by Geoff Wolak
Expecting the worst, I was gently slowed, a branch bending gracefully and slowing me right down, and it dropped me gently onto the next branch. Landing on my stomach I was winded, and slid around the branch till I was holding on by both hands and dangling. Sounds came flooding back, and time returned to normal speed for me.
I had no idea where No.2 was, or my rifle. Letting go, I dropped ten feet and landed on another branch, slipping off immediately and ending up hanging upside down like a kid in the playground. Lowering my feet, I peered down, and dropped to the next branch. Slipping, and ending up again like a kid in the playground.
Below me was a large bush, the branches facing down, so I let go and bent my knees. I hit the pliable branches in sequence, and they slowed me right down, depositing me on a muddy slope.
I slid down till I was scooped up by a huge tree root, and I came to a halt on my back, staring up at the high canopy, catching my breath.
I smiled widely, then forced it away; No.2, the men. I eased up, suddenly in pain, and I could feel the warm blood on my face. My miraculous soft landing had not been so miraculous; the adrenalin had suppressed the pain.
Wincing, and crying out, I turned over and got to my feet, pistol taken out. Slipping, but finally getting upright, I felt drunk, but my anger and determination pushed me on.
‘Sasha?’ I quietly called. ‘No.2?’
Nothing came back, just the shriek of unseen animals high in the canopy.
‘Sasha!’ I tried again, louder, but wary of communists nearby. After all, they had fired the damn missile.
One painful step at a time I moved up the slope. Stopping and peering up, I tried to figure where I had hit, the direction we had been going in. I knew our heading, and so checked my compass.
With a direction in mind, I plodded on through dense jungle, calling out. Finding nothing, I doubled back.
Hearing a moan, I froze, trying to figure out where it had come from. Fixing my position by a large tree, I circled five yards out, and I finally saw a boot, rushing to it and tearing the undergrowth off it.
‘Sasha! You hear me?’
All I got was a groan. Dragging him out, I put away my pistol and pulled out my first aid kit, tearing it open. Since he was moaning he had to be breathing, his heart beating, no critical brain damage. I cleared the blood off his face, two quick stitches in a bad wound, cream in. Back of the head, some swelling, another stitch put in.
Easing him onto his side, I progressed methodically down his spine, pressing each and every vertebrae, all seemingly OK. Laying him on his back, I checked his muddied shoulders, his right shoulder dislocated. I had no time to piss about, so I balled a fist, levered his arm and reset it, causing a moan.
Moving down both arms at the same time, leaves pulled off and discarded, I checked the bones, elbows, finding his right radius broken but not penetrating the skin. I pulled and elongated the forearm, tapped it up, then tied on a small branch for support.
Wrists checked, I found that his right wrist was broken and so I taped it up, a finger broken and reset, taped to the finger next to it.
Hips OK, I checked his legs, finding a piece of wood penetrating deeply in the back of his thigh. I cut the trousers away in a hurry, glancing over my shoulder and listening out for company. Wood, out, the blood pumped, a tampon coated in antibiotic cream jammed in and taped down tightly.
Knees checked - one swollen, lower legs checked - OK, ankle swollen.
His webbing undone, his bandolier undone, I could see straight away a broken rib pushing up the skin, the skin not broken. Needle and tap out, I got a chest drain in, and after a minute of frothy liquid he was breathing easier.
Pistol out, I jumped up and ran up the slope to the high ground, and I found a steep cliff beneath me. There, down the valley, lay a burning helicopter, and there – off to the right, came a communist patrol.
I sighed, and turned away. Back at Sasha I stopped to take a drink of water, and I considered my options. The Panamanian soldiers would not want another chopper sent in after us, and Sasha had a few hours left at most. There was nothing for it, I made a call.
‘Duty officer.’
