The Clinic

by Ray Carole

  A huge ice formation was to his front and he chose it as his next point for a quick rest.

  Immediately chunks of it were shot to pieces as he heard the familiar crack of a bullet travelling past his ears.

  He turned to look back and saw two figures about 200 metres away, before the mist obscured them, only to be sighted again seconds later.

  ‘This is fucking insane but keep going you’re 200 metres ahead. The ground is perfect for evasion and they have a prisoner to deal with.’

  He rationalised with himself. ‘By the looks of it they aren’t trying to kill me and that’s a fucking first in my life when an enemy has been shooting towards me.’

  Another final charge of 20 metres got him to another trench that ran deep and seemed to continue for around 50 metres to the right. Without hesitation he headed right down into it unsighted to the gunmen, his internal rhetoric keeping him focused.

  ‘Let’s get to the end of this trench pop up and head off in a different direction, even back towards where I came from. What is going on? Who are these guys? Who is the one on the floor, it has to be the other killer…’

  Decker began praying for another bout of bad weather and no visibility, but that wasn’t happening, all he had was 100-300 metres in and out, and it was getting clearer.

  *****

  The man in pursuit breathed calmly and followed WHITEOUT’s tracks right to the point of entry to the trench. It was a 5-metre drop down into the trench system that was narrow and veered off to the right.

  The man continued looking down into the trench but did not drop in. Scanning his weapon and walking along the top, he looked for WHITEOUT.

  About 6 foot 2, fully clad in arctic warfare equipment consisting of white camouflage clothing wearing a commando cache over it, he was military. Face covered with a white balaclava and goggles he remained static just scanning the area to his front looking for WHITEOUT. ‘Brilliant,’ the man sighed. He muttered into his radio to his colleague covering from behind before jumping down in to the trench.

  ‘I need a condor moment,’ Decker thought, like a time-out in basketball to figure out your next play. He was feeling slightly disorientated and tried to establish his bearings. With no time to boot up his GPS he quickly checked his compass. Looking at due south, the general direction of the RV, he decided to get moving towards it.

  The terrain was a mass of trench systems, sharp drops and short areas of flat ground. Despite the moment of complete turmoil he thought, ‘It could be worse I could still be pulling that fucking iron bath of a pulk across this shit hole.’

  Keeping glued to the compass was essential as the terrain kept throwing his bearings as he ran, climbed and crawled his way amongst the labyrinth. It felt so slow with the sudden bursts of explosive energy creating lactic acid that only served to fatigue his muscles quicker. Rubbing them to keep them warm and the circulation going, he knew he needed them more than ever to haul himself up sides of steep drops. Crawling rapidly over flatter areas to avoid detection was draining him quickly to exhaustion again. Only his mental resolve and focus from his previous life would help him to once again exceed previous thresholds.

  ‘Fuck this crawling. If they see me they see me. Just head on the bearing now and keep looking over your shoulder. No more silly buggers jumping around, I just need to stay a good distance away and out of their sights. Remember, I don’t think they want me dead.’

  Pep talk over, he adopted a normal walking pace and started to take each obstacle in his stride. He had to play the long game. Becoming delusional due to exhaustion would get him killed within hours, at worst, minutes. It was all about pacing himself now and using his energy conservation to keep his body in check with a fresh and re-focused mind.

  Chapter 32

  Soon after intercepting Mick’s report of Decker’s empty tent to Gerry, the Russian CO ordered his intercept team to fly to the co-ordinates of the tent. They touched down, cleared up the mess, taking all of the kit.

  During the 4-hour flight they also intercepted the call that confirmed Robby had just been killed. Not only did this confirm that this whole situation unfolding was of strategic value, it gave them a closer co-ordinate to aim for to begin their very own intervention operation.

  Managing to fly close and avoid a catastrophic air disaster due to the weather, the 5-man team were dropped off within a few hundreds metres of Robby. Forced to take off, fly high and fast out to the area, the helicopter was now stranded until the weather window opened again.

