Wilco- Lone Wolf 16

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Good, we might get the missiles.’ Off the phone, and back inside, I asked Moran, ‘Strip nearby that mine?’

  ‘Yes, but an odd one. There’s a long concrete road, got to be two thousand yards, a damaged old plane on the side. That road winds around the town and south, then stops and becomes a normal road.

  ‘It’s not a runway, but a new road that was never finished, like the rest of the unfinished buildings around Liberia and this place. Could land a fricking Tristar on that road!’

  I nodded, thinking. Grabbing the tall Army officer, I began, ‘There are now long-term plans for this place and other outposts around here, so let HQ in Freetown know, and get some more sandbags, some wood and some concrete, and start with better facilities and better fortifications. And a shit load of barbed wire.’

  ‘I’ll update them in the morning, sir, just the night staff taking notes now.’

  I called my own base, getting the nice lady captain. ‘It’s Wilco. I need an RAF officer who can inspect a runway, sent down to me quickly, and then ask the Americans for one as well, I’ll need them in about two to three days.

  ‘I then want a few thousand empty sandbags ready to deliver to a new base inside Liberia. Ask HQ Freetown about a team of Engineers, and update me please.’

  ‘We got a note that you had been injured?’

  ‘Surgery on my legs, might leave a scar. Don’t worry, I’ll still be just as handsome.’

  ‘Ha, who told you that!’

  ‘The good looking ladies in 14 Intel, so there.’

  ‘I heard there were some ladies in the mix, so you behave.’

  ‘I would never trust them, they might shag me to death.’ I cut the call to some giggling.

  In with Moran and Ginger I said, ‘They want to trick us, set traps, and they know exactly how we operate, so … how do we beat them?’

  ‘Do the unexpected,’ Ginger stated.

  ‘So … what would be unexpected for us?’

  ‘Leave,’ Ginger quipped. ‘They expect us to go attack them.’

  I faced Moran. ‘He’s not wrong. And we will leave, at least move base, over to Liberia. Any word from Sergeant Tobo and his men?’

  ‘Those that went north are back here, out on patrol with some of ours, and Tobo called in – what – three days ago, nothing since.’

  Ginger put in, ‘They might have been caught.’

  We exchanged looks.

  ‘Hope not,’ Moran said. ‘They’re good men.’

  ‘Oh, in my crate in my room is a little something for you.’

  Moran glanced around and silently mouthed, ‘Pears?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good of you, but the chow here is OK, fresh from the town.’

  I gave that some thought. ‘Ginger, go see the chefs, tell them we think someone is trying to poison the food – which they probably are – and to double check all supplies bought local. If possible, have them buy from alternate towns for a while.’

  A glance at Moran, a tip of his eyebrows, and he headed out.

  ‘Would make sense,’ Moran noted. ‘They’re getting clever. But who are we up against?’

  ‘Same idiots, despite the fact that I cut the head off the snake paying them. They have no cash and no orders, so this is just spite.’

  Rizzo called in, Moran taking the call. Moran explained, Rizzo still on the phone, ‘Rizzo stopped a jeep up near the border, but the jeep tried to turn around. He shot up the driver and closed in, they fired back, got two scrapes, so Rizzo’s team slaughtered them. A dead white guy and four blacks.’

  ‘I want that white guy, any paperwork, the jeep searched, dump the blacks away from the road. Send a jeep patrol to fetch them, alert the medics – no helos.’

  Two hours later Rizzo brought his patrol in, Rizzo’s arm bound up. He began, ‘Got the white guy outside going cold,’ handing me ID and paperwork.

  ‘Go see the medics,’ I told him.

  ‘I’ll have to go back, nasty deep scrape,’ he suggested before he stepped out.

  I waved over the tall officer from my wheelchair. ‘I need that body photographed, so wake Max, and I need his fingerprints. So find ink and some paper.’

  He stepped out, Moran waking Max, and soon we had a sleepy Max sat with a brew. He stared at me for a minute, then frowned. ‘What you doing in a wheelchair?’

  ‘Sat phone bomb hit my legs, you slept through it. And my helo was shot down with a heat-seeing missile, which you also slept through.’

