Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  Being single, his home was merely a place to rest his head, and as such, it was pretty utilitarian. It was a fully furnished rental, decorated to someone else’s tastes. There was a tired kitchenette, a dilapidated sofa and armchair, a TV, and a coffee table. The patterned carpet had seen better days, and the walls could have done with a lick of paint. But it was tidy – the washing up was neatly placed on the draining board next to the sink, crockery returned to its cupboard, and the daily newspapers that he collect from the shop downstairs were piled on the coffee table, neatly squared away. The bedroom was slightly more unkempt, the duvet left ruffled, an indication of the haste with which Colin had left it that morning. But it was his home. His only personal possessions consisted of a photo of his wedding (a reminder of his failed marriage) and a picture of his army unit on active service during their last tour-of-duty in Afghanistan.

  Colin crashed on the sofa, his head resting on the cushion as he relaxed, or at least, attempted to. He remembered that he had promised to phone his dad. His stress levels rose again. Best he got it over with, he thought. Reluctantly picking up his phone, he dialled the number and waited. Maybe he’d be asleep? Maybe he wouldn’t need to make idle chit-chat avoiding the issue of his dad’s cancer, and tiptoeing around his work issues. His dad picked up at the other end.

  “Hello? Who is it?” he asked.

  “It’s just me, Colin. How are you today?”

  “I’m fine, as always,” his dad lied. It worked both ways – Colin could not talk about the cancer, but equally, his dad was in the habit of normalising it, treating it as if it were nothing, a mere inconvenience.

  There followed five minutes of discussing the weather, interspaced with long pauses, heavy silences, as both men tried to avoid talking about anything important. The term, “Like father, like son,” sprang to mind. Both were identical in character, both felt awkward discussing difficult subjects, but both gained some small comfort simply from hearing each other’s voice. It was what remained unspoken that was of greatest importance.

  Feeling totally drained, exhausted from the day’s events, Colin lay on his bed, succumbing to the warm caress of slumber. It did not last very long! As was the norm when he was under intense pressure, he had a fitful night’s sleep. His nightmares returned to haunt him. It was always the same one, a blast from the past. He knew it was coming, he knew what was going to happen, but he was powerless to do anything about it...

  ...

  In his dream, it was 2006 and Colin was back in Afghanistan, back in a war zone.

  It had been his last tour-of-duty, serving as a Sergeant, a platoon leader, in charge of a unit of fresh-faced squaddies, his comrades-in-arms, men that he had learned to trust with his life over the previous few months. Based in Camp Bastion, northwest of Lashkar Gar in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, his unit had been deployed to the far reaches of the area as part of their hearts-and-minds policy to win over the local residents, whilst at the same time, combating the threat from the Taliban.

  Where Bastion had been like a fortified city, the outer staging post, or FOB (Forward Operating Base) was nothing more than a sand-shrouded compound containing mud-walled buildings, and hidden behind an enclosed perimeter that was defended 24/7. It had been a place of extremes – extreme heat, extreme dust, and extreme danger. Constantly under threat of attack, the soldiers living within its confines were under immense pressure. But it was this pressure that had forged a bond between them all, regardless of rank. Any one of them would have gladly sacrificed their life for their brothers.

  Life had been made even more stressful by the daily missions beyond the relative safety of the front gate. Out there, there was no protection at all. You worked together as a team, a unit, a family. Each individual relied on the others for survival. Contact with the enemy had become so regular that it was treated as routine, the dangers normalised.

  In his dream, it was June 14th, a date that Colin would NEVER forget. He had been tasked to lead his squad on a daylight mission to show a presence, to reassure the local tribal elders, and to search for IEDs planted overnight along the main trunk road through the sector. It was a routine mission, one he had done hundreds of times during his three tours of duty. Only this time, things would be different...

  Having been deployed on foot into the dry sandy desert between two hamlets that had been reportedly cleared of Taliban, his unit had headed north. The pace was slow - every mound of dirt, every pile of rocks, a potential IED designed to kill or maim them. The heat had been furnace-like, and the flies were at their pesky best, buzzing into everyone’s eyes and mouths. It had been hard going.

