Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  Gil and JJ had the heavyweight weapons with them. Gil had taken her Nemesis Vanquish high-powered sniper’s rifle. She was setting it up and was now content. If she had to get up close and personal she also had two hand guns, a SIG Sauer SP2009 and an old Desert Eagle MK1. JJ had his crossbow, currently in the possession of the petrified Becky, his commando knife, his Glock 19 and a ChayTac M-200 intervention rifle, brought out of storage just for the occasion. Robert Darke had his old hunting rifle, a Lee Enfield No. 5, and not much else.

  The Bute six had neither sub-machine guns nor grenades. In a serious shootout they were weapons light. As the experts of the group, JJ and Gil briefed everyone else on weaponcraft, taking cover, the need for clear and loud communication. If the attackers were indeed Russian they’d have a hard time understanding the three heavy Scottish accents on hand so loud information would not necessarily mean a thing to them. Under the circumstances and with the equipment they had, the group were as prepared as they could be.

  Gil stayed in her position as first watch, while the other five took the opportunity to grab a bite to eat. They did not have time to digest.

  “Positions!” yelled Gil.

  There followed a mad dash from the kitchen and up the stairs. Cyrus was first into his location, not far from Gil, crouched down and pistol pointing. By the time he had got there, Gil had already accounted for the lead Russian Mercedes driver. As Babikov’s gang sped through the gates and up the drive, the lead Merc came into plain view. The Russians weren’t here for a friendly chat on the doorstep concluded Gil so she thought she’d even up the odds a little with a deadly accurate first strike. The second Mercedes and Babikov’s AMG screeched to a halt. Babikov and Boris were not clearly visible, gaining cover from both the cars in front and some giant chestnut trees overhead. The ex-FSB and related thugs scrambled out of their cars. They were quick, though the last one out of the lead Merc was not quick enough. JJ had him in his sights. Zip! Babikov was two down.

  The advantage of surprise gained by the Bute six had now run its course. Bogdan Zhirkov was Babikov’s head bodyguard and he was barking commands at his remaining men. They were now under cover, in bushes, behind natural mounds in the grounds of the house and one crouched behind each of the Merc saloons. Babikov was laying low in the AMG’s rear seats, with Boris Akulov next to him. As feared by JJ, the Russians were heavily armed.

  The upper windows of the house were now nearly all shattered, glass spraying everywhere. Becky was shrieking but then calmed down surprisingly quickly. It was nearly impossible for JJ or Gil to pop their heads up to shoot. JJ couldn’t tell from his under siege vantage point but it seemed like all of the attackers were armed with sub-machine guns. Heckler & Koch MP5s or Micro UZIs were the most likely he surmised given the sound and non-stop barrage of bullets peppering the house’s upper floor.

  The Darke’s house was not isolated but there were no neighbours within two or three hundred yards, either side of its coastal perimeter. The deadly sniper shots fired by Gil and JJ had not aroused the suspicions of any locals.

  No such luck once the thugs’ machine guns started ventilating. Phone calls to ‘Precinct 13’ ensued and four local policemen turned up, two in their fettled BMW and two in a Land Rover. On hearing the racket caused by the machine guns they stopped short of the house’s main gates. This was Britain, and although Scotland may not seem like part of it on occasion it was as far as gun laws were concerned. The four local policemen, used to arresting locals for peeing in a shop doorway, were not carrying weapons. They needed back-up. They called for it but it would not be arriving any time soon. The closest armed police unit was based in Glasgow. If they scrambled straight away then it would take them at least an hour and a half by road and boat. Less than an hour if the armed police could use one of their helicopters and land at some old field known as ‘the airport’ to the locals, or in the grounds of Kames Castle. The local police did the only sensible thing that they could. They blocked off the main Ascog road connecting Rothesay with Kingarth and Mount Stuart. They alerted the local, small hospital, called for an ambulance with paramedics to be on standby, and kept their distance from the raging gunfight.

  “Cyrus, Gil!” yelled JJ. “You OK?”

  “We’re fine,” Cyrus hollered back.

  “I’ve left my window position, Gil. I’m on the landing, covering anyone who comes up the stairs. Keep your sights on the front garden. OK?” JJ shouted.

