I shoot a glance at Pinkie. Won’t call him that to his face, of course. It would be taking things too far. Gotta keep on his good side. In fact, I’ll dial the superiority back a notch. Whoever designed the assessment tests might have added a module on team building, and I don’t want to nix my chances.
Time to play nice, Big Jenks.
Nodding at the others, I sidle over to Allenby and offer my fist. “Arthur Jenkinson. My friends call me Big Jenks. How you doing, mate?”
After he sizes me up for a couple of ticks, we knock a gentle fist bump. His hand is bigger than mine and one of his knuckles has been broken at some stage. No surprises there. Bugger probably doesn’t know how to punch properly.
Royal Navy Commandos, what do they know about scrapping?
Easy, Big Jenks. Remember to play nice.
Allenby dips his chin in a quick nod, tells me his first name’s Tom, and adds, “I’m okay, thanks. You?”
“Not bad, ta. That assault course was a bitch, eh?”
Okay, so I’m a liar, but I’m also trying to make out like a good guy concerned with the weaker team members. I’m chivvying him along, like. Boosting his confidence, really.
It’s all part of my new charm offensive.
Commando Tom shakes his head at me and curls part of his upper lip into a grin that looks like a smirk.
“Nah,” he says. “A piece of cake. I used to train on one just like it every day in my barracks. Took it easy is all.”
Yeah, right.
The guy’s a bullshit artist like every sailor I’ve ever met. A girl in every port? Total bollocks.
Instead of calling him on it, I nod politely and give him one of my encouraging smiles.
“Nice one,” I say. “So, what did Corporal Pinkie tell you?”
Allenby sucks a sharp breath through his teeth and shakes his head. “Word of advice, Jenkinson—”
“Big Jenks, or Jenks,” I interrupt, still playing nice.
“Word of advice, Jenkinson. Don’t call him Pinkie to his face.”
“Really? Why not?”
“You know what a piñata is?”
I nod, trying not to scoff.
’Course I know what a fucking piñata is, arsehole. Who the hell doesn’t?
“What about it?”
“He’ll smash you open like you’re his personal piñata.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, unable to hold back on the sarcasm.
Commando Tom continues. “Yeah, I know, I know. Looks like a choirboy, right? But don’t be fooled. Corporal Pinkerton is one tough mother. The real deal. Captain Kaine wouldn’t have him as part of his selection team if he couldn’t handle himself.”
That’s interesting.
“You know these blokes?”
“By reputation only. They’re all former members of the Special Boat Service, the SBS. Ever heard of them?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard the term.”
“Good. They’re like the army’s SAS, but they do most of their shit from boats. Everyone in the Navy’s heard of Captain Ryan Kaine. The man’s a total legend.”
“Really? I thought the SBS acted incognito, like the SAS boys.”
“Not within the service, buddy. Scuttlebutt always gets out. You know what gossips servicemen are.”
Couldn’t argue with him on that one. Like fucking washerwomen, some of the squaddies I’ve been billeted with. Not me, though. Always keep things to myself, I do. Never know when private information will come in handy.
“Remember when that ferry, Normandy Star, was hijacked in the Channel?” Commando Tom asks while I’m still assessing the information.
“Yeah, I saw the news. Couple of years ago, right? Bunch of towelheads chopped the head off the captain, and did it live on YouTube. Then they threw his body into the Channel.”
I also recall being pissed off by the news blackout when the siege ended with the deaths of all fifteen terrorists and without further loss of innocent life—apparently. Despite the lack of hard info or video footage, social media speculation at the time mentioned a seaborne military attack, but no one from the Royal Navy or the MoD would answer any questions. Eventually, the news cycle moved on. Never did get to learn what happened on that boat.
At the time, I figured something hush-hush had occurred. Seems I was right.
Allenby tilts his head towards the tower, where Captain Runt and André are looking down on us through big-arsed binoculars fitted with red-tinted lenses.
Bloody hell.
“Are you shitting me?”
