Smoke was rapidly filling the street, obscuring the tower block’s view of the TSV.
‘Cease fire!’ Psycho shouted as he started up the engine. If they lit up the smoke with muzzle flashes then the people with guns would know where they were. Lumley and Walker stopped firing and immediately hunkered down as rounds were still sparking off the superstructure. Perkins threw himself into the back of TSV.
‘Drive! Get this vehicle moving, Private Sykes!’ Perkins screamed at him. Psycho put the vehicle into reverse, swung it around ninety degrees and then headed down the street. ‘Walker, Lumley, I need you on the MGs now,’ Psycho shouted. Both of them got up, Walker reluctantly. Lumley swung the .50 round so it was aiming back up the way they had come at the street full of thick smoke.
All of them were thrown forwards as Psycho slammed on the brakes.
‘What the fuck are you doing!?’ Perkins screamed from where he was lying in the back of the TSV. ‘Get this vehicle moving now!’
The two special forces troopers leapt into the back of the vehicle.
‘Appreciate it,’ one of the special forces guys said and started covering out the back of the TSV.
‘I think your friends have had it,’ the other one said. Psycho looked behind him. The top of Walowski’s head was missing. He couldn’t see the wound that had killed Geordie, he just saw the man’s dead eyes staring up at the night sky. Perkins was still screaming at him. One of the special forces guys put their hand on his shoulder.
‘Mate, trust me on this, you need to start driving, okay?’
Psycho nodded and started heading for the FOB. He could see the unmistakable silhouette of the derelict power station ahead of him as he watched the light from the missile’s engines rise into the sky beyond the FOB.
‘Look, we say nothing about it kicking off, okay,’ Perkins said. Nobody answered.
Yeah right, Psycho thought, who would have thought Mrs Sykes’ little boy was going to turn grass?
The ground shook and the horizon behind them turned to fire. Psycho glanced behind. It was only then he realised how beautiful it all was. It was only then he realised how much he’d enjoyed the firefight.
He can hear a voice.
‘I’m not sure how much more the subject can take of this, physiologically speaking,’
None, I can’t take any more, please, you have to kill me, he thinks. He wants to scream this at them but he can’t.
Another voice now: ‘This is not what we intended. We’re not sadists.’
‘I’m not sure that this poor bastard would know it.’
2017, Stirling Lines, Hereford
Dragged out of the back of the wagon. He hit the floor and was given a bit of a kicking. Psycho curled up into a ball. He’d had worse, frankly. He was hungry, he’d had little to eat over the last week, but it was how tired he was that got to him. Not just lack of sleep, not the solid mass of aches that was his body, it was the physical and mental fatigue that made him feel that he was just stumbling through a half-world.
‘Get up, maggot!’ More kicking.
The Special Forces Support Group had been the hunters on the week-long escape and evasion exercise. Psycho and the other hopefuls who had made it this far had been given a World War 2 era greatcoat and a tin with some bits of survival kit in it. Basically he’d been living rough for the better part of the week. He’d made it as far as Bristol and had hid out amongst the homeless camps there. He had thought about trying to jump a train and heading back to London, but decided against it.
He had turned himself in at the end of week for the final part of Special Forces selection: RTI, or resistance to interrogation training. This would also be conducted by the SFSG, many of whom were Royal Marines, RAF Regiment and Paras, Psycho’s regiment, all performing under the watchful eye of instructors from the SAS, SBS and Special Reconnaissance Regiment.
‘Get up, you piece of filth!’ And the boots came in again.
Sorry mate, as cold and wet as the ground is, I like it down here, even with you kicking me, Psycho thought. He was pretty sure that even with them kicking him he could go to sleep on the ground. You want me up, you’re going to have to . . .
He felt himself being dragged to his feet. His legs threatened to buckle.
‘What unit are you with?! Where are the rest of your men?’ someone who’d been eating curry recently screamed in his face. He wanted to give them his name, rank and number, he really did, he tried but it came out a slurred mess. The punch to the stomach doubled him over. Made him retch up his last meal.
‘Disgusting!’
