The Assessment

by Kerry J Donovan

  Chapter 11

  Low Flying Bullets — Big Jenks

  With the Bergens back in place and securely fastened and our SA80s in hand, Tom and I return to the start line as Rollason calls the one-minute time check. Team Bravo sidle up alongside, looking as nervous as they ought to be. They might be fit and fast, but we’re bigger and stronger, and on the assault course, as in life, size matters.

  “Right, gentlemen. Thirty seconds. Are you ready to rumble?”

  What is this, a jungle prize fight?

  The sun is up, the sky is cloud free, and there’s almost no wind. The SA80 already seems to weigh more than it did when I first picked it up. Despite my confidence, my heart is racing and my throat is dry. Nerves are kicking in, which is a good thing. The nerves will spur me on.

  Tom winks at me and I nod back. We’re ready to kick some Bravo arse. The one thing concerning me is the whereabouts of Captain Kaine and Private Simms. They’re on the course somewhere. I can almost smell them.

  Rollason shouts, “Ready, set, go!” and we’re off, jogging a steady pace. A flat out sprint in full battledress and Bergen would be foolhardy, and me and Tom ain’t fools.

  We’re half way along the starting straight before the whistle starts Team Bravo, and their pounding footsteps and heavy breathing spurs Tom and me into a faster pace.

  The first station, a rope swing over a muddy pit, is tough with the added weight of the Bergen. We have to sling the rifles across our shoulders to free our hands, but it’s a breeze for Team Alpha and we’re well away by the time the others have hit the ropes.

  Next station is the first set of zig-zag logs over a muddy pit, fifteen metres across. Arms thrown wide for balance, I make the other side slightly ahead of Tom. Team Bravo have yet to reach the start.

  After navigating a few over and under hurdles, next in line is the first load of crawl netting. We dive flat, roll onto our sides to stop the Bergens and SA80s snagging on the ropes, and start our scramble.

  Then the world erupts!

  Jesus!

  Close to our right, two huge explosions throw turf, mud, and stones into the air. The sounds rippling up through the ground vibrate through my chest and ears, and I freeze for a second. Smoke drifts across the course, blocking the sun, but barely moving in the still air.

  Away to my left, I catch sight of a grim-faced Captain Kaine and a smiling Private Simms. The earth erupts again as another explosion threatens eardrums and limbs. Kaine pulls the butt of a GPMG into his shoulder. While Simms feeds the ammo belt into the breach, the captain aims. He starts firing and the gun bucks. Muzzle flashes beat the multiple clatter of exploding shells—light travels faster than sound. Bullets plough little furrows in the earth, stitching a neat seam that passes close in front of our heads. Too bloody close. One bullet clips the netting less than a metre in front of Tom’s outstretched left hand. Another thumps into the soft earth next to my left hip.

  Fucking hell!

  Still on my side, I wriggle forwards, panting, kicking, pulling on the netting, desperate to work my way clear of the restrictive ropework. The big wall’s up ahead. It’ll offer us some protection.

  Despite the fact I know this is nothing but an exercise and there ain’t no real danger, I’m fighting a growing panic. Desperate to get out from under the netting, I turn onto my front and crawl. I’m sweating buckets, trying to clamber free, but … I’m stuck.

  Something’s caught on the rope netting.

  Shit!

  Bullets fly over my exposed neck, close enough for me to feel their heat and the movement of air. I flail and kick but I’m wedged tight. Can’t move.

  Can’t fucking move!

  Raise my head little. Look back and around. The muzzle of my rifle’s wedged into a hole in the net. I struggle to free it, but it ain’t working. An arm brushes my shoulder. Blake, sweating and blowing hard, wriggles past, leaving me trapped. Kaplan’s the far side of him. They’re both moving ahead of me while I’m floundering, like a beached fucking whale.

  Where the hell’s Tom? Movement over my head casts a low shadow. I twist and crane my neck. Tom’s clear of the obstacle and crouching low to the ground.

  “What the hell’s keeping you?” he screams over the next volley of rifle fire and another concussive crump of multiple landmine explosions. Black smoke thickens around us.

  “My rifle’s stuck! Can’t reach it. Don’t just stand there, man. Give me a hand.”