I glanced around for anyone nearby. ‘This is Wilco, SAS, calling from Panama; track back the coordinates of this phone. My chopper was hit by a heat seeking missile, I’m down and hurt, got a man with me in critical condition, need a Lynx off HMS Argyle. Contact Bob Staines. I’m going to walk due north to the coast, call me back. Got that?’
‘Yes, got that.’
With no time for pissing about, or for correct medical procedures, I lifted Sasha up onto my back and sat him on my webbing. Compass out, the position of the sun noted, I bent forwards and carefully plodded off down the slope.
Finding a stream with a tempting flat sandy bottom I got into it, and I followed its course down the hill. I had no idea if there were communists close by, or drug gangs, and I was not sure which group would want to slice me up more. A lonely death in the jungle seemed like a better option than being discovered here.
Half an hour must have passed, and I knew that I was hurting, and at times my eyes went funny, some double vision experienced.
Finding a track, I adopted it and plodded on, taking a risk, but I was very short on options.
My phone trilled for a while before I remembered what to do, and so I answered it.
‘Petrov?’ came Bob’s voice.
‘Yeah ... uh ... here.’
‘You sound terrible.’
‘A bit bust up, carrying a man on my back, heading north.’
‘Can you get somewhere, somewhere for Tomsk to pick you up?’
‘No, this area is dominated by a warlord that we came to kill. What about that Lynx?’
‘It has a minor fault, it’s not flying at the moment.’
‘Oh ... that’s not good, Bob.’
‘How bad are you hurt?’
‘How bad? No Lynx, no Wilco. End of the road I’m afraid, matter of an a few hours or so before I black out, then ... then I either die or someone finds me and slices me up.’
‘I’m going to get back to them, hang in there.’
Phone away, I plodded on, desperately in need of a drink, my water warm. It was not helping much.
Reaching down and behind me, I checked Sasha’s wrist pulse before plodding on, the day damn hot. I was not sure of the time, but the sun seemed high still.
Each step was painful, something hurting in my side, and I stopped to rest, leaning against a tree, and this was Bosnia all over again. I woke leant against the tree, wondering if I had blacked out, and realising that I had.
Time moved slowly, but the next time I looked up the sun was low. The track turned southeast, so I moved into a coca field, getting through it without seeing anyone, and to a grassy slope that could have been used for something, sometime. I was fogged, and not sure of anything anymore.
Down on a knee, I eased Sasha down, and flopped next to him.
My phone trilled. ‘Petrov?’ It was Tomsk.
‘Yeah...’
‘You don’t sound good, and the helicopter never came back?’
‘Heat seeking missile.’
‘You’re hurt?’ came a very concerned voice.
‘Got an hour or two left...’
‘Fuck. Anyone nearby? I can send trucks!’
‘Communists nearby. This is the end of the road, so you ... you get Big Sasha to feed you your greens, lose some weight, eh.’
‘Can you hide, we come after dark?’ came a frantic voice, and for a moment I thought it was Major Bradley.
‘I’m not moving from this spot.’ I cut the call, staring at it, but something made me call Bob.
‘Petrov?’ he answered.
‘Yeah...’
‘Lynx on its way, hang in there, we’ll track this location, try and get a signal going.’
‘Oh ... OK.’
The phone dropped from my hand, and with what little energy I had left I pulled out my torch.
&nb
sp; I remember hearing a loud noise, a strong cold wind, people pulling at me...
I woke to find that was strapped in, sleeping on a bookshelf in a submarine. I wondered how I got onto a submarine, why I was in a bookshelf, and I tried to ease up. A face turned to me through subdued lighting.
‘Where am I?’
He stared at me, frowning.
‘Water?’ I asked for.
Another man stepped in.
‘He’s talking in some language, sir.’
The new man closed in. ‘Can you hear me? You speak English?’
‘Of course,’ I said in English.
‘You were just speaking Russian I think, were before. Do you know where you are?’
‘On ... a submarine?’
He smiled widely. ‘Close, it feels like a submarine most days. This is HMS Argyle, Royal Navy. Do you remember your name?’
