The Clinic

by Ray Carole

  ‘Morning Conrad,’ Sean opened up with the pleasantries.

  ‘Hey Sean how are we feeling, any soreness from yesterday’s little trek?’

  ‘All okay mate but talking of soreness how’s your boy Decker doing? How far did he get yesterday?’ Sean took his seat at the table as Conrad’s face lit up.

  ‘He’s still powering on with 20 nautical miles covered, but he will naturally slow up when he hits the 87 degree line, the terrain is fucking horrendous for the last 3 degrees, or 180 miles in your language.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Sean asked trying to covertly gather more information on ground for the guys.

  ‘The sastrugi can be anything from two feet to twenty feet tall, a real problematic area, hard to navigate even harder to ski on and mega-hard to keep your cool. That’s why he is pushing so hard now to make up time, he knows it’s coming in about five days.’

  ‘So our last degree will be horrendous is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Not a chance, you are coming in from a different direction, nice and easy so you will have a ball, the bearing he has come from is a real fucking bastard, I’ve done it before myself. Still makes me shake now.’

  ‘As long as we’re okay Conrad I’m happy.’

  ‘You’ll be fine Sean, just don’t eat yellow snow, and piss with your back to the wind.’ Everyone relaxed and laughed at that.

  ‘Okay lads,’ Conrad continued whilst precariously carrying three large mugs of tea to the table, spilling a fair few drops across his large battered sausage fingers and wincing. ‘We’ll do a few hours with me in tow so I can see what you’re all up to without me babysitting you. I can see from yesterday you’ve done this type of stuff before so just remember to keep ventilated, check each others faces, ensure your clothing is correctly fitted around your face and don’t just leave the navigation to the lead man, always check navigation with him.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan Conrad. In fact what we would like to do is spend a few hours like you mentioned then get away on our own for a bit. It will give us the confidence to operate on our own and give us the chance to slag each other off without you noticing that we actually hate each other,’ Sean purposely tried to broach the subject light-heartedly not wishing to offend Conrad.

  ‘Hey your shout guys, I’m here and you’re paying so entirely up to you.’

  ‘We’ll be fine Conrad, let’s say 11am we’ll go solo, we also want to make a spoof video for Dave and in all honestly it will be embarrassing you watching mate, it’s all legal I assure you just a bit cringeworthy.’

  ‘Sounds dodgy boys and I want nothing to do with it. You have my number so give us a shout later if you need me for any help that won’t involve me getting arrested.’

  All the guys watched as Conrad’s face crinkled into a contagious smile, they had sold him a dummy and would get the precious rehearsal time they needed so badly.

  After two hours of navigating point-to-point which passed painlessly and without incident Conrad drew them all round to talk about flat light levels to avoid snow blindness as well as some knowledge on cloud formations that they would see in Antarctica. Sean realised this was what WHITEOUT had talked about in his blogs as being a total white-out and prompted Conrad to elaborate.

  ‘Ha ha lads that’s what keeps Decker miles apart from the competition, he keeps the same pace and intensity no matter what. He doesn’t stop when he can’t see anything like most explorers fearful of crevasses or a sudden cliff drop. In fact he had walked further when he couldn’t see anything for three whole days.’

  ‘He’s a machine,’ Mick concluded to which they all nodded.

  Eleven o’clock arrived and they stopped to get a flask out and have a break.

  ‘Right guys good work this morning. After this hot brew I will let you get on with the soft porn version of Nancy does Norway,’ it was the best comparison of Debbie does Dallas Conrad could summon. They all laughed knowing he would disappear now. ‘Just phone us if you want anything, otherwise I am at the lodge.’

  ‘Thanks Conrad we appreciate it,’ Sean said raising his mug to toast him with his brew. After ten minutes Conrad tapped his ski poles and left. Sean swung into action straight away, the mood totally changed.

  ‘Right guys let’s make the most of this time and make it count as though it’s for real. I will run each scenario as a mini-exercise to bring as much reality to it as possible.’

  ‘You have control mate you’re the boss,’ Mick said seriously knowing this role-play was critical.

