Dirk Ramm: Suited and Booted

by Matt Hilton

  He turned back to The Bishop just in time for the big man to slam a meaty forearm across his jaw, taking him backwards in the classic clothesline manoeuvre made famous in the wrestling ring.

  Ramm landed on his back, but he didn’t flounder there. He allowed the momentum of his fall to roll him over one shoulder and he came back up onto one knee. The Bishop had followed after him and had lifted his right leg to stamp down on Ramm’s chest. While Ramm had been engaged in the fight with the others, the big man had kicked off his boot – along with the prosthetic foot - to bare the metal joint of his ankle. In effect he speared down at Ramm’s chest with a steel spike and all his not inconsiderable weight behind it. ‘Let’s see if your fancy suit will turn aside this blade!’ he crowed as he thrust his leg into Ramm.

  ‘That’s something you’ll never know.’ Ramm twisted and the spearing leg missed him by inches. His move knocked aside the leg and The Bishop splayed over him, his stance ungainly with one limb shorter than the other. Ramm grunted as he thrust forward with both daggers and buried them deep in The Bishop’s groin. ‘I warned you I’d rip you a new asshole.’

  The Bishop howled out in horror as Ramm withdrew the blades with a twist of his wrists.

  ‘You should’ve stayed in that chair of yours,’ Ramm told him. ‘I’d have allowed you to live out the rest of your miserable life. But you brought the fight to me.’ Ramm crossed his arms, and then whipped them outwards. The tips of the daggers ploughed twin furrows across the big man’s throat.

  After…

  All that was left to do was to carry Shelly Cannon from the tunnel. She was still half-naked, still half-doped, but her father was pleased to see her safe and sound when he met them at the compound’s front gate. Ramm handed the young woman over to her father, then returned to the tunnel. The tattooed knifeman wasn’t anywhere to be found, but Ramm didn’t care about him, or about the pile of corpses topped off by The Bishop. He went down to the bomb shelter and unlocked the door behind which the other sex slaves were held. There’d be many more parents who’d be pleased to see their children returned home to them. Adrian Cannon had promised him half a million dollars to rescue Shelly: Ramm would have taken the job for nothing, but the rich man could afford his bill. From the other parents he’d accept only their gratitude.

  Ramm headed home. He was hungry. He thought about ordering one of Joey’s special twelve-inch pizzas to be delivered on his arrival. Then he had second thoughts. He called in at Bitsy Horton’s house: after the other night she owed him dinner at her place.

  SUITED AND BOOTED

  A Codename: Battering Ram tale by Matt Hilton

  2008, Iran/Pakistan Border

  A breeze plucked dust from the desert; throwing grit into the eyes of the man lying prone in a ditch he’d dug with his bare hands. He’d concealed himself beneath a camouflaged tarpaulin alongside his HALO jump gear and parachute, leaving only room through which to peer out. Dirk Ramm, a Specialized Skills Officer of the CIA Special Operations Group, squinted against the sandblasting, crunching down on a grain that caught between his teeth. He tasted silicone. He pushed the grit from his mouth with the tip of his tongue. It would have been simpler to spit it out, but he daren’t make a sound.

  Four men were seated on the ground little more than twenty yards from Ramm, using their jeep to shield them from the scouring wind. They couldn’t see him where he hid, but they might hear the clearing of his throat. The men had propped their weapons – Russian AK-47 assault rifles - against the jeep, in easy reach. They’d pulled their headscarves around their hawkish faces. One of them had lit a hand-rolled cigarette and was drawing on it, almost in defiance of the wind. From where he lay watching them, their observer could smell the camel dung fragrance of the tobacco. Then again, the men didn’t smell much different.

  The quartet of men had parked their vehicle off road, hidden from the traffic on Road 95 by the convolutions of the earth, after driving there from Zahedan during the night. In Arabic the city derived its name from the plural for “pious”. None of the four men could claim as much. They were Taliban fighters, an Iran based splinter cell of terrorists and murderers. They were in a shallow depression, almost like a natural cauldron between the foothills, barely two miles from where the converging borders of Afghanistan and Pakistan made a spearhead wedge into eastern Iran.

