The Fighter

by Robert White

  Des’ nose was almost touching Varese’s, but he addressed our latest recruit. “I believe they use ‘impasse,’ hen.”

  The Scot slowly pulled his own weapon from his belt and pushed the barrel into the American’s gut. “And they dinnea have their own word for predicament, either eh? And this is one big fuck off predicament, Marvin.”

  Varese was sweating, his eyes darting between Mitch, and the three people he’d supposed would all lay down and do as they were told.

  “I suggest you put down your weapons,” he said, swallowing hard. “I was informed that you were professionals, that you were soldiers. Where’s your discipline?”

  Sellers was not one to mince her very cultured words. “Ah, Americans and discipline. Remember when you declared war on terror, and invaded Iraq? Well, I served in Basra and Baghdad and witnessed what passed for discipline in your army, Marvin. Quite frankly, it was about as good as your modern foreign policy decisions. And that, is probably because your chaps tend to jerk their knee every time there is a little problem… just like you now, darling.”

  “I have orders,” he blurted.” I’m party to information that…”

  I didn’t think it was possible for Des to be any angrier, but he turned the hostility up another notch and hissed in Varese’s face.

  “I will gladly slot you here and now and drop you in the sea for the fish if you even think about triggering those mines… Am I clear, son?”

  Mitch piped up. “Mr Cogan, I don’t figure that… “

  Des didn’t turn or look away from Varese’s eyes. “You dinnea need to figure anything Mitch. It’s not your place. Ye know I like ye, but don’t put me in the position of having to make a choice between you and Rick Fuller.”

  Varese blinked, swallowed again. “Look, can we all just calm down here?”

  “Give me your phone,” spat Des. “Now.”

  Varese reluctantly handed over the set. Des threw it behind him, and it clattered to the floor. “Now your weapon,” he said, eyes wide.

  “Come on, Cogan. Be reasonable,” said Marvin.

  “Ye want to see me when I’m unreasonable, son,” said Des, and curled his lip. “Weapon… now.”

  The American handed over his gun. The moment he did so, Mitch holstered his own Magnum and the atmosphere took a turn for the better.

  “I think you can let Mr Varese sit down now, Cogan,” said Sellers, instantly commanding the situation. She eyed Mitch. “And I trust we can allow you your weapon without being murdered in our beds?”

  “You can, Ma’am,” he said.

  “Good,” smiled Sellers. “Now, as the craft carrying Fuller is sailing in total blackout, they will be moving very slowly, therefore it is unlikely that they will have made it to the mouth of the estuary.” She turned to Marvin. “How fast does this thing go? I take it you know what you are doing?”

  Varese was still sulking. “Maybe thirty knots, once we set sail.”

  Another smile spread across Sellers’ face. It was far from genuine, but it was there, nonetheless.

  “Then let’s get on with it, shall we? If we make the mouth before them and drop anchor, engines off, we may hear or see them leave.”

  Varese didn’t move.

  “Quicker than that, Marvin,” she said. “Or shall I let Cogan here keep his promise and we end up sending your relatives a cod in the post?”

  Varese stepped over to the controls and started the engines. He looked over to Mitch Collins and bared his teeth. “I won’t forget this one, Marine,” he said.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  The boat continued to rock gently, the engines ticking over, it was like being in a holding pattern, waiting to land. I couldn’t be certain, but I figured we’d travelled less than a mile. Something or someone was afoot.

  Dr Weasel had returned to the upper deck, leaving me with Square Face. He sat on a wooden box and stared at me. I continued my poor downtrodden prisoner act and kept my head down.

  “You have a wife, Fuller?” he asked.

  I stayed silent.

  “Children?”

  Again I ignored him.

  “Yunfakh is my family,” he announced. “Abdallah is our father. He is all seeing.”

  I studied the guy for a second. I wanted to say he was a weirdo and I didn’t give a fuck.

  Instead. “I need the toilet,” I said.

  He sneered. “Then go.”