‘Wilco, I think.’
‘Well we were not sure for a while, had to call the MOD a few times, no ID on you, but they described you. Other chap had tattoos.’
‘Sasha..?’
‘Is that his name? Well he’s still in surgery. You just take it easy for now.’
‘Water.’
He fetched a plastic bottle with a nozzle, and squirted water into my dry mouth. ‘Rest for now, OK.’
I eased back, my memories slowly returning.
I woke to find a brighter light, people whispering, and I slowly got my bearings, the throb of the engines ever present.
‘Get the captain.’
They turned to me. ‘Feeling a bit better?’
‘Yes, get the Captain.’
‘He’s probably a bit busy right now.’
‘Get the fucking captain or I’ll rip your fucking head off your shoulders, cunt! There’s still an operation ongoing, lives at risk!’
‘Oh, right. Er ... just hang on there.’
I unstrapped myself, just in case I did feel the need to hit someone, the second man objecting, and trying to put me back to bed. I twisted his arm, and locked eyes. ‘Back off.’
He did as asked, none too happy, and my bare feet hit the cool metal deck. I was naked, clean and smelling fresh, a blue blanket over my groin area.
‘What are my injuries?’
‘Well, sir, we think you had a concussion, and your ribs were bruised but not broken, a few cuts and bruises, sternum was badly bruised.’
I got a hand to it, and winced, a hand to my head, finding it all bound up.
A minute later the captain appeared, and looking none too happy with it. I pointed at the second and third man. ‘Out of earshot.’
The captain nodded at them and they withdrew.
‘How much do you know about the ongoing operation?’ I asked him.
‘Had a frantic call or ten yesterday from the MOD, finally got our Lynx up – despite a few things unserviceable, and they found you at the coordinates, half dead. Second man mostly dead.’
‘Is he alive?’
‘Yes, should make it, we’ll move him to Jamaica soon.’
‘No.’
‘No? He needs care, more than we can provide- ’
‘He’s Russian, an agent.’
‘Russian?’
‘Yes, and if his identity was known it would blow a larger operation, lives at risk.’
‘You were speaking Russian when you came in, delirious.’
‘Who heard that, of your crew?’
‘Well, the medical orderlies, the doctor, a few others.’
‘You’ll need to clamp down hard on security. Any way that a rating could get a message off ship?’
‘We have email and sat phone, they get allocations. Why the panic?’
‘An ongoing operation, and Britain and America have a great deal invested in it, so an accidental slip up by a rating and you’ll be explaining it to a board of inquiry.’
He soured quickly. ‘And this is something to do with your men in Colombia?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘My men haven’t seen me for months, they think I’m in the States having back surgery. I’ve been ... doing something else and, most likely, I’ll go back to where I was.’
‘We’d put you back? You barely made it out alive?’
‘Goes with the job.’ I made strong eye contact. ‘Not your fault, but you’re accidentally in the middle of a very important operation, and a very illegal one. If it got out ... they’d roast you, time in a cell, so clamp down hard, check messages, talk to those who heard me babbling in Russian – and sensor all outgoing messages.’
He blew out a, ‘Christ.’
‘And where’s my phone, I need to make a call.’
‘There was a phone, yes.’
I just about fainted.
‘You’re in not fit state to do anything.’
‘Talk to Bob Staines, head of operations at Mi6, right now.’ I lay down.
When I woke next I just lay there, staring at the wood above me, people coming and going. I finally eased myself upright, and asked my keeper for some food. He fetched the ship’s surgeon, who checked me over at length, then allowed in some food.
‘Not the first time you’ve been banged up, is it,’ he noted before he left.
As I ate, the ship’s tannoy came to life, ‘Standby for a broadcast, standby for a broadcast.’
A different voice came on. ‘This is the Captain. As some of you will know ... we have two gentlemen on board, picked up from the coast. The nature of them being here is classified, and any loose talk will be dealt with very firmly.
