The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  She gestured to him that he should sit in the other chair; the one opposite her.

  ‘Sean gave me this; insisted I keep it under my pillow. Shoot them in the guts, Mum he told me. It’s the biggest target apparently.’

  She paused for a couple of seconds.

  ‘But you have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?’

  He ignored the question.

  ‘The MP’s will be here in a matter of minutes,’ he stated.

  ‘Let them come,’ she answered.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to know who wrote this garbage?’ she said, throwing an envelope at him. ‘When I asked at the gate they said you were the media liaison. They even gave me directions to your house. Very helpful they were. I obviously don’t look dangerous.’

  He glanced at the envelope and recognised the backward sloping capital letters immediately.

  ‘I did,’ he said haughtily.

  ‘Sergeant Kelly was like a brother to his unit; bonds of brotherhood that even in death could not be broken.’ she said, quoting directly from the letter.

  She looked up, and this time there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘He didn’t like being a sergeant,’ she continued. ‘He disliked the petty jealousies; found it hard being in charge. He couldn’t get used to the sniping at him and name calling behind his back. But you were right in one thing, Major.’

  She accentuated the word major slowly and a little sadly.

  ‘He would have done anything for those guys; he would probably have put them ahead of me, in fact.’

  ‘That’s the army, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘That kind of camaraderie is hard to fathom or break unless you’ve lived it.’

  She laughed without humour.

  ‘He was an only child, you see; an accident. I told him that once; that he was an accident. I was really pissed off with him and wanted to hurt him. I think I managed it.’

  She paused again.

  ‘But being an only child of course, he had no brothers and sisters. The army gave him an instant family; he craved their approval. I think they secretly laughed at him a little behind his back. They thought he was a little weird; a little too needy for an NCO, but he was winning them over, or so he thought.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked uncomfortably.

  She waved the letter at him.

  ‘Because this boy died perfectly,’ she said. ‘This boy is ascending straight to the angels. But my boy wasn’t an angel. He was raw and flawed and honest, and because of that he wrote me a lot of letters. They were full of rage and pain and terror and love, but never perfection.’

  She indicated the letter again.

  ‘I don’t recognise the person on this page; it sure as hell is not my son.’

  ‘I was only saying what I thought you would want to hear,’ he said defensively.

  ‘But you didn’t know him; how could you? You didn’t even know what his name was, how could you know what he was like?’

  She stopped and the tears came afresh, but the revolver was unwavering.

  ‘I pushed him into the army,’ she continued. ‘I couldn’t stand having him at home. He was getting bigger and stronger and harder to manage. He did not do well at school; he was always more physical than cerebral. He was getting into rages; mostly directed against me.’

  She saw his face and corrected herself slightly.

  ‘He was never directly violent towards me you understand, but would smash chairs and throw plates. He hated the fact he had no father and he blamed me for it. In truth, I didn’t know who his father was, but he never believed me.’

  ‘I don’t see what this has to do with me?’ Major Reid asked, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘I’ll tell you what it has to do with you,’ she said. ‘I was doing okay or so I thought. The funeral was hell; I hate all that pompous bullshit and so did Sean, but you have to put up and shut up for Queen and country. The speech was particularly irksome; that arsehole of a CO hadn’t a clue who he was talking about; but I got through it, and got a flag for my trouble.’

  She looked up at him then; her eyes narrowing through the tears.

  ‘And then you send me this same bullshit all over again. All you have given me with this crap is empty platitudes; what am I supposed to do with those?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a deviation from protocol,’ he said stiffly. ‘But I thought you might appreciate it as a token to remember him by.’

  She laughed humourlessly.

  ‘And there lies the problem I’m afraid. With all your fancy words, you can’t give me what I want.’

  ‘What the fuck do you want from me?’ he asked sharply, before he could stop himself; getting genuinely frustrated.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ she said. ‘A bit of feeling; a little bit of emotion bubbling to the surface.’

  ‘I don’t make the rules,’ he said defensively.

  ‘No, but you carry them out with ruthless efficiency, I bet,’ she said. ‘At the end of the day Major, not a single person has been able to tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘Ok I’ll bite,’ he responded stiffly. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Well for a start, how did he really die would be nice. Taliban fortified position does nothing for me as a mother. Was he alone? Did he die immediately? Was he frightened? Was it instant? Did he suffer? You see, his letters to me outlined a disturbing portrait. He talked of creating monsters and watching them rip each other to shreds, as squads of soldiers watched and cheered. He talked of wholesale slaughter; rivers of blood running through the towns and villages. He talked of special suits and masks. And pointedly, his last letter to me told of a malfunction with some equipment, and how he would have to lend his own to one of his men. He was too petrified to bring it to the attention of his commanding officer, but also terrified of the consequences of not wearing the proper equipment.’

  Major Reid shook his head.

  ‘I can’t answer any of those questions,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t or won’t,’ she retorted sharply.

  ‘I just don’t know the circumstances in this case,’ he said apologetically. ‘I just can’t remember it. I get so many of these to comment on, that I just put in the normal phrases that I think people will want to hear.’

