Night (Night Series Book 1)

by Casey Christie

  “Nando’s?”

  “Nah, I have had to cut down, the Peri Peri Sauce is bad for my ulcer, KFC will do me, bucket meal my man.”

  “Deal, got it Dlamini, a KFC bucket meal for the LO here, once a week for the next month.”

  Martin the Logistics Officer logged onto his SAPF intranet and made the bureaucratic magic happen. Fifteen minutes later an official SAPF 35 form was spat out of the printer and signed, authorising the issue of one Vector Z88 service pistol to Student Constable Steven Dlamini, to be collected from the Armoury. Sergeant Night and his student left the Logistics Office and made their way to the Norwood Armoury.

  “General that’s going to cost me nearly R30 a week feeding civilian, nerdy, square head Marty, was that really necessary?”

  “Yes Dlamini it was. First rule of the South African Police Force is that you do whatever it takes to get the kit you need, remember these words; In the cops you beg, borrow and steal and do what it takes to make sure that when you are out on the front line, out on the streets of Johannesburg fighting in the war on crime that you have what you may not need but never need what you don’t have, understood? Good. And he’s not a square head civilian, he used to be one of us but he took two rounds to his spine, leaving him paralysed from the waist down. The station commissioner gave him the civilian job as a Logistics Officer to try help the guy out but don’t underestimate him, he’s a good man and I fought with him a number of times against some of South Africa’s worst. If you had shut up for a second you may have noticed that he was sitting in a wheelchair behind his desk. Another lesson for you Dlamini. Talk less and observe more.”

  “Yes General I will talk less but I just want to get out on the road and be a hero like you!”

  Night stopped walking and looked at Dlamini , his eyes focused, searing into Dlamini’s own, looking straight into his soul.

  “Listen to me boy. Up until now I like you and so do Nickolai and Daniel, well Daniel kind of, but it’s time you tone down that mega mouth of yours a bit and start to listen and absorb more. We are not heroes, there are no heroes in this world and specially no heroes in this South African Police Force, we are just the stupid grunts who protect the civilians and being a cop isn’t going to make you a hero. You must seriously shut the fuck up more and listen. I am here to teach you and while I may find your banter amusing, enough is enough, there’s a time and a place for that. I know you are a smart boy and that you have got a good brain on you, so listen to me carefully now. Bring it down a notch and listen and learn. The game gets serious now Dlamini and if you persist in acting like a little kid I will book you off duty and send you to the charge office. Get it?”

  “Okay General, got it.”

  “Good, and for the last time address me as Sergeant.”

  “Yes Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Night and Student Constable Dlamini went to the Armoury and were met by Warrant Officer Van Der Heerden. Dlamini handed over the form and a few minutes later was handed a 9MM Vector Z88 with two ammunition magazines, exactly 30 rounds of ammunition and a holster and one magazine pouch.

  Warrant Office Van Der Heerden said his piece: “When and if the Sergeant signs off on you and you make it as a police officer, at the end of your on the job training you must return these rounds to me minus anything that you may have used, these used rounds must match records in the station occurrence book and your own pocket book, then you will be issued with nanite tagged ammunition directly from National Headquarters. Good luck Student Constable Dlamini and look after your weapon, if you break it, lose it or have it stolen from you I will not issue you with a new one. Goodbye.”

  National Headquarters had taken the decision not to tag a Student Constable’s ammunition with DNA nanites until after they had been signed off by their FTOs as qualified officers. This was down to the large expense of carrying out the tagging procedure. And provided a much welcome gap for the students to get comfortable with their issued weapons without every stray round being recorded.

  “First thing we have to do Dlamini is get you to a range so that you can test that weapon of yours, rule number one – always field test your equipment, specially your side arm.” said Night.

  “Awesome General, I will show you that I can ride the lightning! Umm, I mean, thank you Sergeant, I look forward to testing my handgun.”

