“Another friend of a friend?”
“Not at all. I simply liked the way he completed his application form. Seems confident and exactly the sort of experienced veteran we could use. How’s he doing?”
Kaine rolled his shoulders to ease the ache in his neck muscles. He leaned against the back of his uncomfortable chair, stretching the coiled telephone cord to its limits.
“Jenkinson arrived late. He’s arrogant and a tad aggressive, but …”
“But?” Gravel’s voice lifted, showing interest.
“But, that’s only to be expected in a man who was thrown onto the scrapheap after what he went through in Afghanistan. Physically, he’s an impressive specimen. Performed quite well in the drills so far, and Rollo’s testing his weapons knowledge right about now. We’ll soon find out. However, the man’s a bit of a hothead. I’m not too sure how he’s likely to work as a team member, or how he’ll react to setbacks.”
“Good, good. Excellent. You’ll let me know what happens, of course.”
“Of course, Gravel. Is that it?”
“Not at all. I wouldn’t interrupt you for something as trivial as personnel matters. The very idea, old man.” Another of Gravel’s enforced laughs bubbled down the phone line. “Now, to the real reason for my call.”
Finally.
Kaine read the time on his wristwatch. He had less than two hours to set up the afternoon’s pyrotechnics and Gravel’s call was eating into the time.
“Have you been following the Peter Avondale story?” Gravel asked.
Kaine sat up straight. “In a way. He’s a trouble-shooter for TarBox Shale Oil, right? Went missing in Bolivia a couple of days back. Although what he was doing in one of the kidnap capitals of the world is a mystery. Asking for trouble.”
Again the laugh, this one more natural. “Risk is the price of doing business. See I’ve finally gained your attention, old man?”
Kaine ignored the question. “What about Avondale? Any news?”
“Yesterday evening, his kidnappers emailed a ransom demand to the TarBox country headquarters in La Paz.”
“How much are they asking for?”
“Fifteen million US dollars. They’ve given TarBox four days.”
“Proof of life?” Kaine asked, while jotting a few notes on the assets DefTech had in South America. There weren’t many.
“The usual. A photograph of Avondale in front of a computer screen showing yesterday’s edition of Los Tiempos. I’ve had a techie evaluate the pic. As far as she can tell, it’s genuine. Doesn’t look like a photoshopped bodge job.”
The target was still alive. At least at the time the picture was taken. Promising, and definitely better than the alternative.
“Is TarBox prepared to pay the ransom?”
“Most definitely. Avondale is an important player, as well as being the owner’s son-in-law.”
“What’s DefTech’s potential role?”
Another raucous laugh rattled the earpiece on Kaine’s handset. “That’s what I like about you, Ryan. No irrelevant questions. As it happens, I know TarBox’s owner and Chairman, Dylan Tarbuck. Last thing Sir Dylan wants is for the local police or our Foreign Office to screw up the exchange, and he has plenty of influence to make sure they don’t have any involvement.”
“And by ‘influence’ you mean money, right?”
“Exactly, old man. Sir Dylan has a business contact in Lima. Apparently, he’s dealt with these individuals before.”
“His man knows who the kidnappers are?”
“Oh yes. It seems the gang is well known in the region. They operate with the tacit approval of one of the local cartels and, by association, the regional officials. Past activities suggest they’re a professional outfit, more interested in the money than killing a foreigner.”
“So,” Kaine said through a sigh, “these kidnappers are as trustworthy and well-respected as all the other esteemed business organisations who deal in abduction and intimidation?”
“My thoughts precisely. Shouldn’t be much of a challenge for you and your team, though. No one anticipates a hostile extraction situation to develop. Sir Dylan has simply asked DefTech to provide a protective detail to support the exchange. A show of force, if you will. Are you and your men up for a non-stop military flight to South America?”
“Of course we are. When do you need us in London?”
“Tomorrow afternoon would be perfect. Can you wrap up the assessment today?”
“Not a problem. We’ll need to shift things around a little, but it’s nothing we haven’t done before.”
