Wilco- Lone Wolf 19 Page 15

  With an hour of daylight left I called Major Harris and asked that he send helos for us, a lot of helos, at least six, Zombie thanked, and he thanked me for the dollars before walking off into the bush.

  Moran watched him go. ‘He's totally at ease in the middle of nowhere. Amazing.’

  ‘He grew up playing in the bush here, learnt how to find water, catch fish. What more does he need? No commute to work, no traffic here, no crime...’

  The helos arrived as we lost the light, teams told to make safe and to unload, and I waved on the American Wolves to the first helo, British Wolves and Swifty to the second, Echo men to the following helos, Running Bear to remain with his countrymen. We shook before I ran and ducked into the final Seahawk.

  Spinning around, we flew low level across the scrub, waterways seen, a village glimpsed, and I wondered if it was Zombie's village. Mangrove appeared below, glistening water, soon a nice beach, then ocean.

  Approaching the carrier I could see about twelve ships, the huge carrier at the centre, and we touched down smoothly – nose into the wind, out and running, waved over and inside, soon descending down clattering steps. I wasn't sure what I had expected, but the walls were new and clean.

  I found the teams in a large maintenance hangar, ratings walking past, the Exec coming to find me. They had bunks for us, just about, he reported.

  ‘We helo distance to Panama, sir?’ I asked the Exec. ‘Or Belize?’

  ‘Not really, but when we finish here we head north past Belize.’

  ‘Either one, sir, we need to get back to doing what we're paid to do.’

  ‘They say it was your team that got the intel on the Cortez?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Biggest drug bust ever, and we claim the credit – at least some of it. And this crashed aircraft?’

  ‘Guided missiles, from North Korea, maybe destined for the Palestinians.’

  ‘Jesus, another good find.’

  ‘Just blind luck, sir.’

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘Ha. And you look and sound like that actor in that film, Camel Toe Base. We've all seen it.’

  ‘I have a body double as well, he's elsewhere … pretending to be me.’

  His brow knitted. ‘Does the maniac get well paid?’

  I smiled. ‘Not really, sir.’

  Kit down, rifle down, he led me up to Major Harris, and I found a reasonably large room with a central table, a few senior officers around the map, all smelling better than I did. The large flat TV on the wall was showing CNN.

  ‘What next?’ Harris asked me, an officer handing me a coffee.

  ‘We go home. All the players, or most all, have been found, and we have the complete story. The bonus was the An24.’

  Harris told me, ‘There'll be a UN meeting about it, complaints against North Korea.’

  ‘For all the good that will do,’ I scoffed.

  Fifteen minutes later I was led up to the bridge, all eyes on me as I emerged, the captain welcoming me as he sat in his chair. Some of the grey metal equipment here looked old, some high-tech and modern, computer screens and map tables. The captain's leather-covered chair looked like it should be in his grandfather's basement for watching TV in comfort.

  The captain was in his late forties, and displayed a General Custer moustache, almost comical, his moustache and his hair black, no signs of grey yet.

  ‘None of your men hurt, Major?’

  ‘No, sir, simple enough operation.’ I peered out at the huge deck and the white and yellow painted lines for aircraft taking off or landing.

  ‘Simple for you. Us sane people don't sneak about in jungles infested with drug gangs.’

  ‘I've grown to love the jungle, sir.’

  ‘This operation wrapped up?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we have all the players involved, we think, maybe one or two still out there, and we have the tracks of the ships they used; ports, date and times. Only delay will be the forensics of that crashed An24. Were you called off something else?’

  ‘This takes priority over training exercises, something practical. The groups in the Red Sea have been having all the fun, our turn now.’

  ‘Those groups had missiles fired at them, sat at General Quarters for a week with little sleep, so think yourself lucky, sir.’

  ‘Well, it’s what we train for, and should be able to do – and do well. We all need to be tested now and then, missiles and helos attacking us.’

  ‘Can we ... get a group photo?’ an officer asked.

  I was prepared, and from my leg pocket pulled out my face mask and put it on.

  ‘Spiderman,’ the Captain quipped, officers lined up behind, several snaps taken.

