by Ray Carole
Turning round, replacing the lid and throwing the pen on the table it was met with three grown men smiling, knowing that the dot was for mental stimulation.
‘This is where we’re at and it’s a slight irony that I’ve just done that on a white board. All will become clear. This is probably the only thing I’ve ever learnt from an Arab Commander in my entire career, but it epitomises The Clinic’s predicament right now.’ Everyone nodded.
‘Well, what do we see?’ Sully clearly expecting audience participation.
‘It’s a small black dot, Boss,’ Bob supplied, eager to score some easy brownie points early doors.
‘Okay, piss off Bob you solid twat,’ Sully laughed at Bob for having the balls to state the bloody obvious, although looking over to Gerry he could see the intent look on his face as he stared at the whiteboard. Knowing that his mastermind would be whirring and already doing the maths… New organisation called The Clinic, dictaphone on table. The dot was some sort of problem. The whiteboard was the magnitude of it. Sully pushed on:
‘Alex give the guys the brief.’ Looking at Bob and smirking.
Alex clearly not feeling the need to stand with only an audience of three, waited for Sully to be seated, playing around with his iPad in front of him to locate the correct file. Files he didn’t need to refer to as this was a brief he had given Sully when they first met, a brief Sully could tell that he still couldn’t quite grasp fully. Sully took his seat, eager to see what the guys’ reactions would be in the next ten minutes as was Alex, knowing how tight this inception had been kept. Unbeknownst to Alex, Sully would be even keener to gauge his reaction when the dictaphone stopped playing later. When the stop button clicked, Sully would be directing all his attention on him and finding out for the first time how he reacted under extreme questioning.
As Alex opened his mouth to speak Sully cut in.
‘Oh, a quick one and not that I need to labour this glaringly obvious point, this is the highest level security brief you have ever received, and any more will be the highest I’ve given. I assure you what we discuss today is everything I know too. I’ve already heard this brief, listen up and questions at the end guys, just run with it as it’s a lot to take in.’
Sully had never been the type to put endless papers in front of people with red stamp marks and ‘sign here’ arrows. He picked those he trusted to divulge the darkest of secrets to, with a signature that was purely a man’s word, and not an unreadable scribble across a White Paper that could get you put in prison years later.
The tone had changed along with Bob and Gerry’s game faces. Formalities were over, jokes aside, it was now down to business.
‘Okay shoot Alex.’
‘Good to meet you Gerry, Bob,’ Alex said quietly to his audience who noted his right hand trembling as he placed it in his pocket. ‘Okay this is a ten-minute introduction giving you the history and the inception of The Clinic.’
Alex accentuated those two words looking at Sully. It was clearly the first time he had heard the name of their new organisation too.
‘Our development, current vision and future mission could not be further away from the original intentions of the brain of one mental, or incredible man, who got us here. I will not go into the whole history, but a guy called Ridley, a cognitive psychologist, was developing research on how your thought processes…’
The heavy footsteps could be heard before the door was flown open with urgency. Not even entering the room, a large chubby face sporting a scruffy beard popped through the opening.
‘Sorry Boss,’ acknowledging Sully, ‘Alex can I borrow you for a moment?’
Sully locked his jaw. Alex looked at him awaiting his approval. Sully was immediately suspicious knowing that nobody interrupted his briefs unless it was for him.
‘What’s up Beast?’
‘Boss, this is urgent, Alex can explain I’m sure,’ nodding his head at Alex who was looking a little sheepish and pissed that Beast had just thrown him under the bus, or dropped him in it in normal English.
Sully’s face had turned to stone. He rose immediately, gesturing to Alex to do the same. ‘Hang five guys, chill here we’ll be back shortly.’
Walking briskly, they all followed Beast down the corridor at a faster pace than normal. Hopping back up the steps to a door, Beast swiped his card, put his paw print on a security access pad, waited for the ‘access granted’ tone then led the guys in to a small operations centre.
