On The Back Foot To Hell
by Roland Ladley
The fifth of the Sam Green novels
First edition prepared for publication with CreateSpace August 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Roland Ladley 2019
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
The moral right of Roland Ladley has been asserted.
ISBN 9781082204784
For Dad, who we loved
and lost this year
For greed all nature is too little.
Lucius Annaeus Senecca
Prologue
16° 51' 30.5" N, 88° 59' 15.6" W, Belizean Jungle, Central America
Eighteen months previously
Everything was wet. Colour Sergeant Bill Pagan’s saturated fingertips were ribbed as if he’d spent too long in the bath. His jungle hat clung to his scalp like a swimming cap, its rim bowing downwards with the water that had soaked into the material. A small cascade of drips ran off the rear of the hat’s wide rim and onto his combat shirt - which was damp with sweat and leaking rain that had found its way around and through the overhead camouflaged poncho. His olive-green roll mat was also sodden.
He and Mike had done their best when they’d set up the OP eight days ago. But the jungle floor was already soaking from the incessant afternoon rain. Rain which you could set your watch by. And whilst the warming sun had worked hard to dry out their position the following morning, it had started raining just as things had begun to get comfortable.
Rain.
At least it was warm rain.
The problem wasn’t that the water got into everything. That their equipment, even though it was double-wrapped in decent sealed bags, still suffered from the 100 percent humidity. That the optics of their cameras and binoculars needed constant wiping - and their HF radio, a back up to the mil-spec Iridium satphone, was only working intermittently.
They and their kit were designed to cope.
It was seeing the target through a wall of water that was, when the rain was at its heaviest, next to hopeless. Mornings were good. Lunchtimes OK. Late afternoons, pretty poor.
The OP was set high on a rising, jungled hill above a curving dirt road looking over a junction that led away from their position to a heavily-guarded ranch complex. He and Mike had spent three hours choosing the right location before clearing the floor of rainforest debris and cutting a discreet observation window in the canopy. They’d been through the procedure countless times before - in training in Kenya and for real in nearly every country in Central America. The Special Reconnaissance Regiment’s (SRR) ability to insert observation and recce teams into small, hard-to-get places made them as much sought after as their more brutish cousins, the SAS. The SRR had an invaluable talent. They could observe almost any location for any length of time. Bill had survived a week bent double in a slim hedgerow with a long-lensed camera in Sheffield. Another four and a half weeks on a bare-arsed, sun-drenched mountain top in Syria. And, more recently and most bizarrely, two weeks in a bathroom of an unfinished hotel on the Albanian coast.
They always operated as a team of four, with a larger extraction and support section set some distance from the OP - in this case 12 klicks back at a derelict Mayan temple. There was no hard and fast rule on how the OPs operated, although common sense dictated a ‘two-on, two-off’ regime. For this op he and Mike, with George and Darren, were working eight hours on, eight off. George and Darren were 25 metres behind them in a small jungle clearing. The choice of the OP’s location was all about the views onto the target; the selection of admin and rest area was secondary. Hopefully George and Darren were sleeping. Dusk was an hour and a half away and the pair would start the fifth overnight stint at 7.30 pm. The next changeover wasn’t until 3.30 am tomorrow. Everyone needed their sleep.
The routine was monotonous, but workable. According to the Regimental brief the target was graded A5: utmost national importance; drugs. They knew no more than that. For Bill a mission with an A5 designation was the easiest to remain focused for. His younger brother, a promising musician, had passed away at a festival 18 months ago. The culprit: ketamine. Sure, his brother needn’t have taken the drugs. And there was some intelligence that pointed to a bad batch being distributed among the revellers. But ketamine had killed him. And every time an operation came along designated ‘5’, he never had a problem staying the course. Anything he could do, any photo - any sliver of intelligence - that would help bring the sods to justice went some small way to honouring the memory of his little brother.
It was all worth it.
The saturated conditions.
The insects - a buzz in his left ear a constant reminder he was never too far from some biting fly laying its larvae under his skin.
A painful nip from a predatory spider.
Not washing, nor cleaning his teeth - one of the worst aspects of undercover operations - and peeing in a bottle and pooing in a bag. All necessary to prevent non-jungle smells alerting the enemy.
The tiredness. The discomfort. The sores from wet cloth rubbing against saturated skin.
And missing home.
And Christmas away.
It was all worth it.
Just a couple of decent photographs of Xavier Turner, aka Individual A, with some unknown actor. Or Individual A’s workforce, recorded here at the ranch and then matched with equivalent images from Bravo Three-Two’s OP at the plantation. Money on a table on the covered balcony. A long-barrelled weapon. A pistol. A rocket-propelled grenade. Anything.
Everything.
