The Assessment

by Kerry J Donovan

  He laughs and rests the hand on my shoulder. “Triathlete in my spare time … when I have some. For a big man, you can’t half move … er?”

  “It’s Big Jenks. And thanks, I need the speed to keep ahead of the cops.” I add a wink to let him think I’m kidding.

  He takes the bait and laughs along.

  Although we’ve been resting at least a minute, and Blondie and the quiet one have also crossed the finish line, Ginger is gamely struggling to complete the course. Covered in dried vomit, he’s limping along the home straight, hopelessly out of touch.

  Connor starts the cheering, encouraging poor Ginger on, and the others join in, even Pinkie and Simms.

  Carried away, I add my voice to the others. Can’t help myself. You ask me, the red-haired bugger is as game as anything. Damn near heroic. Didn’t have a chance but wouldn’t give up. He could have stopped the moment he puked, but he’s clearly no quitter. We cheer him home. Even Captain Runt and André raise their fancy binoculars and point them towards our noise.

  The buggers ignored my eyeballs-out chase, but watch the weakest one stumble over the line.

  Go figure.

  Pinkie closes on Ginger, trying to hand him a bottle of water, but the redhead’s not interested. He’s on his hands and knees in the dust, puking again. Or trying to. Dry heaves clench his stomach and I feel for him. Anyone who’s ever been on manoeuvres in full battledress knows what that’s like. Wasn’t far off the same condition when I hit the line—but I recovered soon enough. Like I always do.

  Ginger retches again. This time, yellow bile dribbles from pale lips and splashes the concrete.

  Pinkie brings out a radio and calls for an ambulance. Ginger raises a hand from the concrete and shakes it, claiming he doesn’t need medical care, but it’s clear he’s pushed himself beyond his limits. Dehydration in this heat could be real serious.

  The five of us—including a fresh and relaxed Commando Tom—gather around the drinks table. The four sweaty candidates knock back water by the bottle full. Soon, a pair of green-clad paramedics—who arrived so fast they must have been on standby—help Ginger into their field ambulance and drive him away. None of us speaks.

  So far, not such a doddle, but Ginger’s loss makes it one down, and only four more to go—excluding me.

  I’ll be the last man standing. Got money on it, and I ain’t losing.

  Chapter 4

  The Serious Stuff

  Kaine finished his meal and prepared for the next phase. Rollo and Danny flanked him on the head table, taking their time to savour the feast—roast pork, three vegies, gravy, and a flagon of water—provided to all by the local catering service and at great expense. As expected, none of the candidates had ticked the vegetarian option on their applications forms. Modern dietary habits had yet to filter into the military mindset. “Meat, meat, and more meat” was forever the soldiers’ cry. The minute a chef came up with a pudding based on animal muscle, he’d be onto a winner. Maybe it was a job for that celebrity chef whose speciality could have had him double as a chemist, or an apothecary.

  Kaine dabbed his mouth with a napkin to hide his smile—time to take things up a notch. Time for another test, this one really a tad devious.

  The surviving candidates, showered and changed into lightweight, unbadged military fatigues and appropriately sized footwear—all provided by DefTech—sat on one side of a trestle table, facing him. All five were silhouetted by the bright light shining through the open window behind them.

  Three of the men had already finished shovelling in their lunch as though racing the clock. They sat, drinking water or fruit juice and chatting happily, blissfully unaware of the test to come. The other two—Sergeant Allenby, the Commando, and the arrogant late arrival, Jenkinson—sat slightly to one side, eating more slowly and sharing a quiet conversation as though they were old friends.

  Interesting. Didn’t see that coming.

  Typical squaddies, the three who’d already finished, seemed to be working on the erroneous hypothesis that the faster they ate, the longer they had to digest their food and recover for the afternoon’s heavy “entertainment”. The other two, showed more knowledge of the human digestive system and took their time. Maybe Jenkinson had more about him than first impressions suggested. For a powerfully built man, he’d certainly acquitted himself well during the Killer, having run the obvious athlete, Sergeant Blake, a very close second. Allenby had proved capable of following instructions during the assault course, but had yet to prove his mettle in the physicality stakes. The men still needed to be tested for teamwork and tactical skills, but they’d have plenty of opportunity to show their talents during the upcoming trials. First though, they needed to whittle down the numbers by another one.

