The Hostage s-1

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘Mommy,’ Helen said, leaning into the aisle.‘Are we nearly in England?’

  ‘Yeah, sweety. We’re nearly in England,’ Kathryn replied, wishing her little girl wasn’t so excited. The nose of the plane dipped a little to lose height.

  ‘Pinch your nose and blow into your ears the way we practised it, honey,’ Kathryn advised. ‘You too, Janet.’ The two girls pinched their noses and blew repeatedly, their little cheeks puffing out.

  ‘I felt a pop, Mommy,’ Janet said.

  ‘That’s good, honey.’ Kathryn glanced at Hank, who was still staring out of the window, absently rubbing his palms. She wanted to put her hands on his and tell him he was going to do just fine, but she couldn’t. He may be worried about the next two years, but so was she. She resented him for not understanding her needs. While he was doing his job she was looking forward to two years of hell.

  Kathryn stood in the arrivals lounge between two trolleys piled high with suitcases, and Helen and Janet parked tiredly on top of them. Hank had gone outside to look for Marty, who was supposed to be meeting them. Kathryn was tired and wondered how long it would take to get to wherever they were headed. She had no interest in looking at a map of the country and knew nothing about where they were going, how far it was, or even in what part of England it was situated.

  She looked around the crowded terminal at the people, races she had never seen in the flesh before and languages she could only guess at. She heard American voices and craned to search for them. They were easily spotted: a loud, well-fed group in crisp, colourful clothes; retired couples from Texas or Arizona she guessed. She watched as they shuffled towards an exit that promised the coach terminal.

  She was really here, she thought. Goddamned England. It was numbing. There was not one single positive aspect of being in England and no end of negative ones. Leaving the house had been unbearable. She hated the people they had let it out to: a lieutenant from SEAL Team 4 on the West Coast and his snooty Californian wife. The woman made it obvious it was beneath her status to rent a house belonging to a mere chief petty officer, but as she kept saying, much to Kathryn’s irritation, ‘there simply wasn’t anything to choose from’ implying Kathryn’s house was a last resort.

  Saying goodbye to her friends was almost as bad.The day they left for the airport it should have been her turn to host the wives’ get-together. Hank had accused her of being petty when she moaned about it but it represented all that was important to her. Her social life dominated everything. Most of her friends were Navy wives and young mothers. There was always a birthday party, a baby shower or picnic to attend or plan. Every weekend someone was having a barbeque. She never went shopping alone; a phone call would always find at least one wife to come along and turn it into a day out. Her women’s group was probably the most important event for her.And at the centre of everything were, of course, the children.

  Standing there in the arrivals lounge, thousands of miles from all of that, Kathryn felt as if she had been ripped out of her life by the roots. She had even delayed packing to the last minute, hoping and praying the trip would somehow fall apart. Never in her life had she considered coming to England. It irked her even more to think Hank was actually keen on it. His parents were also of Irish descent. Maybe not second generation like hers but what was the difference? When she tried to talk to him about it all he would say was, ‘They ain’t at war with you.’ ‘Tripe’ her mother called his comment.‘The war was against the Irish, and we’re Irish,’ she insisted. Hank said Kathryn was using the Irish thing as an excuse and that it was her friends she really didn’t want to say goodbye to.

  Kathryn ultimately gave in because Hank had threatened to quit the SEALs if she didn’t go with him; it was a married and accompanied draft and he would not have been able to go without her. She had never seen him so angry as when she first refused. She thought he was going to wreck the entire house when he came home drunk later that night. If he quit the Navy they would have had to leave Norfolk for him to find work anyway. She had her doubts that he would have carried out his threat but she didn’t want to take the risk. He was capable of doing crazy things at times. Hank tried to console her with stupid comments such as it wouldn’t be quite so bad once she made new friends. He just didn’t get it. She didn’t want anything to do with the English. She was realistic enough to know she could not avoid the other wives completely but she was not about to get pally with any of them.The girls would obviously make friends at school.They would want to bring them home. The mothers would then want to come in for their cups of tea and no doubt ask endlessly stupid questions about what it was like in America. There would be birthday parties and sleepovers. The more she thought about it the more it worried her that she could not keep it up for a week, never mind two years.

