The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3)

by Stanley Salmons

  General Wagner pushed his smartpad out of the way and rested his arms on the table, a gesture sufficient to attract Brooke-Masters’ attention. “General?” she said.

  His voice was gruff. “This man Archer. Did you know him?”

  “Of course, sir. I was his CO. I know every man in my command.”

  “And you suspected nothing, nothing that suggested he was capable of doing something like this?”

  “I saw no prior indication, General. Neither did his closest friends. During the hostage extraction he played his part efficiently and obeyed orders to the letter. The men with him said he became very angry when he learned how those gangsters had interfered with the girls. But there was nothing remarkable about that; we were all angry. The girls were young, and these men were sexual predators. It was then that he went off the rails.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded slowly. Then he said, “Isn’t it the case, Colonel, that your outfit is made up of some pretty wild bastards?”

  The question wasn’t delivered aggressively, it was more like a casual swipe.

  “No sir, it is not. We only have room for highly trained, highly disciplined bastards.”

  The language had brought a sour expression to Brooke-Masters’ countenance, but the CSA was smothering a smile.

  “It sounds to me like this man suffered a delayed response to the stress of the operation. What kind of psychological screening do you carry out before you take these people on? You know, just to make sure you get the right kind of bastard.”

  It was my turn to smother a smile, not least because Brooke-Masters’ expression would have curdled milk by now. I was becoming aware of the CSA’s extraordinary charisma and I was really warming to him.

  “AIl applicants undergo a thorough psychological profiling, sir, and Archer was considered perfectly sound. As for conduct under stress, I believe the selection process for the SAF is more rigorous than for any other force in the world. Take, for example, the training in case of capture. General Harken devised that part, so perhaps he should outline it to you.”

  Brooke-Masters turned to Harken. “General Harken?”

  Harken nodded and went straight in. “The type of mission given to the SAF can present the risk of kidnap or capture. In that event there are two vital things to know: who your captors are, and where you’re being taken. Let’s start with the first. All our soldiers are fluent in at least one language other than English, often two or three. In addition we want them to recognize other languages, particularly ones found in trouble spots, and in the case of languages like Spanish and Arabic they need to be aware of local variations in accent and idiom. We instruct them, then test them with short recorded snatches of conversation. The second thing is where they’re being taken. We drive candidates around a winding route, and at the end they trace it on a map. We repeat the exercise, but this time they’re hooded. Then we take them on an unknown route, also hooded, to see if they can identify where they are at the end of it. Finally we go abroad with them somewhere and put the two exercises together.”

  The CSA said, “Sounds pretty tough.”

  “It is. And remember, this comes after candidates have passed all the usual tests: endurance, survival in the jungle, combat training, and resistance to interrogation. Most of the drop-outs occur during this last phase of selection. Those who remain can certainly cope with stress.”

  “And Sergeant Archer passed all these tests.”

  “Yes, sir. If he hadn’t he wouldn’t have been with the force.”

  “Thank you.” The CSA turned back to me. “Colonel, in your account you said a police negotiator tried to communicate with the soldier – presumably in Spanish. Would Sergeant Archer have understood him?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Archer had spent a lot of time in South America. He was a fluent Spanish speaker, and he was familiar with local variations, too.”

  “So you can’t explain why this man should suddenly go on the rampage.”

  “No, sir. If we’d succeeded in getting him out, as I’d hoped to do, we’d be a lot closer to finding out what made him snap. As it is I have no explanation. I wish I did.”

  Brooke-Masters’ mouth was making impatient little movements. She sniffed in a quick breath.

  “May I ask what you propose to do to avoid repetitions of this disastrous turn of events?”

  The room went silent. Everyone present was acutely aware that she’d asked a really stupid question, no doubt including Brooke-Masters herself. How do you answer a stupid question without pointing out that it’s a stupid question? I just said:

  “Ma’am, I’m open to suggestions.”

  The CSA pushed himself away from the table. “I think we’ve gone as far as we can with this, don’t you agree, Helena?”

  She sniffed again. “Very well. Colonel Slater and General Harken, you are excused.”

  9

  As Harken and I left the conference room he said, "Coffee, Jim?"

  "Coffee would be good."

  We rode the elevator to a Starbucks in the second floor Mall. Harken said nothing until we sat down with our coffees.

  “Well, Jim, after this I shouldn’t think the Hondurans will be in any hurry for us to carry out another mission on their patch.”

  “If the Ambassador sends his family home, or at least keeps tabs on his daughter, it shouldn’t be necessary. What about our air base there? That’s also classed as a ‘temporary foreign presence’.”

  “I gather they’re making threatening noises, but no one expects them to go as far as that. A good chunk of their national income comes from that base. If we pulled out it would hit them harder than us.”

  We sipped our coffees. Then he put his cup down and looked at me, his mouth twisting in a wry smile.

  "You were bold in there, Jim."

  “Quite honestly it didn’t seem like I had much to lose. If Helena Brooke-Masters wants me thrown out it’ll happen anyway.”

  “It wasn’t a disciplinary hearing. She wanted one but the CSA insisted on assessing the situation first. What has that woman got against you?”

