The Clinic

by Ray Carole

  Mick shouted at Robby barking the requests for immediate information for Gerry, cursing himself that in his heightened state of panic he hadn’t thought to check those things beforehand.

  ‘Robby is just checking Gerry.’

  ‘Okay we need to know if he has seen you prior to stopping, or whether you spooked him when moving in close to the FRV. We can gauge how far he is ahead by what I have just requested.’

  ‘Got you Gerry, nice one,’ Mick saw the logic in the questions and felt his heart rate begin to decelerate.

  Gerry’s experience was showing. A man used to controlling high-level operations and human assets on the ground in real-time scenarios knew one thing. The operator in the heat of any high-pressure serial doesn’t think as calmly or logically as the person controlling the operation, from the comforts of an operation centre, albeit this mini ops room was a four-man tent in the South Pole, the rules were the same.

  ‘Anything Robby?’ Mick shouted.

  ‘Cookers are cold and connected to the fuel bottle so they have been used.’

  ‘They have been used but cold Gerry,’ Mick passed on.

  ‘Phones?’ Pointing to the phone he’s holding he signalled to Robby.

  ‘Got them but no life.’

  ‘They’re both dead Gerry.’

  ‘Okay quickly put your spare battery in one and see what comes up. Also, make sure you locate his beacon and check whether the distress has been switched on if it’s in the tent,’ Gerry added.

  Mick and Robby moved quickly knowing that time was passing by and this was now a pursuit that needed to be underway immediately.

  Gerry remained on the end of the phone waiting for answers. He already knew them if WHITEOUT still had the edge about him. He would have ditched everything immediately and fled. But that would also compromise his position.

  He also knew he wouldn’t have hit his distress or contacted Trans-Ant or ALE either, but Gerry didn’t know how exhausted he was, after everything he’d been put through he might have panicked and dropped his guard.

  It was appearing not to be the case.

  If he hadn’t and he’d somehow pre-empted the strike, WHITEOUT would initially have limitless questions. How did they track him down out here, how they got inserted? Who they are using for logistics in the air or on the ground, how they are going to kill or capture him. Whether Trans-Ant have been infiltrated unknowingly before the RV tomorrow.

  Gerry knew WHITEOUT was thinking all of this and more, he also knew that Sully would be thinking the same and extra.

  The picture Gerry had in his head was WHITEOUT now on the run heading toward the RV with Trans-Ant, or straight to the Pole on a death march.

  ‘Gerry,’ Mick called out.

  ‘Shoot mate,’

  ‘Fuck all, phone batteries aren’t compatible nor is our charger. Beacon here but no distress signal activated.’

  ‘Diary? He has a Moleskine for his diary, and the two others we need, any sign?’

  A few more moments passed.

  Robby walked over to Mick as quickly as he could with a notebook. The current page was open, held back by the black elastic page divider strip.

  ‘We have it Gerry, the diary.’

  Mick paused.

  Silence.

  ‘He knows we’re on him for sure,’ Mick muttered.

  ‘What Mick, any entry?’

  Looking at the clean page of WHITEOUT’s diary Mick read the passage from Dec 20th. Today.

  All silent in anticipation, Gerry with Sean on his shoulder listening in.

  ‘An SAS soldier will fight where he is told to fight, but an SAS soldier will always win wherever he fights. Good luck.’

  Silence ensued as Mick watched Robby’s face drain a little more of colour, and gritted his teeth to will his not to do the same.

  Gerry broke the silence down the phone: ‘Let’s not get bogged down in his psychological warfare. Let’s keep thinking about the facts that we know to be true. You have weapons, his set of ski tracks and a shit load more energy than him. He is only four hours ahead Mick so get on his tail and take him down. Caution as always, but let’s fucking end this operation within the next 12 hours.’ Gerry barked his orders before Mick had time to think of any more questions that might cause delay.

