by Geoff Wolak
‘There’s a hard point, sir, if you have rope.’
‘No rope,’ I noted. ‘But we can get some. Can it be flown out?’
‘Flown out?’ the pilot repeated.
‘Yeah, flown out. You fly off a carrier, so if it can be fixed, can it be flown off this strip?’
‘On ship we have catapults! Here ...’ He glanced down the strip. ‘Might be long enough. But I would need permission; it’s a risk.’
I thumbed over my shoulder. ‘Look, you have a six hundred foot drop, and if you banked right you have a valley. Margin for error.’
‘I’d have to check with my boss.’
I took out my phone and recalled a number. ‘Major Wilco for Admiral Mulloy.’
‘So you’re Wilco’ the pilot noted. ‘You look like that guy in the movie’.
I sighed, my shoulders dropping.
‘Major Wilco? We had a plane crash-land with you?’
‘Yes, sir, but your pilot made a superb landing, which was filmed by the reporters, so it’ll be on CNN later.’
‘Ah, excellent.’
‘Listen, sir, can you send technicians to look at the plane, it was a simple flame-out so I think so we could fly it off this strip. If not the FARC will claim they shot it down, then hit it with mortars and claim a victory.’
‘Team will be on its way in ten seconds.’ He hung up.
‘Team on its way,’ I told the pilot. I pointed at the F18. ‘You have drop tanks and missiles. If they’re taken off, fuel drained so that you have just enough to reach ship, you’ll be lighter, right?’
‘Well … yeah.’
‘If you don’t fly it out I’ll get someone who will.’ I turned to Max. ‘You got the landing?’
‘Yeah, and the missiles and the blast.’
‘Edit it, send it. But get the right spelling of his name.’
‘That’s easy,’ the pilot said. ‘Lieutenant Commander Sprat, call sign Dogfish.’
I stared at him, a look exchanged with the Colonel. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘I choose Dogfish, sounded cool, because in rookie school they called me Cat Food.’
‘Ah,’ we let out. ‘Let’s get you a cup of tea, Dog Food.’
We headed down the strip, the medics stood ready but not needed, and we were soon getting a brew on.
The Admiral was true to his word, and we had two Seahawks land as we drunk our cuppas, men and kit down as we assisted, a group of engineers and a Commander.
The Commander approached our pilot, and not with his happy face on. ‘What the fuck happened?’
‘Max, show him the film,’ I cut in.
Max showed the tape, the Commander staring at the small screen, a hand over it to keep the sun off.
The Commander finally lifted his gaze as his technicians opened panels on the F18. ‘Pressure wave. That was hell of a blast.’
I told him, ‘The transport was carrying explosives, to drop on us here.’
‘And if they had?’
‘We’d have dead and wounded.’
‘So … we can claim we saved lives, took a great risk, brave pilot…’
I folded my arms and stared at him. ‘You in the propaganda business, Mister?’
He took in the faces. ‘Good write-up for the group.’
I glanced at the Colonel. ‘Colonel?’
‘They hit the bomb.’
‘They never,’ Max cut in. ‘I looked in slow motion. Bomb went off before the missiles blew, the men shooting at it.’
‘Max, edit the tape a slice. The missiles hit the bomb.’ I held my stare on him.
‘Missiles hit the bomb,’ he noted.
‘And Max, don’t forget time aboard ship, give them a good write up.’
He faced the Commander. ‘I want a flight in an EA6, catapult launch, or no fucking story.’
‘Done.’
I got a brew on as the technicians had a look at the plane, and after half an hour the F18 was slowly dragged backwards, the pilot sat in it steering. At the far end we wedged sandbags behind the wheels, the engines started, a loud whine for ten minutes before they were shut down.
Drop tanks removed, missiles carefully removed, and two Seahawks came to pick up the expensive items and to drop off two officers. One walked to the south end of the strip, one to the F18, a laser fired, a distance noted.