“Excellent. Knew you wouldn’t let me down. By the time we meet, I’ll have all the arrangements in place for a nice little social visit to Bolivia. Any idea what strength you’ll need?”
Kaine ran a quick scenario though his head. “It’s a little short notice for anything too grand. Least I can get away with is a rapid-response unit, Delta Force configuration.”
“My thinking exactly. Would you mind briefing Rollo and the others?”
“Will do.”
“Excellent. I’ll bring you up to speed when you reach London tomorrow. See you then, old man.”
Kaine ended the call without further response. So much to do, so little time. First steps, a quiet word with Rollo, followed by a rapid reorganisation of the day’s schedule. After they’d completed the assessment and made the selection, he and Rollo would swing into action and launch into their standard pre-operation protocols. By morning, they’d be ready to head for London. Gravel would deal with the TarBox security and finance people, which could prove problematic. Kaine was happy to swerve that particular headache.
Most immediately, came the thorny issue of the ongoing selection process. So far, Allenby and Jenkinson had shown themselves as stand-out leaders in the race, but what of the Liverpudlian’s suitability to join the team? How could he decide between the two men?
An idea formed, and Kaine smiled.
Chapter 10
Breakdowns, Bergens, and Battledress — Big Jenks
I sleep so deeply, I don’t know what the hell hit me until the annoying bastard, Slim, hammers on the door to our grotty dorm at 06:45. Over two hours sleep after a day and a night of ball-breaking exercise and I’m still tired? Must be getting old.
Ha fucking ha!
After dragging on a clean set of exercise gear and performing a few stretches and deep-breathing exercises, I’m ready for breakfast. Ravenous, in fact.
The Full English is hot, tasty, and cooked fresh to order by a middle-aged dumpling of woman who smiles so wide at me, I think it’s a come-on.
No chance, darling. You’re female and have a pulse, but you still ain’t my type.
After piling the grub high on the plate and wolfing it down along with a gallon of sweet milky coffee, I’m full but still ready to rumble.
There are only four of us left in the game, but my competition has shown themselves worthy of serious consideration. It turns out that Blondie’s real name is Boris Kaplan. I mean, Jesus. Outside of Russia or a horror flick, who the hell calls their son Boris? The guy’s clearly aerobically fit. If he hadn’t missed the flag on the final lap, he might have beaten me on the Parade Ground Killer. Not all that much beef on him though. I’ll take him on the assault course and in hand-to-hand combat, easy. The only problem is he’s had more sleep than me, but I’m still not worried.
Boris is sitting beside his black mucker, Connor Blake, all smiling and relaxed, like he’s not got a worry in the world.
Blake himself is the real athlete, with all the confident swagger of his race. I’ll show him who’s boss. No black bugger’s gonna show me up on any skills task, not unless he cheats.
As for Commando Tom, he’s my real opposition. Although he’s done nothing really standout so far, he’s tough and he’s real smart, sly even. I’ll have to keep my eye on him today. Assuming this is the final day of assessment. With only four of us left, I can’t see it dragging on too much longer.
The st
aff sergeant says he’s taking pity on us after yesterday’s physical shenanigans. Tells us the first session of the day will be classroom based.
Thank fuck for that.
And, yeah, he actually used the word “shenanigans”.
Soft bugger. Must be Irish?
The weapons handling assessment is an easy opener to the day. Three hours of it. With the staff sergeant and Corporal Pinkerton taking a keen interest, we strip down and service most of the personal weapons currently in use by NATO troops. We start with sidearms, Glocks and Sigs, and eventually graduate to my favourite family of killing instruments, the good-old SA80 assault rifles. They’re all pretty slick, but my absolute fave is the brand spanking new L85A3, especially if it’s got the optional Underslung Grenade Launcher attached. Armed with that baby, I could invade a small country. Gotta love the UGL even if it is as ugly as my brother’s wife.
The UGL is ugly? Ha!
Groaned real loud when I first heard that old chestnut. Funny though.