  ‘First I will pitch the tent out of sight then send the grid to Sully. You will receive the grid co-ordinates over your Sat phone via Sully or Gerry. They want this run out in full, proper real-time scenario. Then carry out the full takedown option. That means checking in at the stop-short where you can see the tent, then reporting back in on completion of killing me, retrieving the Memory Card and replacing the new blank one. Sully wants the other options practised for obvious reasons with me acting as WHITEOUT on the move, so no check-in is required just pursue me then try and take me down as the OPS suggests. I know we don’t have white-out conditions and can’t simulate WHITEOUT on his chinstrap knackered but it will give you a clear plan of action in both your heads.’

  War-gaming could only give you a slight snapshot of what the real future had in store and not everything could be practised. There were other parts to this operation the team would now have to discuss and one that Sean was never keen to discuss.

  ‘No one likes to plan for their own death,’ Sean says changing the direction of conversation. ‘But it’s a part of the job, and life to that matter. Things could go horribly wrong in the next six days or so,’ Sean had to be frank and deliver the possible catastrophic outcomes on the ice. ‘There are certain phases to this operation we can’t rehearse but we can anticipate.

  The next few hours witnessed the team thrash out all the procedures and scenario’s that the OPS had predicted. As with all rehearsals, practising brought out a few minor changes to tweak certain areas.

  The accidental death scenario had made this operation become real. Within a week any one of them could be toast.

  They lounged around the table, Conrad was nowhere to be seen but he had obviously been checking on WHITEOUT again as the computer had his site page on it again.

  Robby let out a huge sigh and a yawn.

  The last few hours had focused completely on offensive planning. Decker was the victim of every option or plan. Only the chance encounter put them on almost level terms due to the surprise element, but quickly bearing an M16 or Glock pistol would put Icarus back on top.

  Sean remained where he was sat at the table, deep in thought. His mind scratched to think what he was missing – WHITEOUT was a seasoned, though now retired, agent. He might not be working for anyone but this did not mean his brain stopped thinking the way it had been hard-wired to do for years.

  Instinct, impulse and a sickening paranoia still processed his mind. What are the Actions On for when WHITEOUT attacks Icarus? This is missing. What do they do when he ambushes them from the rear with whatever hardware he has? Bang. Dead. At no point in the OPS was there any Actions On, or considerations about the lethal man potentially waging war on them. Sean surmised that Sully must have surely considered a few options that involved WHITEOUT counter-attacking. If he had a sniff someone was onto him, he would transcend in to survival mode – attack is his greatest form of defence, that was how SAS men were trained for the heat of battle. Yet why wouldn’t Sully include it? He knew WHITEOUT’s mindset, one of his old guard. Sully was the one who proofread everything, signed off all options and always critiqued the smallest of details, but then he was also the man who got rid of the shit that he thought was padding out a document.

  Just because a OPS document was 50 pages it didn’t mean it was flawless. Was Sully protecting the team’s mental
state? Not wanting them to dwell on WHITEOUT’s capabilities and past and be paranoid that the hunters could end up the hunted?

  As Sean flicked the kettle on he noticed an Iridium satellite phone on top of some paperwork on the side. It didn’t belong to Icarus. It was Conrad’s. Thinking quickly he grabbed the phone assuming that it was sure to have a pin but luckily the dopey Geordie had no pin code. Sean immediately hit the contacts list trying to find ‘Harry Decker’, ‘Harry’ or ‘Decker’.

  Nothing. Fuck he thought as he heard a car pull in. With twenty seconds to spare he quickly thought of Conrad mentioning a call from him the other day so he immediately looked at call history and received calls. There was one number it received on the call log not attributed to a name and it was definitely a satellite phone. He furiously began to memorise it. No time to write it down Conrad was opening the door. Only having enough time to run it through his head twice Sean had hopefully logged it. This would make things so much easier for the technical team with both sat phone numbers now if this one was different from the one they reckoned they had traced.

  Quickly placing the phone back Conrad walked in. ‘Hey up Sean how are we diddling?’

