by John Macrae
"Don't worry about that. I'll fix that with Andy. It's all going to be taken care of." He steepled his fingers and glanced down at a number on his note pad. "How soon can you go down to Warminster?"
"Warminster?" I thought furiously but made little sense. "Tomorrow, I suppose."
"Good." He tore the top sheet off the pad. "Call this chap and make the arrangements. He's expecting a Captain Brian Willis of the Parachute Regiment to go on the range with him sometime this week."
I was bewildered. "Who is Brian Willis?"
"You are," he beamed back. "You're a captain in the Parachute Regiment - TA - and you're going to help out the Infantry Trials and Development wing at Warminster for a practise shoot." I must have looked sceptical. "Don't worry. He's in the Army List if anyone asks or looks. You're part of the pool of Reservist Special Duty Officers." He winked. "I think that you're the third man to have been Brian Willis in one form or another."
"What do I do?"
Mallalieu got up and walked to the security container in the corner, and took out a large black brief case and a brown envelope. He slit the envelope open with his thumb and glanced inside, then spilled some documents onto a side table prodding them with an almond-shaped finger nail. "ID card, Parachute Regiment Association membership card, travel warrant for Westbury, Services' Rail card, bank card, Access card for car hire," he rattled off. "OK, sign here."
I ticked them of the check sheet and scribbled a signature. "Who makes this stuff for you?" My own face stared up from the MOD ID card. "It looks good."
Mallalieu laughed. "It should do. It's genuine." He took the briefcase and swung it heavily onto the table. "Now this bit is important, so pay attention." I must have looked askance, because he added, "What I mean is, " he snapped the locks, "This is important."
The case swung open to reveal a dull blue-black, futuristic-looking sub-machine gun, with a square, flattened body and a round second barrel mounted on top. He lifted it out carefully. It was only about eighteen inches long. I noticed that the business end had several small muzzle holes.
"What the hell is that?"
Mallalieu smiled. "Don't you recognise it?" He handed it to me. "It's all right - it's clear." I took it and examined it carefully; it was surprisingly heavy. The second barrel on top was some kind of sighting device. There were no marks or identifying numbers at all. Something stirred in my memory and I looked at the calibre. Those muzzle holes couldn't have been more than a .22 ... "My God! Is it a Venus?"
"That's right." He smiled with satisfaction. "Trust you to spot it. Well done."
I re-inspected the blued beast closely, searching my memory for details of a mystery weapon that the CIA were supposed to have invented in the late sixties and had never publicly admitted. The only thing I could remember was that it was a rotating, hand held six barrel miniature Gatling gun with a fantastic rate of fire, and some ex-CIA mechanic called Gonzales had spilled the beans in a Playboy article. Shortly afterwards he'd had a fatal heart attack, which was convenient for the CIA, if not for Mr Gonzales. The Venus didn't appear in any handbook on weapons. Gonzales' article had talked about putting Russian greatcoats on sheep and then shooting them. They'd blown apart under the impact, I recalled.
"Let me put you out of your misery." He pulled out an extending shoulder stock and cocked the action to clear it. "This is a six-barrelled, multiple feed, .22 Long SMG. It has two magazines of one hundred rounds in tandem here," he pointed to the mag openings, "And a flash suppressor here. It shoots the two magazines in 1.2 seconds." I raised my eyebrows.
"This device here," and he indicated the torch-1ike tube bracketed above the weapon, "Is a Laser-Lok sight. It'll project a 12 inch red dot at 100 yards either on bright for day, or half-bright for night." He busily clicked the control switch on and off, as proud as a child with a new toy. "This gun is the perfect close range killing weapon. Here ... "
He handed it back to me and I cocked it, checking the action. 'Don't let the barrels spin without rounds in," he cautioned, hastily. "The tolerances are very tight."
I examined the gun more closely. Through the open magazine housings the bolt face and barrel turning grooves gleamed silver, exquisitely machined. There was a curious opening at the front, a kind of tube below the barrel. "It's for the battery pack," he explained. It needs an electric drive."
"Colonel, where did you get this?"
