It’s Big Jenks or nothing.
“If you’re unable to make the assessment session on time, how reliable can you be? Tell me why I shouldn’t send you packing right away.”
Fuck.
“As I said, sir, I’m really sorry …” I work through my explanation, struggling to strike the right balance between apologetic and keen, and finish with a plea, “I need this job, sir. Please give me a chance.”
During my explanation, André steps alongside the captain.
“What do you think, Staff Sergeant?” Captain Runt asks the big bugger. “Think he’s worth a second chance?”
André’s beard bristles as he creases up his face. “Not sure, Captain. Doesn’t look like much. Seems a little scrawny to me. Might not be up to it.”
Scrawny? Me? Say that to me outside, you giant bastard.
I’m ready to explode but hold myself in check, just about. If these arseholes think they can wind me up, I’ll show them how cool Big Jenks can be.
Captain Runt drills me with another appraising look before turning back to André. “Don’t remember reading his application, Staff Sergeant. Who put him on the list, and when?”
“Major Valence added his details yesterday afternoon, sir.”
“An afterthought, eh?”
André smirks.
I’ll teach you to smirk at me, dickhead. Just you fucking wait.
The captain nods and turns to face me again. His eyes are still calculating. Weighing up my worth. Time to pull my big nuts out of the fire.
“I’m no afterthought, Captain Kaine. I’m up to anything you can throw at me. Try me. I’ll beat any man here in any military test you care to set. Any man.”
Risky perhaps, arrogant probably, but I need this job, and I ain’t backing down to no one. If the runt of a captain and his lackeys give me the chance to show what I’m made of, they’ll end up begging me to stay.
The guys in the background have stopped stretching and have given up all pretence at ignoring the scene. They’re all looking and listening along with Private Simms. I’m guessing they’re wondering what the captain will do as much as I am.
Eventually, after what seems like ages, Captain Runt nods, says, “We’ll see,” and turns about-face. “Follow me.”
I jump to attention and fall into marching step behind him. No idea what he’s got in store for me, but I can handle it.
Bring it on, Captain Runt.
Chapter 2
There’s Always One
From his elevated position on the viewing gallery—a podium hastily constructed with scaffolding poles and thick wooden planks—Ryan Kaine, with William “Rollo” Rollason at his side, studied the cohort through a pair of powerful field glasses. The men were closing in on the assault course’s finishing line. Danny Pinkerton and Anthony “Slim” Simms marshalled them from the side-lines, making sure they followed the correct route and took no shortcuts.
During his final, pre-start briefing, Danny had made it absolutely clear the men should take things slowly and use the first circuit as nothing more than a familiarisation run—a semi-intensive warm-up. During the assessment weekend, they’d have plenty of time to impress, and Kaine didn’t want to risk any injuries so early in the process.
Typically, all but one of the testosterone- and adrenaline-fuelled hotheads turned the “gentle” shakedown lap into a race and were blowing hard by the time they reached the three-hundred-metre finishing straight. Clearly keen to impress, the late arrival, Jenkinson, broke first, taking the early lead. What’s more, he held it, an arrogant, toothy smile cracking his face the whole way around.
Even at the three-metre-high concrete wall, unclimbable without teamwork, Jenkinson led from the front, barking orders like a drill sergeant on parade. Once all six men overcame the assault course’s most formidable obstacle, Jenkinson sprinted away, challenging the others to beat him home in his arrogant Liverpudlian accent. The young man scrambled under netting, crawled through mud-filled drainage ditches, and danced along the zig-zagging balance logs, keeping well ahead of the chasers, taunting them silently with regular backward glances and condescending smirks.
As Jenkinson crossed the line twenty metres ahead of his nearest competitor—and barely breathing hard—Kaine clicked the stop button on his stopwatch: 15:37:35. A mere seventy-odd seconds shy of the course record for runners in light PT kit. Impressive for a first attempt. Kaine wondered how close to the main record he’d be when wearing full battledress and kitted for long-range patrol, but he wouldn’t find out until later in the process.