With their specially adapted Leica S DSLR camera and a long telephoto lens, so far the four of them had dispatched 723 photographs to the Special Force’s secure cloud. They also had four and a half hours of HD video. In their pair Mike took the photos. He was better at it. Bill’s job was to acquire the target. For this, in daylight, he had five grand’s worth of Zeiss stabilised binos. At night he had a two-tube, mil-spec scope which operated as an image intensifier and a thermal imager. He also had a laser rangefinder, which they’d only used once to establish exact distances to eight points - from the track junction, up to the ranch and around the grounds. Lasers were fabulous at telling you how far away things were. They were also good at letting the enemy know you were lighting them up. If Bill were Individual A, he’d have spent £75 on Amazon and bought a suite of laser detectors. The OP would have been rumbled within an hour if the ranch could had been bothered.
Bill reached for a semi-dry microfibre cloth and wiped the lenses of his binos. He peered through. It was as good as it was going to get.
A drop of water had somehow found its way down the bridge of his nose and was now ready to launch itself from its tip. He pushed his bottom lip forward and blew hard. The drip spat into the air and was quickly enveloped in the curtain of rain beyond the front edge of the OP.
He looked.
And listened.
The problem with the rain was it obscured noise as well as vision. At the moment it wasn’t quite like having Phil Collins and his drum kit besides them in the OP. But if the last week was anything to go by at some point in the next hour the rain would be so heavy any thought of hearing passing traffic be
fore it reached the track junction would be lost.
But …
… hang on.
‘Mike.’ A whisper.
‘Yep. Got it. A car/small truck coming from the left.’
Bill tensed. He looked over the top of his binos, struggling to pick out much through the rain-pixelated image.
There it is.
A white Toyota Landcruiser. But not white. Mostly brown from the mud from the track; like a pint of frothy beer. It slowed at the turn. Uncertain. And then pulled off the main track into the one that ran up to the ranch. After 20 metres it was stopped by the large, red-brick arch housing a double metal gate.
Just forward of the gate was a video intercom. The driver’s window lowered and an elbow appeared; it was immediately soaked. Bill then had a stabilised, times-sixty view of the rear of some of the driver’s torso, his left arm and a partial view of the left side of his face.
White. Sunglasses. Panama. Beige cotton jacket, morphing to brown where it was damp.
How Grahame Greene.
But wetter.
The OP’s Leica was in constant click mode. Bill didn’t say anything to Mick. Mick liked silence when he was working.
The brim of the Panama was out of the window for no more than fifteen seconds. Then the automatic gates opened, the driver’s window closed and the Landcruiser headed off towards the ranch.
Bill checked for a number plate on the rear door. It was a muddy smudge, but readable. He memorised it through the constant stream of rain - although he knew Mick would have an image.
They lost the Toyota here and there as it wound its way between a combination of palms and other non-indigenous trees. A minute later it was at the entrance to the ranch. Individual A and a couple of his henchmen were already waiting for the visitor under the protection of the ranch’s canopy. The man in the Panama got out of the Landcruiser; Mick was now sure he was travelling alone. Carrying nothing but a brown suitcase he quickly, but casually, made his way around the bonnet of the vehicle. As he approached the canopy he extended a hand to Individual A, who met his offer with an outstretched arm.
The Leica clicked.
And clicked.
There was a short exchange. Pointing at the sky, Individual A appeared to make some quip about the rain, immediately after which there were smiles. And then the entourage went into the villa.
The clicking stopped.
And the heavens opened all of its doors.
When it rained this heavily Bill knew he could shout at Mick and someone a couple of metres away wouldn’t hear him.
‘Who the hell was that?’ He half-shouted at Mick.
‘No idea. But I should have some decent images. Give me a couple of minutes.’
Mick pushed back with his hands and, on his stomach, retreated deeper into the OP where he could check and transfer the latest images in a transparent dry-bag. Once on their ruggedised tablet, Mick would delete those which were either duplicates or out of focus, and then upload the pictures to the cloud via the Iridium. The whole process normally took less than ten minutes.
Bill was struggling to make out anything through the deluge; the ranch now a hazy smudge in the middle distance. The only difference in the past couple of minutes was some lights had come on in the buildings. If routine was followed, other than the odd patrolling guard, he didn’t expect to see anyone outside the ranch until tomorrow morning.
But he remained vigilant anyway.
With a couple of grunts Mick was on his way back up to the platform.
Bill didn’t take his eyes off the target area.
‘Anything?’
‘No. Not really. I have the vehicle details and one half-decent shot of the man’s silhouette; the sunglasses did for any facial recognition. The team should be able to size and age him, but not much else.’
‘Hopefully we’ll get something decent tomorrow? Maybe they’ll have champagne on the terrace?’
Mick scoffed. ‘Maybe.’ He was silent for a couple of seconds. ‘There was something. Probably irrelevant.’
‘What’s that?’ Bill replied.
‘Our “Englishman abroad” was wearing a double-cuff shirt.’
‘What do you mean. Like a city banker?’