Mallalieu grinned like a naughty schoolboy and took the Venus back carefully, letting the cocking handle forward under control, holding the trigger. The barrels rotated once with a purring noise and locked back into place with a crisp 'clunk'. "Ah, well, now there's a tale. Let's just say it's a beautiful bit of reverse engineering."
"Reverse engineering? What the hell's that?"
He laughed. "It's the latest American euphemism for copying."
"But surely it's an American design?"
"So it is; and they're weren’t giving the drawings away free, I can tell you." He laid the gun carefully back against the hard black rubber shape in the brief case. It nestled among the straight magazines and spare battery pack. "No, this is a superb piece of precision gun-making. The Americans brought one over to Hereford for an SAS demo last year. While it was on the range, DSTI managed to get some photos of it stripped down, and a few wax impressions of the key parts. It was a delicate operation. Then they set a gunsmith and a REME artificer to work. It took them four months to build this one, but it works, and it's perfect."
I looked at the weapon with renewed interest. Mallalieu went to the cupboard and came back with a yellow Kodak 10" by 8" photographic paper box. Inside were boxes of .22 long cartridges. He put it in the briefcase and closed the lid.
"Of course, it's got limitations," he continued. "It'll fire so fast that you'll have difficulty in getting two bursts out of your two magazines. Theoretically its rate of fire is 5000 rounds a minute and the shot dispersion makes it more of an area weapon at anything over 100 yards. The other thing you must do is to bore sight the laser sight. But properly zeroed and in the right hands, it's unbelievable." He picked up the case and handed it to me. "So here you are. Don't lose it."
I took the case, "No signature?"
Mallalieu shook his head. "No signature," he echoed. "Just don't lose it."
"What's the deal at Warminster?"
"Right: you report to 'P' range - that's the new Close Quarter Battle range - at 1400 tomorrow afternoon. The Infantry Trials and Development Unit will be having a CQB trial shoot. By 1300 the whole thing will be over and they'll have pushed off for lunch. You'll be late; they're expecting you late morning, by the way. If you roll up at two, apologise for being late, and then just proof fire the gun, you'll be OK. The CO of ITDU has been asked to leave an NCO at the range for you. It'll be a QMSI Dawlish of the Small Arms School. He knows about the gun, but thinks that it's an SAS trial. No-one else knows. He won't watch - he'll just work the range for you. When you've finished, clear up and come home. Q Dawlish will say you've gone straight back. Got that?"
I turned it over. It sounded clean. "I'll need a location or a map. "
"Here." He pulled a neatly folded General Staff map out of the drawer. It was overprinted 'Warminster Ranges - Danger Areas' in bold purple. I noticed with amusement that 'P' range was in the middle of the map fold, but Mallalieu hadn't put any marks on it. I like careful people.
"Yes, I've got all that; it all sounds well planned."
"It is. Go by hire car, use the Access card in Willis's name. Practise the signature. And I don't have to tell you to look the part. The railway warrant's for emergencies only."
"Red beret?"
"Here." He flipped a new Parachute Regiment beret, complete with badge, from the back of the drawer. "Six and three quarters - right?" He had been doing his homework.
"Right." I tried it on. It didn't fit and perched on top of my head like a pancake. Mallalieu laughed. "Serve you right. You'll have to shrink it and stretch the band tonight. Any other questions?"
"Correct. Up to 100 yards. Then come back and we'll talk again."
What about the Ops job?" I jerked my chin at the door. There's a big row going to break, over the Bull Pen "
Mallalieu pulled a face. "Don't I know it. Don't fret, Andy and I'll handle that. Now, off you go - and don't spend too much on expenses. You've got a four hundred pounds limit on that card. And those documents I do need back on signature."
* * *
The next day turned out to be a pleasant day in the country. I pottered down to Warminster and moved through the barriers to 'P' range. Salisbury Plain forgets to be a dreary succession of downland and is on its best behaviour round Warminster, with steep little valleys and copses huddling down to streams or little green fields which turn out to be army ranges.
At the empty range I parked the hire car and got out stretching. While I zipped up my combat smock, pulled on my beret (which still felt too tight) and stamped my boots to shake down the combat trousers in the vanity of soldiers, a small figure detached itself from the control hut and made its way towards me.
