A Trooper's Wife

By Peter Jackson

Jennie.....the retired Detective Sergeant, George, her husband, a retired Special Air Service Trooper, CEO and sole proprietor of a large security firm. He’s into boats.....large boats, she’s into horses.....thoroughbreds....they can afford it.
Their past catches up with them but George is off delivering a boat on the other side of the world, Jennie, therefore, is left to deal with the threat to their very existence. The tale takes us from the soft folds of the Herefordshire countryside, through the mixing pot of Central America, to the mountains of Southern Mexico......and back.
Thousands of pages have been written on “the will to live,”................ “revenge” might well be a significant ingredient.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Jackson
• Release date: Feb 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9780986910227

Peter Jackson

A retired single handed sailor with a love of dogs, rugby, golf and family not necessarily in that order. I get more curious as I get older and read books voraciously. I try and make my creations believable with an eye to "description" particularly of those places I've visited personally which is most of the "locales" in my books. I write because I love to write not as a means to pay the bills, although it would be nice as every "author" will tell you. For most, the marketing is far more difficult than the writing. The Irish Whiskey "Writer's Tears" is surely aimed at the marketing, effort not the tale itself. There perhaps is the operative word.....my books are a tale, a yarn. Hopefully something to get lost in. The good guys wear white hats, the bad....black but quite often good is not good and bad is not bad. All will become clear.........even to me as I never know how it's all going to end until the end.....that's the fun of it!

Book preview

Chapter 1

She woke up in a sweat all alone in the queen size bed. The same bloody dream had snatched her from sleep.......again. It was still pitch black outside, the bedside clock reading just after 3.00am. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep....she'd tried that before. She never seemed to have the dream when George, her husband, was home snoring quietly by her side, only when he was away as he was now. She slipped out of bed dressed just in her Mickey Mouse tee shirt which barely covered her hips......no panties. It's all she ever wore to bed when George was away, of course when he was home she didn't wear anything. Although forty five and with George now almost sixty that's how they liked it. Her stomach gave a little flutter at the thought, he'd already been away too long.

The house surrounded her with a deep seated sense of security, quiet now as though asleep but never brooding. She was alone but didn't feel alone. She stood up, slipped on a terry cloth housecoat, splashed some water on her face in the ensuite and looked at the face quizzically looking back at her from the mirror.

Not bad for forty five she thought, bit tired looking, a bit baggy under the eyes but, give it a break, it's 3.00 in the morning, no sign of middle age yet. Is that what she is.....middle aged? The jaw line is still firm and some laugh wrinkles are starting to show around the eyes......they do laugh a lot, hair's the same color as when she was a teenager, auburn with lighter streaks, all natural, the result of the summer sun, she kept it short.....easy care. The eyes are green, wide set in a freckled face........that sun again. She walked into her dressing room and slipped off the house coat. Lifting up her tee shirt she struck a pose and inspected herself in the full length mirror. She was still lean and hard. Her breasts she would describe as perky with no sign of sagging, her stomach still flat.......keep up the running and the tennis. They'd never had children although they'd talked about it a lot and it certainly wasn't for a lack of trying. George loved her body and nobody could ever accuse her of being shy in that department.......'too bloody noisy' is what George used to say, her stomach fluttered again at the thought.

Standing over the stove in the kitchen waiting for the milk to heat up she contemplated the house and the plans George and she still had for it. It had become a hobby almost, although the house had survived this long and would most certainly outlive them both. It was built in 1770, designed by Robert Adams and was originally the manor house outside of Eaton Bishop in Herefordshire in the south west of England.

The milk started to foam in the pan on the Aga, she poured it over the hot chocolate and sat at the huge, scarred, pine table in the kitchen. The noise had woken up the two dogs asleep in their baskets in the mud room. They padded into the kitchen and stretched out at her feet wondering what the hell was going on at this time of the night.

Of course she and George rattled around in the house, it was far too big for the two of them, seven bedrooms, huge kitchen, dining room, sitting room, breakfast room and study. George even had a special room on the main floor in which he stored his collection of weapons and native artifacts from his travels in Malaysia and other more clandestine places. There were even servant's quarters on a third floor under the roof but she never went up there.

