by Ray Carole
Ray Carole
Ray left school with a black eye, someone else’s coat and his virginity intact to join the Royal Marines in 1996. Four years later, he was the youngest then serving member in 22 SAS. For over a decade he toured the world helping everyone to like each other again, with the odd bomb and bullet accelerating the process of reconciliation, before leaving as a Sgt at age 31.
Filling the void of elitism, he raced 500 miles to the Magnetic North Pole, then set off to be the first person to walk 1430 miles solo to the South Pole and back, with no support, or any tangible reason as to why he was doing it. In between, he’s been a billionaire’s bag carrier, an ultra-athlete, mentor and a social liability.
In the last few years, Ray has written The Clinic, and its screenplay adaptation; the first in a new trilogy. He is currently writing book two, The Trace and a TV series called Cell Zero about a disillusioned SAS operator who conspires to defraud the CIA and land a $25 million bounty on the world’s most wanted terrorist.
Ray is fascinated with how random thoughts, self-doubt and catastrophic thinking prevent people daring to reach full potential. Turning this on its head, Ray has also created his Project 8: Who Thinks Wins pocket journal series. It’s a simple and concise 15-minutes-a-day action guide to empower anyone to develop a healthy and fulfilling mindset
For more information about Ray, and Project 8, visit
www.raycarole.com
Copyright © 2020 Ray Carole
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 9781 800468 429
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
In loving memory of Mum
My family
For never doubting me
Contents
Acknowledgements
The Clinic Inception
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgements
To all my dearest friends and family who have never grasped the concept of fiction, like I have never grasped the concept of reality, but have spent five years hounding me to publish my novel as that’s what writers do apparently!
As I have mentioned before, you are not in this book as it’s made up; just like my name Ray Carole, it’s fiction. But if you come across characters who are twice as smart, twice as hard, half the size of you, making love to hot girls, then tell your friends, that it’s you.
With great thanks to Cherry Martin, my editor who has patiently honed my writing skills over the past few years. Your own record-breaking shortest marriage in history, coupled with my natural ability to lose myself in alcohol-fuelled weekends on occasions, delayed this book’s release. To Billy Allinson who created the cover design and branding from a weak, back of a beer mat brief from myself.
For some reason the odd mad character asks me if I had a ghost writer. The answer is in the history of past achievements. Never a fraud, or one to take short cuts, I wrote it myself, inspired by 41 days of solitude in Antarctica where questioning my motives triggered this trilogy. It’s another new journey to personal literacy excellence that demands hard work, commitment, with no fear of the consequences of exploration in life.
The Clinic Inception
This novel’s inception is inspired by my 1430-mile solo expedition to the South Pole and Back when a psychological concept was borne in my mind that would scare women away, and even hardened killers.
At the time I wanted to create history, search for the elitism I craved, and refine my mental masterclass during 85 days of hell. To my despair, I only had a 64-day window instead of a planned 85 due to the weather. This iconic trip was doomed, and I was advised to abort and attempt to beat the one-way world record of 39 days instead.
The founding father of the British SAS, Sir David Stirling, said that ‘Nothing is impossible to a few determined men’. I was one of these SAS men years ago, and I have seen first hand how feats of huge daring, through extreme planning and elite skill can bring about seemingly impossible results. In my mind I had to prove the South Pole expedition impossible, not predict it like everyone else. So, I set off as planned powering the first 715 miles in 41 days to the Pole, pulling over 150kg with no support or assistance.
Ironically this monumental effort convinced everyone it was now possible, for me to turn around and ski back in 23 days. I knew it was impossible, I needed 30 days plus, so abandoned my efforts and focused on paying back 50K of debt, drowning my sorrows for a few weeks, and crying about getting a normal job again. My expedition went unnoticed by the public, but certainly let the experts know that with the right window, and the right amount of suffering, this feat was now possible. My new mission was to pen the novel that had become burnt into my mind during those days on the ice.
This isn’t a true story of former SAS men’s daring. I have ultimate respect for the privacy of the organisation that once gave me the privilege to serve with them. My decision to remain as discreet as possible and to write under the pseudonym Ray Carole is based on principles that still honour the spirit and legacy of the SAS, that is to leave and live life as quietly as you joined and served.
