Hank picked up all the lecture packs and put them back in the filing cabinet. ‘Can I ask where we’re going, or do I wait ’n’ see?’ he asked.
‘I can tell you where the training camp is. It’s in Wales. The actual op location is secret. I don’t even know where it is or what the job is.’
Hank nodded as he picked up his cap and smoothed the starched edges. ‘I haven’t been to Wales,’ he said.
‘Hank?’ Doles said, stopping him as he reached the doorway. ‘You’re only going for the training.’
‘Whatever,’ Hank said with a smile. ‘Just glad to be doing something.’
‘I think you’ll enjoy it.’
‘I look forward to it. See you tomorrow,’ Hank said as he closed the door.
As he headed through the wood towards the car park, Hank felt uplifted, despite Doles’s assurance he would not get on the op itself. He had been in England just two weeks and was already going on operational training. That wasn’t a bad start, he decided. Who knew where it could lead?
Chapter 8
Hank sat in the second of two unmarked Range Rovers as they crossed the Severn Bridge in close file and passed into Wales. Doles sat in front alongside the driver, in a thick arctic duvet jacket. Apart from Clemens and Doles, Hank didn’t know the other three operatives in his vehicle. In fact the only other person he knew was Stratton, who was in the other Rover, although he had not as yet exchanged a word with him. The men’s personal baggage, all military backpacks and holdalls, were stuffed into the back of each Rover. Whatever equipment they needed for the training was apparently already at the secret camp they were headed for, the unmarked stores lorry carrying food, weapons and ammunition having left Poole before dawn.
Everyone had been pretty quiet throughout the trip, most sleeping. Hank had stayed awake. He was sticking to his game plan of staying in the background, remaining the grey man. He had overheard that the mysterious camp was named Ilustram and was designed and built for Special Forces use only. Its location was classified. The team was hoping to get at least a week of intensive training in before individuals were selected for the mission. Whatever that was he still had no idea. He suspected most of the others didn’t know either. If they did then it was down to their ‘need to know’ - and Hank did not need to know. There was no sense of excitement.
A short distance after the bridge the vehicles turned off the motorway and on to a minor road that cut through the countryside. Hank was content to take in the sights; the scenery became quite beautiful as the road began to meander, shadowing the course of a river that followed a wide valley.
An hour after leaving the river valley, as Hank started to nod off, the Rover came to a stop. He looked up drowsily to see that the front vehicle had halted at a barrier outside a guardhouse and he shook off his tiredness. A civilian police officer was talking to Stratton through the passenger window. Hank looked around, wondering if this was Ilustram. They were still in the countryside, surrounded by trees, with fields visible beyond. A hundred yards or so behind the guardhouse was a cluster of new office-style brick buildings. A high-security fence stretched in opposite directions from the guardhouse barrier. There were no signs to indicate that it was the entrance to an army camp.
A minute later the police officer raised the barrier and waved the vehicles through. Hank looked into the guardroom as they passed it and saw several more policemen inside. If it was a military camp, he wondered, why were there no soldiers on guard?
The Rovers passed through the neatly manicured complex where half-a-dozen cars were parked in front of the buildings.There was no sign of life. A few hundred yards the other side of the complex the new tarmac road gave way to a dirt track and they headed into open countryside.
They followed the security fence for a mile before veering away to drive through wide open fields.
As they approached a small wood Hank saw the outline of several three-storey buildings within it. They were plain concrete structures resembling unfinished office blocks that had been on fire recently. There were no windows, doors or wooden frames in any of the openings. A couple of battered cars parked off the side of the track leading to the buildings were riddled with bullet holes.
Further on, the other side of the road, a dozen men were dressed in black assault clothing, all armed with sub-machine-guns and wearing chest harnesses. Gasmasks hung from their hips. Beyond them, surrounded by a high earthwork, was a civilian passenger aircraft that looked like it had not been airworthy for many years. Scorch marks surrounded many of the doors and windows. More armed men were exiting the aircraft down a ladder. The men by the road watched the Rovers as they passed.
