by Tom Benson
Phil said, “Did you see the incident involving Colin?”
“Yes,” Ian said. “I witnessed what Fitzpatrick did with the machine-gun, but none of us realised that anybody had been killed.”
“Was it definitely Fitzpatrick?”
“Yes. Of the four people inside the lab, I was closest to the front door. I knew a team would be sent to get me out, but I could only guess how many would be involved and how the plan was to work.” He sipped his beer and stared out of the window.
Ian went on. “I heard the Glasgow accent, and it caught my attention. I thought our visitor, Fitzpatrick, had already gone. As I said before, he’d been in the lab boasting to us in English about going to live in his castle, thinking none of us would understand him.”
Phil said, “Are you sure about the other three chemists all being genuine South Americans?”
“Yes, I’ve no doubt about them. I was kept in the loop. Their identities were proven when we got them out of there.”
“I’m sorry,” Phil said. “You were going to tell me about Fitzpatrick.”
“He had been in the lab, essentially for a tour to see the product being processed and made ready for shipment. The two Colombian guys called him out to watch the treatment and execution of the peasant farmer. It was a while later I heard Fitzpatrick’s voice again. As I said, to me his accent was unmistakable.”
“Fitzpatrick asked one of the Colombians to give him a machine gun. Those guys are usually touchy about other people being armed, but they exchanged a look and gave him a weapon. One of them carried an Uzi when outside of the lab area. Anyway, Fitzpatrick said something like, ‘Beware of Special Forces and the Drug Enforcement Administration’. He emptied a full magazine into the jungle undergrowth, moving the barrel from left to right.”
Phil said, “There wasn’t a response from the team?”
“Not a whisper. When the Colombians saw Fitzpatrick off in the 4 x 4, a couple of the SAS team were at the back window and got all four of us out quietly. They took us into the jungle, and we ran.” Ian took a drink of his beer before he continued.
“Jake caught up with us at the RV point. He and Colin had both been in positions to act as a rearguard to ensure we were all ex-filtrated safely. When Colin didn’t arrive at the RV, Jake went back and found him riddled with bullets.”
Ian drank more beer and remained silent for a few seconds, staring to his front.
“Jake shot both of the Colombians in the legs and pushed them into the pond. He then set fire to the lab. By that time he didn’t care about the simultaneous operations across Colombia. The other two team members had to convince him not to go after Fitzpatrick in the Colombian’s vehicle.”
“Was anybody else hit?”
“Yes, Daz, one of the other team members took a bullet in the arm, but Mash patched him up.”
“Did Jake say what he did about Colin’s body?”
“I overheard what he did because the other two guys asked him. He spoke a bit quieter when he talked about his friend, but I believe he dragged Colin to the nearby river, stripped him and slipped his body into the water.
From what I could make out, he threw Colin’s uniform on the burning lab. The man was Jake’s best friend, but he had orders that no trace could be left behind. It was a bad time. We still had several hours to travel through the jungle.”
Phil said, “The shit will hit the fan high-up if he’s pissed-off any of the brass.”
“Have you ever lost a team member like that?”
“Yes, mate,” Phil said. “It’s challenging to retain control—including personally.”
“I think it’s going to take a long time for Jake to get over it.”
Phil said, “What happened when you got clear of the jungle?”
“The DEA guys separated all four of us scientists. When the others were out of sight, I was handed over to Jake’s team. Some guy in a suit came and spoke to Jake and his guys. The diplomat didn’t look too happy.” Ian took another pull from his can.
“Some DEA guy wanted to speak to Jake, but he had disappeared, and neither Daz nor Mash were admitting any knowledge of his whereabouts. We flew out a day late, but only after the DEA and Jake had words.” Ian shook his head at the memory. “When we landed in the UK I found out there might be an inquiry about the operation.”
“Where did Jake go to when he disappeared?”
“Daz said something about Jake needing to get his head straight.”