  I finally asked him, taking off my facemask, ‘Our American Wolves here, sir?’

  ‘In Belize, they said. And Major, have a damn shower.’

  Back below, I grabbed my kit and was led to the officers ward with Moran, Mitch and Ginger, soon in the shower and smelling better, Major Harris informing people of what was where on this tub. We had been invited to dine with the captain later, but were hardly dressed for it.

  As we sat around a large table with the captain and his senior staff, wine poured, questions were asked of past missions and dangerous pastimes.

  I asked the captain, ‘Should the group have an admiral in charge, sir?’

  ‘It does, but he had a hernia, flew off four days ago, be back in three weeks or so, any longer and we get a replacement, but till then I'm running things. A few months and I get made up anyhow and leave this behind.’

  ‘Desk job, sir?’

  ‘Desk in an office on a ship after some courses.’ The captain finally asked Mitch, ‘What’s it like to work with a British team, Lieutenant?’

  ‘They're all completely fucking mad, sir.’ We laughed. ‘No, really. I've shared billets with boxes of explosives, naked women, foreign soldiers and spy types, and these Brits all volunteer for the crazy jobs. And the base we live at in England, that’s like Dodge City, regular attacks on the wire.’

  ‘You were at Camel Toe?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but now I hear that they have a swimming pool there.’

  ‘I saw photos of it, yeah, and they couldn't use it to make that film because of the new buildings. Be a Hilton Hotel there soon,’ he joked.

  After the meal I asked for an outside platform to use my phone, shown to a lofty and blowy viewing deck below the main bridge by Major Harris, and I was now breathing cool sea air. I called David.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, I was just thinking about you. We traced that An24, it flies around Central America, Columbia and up to Costa Rica.’

  ‘The paperwork I found said it came from Venezuela.’

  ‘That would not surprise me, nothing they do would surprise me.’

  ‘And the ship tracks?’

  ‘We have Interpol on it as well, the FBI now keenly involved, and a Royal Navy frigate is moving to intercept that ship, Harvest; she's near Barbados. All three of the ships show odd tracks, time when they met each other.’

  ‘Then we've destroyed the North Koreans' arms trade.’

  ‘There could be other pipelines of course, but this is a blow to them, yes. And Debonet?’

  ‘We found him dead, sliced up by his own people,’ I lied.

  ‘Well that closes a chapter.’

  ‘But with his last dying words he gave us a post box in Toronto, files, dirt on his gang. CIA have it.’

  ‘Last dying breath, eh.’

  ‘Just like Hollister.’

  ‘The British police did come in for some criticism over that, but no one figured his wife would bump him off.’

  ‘How did she know what he was charged with?’ I teased.

  ‘We made a point of telling her,’ he quipped.

  I shook my head. ‘Naughty boy. Not some sort of spy shit, are you?’

  ‘Certainly not. Where are you?’

  ‘On the US carrier, hitching a ride up to Belize, but our crates are in Panama.’

&nbs
p; ‘We spoke to Mossad and they want the body, but deny he was with them.’

  ‘Yet they want the body,’ I repeated. ‘And Kebowski?’

  ‘No sign of him yet.’

  ‘No trouble at my base?’

  ‘They caught a poacher in the south woods, but held off shooting him. Those 2 Squadron chaps are there, some building work in progress.’

  ‘Tiny and her mate, and Salome and Gay Dave, are in Panama City.’

  ‘Gay Dave?’

  ‘My double,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘And they're doing … what, exactly, at the taxpayers’ expense?’

  ‘Looking for Canadians.’

  ‘Ah, just in case.’

  ‘Ask formally for the analysis of the files the CIA got in Toronto; the web, the people. I got them the damn files, so shout if you have to. I want to know if any more teams are out there.’

  ‘We got the credit for finding that plane, but no one believes that you just stumbled across it - not even me.’

  ‘We found a local tribesman, and he mentioned it, so I paid him in US Dollars to lead us through the swamp to it.’

  ‘Ah. Makes some sense now. And it had missiles?’

  ‘Radar guided rockets. Yanks think they were meant for Gaza.’