  A few hours into the mission, the unit had posted guards and slumped to the ground for a well-earned water stop. It was then that the radio had sprung to life.

  “Callsign Charlie-Bravo-Seven-One. Intelligence received of possible insurgents, numbers three, located in a compound at grid reference**********.”

  Colin’s unit had been the closest to the location, and so had been tasked with conducting a reconnaissance mission. Studying their maps, a route was devised making good use of the cover provided by a dried-out riverbed.

  As they approached the mud-walled compound, they hunkered down below the chest-high banks of the former watercourse. With soldiers detailed to watch the flanks, Colin peeked above the parapet, binoculars in hand, and scanned the apparently deserted structure which lay about 50m beyond a flat expanse of open ground. There was no protective cover – a perfect “killing zone.” He watched and waited...

  After what seemed like hours, he spotted a beige-coloured pakol (traditional Afghan hat) sat atop a bearded head peering above the compound walls. To the right, there was more movement. Were they local farmers, or were they Taliban? The fact that at least one was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle confirmed the answer. A swift radio message was sent to Command giving a SitRep (Situation Report) of what they had discovered. Moments later, the order to clear out the compound was received. Great, thought Colin. If we advance across the open ground, we’ll be sitting ducks; they’ll cut us to shreds!

  Before he could give any orders, he noticed a plume of dirt rise into the air on the riverbank, centimetres from his head. This was rapidly followed by the report from the sniper’s rifle.

  “SNIPER!” he yelled, as everyone ducked their heads to the earth. “SitRep – anyone see where it’s coming from?”

  Heads popped up above the protective barrier like a mob of meerkats looking in all directions. Shots continued to ring out, their telltale plumes of dirt erupting from the dusty surface.

  “Target nine o’clock high. He’s on the hill, ‘bout halfway up. I saw a muzzle flash,” somebody screamed.

  “Covering fire,” shouted Colin. There had been no need to give the order; his highly drilled team were already laying down a barrage of small-arms fire with their SA80s and GPMGs. The area of the hill overlooking their position was smothered in a cloud of dust as their rounds dug deep below the surface. Their ears rang from the deafening noise, and the air tasted of burnt cordite.

  “Cease fire!” Colin yelled above the racket. Silence. He tentatively looked over the edge. Was the sniper still alive? He scanned the hilltop looking for movement.

  Suddenly, the youngest member of Colin’s unit appeared to lift off his feet, his body thrown backwards to the ground. No sooner had this movement registered, than the sound of a single long-range rifle shot could be heard.

  “MEDIC! Man down – head shot!”

  It had been too late. He was dead, the back of his head a gaping bloody mess compared to the neat little red hole in his forehead.

  As the unit returned fire, more in anger and frustration than with any hope of hitting the assailant, Colin called in close-air-support, giving the hill’s coordinates as the target. Within minutes, it was obliterated under a hail of rockets and 30mm cannon fire. The sniper was dead.

  However, there was no time to mourn their lost comrade.

  “Incoming,” cam
e the shout, “RPG from the compound.”

  The Taliban, seen earlier, stood chest height above the perimeter wall and levelled a rocket propelled grenade at the soldiers.

  “Take cover.”

  Everybody hugged the ground instantly, the projectile detonating some 10m short of its target. Each soldier returned fire, the compound wall becoming pockmarked as their bullets buried themselves into the dense mud. Taking advantage of the lull while the enemy reloaded his weapon, Colin led an advance across no man’s land. If the other Taliban had been prepared and had opened fire, it would have been a massacre. But the Taliban had other ideas...

  Covering the ground fast, shooting on the move, his entire squad closed on the compound walls. 20m. 15m. 10m. Then, without warning, the earth seemed to explode all around them. The mud wall no longer existed. In its place was a gaping hole shrouded in black noxious smoke. They had detonated an IED!

