The Hostage s-1

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘Steady!’ Stratton called out. After a short pause, he squeezed the trigger four times in quick succession.

  The first round spat through the windscreen and hit Sean in the chest; the second in his gut; a third passed through his neck; and the fourth flew between him and Brennan and into the crate Spinks was in. Sean slumped forward in his seat like a puppet with its strings cut as a jet of blood from his neck spouted around the cab. It squirted Brennan in the face as he grabbed the steering wheel and shoved Sean off his seat and against his door. The van tilted sharply as it mounted the embankment and scraped along the hedge. Brennan did his best to straighten it out, gripping the wheel with both hands. Sean’s feet were twisted and jammed under the dash, keeping the accelerator full against the floor. Brennan managed to manoeuvre it around a tight corner, hugging the outside hedge, and he might well have completed the turn successfully had it not been for the large boulder jutting from the outside hedge that had without doubt been there many thousands of years and was not about to give an inch to a van travelling at speed. And it didn’t. The front of the van collapsed like a bag of crisps and abruptly stopped but the contents continued on at the same speed. Brennan and Sean went through the windscreen and punched into the hedge as though it were a safety net. The two men in the back flew the length of the van and slammed into the front seats. The crate followed close behind and near flattened one of them between it and the seat, his bones snapping like firewood.

  The Gazelle turned sharply close to the ground and the rotors thundered as it circled the wreck tightly.

  ‘Land!’ Stratton shouted. ‘Quickly!’

  Brennan lay in the hedge, dazed and bloody. He fought to regain control and tried to move, but it seemed impossible to get his limbs to obey him. Contact was finally made and he moved his legs in search of firm ground below. He turned in the hedge and saw Sean lying beside him, mangled and very dead. The field was within reach just ahead and he grabbed the thorny branches around him and pulled himself forward. Every part of him ached and he waited for the shot of pain from somewhere in his body that would tell him a part of it was broken. As his senses regrouped he could hear the helicopter and the memories of the most recent events flooded back. He increased his efforts to pull himself on. The pain was dull and all over, but nothing appeared to be broken.

  He wiped some blood out of his eyes and reached out of the hedge and down to touch the ground. He dug his fingers into the soil and pulled himself further forward, rolling out of the thicket on to his back and allowing himself a few precious seconds to breathe before forcing himself on. As he turned on to his front to push himself up his hand fell on to something metallic. His sub-machine-gun. He willed himself to his knees and picked it up in his battered, shaking hands, then he winced in pain. His leg. He’d forgotten he’d been shot right through it. But the urge to survive took over and he forced himself to take a step. His leg almost gave way but there was enough muscle left to support him.

  He saw the helicopter hovering above the field the other side of the lane and shakily aimed his gun towards it and then lost his balance and almost fell over. He steadied himself, got the gun on aim, and squeezed the trigger. But it wouldn’t fire. He checked the safety-catch, almost dropping the weapon. He pulled out the magazine, checked it for ammunition, and pushed it back home. He cocked it, aimed, and pulled the trigger once again. It fired, and on fully automatic!

  Stratton had already unclipped his seatbelt and was leaning well out of the cab as the helicopter pulled up into the hover ten feet above the ground. At the sound of the gunfire he jumped, ripping the giro-steady cable from the consul. He hit the ground and jammed the rifle into his shoulder, searching for a target as the helicopter backed away from the fire.

  Stratton saw movement beyond the hedge near the van but he was not about to shoot at anyone he could not positively identify.

  The Gazelle landed not far behind him, its rotors remaining on full revs. Stratton ran forward, reached the hedgerow a few yards behind the van, dropped the rifle, and took out his pistol. He eased through a gap in the hedge and stepped down on to the lane. It was all very quiet but for the hiss of steam from the van’s engine. Stratton paused to tune his senses and then cautiously headed to the front of the van. He saw the windshield smashed out and Sean lying in the hedge. In the field just beyond a sub-machine-gun was lying in the grass. Stratton eased forward, eyes everywhere, and reached through the hedge to feel the gun’s barrel. It was hot. He then heard what sounded like a snapping stick some distance away and stood on the front bumper of the van so that he could see over the hedge. In the distance a man was limping heavily away.