  He dives back under the net. Moments later, I’m free, yelling my thanks, and we’re on our bellies, snake-squirming towards safety.

  The smoke clears enough for me to catch a glimpse of the wall. Kaplan’s straddling the top, leaning down to take one of their Bergens from Blake.

  “Fuck,” I shout, “they’re nearly over. Move!”

  Ignoring the flying rubble and the bullets fizzing all around, we jump up as one and sprint the final few metres to the wall. We thump against it, allowing our Bergens to take the impact.

  Kaplan’s in the middle of hauling up the second Bergen. It won’t be long before he’s helping Blake up and over. After that, it’s a relatively easy run to the finish—unless the simulated bombardment continues.

  With no time to recover, we struggle out of our Bergens and settle our rifles back over our shoulders. If we drop and damage them, it’ll be instant disqualification. We’re up against the clock, and I scream, “Sling the Bergens up and over! Yours first.”

  I expect an argument, but Tom’s quick on the uptake. We take a shoulder strap each, plant a hand under the base, and, on my command, heave it upwards. His Bergen sails clear over the wall and we repeat the operation with mine. Without waiting to congratulate ourselves, I interlace my fingers into a stirrup. Tom steps up. Two bounces later, I boost him to the top of the wall, where he straddles, braces with his knees, and leans down.

  Seconds later, we’re both on the safe side of the wall beside a disappointed-looking Kapan and Blake, strapping ourselves back into our Bergens.

  The detonations and gunfire stops as abruptly as it started, leaving nothing but the smoke in the air, the harsh odour of high explosives, and a sharp ringing in my ears.

  I clap Tom on the shoulder, his Bergen’s secure, as is mine. We race off, flying before Team Bravo can even react. One more zig-zag balance beam, another netting crawl, a second rope swing, a ten-metre climb up and down cargo netting, and a final sprint has us staggering over the finish line in a laughing, panting dead heat.

  Team Alpha, winners again.

  Connor Blake and Boris Kaplan finish a few seconds later and collapse onto their hands and knees, exhausted in defeat.

  Tom and I barely have the energy to help them to their feet, but we do. Big Jenks is nothing if not magnanimous.

  Fuck, I’m good. I’m so very, very good.

  “Nice one, Tom,” I manage as we dust ourselves off. “Thanks for … you know … the net.”

  Still breathing heavily, but already recovering, he nods. “You’re okay, mate. Couldn’t leave you there. We’re a team.”

  “Thanks anyway. Bloody muzzle caught up in the net. Never had that before.”

  “Might have happened to anyone.”

  Staff Sergeant Rollason, who’s been dogging our every move, claps his hands. “If you’ve quite finished congratulating each other, let’s do that once again, shall we?”

  The four of us stop breathing and snap around to face him. I swear, Kaplan looks as though he’s going to burst into tears. Feel like bawling myself.

  “Say what, Staff?” Tom asks.

  Staff Sergeant Rollason frowns and stares at us each in turn, ending up with me. Laughter starts as a quiet rumble in the back of his throat, but it soon builds into a window-rattling roar. “Oh my Lord. The look on your faces. Priceless.”

  A joke? The big ugly mother is laughing at us. What sort of a moron cracks a joke at a time like this?

  Slowly, the others join in, starting with Blake, whose laugh is a cross between a hiccup and a
cough. Kaplan chuckles quietly, and Tom’s bellow is almost infectious enough to have me joining in, but I’m too pissed.

  Bunch of clowns.

  Where they get the energy to laugh after what we’ve just been through is a fucking mystery. I’m saving mine for the next round.

  Back down the hill in the middle of the course, the captain and Simms are breaking down the GPMG, making it safe. The fucker doesn’t care how or what we’ve done. He’s not even looking our way. For half a quid, I’d run down the hill and ram the bugger’s teeth down his throat.

  Maybe I’ll get the chance later. Roll on the unarmed combat session.

  Despite myself, I start laughing. Tom slaps the back of my Bergen. Fool probably thinks I’m joining in the revelry.

  Yeah, right.

