by Ryan, Chris
‘Ten to fifteen minutes. Once it goes noisy we’re on the clock.’
‘Doesn’t give us a lot of time. We’ve got to breach the perimeter, deal with the guards at the guardhouse, engage any other targets, get inside the building, locate the hostage and bug out again before the enemy can regroup.’
‘Going to be tricky as fuck,’ Bald said.
Hulk inclined his head. ‘You’re saying it can’t be done?’
‘No such thing, mate. That attitude would last you about five minutes in the Regiment. Guess that’s why we’re still streets ahead of your gang, when it comes to doing the business.’
A smile crawled out of the corner of Hulk’s mouth. ‘English humour. Always had a soft spot for it.’
‘I’m Scottish, mate. We’re the hard people from the north. The English are the ones to the south. Bunch of pooftas.’
‘All the same to me, brother. Y’all have a bunch of weird ass accents.’
Porter frowned at the map. ‘There might be a way to deal with the guards.’
‘How’s that, friend?’
He grinned. ‘We give them something else to worry about . . .’
They discussed the plan for the next two hours, thrashing out the basics, arguing the pros and cons, until they had the fundamental workings of a deliberate assault. It wasn’t the most sophisticated plan in the world. But it gave them something to work with when they hit the range the following day. In an ideal scenario they would have spent a whole day working out the plan, but they were working to a shortened timeframe. They would have to refine the plan constantly, right up until the minute they set off for the Venezuelan border.
At 20.00, Hulk called an end to the briefing. They left the meeting house and stopped by Commander Uribe’s tent with a list of requests for the following day. Then they made their way across the camp to the cookhouse, joining the guerrillas for plates of steaming hot rice and stewed beans. The mood around the camp was surprisingly relaxed. People were laughing and joking, watching episodes of BoJack Horseman on their laptops or reading books by candlelight. Understandable, thought Bald. The dissidents were in alliance with the Americans now. The Colombian army was busy fighting the cartels. The chances of anyone dropping a payload on their camp were incredibly slim.
As the evening wore on, a bunch of guerrillas headed over to another shack to watch the new Terminator film on a projection screen. At which point Hulk stood up and announced that he had something he wanted to show the Brits. He left the cookhouse, ducked into his shack and came back a minute later clutching a bottle of Chivas Regal.
‘Fetch us some glasses, Brendan,’ he ordered.
Dudley scooted over to the kitchen area and snagged five chipped enamel mugs from a shelf. Hulk unscrewed the cap on the whisky bottle and poured generous measures into four of the cups. He was about to tip some of the golden liquid into the remaining mug when Porter thrust out an arm and covered it with his hand.
‘None for me,’ he said.
Hulk shot him an inquisitive glance. ‘You don’t drink, chief?’
‘Haven’t touched the stuff for three years, six weeks and four days.’
‘Should have seen him before then,’ Bald said. ‘He was a fucking mess. Saddest bloke in the Regiment.’
‘For real?’
‘My head wasn’t in a good place,’ Porter admitted. ‘But that’s a long time ago. I’m sober these days.’
‘And a boring bastard,’ Bald added.
‘Sobriety. I respect that.’ Hulk set the whisky bottle down, took a long swig from his cup. ‘Hell of a thing to do, going clean.’
‘Amen to that,’ Dudley said.
‘What about you?’ Porter asked. ‘What’s your story?’
‘Ain’t rightfully much to tell. Georgia born and raised. Spent my teenage years raising hell. Running around, beating up wetbacks, stealing cars. Usual shit. Had a few close shaves with the law, I can tell you. Drifted around some before I figured I’d try the recruiting office. Follow the family tradition, you know.’
‘You come from a military family?’
‘Yessir, I do. My great-granddaddy, he served in France in World War One. His granddaddy before him took up arms in the War of Northern Aggression.’
Bald said, ‘You mean the civil war. The one where your slave-owning ancestors fought to keep black people in chains.’
‘Don’t give me that liberal history bullshit. We was fighting for states’ rights. Slavery had nothing to do with it.’