‘There’s old Geordie Marshal,’ Clemens said.
‘G Squadron,’ said Doles.
SAS, Hank thought. The SBS didn’t do aircraft and there was only one other SF unit in the country that did. Hank watched them through the back window until they were out of sight.
A mile further on a handful of long, narrow brick huts in parallel rows came into view. They looked as if they had been built during the Second World War. Hank recognised the unmarked truck parked alongside the end hut as the stores wagon from Poole. The Range Rovers pulled off the track and parked behind it.
The men stepped out, stretching and yawning, some lighting up cigarettes. Hank stepped out and took in the scenery. It was a bright, cloudless day with a slight chill in the air. Some trees dotted the immediate area, otherwise it was open fields in every direction. He thought he could hear gunfire in the distance carried on a breeze that suddenly picked up and rustled the brittle leaves on a nearby pair of oaks. As he focused on the sound he was interrupted.
‘Listen up,’ Doles said in a raised voice as he climbed out the front of his vehicle, holding a clipboard. Everyone stopped talking and faced him. ‘This is building one,’ he said, pointing to the first building on the road. ‘It’ll be the admin staff basher and stores. Building two, the next one over if you hadn’t guessed, is the galley. Building three, SBS accommodation. Four is showers and heads.’ He checked his watch. ‘Time now is ten twelve. Let’s get everything unloaded. Sort out your beds. Grab a brew and muster here for twelve-thirty ready to go.’
‘What’s the first serial?’ one of the men asked.
‘If you don’t interrupt, Jackson, I’ll get to it.’
Someone nudged Jackson in the back. ‘Yeah, shut it, Jackson,’ a voice said playfully.
Doles moved right along.‘Today will be pistols and SMGs on the range. Before dark the aim is to fit in some car and van drills. Lunch will be nosebags. Dinner whenever we get back.’
Hank observed the men as Doles spoke. Most of them seemed young, between twenty-two and twenty-six he guessed.
‘There’ll be no specific teams,’ Doles continued. ‘Those will be nominated as and when required.You’ll draw weapons at . . . eleven?’ he said, looking directly at the quartermaster for confirmation. ‘You keep your pistols with you until we leave here. They will be on your person at all times and, gentlemen, they will remain loaded with one up the spout, even when you’re asleep. I don’t need to warn you that any NDs - that’s negligent discharges for our non-English speaking guest - and you will be looking for a new career. The serials will be worked out day-by-day, hour-by-hour if need be, so remain flexible. Keep your shit together, move like greased lightning when you’re told to, and I don’t want to hear any stupid questions. Are there any questions?’
There were none.
‘Clemens?’ Doles continued. ‘You’ll look after Hank and familiarise him with any kit and routine he’s not au fait with.’ He then shifted his gaze to Hank. ‘You happy with everything so far?’
‘Not a problem,’ Hank said.
‘Good.’ Then louder to everyone,‘Back here twelve-thirty, weapons cleaned and ready to go.’ Doles walked over to Stratton, who was standing alone across the track, and the two men walked away.
Hank faced Clemens, who was looking directly at him, wearing one of h
is weird, big-mouthed smirks whereby he let his unusually long tongue protrude from his mouth to touch the tip of his nose. ‘Come on, Hanky boy,’ Clemens said. ‘Let’s git yarll kitted up and on the trail.’
Hank wondered if Marty had been given a jerk like Clemens when he first arrived.
The packs were tossed out of the back of the Rovers and everyone grabbed their own and headed for the accommodation building.
Inside the squat hut it was one long, cold, damp room with a concrete floor and narrow metal beds spaced out along both sides, each separated by a grey metal locker. On a table by the entrance was a stack of clean sheets, pillowcases, blankets and pillows. Hank took Clemens’s lead, grabbed a set, and followed him in to the room.
‘Grab any pit you want, Hanky boy,’ Clemens said, tossing his pack and bedding on to a bed.
Hank took the bed opposite and dropped his pack on the floor. He opened the circa WWII locker, which was empty but for a couple of twisted wire coat hangers hanging on a bent rail.
‘Hank?’
