by Geoff Wolak
My phone trilled, so I stepped onto the platform. ‘Wilco.’
‘Deputy Chief. They recovered two Stingers from the border area, so where we at?’
‘I’d assume two Stingers heading for Cancun, and that the roadblocks might get them -’
‘It’s total fucking chaos in Mexico, roadblocks everywhere, tailbacks a few miles long, most all flights cancelled, Army mobilised, and the local housewives are more than just a bit pissed at the cartels – the politicians none too happy. Their fucking president never slept a wink last night, looked like shit at his press conference.’
‘You get a few hours?’ I asked him.
‘Two hours grabbed here and there, some food. I got a restroom with a hot shower, and that helps. Any fresh intel?’
‘Rumours of Tijuana men at the border, heavily armed, east of Mexicali, west of Carlos the Jackal,’ I detailed, figuring that Carlos would make this happen anyhow.
‘This jeep our people grabbed…’
‘The drivers were shot first.’
‘By who?’ he pressed.
‘My friends in low places.’
‘Nice to have friends like that, but we dare not report it!’
‘Claim to have snipers on that road, I’ll back you.’
‘I might have to, yes.’
‘If they query the snipers, point towards my men – that’s a dead end for them,’ I told him.
‘How many Stingers left out there?’ he pressed.
‘We got ten, one was fired at an F18, so if we assume two on their way to Cancun, eleven or twelve left in play,’ I told him.
‘That cash the Marines got, it’s estimated at twenty million dollars in small bills, already on the news. And our people in Tijuana confirmed that Charall is dead, along with some of his lieutenants. Sixty men moved on that compound, none returned, phones unanswered.’
‘They’ll have a hard time identifying the body parts, your Navy levelled the place after my team left, a bit of target practice for them.’
‘I had two retired agents on a hilltop watching it, another guy on a hotel roof, ringside seat – cold beer in hand despite the early hour. It’ll be on the news soon, helps to appease the voters - and the nervous air travellers.’
‘Any cancelled flights your side of the border?’ I asked.
‘A great many, but just those heading to Mexico, no local flights affected yet. What the hell…’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘News is showing your men getting off the helos on the Kitty Hawk.’ I closed my eyes. ‘One is naked.’
‘He … had an accident with a grenade, and a toilet full of shit.’
‘Jesus, the guy looks like a Neanderthal; well-defined muscles, scars all over him, blood down him.’
‘That would be Mad Dog Rizzo.’
‘Rizzo? The one with the bad toilet habits?’
I sighed, wondering if the Eskimos had heard about Rizzo’s toilet habits. ‘Yeah, that’s him.’
‘Did he drop a grenade down the toilet or what?’
‘Knowing him, anything is possible. Oh, we’re steaming north, might raid the town of Tijuana if we get a target.’
‘If you get a target, call, I have twenty retired agents sat there! And some are even sober.’
I headed down to the busy medical bay, a young officer leading me. I was greeted by a naked Rizzo laying on his side and being cleaned-up by three medics – two ladies and man, white pads in several places, a tube up his arse.
The doctor that had injected me turned. ‘We puzzled the need for the colonic irrigation, Major, then he explained it, and we found blood, so he’s torn the skin inside, and we’ll deal with that now save any risk of infection. The through-and-through missed the intestines, and we can deal with the scrape here, a few bits of masonry under his scalp.’
‘He’s used to it.’
Rizzo rudely asked, ‘I get a fricking bonus?’
‘Staff Sergeant Mad Dog Rizzo, the American national news just showed your naked rear coast to coast. I think the Prime Minister will want you disowned.’
Stickler, on the next bed, laughed loudly.
‘Stickler, you OK?’ I asked.
‘Just a ricochet, Boss. But I was there when Rizzo got himself covered in shit. Major Moran was throwing buckets of water at him.’
I shook my head as Rizzo protested his blame in the matter. Muscles laughing one bed over, Dobbin next to him. ‘What you got, Muscles?’
‘Bit of stone under the skin. Itches like hell, Boss.’
