Crysis: Escalation

by Gavin G. Smith

  Karen was on her knees on the hospital floor, screaming at him to come back as he headed for the exit. He heard her shout the last thing Sarah had said to her before she passed out. Don’t let Mike go after him.

  On the phone now.

  ‘Where is he! Tell me where the fuck he is or I’m coming after you!’

  You don’t speak to Jack Hamilton like this, ever. Hamilton tells him what he wants to know.

  Hamilton stared at the phone. He hadn’t told him because of the threat, though he had no doubt that right now, like this, Mikey would have walked through his people and beaten him to death.

  Maybe in my youth I could have taken him, Hamilton thought, but he knew he was fooling himself. He knew what little pricks like Davey Falconer would never properly understand. For the likes of Falconer violence was power, which was why they hurt other people, to make them feel better about themselves. Hamilton knew something that not even Mikey had admitted to himself. Mikey just liked fighting. For the rush. A lot of people didn’t understand the difference. Hamilton did. The only thing stopping that boy from being a complete monster is his own morals and Sarah. Now that stupid little prick has tried to take one of those things away.

  Hamilton had told Mikey what he wanted to know because someone was going to get hurt tonight. Hamilton was of the opinion that it might as well be the little cunt that was actually responsible. He had told Mikey what he had wanted to know because at some level he knew he himself was responsible. So he told him, and he knew he’d damned his old friend’s son.

  Everyone else thought he ran the manor because he would fix things, people if needed, with his own hands. He knew he ran the manor because he understood what it was. At its heart it was a web of loyalty, obligations, relationships, respect and even friendships. He also knew that it wasn’t going to stay that way for much longer.

  You do something stupid. You hurt someone you shouldn’t have. You get the wrong person angry at you, and then you have a choice. You either run, hide and stay hidden, or you get out in the open. Lots of witnesses. Lots of people to get between you and the other guy. Lots of people who will phone the police. Davey had made the wrong decision. Mike almost tore the door off the West End bar. He was screaming.

  ‘Mr Sykes, you hospitalised six people, including two police officers, and left several more in need of medical attention. Mr Falconer only lived due to the quick thinking and medical expertise of the ambulance service. He has, however, been left wheelchair-bound and blind in one eye. Whilst I understand that you had provocation, you also have a history of violence. It seems that despite your time spent in youth correctional facilities, and indeed at Her Majesty’s pleasure, you still have not learnt your lesson. With this in mind, I have chosen a sentence for you that will hopefully channel your aggression, allow you to contribute to your country and, most importantly, teach you discipline. Mr Sykes, are you listening to me?’

  He wasn’t. It didn’t matter what the judge had to say. He was thinking about the last time he had seen Sarah.

  He was on his knees next to the bed, holding her hand. Looking at her face, still covered in bandages. Covering where he’d cut her. Punched her a bit to soften her up, because she was a fighter, and then laced her with a Stanley knife, just like his dad had taught him. Did it twice. He had given her twice as many scars as he had.

  ‘You weren’t here when I woke up,’ was all she said.

  ‘I… got him…’ was all he managed. It was then he realised that it meant nothing. Her look was enough. She knew that what he’d done to Falconer hadn’t been for her. It had been for him. She pulled her hand out of his and rolled away from him. He never saw her again.

  The prisoner transport rolled into Depot Para in Catterick, North Yorkshire. They’d been all but dragged out of the secure vehicle, and then the shouting had started.

  ‘The pampered Etonian homosexuals in Whitehall, who we have the misfortune to serve, have, in their wisdom, chosen to turn my beloved 2 Para into a penal legion! That’s penal as in penitent, not as in penis! You are amongst the first lowlife parasitical scum who have been sent to befoul my beloved battalion! We normally have nothing but contempt for recruits stupid enough to join this regiment! You! We actually hate! We hate you more than the French! I congratulate you on your stunning achievement on making the entire of 2 Para hate you! You will not be here long! We will break you! You will have training accidents! Terrible things will happen to you at the hands of trained killers! You will come to me, begging to me to be allowed back to Wormwood Scrubs so large unpleasant gentlemen can get at your tight little bottoms! What you will not be doing is joining the parachute regiment! Is that understood!?’ There were a few mumbled replies. ‘The proper reply, scum, is, “Yes, Sergeant”!’

