Wilco- Lone Wolf 22

by Geoff Wolak

  Stickler was down there, and I worried for him, but he was probably having the time of his life and loving it.

  First Seahawk down, and six men scrambled aboard, the Seahawk lifting off and flying east into the wind. With all of Echo loaded the drone of the helos abated, soon gone, F18s being hooked to their catapults ready, and I observed four take off with a roar of bright engine afterburner.

  Back inside, we now had a live radio commentary from a speaker, comments being loudly sent back and forth amongst the assembled officers.

  Franks idly commented, ‘Above us is the flight operations, guy in a yellow shirt, below us is radar. Radar takes over when the aircraft are out of sight, but the flight operations listen in, as well as the Air Boss – who controls the strike.’

  I nodded. ‘And a Seahawk with a missile?’

  An officer turned towards us. ‘From a destroyer close inshore, helo already in place, waiting the go signal from the strike wing. Anyone in those holiday condos gets a rude wake up real soon.’

  ‘Probably a few retired old navy dogs,’ I told the man.

  ‘I got an uncle down the coast some,’ he responded. ‘Scuttlebutt will be loud later today in the tavernas.’

  I faced Franks. ‘Reprisals against tourists?’

  ‘No way, the cartel sells to them; they own condos and hotels. They don’t want the tourist gone - nor hurt any. Tourism here makes more than the drugs!’

  ‘So it’s a holiday spot close to the border? Why, it’s just as warm in California?’

  ‘Cheap condos, cheap beer, cheap hookers, cheap drugs!’

  I smiled at the officer. ‘Your uncle..?’

  ‘Will be making good use of everything on that tick list.’

  We finally received word that the strike wing was ready, local Mexican air traffic control calling but being ignored. Four aircraft dropped bombs, none closer than a hundred yards to the compound – we hoped, Seahawk reported to be swooping in, missile fired, second missile fired as I listened in, Echo finally landing south of the compound.

  My phone trilled so I stepped to the platform. ‘It’s Moran, and there’s no opposition yet, not that we can see fuck all for the smoke and dust! Update you later.’

  Inside, they were all waiting. ‘Men are down, too much smoke and dust to see anything, no shots fired so far.’

  The commander noted, ‘Bombs hit at less than a hundred yards from the target compound, so the men in that compound will be dizzy right now, down on their bellies and praying.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve been close to a 2,000lb bomb, too close, and at 100yards it’s like a horse kicking you in the chest.’

  An officer put in, ‘The cartel got the full effect, flash-bang. Medics reckon that they’d be dizzy and deaf being so close, and maybe stay that way.’

  Five minutes later and my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Moran. We killed a few men, but they were fucked anyhow. Tomo can see armed men assembling 500yards north, a road junction.’

  ‘We’ll bomb it. Call me back.’

  ‘Oh, we got a SEAL with us, expert on Stingers.’

  ‘Don’t get him killed!’ Call cut, I faced the officers. ‘500yards north of the compound, road junction, can you call in a strike?’

  Orders were purposefully spoken into wall phones, the map checked, sheets updated with great proficiency here.

  My phone trilled a few minutes later. ‘It’s Moran, and they bombed that road, no fucker left alive up there now, all quiet here, can see a nice hotel a mile east of us – looks like it has a great pool, all lit up.’

  ‘Missiles?’

  ‘We’re looking, nothing yet, one big room that’s locked but it has windows we can get through, windows all blown out, walls broken. Navy made a mess, jeeps here with windows blown out, right old mess. I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘OK. And good about that hotel pool,’ I quipped.

  Off the phone, I reported, ‘No missiles found yet, a few locked doors to get inside. Too soon to tell. Oh, your bombing was spot on, target destroyed. Tick a box.’

  And they did tick a box, the damage assessment sent and acknowledged.

  I heard “trick or treat two-point-five”. ‘Trick or treat?’ I queried.

  ‘Pilot low on gas gets a top-up, like a kid asking for candy – can I have some?’

  I called Max and detailed the action, for him to release it, not really expecting the cartel to be watching Reuters late at night, nor sending reinforcements anytime soon.