  ‘We’ve got it.’ Mick out of his blind panic checked in. ‘We’ll ditch the pulk and go light with our daysacks. We have enough gear to keep us alive out here, and we won’t be stopping for any rest periods until I have his fucking head on my ski-pole spike.’ Mick was enraged, far from calling in any excuses to avoid closing in on Decker. His blood was boiling. Decker was a dead man walking in Mick’s eyes. The rivalry between South African Special Forces and the British SAS was about to enter a whole new meaning.

  Mick looked at Robby who was listening in and nodded.

  ‘Right we’re off Gerry. Will call when we have him. I will keep one phone on in case HQ track his position somehow and you contact us immediately.’

  ‘Okay Mick, speak soon.’

  Mick turned to Robby, ‘Ditch that pulk, we’re just taking daysacks otherwise we won’t catch him. Take the survival gear out with a few days’ worth of rations, the cooker and a pot to melt snow.’

  ‘Got it.’ Robby knew time was of the essence and knew exactly what to pack as they had discussed such a scenario happening.

  All packed Mick gave Robbie the nod and they were off. There was no need for a quick brief, they had covered it all and Mick was fuming. He didn’t want any questions off Robby now. All he wanted to do was ski as fast as humanly possible to make up the deficit with WHITEOUT.

  After 30 minutes the terrain was becoming chaotic posing difficult drops of 10-20 feet. This slowed them slightly but they rested in the knowledge that it would also substantially stall WHITEOUT’s progress as he also negotiated the safest route.

  Mick remembered Conrad mentioning that the terrain between the 87-degree line and the Pole was notorious for these brutal knife-edge drops, and towering ice formations rising out of the ground. This was all becoming another grim reality when it was the last thing they needed.

  WHITEOUT’s tracks seemed to blur in and out as he obviously chose his best line of advance.

  Mick was a slave-driver at the moment running on pure hatred and desire to kill WHITEOUT. He felt insulted that WHITEOUT had discovered their presence and the note just added fuel to the fire burning deep inside Mick’s ego.

  If he was honest the blistering pace was more to do with righting a wrong as fast as possible, than executing a personal vendetta. He had let Sully down and was paranoid Gerry was fuming about this lack of caution, not to mention what Sully’s reaction would be. Correcting this mistake in super-quick time was critical to regaining credibility.

  Mick drew to a halt at the edge of a huge drop.

  Robby closed in behind him.

  ‘WHITEOUT has skied down this without any problems by the look of his ski tracks. Cleanly exiting the run out without evidence of him falling.’ Mick turned around. ’You okay with this Robby?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ Robby cocked his head sideways to judge the steepness.

  ‘Let me ride it out first. Once I am at the bottom follow me down,’ Mick instructed.

  The drop fell away steeply into the low-lying fog, gradually flattening out straight back into a load of sastrugi obscuring exactly where WHITEOUT’s tracks headed off. Only following the steep drop down would give them the clues to his next ski-leg direction.

  Mick was deliberating hard, once he entered the fog WHITEOUT could be there waiting; tapping his Glock on in his drop harness, should he hold it as he skied down to preempt WHITEOUT having a go?

  Still motionless, Mick paused before taking on the steep descent, the pace they had maintained was so fast both
he and Robby had undone their jackets exposing their base-layer t-shirts, both of them covered with a film of sweat beads that were radiating steam. They were poised like two ski jumpers psyching themselves up for the 60kph ice track that lay beneath their skis.

  Without warning Mick went for it with his Glock still holstered. Adopting the classic telemark offset stance he rapidly gained traction and hurtled down the slope, arms spread wide to aid balance. Looking like he was going to pile in with a nervous trip, he managed to stay upright and glided to a halt. ‘Phew,’ he muttered under his breath. Those 20 seconds of concentrating to stay upright had to be the only 20 seconds he had forgotten about WHITEOUT. As he entered the run-out area he was quick to grab his Glock and cover the area to his front. Everything was clear. Looking over his shoulder he raised his poles in the air letting Robby know to crack on.