  “I’m not well,” I said, looking all sorry for myself. “And if I did that, the smell would be terrible.”

  It was a trade-off. If I’d been in a cell or some other room where he could have closed the door and walked away, I was sure that he’d have left me to soil myself, but he didn’t have that option. He wandered up the stairs muttering something in a language I couldn’t identify. Minutes later, he returned with a wooden pail. He shuffled over and dropped it by my side.

  I waited, wondering what his next move would be. I could see his mind working overtime. He didn’t want to uncuff me, but he sure as hell didn’t want to pull down my pants and wipe my arse either.

  “I’m getting desperate,” I said. “Sorry, but you’ll have to help me.”

  He turned his back and bawled up the stairwell. “Josip! Josip! Come down here.” There was movement above and eventually I heard the sound of footsteps. A guy I’d seen up on deck during the handover appeared. He carried one of his newly acquired AK47’s.

  “He needs to shit,” said Square Face, grimacing as if he could already smell it. He drew his SLP from his shoulder holster and rested it on the box he’d been sitting on. “Cover him,” he said.

  Josip did exactly that, brought his AK up into the aim and slipped off the safety. Square Face strode over, keys in hand.

  “Sorry,” I said, shrinking away from his bulk. “But I do have a stomach upset.”

  Square Face shook his head ruefully, and gave me a look that told me I was in for another slap or two the moment we were alone again.

  Now, here was the calculation, and I say this because before most moments of conflict, the victor is the one who thinks things through before the bullets start flying. Of course, on the odd occasion, there is no time to think and whoever is the fastest on his or her feet comes out on top, but not this time. All my training told me to take advantage of any hope of escape as soon as possible, and that is just how I saw this moment. I knew as the big goon leaned over to release my cuffs from the bar driven into the wall, that his body would temporarily mask me, giving at least some element of cover from Josip’s AK. I would, of course, still be bound at the wrists, but at least I’d be free to move. Square Face’s SLP was a Glock 19, a model that doesn’t require the shooter to disengage a safety, and it sat, in plain sight not ten feet from my position. The thought of spending time aboard ship with slap happy Square Face for company, didn’t appeal. Neither did the prospect of being the prisoner of Abdallah Al-Mufti and being nailed to a cross for a few days. I reckoned that a 7.62 in the chest, was preferable to rusty nails in the wrists and feet, any day. I’d never been frightened of dying, but, given the option, it would be nice to go quick and clean.

  The bottom line was, if I had any chance of escape, I was going to take it, come hell or high water.

  As the big lump leaned over me, I tucked my feet under my backside, ready to move. He gave me a suspicious look. I did my best to look apologetic, shrugged my shoulders and explained, “I need to stand up, so you can pull down my trousers.”

  He pulled another face that told me he didn’t care for that prospect and pushed the key into the lock.

  The second I felt the cuffs release, I grabbed the wooden bucket sitting at my feet by its lip, powered it upwards with all my strength and smashed it under his chin. He grunted and staggered backwards, almost falling back into Josip who mercifully decided to stop his buddy falling into him rather than take a cle
ar shot at me.

  I rolled forwards using my cuffed hands as a pivot, and a split second later, was up on my feet and within touching distance of the Glock. Grabbing at the weapon, I saw that Square face was still staggering about, disorientated, but Josip had finally got his shit together and was swinging his weapon around towards me. I threw myself to my right, hit the floor hard and dropped behind a pile of crates. The boy let go with his AK47 and just as in countless other close quarter battles I had fought in, the report of the weapon turned me instantly deaf. There was no time to worry about my ears or if the thick wooden boxes would stop the hi-velocity bullet, so I just gritted my teeth, popped out of cover, opened up with the Glock, and hoped for the best.

  Now, the Glock 19 Gen5 in my hand had the standard thirteen round mag. It wasn’t my favoured weapon, but I’d always liked the fact that the shooter didn’t have to completely release the trigger before firing a second shot. My first two hit Josip in the shoulder and throat. His legs buckled and he went down without firing again. Suddenly, Square Face was clear headed. However, he wasn’t as big and brave as he’d been earlier when I was chained to the wall. I saw fear in his eyes. He was about to run.