‘Me too,’ Dobbin put in. ‘But mine was a bit of copper.’
The doctor pointed me to a sink. ‘Go take a wash, Major.’ It was not a request.
A stepped to the sink area, shirt taken off, the corpsmen all stopping dead from treating their patients.
‘Jesus, Major, did they use you for target practise?’ the doctor asked.
‘The Serbs did,’ I told him as I turned.
‘How the hell are you listed for duty, Mister!’
‘I work for Intel. Different rules.’
‘Even they have rules!’ he complained.
‘If I can talk and use my phone … I keep going,’ I told him as I washed under my armpits. I washed the shirt under-arm area, and put it back on wet, the lady corpsmen glancing at me.
Stickler noted, ‘Shit, Boss, never knew you’d been hit so many times.’
‘A few years from now you’ll look just like me.’
‘I hope not! Do you keep your clothes on when – you know – shagging?’
‘I work 24hrs a day, no time for shagging,’ I told him.
‘Mind the language in here,’ the lady corpsmen scolded us.
‘Ow! Fucking cunting hell!’ Rizzo shouted, getting a stern pointed finger from that same lady as they worked on his arse. He faced the doctor. ‘Will I have piles, Doc?’
‘At your age, no, but if you work in hot climates you get dehydrated, the turd is dry inside you and it can get stuck. You push, and you damage the skin and create the piles. So don’t push, stay hydrated, use a laxative if you feel congested.’
‘Wilco said soap up my arse.’
‘Soap causes a reaction, more water from the skin, and that helps to dislodge a blockage, yes.’
‘I had me finger up, moving bits of it.’
‘Your finger is probably not long enough. Kneel, head down, soap used, wait a while next time.’
I said to Rizzo, ‘Point your arse towards the enemy, scare them off.’
Stickler laughed. ‘He was naked, boots on, webbing back on, and shooting them as they came in. I saw a few shocked gunmen, Boss.’
‘Some episodes are best forgotten about,’ I said with a sigh.
‘Not my fault,’ Rizzo complained, before he complained again about what they were doing to his arse.
‘Doctor, will he be a pain in the arse in the future?’ I asked.
The doctor shot me a look.
Back upstairs my phone beeped, so I called back David Finch as I stood on the blowy platform, an armada of sleek grey ships seen. ‘Right, Boss?’
‘No, in a word. The PM was just querying why one of your men fought naked.’
‘I can explain.’
‘This should be good.’ He waited.
‘It was Rizzo -’
‘What a shock, eh.’
‘Well, he was constipated, warm climate and all that, and sat on a toilet. Grenade thrown, and he was covered in it apparently, so he ditched the clothes and they drowned him in soap and water before they flew back.’
‘It’s on the news.’
‘I didn’t think the British news could show a naked arse.’
‘Just a backside, and yes they did, a few jokes and comments about why your man was naked.’
‘Then we can release a story about him being wounded, clothing cut away.’
‘He jumped off the helicopter and walked himself inside, so I doubt that will wash.’
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘Any news?’
‘Americans grabbed two Stingers at the border, a helo raid, and this carrier I’m on will steam north to Tijuana, maybe a helo raid if we get the intel. I have my friends in low places doing a good job of bribing Tijuana men.’
‘Let’s leave that detail out of any reports, eh. Any of your men hurt?’
‘Rizzo was hit twice, nothing serious, ten men with ricochet and some down time. Anything happening in Monrovia?’
‘I checked earlier, and there’ve been no incidents to speak of.’
‘Good. How’s the Mexican tourist industry?’
‘A small step away from drying up, no flights to Cancun, last flights to leave today.’
Call ended, I recalled the number for GCHQ. ‘It’s Wilco. Any news on the jeep travelling east?’
‘It seems to have jumped ahead a hundred miles or more, not far from Cancun now. And London sent detail of its position to the Mexican police.’
‘Estimated time of arrival?’
‘Within four hours.’