  Stratton stepped back down into the lane and made his way to the rear of the van. One of the doors had popped open on impact. He looked inside. There was some movement and the sound of strained breathing. Stratton climbed in to find the two Irishmen broken and bloody against the back of the seats. The one sandwiched between the crate and the seat was motionless and judging by the unnatural position of his head, twisted three-quarters of the way around, it looked as if his neck was broken. The other lay in an awkward position unable to move, watching Stratton, his every breath a painful effort. Stratton aimed his gun at the man who was in too much pain to care and remained staring at Stratton. A noise came from inside the crate that was lying on its side. Stratton ignored the broken man and pulled the crate over so that the lid was upright. He noticed the bullet hole in the top and its corresponding exit point in the side. He unlatched the lid and opened it expecting to find Spinks seriously damaged.

  Spinks lay tightly inside the cramped space squinting up at Stratton, adjusting his eyes to the light, as frightened as he was hopeful.

  ‘You okay, Spinks?’

  Spinks blinked hard as the images came into focus. He knew that voice.

  ‘Stratton?’

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Stratton,’ he repeated, still afraid it was some kind of hallucination. ‘Tell me it’s really you.’

  ‘It’s me. Are you hurt?’ Stratton asked, then noticed the blood on Spinks’s jacket and crouched to get a better look. ‘You’ve been hit.’

  ‘They shot me,’ Spinks said.

  Stratton raced through his options if he couldn’t move Spinks, none of which were good. This had all been about saving Spinks and there was no point doing anything that would put his health in jeopardy having got this far.

  It was as if Spinks had read Stratton’s mind. ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

  ‘In the South.’

  ‘Then we’d better get going,’ he said as he raised his hands, gripped the sides of the box, and started to pull himself up. A pain shot across his chest and Stratton quickly grabbed him.

  ‘Easy,’ Stratton said.

  Spinks took several short breaths. ‘I can do it,’ he said then pulled himself once again until he was sitting upright. Stratton inspected the entry and exit points high on his chest. ‘As bullet holes go, they’re in an okay place.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Spinks said, attempting sarcasm. He then braced himself for a major effort to stand with Stratton’s help and climb out of the box. His knees almost gave way as they took his full weight but Stratton held him. Spinks pushed them straight. ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘I’m okay.’

  Stratton helped Spinks out of the box beside the broken man lying on the floor of the van, watching them.

  ‘What about ’im?’ Spinks asked.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Stratton asked the man.

  ‘O . . . O’Kelly,’ the man said, catching his breath. Spinks wondered if Stratton was going to kill him. He wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he did.That didn’t mean he knew Stratton well enough to know he’d do it. Quite the contrary. He didn’t know Stratton well at all, but the rumours about him left one in doubt as to his true character.

  ‘Looks like he’s paid a price for today,’ Spinks said, hoping that if Stratton was into executing the bloke he might change his mind. It wasn’t
something Spinks was into, even after what he’d been through. He wasn’t a murderer.

  The man’s eyes started to glaze and his breathing suddenly grew shallower, and then it stopped altogether.

  Spinks stared at him with no sign of remorse or celebration. It was simply an event.

  ‘Come on,’ Stratton said and helped Spinks out of the van.They shuffled to the gap in the hedge and Spinks glanced back at the front of the van.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’ he said. ‘Good thing I was in that box.’ As Stratton helped him through the hedge he grabbed up his SLR and they made their way across the field towards the waiting Gazelle. The short walk helped Spinks’s circulation and he could almost support himself by the time they reached it.

  ‘I knew it was you. I fuckin’ knew it,’ Spinks said. ‘Soon as I ’eard the shootin’ I said to myself, that’s Stratton that is. Then we ’it a fuckin’ wall.’ Spinks chuckled until the pain made it difficult to laugh any more.