‘Yea. Which is odd, considering the weather. And the conditions.’
‘Posh, then?’
‘Yeah. Probably. And …’ Mick paused for a second. ‘... he was wearing distinctive cufflinks.’
‘Go on.’ Bill encouraged.
‘Small flowers. Like daisies. You know. White petals with a yellow centre. Among all of the images it was the only thing that might allow the int guys to nail him.’
‘Daisy cufflinks? Hardly the stuff of international drug dealers?’ Bill commented.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’
Grief
Chapter 1
Asda Supermarket, Leicester, United Kingdom
Present Day
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
No ping.
Sam absently re-swiped the white and clear plastic package across the barcode reader.
Nothing.
She looked up at the oversized woman whose shopping she was scanning. The woman had one hip lower than the other, her hand planted firmly on a fold of fat struggling to escape the confines of her pink t-shirt. Her free hand held a Tokyo Cat purse that was being slowly strangled by the woman’s grip. Her demeanour was one of impatience. There was a lot of shopping. And there was only so much time.
Sam grimaced a smile whilst launching the package through the red laser zone for a third time. Still nothing. She shrugged her shoulders in the direction of the woman, looked at the package and found the barcode sticker. It had a ridge running down its centre, obscuring some of the thick and thin black parallel lines. Sam squashed the raised area with a finger and ran the package through again.
Nothing.
She let a gentle sigh escape through her nose and immediately tapped in the barcode number into the consul. She had seen the number once. She didn’t need to be reminded of it.
PORK CHOPS: £3.54, the till’s display announced.
Moving on.
As Sam re-engaged the woman’s eyes – a sort of cash-till face-off - her left hand reached for six mini-Battenbergs. They were next in the jumble on the conveyor. As deftly as a poker player the Mr Kipling sugar fest shifted to her right hand and, as it did, it registered with the red laser. Ping. Next, a second pack of six Battenbergs. Ping. Then six more. Ping
I’m not saying anything, but someone has a marzipan fetish.
Then a six-pack of Felix cat food, all whilst holding the gaze of the large woman. Who couldn’t cope. She fidgeted, muttered something under her breath along the lines of, ‘You’re friggin weird’, and then looked in her purse for her credit card.
Sam continued the motion. Package – transfer – ping. Package – transfer – ping. It was a perfect example of mundane efficiency. She was good. Very good. If there were a supermarket till competition somewhere she would have a good chance of winning. A European record. World leader. An Olympic medal.
Being efficient - getting better and better at swiping the items - kept her mind occupied. She needed that.
In less busy moments she made up stories about the customers. One was a major drug dealer. Another a prima ballerina. A late middle-aged couple, the centre of the largest swinging club in western Leicester. Car keys on the ornate hardwood coffee table. Now take your pick.
Today she’d spotted a Russian. Probably a spy. He was different from all of the usual eastern European crowd: the men all upright and fit, with outdoor hands and chiselled faces; the women, angular and smart – in a 1980s fashion-sense sort of way. The Russian she’d spotted had that same distant look as the Poles and the Romanians. As though he hadn’t quite got accustomed to living here. But the familiarity ended there. He was less manly; more scruffy thug. He wore a black collarless jacket with elasticated, woollen cuffs. Under
that was a fading blue and red check cotton shirt, covering a Muscovite belly. His trousers were black polyester, the bottom of the legs not quite meeting his brown plastic shoes with fake stitching. His face wore a white, oily sheen that probably hadn’t seen the sun for years. And he looked furtive.
Their eyes had met briefly, before he waddled off down the potatoes and veg aisle.
A spy.
For sure. She’d worked with a few.
But the imagineering wasn’t always enough. It may distract her most of her time when she was at work, and she worked as many hours as ‘Tony the Tills’ would give her, but that still left the early mornings. The late nights. The ‘awakes’ at 3 am. The days off.
It had been a torrid time since Venezuela. She had pressed hard to mend her broken bits. Her calf with a hole in it. Her insides with a chunk removed by a surgeon’s scalpel. Those were things she and time could fix. Things within her control. Plenty of hills. Trekking. And the running. It all helped. After eight months she was close to top form. Her five-kilometre run time was back down to just over 20 minutes. Not her best, but not far off. She had jogged to the top of Scafell without a break, carrying a pack loaded with all she needed for a night on the mountain. She’d picked up an Achilles niggle a couple of months ago, but that was on the mend. Physically she felt good.
But upstairs? Now, there was a problem.
She didn’t want to think about it. She tried not to think about it. The succession of events over a number of years had continuously flung her down an abyss, followed by a short spike of elation that came from surviving a nasty fall. It was a rollercoaster. Up. And then down. Up again. And then crash: a brick wall. A ditch.
Each drop was deeper than before. Each up, only so high. It was a downward trend.
Camp Bastion. Kenema. Berlin. Rome. Miami and Caracas. The outcome of every one: lower than before.
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