  “To my knowledge we’ve only crossed swords once. You remember the Cuprex International business? A clear case of the Russians looking to get a commercial advantage by assassinating a rival. I wanted the State Department to take it up diplomatically, but they were deep in trade negotiations. The last thing they wanted was someone like me upsetting the apple cart. I seem to recall I made some pointed remarks about human rights in the Russian Union.”

  “That was a while ago.”

  “Evidently she has a long memory… Is that Bob?”

  Bob Cressington came away from the counter and strolled over. He set down his coffee and pulled up a chair. “Thought I’d find you here.”

  Harken said, “It’s over, then.”

  Bob shook his head. “Yeah. Sorry you had to go through all that. The Honduran government filed an official complaint and the Secretary of State’s foaming at the mouth. His whole Department’s bearing the brunt of it. Helena wanted a scapegoat, and Jim here looked like a prime candidate. But the CSA wrote it off as a freak occurrence. It couldn't have been foreseen and it was beyond the control of any commanding officer.” Bob took a sip of coffee and smiled at me over the edge of the cup. “Seems he took a bit of a shine to you, Jim. Anyway he insisted there were no grounds whatever for disciplinary action, so Helena closed the meeting. She was none too pleased.”

  “Good of you to tell us, Bob,” I said. “And thanks for your support in there. I appreciated it."

  "No, you did the job we asked you to do. The rest was, well, just unfortunate." He looked at me. “It’s a strange business, all the same. Just between us, you didn’t hold anything back, did you, Jim?”

  “Not a thing. Sergeant Archer was a damned fine soldier. I’ve no idea what made him go off his chump like that.” I grimaced. “Now we’ll never know.”

  We chatted a bit longer, then Harken looked at his watch. “You’ll have to excuse us,
Bob. I arranged for Jim to meet someone in my office.”

  I looked quickly at him, but he didn’t meet my gaze.

  Bob said, “Sure, I’d better get on, too.”

  Harken and I shook hands with him, then went up to Harken’s office. I followed, wondering who else I had to see.

  Harken waited until we were inside before telling me.

  “Mark Godstall is consulting with the Defense Legal Services Agency at this moment. He said he’d meet us here around midday.”

  Oh, that. I nodded. “I take it things have moved on.”

  “Yes, but I need to know if there are any fresh developments.”

  There was a knock at the door. My watch said three minutes to twelve. Right on cue.

  Harken indicated a chair, which Godstall took. He had a document case with him but he placed it at his feet.

  Harken said, “You’d better brief us on the current situation.”

  Godstall turned to me. “This party that's suing for the return of your body. In a nutshell, we got it wrong. They aren't seeking a quick settlement at all. They actually want it to go to court.”

  My heart sank. “Why? What's in it for them?

  “They can smell a rat. A whole body transplant is a hugely expensive operation, usually reserved for the very rich or very influential. Yet the individual who received this man's body was an ordinary soldier, namely you. They sense there's a lot more to it. That gives them two opportunities. First it’s a chance to cause major embarrassment for their old adversary, the Army. Second, it’ll pay dividends. This business is classified, and that’s all they need to dangle in front of the media. You know the kind of thing: something that’s been suppressed – albeit for good reasons – has to be a matter of public interest. The media can create a long-running story, for which the syndicate will no doubt be very well rewarded. They've probably got the contract lined up already. This action will pay for itself.”

  “You say ‘the syndicate’, but the action’s being brought by the man’s girlfriend, isn’t it?”

  “She won't see any of it. The only benefit for her is that she won’t be gang-raped in some warehouse or have her face slashed to ribbons.” He sucked in a short breath. “These people aren't known for their subtlety.”

  Harken bit his lip. “We can’t allow this to go much further. There are issues of national security involved.”

  "I guessed there were. We could get the case dismissed on those grounds alone, but that would attract even more notice. It would be better to get it thrown out at an early stage. I’ve just been discussing who we should use as a Defense Attorney.”

  “Whatever happens the media will have a field day.”

  “The army intends to keep the whole thing under wraps for as long as possible. Unfortunately the other side is unlikely to see it the same way.”

  Harken nodded briskly. “All right, Godstall, the Colonel and I need to talk about this now. No need for us to detain you.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  We rose, shook hands, and Godstall left the room. We sat down again.

  Harken said, “Godstall told me what was going on a few days ago. I didn't bother you with it then because I thought the other side might have a change of heart. Clearly they haven't, so my contingency plan needs to come into operation. I’ve arranged for you to be transferred temporarily to your old Regiment, the 22 SAS.”

  For a moment I felt a sense of shock. I was loyal to The Regiment when I served with them, but I’d been with the SAF for nearly ten years and I’d identified completely with them. And it wasn’t just that.

  I squinted at him. “Straight after this mess in the Honduras? People will assume I’m being relieved of duty!”

  “I can make it clear to anyone who matters. I’ll say it was part of a long-standing commitment.”

  “It’ll still look like I’m running away from the problem.”

  “It can’t be helped, Jim. The alternative is having a media circus descending on Fort Piper and hanging around your neck all day, every day. It’ll be impossible for you to function effectively as CO under those conditions. We need to get you completely off the scene.”