  Stratton helped him into the back and laid him down on the bench seat. As he climbed into the exposed front passenger seat the Gazelle lifted skyward and turned North.

  Stratton put on his headset, positioned the mic in front of his lips, and pushed the send button. ‘Zero alpha, whisky one. I have four two Charlie. He has a gunshot wound but he’s gonna be okay. I’m towards your location.’

  A cheer went up in the ops room. Mike picked up the handset. ‘Roger that, whisky one,’ he replied. ‘Any other casualties?’

  ‘Two, possibly three dead, unconfirmed. At least one escaped.’

  ‘Understood,’ Mike said. ‘See you when you land.’ Mike put down the handset and sat back in his chair, looking a little spent. ‘Send a tow to pick up one three kilo,’ he said to Graham.

  ‘Already on its way,’ Graham said. ‘Nice one, boss,’ he added, grinning. ‘Not a bad ending, all things considered.’

  Mike wasn’t feeling particularly celebratory. His thoughts were elsewhere. There was something he had queried the moment Spinks had been kidnapped but had pushed to the back of his mind. ‘This one is far from over . . . We’ve at least one major problem to figure out now.’

  The second in command and the intelligence officer glanced at each other, unsure what Mike could be referring to.

  ‘If you mean the border excursion, I’d take that any day over a kidnapped operative,’ the int officer said.

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about,’ Mike said. ‘This problem is even more serious than Spinks being kidnapped.’

  The others looked at each other, unaware what that could possibly be. Mike saw the vacant look in their eyes and lowered his voice so that only they could hear.

  ‘Spinks’s kidnapping was a set-up from the start. It was elaborate, well planned and executed, and they almost got away with it.You don’t put something like that together in a few hours or overnight even. They knew he was going to be outside the church in the trunk of that car long before he arrived there. We planned that operation less than two weeks ago and it was known only to a handful of members in the detachment and military intelligence. No one in the RUC or regular army units knew about it . . . So how did RIRA find out?’

  The ops officer and second in command went thoughtfully quiet.

  Chapter 5

  Hank caught glimpses of England through the clouds. His first sight of the old world was fascinating but it also increased a feeling of uneasiness that had been slowly growing deep within him. Not that it was unusual for Hank to get nervous about anything that could drastically affect his career. But this was different. He was heading into the complete unknown and, what was truly new for him, doing it on his own.

  When his commanding officer first told him six months ago that he was on the shortlist for the job he was jazzed, but when it was made official a couple of months later he began to feel apprehensive. Up until then he had not allowed himself to think of all the things he would have to deal with, but confirmation brought a myriad concerns, not all of them work related. He had four months to get organised and his first problem was what to do with the house for the two years abroad. He considered selling it, but when he suggested that to Kathryn she went nuts, ranting about how much time and money they had spent getting it just right. Hank knew her horrified reaction was not just to do with the house. He pulled back from selling it and placed an advertisement on the Navy website newsletter offering it up for rental. Kathryn tried to fight that option too. She said the thought of complete strangers living in their home revolted her. Hank totally refused to leave the damn thing empty for two years while still paying the mortgage. She gave in but it was only the start of his Kathryn-related problems.

  Janet and Helen, their five- and six-year-old girls, were another concern. He wondered how they would find moving to a new country and a foreign school even though, thankfully, their initial reaction was ‘cool’. Marty Whelan, the guy Hank was replacing, turned out to be a great help. Marty, who had a wife and child, had gone through everything Hank was about to and assured him all would be fine and that in no time at all they would be settled in. He reminded Hank that the posting with the Brits was a couple of decades old and that most of those who had gone before him had been married with kids and managed okay. Hank knew he was getting too strung out about the move and blamed Kathryn for much of his stress. She was by far his biggest problem at the moment. He was afraid this trip was going to test just about every aspect of their relationship. The problem was she did not want to go to England and her reason was deep-seated, family and historical. She hated the English and everything about them. Not that she had ever known a single English person or even been to England before. She had been brought up to hate them.