  ‘Gaza?’

  ‘To fire at Israeli patrol boats, radars zeroed in on.’

  ‘Would they lock on?’

  ‘Supposedly, yes.’

  ‘Crikey, that’s a step up.’

  ‘What’s the British news reporting?’

  ‘Your London shoot-out got lots of TV minutes and newspaper columns, the attacks at your base got plenty of air time, and then the Cortez – attributed to you, now the plane. You haven't been off air for a week.’

  ‘Great, the fucking Mexican drug gangs will be coming after me. As well as the North Koreans.’

  ‘I think your base will be secure from now on, MOD had a shout about it. You'll get more cameras, and as many MPs as you like.’

  ‘And HTZ?’

  ‘The Dutch were not pleased with your threat, but crapped themselves, expecting a bloodbath akin to that in Antwerp. They've already found that the books at HTZ have been fixed, and that the medical opioid indicated as supplied from Tasmania is fake.’

  ‘Tasmania?’

  ‘Farmers there, they legally grow coca in the season. HTZ claimed ten tonnes, but the authorities in Tasmania said it was two tonnes only.’

  ‘Seems to be money in it,’ I noted.

  ‘When a consignment arrives by ship it’s still quite cheap, but goes through several dealers, getting more expensive every step. If a bag was ten dollars off the ship, it’s fifty or sixty dollars when it’s sold to an end user – a desperate druggy or a flash city trader.’

  ‘A good mark-up for some.’

  ‘Well, they run the risk of a long stay in prison obviously. Has to be worth it.’

  I called Tomsk. ‘Hey Napoleon.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On an aircraft carrier.’

  ‘And the Nicaraguan gang?’

  ‘We killed many,’ I lied. ‘Blew up their base and drug lab. They'll now be very short of cash, with the Americans getting the drugs, because they owe the Mexicans for those drugs.’

  ‘I heard from Carlos that people are worried along the pipeline, with so much cocaine seized. They fear a shortage, so I am selling more, the prices up. And Carlos says that a few people were killed in Mexico City, some in Managua – linked to the drugs the Americans got.’

  ‘When you lose that amount of drugs there will be consequences,’ I told him.

  ‘Are there Nicaraguan gang members still alive?’

  ‘Sure, in the capital, but I'm not taking my men into the capital, that’s your area. How're my girls?’

  ‘They caught a Canadian with fake papers, but we can't figure out what he was up to. He says he was buying property to launder money, and lots of people do that.’

  ‘Get me his name, passport number.’

  ‘Hold on.’ He read them out a minute later.

  ‘I'll check out that man.’ I called Langley, the Duty Officer, and asked him to run the name and passport number.

  They reported, ‘Fake passport, registered to an elderly man in Wisconsin – aged ninety-two. That name has been used as an alias on and off these part five years, suspected money laundering. Not of interest to us.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ I called Tomsk as the ship gently undulated, the deck mostly clear of aircraft; I could only see two strapped down. ‘CIA think the man is involved with money laundering, that’s all.’

  ‘OK, we let him go.’

  ‘And say sorry, eh.’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  ‘And my double?’

  ‘He was sent a drink by a minister, waved at one time, and some people screamed and ran from him.’

  I laughed. ‘Keep him safe eh.’

  ‘You coming back?’

  ‘Hope to, yes.’

  Next call was Bob Staines. ‘You awake?’

  ‘I fell asleep earlier, so awake now, was just reading a book on the Cold War.’

  ‘Any developments?’

  ‘This Kebowski is a ghost, maybe a cover name since he doesn't seem to exist.’

  ‘Look at a Russian, Prague, codename Catfish.’

  ‘Ah, that’s more like, good old fashioned Cold War cat and mouse. Hang on, Catfish, Zubatka … Zubatka. When I was back with SIS we had a double agent that used that name, he finally defected to Canada, 1990 – just before the Soviet Empire collapsed.’

  ‘What was his area?’

  ‘Missile engineer.’

  ‘I'm getting a hard on, Bob. We found a plane full of custom Russian rockets cannibalised by the North Koreans, radar homing.’

