Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  Seven years later, Major Hansard had found himself leading his company into battle in the Falklands. The fighting had been fierce, but Hansard had insisted on leading from the front, and his unit soon gained a fearsome reputation. He had not objected to the men who had made necklaces out of the ears and noses of the Argentine enemy; in fact, it seemed like good psychological warfare, although he was aware such things were frowned upon by the higher ranking officers.

  Despite the company’s early success, it wasn’t long before Hansard was caught by enemy fire, during the epic battle for Mount Longdon. A mortar shot blasted shrapnel into his upper leg and knee, all but destroying the joint. He’d continued to direct his men from a bloody ditch as the corps medic struggled to save the leg, and the platoon had finally taken the hill. Hansard, however, had to be shipped home at the first opportunity.

  He had been awarded the Military Medal for his bravery, and the surgeons back in England managed to save the leg, but the blast had left him with a permanent limp, and no longer fit for active duty with an infantry unit. He still had the burning desire to serve his country though, raging through him stronger than ever.

  His superior officers recognized his sharp intellect, and his analytical and strategic abilities, and recommended that he be transferred to the Intelligence Corps after his recuperation.

  By the time of the first Gulf War, Hansard had already proven himself more than capable of operating within the shadowy confines of the intelligence underworld. A certain degree of ruthlessness displayed during his early work against the IRA in Northern Ireland led to his involvement with the infamous Force Research Group, a body later disbanded after accusations that it was encouraging – and in some instances, facilitating – Unionist murders of IRA personnel. During his time there, Hansard had learnt a great deal about how such units operated, what the potential pitfalls to such work were, and how mistakes could be avoided in the future.

  His successful involvement in covert operations soon led to his becoming the Intelligence Corps’ key liaison with the military’s special forces units. For the next few years he assisted their operations across the globe, from Iraq to Bosnia and from Kosovo to Sierra Leone. He also spent two years in the United States, learning about that nation’s own special operations capabilities. The work led to useful contacts, both in the military and the intelligence worlds. In the field, he observed the Army’s Special Forces, the Navy’s Seals, the Marine’s Force Recon, and the Air Force’s Special Operations Squadrons; he visited the headquarters of the CIA, FBI, DEA, and the NSA; and in the evenings, he wined and dined with prominent officers, government agents, and even politicians. Back home, he also made friends with the key players of the British intelligence world.

  In 1996, Hansard’s experience made him the ideal candidate to run the secretive Increment cell. Established after the first Gulf War, the unit’s aim was to carry out covert missions for the government that were too sensitive for normal special forces troops. Tasks involved the kidnapping of foreign agents, penetration of unfriendly governments, sabotage, blackmail and, of course, assassination. Hansard had been aware of the program since its inception, and had worked with some of the men over the next few years, always impressed with their sheer professionalism. Command of such a unit was his dream job and, once he took the reins, it was made even more successful.

  Increment was actually a cell of MI6, Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, and to command it, Hansard had to resign his Army commission and join SIS as a senior officer. Although it came under the auspices of the Foreign Office, by way of SIS, the unit needed the powers of the military for action. Indeed, many officers from the SAS and SBS complained that the unit was creaming off the best men it had. Awareness of the cell was one of the major problems Hansard faced, as it was something of an open secret within the services. Some of the jobs that Hansard had planned, and his small unit of handpicked men had carried out, were becoming almost legendary. The problem manifested itself in the late ‘90s, when newspapers started to get wind of it, and accusations started flying about another government ‘hit squad’.

  Hansard knew the best policy was containment, and so quickly and quietly disbanded his beloved unit. A cooling off period was decided upon, and Hansard’s new civil service employers wanted to know what their man wanted to do during the hiatus. Even though he had only been with the SIS for four years, his impact and unrivalled success during that time ensured that he would get any posting he asked for. Strings were pulled, and in the January of 2000, Hansard left for a key liaison post with the Central Intelligence Agency in America. Hansard used the three years well; you could never start planning for something too early, he knew.

  Upon his return to the UK, Hansard suggested that it was time to re-establish a new covert action cell. The suggestion was approved, and Flashlight was given the go-ahead. This time, rather than inheriting an existing unit, he had carte blanche to create a new unit from the ground up. This he did with typical attention to detail, spending time over every little thing, from the selection of the men and women themselves, to the computers he wanted for the intelligence headquarters. He kept the cell small, with a headquarters of half a dozen experts, and four field teams of four operatives. These men and women were seconded from their parent units in utmost secrecy, and the number of people who were even aware of the existence of Flashlight was less than thirty – unheard of for such an operation.

  Selection of the right personnel was absolutely key, Hansard knew. He only wanted the best, most reliable people; soldiers with plenty of combat experience. Luckily for him, the British military was never light in that particular department. He didn’t hold open selections, or bring back any of Increment’s original members. What he did do was obtain the service records of the members of the UK’s various special forces units, and read through them one by one. From these reports, which numbered in the thousands, he requested sixty-four people for interview. Of these, he knew he would accept only twenty-five percent.

