Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  On the right side of the road was the entrance to the training facility, a wide grassy expanse circling around the base of a densely wooded mound known as Gilbert’s Hill Wood. The base had been an ammo dump during the Second World War. Munitions produced at a nearby factory had been housed in reinforced concrete storage bunkers surrounded by high earth embankments, to protect them from aerial bombardment. After the war the surviving bunkers had been converted into stores or briefing rooms. The rest of the training area was a scattershot of ranges where the guys could practise everything from 360-degree shooting to pulling off J-turns and emptying rounds out of a car window. There was even a concrete mock-up of a commercial airliner to rehearse plane hijacking scenarios.

  Left of the road was the gated entrance to the main camp, a maze of one- and two-storey buildings: lecture rooms, administration offices, accommodation blocks. Inside the camp the guys learned everything from Jap-slapping on the martial arts courses to interrogation techniques. A pair of rising arm barriers guarded the entrance and exit points, flanked by a cluster of security cameras mounted on tall poles. Armed MoD police and guard dogs patrolled the grounds of the camp. It looked like the world’s most heavily guarded industrial estate.

  Bald had spent thousands of hours at Pontrilas, practising drills, fine-tuning his skill sets. Turning himself into one of the hardest bastards ever to pass through Hereford.

  In his day, he had been a legend in the Regiment. Respected by half the lads, feared by the rest.

  But then Bald had gone over to the wild side. The last time he’d walked out of the gates at Pontrilas, he’d imagined himself getting filthy rich. Running his own private military outfit, counting his millions, with his own personal harem.

  Somewhere along the way, the plan had gone wrong.

  Now I’m coming back without a pot to piss in.

  The driver turned left. Heading into the camp, not the training area.

  He eased the Mondeo to a halt in front of the barrier. Left the engine running idle while Bald jumped out and made his way over to the guardhouse. A stern-faced duty officer looked up at him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jock Bald. I’m expected.’

  ‘One moment.’

  The duty officer consulted a clipboard. He scrawled through a name, then picked up the secure line and made a call. Letting the camp commandant know he’d arrived, presumably. Then the officer hung up, nodded at Bald.

  ‘In you go,’ the officer said. ‘Head for the admin building. The sergeant major will meet you there.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Bald hurried back to the Mondeo as the barrier arm lifted. The driver arrowed the Mondeo through the entrance and into the main camp. He made a couple of quick turns and then nudged the motor into a free parking slot in front of a drab concrete building. Bald debussed and nodded again at the driver. A deep and meaningful conversation. The driver pulled away, headed back towards the camp entrance.

  A moment later, a figure emerged from the building opposite and marched purposefully over. Hard-looking with a weathered face, decked out in Crye Precision field shirt, boots and trousers. A familiar figure.

  The guy was much older than Bald remembered. Late thirties, with a bony, angular face, wrinkled brow and piercing blue eyes.

  Steve Vickers smiled and thrust out a hand. ‘Jock Bald, Jesus. You’re back. Never thought I’d see the day.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Bald pumped the guy’s hand, noting the gleam of admiration in Vickers’s eyes. At least someone round here still respects me, he thought to himself.

  ‘Doing well for yourself, Steve,’ he added.

  Vickers grinned. ‘What can I say? I learned from the best. You’re a bloody legend round these parts, mate. To some of us, anyway.’

  The last time Bald had seen Vickers, the guy had been a fresh-faced Tom who had just passed Selection a few months earlier. Now he was the sergeant major of the training facility for the SAS.

  Everyone’s on the upward slope, the voice inside Bald’s head told him.

  Everyone except you.

  ‘When they told us you were coming up I couldn’t believe it,’ Vickers banged on. ‘Christ, there were rumours floating around that you’d been fucking killed.’

  ‘Fake news,’ said Bald. ‘Everywhere these days.’