Bald laughed. ‘You’ve got to be thick as fuck to believe that.’
‘Be careful, brother,’ Hulk interrupted. ‘The war’s something of a sensitive issue for Brendan. His family takes a lot of pride in their part in it. Parents even gave him Lee for his middle name, after the Confederate general.’
‘Been to all the big battle sites,’ Dudley said proudly. ‘Got myself a bunch of memorabilia too. Rifles, equipment, flags. Maybe I’ll show you my collection one day.’
‘Look forward to it,’ Bald lied.
McGee drained his cup and refused Hulk’s offer of a refill. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a stainless-steel hip flask with a shamrock engraved on the front, above a map of Ireland.
‘My lucky charm,’ he said, noticing the look on Bald’s face. ‘Never go anywhere without it.’
He unscrewed the cap and swigged from his flask. Smacked his lips, set the flask down and cocked his head at the Brits.
‘When did you guys join the Regiment?’
‘Late eighties,’ said Porter.
‘Early nineties,’ said Bald.
‘Must have some seen action.’
‘Here and there, aye.’
‘Ever work in Ireland?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘Ever kill anybody over there?’
Bald grinned. ‘We’ve hurt a fair few of their feelings.’
Hulk and Dudley burst into laughter. So did Porter. McGee stared at Bald with a look so cold it could stop the ice caps from melting. ‘That funny to you? Killing innocent people?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. The people we were fighting were terrorists.’
‘They were soldiers. In a war. They wanted you bastards out of the country. Leave Ireland to the Irish. They weren’t no terrorists.’
‘Fuck off. You weren’t there. You wouldn’t know.’
‘I got family. I heard stories.’
‘From some old bricklayers in a flea-infested bar in South Boston? Do me a favour, pal. I bet you’ve never even been to the old country.’
The veins on McGee’s neck bulged. His eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. His face looked like it might explode with rage.
‘Don’t need no passport to know what fucking imperialism looks like.’
Bald laughed mirthlessly. ‘You want to talk about imperialism, let’s talk about what your people have done in the Middle East.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it? What you’ve done over there is far worse than anything our government did in Ireland. Good fucking lads have died because of the pointless wars America started. So don’t sit there and tell us about Ireland, while your own country has blood on its hands.’
‘Brother’s got you there, Bobby,’ Hulk conceded.
McGee worked his face into a snarl. ‘I don’t have to listen to this shit. You ain’t got the right to lecture me, chief.’
‘Go fuck yourself. Stupid cunt.’
McGee shot up from the bench and stepped towards Bald, his fists trembling. ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? We’re SEALs, man.’
‘And we’re the fucking SAS,’ Bald said, rising to his feet.
‘Fuck you.’
Bald stepped into his face. ‘How about we take this outside.’
‘I ain’t afraid of you, British fuck.’
Bald took a step closer and dropped his shoulder, as if shaping to throw a punch. At that moment Porter lunged forward and grab
bed his mucker by the shoulder, pulling him back from the Bostonian.
‘Easy, mate. No need for this.’
McGee stood there, grinning from ear to ear ‘That’s right. Listen to your boyfriend. Pair of British pussies.’
Bald didn’t respond. He just stared at McGee, entertaining all sorts of thoughts. Despite his size, it would be easy enough to beat the shit out of him. A guy as big as McGee, he wasn’t built for speed. His reactions would be fractionally slower than Bald’s. A quick forward jerk of his head, slamming the hard bone of his skull into the centre of McGee’s face. Smash up a few bones, follow it up with a savage right hook to the jaw. Ten seconds and the guy would be flat on his back.
Satisfying?
Definitely.
But also a risky move.
You don’t want to jeopardise the op, the voice warned. Not now. Beat the shit out of this kid, and you’ll be thrown off the team. You can forget about your agreement with Six. The private company. The security contracts.
‘You’re lucky we’ve got a mission to plan for. Any other day, things would be different.’
‘Keep telling yourself that, asshole.’
Hulk gave him a meaningful look. ‘Take a walk, Bobby. Cool off.’