Low light levels accentuated the six flat-screen TV images that were at the front of the room. The room itself was laid out like a theatre sloping from the back to front with a centre aisle dividing a number of work areas either side. Each work area was housing a few computer monitors that were manned by people with headsets on. Quiet mumblings were mixed with the tapping of keyboards, broken only by the sudden interjection of a satellite phone transmission cutting in live across the room.
‘This is the live feed of the satellite phone conversation, with a few seconds’ delay,’ Beast looked directly at Sully and Alex.
Sully scanned the location feed on the display. He saved his questions, knowing this live feed, booming out from 10,000 miles away in Antarctica, was somehow central to the rude interruption moments earlier.
Chapter 6
Standing on the ice, irritated, with the sat phone to his ear, he waited for Steve Jones’ response to the situation. Having explained that he had no solar panel as it was completely written off, he knew this put Steve in an awkward position. Under the safety guidelines of (ALE) Antarctic Logistical Expeditions who are responsible for his safety, they should extract him immediately.
‘Hey Champ,’ Steve’s voice sounded clear on the sat phone. He’d never asked him why he called him champ, but whatever, he thought.
‘Go ahead Steve,’ Decker said, checking the horizon for the first sign of light aircraft.
If Steve had been a jobsworth and followed the rules he would have ordered a Twin Otter light aircraft to touch down on its ski wheels and pick him up by now. But Steve knew his background, knew that men like him never quit, no matter how life-threatening the odds. In fact, if the Twin Otter did touch down, it would have taken a gun in his face to get him to board leaving behind a shattered dream. What Steve didn’t realise was that extracting him at that point wouldn’t just deny him the chance to create history, it would have denied him the opportunity to fully figure out something he was so close to uncovering. It was just the final few pieces left to convince himself he wasn’t losing the plot again and all his current actions were not delusional assumptions.
‘Right you have 117,000 followers on Twitter, you’re almost half way to creating history for Christ’s sake.’ Steve paused, and Decker closed his eyes, barely breathing. ‘This means we have to lie a little, copy?’
‘Copy, this sounds good Steve.’
‘Okay, how much battery life is left in the phone and beacon before they go flat?’ Steve asked.
‘I reckon I have a few more calls on the phone and full life on the beacon but we know that ain’t exactly working properly.’ Squeezing a few more days of battery life out of it was ambitious. With no battery life in both satellite phones Steve recognised he would truly be on his own for the last ten days of walking to the South Pole.
‘Right as far as the public are concerned your beacon is fully functioning and we can monitor you all the way to the Pole.’
Throughout this expedition the beacon had been useless, only working sporadically anyway. Ironically this was the device that had full power.
‘Copy that mate.’ Relieved there wasn’t an imminent rescue operation and appreciating that Steve was putting his balls on the line for him, Decker was insanely grateful.
‘So this is the plan,’ Steve interjected. ‘Do your last video upload soon, explain the situation to your followers about rationing b
attery life, and let them know you will update them at the Pole when we can supply you with a new panel.’
‘Okay Steve, I will set up the tent now, send the last video diary upload. I will call you again when I think I have one or two calls left to give you my last known position. I will try the beacon too.’ Steve wasn’t normally one to break the rules so Decker knew that this would be causing a light sweat to break out on his forehead. He needed to make sure that he wasn’t going to worry too much. Although they both silently acknowledged that if something were to happen to Decker now, he would be in the shit, big time.
‘Cool. I will hear from you in a few days with your last position then you are unofficially on your own mate. How are things anyhow?’
He sighed, really wanting to open up to Steve about his mental state and even his wild theory, thinking that he might be the last person he ever got to talk to. He bit his lip to avoid doing this. ‘I’m good mate, just the usual mental trauma of fighting this beast everyday.’
‘Nobody said it would be easy. You’re doing awesome and everyone here is behind you. Keep it together and keep pushing hard to the Pole. Speak in the next few days.’
