Wilco- Lone Wolf 5

by Geoff Wolak

  Running Bear scanned the manual and its scribbled notes, his eyes wide. ‘I have to report this, yes.’ And off he went.

  ‘Missiles?’ Tomsk asked.

  ‘Fucking communists paid cash and drugs for missiles that can bring down a helicopter, or an airliner.’

  ‘The helicopters you use are at risk?’

  ‘Fuck, yes. They could shoot them all down. Or they can drive to Panama City and shoot down an airliner.’

  ‘Fucking communists, why can’t they just make money, eh,’ Tomsk let out.

  I grabbed my sat phone and hit the recall button. ‘Minister, it’s the nice Russian gentlemen in La Palma, is it OK to talk?’

  ‘Be quick please.’

  ‘We found a crashed helicopter, and in it was cash and drugs, a payment after the delivery of eight heat-seeking missiles.’

  ‘What! You’re sure!’

  ‘Yes, Minister.’

  ‘Do you know where the missiles are?’

  ‘We know where they were dropped off.’

  ‘Can you go back to that place, please, we will be most grateful.’

  ‘I’ll prepare a mission today, Minister.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  With the phone away, I faced Tomsk, who had been listening in. ‘He’s desperate for us to go back out and try and find those missiles.’

  ‘Well ... we keep him sweet, no.’

  ‘I’ll let the men eat and wash, and then we’ll go back out.’

  An hour later, Running Bear observed us leave on our Hueys, and I lazily waved at him. Everyone was nervous now, knowing that the communists had missiles, especially our pilots. They flew low level and high speed, a practice even more dangerous than being shot at by a missile, and they dropped us back at the pick-up point.

  As the resonating drone of the Hueys abated we formed teams and moved off at the double, to the spot where the Jet Ranger had landed, a mile hike through shit jungle and steep gorges.

  It grew dark as we progressed, a track followed – which was a risk, no idea if the missiles had been moved yet or not. I slowed everyone down, we listened carefully, well spaced out, and we had no choice but to get wet crossing that same raging stream, a rope used to stop men being swept away in the dark. All delicate kit was in plastic bags anyhow, because around here paper got wet just from the humidity.

  All across safely, but soaked and complaining, we checked rifles and moved off, a road adopted since I wanted to meet any convoy head on. That road delivered us to where I figured the Jet Ranger had set down, and seeing lights we broke into the tree line and moved up a gentle ridge, dead slow, eyes everywhere.

  The last hundred yards was painstakingly slow, teams moving left and right, and soon we could smell the cooking and hear the chit-chat.

  With everyone in place, now positioned around a group of six huts and an open space like a football field, I lowered my rifle and threw a grenade, smashing a window in the cookhouse, and startling those inside enjoying their stew. That startled feeling did not last long, the blast blowing out the windows, the thin wood raked by automatic fire, and no one made it out alive.

  Several bursts came back at us from the far end, the defenders soon silenced. It fell quiet, but I waited, grenades thrown just in case. Finally feeling that it was safe, we moved in, torches used, bodies double-tapped.

  A shout, and I ran across the football pitch, two crates found, missiles inside. But just two. I had the missiles taken out, very carefully, placed on a desk, a fire set beneath it as we withdrew. I called our friend, the local colonel, and then Running Bear, knowing full well the CIA would get its update real quick.

  We were four hundred yards away when the missiles blew, a hell of a blast, the valley lit up for a moment, the blast echoing several times off the hills.

  Since we were here, up country, I decided to walk some, and we adopted the road again, well spaced out and heading back towards home base. Our trek through the night did not present any targets of opportunity, and at dawn we took up station at a junction in a steep-sided valley, a likely spot.

  Farmers drove past, a yellow school-type bus, one jeep laden with armed men – torn to shreds and then pushed off the road, ammunition pinched away.

  As the day warmed up we waited, rewarded with a nice ten jeep convoy, the lead jeep driver hit with a fifty cal at close range. A few men managed to make it to the trees, but they had a bad habit of running right towards my hidden men. A fierce ten minute exchange tallied fifty-eight dead gunmen, weapons thrown into a stream, a few pistols stolen away.

