The Hostage s-1

by Duncan Falconer

  Hank jerked around to face them. A shot of adrenaline rushed through him as the screaming ambushers closed in aggressively. His overriding personal directive to be proactive took charge and he went for it, his hand jerking under his jacket towards his holster, but a burst of machine-gun fire ripping up the ground at his feet froze him, the loudness and impact a warning of the sheer destructive power of a bullet.

  ‘Move and you’re focken dead! I’ll focken kill you, you bastard!’ the man who fired yelled. Hank put all further thought of movement out of his head.There was something chillingly real about this.

  ‘On your knees! On your knees!’ Another shouted, prodding Clemens with his gun barrel. They were talking with Irish accents.

  ‘On your knees!’ one of them yelled with finality and levelled his gun at Hank’s head.

  Hank and Clemens lowered themselves on to their knees where they were then harshly pushed to the ground, their backs knelt on, and weapons jammed into their heads. Hank was unprepared for the level of brutality. A hand grabbed the hair on the back of his head and rammed his face into the dirt.

  ‘You fockers are dead,’ one of the men standing between Hank and Clemens growled. He placed his foot on Hank’s back and put his weight on it. ‘You hear me, Yanky? Your focken goose is cooked.’

  The wet soil chilled Hank’s face. It was an effort to breathe with the weight of the boot on his back. The attackers then became silent and motionless, as if they were robots at the end of their current program and waiting for their next command. Hank heard someone step from the bushes and trudge through the grass to stop close by his head.

  ‘Let ’em up,’ said a man. Hank thought he recognised Stratton’s voice. The boot and hand lifted off him and he could take a full breath.

  Hank got to his feet wiping his face and spitting dirt from his mouth. He glanced at Stratton, then at the others, who kept their balaclavas on. Clemens got to his feet, looking annoyed but kept his glaring eyes aimed at the ground.

  Stratton nodded to the ambushers and they stepped back and cleared their weapons.

  ‘Hank,’ Stratton said, as if nothing of any consequence had happened. ‘Your turn to drive. Continue the route. Get going.’

  As Hank walked around to the driver’s door his jaw throbbed and he wondered if he’d cracked it. He climbed into the car and moved his mouth from side to side. If it wasn’t it was badly bruised, but he could live with it. He wouldn’t show these guys he was in any pain if he could help it.

  ‘On you go, Clemens,’ Stratton said.

  Clemens gritted his teeth, ignored the dirt stuck to his face and walked around to the passenger side. He climbed in and slammed the door. Hank started the engine and drove slowly away from the scene. He adjusted the rear-view mirror and watched Stratton talking with the ambushers.

  Clemens wiped the dirt from his face and spat some out of his mouth.

  ‘Who were those guys?’ Hank asked.

  ‘SAS fucks,’ Clemens said angrily.

  ‘I guess we were meant to ignore the accident and drive on through.’

  ‘Hindsight’s a beautiful thing,’ Clemens said curtly. ‘Act like poxy internal security officers is what he said.That’s what we were supposed to be, right? So you don’t drive past a bleeding traffic accident with people lying half-dead in the bleeding road, do you? A load of bollocks, that’s what it is!’

  ‘What were we supposed to get from all that?’

  ‘Fucked if I know,’ Clemens said.

  Clemens sat back and stewed in his anger, staring down at his feet like a kid who wasn’t going to play any more. Hank decided to leave Clemens to himself. If something else happened on this little adventure it would be in Hank’s hands anyway. He assumed that was why Stratton told him to drive.

  The track curved gently to the left along the wood. Hank checked the mirror and caught a last glimpse of Stratton walking away from the SAS ambushers until the wood blocked any further view.

  Hank concentrated on the road ahead. They arrived at a junction and he stopped the car. Clemens still looked too irritated to get involved, so Hank reached down beside his feet and picked up the map. After comparing it to the surroundings he took the right turn.