‘Roger that, out.’
Looking at the cable again, then into the distance noting that the blanket white landscape hadn’t changed one bit since his last check, he sighed then relaxed. There were no additions to the scene, or evidence, no dark silhouettes punching their way through the frozen rubble fields. No sound of skidoo engines contaminating the air, screaming as they penetrated solid ten-foot walls of ice in hot pursuit towards him.
Above him? Stupid question he thought, but instincts couldn’t control a quick glance, occasionally the Twin Otter plane doing Base Camp to South Pole flights would purposely dive down and scare the living shit out of him, with a fly-by that shook the ice off his jacket.
It was a nice thought from Chuck the pilot as he, like everyone else on the plateau, knew how lonely he would be, and thought that a quick fly-by would boost his spirits with a little show of solidarity.
Checking his lone shadow from the sun behind him, it shone directly to his 1 o’clock position, shining brightly to his front right indicating that it was actually about 1400 hrs. Ripping back the heavy-duty Velcro fastener of his jacket clasp to view his watch, he was only a few minutes out, 1404 hrs. Becoming absorbed in the new circumstances and his exchanges with Steve, it was now time for the only 30-minute break he allowed himself all day, which was always after six hours on the go. Every other stop was normally after two hours of hardship and was for only seven minutes, the time limit of inactivity before body parts started freezing up and a short enough time to avoid thinking about stopping for the day. Instead it was just enough time to grab a quick drink and take a large bite of his flapjack bar that was roughly 250 calories. A quick sugar boost was all this was; everything he tasted now was the same, whether it was energy drink, his favourite beef Harry rations or dry skin chafing off his lips, it was a process not an occasion anymore.
After 30 days, he had been meticulous in sticking to the rules he created, but today was different.
He knew he had to get to the bottom of what was going on in his head, the thought of going home and the snapped cable had spooked him big time. He just needed to lay it all out in sequence, as opposed to having a thousand Post-it notes dotted around his brain. His conclusion scared him and being wrong petrified him even more, especially if he broadcasted it in his last diary call. If he was correct it would be a self pardoning for him, knowing he was the victim and not of his own making. Deciding now was as good a time as any to take an extra long stop, 40 minutes or whatever it took. 40 minutes? This was the absolute maximum time of being static wearing an extra-insulated jacket. Any longer meant getting the tent up and getting the stove on. That was still three hours 56 minutes away by his meticulous planning, 1800 hrs he always stopped and set up camp.
Content with his new time plan he bent down, flicked his heavy-duty outer gloves off that were attached to his wrists and clipped his skis off. Free now to move about unhindered he threw his rucksack off that doubled as a harness to pull the pulk. It was connected by a three-metre tow rope or ‘trace line’. When he took up the initial strain each day he felt like an ox ploughing a dirt field, as opposed to an 85kg man pulling a pulk seemingly effortlessly behind him across the ice.
Ripping the bright red pulk cover back he grabbed the huge insulated jacket that was almost the size of a double duvet, and donned it in seconds. Next without looking came his flask, insulated water bottle and a small stuff sack that contained his Moleskine diary. Stamping the ground violently around him to create a small trench for his backside, he hunkered down using his pulk as a temporary windbreak. Moments like these were pure ecstasy as he closed his eyes, and let his body relax spreadeagled across the ice, forgetting the batterings of the last 30 days.
It only lasted 30 seconds, always a hyperactive type he knew he had some final investigative work to crack and needed to get on with it and send his diary call. He was convinced he had finally deciphered the three-year enigma that had deceived him, destroyed him, ended a glittering career and almost killed him off completely. It was just having the balls to publicly announce it.
Sitting up he reached for his thick leather-bound diary that was as battered as he was. The elastic band tightly bound all the various loose pages that had ripped out and tried to escape. But like him, they had had no such luck they were in it for long haul.