  Unfortunately, there was no time to wallow in our reversed roles. I just put two nicely grouped rounds in that big fat head of his and felt instantly better.

  This, too, was short lived as the shouts and movement from above told me that I was about to have more visitors, and they weren’t bringing me tea and cakes.

  The boats engines went from tick over to silent and I figured that every last man and his dog was about to give me a talking to.

  My next choice was in which order to recover the items I needed. Did I go for the key to my cuffs, or Josip’s AK?

  Key.

  I turned and put four more rounds up the stairwell. They clattered against the metal steps and rails and ricocheted off up towards the boys thinking of coming downstairs to read me my horoscope. That gave me precious seconds. Square Face had dropped the keys as he’d fallen, and I scrambled across the floor and scooped them up. Moments later, I was free. AK tucked in my shoulder, Glock in my belt.

  One thing was for certain, no matter how the next minutes panned out, no matter how many came for me. I wasn’t going to be captured again.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  We’d been on the move for thirty minutes, but, despite Victoria’s hopes to move quickly to the mouth of the estuary, as we too didn’t want to advertise our presence, progress was slower than she’d hoped. Now, unlike my captured comrade, I’d learned the value of patience in my later years. Days of sitting in holes in the ground waiting for the enemy to arrive had taught me so much. However, with Rick taken and a seemingly endless blackness surrounding our craft, I felt not only fear for my best friend’s safety, but immense frustration.

  There had been no sign of the target boat, or any other craft for that matter. The moon occasionally poked out from behind heavy, low cloud cover which made navigation momentarily easier, but each time it dipped back behind the solid rain filled banks, we were plunged into total darkness and I fell into an ever deepening melancholy.

  Then.

  “That was gunfire,” snapped Lauren, taking a break from biting her nails, obviously feeling the pressure as much as my good self. “Kill the engines a second, Marvin… listen up.”

  The American did as he was asked, but glared at her, still smarting from our earlier rebellion.

  Lauren was indeed correct. Moments later the unmistakable sound of small arms fire, followed by some bigger calibre stuff cracked through the night, masking the gentle lapping of the water against the hull of our boat.

  I stood on deck and searched the inky blackness. “I cannea see anything, hen,” I said, rueing our lack of NV kit. Mitch came alongside me as we heard more shots. We both strained to see anything resembling a craft. Suddenly, there was a flash of light and a corresponding crack.

  “Muzzle flash,” said the American. “That’s dead ahead, sir, and that shooting can only mean one thing.”

  “Aye,” I nodded, feeling my spirits rise. “It means he’s free, and he’s fighting.”

  Mitch pursed his lips and nodded.

  “That’s gonna be tough, Mr Cogan. Confined spaces, stairs, it’s as bad as it gets.”

  I turned to the big fella. He was already checking over his Magnum.

  “Well they don’t come any tougher, Mitch, and there’s no one better at close quarter work than Rick. While the shooting goes on, he’s still alive. That’s all that matters, son.”

  As if to prove my point there were more exchanges and I definitely heard shouts or cries ahead. I called to Marvin. “Fire her up, pal. And keep her steady on this course, easy does it, we’re close.”

  Sellers sprang into action. “Okay girls and boys, kit up. Marvin, steady as we go, as soon as we have a visual, aim this thing for their midships and give it some gas.”

  “Nice to hear you have a plan, Sellers,” he said flatly, increasing the engine’s revs. “Do you have a plan for me? Or do I get to fight bare handed?”

  She turned and studied our pet CIA man for a moment, then nodded at Lauren. “Give him his gun, darling.” Then, to the American. “Just be a good boy, Marvin and we’ll get along swimmingly.”

  She climbed up to where Mitch and I stood and handed us an AK each together with a couple of spare mags.

