The Assessment

by Kerry J Donovan

  “PTSD, you reckon?”

  Kaine sighed. “Possibly. That’s what his medical discharge suggested.”

  “What the hell…” Rollo continued to speak but his voice faded as he pulled away from the window. Moments later, he appeared through the same doorway Kaine and Fleetwood used earlier. “Major Valence landed us with another dud, did he?”

  Kaine nodded and stepped into the sunlight, allowing the warmth to soak into his tightened shoulders. He needed a workout to smooth out the kinks and looked forward to facing the candidates on the evening’s exercise.

  “Looks that way. If I’d seen Fleetwood’s application in advance, I’d have rejected it. But Myra already sent the acceptance letter before I had the chance. Too late to cancel it, and I couldn’t easily countermand the boss’ orders. Would have been a frightfully bad show.” Kaine winked as he delivered the last line in a passable imitation of Gravel’s condescending Etonian drawl.

  Rollo’s reaction showed his annoyance at Gravel’s increasing interference in operational matters.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Sergeant Fleetwood has friends in high places. Daddy’s probably part of the MoD’s procurement team or a member of the major’s golf club.”

  Frowning, Kaine reached up to clap Rollo on the shoulder harder than necessary. “You’re running dangerously close to insubordination there, Staff Sergeant. Our esteemed leader uses his contacts to keep us all in work. Without his stalwart efforts, we’d all be working as bouncers at the local dancehall—or wherever the kids go for entertainment these days.”

  Rollo stared off into the distance, apparently studying the cloud formation gathering over the looming Malvern Hills to the west. “Perhaps, but sometimes … If Major Valence actually thought you’d allow a hothead like Fleetwood onto the team, the man’s a complete ….”

  Rollo allowed his words to trail off and looked away, as though concerned he’d overstepped the bounds of civility. He needn’t have worried. Rollo’s remarks wouldn’t have stretched far beyond Kaine’s own reaction to Gravel’s interference. The time for a serious talk with Major Valence was fast approaching.

  Although DefTech was Gravel’s baby, and he owned ninety percent of the company compared with Kaine’s ten, Kaine held full responsibility for both its operational effectiveness and the men’s wellbeing. Gravel’s attempt to interfere with selection didn’t bode well for the long-term future of the fledgling organisation. If Kaine resigned in protest, Rollo, Danny, and Slim would leave too, making DefTech little more than a shell, incapable of performing to the high level of competence Gravel’s fee structure demanded.

  Yes, Kaine had some leverage. He’d failed to utilise it in the past, but maybe the time had come to push back.

  Rollo straightened, bringing himself to his full height and creating a large shadow. “Ah well, mustn’t grumble, I suppose.” He turned to face Kaine. “With your permission, Captain, I’ll go make sure the angry Sergeant ‘doesnae make a bigger nuisance o’ hisself’ than he already has. Wouldn’t put it past the young hothead to kick up more of a fuss.”

  Kaine grinned. “Permission granted, Staff Sergeant.” He checked his watch. “Don’t take too long, though. The afternoon’s activities start in thirty.”

  Chapter 5

  The Evening’s Entertainment — Big Jenks

  Nothing’s happening. Been this way for fucking ages.

  Slowly, I tap the glass on my watch. The chuffing thing must have stopped working. Nope, still ticking, but too bloody slowly. For ages now, I’ve been prepped and eager for action.

  Me, I hate hanging around doing nothing. Can’t wait to get moving. The inactivity is killing me.

  After four and a half hours lying still and silent in the shadows under a mound of rotting leaves and sweating like a hooker in the confessional, it’s closing in on the time to move.

  The sun’s nearly set, and the shadows are lengthening, giving me and Commando Tom deeper shade, and making the temperature slightly more comfortable. At least the enforced rest has allowed me plenty of time to review the details of the mission.

  Before the briefing, André split us into Teams Alpha and Bravo.

