Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War

by David Monnery

  Lloyd laughed.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Not too bad, you know.’ He waved one hand in the air, seemed about to say something, but decided against it.

  He was realizing his friends were uncomfortable, Eddie thought. ‘I’ll see you around,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. Hey, there’s a party tonight, at Brian’s. Brian Richards – you remember him? Why don’t you come? Two-four-five Graham Road.’

  ‘Dalston?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I might well.’ He probably would – anything was better than another evening in front of the TV with his stoned father.

  ‘Right, man, we’d gotta be going,’ Lloyd said, giving him another huge smile. The other two were already walking on. ‘See you tonight.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Eddie stood there for a minute, then turned and broke into a jog, then slowed to a halt again. He had had enough exercise for one morning, and had no great desire to be back at his dad’s flat. Instead he walked on, under the Eastway and Homerton Road, before turning off onto the vast grassy expanse of Hackney Marshes. He found a seat and sat down, staring across the river at the tower block he had once lived in, along with his parents and sister.

  Clare was long gone, all the way to Epping with her solicitor wanker of a husband. And his mother had died three years ago, just before he had been tested for the SAS. So now there was just him and his dad, two males who had never known how to talk to each other and never would. Football was their only mutual topic of conversation, and since both of them were Tottenham supporters that tended to be just one long moan.

  Which reminded him. Yesterday the stupid bastards had thrown away a two-goal lead in the last four minutes. He thought about Lloyd Walker. The two of them had gone to both primary and secondary school together. Lloyd’s family had also lived in Keir Hardie, three floors further up. His father had been a porter at Homerton Hospital, probably still was. Assuming – a big assumption these days – that the hospital was still there.

  He and Lloyd had really become friends because they had shared a secret – each knew the other was clever. It was not the sort of thing you wanted spread around, not in Homerton Grove Comprehensive. It got you resented, the way being good at football or good with your fists did not. If you were clever you hid it well, sometimes even from yourself.

  Despite everything Eddie could have gone on to higher education. He had managed enough ‘O’ levels to get into a Sixth Form College, and after eighteen months there he had landed interviews at several universities. At the first of these he had found himself in front of two snotty wankers who wanted his views on multiculturalism. That had not been so bad – at least he had wiped the smiles off their faces – but a cup of tea in the student canteen afterwards had killed any scholastic ambition he had. A group of students – middle class, every last one of them – had been arguing about politics in general and the causes of poverty in particular. He had listened, with interest at first, and then with growing anger. The conversation was full of long words and complex sociological theories, but it had not made him feel inferior. On the contrary, it had made him realize that he had already learnt more about the real world growing up in Hackney than this bunch were likely to do in their whole lives. He had taken the train back to London, spent the weekend brooding about it, and on Monday morning walked through the doors of the Army Recruiting Office that he had so often sneered his way past.

  The Welsh Guards had taken him on. Three years later he had made it into the SAS. And he had not regretted a minute of it.

  Wynwood’s bus pulled in to Bogotá’s central bus station soon after seven in the morning. He had not had much sleep, but there had been no major scares either. The one military roadblock had been manned by soldiers who seemed more asleep than he was, and once again the habit of carrying his passport with him at all times had proved its worth.

  He clambered stiffly down to the ground and went looking for a coffee in the bus station. Two cups and a stale pastry later he found a telephone that worked. It seemed to ring for ever. Didn’t the goddamn embassy have a twenty-four-hour answering service? At last someone picked it up. Wynwood asked for the Military Attaché.

  ‘Who’s calling?’ the voice asked.

  ‘Wynwood’s the name,’ he said.

  ‘Hold on, please,’ the voice said. With rather more interest, Wynwood thought.

  Another voice appeared. ‘Sergeant Wynwood?’ it asked.

  ‘Yeah, look …’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The bus station …’

  ‘In Bogotá?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Who was this moron?

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m still standing.’

  ‘Is Sergeant Anderson with you?’