  ‘Great Conrad, you?’ The light on the display screen was still green, it hadn’t gone into standby mode yet, as Conrad walked closer to Sean he prayed that he wouldn’t spot it behind him. However, Conrad was more concerned with the kettle he could hear boiling in the background and simply asked Sean if he was getting a brew on. Sean sped into action. ‘Well Conrad it would be rude not to after the two days together, it might not be spot on like yours but I will do my best. Why don’t you rest your bones and I’ll make you a cuppa?’ gesturing for him to sit down on the chair which had no line of sight to the phone.

  ‘That’s all you can do kid, your best but sometimes that just isn’t good enough to cut it.’

  ‘Ha you bloody Brits and your tea.’

  ‘I was talking about life our Sean, but then again making tea too I suppose,’ Conrad corrected himself as Sean busied himself making the tea repeating the number he had begun to memorise over and over in his mind. Casting a quick glance back to the phone he breathed a sigh of relief that the green light had finally begun to dim then fade away completely.

  It then hit Sean what a foolhardy move that had been and for no gain. Sully had already intercepted WHITEOUT’s calls, the number was already in the system. Cursing himself, he knew those foolish moves would be punished later on.

  With the kit all packed, secured and loaded they were ready to go for the next phase of the intense preparation period involving Sean working on camera equipment knowledge and studying the history of Tom Crean, whilst Mick and Robby got their hands on the parachuting equipment. Sean had checked in with Sully and he was pleased with the progress all round.

  Walking out of the lodge all three assassins politely thanked Conrad and wished him all the best before jumping into their wagon.

  Without warning Conrad quickly sprinted down the driveway. Sean’s ears pricked up, what the hell was happening? Had they been busted, he grabbed Mick’s knee to steady him as he could tell he was also thinking the same thing and was about to give chase.

  ‘Fuck, move,’ Sean whispered. Realising just how wired they all actually were, heading towards the gate, they realised Conrad was simply going to open it up for the guys driving out. Sean sensed Mick’s apprehension as his arm was clenched still ready to strike if needed. Quietly gesturing under the windscreen level for him to take it easy Mick relaxed.

  Winding his window down, Sean drove up to Conrad who was now holding the gate open personally for them. Sean hit the brakes and reached inside his jacket whilst keeping eye contact with Conrad. The team remained silent, only the sound of the engine could be heard over their breathing.

  Conrad’s look instantly went from a mellow relaxed look, knowing he had a chilled weekend ahead to one of instant surprise and shock as Sean brought his hand to bear. Conrad’s face still had the rabbit-caught-in-headlights look as Sean’s hand came through the passenger side window and was a foot away from his chest.

  A darting look at the object in Sean’s hand before he regained full eye contact, Conrad waited for Sean to say something, if he was going to say something.

  ‘Thanks for your services Conrad. You’re one hell of a character mate.’

  He handed over a thick brown envelope that Conrad had to take with both hands. Before Conrad could put up a feeble argument to decline the huge bonus Mick tore the Land Rover away, this time with the correct ratio of gravel, ice to wheel-spin gusto that one would expect from a group of city boys training and goading each other before an iconic stag-do at the South Pole.

  Chapter 20

  Roman was wearing a grey polo-neck top with a lightweight blue paisley scarf wrapped around his neck. More of a fashion accessory than an item of clothing to prevent heat escaping up through his jumper when he was walking the streets later, eccentric in nature, he dressed like this as a natural occurrence rather than a statement of mental instability. His bright red cheeks were covered with burst capillaries lending to more evidence of his fondness for late night drinking, his overhanging gut indicating his passion for food. The down draft of the fan caught his grey hair that he quickly moved to correct, covering his receding hairline. He enjoyed striding around on his days off from landing a 210-tonne flying projectile on to Blue Ice runways carved out of the snow. Whether it was Union Glacier in Antarctica, a frozen Lake Baikal in Siberia or a dirt strip in deepest darkest Africa, the precision required was not generated and executed by an autopilot function. This precision was the pure function of his mind guided with experienced intuition on occasions.

