Wilco- Lone Wolf 19

by Geoff Wolak

  They ran off, Major Morgen and Moran closing in, faces peering through the glass.

  I faced Morgen. ‘Got an aircraft radio?’

  ‘Inside.’ He led me to it, and its operator.

  ‘Put me on with the pilots.’

  The man handed me a handset. ‘Press and hold, sir.’

  ‘Major Wilco to Seahawk pilots. You fly north twelve miles to the border, a few miles on is a road east to west that curves around – if it has street lamps and you can see it that is. You go west ten miles down that road, looking for trucks with headlights on maybe, rockets, then double back east, but when you fly east you get to the end of the road and then turn south down the coast. Copy that?’

  ‘Copy that,’ came back.

  ‘There are hills north, none above five hundred feet. Wilco out.’

  I noticed the Press officers.

  ‘Wilco to helos, don't go yet.’ I pointed at the Press officers. ‘Get your cameras, get on the helos!’

  They hesitated, worried looks exchanged.

  ‘Now, before I shoot you in the fucking foot!’

  They headed nervously outside and I followed them. I observed as they boarded.

  The helos made a noise as they lifted off, the door gunners seen, and they were soon just a distant drone.

  ‘Best laid plans,’ Moran sighed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Major Morgen asked.

  I told him, ‘The quality of the men attacking us is very poor, but I know they have a smart leader and some very good teams. So … maybe they've run out of good people, run out of cash, or … we're being distracted for a reason, rockets being prepared at the border.’

  ‘You expected rockets anyway?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow night or the next day, men in place. This is all a few hours ahead of itself.’

  Back up on the roof I peered north at the dark horizon, wondering what they were up to. My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Wolf Masters,’ came a British voice. ‘Just saw a bright flash streak up.’

  I lowered my phone. ‘Incoming!’ I transmitted, ‘Incoming, get to cover!’

  Lifting the phone, the rocket landed over the runway, a spectacular shower of sparks. ‘That was a rocket, lousy aim. Where are you?’

  ‘Northeast, sir, say ten miles out.’

  ‘Move forwards double time.’ I cut the call and ran downstairs to the terminal, and to the radio operator. ‘Call the helos and send them to a point northeast ten miles of us here, rockets seen and fired.’

  The message went out, and was acknowledged.

  I turned my head. ‘I need pilots and crew, medics on board ready for a casevac helo. Just one for now.’

  Men jumped up and ran out to their Seahawk. I stood outside, phone in hand, observing as two medics were dispatched to the Seahawk as its rotors wound up.

  The Lt. Commander ran to me. ‘We have wounded?’

  ‘Not yet, but within ten minutes we'll see an engagement. Were any of those Marines badly hurt?’

  ‘Big splinters in legs and backs, not career ending, but the middle ear damage is fickle, could be a loss of hearing – and that’s a medical discharge.’

  ‘Pity.’

  The blast had the Lt. Commander ducking down, but it was 600yards north.

  ‘Their aim is shite,’ I told him. I had just arrived back up on the roof when a rocket landed next to Seahawk, the last one in the line south, the helo soon ablaze.

  ‘We're in trouble now,’ Nicholson suggested.

  ‘Not at all.’ I called Franks as the men below tried in vain to fight the fire. A rating took the call.

  ‘Franks,’ finally came.

  ‘We just lost a Seahawk to a rocket, so let them know.’

  ‘Shit, that’s gunna be under the microscope.’

  ‘No at all, it’s what I hoped for.’

  ‘Hoped for?’

  ‘A North Korean rocket just destroyed an American military helicopter, the rocket fired by a drug gang. Think about the media.’

  ‘Shit … yes, the agency will be happy – and calling for a better budget.’

  ‘Talk soon.’ I called the Pentagon, Colonel Mathews.

  He was awake. ‘Wilco?’

  ‘You were awake, sir?’

  ‘Was up taking a piss.’

  ‘We just lost a Seahawk to a rocket.’

  ‘God damn.’

