by Richard Mann
DESERT TOWN IN IRAQ 2006
Peter, Vinnie and two other soldiers in desert smocks and Shemaghs, walk stealthily down the side of a building in a dusty desert town. They are a four-man patrol from A squadron of the 21 SAS Regiment. Each patrol has a soldier skilled in signals, demolition, and is either a medic or is a linguist. Peter himself is a skilled linguist and medic. Vinnie’s skills are signals and demolition, as well as being an expert sniper. As Sergeant, Peter leads the patrol.
They move into a street, looking backwards and forwards, on rooftops, down alleyways, looking for insurgents. The Iraqi townspeople eye them suspiciously and move inside doorways, ushering their children inside. Eyes peek out behind shuttered windows – there is silence now. Dust swirls down the street from a desert breeze. They squint their eyes against the dust and harsh sun. A lonely figure, an old woman bent with age, face-baked and wizened from the sun, points at them as she hobbles across the street.
‘Crusader! Crusader!’
On a rooftop, Peter’s quick wits spots a flash of light.
‘Vinnie, 1 o’clock roof top!’
A Kalashnikov fires from the roof. Peter flinches as bullets spray three inches from his face, but the two other soldiers behind them are hit. Peter and Vinnie level their M16’s, butt in the shoulder, sights on target, all within a split second, and return fire. Peter’s heart is racing with adrenaline as he grabs another M16 from one of the downed soldiers and they dive behind a car. They studiously ignore their fallen colleagues as they view the rooftop.
‘Time for mourning later,’ whispered Peter.
They return fire in three second bursts to conserve ammunition. The car is peppered with bullet holes from return fire and the fuel tank is leaking onto the dry sandy street. The air is filled with the smell of cordite, petrol and choking dust.
Peter retaliates with two M16’s, one in each hand, as he shouts a battle cry. One insurgent falls from the roof and hits the ground. ‘Fire in the hole!’ shouts Peter as he fires a grenade at the rooftop. As it explodes against a wooden barrier, two Iraqi insurgents are blown clean from the roof, and seem to fall in slow motion through the air.
‘Oi Terminator, let’s move before it blows!’ Peter shouts as they run down the street. They had only gone ten yards when the car explodes behind them, Peter taking the full force of the explosion in his back, and they are thrown to the ground. A bullet explodes one inch from Peter’s face, Vinnie takes one in the leg and screams.
‘Vinnie, house on the end, first floor!’ shouted Peter. Then Peter sees Vinnie’s ankle and takes the sniper rifle from Vinnie, a Barrett M107.50, but Vinnie is having none of it, and takes it back. Vinnie calmly adjusts the sight and elevation. ‘Ten knots east’, Vinnie took account of the wind. A bullet grazed Peter’s ankle. As Vinnie fired, the shooting stopped and there was silence.
‘That’s why they call him “The Terminator”‘, said Peter.
‘You’re the luckiest bastard alive – “Bulletproof Pete.” Vinnie grunted in pain. ‘There’s no way you can be shot!’ winced Vinnie as he grabbed the radio.
‘Two men down. Evac required. RV delta four 1330, over.’
‘Let’s get out of here!’ shouted Peter, as the townspeople started poking their heads out of their houses on the street. Then Peter’s sixth sense kicks in - he turns round as a wild-eyed machete wielding Iraqi insurgent brings down his arm to slice Peter in two, but fast as lightning he pushes out his hands hitting the shocked insurgent in the chest who flies back twenty foot through the air, landing in the smoking blackened remains of the burning car. Vinnie looked at Peter quizzically through his pain - no normal human had that strength.
They raced for the rendezvous, Vinnie hobbling from his wound, Peter carrying both dead soldiers, one on each shoulder, quick as an Olympic one-hundred meter champion. He can hear a helicopter approaching. Shots from another Kalashnikov sprayed against the wall behind them as they reached the clear ground of the RV pickup – he can see the helicopter landing fifty feet away. Within two seconds Peter had hurled himself and their dead colleagues into the Royal Navy Lynx, then grabbed Vinnie into the helicopter, which touched the ground just for a second before lifting off again.