  As we moved off north aboard our new stolen jeeps - and in daylight, fires raged behind us, many of the remaining jeeps having been set ablaze. Some local king pin had lost his men, and his jeeps.

  At the next junction we found a cheeky roadblock. We drove right up to it and opened up, the jeeps and the men shredded from accurate automatic fire from more than ten of my men, and we simply drove past the roadblock.

  I skirted around a town, joined a half-decent road, and we made good time, driving into the base in a convoy of five jeeps, one careless owner. Down from the jeeps, I entered Running Bear’s office and sat with a sigh, my legs covered in mud.

  ‘You destroyed two missiles,’ he flatly noted.

  ‘Would have preferred eight, but ... they are ... somewhere, probably across the border.’

  ‘I’ve notified my government -’ He checked over his shoulder at the open door. ‘- and others, who are most concerned at heat-seeking missiles in this vicinity.’

  ‘As they should be. No good can from it.’

  ‘You’ll keep looking?’

  ‘Pointless, they were driven away, and I don’t think my boss wants me south of the border yet.’

  ‘I hear there is an echo ... of special forces on the Colombian side, also active against the communists, also now interested in those missiles.’

  ‘That’s good to know. And is your ... government concerned about what I do?’

  ‘Concerned, yet ... optimistic, waiting to see how things turn out.’

  I nodded, and eased up. After a quick wash I headed down to Tomsk in civvy clothes.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  I grabbed a cold beer. ‘We found two missiles, rest were driven off, I think across the border. They could be in Bogota by now.’ I sat and sipped my drink.

  ‘You must be careful in helicopters.’

  ‘Damn right. We’ll drive. On the way back we came across a ten jeep convoy, killed them all, so someone is missing some men. And we’ve killed a great many communists to date.’

  ‘The news here is reporting the missiles, everyone very concerned, soldiers near the airport.’

  ‘Those missiles were delivered into the hills, so they mean to use them in the hills,’ I suggested. ‘They want a small victory against the Army, something to rally the troops and aid recruitment to the cause.’

  ‘You see these things clearly, better than I do,’ Tomsk noted.

  ‘Does that mean I get a pay rise, some time off?’ I teased.

  ‘Ha, what would you do with time off, eh? You like this shit.’

  ‘Even if I don’t want time off or more money, you should at least offer it,’ I told him. ‘That’s what a good boss would do.’

  ‘Do you want some time off?’

  ‘No, but thanks for offering,’ I said with a smile, Big Sasha laughing, Tomsk throwing his hands in the air.

  Over the next few days we hit villas and towns further afield, always warning the local Army and police units first, and they made themselves scarce as we hit the drug dealers and the arms smugglers, a little time off from hunting the communists.

  With a direct request from the minister we drove north in Army trucks, a blatant daylight move, and skirted around Panama City and headed north towards the border.

  After a night spent in a holiday villa rented by Tomsk, the rental agency unaware that twenty five heavily armed gunmen would take up temporary residence, we boarded our trucks and
moved towards the border with Costa Rica, and into the hills. Dismounted, we struck out on foot through long grass up to our shoulders.

  After two hours of sweating, some respite in the form of a brief rain storm, we came across the coca fields, heavily guarded. My teams spread out, took position or climbed trees, and upon the signal some twenty gunmen went down quietly. My team moved in, through the crops and to the far side, a group of ten lazy gunmen shot up and left.

  Calling in my teams, we destroyed the fields – dated swords proving most effective tools, several hours used up, a jeep convoy approaching late in the day and ambushed from above, some twenty gunmen killed, the jeeps destroyed and set alight.

  As we walked off, I considered that the local drug lord would have a steep bill to pay, some crops to replace, some promised deliveries a bit delayed.

  We returned to the villa, a few men placed on stag, and in the morning we hit the drug lord’s warehouse and laboratory, the staff let go, the gunmen quietly killed, much of the produce pinched before the Army arrived on time to claim another great victory – another good newspaper headline.

  A long drive back was cut short by three Hueys, but we did not fear the ride since we would be over water, not hostile jungle with keen communists aiming missiles up at us.

  But Tomsk had underestimated his rival, and the man was mad as hell, figuring the multi-million dollar damage done to his little cottage industry being down to us – the Russians from the south.

