by Geoff Wolak
I had my team collect their personal kit and check it, then re-pack it into two crates, sixty chutes put to one side, plus ten HALO bags, altimeters and lights. I had the silencers bagged up, the extra face masks and gloves, flysheets, and made sure we had our radios plus a few spare – a good supply of 9volt batteries. The Russian lads in La Palma had good radios anyhow, I had made sure of that when I trained them.
I handed Moran my ID, my team copying, and we checked each other for anything that could identify us. Sasha handed out empty Russian cigarette packets, Roubles and Russian condoms, our para instructors wondering where we were headed.
I briefed Moran, checked my watch, and boarded a coach back to the airport. At the airport, the day now warm, the lads got a meal in a snack bar for airport workers as we were kept to one side, a man from the British Embassy here to oversee things.
A Panamanian C130 landed, just about on time, and would now refuel. The pilots headed off to the commercial pilots’ area, and no doubt the toilets followed by a cold drink. We waited as well, sat on hard wooden benches, our feet on our crates, ceiling fans whirring above our heads. I had the lads put their bandoliers on, pistols hidden.
‘Listen up,’ I called, and checked around us as we peered through the glass at the aircraft on the apron. ‘Pilots of this bird - we should be able to trust, but if I don’t think we’re going to the right place we’ll shoot the co-pilot and make them land.
‘Rocko, check your phone every half hour, write down the grid reference and let me see it. Have a look at the map and get a feel for where we are and where Panama City is. Well land east of the city by fifty miles.
‘When we land you’ll see some odd things, soldiers and police on the payroll of drug barons, Russian drug barons, all bad boys. Stay sharp at all times, pistol to hand, but try not to shoot any fucker or get into an argument. No one should try to disarm you, so don’t let them.
‘From now on, you never use the name Wilco. If you do we may all be killed. You’ll see some strange things, don’t react. If you want a drink, have a drink, don’t get drunk in front of them. If they offer you a girl, accept – but use that condom.’
‘They’ll offer us girls?’ Rizzo asked.
‘Normal for where we’re going.’
‘Fricking aye,’ Rizzo let out with a smile.
‘Remember, Rocko and Rizzo, you are ex-SAS mercenaries, paid to train the Russians and go after the Cali drug cartel by London Intel. Tell them ... you get two grand a week.’
‘That’s more like it,’ Rocko said.
‘Do we actually get two grand a week here?’ Rizzo asked.
‘No, Dumbass. Sasha’s team will pretend to be Russians now working for London Intel. Say that you worked with them once in Liberia and they were OK, nothing more. Do not let on that you know them well, don’t associate with each other.
‘Snipers, you’re regular SAS on loan from London Intel, to attack the Cali Cartel. Rocko, Rizzo, snipers, address me as Comrade, or Papa Victor - my codename, or just Boss. On the flight, go over that detail again and again, because a slip-up means a slit throat and a shallow grave.
‘All of you ... do not react if these bad boys know me and ... that I appear to be in charge and running the show.’
They adopted puzzled frowns and exchanged looks.
‘I speak Russian, and when I’m there I am not Wilco, I am Papa Victor. If you screw that up you get us all a shallow grave. Give some thought to being stripped naked and set on fire, then keep your traps shut.
‘And, upon our return, you must not discuss what happens here, or London will lock you up forever. A great deal of time and money has gone into a certain project, and the CIA are involved, and if you blab they’ll be nowhere on the planet you’ll be safe.
‘If you make a slip-up, then say that Captain Wilco is back in the UK, nice chap, looks after his men, say you know him. Say Rocko does an impression of him.’
‘Just the one girl?’ Rizzo asked. ‘Or a few like?’
I shook my head, Sasha laughing at Rizzo. ‘Start memorising the plan, or we’ll all be killed – and slowly.’
An hour later we boarded, crates carried by us, chute bags loaded by forklift and a group of airport workers. I made sure everything was aboard, the two loadmasters securing it all, and ignoring us for the most part. The engines started, the ramp finally closing, and I checked my watch; we would land after dark.