  Mark Crosby was the eighth name on his list.

  29

  The driving sleet was making it hard to see out of the windscreen of the stolen car. Cole had driven the Citroen C9 a little over two hundred miles, and knew he would soon need a new one. He didn’t want to drive too far in a stolen vehicle, for fear that it would attract attention. Changing cars every two or three hundred miles would make the journey a lot safer. There would be one more change before he got to the German border, and then he would leave the vehicle and cross over on foot, only taking another car when he was safely in the new country. He couldn’t take the chance of driving through the border, for fear that the patrol guards might have his picture; he had no idea the extent of the manhunt Hansard would have ordered.

  As he coaxed the little car on along the highway at a steady hundred kilometres per hour, his mind thought once again of his old master and mentor. Hansard – he still couldn’t believe the man wanted him dead. It was too much to accept, and yet Cole’s experience of the world meant that his views of human nature were essentially somewhat less than optimistic. Cynicism was his watchword, and yet he had never expected Hansard to turn against him. What was the man thinking? He was up to something, that much was obvious; it was also evident that whatever it was, it was big. But, he remembered, Hansard had always had the mental edge; not just over him, but over everyone.

  Cole remembered their first meeting, when he had been Corporal Mark Crosby with the Brigade Recce Troop in Iraq in the long, hot summer of 2003. It was only a year after he had fought in the caves of Afghanistan, but he didn’t mind; he loved the action. There was always the fear, of course, but he knew that if he could persevere through the fear, there would be the glorious reward of the supercharged adrenal surge at the other end. Crosby had learnt early on that there was no more powerful a drug than the adrenaline hit brought on by a real-life fire-fight, with trained men shooting at you, whilst you tried to shoot back. It made everything so clear – movements, sounds, t
he feel of the air on your skin, the flow of blood pumping around your body – and it was unlike any other feeling Crosby had ever experienced. The truth of the matter was that he only felt truly alive when his life was in danger. It was a truth that Mr Hansard, as he introduced himself, saw immediately.

  Mr Hansard was waiting for him in the operations tent when Crosby returned from a routine patrol. The interview took place before he had even had the chance to take his belt kit off. As soon as Crosby entered, the man was on his feet, extending a hand. ‘Corporal Crosby, I presume?’ the tall, slim man said in a polished, almost seductive tone. As Crosby took the hand and shook, the stranger continued. ‘My name is Mr Hansard. Sorry for the intrusion, but I would like to have a little talk with you.’

  Crosby looked around the room. Nobody else was there, which told him something; the operations tent was the nerve centre of the troop and was normally a hive of activity. Whoever this man was, he was someone important. Hansard . . . Crosby’s mind wandered. He knew the name from somewhere, and it wasn’t long before he made the connection. The dark wood cane leaning against the side of the chair helped the matter. Noel Hansard, formerly a Lieutenant Colonel with the Intelligence Corps but latterly with SIS, running the now-defunct Increment cell. A war hero and a special ops legend. What the Hell does he want with me? Crosby wondered next.

  The name Flashlight was never mentioned, and Mr Hansard never even indicated that he was setting up a new, ultra-covert military action cell. All the questions came from the SIS officer, and Crosby answered them as honestly as he could. It was clear that the older man was recruiting, but for what, he didn’t say. The interview went well, Cole remembered, but it was such a strange situation that in some ways it felt like no more than a dream.

  At the end of the meeting, Hansard had stood, shaken hands with Crosby, and announced that he would be in touch. He kept his word, although it was two more years before the men spoke again.

  The problem, Hansard remembered, was that at the time, Crosby was something of an adrenaline junkie. The commendations, awards and medals that had looked so impressive in his personnel file, were merely the result of Crosby’s impetuous desire to be in the thick of the action. Some people called it ‘courage under fire’, and Hansard did indeed find the man’s achievements impressive, but the new head of Flashlight had decided, in the end, that such a man would be a liability in the field.

  He had kept a close eye on Corporal Mark Crosby, however, watching as he was awarded a rare field commission, then as he passed selection for the Special Boat Service and started the arduous training programme for that specialist group. According to Hansard’s sources, Crosby had exceeded all expectations in training, and was deemed by his instructors to be a natural special forces soldier. One of his greatest attributes, reputedly, was his patience. Hansard remembered being surprised to hear this particular comment, and made a note to monitor Crosby’s first few jobs for the SBS in order to see just how far the lad had come on. Although Flashlight was a small group – and still a well-kept secret – there was always room for the right sort of person. And Hansard was finally coming round to the decision that Crosby was the right sort of person.

  It wasn’t long after training that Crosby was tested in the field, as his section was sent straight to Iraq, from where they launched sorties into Iran in an attempt to locate the supply routes used to keep the Iraqi insurgents in business. The team managed to remain covert for their three month tour, during which time they identified a number of such routes. These supply lanes were immediately closed off, putting a strong pinch on Iraqi operations in the surrounding areas.