  The captain’s voice filled the cabin announcing that there were twenty minutes before landing. Hank pushed his fingers through his short, brown hair. He had not slept a wink on the flight even after four beers and four Jack Daniels chasers. He prided himself on being able to sleep anywhere, anytime, wet or dry, on rocks or feathers, but the combination of the new appointment and family concerns was more than he had ever had to handle at any one time before. He finally decided the best way to deal with Kathryn’s issues was to ignore them. This trip was about his career and not her problems with the English. He was going to spend two years with the Special Boat Service (SBS). If he did well he could look forward to a promotion to E8 on his return. That promotion was the true source of his concerns. Without it, and it was not guaranteed by a long shot, he could look forward to three or four more years max in the Navy and then it was civvy street. The very thought depressed him. His dream was to be a lifer but it all hinged on how he was going to get on with - and impress - this foreign Special Forces outfit that his own American one was originally based on.

  He had received several briefings on what to expect and how to comport himself.The two organisations were related, i.e. both were Navy and played in the water, though not exclusively, but they were also quite different. Americans gave the impression of being more laid back than the British, and in most cases that was true, but the SEALs were in fact a much more rigid structure and more traditional than the SBS. The SEALs were also far wealthier. The SBS had seen more action in the past few decades and boasted a greater number of successes, but Hank was not intimidated by that and proud to be a Navy SEAL.

  He knew that if he wanted to return home in two years with an outstanding report he was going to have to impress. The issue was not if he could achieve his goals, but how. He had seen action in the Gulf War even though that was an overall disappointment for the SEALs, who were hardly utilised. His team had retaken a small oil platform in the Persian Gulf to prevent the Iraqis from destroying it, but there had been no resistance and it was basically a formality. He had also been part of the team that liberated the US embassy in Kuwait, but that was just a show for the press, roping down from a helicopter on to the roof while journalists, who had been there days before, filmed the event from outside on the street in a somewhat carnival atmos
phere. Somalia was a little more hairy for him but he missed out on the bigger engagements. Afghanistan had looked hopeful but ended up another disappointment. As usual, it seemed, he arrived too late to see the best of the action. It was always about being in the right place at the right time and he never was. Two years with the Brits, however, did not necessarily mean a break in those possibilities.There had been rumours of previous exchange officers seeing action with the Brits, and not just in the Gulf or Afghanistan. He would just have to wait and see how true that was.

  Hank checked his daughters were belted into their seats beside him and glanced over at Kathryn the other side of the aisle. She always looked pretty to him, even when she was stressed and unhappy. Her auburn shoulder-length hair shone like it had just been washed. It fascinated him the way it always seemed to fall perfectly into place. But her eyes looked tired as they stared ahead at nothing and there was a slight frown across her forehead. She was still annoyed at having to travel economy class. That was tough, he thought. The overseas allowances made this a good money trip and he was not about to squander it on an expensive upgrade. It annoyed him the way she had no respect for money. Hank’s philosophy was that of a Special Forces soldier: economy and planning, but despite his insistence he reckoned he lost as many fights with Kathryn as he won. The two things he regretted giving into most were the house and the car, both more than they could sensibly afford. It irked him every time he thought of the size of the combined monthly payments. Now the damned car was in storage for two years while they continued paying for it.

  He went back to the view out of his window, his thoughts gravitating once again to his new posting. He had no idea what he would be doing once he arrived in Poole town. In some ways, coming to England would be like starting over. That was one of the big pluses for him. Making friends was not a problem. He liked to work hard and party harder, which had been as much a part of his problem as it was his charm. The plan for this trip was to hold off in the party department until he was more familiar with the guys. It was a matter of record that Hank could make an ass of himself when drunk, which was why he almost lost out on getting the promotion he needed to qualify for this job. But this trip was as much about public relations as maintaining the good rapport they had with their cousins over the pond. Hank had learned that his boss had based his final decision on the conclusion that Hank might just fit in with the Brits quite well; after all, the Brits liked their beer too.