The main house sat in the middle of 300 acres, much of which was broken up into paddocks as horses were Jen's main passion, thoroughbreds to be specific. It was approached by way of a gatehouse and a quarter mile of winding driveway lined with ancient Beeches. The road continued behind the house, up a slight rise, to the barns and drive sheds, the land then sloping down to the river. To the east and to the south the property was bordered by thick woodland. They'd quite recently added a new barn as Jen's horse business had expanded, particularly the breeding side of things. They had added a number of foaling stalls complete with a video surveillance system tied into both the main house, the gatehouse and ultimately to the new farm manager's house currently under construction. The gatehouse, itself a spectacular 18th century stone home complete with mullioned windows, gabled roof and tall chimneys was occupied by Terry and Margaret Iredale, old friends and army buddy of George. Terry was responsible for the farm maintenance and Margaret looked after the house and acted as den mother to both George and Jen. A breeding and farm manager had been hired but would only move in once the new house was finished.

Sitting at the table, sipping the scalding hot chocolate, the night silence only broken by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the main hallway, her thoughts wandered back to her mum, her dad and her two sisters.

Her mother, now seventy six, had never really been the same after her father had left almost forty years ago. Jen had seen her father regularly after the split up although he had moved to Gloucester and joined the Gloucestershire Constabulary. She had lived with her mother until she was eighteen then had gone to University and ultimately joined the West Mercia Police. It was just a few years ago that she had made it to Detective Sergeant and it was then she had met George Mudd....they'd married just five years ago.

As for her sisters, Viv had left home when Jen was about twelve and she hadn't seen or heard from her since. She contacted their mother from time to time always asking for money but never visiting, never enquiring, never interested. Kate on the other hand she saw quite regularly....even now. Ultimately Kate had moved to Gloucester to be closer to their father and was now happily married to Brian Trenholme. They had a couple of kids that were just learning to ride. Soon after Jen was married her father had died and in the dying had left her mother reasonably well off by way of a couple of life insurance policies coupled with a police pension. Now she was terminally ill, her dementia getting worse by the day and had been moved into a hospice in Hereford not too far from the manor.

She stared into the empty cup wondering at her fortune. A family broken by her parent's inability to find the strength to stay together and an elder sister who had spent years angry with her lot in life and had taken it out on those closest to her. How could people be so different yet be the products of the same environment? Her sister Viv, now fifty five, took off when she was twenty or so. Physically so attractive in a striking sort of way but had continually demonstrated a burning anger that manifested itself as an inherent meanness. It seemed as though she took pleasure in hurting those around her. Of course that was then and now is now Jen thought. Maybe thirty years has changed her. Of course I'm assuming she's still alive.....who's to know, do I still care? of course I do she's my sister.

I wonder if she sits up at night thinking about Kate and I? I doubt it somehow. Does she know I'm married, does she know she's aunt to Kate's children?

She climbed the stairs, fell into bed and was asleep instantly.......missing George.

Chapter 2

George sat in one of the two bridge chairs contemplating his good fortune. Sometimes he thought he lived a dream. Until a few years ago he'd been a Sergeant in the Special Air Service, that arm of the British Army, renowned for its more clandestine operations and upon which most of the elite special forces of the world are modelled. Now he was the sole proprietor of one of the largest security companies in the world specializing in oil field security operating in the Far East, the North Sea and more recently the Gulf of Mexico. His COO or chief operating officer was his old army buddy Robbie McElroy who had been by his side in Malaya, Sarawak and in the two domestic operations when they had been seconded to a British Counter Terrorist Group. George himself now had little to do with the day to day operation of the business but worked hard to maintain and build his worldwide network of contacts. The business just seemed to grow without any specific marketing programs or even effort. He put it down to pure luck and being in the right place at the right time. What he couldn't reconcile in his own mind was the revenue. He had little idea of his net worth. All he knew was that he and Jen could do whatever they chose, spend whatever they liked, go wherever they liked. His wife's specific love was horses......his was boats.

He gazed out of the window barely feeling the throb of the huge diesels two decks beneath his feet. It was only recently he'd converted to power from sail. He'd had a Hunter 42 that had been lost to an explosion in Lund in British Columbia killing the harbor master and injuring a young guy that had been helping her with the lines. After that episode, which he and Jen had been lucky to survive, he'd bought a Mason 55 which they'd sailed together across the Pacific to the Hawaiian Islands. From there they'd sailed to Alaska after having first cruised north to Japan.

Now he was sixty and a 'power boater,' some powerboat. He'd paid Hector Pan over three million dollars for this boat, a Nordhavn 75 Expedition, the Cadillac of ocean cruisers, a range of over four thousand miles in absolute comfort and security. She came with a professional captain, two crewmen and a cook. He didn't dare think what she cost to run annually, the company picked up the tab.

