by Peter Hall
Cal wanted to shout, ‘no, stay a bit longer’, but of course he remained silent and stood up with her. Juliet walked off to her car while he packed his portable stove and other utensils into his rucksack. When he walked over to Juliet’s SUV, she was struggling to fit her latest medical supplies into the back of it.
Cal noticed she had donned a red padded anorak. “Feeling warmer now?”
“Yes, much better, thanks. This time of year it goes cold really quickly in the afternoon.”
“Yeah, but it’s November. In any normal year, I guess we’d all be wearing overcoats by now.”
Juliet was shoving a large box into the gap between the car window and a large stack of supplies. “Get… in… there! I really must tidy out this damn car.”
“What are you planning to do with the medical stuff you’ve just collected? Obviously, you’ll not fit anything else in your car.”
After forcing the boot of her SUV to close, she turned and faced him. “Well, I expect that’ll be tomorrow’s task—finding somewhere safe and secure. I’ve got a map with all my hiding places marked on it.” She paused. “I guess I shouldn’t have told you that. I’ve just given you an incentive to hit me on the head and steal the map.”
Cal laughed. “It crossed my mind. Not to steal from you, of course. But maybe you should have kept that information to yourself until we got to know each other better?”
“You just said ‘got to know each other better’. Do have something in mind?”
Cal swallowed and blushed.
“Seriously, what do we do now?”
“What do you mean?”
Juliet leaned back on the bumper. “Okay, we’ve established we don’t want to shoot each other yet. We’ve had a nice cup of tea and a pleasant chat. I think we seem to get on fine. We both agree it’s best travelling in a group—if you can find good companions. So where do we go from here? Do we both climb into our jeeps and go our separate ways, or what?”
Today had been the four hundred and sixty-fifth day that Cal had checked his mobile phone to find no reception. Throughout all that time, he had been alone and even he was missing human company, especially now that winter was drawing in. The evenings were feeling very long and lonely.
Juliet had suggested they camp together tonight, and his guts churned with anxiety at the idea. What would she make of all his booby traps and security measures? Would she think he was a paranoid nut case? Would he be able to follow his comfortable routines and habits? It would be safer to give an excuse and part company.
Then he remembered Sharon. He had panicked when she’d asked to join with him and, later on, he’d bitterly regretted turning her down. Now he was doing precisely the same thing again. Could he not learn and adapt?
When faced with two options, favour the boldest.
Cal realised he’d been standing in silence for several seconds and Juliet still waited for a reply.
What the hell? What’s the worst that can happen?
“It’ll be pitch dark in a couple of hours,” he said. “Normally, around this time, I’d look for somewhere to camp for the night. Off-road where I can hide my truck, preferably near a stream. I prefer to set up camp and recon the area before nightfall. You’re welcome to join me, if you want—no pressure.”
Juliet smiled. “Thanks Cal, I’d like that very much.”
“I passed over a bridge about a mile north of here. Looked like a nice clean stream, good place to camp. Unless you have any other ideas?”
“No, that sounds fine. I’ll follow you. There’s one more thing I want to get from the store.”
She walked back to the shop and returned a moment later, carrying a case of wine. “The shelves are cleared of booze, but look what I found under a desk in the office. Have you got room for it in your Land Rover?”
“If I haven’t, then I’ll damn well make some.”
Cal was waiting in his Land Rover as she drove up the street to meet him. When she saw his vehicle jutting out of the side road, she started laughing. With the bolted-on armour plates, extra lights, smoke launchers and massive roof rack, it was quite incongruous.
Juliet lowered her window and shouted, “You’ve seen too many Mad Max films.”
Cal smiled. “You’re just jealous. Follow me. And don’t get too close. I don’t want to be associated with that slab of butter on wheels.”
CHAPTER 13
John & the Interrogation
TIMELINE: 8 years before Yellow Death
“Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.”
