Chapter
1
Sweet Jesus in the rain,
it's at times like this that being alive just doesn't seem worth the candle. Whenever
I'm haunted by ghosts, and there are more than a few out there that were personally
contrived by your truly, I take to the water. This time it isn't for distraction.
This time I've got to be out beyond the Firth of Clyde on the West Coast of
Scotland and into the Irish Sea before anyone has time to realise that I'm gone.
The surface
of the broad, shallow river is grey against an overcast, starless sky. Like all
mariners I miss the comfort of the stars. When they're not around I have the distinct
feeling of there being something missing. On a rising tide I urge the tiller to
starboard and jerk with pain.
There's
blood trickling down my left arm but not in such a sufficiency that it either
bothers or worries me. Thankfully, one, he was a lousy shot and two, I'm right
handed. There's a bullet in there somewhere. I shoved a field-dressing onto it
before pushing off. It'll be fine, this isn't the first time.
The dingy
that I chose to sail in is far from ordinary, it was constructed by my paternal
grandfather, who, like myself, was a man of the sea, as was his grandfather
before him and all of those of us male members of the Clan Gunn in between. The
former, a Royal Marine Commando, the latter a Royal Marine who, when not
defending the realm against all external aggression, liked to do nothing but
fish. Simple men, ordinary men, who lived out their ordinary military lives
with distinction.
The
Commando built this craft lovingly in his spare time and in his back garden
well before epoxy resin appeared on the scene. A fourteen foot, larch on oak,
clinker built dingy. He believed in tradition. He believed in continuity. He
believed in me.
I swing
the tiller to starboard. The jib shakes, flaps and drops as I tack against the
oncoming breeze and then the rig lifts and the craft jerks forward with a new
enthusiasm. The set-up, main and jib are hemp, no cotton fibres or polyester
here, they stiffen as they swell and grow big bellied.
This
makes me smile, this always makes me smile, it always
allows me to feel like a kid again. At this an image of Shona forces its way
into my head. Right this minute the last thing I need is a distraction but here
she is larger than life.
For me there's
always been something of the fairy queen about this woman, she's six foot and
an inch tall, I'm considered tall and I only just beat her by two inches.
Believe it or not she's the image of Elfhame, Queen of the Fairies, as she
appears in all of the Fairy Tale books. You'd swear that Shona had modelled for
each and every one of those prints.
As a kid
I loved Elfhame with a passion, if anyone so much as looked at her the wrong
way she would pull out her bow or her sword or her spear and let them have it
good and proper. To add to this she had magic bolts of lightning or frost that
came right out from her fingertips. God but she was powerful. She was my kind
of woman. I grew up with her in my dreams and then along came Shona.
Shona's
enthusiasm for everything in life radiates outwards like the magnetic field
given off by a dynamo. I'm caught up in this each and every time, re-invigorated.
Right now my body physically aches to be inside of her. I see the beads of
sweat that formed on her skin and shimmered in the sunlight when we had sex amongst
the heather on the lower hills when we first met and went out walking.
Later on,
when she got around to my ways and began to climb with facility, we would get
to ascend Munros the likes of Lochnagar or Ben Nevis or the Buachaille Etive
Mor at the head of Glen Coe.
Somewhere
around the summit, no comforting heather here, nothing but scree and the
roughest of grass, I was always sufficiently the gentleman to be the one that
lay on my back and welcomed her onto me. Up there, with the impatience of kids,
we would set about climbing each other. This was our version of Munro Bagging.
Shona makes
love with the fervour of a Scottish Wildcat in full flight. It's not that she
dominates, she does exactly the opposite but with a fanaticism that I'd never
known in any woman. To crown it all she has the flexibility that you would
expect of a dancer.
She's danced
with Scottish Ballet in her time. In my mind's eye I see her soar to those
impossible heights of the grand Jete' that she achieved when dancing the lead
in their production of Don Quichotte. Soaring above and beyond the less
talented. I was astonished by this, as was the audience. That was back then
during the dream time, things are now very different.
I'm
forced to push the image of her to one side, I need to concentrate for just a
little longer if I'm to get through this. Time is of the essence. I've just
killed four nice, well brought up, well-educated, middle-class, British boys, citizens of this country born and bred, so there are those,
on both sides of the law, who will already be after my body. Am I a monster?
No, I'm just your average guy stumbling through his day.
It was
the usual deal, I won they lost. In my profession I should have been dead and
buried long since but the competition has never quite measured up to it. Like
those four guys most of the competition thinks of itself as being tough and
this is just about the worst mistake that you can make in my line of work.