  Hank felt surprisingly relaxed as he drove, not as nervous as he was at the start, as if being thrown to the ground and stomped on had cleared the tubes a little.

  The track turned the corner of a wood and crested a slight rise. As they headed down the other side a small town appeared in front of them. It looked strangely out of place, as if a large square had been neatly carved out of the centre of a city - streets, buildings, the lot - airlifted, and then deposited in the middle of the countryside. The sight was enough to make Clemens snap out of his gloom and sit up and stare at it. It was surreal. There was no sign of life in the town. It was grey and characterless, a dense urban block in the middle of open countryside, unloved or cared for.

  ‘Toy town,’ Clemens said. ‘I didn’t know they had one here.’

  ‘What’s a toy town?’ asked Hank.

  ‘It’s usually used for troop training - a city environment. Purpose built. There’s a huge one in Thetford the army uses before going over the water. They put on riots and snipers, stuff like that . . . The regular army doesn’t come in here so this is obviously for SF only. You’d better slow a little.’

  Hank slowed to a crawl as they approached the edge of the town and the first few buildings. The dirt track turned into tarmac and widened to the width of the main street that ran down through the centre of the collection of concrete and brick structures on either side. Clemens was back to full alert now. He pulled out his gun and checked it.

  ‘We can expect to come under fire,’ he said. ‘Look out for pop-up targets in windows and doorways. If we do, stop the car, get out, find cover, and then we’ll cover each other to a safe location. Watch out for friendly targets, woman carrying babies, stuff like that.’

  Two-storey houses lined both sides of the street, interspersed with the occasional local shop. It reminded Hank of an ugly version of Disneyland in so far as everything one expected to find in a town was there but superficially. There were signposts, a phone booth, lampposts, dustbins and a bus stop. The street and pavements were littered with bricks, chunks of concrete and broken bottles. Several cars were parked sporadically along both sides of the road, all wrecks, and many burned out and without wheels. It looked as if a serious riot had recently taken place.

  ‘Your gun cocked and loaded?’ Clemens asked.

  ‘Yep,’ Hank replied, his hands tense on the wheel. He steered carefully along the main street, nice and easy, eyes everywhere, avoiding the larger lumps of rock and concrete. It all felt so confined. The street seemed narrow even for English towns and the houses appeared to be closer at the tops as if they leaned in over the street. An attack could come from just about anywhere.There were dozens of doorways and windows, most of them broken or missing altogether.

  Fifty yards into the town a bottle floated through the sky as if out of nowhere and smashed on the street beside the car. Hank maintained the steady speed. Seconds later another bottle smashed close by followed by several more.They flew from the buildings either side of the car as it passed. One hit the car and Hank speeded up. Bricks and lumps of concrete then joined the bottles. Hank drove faster as they headed towards a collection of wrecked cars arranged like a chicane, forcing him to swerve in between them.

  Several men appeared, running from the houses, and pelted the car with stones and pieces of wood. A couple ran up and whacked it with sticks and kicked it. Hank drove as fast as he could, threading the obstacles in the narrow street without hitting them. A Molotov cocktail struck the road beside the car and flames splashed against its side. More rioters appeared up ahead.There must have been thirty or forty, shouting and yelling and hurling missiles.

  As Hank screeched out of the chicane he put his foot fully down. The flames bubbled the paint on the car before they extinguished. Then several yards
ahead Hank saw a woman running down the pavement pushing a pram. She looked panicky, as if trying to escape the riot herself. The final obstacle was two cars parked either side of the road leaving a narrow gap for him to squeeze through. As he closed on the gap, the woman running down the pavement suddenly tripped and fell and the pram wheeled from her grasp and on to the road. It rolled straight into the gap between the parked cars. Hank took his foot off the accelerator as his mind considered his choices: swerve and go down the right pavement and hit a bus stop, take the left pavement and try to squeeze past several lampposts, which looked unlikely, or slam on the brakes and hit one of the parked cars. The problem with all of those options was that they meant coming to a stop, and that meant having to deal with the rioters.

