The Clinic

by Ray Carole

  Rapid tones came across the network, Gerry blanked them out knowing that his team were merely reporting back that he and Marco were entering the bar. Anymore rapid tones would indicate that the meeting had not gone as planned and everyone would pile in to resolve the situation.

  Gerry looked around, it was more of a shack than a bar. The smoke-filled room that housed around five people was no bigger than your average-sized front room in a council house. Maybe it was someone’s front room Gerry mused for a moment.

  The six-foot-long bar was being attended by a greasy little local who was currently serving two males, both wearing hats and not acknowledging the two new arrivals.

  Gerry ordered two Coronas in Spanish. This made the little grease ball wise up. The two locals cast a quick glance at Gerry and tipped their hats as they recognised a fluent accent with a respectable amount of slang to it.

  As Gerry turned to sit down at a table another individual they saw on the way in now had a bag on the table. Simply tilting his head towards the bag with a slight point of the finger, this was clearly their man.

  Gerry nodded back wincing inwardly at the really bad tradecraft from the dealer’s man, but then this was bandit country in Punta and not cosmopolitan Europe.

  The man stood up, short with a dark tan and a trademark jet-black bushy moustache, he walked through a door to his left. Gerry and Marco a surveillance team member, both followed. Immediately through the door, they entered a small hallway with a number of closed rooms either side. One was open, they entered the room to see the man waiting there and Gerry greeted him in Spanish. The man nodded then placed three black small boxes on the table. These were clearly holding three pistols. Gerry already knew they were Glocks by the design of the box. Without talking and with the door closed behind them.

  Gerry walked over to a transistor radio, clicked it on and turned the volume up. Latin American music bellowed out as he started to open the first box. Nullifying his weapon checks wasn’t needed but it was habit.

  Picking up the Glock 17 Gerry felt a little rush within himself. This was a weapon he was familiar with. Holding the pistol grip in his right hand, he just looked at it, canting it to the left.

  He wrapped his fingers around it remembering … After a brief search at a checkpoint his pistol was missed as he always shoved it down his front. The rebels knew that he was an agent and subsequently frogmarched him to his intended final resting place in a small wooded area down an embankment under the threat of three AK-47s.

  Deciding it was now or never he carried out a drill designed for the situation unfolding. A quick rehearsal in his head before time ran out, he went for it. Pretending to trip over a root on the forest bedding he fell forward, looking like he was about to hit the forest floor.

  Fear had activated his reflexes to lightning speed and by the time he turned to face the three rebels whilst falling backwards, he had shot and killed the first rebel with shots to the body and head. The two behind him had not really established what was happening. Chaos had erupted in their minds but he was in control of it, firing a further eight bullets into their bodies. They dropped to the floor immediately. Before they hit the deck, he was all over them. As they screamed in pain, he remained silent as he emptied a further two bullets into their foreheads. That was the last time he’d used a Glock pistol. Those three rebels were the only three people he’d ever had to kill.

  Breaking the silence, he now depressed the magazine release catch and slid the empty magazine out of the magazine housing. In systematically smooth and fast movements he pulled the upper receiver to the rear then completely stripped the weapon down in seconds. He was inspecting the firing pin along with other essential parts of the Glock.

  No facility to test fire, he began to physically and visually check the critical parts that allowed it to fire. The Glock had a smaller number of component parts than most pistols. This increased reliability, reducing the potential for technical problems. Easy to operate and fire under stress, it had a natural grip that increased instinctive pointing and faster acquisition of the sight picture, while the hammerless design prevented snagging of clothing when carried in a concealed fashion.

  Gerry knew this all too well. No external holsters around the waist or ankle in his previous job, a pat-down or cursory search would find the pistol immediately and could get you executed. Feeling the Glock in his sweating palm whilst recalling that past event again, he recalled another essential Glock characteristic; it was polymer material and resistant to all climate conditions, corrosion free, resistant to lubrication. The functions had been tested to -40 degrees. Perfect for this job he thought.

  Reassembling it he looked at the man and asked ‘What about the longs? The M4? Where are the rifles we requested?’

  ‘I only bring this stuff, it is all they gave me,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes but we need at least one M4, we need a rifle.’

  ‘If you need an M4 that will take 24 hours, maybe longer,’ he replied in good English.

  Gerry refrained from arguing or demanding the M4s; he knew it had to go back up the chain. A few phone calls, more bartering then another location and pick-up time.

  Opening the envelope full of money he started deducting the money he would have paid for the M4 rifles.

  Handing it over the man quickly counted it up. ‘Three thousand, yes?’ Gerry looked pointedly at him, ‘All there.’

  The man nodded, ‘Good’ as they put the boxes back into the bag they said a few pleasantries before walking out.

  Gerry was annoyed. This was the first thing to not go as planned. They needed at least one rifle in 36 hours to give the team an option just in case WHITEOUT got away somehow and they needed to shoot from 300-500 metres away.

  With his cell phone to his ear Gerry waited for someone to answer. After about eight rings that someone answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sully. No longs at the pick-up. I am flying to Union Glacier tomorrow so this needs to be sorted for the guys sharp,’ Gerry contained his frustration.