I sat with the others, the loadmasters ignoring us, and we taxied around, vibrations felt through our boots, a roar in our ears, a slight whiff or av-gas, soon powering down the runway and turning west in a big circle till we were facing southeast. Levelling off fifteen minutes later, I walked forwards being observed by the loadmasters, and grabbed the spare headsets as I knelt, the pilot glancing around at me, his consol alive with subtle green lights.
‘You speak English I assume, being a pilot.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘These men and this equipment will be used to go after Cali Cartel men across the border, at your government’s request. American and British Intelligence is assisting this, because they want the cartel stopped, fewer bombs. And a few weeks from now, if you don’t talk about this cargo, you get a little something for your families.’
‘Thank you, but if these men fight the Cali scum, I give them the money from my pocket and my watch!’
‘Not necessary, my friend, my boss will reward them well. Tell me when we are thirty minutes out, please.’
‘You are the one?’
I stared back at him. ‘The one?’
‘The special soldier who killed all the drug dealers and gunmen in the east.’
‘I am the one. How do the people ... think of me?’
‘They know what you are, but you are also a national hero. Crime is low, drug killings no more, only these Colombian shits.’
‘There will soon be fewer Colombian shits to bother you, my friend. But ... what goes on with those DEA men, eh?’
‘Ah, don’t talk about those shits! They are not here to help us, they make things worse. All taking bribes, fucking girls, high on drugs. We want those shits gone! Fucking Americans think we are still a colony!’
I nodded. ‘When I was a boy, my father always said: those who sing loudest in church ... are fucking small boys.’
They laughed loudly. ‘Good Russian proverb, yes, but it fits Panama well.’
I sat down, and peered out the window, coastline seen, Rocko peering at a map. I sat next to him, and ran a finger down our route. ‘Five hours!’ I shouted, and he nodded, no ear defenders offered to us.
A few of the lads slept, some read books in the bright sunlight streaming in from the small porthole style windows. I sat thinking about my return to Panama, and how it made me feel. If I allowed myself to be truthful I had missed the place, and the work – that of playing sheriff. And now my alter-ego was a national hero of sorts. I was looking forwards to this.
The time dragged, and the sky outside darkened, and by my reckoning we would land around 6pm, not as planned by around six hours – if indeed Tomsk could tell time. Still, it would be dark.
I could see Panama City and the water both sides, and knew we were on track. Rocko was happy with his sat phone readings and we soon began our descent, the crewman giving me hand gestures, and ten minutes later I could see orange street lights behind tall trees, a few houses with lights on, then a dirt strip with floodlights, and we bumped down.
Slowing down, the lads opened crates and grabbed rifles, loading them. I grabbed my rifle and checked it, then slung it, our ride spinning around before halting, the ramp coming down, jeeps seen, the warm fragrant air invading the hold. I walked to the ramp and finally stepped down when we halted, trucks waiting, about thirty men waiting.
I walked across to them. ‘That how I taught you to hold a fucking rifle?’ I shouted at a familiar face in Russian. He adjusted his grip, smiling.
No.3 held out his arms and we embraced, kisses on the cheeks. ‘Too
long, Petrov, too long.’
‘I never knew how much I hated the heat and bugs till I got back to England, but now I fill my nostrils and like it.’
Men patted me on the shoulder and smiled.
‘Get the kit off the plane quickly!’ I shouted. ‘Be careful with it!’
A dozen men ran forwards.
I faced No.3. ‘I have silencers for the Finnish rifles, top quality.’
‘Ah, good.’
‘You like the Valmect?’
‘Excellent rifles, yes, you recommended them for Tomsk?’
‘I designed it, told the British Army what I wanted, they sent the details off.’
‘I had an idea,’ he said with a smile. ‘Very accurate long distance. But you and the British..?’ He nodded to Rocko and Rizzo.
‘My child is there, so I kill people for them, they think they control me. But I stole secret oil drilling plans from the English, offshore Liberia, handed them to Tomsk.’