Maybe
they are maybe they are not but in my game tough doesn't cut it. In my game being
one step ahead of the other guy is what brings home the bacon and I generally
am. The key lies in preparation. This is not vanity, it's just a fact. The proof
of this lays in the fact that out of all of them, and there have been many, I'm
the one still breathing. Only just, mind you, considering the predicament I'm
in but as they say, it comes with the territory.
I suppose
the urge began when I was a vacant space waiting to be filled and going to the
movies, ever since then I've been driven by the need to be both self-reliant
and good with a weapon. I was fascinated by the very nature of such things. I've
no idea of why this is.
Especially
with regards to the weapons, back then I was surely much too innocent to recognise
the sheer power of firing a rifle or an underwater pistol at a living target. All
I knew was that those characters in the movies who has mastery over such things
were amongst those most admired.
I
practiced in the privacy of my bedroom, I practiced more publically in the
garden with plastic guns and the noise of the displacement of air being emitted
from my mouth. Once I had acquired a certain age and we had moved, due to my
father's latest posting, down into the village of Drymen just north of Glasgow I
began travelling into this city in order to practice in passing fairgrounds.
I did
this for two reasons, the first and principal reason was because I came to
recognise that my prowess with such things greatly impressed any bird I was even
vaguely attracted to. Even an airgun served to impress them. I learned that
birds crave both protection and the reassurance of strength that the weapon
holder provides.
I learned
that their fragile imaginations were filled with fantasies of being saved from
the one thing that they dreaded most and could do least about, the constant threat
of physical violence. They proved to be more than grateful, they were more often
than not open and welcoming beyond the recognised norm.
I discovered
myself not so much taking advantage of them as complying with their wishes.
Without knowing it, as a lad in my teens with my hormones creating so much
havoc that they threatened to rip through my skin and do me a serious damage, I
had unravelled one of the prime mysteries in the life every sexually frustrated
and over eager young sod on the planet. How to get laid without even trying. I
no longer had to hold out a begging bowl in order to get my end away, I suddenly
found myself beating them off with a proverbial stick.
The
second reason was that the weapons in such places as fairgrounds come with real
ammunition and that the stall holders even have the good grace to provide their
clients with targets on the move. I was being presented with a challenge and I
answered it with an enthusiasm that burned deep in my belly. Fond memories of
days when life was a much simpler deal. Things did not shoot back, then.
With time
and effort I eventually got my wish. I'm now not simply good with the various
weapons of my choice, I excel. If you happen to have a need and you have a
Contact Target that you want to be eliminated with the minimum of fuss and at
extreme distance of anything up to four kilometres, then you will find yourself
more often than not getting in touch with me or the likes of me.
All very
legal of course. I'm a Royal Marine, a Bootneck who went on to become a part of
the elite Special Boat Service. The Thrashing that the SBS handed down to me
during the Acquaint and then the Beasting damn near did me in but I got there in
the end. This being so now variously referred to by those who do not love me as
a Bubble Head, an Underwater Knife Fighter, a Canoe Driver or simply Pond Life.
Because
of my speciality I'm, at times, seconded into the Secret Intelligence Service. Within
the SBS we refer to this as going on holiday. We vanish from our bivvy for a
few weeks and then reappear behind Squadron Lines. No questions are asked.
There in
that secret of most secret worlds I find myself rubbing shoulders with the real
spies. Now their sort of Black Ops really can be filed away and buried under
the general heading of being 'Morally Suspect' but more of that later.
The only
other relevant information that you need to know at this particular juncture in
our relationship is that I always wanted to be a writer, a real one. My
grandfather, again. This dingy he christened the Nellie in honour of Conrad
whose books were to be found sticking out of one pocket or the other. Granddad
ranted on so endlessly about this sea captain who penned more than one masterpiece
that I dreamed of becoming just like him one day.
Don't get
me wrong, I admired and loved every last one of my family and did want to shoot
people but at the same time akin to most young guys I wanted to be different. I
wanted to be cool. I wanted to be the writer of international standing that
granddaddy would admire.
I never
made it. No talent. Just about broke my heart but once I got myself settled
into the Marines, like so many others these days, I became comfortable enough
to begin to write about my various Ops in the form of page turners. Better than
bugger all, I suppose.
Financially,
I do pretty well with the writing. I'm into my fourth book now and two of them
have managed to sneak their way onto the best sellers list. Even I don't call
myself a writer-writer, I sort of muddle along and depend on exposing stuff
about the world of which the general public are not aware. Until this last one,
that's. This last one is where all of this began. It's where I'm sure the
bullet now residing in my shoulder originated.