McGee held his ground for a moment longer, as if trying to make a point. Then he snatched up his hip flask, turned and trudged off in the direction of the tents.
Bald shook his head. ‘We don’t need this hassle. This op’s going to be hard enough to pull off, without having to deal with his crap.’
‘What’s his fucking problem?’ asked Porter.
‘Steroid abuse,’ Hulk said. ‘Everyone knows Bobby is a pain in the ass.’
‘If that’s the case, why don’t you tell him to sod off?’
‘He wasn’t our choice. He’s one of the Company’s guys. Taylor brought him in at the last minute. We don’t have a veto.’
‘I could think of a few ways of getting rid of him,’ Bald muttered darkly.
‘Bad idea. We need a good mechanic and comms guy. If we’re on the run and we get into a fix, we’re going to need his skills. Besides, five guys are better than four. With the odds we’re facing, we’d be nuts to go in with less firepower.’
‘We’d manage.’
‘It’s not happening. You’re going to have to work together. Put your differences to one side. Think you can do that?’
‘Just as long as that prick stays out of my way.’
‘He’ll stay in line. I’ll make sure of it.’ Hulk smoothed the corner of his horseshoe moustache. ‘Not his fault, you know. What the system does to you. We’ve all got issues. Myself included.’
‘You’re an addict?’ asked Porter.
‘Was.’
‘What was your medicine?’ Bald lowered his eyes to the guy’s half-full mug. ‘Not alcohol, surely?’
‘Painkillers,’ Hulk said. ‘To begin with, anyhow. Later, a whole cocktail of meds. You want to know the truth? US military is one big pharmacy these days. They pumped us full of shit in the desert. They’d inject us with stuff to keep us awake. Give us more stuff to bring us down. Then we’d get another injection before heading out again. We were taking so much stuff, everything became a blur. One minute you’re on tour. The next you’re standing in a bar in Houston, wondering what the fuck’s going on. After a while, it got so bad that a bunch of us started self-medicating between tours. There were fellas with chemistry degrees in the service who started cooking up their own meth to help guys cope. Others were robbing pharmacies or stealing from drug dealers to fund their habits. A lot of guys were on a downward spiral, on account of all that shit the army put in their veins. I was one of ’em.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was back in San Diego after a tour in Afghanistan. I’d seen some shit. Did some shit. None of it good. My ninth tour in that shithole. I was done, you know? Mentally, I was already checked out of the Unit. That’s when it happened. I was out in the city one night, looking to score some coke from a guy in a bar. Some stranger. My fault. Turned out, he was an undercover cop. Some sting operation they were running, looking for off-duty soldiers on product. They arrested me and threw my ass in the brig.’
‘How long did you do?’
‘Eight months. Followed by a dishonourable discharge and a reduction in rank and pay.’
‘That’s harsh.’
‘The Unit knew they had a drug problem. A lot of guys were burning the candle at both ends. People were coming down with combat stress and turning to meds. They were looking to make an example of someone. Just so happened my ass was in the crosshairs at the time.’
He took another hit of whisky and stared contemplatively at his glass.
‘Had some seriously hard years after I got out. Did a lot of fucked-up shit.’
‘Looks like you’re doing all right now.’
‘Got Dudley to thank for that. Brother was there for me when I needed him the most. Helped me go cold turkey, get my shit together. Eighteen months later, the Company tapped me up. Said they wanted to bring me in on a few operations. I kept my nose clean, did the work. Three years later, here I am.’
Bald watched him interestedly. He was seeing Hulk in a whole new light. He knew what it was like to have the military system shit on you. To be thrown onto the scrapheap. In that situation, you found out what you were really made of. Hulk could have easily crumbled. A weaker person would have ended up living under a bridge, injecting junk into their veins. Instead the guy had fought back, like a true warrior. He’d turned his life around. Bald respected that.
Hulk raised his mug in a toast. ‘Here’s to kicking addiction.’
He polished off the dregs of his whisky, rose from the bench and patted his cap.