  ‘I need you to send this up the line, and to the Press, sir.’ I carefully stated, ‘A North Korean made rocket, in the hands of a drug gang, just targeted American military personnel and destroyed a helicopter.’

  ‘You're a sneaky shit, you know that. This is what the hawks want, exactly what they want.’

  ‘Send it, sir, then wait a loud call or two – but none wanting your head.’

  I called Miller's number, and he called back as the Seahawk burnt brightly - the helos near it flown up this end, Miller sounding sleepy. ‘You awake, Mister Miller?’

  ‘Just about. What’s happened?’

  ‘What you wanted to happen, what I anticipated and hoped for. A rocket made in North Korea, fired by a drug gang, just destroyed a US Navy Seahawk helicopter. Wait the media response in the morning.’

  ‘I could not have planned it better myself. They'll be happy with you, but – you know – try not to lose too many more helos, eh.’

  ‘I'll try. Wilco out.’

  Downstairs, the room was busy, helos being moved, a fire truck found, but it was a bit crap – odd given that this was an airport. I stepped onto the apron. ‘All of you, don't bunch up, get back inside!’

  ‘I lost my damn bird,’ a pilot complained, none too happy.

  ‘Be thankful you were not in it at the time. Get inside please, and stay down.’

  Inside, I stood next to the radio operator. He lifted his face to me. ‘They're engaging the rocket crew, sir.’

  Others closed in to listen.

  ‘Both helicopters have fired down, sir, snipers have shot men on the ground. They're circling and firing.’

  ‘Call an airstrike, coordinate it with the helos.’

  The young man called ship and gave a report, grid reference and visual references. The street lamps were on, trucks had their headlights on for the rocket crews to see to work in, and I shook my head.

  I found Major Morgen at my elbow. I said to him, ‘After the airstrike, have SEALs land and grab phones, IDs, any evidence – like a rocket intact with a handy user manual, a note as to where it came from ... warehouse dispatch note.’

  He moved off quickly towards the SEALs.

  My phone trilled so I stepped away. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Wolf Brigson again, Boss,’ came a man out of breath. ‘We can see the helos firing down, and we can see men running and hiding in the bush.’

  ‘There'll be an airstrike, so don't get too close, but pick off those men. Slow and steady. Keep the reports coming.’

  I went and found Katowski as his men got ready. ‘Alter your plans, and land a mile away and walk in, the helos sent back. The rocket crews are hiding in the bush, it’s dark, so you'll be fired at if you land close by.’

  ‘We'll walk in dead slow, sir.’

  ‘Always pause for ten minutes, use your ears, let the amateurs reveal their positions.’

  He nodded.

  Back at the radio operator, many men listing in, we got the detail of aircraft inbound, the helos moving away south, but they would call the action and direct the F18s.

  I called Wolf Brigson. ‘It’s Wilco, standby for an airstrike.’

  ‘We're up on a ridge, say 600yards to the rockets and trucks. Hang on … I can hear something. Shit…'

  I could hear the blast.

  ‘Strike one rocket crew, Boss, I felt that from here. No one survived that, but they were in the bush at least a hundred yards away, some closer to us, like 300yards.’

  ‘I'll direct a strike 300yards south of the first one. Standby.’ I stepped to the radio operator. ‘Have the F18s drop a bomb 300yards d
ue south of last hit!’

  The radio message was sent and acknowledged.

  I called back Brigson.

  ‘Boss, they dropped a second bomb in the same spot, so these guys are feeling unloved right about now.’

  ‘I asked that they target your group south, so standby.’

  ‘Here they come...’

  I waited, soon hearing the blast.

  ‘That was just about on target, but hit a river gorge, and they may have been the other side of it. Still, they'll be deaf.’

  ‘SEALs will land a mile out and walk in, don't shoot them, warn the others. Wilco out.’ I stepped to the radio. ‘Targets destroyed, return the aircraft to ship and standby.’

  I waited as the message was given and acknowledged. ‘Have the two helos return here.’

  Ten minutes later they landed, the Press officers now covered in sweat but beaming with huge smiles as they walked over to the terminal with their cameras. ‘We got all that on film,’ they gushed. ‘Was all lit up when we got there.’