The rooks caw-cawed in their trees as the figure walked up and saluted. Underneath the rifle green beret and badge with the antique Vickers gun of the Small Arms School Corps, was a wrinkled, weather-beaten little man, with the kind of complexion shared by Falklands sheep farmers and rich Californian matrons. Sharp blue eyes flicked quickly over my rank badges and uniform. "Q Dawlish, Sir. You're ... ?"
"Captain Willis, Q. Sorry I'm late. Traffic."
He half smiled, satisfied. "Right. Well, if you'd like to set up on the firing point, Sir, I'll go and bring up some targets. Figure elevens all right?
We lapsed into the technical mumbo-jumbo of our trade until he disappeared to press the necessary buttons while I checked the weapon on the point. Ghostly black man-sized targets rose and fell silently from the ground as Dawlish checked the controls of the electric target range. I screwed on the flash suppressor and took two of my preloaded magazines before sighting on the large white screen with a cross that Dawlish had brought up at 50 metres centre-range. I looked round to check, but couldn't see him. Instead, a disembodied electronic voice crackled from the concrete hut behind me. "Ready?" I raised a hand in acknowledgement. "Then in your own time, load and carry on."
I clicked the heavy magazines home into their tandem housings, switched on the laser, and sighted it on the white zeroing screen. A pale pink dot glowed, wavering slightly. By clicking the intensity switch to 'daylight', the dot became a rich, ruby jewel of light. I played it on the screen, like a boy with a torch. Cocking the gun, I released the safety catch and held my breath; through the sight the blood red circle glowed, dead centre. I pulled the trigger.
For a split second, the gun bucked and a muffled 'brarrt!' echoed off the hills. Empty cases sprayed down at my feet and the sour sting of cordite blew back into my face. The rooks took fright, cawing loudly as they hung and flapped above the trees.
I examined the Venus with new respect and something approaching amazement. Both magazines were empty and the gun was barely warm; yet it had fired a hundred bullets in the time you or I take to sneeze. The mechanised voice echoed tinnily from the hut's loudspeaker. "Have you got a stoppage?"
I waved my hand to indicate that I had finished, cleared the weapon and laid it down. Then I walked forward to inspect the screen. The loudspeaker crackled, but Dawlish was silent. Like me he was probably awed by the gun's speed.
A large hole about the size of a tea plate had been blown right out of the target, high and to one side. At its edges, smaller black holes showed where a few stray shots had wandered. The frayed wisps of paper fluttered in the breeze. The thing was incredible. It had punched a black void, using two pounds of instantly delivered lead as a fine spray. What it would to on the wider spread at a hundred metres would be horrific. I shivered slightly. The Venus's impact on flesh hardly bore thinking about.
Using the Allen keys from the brief case, I adjusted the sight to coincide with the strike of the bullets and tried two more magazines. This time the hole was slightly to the left and down. I eased the red dot fractionally back and fired my third, check, group. The central cross on the big zeroing screen was obliterated by the black stain of a central strike. The voice from the hut was silent as I shouted for the zeroing screen to be lowered. Further out a succession of ghostly black man targets rose silently from the ground in its place. A chill breeze ruffled the long grass on the valley sides.
Loading two more magazines, I sighted below the frozen snarl of the target's face at a hundred metres. In the silence of the little valley, even the rooks were suddenly quiet. I felt for a moment that all of us - Dawlish, the birds, even the hillsides - were holding our breath in anticipation. The red dot pulsated slightly, then disappeared as I fired
In a spray of splintered plywood and shredded paper, the man size figure eleven target blew apart. The ripping noise of the gun echoed off the valley's walls and the rooks went mad again at the explosion of yellow and black target fragments. An awed electronically distorted voice muttered from the loudspeaker, "Bloody hell..."
The target had gone; just the shattered stump of its wooden support protruded above the ground, like a broken tooth, to mark its new incarnation as a litter of waste paper and plywood scraps fluttering halfway down the range. I don't think I've ever used a personal weapon as potentially lethal as that Venus. No wonder the Americans had kept it under wraps all this time. At a hundred metres it was as precise as a seamstress's needle.
And as destructive as an express train hitting a level crossing gate.