Psycho tried to collapse but arms grabbed him and pulled him to his feet before dragging him towards a set of Quonset huts.
It seemed pointless to Psycho. He was so tired he wanted to cry, but it didn’t make him want to talk. He was so tired he didn’t think he could talk. He just nodded off when he could and was woken up by shouting or by collapsing to the ground.
All the shouting felt like it was coming to him through cotton wool. He didn’t really understand what most of it was about. They had him standing in stress positions, but he kept on falling out of them as he faded towards sleep. It was cold because they had stripped him, but even that didn’t stop him from falling asleep on his feet. They’d had a female soldier come in and make fun of his genitalia. That had just seemed weird. So weird, in fact, that it had set him off with hysterical giggling that had earned him a bit of a kicking.
He’d managed to give them his name and rank a few times but he could not remember his number. It wasn’t that he was tougher than any of the other recruits that had made it this far in the selection. It was just that his brain handled this sort of thing by drifting off. Tired as he was, it all seemed to be happening so far away. The only times that he was brought back into reality was when they hit him. On the other hand, he’d taken lots of beating in the past.
They were trying to get him to stand up but he was a dead weight. His lack of co-operation was getting him another beating. He managed to stand up, leaning forwards against the wall in a stress position. He collapsed and blacked out as he slid his face down the wall.
That fucking hurt! He was wide-awake now. He threw up down himself. Something very hard had hit him in the kidneys. Bitter experience told him he’d be pissing blood for the next week.
‘Sarge?’ The voice sounded unsure.
‘Shut up.’ Psycho recognised the voice but he couldn’t place it. It sounded like it was coming from far away, through a thick fog. ‘We’re supposed to break them, aren’t we?’
Psycho screamed. Something had hit his right hand and he’d felt the bones break inside.
‘I think he felt that,’ Perkins said. ‘Ironic, taking out the biggest wanker I’ve ever met’s wanking hand.’
Even through the pain it was so difficult to open his eyes. He recognised Perkins’ voice, though. He felt something cold run through his body. He wanted to fight, but even had he been able to move, and he didn’t think he was, he was cable-tied to a chair.
‘H-how . . .?’ Psycho tried to ask. Perkins grabbed him by the hair and bent Psycho’s head back. How did you get into the SFSG? Psycho wanted to ask. He had reported Perkins for what had happened in the LCZ but the army didn’t want to do anything about it. It got lost in the furore of the HMS Anguish’s missile attack. It had been made clear, however, that Perkins was finished in the paras one way or another. Now it seemed that he had been promoted to sergeant and had made it into the SFSG.
‘You always knew how to play the game,’ Psycho tried to say. Instead he mostly mumbled and drooled on himself.
‘What’s that?’ Perkins asked and then swung the collapsible baton into Psycho’s balls. Psycho howled and then passed out.
‘See, this little prick can’t be allowed into the SAS. Know what he did? Know what he fucking did!? Only killed an unarmed kid in the LCZ, dropped us right in it and then shat himself when they returned fire. He’s a fucking coward and a liability!’
; Not true, some part of Psycho was screaming. He felt sick. His hand and his balls were agony. His hair was grabbed again.
‘Tell them! Tell them what you fucking did!’ Perkins was screaming at him, spraying him with saliva.
‘N . . . n . . . no,’ Psycho managed. Perkins started hitting Psycho’s arm as hard as he could, over and over again. Psycho was screaming with every blow.
‘Tell them what you did! Tell them and I’ll stop!’
‘P . . . please . . .’
Perkins stopped hitting him.
‘Sarge, I don’t think . . .’ Psycho had no idea who the other voice was. He sounded young, frightened.
‘Tell them about the kid you killed,’ Perkins said, softly now.
He sounds like he believes it. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ve got it wrong in my head, so tired.
‘Wasn’t . . . me . . .’ Psycho managed.
Perkins started hitting him in the arm again. Psycho screamed until he passed out.
He came to again. This had to stop now. He couldn’t go through any more. He looked down at his pulped left arm. There was bone sticking through the skin.
Someone was whispering to him.
