by Ted Tayler
Meanwhile as our armed services are being stripped of their effectiveness in all four corners of the globe, back at home the police and judiciary are falling into the hands of the same weak, hand wringing milksops. They have progressively stepped away from tackling crime with a big stick and meaningful sentencing; as a result, they are now reaping the wind as organised gangs, drug cartels and people traffickers are operating carte blanche the length and breadth of this beautiful country of ours.
I had my own very personal reasons for wanting to redress the balance. One man alone could achieve very little, even one with a substantial family fortune such as mine, and so I placed an advert in The Times personal column about four years ago.
It merely stated: - ‘Help required; anyone eager to prevent Britain going to hell in a handcart. Write Box 1815 etcetera’.
After I had weeded out the time wasters, I found a handful of like minded people who had the intelligence, the will and the necessary access to additional funds to help bring my ideas to fruition. Some of our backers have chosen to remain as silent partners and they do not reside here at Larcombe Manor; the other four people you met at lunch today are the founder members of Olympus. What do you know of Greek mythology Mr. Bailey?”
“I’ve heard of the Gods like Zeus, Achilles and um…”
“No matter; there are just six names that you are interested in. While we are here at Larcombe we use these names and these names only when we speak of one another. Is that clear?”
Colin nodded.
“It’s for our protection old chap; if you were to fall into the hands of a terrorist group or the bumbling fools that pose as our police force while on one of our direct actions, then you can only reveal your own identity, any amount of interrogation or torture would be futile. You simply don’t know the names of your masters.
“Yet you all know that I’m Colin Bailey!” Colin blurted out.
The old man tapped his forehead “Think a little deeper young man! Have you seen the papers or the television today?”
Colin shook his head.
“As far as the police, the media and the world and his wife are concerned Colin Bailey, Colin Owens or Owen Collins take your pick, perished in the deadly waters of the Pulteney Weir last evening. His body hasn’t been recovered as yet; but no-one is looking for you, no-one believes you could possibly have survived. Miraculously, you did; which is why from this moment forward you will be referred to as the Phoenix. We will keep you here at the Manor for a few months, training you in new techniques and honing your existing skills, You will be treated in the medical unit on level one in order to alter your appearance a little; nothing too drastic, it doesn’t take much to fool the authorities on these shores. We will continue to identify targets for direct action and dossiers will be made available for you to study. I know the planning of an action gives you almost as much satisfaction as the endgame itself, so the future is a bright one for you, wouldn’t you agree Phoenix?”
“It would appear so.” Colin replied. He began to realise that this organisation was committed to tackling the cancer that was crippling his country by taking out the bad guys – permanently! This was his pathetic little Street Cleaner operation on a global scale! This was what he had started all those years ago with Scott Hall, Leroy Ambrose and their rotten little gangs; then followed up this summer with the evil Neil Cartwright who had murdered his sweet, innocent daughter Sharron.
They had been made to pay the full price for their crimes; as had Pete Howlett the overlord of the Manchester drug running operation and four members of his gang; and finally, he had rid the world of Usman Khan and Mustafa Jobe just two of the men responsible for the systematic abuse and death of Khalima Darbo the poor Gambian teenager, trafficked to London for sex by a family friend. Because that swine Hounsell had thwarted his progress, any other names he had identified for elimination, in his own small way, were now continuing to abuse children, peddle drugs on estates throughout the country and heaven knows what else. Colin wished he could start some of this ‘direct action’ his host kept banging on about!
The old man looked at Colin “All in good time dear boy; all in good time.”
Colin was flustered for a second; how did he know what I was thinking? Did I say something out loud without realising? He gathered his emotions in check and asked:-
“What are you called? What about the others too? What’s your story?
The old man replied “I’ll tell you my story; the others will reveal their code names and their own background this evening after dinner. Perhaps then you will understand where our motivation for Olympus came from and what drives us on to right the wrongs, make the criminals pay for their crimes and to head off any threat to the natural order of things.”
Colin listened intently and question after question was springing into his head “How do you keep what you’re doing here secret? Surely, people knew your colleagues before they came here; you yourself must be on a naval pension as well as a state pension; the DVLA, your bank or building society, the list is endless. How did you ever get planning permission for your underground foxhole on a Grade I listed property!”
“Steady on Phoenix! One thing at a time; I’m not getting any younger. I can’t cope with this machine gun questioning! Let me explain.
Larcombe Manor is built in a secluded spot, three quarters of a mile from a minor road; that minor road is used by very few vehicles as it is a ‘No through road’. Just over a mile further on it ends in the farmyard of our neighbours, the Davis family who have lived and worked on Larcombe Farm for three generations. They and the other families who have lived there have been tenants of this estate since the seventeenth century. We don’t bother them as they carry on their dairy farming enterprise; they, in turn, don’t bother us.