“Nope,” the commando says, shaking his head. “Turns out that Captain Kaine and his boss, Major Graham Valence, planned that particular show. From what I heard, Staff Sergeant Rollason and Corporal Pinkerton were both part of the op.”
Well, well. That is interesting.
“And by the way, Major Valance owns DefTech Security.”
“Does he now?”
“Yeah. The Major soaked up all kinds of kudos for that raid, which is how come he was able to set up DefTech after taking early retirement. Uses his contacts in the Old Boy network, but I happen to know Captain Kaine did the detailed planning and most of the hard graft. Took bullets in the leg and arm for his troubles, too.”
“That so?”
Allenby snorts and shakes his head at me. “Didn’t you do any research when you applied for this job?”
I shrug. “Not really. Figured one job was as good as any.”
The commando breaths in luxuriously, clasps his hands behind his head, and stretches out, soaking in the brilliant sunshine. “Bitten off more than you can chew, Big Jenks?”
He uses my nick name all sarcastic, like. I suddenly take an intense aversion to the sailor-boy with the anchor tattoo and the sarky mouth.
“Me? Not likely. I can handle myself.”
“Yeah, probably,” he said, dismissively, eyes closed and smiling into sunshine.
“Better than you, at any rate.”
“You think?”
“Beat your arse on the assault course, man.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you really? So how come I’m sitting the next trial out? Answer me that, Big Jenks.”
Huh?
I hesitate and he opens one eye, squinting against the harsh sun. “Want another piece of advice?”
“I’m a competitor. Why you giving me advice?”
Slowly, he crunches his stomach to sit up, and he leans on his elbows. He smiles as he says, “You’re an arrogant prick, Jenkinson. No real worry to me. I want you to suffer all the way to the final test, where you and I will likely face each other as the last two standing. Then I’m gonna bury you. Ready for that advice, now?”
I tense and throw him a sneer. “Go on then, hit me with it.”
“Okay, here you go. Listen hard and obey the orders to the letter, arsehole.”
“That’s it?”
Allenby ignores my question, leans back, and covers his eyes with an arm.
While I’m staring at the fucker, considering whether I could get away with kicking him in the nuts, a light breeze cools the sweat on my back. I rotate my head to stretch my neck muscles, which have suddenly tightened. A few shoulder rolls later and I’m ready to rock and roll again.
Dropping Commando Tom with a low blow’s not a good idea. Wouldn’t want to risk getting thrown out on my arse. No matter, I’ll deal with the marine in the final test—if not sooner.
On Pinkie’s command, the Muppets fall into line and I race to join them, Commando Tom’s advice running through my head.
Obey instructions to the letter?
Yeah, I can do that. Not a problem.
Pinkie is standing at the front of the line, looking each one of us over in turn, like he’s checking us out. Simms is standing alongside, pretending to be bored.
The five of us are standing at ease and Pinkie’s acting like it’s an inspection. Fuck knows why, it ain’t as though we’re in the real army no more.
He’s paying particular attention to the carrot-topped plonker on my right, who’s already turned beetroot red in the sun. The stupid sod’s sweated off any sunblock he’s used, and he hasn’t bothered to slap on any more.
Dumb-arse.
“Anders, take five minutes to cover up properly. Same goes for the rest of you.”
Don’t need sunblock, me.
Part-Italian on my mum’s side, my skin’s naturally dark and I never burn, not even in the desert. I’m about to argue the toss with Pinkie when I remember Commando Tom’s advice and take his words as an instruction. We break ranks, jog to the barracks, slap on some factor fifty—I have to borrow a splodge from Ginger—and return well within the allocated time.
Keen as, that’s us.
Next up, Pinkie marches us to the nearest corner of the parade ground, then starts issuing his instructions.
Seems simple enough.
Fifteen laps, varying the pace from flat out sprint to recovery jog each time he blows his referee’s whistle. Runners call this particular form of torture a fartlek. It actually translates from the Swedish as “speed play”, but there ain’t no kind of playing involved. Depending on the intensity and length of the sprints and the duration of the recovery runs, they can be pure vomit-inducing, screwed-up, ball-busting torture.