  Chapter 12

  Impressive, but …

  The moment the candidates scaled the big wall and dropped from sight, Kaine released the trigger and lowered the L7A2’s stock to its protective matting, satisfied the exercise had accomplished its task. He’d seen more than enough of the candidates under fire. Each had acquitted themselves well.

  Allenby and Jenkinson’s display was particularly impressive—especially the way they tackled the wall.

  “Okay, Slim,” he shouted over the receding echoes. “That’s more than enough for the moment. Let’s secure the hardware.”

  Slim unclipped the ammo belt from the breech, fed the remains back into its metal case, and secured its locks. While the GPMG’s smoking barrel cooled, Kaine removed the ear defenders and allowed Slim to do the same before speaking again, this time more quietly.

  “What do you think of our candidates so far?”

  “Seen worse.”

  Kaine smiled at the taciturn private’s monosyllabic response and removed the key from the electronic detonator to make both the no-go areas safe. Two mines remained intact. He, Danny, and Slim would remove and store the devices while Rollo debriefed the candidates and sent them to the showers. After that, Kaine still needed to complete the Live Fire Report.

  More bloody paperwork.

  “Thanks for that in-depth analysis, Private Simms.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Kaine touched the back of his fingers to the middle of the barrel—cool enough to work with. He stripped the weapon down to its major components—barrel, stock, breech, scope, and bipod stand—and packed them into the compartmented canvas carrying wrap, ready for cleaning later that afternoon.

  Slim jumped to his feet and dusted himself down. Kaine did the same and led the way to the first no-go area where one of the remaining mines rested next to its bright orange flag. No need to hide or bury the mines when they were only being used for exercise purposes.

  “Okay, Private. Let’s take our time here. I value all my fingers and toes.”

  His levity generated the sliver of a grin from Slim, a man Kaine had trusted with his life on numerous occasions in operational theatres around the world.

  Twenty minutes later, with both UXBs made safe, boxed, and securely locked into the munitions store alongside the GPMG and its ammo box, Kaine crossed the parade ground, heading to his temporary office. Slim strode alongside, step in step.

  Kaine waited until he, Rollo, and Danny were safely ensconced inside his spartan office, seated across the desk from each other with mugs of coffee in hand, before starting the debrief.

  In front of Kaine on the desk were four personnel folders, each open to the first page, and each facing Rollo and Danny. He’d already memorised the relevant details on each man.

  “Rollo,” he said, tapping an index finger on the first file, “your thoughts on Kaplan, please.”

  Rollo inhaled slowly through his nose, before pursing his lips. “Weakest of the bunch, but not by much. Willing and skilful in terms of weapons handling, but I don’t think he’s much of a leader. I’d like to see how he performs in the grappling before making my final recommendation.”

  Kaine glanced across at Danny, who nodded his agreement.

  “What about Sergeant Blake? Danny, you first this time.”

  Danny sat up slightly straighter in his stiff-backed chair, gave Rollo a sideways glance as though asking permission, before venturing his considered assessment. “I like him, sir. He won yesterday’s Killer and led Team Bravo well enough. Again, I’m looking forward to seeing how he does on the mat.”

  “Rollo?”

  The big sergeant took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and added an extra teaspoon of sugar from the packet on the table. “Blake’s a real candidate, Captain. He knows his weapons and performed pretty well under fire. His endurance can’t be denied, but he’s a little lightweight. I’m not sure how strong he is, although he carried his load well enough on the assault course.”

  Kaine leaned forwards and placed his index finger above a box on the top page of Blake’s file. “Sergeant Blake is ten kilos heavier than me, Staff Sergeant Rollason.” He added a scowl and spoke with mock severity.

  “Exactly, Captain Kaine,” Rollo shot back, hiding a chuckle, “and we all know what a lightweight you are and how feeble. You can barely carry your own weight, let alone a fully loaded Bergen. Can’t remember how many times me and Danny have pulled your chestnuts out of the fire … sir.”

  Danny closed his eyes, clearly wanting no part in the joshing.

  “Yes,” Kaine said, “and I’m ever so grateful. Don’t know where I’d be without you big strapping fellows looking out for poor little old me. Stop smiling, Danny. This is no laughing matter.”

