by Stephen Makk
The Commander leaned over his desk. “Close your bloody mouth, Hilton. You didn’t think Mr Weller was with the boy scouts, did you?”
I spent the next few weeks undergoing a crash course in the tradecraft, as it’s known. Studying communications, codes and their uses. Following people and keeping from being spotted yourself. Avoiding picking up a tail of your own. How to use various kinds of drop for exchanging documents. The layout and districts of Moscow; how to get around the city. Getting to know the profiles of known KGB operators and suspected operators.
Some good and knowledgeable people taught me, and towards the end of my training, they upped the tempo and sprung a few surprises. I took part in a real operation in London, where we tailed some Libyans posing as Algerians. They ran what appeared to be a dodgy import-export business, but we suspected it was a weapons smuggling operation, run to supply the IRA.
I’d been teamed up with an operator who I only knew as Rhino. He was a large man with a shaven head and a dark moustache. He'd been issued with a Colt automatic, but being new, I wasn't allowed to carry a gun. Ironic, I thought, as I’d very likely sent more lead down range than any of them.
It was a wet night, and Rhino and I sat in a battered Escort just down the road from the lockup they’d been using. There was a backup team in another car around the corner, and a police SWAT team on standby 300 yards away.
I was driving, and I sat with my hands on the wheel. We were expecting a shipment to arrive tonight; we just didn't know what time. Rhino called in for a comms check. Our call sign was Pink Panther.
“Club Foot. Pink Panther. Over.”
“Pink Panther. Club Foot check. Over.”
The backup team was in place.
“Keystone. Pink Panther. Over.”
“Pink Panther. Keystone. Who picked that bloody call sign? Over.”
The police were ready. The Keystone cops; we enjoyed winding up the police.
We sat and waited long into the night. That was the worst of surveillance; it was mostly just one long boring wait.
“How many of these jobs have you done, Rhino?”
“Too bloody many. Mostly boring, but some have their moments. Sometimes you get a no show. It can be a cock up or a mistake.”
Around 2.30am the rain eased, though large thick droplets still clung to the windows. I was getting around to thinking that we had a no show, when they showed up. A white van pulled up just short of the lock up, and on the side was written ‘South Mediterranean Fruit and Grain’ along with a phone number.
“Here they are,” said Rhino. “Keep a good eye on them.”
I watched for a minute, but nobody got out. I could just make out the driver in his cab. I looked in the side mirror; about 50 yards back, a man with his hands in his pockets walked towards us along the pavement.
“We've got company behind.”
Rhino turned and looked. “Bloody hell. They've got a sweeper.”
“A sweeper?”
“A spotter, checking up on the area. Bloody hell.” He reached over, put his right arm around the back of my neck, and stroked my hair.
“What?”
“Make out you're a queer. Just hope I don’t have to snog you.”
“You're not my type, Rhino.” I put my hand over and played with his ear.
I could see the man was almost on us by now. He moved to the passenger side, towards the center of the road.
“He’s seen us. He's coming up behind you. Three yards away.”
The man looked into the car then knocked on the passenger side window. Rhino opened the door.
“What you do?” He had a Middle East type of accent and a dark moustache. “You two queers?”
“Leave us alone. Let us get on with it. So what’s it to you?”
He came out with a stream of what sounded like Arabic. It dripped with disgust. “Why you here?”
“I'm here to give him a wank,” said Rhino, getting out of the car.
Moustache stepped quickly back and pulled a silenced pistol from his pocket. Rhino lunged for him and caught him, and he tottered back, but the pistol gave out a cough and a round hit Rhino in the leg. He went down.
I picked up the map and the open flask on the dashboard. I quickly rolled over to the passenger side and threw them hard into Moustache’s face. I was lucky; he got a good eyeful of hot coffee. His hands shot to his face.
I rolled out of the car, put my hand in Rhino's jacket and pulled out the Colt. Moustache was getting himself back together; he brought his gun back up.
I was laid on my back, and I took aim and pulled the trigger, one two. With two tremendous cracks, the rounds slammed into his chest. With a look of surprise, he dropped the gun and fell back.
“Pink Panther. Tango down. Tango down.”
The white van started up and pulled away, racing down the street.
Within a minute, the backup car turned up, followed immediately by the police van. Both stopped.
“No, get after the white van,” I said. “I’ll sort Rhino out with the first aid kit in the boot. Go. Go. Now.”
They both sped off after the van.
I got the kit out and set to ripping his trousers off to apply a tourniquet to his leg. Once it was secure, I ripped more trouser leg off and held it over his leg close to his groin to stem the bleeding. He was in pain but conscious.
“When I said pretend to be a queer, you didn't need to rip my pants off, Tom.”
“You’ll be ok, Rhino.”
Minutes later, an ambulance turned up, alerted no doubt by the backup team. They got him into the ambulance and set off, the blue lights flashing.
The backup team’s car returned after a while.
“We got the van and the police are all over it.”
When we got to the van, we opened the grain sacks and found a stack of Kalashnikovs under the grain and plastic bags full of some soft material. One of the other operators opened one up. I leaned forward and sniffed; it smelt like marzipan.
“Semtex,” I said, grinning.
“Yes. That's it, all right. Up yours, Gaddafi.”
We’d done our job nicely. Both the Libyans and the IRA would be very, very sick about this setback.
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You can buy Beneath Sunless Waves on Amazon (or read it for free in Kindle Unlimited): go to mybook.to/beneath-sunless-waves
About the author
Stephen Makk has written more than a dozen books and is now creating his next. He writes thrillers with heaps of technology, the military and streaks of romance. His protagonists are male and female, playing the imperfect hands they're dealt.
How to write like a Makk... Take the mind of a fish, any fish (he's an experienced diver). Add an engineer, simmer for years. Sprinkle on liberal helpings of strategist, astronomer, historian and anthropologist. Bring to the boil and let loose. You need some Makk on your bookshelf!
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Books by Stephen Makk
Submarine thrillers
USS Stonewall Jackson Series:
Book 1: USS Stonewall Jackson
Book 2: The Spratly Incident
Book 3: The Black Sea Horde
Book 4: The Iranian Blockade
Book 5: The Tiger and the Dragon
Book 6: Ninety Degrees North
USS Stonewall Jackson Series: Books 1-3 (with bonus book HMS Holy Ghost)
USS Stonewall Jackson Series: Books 4-6 (coming soon)
Birth of a Boat (a short story exclusively available at dl.bookfunnel.com/c6anggmhkw)
The Tom Hilton Series:
Book 1: Beneath Sunless Waves
Book 2: A Fall into Darkness
Book 3: Deception Abyss
HMS Holy Ghost (standalone novella)
The Tom Hilton Series: Books 1-3 (with bonus book HMS Holy Ghost) (coming soon)
Thrillers
Two standalone novels:
The Kali Option
The Rebel
Sci-fi books
Two standalone novels:
Ascension
Forbidden
Paranormal books
One novel and one short story:
Grace: Collector of Evil
White Forest Silence
All of Stephen Makk’s books are available to buy on Amazon, and you can read them for free in Kindle Unlimited. For more details and to get your next book, visit stephenmakk.com or search for ‘Stephen Makk’ on Amazon.