  There was of course another option, an unthinkable one at any other time and place. But somehow this was all so different. He was supposed to be an undercover agent. His life was in danger, and the life of his partner. Ahead was a pram with supposedly a baby in it. Self-preservation meant something else. It was not just about one’s life. It was war.

  Hank ran out of decision-making time and slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator. The car bore down on the gap. Clemens instinctively reached for the dashboard and sunk in his seat. Hank hit the pushchair square on and it left the ground like a football in a penalty kick. Something flew out of it and arced back towards the windshield. It was flesh-coloured.A baby. It slammed into the windshield, cracking it, then rolled over the roof. Hank kept his eyes on the road ahead. Clemens looked back to see the doll bounce on the road and its head fly off. A few seconds later they emerged from the grey, desolate structures back into the countryside and on to a dirt track once more as if it had all been a bad dream.

  Clemens exhaled deeply and relaxed in his seat as the worst of the tension left him. ‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘Notch one dead baby up to Hank.’

  Hank was in a kind of mental limbo. For a split second back there, just after the collision, he thought he had done the right thing, and now it seemed all so completely wrong. He wondered what he could have been thinking choosing the pram. This wasn’t a war they were in, not really. Stratton said they were effectively police officers. Cops don’t plough through babies to get away from rioters. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled to himself.

  ‘I reckon that just about sums up our day,’ Clemens said, sounding relieved that he was not the only one who had cocked up.

  Hank stood under a pair of old oaks watching the horizon, behind which the sun had long since dropped, leaving only a faint glow. It had turned colder with the coming of darkness but he could not be bothered to go to the room and put on a sweater. The day’s events continued to eat at him. He looked back at the building that served as the galley. The lights were on and the moving silhouettes behind the opaque windows told him supper was being dished up. He didn’t feel particularly hungry and he was in two minds whether or not to eat anything at all. He remained confused. There had been no debriefing from Stratton at the end of the exercise. They had returned to the huts after the serial without so much as a hint of what the point of it all had been. If he was wrong he wanted the chance to explain why he had done it, or at least hear what he was supposed to have done.

  Hank began to doubt if these guys were all they were cracked up to be. Then again, maybe he was taking it more seriously than he was supposed to. Maybe they would find out later. He decided to eat and trudged back across the track towards the galley.

  Just about everyone was inside having supper. Stratton sat at a table with Doles, both eating in silence. Hank had a sudden urge to go up to him and ask what he thought about the day’s activities. But he decided against it. He would play it the Brit way, whatever that was exactly. He picked up a plate, scooped up a steak, some mashed potato and cabbage, took a knife and fork out of the cutlery box and headed for the back of the room where there was an empty table.

  Clemens was sat with several others and as Hank passed he heard his name mentioned.

  ‘. . . and Hank not only went for the bloody thing, he accelerated right into it.’ Clemens laughed in his croaking manner, his mouth wide open, and his huge tongue sticking out. He showed no guilt on seeing Hank. ‘Ain’t that right, Hanky boy? You railroaded that pram and that kid right into fucking space.’

  Some of the men were amused but others were not.

  Hank paid no heed and sat at the empty table and placed his food down. He was finding it easier to ignore Clemens. The guy had a big mouth.

  Hank sawed at the steak with the blunt knife without much effect and then gave up and dug into his pocket for his penknife. The blade cut through the meat with ease but his teeth faired little better than the cutlery and his bruised jaw soon ached with the effort of chewing it. He tried a mouthful of mashed potato, which was obviously powder and water, and decided he would have to be a lot hungrier than he was to get through this particular meal and pushed it away.

  Across the room Stratton got up, placed his dishes in the tub and headed out of the room. Hank grabbed the opportunity, picked up his plate and cutlery, and headed between the tables towards the entrance. He scraped the food into the trashcan and dumped the plate and tools in the tub.

  Hank stepped outside in time to see Stratton walk around the corner. He hurried up and closed on Stratton’s back. ‘Sergeant Stratton,’ Hank said.