  ‘No. Why …?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘About thirty-six hours ago. In gali.’

  ‘Right. Can you call again in fifteen minutes, please?’

  ‘What!? Look …’

  The line had gone dead.

  Kilcline strode into Bourne’s office with a wide grin on his face. ‘Wynwood’s OK,’ he said. ‘He’s in Bogotá.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ Bourne agreed. ‘But no sign of Anderson?’

  Kilcline perched himself on the corner of Bourne’s desk. ‘No, it looks like Andy’s in the bag. Still, one’s a bloody sight better than none. How are you doing?’ he asked, surveying the various files and books strewn across Bourne’s desk.

  ‘Not bad. There’s only one real problem, as far as we can see. Getting them out.’

  ‘Not an insignificant part of the operation.’

  Bourne smiled sardonically. ‘No.’

  ‘What are the options?’

  ‘Helicopters off a British carrier, helicopters out of Panama or off a US carrier, helicopters out of a Colombian airfield.’

  ‘You seem to have a helicopter fixation,’ Kilcline said.

  ‘I suppose they could walk to Brazil,’ Bourne added sarcastically.

  ‘OK, I just don’t like helicopters.’

  ‘I’m not that fond of them myself,’ Bourne conceded, his mind going back, as it too often did, to the nightmare minutes that had followed the crash in San Carlos Water seven years before. Both he and Kilcline had survived – many friends had not. And all because some stupid bird had chosen to commit hara-kiri in the rotor blade.

  ‘Is there any British carrier available?’ Kilcline asked.

  ‘Nope. At least not in the timespan we’re looking at. And anyway we could hardly send one through the Panama Canal without attracting attention.’

  ‘American?’

  ‘Probably not, and in any case it’s not an attractive option. For one thing it would put them right in the picture, with all that would do for security …’

  ‘What security?’

  ‘Exactly. For another, it wouldn’t fit too well with the PM’s DIY approach to sorting out the world. And lastly, they’d probably turn us down anyway. Or spend so long thinking through the diplomatic collaterals that Anderson would have died of old age before we got to him.’

  ‘The Colombian airfield.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bourne sighed. ‘It all depends on the sort of guarantees we could get. And I don’t just mean from the Colombian Government. I want to hear from whatever security people we have out there. I’d want them to say we can trust the military.’

  ‘There must be some good guys in the Colombian military, or why were Joss and Andy out there in the first place?’

  Bourne shrugged. ‘The problem is knowing who they are. Still, if we get some satisfaction there, then the logistics aren’t a problem. The Colombians can provide the transport, and ride shotgun if they think it’s necessary. And there won’t be any range problem.’

  ‘What about insertion?’

  ‘Depends on the terrain, but probably HAHO out of a Hercules from Belize.’

  Kilcline nodded. ‘No word of where yet?’

  ‘Nope. Ar
e those the files on Anderson and Wynwood?’

  ‘Yep.’ He passed them across.

  ‘I’ll bring ’em back over when I’ve read them,’ Bourne said, ‘and ask you any questions then. OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Kilcline disappeared, and Bourne started working his way through the top file. Richard Anderson was twenty-nine, and a Staff Sergeant in the Training Wing. His primary area of expertise was engineering, but he also specialized in weaponry, signalling, and was reasonably fluent in Spanish.

  Impressive, Bourne thought.

  Anderson had served in the Falklands as a para, winning a mention in dispatches for Goose Green, and joined the SAS the following year. He had several tours of service in Northern Ireland, and had been one of the back-entrance team in Operation Nimrod – the breaking of the Iranian Embassy occupation. He had just begun his third three-year term with promotion to his current rank.

  After completing his second tour in Ulster he had undergone a brief course of psychiatric counselling. Successfully.

  His background was middle class: the third son of a Congregationalist minister in Southport. He had attended a minor public school, joining the Parachute Regiment straight from there at eighteen. He was now married with two children, one of each gender. His hobbies were listed as rugby, cricket, motorcycles, opera and stamp-collecting.