Like any
other combatant I ache to be in the middle of whatever scrap happens to be
going down at that particular time. I enjoy the hunt and relish the kill. The
opposition are killers, we're killers. When a fire-fight kicks off we're, all
of us, in our element.
We hunt
each other down with a pleasure that lies beyond the comprehension of the
civilian. We have not only been given permission to act out of our innate
savage nature but we experience a great sense of honour in doing so.
Full Blown
Contact is what we signed-up for and what we live for and doubt this not, there
are instants, right there at the centre of it all, at its heart, when it can
approach the sublime. The rest is watching telly and getting laid in the arms
of some eager and well-meaning stranger with a prick that's as emotionless as a
lump of rubber.
The last
Full Blown Contact, however, did not go well. It took place in the Sand Pit
(Afghanistan or Iraq, this time it was Afghanistan). It began very badly and
went down the head (toilet) from there on in. I had a new squaddy in my group
and I mean raw new. So raw that when some of the maniacs hired by one of the
myriad of private security companies, who run just about everything out here,
asked him to a gig he said yes.
These
maniacs are all ex-military to the last man, of course, with their green t-shirts,
desert-camouflage and the compulsory fashion accessory, an M10, as long as it's
manufactures by the Colt Company then it smacks of John Wayne and is in. The
fact that this particular actor had his film company deliberately fake his
call-up medical in order not to serve his country seems to have been
conveniently forgotten by one and all.
This is
the very fact that makes him the perfect hero, a marine, a gunslinger and a
pugilist extraordinaire who managed never to harm or piss-off a single soul. Perfection.
I've pissed-off far too many but fortunately they have no idea who I am or
where I hang out.
Anyway, none
of this lot's John Wayne, they're in the process of having a rape party. They invite
my squaddy along. He knew a couple of these guys so was well up and over eager
for it. Besides, as he put it, he had never had a haji's daughter who wasn't up
for it and screaming her wig off in the process.
They do
this, you see, are legendary for it, round up a half-dozen or sometimes a dozen
or so birds from the outlying districts and label them as terrorist suspects.
These guys have carte blanche' out here.
Military
can't touch them. They then strip the birds naked and lock them in a room for a
week or so where they are interrogated at great length before being released
for lack of evidence.
This
group are a little bit extra strange though, they seem to have no function.
They are attached to no particular body and yet they have all of the paper that
allows them complete access to all areas and clearance above and beyond the
norm.
The
second thing is that I recognise one or two of them and they are part of the
elite. A few of the others I've never met but I can tell by the cut of their
jib that they are exceptionally good at what they do, whatever that is.
No, this
lot are not your run of the mill security team. This is a hit team if ever I
saw one and I should know. The M10s are their own little joke, their hardware
is stashed away somewhere close by and when this lot spring into action a whole
lot of punters are going to die. This lot are weird city and then some.
I can't
help but wonder if my father is involved in any way in any of this. It's no
more than a passing thought but when he retired from the commandoes he was
offered a job in the private sector as a strategist and planner. He took it and
now he and my mother are living the high life out there in Barbados.
It's one
of the particular ironies of modern conflict that we could well be fighting on
opposite sides of the fence and never know it. We communicate very little, this
by no means indicates that he does not love me, he loves me to bits but has
never been given to what he perceives to be wishy-washy sentimentality.
He shows
it in other ways, generally with a nod or a salute, even as a child when I was
five or six and a cub scout I could tell that he was trying desperately to
break out. Christmas and birthdays is about it and always via the laptop. I did
a couple of personal visits to him on his island but while my mother was gushing
with tears and all over me he shook my hand and looked ever so slightly
discomforted.
I could
tell that he wanted desperately for us to be buddies. He just had no idea of
how to go about it. Anyway, when we do communicate over the ether I'm never
sufficiently crass as to ask him what he's up to in his career and he does
likewise.
We were
brought up and we live within a world of career silence. It is our way. Being a member of Special Forces is in many
ways like being a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, 'What goes on in here stays
in here.' Not even our families are allowed to know.
Anyway, I've
to explain to the new squaddie that the Regiment is not into this sort of
thing. He protests, his civil rights and all of that. I tell him in no
uncertain terms that if he wants in with them then he can get out of my unit
now.
I can't
charge him, I can't report him. What the private security firms do in their own
time is up to them, as I say, what goes on out here stays out here, we're told.
This is not a request, this is a direct order. I tell him that the deal is that
he does not speak of it ever again, these private firms are more powerful than
the army, the navy and the air force all bundled into one.
