by A P Bateman
“None.”
“Then why?”
“Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and die…”
“Kipling was a twat.”
“I’m sure he was, but it was Tennyson.”
Taff shrugged. “Whatever. He was a twat, too. Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here? Apart from giving me a motivational kick up the arse?”
Rashid finished making the tea and handed him the mug. He took a sip of his own, placed it down next to him on the counter. He noticed the dishes in the sink, the dirt on the countertop. He wondered whether Liz had ever felt guilty at cheating on him, or if she ever would. Rashid had never liked the woman and had once called her in to his office along with a Corporal she had been sleeping with. Taff had never known, but Rashid had poured iced water on the affair. He’d had the corporal posted far and wide. He guessed she was just the type of woman who would always be sleeping with someone else.
“I need six men,” Rashid said. “It’s black-bag stuff. You have my word there will be no double-cross, no expendable shit. They do the job, get out and get paid. I just need six top-notch operators who will take the risk.”
“How risky?”
“It’s not quite suicide…”
Taff laughed. “You’re not selling this well.”
“I’m being up front.”
“Specialisms?”
“I want men from the regiment. It won’t be good enough to have well-meaning gung-ho ex-Royal Marines or Paras. They must have hostage rescue experience. Not just trained but to have served a tour in CRW. And to have worked undercover is crucial.”
Taff raised an eyebrow. The Counter Revolutionary Warfare group was a specialist posting. Everybody going through SAS training would do their drills in the killing house, learn what needed to be done, but specialising in it was a different matter. With all the deployment in the Middle-East over the years, the hostage rescue element was depleting. The role of the SAS trooper had reverted to its essence, its formation as a hit and run unit in a desert theatre of war. Captain David Stirling had formed the unit in the Second World War from rag-tag, gung-ho soldiers in North Africa who were up for near-impossible missions and would go the extra mile to see some action. The regiment seemed to have gone full circle.
“In fact,” Rashid added. “In light of the terrain and scenarios, men who have put their time in all troops would be favourable.”
“Really?”
“It’s undercover and the opposition will be US ex-special forces. But the terrain could well be mountains, urban or even need aerial insertion.”
“So, they’ll be up against SEALs?”
“I imagine SEALs and Delta.”
“Jesus… What the hell are you doing?”
“You know better than to ask that.”
“Fair point,” Taff sipped some tea, then said, “I’ll need the timeframe, bounty and comebacks.”
“It will be in a fortnight’s time. There will be a two-week refresher and training programme, then the job should be done within a week. Say, four weeks in all to be safe. Travel expenses and accommodation will be taken care of. The bounty is fifty-grand. Ten-thousand on sign-up, forty-thousand upon completion. Next of kin to receive the full bounty if it all goes tits-up.”
“Holy shit! That’s some money for a month’s work.”
“You get me the best, fulfil this deal on time and without a leak, and it’s one-hundred thousand for your fee.”
“You’re fucking kidding, right?”
“No,” said Rashid. “But here’s the thing. The opposition will be Americans. Ex-soldiers, at that. We’ve served with these guys, got muddy and bloody with them. This may be a problem for some. Not only are we cut from the same cloth, they will be as well trained as we are. These aren’t shit-kickers or goat-fuckers with thirty-year-old AK47s, no formal training and fighting in their dressing gowns. These are as good as it gets. And the other matter is deniability. There are no comebacks. I won’t tell you who this is for, and nor will I tell the guys you put in place. If they get caught, mess things up, get injured – there’s nobody to run and cry to. They will have to accept their fate.”
The Welshman nodded. “I’ll get the file,” he said. “The trouble is, anyone suiting that criteria are going to be as mad as you are,” he smiled. “Either that, or a bloody psychopath that you wouldn’t want to fight alongside…”
Rashid watched the man power the wheelchair out through the scuffed doorway, then turned and ran a sink of hot water. He squirted in some washing-up liquid, then started on the dishes and wiping the surfaces where his old Sergeant could no longer reach.