As the occasional car or farm vehicle passes our gateway they can see a sign on the left hand stone pillar which simply reads ‘The Olympus Project’ with a registered charity number. We five founder members are the trustees of that charity and as you quite rightly point out, the authorities and many other organisations know perfectly well who we are. This enables us to go about our business without any hindrance. Provided we supply all the necessary documentation to support the illusion that a charitable organisation operates on this site, then we will have no unwanted intrusion and we can take steps to prevent what we are ever being revealed.”
“What sort of charity is it then?” asked Colin.
“As you are no doubt aware ‘Help for Heroes’ was set up in 2007 to help provide better facilities for British servicemen and women who have been wounded or injured in the line of duty. This was the same year that our organisation took shape after my advert in The Times.
We set up our charity very shortly after and announced that it would concentrate on service personnel whose injuries were far from visible; our mission statement shows that we help servicemen suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, combat stress if you will; this has proved very useful in camouflaging what it is we really do here.
If we occasionally receive a visit from a charity commissioner then it isn’t a shock for them to find able bodied men, tending to the lawns and gardens, taking exercise in the swimming pool; perhaps learning new IT skills or playing computer games in the old stable block, or even baking cakes in our kitchens. All very therapeutic activities; just the ticket to help them get through the dark days and hopefully back to a position where they can rejoin the hustle and bustle of the modern world outside the walls of this estate. ‘Highly commendable work’ has been the general opinion of our efforts.”
The old man chuckled. “We keep them away from the ice house of course.”
The two men chorused together “Of course!”
“The driver of the ambulance that brought you here and his companion who played the role of a paramedic are our transport section. They have a few vehicles at their disposal; we are in a remote location and we arranged with the Post Office four years ago that we would collect
the mail for everyone housed on the ‘No through road’; our driver drops any post into each property on his way back from Bath after the daily trip in for supplies. He acts as a paper boy too, even on Sundays; it’s the least we can do.
Your arrival was in the late evening, but we maintain the pretence of additional PTSD sufferers arriving by using the ambulance in broad daylight every now and then for our trips into the city. The drivers have to be extra careful on those occasions; we don’t want a member of the public hailing them down for some real medical emergency! In the past four years we have attracted no unwanted attention in that regard fortunately.
All the operatives you have encountered thus far are service personnel who have joined us following the end of their armed forces careers; many left before they were ready to leave; they were either put on the scrapheap through these abominable government cuts or court martialed because they were too ‘old school’ for the numbskulls that pass for officers today. They are all highly trained people who needed a purpose in life; we gave them that purpose.
The old man rang for a member of staff to come and collect their tea things; he stood up, walked to the window and stretched. “I’m a little tired Phoenix; let’s take a break for a while eh? I’ll go to my room for a nap I think. I’ll see you back here at 1800 hours. My story will be told well before we meet up with the others for dinner; we should have time for me to answer a few questions you may still have. I bid you good afternoon Phoenix.”
With that the elderly gentleman left the drawing room. Colin remained seated and reflected for a while on everything he had learned so far. It wasn’t even twenty fours since his unscheduled dip in the River Avon and yet so much had changed; if he allowed himself to be dragged along by his host’s enthusiasm for his pet project, then his life would never be the same again. But what were his options? He had spotted the printed card on the door to the torture chamber and the much used reference to the song’s lyrics that ‘you can check out but never leave’ had immediately sprung to mind. The locked windows in his room and the shadowy presence of staff wherever one was on the estate suggested that he was a virtual prisoner. Colin wondered what would happen if he decided to plough his own furrow; say “thanks, but no thanks” to the Olympus Project and get back on the road, maybe with another band and pick up where he left off with his own street cleaning. Although the woods looked to be a very pleasant spot, he wasn’t in a rush to end up there along with Fido and Smokey.
Colin realised that the old man was right. Nobody believed he was alive. Nobody was hunting for him any longer. For many men that would have been a relief; but Colin was all too aware that it underlined the fact that he was totally alone yet again.
As a child, he had suffered abuse and neglect in equal measure from his parents; as a young man he had been bullied by Scott, Leroy and their thuggish companions. When he had got Karen Smith pregnant and married her, they were both little more than children and although she loved him, he never felt able to experience that depth of feeling. It was Sharron, their daughter that had shown him how to love; to experience that feeling of belonging over and above everything else that was going on around him.
Until that dreadful night when Neil Cartwright snuffed out her life, Sharron and the full committed relationship he had developed in his affair with Sue Owens had given him the only period in his life when he had not felt alone in the world. Eventually, he and Sue had married and in The Gambia he had loved and cared for her for a decade, until her untimely death.
