by Geoff Wolak
‘I think so, yes. The previous problem was dealt with, people disciplined.’
‘A British nuclear scientist, working at the mine in Liberia twenty years ago, was found recently, his body radioactive, contaminated from a coin placed on him somehow.’
‘I have only ever heard of that method being used once before, in Beirut.’
‘The Israelis?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need you to check some old records, in case you get the blame in West Africa. The British found a pit dug out, radioactive metal in it. Something radioactive was stored there twenty years ago, then moved. All sides are now looking for it, and very worried.’
‘I will ask the relevant people, yes, and pass this information to Moscow.’
I called David Finch. ‘The Israelis once placed a radioactive coin on someone in Beirut.’
‘So that narrows it down, yes, but getting information from them is never easy.’
‘I have an inside man. Woman actually.’
I went and found Salome. ‘Twenty years ago your people placed a radioactive coin on a British scientist that was selling us out, his body found in Liberia. I need to know everything, so make some calls.’
‘I know a retired agent, my uncle, that is his area, I find out.’
‘I need to know if your people recovered processed uranium from West Africa.’
She shrugged. ‘Who put it in West Africa?’
‘We don't know yet, but mostly likely the Russians.’
‘Do I get dinner?’
‘Do you like Indian?’
‘You always ask that! And No!'
I called Bob Staines. ‘The coin might have been the Israelis, they used the same technique once in Beirut.’
‘I was sixty-forty in favour of them.’
‘I asked my contact in the SVR, and he's looking at it, so too my Israeli major.’
‘Covered from all sides, apart from the little shits in Deep State.’
‘London checked out Preston and Hammish, and neither men were about to retire to a sunny clime.’
‘So they never expected to get rich from the gold. Interesting. That means they were loyal to someone.’
‘And someone else killed them, or maybe their boss did, to bury a twenty year old mistake. A team got onto that rig and killed them, so maybe four more oil workers are involved. Keep looking at the staff lists.’
‘I'll go back over them. And Preston and Hammish should not have been on the rig, they left early, a caretaker crew on the rig.’
‘Why would they go back?’ I wondered.
‘To recover something, why else.’
‘How old is that rig?’
‘Twenty years or more.’
‘Was it ever parked off West Africa?’
‘No, I looked. So I don't think the rig glows in the dark.’
I called London and asked that the rig be impounded, a proper search made. It had not left Gibraltar yet, still waiting for a break in the weather. Mutch would be sent back to it with a large team, including divers.
I called Bob back. ‘Preston and Hammish were gold panners, right?’
‘Yes..?’
‘What else do you find in streams?’
‘Blood diamonds. Yes, they might have found some and taken them. Not sure they'd hide them on a rig for twenty years.’
‘If I was reporting back to the CIA I might wait till I retired, but with the rig due to be sent to a bad place I'd want my stash taken out.’
‘That could be it. But they were caught and found out maybe. Maybe the hitman contractor and his buddy was cut out the deal and pissed off.’
‘This is still about Liberia and fissile material, I got the cryptic warning, remember. He wouldn't be interested in a few old diamonds.’
‘He was worried that Preston and Hammish would be looking for more blood diamonds and might find the body. Not looking for gold, or maybe both at the same time.’
‘This guy is deep within Deep State to know what he knows, he's been around a long time. And he disagrees with them on policy. So something was going to happen and he wanted me to stop it. So I think someone wanted at the fissile material, a faction within Deep State.’
‘If they get it … they could do a lot of damage to some country they don't like,’ Bob warned.
‘And if they dumped it in Iran or Iraq?’
‘Then the US would have an excuse to attack, the IAEA and UN rules broken. We could see a war on our hands.’
‘And our mystery man doesn't want that.’
‘So he's a good sort of chap, and not a typical Deep State idiot.’
I called Langley and asked after the Nuke Sniffers. Two planes were now involved, one covering West Africa and one on its way. That new aircraft would start in Algeria and work its way around and down to Liberia whilst the other zig-zagged the deserts.
