by Geoff Wolak
‘A guard?’ Tomsk angrily asked as he glanced around.
‘Hard to tell. Need to find where that truck has been, who drove it.’
‘Look at the fucking damage to the huts!’
‘Spend some fucking money, fix it. Glass can be replaced, good men can’t. And if we don’t stop Cali ... this will be happening every fucking day around here! You’ll have nothing left.’
He lifted his arms out to the sides and let them fall. ‘Maybe I should not have tried to fuck them.’
‘Maybe not,’ I agreed. ‘They’ve been around a long time, and they’re rich.’
‘I have some men heading to Cali, they won’t be stopped either, and when you say ... they make some noise.’
‘If all goes well ... that will be around 5am. Have them sleep early.’
After a grumpy Tomsk had headed off again I called back GCHQ, finally getting the man who had called me.
‘I just got back into the office, meeting in London. How can I help?’
‘After we parachute in tonight I need to know if they’re alerted to it.’
‘Ah, that we can do, yes. We have sixty-four numbers, so a sudden burst of activity and we’d know something was up. I’ll be at my desk when you land, team with me, and ... there’s something else. We were not allowed to try and hack the Argentine sat phone system, nor the Chinese, so ... we didn’t do that if a select committee asks.
‘We have, from another source, some live intercepts, but just mid-ranking officials -’
‘Did they pick up three men today?’
‘How in blazes did you know that?’
‘A good guess.’
‘Yes, they did pick them up, and took them to the building south of the cement factory, which they called the Meat Locker. The mind boggles.’
‘Tonight, I want those live intercepts, to know what they’re saying. No sudden activity, no reports of paratroopers, no need to call me.’
‘We’ll have a team ready, coffee on. There is something else, a few chaps wanting to test their linguistic skills, we even have two chaps that mimic the Colombian accent. They could call a number and leave a false message.’
I laughed. ‘When the action starts, have them practise their skills, move men away from those estates. Could you simulate gunfire in the background?’
‘I should think so, yes.’
‘Make it seem like a gun battle is in progress north side of the city. And call the police with dozens of false messages about gunmen and explosions, east side and north.’
‘Should get interesting tomorrow, we’ll practise today.’
‘Thanks, I might make it back alive now.’
I considered sleeping, and lay down in the afternoon heat, alone in the command room, but my phone went after ten minutes, the minister. ‘Petrov here.’
‘The plane will be ready.’
‘Have it land at our strip and take on more fuel, bad idea to land fully fuelled.’
‘Pilots said the same, but that with an empty hold it was OK to do so.’
‘Fine. Pick us up at 9pm say, so that we are over Cali before midnight.’
‘I’ll sort that now. 9pm. Destiny awaits for Panama.’
Phone down, I curled a lip and said, ‘Destiny awaits?’ They had their hopes pinned on us, and it was a large weight on my shoulders I did not need right now. I settled back down, thinking about D-Day, 1944. My phone trilled ten minutes later, and I let out a sigh as I lifted up.
It was the Pentagon number. ‘Hello?’
‘Can you talk?’ Colonel Mathews asked.
‘Yes, go ahead.’
‘I just had my secret briefing on Project Petrov, so I’m up to speed, and still a little stunned. Right now, my greatest concern is that if we pick up Cali leaders ... who the fuck do we say handed them to us? Fucking Santa Claus?’
‘How about ... British SAS, with a few embedded Deltas.’
‘But an attack by the Russians will be all over the fucking news!’
‘There’ll be very little evidence of that, and you release a counter story, or wait till you see the news then react. It will be British SAS that hand them over, if there are any to hand over, so that’s what you report. Rest is not your concern; Brits called you in to pick up men.’
‘Some around here suggested we’d blame you Brits anyhow. But listen, you had two attacks already in two days? You gonna make it to tonight?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, and if we don’t move on Cali soon they’ll be a lot more attacks like that.’
‘Folks here want revenge, so a good show trial will help.’