  ‘Well, it’s good to have you back. Whatever them lot from London want, they couldn’t have picked a better man for the job.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Vickers looked at him curiously but didn’t press Bald for more information. Regiment etiquette. You didn’t put another Blade on the spot by greasing them for int on a future op. Vickers was no doubt wondering why Bald had been recalled to Pontrilas at short notice, what the mission was about. But he’d keep any questions he had to himself.

  Instead he smiled warmly and said, ‘Can I get you anything? I can have the slop jockeys over at the cookhouse rustle something up, if you’re hungry?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You sure, mate? It’s no hassle.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Bald. ‘When’s this briefing happening?’

  ‘Two o’clock. I just got off the phone from the ops officer at Hereford. He’s on his way over now with the guys from London. Should be here in twenty minutes or so. You can wait in the brew house until then.’

  Bald nodded. ‘Lead the way, mate.’

  They marched towards the building entrance, Vickers fussing over Bald, acting as if the latter was still his old boss, making sure he was looked after.

  ‘I’ve sorted you out with a room,’ he said. ‘You’re on the second floor of the surveillance block, up the corridor from the briefing room. I’ve blocked the floor off, so none of the other lads will bother you. It’s not exactly the Hilton, but at least you’ll have some privacy.’

  Bald thought about his grotty digs in Playa del Carmen. He remembered the bare plastered walls, the cockroaches the size of beer bottles. ‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

  ‘Always happy to help a Regiment legend.’ Vickers’s face puckered. ‘How long has it been since you were last here, Jock? Eight, nine years?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Bald muttered. ‘What’s changed?’

  ‘Not much, actually. There’s a new gym. Some new cardio equipment and the like. A new three-sixty shooting range. The rest is pretty much the same as it was in your day. Those two pubs in the village are still open, if you fancy a pint.’

  ‘I might need more than one, after the day I’ve had.’

  Vickers grinned. ‘Still on the drink then?’

  ‘I’m Scottish,’ said Bald. ‘It’s in the blood.’

  Vickers smiled again and said, ‘Before I forget. There’s a Scaley coming up for the briefing well.’

  ‘The lads from 264 Signals?’ Bald stopped in his tracks and frowned. ‘What the fuck do I need to see one of them for?’

  ‘Orders from the head shed. They want the Scaley to bring you up to speed on the latest surveillance and tracking kit. Encryption systems, all of that. One of ’em will be briefing you as soon as you’ve finished your meeting with the London lot.’

  An op involving an over-the-hill ex-Blade and a bloke from L Det, thought Bald. With an emphasis on surveillance. He wondered briefly what the hell Six wanted him for. Then he decided that he really didn’t give a toss.

  ‘You’ll be wanting some time down on the ranges, I imagine,’ Vickers added.

  Bald nodded and said, ‘An hour or two, aye. Shake off the cobwebs before I get back into the field.’

  He knew he was rusty. Every ex-Regiment man sensed that moment when he’d lost his fighting sharpness and Bald hadn’t fired a weapon in months. He was like a boxer who’d been out of training for the better part of a year. Mexico had been a warning shot. Whatever the mission is, I’ll need to be sharp as fuck.

  ‘No problem,’ said Vickers. ‘Just give us a shout when you’re ready and I’ll get it sorted with the range wardens. Whatever you want to
practise with, longs or pistols. Same goes for the driving range.’

  They swept into the building and strode down a dull, draughty corridor until they reached the brew house. Which was basically just a canteen, a quiet place for the guys at the camp to have breakfast or catch a brew between training courses or briefings. Even after so many years away, the smells and sounds of the place were instantly familiar to Bald.

  The closest thing to home he’d ever known.

  ‘Wait in here,’ Vickers said. ‘I’ll come fetch you as soon as the ops officer gets in. Anything else you need in the meantime, just give us a shout. I’ll be in my office next door.’

  Bald nodded but said nothing. The guy’s slavish admiration was beginning to grate. Really, he just wanted Vickers to piss off so he could enjoy a brew in peace. A few minutes to myself, until those wankers from Six try to get inside my head. Instead Vickers took a slip of paper from his trouser pocket and handed it to Bald.