  The Russians were on their own for a while, no back-up, no support. Just increased firepower, energy levels and expert knowledge of the Antarctic terrain, although even they were starting to get cold on the trail of Decker and Mick.

  Ivan, the Russian Spetsnaz Captain, closed the remaining good eye of the man they knew to be called Robby, he then inspected the gaping knife wound. Judging from the death scene he figured Decker was unarmed at the point of kill. It was clear he was a ruthless operator that looked to be surviving on instinct and improvisation. Ivan squashed the torn eyeball that was hanging on his cheek by the cartilage and tendons back into its rightful resting place, back into its socket using his right thumb.

  Ivan clocked the empty holster on Robby’s leg, working on the assumption that Decker was now armed with a pistol and spare magazine. As he looked at Robby’s face Ivan pictured how the fateful scene had unfolded. Was this man Decker desperate when he did this? Or was he thriving in the moment?

  Ivan assumed that the other guy known as ‘Mick’ who made the satellite phone calls would only be armed with the same type of weapon as his dead partner, as there was no evidence of larger calibre weapons. No 5.56mm or 7.62mm magazine pouches. This was good news as it meant the threat to his team with their superior weapon systems was low. The manhunt could continue safely in the knowledge that they had potentially huge stand-off capability against two men with 9mm pistols and a few hunting knives.

  Not hanging around to cordon off the area and create a crime scene, Captain Ivan quickly made the task simple. He and his fellow operator would follow the tracks of both men to capture them. It didn’t take them long to see the footprints of two men, heading in the same direction.

  Staying on skis and roughing it out in the weather that had grounded the two men, the Russians closed in within an hour.

  As the weather cleared they strapped their skis to their backpacks and started tracking on foot again. Once they had either men in their sights, a burst of ammunition around their legs would gain their capitulation pretty quickly.

  As Ivan followed his lead scout tracking the prints of Decker or Mick through the thick fog he was shocked to suddenly see him drop to the floor. The sound of the gunshots were muted in the wind, but it was clear by his jerking body that he had been shot multiple times with small flesh segments spitting across the ice.

  Ivan brought his rifle up on aim trying to figure out what was happening when he saw a figure come across his front from behind an ice boulder. Holding and shooting a pistol again as he moved at the lead scout Ivan took two shots.

  Seeing the body spin then collapse to the floor Ivan closed in fast to dominate. The snow-draped figure lay helpless before him, his pistol on the ice, top slide to the rear after expending all his bullets.

  Rippimg his mask and balaclava off, he instantly recognised him not to be Decker from the images of his face from his blogs, Ivan looked down at him whilst another soldier checked the guy who had been killed by Mick.

  ‘Stay still Mick, don’t fucking move,’ Ivan shouted at him.

  Mick returned his gaze, clearly accepting his fate.

  ‘Who the hell is WHITEOUT?’ he whispered before the initial butt stroke across his face and numerous kicks in the head attempted to produce any groundbreaking intelligence.

  Ivan was convinced Mick was who he said he was after spilling
the story about working for an unknown agency tasked to hunt down a man known as WHITEOUT. Clearly Harry Decker.

  Another 10 minutes of beatings getting the same repeated answers and Ivan had to get moving again.

  Instructing one of his soldiers to cuff Mick’s hands with zip ties they needed to leave him and pursue the tracks of Harry Decker again.

  Quick as a flash, another member of his Russian team stepped out from the ice statue urgently stating that he had seen WHITEOUT in the distance backtracking towards cover, so started firing.

  No capitulation.

  No hands in the air from Decker.

  Just an instantaneous reaction to get out of their killing zone.

  Looking down at Mick, Ivan said ‘I guess that’s the man who killed your second-rate comrade. Yes?’

  Mick’s face was covered in claret with visible bruising setting in, he looked bemused.

  ‘As they say in the books Mick,’ Ivan paused as his colleague emptied another 10-12 rounds in Decker’s direction. “You can take the man out of the SAS, but you will never take the SAS out of the man.” I think you people forgot that he was a ruthless killer hey?’ Reaching for his pack of cigarettes, he pulled one out, tapped the end on the packet. Looking at Mick he continued: ‘Is this Decker man crazy? Or is he a fucking genius that you people just can’t catch, not even on his own down here?’