Everything had come full circle. While he was still grieving for Sue he had resolved to return to the UK in order to tick a few more names off his list. He had been so busy planning and carrying out those plans, that he hadn’t had time to think about his loneliness. A few snatched hours with Therese Salter had given him a brief glimpse of a possible future; maybe he could have forged a new life somewhere with her, but she would be checking the news over the next few days looking for confirmation that he was dead. It was only a glimpse after all, she would move on, get on with her life, whether on mainland Europe or wherever she decided to run to.
Colin looked across the lawns towards the woods. There wasn’t really much choice when he had gone over it all in his mind. He was invisible once more.
Colin awoke to find the elderly gentleman standing over him. It was six o’clock; he had fallen asleep in the chair. The old man gave him a brief smile and said:-
“It’s time for my story Phoenix; shall we begin?”
CHAPTER 5
Commodore William Horatio Hunt OBE, Royal Navy Retired (code name Erebus)
EREBUS – the primeval god of darkness and shadow; the consort of Nyx (Night) whose dark mists enveloped the edges of the world, and filled the deep hollows of the earth. Nyx drew these mists across the heavens to bring night to the world, while their daughter Hemera scattered the mists bringing day.
The old man stood in front of the fireplace and began his story.
“I was born in 1940 here at Larcombe Manor. Male members of my family have been associated with the Royal Navy for centuries; it was impressed upon me from a very early age that this would be my chosen profession. At no time did I entertain doing anything else.
From the age of five when my father took me on a visit to Portsmouth for a ‘Navy Day’ my enthusiasm for the service and my ambition to do my duty never waned. I left school and joined up in 1957; I passed out of Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth and graduated from the Royal Naval Engineering College, Plymouth.
My sea service included several County-class destroyers and I sailed on the aircraft carrier HMS Eagle. Missions included helping to deter an Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in ’62; blocking oil supplies to Rhodesia in ’65; we played ‘silly buggers’ with Iceland and Spain over cod and Gibraltar.
I was then given the opportunity to move back to these shores. I transferred to Portland and joined the staff of FOST (Flag Officer Sea Training) which had been established there in ‘58. FOST was a major success, and the harbour was the world's premier work-up and training base; a world centre of excellence for naval basic and advanced operational training.
Almost every ship in the Royal Navy has at some time taken part there in training programmes, including simulated warfare. In addition many ships of NATO countries also trained and frequented Portland. I enjoyed my time there immensely but I still hankered after another spell at sea. Part of the Falklands task force sailed from Portland in ‘82 and I was fortunate enough to be a privileged member of that taskforce.
As you probably know, we lost several ships and crew; it was not a good time. I saw things in the South Atlantic that I would have gladly missed. On our return, I was given some shore leave; in addition, to my own rehabilitation there were family matters to deal with. I will cover those in a little while. Shortly afterwards I was awarded the OBE; they described my ‘diverse and selfless career’ and my ‘outstanding commitment to my country’.”
“You must have been very proud.” said Colin.
“I was merely doing my duty Phoenix. They had already consigned me to the scrapheap; I hadn’t yet received the letter from my superiors advising me that my career was at an end.
My rather forthright views on those superiors didn’t help my cause. Some admirals in naval operations were more interested in promoting their careers and keeping on the right side of Her Majesty’s Government than protecting the integrity of the honourable traditions of the Royal Navy. Morale throughout the chain of command had plummeted. Good officers were being dismissed from the service based on hearsay and unsubstantiated evidence; other senior officers stood by and allowed men in suits to say there was a cultural problem in the Navy that needed to be addressed, without defending the way of life my whole career had been spent helping to shape and to protect.
It was diabolical! After generations of our family following the same career and upholding the highest values with pride and dedication, they palmed me off with a gong and a pension. I was not going to go q
uietly into the night Phoenix! I resolved to find a way to do whatever I could to redress the balance; if the Navy was going down the toilet and there was no way I could stop that happening, then my good works must concentrate on other areas. God knows, there were plenty to choose from.”
Colin watched as William Horatio Hunt, whom he would only ever know as Erebus, moved from the fireplace to one of the side tables. He took some items from a drawer. He came back and took his seat in a chair next to him.
“This is a photograph of my wife, Elizabeth. We were on holiday in this one; Ibiza, probably late sixties.”
“She’s very beautiful” said Colin as he was handed the photograph. It showed a smiling, tanned couple clearly in love relaxing on a beach.
“She still is to me old chap” replied his host “we had been married for a couple of years when this was taken. Elizabeth always stayed here at Larcombe Manor while I was overseas; my folks were still alive then, they looked after her and I got home on leave as often as was practical. Our daughter Helen was born following that holiday in the Balearics. Elizabeth struggled a bit with being a mother and with me not being at home to share the burden was a bit of an issue; although I didn’t really appreciate that at the time.