  Commando Tom and me were a natural fit as Alphas, the “A Team”, which left Connor Blake and Boris Kaplan—Blondie—as Team Bravo. Even though I made out like I was only joshing, neither seemed to enjoy me calling them the “B Team” or the “second stringers”.

  When Captain Runt—nah, better get used to giving the hero of the Normandy Star Hijack due respect— Captain Kaine started the overview briefing, I concentrated hard. We all did. With only four candidates left, things were starting to get serious. The scenario he outlined went something like this.

  Setting: Afghanistan.

  Military intelligence—an oxymoron if ever I heard one—have captured a high-ranking terrorist and waterboarded him into giving them the location of an unprotected weapons cache. Unprotected except by a tribe of local Taliban insurgents, all armed to the teeth and really angry, apparently.

  Teams Alpha and Bravo were to “parachute” behind enemy lines and destroy the dump before the enemy got wind of the information leak and had the chance to shift it. Each team was to be given a pack of dummy plastic explosives and a mock-up of a detonator. The first team to blow the dump won an all-access pass to the barracks, a hot meal, and progress into Day Two. The fate of the losing team wasn’t detailed, but we guessed they’d be sent packing.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Team Alpha was gonna win the day. None at all. Compared to the other two, Commander Tom and I were totally superior specimens. I didn’t say as much out loud, but Team Bravo seemed to think along similar lines and kept quiet while we were kitting up.

  Captain Kaine said he had other things to do and left the rest of the briefing to his underlings, André, Pinkie, and the one they called Slim, which was ridiculous, ’cause the mutt’s a real beefcake with muscles on muscles. No matter how hard I tried, I still couldn’t force myself to call them by their real names, Rollason, Pinkerton, and Simms. Thus far, they’d yet to earn my respect. That rarely happens and, whenever it does, always takes a while.

  André carried on with the briefing.

  Satellite coverage in the area—designated a northern Province—was intermittent at best, and we had to guard against insurgent intervention. If we were spotted by any of the locals, we lost.

  Basically, reading between the lines, we were in a low-budget war game.

  Needless to say, Commando Tom and I weren’t about to let the B Team take our places on Day Two.

  Hell no.

  At that point, Boris Kaplan’s hand shot up like he was in a classroom, trying to attract the attention of his favourite teacher.

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “How we going to get past anyone using half-decent surveillance equipment, Staff? I mean if we’re facing people with infra-red scopes, movement sensors, and night vision equipment we won’t stand a cat-in-hell’s chance of getting anywhere near the target.”

  “Good point, Sergeant,” André conceded, “but, for the purposes of this exercise, while the enemy will be highly skilled and ferocious, they are a little behind the times. You can assume they’re armed with nothing more high tech than handguns, Kalashnikovs, and field glasses. We’re giving you a fighting chance to slip through enemy lines and impress us with your finely honed fieldcraft skills. Does that put your mind at rest, Sergeant Kaplan?”

  “Yes, Staff.”

  “Any other questions?”

  When no one spoke, he ordered us to relax and get ready for the op.

  An hour or so later, the teams were taken by Land Rover to two separate start locations, apparently equidistant from the target site, the ammo dump.

  Pinkie drove Team Bravo, and André drove us. Ain’t got no idea what Slim was up to.

  Since Captain Kaine had made himself scarce in the middle of the briefing, I assumed the bigwig was sitting in his office with his feet up. Taking it e
asy and taking the piss, like all officers the world over.

  Still, as the boss, he probably thinks he’s earned the right. Maybe he has.

  By late afternoon, we’d been driving about forty minutes. Tom and I were on the hard wooden bench seats running along the sides of the ancient Land Rover’s rear bay. Shit, the benches weren’t half tough on the bones of my arse. My enthusiasm for the chuffing selection process was fading fast. If I didn’t need the job so much … Still, no point griping. I did need the job and I would win the process.

  A couple of miles after roaring through a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, André braked hard and screeched a sharp right onto an overgrown farm lane. Commando Tom and I had to hold tight to the grab straps to stop ourselves being bucked out the back and onto the dry-packed earth.