  ‘Well, why would he want to piss off the Americans, they'd just shoot him.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Terotski.’

  I called Langley. ‘It’s Wilco. I need to know if a Russian defector from 1990 is still in Canada and behaving himself. Terotski, codename Catfish. And fast please.’

  ‘Hold on … deceased.’

  ‘Got news for you, I don't think he's quite cold yet. And I think he wants to stick a bomb up your arse.’

  ‘I'll get a team on it.’

  Back inside, I joined the gang as we sipped wine and chatted to the captain and his senior officers, funny stories told of past mission cock-ups. The air wing on this ship was set to stand down, and go to a land base for a few months, another air wing to board. They stood down together, even the technicians, and resumed operations later together. The air wing was not fixed to the ship itself.

  A commander stepped in. ‘Major Wilco, we got a message, for you to call CIA Langley.’

  Harris led me back to viewing platform. I recalled the last number and hit green, hoping I did not drop my phone over the side. ‘It’s Wilco, you after me.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  ‘Wilco?’ came the Deputy Chief.

  ‘Popeye Wilco, life on the ocean wave at the moment.’

  ‘Catfish, what do you know?’

  ‘We think he's linked in, and not six feet under. He was a missile engineer, and we found custom made missiles, and the codename was used to take a payment from the Canadian contractors, and Hollister would have known him.’

  ‘Shit...’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘The four people arrested off the plane in Toronto, they were babysitters for him, 1990.’

  ‘Oops. Look for him in Prague maybe. And maybe Kebowski is a cover name. What harm could this guy do?’

  ‘He doesn't know much about us, he was just an engineer, but if he's selling his skills to people like the North Koreans then we have a problem.’

  ‘Why would he defect from the Soviets, then want to re-join them and attack The West?’

  ‘Maybe he played us, wanted access to The West, hard to know. He did give up Russian missile secrets, and they panned out, so he's not welcom
e back home.’

  ‘Best go dig up his body and see how warm he is.’

  ‘You know, when they say it’s you on the damn phone I curse quietly, and dread it, but also value what you do. Not your fault that some of our people are dirty, but you're usually the bringer of bad news.’

  ‘Don't shoot the messenger.’

  ‘I would like to, some days.’

  I laughed, and cut the call.

  Back inside, the Captain asked, ‘Problems?’

  ‘A Soviet defector from 1990 got up out his grave and is giving the CIA some problems, not least because they certified him dead. And this defector, he likes to build home-made radar-guided rockets in his garage.’

  ‘Can't trust anyone,’ the Captain quipped.

  ‘No, but don't shoot the messenger.’

  The Captain thumbed at a commander. ‘This guy reported a young officer to me, doing drugs and rent boys in port. I could have shot him, not something I wanted to deal with.’

  I began, ‘In London, a high ranking mole recently suffered a stroke – as we caught him, bed ridden and under police guard, but they told his wife what he had done, and his fondness for young boys going back forty years. So she went into the hospital and smothered him with a pillow, police right outside the door.’

  They laughed.

  The Captain said, ‘If I went home and my wife was in bed with a young woman...’

  We laughed loudly as he shrugged.

  ‘You wouldn't kill her,’ I noted.

  Harris, Moran and I checked on the lads later, but they had been fed and had hot showers, the resident Marines looking after them, Franks and Dick back aboard.

  In the morning I chatted to the two SEALs that had been wounded, the medical bay on this carrier being huge. I also took time to chat to young ratings with less dramatic wounds, cheering them as they lay immobile.

  Major Harris reported to me that the Royal Navy had rudely boarded the Harvest Orion at dawn, Marines rudely pointing guns at sleepy crewmen. A search had revealed no drugs or guns so far, but the captain's sat phone was showing up some interesting links. He was arrested and flown by Lynx to Barbados, where extradition charges would follow.

  With the FBI on their way to Barbados, Agent Manstein arrived aboard our carrier via the Hawkeye. I met whim with Harris, Franks and Dick in the large meeting room. ‘Agent Manstein, what a pleasure.’ We didn't shake. ‘Are you … happy with what I've done for your government this past week?’