  He stood and rapped the handle of his knife on the bare wooden table top.

  “Okay, settle down,” he called above the unfocussed chatter and the screech of cutlery scraping crockery. He didn’t have to wait long for the noise to die and for all the candidate’s faces to turn towards him.

  “You’ll be interested to know that the medics have signed off Corporal Anders as fully recovered, but he won’t be joining us for the afternoon’s fun.” He paused to let the men absorb the implication before continuing. “The easy part’s over, and now you’re fed and watered, we can move on to the more serious stuff.”

  The candidates shot nervous and enquiring glances at each other, except for Allenby and Jenkinson, who stared at Kaine, their expressions showing interest, and their postures relaxed. Whether through bravado or confidence, Kaine couldn’t tell, but it wouldn’t take long to discover whether any confidence was justified.

  “From here on in, each exercise will be conducted under potential live fire conditions.” The men shuffled and nodded. Allenby remained stone-faced, but Jenkinson cracked a thin and expectant smile.

  “And by that, I mean you will be issued with standard weapons and blank rounds, but myself, Staff Sergeant Rollason, Corporal Pinkerton, and Private Simms will carry live ammunition. Follow our instructions and you’ll be safe. Any questions?”

  After a brief silence, Blake raised his hand and Kaine nodded for him to speak. “Will there be any explosive ordnance, sir?”

  “Potentially, yes,” Kaine answered. “Keep away from the clearly marked no-go areas. Try taking any shortcuts and you’ll probably end up as another unfortunate statistic. Mark this: from now on, you are to be on your guard at all times, day and night. Do I make myself clear?”

  When two of the men laughed nervously, clearly interpreting his words as a joke, Kaine turned to Rollo and nodded. “Sergeant Rollason, do you have anything to add?”

  “Thank you, Captain, I do indeed.”

  Never one to waste good food, Rollo pushed the last forkful of meat into his mouth, set down his cutlery, and pushed away his plate. He stood, dwarfing Kaine, who took the opportunity to take the weight off his legs.

  Pausing to scratch his heavy black beard and still chewing, Rollo stared at the men, unable to hide a sneer. The remaining five candidates, stared up at him, waiting in nervous anticipation. On Kaine’s left, Danny, head down and apparently oblivious to the ongoing drama, mopped the last of his gravy with a piece of bread roll and popped it into his mouth. Beside him, Slim Simms leaned against the back of his chair to watch the show.

  Eventually, Rollo swallowed his food and started his standard, quietly voiced, and mercifully brief health and safety lecture.

  “Just because this is a job interview, don’t be fooled into thinking the captain isn’t serious. He’s not one for covering the world in bovine excrement.” After another brief pause, this one met with total silence and more than one confused expression, he continued with, “DefTech operates in some of the world’s deadliest hotspots. As well as the gentle stuff like field testing new equipment and guarding the occasional visiting dignitary, we undertake operations no country’s military can get away with. Protection duty, hostage negotiations and retrieval, wet wo
rk. You name it, we’ll be in the frame for it, and we need to know our people are capable of coping with the shit thrown at them. Can’t have any room for doubt. If you wilt under fire, the whole company is likely to suffer. The only way this selection process can work is if we institute real world conditions. In short, we often go to war, and we need to see how you’ll operate under battle conditions.”

  To underline his point, Rollo quick-drew his sidearm, a Glock 17, aimed five centimetres over the head of the man in the middle of the group, and fired three times through the open window.

  The candidates weren’t to know that the bullets thumped harmlessly into the pile of sandbags placed outside specifically for the demonstration. Nor were they to know about the numerous “Out of Bounds” warning notices protecting the firing line. For added security, Kaine had even posted a man on either side of the target zone—it wasn’t possible to be too safety conscious with live ammo involved.

  The gun’s coughed reports echoed through the small wood-walled dining room, buffeting Kaine’s protected eardrums.