  We bounced and rattled along the deeply rutted track for a mile or so, generally climbing uphill, before André stamped on the brakes and we clattered to a stop in front of a five-bar gate. André ordered Tom to open the gate and he jumped out to follow the instructions.

  Then the giant roared the battered Land Rover into a cluttered yard and pulled inside a disintegrating barn. Corrugated iron panels hung from the rusting framework, squeaking in the light summer breeze. The knackered building seemed in danger of collapsing under its own weight. It looked as though a stiff wind would have the whole thing crashing down around our ears.

  Lovely jubbly.

  André twisted in his seat and threw us an evil grin. “Okay, lads. This is your stop. If you didn’t take note, the village back there is Broadway Downs. Find it on the map, work out your location, and plot the route to the dump from here. The map’s in there”—he nodded to the envelope he’d given Tom before we left base—“but don’t open it until I tell you.”

  Tom had been clutching the envelope tight, as though afraid of losing the chuffing thing. As if I’d ever let that happen.

  The giant continued talking. “For the purpose of this exercise, the sectors marked with the orange cross-hatching are designated as minefields. Out of bounds. Enter any of them and you’re disqualified.”

  “How will you know where we go?” Tom asks.

  André nods in appreciation. “Good question.”

  Score one point for the square-jawed commando.

  Damn it.

  “We sewed trackers into your rucksacks. Remove them and—”

  “We’re disqualified?” I piped up.

  “Don’t interrupt me, Corporal.”

  Fuck!

  Score one demerit for me.

  Tom shot me a strange look I could only read as pity. Of course, I should have shut the fuck up and listened, but I was buzzing. We were about to start work and I’ve always loved this shit. Out in the field, living on my wits. Can’t beat it.

  “Mind if I continue, Jenkinson?”

  I dipped my head. “Sorry, Staff.”

  “The areas marked in red are military encampments.”

  “Out of bounds?” I ask, unable to resist.

  André shook his head. “Not necessarily, but those segments are filled with insurgents and littered with the type of live ordnance Captain Kaine mentioned during lunch. Wander inside any of those areas and we won’t need to disqualify you. In fact, I doubt we’ll find enough of you left to scrape into a body bag and send home to your families.”

  He paused long enough to scratch his beard before continuing.

  “Okay, here are your final rules of engagement.” He counted each rule off on his fat fingers. “One: no interaction with the local civilians or the opposing team, and no trespassing on private property. Two: no stealing from the locals. That means no ‘borrowing’ transportation or anything else. You need to make your way to the ammo dump on foot, using only the equipment we’ve provided. Three: keep away from the roads. Apart from the fields and woodland, you’re only allowed to use lanes and footpaths, and keep your tracks to a minimum. Four: no external communications allowed. In your rucksack”—he nodded at me—“you’ll find a two-way radio. Keep it powered up, but use it for emergency evac only. And I’m talking life-threatening injuries. Call me out of my nice warm bed for a hangnail or a busted leg and I’ll be really pissed. Understood?”

  We both nodded.

  “Questions?”

  “Is there a time limit, Staff?” I ask.

  “Good question, at last.”

  I winced at the backhanded compliment but, for once, I kept my mouth shut.

  “Nope. Take all weekend if you like. So long as you’re first team to blow the dump, you’ll win.”

  No time limit. I found that really interesting.

  It gave me an idea, but I kept it to myself for a while, working on a way to convince Tom later, when we were alone.

  “Just remember to keep your heads down and avoid being spotted. Don’t let the Russian sniper draw a line on you.”

  “Sniper?” Tom and I said in unison.

  “Yes, didn’t we mention it during the outline briefing?” André asked, his eyes widening, all innocent, like.

  “No, Staff,” Tom said, “you didn’t.”

  André tut-tutted and shook head. “Oops, my bad. I’ll have a word with myself about that. It’s not too late to withdraw if the stakes are too high for you, but remember, this is a team exercise. If one of you pulls out, you’re both liable to face the boot. You both need to finish. Understood?”

