by Geoff Wolak
In the morning we drove back to the MOD building, now a meeting with the RAF and the Air Commodore again, the 2 Squadron CO and Haines in on the meeting, the para school senior officers, as well as Morten. It took quite a while to settle after all the greetings.
I tabled an enlargement of 2 Squadron, which the Air Commodore said was now certain, and he agreed to place eight medics with 2 Squadron. 2 Squadron would also get the radar and radio detection kit.
Morten gave a breakdown of what his team had done, and how kit and procedures could be improved in the future. Overall he was very happy with his team, and they had all treated serious wounds. They even delivered a baby.
That brought us to the para school instructors. I began, ‘I think the debate has been put to bed about instructors with no experience, and I’ll create a combined forces HALO committee, and we’ll meet regular and drop together.’ I faced the Squadron Leader. ‘Can you start the paperwork, sir, and schedule a meeting for about three weeks down the line? My lot, SAS, SBS, Pathfinders, your lot.’
He made a note.
I added, ‘If they work together and train together they’ll be no bitching, and we may improve techniques.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, certainly. And we got many HALO drops in over Sierra Leone and Liberia, the men all toughened up with jungle work and living rough.’
‘They should train with 2 Squadron on a regular basis, ground exercises, sir.’
‘In motion,’ the Air Commodore put in. ‘In the winter time they’ll do the soldiering bit.’
‘If you rotate a few squadrons out to Sierra Leone, sir, it will help with experience.’
‘Yes, going to bring back 37 Squadron soon and send others. Right now some of the 37 Squadron men are out patrolling the jungle for experience.’
We discussed the format of the upcoming show at Brize Norton, Navy Lynx to be there, Westland Commando helicopters, and American F15s. Each unit that took part would have men present, and most all of 1 Para and 2 Para would parade with the Marines, Welsh Guards and Dragoons. The para training hangar would be employed in case it rained, and yes – there would be hotdogs they told me.
‘If there are no hotdogs I won’t be attending,’ I threatened.
After lunch, my meeting was with the propaganda team – as I called them, the MODs recruitment film unit. They asked which units were where and what they were doing, and showed me film clips, which I commented upon. I spent an hour checking facts, dates and times, and they were happy enough. I had not seen the one-hour special, so myself and MP Pete sat through it.
They had threaded together the Lynx footage with the footage from inside the Hercules, plus fake footage from the Chinook on a collision course, making it look like a close call, which it was. And Lt Col Marsh was now famous. They did mention my men, but as SAS, images of heavily camouflaged men sneaking through the jungle.
After another curry, and plenty of beer, the final meeting was with the Cabinet Office and MOD guys in the morning, and they wanted a step-by-step timeline, reasoning at each stage, who did what and why. I got away at 2pm to drive back.
Back at GL4, Donohue wanted to meet, so the next day I returned to London to meet him and his bosses, an assessment of his men given, plans made, training and re-training, kit to be used. They would be based in Essex to start, sharing an old Army base, access to the nearby ranges. They would also have a team at RAF Northolt, RAF Puma on standby always, and three small teams in London, one central and two spread north and south.
For the planned kick-off date, three weeks from now, they would have four SAS and a few of mine with them on rotation.
Back at GL4 I sent a letter to the Home Secretary stating that I was happy with the police unit, but that we would work alongside them for a year.
The next morning trucks pulled in, rifles from Valmect.
‘Did we order more?’ the Major puzzled.
‘No, sir.’ I had a look at the delivery note, not letting on about Tomsk. I read aloud, ‘From an anonymous British businessman, well done in Liberia.’ We exchanged looks. ‘One hundred rifles.’
‘What happened to the fifty we got?’
‘The lads each got one, and the Wolves.’
‘So what the hell we do with this lot?’
‘Send ten to 2 Squadron, sir, ten to the Pathfinders, thirty to Credenhill, and ... ten to the Army Sniper School in Brecon. Rest in the armoury.’
‘If there’s any room left in the damn armoury!’