  ‘Then send it,’ I urged them as the SEALs mounted two helos and departed. ‘And keep filming around here, get a few hours worth.’

  Inside, I shouted, ‘Listen up, we got the rocket crews, at least one team, so it may be quieter around her for a while. Rest if you can, ready for dawn.’

  Up on the roof my phone trilled. ‘It’s Swifty, and we heard the Yank planes and the bombs, I think everyone in Costa Rica heard them. I reckon they were three miles east kind of. We're now above the road, can see a mile in each direction.’

  ‘Close enough to shoot?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then put a team down below you, but keep that vantage point. Get a brew on and observe the road, sleep midday.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  As the sky started to change colour the SEALs were sneaking along the border road west-to-east, and had shot a few men, IDs and phones taken, bodies laid out along the road for later retrieval. The Wolves had also shot a few men at the scene of the rocket set-up, many of whom were seen to be wounded already and in a stupor.

  From the roof I could see two platoons of Marines heading out, north to the treeline.

  Down below it was now quiet, the radio manned, but eyes were closed for many men. I left them to rest as the dawn came up, a quiet cup of tea from the shop with Moran, but the lady now on duty was new.

  Major Morgen was still awake and with it and joined us. ‘We on track here?’

  ‘Yes, as expected.’

  ‘Press officers sent out that film, they used the phone line here without asking permission – so someone will get the bill, it connects to a computer in Washington, from their kit here. Slow, but the images get there.’

  ‘Breakfast news will be interesting,’ I told him.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Guided rockets made in North Korea were fired at American troops in Central America. The screams will be loud.’

  He nodded. ‘I guess, yeah, and more sanctions against North Korea, more sabre rattling. You … worried about losing that helo?’

  ‘Fuck no,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Being British, do you even get the blame? I guess there ain't much they can do to you.’

  ‘There's fuck all they can do to me, save not asking for the use of my services in the future. My own government won't discipline me, they find it cheeky that your government makes use of me.’

  ‘Why do they?’ he risked.

  ‘I have the track record, and … there are things you don't know. I work for you CIA at a high level, have done for years.’

  ‘Ah...’

  ‘Some of the time I'm in civvy clothes, undercover in various places.’

  ‘Jesus, if I saw you walk into a bar I'd clock you straight away,’ he quipped. ‘Not much use as a spy, you kinda stand out!’

  I smiled. ‘When I walk into that bar I'm playing a character, a bad boy gangster character, so you're supposed to clock me.’

  ‘Skinny hooker on your arm?’

  ‘Not really, no, but I aim to get one.’

  Henri and Sambo wandered in to get some food, chatting in French.

  ‘You have an odd unit, that’s for sure,’ Morgen noted.

  Moran told him, ‘Just be glad our resident Israeli major is not here.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Moran smiled. ‘It’s a she, and she walks around naked much of the time.’

  ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘Good question,’ Moran quipped.

  I told Morgen, ‘She likes shocking people, especially those she works for.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Max.’

  ‘Max, I was going to call you with a story.’

  ‘I'm in Panama City airport.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I was in Barbados when the news hit there about that ship, so I flew here yesterday, last night, had to change a few times, shit small aircraft.’

  ‘Fly up to La Ninga airfield, but it’s closed, so maybe drive, say … four hours. If you hire a Cessna they'll let it land.’

  ‘I'll try something.’

  ‘Cut short your holiday?’

  ‘Was almost over, nice five-star hotel.’

  ‘How can you afford a nice five-star hotel?’

  ‘Well … an advance on the royalties, my film script was accepted.’

  ‘And this film, would it involve me and my men..?’

  ‘Well, some of it, yes, but it’s about me, my life story kind of, doing your three-day, trips with you, getting shot, ending in Camel Toe base.’

  ‘I think you'll need to buy the lads a drink or two from your royalties.’

  ‘Well, aye, I would have done. Of course.’

  Smiling, I told him, ‘Try and get here, but we have incoming.’