  ‘Okay Gerry, leave it with me, it’s only a small glitch.’

  ‘Fine. No change from what I sent you four hours ago, everything is on course.’

  ‘Thanks Gerry, check in with us before you fly out tomorrow,’ Sully added.

  ‘Sure, bye.’

  On the other end of the line, Sully knew Gerry was pissed off, but then he had also expected that call. He’d only ever asked for three pistols to be delivered this evening in the first place, zero longs.

  Chapter 22

  Cruising at an altitude of 36000 feet the Boeing 777 banked left altering its course for the final leg of its flight path. Below, a white wilderness, another void on planet Earth. It was hard to imagine how anyone could actually be down there at ground zero surviving in the Andes mountains, Mick thought. No civilisation for hundreds, if not thousands of miles.

  Mick began running the script through his mind once again. Comprehending what the change would be like if he were to immediately eject from this beautiful aerial view, only to find himself fighting for his life down there.

  Identifying a small black dot, he couldn’t help but think of WHITEOUT in Antarctica. Knowing WHITEOUT was now battle-hardened on the ice, even enjoying the physical and emotional trauma, he wondered what WHITEOUT would think in this role reversal. If he saw a Boeing 777 vapour trail parting the clouds above, would he transport himself into Mick’s seat wishing he could fly the hell out?

  Or was he institutionalised? Content grinding away in his living hell. Mick was thinking hard before Robby woke up and broke his train of thought. That little black dot he could see from the comfort of his seat triggered his attention implicitly. Two days’ time, there would be three little black dots. Three black dots no one could give a shit about or knew about. Playing out a vicious game of cat and mouse. Two contract killers t
rying to kill a former SAS sergeant.

  Having a smile to himself he wondered if the man in front of him was playing out these type of crazy thoughts, as he looks down at the Andes also.

  In fact Mick knew all too well that only a handful of people in the world play out these sorts of movies in their wildly outrageous, but very real minds.

  ‘Anything interesting Mick?’ Robby had woken up and immediately erased the image of WHITEOUT’s face exploding from Mick’s thoughts.

  ‘The Andes mate, looks just like that place we’re off to. I was just imagining what that cunt would be thinking of down there as he sees aircraft miles above him. That’s if he even notices,’ Mick mentioned, taking his eyes from the window and facing Robby.

  ‘The blogs I read pretty much told us what he thinks. The weirdo explains how he enters an almost trance state sometimes, waking up whilst skiing due to exhaustion and hallucination. He mentioned how his ski mask was always iced up, literally only being able to see through a scratch mark. Wearing this massive hood with a wolf tail as fur, wrapped around the hem, he said it was like surviving in a little microclimate of his own. Only looking out through a small aperture directly at his chest-mounted compass, to navigate. Some days in white-out he recites only just being able to see past the tips of his skis.’ Robby paused. It was quite a tale. ‘I mean he is on day 36 now for fuck’s sake. Probably delusional, exhausted and even if he saw us, I think he would welcome us with open arms completely confused about the whole scenario.’

  This was twice Mick had picked up the undertones of Robby’s admiration of WHITEOUT and put this down to him being younger and not having the same exposure that he and Sean had had over the years to hard-line characters.

  ‘As if, you dopey bastard. Don’t feel sorry for this guy he would kill us in a heartbeat if he could.’

  Robby nodded and was quiet for a second, ‘I’m feeling sorry for you Mick.’

  ‘Oh yeah, why is that?’

  ‘Well you’ll have to try and keep up with the Jedi Knight of skiing on the ice shortly mate, I noticed you blowing hard in Norway, may have to leave you behind, you old bastard if you start dropping back…’ Robby maintained his grin whilst Mick shot him an unconvinced look.

  ‘Fuck off you twat, now get some coffee in, I’m falling asleep listening to you recite that bloke’s diary and bullshit about your delusional skiing talents.’

  Robby remained silent, still smirking as Mick hit the attendant’s call button about five times.

  ‘You’re such a knob,’ Mick muttered.

  Four Chilean porters jumped all over them in the baggage collection hall. The mere sight of six 100-litre North Face bags was a combat indicator they were here for an expedition.

  The yellow, blue and red coloured bags had everything from parachutes, warm clothing, hydrated rations, tents, cookers and anything else besides their skis and pulk. Those two items were to be picked up at the oversized baggage counter.

  ‘Hey tough guy keep all this together,’ Mick shouted at a little Chilean guy who just smiled back having no idea who or what ‘tough guy’ was.

  ‘Okay Mick there’s the last one…’

  ‘I’ve got it mate.’ That was a good sign. After transferring from Santiago all the bags were here. Another good sign after clearing immigration minutes earlier. The only thing that the immigration officers were suspicious of at Punta was the mental health of the tourists flocking in, to go skiing in minus forty degrees.

  No sensitive items of particular interest to the Chilean government were packed in hold baggage. All the IT equipment was with them in their hand luggage, always within arm’s reach. Santiago was renowned for being the Bermuda triangle of equipment disappearance. It was the last major transfer for all Antarctic expeditions. That meant shiny items like satellite phones, palm tops, camera equipment, and expensive clothing got lost in transit somewhere.

