Bad Soldier

by Chris Ryan

  Rain was streaming off him as he rang the bell to the ground-floor flat. As he stood, waiting for an answer, he could hear the faint wail of a baby from inside. Through the glass of the front door he watched someone approach. When the door opened, and the someone became a real face, he found himself talking to a woman who looked like she hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours.

  ‘Are you Clara?’ he asked.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘My name’s Barker. Mate of Danny’s from . . . you know . . . work.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Yeah, so . . . the headshed asked me to come round, let you know that Danny’s not going to be back for a few days.’

  Nothing registered on her face. It was only when Barker was about to excuse himself that she spoke. ‘Will you come in?’

  ‘Nah, you’re OK, I’d better . . .’ But Clara looked so crestfallen that he changed direction mid-sentence. ‘Yeah, alright then, for a minute.’

  Barker was a big guy. It was awkward for him to manoeuvre past the pram that was blocking the hallway. He knocked a colourful soft toy from the handle, and Clara immediately scrambled to pick it up and tie it back on to the pram. ‘Danny bought it.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘From Mothercare. You should have seen him . . .’

  Barker didn’t know what to say. His boots left a line of wet footprints all the way down the hallway and into the front room. Clara didn’t seem to care. Her baby was here, lying in a wicker Moses basket, bawling her eyes out. Her mother lifted her from the basket and she immediately stopped crying. Barker wasn’t really a baby person, but even he had to admit the girl was a cute little kid. A shock of dark hair – like a mini version of Danny Black.

  ‘Why is he delayed?’ Clara asked.

  Barker gave her an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘Can’t really—’

  ‘—talk about it. I know.’ She started rocking the baby, and humming very gently.

  Thirty seconds passed. Barker started to feel awkward. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d better . . .’

  ‘Is he safe?’ Clara asked.

  Barker smiled. ‘Danny? Don’t worry about him, love. He can take care of himself.’ He paused. ‘You know, he’s the guy that everyone in the Regiment looks up to.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Me included. I wish I had half Danny Black’s skills. He’s a good soldier. A born soldier. Danny’ll be fine.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s the rest of us that need to worry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘You’ve not got any plans to go to London?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Keep it that way. Take my advice and stay home. It’s the safest place right now.’

  She blinked, then carefully laid the baby back into her Moses basket.

  ‘Look . . . I’ve got to go,’ he said. Which was true. He nodded at Clara, then turned and left, closing the front door behind him. And as he started up his motorbike in the street outside the flat, he looked back through the thin curtains into the front room. He could see Clara in silhouette. He had the impression that she was holding the baby to her chest once more and was pacing up and down the room.

  As he drove away, Barker couldn’t shake the suspicion that she’d still be pacing when Danny returned home. Whenever that might be.

  Tony’s hotel room was bigger than most people’s apartments, and unbelievably opulent. It was littered with comfortable armchairs and rich, embroidered soft furnishings. It had a massive vista, looking out on to the Gulf, where the lights of countless yachts glittered like jewels in the night. His bathroom was marble-clad, with gold-leaf taps, two sinks and a separate jacuzzi. He’d spent the best part of forty-five minutes under the shower. Once he’d got changed into the clean clothes that had been provided for him, leaving the bathroom blood- and dirt-stained, he’d ordered the most expensive meal available on the room service menu, and wolfed it down in the separate dining room suite. He spared a thought for Black, that bitch Caitlin and that fat bastard Spud who was lucky not to have had his bollocks shot off. He didn’t know what shitty little quarters they’d be slumming it in now, but it sure as hell wouldn’t match this.

  There was a knock on the door. Tony pushed his plate away, belched loudly, then slowly sauntered over to open it. A thin, pasty-faced man in a black suit was standing there. ‘Are you Tony Wiseman?’ he asked.

  Tony looked over his shoulder. ‘Guess I must be,’ he said, ‘as there’s nobody else in here.’

  The man offered his hand. ‘Good to meet you, old chap. My name’s Hughes. His Grace is ready for you.’

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

  The flunky blinked at him in astonishment. ‘I’m afraid that when his Grace says he’s ready, you . . .’

