowed to leave, the main man and his bodyguards – all sooty faced – detained till the women had fled. My team then executed them at point blank range - something that would have bothered me a few years back but now seemed routine.
The cellar gave up a great deal of cash and marijuana, our Hueys flying it back, and as pre-arranged the Army arrived as we left, claiming the credit, drugs and cash found, soldiers in black facemasks photographed knelt by the haul, that picture soon to be in the Panama newspapers.
The next evening would be a different set-up, and this time the Army stormed a place as we sat in the trees, my teams having picked off many of the gunmen first, the Army claiming the credit, a few men taken alive and due to stand trial, the haul of cash and drugs displayed. And we snuck away quietly since a TV crew had been embedded with the soldiers.
My team now stood at eighteen men, all training hard, but one night a man got drunk and killed another, a bit of a set-back. Tomsk arrived the next morning, the killer having been tried to a tree all night and beaten. Tomsk emptied a magazine into the man, just to make a point, and shouted at the teams, since we were now two men down.
That afternoon I led my sixteen remaining men out, all warned about professionalism. After a three hour slog we took up position above a small town, and we surrounded it on three sides, my men soon clambering up the trees, but we now benefited from suitable ropes for a fast exit. From my own lofty position I peered down through my sights.
‘OK, main street, by the fountain, men in the jeep. Standby ... fire.’
The target men did a little dance, their jeep shredded, a scene of carnage left behind under yellow street lamps.
After a few minutes, people were seen to walk past and have a look, to pinch away rifles, money and watches, and after an hour someone dragged the bodies off the jeep and stole the je
ep, making me smile.
Three jeeps turned up half an hour later, the main man stepping down to inspect the bodies, soon doing a little dance himself, his jeeps shredded, his men all cut down, none surviving.
It took longer this time for the locals to react, but after half an hour people were stealing the guns, watches off wrists, money out of pockets – and most of the thieves were women.
Peering through my sights, I found a window, a man beating a woman, then setting about raping a teenage girl. I fired, but winged him, and that gave the girl and her mother time to grab a knife and hack up the man something terrible. Payback was indeed a bitch, two of them in fact.
Spotting a man hassling street hookers at gunpoint I hit him in the stomach and he went down, my silenced shot a puzzle to the hookers, who looked up and down the street, then stomped on the guy as he bled out, his pockets emptied, his pistol stolen. Around here, a pack of Piranha could strip a man to his bones in minutes, but these ladies could do it in seconds.
We left an hour before dawn, more than sixty men killed, and we tabbed back for a much needed breakfast. And I realised that I was enjoying this too much.
At my request, I had asked Tomsk to get some posters made up, a few raised voices at the detail, but he dropped them off the next day. We took the posters out with us that night and nailed them up during the night as we killed anyone in the next town carrying a gun.
The posters explained that anyone dealing drugs would be killed, anyone carrying a gun would be killed, children not attending school would be beaten, burglars would have hands cut off - and husbands not treating wives well would be shot.
The last part caused much amusement for my teams, and many worried looks on the faces of men in the local towns. Since we had left more than sixty bodies in the streets, it was taken seriously.
The posters made it to the national press, displayed on TV, the wives of Panama applauding it, the husbands worried by this strange turn of events, one enterprising group having t-shirts made up with the similar wording. It said that ‘Drug dealers should be shot, gunmen should be shot, children must attend school, husbands should respect wives!’
That evening I led my team out in our nice new Army trucks – donated indirectly by the nice chaps in the Pentagon via the Panamanian Army, a drive to the northern coast, and we casually pulled up near a villa, the men on the walls seeing us, but thinking us Panamanian soldiers.
We moved into the tree line, spread out, got ready, and hit the compound with GPMG and RPG, the walls soon peppered, the buildings on fire, the men inside all killed, and we did not even bother to enter the compound, we drove off having expended over forty RPG heads and six thousand rounds of GPMG ammo.
Pictures of the compound made it to the national press, the gang that ran the compound notorious in the region for their punishment killings and dismembered bodies. No one lamented their sudden loss.
Things had been going well, the training advancing, but our luck was about to run out.
One damp rainy evening I led the teams out in the trucks, and we made it to our drop-off point unhindered yet damp. Formed up, we adopted the wet tree line for a while, hit drug dealers on the wet road, and advanced towards the border, up over steep wet muddy hills.
After dawn we found coca fields and spent an hour destroying them, four communists killed. After a rest in a hidden position I led the teams off, twenty-four men strong now, and we endured some horrific rain, all soaked through and miserable.
An hour after the rain had stopped the sun burnt off the moisture and we dried out a little, the humidity chronic, and following a muddy track I spotted something and knelt. A mine. Someone had planted a mine, the rain having washed off the mud to reveal it, a lucky break.
The teams backed-up, soon hidden high up a ridge, and I lobbed rocks at the mine till it blew, the blast echoing around the valley. I joined my men on the ridge, fifty yards above the track, and we dug in, waiting to see if anyone would come out - having heard the blast.
An hour later a communist patrol was spotted, and we got ready, but our rear man reported another patrol coming up behind us, a large one. A third patrol was then reported, coming from the east, and now we were in the shit, well over a hundred men around us, possibly twice that many.