  ‘Here, do you think you’re hard or something?’ Psycho asked. The training sergeant turned to look at the squat, muscular, shaven-headed item who had spoken.

  ‘Oh, well volunteered…’ the training sergeant started. Psycho laid him out with one punch.

  He thought he had been tortured before. He hadn’t. He didn’t really know what it was. He thought he could withstand torture. He couldn’t. He’d tell them anything as long as they stopped. No, that wasn’t true, he’d tell them anything if they ended it and killed him. Except they weren’t asking any questions.

  South London, 2017

  Four hot days in summer and the riot season was upon them again, but this time it had been different. This time people, who were normally killing each other over which postcode they lived in, were armed, organised and had had at least rudimentary training.

  To Psycho, looking down the barrel of his Minimi, there was a degree of inevitability to this. It was going to happen eventually in any society where the gap between the rich and the poor was so well-defined and widening. When you had a society that penalised the least fortunate for the excesses of the most fortunate, it was only a matter of time before the unfortunates at the bottom, who were used to desperation and fighting each other, finally turned on the people that were actually screwing them over. He’d said as much to the squad. Perkins had called him a communist. It wasn’t politics. It wasn’t economics. It was common sense. Cause and effect. You beat a dog often enough, it’ll get round to biting you. And frankly, as far as Psycho was concerned, if you hadn’t done anything about the reasons why these things were happening then you couldn’t complain when your capital city burnt.

  Psycho had heard a couple of the old boys, ex-2 Para, talk about how the LCZ looked like Belfast during the 1980’s now. The police had very quickly been overwhelmed. The TA had gone in. A lot of them had been killed. Car bombs, rocket and mortar attacks and just good old-fashioned street fighting. Then the Paras had been called in. Yeah, because 1 Para had really cooled things off in Northern Ireland, hadn’t they? Psycho thought. The Royal Navy were also involved. The Frigate HMS Anguish was anchored in the Thames less than a mile away from where Psycho was in cover behind sandbags.

  The problem was, the kids with the AKs had taken over a number of tower blocks. They were well provisioned. Knew the area. They seemed to have endless amounts of ammunition. Even for people who knew what they were doing when it came to fighting, the prospect of going in and rooting them out did not appeal. The same architecture that turned these tower blocks into rat-infested warrens was the same architecture that would turn them into death-traps that would have to be cleared room by room. Their ROE were to engage them in the street or if fired upon, but otherwise to patrol and contain while the politicians and the police negotiated.

  The gunmen may have been organised to a degree, at least when it came to fighting, but they didn’t even have a name. It had just steadily escalated, kicking off with a policeman killed in revenge for shooting an unarmed kid. The gunmen and women wanted fairness, an even playing field, but lacked the vocabulary to express it in terms that politicians would understand. Fat chance, Psycho thought. Nobody with a vested interest wanted an even playing field and the ne
gotiators were trying to buy them off with training shoes, X-Factor and PlayStations. After all, it had worked in the past.

  It hadn’t taken much: a number of the older kids who’d been trained by the army, under the Offenders Conscription Act. Someone with contacts in the Eastern European mob for weapons. They would have gotten seed money from who-knows-where and then all it took was for someone to push them just a little too hard.

  This was how Psycho found himself looking down the barrel of a Minimi behind a pile of sandbags in his hometown. Admittedly he was south of the river. He was probably shooting at Chelsea fans. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on the wrong side.

  They were stationed at a road junction, looking at one of the tower blocks. The six-wheeled Coyote tactical support vehicle was parked up behind them. The TSV’s mounted .50 calibre heavy machine gun was pointed at the block, the mounted general purpose machine gun, or jimpy, covering the road behind them.

  ‘Come on, you little shit, show yourself,’ Perkins muttered. He was looking through the scope of the L129A1 sharpshooter rifle. The corporal was one of the body-beautiful types, who somehow managed to hit the gym even after all the PT he did. An attractive guy who knew it, but his good looks couldn’t hide the vicious cast to his features. He knew who to brown nose above and who to victimise below. As far as Psycho was concerned he was a nasty piece of work.