  ‘Thank you Major,’ she replied, getting genuinely emotional. ‘At last I have a true statement from the army.’

  She took a moment to compose herself.

  ‘The problem with you people is that boys like Sean are commodities; the same way as tanks and planes are. If you lose one, you replace it with another, but let me tell you; he was not a commodity. He was a lonely frightened boy, whose last days on earth seem to have been lived in a perpetual state of terror.’

  She looked at him again, her face twisted into a mask of sadness.

  ‘Do you know the worst thing about it Major; the thing that has tortured me more than anything over the last month? My last words to my son were said in anger. I never got a chance to take them back.’

  The front door splintered inward, and they both jumped a second time. Before they had a chance to register what was happening, three marines had leapt into the room; Major Reid could see the infra red laser sights from their rifles illuminating key parts of her body.

  ‘I’ll sort this out,’ he said gently to her. ’And if it’s any consolation, I really am very sorry.’

  He made to turn to the Marines.

  ‘I’m sorry too, Major,’ she said softly. ‘Do you know what? I used to think I couldn’t live with him; that I would have been better off if he hadn’t been born. It’s taken this to realize that I can’t live without him.’

  With that she raised the weapon towards him.

  ‘Goodbye Major,’ she said. ‘Please find out what happened to my baby. Let at least one of us rest in peace?’

  She pulled the trigger once again and the brutality of the bang made him wince, until he realised the shot had whistled harmle
ssly wide.

  ‘Gun!’ shouted one of the marines.

  ‘No!’ shouted Major Reid, as he heard three further shots ring out.

  He felt a fine spray on his face; he could taste the iron and salt from the blood.

  #

  It was exactly one month since the shooting. It had been an up and down journey; in a way he felt totally to blame. It was his careless words that had triggered the series of events of that evening; events that ultimately led to someone’s death. Nothing that anyone had said to him since could change that.

  But with acknowledgement of accountability comes freedom to change. Nobody had been prepared to discuss Sergeant Kelly’s death. The more he dug, the more he found inconsistencies and untruths. He was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened on that fateful day on a lonely and isolated Afghan hillside.

  He still loved writing, but he tempered the power of the pen with a wiser head. He had realized that in his position he had a responsibility; a duty to fulfil to both his living and fallen comrades. Today was a case in point. He shaded his eyes and scanned the topmost sections of the stark Sandstone monument. He could just make out the freshly etched letters after the name – Sergeant Sean Kelly MC; Military Cross. It was the least he could do; maybe driven more by guilt than anything else, but a start nonetheless on his road to re-humanization.

  He thought Sergeant Kelly’s mother would approve; he hoped so anyway. He was making real progress at last; he had persuaded someone to talk to him off the record. Something was emerging about a shadow operation that was being run out of the US 101st Airborne Division based in Iraq, but carried out by British troops from One Rifles in Helmand province.

  He saw a glint of metal from a hillock on the far side of the monument; odd. As he shaded his eyes to catch a better glimpse, a third one appeared in the centre of his forehead. He teetered backwards and fell with a thud, dead before the sound of his fall echoed off the bleak sandstone walls.

  Chapter 48 – Exposure

  22nd May 2011 – Twelve days after the Storm.

  Constant exposure to dangers will breed contempt for them. – Lucius Annaeus Seneca.

  He held a photograph in one hand and a mirror in the other. He was working himself up to the moment; the unveiling of the enemy. His initial glance at the surveillance intelligence they’d received had burned into his retinas, like the feeling you getting looking directly at the sun. He hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage to have a second look, so he’d handed the envelope full of photographs back to Dave to enable him to brief the intercept teams.

  When he’d come home from work that same evening, he’d found the bundle sitting on his desk like an unwelcome guest, silently highlighting and accentuating his cowardice.

  As he’d busied himself in the kitchen, preparing his evening meal, he’d felt its malevolent presence, calling to him and repulsing him in equal measure. Now, here he was, stuck in a quandary, unable to take his eyes off the mirror.

  It had been a stupid idea; comparison.

  What was he trying to prove?

  He studied his own reflection dispassionately. He wore his black hair long, swept proudly back from his high forehead. There was no parting, and a lot of hair cream was required to sculpt it into position. His face was tanned and surprisingly unlined for someone with as chequered and stressful a career choice. His lips were full, with an almost perfect cupids bow shape, and his chin was strong and resolute; a face with hidden depths, a face with character.

  He quickly flicked his eyes from the mirror to the photograph and back. He saw nothing except a blur of grey. He would just have to suck it up.

  Eventually, he just flicked his eyes across to the photo and anchored them there. Once he’d focused on the image, as he’d known would happen, he found it impossible to tear his eyes away from it.

  He noticed with grim fascination the tight buzz-cut armed forces hairstyle, in stark contrast to his own luxuriant mane. The image had pale smooth skin with no wrinkles or worry lines, but the lips were full, with the same distinctive shape, and his eyes were the same. Not in colour, as Eoin’s were grey and the image had eyes of a piercing blue, but they both burned with the same intensity of purpose.