He gave instructions to O’Leary and our admin corporal as a car pulled up, two men in suits stepping down.
‘Captain Wilco?’
‘Yes..?’
‘I’m Captain Moorhouse, SIB, this is Ted from SIS. We’re from the new unit to track ex-troopers.’
I was relieved that they were not here to arrest me. ‘Come on inside, we’ll get the kettle on.’
‘Quiet around here,’ Moorhouse noted.
‘All on leave, a well-earned rest.’
Tea made, we made a plan, and that plan included me ‘dealing’ with people where necessary, they even had someone under surveillance. I asked for that man’s phone number, and they reluctantly handed it over. I called him.
‘That Birdy? Segreant Bird?’
‘Yes..?’
‘Wilco, Echo Detachment.’
‘Wilco?’
‘Yes, now listen carefully. You’re planning a little job in Africa, not cleared through London, so me and some of my lads are planning on coming to see you in Nottingham, after which you’ll never walk again. Unless of course you’d like to carry on using your legs. Well, Birdy, would you like to keep the use of your legs?’
‘Yeah, I would.’
‘If your job is OK with London, it’s OK with me. So check. otherwise ... I’m kinda sensitive to ex-troopers pissing about in Africa, a few tried to kill me and my boys. Been a pleasure chatting. Oh, and your phone is tapped, mail opened, emails read, people watching you.’ I hung up.
‘Direct and to the point,’ Moorhouse noted.
‘And it saves on wasted time following them around. Anyone else like that, let me talk to them, and if they still piss about I’ll go see them. It saves on a trial.’
‘You can’t take the law into your own hands,’ Moorhouse testily told me. ‘I read somewhere that it was illegal.’
‘I don’t get caught, so let me worry about that.’
They exchanged looks.
Later, I was notified that French Echo was on its way, and that I would house them in the barracks Sunday afternoon. O’Leary called the catering ladies at home, and they would be in on Sunday, a full staff from Monday morning onwards.
Sasha and some of his team arrived back Friday after a trip to the Ukraine and some Russian language practise. They also practised on some of the local ladies, they reported. We had a meal together in the pub that night, the landlord happy for the business, since it had been quiet ‘during the war’ – as he put it.
Saturday lunchtime I got a call as I walked across the airfield, an unknown number, but I assumed it was about Petrov.
‘Da!’
‘My Russian is rusty,’ came and American accent. ‘But I understand you speak English well enough.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have some information, and I want three million dollars cash dropped off at an airstrip in Nicaragua.’
‘What is it that you think you can sell?’ I said with an accent.
‘So we have a deal?’
‘My boss always pays well those who help him.’
‘So I heard, otherwise we might not be talking.’
‘So what do you know?’
‘Tomorrow at dawn the DEA will land on his lawn, four helicopters, twenty men.’
‘Ah ... that is interesting. If the information is correct, you get your money no problem. Give me a codeword to know it is you.’
‘Codeword is ... Philby.’
‘Philby. OK.’
The call was cut, and I put the phone a
way. Walking on, I said to myself, ‘Philby was a spy, working for the Russians whilst in Mi5. Did this man know that? He’d have to be well connected to get the intel ... so yes, he knew that. But why use the name of a British traitor working for the Russians..? And how did the little shit get my phone number?’
I walked up to the top field, something not feeling right here. The DEA would never get permission to move on Tomsk, and if they did take off in helicopters Tomsk would know, and the attack would be a bloodbath. No, something was very stinky about this.
I went and found Sasha and led him outside. ‘I had someone call me, call Petrov, an American, and warn me that the DEA would land on Tomsk’s lawn at dawn tomorrow.’
‘Tomsk would be tipped off by the Panama Government surely.’
‘You’d think so, yes.’
‘And the men at the villa would open fire. The DEA would be killed.’
I nodded. ‘Yes. So ... something here stinks.’
‘You don’t trust this tip-off?’
‘No. The DEA would not have permission for this, but there’s something else. What if some joker in the States knows about me being Petrov, and makes this call to my phone. If I tip off Tomsk they come for me.’
