by Robert White
Our OC was a good bloke and he put a positive spin on the whole operation. After all, even though Al-Mufti survived, we had destroyed his arms cache and decimated his militia, killing between twenty and thirty of his men. In effect, we had put his business out of action, at least for the time being.
The suit… the same suit that briefed us before we left for Tiji was not so complimentary. He couldn’t understand why we didn’t just blow the house. When we mentioned the two children we knew were inside, the fucker just shrugged his posh shoulders and shook his head.
He said the result was ‘disappointing.’
We had to hold Rick down to stop him from snotting him.
There was the usual whip-round for Frankie’s family, and all the troop had a beer for him.
His body was never recovered.
20 years later. The Thirsty Scholar, Manchester.
Lauren North’s Story:
It had been a near perfect lift.
Had Rick, Des and I, not consumed so much Irish whiskey, we may have been capable of inflicting enough damage to our captors to cause a scene outside The Scholar. However, the end product would have been the same. The force was overwhelming.
We would still have been taken. We’d just be nursing injuries.
The instant I’d sat in the rear seat of the Range Rover, there had been the merest hint of a prick to my skin on the left side of my neck and, suddenly, all in the world was rosy.
Less than an hour later, I found myself in a small, military style billet. Single bed, thin mattress, metal chair, slim green locker. A woman stood in the room with me. She watched me intently as I took in my surroundings. She had escorted me from a helicopter, to what was, to all intents and purposes, a prison cell.
The attractive blonde wore baggy USA combat camouflage fatigues that hid her figure. A name plate on her breast pocket announced her as Willis. Underneath this was another emblem. Three stripes. So, Sergeant Willis then.
She studied me some more, then seemed to make up her mind about something. “I think Ma’am you may be intoxicated,” she said.
I eyed the woman with no modicum of irritation.
“Of course, I’m fucking intoxicated, Britney, or whatever your name is, I’ve consumed near on a full bottle of Jamesons, and one of your…let me search for the right word now…buddies, has injected me with something that almost makes me like you”
“I understand Ma’am.”
“No, you don’t fucking understand…come to think of it, why all this ma’am shit anyway…me and you are the same age.”
“You are thirty-eight ma’am, I, on the other hand, am twenty-seven.”
I eyed the girl and considered exactly how much more she knew about me.
Okay, she did look younger.
She was mid height, and despite the fatigues, you could see she was lean and fit. She had that All American Girl thing going on. Probably, before her decision to fight for her country, she’d been a cheerleader, head girl, top of the debating team, that kind of stuff. She had sharp baby blue eyes to match the blonde locks. She also had the good sense to keep me at arms-length, as I was truly pissed off and not as drunk as she presumed
Despite the sedative, I knew we hadn’t travelled far.
We’d been lifted from outside The Thirsty Scholar, just off Oxford Road, Manchester. Not the nicest establishment in the city, but one our team was particularly fond of.
We’d ended up there as we couldn’t bear the depression of the official wake.
One of our group, ex-Turkish Special Forces and all round good bloke JJ Yakim, had been killed on our last job. We had been celebrating his life. Well actually, we were approaching the point of shit faced and about to eat Indian.
Then the Yanks turned up.
They were All-American too. With sharp suits, buzz cuts, and the same Sir and Ma’am script that Britney seemed intent on.
In my very happy state, I’d noticed we’d been driven to The City Airport, a grand name for a small airfield close to the M60 and a massive retail park, The Trafford Centre.
From there, the helicopter flight had only been fifteen minutes or so. I have to say, being extracted by what appeared suspiciously like the CIA, was a fairly pleasant experience when it came to the transport. In addition to the Range Rover Vouges, they must have rented the poshest chopper in the world to take us to? …Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Menwith Hill, Harrogate, Ma’am.”
Willis pronounced Harrogate with a very large ‘o’ in the middle, suggesting her Southern Belle roots.
I’d lived not seven miles from Harrogate as a student nurse. Menwith Hill was notorious with the locals. It was built in the 1950’s and, although it had always been commanded by an RAF officer, the five-hundred-acre site, littered with massive golf ball shaped domes called radomes, was really run by 451st Air Base Group. Them, and the US National Security Agency.
These guys were essentially snoopers, using the massive power of the radomes to intercept intelligence information and communications on behalf of the West’s would-be enemies.
“You’re not 451st,” I said.
Willis looked surprised that I would have that level of knowledge about the base. Probably the same look I gave her when she divulged my age.
“No Ma’am.”
I cocked my head and waited.
It was obvious Willis was not the talkative type. She changed the subject.
“Do you need anything Ma’am? Some water? You said you guys were about to eat… Are you still hungry?”
“I suppose a taxi back to Manchester is out of the question?”
“It is Ma’am, at least until you’re briefed.”
“And when might that be, Britney?”
Unamused, Willis turned and opened my green locker. She removed a set of similar fatigues to her own, together with a towel and some toiletries.
“A shower and some sleep, Ma’am, and I’m sure you’ll feel more obliging.”