‘He makes good money from this! It was you?’ He laughed. ‘Who are these men?’
I pointed at Rocko and Rizzo. ‘Ex-special forces instructors, best there is. They teach high altitude parachuting as well.’
‘My god, is that ... No.2?’
Sasha walked in, smiling, and they embraced.
No.3 said, ‘I heard you were alive after the helicopter went down.’
Sasha pointed at me. ‘He pushed me out and jumped before the missile hit, and we landed in the trees.’
‘Fuck...’
Sasha lifted his shirt, No.3 wincing at the scar.
I pointed at my snipers. ‘British specialist snipers, best there is, better than me.’
‘Better than you? Fuck! And these?’
‘Russians, grew up in Kazakhstan, now British agents, but trained better than you lot. They parachute in, sneak up on a place, shoot someone and walk out.’
‘Proper spies, eh.’ He nodded. ‘And they work with us against Cali?’
‘That’s the idea. But if Cali find out we’re coming ... none of us will live, we’ll be burnt slowly.’
He lost his smile, and now looked very worried. ‘I hope you have some magic, because this job worries the boys.’
‘There’s an American carrier off the coast to back us up.’
His eyes widened. ‘Americans?’
‘They all want to stop the Cali Cartel, so for now we’re all best friends, and we pretend we like each other.’
Kit loaded to jeeps and trucks, the English in jeeps, we set off out the gate, a local police escort for a fifteen minute ride to a villa I remembered hitting – bullet holes patched up. Tomsk was yet to get any tall trees as he threatened.
The trucks turned around, as did many of the jeeps, setting off as the rest of us drove inside, Tomsk stood on the posh marble steps waiting.
I clambered down and stepped towards him. ‘You need better security, you let any stray dog in.’
He clasped my shoulders. ‘Too long, old friend.’
‘I’d kiss you on the cheeks, but you’re too damn short and ugly.’
He laughed. ‘Fuck you as well.’
The English grouped as No.2 walked up.
‘Ah, No.2, you look ... well,’ Tomks stuttered.
‘I spent six months learning to walk, but now I’m OK. Don’t worry, it was not your fault.’
‘And ... England?’
‘Cold and wet, but very beautiful. And no one shooting at me!’
‘But you come to fight, no?’
‘Yes, I have to, or the British don’t like it.’
I said with a grin, ‘He doesn’t tell his girl what he does.’
‘Ah, well that would be ... tricky,’ Tomsk agreed. He looked past No.2. ‘And these are British?’
‘Five Russians working for the British, two instructors, four snipers – best in the world, better than me.’
‘Yes? They are good then.’
‘Got the kettle on, mate?’ Tomo loudly asked. ‘Some food?’
‘Come inside,’ Tomsk offered everyone, and led us through the sumptuous villa I remembered raiding.
‘Unload your weapons!’ I told everyone, and they clanked as we progressed, loose rounds picked up.
‘Nice fucking pad,’ Rocko noted.
In his huge kitchen, Big Sasha was waiting, food ready.
‘Hey Big Lump,’ I offered.
Tomsk cursed, and handed over a hundred dollars to Big Sasha, who stood grinning. Rifles down, we gathered and sat, a meal prepared mostly for Brits; burgers, pancakes, chicken, steak, beer.
‘Tuck in,’ I told the English, and sat at the end of a long table, near Tomsk.
‘These Russians...?’ Tomsk nudged.
In Russian, I began, ‘They grew up in Kazakhstan, officer families, posh school, all did degrees in English. Old Soviet Army was training them to be spies in The West, then ... everything went to shit. They had no money, so tried selling weapons, got found out, fled, got picked up some place like Turkey I think, Interpol locked them up, the British got them out.’
‘When the Soviet Union collapsed I was selling anything I could get my hands on. Bad times.’ He shook his head.
‘If they’re killed the British won’t be happy, they’re the best agents.’
‘I could ... use them in the future?’
‘What the fuck for?’
‘They speak perfect English?’
‘Yes...?’