‘I’ll see what I can magic up.’
‘When do you drop in?’
‘Day or two,’ I lied, not sure how secure their end was. ‘You got a number for the tub offshore?’
‘Some CIA guy called Franks is on the tub, supposed to know you.’
‘We’ve worked together, yes.’
‘This is the number.’
I wrote it down, wondering why Franks was following me around the world. ‘OK, good, I’ll update you when we set off, but have them ready from an hour from now, just in case we go early.’
‘They have helos and Marines, and now SEALS, big team, whole carrier battle group.’
‘Have your superiors consider that if we succeed ... you ask the Colombians about a “denial of area” operation, and patrol the jungle vacated by the Cali Cartel, but don’t discuss it with the Colombians yet – they’ll sell that info.’
‘CIA won’t trust the Colombians, and they all know we’re sabre rattling. White House won’t send the boys in.’
‘White House might ... if there’s nothing but dead bodies to bother your boys and my team holds the perimeter.’
‘I’ll discuss that up the line, yes.’
‘I’ll let you know when we set off,’ I promised, and cut the call.
I eased back down, rifle cradled and pointed at the door, and I drifted off to sleep for a few hours, woken by jeep doors slamming. Easing up, I opened the fridge, a bottle of cold water downed, my face splashed. After a shit, and glad that it was out of my system, I washed under my arms, checked my kit, and stepped out.
I had my maps, No.3 had maps, as did Sasha and No.5, so we were covered if someone was lost in the jungle. Many of the Russians had sat phones, as did the British, so we could call each other if we landed apart in the dark.
I wandered over to the jeeps and trucks in the floodlights, No.3 assuring me that everything was packed and double-checked. I checked the British contingent, glad that Rocko and Rizzo looked fresh and with it, and we mounted our rides for the short journey, but we did so with loaded weapons pointing out the windows – just in case.
I afforded myself one glance back at the base I had created, and I wondered if I would ever return.
We made it to the strip in one piece, many roadblocks passed through, and pulled up, soon offloading the kit. I had the HALO bags lined up and opened, items called out, rifles placed in. Teams grouped and lined up on the strip, and I had them test their small green lights, their radios, each man counting off to me - in English or in Russian.
Pistols were taken out and checked, and I made sure no one had any ID on him, and that the British lads had Russian items with them – not least Russian rations, which was mostly local dried biscuits and local corned beef.
I had the British group together, Sasha to translate, and I addressed the Russians. ‘We will fly on a Panamanian Air Force Hercules, no chance of being betrayed. We will drop at a location known only to me – and it’s a big area, so there is no way they can be waiting. I will tell the pilots when we get close.
‘If we make it to the leadership villas we hit them and grab them, if not we kill as many gunmen as we can, and we stay there, destroying the drug labs and killing gunmen till there are none left.
‘Tomsk wants this, the people of Panama want this, the citizens of Cali city want this, the CIA and the British and the Colombian Government wants this ... so what w
e do will not get any criticism. We go now to do what Tomsk pays us to do, but we also do it for the people who want these shits gone.
‘I’m confident about our chances, so should you be. I have exact details of where they all live, where the drug labs are, and we have people in place in Cali City for diversions. We also have all their home phone numbers and mobile phones, and some people will have a little fun with them later.
‘There are two aircraft heading for Cali besides our ride, and Cali will be tipped off about them before they land, the aircraft containing sex dolls dressed like soldiers.’
They laughed.
‘Gentlemen, we hold all the cards, and we’re going to fuck them over!’
They cheered aggressively, rude words aimed at the Cali Cartel.
I was finally happy with the kit, and with the sound of our ride getting louder I had them all grab chutes and reserves and place them on, leg straps left undone.
Each man had twenty yards of strong green chord to use if they landed in a tree, to tie it off and slide down if need be, and all had knives in pockets to cut a tangled chute in a tree.
