The Assessment

by Kerry J Donovan

  Imperceptibly slowly, we inch downhill, following the fence. The stream babbles over stones and rocks, emptying into the unseen lake that lies inside the trees, somewhere to our left. At this level, the only indication of the lake is the heavy weight of moisture in the air and the stink of rotting, water-laden vegetation. Deep inside the southern woods, an owl hoots. Its mate responds from the trees on the other side of the narrowed valley.

  Spooky. It’s like we’re stuck in the middle of a horror movie.

  Insects buzz around my head. One lands on the bramble scratch on my cheek and tickles. I want to slap it to death, but the sound will likely carry too far and I brush at it instead. Creatures scurry around my feet. Roots reach up to snag my hands and boots, trying to trip me, holding back my progress.

  Fucking hate the countryside, me. Much prefer urban warfare. Always have. Always bloody will. But soldiers can’t always pick and choose our battles, and I volunteered for this shit.

  Tom stops so suddenly, I almost run my nose into his arse. Over his shoulder, I can just about make out the break in the run of the fence that must be the gate. This is where we’re at our most vulnerable.

  I edge forward and whisper in Tom’s ear. “See anything?”

  He shakes his head, sights, and drops his shoulders.

  “What you waiting for?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The radio in my backpack bursts into life with, “Sniper to Team Alpha, over,” so loud, it damn near gives me a heart attack.

  Fuck.

  “Yep, I bloody knew it,” Tom says, not bothering to keep his voice down.

  He sits up and leans against the fence, watching me struggle to remove my backpack. Fucker could give me a hand, but no, he’s too goddamned superior for that.

  “Sniper to Team Alpha, over,” the message repeats.

  Still struggling to release catches on the pack cover, I shout, “Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’m bloody coming,” before fishing out the walkie-talkie and hitting the response button. “Team Alpha receiving, over.”

  “Sniper to Team Alpha, you’ve been spotted. Stay exactly where you are. Sniper out.”

  The radio clicks into silence.

  Tom folds his arms, even in this light, a look of defeat is obvious on his mud-spattered face. “We’ve been caught. It’s a shame, but—”

  “Cheating fucker.”

  Tom scowls in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “That was Captain Kaine, yeah?”

  A shrug. A nod. “Sounded like him.”

  “There’s no way he could have seen us without using NV goggles. No fucking way.” I’m really pissed and let it rip, not bothering to hold down the volume, either. “It’s too dark, and we were too fucking good! We’ve been checking for tripwires and shit all fucking night. No one could have seen us without artificial help. No way.” I pause for breath before ranting on. “It’s probably just as well the fucker ended the radio coms, ’cause I was about to lay into Captain Runt for breaking his own goddamned rules. I mean, they told us they wouldn’t be using electronics or NVGs. And another thing, I never trusted those Navy types, they—”

  Movement to my right cuts me off mid-rant. Tom pushes himself away from the fence and snaps to attention. I spin around. A man’s vague shape draws closer. A small man. He switches on a penlight, cups it with a hand, and shines the narrow beam on the ground to avoid blinding us and let us keep our night vision.

  Shit a brick. It’s the fucking captain!

  Chapter 8

  Caught in the Act — Big Jenks

  And here he comes, the captain, strolling along the dirt track like he owns the bleeding thing. I stand to attention alongside Commando Tom and await the inevitable bollocking.

  Why don’t I keep my big mouth shut?

  Tom salutes smartly, and I hesitate a fraction before adding one of my own. Given we’re not in the real military anymore and the captain’s out of uniform, he doesn’t really warrant a salute, but it can’t hurt to suck up to the decisionmaker, the moneybags. We hold our positions until Captain Runt—damn it, I mean Captain Kaine—returns our salute, before lowering our arms in unison, like the well-drilled military men we happen to be.

  “Rest easy, gentlemen,” he says and we stand at ease.

  To say I’m miffed would be understating it a smidge. I don’t know how much of my rant the little guy overheard. Yeah, I was pissed and it was excusable, but these officer types have brittle egos and ears like satellite dishes.

