Berlin Reload: A Cold War Espionage Thriller

by James Quinn

  When the whistle went, Mitchell went for a straight charge. It was a mistake. Grant deftly stepped off-line instinctively and reached out with his knife hand, grazing the sleeve of his opponent with the training knife. It only made Mitchell even angrier and he came in, slashing wildly.

  But Jack Grant had a ton of experience with a blade, probably more so than his famous teacher, the Killer. He had run with street gangs and fought his way out of rumbles with a straight razor that were tougher than this play-fighting. On more than one occasion, he had 'Mars-Barred' rival gang members – a cut they would live with for the rest of their days.

  And as Mitchell came in slashing, Grant put his arms up to take any defensive cuts and protect his vital organs – eyes, throat, stomach – except Mitchell put in a sly punch that caught Grant square on the temple, sending him crashing to the ground.

  “Hey, Mitchell? It's no punching on this one, only weapon tactics. Stick to the rules!” said Morrison, a tall, gangly officer type who had the next bunk to Grant.

  “Piss off,” growled Mitchell.

  Jack Grant shook it off and got to his feet again. He resumed the fighting stance, the training blade forward. Mitchell attacked again, trying to jab with the wooden knife, and when he thought he had the reach on Grant, he closed the distance and put a boot into Grant's shin. The pain was excruciating, but he stayed upright this time.

  Mitchell went for a third cheap shot, slashing and hacking forward, but suddenly he ran out of steam and that was when Jack Grant moved in for the kill. He put a foot out and tripped the bigger man up, using the weight of his body as a fulcrum to throw him. Mitchell fell to the ground, dropping his training knife, way out of his reach. And that's when Jack Grant turned the tables on his opponent and, in his best Scottish street thug accent, said, “And this is for being a little cunt!”

  Jack Grant beat him. He straddled the bigger man and he beat down on him with his fists. There was no technique to it. It was nothing more than primal, a thing that a beast in the jungle would have done. He did not stop. Even when he saw the man's face turn red with blood, he kept on hitting him again and again and again, his fists coming down like great clubs, pounding, pulverising – until finally, he was being dragged off the barely conscious Mitchell by Harvey. He was exhausted and Mitchell had passed out. But in the distance, somewhere in a fog, he heard a slow clap of appreciation from his fellow students.

  “That's enough - STOP!” shouted the Killer to his students. They had all been standing rock-still in the training hall. “GRANT! THAT'S ENOUGH! Stop beating on him like a bloody great… GORILLA! I will not have my training hall turned into a free-for-all! You two, get that useless piece of shit to the infirmary, get him cleaned up, and you, Grant, in my office – NOW!”

  “You have some temper on you, young man!” Harvey handed Grant an icepack and then sat down at his desk. “Hold it in place for ten minutes, it will help with the swelling.”

  “Thank you,” said Grant, holding it on the swelling on his temple. It felt cool and the healing effect was instantaneous.

  Major Harvey tapped a pencil on his desk, his mind working. “What am I going to do with you, Grant? You certainly have the aptitude for this kind of work, but your actions today in my training hall were those of a thug!”

  “But Mitchell…”

  “I know what Mitchell did and the type of man he is. He's a bully; big on ego and little on talent,” said Harvey.

  “With all due respect, sir, I thought that's what you did here – taught us to be thugs,” said Grant.

  The old assassin frowned and then his face broke into a huge smile. “My boy, anyone can be a thug! What I'm trying to do here is teach you to be cold, calculating killers – not someone taunted by emotion. The way that you handled that para! Slapped him around and beat him up. You were like a bloody ape… no, no… not an ape… What did I call you? Yes, that's it, you looked like a bloody great gorilla! Oh, yes indeed, the gorilla likes his rough stuff when the mood takes him. A hell of a temper and handy with his fists! And to be fair to you, that's how we fight! We fight to live and we don't stop until the enemy is on his knees and beaten. You keep going and you never stop, and if you see an opportunity to wound, you take it instinctively! This isn't Marquis of Queensbury rules. This is war!”