  Tony didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. He slammed the door in the man’s face and wandered into the bathroom again, treading over the old clothes he’d left on the floor and leaving footprints across the marble. He took a long, leisurely piss, then wandered back out and opened the door again. Hughes – was that his name? – was still there. ‘I’m ready,’ Tony told him.

  It was clear that the flunky didn’t quite know how to respond. He turned on his heel and started walking down the plush, carpeted corridor. ‘He’s in the penthouse suite,’ he said. ‘When you first meet him, you should address him as “Your Grace”. After that, a simple “sir” will suffice. Is that clear?’

  Tony didn’t reply.

  ‘A small bow from the neck would be appropriate, but a handshake will do just as well. My advice is to take your lead from him.’

  Tony still didn’t reply.

  They entered a large, mirrored lift. The flunky had a key card that allowed them to direct it to the penthouse. They stood in silence as the elevator took them up. As the door hissed open on to a large, impressive anteroom with a similar view over the Gulf to Tony’s own room, he clocked two young guys who he immediately identified as Yellow Seven’s CP – probably from SO14, royal protection. They were dressed in casual clothes but Tony noted the bulges in their jackets where they were undoubtedly carrying firearms. They watched him with unconcealed aggression. Typical coppers, hanging round like they’re pop stars or something. They’d have been happy enough to come down to Hereford, spend some time on the range with SAS guys who really knew how to handle a firearm. But as soon as a Regiment man trod on their turf, they bristled at the presence of someone with superior skills.

  One of the coppers walked up to Tony. ‘I’ll need to frisk you, mate,’ he said. East End accent. Stupid swagger.

  Tony smiled. ‘I don’t think so.’

  The copper looked over to his mate. ‘Looks like we’ve got a troublemaker.’

  The flunky stepped nervously to one side. ‘Now, look here, gentlemen—’

  But Tony interrupted him. ‘Thing is, fellas,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. But someone in London’s decided there’s a threat level here that you boys can’t handle. You want to get on the blower to them, talk it through, be my guest. But if you lay a fucking finger on me, you’ll be getting first-hand experience of the Dubai medical system.’

  The police officer looked a little less sure of himself.

  ‘Let’s not go down this route, hey lads? Let’s all be friends.’ Tony looked over at the flunky and nodded. Then with a glance at the police officers, he muttered under his breath: ‘Knobs.’

  The flunky obviously wanted out of the situation. He knocked on a door at the far side of the room. A muffled voice shouted: ‘Come!’ The flunky entered. Tony stood silently, ignoring the waves of unfriendliness coming at him from the CP guys. The flunky reappeared thirty seconds later. ‘He’s ready for you,’ he said, holding the door open for Tony.

  Yellow Seven’s suite made Tony feel like he was slumming it. He found himself in a plush living room, all sofas and fresh-cut flowers. There was a fully stocked cocktail bar on one side, and a TV on the far wall the size of a small cinema screen. But there was no Ye
llow Seven. A door at the far side was open. Tony wondered if he should go through. He looked over his shoulder towards the flunky for guidance, but there was no sign of him. He’d shut the door.

  Tony moved over to the cocktail bar. There were maybe a hundred bottles neatly arranged against a gleaming mirror. The bar itself was made of burnished oak. Tony immediately saw the remnants of a white powder. He dabbed his finger on it, then touched the powder to the tip of his tongue. He immediately felt the familiar numbness, and smiled. Looked like his Grace was living up to his reputation.

  He heard footsteps and turned round. A figure appeared in the open doorway. Yellow Seven was wearing a white towelling robe. His black hair was dishevelled and he had bags under his eyes. It was very obvious that he’d only just got up. He peered at Tony with a frown. ‘Who are you again?’ he asked in a cracked voice.

  ‘Tony Wiseman. From Hereford. I’m with 22.’

  Yellow Seven rolled his eyes. ‘My babysitter,’ he muttered. He looked across the room. ‘Where’s that tit Hughes?’

  Tony couldn’t stop himself from smiling. ‘Outside,’ he said.

  ‘Best bloody place for him.’ Yellow Seven pointed to the minibar. ‘Get yourself a drink. I’ll be out in a bit.’ He disappeared back into what Tony assumed was his bedroom.