Now the 'Gypsy Too' was ploughing through an easy sea, under clear blue skies, heading towards the Pacific end of the Panama Canal at a sedate twelve knots with the objective of transiting to the Caribbean and points beyond. His mind wandered to Jen far away in Herefordshire. They made a point of speaking to each other every day no matter what. The boat had state of the art, worldwide communication ability.......bloody well and should have he thought for this sort of money. He wondered how Jen was coming along with the building of the new manager's house up on the knoll behind the barns and whether or not the Irishman, Connor Moylan, had accepted the job he'd been offered. Jen had done a great job with the farm. What had started out as an expensive hobby she had turned into a business that was doing slightly better than breaking even. Not bad for an ex-copper! Trouble was it was incredibly time consuming particularly the first five months of the year when most of the mares foaled. Moylan had excellent credentials as a horseman and manager and was currently finishing a contract in Kilkenny in Ireland. He was looking forward to him joining them in Eaton Bishop and taking the load off Jen's shoulders, perhaps then she could join him on the boat. Of course, knowing her, she wouldn't want to leave until the new man had earned her confidence. The only way to see her was to get over there himself. The idea had some appeal, he wasn't cut out to be a monk. Easy for him to fly over either from Central America or the Bahamas.....quick too....but the idea of taking the boat over had more appeal. He swivelled the chair around to talk to Drew, the skipper that had come with the boat at the recommendation of Hector, he was working on the log in the day cabin aft of the bridge.

Drew....do we have the range to get over to England once we've transited the canal? Drew stuck his head out of the cabin.

We'd be better to cross the Gulf and then turn North, we could re-fuel in Norfolk or somewhere like that then head across, that would give us fuel to spare. Everything else is in the green, might want to pick up some fresh veggies in Miami though. George nodded in agreement.

If we did that you and the boys could take some time off at home, which you deserve, then I thought we might take her down into the Med for a while.

It's a plan boss, the boys would like that, George thought about the 'boys.'

These two 'boys' were a special breed and stemmed from Jen's insistence that he have some protection after the fracas with the IRA culminating in the screw up in Costa Rica. After the shootout in Playa Zancudo they still had no idea what might have happened to Padraig O'Brian, was he dead or alive? He'd been shot in both knees so if he was still alive he'd probably be in a wheelchair although how he might have gotten away from that Godforsaken place would be a mystery. Kevin Callahan was a different kettle of fish altogether though. He had killed Pa'an for sure after having got away during the raid in Whitechapel by the SAS. Callahan's brother had been killed in the same operation and you could bet dollars to doughnuts he was not going to forget it. He was a professional assassin.....perhaps one of the best and you couldn't be too careful. Due to the leak discovered in Homeland Security in the States you could be sure he knew of the involvement of the British authorities and George and Jen specifically.

Almost all of George's employees were retired SAS troopers or from the 1st Parachute Regiment. George provided them with a life after their service without which many of them would be lost. Their particular skills leant themselves to the job of oil rig security and protection as the main threat was terrorist activity. He paid them well, looked after their families and gave them every benefit. In return they gave him absolute loyalty. The two 'boys' were no exception. Both were retired SAS Troopers but were from the marine teams. They had skills that included marine navigation, underwater demolition and clandestine action both beneath and above the water. One was a qualified diesel mechanic the other specialized in unarmed combat. Both of them, as was required, had field training in first aid and small arms. They had joined the boat in Vancouver and had settled into the routine very quickly. Drew, the Ship's Captain, had come at the recommendation of Hector Pan from whom he had bought the boat. Hector had been of great assistance during their last operation against the IRA and the Russian Mafia. He was in fact one of the last traditional gangsters on the West Coast but was left to operate as he was a constant source of information to both Canadian and American authorities......a very American way of doing business. Unknown to Drew, George was well aware of his relationship with Hector Pan and that this was Hector's way of 'keeping an eye on him.'

Inexorably the Gypsy closed with Panama Bay and the huge three mile breakwater that protected the Pacific entrance.

Chapter 3

The morning routines on a horse farm are a well defined pattern broken by the season, the weather, being short staffed, a sick horse, the visit of farrier or vet.

This morning was no different. May in Herefordshire can be a beautiful month, the daffodils, bluebells and crocuses have been and gone, the annuals are in the ground except on the North side. Nearly all the foals have been dropped and most of the mares have either been bred back or shipped to chosen stud farms.

Terry, as was habit, would be up and about at 4.30am, a quick cup of tea in the old Lodge, trying hard not to wake Margaret and then take the Land Rover up to the main barn and the farm office. Around 5.00 the first of the staff would arrive. Horses