  Moran called back. ‘We got inside the big room, no booby-traps, and there are twelve boxes, all look like Stingers.’

  ‘So the boxes have serial numbers?’

  ‘Yeah, where that naval officer told us to look, and the SEAL is taking photos of them with a camera.’

  ‘Call GL4, and start listing them all, fast, then damage them.’

  He called back a few minutes later. ‘Most of the boxes are empty, but four are genuine, and I read the detail to GL4 on the missiles themselves. But there’s a metal trap door, massive lock on it.’

  ‘Can you shoot it off?’

  ‘No, need a cutter.’

  ‘I’ll send one, hold the fort.’ I faced Franks. ‘Four genuine Stingers found, boxes for twelve - empty, but there’s a metal door.’ I faced the commander. ‘I need men with metal cutters, blow torches, on a helo with SEALs or Marines.’

  Orders were barked, then repeated down the wall phones.

  An officer asked me, ‘Ground conditions, Major?’

  ‘No one left alive and shooting, all quiet so far. If reinforcements are coming … fuck knows where from or how long till they get there.’

  I stepped out to theplatform and called Carlos, waking him. ‘Sorry to wake you, but I need some information. The US Navy just bombed a compound twenty miles south of Tijuana, and special forces soldiers went ashore, and they found twelve boxes and four missiles. I need your man in the area to tell me if the cartel is moving men towards it.’

  ‘OK, I make a call now,’ a tired man promised.

  Next call was GCHQ.

  ‘Ah Wilco, the phone lines are buzzing, looks like you woke them all up.’

  ‘Everyone at the compound is dead, plus reinforcements 500yards north, my men hold the compound.’

  ‘They’re reporting that the place was bombed, something taken away by American helicopters.’

  ‘I need to know if they’re sending men to the compound, so stay sharp.’

  ‘We’ll make some calls now.’

  Back inside, I asked Franks, ‘Those radio ships you have, they awake and on the fucking ball?’

  ‘I’ll make a call.’ And he did. He finally reported, ‘Rapid increase in traffic, some indiscrete use of mobile phones, senior man dispatched towards the compound. They think we bombed and left, they don’t know about your men.’

  I called Moran. ‘Company is coming, so dig in.’

  ‘It’s a good defensive spot, walls have holes in them!’

  ‘Men with cutters on the way, so cover their landing.’

  ‘No movement around us at all apart from some feral dogs, and the lads are shooting the dogs.’

  I updated the commander on that lack of movement, and half an hour later Moran called, men with blow torches down and being led in. ‘Move the missiles outside first, eh.’

  ‘We have them set-up for target practise, see if they go bang.’

  He was back on ten minutes later. ‘These metal doors will take ages, hour or more, might need better kit and another gas bottle or two. Looks like it was closed from the inside.’

  ‘Can’t leave yet, so stay and try and get the doors open. I’ll get some support. Wait, is someone inside?’

  ‘Can’t hear anyone, and they’d have no air.’

  ‘Look for a second entrance.’

  ‘Might need some daylight for that,’ he complained.

  I faced the commander as he waited expectantly. ‘More men, more cutters, bigger gas bottle, torches to help
with the search.’

  Orders were barked, another flight to insert the extra men.

  My phone trilled, Langley, the Deputy Chief.

  ‘You awake and sipping the coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘Was expecting a dawn insert, just got a nudge. What’s happening there?’

  ‘We took the compound, found twelve boxes but just four genuine Stingers, serial numbers recorded, some metal doors being cut open but they could take an hour.’

  ‘Where are the four Stingers?’

  ‘My men are using them for target practice, and after they leave your Navy will level the place.’

  ‘But you got the serial numbers?’

  ‘Yes, ask London for them, from my team at GL4.’

  ‘That’s my top priority here.’

  ‘No it isn’t, because when you find out who lost the Stingers you’ll bury it.’

  ‘So who lost the fucking Stingers!’ he demanded.

  ‘The Saudis.’

  After a long pause came, ‘They don’t lose things unless they want to lose them.’

  ‘Correct. Now go sabre rattle towards the Saudis.’