  Stratton stopped and turned to face him. ‘We don’t call anyone by their rank when in civvies,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ Hank said, suddenly wondering if this was a good idea. Stratton seemed to be in a serious mood. Hank was then suddenly unsure how to begin.

  ‘I, er . . . We haven’t officially met . . . Hank Munro . . . chief,’ then with finality, ‘Hank.’ He held out his hand. Stratton shook it.

  ‘Sorry I never said hello earlier. It’s been a bit crazed.’

  ‘Hey, that’s okay,’ Hank said, shrugging. ‘I know how it is . . . I just wanted to say that I appreciate being invited along.’

  ‘Always a pleasure to play with our cousins from over the pond,’ Stratton said.

  Hank smiled appreciatively then got to what was bugging him. ‘Look, I just wanted to ask you about today—’

  Stratton cut him off. ‘You can come to prayers,’ he said. Hank was thrown by the odd comment. ‘Prayers?’ he asked, as if he had not heard correctly.

  ‘Orders.You weren’t in the galley when it was announced. The operational briefing. Building one.’

  Stratton headed away.The briefing, or prayers as Stratton called it, was a complete surprise to Hank. The op was happening and he had been invited to the O group. If nothing else it was an indication he was still okay on somebody’s list.

  Several of the guys passed Hank and after they had all entered building one he followed.

  It was the same as all the other buildings: one long cold brick room with a concrete floor and a small toilet in a cubicle near the entrance.The only furnishings were a dozen metal chairs spread in a double semi-circle halfway into the room, facing a table and lectern. Behind these were several boards propped on chairs and draped in black cloths to cover what was on them. All the windows were cloaked in the same heavy black cloth. Two men were waiting at the far end behind the table and lectern: Lieutenant Jardene and a man Hank had never seen before.They were dressed in civilian clothes, a little smarter and more tasteful than the men, and their hair was short and neat.

  ‘Sit down, please, gentlemen,’ Jardene said. Hank waited until everyone was seated and took the last chair, pulling it further back from the others, feeling like an intruder perhaps and subconsciously trying to remain as invisible as possible. Stratton and Doles entered, closing the door.

  ‘Everyone here, Stratton?’ Jardene asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Stratton replied, standing behind Hank. Hank half looked over his shoulder to see Doles leaning against a wall, holding a pen and notebook. Hank then noticed everyone else had a notebook. He cursed himself for not being in the galley when the warning order for th
e briefing had been given. It was little things such as this, not having a pen and paper when he needed one, that irritated him about himself.

  ‘We received the green light for operation Phoenix only a few hours ago,’ Jardene continued.‘This is Captain Sumners from military intelligence. He’s going to kick off with a brief background to the operation. Needless to say, everything you hear in this room will not be discussed outside of it.’ Jardene’s eyes rested on Hank’s for a second, as if impressing upon him that he was aware he was in the room, that it was no mistake, and that the rules applied to him as much as anyone else. Hank felt a rush of importance.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Captain Sumners said in greeting. ‘Two months ago one of our intelligence operatives was captured by members of the Real IRA in County Tyrone. It was a well-planned operation that almost succeeded.’ Sumners glanced at Stratton who remained poker faced. ‘RIRA did not just happen upon the operative by chance. They knew precisely where to find him and when.

  ‘Many of our successes against the IRA over the years have been due to informants within the terrorist organisation itself. It is no secret that the IRA has had its own informants within the RUC and army, and even inside army intelligence at lower levels.The notion that they could penetrate the higher levels of our own military intelligence has always been considered improbable . . . A year ago we learned from a reliable source that there was very possibly a well-placed RIRA spy, or mole if you like, within the ranks of our military intelligence. This not only encompasses MI5, 6, A4, etcetera, but also the various intelligence cells of our military units. The informer who provided this information did not have any more details to offer, other than RIRA had gone to great lengths to protect this highly placed and valuable source.