‘They’ve got Lumley next door. Stupid bitch thought she could make it through selection. Unless you tell them about how you killed that kid and then shit yourself, that you’re a coward, she’s going to get raped. Do you understand me?’ Psycho was crying now, nodding numbly. ‘Are you going to tell them?’ Psycho didn’t answer. ‘Tell them.’ Perkins voice was getting louder. Psycho didn’t look up. He just kept his eyes closed. His head down.
He remembered the LCZ. He remembered the shooting. The missile strike. He saw a figure, he couldn’t make out his features, pointing the marksman’s rifle at the tower block. Pulling the trigger, the kid dropping. He saw the same figure curled up in the foot well of the TSV.
He felt the metal head of the baton being run up his right leg. He’s going to break my legs, Psycho knew. It wasn’t the thought of the damage, that was irrelevant now, it was the thought of the pain. He just couldn’t take any more pain.
‘You put the rifle to your shoulder, you saw the kid through the scope, knew he wasn’t armed and . . .’
He was looking through the scope of the rifle. He saw the kid. So easy, so easy to kill, just squeeze the trigger.
‘Because you’re an animal . . . .’
Stood over Davey Falconer, his face so much pulped meat. He hadn’t stopped hitting him. He could hear people screaming the word “animal” at him. He was an animal.
‘Tell them what you did,’ Perkins whispered to him. It was intimate, like a lover. He had let the tip of the baton rest against Psycho’s compound-fractured arm.
It was him. He’d pulled the trigger. He’d killed the kid. He’d been the one cowering, hiding in the TCV.
‘Tell them and all the pain goes away.’
It took every bit of effort he had. He spat in Perkins’ face. He regretted it the moment he’d done it as fear of the pain overwhelmed him again. Perkins raised the baton and brought it down on his leg. This time Psycho knew it wasn’t him who was screaming. He was too far away. Whatever was making the noise wasn’t human. It was a wounded animal.
He was going to say what Perkins wanted him to say. He couldn’t get hit again. He couldn’t take the pain. He would beg him if he had to, anything, but Perkins had to stop hitting him.
He opened his eyes to pain and light. But not as much pain as he had expected. He was lying in a hospital bed. His right hand was bandaged. His left arm and right leg were both in casts and held in traction.
‘You’re in a bit of a mess,’ a voice said. A shadow sat in the seat in front of the window. It was a sunny day. Even seeing hurt. Psycho tried nodding, but that hurt too.
‘Obviously Sergeant Perkins exceeded his brief,’ the figure said. The figure was starting to come into focus now. He was a little guy, wiry. Psycho had seen him before but couldn’t place where.
‘No . . . shit . . .’ Psycho managed. His mouth was dry.
‘I remembered him, but not at first. I knew I’d seen him before but couldn’t place him. He’s the wanker who fired on the tower block, really stirred them up.’
‘I remember you. You got a lot of people killed,’ he told the special forces soldier. He had been one of the forward observers he’d seen in the LCZ, one of the ones who had guided the Anguish’s attack. The man stared at Psycho coldly. Assessing him.
‘I remember you stopping for us.’
‘Lumley?’
‘She made it, first fully-operational female member of the regiment. Made a few of the boys uncomfortable during RTI, but I’ve seen lads go from being staunchly against women in the regiment to being really proud of her.’
Psycho nodded. He couldn’t feel much about Lumley or anything else at the moment.
‘What’re you doing here?’ He was only beginning to understand the ramifications of just how messed up he was. Even through the drugs, the pain was nearly overwhelming.
‘I came to apologise. I took an interest in you. I was overseeing the RTI.’
‘You did a really good job.’
‘I stepped out, no excuse. For what it’s worth, I’m guessing not very much, I’m sorry.’
‘Fuck you,’ Psycho said quietly. The special forces trooper nodded as if it had been a reasonable response. He stood up and made for the door.
‘Perkins?’
The trooper stopped and looked back at Psycho.
‘He had several accidents on his way out of the army. Look, we can deal with . . .’
‘No.’ The trooper nodded. ‘Selection?’ The trooper looked troubled. ‘I fucking passed!’ Psycho spat. The SAS man nodded.