  “Permission to speak, sir,” I say, keeping my voice low, subservient like.

  “Permission granted … and light them up if you need to. This exercise is over.”

  “No thank you, sir,” Tom says, the goody two-shoes. “I don’t smoke, never have.”

  “Me neither, sir,” I lie—I’m gasping for a ciggie, but don’t want to show weakness. “But I’d like to apologise, sir. Don’t know how much you heard, but I was really pissed off … I mean, upset, sir. We’ve worked hard tonight, and—”

  “Understood, Corporal. I’m aware of the tensions involved in tests of this sort, but go easy on the ‘Captain Runt’ moniker. I’ll let it go this time, because emotions are running high, but call me that again and I’m liable to take offense.” He stares at me, and for the first time, there’s cold steel behind his dark eyes. “To paraphrase a cartoon character,” he continues, “you wouldn’t like me when I take offence.”

  Yeah, and now I’m really scared. You little tosser.

  “And, despite what you think, Corporal Jenkinson, I didn’t cheat.”

  A tosser and a lying prick.

  “Really, sir?” I say, all sweetness and light.

  “No, son. I didn’t need to.” He smiles at me before turning to Tom. “When did you spot me, Sergeant Allenby?”

  Tom shrugs. “I sensed someone close by before we reached the fence, Captain. I was wondering when you’d announce yourself and call an end to the exercise.”

  I glare at Tom. “Why the fu—why didn’t you tell me?”

  Another shrug. “I wasn’t certain, but what would you have done? I still hoped we’d reach the gate before the others.”

  Seizing my chance to change the subject, I spout, “What about them, sir? Team Bravo, I mean. Did they win?”

  Captain Runt … shit, must stop calling him that in my head or I might let it slip out again. Captain Kaine shakes his head. “No, I spotted them long before dark. They didn’t even make it this close to the target.”

  Yes! Go Team Alpha!

  Although I’m buzzing, I try to keep the excitement from my face and out of my question. “Does that mean we won, sir?”

  “No, Corporal. It doesn’t. There are no winners today. The object of this exercise was to see how you perform on the fly. The target is totally inaccessible. You weren’t expected to succeed, but I like the fact you delayed your approach until nightfall. Whose idea was that, by the way?”

  Tom says, “It was a joint decision, sir,” when I expected him to claim full credit.

  I’m glad I didn’t jump in with an, “It was me, sir!” which would have made me look a real brownnoser and fuck any chance I have of saving face.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking,” I say, unable to control myself despite my best efforts, “how did you spot us without using NVGs or ambient mics?”

  “You really don’t believe me, do you corporal?” The captain’s intonation is flat, but I’m guessing he’s starting to get as pissed as I am.

  In the shadows beside me, Tom clears his throat quietly. He’s trying to shut me up, but I’m not good at taking the advice of a so-called teammate who keeps schtum and lets me drop myself in the shite.

  Damn it, I need to dial the attitude back a little or I’m fucked here. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, sir, not at all. In the interest of improving my fieldcraft skills, I just need to know how you spotted us, so I’ll be better next time.”

  Yeah, suck on that, little man.

  Let’s
see him try wriggling out of that one.

  Captain Kaine straightens to his full height, such as it is, and says, “Take a look at your backpack, Corporal.”

  What’s this now?

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  He uncovers his torch and points it towards the ground at my feet, centring my rucksack in its fierce yellow circle of light.

  “Go on, son. Pick it up and check the bottom panel.”

  I bend to scoop up the light canvas bag, upend it, and … bugger me sideways … there’s the double chevron, corporal’s stripes, on the bottom, done in white chalk.

  How the fuck?

  The mark wasn’t there when I collected the backpack in André’s Land Rover. When we were in the barn receiving our instructions, I checked it over, inside and out, looking for reflective strips and the tracker. It was spotless when we started and Tom’s been nowhere near it. My so-called teammate couldn’t have added the mark without me knowing. No way.