She dropped the pile on the bed next to me.
“I’ll be back for you at 0700hrs. If you need anything before then, just knock.”
And with that she was gone.
I didn’t feel obliging at all. I was very fucking upset.
* * *
Once alone, I had a better look at my cell. Ground floor, 30 square feet max. One exit door, heavy triple locks. One window, no bars, but re-enforced glass. I’d need an axe and a day to get out by force.
For some reason, our captors had taken my heels. They were nice too, black patent, a four-inch spike, by Zelda.
I wanted them back. They were five hundred quid.
To replace them, the United States Military, had kindly left me a pair of plastic flip flops. Inspecting the pile of clothes Ms Spears had laid out on my cot, good old Uncle Sam had also added a pair of cotton briefs that looked big enough to parachute with and a size 34b white brassier.
Not since I was fourteen, love.
One set of camouflage fatigues, a bottle of shower gel, toothbrush, paste and a plastic comb.
I scooped it all up, dropped it on the lone chair by my bed and did what I’d been trained to do under these circumstances.
I slept.
Dawn broke, I woke. I guessed 0450hrs as my watch had gone to the same place as my heels. My head was clear again, but I needed some sharpness. The best way is endorphins…your own.
I started with some squats, just one hundred, then tricep dips, fifty on the edge of the cot, another fifty on the chair to change the angle. Then press-ups, crunchies and burpees. I finished with sprints on the spot at thirty second intervals until I was blowing like a steam train.
Twenty minutes or so later, I paced the small room, hands on head, breathing hard and sweating. Stepping out of my underwear
, I ran the shower.
Ablutions completed, I pulled on the cotton briefs, and looked in the mirror.
Mrs Doubtfire
Leaving the bra on the bed, I slipped on the fatigues, pushed my feet into the plastic numbers and ran the comb through my hair.
I approached the heavy door and knocked.
Just as I figured, it was opened instantly. Britney, had been replaced by a sharp featured woman of Italian origin.
She had the name badge ‘Forgioni,’ and the same three stripes underneath.
“Ma’am?” she said.
Groundhog Day
“I’m hungry, Sergeant,” I said flatly.
Forgioni nodded. “Right away Ma’am. How you like your eggs?”
I managed a thin smile. “Poached. Brown toast, no butter, orange juice, tea, black, no sugar.”
Another nod and the door closed.
Well, at least they don’t intend slotting us any time soon.
If Jamie Oliver himself had been standing outside the door with his pan on the boil, the service couldn’t have been quicker.
The door opened and in walked the Italian job. Tray in hands.
I considered making for the door as she had been so slack in her routines. Arms full. Door ajar.
Then I noticed that my exit was blocked by a guy the size of a smallholding.
Forgioni almost smiled. Maybe her idea of a little joke? Helped pass the time this early?
My order was delivered exactly to my specifications, with the addition of a large bottle of Evian and a new bra, size 36c.
I looked at the packaging, and wondered where you found an M&S open at that time in the morning?
Once Forgioni had left, I looked around the room for cameras.
I finally found four, and made a note not to exercise in my Victoria Secret’s again.
The American’s had a shocking reputation for a lack of security when it came to anything computerised, and I had the horrible feeling that my bouncing assets would be available to download by the population of every trailer park in the Deep South by lunchtime.
That said, the breakfast was excellent.
No sooner had I finished my tea, in walked Willis and the man mountain from the door blocking incident.
“Good morning Ma’am,” she chirped. “I hope you slept well.”
I lay down my cup.
“I think you already know that Britney. Especially as there are at least four cameras in this room. And now, in addition to my age, you know my brassier size too.”
I turned to the hulk. All six-six of him. Muscle beach would have paid the guy just to stand around.
“And did you enjoy my morning workout Mr Universe?”
There was a flash of perfect white USA teeth. And two raised, plucked eyebrows.
“Impressive Ma’am,” he said, his voice as deep as a cavern.
I gave him a sarcastic smile and wasn’t sure if he got the message.
“Irony is lost on you people, isn’t it?” I added.
A little of Sgt Willis’ perfect customer service skills slipped as she bit onto my remark. I figured it may have the desired effect. The ‘you people’ part hitting the spot. The Americans being a nation of individuals who care more about where they once came from, rather than where they actually were.
“My people,” she announced. “Hailed from Cornwall, England, Ma’am,” She just about held her smile, and added. “So, I think I might have a grasp.”
I stood, as we were obviously going somewhere.
“Why is it,” I began. “That you felt the need to tell me that Cornwall is in England? Weirdly, us Brits know that kind of thing.”
Man-mountain turned to Willis. “Is that ironic?”
I gave up.
I was marched along three long corridors. Their cement rendered walls were painted drab army green and my flip-flops slapped against recently mopped, cream coloured, linoleum tiled floors. The further we marched, the more the decor improved, and with it, the security.
Card-swipe doors, turned into card-swipe doors with an armed guard attached.
Finally, we arrived at a set of double oak numbers. Nicely varnished, brass fittings, polished within an inch of their life. No card key here, just a pair of large shiny handles, guarded by two large shiny Marine types.