  The second Rollo pulled the Glock, and amid shouts, yelps, and expletives, Allenby dived to his left, taking Jenkinson with him to the perceived safety of the floor. Sergeant Kaplan, the man who’d finished fourth on the Killer, ducked for cover under the table with Corporal Blake.

  The blond man in the middle, Sergeant Fleetwood, former member of the RAF’s Special Reconnaissance Regiment, sat stiff and bolt-upright, mouth open, eyes wide. A fraction of a second later, he snapped into action and scrambled to join the others on the floor.

  No one else moved while Rollo de-cocked his Glock, slipped it back into its holster, and buttoned the safety strap. “As you were, gentlemen,” he ordered,

  Slowly, the candidates gathered their senses, climbed up from the floor, righted the fallen bench, and started dusting themselves off.

  Danny centred his knife and fork on his plate, removed the flesh-coloured sponge plugs he’d stuffed into his ears before dinner, and looked around him in apparent surprise.

  “Did I miss something?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

  Slim snorted, but said nothing.

  The candidates exploded into a raucous mixture of nervous laughter, angry cursing, self-recrimination, and relieved table-and-bench-straightening.

  “As you were, gentlemen,” Rollo repeated, this time, with a little more volume.

  The candidates resumed their earlier positions, until Danny rose to his feet and ordered them to, “Stand-By.”

  The candidates shuffled to the front edge of the bench, snapped their heels together, feet splayed at forty-five degrees, hands resting on their thighs, prepared to stand to attention. Danny said, “Rest easy, gentlemen,” and the men’s shoulders relaxed, but they remained silent, facing forwards.

  After he too, removed his ear defenders and allowed the candidates to recover their breathing, Kaine stood once again.

  “As I said, before Sergeant Rollason’s excellent demonstration, you need to be on your guard at all times between now and the end of the assessment. At all times.”

  The men returned his stare, exhibiting none of the relaxed confidence they’d shown earlier.

  “Now,” he continued, keeping his voice low and the inflection relaxed, “while you digest your meal and recover from the morning’s gentle looseners, Sergeant Rollason and Corporal Pinkerton will outline the afternoon’s programme. In the meantime, Sergeant Fleetwood”—he smiled at the former RAF man—“would you mind joining me outside for a moment?” He finished by tipping the nod to Rollo, Danny, and Slim, turning about-face, and exiting the dining room.

  Behind him, the crunch of boots stamping on the cracked linoleum flooring told him the thirty-two-year-old RAF man was in the process of following him through the door.

  Outside in the fresh Herefordshire air, the midday sun had lost none of its brilliance, but a freshening south-easterly breeze brought with it a hint of pine and a little relief from the morning’s intense heat.

  Kaine turned left out of the door, but made sure to keep in the relative cool of the building’s shadow. He stopped and waited for the serious-faced RAF man to arrive and stamp to attention before him.

  Fleetwood delivered a parade ground salute, which Kaine returned. “Stand easy, son.”

  The taller man stood at ease, a frown deepening the creases on his forehead. “You wanted tae see me, sir?”

  Kaine nodded, keeping his expression neutral and voice low. “Yes, I thought you’d prefer me to deliver the bad news away from the others.”

  Fleetwood’s frown turned into a full blow scowl and red flashes coloured his cheeks. The muscles in his jaw bunched and released, and he clearly struggled to control his emotions.

  “Bad news, sir?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve failed the assessment, Sergeant. I’m letting you go. Please collect your gear from the changing rooms.” Kaine offered a sympathetic smile.

  “But—”

  “Submit a chit for your travel expenses, with receipts, to the admin office and we’ll aim to reimburse you within two weeks.”

  After a sharp intake of breath, Fleetwood’s lips curled back, exposing his teeth. “Permission tae speak freely, Captain?” he snarled, spittle flying.

  Here we go.

  “Permission granted, Sergeant.”

  “Why?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Wouldnae have bloody well asked if I knew … sir,” he said with barely hidden contempt and, when Kaine didn’t respond immediately, he added, “Why are you letting me go when that fucking toe-rag, Jenkinson, arrives late and practically challenges you to a fuckin’ fight?”