They approached us. ‘This strip is roughly 600yards, which is … almost legal for an unladen F18. With minimum fuel it may be possible, but a risk. There is some grass we can flatten and dig out as well, both ends.’
‘Rocko, all tools, all available Wolves,’ I loudly called. He walked north.
‘How much will that add?’
‘Sixty yards maybe.’
‘You don’t sound confident.’
‘It’s a risk.’
‘You have the valley,’ I pointed out.
‘If the strip was angled down the valley … then that would have been better. Wind is sideways as well. If the wind changes direction, we could add twenty knots, and that helps.’
‘Contact your ship, get a weather report.’ They stepped to the radio operator, who soon reported wind picking up to be followed by a storm moving in.
I told them, ‘We can wait a few days, maybe, we can put green flysheets over the plane to hide it, but … we get rockets coming in.’
‘Admiral told us: get the plane back or don’t come back.’
‘Ah. Find a trench to call home and wait some wind.’
Rocko dug out both ends of the strip and hammered the ground down, and the south side now had a suitable track curving over the end of the rise and down a little. Still, it added a few extra yards.
The area behind the F18 was dug out and flattened, and that got us an extra 30yards. We were almost legal, wagers being laid off. It was 2:1 in favour of the pilot ejecting, the plane exploding in the valley floor.
A blast, and men were peering around. ‘West hill,’ Morgen reported.
A second blast on that hill, and the naval officers were worried. I waved at the Commander. ‘What’s the wind doing, it’s shifted.’
He faced south, the southeast. ‘Yes, freshening a bit. That helps.’
A blast in the valley, and the rockets were moving our way.
I told him, ‘Find a trench near the plane, and hope.’
He jogged that way. I turned to the command area trenches. ‘Get to cover! Incoming!’ I transmitted a warning as well, soon few heads up above ground level, just the large tempting target of an F18 sat on the deck.
In my command centre, a brew on, a rocket hit near 14 Intel, no one hurt. The next rocket, eleven minutes later, landed beyond the medics, but close.
I ran out and stared that way. ‘Medics, you OK?’ I transmitted.
‘Fuck off!’ came back.
‘Say again last segment,’ I stated with a puzzled frown.
‘The outhouse we built was blown up.’
Laughter rippled around as the sky darkened. I glanced east at the gathering storm clouds.
‘That really is shit news,’ came from someone.
Another voice said, ‘You have bed pans for patients, use them.’
With a rocket landing in the valley east I walked down the strip, past the medics tents and trenches, and down to the F18 technicians. ‘Rockets have moved past, should be safe now, but if you don’t go soon that storm will be on us.’
The commander lifted up and faced south. ‘That’s a twenty knot wind, freshening.’
I faced the pilot as he clambered up and out of the trench. ‘Well?’
He faced the commander. ‘We legal?’
‘Length is legal, bird is legal, just that the circumstances are … not in the book.’
‘Listen, Dog Food, if you make this take-off, cameras rolling, you’re all over CNN tonight. If you have to eject we’ll scrub the tape. How’s that?’
He glanced at the Commander. ‘Fuck it, I say we go, sir.’
The Commander considered his options, and his
future career. ‘I grant take-off.’
With a knee up, foot in a recess, the pilot got aboard his jet, a few Wolves having to move trenches or get some reheat in their faces. Fastened in, he ran his checks, cockpit closed. A signal to the commander and the technicians stood off to the side, and he started engines, ten minutes taken to run his checks, a rocket landing on LZ2-east, no one hurt.
With most everyone stood watching, and not down in the trenches, Max and the Press officers filming from the south end, we heard an ear-piercing roar, men seen with hands over ears at the north end.
The nose dipped and lifted, and the F18 started forwards, painfully slow it seemed, but as it passed me it seemed to be doing a hundred miles an hour. At the lip of the mountain it dipped over and down, and out of sight. I waited for the chute to open.
But instead it appeared off to the right, banking right and flying down the valley level for a mile, then lifting its nose straight up, and it climbed vertically before rolling over the top.
‘Smart arse,’ Rocko shouted.