‘I’m calling it a night. Suggest you boys do the same. Got a long day ahead of us tomorrow. First reveille is at o-six hundred hours. We’ll meet back here at o-seven hundred. Then we’ll hit the range and begin training.’
EIGHTEEN
The guerrillas were already up and dressed by the time Bald and Porter rose the following morning. Two dozen of them had gathered on the training ground while Uribe read out the list of duties for the day. Others were getting campfires going, having a morning wash in the stream or lugging supplies to and from the storeroom. Bald and Porter dressed in their civvies and headed for the cookhouse. They helped themselves to plates of fried plantains and vegetables, and gulped down mugs of hot coffee poured out of a communal thermos flask. Grown locally by the farmers and brewed on-site, Hulk said. Bean-to-cup, jungle-style. It was strong and bitter. Just the way Bald liked it.
Daniela Reyes was there too. She was dressed in a tight-fitting grey T-shirt that showed off the curves of her ample breasts. She wore her hair down, long dark locks caressing suggestively against her soft cheeks. Bald was deeply impressed. She looked even more stunning than she had the previous day at the stream. He gave her a crafty wink straight out of the Jock Bald playbook and got a severe stare in return.
‘Don’t think she’s succumbing to your charms, mate,’ Porter joked.
‘Matter of time.’ Bald gestured to himself. ‘No woman can resist this.’
‘A jobless Scot without a penny to his name?’
‘Fuck off. At least I still get some action. Christ, at this point you may as well go celibate. Nobody would know the difference.’
Four minutes later, Hulk and Dudley showed up. They came from the direction of the meeting house rather than their shelters, Bald noted. He caught a glimpse of Taylor inside the house, sitting at the main table and tapping away on his laptop.
They helped themselves to coffee and food and pulled up a pew opposite Bald and Porter. ‘What did Taylor want with you at this hour?’ Porter asked.
‘Admin,’ Hulk said. ‘I was briefing him on our plan. He wanted to know what we were thinking, broadly speaking.’
‘What did he reckon?’
‘He likes it. Says he wants to give Langley the heads-up. See if there’s a
nything else they can add from their side. Maybe give us an extra edge.’
‘He say anything more about that distraction?’
‘Just what he told us yesterday. We’ll check in with Langley once we reach the LUP near the stronghold. They’ll notify us when the distraction is ready to deploy. Should be some time before first light. It’ll tie down the barracks for fifteen minutes. Long enough for us to go in and get the girl.’
‘Any word about when the hostage is being moved?’
‘They’re still waiting to hear. Taylor’s confident they’ll get the heads-up very soon, though. Says the situation in Caracas is deteriorating rapidly. Doesn’t make sense for the authorities to keep her there for much longer.’
‘Where’s the IRA fan-boy?’ asked Bald.
‘McGee? Recovering, probably,’ Dudley said. ‘Last I saw of him last night, he was necking tequila shots with Uribe.’
‘Fucking unprofessional, that. We’re supposed to be training for an operation, not spending all night on the piss.’
‘I’ll have a word,’ Hulk said.
‘He needs more than that,’ Bald said. ‘Someone needs to give him a slap.’
‘What’s up with you?’ Porter asked, nodding at Dudley. The redneck was scratching furiously at a spot on the nape of his neck.
‘Damn ants. Fuckers were everywhere. Couldn’t sleep a wink.’ He grimaced. ‘None of you fellas had the same problem?’
‘Not us, mate.’
Bald gazed across the camp. ‘Where’s your basha?’
‘There. That one.’
Dudley pointed to a poorly constructed hammock tied between two trees, with a waterproof poncho sheet loosely fastened a few feet above it to protect the sleeper from the rain. Bald lifted his eyes to one of the trees and indicated a dark-coloured object, roughly the size of a football, resting on one of the branches.
‘There’s your problem, right there. Bloody great ants’ nest above your head. All you’ve done is give them another exit point from the tree to your hammock.’
Dudley momentarily stopped scratching himself as he squinted at the ant’s nest. ‘Son of a bitch.’
‘Seen plenty of lads make the same mistake.’
‘Anything else I should know about? Before I get bitten to shit again?’