Phil nodded. If Jake wanted to talk about it, then it would be in his own good time. Phil took a pull from his can. “I don’t see Fitzpatrick going back to prison.”
“Are you going to get Fitzpatrick, Phil?”
“No mate,” Phil said without turning. “Jake will get to Fitzpatrick. I’ll be making sure everybody else is kept clear.”
“What could happen if an inquiry goes ahead regarding the operation in Colombia?”
“Jake could be kicked out of the SAS. If it looks that way, he might leave so that he doesn’t cause the unit to be shown in a bad light. It would reduce, or possibly prevent publicity.”
“You mean, do the honourable thing, like you did back in ’96?”
Phil nodded and took a pull from his can of beer.
“When you become a member of The Regiment, you do so in the knowledge that you’ll give everything. The longer you serve, the less likely you are to allow the reputation to be damaged. That’s why guys like Jake and me will fall on our sword first.”
Ian glanced sideways at Phil for a moment. “I suppose when you work so hard to earn that winged-dagger cap badge, you wouldn’t want to bring dishonour.”
Phil nodded, and for the next few minutes, he recalled brave men who had died in active service for The Regiment. Apart from the famous motto, ‘Who Dares Wins’, another regimental maxim came to mind, ‘Moderation and excellence in all things’.
It always struck Phil that it was difficult to give your life—in moderation.
32. Beds and Breakfasts
.
Wednesday 21st July
River Clyde
Western Scotland
Mike steered west from the city in his twenty-one-foot cruiser Per Mare, Per Terram. He allowed the boat to travel along at steady speed as he watched the smaller towns and villages on both sides of the Clyde fall behind.
“Here you go, Skipper.” Sinbad climbed from below with two coffees in plastic mugs. “White and one sugar.”
“Cheers Sinbad.” Mike tested the brew straight away. “Not bad.”
“I’ll take that as a fuckin’ compliment then.” Sinbad laughed. He’d only been in Mike’s company for a couple of hours, but there was something about the man that he liked. What wasn’t there to like? Mike was a hard bastard, and he repaired and sold motorbikes.
For a short while, the pair stood side by side as the blue and white boat skipped gently over the rippling water. It was a warm day with a light breeze, which made it perfect for their journey up the west coast of Scotland.
Sinbad nodded towards the tattoo on Mike’s upper arm. “I thought I recognised that motto when I saw the name of your boat, but I didn’t want to show my ignorance.” On Mike’s arm was Per Mare, Per Terram wrote across a Commando dagger.
“Royal Marines isn’t it?” Sinbad said. “By Land, By Sea.”
“Good lad,” Mike said. “You got it exactly right.”
“I worked with the teams a couple of times off the African coast.”
“Zimluto?”
“Yeah, it was great watching your guys in action. I sometimes thought I might transfer ....” Sinbad’s words trailed away, and he sipped his coffee.
Mike saw the distant look in the biker’s eyes and knew to leave the topic for the time being. Instead, he picked up on the rider’s outfit for the task. “So, Sinbad, how does it feel being out here in T-shirt and shorts instead of tearing up the road on your bike?”
“I like it so far,” Sinbad said, “and the company is good.”
He grinned.
Mike winked, took a sip of his coffee and let the drone of the engine and the lapping of the water serenade them. He’d let the lad open up in his own good time. Mike was confident about Sinbad relaxing and talking. When he’d done a tour of the boat before leaving Mike had removed a standard looking panel in the cabin and impressed Sinbad with the onboard security system—a Glock pistol and an M16 rifle. It was enough for him to see until later.
Sinbad’s grin had been as wide as the boat.
.
The Cuillin Hills, Isle of Skye
Western Scotland
Rachel had been tired and enjoyed a few hours sleep under her lean-to, high on a rocky crag. She awoke to the sound of gulls screaming overhead and the fresh aroma of the sea on the breeze.