The F18 buzzed us and sped east, Seahawks booked for the technicians before the storm came in. I waited by the radio operator, and Dog Food landed safely. Max could send out the film.
The Seahawks picked up the happy technicians and they departed with smiles and waves, and I grabbed the last few metal sheets, wedging them inside my command centre to block the holes. I used wood across them, and nailed the pieces to my support wood, two sides fully blocked.
Outside, I transmitted, ‘All teams, get ready for a storm, make sure ponchos are tight and have heavy sandbags on them. And I don’t care if you’re wet, you maintain a stag.’
I called Moran. ‘You’re about to get wet.’
‘You want us back?’
‘No, set-up and OP, try and stay dry.’
‘There are some good trees where we made camp, we can stay dry and watch the valley floor.’
I called Mitch next. ‘You OK out there?’
‘Yeah. Is it going to rain?’
‘It’ll shit down, so make a happy home.’
‘We have a place, not too bad.’
The SAS patrol came back in just in time, the Wolves at the waterfall told to make camp there. They reported an overhang.
I added ballast to my flysheet supports, and that was as much as I could do for now, soon inside and out of the wind as it started to rain.
My trench now joined several others, so we could move around if we had incoming fire, but many sections were exposed to the rain. Billy had, however, dug a narrow channel so that water would run off down the hill.
The Colonel and Major Morgen had a solid roof, Haines had a solid roof, but several pairs had just a poncho as a roof.
Trying to get a brew on, Billy said, ‘If the wind changes direction that flysheet will be a parachute.’
‘Yep,’ I agreed, the metal sheets rattling a little. I stuffed cloth between them.
We were soon sat in the dark as the rain pelted down, the metal sheets and flysheet hit, an odd sound created, and we certainly wouldn’t see any heavily-armed rebels sneaking up on us. A few miles west I could see brilliant sunshine, just that the storm was now perched atop us and moving north.
Billy pointed. ‘Looks nice over there.’
‘When I was here the first time around I got wet, but in the daytime you dried out. At night you stayed wet and uncomfortable.’
‘In the Falkland Islands I was wet and cold from the minute I landed. First hot shower back on ship was great.’
‘No hot showers here, not so much a toilet bowl.’
‘Bad luck for the medics.’
‘I’ll get them another one.’
The rain lasted an hour, and walking around we now had the mud, all of the men's boots seen to be muddy, some men muddy up to the knees. But Billy’s run off had saved us, the water seen to be flowing down the slope, and he proudly pointed it out – to anyone and everyone.
Colonel Mathews called. ‘Just seen CNN, and that F18 incident is incredible. They also had a trail off at the end of the show, the helos filmed coming in, Vietnam war music playing.’
‘Not sure that’s a good thing, many of your senators still point at Vietnam as being a reason not to get involved in small wars.’
‘That’s lessening, and the voters want blood.’
‘That’s the problem, the voters’ desire for action. Someone … may use it.’
‘Someone … being the right-wing hawks you mean?’
‘There are people above you with a hidden agenda, but I haven’t quite figured it out yet. Anyway, we’ll move many of the teams to a new LZ, twelve miles southwest, hill above a village. Make a note. Call it LZ3.’
Phone down, I stared at it, no intention of creating LZ3. I called Miller’s number and he called back ten minutes later.
‘Wilco, you after me?’
‘I just dropped some false intel with Colonel Mathews at the Pentagon. See where it goes, keyword is LZ3.’
‘I’m ready, and interested to see where it goes. NSA can keyword search for me.’
I called Tinker. ‘Have your people check the border area, all sat phones, even if a few weeks old. Draw up some patterns.’
‘We’ve adjusted our approach to Tiujana, and we think we have a good understanding now of the groups.’
‘That’s my next problem, after this problem. Reggie in?’
‘He was, yes, hard at it.’
‘Check for any phone hits around here.’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
He was back on ten minutes later, as the sun hung low. ‘We got a phone hit, from Washington to a place thirty miles south of you, a week ago. If we use the local point, we have two sat phones used within a hundred yards, and one links to Brazil and Medellin.’