Four of the men behind Jenkinson crossed the line pretty close together and in various levels of physical distress. The fifth jogged home a full two minutes behind the others, cool and relaxed. Four of the “losers” spent their recovery time staring coldly at Jenkinson. The tail-end Charlie ignored the others, relaxed, and took plenty of water on board.
“What do you think of our late arrival, Rollo?”
“Permission to speak freely, Captain?”
“Always, Rollo. Give it to me straight.”
“The man’s a bighead. Likely going to be a disruptive influence. The way he answered you back at the gym? He practically challenged you to a duel, for pity’s sake. I’m genuinely surprised you didn’t throw him out on his ear, Captain. Or …”
Rollo allowed his rant to trail off, but kept his eyes on the men, all of who’d started warming down in the prescribed manner, under Slim and Danny’s careful supervision. Even Jenkinson played nice and joined in.
“Or?” Kaine said, encouraging his second-in-command and oldest friend to complete the thought.
Rollo sniffed. “Or accept the beggar’s challenge. I’d love to watch him choking on your dust cloud.”
Kaine smiled at Rollo’s supportive words. “I don’t have to prove anything, Rollo. Jenkinson does. And it wouldn’t be a fair contest. I know every inch of that assault course, he doesn’t. Not yet.
“As for kicking him out of the process, that would be a little unfair. Everyone deserves at least one chance, right? And since he’s driven all the way from the land of the scouse—”
“You’ve read his dossier, after all?”
Kaine nodded. “Of course. Wouldn’t have allowed him through the entrance gates otherwise, but I didn’t want Jenkinson to know. Gravel must have added him to the cohort for a reason. Let’s see what he’s made of, shall we?”
Rollo’s upper lip curled at the mention of Gravel, Major Graham Valence, owner of DefTech Security, and consequently, their paymaster.
“Do I detect some disapproval?” Kaine asked.
Rollo glanced away before answering. “Not for me to say, Captain.”
“I did say you could speak freely, Rollo.”
The big sergeant released a heavy breath that could have passed for a sigh or a growl, but otherwise remained close-mouthed.
“Out with it, Rollo. Is there something I need to be made aware of?”
Rollo scrunched up his face and Kaine grinned. The big man never could hide his emotions—one of the reasons he only ever played poker for matchsticks.
“Come on, Rollo. Spill it,” Kaine said, deepening his voice, making it clear it was no longer a request.
“There’s nothing I can put my finger on, Captain. It’s just an impression I’ve developed recently.”
Kaine received a nod from Danny that the men were ready, and he held up a hand. “Sorry, Rollo. Hold that thought a moment, will you?”
After thoroughly testing its structural integrity, Kaine leaned against the safety rail. He called out, “Corporal Pinkerton!” and signalled for the corporal to approach the tower.
Danny crossed the intervening gap at double-time and looked up at him, expectantly. “Yes, sir?”
Kaine nodded towards the applicants and lowered his voice. “First impressions, Corporal?”
Danny shook his head and spoke quietly. “Fit but dense, Captain. Most wouldn’t listen to a word I said out there. Turned it in
to a race. Typical idiot squaddies.”
“Understood. The dark-haired man who trailed in last, Allenby, right?”
“That’s right, sir. Royal Marine Commando. Best of the lot. Without a doubt.”
Kaine smiled at Danny’s bias. The Royal Navy’s antagonism towards anything Army was legendary. As for most sailors’ thoughts regarding the military newcomers, the RAF, they didn’t bear repetition. Traditionally, members of the self-styled “Senior Service” ruled the rigging and would tolerate no argument.
“Tell Sergeant Allenby, he can sit out the next exercise and watch the fun and games from the side-lines.”
Danny’s infectious smile grew wider, exposing a perfect set of pearly whites. “Right you are, Captain. And the others? We still going straight to the Parade Ground Killer, sir?”
“Yes, Corporal.” Kaine glanced at the candidates, all fully recovered and looking towards him. He raised his voice enough for them to hear clearly. “Will you be so kind as to let the men know that Staff Sergeant Rollason and I are completely underwhelmed by their barely adequate performance.”