‘So they sit next to some Russian who thinks they’re English and listen in...’
‘Well, if the information was useful to London, yes.’
‘I have some people in Europe I want to fuck...’
‘What are they involved with?’
‘Guns.’
‘Then London will loan you these men for sure. Tell me, what about parachute training here?’
‘They have been at it day and night yes, some hurt ankles I think.’
‘I’ll make an assessment tomorrow, then we go. Longer we wait the greater the chance we’ll be found out. But first ... get a paper and pen.’
Big Sasha fetched the pad and paper. ‘Find three men you don’t like, Hispanics, pay them well, have them go down to Cali and rent apartments, all legit. Cali will check them out, know it is you and watch them – or kill them.’
‘And be distracted from a parachute jump!’ Tomsk noted.
‘Then, send your best two Hispanic men, and find a safe house on the coast, isolated, west of Cali.’
He made a note. ‘I have maps next door, and information for you to study. That plane is flying every two days.’
I nodded as I tackled the chicken.
‘Good food here,’ Tomo told Rocko, all tucking in, cold beers sipped.
I faced Tomsk. ‘And if they find out...?’
He gave that some thought. ‘We fight.’
‘Some bombs in La Palma?’
‘I hope not, but if we destroy Cali then Medellin have a bigger cut, more money for me, fewer problems around here.’
‘If I hit a villa, and there’s some money, No.2 will get it to the safe house.’
Tomsk nodded.
‘And their drugs?’ I asked.
Tomsk made a face. ‘Destroy it, we’d not get it back here.’
‘We could get it ... somewhere.’
He considered that. ‘Need a few men and some trucks.’
I shook my head. ‘Helicopters, but only after I hit the leadership. After that it gets easy. Find some.’
Again he nodded. ‘And if there is ten tonnes...?’
‘We’d need some trucks. Get a boat, trusty crew, to land on the coast somewhere isolated, two days after I hit them.’
He pointed at the British lads as they tucked in. ‘They need paying?’
‘No, London paid them. But if I get you some cash to that safe house, I want some for London. Say ... 20%?’
He lifted his eyebrows. ‘London wants 20%?’
‘They use the money for these kinds of operations, makes me look go
od. I’ll get 10% of their 20%, unless ... you can get some cash into the UK unseen.’
‘I can do that. So you get 10% only. Fucking British, eh.’
‘It’s not for me anyhow.’
‘I know, you are stupid that way! You could be rich!’
‘And do what with it?’ I scoffed.
After a large meal, and several beers, the lads were shown to the bunkhouse around the back, nice rooms, a few lads sharing, and having to deal with the issue of what to do with the twenty ladies lined up – Rocko and Rizzo not averse to having sex in front of each other.
My Staff Sergeants grabbed three ladies for the two of them and led them off without a second thought, Tomo next – taking two ladies himself, my snipers a little reserved at first, till I nudged them, Sasha and his lads chatting in Russian to the Russian hookers. Sasha declined, and came back with me.
‘You have a steady girl, No.2,’ Tomsk noted.
I sat and sipped a beer. ‘You hear about that attack in England?’
‘Frank, DEA mentioned it, he was here yesterday. Fucking Nigerians.’
‘I’ll have their details soon, and then you can spend some of that money I don’t take.’ I took out my sat phone and called SIS, asking if David had left something for me. I wrote down the detail. ‘Thanks. Sitrep: having a beer with Tomsk, English lads with hookers, all on target. Out.’
I showed Tomsk the detail. ‘Very illegal them telling you this, I had to nag them.’
He studied the names, and took out his sat phone and punched numbers. ‘Yes it’s me. Listen, find all you can about Delta Oil in Nigeria, and Delta Sands Security, and Oballo Nguyente – however you fucking pronounce that. I want his home address, office, car, everything. And quick.’
I told him, ‘These are the people who want your oil rig replaced with theirs.’
‘Like fuck. I’ll slit their black bastard throats!’
‘Make sure you never mention where that came from, fucking British would go to jail.’