  “When the hell—” I splutter, but the captain interrupts me by speaking to Tom.

  “Sergeant Allenby, would you mind turning around, please?”

  Tom’s still wearing his pack. He gives that knowing smile, says, “Kidding, right? Me too?” and turns his back to me.

  Bloody hell, his backpack’s got triple chevrons.

  “Sergeant stripes!” I say. “Bloody sergeant stripes. When the hell d’you do it, sir?”

  It’s starting to feel like I’m the victim of a hoax.

  “Follow me, gentlemen,” the captain says. “I’m a little peckish and the grub’s not staying hot forever.”

  He turns about face, and marches off down the track. Tom and I hurry after him. He’s a nippy little bugger and quiet, too. His rubber-soled boots don’t make a sound on the track. If not for the gently swaying torchlight, I might have lost him to the night.

  After a couple of hundred metres, Tom breaks the silence. “Captain Kaine, are you going to tell us about the chalk marks? When exactly did you draw them?”

  When the captain talks, it’s so quiet, I can hardly hear the slippery bugger.

  “Corporal Jenkinson,” he says, “how’s your cheek?”

  Inadvertently, I reach up to touch the scratch, which has scabbed over already. It must be quite deep for him to have noticed in the piddling backlight from the torch.

  “It’s nothing, sir. I’ll put some antiseptic on it when we reach base.”

  “Yes, you do that,” he says and I catch amusement in his words.

  What’s he got to laugh about?

  Seconds later, there’s a turn in the lane and we slow. The torchlight reflects on glass, the windscreen of a Land Rover, a different one from André’s. This one has a crumpled front nearside wing.

  “Brambles are a real pain, aren’t they?” the captain says.

  “How do you know … Wait a minute. Is that where you added the marks? When we were hiding in that hedge?”

  The captain gives me a thin smile but I see no amusement in his eyes. “By that stage, I’d been following you for over thirty minutes. And I heard every word you said, so bear that in mind during tomorrow’s exercises, Corporal.”

  When he said the last bit, the way he looked and the tone of his voice would have made a weaker man tremble, but not Big Jenks. Fearless, that’s me.

  “Does that mean we’re still going to be here tomorrow, sir?” Tom asks as the captain heads straight for the Land Rover, and thank fuck for that.

  At least he’s giving us a lift back to the barracks. Didn’t fancy walking all the way home overnight.

  Captain Kaine nods to Tom and checks his watch by torchlight. “Assuming you make it back in time. The pick-up point is that way”—he jerks a thumb back towards the lake—“but don’t be late. I’ll arrange for Staff Sergeant Rollason to collect you from where he dropped you off in ninety minutes. Miss him and you’ll have to schlep back to base on foot, which will probably take you the rest of the night. Better hurry, gentlemen. Wouldn’t want you to miss breakfast.”

  He’s got to be kidding! Why the hell didn’t he tell us that when we were back at the fucking lake? We’ve got to retrace our steps now. All that extra goddamned way.

  “You’re leaving us here, sir?” Tom askes, calm as you like.

  He’s a real matter-of-fact guy, and I hate that in him.

  “Blame your partner, Sergeant Allenby. If he hadn’t been so derogatory about the stature of a certain senior officer, I’d have considered giving you a lift, but”—he made a big show of reading his watch again—“eighty-nine minutes. You’d better get a hurry-on or you’ll miss your ride.”

  Somehow, a key appears in the captain’s hand. He unlocks the old Land Rover, climbs behind the steering wheel, and slams the door. “Take care, gentlemen. I’d hate for one of you to stumble and twist an ankle on your gentle night-time yomp through the woods. It would be such a shame for you to miss tomorrow’s excitement. And don’t forget, you’re still operating as a team. If one of you misses the pick-up, I’ll have to bin you both.”