She looked at her surroundings and checked her watch; 6 am. Her small rocky fortress had a thick lichen and moss coating and was surrounded by gorse and heather. Above was a clear blue sky. To the west, across the stretch of water called Little Minch, she could see South Uist of the Outer Hebrides. Beyond the Hebrides was the might and wilderness of the Atlantic Ocean.
It took Rachel only fifteen minutes to assure herself; she had managed to find the perfect location to remain unseen from any public pathway, but still observe the tiny port of Glenbrittle and the approaches. There was nothing much to see, except a small fishing vessel that was approaching from many miles out to sea.
“I’ve woken up in worse places.” Rachel laughed. She decided to use a nearby stream to have a bracing strip-wash before cooking breakfast on her stove.
.
Tummel Bridge, Tay Forest
Scotland
Following a leisurely shower and then a brisk walk to take in the morning air, Annabel arrived back to The Auld Bridge bed and breakfast hotel. She was one of only three guests at breakfast and felt content to study her map while she waited for her meal.
Maggie placed a large pot of tea on the table. “There’s your tea, dear. Breakfast will be a wee minute. Have you far to go today?” She nodded towards the map.
“I’ll be heading up to the north coast, “Annabel lied. “I’m going to the Castle of Mey, and I’ll start my tour from there.”
“Oh, you have a grand day for it,” Maggie said as she gazed out of the window. “I’ll fetch your breakfast, dear.”
Annabel turned down the fold on the map to look at the area around Braemar, and the only building she had an interest in at this particular time.
.
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
Scotland
Following a hearty breakfast cooked by Phil, he and Ian worked together for a short while to ensure that the office suite, including the back areas, was presentable before they departed. Between them, they managed to take all they needed down to Phil’s car in the basement carpark in one trip.
Like Annabel, Phil drove a black Audi Quattro 3.0 litre. When they’d packed the car, Phil held up the keys.
“Would you like to drive?”
“I’d love to,” Ian said. “I’ve never driven anything as powerful as this.” He grinned when the keys were handed over.
“Just take your time and get accustomed to it,” Phil said and slipped into the passenger seat. “Drive defensively,” he said.
Ian climbed in and adjusted the driving position.
Due to commuter traffic in the city’s grid system, it took ten minutes to reach the M8 city circular motorway. Once on the multi-lane carriageway, it would be a test just to maintain composure, let alone speed, as many drivers found daily.
Phil gave a general heading. “As I pointed out on the map this morning, it’s pretty straightforward. Drive towards Stirling, then Perth, and on to Pitlochry. We’ll stop there for lunch before we continue.”
“Sounds good,” Ian said, checked the rear-view, and settled down.
Phil pretended to be studying a map but was observing Ian’s driving. Ian was capable and decisive, making progress while continually checking his situation in the traffic. Phil noted no signs of panic or being a roadway bully, so he was content. Ian would receive advanced and evasive driving techniques training in due course.
Although Ian had been born and bred in Edinburgh, less than fifty miles to the east of Glasgow, he had spent very little time outside Edinburgh before leaving home. He had completed his schooling and gone to Oxford University to study biochemistry. It was soon after his graduation when the Secret Intelligence Service recruited him.
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Jake had arrived early on his journey the day before, so went on a recce of the local roads before he enjoyed a late snack and a beer before getting to bed. He awoke refreshed, and after a decent hotel breakfast, he was ready to tackle the days ahead. How his meals came after breakfast was going to depend on how rapidly matters progressed.
He went upstairs to his room, dressed in his hill-walking outfit and packed his backpack with all the accessories he would need. The entire weight of his outfit with the contents of his backpack weighed less than twenty pounds, which made him smile.
When on SAS operations he would carry more than forty pounds, plus weapons and ammunition. Before landing in the operational zone, he would also have the weight of a parachute.
Jake stepped outside and looked around. It felt strange to have such a feeling of freedom, and lack of pressure. Nothing over the coming days was going to faze Jake. It gave him a renewed confidence. He set off and was fine until he crossed the river. Like a hard slap, the sight and sound of the water hit him.