  I heaved a sigh. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “It does. And it would be a good idea to make your move sooner rather than later.”

  “Point taken. Which squadron am I assigned to?”

  “‘A’ squadron, Hereford.”

  “And who do you want as XO back at base while I’m away? Tommy?”

  “Yes, Tommy Geiger will be fine. I’ll leave you to brief him.”

  I said nothing for a few moments. Then, “Suppose things had gone differently upstairs? I could have been out on my ear long before this other thing came to trial.”

  He shook his head. “There was never any real possibility of that. Helena was way off base. The CSA wouldn’t want the entire Army to take responsibility for the actions of one crazed individual. That’s certainly the way it looked, and the meeting upstairs simply confirmed it.”

  I nodded. My thoughts were running ahead now, turning to the SAS. Things would have moved on since I was transferred from there.

  “Do you know who the CO is at Hereford?”

  “Colonel Owen Gracey.”

  “Never heard of him.” I hesitated. Something occurred to me. I thought I knew the answer, but I needed to be sure. “I take it he doesn’t know I’ve served with them in the past.”

  “Good God, no! All they know is, a court case is coming up that could bring down a lot of media attention on you, so you’ll be waiting it out with them. Neither he nor anyone else at Hereford has a clue about your previous identity.”

  Okay, now I was sure. “Would I know anyone else there?”

  Harken nodded. “I thought you’d ask me that. I looked up the longer-established people, ones you might have served with.” He called up a page on his desk screen and read out the names. “Lieutenant-Colonel Bruce Harrington and Major Scot Hayward. Remember either of them?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I remember them.”

  *

  I boarded the flight for Raleigh-Durham and took the window seat. I always liked to sit by the window, even when I was a kid.

  What was I saying? I meant when Jim Forbes was a kid. It could be confusing, carrying around memories from a time when your brain was in a different body.

  I barely heard the announcements. The morning's events had unwound almost too fast for me to keep track and I was replaying them in my head.

  Thinking it over now, Harken was right. The timing wasn’t ideal, but getting me out of the picture made sense. Although I didn’t like relinquishing my command, Tommy Geiger was a good XO, so it would be in safe hands. As for the law suit, I was glad to leave that behind me. It wasn’t just the media attention I was anxious to escape from; I had – with good reason – a healthy dislike of anything to do with courts and the legal process. Normally I fought my own battles, but this was one I was glad to let the Army fight for me. And since it was out of my hands I refused to let it prey on my mind.

  The engines roared briefly, then settled, and we rolled away from the apron and out towards the runway. As the aircraft turned I could see the queue for take-off ahead. This was going to take a while.

  It would be interesting to rejoin my old outfit, the 22 SAS. Harken said Lieutenant-Colonel Bruce Harrington and Major Scot Hayward were at Hereford. I had an immediate mental picture of both of them, at least a picture based on the way they looked ten years ago. Bruce Harrington was a Captain back then. Clean-cut guy, slim, smart, good leader of men.

  Further up the queue a plane took off. I couldn’t see it from this side, but I could hear it all right. It thundered along the runway and the airframe in contact with my shoulder trembled with the sound. After a pause the engines of our own craft roared, then died, as we moved up one place. A minute later the whole sequence repeated.

  Scot Hayward was a Lieutenant when I was with the Regiment, same rank as me. We always called
him Scottie, but there was nothing Scottish about him – he was more South London than Glasgow. Big guy, big voice. Wide, flat features, and a five-o’clock shadow that made its appearance at ten o’clock in the morning.

  Of the two, I’d known Scottie the longest. We met on an assignment in Libya. That was back in 2043…

  10

  Libya 2043

  There’s been yet another outbreak of civil war and the UN’s sent a delegation to broker peace. How the hell they’re going to do that I have no idea; by now the combatants have splintered into so many rival groups that even they don’t know who they’re fighting – or why. It doesn’t seem to matter to them. So long as they have plenty of arms and ammunition they want to use them, and so long as they’re firing bullets there may as well be someone or something on the receiving end. Armed, unarmed, man, woman or child, dog or cat, it makes no difference: if it moves it’s a target.

  The UN delegation’s holed up in a disused Embassy building and the SAS is there to protect them. We’re just part of it, though: the security detail has to be international as well as everything else. It creates some problems because of differences in language and training, so we make the best of it by ensuring that four of our guys stay together at all times. I’m one of them. Scottie is another. Our main job is to guard the building because there are people around here who don’t want peace at any price and not all of them are at the negotiating table.

  One night Scottie and I are on stag at the front. The improvised sentry box does nothing to keep out the cold night air, but that’s okay because the low emission clothing we’re wearing tends to hold in the heat. The clothing is a precaution against snipers with infra-red sights, and there’s nothing paranoid about that: the street is full of shelled out buildings, concrete rectangular monsters with vacant eyes where the windows once were, prime firing positions for anyone in the mood for a little target practice. At this moment there are two bad boys in a building a block up on the left. We’ve been keeping an eye on it, seen the muzzle flashes on the sixth floor, counted the windows along, stored the information.