  ‘Mommy? I wanna drink,’ Helen said, looking as if she was close to falling sleep.

  ‘You’re gonna have to wait, honey.’

  ‘But I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Daddy has all the English money.’

  Kathryn saw Hank moving nimbly through the crowded hall towards her. A man she vaguely recognised was following him. He must’ve been six three or four, at least a couple inches taller than Hank.

  Hank arrived a little out of breath and grabbed one of the trolleys, turning it in the direction he just came from. ‘Hold on, honey,’ he said to Janet, then to Kathryn as he started to push off, ‘We gotta hurry. Marty’s parked in a no-waiting zone.’

  ‘Hi,’ Marty said with a carefree grin as he arrived and took charge of the other trolley, but in nowhere near the rush as Hank who was already heading off.

  ‘I told Hank we don’t need to rush so much,’ Marty said in a lazy, mid-western drawl. ‘They ain’t so crazy here ’bout parkin’ out front as they are States side.’

  ‘Comin’ through here,’ Hank shouted to people blocking his way.

  Kathryn plucked Helen off the trolley Marty had hold of, forcing a smile for him, uncomfortable as she usually was with strangers. ‘I’m Kathryn.’

  ‘We met a couple years back at an open day,’ Marty said. ‘My wife’s name is Kate.’ Marty was broader than Hank and had a farm-boy quality. He was almost handsome.

  ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t remember your wife. Kate, did you say?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’d only just dragged her out from Kentucky that week. She was shy about meetin’ new people back then.’

  Kathryn decided she liked Marty and his slow, confident way of talking and moving.

  Hank looked back to check on their progress. ‘Come on, honey. Otherwise the car’ll get towed,’ he shouted.

  Marty politely indicated Kathryn to go ahead. She wondered how well Marty knew Hank. They seemed quite opposite in character. She took Helen’s hand and moved off in pursuit of her husband.

  By the time Marty approached the entrance to the M3 motorway, seatbacks had been adjusted for maximum comfort, pillows were made from clothing and everyone was settled in for the drive.

  ‘’Bout two hours should see us into Poole, maybe more if this jam doesn’t clear,’ Marty said.

  ‘Is the traffic always this bad?’ Hank asked as they crawled along the three-lane highway sandwiched between a truck and a double-decker bus.

  ‘There was a bomb scare on one of the bypasses a couple hours ago. That’s why I was late. We’ll be past it soon.’

  ‘Bomb scare? Who would that be?’ Hank asked.

  ‘RIRA probably. They’ve been stepping up their attacks on the mainland lately.’

  ‘RIRA?’ Hank asked, having never heard the term.

  ‘The Real IRA. That’s what they call themselves. They’re one of the new groups since the ceasefire.’

  ‘They’re all IRA though, right?’ asked Hank.

  ‘I guess. You’ve got the official IRA, the old original outfit, and then the Provisional IRA. Anyhow, they’re supposed to be having a ceasefire.Then there’s a group called the Continuity IRA, which are prett
y much like the Real IRA. They’re made up of guys from PIRA, the Provos that is, who don’t agree with the ceasefire. But then the Provos were originally formed back in the seventies or sixties by guys who thought the IRA in those days weren’t putting up enough of a fight. Basically not a lot’s changed as far as most of the Catholics in Northern Ireland are concerned. They still want the Brits out.’

  ‘So why don’t they just leave?’ Kathryn said, almost to herself, not really wanting to get into a conversation on any subject.

  ‘Problem is the Protestants want to stay British and there are more of them than Catholics and they’ve got most of the power and money . . . Funny thing is the Brits first sent troops into Northern Ireland to protect the Catholics from the Protestants. The first Brit soldier killed was by a Protestant, or was it the other way around? Yeah, I think the first guy the Brits shot was a Protestant. Maybe it was both. Anyhow, nothing seems to have changed, like I said. Except of course since the September eleventh thing. Terrorism, even in Ireland, doesn’t get the same support it did before the towers were hit.’