  Sergeant Night and Student Constable Dlamini left the station at the rear exit that led to the car park and were greeted by the giant Zulu and the Russian Stanislov who each had a leg of chicken in their mouths. Night dug in. Dlamini looked on.

  “What did you get for the boy?” asked Night.

  “Nothing, he didn’t ask for anything” replied Shaka.

  Steven Dlamini looked like a balloon that had just been deflated.

  “There, he can have my chips.” said Stanislov.

  Night offered a piece of his chicken to Dlamini.

  “Thank you Constable, thank you Sergeant. And thanks for nothing Tree.”

  “So we have both been demoted, I see.” said Stanislov.

  “Yes,” said Night, “the young Dlamini here has put away the clown for the moment and has got his more serious hat on. Isn’t that right Steven?”

  “Yeah Sarge. It’s time to be a proper copper.”

  The officers finished their meals and climbed into the Beast. First stop would be the local gun range, Dave Sheer Guns on Louis Botha Avenue, where Dlamini could test out his new weapon.

  They arrived at the gun range that was a short five minute drive from the station and parked in the small and always busy parking lot. The four officers approached the heavily fortified front gates and were buzzed in, through the first set of entrances and into the next, the holding area where any men entering the store were evaluated and If cleared were buzzed in past the final security barrier and onto the shop floor -- monitored all the time by twenty four hour CCTV camera systems.

  Alarms were linked to an armed response company as well as the provincial SAPF call centre. The shop was filled with tactical gear including holsters and ammo pouches, tactical knives and batons, caps, wrist watches and high powered flash lights. It was an operator’s dream store that included the latest in armaments including high powered hunting rifles, where Stanislov had bought his, semi –automatic assault rifles. Fully automatic rifles are illegal for members of the public or security companies – only the police and army are licenced to carry fully automatic weapons.

  Posters of gun manufacturers hung on the walls, there were Glock prints reading “Glock Perfection” and “Suck on my Glock” and Heckler and Koch adverts with semi naked woman holding their compact weapons or legendary sub machine guns. The shop was jam packed with customers, each vying for a position at the counter, waiting for an opportunity to hold and test one of the many hand guns on sale.

  Dave Sheer Guns had them all, from the diabolically cheap and nasty Chinese Norinco small arms, inexpensive pistol clones of the more popular handgun models constructed out of disused railway tracks to the incredibly expensive and high quality Sig Sauer models. The difference in price could be as much as R20 000 (£1700) with an entry level Norinco costing as little as R1500 (£120). The affordability of these cheap and nasty weapons meant that the South African pool of licenced gun owners was flooded with Norincos.

  Night moved to the front of the queue and was greeted by the store manager.

  “Michael, how are you my buddy?”

  “I am good thanks Gareth, very well indeed my man. I see business is good, as usual.”

  “I can’t complain and business can always be better. What can I help you with today?”

  “This is Steven, he’s a Student Constable and one of the new recruits starting at Norwood. He has just been issued with his state weapon and we need to check it out, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean you need to see if it even fires. So cynical Michael.”

  “Yeah well you know the shit we get issued from the state, they don’t give a crap, anyway i
s the range free?”

  “It is for the time being but I have a class going in there in the next twenty minutes to do their competency tests so you’ll have to be quick. Where’s the weapon, I’ll let Akmal have a look. But I thought you guys had your own armoury at Norwood that Van Heerden runs?”

  “Yeah he we do and he does but the state issue the weapons brand new sealed in the box as you will see and Van Heerden refuses to open them and test them at the station armoury. See if he does and a gun is found to be defective the station might have to recall all similar weapons issued. Leaving us without said weapons and he will get the world of shit come down on him if he reports a fucked up firearm. So we take the problem out of his hands altogether, we take the weapon, still sealed and make do. We usually take the guns to Golden City range and check them out there, it’s just that it’s closed today for official state business.”

  “I’ll have Akmal meet you in the range. You need ammo I take it?” said Gareth.

  “Yeah, a box of fifty, reloads, will do, thanks.”

