‘Kelly!’
He jerked to attention instinctively and then realised he was still sitting down.
He jumped up, marched in and stopped. He had expected an ante room, but had also forgotten how hands-on the general was purported to be, especially in combat situations.
The general looked up as Kelly entered.
‘At ease, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Yes sir, thank you sir,’ he said, saluting and babbling in equal measure.
‘Relax, Sergeant Kelly,’ he said, indicating the chair. ‘I won’t bite.’
Kelly sat down and waited expectantly. The general continued to write expansively on the notepad in front of him and Kelly was not stupid enough to interrupt.
General Marty Bubba Bradford was a heavily decorated three star general. He had started his combat career in Vietnam, and both his reputation and his rank had risen through the various campaigns in between. He had been involved in everything from dirty little skirmishes in war-torn third world countries, to large scale conflicts between UN sovereign nations, so he knew what he was about.
He was a surprisingly small man for one in such a powerful position, but he more than made up for it in presence and charisma. His was not the typical small man syndrome. He was a genuine leader of men, and both his officers and enlisted soldiers treated him accordingly. They loved him.
Even in the Rifles, Sergeant Kelly’s UK regiment, they had heard of Bubba Bradford, so when Kelly had been approached by his company commander, to act as a special liaison with the US 101st Airborne Division, he had jumped at the chance. The Screaming Eagles had an illustrious history.
Sergeant Kelly was not a career soldier; it was not something he had been dreaming about since he was a boy. Soldiery was not in his family, but he had found it a surprising release from the endless quarrels and arguments with his mother. He hadn’t seen it at the time, but the lack of meaningful work had been eating away at him; poisoning his soul. Men were meant to toil and he hadn’t realised that. He had become lazy and complacent. He had been furious when his mother had come home from work, after a particularly vicious morning disagreement, and told him she had enrolled him in the army.
He could have refused to join-up, but he hadn’t, and he distinctly recalled the millisecond that enlightenment had come to him. They’d been on the killing fields, the bleak bayonet training grounds, and had been told to put on their war faces. As he’d looked around, the youthful clean-shaven visages had morphed into unrecognisable masks of hate.
He’d looked ahead at the sandbag hanging from the gallows. It had been filled with bags of pig’s blood, and as he’d chanted the same words as his comrades, kill, kill, kill, he’d felt a red mist descend on him. He’d charged for the object of his hate, and as the bayonet had slammed into the target, he’d realised that a man had to work for a living, and this was the work that he, Sean Kelly, wanted to do. And as the blood had spurted onto his face, he’d truly become a man for the very first time.
‘Do you know what he wants me for, sir?’ he’d asked Major Sherry, his commanding officer.
‘No idea Kelly, but it is a big honour. The only problem for most of the men when these postings come up is that they tend to be non-combative; that could be the case here, so just bear that in mind.’
‘I’ll take my chances, sir,’ said Kelly, not realising how prophetic those words would be.
Up close, Bubba was surprisingly anonymous for a career army man. He wore plain unadorned fatigues just like his men, but his voice, when he started speaking, was loud and commanding.
‘Sergeant Kelly, you and your guys in the Rifles have a problem in Helmand province. It is echoed across all of the battlefields in Afghanistan and Iraq, and unites us as soldiers. Your comrades are dying and so are ours. Your comrades are being maimed and losing limbs on a daily basis, and so are ours.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Kelly.
He was not sure there was any other response he could offer. It was the truth after all.
‘Well, here in the US army, we are getting sick of it. As a general, I have a bit of clout, so I started asking questions of the secretary of defence, who started asking questions of other agencies.’
Sean did not offer a comment. He could only imagine what Bubba meant by other agencies. He read thrillers and went to the movies. His active imagination told him they had letters in their names, rather than words.
‘So what has all this got to do with me, sir?’ he asked.
‘The military campaign to drive Saddam Hussein and his Iraqi forces out of Kuwait, if a young man like you can remember back that far, was called operation Desert Storm. You, and others like you, will be leading the vanguard of a new offensive that we're calling simply Operation Storm.’
‘So, this is not a desk-based position?’ queried Sean.
Bubba chuckled.
‘About as far removed from a desk as it is possible to get,’ he said. ‘Is that a problem for you? I need a hundred percent commitment on this, Sergeant. If that’s going to be an issue, you need to tell me now.’
‘No issue, sir,’ said Sean.
He really meant it.
The general narrowed his eyes and looked at him for a few seconds. Sean didn't flinch under the ocular assault. Eventually the general seemed satisfied and grunted to himself. He picked up the handset on his desk and hit the top redial button; the most used of the buttons on the phone, judging by how faded and dirty it was.
‘Major Thompson,’ barked the general. ‘Could you join us in here for a few minutes please?’
As Sean waited, the general busied himself with other tasks. For those few moments, he was oblivious to Sean even being there. He was a man used to working around distractions; it was the only way you could survive and thrive in combat situations, and he had done that for a very long time.