Oscar Wilde (1854–1900)
John returned home on Friday after a tiresome day. He spent most of the last week building a bespoke website, and today’s testing highlighted several problems. On a different day, he might work late and fix them—tonight he had other commitments.
After a brief shower, he donned his uniform. Everything needed for the weekend had been neatly packed before leaving for work that morning, but he worried something vital might have been missed, so he unpacked and re-packed every item. John’s pulse raced, and he had to make a conscious effort to stop his hands from shaking, as he ticked off his meticulous checklist again.
When his parents split up, the divorce settlement provided his mother with a lovely, traditional two-bedroom cottage with gardens in the Devon countryside. One attraction of the house for Sarah was the self-contained chalet at the far end of the garden. She wasted no time offering it to him and it was too convenient to turn down—even though he knew she had organised it to keep an eye on him.
As John left his chalet, he walked across the lawn and into the house.
“Anything you need before I shoot off, Mum?”
“No, I’m fine. You go off, dear. Have a lovely time with your army buddies. And do be careful. Don’t go and shoot yourself in the foot like you father did.”
Since John completed his basic training, he had been a regular attendee on T.A. weekends. The training normally followed a repeating annual schedule, but this coming weekend promised to be special and exciting.
Because of the latest flare-up in Afghanistan, elements of the Parachute Regiment were being sent over there for a six-month tour as U.N. Peacekeepers. They had been enjoying an extended holiday in the UK and, before they left, their C.O. was honing their skills with week-long war games. John’s platoon would act as a live enemy for the final two days of the exercise.
When John arrived at the barracks in Exeter, the usual pre-weekend bustle was already in full swing. Soldiers signed out weapons; collected ration packs; loaded equipment; checked vehicles and radios. Then followed the roll-call and a briefing about what they could expect. Their platoon commander—Lieutenant Greene—read out the guidelines for the upcoming exercise. Most of it was fairly standard and obvious, including advice about dealing with civilians they might meet by accident.
They boarded coaches for the journey to the Dartmoor training area. John was already exhausted. After a busy week, he would normally be thinking about winding down and going to bed. He dozed fitfully on the coach.
At around eleven p.m. they finally arrived at what appeared to be the official middle-of-nowhere. Torrential rain greeted them. The moment they stepped off the coaches, they became fully tactical—no lights, no sounds, their faces smeared with camo paint. With the moon skulking behind thick clouds, the inky blackness covered them like a cloying blanket. A five-mile walk in full kit brought them to a wood where they snatched a couple of hours of sleep, spreading out their ponchos as improvised tents. John was shaken back to consciousness at three a.m. for his stint at guard duty. He had made a rookie mistake of sleeping on a slope, so had slid out from underneath his poncho. His sleeping bag was soaked and cold. Sodden trousers clung to his legs.
Two hours later, he was on a reconnaissance patrol and wading waist-deep through an icy stream. Through night-vision scopes, they monitored activity at a farmhouse for an hour, bef
ore being recalled.
As daylight filtered through the grey scudding clouds, John lay face down on soggy grass amongst the trees. His section had arrived at this abandoned cottage two hours ago and set up an ambush for an enemy patrol. John shivered, wondering what the hell he was doing here, when he could be tucked up in a cosy bed at home. Despite being uncomfortable, he struggled to stay conscious.
Something caught his attention. Through the morning mist, he could see dark moving shapes silhouetted against the dawn light. The adrenaline started pumping. Had anyone else seen them? He heard nothing from his own patrol, spread out on either side of him. Had they all fallen asleep? The Paras were perilously close now—they needed to open fire—NOW!
Blinding flash! One hostile set off a trip-flare. Everyone in John’s section began rapidly firing. Staccato gunshots hammered the air. The enemy responded. Thunder-flashes arced above and exploded. Flares soared in the sky. Banshee screams and shouting from all sides. Crimson acrid smoke caught the back of his throat. A maelstrom of light and sound and smoke engulfed the area. The Paras turned and disappeared into the trees.
It lasted under twenty seconds.