  ‘Ha, like fuck.’

  ‘And then consider Desert Sands, then go hide your head up your arse and shout a little, because the White House is not interested in what you have to report. Wilco out.’

  I faced Franks and quietly stated, ‘Your boss just got his kick in the teeth.’

  ‘There’s nothing he can do.’ He shrugged,

  Moran called twenty minutes later. ‘We got the second team, and they’re debating the best thing to do, which apparently is to break the concrete. So … got a jack hammer?’

  ‘I doubt they have them on ship, so have them improvise.’

  ‘Hang on … we have movement, on the road, which is … four hundred yards away.’

  ‘Shoot the fuckers if armed, but be careful, you’re in a tourist area,’ I warned.

  ‘I’d hope they’re all tucked up in bed, but after the noise the Navy made – maybe not. Oh, put the senior man there on with this welder guy.’

  ‘Major Wilco?’ came a minute later, an American accent.

  ‘Hold on, give your technical report to the commander here.’ I handed the phone to the commander, and he listened, call finally cut.

  He told me, ‘It’s a bitch apparently, will take an hour. Are they in danger?’

  ‘You have the entire Navy off the coast, and my men report a good defensive position. Local hired men will have pistols, maybe an M16 or two, no Howitzers.’

  ‘Be dawn soon,’ another officer put in. ‘We can have helo patrols up.’

  ‘Plan for that please,’ I told him.

  My phone trilled. ‘It’s Moran, and we set off a Stinger by mistake, or maybe deliberately. Tomo hit one with a long casing round and the missile did a whoosh-flop and blew up a mile away.’

  ‘Near anything?’

  ‘Yeah, near that nice hotel.’

  ‘Cartel will get the blame, don’t worry. Have Tomo hit the top of the missiles.’

  ‘He did, and that one went bang, bits flying back here. We put the last two in a jeep and set it alight and rolled it down the slope.’

  ‘A good technical decommissioning I reckon.’

  ‘Let’s not tell anyone, eh,’ Moran suggested.

  ‘Any contact?’

  ‘Had a few men drive up and stop 300yards away, get out, cock weapons, take a look, shot dead a moment later.’

  ‘True professionals.’

  ‘Rizzo has a bad stomach, needs a shit but he can’t go.’

  ‘Tell him soap, up his bum.’

  Moran laughed.

  ‘No, really, it causes a reaction in the skin, and that loosens a dry turd. The heat dehydrates us western men. Tell him to drink more water.’

  ‘I’ll go tell him what to shove up his arse.’

  Thirty minutes later, and Moran was back on. ‘We got the metal doors open, and there are six Stingers, and they all seem genuine according to the SEAL. They were stood up at an angle, not much room with all the cash in there.’

  ‘I’ll send a helo for the cash, make sure no one is tempted. How much is there?’

  ‘Two tonnes in small notes!’

  ‘Second way out of that basement room?’

  ‘Not that we can see.’

  ‘I’ll send Marines for the cash.’ I faced the assembled officers. ‘I need four helos, and each must have six Marines, one officer, to bring back a shit load of cartel cash. Fast as you can please.’

  Orders were shouted, repeated down the wall phones or desk phones.

  The commander approached me. ‘How much cash?’

  ‘No idea, because it’s all in small bills.’

  ‘Coated in cocaine no doubt!’

  ‘No doubt,’ I agreed. I stepped out with Harris and called London as the day brightened. ‘It’s Wilco, and we have ten Stingers accounted for, no casualties yet. End of report.’

  Next call was Langley. The Deputy Chief was less than fresh. ‘Wilco, is it good news?’

  ‘Ten Stingers accounted for, and we found a shit load of cash, millions of cocaine scented dollars, so you can release that.’

  ‘Well, a small ray of sunshine, makes it look like we’ve set back the cartel. Any word on the remaining missiles?’

  ‘Several heading east, rest unaccounted for so far.’

  Moran called just after I ended the call. ‘I may have stolen a few items when the Yanks weren’t looking.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Diamonds for one, some jewellery, and some paperwork, bank details.’