  ‘Bugger. But I was knackered, long patrol.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you were a reporter! When you’re awake and with it, soldier, photograph the Chinook – it’s outside, then the dead white guy.’

  ‘Dead white guy?’

  ‘Drink your tea, sleepy head.’

  I had the sergeant wheel me to the door and outside, and I called SIS. ‘It’s Wilco. ID on a dead white guy who shot at my men: David Sanders, Brighton. DOB 23/11/1961. Paperwork suggest he works in mines, just shoots at us on his day off.’

  ‘I’ll run it now.’

  ‘Photo and prints to follow, from The Sun newspaper desk, Max will send them. Wilco out.’

  An hour later David Finch called. My sat phone took calls inside well enough, but did not call out well. ‘This chap, David Sanders, is alive and well and home with his family – surprised by the armed police knocking on his door. Retired from mines in Africa a few years back.’

  ‘So you mean … that the man shooting at us had a fake ID?’

  I heard an exasperated sigh. ‘Yes, what a scoundrel.’

  ‘Photo?’

  ‘Should have been picked up by now, and the prints, so we’ll run them. You heard about NordGas?’

  ‘Yes, and my money is on Nigerians, a deal gone wrong.’

  ‘The Norwegian police picked up a South African at the border with Sweden, but he’s from Zimbabwe. I did a little checking, and Zimbabwe made threats against NordGas, a deal gone wrong, a pipeline from Mozambique that never materialised.’

  ‘Closes that investigation then.’

  ‘Unless someone made use of the situation, and our chap is a fall guy, meant to be caught.’

  ‘That … could make sense, yes, a blood-letting, still factional fighting in the bank. I think the Zimbabweans are a bit crap. Did those daggers in Lord Michaels disappear?’

  ‘They did, no mention of them, just that he died from a heart attack. Since he was in the freemason’s hospital it was not difficult to cover it up.’

  I laughed loudly. ‘Yes, a good place to murder someone who pissed off the masons. Anything on the Farringdon CCTV?’

  ‘I was going to mention that, point three on my list: please don’t jump ahead. We have Bob Littlewood’s face from two weeks ago, and a man linked to Lord Michaels, plus a lady we know has links to a certain JIC official.’

  ‘Blackmail the bastard, make him talk.’

  ‘We’re going to pick her up, rather Mister Kitson will, some drugs found on her.’

  ‘You do live in a world of intrigue, Boss.’

  ‘You were hurt, I understand?’

  ‘Small bomb, shrapnel in my legs, I’m in a wheelchair. Do I get some cash, you know, compensation?’

  ‘No, you have to lose a leg.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  In the morning I woke to find that I was stiff all over, my legs especially. I shouted for assistance, Ginger and Moran lifting me, and downstairs they put me in the wheelchair. Medics sent for, the doctors examined my legs.

  ‘Not infected, but too early to tell. We’ll dose you up today. Are you planning on a patrol?’

  ‘Fuck no.’

  ‘Just as well. I’ll check in on you later.’

  I faced Moran. ‘14 Intel in a tent for the night?’

  ‘Yes, shared with some of the Wolves, plenty of space.’

  ‘Recall Dicky and Mouri for me, then they train the 14 Intel team. Ginger, go exercise them, a talk about the history of this place, features and nearby roa
ds and rivers. Then have Greenie give a talk on jungle hygiene, start the jungle training.’

  He headed out as I enjoyed a relaxing brew.

  When my phone trilled it was a blank number. I had the sergeant quickly wheel me out. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Miller.’

  ‘Zimbabwe?’ I floated.

  After a pause came, ‘You are an annoying little fuck, ya know that.’

  ‘If I was a cynical man, I might believe that Zimbabwe’s anger towards NordGas was made use of, by someone else.’

  ‘That … would be a cynical view of the world, yes.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘And … I have no information on that. Do you plan on sharing that theory?’

  ‘Nope. What you calling for?’

  ‘There’s no trap at that airfield, too many civilians walking around anyhow, someone would see something and report it.’

  Moran stepped out, phone in hand.

  ‘Hold on,’ I told Miller and held the phone mic to my chest.