  Grant nodded and let the words of the Killer's oration sink in. Grant liked this man and in very real terms he had disrespected his teachings. “I'm sorry, boss. I apologise. You're right. My anger gets that way sometimes. I think I'm allergic to arseholes.”

  Harvey smiled, his chubby face calmed, and then he awarded Grant with a conspiratorial wink. He recognised that a truce had been formed. “My dear chap, aren't we all? It was Colonel Masterman who pushed for you to attend the killing school, and Stephen was always an excellent judge of character in his operatives. As a former pupil of mine, one of the best, I should stress, Masterman knows his stuff.”

  “You taught the Colonel?”

  “Indeed I did. I like to think that my teachings helped him to eradicate some very bad people during the war,” said the Killer simply. “So here's what we are going to do. You are going to report to your bunk and stay there for the rest of the day – call it a punishment.”

  “Fair enough,” said Grant, accepting a day of boredom. “What about Mitchell?”

  “You leave Mitchell to me. Mitchell is a disruptive influence and has no place in my training grounds. I'm returning him to unit. He'll be gone by the end of the day.”

  Major Harvey stood up. “Now, if you'll excuse me I have a class to instruct. Take some time to reflect, Grant. Try to work out what kind of operative you want to be in the field. It could mean the difference between life and death. Tomorrow, we start close quarter battle with firearms. Firearms are an art that not everyone can master to an expert level. They require a cool head, technical proficiency and a cold, ruthless manner. To be a thug with a firearm is not what I teach here. I have higher standards. I'll see you on the range first thing.”

  Major Harvey started them slow and gave them his treatise on the applications of pistol work and the ethos of CQB. He spoke with authority because everyone knew that it came from dedication, practice and ruthless experience of his art.

  They were all on the range early. The day was cold, but crisp and clear, and the mountains in the background gave it a dramatic setting. Harvey the 'Killer' was holding court.

  “You may hear ninnies saying that sighted firing is superior to instinctive point shooting – and vice versa. Well, I'm here to tell you that those people are talking nonsense! One is not superior to the other; they are in fact two sides of the same coin. You use the tool that is necessary for the job at hand. If an enemy is over twenty feet away and you have time to line him up in the sights – then you should absolutely do that. Take aim carefully and pick that bugger off!”

  “However, if you turn a dark corner and the enemy is within bad breath distance, then pulling that gun out and instinctively firing from the hip is the right tool to use. Always remember that, men; don't be a slave to protocol and doctrine, be a whore to what works and keeps you alive!”

  Harvey started with a general safety briefing and then issued each of them with a standard 1911 Colt .45 with two spare magazines. First, he had them out on the ranges shooting from thirty feet away using the sights, gradually having them get nearer and nearer to the targets until the shooting turned into instinctive firing.

  “You take your finger and point at something – that's instinctive firing. Your finger is the barrel of the weapon; you don't need to align it with your eyes, your body moves towards it and you fire! And you don't just bloody fire once – this isn't the movies where the bad guy falls down dead. No! You double tap the bugger and you keep on firing until he's no longer a threat and is instead a bloody mess on the floor!” said Harvey.

  Over a period of days, all of them became smoother, faster and less bothered by the fact that they were learning how to kill another human being. T
he days were condensed into three sections. Morning – silent killing with hands. Afternoons – firearms. Evenings – edged weapon work, and after that was food and sleep and then they would repeat the pattern the next day, and the day after that…

  Major Harvey, ever the professional killer, had taken notice of Jack Grant. In Harvey's expert opinion, Grant was unique. It wasn't just Jack Grant's aim, which was first class by any standards, but the speed with which he was able to bring the gun into play and fire. While others on the range were still trying to draw the weapon, Grant had the weapon accessed, out, fired and was moving on to the next target. He was a natural, certainly, but it was more than that, in the Killer's opinion – Grant was instinctive! Getting a quick and accurate draw and shot was as normal to him as breathing.