I called London. ‘It’s Wilco. Any flight due to leave Cancun today, British flights?’
‘Hired 747 will bring stranded Brits back.’
‘When does it fly?’
‘3pm.’
Since the timeframe fitted, I called Bob Staines. ‘Release a story, that the 747 special rescue flight for British tourists is the target for the cartel Stingers in Cancun. Get the flight number and release it.’
‘Will it be hit?’
‘I doubt it. It takes off at 3pm and the missiles are still 4 hours away. I just don’t want to take any risks here.’
‘I’ll get on it.’
Back inside, Major Harris hissed, ‘Can we disown Rizzo, or shoot him!’
‘It was not his fault.’
‘It never is!’
I held up a flat palm. ‘He’s a good soldier, naked or in uniform, been with me from the start.’
‘So have I, been with you from the start, but I don’t go around naked!’ he whispered.
My phone trilled, an odd number. ‘Hello?’
‘Garden gnome sales here. Do you want a garden gnome?’
‘I have a large pond, so yes – they’re always useful.’
‘Target is LAX. Go fishing.’ He cut the call.
I found myself staring at my phone. Lifting my head, Franks and Harris were waiting, a few of the officers glancing my way. I led Franks and Harris outside. ‘Target is LAX,’ I told Franks as his hair was blown about.
‘Our busiest fucking airport!’
‘It’s just the one airport,’ Harris pointed out. ‘Might spot the men with missiles in the flight path.’
‘It’s a big fucking flight path and holding area,’ Franks complained. ‘Ten miles square, lots of rooftops and open spaces – they could be anywhere to launch!’ He faced me. ‘You gunna report it?’
‘Intel source can’t be backed-up, nor even discussed,’ I pointed out.
‘Do you trust the source?’ Franks pushed.
‘He’s saved our arses a few times, and he’s always been right.’
‘So run with it,’ Franks urged.
‘And if they close LAX and nothing happens?’ I posed.
‘Be a few people calling for your head on a plate,’ Franks noted. ‘Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’
‘Then I have to choose my wording.’ A nod, and I led them back inside. To the commander, I began, ‘I want to send a message to the White House situation room.’
He pointed at an officer, who readied his notepad.
I added, ‘Also on the recipient list should be Colonel Mathews, Pentagon E-Ring, the CIA, and … anyone who needs to be on the list to save them criticising you later, like your Navy bosses.’
‘And the message, sir?’
‘From Major Wilco aboard USS Kitty Hawk. Local Mexican human assets now confirm that Stinger missiles are being moved to the west coast border, to attack American civilian airports. Timescale is two days or less. Send that.’
The officers were all now listening in.
The commander noted, ‘They can’t hit Mexican airports, no fucking planes in the air!’
An hour later David called. ‘Our emergency flight has no one willing to get aboard it. Your doing?’
‘The flight was four hour’s drive time from a missile on a jeep, and due to take off in about four hours, and I don’t like coincidences. This will be wrapped up in a few days, so those passengers can enjoy the beaches a little longer, and my sources just told me that the missiles will now go north of the border - no planes flying in Mexico.’
‘Have you updated Washington?’
‘Yes, a recipient list. What they do is up to them, unless I get a timely warning, but between you and me the target is LAX.’
‘Why hold off telling them that?’
‘Because my source could be fingered. We need to find a missile heading to LAX first.’
‘A good source is a valued asset for decades,’ he agreed.
‘Delay that emergency flight 24hrs, I may have the missiles by then.’
‘Well it won’t fly empty, and no one is willing to board it.’
Call ended, I told Harris, ‘The final British emergency flight has been delayed indefinitely, missiles getting closer to Cancun, but the passengers won’t board it after I had a story put on Reuters.’
‘Is that plane the target?’
‘Missiles would have reached the area just before it was due to take off, so … not sure, but too much of a coincidence, and that flight is just about the only flight today out of Cancun.’
‘If it’s the only flight then it has to be the target!’ he whispered.
I nodded.