  When he decided to commit a projectile to land there would never be any final abort lines or turning back when the landing gear was down and locked in place. His final call would be made and it was going to hit the Blue Ice or dirt tracks at 160 mph without any doubts.

  A Blue Ice runway qualification course for pilots wasn’t another additional certification such as a short runway licence. It was just a thing he did; he had flown the first Ilyushin prototype in the 1970s and had never ceased control since.

  Roman had a natural ability and nerve to make last-second judgment calls, whether the vodka running through his veins helped him to harness this judgment and nerve, was debatable. Probably always over the limit, but then, destinations of his chosen runways lacked a police reception party.

  Besides, the Ilyushin was a legendary airframe that could land anywhere. Roman and his rogue crew were known as being the Rolling Stones of the skies and Roman encouraged this persona.

  The man sat opposite listened to Roman and watched as he gestured his arms whilst recanting another dodgy landing story. Looking like a classic tourist, he was sporting a new signature North Face fleece zip top fresh out the packet, cargo-style bottoms with gloves and hat on the chair next to him. The waiter had him down for another climber, or another mid-life-crisis guy who thought skiing to the South Pole for a trophy photograph will get his broken life back on track.

  Fresh-faced it was obvious he was on his way out and not back from an expedition. Clearly he must know Roman the waiter thought, by the way Roman was freely expressing his flying antics with such enthusiasm, or maybe Roman was just relaxed and pissed, again.

  As the waiter approached the table with a bottle of red wine, Roman paused his stage show. The man sporting the North Face top halted the waiter to inspect the bottle of red.

  ‘Cabernet Sauvignon, Carmenere, hey, this new grape is gaining a big reputation in the winemaking world, 1997/8 I believe.’ Pausing he quickly tasted the drop of red that had been poured into his glass. The man looked like he was a seasoned sommelier, swirling the glass, checking the body then gargling a mouthful before swallowing.

  The nod of the head indicated the bottle would stay for a while.

 
‘The thing you will like about this red Roman is that it is best to be drunk fast once opened, right Sir?’ Directing the question at the waiter.

  ‘That is correct sir, always best drunk fast once opened never let it sit with Carmenere.’

  Either a smart paraphrase or clear knowledge of the wines he was serving, the tourist nodded in agreement.

  *****

  ‘Zero. Darios check.’

  ‘Darios,’ came the reply from the Team Leader. Indicating he was ready to receive the next transmission.

  ‘That’s B2 no change about to have some wine. No food ordered yet.’

  ‘Zero roger that Darios, no change.’ The surveillance team was back in action. November was on the far table with her back to Roman, clocking all of Roman’s actions in the display mirror to his front. A good 10 metres away it was easy to covertly transmit into the microphone whilst pretending to blow on her spoon full of soup.

  Due to Roman’s loud gregarious personality and the fact that only those two, plus another couple were in the restaurant, she could actually pick up some of the conversation.

  *****

  Roman raised his glass that was now full to the brim as a toast before taking a good glug.

  Gerry remained silent, waiting for him to calm down and lose the theatricals. Roman spoke: ‘So Gerry, your free-fall attempt you crazy man, tell me more…’ nodding appreciatively as he sipped his wine then chugged back a good mouthful.

  Gerry loving every second of this encounter nodded. He was back on the grid lying as naturally as breathing. ‘So Roman,’ he leaned in, ‘will you let us jump out of the back of Ilyushin? I heard there is an increased chance of survival that way, rather than us landing with you on the ice,’ Gerry smiled.

  Roman got the remark and laughed, ‘Ilyushin does anything. Well I mean she will try anything once! We have launched food containers off the tailgate in Uganda, dropped off weapons in Sierra Leone and would even drop bombs off if the price was right.’ Nodding his head at Gerry and grinning away he followed up by saying: ‘We’re Russian for Christ’s sake, course we will drop a free-fall team on to the South Pole. We will even pick up your coffins at the Scott-Amundsen South Pole station.’ Both laughing it was nice to know that the sick humour they shared was building the rapport that Gerry was playing for.