  ‘Keep the paperwork, bury the rest where someone else could later dig it up, mark the spot and use Rizzo’s sat phone for an exact location. Don’t risk anything back here on ship.’

  ‘So “x” marks the spot.’

  I called Carlos next. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes, but a little tired. My man has just seen a convoy of armed men heading to the place that the Americans bombed, will take … half an hour to get there. But it is not certain they go there, just the general direction. And the local police are staying away.’

  ‘OK, keep those reports coming. Any information about missile movements?’

  ‘Something in crates, well-guarded, west of me, Mexicali City, close to the border.’

  ‘Can you attack them?’

  ‘Not very easily no, it is a hostile town, many armed men.’

  ‘Keep asking questions, spending money, or the cartel will use those missiles to hit planes in Panama.’

  I called Moran and warned him, asking him to hang around and to shoot up the reinforcements when they arrived.

  ‘Just like the Alamo, this place,’ he joked.

  ‘That was in Texas,’ I quipped.

  ‘This place is like that hilltop fort with Carlos the Jackal, only the wall here is lower, and smashed in most places.’

  Next call was Colonel Mathews. He was also less than fresh. ‘You with it, sir?’

  ‘Just about. What you got?’

  ‘We got ten missiles confirmed, and a shit load of cartel cash. But the problem is Mexicali.’

  ‘That shit hole.’

  ‘Missiles are there, so I need the border closed, all of it, all trucks searched.’

  ‘There’s one main road, so we can deploy to it, and the side roads. On paper I have eight thousand men moving, or in position, and the media is going bat-shit crazy here. Here it’s buzzing, all senior staff in, some been in all night.’

  ‘And what do they think will happen?’ I posed.

  ‘They put two and two together, and now realise that the cartel means to attack us with the Stingers. Flights to Tijuana have halved, some flights to Cancun have been cancelled, same for Mexico City, where just thirty percent of normal flights took off.

  ‘And this morning the Mexican Army goes on full mobilisation, roadblocks everywhere, searches made. Mexican Government is traumatised, and looking at a huge loss in the tourist dollar.�
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  ‘So they can finally get up off their lazy backsides and go hit Tijuana then!’ I told him.

  ‘If they could fly there they might!’ he quipped. ‘They’ve asked us to fly over our air space!’

  I called Langley back, getting the Deputy Chief from the restroom.

  ‘Wilco?’

  ‘Mexicali, there are Stingers in Mexicali.’

  ‘It’s right on the fucking border!’

  ‘Pentagon has been warned, so issue a warning yourself, make it look like you got the intel.’

  ‘I will,’ he threatened. ‘Oh, meeting in the White House, soon, expect a call.’

  ‘Should they not go through channels?’ I teased.

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘And don’t forget to wash your hands!’

  I called David Finch, finally being put through.

  ‘Wilco, you’re on speaker-phone, COBRA meeting. Any news?’

  ‘My team recovered ten Stinger missiles, and a shit load of cartel cash, US Marines claiming the cash as we speak. No fresh intel on missiles moving towards Cancun since I spoke to GCHQ last, but we just got word of missiles in Mexicali, right on the border with the States.’

  ‘This is the Prime Minister. Take a guess at what happens here?’

  ‘Mexican Government had a heart attack overnight, and have mobilised the army, roadblocks everywhere, a good chance at stopping the missiles reaching Cancun. It’s fifty-fifty, sir.’

  ‘But they mean to target a British plane?’

  ‘This is what the intel - and my own assessment - points towards, sir.’

  ‘Well we’ve issued a travel warning, and these things are normally not even reported, but the news linked it to your name and so everyone’s cancelling their flights. And the planes won’t fly with just ten passengers, so the flights are being cancelled, bit of a grey area where people stand as far as insurance goes; acts of terrorism are not usually covered.’

  ‘Need to stop planes flying out from tonight, Prime Minister, returning sunburnt British tourists, they’re the target.’

  ‘There are planes en route, and some bringing our people back. Should have many of our people back by midnight, no new arrivals, the beaches empty.’

  ‘This is David, and the American news is onto it, Canadians as well, and they’re also cancelling in droves.’