Some character’s names are true from the Polar Expedition world. All the other names who inflict serious pain with pleasure, or deliver calculated misfortune effortlessly are fictional in every sense.
All events that are military in nature, are scripted by my imagination and not based on real events.
Chapter 1
He watched the dejected man make his journey to the doorway which once closed will never be reopen
ed. Keeping his eyes on the man’s painfully slow footsteps he almost had the minor urge to jump up and shout ‘stop’. However, his intuition borne from years of experience, told him that people like the figure reaching for the handle would never look back for sympathy or one last chance. He knew the door would be closed weakly by the man who was shutting out a past that had tortured his mind, and destroyed the resolve to carry on the fight he had been so used to winning, once upon a time, now that fight had dissolved in to nothing.
He remained seated, completing his report that pretty much amounted to yet another tragic case of a killer going full circle.
The footsteps stopped and he paused to look up. He was still met with the man’s wilted frame. ‘Jesus,’ he mused. Ten years previously, that man had crashed through the door, almost forgetting to use the handle, knowing that he was surrendering his life to a cause he would never question, that the cause would be brutal on the body, terrorising on his mind, and maybe the man even predicted that this day would come. He, like so many others before him, probably realised they wouldn’t recognise themselves one day.
He stopped punching at his keyboard. It hadn’t just been hatred he’d seen staring at him moments earlier. It was humiliation, even embarrassment as the man’s stale alcoholic breath floated across his desk like an invisible fog, almost making him choke on the fumes. Bloodshot eyes that could barely meet his former Commander’s.
Silently, the man had simply placed his ID card down on the desk and spun around to head to the door that he was now pausing at.
A turn of the handle and the man disappeared.
Still seated and not getting the look back that he had half expected, he pushed back hard into his seat, rocking backwards, his hands interlocked behind his head he surveyed the empty room. He could almost see the vapour trail of alcohol the man had left behind him. He watched the door, Would it swing open again he thought? He held his breath for ten seconds.
The door stayed closed.
He sighed, knowing full well that that was the last time he would ever see him again.
‘And I couldn’t give a shit.’ Just another super star operator that had become weak, and finally broken under the immense pressure of deniable operations. The world could ill afford mentally unstable operators cutting about with lethal hardware on their person.
Knowing the man would end up in the gutter within months he began typing away on his keyboard again, formally sealing the man’s existence in cyber space. Normal out-processing stuff - security and threat assessments for departing members of the elite organisation was standard. Always susceptible to possible defection, or selling secrets to the outside world, this particular final section was the easiest he had filled to date.
SUBVERSION LEVEL LOW, requires no further monitoring or follow up activity.
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION, life expectancy possibly 3-6 months, threat to self.
He paused, double checking the lines, before pressing the final key marked ‘done’.
Chapter 2
White frozen ice and zero visibility to his front forced him to stop. Slumping down on his sled, he rested his head in his hands. Closing his eyes the white turned to black, driving him back to the darkness of the past, re-triggering the memories that he had fought so hard to run away from. Unable to fight, he found himself years ago, back in Central Baghdad.
As he checked the canopy above his head, he realised it was almost pitch-black, just the fluttering of the end cells in his parachute caught his eyes.
‘Ideal,’ he muttered, knowing that these were perfect conditions to ensure an unexpected visit by not alerting any local lookouts who would surely be on high alert to notify their bosses of any unusual activity, suspects or military operations in the area. Just innocent kids or unsuspecting old men cowering in the streets were often only an arm’s length away from a radio to inform the terrorists that soldiers were coming.
Looking through his night-vision goggles 10,000ft above a city that was descending into chaos every day, he saw battered buildings interspersed with blocked roads and territorial enclaves. Daily life in the rabble of war under a corrupt government meant he would be back for sure, even though he knew this would be his last operation of his current tour, his fourth to date.
‘Got it.’ He recognised the DZ, the Drop Zone that would be their landing area. It was a field south of a prominent disused water tower that was glowing white, courtesy of a few street lamps still flickering slightly due to the abused circuitry; all they had to do was head north-west and hit it without breaking anything.
‘Zero, this is Tango 1, check,’ Decker checked in to Zero, the Commanding Officer in the operations room, against a strong wind that was distorting his voice but was crystal-clear to the experienced operator listening to him.