Chapter Fourteen
Appalachian Mountains, Virginia
Two weeks later
The camp was like many throughout the mountain range. Although while other campsites catered for obese teenagers or yoga retreats, or team-building executives, this one was used by a private security company to train close protection personnel. Fifty-acres of privately-owned woodland, a three-acre lake and a series of log cabins that were divided into the main house, accommodation blocks for up to ten people and a recreation room come restaurant. A concrete and metal-lined building built into a hollow made a first-class killing house and pistol range. A series of small-arms ranges had been constructed throughout the woods, making use of natural depressions and sandbags and scrap vehicles positioned to shoot from, or sometimes at, as well as a five-hundred-metre rifle range cut through the woods with targets set every one-hundred-metres. Throughout the woods a series of obstacles made for a hellish assault course that the fittest of individuals would take twenty-minutes to complete.
Rashid had been here for three days. He had set up targets, designed a training and evaluation programme and prepared the classrooms. He was aware of the enormity of the operation, realising just how last minute it would be. Objective clear, target unknown. He watched the first vehicle pull into the gravelled clearing. Neil Ramsay at the wheel, Marnie in the passenger seat. He could see two men in the back seat, didn’t know who they were yet. The second car, an identical GMC Yukon followed closely, driven by Caroline Darby. He had his reservations about her being involved, and had voiced them to Ramsay, who had shouted him down quickly. He couldn’t do anything more. He had tried to put King off the mission, and felt that Caroline was far too emotionally involved, given her and King’s relationship. He wouldn’t go there again, simply had to get on with it. A man was seated next to her with another in the rear. The third Yukon brought up the rear of the convoy, two men in the front. They parked in a line and everybody got out. They stretched and swayed, loosening up from the drive. Rashid walked down the wooden steps.
“Guys, welcome,” he said. “The sleeping quarters are over there…” He pointed to the row of cabins. “The rec-room is just down there, help yourself to snacks and drinks. Unpack and unwind. We’ll reconvene in an hour.” He looked at Ramsay, Caroline and Marnie, who had migrated toward each other. “Come up to the main house.”
“Nice place you’ve got here,” said Marnie. She tossed Rashid her bag and he caught it and smiled. “You said you’d take me away to the countryside one day…”
Rashid waved a hand towards the forest and said, “We can have a walk later, I’ll show you the sights.”
Ramsay pushed past and said, “Briefing, now. Get the kettle on.”
Caroline walked up behind him and pulled a face, “The poor love doesn’t travel well,” she said. “He needs a shower and a coffee.” She turned and watched the six men make their way to the recreation room. “An interesting bunch,” she commented.
“Handpicked,” said Rashid.
“By whom?”
“An intermediary. Why?”
She shrugged. “Maybe it’s nothing… Let’s get that kettle on.” She looked up at the sound of an approaching engine. A motorcycle. High-revving and loud. It appeared over some rough ground adjacent to the road. She recognised the build of the rider, even if she couldn’t see his
face through the helmet. “Alex…”
King turned a circle and brought the powerful trail bike to a halt facing back out. He kicked down the stand and got off, carrying only a small rucksack. He removed the helmet and hung it from the handlebar by the chinstrap.
“Thought I should meet the team,” he said. He hugged Caroline, where she met him at the bottom of the steps. They kissed but were professional enough not to linger. “Missed me?”
“Not much,” she chided. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“A surprise.”
She shrugged, punched his arm as they climbed the steps. “I almost wish you hadn’t come. I have to say goodbye again; not sure I can handle it. It was bad enough back in England.”
“It won’t be for long,” he said and smiled at Marnie as they reached the top. “Hi,” he said. He looked at Ramsay and nodded. “I wanted to put my face in, thought it might be wise.”
Ramsay nodded. “We’re having refreshments, and a briefing. The hired help are on an hour’s downtime.”
“Neil’s not a fan,” Caroline said. “There’s a few that seem okay, but…”
King nodded. It was a special assignment and would undoubtedly appeal to only a few. The private security industry was a mixed bag. He turned to Rashid, who was helping Marnie get the coffee and tea on the go. “Have you vetted them?”
He shook his head. “No time,” he said, a little defensively. “But I trust the intermediary. He saved my life once.”
“That doesn’t mean much,” King said. “You saved mine once, too. And look at you…”
“Once?” Rashid frowned. “Oh, how quickly you forget.”