  Kaine bit back his preferred retort and kept his voice even. “You’re slow reactions under fire concern me, Sergeant. I think you might struggle in the field. I’m unable to carry passengers. As for Corporal Jenkinson, he showed spirit, but I’m not about to stand here and debate my decision—”

  “Spirit? He showed spirit, did he? Insubordination is what I’d call it. This is fuckin’ horseshit. I’m a better man than any o’ those other—”

  Kaine shook his head. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m taking time to educate you, Sergeant.”

  Fleetwood, a good seven centimetres taller than Kaine and packing much more obvious muscle bulk, teetered forwards, biceps bulging, hands forming fists. The man was clearly a heartbeat or two away from losing control.

  “As I said, sir. This is total fuckin’ horseshit. I slogged my guts out on that parade ground this morning and just ’cause I was a little slow to react, you fuck—”

  “Take it easy, son. I know you’re upset, but you need to calm down before you embarrass yourself.”

  Fleetwood’s barely suppressed rage caused him to tremble. The sinews on his thick neck stretched taut and he leaned ever nearer, moving dangerously close to encroaching on Kaine’s personal space.

  Kaine awaited the inevitable explosion, fearing nothing he could say would ease the young man’s humiliation at being shown up as a coward.

  “Upset? Oh no, I’m no’ upset. I’m fucking pissed, wee man. We’d just finished eating after a lung-bursting race, and you’re bearded thug lays all that gunplay shite on us. He shot a fuckin’ gun, for Christ’s sake. I couldnae believe it. No wonder it took me a second tae move.”

  “The others reacted quickly enough, Sergeant. And you were given plenty of warning. I told you myself to be on your guard at all times. You needed more notice?”

  “Told me yoursel’, did ye?” Fleetwood said, waggling his head from side to side like a wooden-topped toy. “That was big of you, wee man.”

  Oh dear.

  Kaine tensed in preparation.

  “Now see here, you!” Fleetwood continued. “You’re nothing but a jumped up wee prick wi’ a Napoleon complex.”

  Kaine nodded and added a sad smile. “That’s as maybe, son, but you’re still going home early. The way it looked to me, you froze under fire. I’m sorry, but DefTech ca
n’t use you. In fact, I was concerned about you being wound a little tight and this current outburst confirms my opinion. You might consider enrolling in an anger-management—”

  “You fucking—”

  Kaine raised his right hand, index finger first, and waved it under Fleetwood’s nose. “Consider your next move very carefully, Sergeant. You’ve already embarrassed yourself. Take a swing at me and one of two things will happen.”

  Fleetwood tilted his head a little. “Oh aye? And what might they be, wee man? Gonna call for that giant bodyguard, Rollason, to protect ye now, are ye?”

  Kaine shook his head. “No. I fight my own battles, son.” He used the raised index finger as a counter. “One, you beat me to a pulp which, in my opinion, is highly unlikely, or, two”—he raised the middle finger alongside the first—“I put you a hospital bed. Either way, you’re not getting a job with DefTech. So, it’s your decision. Make your play.”

  Kaine splayed and stiffened the extended two fingers, but Fleetwood’s hesitation and rapid blinking told him the blinding finger-jab to the eyeballs—a move he’d used in close combat many times in his career—wouldn’t be required.

  Fleetwood’s blue eyes locked with Kaine’s for a moment, before he grunted through a sneer.

  “Ach, you’re no’ worth the sweat o’ my brow, ye wee bastard,” he hissed. Still sneering, he backed away a few paces before turning and hurrying towards the changing rooms.

  As Fleetwood disappeared around the corner of the mess building, Kaine relaxed his spread fingers and dropped his arm, and Rollo popped his head out of a nearby window.

  “I’ve called the gatehouse, Captain.”

  “Good idea. Better have our angry Scotsman escorted from the premises. Wouldn’t want him to stumble into any of our fireworks. He might do himself an injury.”

  “Does he know how close he came to losing his eyesight?”

  Kaine looked up at his friend. “I’d have gone easy on him and his vision. His anger management issues are going to cause him enough trouble in life if he doesn’t see a counsellor. He doesn’t need the added challenge of blindness.”