  Harvey also taught the more esoteric skills of CQB that he had discovered from practical experience. He taught them how to conceal a pistol on the body, but also have it ready for a quick draw. How to draw and shoot from the retention position, how to clear jams and malfunctions, and how to do it one-handed! He taught them fast action magazine reloads and what to do if reloading the magazine wasn't an option.

  “And if your back is against the wall and you've fired all your rounds, don't attempt to change the magazine for a fresh one, especially if the enemy is right on top of you! Do what we call the Doomsday reload. Pull out your back-up gun and keep on firing until they are dead!” he said, reaching down to an ankle holster and pulling out a snub-nosed revolver.

  “Action will always beat reaction, my lads, and this little gun might not look pretty, but in a dark alley when you're fumbling to reload your primary weapon, she'll be a bloody godsend,” he cooed, with pride.

  The days went on; more rounds, more time on the range, getting smoother, quicker, faster and more deadly. Harvey could see his lads shooting well, but once again, and with all things being considered, he still thought the 'Gorilla' was the first among equals in the gunman pecking order.

  It was the final two days of the CQB course and they had left the ranges behind. Now, they were moved to the far edge of the compound and a single detached house that was located there. The Execution House was actually a large, sandbagged building that had been designed to simulate several ante-rooms off a main corridor. Inside each of the rooms there was a series of scenarios that simulated the students having to deal with attackers face to face; gun to gun. This was where the killing house students would carry out their final test of the course.

  “Let me share with you the CQB rule of three! These are the rules that will keep you alive in close quarter shooting room combat,” said Harvey, standing in the main hallway of the Execution House.

  He then proceeded to demonstrate the techniques, in slow motion, of entering a room covertly, acquiring your target and angles of attack when shooting. The image of the little podgy schoolteacher kicking in doors and pretending to assassinate targets was both amusing and disconcerting, to say the least.

  “When you enter a room – shoot the first man that moves! He has engaged his brain and has now become a liability – doesn't matter if he's innocent or not. He's a potential threat and must be dealt with. Next, shoot the man nearest to you that moves. They could be reaching for a hidden weapon or trying to get to you. Finally, shoot anybody left if you see fit to do so and if they pose a threat to you. This isn't a game, after all. This is the ultimate form of combat!”

  The team spent the rest of the day going through the techniques of room combat, working as single operators, two-man teams and eventually all the way up to two four-man teams. They started at walking pace and, as the day progressed, they moved up to fast action, blasting through the rooms.

  At the end of an exhausting day, Harvey pulled them all together for a briefing. “Tomorrow, we do it for real! No dry firing tomorrow; live rounds only. And this course, gentleman, is a pass or fail course. You don't meet the minimum standard? You get a fail. Now, get another early night. You'll need to be sharp.”

  “Up you come, Gorilla, you're next,” said the Killer. The nickname of 'Gorilla', started as a joke by Major Harvey, seemed to have stuck with Jack Grant. Even the other men on the course had started using it, not unkindly, when they were talking to him.

  They were standing in the basement of the house, the start point of the test. If everything went right, he would finish on the last door on the left at the end of the main corridor upstairs.

  “You hear the klaxon sound once. That means the exercise has started. You hear the klaxon sound twice, that means the exercise is over, or I've stopped it due to an emergency. Understood?” said Major Harvey.

  Grant nodded. Harvey handed him a Colt .45 and a spare magazine.

  “There are eight bullets in each, enough bullets in both magazines to complete the exercise effectively. Understood? I will be behind you at arm's length throughout the exercise, acting as a Marshal. Understood? I want you to be aware of your safety procedures and of muzzle discipline. Understood? You are to work your way up out of the basement, along the main corridor and to only enter rooms that are unlocked. They are random, so you will have to try every door to see which is which. Understood?”

  Again, Jack Grant nodded a yes.