  Colin was lifted off his feet by the explosion, thrown backwards, flying through the air. He landed in a crumpled mess, deaf from the blast, blood oozing from his eardrums. His face was smoke blackened, and blood dripped from a gash above his hairline. He shook his head, trying to regain composure. His SA80 was still gripped firmly in his right hand, and he rolled to the side in an attempt to regain his feet in order to continue the attack. But as he applied pressure to his left leg, it crumpled beneath him. Looking down, he noticed that his trousers were tattered and torn, blood pouring from a large wound in his thigh. He fell to the ground, screaming, as the pain finally arrived. As he writhed about in the dirt, he watched proudly as the remainder of his unit advanced through the hole in the wall, the sound of gunshots indicating the deaths of all Taliban within. Then the blackness took over and he passed out.

  His next memories had been back at Bastion – crisp white hospital linen, pain relief and bandages – before a long flight back to the UK.

  ...

  Colin suddenly awoke, dripping in sweat, and sat bolt upright on his bed as if having received an electric shock. His dreams, nightmares, always ended in this manner. Was he still in Afghanistan? Or was he back in the real world? For a moment, he was confused. Then things settled down. It was only a dream.

  For years he had suffered with nightmares, the cold sweats, the panic attacks. The experts had told him that it was PTSD, it was normal for someone who had been through the sort of experiences that he had. But that was no consolation to him. He had tried counselling, talking to strangers about what he had seen. But how do you tell someone about the guilt? Colin blamed himself for the death of the young soldier in his platoon. He knew that, logically, it was nobody but the sniper’s fault, but the boy had been part of his unit, part of his team, and he had been in charge on that fateful day. It was HIS fault, and Colin was not going to be persuaded otherwise.

  In the months following the incident, he had visited the boy’s family, apologised in person. They had not blamed him at all, but they could see the torment behind his eyes. They looked on him as a second son.

  As the years passed, as Colin left the army and joined the police in London, so he came to terms with his past. He would never forgive himself for what had happened, but he vowed that it would never happen again. No matter what his career, he would NEVER allow a member of his team to be lost – not during his watch.

  The nightmares had subsided over time, but in moments of severe stress, they often returned. Now, with a missing member of his own police family, they were back with a vengeance.

  He made a promise to himself that he would do everything within his power, work day and night, to find his colleague, alive and well. He would NOT LOSE ANOTHER ONE...!

  Chapter 11

  It was dark outside, not that Malachi could tell, he had spent the entire day sat in his underground cellar, watching his sleeping prisoner, wishing he was someplace else. He was bored beyond belief.

  Since delivering his final kick to the police officer’s body, his charge had barely moved. His eyes had flickered open from time to time, but the vacant expression indicated a lack of mental awareness behind them; he was not truly conscious. He had not had any further choking fits, his wounds had congealed somewhat, but his breathing had become laboured. In his expert opinion, Malachi thought that the prisoner had been slipping in and out of a coma. (But what did he know?)

  Malachi stood up, linked his fingers behind his head, and leaned back, stretching his spine. He yawned loudly, paced back and forth, and shadow-boxed imaginary opponents in an attempt to get his blood flowing again. For the hundredth time, he pulled out his mobile phone, scanning the screen for some indication that “The Russian” had called him, or sent a message. It was blank; there was no missed call, no text. Disheartened, and somewhat frustrated, he returned the phone to his pocket. What was he playing at? Surely he’d come up with a plan by now? he thought.

  Forty minutes later, Malachi heard noises from above, a scraping of wood on concrete, the squeak of a loose floorboard, then the clomp of heavy footsteps descending the stairs to his subterranean room.

  The Russian entered the basement, his two sidekicks in-tow. He said nothing, instead choosing to survey the scene before him, watching Malachi and the prisoner with equal disdain. He was not happy. He had a scowl on his face, his eyes darted around the room, and eventually he spoke.

  “You. Is he still alive?” he asked Malachi, barely raising his voice above a whisper.

  “Y...yes...I think so,” he replied, stuttering.

  Sergei stepped towards the prisoner and poked him with his boot. He stirred, groaned weakly, and his eyes slowly crept open.