I show the staff sergeant my worth by breaking down and reassembling my rifle faster than the others. Then I do the same thing blindfolded to simulate freeing a jam in darkness. Stone me, if my skills don’t earn me a grudging compliment from the giant himself.
Score another hit for Big Jenks. I’m killing this shit.
Then we move on to the heavy stuff, the two-man operated GPMG—the general-purpose machine gun. Once again, I come out on top by stripping and rebuilding my weapon way faster than the others.
I’m on top form today.
Captain Kaine ain’t shown his face yet this morning. The little guy’s probably having a nice lie-in after dumping me and Tom in the middle of nowhere last night to fend for ourselves.
We work through more weapons drills and, just as I’m thinking the captain’s given up for the morning, the man himself strolls in. He takes Staff Sergeant Rollason aside for a quiet chat, then buggers off again. Dunno what that was all about, but mine’s not to ask questions. I just do as I’m told. More or less.
An hour later, we’re back in the mess hall for lunch. Still quite full from breakfast, I go easy on the meat and two veg, and even turn away the pudding. It’s not that I’m on a diet or anything stupid like that, but I’m expecting fireworks this afternoon and don’t want to be waddling around the place with an overstuffed belly.
Looking at Tom’s half-empty plate, I see he’s working on the same premise as me.
Lunch over, the staff sergeant gives us thirty minutes for R&R, then he and Pinkerton bugger off, no doubt to set up the afternoon’s torture session. Wonder where Simms has been hiding? Like the captain, he’s been largely absent all morning.
At 14:15, Corporal Pinkerton’s voice booms out over the camp’s PA system, ordering us to the changing rooms at the double. The guys and I race across the scene of yesterday’s fartlek torture and assemble in the musty room. Blake beats me through the door, but it’s a close run thing. Tom and Kaplan bring up the rear, but they ain’t too far behind.
Staff Sergeant Rollason is waiting for us, checking off the time on his watch.
On the benches bolted to the walls are piles of clothing and other equipment—full battledress. Each pile is marked with our names. My gear ain’t new, but it fits well enough. Hardly comfortable, though.
In the time-honoured fashion, we help each other into our Bergens—huge military backpacks fully laden with something like eighty kilos of the equipment essential to survive a long-range patrol. I adjust the shoulder straps, do up the waistband and pull them all tight. Then I do my usual trick of jumping up and down to settle the weight evenly across my shoulders and hips, and reacquaint myself with the load. It’s been a while since I wore the full rig, and its familiar weight brings back memories. Most of them ain’t particularly great.
What’s that saying about familiarity breeding contempt? Well, it’s bang on. My contempt for having the full Bergen on my shoulders again is real. For half a second, I think about dropping the thing to the floor and buggering off home, but Big Jenks ain’t no quitter. Instead, I smile at the discomfort on the faces of my competition. Their distress spurs me on, it’s my crutch, lightening the crappy load.
I’m better than they are. The best man here, and I’m about to show them all.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Rollason says, after checking everyone’s dressed correctly and fully laden, “head to the start of the assault course. We’re about to have some fun.”
Beside me, Tom laughs, claps me on the back, and says, “Looking forward to it.”
The others join in with forced bravado, which is enough to turn my stomach. If I didn’t already hate the bastards, their cheery attitude would do it for me. I can’t even force a smile. Instead, I fall in line beside Tom and keep my feelings to myself.
With the staff sergeant and corporal on either flank, we fast-march along the back straight of the parade ground, climb the steep gravel path to the perimeter road, and march the eight hundred metres to the start of the course. As befits our station as Team Alpha and winners of last night’s field trip, Tom and I take the lead, swinging our arms smartly. The only thing lightening my mood is the fact we ain’t carrying any weapons.
Small mercies.
We pass a broken-down, single-storey concrete building, turn the final corner onto the back field, and … shit.
Spoke too soon.
Near the start line, there’s a table with bottles of water and early-model SA80s fitted with yellow BFAs—blank firing adaptors. Damn it, that’s another four kilos I don’t need to lug around the assault course. Already my hands are sweating and the pistol grips on the old versions are notoriously slippery. They were never textured enough.