The tassel from the bookmark that stuck out of the diary flickered in the wind, but this wasn’t any normal bookmark, it had history. As wide as a ruler and silver, it had the words ‘NEVER, NEVER, NEVER GIVE UP’ engraved upon it – one of Winston Churchill’s essential quotes.
As he looked at the twisted and scratched silver bookmark that was doubling up as a mirror, it was bearing the wounds of 15 years of solid page marking in the most remote and war-torn regions of the world. It was himself he was looking at really though, the engraved quote was distant. More precisely the inch-wide improvised mirror, now gave him a clear-cut view of his eyes. This was all he needed as a reference, they were completely bloodshot, sore with his usual laughter lines buried deep into his skin. ‘When was the last time I laughed?’ He was not shocked at all by the new criss-cross lines that cut through the dark bags beneath his eyes. Fortunately, as dry and chafed as his skin was, he was relieved that it was without any sign of frost nip. His discipline had ensured all his extremities were intact and functioning fully. Holding the improvised mirror for a moment it took him back to the lowest moment in his life, that moment would always be a benchmark for future reference.
Mirrors always triggered two bitterly contradicting memories, he recalled looking in the mirror in his bedroom to see a superhero; fresh-faced, ambitious, funny, a true full-of-life alpha male with a fit naked blonde girl in his bed. Other days it may have been a brunette or redhead, that was standard weekend policy and was shockingly only three or so years back. He could still smell the perfume.
That sweet smell of perfume had been replaced by the stench of stale alcohol in recent years. The once fresh image in the mirror had been replaced with an alien-like character, a stranger in his own body with all the vacant features of a heroin addict, not an alpha male. Looking back at this stranger had been the hardest episode of his life to come to terms with. As he recalled the image of the man looking back at him, it made his spine shiver. That man was lost, he looked finished. That was his biggest frustration back then, he knew how to get himself out of the shit but meanwhile he just kept digging the hole deeper until he bottomed out.
Quickly looking away from the marker in disgust and cursing under his breath this second image shamed him. Never forgetting what those eyes looked like back then, it was time to see whether he was back in that delusional crackpot state, or whether he still had control. Similar to being completely drunk, he thought, you can bre
athe in deep, hide the physical signs of inebriation, but the eyes? Never, they can’t fool anyone and you cannot control them. Once the eyes are gone, you’re done. His eyes were a marker as to whether he was mentally ill or a mad genius.
Without looking at the bookmark he blew a warm breath onto it to fog it up. Next he began to rub it furiously against the inside of his jacket in a wild hope it would clear, presenting a perfect mirror.
Focusing after a last long blink he raised the bookmark up and took a nervous look.
His eyes were piercing blue, holding a stare that wasn’t designed to woo women, but a stare that was designed to scare them, and everyone with them. Unwavering in the reflection, they were true, focused and fixed. He breathed out in sheer relief. Those eyes were signalling that it was time to finally piece together his once-thought-insane assumptions that had now gained authenticity in his mind.
He had waited a long time to see those piercing eyes, it reassured him. He had also promised himself in his darkest days he would only open the envelope inside when this day came, ironically it would now be the day he broadcast his concluding theory.
*****
Opening his Moleskine he took a moment to pull the envelope from under the elastic band. Unsealing it, he patted it against his hand. A photo dropped out, only a few inches square.
‘The dream team’ he said out loud. Rubbing it as he admired the five faces forcing out uncomfortable smiles. Sitting on the bonnet of an old banger he’d nicknamed The Juke were Johnny, Larnaka, himself, Andy and Mohammed.
He studied Andy hard, noting he was happy, focused and looking well out of shape. Andy liked his weights but undercover work gave him two options, get skinny or get fat. He opted for the muscle to turn to flab, not to waste away.
Looking at Johnny he always went back to that pivotal moment in the room that night, so he skipped back to Andy looking at his fat head, smiling behind the fake aviator sunglasses he’d bought from the local souk in Baghdad.