“Once, twice, whatever,” King smiled. He looked at Caroline and asked, “What are your misgivings?”
“A couple are really up for it,” she said.
“Psyching themselves up? A bit of excess bravado?”
“Perhaps,” she said, taking the cup of coffee from Marnie. She sipped and shrugged.
“Are they troopers, NCOs, what?” King asked.
“All of the above,” Rashid said. “Without being funny, officers seldom sign up for mercenary stuff.”
“But they’re all experienced in multiple theatres of operation?” King asked, taking his cup of tea from Rashid.
“Absolutely. They all completed selection, served for at least four years, some of them closer to twelve years. They all came up from the Paras or infantry units as well. All have done tours of Afghanistan. And as I stipulated, they’ve all done a tour in counter revolutionary warfare.”
“What’s that element?” Ramsay asked.
“Hostage rescue and urban assaults,” Rashid replied.
“It’s the Afghan thing, isn’t it?” Caroline said. “I think a few of our soldiers got a taste for killing.”
“No doubt,” Rashid said, a little tersely. “But these guys have been around the block. And I wasn’t tasked with hiring child minders. To fit the parameters of the assignment, you got killers. Plain and simple.”
“Fair enough,” Caroline said quietly. She turned to King, “Can we talk outside?”
“Sure.” King put down his coffee and led the way out through the Western-style saloon doors. The building had been built to effect, but also had sliding double-glazed doors that had been pulled back. King dropped down the steps, waited for Caroline then walked towards a wood-bark pathway. “What’s up?”
Caroline caught hold of his hand and squeezed. “Don’t do this…”
King went to pull his hand away but relented. He squeezed back, annoyed it had gotten this far, but feeling for her all the same. “It’s too far down the road.”
“It doesn’t have to be. We can leave, right now.”
“And drop out of MI5?”
“If we have to.”
“We can’t,” he said. “And besides, this is too important. What we are going after here is the link that could save us all.”
“Is it?” she said sharply. “Or is it just another tiny battle that will soon be forgotten, and soon realised to make no difference? Like almost everything else.”
“This matters,” said King.
“You’re so sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Or is it merely unresolved business?”
“It was resolved,” King said. “And now things have taken a different course. This is important.”
“Enough to risk your life?”
King shrugged. “It’s what we do.”
“Then, maybe we shouldn’t do it anymore,” Caroline commented flatly. They had walked through the trees, the path making for smooth, clean progress through the forest. To her left, a man-sized target was shrouded two-thirds by sandbags. The target and sandbags had been peppered with bullet holes and the paper sheet of the wooden cut-out had been newly pasted on. She waved a hand at the target. “But it’s not only targets, is it? We’re on the other end of the gunfire as well.”
“Like I said, it’s what we do…”
Caroline stopped walking and hugged him, leaning her cheek into his firm chest. “Bullets are one thing,” she said. “Fighting an enemy is altogether different to what you’re going to do. This is like rolling a snowball downhill and hoping it doesn’t gather more snow. It’s unavoidable. Inevitable.”
“We have intelligence,” said King. “Good intelligence. We have a sound plan. I’m not denying we need some luck…”
“Luck?” she interrupted. “Don’t sell this to me on luck!”
“Luck is half of everything we do.”
“And what’s the other half?”
King did not answer. He had been close to saying fate, but he realised it was no time to be flippant. He hugged her close and said, “It will be okay.”
“Promise me?” She looked up at him, her eyes glossy and her entire demeanour one of child-like vulnerability. He couldn’t remember seeing her even close to this.
“I promise,” King said somewhat emptily. He had started to doubt himself now, but too much was resting on this to back out now. “We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. And we’ll get the job done.” He looked down at her, saw the frightened girl within the smart and confident women he loved. He loved her but had the terrible feeling he may never see her again.
Chapter Fifteen
“This is the Bora Arms BR99 tactical shotgun,” Rashid announced. “A Turkish-made weapon based on the M16 or M4 rifle, but a little more substantial in terms of weight and size.”