Eventually, there was a discreet knock on the door.
‘Enter,’ shouted the general.
The visitor stepped smartly into the room and saluted with precision. The general returned the salute.
‘At ease, Major,’ he said.
As the newcomer pulled over a chair, Sean studied him surreptitiously. He was a tall man, but not particularly wide at the shoulder. He reminded Sean of a skyscraper in the midst of construction. You could see how tall it was, and how large it could be, but the framework hadn't yet been filled in.
His face, as he pulled the chair up to the desk, was drawn and reserved. He had angular and pointed features, rather than soft and fleshy ones. The light blue eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence, and Sean could see the muscles and sinews honed and taut on the major’s forearms. He was obviously exceptionally fit, even for an army man.
‘Major Thompson is in charge of the team that have been tasked with operationalising our new weapon,’ said the general carefully. ‘He’ll give you a full briefing of what is required in combat situations, from both you and your men.’
The general nodded at Major Thompson, who resumed the conversation. Sean was struck by how deep his voice was too; it wasn't what he’d been expecting.
‘Your team will be the first we have operationalised from the British army,’ said Major Thompson, ‘so it's important that we get this right for future deployment.’
‘Yes sir,’ replied Sean, nodding in acknowledgement.
‘The primary use of this weapon,’ stated Major Thompson, ‘is in siege and stand-off situations; where a direct assault would mean serious loss of life due to terrain, solider numbers or other considerations. The weapon can be deployed in one of two ways; either in a standard tear-gas canister or in a diversionary smoke canister. We have adapted both these means of deployment, so they can be fired from launchers, but I’ll come to that later.’
‘So, would it be safe to say the weapon is biological, sir?’ asked Sean.
‘It’s a gas,’ acknowledged the major carefully.
‘Okay, so deployment method is smoke or tear-gas canister of some kind,�
�� said Sean. ‘But you said there were two parts to the weapon.’
‘I did,’ said the major. ‘The other part relates directly to the troop safety aspect of the weapon and is the key to the deployment. You'll all have your standard issue equipment, but in the Operation Storm deployment team, we have developed a specific canister for the gas masks. When out in the field in a combat situation, this canister must be worn at all times.’
The major held up a bright orange object about the same size as a half tin of beans, with holes in the top and bottom, like a pepper shaker.
‘We have made it easy to see if an individual soldier does not have the canister deployed,’ said the Major indicating the garish colour. ‘I cannot state enough that in any deployment situation, the canister must be worn by every single member of the unit. Failure to do so puts not only the individual at risk, but the entire team.’
‘So, is this gas contagious?’ asked Sean.
The general and the major exchanged a glance, the meaning of which was lost on Sean. There was definitely a meaning though, he was sure of that.
‘Let’s just say exposure is highly dangerous,’ said the major bluntly, ‘and leave it at that.’
‘So, those are the component parts,’ stated Sean. ‘What's the deployment strategy?’
‘Good question,’ said Major Thompson.
He exchanged another look with the general. Sean was not good at reading people, but he thought he might have detected a look of relief passing between the two men.
‘Hypothetically, the deployment scenario would look like this,’ said Major Thompson.
He cleared his throat and took a swig from his water bottle, before continuing.
‘You and your team are on patrol somewhere in Helmand province. You're on the lookout for snipers, IED’s and fortified positions. When you encounter a fortified position; one where the enemy has dug in and you can keep him pinned down, this would be the ideal deployment situation, and you would execute the following steps.’
The major took another long swig of water, to lubricate his vocal chords.
‘First off, you would instruct all of your team to deploy their gas masks. You would personally check their masks and their utility belts to make sure they were using the right canister, before going on to any further step.’
Sean nodded.
‘As I said at the start, the gas and smoke canisters were specifically developed to be deployed from rocket launchers. As part of the launcher package, each team will get two launchers and a small GPS rangefinder device. These are standard parts of the equipment inventory you will be given.’
Sean nodded again.
‘You will plot the estimated coordinates for the enemy position. The device will have the four points of the compass embossed into the plastic cover. You will need to make sure it is oriented with the built-in compass. The device will beep continually if it is not aligned correctly. On one side, there is an airflow meter. The rangefinder device will measure the prevailing wind, and will then accurately calculate the best spot within the enemy position to deploy the weapon. Once these coordinates are locked into the rangefinder, they are uploaded automatically to the guidance system on the primary launcher. Are you with me so far?’
‘Seems straight forward at the moment, sir,’ said Sean.
‘Once the guidance system is primed, you will load one of the specially adapted canisters into the launcher; they look like mini rockets. Pull the trigger to the first position on the launcher, and it will download the coordinates to the rocket. It only takes a second or two and once the download is complete, it will release the trigger. You then aim the launcher at the specific target, and pull the trigger all the way back.’
‘Can you miss?’ asked Sean.
‘The missile is GPS guided,’ said the major. ‘It’s impossible to miss once the coordinates are uploaded. It’s just safer to point the launcher at the target than in another random direction.’