One guard checked Willis’ ID and nodded to the second. He opened up and I was shown inside.
Rick and Des were already seated in beautiful leather wing backed armchairs. Both were dressed identically. White crew neck T-shirts, camo combats, plastic flip-flops. One large Chesterfield chair remained, obviously reserved for yours truly.
Des looked quite chirpy.
Rick looked like he was about to kill everyone.
I sat.
Des leaned over. “You alright hen?”
I nodded.
“Did ye try the breakfast?... I had the blueberry pancakes.”
“Poached eggs,” I said. Then leaned towards Rick. “What about you?”
He glared at me. “Do you think we can wait to see what the fuck this is all about before we start exchanging cookery tips?”
Des winked at me. “He didnea sleep well, I reckon. And he’s no keen on his trousers either.”
There was more glaring until the doors opened again and in walked two men.
Willis and our two shiny Marine types visibly stiffened, but remained in their ‘at ease’ position.
Not military then.
The first guy in was medium height, mid-forties, good teeth, good shape. Definitely not short of a dollar or two. He had a weathered face. Probably due to spending his down time sailing his own yacht, or such like. He was dressed casually, which I considered was for our benefit. Levis, white open-necked shirt. Sleeves rolled two turns. His whole demeanour announced. ‘I’m a busy man, but pretty chilled about it.’
The second looked a whole new ball game. Late-twenties, six two, broad shouldered, sandy blonde buzz cut, black suit, white shirt, black tie. He carried, in a shoulder holster, something chrome, none standard issue. He looked like a serious player.
Delta Force?
He turned to our guards.
“That will be all, thank you, Sgt Willis.”
He had a surprisingly quiet and calm Southern drawl that didn’t match his appearance, and for some un-godly reason, reminded me of Tom Hanks in ‘Green Mile.’
Mr Rich but casual, perched himself on the end of an imposing, ornate desk that sat in front of our three chairs. Indeed, the whole room was impressive. Gone were all traces of the drab olive paint and linoleum flooring. These were replaced by delicate pastel shades and thick piled carpet. All the furnishings looked like they were straight out of Chaplin’s of Chelsea, and I considered that the room would usually be reserved for the highest ranking visitors to the base.
Had I not been wearing Bridget Jones’ pants and plastic flip-flops, I may have been more comfortable.
Tom Hanks stayed where he was, between us and the exit, hands clasped in front of him, eyes sharp.
Both men waited until we were alone. Mr Casual opened his palms and smiled. Unlike Forrest Gump, he had a sharp East Coast accent, Boston maybe? I trusted him as much as a Hong Kong taxi meter.
“Good morning folks. My name is Mason Carver…I trust you have been treated well, and you haven’t been inconvenienced too much.”
Rick folded his arms, but stayed quiet. I figured he wouldn’t be silent for long.
Once Mr Casual realised he wasn’t getting a cosy reply, he dropped the hotel manager act and we finally got on with it.
“Okay, lady and gentlemen, as we’re all good…I work on behalf of the US Government here in the UK. My role is to head up Organised Crime investigations that are of national importance to both our countries”
He means he’s
CIA,” muttered Rick.
Carver pressed on. “My colleague here, is Mitch Collins. Mitch has only been in the UK a short while, and has been drafted into Menwith Hill especially for this investigation from the Drugs and Alcohol unit of the FBI. He will be working alongside you during this enquiry.”
Des was in.
“Wait a second there, Mason. We’re no working alongside anyone. In fact, we’re no workin’ for you at all, see? Now, you may think that it’s acceptable over in fuckin’ La La land, to take away a man’s liberty, feed him a pancake or two and then hope he’s all sweetness and light by the morra. But I’m no. And I can see by the look on my pals’ faces here. Neither are they. So, if you were hoping for some kind of, ‘hands across the ocean,’ type of agreement here, I’d go as far as to say, you’re in the shit.”
Carver smiled again. It was the kind of grimacing effort I once put on during my mate’s wedding, when the photographer insisted I stood next to my ex-husband for the group shots.
“I do like your accent Mr Cogan,” he began patronisingly. “And even though it’s a little difficult to understand, you are a very funny guy.”
Des was not amused. “You willnea think it’s funny if I get off this chair, pal. And big Mitch over there won’t stop me either.”
Mitch twitched slightly, but didn’t move.
Carver raised his hands, instantly conciliatory. I guessed it was not a tactic he was fond of. The guy needed something from us and needed it badly.
“I think we all need to calm down a little.”
Rick couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Stop fucking about Carver. The CIA wouldn’t have dared to lift us and bring us here to Menwith Hill, without authorisation from The Firm. Not even you guys are that stupid. The USA use this place and our airspace with the permission of the Crown. You are our guests. This base is commanded by a senior RAF officer. He will know we are here or, at the very least, have been told to turn a blind eye….so… what’s Cartwright got to do with all of this? Because I smell his very expensive aftershave all over this little job.”