  Tony sauntered back to the bar. He grabbed himself a glass and selected the most expensive-looking bottle of whisky he could find. He poured himself a couple of inches, knocked it back, then replenished his glass, before taking a seat at the bar. Looking back towards Yellow Seven’s room, he saw a quick glimpse of a naked female body passing the doorway. He smiled to himself again. He was warming to this rich bastard. At least he knew how to have a good time. He glanced out of the window over the Gulf, and his mind turned again to Danny Black and the others. Fuck them, he thought. They reckoned they could make him the laughing stock of the Regiment? Well, Tony was going to take a leaf out of the royal family’s book. He was going to enjoy himself.

  Yellow Seven appeared ten minutes later, showered and dressed. He was a good-looking bastard, and the Middle Eastern bird tottering along behind him wasn’t too shabby either. She had on heavy make-up, and her tits were almost spilling out of her tight dress. She obviously noticed Tony giving her the once-over, but didn’t seem to mind.

  Yellow Seven checked out the bottle of whisky that Tony had left open on the bar. ‘Sweet,’ he said, pouring himself a glass. He looked over at the woman. ‘You can probably run along now,’ he said. ‘Hughes will . . . sort you out.’

  The woman gave him a disconsolate pout, but she didn’t argue. Her arse wiggled outrageously as she left the room. Neither Tony nor his companion took their eyes off her until she was gone. ‘Dynamite in the sack,’ Yellow Seven said when the door was closed again. ‘Bloody well should be, the price she charges.’ He took a mouthful of whisky. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re here to make sure I get to Sandringham safely in time for Christmas. You ever been to Sandringham?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘It’s the most boring place in the fucking universe.’ He knocked back the rest of his whisky, then poured himself and Tony another. ‘I was in Afghanistan, you know.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘I didn’t leave because I wanted to,’ he said earnestly, as though he really wanted Tony to understand this. ‘They said I was a liability to the other troops out there. Too much of a target.’

  ‘Give me this over the Stan any day,’ Tony said.

  Yellow Seven looked round the room as though seeing it for the first time. ‘Novelty wears off after a while.’

  Tony pressed his fingertip into the remnants of white powder on the bar. ‘Not much of this behind enemy lines,’ he said.

  Yellow Seven’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘You want to be careful,’ Tony continued. ‘They come down hard on the old marching powder in these parts.’

  Yellow Seven gave a dismissive little laugh. ‘Not if you’re me they don’t.’ He watched as Tony tasted the powder again. ‘Do you partake?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s been known.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Lock the door then. Those close protection idiots are such nobbers . . .’

  Tony eyed him for a moment. Then he shrugged. Fuck it, he thought. He walked over to the main door and locked it from the inside. When he turned to walk back to the cocktail bar, his Grace had already emptied the contents of a small sachet on to the bar. ‘Do the honours,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t carry credit cards.’

  Tony took his military ID card from his wallet and approached the counter, ready to chop.

  Ten

  2147 hours.

  ‘This is Turkish airspace, about ten miles north of the Syrian border, approximately 200 miles from the northern Iraqi border. That puts us about thirty minutes out. Repeat, thirty minutes out. Plug in to the aircraft’s oxygen systems, we’ll be decompressing in five minutes.’ The loadie’s voice was hoarse as he shouted above the persistent grind of the aircraft’s engines.

  Danny gave him a thumbs-up. He and Spud both had their freefall rigs attached to their bodies. On their left arm, each had a glowing altimeter. On their right arms, a GPS device. They both had a bottle of compressed oxygen strapped to their chest, and an oxygen mask, although these were not yet fitted to their faces. They wore the matt-black HALO helmets, visors up.

  Caitlin also wore the oxygen bottle, mask and helmet, but no freefall rig. Instead, she had a full harness, since she would be falling in tandem with Danny. Now wasn’t the time for a rookie to perform their first HALO jump. There were too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong. Caitlin was keeping a lid on her nerves. Danny respected her for that.

  ‘We need to get on to the aircraft’s oxygen system,’ he shouted at her over the noise of the aircraft. ‘We have to breathe pure oxygen for a while before we jump. Prevents hypoxia. Helps us to avoid losing consciousness before we deploy the chute.’

  She gave him a sick look. ‘How likely is that?’