The damn material could have been anywhere, but I had a feeling it was in West Africa.
David called an hour later. ‘What do you hope to find on the oil rig?’
‘Blood diamonds, found whilst panning for gold.’
‘Well, yes, they might have found some.’
‘And tucked them away in the rig till after they retired, so that no one questioned their sudden wealth. But with the rig sold and being sent to West Africa they had to get the diamonds, and were killed for it.’
‘Possibly, yes, and finding the diamonds would confirm that.’
‘I think they were on the team, reporting back, sleeper agents of a sort, waiting for retirement. But they could not be allowed to pan the streams for blood diamonds or gold, or both, they might have found the body. My mystery man with his garden gnome is all about the missing fissile material, and he wants me to stop Deep State from getting it and using it.’
‘Using it..?’
‘What if they dump it in Iraq or Iran?’
‘Could be used as an excuse to start a war, yes.’
‘The cruise missiles were to be used to get the folks back home all riled up and wanting revenge, so this is step two, and it fits in with how Deep State think.’
‘We have a decay rate signature from Liberia, and they're very distinct, so if something turns up in the Middle East we'd know.’
‘And you'd call the US President a liar on TV..?’
‘Well … no, they'd pressure us to shut up.’
‘Good job we have a ghost assisting us then.’
An hour later my phone trilled. ‘Duty Officer, and we had a call from a lady calling herself Maria, said she met you at the mine in Liberia, has some information for you. Got a paper and pen?’
‘Hold on.’ I took out my notepad and pen and adopted the bonnet of a jeep. ‘Go ahead.’
Number written down, I called it.
‘Hello?’
‘It's Wilco. You have something for me?’
‘Some intel yes.’
‘For cash ... or to help you sleep at night?’
‘I want a job.’
‘Got a recent CV typed up?’ I teased.
After a pause came, ‘What..?’
‘Joke, dummy.’
‘Recent CV,’ she sighed out. ‘Such a CV would put me in jail.’
‘So what you got for me?’
‘A ship with fissile material on I think. It's off the coast of Western Sahara, ran aground twenty years ago, now just a rusted hulk they said.’
‘Who said?’
‘Bannaczek and his gang. But until I saw the news I never knew about the fissile material on it.’
‘If it pans out you get a chance at a job. But tell me, what were they going to do with it?’
‘No idea, they never confided in me. And if they had I would have run and hid, it's too high profile, the CIA will be all over it.’
‘I'll let you know what happens. Get yourself to the South of France, Nice area, to meet someone. He'll have some cash for you.’
‘Guess I have a plane to catch.’
I called Langley, getting a du
ty officer. ‘It's Major Wilco. Update the Deputy Chief and your Air Force Nuke Sniffers, the target is an old rusted ship run aground off the coast of Western Sahara. That's the priority, the fissile material is on board. I need any ships you have in the area to close in.’
I called London and updated them, then Bob Staines.
‘So it's sat there for twenty years?’ Bob puzzled. ‘What the hell for?’
‘Maybe the Israelis shot the crew after running aground. No one found it.’
‘Kind of hard to miss. And the ship's insurers would be looking.’
‘Then go check some old insurance records for the place and time, maybe there was a claim.’
David called back. ‘There's a reef in the desert, isolated place, a few ships on it, and we have a ship nearby, so their Lynx will go take a look.’
‘Get the names of the rusted hulks, and look for signs of activity. Get a plane for Doctor Summers. I asked the CIA to divert their Nuke Sniffer plane, so it may get a hit and confirm the ship. But I'm thinking that we don't want this to fall into the hands of the Americans, just in case it goes … missing.’
‘That would be a difficult conversation to have.’
‘If Doctor Summers can get a fingerprint on the radiation then they can't use the material.’
‘I'll make sure they get a precise fingerprint, yes.’
‘If us or the French can recover it … that would be better.’