CHAPTER 27
TROUBLE AT ’T MILL, Central London
Next morning, in the Operations Room, Mallalieu seemed unimpressed with my endorsement of the gun's power. "I'll talk to you about that later," he growled at me. "Get Andy."
I went to get Andy, who was in the middle of talking forcefully to three of the four Bull Pen members. He looked irritated at my intrusion. I noticed that Jonno Briggs was absent and that a general air of sheepishness hung over the group. Pink spots burned on Andy's cheeks I wondered if he was gripping the Bull Pen; and where was Briggs? We had no operations on that I knew of.
"What was that about?" I asked as we walked down the corridor.
Andy's lips were tight. "Bloody Briggs again. He's adrift. I expect that's what Mallalieu wants to see us about."
Back in the Ops Room, Mallalieu had chased the duty girls and the operators out. We had it to ourselves and he launched straight into Andy. "What the hell went on last night?"
I banged a clipboard down to attract attention. "Do you want me to ... ?" I looked at the door. "I mean .. "
"No, you stay here," Mallalieu snapped. "This'll probably concern you too."
Andy looked embarrassed and angry at the same time. "Colonel, you were right. It seems that Jonno got out of hand. It's all true, I'm afraid."
I wondered what the hell they were talking about. It obviously concerned some escapade of Briggs.
"So he did shoot his mouth off?" Mallalieu snapped at Andy.
"I'm afraid so."
"And what about the policeman?"
"We're not sure. James says that by the time he got there, he thought it was a misunderstanding." I don't think I'd ever seen Mallalieu so angry.
"Misunderstanding? Misunderstanding?” He exploded. “I'll bet he said it was a bloody misunderstanding. A member of the Bull Pen goes boozing with a undercover Fleet Street investigative journo, shoots his mouth off in public and then thumps a policeman. That's a bloody big misunderstanding in my book." His face had sunk and become hard and ugly. The lower teeth were exposed like a trap. “Which pub as it anyway?"
Andy looked, if possible, even more embarrassed; "The Sherlock Holmes."
Mallalieu rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "What?! The MOD local?" Andy nodded. "Jesus Christ, how stupid can you get?"
I shook my he
ad in amazement. The Sherlock Holmes, between Charing Cross and Northumberland Avenue, is a well known haunt of MOD officials, D.I.S. and Security types. As a result, it tends to attract eavesdropping diplomats, spies and talent spotters from virtually every intelligence service in London. One of the standing jokes was that the Directors of the Service Security kept a permanent man in the bar of the Sherlock Holmes, the Red Lion and the Clarence, all earwigging to see which of Whitehall’s jolly drinkers was being indiscreet and with whom. As the three pubs were also firmly on the Whitehall London tourist circuit, the Sherlock was definitely not a pub to make a scene in.
Mallalieu looked stunned. "I can't believe it. It's so incredibly stupid, I find it hard to believe. The Sherlock?" He shook his head. "Where's Briggs now?"
"I don't know." Mallalieu's eyebrows knitted. Andy added hastily, "At home, I think. He hasn't come in this morning. James bailed him out of Cannon Row at about two o'clock, so I presume he's still sleeping it off." He looked at Mallalieu and added, as if to placate him, "I thought that he was better out of the way."
"Hmm." Mallalieu paused and looked at me. "Well, what do you think of all this?"
I resisted the temptation to shrug and thought carefully about my answer. "Let me get this clear - a member of the Bull Pen hit a policeman in a pub?"
"Outside - on the pavement."
"And he was talking to some reporter? About us?"
"Tom Hemming. The barman heard it all.”
"My God…" I knew the name by reputation. Hemming was a clever, unscrupulous reporter who had made a name for himself with the BBC by writing about military and intelligence affairs. He walked a very fine line between embarrassing exposés and being a remarkably well informed reporter. Very anti-establishment, too. Nasty little pieces in left wing journals about the ‘Secret State’. All denied hotly by the government: all alarmingly accurate. He was not a man to be trusted by any member of our firm at any price. Tonight's confidences all too often ended up as tomorrow's headlines - if Hemming saw any chance of making money or building on his reputation. Not a man to be trusted. "What exactly did he say?"