From a hut I grabbed bottles of cold water and placed them down on the strip as Tomsk pulled in – our fearless leader heavily guarded. The roar grew, our ride easing slowly down and touching down, passing us, spinning at the end of the strip and coming back down to us with a roar of engine and a blast of av-gas.
With its ramp down, loadmasters stepping down, I pointed them at the water bottles and they carried the water as teams moved in file aboard the C130, seats claimed in those teams, HALO bags left at the rear. I was last on, a wave at Tomsk, and we were committed, success partially down to the Cartel’s belief that we would never be stupid enough to do this, partly down to the decoy planes, and partly down to my random choice of drop zone.
Ramp closing, I sat, the hold darkening, just a little light coming from the small porthole windows, and we moved down the strip, a spin around, a sixty second wait, power up, brakes off, and we were off, soon climbing. I glimpsed Tomsk stood next to a jeep as we climbed away.
Ten minutes later, after levelling off, I left my chute on a seat and moved forwards to the cockpit, kneeling to find a familiar face as I placed on the headsets.
‘You are earning your pay this month,’ I told the pilot as he glanced around.
‘We are happy to assist with this, before more bombs go off.’
‘Head down the coast to Cali, at least thirty miles offshore, and when you draw level with Cali you turn due east and contact Cali airport reporting engine trouble. Maintain 14,000 feet well before. I’ll give you a place to open the ramp, we’ll be gone in thirty seconds. You then report the engines OK, and turn around, tekk them: thank you and good night.’
‘That is straight forwards, yes.’
‘Look on the map for Queremal, small village. Be a mile south of it, and open the ramp five miles before it. When you think the village lights are a mile east we go. It will be in your ten o’clock position, north side Cali ahead.’
‘We’ll check the map carefully, don’t worry. But you then walk a long way?’
‘A few miles, ten or so. Wish us luck.’
‘You don’t need luck, Cali needs the luck this night.’
‘Did you get a weather forecast?’
‘Yes, light wind from the north, maybe some rain later.’
I sat back down, chute straps over my shoulders, wondering if the Cali Cartel knew about us, and just what they knew. I was sure that the drop would go without challenge, but if they spotted us they could muster a lot of men, not to mention the local police.
I also wondered what London was thinking right now, knowing the risks here, and I was sure that if anything went wrong they would blame me; I had no clear orders, nothing written down. If men died, I was at fault, not London.
Sat there in the dark, I wondered why I did this, why I took the risks, why I risked the lads. But then I knew why; it was a challenge, to complete the mission, that pat on the back, that bullshit reputation. As for the lads, they were so stupid they loved this kind of work. I smiled and shook my head unseen.
An hour later I peered out at distant coastline, happy with the pilot’s navigation, and coming up to two hours the loadmaster called me forwards. I knelt behind the pilots and put the headsets on.
‘There are a lot of American ships down there, they challenge us twice over the radio.’
‘Just out on some exercise maybe,’ I lied.
‘You best get ready, ten minutes and we turn east.’
I headed back, sat and got my chute on properly, leg straps fastened, facemask on – ear piece in place, oxygen mask on – mic in place, gloves on, plastic eye mask in place and tightened. Those closest copied, soon everyone copying, and I moved to the rear and waited with my team members, just a red light to see by, my straps checked and re-checked and adjusted.
I knelt awkwardly and checked the bag altimeter and the light as teams formed up around their bags - a myriad of green lights looking like fireflies, but it was something we had practised many times on the ground.
Standing, I pointed at my ear piece, all men checking their radios, and I turned my radio on, hoping that it would not interfere with the aircraft’s radio. I pointed at my dark huddled team. ‘Sound off.’
They gave their call sign numbers before I pointed through the dim red light to the second team, the aircraft stable enough at the moment for us to stand without falling over.
With every team having sounded off, I said, ‘Listen up. We all need to leave close to each other, but without killing each other. First three teams on the ramp, shoulders held. In the sequence we practised, three seconds apart, no more no less.