  I took my rifle and loaded it. “If I didnea know any better, Sellers, I’d say you were enjoying yourself.”

  She peered ahead, her beautiful long raven hair blowing in the breeze. From somewhere in her clothing she pulled out an elastic band and tied back her locks. She then turned to me; eyes cold. “You know as much as anyone how this feels, Cogan. You can’t let it go. It runs in the blood.” Finally, she smiled. “Besides, I like to keep my hand in.”

  “We can see that, Ma’am,” offered Mitch, racking his AK.

  She turned and gave the American a knowing wink. “I’m used to being in charge, Collins… and don’t concern yourself with your colleague. I’ll handle him. Just concentrate on getting Mr Fuller back in one piece, eh?”

  Mitch nodded his gratitude. “Ma’am,” he said.

  Then, seconds later. “There!” she said sharply. “Come on Varese, give it some licks.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  As I’d anticipated the boys upstairs quickly got their shit together. Fortunately, as they’d done so, I’d had time to fashion a makeshift barricade from crates and pallets and had myself tucked in nicely. The stairs were covered, but to make life slightly more uncomfortable, there was a further door on the far side of the room. I had no idea what or who may be behind it, or indeed, even if it could be accessed from the upper deck. However, to keep me interested in proceedings, one of the boys above was feeling brave and kept pointing his AK around the door at the top of the stairs and letting go on fully automatic. It was more annoying than life threatening, but there was always a chance that a stray could find its way in my direction.

  As my biggest concern was lack of ammunition, just half a clip in the AK and nine shots in the Glock, I waited patiently for him to make the mistake of sneaking a peak, and sure enough, after three bursts and no response from yours truly, he popped his head around the door to survey what damage he’d done. I caught him with a single shot just under his right eye.

  Jesus, those 7.62’s make a mess. He slid down the stairs with half his head missing. I jumped out of cover and relieved him of a spare mag and felt instantly more comfortable.

  The loss of another crew member seemed to trigger all manner of arguments above. There were raised voices, including Dr Weasel, who I presumed was under strict instructions to keep me alive until his boss could nail me to the nearest cross whilst slaughtering a goat or three.

  I had other ideas, and things were about to improve further.

  Th
ere was an almighty bang and the boat lurched to one side, sending me crashing to the floor and boxes of God knows what falling on top of me. Then I heard the gunfire. Short controlled bursts, big calibre. It had to be Des. Just had to be.

  Within thirty seconds, all was quiet. I stood up and listened. Then, I heard Des shout, ‘clear,’ as he dropped into the first small room at the top of my stairs. As he opened the second door leading to my room, he must have been able to see the guy with half a head at the bottom. The Scot wasn’t about to take chances.

  “Rick, where the fuck are ye, ye bastard?” he shouted, always the gentleman, but staying sensibly out of sight.

  “Down here doing all the fucking work,” I said.

  He manoeuvred his wiry frame down the narrow steps, his AK smoking from use. I stood in the centre of the room, three bodies around me.

  He gave me a broad smile. “Getting you out of the shit is becoming a fucking habit.” he said.

  “Glad you could make it,” I offered. “Did you enjoy your cruise around Ireland whilst your best mate was being slapped about by half of the Baltic States?”

  He smiled again. “It was very pleasurable, despite the need to have a serious word or two with one of our American cousins.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye, we’ll have a chat about that wee jobbie later.” Des made his weapon safe. “We’re all good up top, no casualties. However, we have one prisoner.”

  “A prisoner?” I said. “What’s he look like?”

  “Small dude, big nose.”

  I nodded. “As they say in your neck of the woods, pal… you fucking beauty. Just the man I want to chat with.”

  Des was about to turn and go back up top, but I held up a hand to stop him, pointed at my eyes and then the closed door at the far end of the room, the one I told you about, the one I’d never seen behind. The Scot gave me a knowing look, drew his BAP, and we made our way quietly over.

  Des lifted a boot and smashed the door open. I was through first and stepped right, the Scot was in behind and left.