  Acknowledging the signal Robby adjusted his goggles and started to slide forward to the edge.

  Bracing himself, he bounced a few times to relax his tensed-up legs, shook his shoulders out and took a deep breath. Correcting his posture he took one quick last glance behind him, through his steamed-up goggles he caught a glimpse of a blurred figure three feet away.

  One millisecond later his thoughts disappeared as he felt the freezing cold serrated blade of a knife being rammed into his face with 80kg of kinetic force behind it. Piercing through his goggles effortlessly the blade punctured into his right eyeball, then further into his socket. Before he could even register the excruciating pain of his eyeball being torn to shreds by the serrated blade and shearing into the eye socket bone, the knife was withdrawn.

  Robby screamed out in complete shock. Trying to see what was happening from his one remaining eye whilst stumbling on his skis the blade was now being driven home into the left side of his windpipe. He naturally lifted his hands up to grab the implement. Before his hands even left his ski pole loops the blade was dragged forcefully across his windpipe in a saw-like action, his cartilage causing resistance and agonising pain initially as he remained still partially conscious, feeling his hands flake back to his sides.

  Seconds later the towering strength of WHITEOUT’s right arm behind the knife severed his windpipe with an almost blunt cutting motion. Standing behind Robby now, holding his head with his left arm to steady him, the knife ripped out cleanly throwing small pieces of human flesh and blood through the air.

  Robby dropped to the ground, completely dead. His right ski unclipped and slid away over the edge of the drop.

  Decker crouched over him, saw the ski disappear over the edge. Witnessing the bloodbath implode across the icy surface. He was slightly shocked by the brutality of the murder he had just committed. He remained still, it had been a long time since he’d acted in this manner and now he realised what he’d always known, the skills and killer instinct were never lost. Though the emotional vacancy he’d acquired as a seasoned killer years ago was not quite tuned in yet, this slight delay registering this immediate return to the dirty game of war, took a few seconds to digest.

  ‘Robby!’ His comrade screamed out grabbing Decker’s attention.

  He remained silent, looking at the edge. Aware that the other remaining guy could probably see the steam rising up from the dead man’s arterial blood as it met with the freezing air. The stench was vile.

  A cracking sound of a bullet passing his right ear instantly awakened him from his moment of thought, followed quickly by another. He physically felt it fly past him due to the air dispersion created by the huge velocity the projectile created.

  Decker’s proactive instincts kicked in. ‘Fuck,’ he yelled as he instantly hit the deck and started scrambling around on the floor giving himself orders. ‘One down Decker you’ve got the other one to go, what weapon is it?’ Judging the weapon could help him judge the distance between him and the other guy on his tail.

  Was it a high-calibre rifle or a pistol?

  Lying next to this motionless body and looking towards the edge of the bank a load of ice fragments were sprayed up into his face, another bullet that was meant to kill him. Shit. Things were getting desperate, he needed to search this Robby guy for a weapon. Due to the long white overalls the pistols had not been visible to him when they had both passed him earlier.

  Frantically searching the body he found what he was looking for, trying to pull the pistol free from the holster he struggled to undo the frozen Velcro. A novice mistake by this guy letting it freeze, it was now stalling his chances of drawing the pistol and fighting back with equal firepower.

  He knew the other guy would be closing in, moving back towards the bank, weapon trained on where he last saw him pop his head up. As soon as he had a shot he was dead for sure, as he was only 40 or so feet away.

  Finally breaking the frozen Velcro he held the pistol in his right hand, splaying himself out on the ground as flat as he could not daring to lift his head he knew he only had one option left.