‘Get solid fire positions,’ I ordered. ‘This could get interesting.’
There was one gap left, and I decided to try and trick the communists. I had four men take off facemasks and gloves, take off silencers, move to a clearing in the trees and to wait. As the first communist patrol spotted them my decoy team opened up before running down a steep muddy slope.
Radio signals were sent, and the communists altered their approach, fixed on the men running, the patrol coming towards me now jogging, and bunching up nicely. It would be the best opportunity we’d likely get.
With sixteen of my men aiming at the oncoming patrol, our rear exposed a little, I waited till the communists had skirted the detonated mine, and some sixty men were now bunched up below me and moving past. I waited till the lead men drew level with the tail end of my position and, after a heavy breath, I opened up.
I was firing down on automatic at men close enough to smell me, sweeping left and right as I frantically fired through bushes – birds shrieking and taking to the wing, a large group of die-hard FARC communists targeted till I clicked empty. My back to a tree, the muddy ground around me torn up - the tree getting shredded, I hastily reloaded, then changed my mind and pulled two grenades, simply dropping them around the tree.
The blasts dealt with those men close by, the next two grenades lobbed further, the blasts hardly heard amongst the ongoing melee. Knelt, and peeking around the tree to fire, I let loose long loud bursts at men within twenty yards - a few women fighters spotted, the ground around me now brass-coloured.
An RPG whooshed past me, a blast behind felt, dirt raining down on me, smoke wafting as I fired in a mad panic, targets everywhere. Reloaded, I peeked around the tree at the wrong time, an RPG head grazing my skull and detonating way behind me.
Shaking my head, lungs full of smoke, I carried on firing, and the noise level eventually dropped from all out hell on Earth to simply intermittent exchanges of fire.
I had finished off twenty wounded and hit ten men out at a hundred yards before I clicked empty, back around the tree and reloading, the noise level dropping further.
‘Big patrol coming up from behind!’ was shouted.
‘All men turn around!’ I ordered, and I ran up the mud and through the trees – trees with much of their bark torn off, down the slope to face the next onslaught. Seeing that they were below us, I shouted, ‘Grenades!’
I was soon fumbling for my own grenades with wet and muddy gloves, a few grenades remaining, and I threw them down, soon dozens of blasts echoing through the lush green growth, grey smoke wafting like a morning mist.
My last two grenades I threw high, and they detonated well above the men hiding below. The advance on us had well and truly been halted, and I frantically fired down at anyone I could see till they turned to run, my eyes stinging from the sweat.
Spinning around, I edged back to the ridge and over, just in time to come face to face with four men, close enough to see red neck scarves and wide eyes as I fired. I dove to the right, still firing, and all four went down, their shots tearing up the ground around me.
Number Three was there a moment later, single well-aimed shots finishing off the four, soon firing down at others as I reloaded. I was soon scrambling through a moist bush and slamming into a tree as I got a fire position down the slope, close now to where the mine had gone off.
I hit six men and one woman, few others now around, but peering out to the east I could see men coming in at two hundred yards and so I sniped at them till they all hid themselves, RPGs coming in and blasting the trees down the slope or whooshing past me and flying off to the next valley.
Seeing movement just inches away, I studied a big-eyed tree frog for a few seconds
as it studied me catching my breath. We had disturbed its eco-system a little.
Thirty minutes of intermittent fire and incoming RPGs led to a lull, my sweat cooling, and I took a much-needed drink as the teams re-grouped and took stock of their situation.
‘This is Seventeen, we’re now up the opposite valley, we can see them.’
‘Snipe at them!’ I ordered, the cracks soon sounding out. Men, and the comrades-in-arms women that had been hidden to us, were now being hit from behind.
‘We got many of them, maybe twenty, some are running away!’ came a jubilant voice.
Calling in my muddy team, I led them quickly along the ridge, a steep drop off below us, a great many limping wounded communists visible as we started to snipe at them, ten hit quickly, distant groups targeted, and they seemingly didn’t think we could hit them at this range. Men stood around at six hundred yards fell with surprised looks on their faces.
An hour later, and with no one left to fire at, I led my team off west, collecting ammo off the dead as we went. We joined up with Number Seventeen and his team, and I was absolutely spent, gulping what was left of my water.
Drawing a halt a mile away, I clicked on the radio since I could see men limping. ‘Any wounded?’
‘Here, Number Eight, leg wound.’
‘Ten, leg wound.’
‘Fifteen was killed, we left him.’
‘Eighteen was cut in half by an RPG.’
I called the Hueys in via sat phone and led the team to the destroyed poppy fields, all round defence taken till we heard our rides.
Eight tired, muddy and bloody men sat on the side of the first Huey, eight on the second, and the rest of us waited thirty minutes for the second flight, soon heading low over the jungle like some old Vietnam War movie, and I could not help but smile. Bumping down back at base, the Hueys flew off to refuel - and no doubt clean out the mud we left – the pilots tipped a bonus.
Tomsk was waiting, and I walked over to him, more mud on me than a professional mud wrestler. ‘What the hell happened?’ he asked, but with no anger or blame evident as he took in the wounded men being worked on.