  Before I can respond and maybe apologise again, the Land Rover’s big diesel engine shatters the silence. Half a second before the headlights flare, I squeeze my eyes tight shut, managing to save what’s left of my night vision, but only just. Captain Kaine guns the motor and the battered vehicle roars away. I wait for the engine note to fade and for the brightness behind my lids to disappear before opening my eyes again, by which time, the big commando’s slicing me open with his razor-like stare.

  “Sorry, mate,” I manage before he has the chance to let rip.

  Tom’s scowl is a picture. “You will be if we miss that pick-up and I end up binned,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’ll tear your fucking arms off.”

  Yeah, you can try, sunbeam.

  Without reacting to his meaningless threat, I take off uphill, retracing our steps up the steep track. Christ, this is going to be a long fucking night.

  Tom’s been cursing me ever since the captain abandoned us to our “gentle night-time yomp”. Good job we make the pick-up—blowing hard, but injury free and with seventeen minutes to spare—or I’d have had to wring the bugger’s thick neck. I mean, how many times does he want me to apologise, for fuck’s sake? We all make mistakes.

  By the time I finally faceplant into my lumpy pit, fed, showered, and changed, it’s 04:37. I’m fucking exhausted.

  Pissed off, too.

  Chapter 9

  Interference

  Kaine rubbed his tired eyes and flexed his stiffened fingers. Typing had never been one of his primary skills, but at least the final output would be more legible than his writing. The ancient laptop sitting on his temporary desk had a tiny screen, which did little to aid him in his housekeeping tasks but everything to tire his eyes.

  He hated the paperwork involved in his current job, but anyone about to set off a small battle’s worth of high explosives needed to be prepared to tackle a forest of forms—in quadruplicate. DefTech had to follow rigorous protocol to maintain its MoD munitions certification.

  Before printing and signing the papers, he started over from the top. Any errors or omissions at this stage would be a nightmare to fix later, and Kaine still had to complete the reports for the assessment so far. He needed to justify his decision to bin the failed candidates or Human Resources, in the dowager shape of DefTech’s excellent but sometimes hysterical administrator, Myra, would throw an office-shaking wobbly. And Kaine didn’t want that on his conscience.

  Before he’d reached halfway down the first screen, the phone on his desk rattled into life. The ancient device didn’t have a screen to show the caller’s ID and Kaine ignored its old-school ringtone for a full five blasts, hoping the interloper would take the hint, but the incessant noise beat him into submission. He snatched up the handset.

  “Kaine,” he barked. “Whoever you are, this had better be good.”

  The low-pitched laugh on the other end of the line gave away the caller’s identity even before
he spoke.

  “I see your telephone manner is as welcoming as ever, Ryan, old man,” Gravel said, the chuckle in his voice not as infectious as he’d probably have wished.

  “Morning, Gravel,” Kaine answered, trying not to sound too annoyed, but knowing he’d failed miserably. “You know we’re preparing for the fireworks show this afternoon, right?”

  “Yes, yes. I do know that, and I wouldn’t interrupt you unless it was vitally important.”

  Gravel paused for a moment, probably waiting for Kaine to say something by way of capitulation, but that wasn’t Kaine’s way.

  “What can I do for you, Gravel?” he said eventually.

  “Okay, Ryan, I can tell you’re a little peeved. What did you make of my additions to candidate pool? How’s Sergeant Fleetwood shaping up?”

  Kaine gritted his teeth. If this was Gravel’s idea of “vitally important”, he needed a new definition.

  “I sent him home last night. The man’s too tightly wound for us.”

  “Darn. That’s a shame.”

  “Why?”

  “I, um …” Gravel cleared his throat in a manner that reinforced his nickname only too well. He needed to go easier on the cigars and the booze—his voice and his waistline would benefit. “I added young Fleetwood as a favour to his old commanding officer. Hoped to use it as a bargaining chip somewhere down the line. You’ll be filing a report to explain your decision, I assume?”

  “When I get the chance.”

  Take the hint, Gravel.

  “Point taken, Ryan. Point taken. It’s a shame about Fleetwood, but I’ll always defer to your judgement in the recruitment process. What about the Liverpudlian, Jenkinson?”