‘If the DEA are all killed ... they also come for you.’
I stopped and stared at him for a moment. ‘So I’m screwed either way.’
‘Before, you told me about this lady at Mi5. This is same, no? Someone wants you out the way.’
I sighed, and took in the dark angry clouds above. ‘Yes, it is ... all politics and bullshit. As usual. Just like winning a marathon.’
‘What will you do?’
‘You remember the number of the bar in La Palma?’
‘Yes, I lived above it a while.’
‘Call them, and get an urgent message to Tomsk to call me back on a new and different sat phone, to call your mobile.’
Sasha made the call, the bar in Palma closed at this hour, and he woke the manager – and frightened him with loud threats. We walked to my house and got a brew on as we waited, debating this strange turn of events – and who wanted me out the way.
Tomsk called Sasha’s mobile, and Sasha handed it over. ‘Petrov?’
‘Yes. Listen carefully: I had a tip-off from an American, he wants three million dollars dropped in Nicaragua if the information is good.’
‘What information?’
‘That the DEA will land on your lawn at dawn tomorrow.’
‘The DEA? Come for me? There is a DEA team of commandos in Panama City, I have people watching them. They are set to land at a villa owned by some small-timer, tomorrow.’
‘It’s a trick, and they’ll be coming for you.’
‘I have thirty men here, machineguns -’
‘If you shoot any, the American media will wake up the White House, then you get the US Marines landing.’
‘So ... I’m screwed if I shoot them, and maybe somebody knows this.’
‘I’ll call you back. Starting moving valuable things out the villa, and weapons, but they’ll be watching the roads. Have the stuff carried into the trees and hidden. No sudden moves, they will be watching. I’ll call you back.’
Call cut, I faced Sasha. ‘There’s a DEA team set to attack another villa at dawn tomorrow.’
‘And somebody changes the target at the last minute,’ Sasha noted. ‘DEA are killed, US Marines go for Tomsk.’
‘Someone has done his homework, and they get rid of me as well for my part in it.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We beat them at their own game. This raid on Tomsk has no authority from Washington.’
‘So you tip off Washington.’
‘About what?’ I asked. ‘About an intended map reading mistake? No, I need that raid to take place ... and to be filmed and photographed.’
‘Well ... first we get Tomsk out the damn villa, huh?’
I nodded. ‘And maybe ... move someone else in.’ I called back Tomsk. ‘Get a paper and pen. OK. Now listen carefully, don’t make a mistake here or you get an orange jumpsuit to wear. Write this down carefully, step by step.
‘First, bribe a TV news team, get them to La Palma, and some men with good cameras. Second, get some M16 or M60 machineguns...’
Sasha stared at me like I was a mad as I detailed my plan for Tomsk.
Henri was back Saturday night, which was good seeing as his compatriots would be arriving the next day. I ate with him and Jacque in the pub that evening, a few lads back, some suntanned, and in the morning we sorted bedding for the barracks, Crab and Duffy back now and assisting.
At 2pm Sunday a French C-160 landed as arranged, the MPs having checked the runway for any debris. French Echo wore basic greens, heavy bags lugged the short distance to a familiar barracks.
Kit down, I led them to the canteen, the ladies waiting, a full English breakfast for our visitors. I sat with Major Liban, Moran chatting in French to a captain, and we caught up on what they had done in Liberia, the French keen to hear what we had done in Ivory Coast.
At 5pm Sasha got a call and came and found me, grinning. He handed me the phone after calling back Tomsk.
‘Ah, Petrov, it worked well, now every TV station here showing it, Panama Government furious, formal protest to the Americans ... I am sorry if I doubted you.’
‘You doubted me?’ I teased. ‘You fucking doubted me?’
‘I said sorry, eh.’
Tomsk explained that at dawn the DEA team had set off expecting to nab a small-time Russian gun runner and drug dealer, the man reported to have seven sleepy guards only to maintain a low profile. The location had been changed at the last minute, and the ex-military American pilots were none the wiser.