  Danny’s eyes opened wide, and he sat up straight in his chair. “Sir, I—”

  “Relax, Danny,” Kaine interrupted, raising his hand to placate the younger man. “We’re having a moment, here. So what about our commando, Sergeant Allenby?”

  “Top notch, Captain,” Rollo volunteered. “Not put a foot wrong all weekend. Quick on his feet. Strong and easy-going, but with a spine of steel. In my opinion, he’s the real deal.”

  “But he had a pass on the Killer,” Danny said. “He’s bound to be fresher than the others.”

  “We gave him a pass on the Killer because he’s bright enough to follow instructions,” Rollo countered. “Way I see it, brain beats brawn every time. Am I right, Captain?”

  “Without the shadow of a doubt. But when an unarmed genius comes up against a moron with a gun, I’d probably put my money on the moron.”

  “Unless the genius is a captain in the Special Boat Service?”

  Kaine waved a hand over the desk. “You give me too much credit, Rollo.”

  “You, Captain?” Rollo asked, a serious frown gouging deep lines into his forehead. “Not a bit of it. I was talking about Luke Poulsen, from C Squadron. Remember him, Danny? A big man, Captain Poulsen. Powerful. A man you could follow into bat—”

  “Okay, Rollo. You made your point. What about, Jenkinson? Has he proved himself worthy of Gravel’s support?”

  “So far, I’d say he’s done just that, sir,” Rollo answered. “His performance has been pretty good. Top notch, in fact. Towards the front on every task. Finished first in the assault course walkthrough, second place in the Killer, too. Team Alpha won the overnighter, don’t forget. And Jenkinson performed well on the assault course this afternoon.”

  “Danny, your thoughts on our late arrival, please.”

  Danny drained his mug and cupped it in both hands. “Not an easy man to judge, Captain. Seems to work quite well with Commando Tom—”

  “Allenby?” Kaine interrupted.

  “That’s right, sir. The candidates have taken to calling him Commando Tom. No idea why, but he seems okay with it. As Team Alpha, Jenkinson and Allenby have worked well and come out on top in two really tough tests.”

  Kaine nodded and looked at Rollo. “Are Jenkinson’s weapons skills any good?”

  “Excellent. The man knows his small arms well enough. He stripped and rebuilt his GRPG inside thirty seconds. Not bad for a man who’s been out of the service for close to a
year. Yes, I’d mark him down as a possible.”

  Danny’s eyes narrowed, and he lowered his mug to the heavily stained desktop.

  “Anything to add, Danny?”

  “Not much, sir. Except …” He hesitated, seemingly unwilling to add anything derogatory.

  “Except?” Kaine prompted.

  “The Sarge is right, sir. Jenkinson’s performance has been impressive throughout, but there’s something about him that doesn’t sit right. Afraid I can’t say any more than that, sir.”

  “Thanks, Danny,” Kaine said. “Rollo, does Jenkinson give you the same vibe?”

  Rollo hiked his shoulders into a shrug. “Not really, Captain. But, then again, you know what a sensitive soul Danny’s always been.” Danny stiffened, and Rollo held up a hand to forestall what was likely to be a robust character defence. “But before you get all uppity, Corporal Pinkerton, I have every faith in your ability to pick up nuances that this barnacled old sailor might have missed.”

  Danny settled back into his chair, clearly placated.

  “In short,” Kaine said, “Corporal Arthur Jenkinson is ‘impressive, but …’, yes?”

  “That’s right, sir,” Rollo said. “Precisely.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve given me plenty to think about. Go have a bite to eat. I’ll meet you in the gym at 18:00 for the Grand Finale. Should be rather stimulating.”

  Rollo and Danny left the room, giving Kaine time to chew over the information. He closed each file and stacked them in order of preference: Allenby on top, followed by Blake and then Kaplan. Kaine placed Jenkinson’s file to one side and read it again from start to finish.

  Impressive, but ….

  Hardly a ringing endorsement, but no better than Kaine had already surmised.

  Chapter 13

  Takedown — Big Jenks

  It’s 18:00 on the dot. We’ve had sandwiches and a drink—I chose water—and we’re back in the gym in our PT fatigues, as instructed. They haven’t told us what’s about to happen, but according to Tom’s mate, it’s time to demonstrate our hand-to-hand fighting credentials.