With weapons in hand, we stretch out along the start line, already blowing from the march to this point. Kaplan is leaning over, hands on thighs. His naturally pale face has turned a lovely shade of red. Shouldn’t have had that second bowl of sticky toffee pudding. He’s gonna struggle. Such a shame. This time, I do manage to raise a smile.
The staff sergeant strides forward and starts pacing the line in front of us. Like us, he’s wearing standard camouflage fatigues and a helmet. Unlike us, he ain’t toting a Bergen.
“Rest there for a moment, gentlemen,” he says, all cool and conversational, like. “Catch your breath. You’re going to need it.”
He stops in the middle of the start line and plants his fists on his hips, staring at each of us. “You are about to face the assault course for the final time this weekend. By now, everyone should be familiar with the layout, so I don’t expect any accidents. You won’t come across any surprises,” he pauses for a second, an evil glint in his eyes, before adding, “except for the fact this is a live fire exercise, simulating full battlefield conditions.”
Kaplan coughs. He’s standing up straight now. Perhaps his recovery rate is better than I thought.
“Keep to the course,” Rollason is saying. “Avoid the clearly marked ‘no-go’ areas, and obey the standard safety protocols.”
By “standard safety protocols”, he means we should keep our heads down, as if we needed the advice. With bullets flying overhead and whizz-bangs exploding all around us, who’s gonna be stupid enough to do anything different? I can’t avoid rolling my eyes.
Rollason steps in close to me. “Am I boring you, Jenkinson?”
I pull back my shoulders and give him the standard parade ground five-hundred metre stare. “No, Staff,” I shout. “Something in my eye, Staff.”
He curls his upper lip, returns to the line, and stands at ease, front and centre. “Here are the ground rules. Same as yesterday, this is a team exercise. As Team Alpha reached the target last night, they will lead off with a ten-second start.
Yay. A whole ten seconds. Go Team Alpha!
“All stations of the course are in play including the wall. The only time you can remove your Bergen is to scale the wall. Once on the far side of the wall, you must replace your Bergen and, as a safety measure, check yo
ur teammate’s load before continuing. Am I clear so far?”
We release a ragged chorus of, “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” and he continues.
“Any questions?”
Nobody speaks.
“Good. Exercise starts in ten minutes. Rest easy until then.”
Yeah, as though we can relax with all this chuffing gear on. Blake and Kaplan move off to one side, probably to discuss tactics, and I follow Tom to the shade of a nearby tree. We shuck out of our Bergens—a nice relief for my back and shoulders—and drop them to the ground at our feet. Tom lowers himself into a squat, but I lean my back against the tree trunk, standing over him.
“What did your mate tell you?” I ask quietly. “Is this the final selection test?”
Still eyeing the course, taking everything in, Tom shakes his head. “This is different to the schedule my mate had to follow. He had two other exercises before this one. However, during his assessment, this drill was followed by unarmed combat in the gym. Last man standing.”
Excellent.
My spirits soar. Hand-to-hand fighting is my absolute speciality. Back home, I’m in training for a shot at a career in mixed martial arts. Ain’t no doubting how good I am. I was wondering when I’d get to strut my stuff. This is war, and Last Man Standing suits me right well.
Tom looks up at me.
“Why are you smiling?”
If we weren’t a team, and I didn’t need him to help me on the assault course, I might have laughed in his face and told him about the pummelling he’s going to suffer at the hands of Big Jenks. But I need to keep him sweet for a little while.
“Not smiling, mate. What you see on this handsome face is a grimace. Not looking forward to the assault course. Given this ain’t the final selection, how do you want to play it? We going eyeballs out for the win, or taking it easy to save our energy?”
Tom sticks his hands on his knees and uses them to push himself into a standing position. Then he grins. “What do you think?”
“I think we should kick Team Bravo’s arses, again,” I say, returning his smile.
The Assessment Page 8