No doubt which way Pinkie’s going to “speed play” this one.
Maybe this weekend ain’t gonna be all that easy after all.
The Muppets and I check out our course. Each side of the square is around two hundred metres long, which makes each lap something close to half a mile. To keep us from cutting the laps short, some arsehole’s planted an orange corner flag at each turn, and Pinkie told us to touch each one as we pass or face disqualification. A red flag halfway along the home straight marks the start/finish line. A table next to the red flag carries a load of water bottles. In this heat, we’re gonna lose water by the bucket load, and we’ll need to keep hydrated. I plan to slug back a bottle on each pass whether I’m thirsty or not. Back in the day, the PT instructors kept drumming into us that thirst ain’t a good predicter of dehydration. By the time anyone feels parched, it’s too late.
All told, we’re about to sprint-jog eight miles or so. A doddle—if it weren’t for the eyeballs-out fartlek intervals.
I take a few deep breaths, and Pinkie lines the five of us up in the same order we finished the assault course. This puts me in the lead, and I’m gonna damn well stay here.
Excellent. Got this in the bag.
From his place on a bench near the water table, Commando Tom yells out something encouraging, which I ignore. Don’t need no encouragement from that tosser.
Pinkie shouts, “Start at a jog and keep your sprint finishing positions during the recovery phases.” Then he toots his whistle, and we’re off.
Lap thirteen, and I’ve been blowing hard since lap seven. Sweat’s pouring off me. It’s stinging my eyes and skewing my vision, running down the middle of my back, pooling in my arse crack. It’s a jog phase, and we’re following orders by keeping in the position we finish the sprints. There’s no overtaking between sprints, but it doesn’t mean the others can’t close the gaps and pretend we’re a fucking concertina.
I’m still in the lead, but only just. Pinkie, the evil bastard, is letting the sprints drag on longer, but shortening the recovery jogs to the barest minimum. The sprint on lap eight took in over half the fucking course—nearly killed me to keep my lead.
This is completely fucking horrible.
The toughest fartlek I’ve ever suffered, but I’m cool. If it’s hard on me, what’s it doing to the Muppets?
The ginger fella, Anders, puked his ring during a recovery period on lap eleven. The vomit ran down his t-shirt and shorts, and onto his thighs. Man, that’s gonna stain. The gutsy SOB is still hanging on to the back of the line, but only just. Pinkie extended that particular rest period for a few glorious seconds to give Anders time to recover. Can’t tell whether the corporal’s being generous or sadistic, but I’m leaning towards sadism.
Got to hand it to Ginger, though. He’s a tough nut and still hanging on to the tail. Nice one, fella, but you’re dead meat. You ain’t beating Big Jenks.
Like me, the others are sweating cobs, but they’re all tough buggers. The black guy right on my arse—Connor, I think he’s called, but he looks more like a Dwayne—is fast in a straight line, but a little slower than me on the corners. His lack of mobility gives me a chance to stay out front, but it’s getting harder to keep my lead. The bugger regains his wind faster than I do on account of him being a few kilos lighter.
I glance over my shoulder. Jeez. The black fucker’s smiling. He’s actually smiling! Is he playing mind games?
Shit.
My thighs are burning and my left calf is as close to cramping up as it’s been since basic training. I tense and relax the muscle as best I can, but the final couple of laps are gonna be a total and utter fucking ’mare.
Crap, this is tough. Bloody tough.
This current jog’s been the longest yet, nearly a whole lap and a half. Bastard Pinkie’s building us up for a humungous final sprint. I’m guessing it’s going to be a total ball-buster.
We make the turn into the finishing straight—four more corners and five more straights to go.
Pinkie blows the whistle and screams, “Kill it, boys! Go, go, go!” From the opposite side of the course, Simms shouts his encouragement.
Connor Blake, the black sod, hares past me like I’m running backwards. Where the fuck does he get his energy from?
I’m giving chase, but someone’s breathing hard down my neck. No idea who it is, and I ain’t turning for a look-see.