Colin came to mind. Jake knew what he’d had to do with his best mate was an act that would haunt him until his dying breath, but before then, Colin would be avenged. They’d always promised each other not to allow grief to affect them should one of them perish in action, but bloody vengeance Jake realised, would be the only cure for his pain.
Eva moved slowly to ensure she didn’t create a panic amongst the birds and wildlife of the woodland around her. In the knowledge she wasn’t going to be seeing rain, she had dug herself a shell-scrape and then covered herself with a camouflaged cape.
Sleep had been a series of fitful cat-napping sessions, but, fortunately, she was good at the technique and woke up rapidly when there was unusual noise. She leant to one side and slipped out her high-protein snack bars. It was breakfast, so she had two, washed down with water. She kept water consumption to a minimum.
A noise at the side of the building caught her attention. She exchanged water bottle for binoculars. It was early morning, and somebody was out and about. The disturbance of the natural order was one of the armed men who patrolled around the main building and the surrounding tracks.
Eva checked her watch. It was a regular patrol, but over the last twenty-four hours it had increased in frequency from every two hours to hourly. The man was like the other three she’d seen; dressed like any regular guy out for a stroll in the woodland, but wearing a shoulder holster under his jacket.
Once the sentry had completed his patrol, Eva finished breakfast and packed away her water bottle and packaging. She gave her eyes a rub and prepared for a long morning. According to Annabel, somebody would be coming to relieve her from duty for a while, but while she was in the location, she wanted to do a good job.
.
The Spittal of Glenshee
Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Geordie showered, had breakfast in the small hotel’s dining room, and then went back to his room. He told the owner that he was writing a piece for a national newspaper about the beauty and tranquillity of the Highlands and had decided that this location was ideal.
He stood at the bedroom window and looked out towards the winding mountain road and the high peaks. The hills and mountains stretched like a colossal egg-carton across the landscape. Many miles away, it was hazy mountain peaks that formed the horizon.
Geordie set up his chair to start reading yet
another paperback book. Any movement on the road would catch his eye because there wasn’t much in the way of traffic.
For the briefest moment, he considered what reason there could be for the change of vehicle before Mental Mickey, and the Colonel went onwards to Mr F’s place, wherever it was. Geordie had sent a text message to Jake to bring him up to speed, which resulted in Jake making a brief call while Geordie was enjoying breakfast.
When Geordie heard that things would soon start taking shape, he wondered if he’d rather involve himself or be reading a book and keeping an eye on a road. It occurred to him he was better out of the action. He’d witnessed enough death. Geordie flicked his paperback open and enjoyed the adventure all the more. He could imagine involvement in the story, but people didn’t really suffer in a story.
.
Hillhead, Glasgow
Scotland
In a carpark off Byres Road at 7 am, a large group of motorbikes were parked. A passing police patrol noted the presence of so many bikers.
“Control this is Quebec Four,” PC Barry Davidson said.
“Go ahead Quebec Four,” came a pleasant young female voice.
“Have just passed a carpark on Byres Road, and there must be around fifteen to twenty motorbikes there.”
“Don’t worry about it, Barry. They might be on the way to a biker rally.” PC Marie Dunn said. She shook her head and turned to aim a quizzical look at the sergeant in command of the Communications Room. He took the handset.
“Hello Barry, this is Sgt. Stevenson. Is there some issue with these bikers?”
“Not yet Sarge,” Barry said. “I thought it was worth calling in because the riders are all wearing Mental Riders patches. It’s not normal to see so many of them, but it looks kind of awesome.”
“Okay, Barry. Well, spotted son. Pull up somewhere between parked cars and observe at a distance.”
“Understood, Sarge.” Barry felt better for many reasons, not least because he no longer felt he was on his own. He drove on to park one-hundred metres along the road, from which position he would happily observe.