They run
the show and could have all of us fried. In fact now that enough members of the
Afghan and Pakistani governments have been sorted out these guys are just
waiting for all of us useless and boring military to be pulled out so that they
can run the entire show with impunity. End off. I also remind him that I'm one
punter that he should not piss-off. He knows what I am but not, of course, who I
am. So he agrees to forget it.
Later on
we discover ourselves being forced into travelling through the American run heroin
poppy-fields in Sanjin in the Helmand Province in search of some insurgents. We
had Intel. This lot were a specialist squad.
Their
task was to infiltrate Kabul and blow a building. This they had already
achieved. Ten dead, seven of them civilians. Now they were heading home. I set
up where we can skeg most of the landscape which is pretty flat.
Problem
is, we're not supposed to be here but this is the way that they will come. This
is where they are fairly safe if they arrive and depart without fire-sticks. Nobody
wants a firefight of any sort inside a poppy-field. The direct orders to the
American Marines are, if you can avoid it, let them pass.
When
you're in full desert field kit with a kisser smeared with predominantly green-cam
then you're boiling away like a midday meal, and knowing that what you are
doing is illegal does not help. The sun is up there in a cloudless sky just to
annoy the living daylights out of us.
We're
already soaked through with sweat to say nothing of the bugs that have deserted
the blossoms and nectar of the poppy plants for good old fashioned animal blood.
Insect repellent, what a load of old moody. Bloody next to useless.
One of my
squaddies eyeballs them first. We're on. They move. We track them. They pause.
We pause. For whatever reason there were no American Marine Regiments guarding
this particular patch on this particular day which is strange, they are
generally here in their hundreds.
The rules
laid down are very strict, there's a saying amongst the American troops out here,
'President Obama truly believes in GOD: Gold, Oil and Drugs', there has been an
enormous amount of investment in this region we, the Brits, enter these fields
at our peril.
Early in 2001
the Taliban, in an attempt to get their population off heroin, began to burn
the poppy crop. The American, British and International Banks who finance its
production and worldwide distribution began to lose three hundred million
dollars a month, their fifteen per cent cut of the international trade.
America quite
suddenly declared that it was searching for none other than Osama bin Leiden in
a cave in Afghanistan. War was declared on October seventh and by the end of
the year the Taliban had been driven out.
Not only
was the status quo re-established, it was immediately recognised by the banks that
what now lay in front of them was an opportunity not to be missed. Not only did
they re-plant the original fields but added thirty times as many. Managing to
provide more than ninety per cent of the world's heroin.
None of
this is any of our business, as far as we were concerned we take the bad guys out
guidelines or no. If they reach the Pakistan border then they are home and dry and
into the safety of their wives and families.
No way we can cross the border into Pakistan and deal with them.
These guys live in Pakistan as free citizens to cross the border and deal with
them in any way would be to insult our one ally in the region. This would be
considered unforgiveable.
Anyway, we
get noticed, a firefight kicks off. The new guy uses an incendiary device. An
incendiary, this is the sort of squaddie they are giving me these days. It
fries the Taliban okay but takes out quite a few poppy fields. We find
ourselves immediately surrounded by about a hundred Yank Marines plus a couple
of Black-hawk helicopter gunships.
A cloud
of smoke rises into the air around here and the gates of Hades are opened. Our
weapons are removed and we're placed under arrest for the wanton destruction of
American property. We have offended our masters and must now be held up and
displayed to all and sundry as an example.
We get
rightly worried when two guys in suits and Foster Grant sunglasses, in this day
and age, appear on the scene seemingly out of nowhere. Security Firm employees
or CIA. Their voices are raised sufficiently for us to actually hear what is
being discussed. They are saying that they would prefer that a friendly-fire
incident take place.
That is,
that we should be mistaken for the Taliban and mowed down. The marine captain
is having none of it, he's reminding them that there already have been two
friendly-fire incidents amongst their own troops this month and though mugs the
Brits may be they might just decide on this occasion to create a stink.
Questions would be asked.
We
consider ourselves fortunate when we're simply put in chains and ignominiously
transported back into our own lines. Trust me, the amount of American Marines
who have been about to go home and blow the whistle on what's going on out here
to congress since 2001 but have changed their minds at the last minute and come
to the immediate and out of character decision to commit suicide in these very
fields using their own rifle is legend.
Such are
the vagaries of modern warfare. I scrawl some stuff down in one of my many
notebooks. It is remarkably difficult at times to figure out who the enemy
really is. I decide there and then that I have to write a novel based on all of
this, a sort of fictional expose. This excites me, it's the sort of skirmish
that will allow me to fight back.
Little
did I know then that I had opened the gates of Hell and unleashed all of
Lucifer's minions upon myself and everyone who had even so much as breathed
into my ear.