Seven identical weapons rested on the table in front of him. All black and lethal-looking. The weapons were new and fresh out of the box. Rashid had removed the foresights and tactical carry handles, which housed the open sight arrangement and had replaced them with 4x40 tactical optics with illuminated reticle display and a luminous open sight system on top.
“The sights have an open channel with luminous markings that I would recommend for under twenty-five metres, the scope will be good for one-hundred and fifty.”
“Fuck those, where are the real M4s?” a brash Scotsman named Macintosh asked.
“Wait until I’ve finished,” Rashid said curtly.
“Aye, okay,” Macintosh said, visibly taken aback. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, pal.”
“If you want your fifty-grand, you’ll shut up and listen, pal,” Rashid retorted. “Anybody else want to fuck off now?”
A collective round of grunts, and Macintosh scowled. Ramsay glanced at Caroline, but she had remained impassive.
“The BR99 is semi-automatic but will fire as quick as you can squeeze the trigger, or as fast as your shoulder will allow for the considerable recoil. In short, it kicks like a mule and ejects the shells about thirty-feet. So, don’t be too close to the man firing next to you. It’s loud as well. Obscenely so. But I have chosen the weapon for a number of reasons. Firstly; confines. It will knock a rhino on its arse, but because of its low velocity it won’t over penetrate walls or ricochet off into next week. Secondly; ammunition combination. Now here’s th
e deal – we’re up against American special forces. At the moment, the yanks have something we want, and we can’t seem to agree on who should have it. But we will next month, or next year. We’ve all served with them, too. We don’t want to kill these guys, but we have a job to do, nonetheless. I have configured two types of ammunition consisting of rock sea salt and a semi-hardened ballistic gel. Now, don’t get me wrong, the harmless rock salt fallacy of a farmer shooting someone in the arse in Carry On Camping isn’t strictly true. It will blow a person wide-open at close range. But after twenty-metres or so, it will knock them on their arse, and the salt will dissolve leaving no fragment, shot or shrapnel. Yes, it will break the skin, but the person should be okay…”
“I don’t want a plane ride home with no wonga, but I ain’t about to go up against Navy SEALs or Delta with a shotgun full of salt. If I want salt, I’ll put it on me fucking chips! And this ballistic gel bullet sounds like a bloody Nerf gun!”
Rashid knew the man as Yates, and he was a cockney through and through. The type who thinks EastEnders is a documentary on the middle-classes.
“Let the guy finish,” said a man at the back. He had a quiet demeanour and was clean-cut. He looked more like a car salesman than a former SAS soldier. Rashid remembered him from his time in the SAS and knew him as Adams. He was a good operator and a bit of a player with the women. As an officer, Rashid had not socialised with him, but he had seen him around and not heard anything negative.
“What the fuck is it to you?” Yates retorted.
“You’re wasting time,” replied Adams. “And I want to get busy on the range with my new toy.”
Yates scowled, but the calmness of the younger man seemed to unnerve him somewhat. He leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“As I was saying; I have also loaded shells with a semi-hardened ballistic gel,” Rashid continued. “Now, hit someone in the heart or head at under twenty-five metres and they’re not getting up again. But place your shots, and you’ll knock them down at up to one-hundred metres.” Rashid held up a substantial magazine. Twice as thick as the standard AR magazine on which it was based. “It’s simple. These are ten-round magazines. Blue cartridges are salt, and the red cartridges are gel. Now, here’s where it’s up to you – I have clear cartridges and black cartridges. The clear ones are double-oh-buck. Now, that’s nine balls of shot around eight-millimetre in diameter, so think of it in layman’s terms as something close to nine Walther PPK bullets hitting the target every time you squeeze the trigger. Now, that’s firepower. And they’re good in this weapon’s three-inch magnum guise for sixty-metres, with a fair amount of spread. The black cartridges are .700 calibre slugs. They are one-ounce of hardened lead and zinc, externally rifled to spin in the smooth bore of the shotgun. They’ll take down an elephant. And they’re bullseye accurate to one-hundred and fifty metres. I have given you a moral choice. You can take down the opposition with non-lethal force, or you can go another way. If we get into trouble, then we may all feel the switch to lethal rounds is a viable option.”