  ‘Perkins, why don’t you wind your neck in? Things are quiet. Let’s just leave it,’ Psycho told him. He could see Lumley nodding in agreement. There was only one thing that career soldiers hated more than the offender conscripts: the fully integrated front-line female soldiers. This had led to a strange alliance between the women and the offender conscripts in infantry units. Psycho also knew that Lumley, a stocky girl from Derby, was harder than half the guys in his section. She’d had to be, to get where she was.

  ‘That would be Corporal Perkins, right, Private Sykes?’ Perkins asked, looking up from the scope.

  It’ll be Corporal Wanker, Sykes managed not to say.

  ‘ROE, corp,’ Psycho told him.

  ‘The rules of engagement say that we may return fire if fired upon. I assure you that if I slot the fucker he will have shot first. Isn’t that right, Geordie?’

  ‘Aye, too right, corp,’ Geordie, the thickly-set Lance Corporal manning the TSV’s .50 cal said in his thick Newcastle accent. To Psycho it seemed that every squad in the British army had to come with someone called Geordie in it. Geordie was Perkin’s henchman in the squad.

  ‘Walker?’

  ‘Aye, corp,’ the massively built Afro-Caribbean private from Birmingham said.

  ‘Wally?’

  Walowski was a wiry Pole who had somehow also managed to end up in 2 Para as part of the Offenders Conscription Act. The Pole hesitated.

  Psycho got on well with Walowski. The Pole seemed to be constantly surprised at finding himself in the British army.

  Perkins turned to glare at Walowski.

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ the Pole finally answered.

  ‘Private Lumley?’ Lumley just stared fixedly ahead, watching her sector. ‘I said “Private Lumley”?’ Lumley ignored him. ‘Stupid bitch, probably deaf as well as frigid.’ There was laughter from Walker and Geordie. ‘You know what you need, Lumley?’

  ‘A corporal who isn’t a wanker?’ Psycho suggested. Lumley and Walowski tried not to smile.

  ‘Right, Sykes, you’re going on report.’

  ‘Fine, I live on report. I haven’t, however, been to the Glasshouse in a while. Want to keep talking?’ Psycho was still looking down the barrel of the Minimi, watching his section, but he could feel Perkins glaring at the back of his head. He felt a glare from another quarter as well. He glanced over at Lumley. She was looking less than pleased. Psycho sighed internally. She was right to be pissed off at him. If she wanted to be accepted then she would have to stand up for herself, otherwise…

  ‘Is it love?’ Perkins asked. ‘Aw, isn’t that sweet. Thing is, I’m not sure that Lumley’s much more of a looker than the scarred-up tart who dumped you.’

  He heard Lumley’s sharp intake of breath. Wally was desperately looking elsewhere. Psycho’s knuckles whitened around the Minimi’s grip. He was going back in the Glasshouse, he decided, but not until we’re out of the line of fire. He would get Perkins when they were back at the forward operating base at Battersea Power Station.

  ‘What, the East End hard-man got nothing to say?’ Perkins mocked.

  ‘See those guys over there?’ Lumley asked, trying to ignore Perkins. Psycho nodded. He’d been watching the two men in dark civilian clothes carrying high-end military gear. They were crouched behind a car about two hundred metres to their left. One of them was observing the same tower block that Perkins’ squad had been assigned to watch through a pair of binoculars. He had a boxy device slung across his shoulder. Psycho recognised the device as a laser designator. The other man was covering him whilst speaking into a radio headset. Presumably relaying the instructions being given to him by the observer.

  ‘Special forces,’ Psycho muttered. Lumley nodded.

  ‘They’ll be forward observing for the Anguish,’ Lumley said. Psycho nodded in agreement. That made him very nervous indeed. It was one thing to exchange gunfire in the streets with these kids. It was another altogether to start lobbing ordinance into south London.

  ‘Corporal,’ Walker said. There was something wrong with the brummie’s voice. Psycho glanced round. Walker looked shocked. He had the headset for the TSV’s radio on.

  ‘What is it, Walker?’ Perkins asked, concerned.

  ‘Someone’s just fired ten LAW 80 rockets into the Houses of Parliament,’ Walker told them. Psycho and Lumley glanced round at him. The rest of the squad were staring at Walker, appalled.