  ‘What about the English terrorists?’ Kathryn asked.

  Hank rolled his eyes.

  ‘How’s that?’ asked Marty.

  ‘Haven’t you ever heard of the famine?’

  ‘The famine?’ Marty asked.

  ‘That was when the English tried to wipe out the whole Irish nation,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry. History ain’t my thing,’ Marty said, eyeing her in the rear-view mirror. He grinned. ‘You ain’t gonna be too popular round here with sentiments like that.’

  Kathryn stared out of the window at the traffic, as if she gave a damn.

  Hank knew where Kathryn was coming from and kept quiet.

  ‘What’s a bomb scare, Mommy?’ Helen asked, sucking her thumb, trying hard to stay awake.

  Hank leaned around from the front passenger seat and tucked the blanket up under her chin, snuggling her in. ‘It’s when people try and scare other people, honey. You warm enough, cuddles?’ Helen nodded as her eyes spent more time shut than open.

  ‘Anyone wanna grab a coffee or a bite?’ Marty asked.

  The little girls were already asleep. ‘I’m okay.You okay?’ Hank asked Kathryn.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Kathryn said, checking her watch.

  ‘Dinner in Poole it is, then,’ Marty said.

  Kathryn did a quick calculation and decided that the wives’ monthly get-together finished about four hours ago.

  Three hours later they arrived in Corfe Mullen, a town a few miles inland from Poole, and pulled into a cul-de-sac in the middle of a large residential area built on a collection of hills.The adults climbed out leaving the children fast asleep. Hank and Kathryn stood on the pavement and looked up at the modern bungalow built on a sharp incline. It looked clean and maintained but nothing spectacular.

  ‘I hope it’s okay,’ Marty said, worried Kathryn wouldn’t like it. ‘You can always change it,’ he added.

  Kathryn had no enthusiasm whatsoever. The driveway, just long enough to fit a car, was very steep and led up to a garage connected to the house.The garden wrapped tightly around the front and the entire building fitted snugly in between the houses either side with very little room to walk between them.

  ‘What do you think, honey? It looks fine to me,’ Hank said.

  ‘It looks fantastic,’ she said dryly.

  ‘If you don’t like it we’ll grab a hotel, for Christ’s sake,’ Hank snapped. ‘They have hotels in this town, don’t they, Marty?’

  Marty remained neutral.

  Kathryn pulled a bag out of the vehicle. Marty held out the keys for Hank. ‘The small one’s the front door, the long one’s the back. Why don’t you dump your stuff inside and we’ll head round to my place. Kate’s got a real Southern home-cooked supper waiting for you guys.We live a couple blocks up the road. We’ve got a couple beds set up for you and the kids for tonight.’

  Kathryn smiled politely at him in thanks, appreciating Marty’s kindness.

  Hank took the key as Kathryn headed up the steep incline. ‘What time are you going to the base tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t have to come in till next week,’ Marty said. ‘Take your time. Get settled in.’

  ‘I’d like to get into it right away.’

  ‘You’re not scheduled to meet the boss till next Wednesday.’

  ‘Maybe you can show me around, if you’ve got time.’

  ‘If that’s what you wanna do,’ Marty said, seeing Kathryn waiting impatiently at the front door for Hank to open it. ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ he said as he grabbed a bag and headed up the drive.

  Hank was getting annoyed with Kathryn’s attitude but told himself to stick to his guns and let her deal with her problems. He had a job to do and bright and early tomorrow was day one.

  Chapter 6

  The morning was crisp and fresh as Marty drove Hank through Hamworthy, a small borough of Poole on the water, past the Yachtsman pub and up a hill flanked by homes shoulder to shoulder. Hank was having a yawning fit but did not let his jetlag hamper his enthusiasm. He had not been able to get to sleep before three a.m. and felt unusually tired when Marty woke him up at eight with a cup of coffee. When they left at eight-thirty Kathryn and the children were still fast asleep.