They slumped in the back of the helicopter taking off their gear. Vinnie looked at his friend Peter, ‘Lucky bastard’, he thought. Not so much as a scratch, and he wasn’t even out of breath – no wonder his nickname was “Bullet Proof” Pete. Vinnie on the other hand was covered in scratches and bruises, had a bullet grazed his thigh, and blood oozing from his lower leg. He breathed heavily, out of breath, as he tended his wounds, Peter putting a bandage on his leg.
Peter looked at Vinnie fixing his wounds and thought about his friend. Vinnie – he could always count on Vinnie. Dead reliable, saved his back more than once. And in life that’s what’s important - finding people you can rely on. Vinnie’s a scruffy bastard and he’s got no manners. I mean, you wouldn’t take him to have tea with the Queen or anything, but Peter loved him like a brother, and that’s what counts, someone you can trust one hundred per cent.
Peter thought about his reputation of never being shot in a firefight, and not even getting a scratch, his amazing speed and agility, and the best soldier in the regiment, which made him curious. In the squadron they called him “Bullet Proof” Pete. Vinnie is a fearsome fighter and a great shot, so they call him “The Terminator”. They both passed SAS selection first time, and it was hard training, but they loved it, it was natural for them. They took to it like ducks to water. He recalled the look of the directing staff as he completed the sixty-five k endurance march in three hours, they could not believe it. Many thought it was unnatural.
Supernatural some called it.
His mind then wandered back to his home in the valley, his sanctuary away from the madness, by the stream that ran through the woods, those ancient enchanted woods. His vision of the old man, the priest, and what was he saying as he was pointing at him? And an ancient name that resounded in his mind - Destiny was shouting at him.
“You are the one.”
“You are Caius.”
What the fuck does that mean?
Chapter 1
Natural Selection
BRECON BEACONS 2005
Two fit young soldiers are running up a mountain in military fatigues and full Bergen, sweat drips into their eyes, and down their backs in the searing heat. Other soldiers are lagging behind—one collapses exhausted. The fitter soldier reaches the top of Pen y Fan in the Brecon Beacons and pauses for breath.
The sun bounces off Peter Morgan’s bald head as he shields his sharp blue eyes, surveying the majestic scene. His super-vision picks out a struggling soldier miles away, then spots his friend Vinnie further down the mountain, trying to keep up. As he looks around him, he feels on top of the world, the king of the mountain. Peter looks at the raw beauty of the green valleys and rugged hills and mountains, and at that moment he feels alive.
Then he has a moment of reflection.
Why did he become a soldier? It seemed like the best career move. Besides, he left school at sixteen with only one GCSE, in geography, and followed his father into the army. His father had died overseas on some clandestine mission, so he had to support the family. His teachers said he had huge potential and urged him to stay on at school and study, but his family came first. He loved looking at maps and reading about exotic places in the world. Besides, growing up in Merthyr Tydfil—the back end of nowhere, it was either wade through cow shit as a farmer or join the army.
So he chose the army.
Besides, he could travel the world and experience those exotic places for himself and send money home to the family. He had been to Gibraltar with the Royal Regiment of Wales, but he knew that if he passed SAS selection, he would have real adventures in far-away places, just like his father, who had also been in the service. It was in his early twenties
that he and Vinnie both decided to join the army, and now in their mid-twenties, they were taking the ultimate test, SAS selection.
He loved the mountains and the green valleys, more than anything else. The fresh spring water that sprang from the rocks, the smell of the air that filled his lungs—the dirty air of the city wasn’t for him. He remembered the fairy stories that his grandmother used to tell him about the hidden and ancient places in the Welsh valleys, places that time forgot, where old memories lingered. Places of magic and wonderment, witches and wizards and cave-dwelling hermits, and an ancient legend about an old wood in a hidden valley where a priest had lived since time began.
Peter’s super-sensitive hearing picks up a conversation between two struggling soldiers six hundred yards down the mountain, ‘You know what they say about that Pete Morgan, he isn’t human!’