  Bourne closed the file. Given that the man was being held in God-knew-what conditions the reference to counselling was somewhat worrying. Though of course it could work the other way. The people who survived best in such circumstances were usually those who knew themselves best. Maybe Anderson had learnt something about himself.

  The photograph showed a pale-skinned Germanic face with rapidly thinning hair. Joss Wynwood’s, by contrast, showed a face torn between rugged and cheeky, with almost twinkling brown eyes peering out from a mass of dark, curly hair. He was thirty-two, and also a Staff Sergeant in the Training Wing, now approaching the end of his third term in the SAS.

  His first major action had been as a member of the three-man team sent into the Gambia to rescue the deposed President’s family in 1981. He had served with the Regiment in the Falklands, taking part in both the recapture of South Georgia and the Long Yomp from San Carlos to Port Stanley. Since then he had done the usual tours in Ireland, without, Bourne noted, any need for psychiatric counselling. He was married too, but without children. His hobbies were rugby, photography and music. A nice mixture, Bourne thought. Somehow he had confidence in Wynwood.

  He gathered up the files, left the office and building, and walked through the sunlight to the adjoining building where the Training Wing administration was housed. Kilcline was gazing moodily out of his window. ‘Wish I was going,’ he said to no one in particular.

  ‘Yes, grandad,’ Bourne said, placing the files on Kilcline’s desk and taking a seat. ‘Tell me, should I be worrying about the fact that Anderson had psychiatric counselling?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, and I’m not sure. I don’t think so. You won’t find a cooler man under pressure, but he does tend to bottle things up. He had nightmares for a long time after his second tour in Ireland – couldn’t express what was getting to him any other way.’ He paused. ‘I guess a lot depends on how he’s being treated. It sounds crazy, but I’d say he’ll hang together better if he’s treated badly. Within limits, of course.’ He looked up. ‘But does it really matter – you’ve only got to drag him out and throw him into a helicopter, haven’t you?’

  Bourne sighed. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Do I detect signs of compulsive perfectionism? Maybe you should have some psychiatric counselling.’

  ‘Maybe I should,’ Bourne agreed with a smile. ‘Is Wynwood as together as he seems to be?’

  ‘Pretty much. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have with me in the wilds of Colombia.’

  ‘Good.’ Bourne started to get up.

  ‘Except …’ Kilcline paused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is only hearsay, and it may have nothing to do anything, but his marriage seems to be in trouble.’

  ‘Whose isn’t?’

  ‘Mine isn’t. Neither’s yours, you cynical bastard. I just have the feeling that – if it’s true – Wynwood’s someone who’d take it badly, that’s all. It’s just a feeling.’

  ‘OK,’ Bourne agreed. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you later.’

  He walked back to his own office, where an orderly was placing four new files on his desk. Bourne looked through them, extracted one and handed it back to him. ‘Even the SAS doesn’t send men with broken legs on overseas missions,’ he said.

  ‘No, boss,’ the orderly agreed and made a swift exit.

  Bourne looked at the three photographs pinned to the front covers. The first showed a pleasantly ugly face, with blue eyes, fair hair and a large mouth. The expression was almost insolent. That was Trooper Edward Wilshaw.

  The second showed a more compact face, with almost hooded dark eyes and short, straight, black hair. There was hardly any expression, just the hint of an embarrassed smile. That was Trooper Damien Robson.

  The third showed a slightly Slavic face beneath spiky hair, smiling cheerfully at the camera as if he didn’t have a care in the world. That was Corporal Chris Martinson.

  They looked so young, Bourne thought.

  * * *

  Wynwood rang back twenty minutes later – it took him that long to find someone prepared to admit they had any change.

  ‘Listen,’ the same voice told him. ‘Your partner’s missing, probably kidnapped by one of the cartels. The Government’s response – our Government’s, that is – is still being discussed in London, and until we have some clearer idea what’s going on we think you’d better not come to the Embassy. So we’ve got you a room at the Segovia Hotel on Carrera 7. It’s paid for. Can you afford a taxi into the centre?’