‘As one team goes the one behind moves forwards ready quickly. Stay calm, don’t rush it, remember the drills, count on the way down, break and count, check you’re not about to tangle.’
The green light came on, the ramp powering down, a draft created. With the ramp down the teams moved slowly forwards to the edge, bags carried, shoulders held, and I could see the lights of distant villages below, cars on roads, but could not see Cali city, that was ahead of us.
Heads turned, legs wide, shoulders held, and we keenly observed the dispatch light, and I stopped to consider why men did this. Was it the thrill, the money, the adrenaline buzz, childish showing off to the next man, the respect, or was a combination of all of those things? I sighed inwardly; we were all mad to be here.
The dispatch light flashed green, and I nudged my team slowly out, soon a roar of air around my facemask and oxygen mask. I had held a shoulder as long as possible, and now adopted a stable position, the bag light OK, green lights glimpsed.
I could now see the bright lights of Cali, and it looked worryingly close but was actually more than six miles away. I could see the target village, and we were well south of it - as planned for and hoped for.
‘We are in the correct position!’ I transmitted, counting in my head.
All too soon the beeps started. At the continuous tone I shouted, ‘Break! One thousand ... two thousand ... three thousand ... four thousand.’ I pulled my release, a sharp jerk upwards.
I had just settled when I heard the crack of the bag chute opening below, and I found the light straight away. Looking up and around I found three green lights, no one looking like they were about to tangle. ‘Sound off.’
They gave their code numbers in sequence, and I peered down, assessing our drift. If the pilot’s were right we would be drifting south, away from the village. Problem was, it was dark as hell below me, no features, no roads.
‘Be careful, it’s dark below,’ I said in Russian. ‘Watch the bag, I tell you when it hits. Look for the bag light if you can.’
Ten seconds later an odd noise indicated the bag hitting something, but I could see no features.
‘Bag is down!’
I bent my knees, turned north and pulled down on the toggles, slowing my descent. I saw something shiny at the
last moment, and I slowly ploughed into a plastic greenhouse, a soft landing on plastic pots atop a wooden bench, which I toppled off. ‘Shit.’
Chute straps off in a mad panic, pistol out, I loudly scrambled south through someone’s carefully laid plastic-sheet greenhouse, squelching produce, making a right old mess. I demolished a second greenhouse, no way around it – it was too long, and spotted the bag light.
After demolishing a final greenhouse I got to the bag and dragged it away from the chute, opening it. Bandolier on, webbing on, rifle out, I was happy. Rifle loaded and cocked, silencer on, I heard my team making a mess of this agriculture installation.
‘Over here,’ I whispered, my green light still on, and they followed my trail of destruction.
No.3 said, ‘Fucking farmer won’t be happy in the morning.’
‘He certainly won’t, but maybe he won’t come this way every day.’
No.3 got kitted as my two remaining team members smashed their way towards me. I forced the smirk away; professionals my arse.
All kitted, water drunk from the bag bottles, extra ammo stuffed in, we set off down the line of plastic, moving east, green lights left on.
Two hundred yards down we heard the same sounds of wanton destruction coming through the darkness and I called to the team. They finally smashed their way through to me before I led them on.
Four hundred yards down the line of plastic I heard another team, and over the radio we agreed to move east, green lights knocked off.
‘Any English hearing this, we are moving east down the plastic greenhouses.’
‘This is Rocko, I got a tomato up my arse, but apart from that we’re OK. Moving east.’
‘This is Rizzo. I can hear you just about, we’re at river, wide fucking river as well.’
‘Wait there,’ I told him.
At the end of the plastic we found a fence, and ten men pulling at it tore it down and snapped the concrete fence post. We found the river and turned south, finding Rocko and Rizzo now together, radio contact made with Tomo and his Russian team, all now moving south along the river.
I heard two quiet cracks and knelt, the others copying. ‘Report the shooting!’