Peter’s friend, Vinnie, eventually catches up. ‘We’d better get a move on, they’re catching up,’ pants Vinnie in his East End accent, his face sporting a cheeky grin, his short brown hair sticking up.
‘They won’t catch us,’ replies Peter, his deep, resounding voice has a slight Welsh accent, but also an older quality about it. They speed off again, Vinnie struggling to keep up.
Two tough, weather-beaten, directing staff, Des, and Artie, both veteran SAS sergeants in their mid-thirties, watch through binoculars at the bottom of Pen y Fan.
‘Artie, did you see him run, full kit and all, up Pen y Fan? Never seen anything like it, left the rest in the dust.’
‘It ain’t natural Des. Never seen anything like it,’ said Artie, brewing tea in his mess tin, ‘and I’ve been in the service for ten years.’
‘And me. Been a DS for five years, Artie.’
‘I know Des. And?’ said Artie patiently.
‘He is the fittest bugger ever to be entered for selection, and that’s saying something. Tougher than any Para or Royal Marine—and they’re hard bastards,’ replies Des lighting a cigarette.
‘Nothing seems to faze him,’ says Artie.
‘Remember the thirty-kilometre march in the pouring rain with a forty-pound Bergen?’ says Des eating a sandwich and drinking tea from his mess tin.
‘Yep, gruelling by any standard,’ replies Artie. ‘But he left them all standing. Did it in record time too.’
Des recalls the extra endurance test, which many candidates fail. They have to run up a steep hill carrying a dead weight, like a heavy log. At the top of the hill, they have to perform a burpee jump up and then go straight to a press-up. Ten burpees must be done within twenty-five seconds, or else it’s a fail. Then they must run back down the hill and do it all again, ten times.
‘Remember extra endurance, Artie? Pete Morgan did it twenty times, beating all the rest. I almost failed his mate Vinnie, think he has a bit of asthma,’ said Des.
‘Get to the point, Des.’
‘Anyway, Morgan comes up to me, without breaking a sweat, and says, ‘Staff, can I do ten more, please? I need a proper workout.’ ’
‘Ten fucking more Morgan!’ I screamed.
‘‘Yes Staff,’ he replied, cool as you like.’
‘Go on then son,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile, all the other guys were laid out on the grass, chin-strapped. One of them had to be taken to the hospital. Suspected heart attack,’ says Des slurping his tea.
‘Built like fucking Bruce Lee as well. Ain’t natural,’ replies Artie.
‘Heard a rumour the Yanks are after him,’ says Des.
‘Yep, I heard the same. CIA,’ replies Artie, raising his eyebrows, taking a swig of water in the heat.
‘You know what his nickname is, don’t you?’ says Des.
‘Yeah. Bulletproof Pete.’
‘Bulletproof my arse. Nobody can stop a bullet,’ says Des drinking his tea.
‘His mate Vinnie. Reckon he’s an East End gangster,’ says Artie.
‘That’s what I heard. Don’t cross him, Artie.’
Chapter 2
Freak of Nature
Peter knew that people were talking about him. Was he a freak of nature? His hardened physique, built by years of training, gave him muscles and sinews like Bruce Lee. He had the same lightning agility and the strength of ten men. He felt superhuman.
Nobody could outrun him on the marches.
No one.
Peter knew the SAS selection process would either make him or break him. He needed to know. It was a stepping stone to greater things—his dreams had told him this. But he knew he would never be the same person again. It would be something akin to a spiritual awakening, that was how he saw it—the supreme test of mind and spirit.
He knew that some soldiers die of heat exhaustion in the summer selection, or hypothermia in the winter selection, others simply collapse from fatigue.
Peter, however, felt elated. His blue eyes blazed with light.
He felt alive, the adrenalin coursing through his veins.
He felt as strong as steel, as if another force was within him, something stronger than himself. This is what he was meant to be, a warrior, he and Vinnie together, conquering the world. He had a vision of fighting dragons with a sword, and winning against all the odds. Maybe he was fighting himself, and the dragon was his own inner demons whom he was trying to defeat, in this supreme test of endurance.