  ‘My mobile number,’ he said. ‘You need anything while you’re here, you give me a call and I’ll get it sorted. Don’t waste your time dealing with any of the other camp muppets.’

  Bald folded the paper, pocketed it. ‘I’ll do that. Thanks, Steve.’

  ‘Any time, fella,’ said Vickers. ‘Anything for a legend.’

  He turned and strode briskly down the corridor. Bald watched him leave for a beat. Then he stepped into the brew house.

  There were a few lads sitting at the tables inside, chatting or watching the TV while they sipped mugs of tea and coffee and helped themselves to snacks. None of them looked up or even acknowledged Bald as he stepped inside. The lads would naturally assume he was there for one of the intelligence courses, checked in under an assumed name and with strict orders not to talk to anybody inside the camp. They all knew the deal. They’d leave him well alone.

  Which was just the way Bald liked it.

  He took another step inside. And froze.

  His eyes locked on a figure sitting at the nearest table.

  Staring right at him.

  The other bloke will be waiting at the camp, Lyden had said. The second guy on the team.

  He was older than Bald by several years. Early or mid-fifties, with hunched shoulders and shabby dark hair shot through with streaks of grey. He wore a pair of faded jeans, muddied trainers and a flannel shirt, and he was nursing a steaming hot mug in his right hand.

  His left hand was flat on the table beside him, Bald noticed. A pair of gnarled stubs where the guy’s index and middle fingers had once been.

  No, Bald thought. No fucking way. I know who that is.

  Bald found himself staring at a face he hadn’t seen in nine months.

  ‘Hello, Jock,’ John Porter said.

  NINE

  Bald didn’t reply. Not at first. He just stood rooted to the spot in the brew house doorway, staring at his old mucker. John Porter, the alcoholic Blade had known for more than twenty years, first in the Regiment and then later on when they had worked for the various private military contractors that carried out MI6’s dirty work. The last time they had worked together, Bald had faked his own death. He’d left Porter and his former life behind, determined to start over. Put his past behind him, once and for all.

  Bald had never thought he’d see Porter again.

  Now I’m standing right in front of him.

  He clamped his eyes shut for a long beat. He could feel the migraine coming on again, the pressure steadily building between his temples, tightening like a vice grip around his skull. He popped his eyes open again and made his way over to the table.

  ‘The fuck are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ Porter replied. ‘Seeing as you were supposed to have died in Russia.’

  He didn’t look surprised to see Bald. But he didn’t look pleased either. In fact, he looked at Bald with an accusing glare. Judging him. Like the relative of a murder victim, coming face to face with the killer.

  Bald didn’t care. He had spent his whole life not giving a shit. He wasn’t about to change this late in the game. He pulled up a pew opposite Porter, grinned and said, ‘Did you have a funeral for me?’

  ‘Fuck off, Jock. You had everyone thinking that you died back there. Me included.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a genuine Houdini.’

  ‘Lying bastard, more like. When the ops officer called us up and told us you were being ferried over for the briefing, I thought he was taking the piss. Then they told us you’d survived the blast. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Were all the lads grieving for me?’

  Porter stared hard at him. ‘You’re not exactly Hereford’s favourite son.’

  ‘True.’

  Bald cast his mind back to the mission, nine months ago.

  Porter and Bald had been working as MI6 assets, sent to Russia to retrieve a rogue British ex-spy. They had ended up foiling a plot by the president’s brother to detonate a nuke, but only just. With minutes to spare, Bald had taken the bomb out on a boat to the middle of an isolated lake. His actions had saved thousands of lives and a potential nuclear catastrophe. But when the investigators had picked through the wreckage of the countryside, they had found no sign of Bald. Six assumed that he had been killed in the resulting blast.

  At least, that was what Bald had allowed everyone to believe.

  ‘How did you do it?’ Porter demanded.

  ‘Lady luck,’ said Bald.

  Porter was shaking his head furiously. ‘Christ, I saw the explosion myself. There’s no way anyone should have survived that.’