Franks stepped in. ‘Twenty mile tailbacks at the border. I’m afraid to announce … that we’re inconveniencing a great many Mexicans heading north.’
‘Fuck ‘em,’ the commander let out. ‘Some will stay as illegals anyhow.’ He was starting to look tired, and a bit strung out.
Franks faced me. ‘Did you know … that illegals crossing the border on foot only account for about five percent of illegal aliens, and that most illegals come by plane with a valid visa but overstay.’
I countered with, ‘Did you know … that 90% of Americans in Mexico are there illegally, the average man having overstayed his visa by ten years.’
‘My uncle is legal,’ an officer put in. ‘Got local medical cover, legit cover. If he drinks himself to death they bury him in Colorado, insurance covers it, his liver donated to medical science.’
My phone trilled, Tinker. ‘We got a phone hit after Reggie passed me a number from someone called Maria.’
I considered our new recruit, and her large boobs. ‘Where’s the phone located?’
‘Five miles north of the border, heading for San Diego east side. Got a paper and pen?’
I wrote down the coordinates and pointed the commander towards them. ‘Keep the reports coming.’
The commander showed me the map. ‘That’s north of the fucking border!’
‘Send to Colonel Mathews, urgent.’ I stepped to the viewing platform and called Bob Staines. ‘You awake?’
‘Yes, it’s late afternoon!’
‘Maria got us some intel?’
‘When she saw the news she called in and I explained your role, and she knew someone she figured was linked in, so called them. That someone mentioned that a man called Mathew Fisher was working for bad company – and had fallen out with first man. Fisher’s phone number was handed to Maria, out of spite it seems.
‘She called to see if he had some work for her, but he said he was very busy but about to get rich.’
‘Good work then. I’ve updated the Pentagon, and they might get him. Talk soon.’ I called Langley.
‘Wilco?’ came the Deputy Chief.
‘Run a name, ex-contractor and general bad boy, Mathew Fisher.’
‘Hold on … he’s listed as dead, two years back.’
�
�Another zombie. He’s east of San Diego in a jeep, Stingers in the back. Put his face on every news outlet in California.’
‘Be done quickly,’ he threatened. ‘Where’s he headed?’
‘LAX.’
‘I’ll need to pass that to White House.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not yet!’
‘I need to protect the source a little longer. Just warn that San Diego Airport or LAX are potential targets, and we keep the source alive for a few more years.’
After a pause came a sigh, ‘Yeah, sources need protecting. I gotta go.’
Call ended, an officer stepped a little closer. ‘My wife and kids fly out of LAX later today.’ He waited, all eyes soon on me, but the man was neither angry not concerned, but seemed to want some advice.
‘If you warn them … then it’s your career,’ I told him.
‘It’s a prison term,’ the commander told him. ‘Ten years in Leavenworth.’
‘I’ll trade that for my family, sir,’ the man curtly noted. And waited.
All eyes were now on the commander, and he knew it.
‘I can release a story,’ I told them. ‘They can’t end my career, and if did they did – great – I get a fucking rest.’
The commander faced me. ‘What’ll your government do to you? You’re not above the law.’
‘If they want to prosecute me then I go work for my Uncle Sam,’ I told him. I stepped out and called David Finch. ‘Boss, got a problem. Missiles tracking to LAX, and I have a man stood next to me whose family fly later today. Any good suggestions?’
‘Have you warned them?’
‘Yes, but they will wait and dither.’
‘If you release a story you might sour your relationship with the White House and the Pentagon, and the JIC might call for charges to be filed, the release of classified materials. Update the White House first, then call me back.’
‘OK. Boss.’
Inside, I asked for a call to the President, and for the Admiral to be present as well as JAG officers. The Admiral arrived, asking about the call.
‘You heard the President on my last call, sir: any news and to call him.’
‘We have a secure message link,’ he testily pointed out.
‘I need to make the call, sir,’ I insisted as the JAG officers appeared. Phone made ready, everyone quiet, the call was routed to the White House situation room, a general inconvenienced when I insisted that he fetch the President.