  It wasn’t any of the physical characteristics that surprised Eoin, though. The photograph he was looking at on the surface was essentially of a fit looking man in his mid forties, nothing more. No, the thing that surprised Eoin, shocked him even, was the overall feeling he got when he studied the photograph. There was an all pervading sense of purpose about the person, a supreme self confidence. They were comfortable in their own skin, but also exuded an aura of an individual not to be trifled with.

  He could almost smell a whiff of aggression, a whiff of menace. The face was different, but he saw that self same attitude every day. It faced him in the mirror when he shaved.

  ‘Hello Brother.’

  He startled himself when he realised he’d said the words aloud; trying them on for size.

  Half the reason why he hadn't wanted to look at the photographs was because he hadn’t wanted any visual memories. He just wanted to wipe that part of his life clean. But having now seen his brother in the flesh, so to speak, he was surprised and a little pleased to note that putting an identity to his hate had not changed the underlying emotion. He really was as heartless and ruthless as he believed. In a strange way he felt vindicated. He looked back to the mirror again and a serene smile pushed up the corners of his mouth.

  He put down the mirror and flicked a switch on the side of his desk, plunging the room into darkness. He still had the imprint of the image burned into his memory, and he drank it in, relishing the final moments of his three long decades of torment.

  After years of resentment and bitterness, he could finally release his father from the mental chains he had inhabited for the last thirty years. His family would be re-habilitated; the happy memories would be remanufactured to plaster over the void.

  He reached across the desk, his hand falling straight to the object he was looking for. He caressed it for a few moments, marvelling at the sleekness of the design, and the cool smoothness of the marble, wonderfully at odds with its primary purpose.

  He spun the wheel quickly with his thumb. He could see the miniature sparks as they jumped toward the flammable liquid, impatient for conflagration. And then, the delicious moment when spark and liquid combined, the whoosh as ignition became fire.

  Like all his lighters, it was set for the largest flame, and it danced and flickered like a beacon. His breathing made it shudder rhythmically, in tune with the rise and fall of his chest.

  Eoin studied the photograph in the flickering artificial twilight. Exposure: the amount of light that was allowed to fall on a photographic image. It was how this picture had been made, the process by which it had come into being and had then, as a finished product, found its way into his possession.

  But it had also exposed his feelings, given him the emotional tools he needed to cast off the legacy of the past and move into the unknown territory of a future, potentially without rage or hate.

  The thought filled him with uncertainty. Was that a good thing? He didn’t know, maybe he needed a new focus point; only time would tell. But for the here and now it was definitely what he needed; to reclaim the past and to reclaim his family.

  He moved the picture close to the flickering glow. He turned it onto one side, so that the corner was pointing down at an angle, and moved it toward the tip of the flame where the heat was starting to dissipate; the point where the orange of fire became the white of smoke.

  He could see that self same smoke starting to blacken and obscure the image, and then, all of a sudden, the fire took hold of the picture. Large areas of the paper started to tear open and crackle. There was a pungent whiff in the air, as the chemicals were released from their slumber, reacting with the heat, smoke and flame.

  He dropped the burning pile into the large crystal ashtray on his desk, the circular one. A
s he watched, the picture warped and constricted until the paper had been converted into nothing more than a pile of smouldering ash.

  ‘Goodbye, Brother,’ he said softly, before extinguishing the lighter and switching the lights back on.

  He blinked at the sudden intense assault on his eyes. He waited until the white spots dissipated.

  He went to pull the ashtray forward. It bogged down on the leather and then jerked toward him, leaving a trail of ash in its wake across the blotter. He smiled; his cleaner was always complaining that she had nothing to do, so at least she could earn a little bit of her money this week.

  He pulled the waste paper basket out from under his feet, and tipped the contents of the ashtray into it in one clean fluid motion. Finally, after thirty years, he could say goodbye to the past and say hello to the future.

  His fingers trembled with excitement as he fumbled the keys out of his pocket, dropping them with a clatter on the floor in his haste to extract them. He stooped awkwardly while he picked them up. He flicked through the keys until he came to the one he wanted; cut specifically for a single purpose all those years ago.

  To his right hand side, above the three drawers, was a thin strip of wood veneer with a keyhole set into it. It looked too thin to be a drawer and people confused it with the blanking plate for the locking mechanism, which had been the original intention.

  He turned the key a full-turn and then a quarter more. Using the body of the key, he pulled out the hidden drawer until it protruded about an inch and a half.

  He removed the key and placed it back on his desk. He’d been waiting for this moment for so long, he wanted to savour it for a while. He closed his eyes for what seemed like an eternity, and then opened them again as he realised it looked like he was praying.

  In a sense he was.

  He reached down to pull open the drawer, noticing with a detached disinterest that his hand was shaking almost uncontrollably. It slid soundlessly out, revealing a sea of green baize. Fixed to the front of the baize was a black leather tab. He used this to lift the lid, which exposed the hidden compartment underneath. Nestling within this padded environment was a picture frame.