  He rapped an order out to his colleague in Russian and without hesitation two men ran past him weapons at the ready, clearly in pursuit of Decker.

  Turning to see his comrades head off into the abyss to hunt down Decker, Ivan got his zippo lighter out, shielded himself from the wind and cupped the cigarette and lighter to spark one up.

  Sucking in his first drag and blowing it out, he sighed then pulled out his small notepad with his left hand and started thumbing through the pages.

  ‘Here it is Mick,’ he announced.

  Mick managed eye contact, though his right eye was almost closed due to the bruising from the last ten minutes of field interrogation.

  The Russian started reading from his notepad.

  ‘Mick, listen: “‘He’s a loose end that is inhibiting the activation of the most covert mind manipulation programme that will can kill terrorism from within…’It’s a world game-changer in so many different ways I can’t explain. We need him dead mate.”’

  Ivan watched as Mick winced, obviously recognising the words to be exactly what Gerry uttered to him over the sat phone earlier.

  ‘Maybe that tells you why we want this man alive, and not so dead like the British government want him, hey Mick?’

  Chapter 33

  Thundering across the Antarctic wastelands, both of the AT44 Toyota Hilux Arctic trucks did a good job of churning up ice and snow, leaving a cloud of white dust in their wake.

  Heading directly to the Pole the AT44s aggressively battled one another to gain supremacy as they approached the final straight, in what could have been an epic final to an ice-tracked Grand Prix.

  The sheer arrogance, carelessness and competitiveness of the two trucks’ movements reflected the men’s personalities that drove them. ‘Not long now till we see Decker boy.’ Andrew grinned as his team whooped and hollered.

  Successful businessmen, hard and fast playboys, with a true tenacity for adventure was the absolute core of the Trans-Antarctica Team’s philosophy.

  Delayed for three weeks with Decker at the Hotel Cabo de Hornos in the town centre of Punta Arenas, the group of them quickly gained a reputation for being seasonal hard chargers. Fine dining in the evening to soak up the beer consumed after lunch, they hijacked Decker into their very own mini rock band road trip across the Punta Arenas district.

  Decker had done his preparation by this time in Punta Arenas and was more concerned with increasing his body fat for the expedition ahead whilst he was delayed waiting for his ride in.

  Andrew, co-owner of Trans-Ant threw a pint of Heineken in his hand one night, rudely interrupting Harry’s daily blog from the hotel table he sat at religiously, he didn’t blink.

  Simply slapping down the top cover of his laptop Decker had nodded his head, saying, ‘Cheers Si,’ and with that he’d joined the Trans-Ant road show.

  Andrew and the guys grew to like Decker fast. A true modern-day hero in their eyes, he embodied everything they thought an SAS man could and should be. A quiet and private individual who had gravitas whilst maintaining complete modesty about him. The way he’d talked about his ambitious and life-threatening world record attempt with such matter-of-fact conviction gained the respect of all of them. Clearly a fearless individual who was somehow settling a score, or planning his own destiny to move forward in, and that was what Andrew loved about him. A man after his own heart Andrew thought as he charged the vehicle forwards casually over the ice.

  An instant synergy formed between them all, whether this was eating over breakfast or propping up the bar at a local dark spot, Harry was one of them.

  A few late-night drinking sessions had led him to vent some of his past angers and grievances to a team that sat around him in awe. Never disclosing the where, what or who most of the time, Harry would let the team live out their schoolboy dreams through his intricately crafted stories that would leave them always wanting more.

  One moment he was breaching into a stronghold in Central Baghdad coming face to face with AQ suicide networks in order to free hostages, the next fighting his way out of an attempt by AQ to take him hostage during an undercover mission that resulted in it being a failed attempt, and another few less extremists to worry about.