  “Yes, Staff,” we answered, again in unison.

  I raised my hand and André nodded for me to speak. “These trackers sewn into our rucksacks.”

  “What about them?”

  “The sniper’s gonna be able to use them to know where we are, right? How are we going to get past him?”

  André’s eyes widened and he tilted his giant head at me. “Another good question, Jenkinson. You’re on a roll, son.”

  Score another point to Big Jenks. I mentally patted myself on the back and waited, but the big guy didn’t answer my question.

  “Thanks, Sarge, but the trackers?” I urged.

  “They’re GPS data loggers, not transmitters. We’ll only know where you’ve been once we download the data back at base. Don’t be tempted to dump the rucksacks and collect them after the exercise, though. We’ll be able to tell.”

  I nodded my understanding. At my side, Tom did the same.

  “Finally,” André said, “inside your rucksacks you’ll find the usual subsistence rations, a compass, and a small medical kit. Any more questions? No?” He checked his watch. “Okay, out you get.”

  We grabbed our packs and jumped from the back of the truck. Tom started to open the envelope, but André, still looking at his watch, held up a hand to stop him. “Wait for it, Sergeant Allenby. Wait for it.”

  He kept us waiting another two minutes until our synchronised watches read 16:45.

  “Okay gentlemen,” André said, “you have fifteen minutes to familiarise yourselves with the map and plan your route. I suggest you use them wisely.”

  Tom tore open the envelope, dropped to his knees, and spread the map on the grubby concrete floor. I took a knee beside him. A scrap of paper was attached to the top of the map with printed co-ordinates to the ammo dump.

  “You find our current location,” I suggested, “Broadway Downs is at the bottom of a valley running from northwest to southeast. I’ll find the target.”

  Using the coordinates it only took me a few seconds. My heart sank. I double-checked my map reading. Yep, typical. The dump was slap in the middle of a chuffing lake. A small lake, but a lake, just the same.

  Shit.

  I should have twigged. This assessment was being run by ex-navy, SBS men. They were bound to add some water to the mix. Before I had time to curse out loud, Tom jabbed a finger at the bottom left-hand corner of the map.

  “Here we are. Fuck!”

  It was the first time I’d heard him swear, but the cuss was justified.

  A direct line from us to the ammo dump measured less than eight kilometres, but tw
o of the orange no-go areas blocked the most efficient route. We’d have to go the long way round to avoid them, which would add at least another seven kilometres to our journey.

  Worse still, the lake with the ammo dump was completely inside the only black cross-hatched hot zone on the map. The no-go area would undoubtedly contain the “Russian” sniper, who I was beginning to think might be Captain Kaine himself, the sneaky SBS … hero.

  The exercise just got a hell of a lot tougher.

  Between us and the dump, the terrain to the west was a mix of fields, woods, steep hills and valleys, streams, and small lakes. The easiest route I could find ran in an anticlockwise direction, edging to the north and east, and included large strips of open land. Although my chosen route added even more distance to our trek, the going would be easier and faster. Trouble is, in broad daylight, we’d be totally exposed for most of the first half of it. My earlier idea took on more relevance. It looked more reasonable, although I’d have to play it just right when pitching it to Commando Tom.

  André fired up the Land Rover again, shouted, “Okay Team Alpha. You’re on your own,” and reversed out of the barn in a cloud of dust, dead leaves, and chicken feathers.

  No “Goodbye and good luck”, nothing.

  We stayed on our knees, studying the map without speaking until the note of the Land Rover’s powerful diesel engine faded into the distance.

  I broke the eerie silence. “You ready?”

  Commando Tom nodded. “Sure am. We’re gonna smash this.”

  They were pretty much the first words of encouragement he’d spoken since we’d been teamed up. A man of few words, my enforced team mate.

  With a fingertip, I traced my preferred north-easterly route on the map. “I reckon this is the fastest way.”

  “Sure is, but with all that open land, it’ll be risky.”

  “I’ve got an idea about that.”

  “So have I, but you go first.”