  Next was the oversized baggage counter. The familiar shapes of ski grips and a pulk were clear to see from 50 metres away. As the four porters dodged their way through the small but manic arrivals hall, Mick kept his eyes on them making sure that one of them didn’t go rogue and fleece their kit.

  Pushing a trolley each themselves and still herding the porters they saw a guy holding up a white A4 folder with ‘CREAN’ on it.

  This was actually a member of the surveillance team. The other members of the team as per protocol, were either in over-watch, or standing by in the car park area holding the parking position for the quick pick-up position.

  ‘Hi there, I guess you’re taking us from here my friend?’ Mick asked. The man nodded and said: ‘Yes come, come please.’

  Mick knew he and Robby were a pair of worked up professionals but he quickly realised too that they had made a novice mistake. It wasn’t going to get them killed, but could easily cause offence. Neither of them had any local currency on them to sort the porter guys out. As they both confirmed this fact, a van pulled up straight in to a free parking space, that another member of the team had just vacated in order for this to happen smoothly.

  Throwing all the kit in before making the embarrassing admission to the porters they had no currency, the guy who met them fortunately squared it all away.

  Everything loaded on, Mick and Robby jumped into the back seats of the twin-cab. Sean had flown in six hours earlier and they were keen to meet up with him and Gerry.

  The driver passed a package back. Mick grabbed it, knowing full well it was two locally sourced phones with relevant contact numbers loaded in them and some credit he thought.

  They simply sat back knowing this was the final leg of the 18-hour journey they had undertaken today. Not being bothered to admire the coastal scenery to their left that witnessed waves brutally crashing into the shale beaches. Windy as promised this time of the year, it was running riot along the coastal reaches without a soul in sight to challenge its advances. Mick and Robby both sat back. They knew the driver was a part of the surveillance operation, and that they were currently being followed or protected. There was no point in small talk. Everyone knew the drill. Each element had their remit within the grand scheme of things, and wondering or pondering who was doing what, where and when was a waste of energy.

  The handbrake was wrenched upwards clicking on a 35-degree-plus gradient hill. The driver gently removed the pressure off the brake until he knew the handbrake would hold.

  ‘This is your hotel,’ the driver turned around and said to them.

  ‘Great, thanks,’ Mick replied whilst letting out a huge yawn. They both took their small overnight bags with them. The brief was to leave the rest in the van. The van would take everything else to a lock-up, serving as a final bolt-hole to carry out their final preparation, and to confirm any last-minute changes with Gerry and Sean.

  Chapter 23

  The strip light hung gingerly on a set of rusty chains from the ceiling of the lock-up. Dark, dingy, damp and full of useless shit previous transit users had left behind, this was a perfect bolt-hole. It reminded Gerry of the Balkans. Over a three-year period he had orchestrated some of the highest profile arrests of war lords accused of mass killings. As the spook heading up a multi-national intelligence unit in the Balkans, his team ran a network that eventually led them to dozens of detainments and a few unplanned deaths. Working intimately with the SAS, this partnership embarrassed other NATO allies with the sheer intensity of covert operations mounted, but more importantly it was the audacity and daring they executed them with.

  Hardened Bosnian-Serb warlords or former commanders who committed genocide were scared shitless of the SAS, they’d all known their days were numbered back then. Especially when a few of their former high-ranking commanders were killed in cold blood along with their protection teams in their own backyard.

  The SAS were scared of nobody, and would go anywhere to capture these animals. As Gerry
stopped and sat on a wobbly dust-covered table he grinned. Even though his teams had executed the most fierce and sophisticated programs in the region, it was always launched from little shit holes like this one, he thought.

  The direct link back to COBR or more importantly to the Prime Minister for the final sign-off came from these small bolt-holes. No plasma screens, live downlinks or predator drone feeds circling above like the movies portrayed.

  It was just a load of professional hard asses wearing jeans, jumpers, Barbour jackets and sometimes wellies, coming together at the last safe moment, for the final brief on what was exactly going to happen.

  In Bosnia some of the deep cover guys would turn up stinking of alcohol, completely pissed having followed people around bars and whorehouses all day and night. Working with them had been the happiest and most exhilarating time in his life.

  Gerry took another sip of his Starbucks that he and Sean had just picked up, surprised to see one in this neck of the woods, it tasted alright. He focused his mind to the current mission. ‘Crean Team’ as they now called themselves, was all packed and ready to go. Gerry had spent two years working under the cover of a news crew team so had plenty of on the job experience, the camera kit hadn’t changed that much so he volunteered himself as the cameraman. After spending a few hours going over all the kit, especially the video camera they would be filming with, he’d initiated a number of quick role-plays ensuring their knowledge of Tom Crean was sufficient to fool any nosey annoying spotter that you meet everywhere you go.

  Hearing the sound of a vehicle outside he put his coffee cup down and squinted out of a slight break in the wall. Driving through the double gates that were both barely hanging on though completely open. The car lurched slightly as it made its way over the broken tarmac which local weeds had served to destroy before they pulled up outside their set of steel doors, two warehouses back from the sea and two fast-rotting jetties.