Keeping his back to the candidates, Danny smirked. “Will do, Captain.”
Kaine continued at full volume. “Give them time for a quick drink and then take them on fifteen laps of the parade ground, alternating between sprints and jogs. This will mark the end of Phase One. Understood, Corporal Pinkerton?”
“End of Phase One” meant Danny would order a flat out sprint for the whole of the final lap, and they’d dismiss the last candidate to finish. The killer, the real kicker, would be that the men wouldn’t know about the cut in advance. In Kaine’s assessment process, a candidate’s psychological strength was as important as his physical resilience. Knowing in advance the Parade Ground Killer was a selection race would drive the men harder, but Kaine needed to know they would follow Danny’s orders to the letter—especially after most had failed the first test so spectacularly.
A smiling Danny snapped out a smart salute, said, “Yes, sir,” and returned to the men, again at the double.
After pointing them to the water fountain—a stand pipe and a bucket attached to the nearest hut—Danny took Allenby to one side and spoke quietly for a few moments. Allenby, looking serious, nodded, and rejoined his fellow candidates, ignoring their whispered questions.
At Kaine’s side, Rollo said, “We’re binning the last man to finish the Killer? A little early for the first cut, isn’t it, sir?”
“Never too early to remove the dead weight, Rollo. Now, what’s this about your premonition?”
Rollo stretched his shoulders in his version of a shrug. “Not a premonition exactly, but I am a little concerned as to the Major’s … current priorities.”
“Explain.”
“As far as equipment supplies are concerned, I’m the Quartermaster, yes?”
Kaine nodded. “You are. And?”
Rollo’s pained expression showed his clear reluctance to speak behind a superior officer’s back, but Kaine trusted the big man’s judgement and needed to coax out the information.
“Sorry, Captain, but is the company in financial difficulty?”
“Not as far as I know. At the last board meeting, forecasts were, what do the men in suits say, bullish? Me, I’m just a grunt. Don’t have much to do with the financial side of the business. Why?”
Rollo leaned against the guard rail, which groaned under his weight, and he pushed away, rapidly. “For the past few months, the Major has been scrutinising my equipment requisitions far more closely than normal. Complaining about budgets and equipment overspend. I know the country—hell, the whole world—is in the middle of a recession, but his penny-pinching is threatening to put the men’s lives at risk.”
Kaine stiffened. Rollo wasn’t the sort of man to complain without good cause, and if his concerns were well-founded, Kaine needed to know. Operational activities, and subsequently the men’s safety, were at the centre of Kaine’s bailiwick, and he took the role seriously. “In what way?”
Rollo glanced around, although no one was close enough to overhear. “Major Valence cut the equipment budget by fifteen percent this quarter, sir. Been pushing me to buy inferior equipment. He’ll only countersign requisition chits for second grade ordnance, inferior uniforms, and used equipment. You name it, he’s calling for the lowest standard. The only up-to-date hardware he’s given us this year is the gear we’ve been contracted to test.”
Kaine frowned and shook his head. “I haven’t noticed a drop off in quality. The new CCBA gear you issued is state-of-the-art, and my command vehicle, the Land Rover, is brand new.”
Rollo’s frown matched Kaine’s. “That’s because I have certain … contacts in the military supplies sector and can circumvent one or two of the stiffer regulations. In short, I’ve been forced to call some friends, and pull in some favours. You know I hate doing that. No telling when we’ll need to access something that’s not available on the open market.
“Sorry to say this, Captain, but we can’t operate with substandard equipment. Not without increasing the risk. I’m not happy. Not in the slightest.”
“Understood. I’ll have a quiet word with the major as soon as possible.” Kaine paused. His words should have been reassurance enough, but the big man’s frown didn’t come close to easing. “Anything else, Rollo?”
“This Jenkinson clown, Captain.”
“What about him?”
“You’ve read his CV and his personnel file. The man’s clearly inferior material. Oh, he’s powerful and fit enough physically; you can see that by the way he tackled the assault course on the first attempt. But he’s a hothead. He’ll never make the final cut. You won’t be able to pass him.