They landed on the ocean-side lawn after smoke and CS gas had been dropped, and ran in, weapons ready. Charges placed, they blew in the patio glass as hidden TV crews and photographers recorded the action from the trees.
What the DEA commandos found was a nursing home, shrieking nurses and old people smelling of piss, several now wounded by flying glass, and traumatised. A rude search of the premises revealed the place to be ... a nursing home, the DEA withdrawing to shouts of abuse from doctors and nurses. They beat a hasty - and embarrassed - retreat.
As they took off, men hidden at the end of the garden opened up with M16, the villa raked, the resident doctors and nurses none too happy when interviewed, all testifying about those brutish DEA Yankees firing from their helicopters as they left.
Breakfast news in Panama got the full story, the population beyond outrage, and this coming after the last episode with the DEA. The DEA station chief must have watched the news with an incredulous stare, the film sent stateside, CNN now running it, the US Ambassador to Panama filmed being summoned by the Panamanian President.
It was time for Step Two. Tomsk had bribed a few people, and I got a number, calling it. I had also been briefed on what Tomsk had found out, hard cash handed over, lots of cash. A few people in Panama would be getting a new house and car, new washing machine and wide screen TV – all paid for in cash tainted with cocaine.
‘Yeah?’ came and angry voice.
‘That Mike Preston, formerly Sergeant Preston, US Marines.’
‘It is. Who the fuck are you!’
‘I work out of the Pentagon E-Ring.’
‘You sound Canadian,’ came a calmer voice.
‘I won a military scholarship from Uncle Sam, did my two years afterwards, stayed on, met a local lady and got married.’
‘So what the fuck you want?’
‘Don’t talk, just listen. The raid you were on was a set-up, but not to embarrass you. A few weeks back, senior FBI agents met with senior DEA staff, including your station chief, and figured a way to increase their budget - and to get the White House fired up about Panama. The villa you hit, they were tipped off, and they left, moving in the old folks -’
‘So it was the right damn villa...’
‘Yes. But if you had hit it a
day earlier you would have met thirty heavily armed men, fifty cal machineguns, RPGs, surface to air missiles. You know who lives there?’
‘No...’
‘Petrov.’
‘Petrov!’ the man exploded.
‘Yes, and you and your men ... you would be dead now if it was not for one colonel in the Pentagon E-Ring. He got wind of what the FBI had planned and he risked his career by tipping off the Russian drug dealers.’
‘Why tip off the Russians like that?’
‘When the FBI are the ones causing the trouble, who else do you turn to? Listen, the CIA taped a conversation, enough to send your station chief to the electric chair, but ... the CIA have to be careful that they’re not seen squabbling with the FBI over budgets and responsibilities, been enough shit in that area in the past.
‘Sergeant, you’re alive because my colonel is a soldier and a patriot, and he won’t send ex-soldiers to their deaths for nothing. What happens next ... is up to you.’
I ended the call.
What did happen next was that Preston and his men confronted their Station Chief with the truth, hospitalised the man and wrecked his offices, all packing up and booking flights home. One man, he rang his sister, who worked at the Washington Post.
That evening I led the French to the bar as a group, a short walk, and our local landlord was suddenly swamped. I had cash, so bought everyone a beer, the mood soon raucous, the French lads always singing when drunk. Sasha and his boys would often sing when drunk as well, but this time they left the French to it.
Many Echo lads were back, and in the pub, so it was jammed, the landlord doing brisk trade, some of ours piling into the second bar to upset those few grey-haired old locals in tonight.
The landlord called time, several times, then just gave up and switched the lights off. A well-guarded group of drunks walked back in light rain, the MPs alert.
The canteen was bustling in the morning, buses turning up at 10am, both Echo and the French in clean and pressed combats, but not No.1 dress uniforms. The Major was in his No.1s, as was Captain Harris and his team, senior French officers turning up in smart uniforms and boarding the buses with us. My lot all had facemasks in pockets, just in case, plain green caps on heads.