  ‘Since when did you not have incoming? See you later.’

  ‘What was that?’ Moran puzzled.

  ‘Max.’

  ‘He heading here?’

  I nodded. ‘And the little shit sold the film rights to his life story with us.’

  ‘Right little shit, profiting from us,’ Moran noted.

  ‘Max from Camel Toe?’ Morgen asked.

  ‘The one and only,’ I confirmed. ‘Is he a celeb Stateside?’

  ‘He did a few TV talk shows.’

  I exchanged a look with Moran and we both sighed.

  We heard the outgoing round.

  ‘That Tomo?’ Moran casually asked.

  ‘Who else?’ I complained.

  Several rounds cracked out, shouts, several more.

  ‘Nicholson for Wilco,’ crackled.

  ‘Yeah, go ahead. Was that Tomo?’

  ‘Yeah, suspicious car, so he hit the engine, then they jumped out with rifles and hid, but we could see them.’

  ‘Could just be locals,’ Moran cautioned.

  ‘Not at this hour I'd hope.’ I transmitted, ‘Send Tomo to check the bodies. And ask him to keep the sound down, eh, people sleeping. He's got a silencer.’

  ‘Right, Boss.’

  I faced Morgen. ‘Are your snipers awake and on the ball?’

  ‘They have rules of engagement,’ he testily told us. ‘We … need to see the threat, or face the consequences. But I'll go check in on them.’ He walked out.

  ‘And if they were local police?’ Moran nudged.

  ‘We fake Tomo's death,’ I quipped.

  Fifteen minutes later Tomo and Nicholson jogged in. Tomo began, ‘Local police checked those men, and they had gang tattoos. So I was right.’

  ‘Yes, but … exercise caution when we have witnesses, eh. Get some breakfast from the shop.’

  They grabbed sandwiches and cake.

  Major Morgen returned, few stirring in here. ‘I've adjusted the rules of engagement to include civilians pointing rifles this way. After those men jumped from the vehicle and hid, aiming this way, they should have been fair game, they know that now.’

  I nodded. ‘No b
ig deal, my men have sights so good they can see the enemy's eyebrows twitch.’

  ‘I'm going to ask for some of those Elephant Guns on appraisal, but the men are familiar with M82 of course.’

  Moran told him, ‘They're light enough to lug around, unlike an M82.’

  Back up on the roof, the dawn making itself felt, my phone trilled. ‘Passing you over to the Captain.’

  ‘Major Wilco?’ came the ship’s Captain.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do we have a tick in the box?’

  ‘We do, a damn big one.’

  ‘We lost a helo!’ he complained.

  ‘You'll get no criticism for that, watch the news later.’

  ‘CNN is already mainlining this operation, mention of the rockets, wounded men.’

  ‘That’s what the Pentagon hawks want, sir. You need to see the big picture, and relax. They're happy.’

  ‘Happy with coast-to-coast news coverage,’ he realised.

  ‘Got to see the politics, sir.’

  ‘I read the overnight reports with amazement, you've been busy – and it was supposed to kick off now.’

  ‘The enemy brought forwards my timescale, sir. When the shooting starts, plans always go out the window.’

  ‘So what comes next?’

  ‘Today we'll retrieve what’s left of the rockets your pilots bombed, and patrol around the region. If we spot something we'll call in the helos or your F18s.’

  ‘You expect more attacks on the wire?’

  ‘There's Charlie on the wire as we speak, sir, but a bit dead mostly.’

  ‘And the various teams..?’

  ‘All working well, sir, no complaints.’

  ‘Talk later.’

  Phone away, it trilled. I sighed. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s David. I figured you be awake now.’

  ‘Been awake all night.’

  ‘Major Harris sent in reports, so we got most of it. You've had some cheeky chaps sneaking in..?’

  ‘Yes, they keep sending them, half-hearted and cheap attacks. Smacks of a drug gang without a lot of cash to waste.’

  ‘HMS Cardiff is offshore, in touch with the Americans. They have a Lynx you can use, same chaps that rescued you from Panama a few years back.’