  “OK,” said Gil. There was an ominous lull in the machine gun rat-a-tat. This was a tough house to defend, multiple points of entry, too many doors and windows. JJ deduced that the absence of machine gun peppering meant that the assailants were probing, searching for a way in. He would need to go down a level.

  “Becky, do you want to stay there or come with me? I’m headed lower?” asked JJ.

  “With you,” said Becky, rushing out of the bedroom door, still clutching the crossbow so tightly that she was almost welded to it.

  “Dad, Mum!” hollered JJ. “I’m headed down. Dad take my position here on the landing.”

  “Aye,” said Robert Darke, still calm and still ready for action.

  JJ and Becky progressed gingerly down the stairs, JJ at the front and now joined by Frances Darke taking up the rear of the threesome. Becky felt a little safer being in a Darke sandwich. Before they could reach the ground floor, one of the non-FSB thugs in Babikov’s employ came crashing through the front door. Clearly untrained and impatient he tumbled onto the hallway carpet. Before he could steady himself and fire at the descending trio he had a knife in his chest and a crossbow arrow in his left leg. Becky just freaked out at the loud commotion when the door gave way and instinctively loosed an arrow from the crossbow. Frances Darke was, in the same instant, more calm and methodical. Circus knife-throwers opt, predominantly, for one of three types of knife; handle-heavy, blade-heavy or balanced. Black Nana preferred balanced. She remembered the drill, left-handed throw meant right shoulder faces the target, one step forward with her back foot, step towards her throw line with her front foot, aim, throw as hard as you can and follow through like a baseball hit or a golf swing. Whoosh! Thud! Knife embedded in bad guy. In her circus career Frances Darke was skilled at missing the human target. It did not take much effort for her to adjust to hitting it. These communist bastards were intent on wrecking her lovely home. They would die for that.

  As the knife victim lay bleeding out on the hallway carpet, Gil concluded that she had no further visible targets from her vantage point. She thought that she had winged another one of the Russians, she had, but it was not a kill shot. There was no sign of movement in the front garden or from behind surrounding bushes, mounds or other natural defences. She decided it was time to head lower as well.

  “Cyrus, we’re off. We’re going down, next to your dad,” said Gil.

  “Fine,” replied Cyrus, scared but not quite rigid. “Hi Granddad,” said Cyrus as he and Gil high-crawled onto the upstairs landing before descending.

  “Hello Cyrus,” replied Robert Darke. “Guess this is like Call of Duty in 3-D,” quipped Darke the elder.

  “More like 4-D,” replied his grandson just as the large stained-glass window above the small landing on the stairs, mid-floor, smashed and gave way.

  The incoming Russian landed full on Gil, knocking her rifle out of her grasp and sending it tumbling down the stairs, landing inches from his stricken comrade on the hallway floor. The attacker recovered first and was about to shoot Cyrus. Crack went Robert Darke’s Lee Enfield. It hit the Russian in the shoulder. He fell backwards, spraying the ceiling and the top floor with a barrage of bullets from his UZI. By the time he had landed on his back all 20 rounds from his magazine had emptied. Eighteen of them had gone nowhere interesting but two had hit Robert Darke. One round grazed his head and was not life-threatening but the second one had hit him in the chest. Frances Darke could see and hear the chaos from her position on the ground floor. As the Russian was trying to get back up, she thre
w two more knives in rapid succession. Both hit their target. Babikov had now lost four men with one injured.

  “Dad!” yelled Cyrus. “Granddad’s been hit.” JJ acknowledged his son, rushed into the pantry opposite the dining room and grabbed the first aid box that he knew was there.

  “See what you can do, Becky, please,” JJ said as he relieved Becky of his crossbow and swapped it for the first aid kit. “Mum, stay with Dad, help Becky. Here take this,” JJ handed his mother his sniper’s rifle.

  “Gil, you alright?” asked JJ.

  “Fine, a bit groggy, he sure was one fat bastard that landed on me,” replied Gil.

  If she can complain, thought JJ, then she’s peachy.

  “Good. Gil you and Cyrus, down here with me,” beckoned JJ.