The section withdrew to a staging area and heated a meal from their ration packs. John sat hunched over a pouch of baked beans with sausages, revelling in the tomatoey sweetness. Simply holding the warm pouch was a luxury beyond compare. As John shivered in his damp clothing, a Land Rover pulled into the staging area. The muck-smeared passenger window wound down to reveal Lieutenant Greene.
The lieutenant looked over at the huddled group and smiled. “Great work today, men. Baxter, Thompson—I’m hearing good things about you, keep it up. That’s right, Cal, get some hot grub into you. Jolly good. Listen everyone, the big show’s on tomorrow morning. Let’s give the Paras something to remember us by. Yes?” He turned to his driver without waiting for an answer. “Back to HQ, please.”
The torment continued throughout Saturday. They dug foxholes and filled them in. They trudged from one place to another. Rain repeatedly started and stopped, never giving them time to dry out. Towards evening, they attacked a farmhouse occupied by the Paras. It might have been the same building John watched the previous night, but he was too tired and disorientated to notice.
The big event was scheduled for daybreak on Sunday morning. The entire platoon was to attack the main encampment used by the Paras in a six-pronged coordinated assault. By five a.m. John was in position, lying on his belly again. The others of his section lay in a line to his left. Thick fog clung to the undergrowth, and the air was as still as death. It was not quite cold enough for frost, but plenty cold enough to make John feel utterly miserable in his sodden clothes. The first light of dawn crept over the horizon.
They unleashed hell in the form of massive aerial concussions and the brilliance of para-illuminating flares exploding above. Somebody shouted, “Fire,” so he slipped off the safety catch and let rip towards the enemy camp. He had 120 rounds of ammo and intended to use every one. Bangs, flashes, gunfire, detonations, shouts and screams broke out from all directions. Billowing clouds of red and green smoke drifted across the landscape. The sky erupted with flares like demons bursting forth from another dimension. The pungent stench of white phosphorous and nitrocellulose jolted John’s senses. For a brief time, all discomfort was forgotten as John fired over and over, loaded and fired again—his heart beating as fast as the flashes from his gun barrel.
He was so intent on shooting, he never noticed the two soldiers creeping up behind him. By chance, a Para patrol was returning to camp just as the assault began and they turned tables on their attackers.
Being captured on a training exercise is the ultimate embarrassment. John had little time to reflect on this as two burly soldiers dragged him into their camp. Two of John’s colleagues suffered a similar fate. The sounds of battle were dying out, and no doubt most of his mates would withdraw to safe ground to enjoy a hot breakfast and swap exaggerated tales of brave exploits.
John’s immediate prospect was to give soldiers of the Parachute Regiment practice in prisoner interrogation.
“Stand absolutely still and keep your eyes on the ground, you little shit!”
As the sounds of battle faltered, the paras pulled a hood over John’s head and tightened the draw-cord around his neck to the point of discomfort. The hood obscured all light, restricted the air, and stank of vomit. After a few breaths, Cal was gasping whilst beads of sweat formed on his brow. They ordered him to strip and left him standing naked in the open, holding his arms high. Whilst his head boiled in its bag, the chill November air stole the heat from his bare skin and he shuddered. Worse than the cold was the sense of being exposed and vulnerable. By the time his boots, trousers and jacket were returned―minus laces and belt―his feet were wooden.
After dressing, they forced him to lie spread-eagled, face down in the icy mud. Still hooded, he lay for an eternity, straining to hear what was happening around him. Besides the breeze stirring the trees and twittering of birds, the area was deathly quiet. Had they left him? Was he lying alone in the middle of nowhere as part of some cruel joke? He shivered, not knowing if it was fear or the cold.
They had forced John to lie with the palms of his hands pointing upwards. His twisted arms began to ache. Time seemed to have stopped. John’s mind drifted and slowly his arms began to untwist into their natural state. Without warning, he felt pressure on his right hand. Somebody was standing on it, forcing it back into position, crushing it into the gravel. John cried out, but was too afraid to move.