Connor Blake streaks away like the Klan’s after him. No way I’m gonna catch the bugger, now. Fucker’s clearly been saving himself for the finish. How’d he manage that?
Lungs are burning hotter than my thighs. Fucking calf’s on fire, too. I’m almost limping, slogging through treacle.
Fourth corner. Connor Blake’s twenty metres ahead and, unless he … blows up, I ain’t … ain’t catching him.
Little fucker behind me, Blondie, is real … close now. Alongside my left shoulder. Taking the inside line.
Crap.
He brushes past me. I’ve got almost nothing left, but I’m dogging his heels. If I lose his slipstream, lose the imaginary chain holding us together, I’m toast.
Gotta keep tight to him.
If the chain breaks, I’m dead.
How many behind me now? Ginger for sure. Anyone else? Too exhausted to remember and I can’t look behind. A corner flag’s coming up and I have to touch it. Mustn’t miss it or everything will have been for fuck-all.
My lungs are stiff old leather, burning at every breath.
Black Connor’s flying, he’s on the back straight already and I’m dying a slow, excruciating death.
Blondie breaks the fictional chain I’m grasping hold of like it’s a safety line and starts stretching away … I’m falling back into third place.
Shit, this is so fucking painful!
Suck air into tortured lungs. Explode on exhale. Move legs, pump arms. Vision greying, I’m a mess of pain, in a cloud of sweaty dust, but I will … not … give up.
C’mon, Big Jenks. Hurt yourself.
But … what’s that?
Blondie’s missed the flag!
Yes … he’s missed the goddamned flag!
He skids to a stop and turns. I stretch out an arm, slap the orange cloth hard, making sure Pinkie sees the pole move and … I’m off again.
Blake’s in the distance, but I’m in a safe second now, on the back straight with only two more flags to go after this next one. Two more lengths and half the finishing straight and I can relax.
Blondie’s cock-up gives me a real punch up the arse. Adrenaline flows and the pain in my calf disappears. Now, I’m the one who’s flying.
Halfway along the last but one straight, Connor slows. He
’s either taking it easy, or he’s starting to flag. Can I take him?
Up on my toes, I stretch out. Driving legs, pulling with my arms and sucking in air like it’s about to go on rationing.
I’m closer. He’s less than thirty metres away.
Flag, touch, another left turn. Corner two done. One more flag and half the home straight and it’s over. Pinkie yells encouragement. Even Commando Tom cheers. Don’t know who he’s cheering for, but I’ll take any help on offer.
Last flag, final turn.
Seventy paces—I’ve been counting them each lap.
A glance to my left tells me Blondie is in a battle with a quiet guy I’ve not really taken much notice of, and Ginger is ahead—dead in the dust. I’m not far off lapping him. I could ease up and cruise the last few metres, but that ain’t the way Big Jenks rolls.
Up on the gantry, Captain Runt and André the Giant are chatting. They ain’t even looking at the carnage. Bastards! I’ll show them. I take in a huge gulp of air and let out a Banshee wail, digging in for the last few gut-wrenching metres.
Connor Blake staggers as he shoots a glance over his shoulder, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, drooling. He’s straining. This is my chance. The fucker’s so close I can smell the fear on him …
I’m alongside him.
Right … Now!
I dive forward, collapse over the line … in second place.
Shit a fucking brick!
Flat on my back and breathing for England, a silhouette blocks the sun. Its arm stretches towards me. Blake says something, but I’m breathing so hard I can’t hear nothing clearly.
“Huh?” I manage, heaving myself up to lean on my elbows, like Commando Tom did earlier, but I’m in agony, nearly puking.
Blake smiles. Brilliant white teeth stand out against the glossy black skin, almost dimming the sun. “Good effort, man. Thought you had me then.”
I grab his hand and he hauls me up onto weak-as-water legs. “Another … ten metres and I’d have taken you.”
He claps my shoulder and says, “Yeah, prob’ly.”
“Jesus … man,” I say between breaths, dusting off the arse of my shorts, trying to recover as fast as him. “What are you, a … fucking whippet?”
The Assessment Page 3