Three hours later Langley called. ‘Update for you from the Deputy Chief, Major, and we have a spike on a ship off Western Sahara as suggested, same spike as Liberia. They flew low and had a look, rusted transport ship on its side, name of Orion Grande IV. Navy is closing in.’
‘Thanks.’
I updated Bob on the ship's name, and he would track back the owners and operators, and hopefully the crew.
My phone trilled. ‘Major Wilco?’
‘Yes.’
‘Commander Shepard, HMS Cardiff. We had a Lynx take a look at your shipwreck, and there are signs of recent activity.’
‘Shit!'
‘Problem?’
‘It has radioactive material on board! So yes, a fucking problem!' I shouted. I called London in a hurry. ‘It's Wilco, and someone has been on that ship off Western Sahara, they got the fissile material off! Update David Finch. Put me through to GCHQ!'
‘Duty Officer,’ came a moment later.
‘It's Wilco. There's an old wreck of a ship off the coast of Western Sahara, run aground twenty years ago, and it had fissile material on board from the mine in Liberia. HMS Cardiff is on station, so contact her and get the exact position of that ship and look for other ship's tracks or any phone usage in the area.
‘It's a fucking reef in the water off a desert, so there should be no phone hits, so if you find one, a recent one, it's the people who took the fissile material. Get everyone on it before that fucking material ends up in London!'
I called Langley and shouted for the Deputy Chief. He had to be dragged out of meeting at the White House.
‘Wilco?’
‘We found an old ship, it had the fissile material on board, but it looks like someone fetched it off recently!’
‘Ah … shit.’
‘We're tracking ships in the area and phone hits, but you'll need to send this up the line.’
‘I can do that now, and worry a few people.’
David called as I paced up and down, the lads wondering what was up. ‘We have Doctor Summers and team in a Hercules and heading west. They should be able to tell if the material was moved.’
‘Who the fuck would go on that rusted old ship otherwise!'
‘Yes, quite.’
‘I have GCHQ looking for phone hits and ship's tracks.’
‘French warship about to join HMS Cardiff.’
‘Too little too late, it's gone.’
Half an hour later, Moran organising the teams and paintball contests, my phone trilled. ‘It's Tinker, I'm up at Cheltenham - mad panic here, but we got a phone hit, a ship's phone from two days ago, ship called Clava II, Panama Registered Greek ship. Her track puts her heading towards Gibraltar – and she has an extending crane on board for specialist use.’
‘I'll call you back.’ I called London. ‘It's Wilco. I need a private jet, fastest you can find, to get me and a team to Gibraltar. Find one urgently, call me back. Put me through to the Cabinet Office.’
‘Hold on.’
‘Major Wilco? Deputy Chief Cabinet Secretary.’
‘Where's the Prime Minister?’
‘At a banquet -'
‘Drag him out! Now! And the Defence Minister. We have a ship with radioactive material on board heading for Gibraltar! Get him to call me back!'
I paced up and down as men glanced at me. ‘How do I get on a moving ship at sea?’ I asked myself.
In the hut I took in the faces as they wondered what was up. ‘Swifty, Henri, Dicky, we have a job on. Pack your kit.’
‘What's the job?’ Swifty asked.
‘Ship at sea with radioactive material on board.’
They stopped and stared as I stepped out, phone in hand.
It trilled five minutes later. ‘Major Wilco?’ came a bad signal.
‘Go ahead.’
‘It's the Prime Minister, in the car and heading back, what's the panic?’
‘A ship with radioactive material on board on the hands of some bad people, sir, about to sail past Gibraltar into the Med.’
‘Jesus. We could get the Navy to sink it.’
‘If you sink it then the coastline of Spain is contaminated for the next thousand years. You want to explain that to the Spanish?’
‘No, nor the British living there. What'll you do?’
‘I want operational control on the ground. Then we'll try and board the ship quietly.’
‘Proceed as if you have operational control on the ground.’