Hank looked around the locker door at Clemens, who was holding up what looked like a large tube of toothpaste.
‘Know what this is?’ Clemens asked, tossing the tube to Hank. Hank looked it over but did not recognise the chemical contents. He shrugged at Clemens.
‘Last time I was here everyone caught crabs, from the beds, or the sheep shagging after hours. I suggest you have a good scrub down with that stuff before you go home otherwise the missus will wonder where you’ve been.’ Clemens flapped his oversized tongue and grinned as he winked at Hank and went back to sorting out his kit.
Hank placed the tube in his locker and looked down at his stained and lumpy mattress. He had slept on worse. He detected movement outside the metal-framed window above his bed. It was Stratton and Doles in the narrow gap between the buildings.They were talking. Stratton sensed Hank’s stare and looked at him. Doles also noticed Hank and the two men moved on. Hank had the distinct feeling they had been discussing him.
The vehicles left the buildings at the precise time Doles had stipulated, with everyone aboard. The shooting range was another secluded spot surrounded by fields and pockets of woodland. Hank climbed out along with the others and helped carry the boxes of ammunition through the entrance.
It was a rudimentary construction with no buildings inside other than a simple concrete shelter to house the boxes of ammunition and targets in the event of rain. It was an open-air, rectangular arena with an entrance wide enough for a vehicle to drive through. The sides were steep earth embankments down to a knee-high sandbag wall all around the inside. It was designed so that targets could be placed and engaged anywhere within it. The embankment curved around the entrance so that bullets could not escape through it unless, obviously, fired into the sky.
‘Listen up!’ Doles commanded as he walked into the range. ‘Load up your pistol magazines only. Grab a target and find yourself a space. Some of you may not have shot close-quarter pistol in a wee while. This first practice is to shake the rust off and get the feel of your weapons. Start off with some dry drills, then in your own time I want you to practise drawing from your holsters, single-handed as well as two-handed; standing and kneeling, no rolling around on your backs or bellies unless you’ve been shot; empty magazine and reload drills; close-quarter techniques holding the weapon into the body.All firing positions will be static and no further than three metres from your target. No firing on the move. All shots will be double-taps, no leaping about, and be mindful of the persons beside you. Any questions?’ then without waiting half a second for a response, ‘Carry on!’
Hank tagged on behind the others, picked up a box of 9mm rounds and selected a figure eleven target: a man-size torso papered on to a thin wooden board with a stick nailed to the back. Everyone selected their own small area of embankment; Hank chose a far corner and headed across to it. He stuck the target into the earth, just behind the low sandbag wall, placed the box of rounds on the sandbag wall, and removed the Sigmaster P226 9mm semi-automatic pistol he had been given by the admin sergeant from the leather shoulder holster he was wearing under his jacket. He released the empty magazine, took two more from a quick-release hip holder, and proceeded to load them.Within a few minutes Hank was dry practising: drawing his weapon from his holster and coming up on aim without firing to get the feel of it. It had been several months since Hank last held a pistol.
‘No shooting from the hip, Hanky boy,’ Clemens called out from a few yards away, grinning like a moron. ‘This ain’t the OK Corral, pardner.’
Hank ignored him and carried on practising a double-handed technique from the draw. Satisfied, he cocked the weapon and pushed it firmly into his holster. No one else had started firing yet. Hank didn’t mind being the first. He felt comfortable enough and was a competent shot with a pistol. He relaxed his shoulders letting his arms hang loosely by his sides, composing himself. A sudden and deafening boom made him flinch as the man beside him a few feet away fired off two rounds in quick succession. The shock was painful to Hank’s ears and he cursed his own forgetfulness.
‘’Urt yer ears, Hanky boy?’ Clemens cackled.
Hank walked back across the range to the stores shelter and picked up a pair of ear defenders. By now everyone else was firing as he placed them over his ears and went back to his stance. With everyone wearing rugged civilian clothing it looked more like a terrorist training camp than a Brit military one.