  ‘I got lucky, mate. That’s it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I ran the boat back to the jetty after I dumped the nuke over the side. Took one of the vehicles the president’s brother had left in his garage. Found the keys to it in the pocket of one of his dead bodyguards. Managed to get myself out of the blast radius, but it was fucking close. I came within a cunt hair of being incinerated.’

  ‘You should have met up with us afterwards, at the RV.’ Porter shook his head again, as if he was trying to rustle loose change out of it. ‘Like we planned. You could have told Six you were finished with them.’

  ‘Wake up, mate. This is MI6 we’re talking about here. Do you really think they would have listened?’

  Porter ignored the question. ‘So you just decided to go off the grid instead?’

  ‘I had the bullion I’d nicked from the president’s brother. Had myself a golden opportunity to start over again, with no bastard from Vauxhall knocking on my door. What would you have done?’

  Porter hesitated while he considered. He could see the logic of his mucker’s argument, the appeal of jacking it in and starting over. Bald wasn’t capable of settling down to a nice, quiet life. He wanted a personal harem, money, status. What he felt the world owed him, after everything he’d sacrificed in the Regiment.

  And yet here he was. Back to square one.

  ‘If that was your grand plan,’ Porter said, ‘why the fuck are you back here?’

  Bald briefly told him his hard-luck story about the gold bullion and the Thai fiancée and the Filipino black-market dealer who’d shafted him. He told Porter about the ramshackle motorcycle business he’d been running in Mexico. How the two guys from the Wing had tracked him down and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  He left out the part about the two Russians who came within a few seconds of plugging him. Not his finest moment. Porter listened in silence, swigging his brew and staring into empty space, lost in thought. When Bald had finished Porter looked over at him and said, ‘You should have found some way to tell us you were alive.’

  ‘Couldn’t risk it. The moment I reached out to you, I would have had half the blokes from Six kicking down my door.’

  Not that it made much difference, Bald thought. Bastards found me anyway.

  ‘You had us thinking you’d died a hero,’ Porter said. ‘You had us thinking that you’d martyred yourself, for
fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Jesus, if you’re that pissed off, I’ll buy you a pint. Make it up to you.’

  Porter made a face. ‘Just the one? I know times are hard, but that’s tight even for a sweaty sock like you.’

  ‘Southern pooftah.’

  Porter smiled weakly at his old mucker. During their time in the Regiment together they had shared an unshakeable bond, forged in the blood and sweat of a desperate firefight in Sierra Leone. A bond that he thought could never be broken. But it had definitely weakened. There was a distance between them now. Porter could sense a gap opening up between them. He was wary of Bald. The guy had faked his own death, turned his back on his oldest friend. Something that Porter would never do.

  He’d endured more than his fair share of problems over the years. There had been the bungled hostage-rescue op in Beirut, a clusterfuck that had led to the death of three Blades, the loss of two of Porter’s fingers and ultimately his career in the Regiment. The long years as an outcast, sleeping rough in Pimlico, getting out of his skin on own-brand vodka, living off scraps. He had gone through some dark shit in his life, but he’d never lost his sense of loyalty to the SAS. To his friends.

  That’s what makes me different from Jock, Porter thought. He’s only concerned with himself, loyal to no one but himself. A guy like that is capable of anything.

  Bald said, ‘I hear you’re working with L Det these days.’

  Porter nodded and polished off the dregs of his tepid brew. ‘The head shed offered us the gig after the Russia op, doing jobs here and there. The rest of the time they’ve got us doing contract work for various news agencies. Looking after the camera teams, keeping Hereford in the loop.’

  Porter didn’t say any more. He didn’t need to. Bald knew the score. Porter would be working for the likes of CNN and ITN, presenting himself as an independent contractor with a background in SF. Officially he would be providing security arrangements for the news teams, accompanying them whenever they were filming in hostile environments like Syria and Iraq, making sure the crews stayed safe. Unofficially, Porter would pass over any valuable int to the Regiment, keeping them informed of potential terrorist targets, border crossings, land routes, the location of rebel strongholds, favoured meeting points. Anything Hereford might find useful.