Peter thought about the other soldiers on selection. He knew some of them, and Vinnie of course. He had prepared Vinnie by doing extra training with him otherwise Vinnie would certainly have failed.
Peter reflected on the selection process. Any member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces can be considered for Special Forces selection, but most candidates are from the Parachute Regiment. All instructors (directing staff) or DS’s like Des and Artie are full members of the Special Air Service. Selections are held twice a year, in summer and winter, in Sennybridge in the Brecon Beacons. Selection lasts for a total of six months.
Less than ten percent pass.
There is the hill phase, jungle phase, weapons and combat survival phase, the week-long escape and evasion phase and finally the resistance to interrogation. Peter knew it was the ultimate test of mind and body, and it was the humble, quiet guys who passed—those who are reliable, dependable and level-headed. In a firefight, you had to depend on your comrades, your mates, your brothers in arms. It wasn’t normally the loudmouths or show-offs who passed, they didn’t have the right temperament.
On arrival, Peter had completed a personal fitness test (PFT) and an annual fitness test (AFT). He remembered the doctor’s comments. ‘There must be something wrong with my equipment,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Mr. Morgan, you are the healthiest candidate ever to enter for selection. Your high-density lipoprotein, the good stuff, is off the scale and your resting heart rate is thirty-nine beats per minute.’ He then amazed the doctors when he dead-lifted two thousand pounds, without breaking a sweat.
Then he marched cross country against the clock, always leading the pack, the DS struggling to keep up with him. The distances increased each day, culminating in what is known as Endurance: a sixty-five-kilometre march with full equipment, including a sixty pound Bergen on his back, scaling and descending Pen y Fan.
Even before the endurance, more than eighty of the hundred or so who started had dropped out, either collapsing or simply quitting. There was no shame in quitting. Des and Artie treated each man with respect, even giving them a lift to the train station.
Peter now relived the endurance march, designed to bring out personality defects, which must be completed within twenty hours. They were woken at 4 a.m., Des, and Artie shouting at them to ‘move their arses.’ Their Bergens were topped up with bricks to weigh sixty pounds, but for Peter, it felt like 6 pounds. One candidate tried to cheat, by removing bricks from his Bergen when he thought no one was looking, but Des regularly checked all Bergens, and he was “RTU’d”, returned to unit, i
n short order.
Peter recalled the journey by truck to the start, all the soldiers are silent, knowing what lay ahead. It was dark and raining as they clambered out, retrieving their rifles and Bergens. Good job it was summer, or else he would be freezing his bollocks off. He felt the cold like everyone else, and the weather in the mountains could change dramatically within a few minutes—sunny one minute, torrential rain the next.
They were given compass bearings and the route of the march. Peter got off the lorry, put his Bergen on, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and got off to a fast start leaving everyone behind, including the DS. By 6 a.m. he was alone with no one else in sight, and he started to think about his dreams.
Strange dreams.
Chapter 3
Dreams of Mountains
Last night Peter dreamt he was on a mountain, Vinnie was with him but was unwell. The sky was blue above him, it was warm; he walked on ashes and sharp rocks, a lava flow, now crusted over was on his right. He could see steam vents. It was a volcano. There was a woman with him, with long black hair, pale skin, red lips and blue eyes. She was beautiful. But it wasn’t his wife. She seemed familiar, an ancient memory perhaps, from a different life.
Who was she?
Up ahead he could see a cave, dark and forboding. Something was inside. He felt a pang of fear in his stomach as he approached. But he did not want to go inside, it felt ominous. There was something in there, something ancient and primal. The mountain shook as he stood there, deciding whether or not to go in.
Peter’s thoughts were broken when he stumbled on a rock and fell flat on his face, the Bergen full of bricks falling on top of him. He cursed as he lay on the grass, drank some water and took a short rest. What did the dream mean?
Then he looked around him at the raw, rugged landscape, his deep blue eyes shining with a light. Peter loved the Welsh mountains, the beauty and wildness of it all, hinting at ancient mysteries and magic. He felt part of it.