‘Contact the French, please.’
‘I'll be in the Cobra meeting in ten minutes, we'll speak later.’
I called SIS. ‘This is Wilco. I've been given operational control on the ground, and we're going to try and board a ship off Gibraltar. I want the Navy to stay away, or the ship could blow, same message sent to the French and the Americans.
‘I want an RAF Hercules from Brize Norton with my parachute gear sent to Gibraltar straight away, a dozen free-fall parachutes plus instructors, life preservers for an ocean drop. I want the French to send a C160 with French Marine Commandos on it, to Gibraltar, fast as possible, parachutes with them and scuba gear.
‘I want all naval dispositions close to Gibraltar, British and French, ask the Americans, I want a submarine on station and following the target ship, Clava II, Panama registered. Call me back with updates, and update GL4 please. Oh, and I need a weather report for the area, hour by hour. Finally, ask the Americans to move their Nuke Sniffer plane to fly over that ship without being obvious and see if it has a spike.’
Phone down, I stepped inside as my team packed up ready.
‘This job?’ Swifty asked, the men listening in.
I stopped to consider my old friend and house mate. ‘You said I should never hold you back...’
He stared back. ‘No,’ he confirmed, but without much gusto.
I faced Henri. ‘You want to grow old and live in an old folks home?’
‘No, never, I take a bullet.’
‘Dicky?’
‘I'll take the bullet. But radiation is to be avoided – I might want kids someday.’
They laughed at him.
‘There's a ship at sea we need to stop, maybe wired to blow. I'm thinking we parachute near it, some of us hit the ship, some hit the water, picked up by the Navy. Hopefully.’
Moran put in, ‘Down to the weather. And that ship is metal, not a soft landing spot.’
I told him, ‘Chutes will hit the metal rigs and cranes, we clamber down a rope. Only need one man to survive intact, with a pistol, to take the bridge.’
‘I
can do that,’ Tomo offered.
‘I'll take French Marine Commandos, plus the four of us. Eight men in a stick, one will hit the ship.’
My phone trilled so I stepped outside. ‘Wilco.’
‘You're on speaker-phone, COBRA team assembled. What's your plan?’ the PM asked.
‘To check the weather and parachute onto the ship, sir, eight men, one will land OK and take the bridge, the other men hit the water and get picked up.’
I could hear hushed conversations in the background.
‘Seems dangerous, Major, even more than usual.’
‘And the cost of losing the south coast of Spain and France for the next fifteen thousand years? And the fish stocks.’
‘It would be a great ecological disaster, yes.’
‘We also want a chance at catching the men involved, sir. We have questions for them.’
‘Proceed as planned for now, but we don't want to lose you, we want you teaching and leading.’
‘And how many little shits with an office inside a mile of where your sat will try and kill me this coming year!'
‘I … can understand your frustration, yes, but we'd like to limit the risks to you anyhow. And getting irradiated is a risk that you won't get over with some time in hospital.’
‘The fissile material must be in a safe box or the crew would be sick by now, sir. Question is, does that box have Semtex wired to it. You need to get some advice on what would happen if it blows or just sinks.’
‘We will do, yes.’
‘I'll be flying to Gibraltar, sir, nothing happening for a few hours, time to think and to plan. And the one good thing is that ships are not very fast.’
‘Yes, we have some time. Talk soon.’
I called SIS London. ‘It's Wilco, and I need to chat to an expert at Porton Down, expert on radiation, so find me one.’
‘I'll put you through. Hang on.’
‘Front Desk,’ came twenty second later.
‘Major Wilco. I need an expert on radiation, right now.’
‘I'll put you through to the staff room.’
‘Hello?’ came a few seconds later.
‘This is Major Wilco, and I need some advice on radioactive material, processed uranium.’
‘I might be able to help.’
‘A hundred kilos of processed uranium, in a box, blown up and dumped off the Costa del Sol. What are we looking at?’