  It would have been so simple to kill them. They were unaware of Ramm’s presence, and he could erupt from his hiding place and be among them within seconds, definitely before any of them could bring their guns to bear. But killing them wasn’t why he was there. Sure, they’d die if he had his way. But not before they made the rendezvous and brought his real targets within range. For now he had to wait, let them enjoy their rough jokes, their stinking cigarettes, and he’d put them in a hole afterwards.

  Traffic was light on the highway. Occasionally a car would skim by, heading to Zahedan twenty or so miles to the south, or to Zabol or Birjand north of there. Trucks were few, but the roar of diesel engines did resonate the air on a few occasions. Ramm zoned out those sounds, listening for a different type of transportation. He had to wait another ten minutes before the rhythmic chop of rotors brought two of the squatting men to their feet. They passed rifles to their two friends, before picking up their own AK-47s. They didn’t appear alarmed: carrying the guns was all for show.

  The breeze that had earlier scuffed the dirt from the nearby hills had dropped. But a fresh barrage of wind-tossed grit assaulted Ramm’s eyes and mouth, as a helicopter swooped in overhead, its downwash setting zephyrs to dance. He stayed low, fully pulling the tarpaulin over him, but more to ensure he wasn’t spotted by any of those on the helicopter than to protect his face. His camouflage sheet, sprinkled over with earth, would conceal him from ordinary view, but if the chopper came equipped with a FLIR camera they’d make out his heat signature if he allowed any of it to leak out. He had to consider that those in the helicopter could be alert to surveillance, the reason he’d brought a sheet lined with tinfoil.

  Ramm listened to the pitch of the engine change, and knew that the chopper was hovering a short distance beyond where the Taliban fighters had parked their jeep. They’d made themselves busy earlier, rolling away some of the larger stones that dotted the landscape to form a clear landing zone. The downwash from the rotors kicked up a furious cloud of debris that pattered over Ramm’s shroud before the helicopter touched down. Only when he was positive it was on the ground did he push back the folds covering his face.

  Greetings were called in Arabic. Ramm didn’t understand what was said, but then he didn’t need to. Their tone told him that the newcomers were friends of the terrorists. He edged forward a few inches so that he had a clearer view of where the Taliban met with the new arrivals. Two men had alighted from the helicopter, and though they wore clothing not dissimilar to the local men, theirs were cleaner and of better quality. The scarves they wore around their faces could not conceal their occidental colouring or paler eyes. These men weren’t Iranians, but Russians.

  Still Ramm didn’t show himself.

  He waited.

  After certain protocols were satisfied on both sides, one of the newcomers went back to the helicopter. A third white man stood in the open doorway, and he swung down a large brown case to his colleague. The man returned with it to the small grouping of men, who beckoned him to the jeep. He placed the case on the hood. One of the Iranian’s – obviously the leader of their small cell - moved to unclasp the case, but the Russian held up a hand and placed it against the Iranian’s chest. His warning was too low to be heard, but the Iranian nodded and took a short step back. The Russian then laid his hands delicately on the locks, and it was apparent that there was a safety routine to be obeyed in opening the booby-trapped case.

  A pale green wash of light lit the faces of the men clustered around the case. The lead Iranian offered the flash of tobacco-stained teeth and sealed a deal. One of the Taliban fighters who’d stayed by the jeep leaned inside and p
ulled out a smaller attaché-type case. Ramm doubted that the case would contain money: any monetary deals carried out here would require more hard cash than the small attaché could contain. The Russian locked the case, and left it sitting on the hood. He held out a palm and the attaché was passed to him.

  That was all that Ramm had been waiting for. He pushed up from beneath the tarp, shedding dirt as he lunged across the intervening space. From lying prone to being among the men was a matter of less than three seconds. It took almost two seconds for any of the men to register his sudden appearance, another second to process it, and a second or so more to lift a weapon. But already Ramm’s knife had driven in twice, and two of the Taliban fighters fell with their ribcages punctured, the blade having angled in to pierce their lungs and hearts.

  Shock.

  Abruptness.

  Devastation.

  All were factors that Ramm relied on in his attack.