  ‘Fuck,’ Perkins said.

  ‘They’re pulling us back to the FOB,’ Walker said.

  ‘Fucking little cunts,’ Perkins spat. He had the marksman’s rifle up and was scanning the front of the tower again.

  ‘Perkins, what’re you doing?’ Psycho asked. Perkins turned on the Londoner.

  ‘Shut your mouth, you disloyal little bastard!’ Perkins went back to scanning the front of the tower block. Lumley glanced around, looking up at the corporal, worried, and then went back to covering her section through the optical sight of her SA80.

  ‘Orders?’ Psycho asked the Corporal.

  ‘When have you ever given a fuck about orders?’

  The sound of the marksman rifle firing echoed around the canyons made by the surrounding tower blocks. Psycho felt his blood run cold. He noticed that the two special forces troopers turned to stare appalled at the Para squad. Psycho saw someone drop on one of the tower block landings.

  ‘What the fuck’re you doing!?’ Psycho demanded, not turning round, keeping up observation of the front of the tower block, his Minimi at the ready.

  ‘That was a kid, he wasn’t even armed!’ Lumley said. She was also scanning her section.

  ‘No, it wasn’t…’ Perkins started. Psycho could hear the panic in the Corporal’s voice.

  Then it looked like the entire front of the tower block opened up on them. Gunmen and women appeared from almost every apartment. Fire was pouring down on them. Most of it was inaccurate, but there were a few people in the tower block that knew what they were doing. Thank you, the Offenders Conscription Act, Psycho thought. He, like Lumley, was just hunkering down behind the sandbags as bullets rained down, sparking off the streets.

  ‘Contact, contact!’ Perkins was screaming.

  ‘Smoke!’ Psycho shouted. Nothing happened. ‘Walker, smoke!’ Where was Geordie on the .50? Psycho wondered. He glanced around. Geordie and Walker were taking cover as bullets sparked off the TSV’s superstructure. He couldn’t see Walowski. Perkins was all but lying in the vehicle’s footwell, trying to start it up.

  Lumley fired the SA80’s underslung grenade launcher blindly over the top of the sandbag. The teargas grenade wouldn’t
provide them with as much cover as the smoke projectors on the TSV, but it was a start.

  ‘Under the wagon and get the .50 up?’ Psycho shouted at her. Lumley nodded. Psycho popped up and started firing long bursts from the Minimi, hoping to keep people’s heads down. Lumley scrambled across the floor under the TSV and up onto the back of the vehicle. Psycho then had a chance to realise the stupidity of drawing attention to himself in this situation. It felt like everyone in the world was firing at him. He curled up behind the sandbags and tried not to get shot through pure positive mental attitude. It didn’t work. His body armour was taking hits. Each one felt like he’d been hit with a baseball bat. He was glad that he’d upgraded his body armour out of his own pocket.

  On the back of the TSV Lumley dragged Geordie out of the way of the .50 cal, racked the heavy machine-gun’s bolt and turned it on the front of the tower block.

  Psycho was pretty sure that the slow, rhythmic hammering of the .50 cal was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. The fire slackened off as large holes started appearing in the tower block in explosions of powdered concrete. He was aware of an SA80 firing and then the jimpy started firing as well.

  ‘Stop firing!’ Perkins screamed at Lumley from the footwell of the TSV. ‘You’ll draw their fire. Stop firing, you stupid bitch, that’s a fucking order!’ Lumley ignored him. ‘I’ll fucking have you shot for this!’

  Psycho saw the tracers from the .50 cal and the jimpy flying overhead. Keeping low, he started back towards the TSV, firing bust after burst from the Minimi anywhere he saw muzzle flashes.

  Psycho reached the TSV and found Perkins in the footwell on the driver’s side, still trying to start the vehicle blindly. Psycho hit the button for the driver’s side smoke projectors. Four smoke canisters popped out of the tubes angled away from the vehicle. They hit the street and started emitting thick smoke. He grabbed Perkins and dragged him bodily out of the vehicle. Perkins scrambled under the TSV. Psycho unclipped the Minimi from its sling and tossed it into the back of the vehicle and then climbed into the driver’s seat.