  Night and Dlamini went to the indoor shooting range at the back of the gun shop. Constables Shaka and Stanislov stayed in the shop and browsed for some tactical accessories. The area behind the shop used to be the location of a garden and swimming pool but was converted into an underground firing range. No bells and whistles just a bog standard place in which to fire a weapon. Sound proofed with old egg cartons and fitted with industrial fans for ventilation. The old pool was made bullet proof with the use of armour plating to the rear where the targets would be and a mixture of old tyres and sand. It appeared rickety and makeshift in places. Streaks of sunlight penetrated parts of the roof and when smoke from the exploding rounds filled the air the range took on an eerie vibe and a Hollywood action movie/horror feel about it.

  Akmal stood waiting for them at the steel door entrance to the range.

  “Sergeant Night, how are you my friend?” said Akmal the cheerful gunsmith.

  “Great thanks Akmal, it’s good to see you man. This is Steven and he would appreciate it if you had a look at his new state issued Vector. Still sealed, new in the box.”

  “Howzit Steven, let me see, boet.”

  The men entered the range and Akmal, who was also the official Range Officer, carefully opened the Vector box and produced the weapon. He placed the ammunition, box and nine millimetre on a table at the first firing position and had a quick look at it and checked the mechanisms as best he could without fully dismantling it and asked the men to put on their hearing and eye protection.

  “It looks okay at first glance but the only way to test the thing is to fire it. Steve if you would.”

  Dlamini loaded the magazine with fifteen rounds as per instructions from Night and placed it back on the table adjacent to the weapon and stepped back on to the line. He was so obviously still a rookie and used to taking commands on when to load and fire.

  “On my command Dlamini I want you to step forward and load your magazine and then engage the centre mass of your target with fifteen rounds. In your own time. Proceed.”

  Dlamini stepped forward, picked up the magazine loaded it into his weapon cocked the gun, aimed at his target and fired. Click! Nothing happened.

  “Take the safety off you numbskull!” commanded Night.

  A typical rook blunder. Akmal laughed.

  “Fuck! Sorry. You are making me nervous standing there like that. Fuck!” said a highly embarrassed Dlamini.

  “And how the hell do you think you will feel when some asshole is shooting at you Dlamini?. Again. Go!”

  Dlamini removed his right hand from his weapon and flicked the safety catch off to the upward position.

  “Next time Dlamini use your left gripping hand and thumb the safety off, as you were taught in college.”

  Dlamini prepared himself once more, now looking flustered, took aim and a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. Click! Again, nothing happened. A failure to fire.

  “Now what Dlamini?”

  “It jammed Sergeant, a misfire.”

  “So what the fuck do you do, don’t just stand there boy, tell me what do you do?!”

  “Umm, I tap and rack, I tap and rack Sarge, tap and rack!”

  “So then do it Dlamini, don’t just talk about it, do it!”

  Tap and rack is the universally accepted method of fixing a failure to fire on a semi-automatic handgun. You tap the bottom of the magazine to make sure that it is properly inserted and seated within the magazine well and rack the slide of the weapon to eject any caught or faulty round and insert a replacement bullet. Dlamini carried out the procedure well. He took aim and pulled the trigger once more. Click, another failure to fire.

  “Do you mind if I have a look Sergeant?” asked the gunsmith.

  “Please do” said Night.

  Akmal took the weapon from Dlamini and ejected the magazine and the round in the chamber which he examined.

  “No dimple on the rounds casing.” said Akmal “It could be the firing pin, sometimes they are damaged during packaging and transport.”

  Akmal reloaded the weapon with a fresh single round by placing the bullet directly into the chamber without the use of the magazine and squeezed the trigger. Again the weapon did not fire.

  “It must be the firing pin. Not to worry though China I have a few spares in my workshop . They arrived last week. I also have a quick and easy test to verify the problem.”