  Moran reported, whispering, ‘Tobo says no trap at that base, but outside in the trees is the Ivory Coast Army, hiding.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at Moran and lifted my phone. ‘Sorry, you were saying?’

  ‘There’s no trap in place at that airfield.’

  ‘Your man is not very good, so I’ll assume your own professionalism is not in doubt here. Outside the wire sits a few thousand soldiers of the local Army. Ask your man to make a proper report.’

  ‘Annoying little shit just does not seem to do it.’ He sighed. ‘I have someone to shout at. I’ll get back to you.’

  Call ended, I faced Moran. ‘CIA have a man inside the base, nothing suspicious seen.’

  ‘He never took a walk outside,’ Moran noted. ‘Sloppy fucking CIA. Oh, Rizzo went to Freetown for an operation.’

  ‘Are the doctors any good there?’ I challenged.

  ‘The doctor from here went with him.’

  I nodded. ‘Better bet, yes.’

  David was on after lunch, as I sat observing Greenie lecturing 14 Intel, a young Welsh soldier my helper for today. ‘We sent the photo of the dead chap to South Africa, as well as Interpol and the usual outlets, and he was wanted in South Africa. Real name is Hans de Holland.’

  ‘Hans de Holland?’ I queried.

  ‘Hans from Holland would be a literal translation of the original family name, common enough to have a place in the name. He was a soldier and mercenary, and they lost track of him a few years back. But … are you sat down?’

  ‘In a fucking wheelchair.’

  ‘We recognised the face. You rescued him from that prison in Angola.’

  ‘And he shoots at us? Well there’s gratitude!’

  ‘Indeed, yes, a bad sport all round. We have no other information on him, he lived off-grid in Africa.’

  ‘Run the fake name he used, he may have used that for a few years. Hotels here in Sierra Leone, as well as Guinea. Send his image down.’

  ‘We have an artist’s copy, the eyes open, a hint of a smile. We’re not allowed to send images of dead bodies to young lady clerks in hotels.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I mocked.

  ‘Hold on.’ I heard voices in the background. ‘Our friend Mister Maddocks has just been paraded on TV in Oman.’

  ‘I keep telling these people not to fly there, but they do ignore me.’

  ‘Do they,’ he huffed. ‘Well it’s going to be another diplomatic disaster, another UK citizen seen hanging – then shot, and the other one is still hanging from his rope.’

  ‘Be getting ripe by now.’

  ‘Maddocks ties into the late Lord Michaels, so we wait some press speculation, some greatly embarrassing press speculation.’

  Stretching and standing was painful, but I made an effort, not wanting to seize up completely. And I was tempted to ask Tiny for a massage, or a bed bath.

  Mike Papa came on around 3pm, as it grew dark and started to rain. ‘We caught two men and found one missile.’

  ‘White men?’

  ‘No, blacks, from the east of my country. They are being made to talk as we speak.’

  ‘Got a paper and pen?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Ask them if they know a David Sanders, or a Hans de Holland, or a Van den Block. Also use the name Kruger, see how they react.’

  ‘I will test them yes. And many men attend this old mine in the north, some new paint and some windows.’

  ‘There’s a road at that mine, long enough for a large aircraft. Why is that?’

  ‘That road was to be used for ore transport trucks, the big ones, and it was supposed to go all the way south, forty miles. But like many projects here it failed, but was before my time in office.’

  ‘Time in office..? Elected, were you, Mister President?’

  ‘You know what I mean, before … I came to power.’

  Smiling, I asked, ‘Do you know who paid for that road or operated that mine?’

  ‘Some company from Sweden I think.’

  ‘NordGas?’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like them. They had a logo, a Viking man.’

  ‘Let me know about the men with the missile, but keep that missile in storage.’

  ‘OK, I will do.’

  Off the phone, I stared at it in my hand. NordGas had invested heavily in the mine, many years ago, from the sound of it twenty years ago. But they had abandoned the mine, or had they depleted it?

  I called Tinker. ‘It’s Wilco.’

  ‘You still alive?’

  ‘Yeah, sat in a wheelchair. Listen, try and get the details of an old NordGas project in northwest Liberia, a mine with a long road that was due to reach Monrovia, buildings up above the mine, river at the bottom.’