‘Yes, you did, but you can’t go operational. With those injuries we don’t even know if you’ll heal fully, then there’s rehabilitation. You’ll be lucky if you can go back to 2 Para. Not to mention . . . RTI’s not about surviving it. Given enough time, everyone breaks. It’s how you’re able to cope with it, rationalise it afterwards.’
Psycho was just staring at him.
‘Get the fuck out of my room.’
The man nodded and then walked out.
The man that Perkins had hurt, that was someone else. A different piece of screaming meat. It had been nothing. He hadn’t known anything about pain then.
2018, Stirling Lines, Hereford
‘What unit are you with!? Where’s the rest of your people?’
Say nothing, head down, passive, don’t make eye contact, and never encourage them by being a smart arse. This last had been a hard-learned lesson. He received a solid punch to the stomach. It knocked over the chair he was tied to. Then the boots came in.
‘Corporal, that’s enough,’ the SAS man said. The SFSG corporal stopped kicking him and helped him up.
‘Sorry mate,’ the corporal said.
Psycho looked at the SAS man.
‘Exercise over?’ he asked. The SAS man nodded. Psycho turned back to the corporal. ‘You are such a fucking pussy.’
The corporal laughed.
‘Don’t blame me,’ he pointed at the SAS man. ‘He told me to be particularly hard on you.’
Psycho looked at the SAS man and nodded.
‘I don’t think I like you very much.’
The SAS man smiled and helped him out of the Quonset hut. Lumley was waiting for him in the yard.
‘You look like you need a brew and smell like you need a shower,’ she told him.
‘I need two ampules of morphine and my bed, is what I need,’ Psycho told her.
2019, Stirling Lines, Hereford
Psycho was stood in front of the CO’s desk, at ease. Psycho was in civvies. The “Old Man” was in fatigues.
‘You’ve always been an insubordinate little fucker, haven’t you, Sykes?’ the Colonel asked.
‘Yes boss, thank you,’ Psycho said, in a smug enough tone to warrant a warning glare from the CO.
‘Commandeeri
ng an RAF helicopter and taking it into the middle of an air strike. You’ve outdone yourself this time. I want to RTU so much I have an erection.’
Suddenly Psycho was taking this seriously. He did not want to be returned-to-unit.
‘Boss, I’m not going back to 2 Para.’
The Old Man looked up from the desk to glare at Psycho.
‘You don’t have a choice, Sykes, you haven’t served out your court-appointed term yet. If I drum you out of the Regiment, I assure you, you will be going back to 2 Para.’
‘Any options, boss?’ Psycho asked, worried.
The Old Man just continued glaring at him.
‘Well, it seems your little stunt impressed our American friends,’ the Colonel said, finally. He tapped a folder on the desk. ‘It’s RTU or this.’
Psycho glanced at the folder. It had the words “Raptor Team” printed on the front.
2020, Nellis AFB, Nevada
‘Well, you look a lot better than you did the last time I saw you,’ Psycho said.
Barnes shielded his eyes from the glaring desert sun with his hand. He was surprised to see the Brit still wearing a leather jacket in this heat.
‘I wanted to say thank you,’ Barnes said.
‘No issues, mate. Call sign Prophet, right?’ Psycho asked. Barnes nodded.
‘I think it’s someone’s idea of a sick joke,’ Barnes said. He was sure the nickname had come from his now highly-classified after-action report from Columbia. ‘Nice tattoo. Very subtle.’
Psycho ran his fingers over the highly-stylised winged dagger tattooed on the back of his shaven head. It had only just finished healing.
‘Thought I’d wave the flag, y’know, whilst I’m over here on secondment with Delta Farce.’
Barnes nodded, smiling.
‘I’m sure we can find some way to impress Supply And Services.’
‘Should be a laugh this, though, right?’
‘Michael? I’m going to see if I can help you,’ The voice said.
You can, the wretched thing that had once been Michael Sykes thought. You can kill me.
Chance – Part 2
Rovesky Township, upper Podkamennaya Tunguska River, Krasnoyarsk Krai, Siberia, Russian Federation, 2025
Crysis: Escalation Page 20