  If the other guy was over the bank with a rifle or pistol aimed directly at him, even if he crawled away a few metres and popped up at a different position, the man over the bank would get the drop. It was a simple rule of angles; you fire a pistol by aiming it from eye level unless you’re a Libyan freedom fighter, firing an AK-47 from above your head or from around a corner. His thought process was entering another rapid decision cycle that would dictate his next move, he needed to decide what to do quickly as to get it wrong could have catastrophic consequences, he knew the other guy would be closing in and fast and would think nothing of seeing him off the second he had a shot, although that was a steep and slippery climb that he’d hoped at least one of them would go down at a time.

  Alternatively he could crawl back stand up and approach the edge with the weapon trained, but his head would appear a nanosecond before he had an arc to fire on, without hitting the edge of the bank in front of him.

  Again that would be too risky, this man over the bank was obviously a professional and would be predicting this sort of shit.

  ‘Ah fuck it.’ With the pistol still in his right hand he crawled like a maniac for 20 metres then got up and started running towards an ice statue without looking back.

  As soon as he got close enough he dove the last few metres into the safety of cover. If this guy tracking him had a high-velocity rifle, a burst of ammunition would rip through the ice formation instantly.

  Looking around the right-hand side of the ice statue he could still see the motionless body. Weapon poised for the second figure to come over the brow he waited.

  A few minutes passed, still nothing.

  Hands and fingers now numb and cold he flexed his trigger finger to ensure it was still functioning; he’d taken his gloves off to stab that guy. Wanting to shake his hands out to get the blood circulating he knew he couldn’t risk taking his right hand off the pistol grip. So he continued to just keep the trigger finger flexing a little inside the trigger guard without pulling the trigger.

  In the opposite direction Mick’s weapon was also pointing at the brow of the bank, he waited. He knew Robby was dead and did not bother to call him and compromise his exact position to WHITEOUT.

  Known as a Mexican stand-off in the business, he knew that neither of them were going to play their hand first. Mick pushed all thoughts of being cold out of his head.

  After three minutes the adrenalin started to drain itself from Decker amplifying the cold.

  He’d known after an hour of skiing that he would not out-ski them. Noticing the severity of the terrain and being fruitfully aware he had at least two hours to put in an ambush, he had chosen his ground wisely.

  Known as a classic double-back he’d skied down the steep bank and continued for another 100-metres so it looked to his trackers’ eyes like he had skied onwards hoping that they would continue to follow.

  Yet after 100 metres he’d made a huge loop West and moved ba
ck to the top of the bank placing himself behind the huge ice statue. From this position he knew he could see who was actually tracking him close up as they were bound to stop and discuss the drop. He could confirm the numbers, weapons, even accents of people he knew from the past maybe, even a clue as to confirm why he was being targeted. Taking his skis off and priming his knife it would just been a waiting game. Behind the ice statue now he was acutely aware that he was on his back foot at the moment and had to make a decision. Taking a quick bearing on his compass, he decided to move and began to run as fast as he could between all the ice statues in front of him for cover. His first priority was to create a gap between him and the other guy.

  If this guy had a rifle he realistically had a good 300-metre kill zone in this weather, anything more and the erratic wind and visibility would start playing havoc with his accuracy. This was the minimum distance of separation deemed safe in his mind. He was erring on the side that the other guy only had a pistol, due to the fact that the snow bank he was nearly shot through earlier was not getting sprayed down with semi-automatic fire, or there was a chance that this guy didn’t know his teammate was dead and was being cautious thinking that his colleague was behind the bank too and incapacitated? Either way Decker moved as quickly as he could.

  Mick slipped his skis off slowly whilst maintaining his aim on the bank and at last he saw WHITEOUT.

  He slowly backed off to another ice statue behind and like WHITEOUT took cover and trained his weapon back on the area of the perceived threat.

  He waited.

  After ten minutes he made the decision that WHITEOUT must have headed off somewhere, especially if he was starting to shiver uncontrollably like Mick, there was no other option but for him to run and get warm. Mick had the same dilemma with his fight against the cold plus he couldn’t let WHITEOUT get away again.