  Frances Darke hunkered down on the landing. She glanced every few seconds at her husband and the fine first aid work that Becky appeared to be doing. When she had done her first aid course sponsored by the Treasury in 2013, Becky had been thinking more of her mum maybe absent-mindedly burning herself; not attending to a gunshot wound in the middle of a firefight.

  In between glances, Black Nana had one eye on the ground floor with its wrecked front door and one on her husband. “You alright Bobby?” enquired Frances Darke.

  “Naw, I’m no…” Robert said with a grimace. “It feels like a fuckin’ heart attack. Is Cyrus OK?”

  “He’s good, Bobby, with his dad and Gil,” she replied.

  The Chelsea Three were on the ground floor, making their way towards the back door of the house, checking the utility room and cloakroom as they went. JJ had his Glock 19 in his left hand and crossbow in his right. He was not as deadly accurate with his right hand but he could hold the crossbow steady and if the target was close enough he’d hit it. Cyrus was in the middle, still holding his gun and Gil took up the rear, Glock holstered but rifle out and ready. As they passed by the door on their left which led to the basement they could hear movement. The attackers were probably in the house having entered from the basement’s exterior door that led to the side garden of the property. There sure were too many points of entry and egress in this bloody place bemoaned JJ. He could see, from the space between door and floor, that the invading Russians had not yet found the light switch. That was going to be an unexpected bonus.

  In the United States, basements tend to be large, with substantial headroom, good enough to live in or play in. In Scotland, basements are rare, usually full of junk and, in the instance particular to today’s action, constructed with low hanging, jagged concrete beams that would near decapitate anyone over 5ft 10ins. JJ knew his basements. On hearing a Russian wailing in agony, JJ opened the door, sped down the stairs, flicked on the light switch and popped two 9x19 mm Parabellum rounds into the man with the gashed head.

  “Sergei!” shouted his mate who was close behind, but not close enough as Sergei was no longer with us.

  Gil and Cyrus had followed JJ at pace. They were all taking cover behind old or unused suitcases, packing boxes, a sofa and a couple of unloved dining room chairs. At least two ex-FSB thugs were now diagonally opposite, maybe only 50ft away, sheltering behind a concrete pillar and keeping low. JJ may have made a tactical error. The Russian machine guns were not letting up. Bits of furniture were flying everywhere with fragments of wood and cloth showering him, Gil and Cyrus. The Chelsea three could hardly get a shot off. Soon their cover would be riddled through and useless. This wasn’t good. They needed a way out.

  * * *

  “I need to get into that house, officer,” said Carolyn Reynolds, looking stern and really meaning it.

  “No way hen,” replied the young and pimply Argyll and Bute constable. “There’s murdur goin’ on in there. We’ve called for armed back-up but they’re no here yet. Nobody’s goin’ in there till they arrive.”

  “Officer, I don’t have time for this. My father is in there, my grandparents—”

  “You don’t sound Scottish, ma’am,” interrupted the constable.

  “I live in America. Anyway that’s got nothing to do with it. I’m a US government agent and these two gentlemen are US Navy SEALs. We’re going in,” insisted Carolyn.

  “Yer no and I’m President of the United States,” replied the unconvinced police officer.

  Carolyn turned tail, got back into the VW and started it up.

  “What did he say, Carolyn?” asked Mark O’Neill.

  “He said he was Barack Obama, the lying fuckwit. I mean, he’s not even black. Get ready, we’re going in.” With that Carolyn floored the accelerator pedal and aimed straight for ‘the President’. The nimble bobby leapt out of the way. Carolyn drove round the Land Rover and into the driveway of her grandparents’ house.

  “Follow the noise!” shouted O’Neill, as the Borei Three exited the VW. All of the Russian’s Mercs were blocking the driveway so they needed to get out and run for the house. Babikov saw them coming from his interior mirror as he and Boris lay flat on the AMG’s rear seats. Neither Carolyn nor the two SEALs saw them as they were not visible due to the blacked out windows. The doors of the Merc saloons were wide open, so a swift glance in there revealed no human presence. As they approached the front of the house, O’Neill went left, McCoy right and Reynolds straight through the open and wrecked front door. Carolyn had her SIG Sauer out, ready, arms extended and pointing ahead. Frances Darke saw the young woman run into the hallway and vault the dead Russian while collecting his UZI. Black Nana had JJ’s rifle raised and poised. Carolyn spotted her.