  Two days later I was down at Tomsk’s villa, sat in the late afternoon sun and discussing strategy in the north, when I noticed a fishing boat a little close to the shore. I stood, and stared out at it, Tomsk also curious, and asking if it was the CIA.

  I saw the suspicious movement in time. I grabbed Tomsk.

  A shove, a yank, and I led him off. I heard the bang, saw the RPG over my shoulder, and I practically lifted Tomsk and threw him under a white marble bench that was conveniently close, and I dived down next to him, covering him with my body.

  The blast hit above the patio doors, and I got hot metal in the back of my head and in my back, my ears ringing. I was OK, but I figured I would play it up a bit.

  I moaned, rolled over and came to a rest face down.

  ‘Petrov!’ Tomsk shouted as automatic fire filled the air, our guards firing at the boat. ‘Petrov!’

  Strong hands lifted me, Big Sasha and some of the others dragging me inside.

  ‘Get a fucking doctor!’ came a voice, my eyes closed.

  They sat me down, cold water poured, my head wound examined, a pad applied.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I croaked out, my eyes still closed.

  ‘You’re hit in the back and the head,’ came Big Sasha’s voice, automatic fire still sounding out.

  I looked up, Tomsk with a bloody nose. ‘You’re hit.’

  ‘No, no, just hit my nose when you pushed me down.’

  I eased off my t-shirt, wincing, no acting required.

  ‘You might have a scar,’ Big Sasha said, the guards laughing.

  ‘Smartarse,’ I told him, my eyes closing again.

  ‘You risked your life ... and saved my life,’ Tomsk noted.

  ‘That was a dumb thing to do, yes,’ I quipped, the guys laughing, Tomsk looking peeved.

  When the doctor arrived he gave me a local anaesthetic and pulled out a metal splinter from my back, a shard from my scalp, and he carefully stitched me up, an antibiotic injection given, and I lay down, face down, my team now down here and keenly standing guard.

  At midnight I was starving hungry and I eased - very slowly - up. In the kitchen, Tomsk was just finishing a call. I asked Big Sasha for some food, the smell of cooking making me hungry.

  Tomsk sat opposite me as I accepted a cold beer. ‘The Army, they caught up with that boat by helicopter, fired machineguns at it, a patrol boat boarding it, all the men dead.’

  ‘Sent by the man in the north we hit?’

  ‘Yes, it tracks back to him.’

  ‘We’ll go finish him off. Soon. But a lesson to be learnt; when we hit a place, hit the boss first.’

  ‘Yes, a mistake, because we give the fucking Army what they want – their pictures in the papers! I sent your men north by helicopter, Number Two in charge. What’s his fucking name anyhow?’

  ‘Sasha Riminov. But we have four Sasha, five Yuri, so they get numbers. Besides, it keeps their names hidden from the authorities, and anyone listening in to the radios – like the CIA. Number Two is good, he’ll do OK, but I would have waited; that man will be expecting trouble, probably sleeping somewhere else.’

  The next morning my team was back at the base, less one man dead, Number Two coming down to me, a little dried blood on his face.

  ‘Report,’ I told him as he sat with me and Tomsk.

  ‘We hit the villa with RPG heads dropped from a helicopter, your trick, and the place was destroyed, his vehicles alight. We moved in and picked off the men, but he had a tunnel out the back, which we spotted too late – fucking tunnel was three hundred yards long.

  ‘He popped up with some of his men and fired towards our vehicles, men stood guard hit from a distance, one killed. We followed his tracks and ran him down - he was moving through the bush in soft shoes.

  ‘We killed his men, then shot out his knees and elbows, shot his feet, shot off his nose – and left him.’

  ‘He might survive!’ Tomsk complained.

  ‘Maybe,’ Number Two agreed, not that much respect for Tomsk. ‘But he’ll never walk or move his arms.’ He faced me. ‘We followed the tunnel back, came out in the villa, massive haul of cash and cocaine, but we left some for the Army. Drove it back. Gold bars as well.’

  ‘Where’s the cash?’ Tomsk asked.

  ‘Outside, we drove it down.’

  Tomsk headed out, coming back with heavy gold bars, one handed to me.