‘Medellin still pissing about, eh. Ask your director to make that the top priority. And find out what’s at the location, get me the coordinates.’
I stepped to Morgen. ‘Have your Marines send men west and east to the next hills, please, overnight OP on the valley south.’
He gave the orders to his captains, the radio soon utilised.
I added, ‘And find out what happened to the SEALs.’
Call made, and Admiral Mulloy wanted them on ship for snatch operations. It made little difference, but it would have been nice to have been informed.
Tinker called back as I sat with a brew in the damp-smelling command centre, mud on my boots. I wrote down the coordinates. He explained, ‘It’s a road and a group of abodes, nothing more known about it. Not a hotbed of phone use, so not a village.’
‘And the Brazil end?’
‘Town of Paizo, northeast coast.’
I called Franks. ‘Town of Paizo in Brazil.’
‘Where the medical opioid company is.’
‘There’s a phone link to a place thirty miles south of me, as well as to Washington.’
‘Drugs for that company. I checked them out, they seem clean.’
‘They always seen clean. Keep looking, and check the share ownership and directors. Oh, and check quietly a deceased Colonel Raywood.’
‘Deceased?’
‘When it comes to the CIA it’s a relative term. Be careful, he could be a major player.’
The Colonel approached. ‘Do we step up our game here, take it to them – weather permitting?’
I led him away, the light fading, a cool wind blowing - and now mud underfoot. ‘When this started it seemed that it was about drug cartels screwing each other, but then we found out about Terotski and the missiles, and the game changed.
‘We know that they wanted the local drug lord gone, me with it, and that made sense – his territory is worth a great deal. These hills, the farmers use them to grow cocaine and he sells it. But then came the deaths of Terotski and Li Xing, and the missiles fired at your ships. That was … odd.
‘What we now have is the FARC being nudged to attack me here, a bit lame so far, but with my history here it’s underst
andable that they want to get at me; they don’t need much of a nudge.
‘But there are still players out there, and I don’t know what they’re up to, or why they’d even be involved since they must now wonder if they could take this territory, protected by the good old US of A.’
He nodded. ‘To understand the people, we need to know what motivates them. If it’s just money, that’s easy, but if they want revenge, if it’s ideology, that’s harder.’
‘True, sir.’
‘So you’re waiting.’
‘Yes, sir, and my intel people are getting a line on the men over there that are nudging the FARC.’
‘And if you get those people, then no more nudging.’
‘Correct, sir. But I’m at a loss to understand them and their motives. A sane person would not take on your military or the CIA.’
‘CIA are not so clever, I never found them to be as good as they’re portrayed in airport novels.’
‘Did you ever come across a Colonel Raywood?’
‘Yes, met him a few times, he was destined for the top before he was rumoured to like young girls. Died in car crash. Why’d you ask?’
‘I don’t think he’s quite so dead.’
‘What! Jesus…’
‘Need to keep that quiet, sir, or he may hear us.’
‘He’s here!’
‘South of us I think, keeping bad company.’
‘Who the fuck is he working for?’
‘That’s the question, sir. That … and what motivates him.’
‘He’d never fire missiles at his own navy!’
‘If you were caught with your pants down, forced out, angry, yet offered some undercover work..?’
‘I might be angry to start, angry at the system, and if offered some meaningful work, well … tempting.’
‘And if you ended up on the scrap heap, yet saw a way to make a billion dollars and help your country?’
‘Help my country?’
‘Getting rid the drug lords, to be replaced with nice men with families.’
‘But … I’d still be selling drugs, and they kill people in the towns of America, whether I wear a shirt and tie or not.’
‘Then we have to assume that Raywood doesn’t care, and has a keen desire to make some money.
‘What puzzles me is … that I think the people who killed Terotski and Li Xing annoyed the FARC, and so the FARC fired on your ships. But if that’s the case, why would the FARC still be trusting the white men?’