  “I’m Carolyn, Granny,” called the NGA officer, as she flashed along the hallway.

  Frances Darke registered the words but was totally bamboozled nevertheless. “Basement!” was all she could utter, lowering her rifle.

  Carolyn heard the cacophonous racket from the basement. Without much intelligent thought for her own safety, she barrelled down the stairs and dived to her left to join the Chelsea Three.

  Cyrus was totally taken aback, pointed his dad’s Glock at her and yelled, “Who the heck are you?”

  “I’m your sister curly-top so would you mind taking that gun out of my face. Hi Dad!” said Carolyn.

  “Hi Princess,” replied JJ.

  Cyrus did as he was told by his big sister. He more or less flopped down as low as he could. He didn’t even know he had a sister. Bullets, wood, cloth, glass and bits of metal were flying all around but all Cyrus was thinking was I’ve got a sister.

  Thankfully, Mark O’Neill had more focus on the task at hand than the youngest Darke. He moved in behind Babikov’s two basement goons having followed the noise. The SEALs commander took one of them out with a shot from his handgun. As the Russian’s mate turned to fire on O’Neill, Carolyn had raised herself and her recently acquired UZI and sprayed the exposed thug with at least ten of the magazine’s twenty rounds.

  Basement action was over. There was a lot of explanation that would be needed but now was not the time, Cyrus was smart enough to realise that. As they rose from the wreckage that was their cover, Cyrus could not take his eyes off Carolyn. She was pretty and she looked like him, bar the curls. It was well-friggin weird he said to himself but kind of exciting in an odd way.

  Mark O’Neill emerged from behind the two dead basement Russians.

  “Dad, this is Commander Mark O’Neill of the US Navy SEALs,” said Carolyn.

  “Good to meet you Commander, really really good,” said JJ as he shook O’Neill’s extended hand with gusto. “Just happened to be passing?” asked JJ, managing to retain a sense of humour amidst the carnage.

  “Not exactly. Officer Reynolds, I mean Carolyn, your daughter and I—”

  “We were on a mission together, Dad,” interrupted Carolyn, keen to end O’Neill’s feeble stuttering. “We’re friends.”

  “Great,” said JJ, definitely wanting to know more but concluding that a well-wrecked basement with corpses was not the place to do it. “This is Cyrus, my son, and Gil an exceptional friend,” said JJ, completing the intr
oductions. “Gil’s ex-NSA and CIA, Commander. She’s American and invaluable,” added JJ, clearly very proud of his protégé. Cyrus thought that this must be the Day of Revelations or something. One minute he finds out that he’s got a big sister, the next minute he discovers his nanny is a trained professional spy that can shoot to kill.

  Pop! Pop! JJ immediately recognised the sound of gunshots from his sniper’s rifle.

  “JJ!” yelled his mother.

  JJ was first up and out of the basement followed by Carolyn and Cyrus. O’Neill and Gil had gone the other way past the dead Russians. They had stayed low to avoid the dangerous concrete beams and were swiftly out into the garden. It seemed that Babikov still had firepower.

  Two more ex-FSB killers had now come straight through the front door. Frances Darke was certain that she was not related to either of them. She shot and hit the lead entrant fatally but missed with her second shot. She threw one more knife but it missed its target too. By the time she had called for her son, Babikov’s man had her by the throat and was using her as a human shield. Becky was cowering over the rapidly fading Robert Darke. She was too petrified to move and he was helpless. The Russian ignored them. As JJ, his son and daughter arrived in the hallway, his mother and her captor were heading out of the front door.

  “Drop your weapons or she die,” said the goon in broken English and a deep Russian accent. It was Bogdan, Babikov’s top man. He had his short-barrelled machine gun right on Mrs Darke’s right temple. The three non-captive Darkes lay down their weapons. JJ liked to think of Carolyn as a Darke even though she had chosen to be a Reynolds.