  I lifted it, and it was around twenty kilograms. ‘That’s worth ... about ... close to half a million dollars.’ I placed it down with a heavy thud.

  A guard brought in a bag and dumped it down. I opened it and had a peek. ‘Those are Euros, large notes. Fuck, that’s ... wow.’ I counted a wad, each wad worth 15,000 Euros. I counted the wads, did the maths, and faced Tomsk. ‘That bag has about four million Euros in it.’

  Guards brought in six more bags, all Euros.

  ‘Twenty four million Euros, that’s ... about twenty eight million dollars right there.’

  ‘Yes?’ Tomsk puzzled, checking bags.

  ‘We left a third for the Army,’ Number Two explained. ‘So there was more, and dollars, and ten tonnes of fucking cocaine.’

  ‘That guy was doing well,’ I quipped, returning to my coffee.

  Tomsk explained, ‘He was a big player in Costa Rica and Nicaragua.’

  ‘So his friends will miss him,’ I told Tomsk, who took a moment to consider that.

  ‘I have fifty calibre on the roof, and machineguns, long lenses.’ He raised an angry finger. ‘Be harder for them next time!’

  With the money tucked away, and the gold bars, Tomsk handed a bag of dollars for Number Two to share out with my lads, my second in command heading back to base as I took it easy, one of the hookers aiding me – and doing a good job of it too.

  Two days later I was back at the training, working the men hard, a great many rounds expended, a great many grenades thrown, but now the lads could get a grenade to detonate above heads of the target men – or at least the paper targets.

  But that evening a jeep turned up for me, I was summoned, and on the drive down they explained that someone who knew me well was down with Tomsk. My heart skipped a beat, then I settled myself, because the back-story was about to be tested, and if this guy knew me ... if he had known Petrov personally, then I could soon be dead meat.

  Sat there driving down, I wondered if Tomsk would dare harm me, since he admitted he worried about my men, and the fact that they were more loyal to me than to him. And, given everything I had done for him, would he care w
ho I was, who I really was. My thoughts alternated from fear to resolve as we drove down.

  Inside the villa walls the guards were behaving normally, none looked like they were about to shoot me, and I stepped inside, and into a busy kitchen area. And there, standing up as I entered, was Yuri from London. I was safe, kind of. But Tomsk was not looking happy, and I figured I knew why.

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ I said as I stepped closer to Yuri. ‘Still in one piece?’

  His original neutral stare turned to a smile, and he grabbed my forearms. ‘I owe you my life, and some money.’

  ‘Damn right, and don’t forget either.’

  He hugged me, and then eased back. ‘I was surprised to find you here.’

  I began, ‘Fucking CIA were all over me in London. Not FBI, these were CIA irregulars, and they wanted me dead. So I got out in a hurry, boat to France, down to Spain, boat to Caribbean, then here. They have me working for my supper.’

  ‘I have some questions,’ Tomsk said, interrupting, and not in a happy voice. ‘Not least how you knew to tip off Yuri that the British police were about to move on him.’

  ‘Then let’s talk in private, the three of us,’ I suggested, and led Yuri around to Tomsk and outside, sitting at the usual outdoor breakfast table.

  Tomsk sat himself and waited, looking as if he had caught me out. I faced Yuri and rudely ignored Tomsk. ‘It was not the British coming for you, they had been pushed into it by the Americans.’

  ‘The Americans?’ Yuri puzzled. ‘FBI?’

  I nodded. ‘I have a contact inside British Intelligence, now high up.’ I turned to Tomsk. ‘You should have believed that man from the town, he was my local contact. You’re too trusting.’

  Tomsk looked horrified for a moment, as if I might kill him, and what he should do – yet looking like he had no idea what to do right now. ‘You ... you’re working for the British?’

  ‘No, stupid,’ I told him, getting back a peeved and confused look.

  I faced Yuri. ‘I have a woman and child in London.’

  ‘Ah. They know about them.’

  ‘Yes, so it made visiting them very difficult. Years ago I got caught, not the police, these were intelligence agents, but they wanted a deal, not to have me in prison. So I started killing people for them in London, some of them political figures; British agents are not allowed to kill.’