  Yet his surprise assault would be countered very rapidly. Two Taliban, three Russians, and even the helicopter crew remained uninjured, and heavily armed. Had Ramm employed his gun he’d have invited immediate return fire, and would have probably been pinned down much sooner. As it was, the first counter attack came rapidly, and a gunshot cracked so close to his head that the sound was painful. But Ramm had dodged and the round missed its mark and ricocheted off the jeep instead of his cranium. Ramm rolled, then vaulted off the floor feet first into one of the Russians. His pistoning legs lifted the man, threw him ten feet through the air. Before the man ever hit ground, Ramm was once more back on his feet, and with sense-defying speed he pivoted and kicked the legs from under one of the Taliban. The man went down on his back, but his finger was squeezing the trigger of his assault rifle. Rounds seared the air, and stitched a ragged pattern up Ramm’s chest. The impacts staggered him, but he snarled in defiance and stamped down on the man’s stomach with enough savagery that innards threatened to push from the man’s every orifice. He batted away the rifle barrel, then drove his knife into the man’s throat, pinning him to the gritty earth. Ramm left the blade in situ.

  Discounting the man in the doorway of the helicopter, there was still an Iranian and a Russian standing. Both men were those that had laid claim to the respective cases. The Taliban leader grabbed the large brown case to drag it off the jeep’s hood. The Russian ran for the helicopter with the attaché. For now, Ramm ignored the Iranian, confident that the man would be unable to escape him. But if the Russian reached the helicopter and it took off, then he’d be out of Ramm’s reach. For all that his skills and physicality sometimes defied logic, he had his limitations: he couldn’t fly.

  Ramm raced after the man, as fast as when he’d sprung from concealment. The man whom he’d kicked through the air was no threat. He lay on his back, squirming in the dirt, his spine shattered from the twin impacts of the kick and subsequent fall to the rocky ground. Ramm jumped over him and caught the running man. He didn’t go for any form of subtlety: he struck a pile-driving elbow strike to the fleeing man’s back, buckling him in half, but never in a fashion the human spine was designed to bend. The man tumbled across the gritty earth, throwing up dust clouds. The attaché case flew from his unresponsive hand. Ramm dipped low: economy of motion, picking up the dropped case, while avoiding the bullets fired at him by the third Russian who was retreating into the chopper.

  The pilot was feverish as he got the helicopter in motion. It began to lift off the ground. One yard, two yards, rising quickly. Ramm met the third Russian’s self-satisfied gaze. No way he could allow the man to leave. He leaped and got his free hand on the lip of the open door. Over him the Russian stood, his legs braced against the pitch of the chopper, his gun held with both hands. Ramm’s shoulders spasmed at the repeated impact of bullets flattening against them. Agonized but not willing to give up, he weathered the pain, and hauled himself into the passenger compartment. The Russian wasn’t as satisfied now…more stunned. He staggered back, glancing once in incredulity at his gun. Then something clicked in as Ramm rose up before him, and he swung the pistol up and fired directly at Ramm’s face.

  A red flash of pain shrieked through Ramm’s skull and he almost pitched out the open doorway. Almost. Grimacing, he wiped at his scoured cheek with the back of his free hand and flicked a glob of blood across the floor. Now the Russian was incredulous. Had Ramm actually dodged a bullet?

  ‘Who…what in God’s name are you?’ Spittle flecked the Russian’s chin as he spoke in accented English.

  ‘I’m the Battering Ram. Perhaps you’ve heard my name and have learned to fear it? I’m the one who’s going to stop you murdering any more innocent civilians,’ Ramm said, holding the attaché case out by his side. ‘This will not fall into any filthy Bratva hands now.’

  The Russian shook his head adamantly. ‘No, I will take it from you. I will kill you. You can’t be bulletproof. You’ve been lucky that’s all.’ He aimed the gun at Ramm’s chest and pulled the trigger. ‘Now die!’

  A bullet struck Ramm dead centre.

  He took the impact with a simple bracing of his feet.

  ‘Think again, scum ball,’ Ramm said, a vibration of rage passing through him. He whipped out his own pistol and put a round low in the Russian’s gut.