  Other stories centred around him narrowly getting out of situations that involved huge volumes of alcohol, fit girls and a few right uppercuts.

  Decker had brought a beauty and romance to the war experience. To him it wasn’t a diehard job, a war of attrition or simply kill-or-capture missions. It was his life, his journey on the road to mastery. War was the canvas in his life, one where each brushstroke was created by an operation, an experience or thought. On their last night in Punta Andrew had made a pact with Decker that they would meet in Antarctica before Trans-Ant headed home no matter where he was, just to say goodbye. He was going to honour that promise he thought. Catching the truck next to him signalling to slow down, they both drew to a halt.

  Andrew in his Trans-Ant expedition clothing stepped out to greet Gerry and Sean. ‘Hi guys, I’m Si,’ as he outstretched his hand.

  The man taking it spoke clearly: ‘Hi Si, I’m Gerry, this is Sean, thanks for having us onboard.’

  ‘Our pleasure, we’re all one team down here. Let’s get your kit on the trucks.’ Andrew was keen to get a move on as they still had some scientific testing to do before they met with Decker later this evening. No one had heard from him for a day or so but Andrew was still heading for the RV he had made with him a few days back before his phone cut off at base camp with Steve. It was the last stop on Trans-Ant’s expedition that had seen them break land-speed records across the continent, as well as gathering much needed scientific research. Nothing would stop Andrew making that RV. At roughly 1830 hrs they would find him, come hell or high water. In their eyes he was the man, the legend.

  *****

  Decker stopped, he felt heavy on his feet and needed a moment to take in his new surroundings with the awe that they deserved. He was standing in a labyrinth of tunnels marked out by steep sharp drops into the abyss, it looked like the entrance to an icy maze at a theme park.

  ‘This is exactly what Conrad was talking about, in fact it’s the photos he showed me when he said guess where this is?’ Decker paused longer, taking it in. They were the opposite of the mazes created by high, immaculately trimmed hedges at country estates that his parents used to take him to on Sundays. ‘Dad wasn’t chasing me like he used to either, when I craftily evaded his futile attempts to capture me.’ The s
ix-foot-two man mountain called Dad was now replaced by trained killers. Quite the change, Decker mused.

  Now I am alone.

  Now I am outnumbered.

  Now I have inferior firepower and reach and I don’t know who is who.

  He laughed slightly as an image of his dad popped into his mind.

  ‘These things are meant to test you son.’ He heard his dad’s voice ring out clear in his mind, like he always had done in any conflict zone or whenever he’d hit times of extreme adversity.

  ‘You can only control what’s happening now boy, never think of the past, just dream of the future and live in the now, control the now.’

  Gosh those words have shaped my life, as the comforting voice interrupted him again.

  ‘I never ever once doubted anything you attempted, I always knew you would do it.’

  He was right I have never failed at anything. I have doubted myself but that was all part of the process of being human, that doubt reinforces self-belief and makes us who we are.

  ‘It takes a real man to walk away from a fight than one to stand and fight son.’ That last statement snapped him straight back into reality.

  ‘Ha, god I wish you could see me now Dad. This is one fucking fight I can’t walk away from. This is the only fight I have to walk straight into, if I ever want to pass on the wise words of wisdom you passed on to me.’

  Memory lane over, Decker thought hard as he surveyed the terrain around him trying to establish another plan of action.

  A thick ground fog that came up to his waist-height moved eerily through the labyrinth, the wind had died down and without it a deathly silence had crept in.

  Moving at the same pace as the slow-flowing blanket of fog he reminded himself that every step he took was now vital, either from slipping off down a crevasse or turning a corner to find his pursuer waiting to meet him. He moved with caution, always training his pistol to his front. With so many sharp corners and changes in trench directions the man could appear at any moment. If he did, he was poised to take him down, the SAS training engrained into his every move. No warning shots or shouts to gain capitulation, just a clinical and highly accurate set of double taps aimed at the head if the guy was within ten metres. Any distance further was two to the body initially or as many as it took to ground him, so he was motionless and no longer a threat.