“This is nothing more than another of the major’s penny-pinching ideas. My guess is he wants to draft in poor troops and pay them peanuts. Major Valence has turned corporate and is only interested in the profit margin, the bottom line. In the end it’ll undermine our ability to operate effectively.”
“Cut us to the bone, you mean?” Kaine asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah, yeah. I know you think I’m a cliché-ridden worrywart, but mark my words—”
Kaine raised his hand to cut off the next salvo. “I’m Director of Operations for the company. No way am I going to allow our operational effectiveness to fall. And no way will I employ inferior personnel or pay any man or woman peanuts for risking their lives. As for Jenkinson, let’s see how he performs over the next couple of days. Okay?”
“Okay by me, Captain. You’re the boss.”
Not really, Rollo. Like you, I’m just an employee.
“Fancy a stroll over to the drill square to watch the mayhem?” Kaine asked, keen to draw a line under the discussion until he had the chance to buttonhole Gravel ahead of their next board meeting.
“Aye, sir. It’s always fun to watch the candidates puke up all over their squeaky new trainers. I remember when you ran The Beasting. Pitiful it was. Thought you were going to run home to your mother in tears.”
Kaine remembered The Beasting—the Special Boat Service’s final assessment trial—only too well. Five days of total hell which had broken the hearts and ended the hopes of so many SBS candidates. By comparison, The Beasting made the Parade Ground Killer seem little more than another extended warm-up routine.
“Wrong, Rollo. I didn’t throw up, it was some other fellow who didn’t care where he aimed.”
“Perhaps, but you turned a lovely shade of green during the process, Captain.”
I wasn’t the only one, my friend.
They took turns to descend the ladder tied to the scaffold tower, Kaine choosing to go second. He didn’t fancy trying to catch Rollo if he slipped. As a rookie, he’d made a similar mistake under different circumstances and with a different man, and nearly didn’t live to regret it.
Chapter 3
The Killer — Big Jenks
What did the corporal call it, the Parade Ground Killer? Interesting. Maybe thi
s is where it gets serious. And not before bloody time, either. The pansy-arsed assault course circuit, what a waste of time. Piece of piss. Could’ve taken two minutes off the time if the lazy fuckers hadn’t held me up at the wall.
One of the other Muppets on the team, powerful-looking bloke with a chin dimple as deep as the Grand Canyon, told us about the course record time he’d seen graffitied onto the wall in the latrine. A little over thirteen minutes, he said. If he’d told me in advance, I’d have fucking smashed it.
At the end, when I’d finished way out ahead, Corporal Pinkerton, Pinkie, looked at me as though I’d fucked up. Yeah, right. But the other bugger, the one with the Commando ink on his forearm who strolled in last, got the chop. Pinkie pulled him to one side and told the bloke to sit the Killer out.
Ha!
I’ve got this in the bag. The others are useless.
The so-called drinking water from the standpipe tastes of rust, but it’s cold and wet, and the Muppets are guzzling it like there ain’t no tomorrow. Anyone would think the previous quarter hour had been tough.
But no …
What the hell?
The commando, Allenby he’s called, ain’t going home. Nah, he’s sitting off to one side sunning himself, watching us prep for the Killer like he’s been given a free pass to the cinema.
The bugger came last in the assault course but they didn’t bin him? This is total bullshit.
Taking my lead from Pinkie, I work through the standard cool-down stretches again—legs, abs, arms, neck, in that order. Don’t really need to since I didn’t work that hard, but it’s good to show the bosses you’re keen and knowledgeable.
After shooting me the evil eye when I trashed them in the run, the Muppets, excluding Allenby, are pretending to ignore me. They’re giving me the cold shoulder, ’cause they see me as the one to watch—the one to beat. And they’re damn well right.
Allenby, on the other hand, is looking straight at me, smiling as though he’s had one over on me. Why is that? And why the hell’s he still here?
The Assessment Page 2