  Hank was fascinated with the differences between his country and this one, from buildings to clothing, cars, shops, even the signposts.They passed one that indicated they were headed toward Rockly Sands Holiday Park.

  ‘That the sea?’ he asked catching a glimpse of yacht masts and an expanse of grey water between the houses.

  ‘The harbour,’ Marty said.‘Supposed to be the largest natural harbour in the world, or maybe in Britain, I forget which.’

  ‘That a fact?’

  ‘Most of it’s too shallow for big boats - too much mud. Biggest goddamned mosquitoes you ever seen down on the south side. New SBS recruits get to sit in the bushes the first night and day wearin’ nothin’ but shorts and a T-shirt. Man, they get eaten’ alive. It’s the start of their hell week, like our buds.’

  The road levelled out at the top of a hill. ‘These houses are officers’ quarters.’ Marty indicated left and right like a tour guide. ‘Those over there are for regular ranks.’

  They passed a column of soldiers running along the road.

  ‘Are those SBS guys?’ Hank asked.

  ‘No. They’re regular Marines. The camp’s mostly SB but there’s a bunch of regulars: sailors, army, admin, cooks, transport, stuff like that . . . SB don’t run in columns of three.’

  They reached the end of the houses and a field large enough to fit four rugby pitches appeared on the right, the other side of a high-security fence. Beyond the field, three hundred yards away, was a cluster of buildings, nothing taller than three storeys. ‘That’s the camp,’ Marty said.

  Hank studied the base with interest as they drove parallel to it.

  They turned a corner towards the main gate. Two Sea King Navy helicopters came into view, parked at the far end of the playing fields.

  Marty pulled the car to a stop at the main gate, where an armed sentry wearing a green beret moulded to his head and combat clothing stepped out of a cubicle in the middle of the road to check his identity card. Hank watched another sentry the other side of the road waiting alongside a mirror lying face-up on wheels with lights attached in case he was needed to check beneath the vehicle.

  ‘Hank? ID,’ Marty said.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Hank said as he quickly searched for his ID. He pulled it out of his wallet and handed it to the guard, who checked the photo then Hank’s face.

  ‘Get used to my ugly mug,’ Hank said with a grin. The guard remained expressionless as he handed back the card and signalled his partner to raise the barrier. Marty gave the guard a wave and drove slowly into the camp and along the main road that headed through the centre of the building complex.

  They passed hangars, administration buildings and a fl
ag-pole in the middle of a small green where the Union Jack lay motionless at the top. Hank looked down the side roads beyond the buildings that lined the main road, catching glimpses of lines of vehicles that included large jeeps camouflaged for desert with twin heavy calibre machine-guns mounted in the back. At the end of one road he saw several sleek, camouflage speedboats on trailers, also with twin machine-guns mounted behind the cockpits. The road curved to the right leaving the main hub of the camp behind and headed towards another, smaller collection of buildings, all looking quite new with several more under construction.

  ‘A few years back SB only had a small piece of this camp. Now they damn near own all of it.’

  ‘Are all of SB based here?’ Hank asked.

  ‘Hell, no. They’re spread about the country like hen shit. They’re always goin’ or comin’ back from somewhere.’

  ‘A lotta missions?’

  ‘Yeah. A lotta ops I guess.’

  ‘What kinda ops?’

  ‘Well, you know how it is. They’re pretty secretive, obviously, just like us.’

  ‘They don’t tell you what’s going on?’

  ‘Well, depends what they’re doing but you won’t feel like an outsider,’ Marty said, trying to find the right words. ‘They’ve always made me feel at home, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘So you get to know what’s going on?’ Hank asked, not catching Marty’s attempt at subtlety.

  ‘It’s kinda like, well . . . I’m not officially supposed to know everything they get involved in, but . . . well . . . you virtually live on top of each other, and this ain’t exactly a big organisation. I mean, like they’re about a quarter our size. So you’re gonna hear things you probably ain’t supposed to. And they know that. It’s kind’ve understood that whatever you hear you keep under your hat, as they say.’