Hank lined up in front of his target, composed himself once again, drew his weapon, fired a double-tap, and replaced the weapon into the holster in a smooth action. He didn’t feel a hundred per cent comfortable but that was to be expected. His actions would be smoother after he had emptied a few magazines. Hank had been brought up with guns. As a kid he regularly went hunting with his buddies, often camping overnight, shooting squirrels, rabbits and prairie dogs. He drew again, quicker this time, and fired another double-tap into the target. He felt a little better and closed his mind to the activity around him as he drew and fired again.
By the time Hank had emptied two boxes of ammunition a car screeched into the range and came to a dusty halt in the centre.
‘Cease fire!’ Doles shouted as he climbed out. ‘Anyone here not done car drills before?’
Hank looked around. No one else had a hand raised. He raised his. Doles nodded to him and addressed the others. ‘We’ll start with two-man drills, then when everyone’s gone through we’ll go to four-man,’ he said. ‘Choose your partners. Hank, you hang back until everyone else has gone through then you can jump in with Clemens, okay? Nice and easy first time please, gentlemen,’ he said louder, addressing everyone. ‘Control, control, control. Make sure you are clear of the man in front of you before you raise your weapon. Take down all the targets and place a cluster of three or four along the back wall,’ he said pointing to the far end of the range. ‘I want to see you driving in at speed. When you hear gunshots it means you have been engaged. Halt. Debus, and engage your targets. Clear the vehicle soon as you can: remember the vehicle is the initial focus of incoming fire. I’ll give you a ceasefire and the next couple take it away. We don’t have much time and we have a lot to get through. Oh, yes, and anyone puts a hole in this car it’s a fifty pound fine, understood? Except you, Jackson. I’ll take a hundred quid for each hole you put in one.’
‘Understood, Colours,’ Jackson said as everyone else laughed, sharing a joke Hank was not party to.
‘First pair, let’s go!’ Doles shouted as he clapped his hands. Targets were grabbed, a handful was placed at the far end in a bunch, and everyone headed to the back of the range except the first two operatives, who jumped into the car.
‘In case you didn’t notice, Dolesy is real sensitive about putting holes in cars,’ Clemens said to Hank with a grin as they stacked the used targets. ‘A couple years ago there was about fifty of us up ’ere doing car drills and Jackson was sent back to the HQ to pick up another car. God knows how but the idiot somehow went and
picked up Doles’s thinking it was one of the company training cars. Dolesy was on another part of the range at the time. No one realised the cock-up till the next day when Dolesy went to get his car to head on home. There were about fifty bullet holes all over it.’
Jackson overheard Clemens and joined in the conversation, grinning. ‘He went fuckin’ banzi,’ he said. ‘I ’ad to ’ide in the bleedin’ woods till he left.’
Joe, the tallest of the operatives and one of the youngest, chimed in. ‘Wasn’t he stopped about five times by the cops on the way home?’
Clemens chuckled. ‘Yeah. He must’ve looked like he’d just been in a bank robbery or summit.’
‘His missus went nuts en’all when she saw it,’ said Jackson. By now others had joined them to revisit the story, adding and embellishing what they knew. Hank found himself in the middle, looking at each person as they talked, laughing with everyone else.
Brent, a well-spoken southern English boy, added what he knew. ‘Doles had no end of trouble trying to get it fixed. None of the repair shops would touch it for less than fifty quid a hole or something like that.’
‘And what about his wife though,’ Jeff said. Hank had to listen carefully to understand everything this young operative said in his northern accent. ‘She kept driving it since they had no other car and everywhere she went she was having to explain what had happened to it.’
‘He eventually sold it to a skinhead,’ said Clemens. ‘The bloke actually came up to Dolesy and asked him how much he wanted for it. He thought it was brilliant.’
As the story grew in richness Hank went from grinning to laughing as loud as anyone else. It felt good. It seemed a long time since he had last laughed out loud.
‘You want some advice, Hank. Don’t do any car drills with Jackson,’ Jeff offered.
‘And if you do,’ Joe added, ‘make sure you’re in the back. He’s a dangerous bastard.’
‘Piss off,’ said Jackson.
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