‘No one is to mention them in outgoing emails, calls ... or ever again, in any capacity, or that individual will get their own private cell, no windows, bread and water. End of broadcast.’
My helper turned to me, and tried hard not to say anything, or to ask the questions he was dying to ask.
The next morning I felt much better, a Marines captain bringing me some clothes. He was a big man, so they fitted, my old boots retrieved and cleaned by someone. I felt better with some clothes on, and the shirt even had captain’s pips.
Led outside, sunglasses handed over, I stood on a steady deck and peered at some island, keen young ratings going ashore.
The captain appeared at my side. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes, sir, much.’
‘Your friend ... looked like he fell out a tree.’
‘Fell out a helicopter, sir.’
‘Then he’s lucky to be alive. We had two coordinates for you, and you seem to have walked ten miles between them.’
‘I was trying to get the coast, easier for a pick-up. Were your Lynx pilots warned about heat-seeking missiles?’
‘No!’
‘Then best they don’t know.’
‘Christ.’ He took in the view. ‘We’ll take you onshore tomorrow, flight out, you and your friend.’
‘Will he make it?’
‘He’s stable, all the damage sorted.’
‘Got that phone of mine, sir?’
He had someone fetch it before he set about his duties.
I called Bob. ‘It’s Wilco.’
‘Ah, you’re up and about.’
‘Ship’s captain said you’d fly me out, but to where?’
‘London.’
I took in the crystal clear water below me. ‘Why not send me back in?’
‘Because we have much of what we wanted there, and ... there are those that think you should be leading Echo, not doing this kind of work.’
‘Not sure which gets the best results, but yes – I have neglected them. What they been up to?’
‘They were in Colombia for four weeks, hammering the communists, a few drug dealers hit as well. Then this week they went for the missiles, got one as well, but a bit late for you. But they picked up injuries on the last job, Napoleon with a bad arm injury, smashed the bone – he won’t be coming back.’
‘Pity.’
‘They just landed back at Brize Norton. Moran will have them busy training
no doubt.’
‘Four weeks in the jungle, give them some fucking leave, eh.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘So, no more Petrov...’
‘For now, but no one thinks him dead. So it’s open ended.’
I was sat next to Sasha when he opened his eyes, his face badly bruised and cut.
‘Petrov,’ he croaked out, and I gave him some water. He was bandaged head to toe, arm and leg in plaster.
‘Don’t try and move, you’re all busted up,’ I said in Russian.
‘The helicopter...’
‘Fucking heat seeking missile.’
‘And the others?’
I shook my head.
He took in the room. ‘Where are we?’
‘On a British warship, my friend.’
‘Your clothes...’
‘This may come as a surprise, but the real Petrov died years ago, and I took his place; I’m a captain in the British Army, special forces.’
‘British?’
‘Yes. I had many injuries, many scars, so I looked like Petrov, and I spoke Russian, I was a fighter, so it all fitted. I took his place.’
‘You were ... spying on Tomsk?’
‘At first, but then the mission changed, and I altered things a little without permission from my boss in London. Fighting back the communists was the right thing to do, and killing all those drug lords.
‘So I stuck at it, enjoying it. When we moved into the towns we killed the scumbags, and we helped the people, and that I liked – we were doing some good.’
‘So ... what happens to me now?’
‘They’ll fly you back to London, get you good medical care, ask you some questions, maybe offer you some work.’
‘And if I refuse?’ he asked.
‘You might have another accident, but generally they’re not allowed to kill people.’
He studied the ceiling. ‘You got me out of the jungle.’
I nodded. ‘I carried you to the coast, got a call out, but then collapsed. Luckily they found us.’
‘But I’m the enemy of the British.’
‘You were never my enemy. Our bosses may change, and all bosses are arseholes, but the men stay the same. I have my own team in England, I trained them, just like our team.’ I took a moment. ‘You want to go back to Tomsk?’