‘Tango 1 that’s good to us but a little broken. All jumpers are good and tracking in sequence towards DZ.’
‘Roger that, visual DZ, give me target update,’ Decker asked for any new activity on the target. The operations centre had a live feed so could see exactly what was happening on the target the eight men were heading for to conduct a potentially brutal hostage rescue.
It was an Al Qaeda (AQ) suicide bombing network holding construction workers hostage. Decker had dealt with these cells before and knew that not everyone would be left alive; they blew themselves up, were killed or blown up by close air support delivering a kinetic bombs strike.
‘Tango 1, that’s two terrorists on the roof of target, carrying weapons, all other aspects quiet, DZ clear,’ this informed the team, who were all listening, that there were two enemies on the roof with weapons, everywhere else was quiet, and where they were about to land had no activity. From Intelligence and experience, Decker knew at least another three or so terrorists would be in the building awaiting his team’s arrival, with suicide vests donned, more AK-47s and a huge bomb to bring the whole building down if they were overrun.
‘Copy that, wind speed is up, we’re tracking at 15 knots so have the legs to make DZ,’ this transmission was a critical one that put everyone at ease, especially the Prime Minister who had given it the go-ahead 60 minutes previously. It meant they would not drop short of the target and land in an urban area full of lunatics who wanted nothing more than to dance in the streets celebrating a British or American soldier’s head on a stake.
When the boss had given Decker the go-ahead for the hostage rescue, Decker had walked into the orders room eight feet tall, this was instantly met with John’s comical impersonation of the PM’s decision.
‘Negotiations have ceased, there are no alternatives, gentleman, send in the Black Death, please, Brigadier.’ This magnified the sick humour and lack of real concern of death by suicide bombers within the regiment.
Decker had thought about the consequences of landing short, and he wasn’t bothered about crashing into a hell hole full of rag heads, but he was bothered about the fucking embarrassment it would cause the SAS.
‘Zero, copy, will update any changes on target or LZ. Out.’ With about two minutes left until he hit the deck, he took one last long look at the city that had been his second home for almost five years. Whether he was blowing into buildings and killing terrorists, driving a car around undercover following terrorists, he took a moment to absorb the sheer pleasure it had brought him. His five long years had given him the skills and knowledge to kill any high-grade terrorist, anywhere in the world, but above all here, he had mastered his instinct that had kept him alive in the face of impending death.
Within 90 seconds, all eight guys were on the ground, had quickly rolled their chutes in and dumped them. There was no need to hide them as this operation would be live in ten minutes and the whole area would descend into chaos as the other assault teams and helicopters landed. The team listened in as Decker whispered his confirmation set of orders.
‘Right guys, this is it,’
looking towards the target building 500 metres away.
All the while, everyone could hear Zero in their earpieces informing them that two bad guys were still on the roof but everything else was quiet.
‘Perfect,’ all of them thought. They almost had the upper hand and could now move covertly to the entry point on the west wall.
‘Okay, as planned, Dave, you lead the breach team straight to the breach point, no messing about. We’ve done this a hundred times. Give me the thumbs up when the charge is set. I will call forward the helicopters with the rest of the teams. When they are a few hundred metres out, we blow in. The rest, we know. Happy guys?’
Stupid question really – this team had done over a hundred odd jobs in their six-month tour. Even so, no plan ever survives first contact with the enemy, or as Decker used to say in his younger fighting days, ‘Everyone has a plan till they get punched in the face.’
Decker ran again the tape of action he’d imagined filmed in his head: Unlike most buildings in this region, it doesn’t have a compound wall surrounding it, maybe this is part of the disguise or deception so will make things easier for us.
Having to blow through a compound wall then move 20-odd metres to blow the building wall in makes us susceptible as the moment of surprise is always lost but tonight is different.
The breach is straight into the target building hallway with the hostages all in the first room on the left. This is only the case if the undercover agent, who was arranging the transport that would drive the hostages to their next holding area at first light, was right when he had seen them six hours earlier. It made sense: the curfew made it too dangerous to transport at night as no vehicles except police and military were permitted to move.
The hostages had only arrived 12 hours earlier, the agent reckoned, and their end destination was rumoured to be across the border.