  “Ah, you are awake, my friend,” he said jovially to the police officer. PC Griffiths was unable to reply, the gag preventing him from communicating.

  “You are in pain, yes?” Nick nodded. “Do not worry. You will soon feel no pain. You will soon feel nothing!” Sergei spat the words out, smirking. His sinister phrase hung in the air – you will soon feel nothing! He walked away as Nick huddled closer to the pipe that he was attached to. He drew his knees towards his chest, and he faded out of consciousness again.

  Sergei stepped towards Malachi, wrapping his right arm around his shoulders. Malachi flinched and tried to move away; the last time that he had done something similar, he had received a beating from his boss. Sergei pulled him closer, holding him firmly against his side.

  With his head centimetres from Malachi’s ear, he whispered in a calm and chilling voice, “You have caused me big problems, Malachi. Bringing a police officer onto my estate was not very clever.”

  “No...I know...I’m sorry.”

  “No matter. You created a big mess, and now you are going to fix things.”

  “How do you mean?” Malachi asked, his voice shaking, fearing the answer.

  “The prisoner needs to die. You brought him here, so you will do it!”

  “But...but...” Malachi had no argument. He was scared of killing someone, he had never done anything like that before, but he was even more afraid of Sergei.

  “There, there,” said Sergei, patronising him. “I knew you’d have problems with this - you’ve got no backbone - so we’re gonna help you.” He indicated to the two Karpov Brothers. They both grinned with sadistic expressions upon their faces.

  “But...but...I can’t kill him. I don’t know...” Malachi began.

  “Like I said, we’ll help you. Here, take this.” Sergei pulled his prized hunting knife from the back of his trousers. “Take it, man.” Malachi tentatively took the knife. It was heavier than he had thought, its weight dragging his arm towards the floor. “Come on, Malachi; hold it like you mean it. Hold it like that, and you’ll end up doing more damage to yourself.” The Karpov Brothers sniggered to themselves, their furtive glances indicating that they had no faith in him being able to complete the task. He gripped the blade tighter, raising it to waist height, slightly in front of his body. “That’s a boy. That’s better.” Sergei was becoming increasingly sarcastic.

  “Now
, just to give you a little incentive, here’s what we’re gonna do.” Sergei released Malachi’s shoulder and stepped two paces to the left. His face clouded over, all semblance of a smile removed, his eyes staring into Malachi’s soul. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a small handgun, the same handgun that Malachi had collected from Liverpool. He extended his right arm and pointed the barrel directly at Malachi’s head. Malachi could feel beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. The blood drained from his face, and he stumbled back a step, as if putting space between him and the gun might make a difference. “You kill the bloody pig, or I’ll kill the two of you. Simple, nyet?” He was not joking. There was no hint of humour, no smile, only a deadly cold stare. Malachi turned to look at the brothers for support, but both of them held handguns in their right hands too.

  “I...I can’t...” he stammered.

  “You can, and you WILL,” Sergei commanded. “All you have to do is stab him in the chest. He ain’t gonna fight back, is he? Look at him. He’s virtually dead already. It’ll be easy.”

  “But...”

  “Enough fucking around. Get on with it, NOW!” he yelled.

  Roman Karpov stepped forward and shoved Malachi. “Come on,” he shouted. His brother, Ivan, clipped Malachi around the back of the head. “You a coward?” he asked. Between them, they pushed and shoved Malachi backwards and forwards, screaming abuse at him, building up his anger; a rage that they knew needed to be ignited within him.

  “Kill him!”

  “Stick the fucking knife in him, NOW!”

  “Do it!”

  “Stop wasting time.”

  “Come on you bastard.”

  The abuse continued for minutes as the brothers increased the tempo and the violence, building towards a climax.

  Malachi did not know if he was coming or going. He was scared, petrified. Voices were all around him, surrounding him, encouraging him, screaming at him. Then the voices in his own head joined in with the abuse, urging him to kill the cop. He felt trapped, pushed from pillar to post, knocked to the floor, and dragged back to his feet again. He was disorientated. It felt as if the room was full of people, each one shouting at him to do the deed.