  ‘I’ve seen it happen, but normally only when someone loses their oxygen mask in freefall.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘You’ll probably lose consciousness. Then you’ll have to rely on the automatic chute deployment.’

  ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘It’s important to fall stable. We need to be careful none of our equipment shifts. If we start spinning, we’ll have problems. I’ve seen guys get to the ground with burst blood capillaries in their eyes because of it. Not pretty. And if there’s a packing error, and the chute doesn’t deploy properly, I’ll need to cut it away before deploying the emergency chute.’ He winked at her. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only ever happened once.’

  They moved to a bench along the side of the aircraft where the oxygen masks were hanging, and where their bergens and weapons were waiting on the floor. From the corner of his eye he could see Hammond manoeuvring what resembled a 45-gallon drum. In fact it was a freefall container, made of heavy-duty compressed cardboard. It contained the weapons and radio equipment that they would be offering up to the Kurds as a gesture of goodwill. It had its own freefall rig attached. The unit sat on the bench and started strapping their bergens and weapons to the backs of their legs.

  ‘It’ll be very cold when we leave the aircraft,’ Danny continued explaining. ‘But we’ll be falling very fast and we’ll get to a more comfortable altitude in less than a minute. We’re aiming to fall in formation with Spud and the drum of weapons, but the wind speeds can be quite high up here and you need to be prepared for buffeting. Do everything you can to keep your body rigid. I’ll deploy a little drone chute as soon as we’re out of the aircraft – it’ll slow us down a little and help us keep steady.’ He tapped the altimeter on his wrist. ‘We’re currently cruising at about 32,000 feet – that’s about the altitude of a commercial airliner. You can expect me to deploy the main chute at 4,000 feet. I’ll tap you on the shoulder before I do that – it’ll
be too noisy for us to speak. If anything goes wrong and I lose consciousness, I’ve got the automatic chute deployment system set to engage at 3,500 feet. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ Caitlin said.

  ‘Once we’re under canopy, we’ll orientate ourselves using the GPS. With a bit of luck, we’ll have eyes on the storage drum’s chute and we can follow it down.’

  ‘One minute to decompression,’ the loadie shouted. ‘Let’s get those oxygen masks on.’

  Danny, Spud and Caitlin grabbed the aircraft oxygen masks and fitted them to their faces. Hammond sat with the rest of the crew on the opposite side of the aircraft. They also had their masks fitted as the aircraft decompressed. Danny put his head back against the side of the aircraft and concentrated on breathing normally. He was nervous about the jump. He knew that Caitlin was extremely capable, and he’d done enough freefalling himself for it to be second nature. But one of the main reasons for performing a HALO jump was to reduce the window of time during which any enemy forces on the ground could spot you under canopy. There was still, however, a short period of time when you were an easy target, unable to defend yourself effectively or put in any kind of countermeasure against enemy fire. It was a prospect that always sharpened Danny’s senses in the moments before an operational HALO insertion. He found that his best strategy was to clear his mind and focus carefully on getting safely to the ground.

  Twenty-five minutes passed quickly. The turbulence was bad enough for his head to jolt solidly against the side of the aircraft. Suddenly, there was a rush of deafening noise. Danny looked right and saw that the aircraft’s tailgate was lowering. The lower it got, the louder the noise. Speech was now impossible. But that was OK. They knew what they needed to do. Each member of the unit disconnected themselves from the aircraft’s oxygen system, before placing their freefall masks over their faces and engaging their oxygen tanks. They breathed normally for thirty seconds to verify that their breathing apparatus was working correctly, then stood up. Danny approached Caitlin and carefully attached himself to the back of her harness using a series of sturdy metal clips fitted to the front of his own freefall rig. Now that he was close to her, he could feel her deep, careful breathing, which told him that despite her outward appearance, she was nervous about the jump. A couple of loadies approached them. They each wore thick web belts with lanyards connected to the side of the aircraft to stop them falling out. They positioned themselves on either side of Danny and Caitlin – for whom walking was difficult as they were strapped together and overladen with kit – and ushered them towards the open tailgate. Spud positioned himself alongside them, next to the freefall container. Outside, in the middle of a turbulence bump, Danny caught a brief glimpse of a crescent moon.