  What impressed Hansard about the operation wasn’t so much the fact that it harmed the insurgents – he knew they would find other routes soon enough – it was the fact that the unit had never been seen or discovered, even though it moved throughout a dangerous area, in which British forces should never have been in the first place. Which meant that Crosby had kept his cool.

  It seemed, for whatever reason, that Crosby had developed into the man Hansard had been looking for. It was time to meet with him again.

  The call came as a surprise to Crosby; so much had happened since that strange meeting two years previously that he had all but forgotten Hansard and the mystery job.

  He had been at home with Claire, his first wife, when the call came. Things hadn’t been good between them lately – Crosby had been away too often, either training or on operations, and his wife had simply grown tired of being alone - and she had just started another argument when the phone went. Glad of the interruption, Crosby had picked it up straight away.

  The conversation was short, merely inviting Crosby to meet with him the next day in London. There was no question of not going; he was curious about why Hansard should contact him now, after never getting back to him before. Besides which, it would give him a reason to be out of the house.

  The meeting was shorter this time. Crosby could tell Hansard had already made his mind up, and the ‘interview’ was a mere formality. It soon became apparent that that was indeed the case.

  ‘What do you know about a covert cell known as Flashlight?’ Hansard asked.

  Crosby shook his head. ‘Flashlight? Never heard of it.’

  Hansard smiled. ‘I should hope not. It doesn’t officially exist as such, you see. Of course, you are familiar with Increment.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Crosby answered. ‘I even know a few guys who served in the unit. Good men,’ he added.

  ‘They probably were,’ Hansard agreed. ‘The problem was, everyone knew about it. And for a covert unit that does questionable work for the government, that’s really not good. So, we disbanded and had a quiet couple of years. Time to reflect, so to speak.’ Hansard watched Crosby’s face for a reaction. There was none; he had come a long way in just two short years, it seemed. ‘But the need for such a unit was still there. And so we established Flashlight back in 2003, to carry on that necessary work. I was of course interested in you then; but I felt that you could do with a bit of maturing.’

  Crosby was not offended by the suggestion; looking back now, he could see how impetuous he was. He realized now the danger of such behaviour and, although the desire for action was still there, his immense personal discipline now kept it very much in check.

  ‘Do you have any issues with the work that Increment was involved with?’ Hansard asked him directly.

  ‘No,’ Crosby answered without a pause. Why would I? he wondered silently. The unit performed work that the government deemed was necessary for the safety of the country. To some, the methods may have been questionable, but Crosby was a firm believer of the ends justifying the means.

  ‘Good,’ Hansard said, standing and offering his hand. ‘Welcome to the unit.’ And that was it, just as simple as that.

  30

  As Cole walked through the main commercial thoroughfare of Strasbourg, he appreciated the opportunity it gave him to stretch his legs. After eight hours of driving, in addition to his exertions on the ferry crossing, he certainly needed the respite.

  He had left the Citroen in a large car park in a nearby low-rent suburb, knowing that it would not attract attention for several days at least. His plan was to head into the city, eat and rest whilst he waited for night to fall, and then set out on foot for the border, crossing over into Germany undetected. He estimated that the walk would be at least ten kilometres, and allowed himself three hours for the exercise.

  Once across the border control areas, he would look for a new vehicle, which he knew could take some considerable time. It would be easy enough to take a car at a service station, but he was aware that such a location was an ill-advised spot for such an action. People visiting service stations did not routinely stay very long, and the theft of a vehicle would therefore be noticed by its owners very quickly. The fact that the motorway services had its own police force stationed there wouldn’t help matters either.

  No, he judged, he would have to make it on foot
to the small town north-west of the main border control point, about twenty kilometres distant, which would mean a total hike of thirty klicks, or about nineteen miles. He looked up at the grey sky, just as it started to snow once more. By the time he reached the main shopping area, it was coming down heavily, adding to the pre-existing blanket that already covered the busy streets. The snow would make his going slower, but the accompanying darkness would mean he could set off earlier. Figure three kilometres an hour, two hours extra for error . . . If he left Strasbourg at six tonight, he would be at the town by six in the morning, still able to get a car under cover of darkness. It would be time-consuming, but not especially hard going – the land was relatively flat, and he could keep to the roads for the most part. But as he felt the chill going through his clothes, and the water start to soak through his shoes, he realised he would have to get something that was more appropriate to the harsh winter climate.

  He found an outdoors store within minutes, but before he entered he spent some time talking to a couple of local teenagers who were hanging around nearby. Once in the store, he quickly selected a pair of stout boots, walking trousers, thick shirt and pullover, a warm but lightweight jacket, gloves, and a hat.

  He asked to use the changing room, and put all the clothes on, stuffing his old items behind a roof panel that was easily removed and then replaced. He came out, and was pleased to see that the two teenagers he had spoken to were already in the store. Moments later, there was an almighty crash as the two boys dived head-on into the huge pyramid of boxed boots that made up the shop’s central display. Laughing, they immediately got up and ran for the door.