This isn’t right. It’s a fucking training exercise, for God’s sake! Why isn’t Lieutenant Greene stopping this? Does he know what’s going on?
Time passed. Excruciatingly slowly. Impossible to tell how long. At first, John’s hand throbbed until both hands became so cold he lost feeling in them. He heard the crunching of boots coming closer, and tensed. His arms were wrenched behind his back and tightly restrained with a cable tie. Rough hands dragged him across the ground before throwing him into the rear of a truck. Two other bodies pressed against him. Perhaps they were his mates, but he dared not talk.
The truck made a journey over rugged terrain. He was thrown about and banged his head several times.
At journey’s end, they dragged John out, freed his hands and made him lean against a wall with his arms and legs outstretched―the classic stress position for interrogation. A wave of dread passed through him. This wasn’t good.
Oh, God! How long can this last? It feels like they’re just getting started. Can’t see anything. Can’t breathe. Christ! everything hurts so much. Can’t feel my fingers or toes. Is that shouting and screaming? Can’t hear anything above that damn car engine revving over and over. Must get a grip. This is a standard sensory deprivation technique. I’ve read about this. It doesn’t help to know that. How long has it been now? Seems like hours. Arms, legs, burning. Feel sick. How long now? Oh… my arms… hurt so much. Can’t take this any longer. Perhaps, if I can bend my arms and knees a little. Just a bit. Take the pressure off for a moment―
Something smacked him hard on the back of his legs and he collapsed.
“Stand straight, you fucking piece of shit!” shouted a harsh voice a few inches from his ear. He struggled to assume the stress position again, with adrenaline holding him rigid.
“Name?” screamed the Voice. It was so loud and close, it hurt his ear.
“Er, Cal–J–J–John–Callaghan–Callaghan-Bryant, Sir.”
“What was that? Don’t you even know your name, you little tosspot?” bellowed the Voice.
“I–I–I–It’s—”
“Shut Up! Shut the fuck up! You sorry piece of shit. Stand straighter. Straighter! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you even stand up? Fuck me, what a sorry sight you are. Is this the best the army can do?”
“I–I—”
“What part of ‘Shut up’ didn’t you understand?”
The shouting went on and on. The Voice insu
lted in ways he could not have imagined. The Voice asked about his sex life. It accused him of being impotent and having a tiny dick. In between the insults and threats, there were questions. John was nauseous, numb, scared, cold, confused, suffocating, hot, agonised, disorientated, and he answered every question as best he could.
He told them his name, serial number and rank. Eventually. For a time, his army number—which would normally run effortlessly off his tongue—was lost from memory and that brought another torrent of abuse from the Voice as John blurted out random numbers. He would have told the Voice anything. It confused him. It was gone again.
For how long? Seconds, minutes, hours. Time lost all meaning. There was only now. Only agony. In the complete and utter darkness of the hood, lights formed and swirled in front of John’s eyes. He knew they were in his imagination, but couldn’t stop his eyes following them like a cat chasing a spot light on a wall.
He was breathing hard inside the hood as if he were running a marathon. The draw chord cut painfully into his neck. There was no air! The Voice was back again. Shouting and demanding. Accusing and insulting. Questioning and more shouting. John’s hands and feet were numb, yet his head roasted, with stinging sweat running into his eyes. He told the Voice everything. Anything to stop the shouting, to make it end. What did he have to do to make it stop? Nausea spread from his guts to his throat in a slow, inexorable wave.
Oh, Christ! I can’t throw up inside this hood.
Again, he noticed the stink of vomit from a previous incumbent of the hood.
The Voice continued to scream at him, but somehow sounded more distant—otherworldly. He found he could ignore the Voice. His mouth tasted of metal—as if he had licked an iron bar. Weird! He was dimly aware of shaking uncontrollably—or was he? His body felt disconnected. Coloured lights spun around his head. He floated within infinite space. Nothing mattered anymore.