  Gasping, the Russian fell against the compartment wall.

  Ramm gave a crooked smile. He could have stopped the man’s heart with a well-aimed shot but he had something else in mind for him. The mobster must suffer, the way all murderous Red Mafia soldiers of the “brotherhood” should suffer. He should experience similar terror to that Ramm’s family had endured when the Bratva slew them simply for being blood kin to the Battering Ram, their deadliest foe.

  Ramm swung the attaché case. The gun flew from the Russian’s broken fingers. Then Ramm was upon him. The man hollered, his voice tinged with both pain and fear. His scream didn’t curtail as Ramm hauled him out the open doorway and dropped him kicking and flailing to the ground now hundreds of feet below. Corresponding shouts of alarm came from the pilot and his co-pilot who twisted in his seat, a gun levelled at Ramm.

  Bullets punched through the fuselage of the helicopter.

  But they didn’t come from the co-pilot’s firearm.

  On the ground the Taliban leader shouted curses as he fired indiscriminately at the craft. Ramm ignored him for a moment longer. He stopped and picked up the Russian’s dropped gun. It felt light, almost depleted of bullets, but plenty remained in his. As the co-pilot fired, then so did Ramm, his two guns exploding simultaneously. Ramm’s shoulder jerked at the almost point-blank impacts, but his aim remained steady enough and he shot the co-pilot a double-tap in the chest. The man slumped, blood trickling over the back of his chair.

  The pilot wasn’t armed. He was concerned with holding the chopper steady, but also cast around for the co-pilot’s weapon. Killing him in cold blood went against the grain, but no witness could be allowed escape. Ramm put away his gun, giving the man an opportunity to arm himself, holding the Russian gun down by his side. With a cry, the pilot grabbed up the dropped pistol from his friend’s side and twisted to confront Ramm. Ramm brought up the gun, squeezed the trigger and blood spattered the cockpit. The slide locked back, the ammunition gone. A moan broke from the pilot, as he struggled with the controls. Not dead. Ramm turned the gun in his hand and brought the butt down on the man’s nape and the pilot folded over the controls. And the world turned on its axis as the chopper nosedived for the ground.

  It was doubtful that the pilot would recover before the helicopter pitched into the earth, but Ramm wasn’t taking any chances. He leaned over the man, dropped the empty pistol and braced himself against the pilot’s seat while he again withdrew his own pistol. He emptied the magazine into the instrument panel. Sparks popped and fizzed from the burnt out controls.

  Wind screeched through the passenger compartment, buffeting Ramm. The turbine made a similar wail as it sliced air. The helicopter was a dying beast, but as seemingly immune to bullets as Ram
m proved, he wouldn’t survive an evisceration when it struck ground. Clutching the attaché case to his chest, he struggled uphill to the open door. One hand on the fuselage, his eyelids flickering against the blast of winds, he waited. The rocky ground rushed at him.

  Three seconds from impact, Ramm jumped. He experienced a moment of weightlessness as he arced through space. His next sensation proved agonizing. He bent at the knees to soften the landing, but he’d travelled almost thirty feet and most of it downwards. He felt a shattering glass impact in his shinbones and he crumpled, and rolled, arms and misaligned legs flailing. The attaché case was lost momentarily in the plume of dust behind him. Ramm’s chin furrowed the rocky earth like a plow.

  The eruption of the helicopter blasted hot wind over him. Metal shards tinkled around him, smoking hot. The stench of aviation fuel made him gag. Something massive and deadly spun overhead and slammed into boulders, but in Ramm’s dazed mind he didn’t immediately comprehend it was one rotor shorn from its moorings. He lay for a few seconds, then twisted over on to his back, propping his elbows beneath him. He didn’t search for the wreckage, but looked down at his legs. Happily he found them still attached to his body, and they weren’t misshapen. Friggin’ painful as all hell, but it was an agony he’d grown used to over countless combat missions. Finally he spun over on to his knees, testing his limbs, and then came up to a crouch.

  Goggle-eyed, the Taliban leader peered at him from the front seat of the jeep. He was probably thinking much the same as the man in the helicopter had: what in God’s name was Ramm? He came to the wrong conclusion.