  ‘We have their project records, so it should be listed.’

  ‘Get back to me quickly please. Oh, I’m interested in why they stopped - and any technical detail about the road.’

  ‘You going to finish it?’ he joked.

  ‘Not personally, I’m in a wheelchair.’ I called SIS. ‘This is Wilco. The second missile has been found, the men operating it have been dealt with, so update all interested parties, resume flying operations.’

  ‘And are these people likely to stand trial?’

  ‘Not as such, no. Wilco out.’

  Ginger appeared in the map room at 5pm, soaking wet.

  I looked him over as he left a wet trail behind him, ‘Get caught without an umbrella?’

  ‘I took 14 Intel through the mud for an hour, then had them jump in the river to clean it off. They have inspection in the morning.’

  ‘Ginger, that was mean,’ I teased.

  ‘They want to play toy soldiers,’ he insisted.

  After my evening meal, chow in two tins brought to me, pears for afters shared with Moran and Ginger, Dicky walked in, also soaking wet, his bald plate shiny.

  ‘You after me, Boss?’

  ‘You’re now troop sergeant for the 14 Intel team outside.’

  He stopped dead. ‘14 Intel? You trying to get yourself killed or what?’

  ‘All new blood, so don’t worry. Mouri is 2ic. I want them trained well, weapons and jungle, sniping, sneaking up on places and making sketches, same as the Wolves, and para drops. Involve Ginger, he can be the troop officer. Go say hello. And Dicky, three are ladies, two are hot ladies.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he said with a grin. ‘Well that’s better.’

  I faced Moran. ‘We can cancel the roadblocks. Have a team or two move towards that mine in Liberia, don’t go near it but circle it and look for tracks.’

  ‘Swifty is close to it, plus Stretch and his boys,’ Moran noted as he studied the map. ‘I’ll dispatch them east.’ He lifted up. ‘We go over the border into Guinea?’

  ‘No, I think the attacks south will fizzle out. And they’ll be tired, no beds and no canteen and … no barracks to live in, and no electricity, just a bad smell from twelve inches of mud and sewage. I’m thinking they’ll move west in search of
a hot meal and a comfy bed.’

  The Welsh Guards sergeant stepped in. ‘We moved that Chinook, sir, just a few yards till they said stop. RAF engineers are doing something to it, kit on the way down.’

  ‘It’s their helo, their choice,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  In the morning I woke to find myself stiff again, but I managed to get up and stretch a little. I had no infection, I would have felt it. Limping, I stepped out onto the roof and greeted the Welsh Guards positioned behind the GPMGs. They did, at least, have a roof these days, ponchos up.

  I could see the Chinook, and apart from some really bad parking it looked fine. Beyond it the leaves glistened, huge green leaves that always looked plastic and not real. Looking south, I could see a monkey at the top of a tree, scratching its arse, a stork sat atop a tree and not knee-deep in the river at the moment. I guessed that it was not hungry yet.

  At the gate a sleepy man eased out from his poncho-covered sandbag position and yawned, and he peed on the grass, also scratching his arse. Across the road I spotted a lonely cow as it munched on succulent long grass.

  Nicholson stepped out. ‘OK, Boss?’ he asked as he started to pee off the side.

  ‘Better today, but I won’t be doing any sprinting this week.’

  I peered out west past the cow, seeing a glint in the early morning light. ‘Down!’ I got down as best I could, Nicholson down, but still peeing, now peeing in his trousers. ‘Nicholson, follow my finger and aim.’

  He got his cock away, wiped the piss off his hand in a hurry, lens caps off, and he knelt and used the sandbags, the Welsh Guards getting ready.

  ‘Two cheeky chaps there, Boss, armed. Blacks. Say … four hundred, under.’

  ‘Call it for these two,’ I instructed.

  ‘Boys, see a square field with a big muddy corner bottom left.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Go up the left side of it, come in ten yards. Go back twenty yards, dirt mounds that look like boobs.’

  ‘Got it,’ they confirmed.

  ‘Bushes behind those mounds. Set for four hundred.’

  Sights set, they took aim.

  ‘Open fire!’ I called, a hell of a racket created as I followed the tracer out.