  “Stand at the start line and the next time you hear the Klaxon, the exercise is live. If for any reason you wish to stop – raise your left hand, make safe your weapon and place it on the floor in front of you. I will take over from there. Understood?” said Harvey.

  Grant stood on the start line. Harvey stood behind him.

  “Make ready your weapon!”

  Grant inserted the magazine, placed the spare in his trouser pocket, pulled back the slide, did a quick chamber check, and held the .45 pointing down at the floor in a low, ready position. He could feel the beat of his heart. He peered into the gloom of the basement, took a breath and waited.

  The klaxon screamed!

  He moved up the wooden slat stairs of the basement, sticking to the sides so that a creak from the old wood would not give him away.

  At the top, the corridor was just as dimly lit as the basement was, with only the faint ambient light of the sky outside to give it any context and definition. He took a step and moved to the nearest door, stood to the side and tried its handle. Immovable – locked. Fuck it, move on.

  Door two was also locked, so he moved on and stood to the side of door three. Door three opened easily. He did it covertly, quietly, pushing the door open and moving into the nearest wall of the room. The room was set out like an office; desk, filing cabinet and chairs. In the main chair was a dummy holding a gun. Grant slid down the wall onto one knee, making himself a smaller target, while at the same time firing a double tap into the dummy's head. A quick scan of the room and he was up and out of the room and back into the corridor.

  Now that the shooting had started, Grant reasoned that the element of surprise was no longer needed. Instead, he attacked each room with aggression. Door four yielded easily and Grant was met with three dummies of Nazi officers sat around a table playing cards – he moved to one side of the door frame and double-tapped each of them in the head with good, clean shots.

  He stripped the empty magazine from the gun and inserted the spare, watched as the slide flung itself forward and then he was off out into the corridor again. As he made his way towards the final room, a spring-loaded dummy dropped down from out of the ceiling in front of him, its hands reaching out as if to claw out his eyes.

  Grant shot from the hip and placed two rounds into the chest, more than enough to stop an advancing enemy, especially with a large .45. He moved past the 'dead' enemy and made his way to the last room. Again, a boot took care of the flimsy lock, and he was in, moving and weapon up! The room was as dimly lit as the others, but he was aware of the figure standing in the corner, mere feet away. He took a step towards it, raised the weapon and pulled the trigger…

  Click!

  He was out of bullets. The slidelock threw itself back and locked in place…
there was no back-up gun on this exercise. He was a dead man. But no? He had counted the bullets! Harvey had said that were eight and…

  Harvey had lied. Harvey had thrown a spanner into the works to test him.

  Instinctively, he dropped the .45 to the floor and reached into his trouser pocket in one smooth motion. The hand came out just as quickly, a flash of silver reflected off the dim light, an arcing slash and the cut-throat razor that he had carried since he had run with the gangs opened up the throat of the dummy in front of him. Sand and straw spilled from its erstwhile neck. Dead.

  In the distance, he heard the klaxon sound twice, signalling the end of the exercise, and behind the screech of the alarm he heard the deep, booming laugh of Harvey behind him.

  “Excellent, Gorilla! Bloody well done,” said Harvey.

  Grant turned and smiled at his instructor. “Did I do okay?”

  Harvey shrugged. “All targets eliminated, even the surprise one at the end. That normally throws people, that one, but you handled it well and double well done for the surprise use of your razor. Nice touch. I like that kind of lateral thinking. Now, get yourself out with the rest of the group, and for gawd's sake, don't tell the rest of them what awaits them in here!”

  That night, there was the obligatory topping-out party in the Mess Hall.

  For the students, most of them would never meet again as they would be sent off to different parts of the world to participate in covert operations. It was to be, probably, their last goodbye.

  Major Harvey had brought along two bottles of his favourite single malt scotch and had regaled them with stories of his time in the war. It was a chance for everyone to bleed off the stress of the past few weeks, forget about the outside world for a while and bask in their sense of achievement.