  ‘Yeah, just about.’ He’d given most of his money to Manuel.

  ‘I’ll have some cash sent round. As soon as we know anything I’ll let you know. OK?’

  ‘I guess so …’

  The line went dead again.

  Chris Martinson raised the binoculars to his eyes and lowered them again. They were only redshanks on the distant mudflats; he thought he had caught a hint of green. Below him a posse of oyster-catchers were drawing crazy patterns in the mud; in the sky above a huge flock of Brent geese was swirling out towards Northey Island.

  He remembered his great-grandfather’s stories of the island, of the temperance colony which had settled there early in the century, and how a thriving local trade had grown up to supply the inhabitants with illicit liquor. ‘You could hardly move at night for rowing boats crammed with bottles,’ the old man had used to say, before cackling himself into a coughing fit.

  At least, that was how Chris remembered it – his great-grandfather had died in 1969, aged ninety-two. Chris had been seven.

  The sun was at its zenith now, the wide expanse of the Blackwater a piercing silver-blue. It was time to head home for lunch, though he was not sure he had room yet for another helping of his mother’s cooking. Three days of overindulgence had left their mark.

  He started walking along the path which followed the winding northern shore of the estuary towards Maldon. In the first couple of kilometres he encountered several family parties and a couple of lone men; all greeted him with a smile, echoing the day perhaps, but also the simple friendliness of country life. Whenever he was at home, and particularly on days like today when he was out walking, Chris offered a silent prayer of thanks for having grown up in a place like this.

  Eddie had called it ‘a mudflat too far’, but then how would someone from Hackney know any better? He’d liked The Carpenters well enough, and given time … You couldn’t understand the countryside by making day trips into it.

  Chris’s parents had not liked Eddie – that was certain enough. Too clever, they had thought; too pleased with himself. The killer had been the last argument with his
father, and Eddie calling patriotism a heap of crap. Hearing something like that from one of the town’s token socialists was one thing; getting it from an SAS man was another. It had not so much annoyed his father as shaken his sense of the world, Chris thought. Eddie had some strange views.

  He did not like animals either, which Chris, who loved just about all of them without reservation, found almost stranger than strange. The two of them were so different in so many ways, yet they were friends. And it was not just being in the SAS together. There was something else they had in common, something about who they were which he could not put his finger on.

  He would like a dog himself, he thought, as a couple with a huge golden retriever walked by in the opposite direction. But not for a few years yet. You could hardly keep a dog properly in the Army, and he intended to spend most of his annual leave outside England. The previous year he had blown most of his savings on a fortnight in Costa Rica, visiting all the wildlife reserves. It had been like heaven. So many different species of bird. Such beautiful colours. Six months later he was still revelling in mental flashbacks of the trip. The best thousand pounds he had ever spent. The only thousand pounds he had ever spent. He had even got a Spanish proficiency mark on his skills dossier for his troubles.

  Where could he go this year? He fancied Lapland, but it would probably be too expensive.

  Another flock of Brent geese smudged the sky as he passed The Ship and started up the canal. He thought about Molly, and their date that evening. He had met her only three days before, at a Christmas Eve party in Goldhanger, but somehow he already expected something good. She was older than him, about thirty-four he guessed from things she had said, but what did a seven-year age gap mean these days?

  One thing it meant was that he did not feel she needed him – or the ‘relationship’ – to make sense of the world for her, the way so many of the younger women he had known seemed to. And finding out that he was in the Army had not thrown her in either of the two usual directions. She had neither been impressed nor appalled – just taken it on board.

  And she had let him talk. No, now he thought about it, she had actually encouraged him to talk. And having several pints inside him, he had obliged. About being in the Army, being in the SAS. ‘I love it,’ he had said. ‘It stretches me.’ And it did. Like nothing else he had ever come across. Stretched him physically, mentally, every which way.