Sean nodded his understanding.
‘As part of the missile deployment solution, there is a sensor that measures the concentration levels of the gas within the target area. This is identified on the rangefinder as an amber warning light. You will need to fire one missile every minute until that amber light goes out.’
‘So what happens then?’ asked Sean, expecting more.
‘Then, Sergeant Kelly, I'm afraid you wait.’
Sean blinked at the unusual pronunciation of sergeant. He’d almost forgotten that Major Thompson was American.
‘For how long, sir?’
‘Approximately seven hours. That's why it's critical that you identify fortified positions that you can contain. Once the weapon has been deployed, no one can be allowed to leave or escape.’
‘So what happens at the seven hour mark, sir?’ asked Sean.
‘You wait for a further hour,’ said Major Thompson.
He and the general exchanged that same look again.
‘No matter what else happens,’ he added cryptically, ‘you must wait that extra hour. Then you go in, still wearing your masks and secure the area.’
‘What happens if there is any resistance?’ asked Sean.
Major Thompson and General Bradford exchanged their first smile of the conversation.
‘Son,’ said Bubba, ‘and trust me on this. There will be no resistance.’
#
Almost exactly a week later, Kelly assembled his team under one of the training tents in Camp Bastion. They were fresh off a four day vacation, and it had been decided, further up the chain of command, that it was the ideal time to equip and train the team with the new weapon.
Sean watched them critically out of the corner of his eye. It was the same picture you would get watching any gathering of men from eight to eighty. They were all jockeying for position; all trying to establish themselves as the alpha male.
He knew they regarded him with some suspicion, and they also collectively thought that sometimes he was a little too easily led, but he’d been working on those qualities. He knew he was becoming a better solider and a better leader. But most of all, he knew from long experience on the battlefields, that once those helmets went on and the doors of the compound were opened, they would do anything for him and for each other. They were, in short, just an ordinary bunch of lads who had become moulded into a superior fighting force by an extraordinary situation.
‘Quiet!’ he shouted suddenly, into the melee.
He laughed at their discomfiture, as they came shuffling and muttering over to where he stood.
‘Right ladies,’ he said, as he started handing out the simple operational manuals. ‘Gather round, we’ve got some work to do.’
Chapter 30 – Answers
18th May 2011 – Eight days after the Storm.
It is easier to judge the mind of a man by his questions rather than his answers. – Pierre Marc Gaston de Levis.
I was dog tired, and I knew it wasn't over. The death squads always came in fours, so there was another one out there somewhere, maybe watching me right now. This would be an interesting conversation; I’d have to keep my wits about me.
‘I think we’ll start with our most recent party crasher first,’ I said, indicating my latest captive.
I screwed the silencer carefully onto the end of the 9mm.
‘Let’s be perfectly clear about one thing,’ I added. ‘No one speaks unless invited to do so. I have killed many times before, I am on the run and I am very tired, so I will have no hesitation in killing again, do I make myself clear?’
As I removed the gag from the last captive, I studied each man closely. Without the benefit of speech, their eyes were the next most expressive communication tool they had. My initial snap judgement looked like it was proving to be correct. All three of them were fearful certainly, but not afraid; there was a subtle difference between the two emotions.
As I finally freed the gag, I put a hand over his lower face, placing the silencer to my lips and raising my eyebrows. He u
nderstood my meaning; he didn’t like it, but he understood it. I removed my hand slowly from his mouth, and sat back down in the chair. He looked at me with a baleful stare; he was not happy.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could formulate the words, he made his first error.
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he said softly.
I didn’t let him finish the sentence. The vase on the window ledge, behind and slightly to the right of his head, exploded into a thousand pieces. Mum had loved it, but I’d never cared for it; an expedient choice of target.
‘The instructions were very simple,’ I said. ‘The next one will be six inches to the left.’
He nodded, but again there was something controlled about his demeanour; grudging acceptance, rather than blind panic.
‘Do you know who I am?’ I asked.
‘You are Thomas Eugene O'Neill, a.k.a The Street, a.k.a. Street,’ he replied without hesitation.
I acknowledged the delivered statement without surprise. He would know who I was, all right.
I studied him closely, prior to moving on. He was good-looking, tanned and well built; lots of work in the gym, I suspected, but very little martial arts or combat experience. His defence had been instinctive, rather than trained. His southern US accent was the only surprise. Guido and Ernesto tended to avoid the Confederacy; another one of their many foibles.
I removed the gag from the second man. He regarded me with wary and watchful eyes, but didn't make the same mistake as his predecessor. He waited for the question.
‘What do you want from me?’ I asked.
He looked at me and held my gaze.
‘Storm,’ he said eventually, and with finality.
Yet again, it was no surprise to me; they wanted their folder back.
I turned to the last of the men; the older one, the first one I had apprehended. He had a swagger, an aura of self assurance about him that made me assume he was their leader. I removed the gag from his mouth. He spat a couple of times and coughed.
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