  Akmal made the weapon safe and produced a pen from his pocket which he promptly placed backwards down the barrel of Dlamini’s firearm. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

  “Yip, it’s the firing pin. I’ll have it sorted out for you in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll meet you out front in the shop when I’m done. All right okes?” Akmal left the range and went to labour in his workshop.

  “Thanks Akmal” said Night.

  “What was that thing with the pen Sarge?”

  Night produced his Vector, ejected the magazine and pulled back the slide ejecting the round in the chamber which he caught in a smooth single movement. He took his pen and put it into the barrel and aimed slightly upwards and squeezed the trigger. The pen flew into the air and onto the floor. Night then pulled the slide back and held it in position. He showed Dlamini the firing pin at the base of the slide in front of the hammer.

  “See, the pin comes forward ever so slightly after the hammer hits it. That’s what makes impact with primer and causes the explosion that ejects the bullet head out of the casing and down the barrel. It also strikes the pen and sends it flying. Yours however is broken” said Night.

  “Good thing we tested it then, hey Sarge.”

  “Indeed Dlamini, that’s why we first field test any new weapon before booking on duty or going operational. And believe it or not it’s good this happened to you now. With your first weapon and on your very first shift. You will never take any of your weapons for granted and you will never forget this lesson. Lucky for us though that Akmal has spare Vector firing pins or else you would have to call it a day and head to the charge office.”

  “That’s because I am blessed like that Sarge, see, I am just a naturally lucky guy!”

  “That’s good Dlamini. As a cop you are going to need all the luck you can get.”

  Twenty five minutes later the Black Bastards and their student were in the Beast and about to Zero One (official police code meaning to book on duty on the police radio network). They had left Dave Sheer Guns considerably poorer than when they had initially entered the range. Although the shop’s manager Gareth had refused to accept payment for the range time or Vector Z88 firing pin and replacement and had given them the policemen’s discount on all the items purchased their wallets were still considerably lighter.

  While waiting for Dlamini to test his new weapon Stanislov had purchased an innovative Syderco FB08 S.P.O.T (Self Protection Option Tool) Neck Knife, a small tactical knife that hangs around an operator’s neck in a neat little holster, handy for quick access in
difficult situations. Nickolai had had his eye on the piece for a while and was an avid knife collector with the majority of his tactical knives being from the CRKT (Columbia River Knife and Tool) stable. His personal favourite was a CRKT Special Forces 1* knife designed specifically for law enforcement and military special forces personnel, by Gary Paul Johnston. Night gave it to him as a birthday present two years earlier. The 1* logo imprinted on the knife serves as a reminder to the operator using it: one-ass-to-risk.

  Shaka too had decided on purchasing a new blade, although his choice was a little bigger. He had opted for a Samurai sword replica made by a local manufacturer – Gareth had given it to him at cost price and warned that it was not of a high quality standard. That didn’t bother Shaka much, it was large, sharp enough and deadly, if only for one use – perfect for cutting off an enemy’s head he had said. Night thought he knew whose cranium Shaka had in mind.

  Night had also not escaped the temptation to buy some gear and had purchased a tactical handheld flashlight with a modern style LED bulb from Surefire. It delivers an impressive 500 lumens of light and a tactical strobe, perfect for disorientating and temporarily blinding criminal suspects while on police duty and attackers attempting to injure his clients while on a CP assignment.

  “All right gentlemen let’s zero one.” said Night.

  “Um, shouldn’t we wait a bit Mike?” asked Shaka.

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t you hear? There was a 55 Bravo in Melrose that Control was trying to assign. Nobody was answering.”

  “Well of course nobody was answering, who the hell wants to deal with a 55 Bravo. How long ago was that?”

  “When we left the station about 45 minutes ago.”

  “Well no worries then Control should have been able to assign one of our vehicles to deal with it by now, we have four other Norwood units on duty today.”

  “Just to be extra sure let’s just fill up the petrol tank and check the vehicle before we book on air hey Mike, just in case.” said Stanislov.

  “What the hell is a 55 Bravo guys?” asked Dlamini.