Ready To Serve

By Simon Gray

MIKE HUNTLEY’s famous brother CRAIG is captured reporting for UK’s Channel 9 on a fundamentalist led insurgency in Central America. Previous hostages have been beheaded. Mike’s father is disgusted when Mike fails to participate in The Craig Rescue Program, a live broadcast by Channel 9 led by an ambitious Reality TV presenter and tacitly supported by the British Government, hoping to win public hearts and minds before putting troops on the ground.
The crisis deepens. The insurgents gain more territory through well-planned attacks led by MOHAMMED RAFEY, a successful ex French soldier, a Muslim, ruthless and angry at the atrocities committed by the West. He considers himself the Mahdi.
The Craig Rescue Program gains popularity but Mike learns there is no plan in place to evacuate Craig. Spurred on by his love for his brother, to be exonerated by his father, Mike looks for an answer and fate, via his flying instructor, hands him a way of getting out to Central America. Mike flies to Leimus, the safest town nearest the action.
Channel 9 has chartered a boat to get the ‘program’ to Leimus. The boat is owned by an attractive woman LEAH FASH, her business dreams in tatters; she has taken the charter to keep the boat afloat and her loyal crew paid. She also delivers BRENT WINTERTON, leader of a failed SAS operation to take out Rafey. Betrayed and determined to seek revenge for the loss of his men, Winterton arrives in Leimus with a one man plan of enticing Rafey out into the open to be killed.
Winterton sees potential in Mike and enfolds him into his plans. The horror of killing or be killed challenges Mike throughout his pursuit of Craig’s release and when he finally succeeds, his joy is dampened as he discovers Craig is nothing but a weak, glory seeking individual.
Mike is attracted to Leah, although she remains aloof until one of her crew is killed in the fighting. Then Mike’s concern and growing love cannot be ignored and when Mike demonstrates his final act of courage, by helping to fly a fighter plane that single handily defeats the insurgents advance, she allows herself to fall in love with him.
Leimus hails Mike a hero. Winterton kills Rafey in a last minute act, saving the lives of Mike and Leah. He salutes Mike as a friend and fellow soldier, an accolade that fills Mike with pride. Mike leaves with Leah on her boat to the Caribbean. Their happiness unaffected by something that has been there throughout, gaining prominence on each news bulletin. The spread of a new disease, a mutation of Ebola, a deadlier airborne variant, dubbed Airbola by the media.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Gray
• Release date: Apr 17, 2020

Simon Gray

Simon Gray (1936–2008) was a British playwright, novelist and screenwriter. He wrote more than thirty stage plays, amongst them Butley and Otherwise Engaged (which both received Evening Standard Awards for Best Play), Quartermaine's Terms, The Common Pursuit, The Late Middle Classes (winner of the Barclay's Best Play Award), Japes, The Old Masters and Little Nell.

Book preview

Also by Simon M Gray

Blinkered

Unquiet Mind

Time Stops Ticking

Devils Breath

www.simonmgray.com

Simon Gray @gr8t2beread

The right of Simon M Gray to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN -13: 978-1542478557

ISBN - 10: 1542478553

Simon M Gray

Ready

To

Serve

1

At first, the man had shouted for help, but they had not given him water and his voice had died. The air smelt of rotting vegetation, heavy and stale. He was suffocating in it, his hands tied to a cross-beam over a three meter hole and his weight hanging forward. His shoulders burned.

The gurgling of a stream nearby was maddening.

They finally came for him when the sun was a blood orange slice above the trees. They dragged him in a haze of yellow dust towards a central building where they dropped him at the foot of rough wooden steps, before hauling him upright and tying his hands behind him to a post.

‘Water,’ he wheezed.

They spat on him before joining their comrades by a cooking fire. After a while, his bloody nose caught the faint scent of cooking meat.

He measured time by each laboured breath. Night came and the noise from around the camp fire escalated as the palm wine took hold. Occasionally one of them would stagger over and urinate on his body and he would gag from the pungent smell, coughing weakly, a trickle of bile escaping the corner of his mouth.

‘Why were you stealing from me?’ a voice asked, suddenly beside him.

He rolled his head and tried to focus.

The voice belonged to a man crouched on the step next to his head. Sweat covered the man’s broad chest, reflecting firelight that created shadow where his muscles swelled and dipped down his flanks. The light flickered over his shaven head like a halo, and failed to glimmer within the deep-set eyes. He had a full beard that hung to his glistening chest. He lifted a hand that could close around most men’s necks and rubbed his head, the stubble rasping. ‘You understand, to steal from me, is to steal from God.’

‘Wasn’t stealing,’ the man gasped. ‘… digging … I’m a … arch … archaeologist.’

An argument started near the fire. It progressed until the screaming voices were suddenly cut short by the wet slash of a blade, a groan of pain, silence, before drunken conversation resumed. The archaeologist did not take his desperate gaze from the fearsome man next to him.

Eventually the Mahdi stood, towering above the archaeologist, looking off towards the fire. ‘The world for you infidels, your western civilisation, it is all crumbling…’ he slowly looked down, ‘…dying. We are taking back the lands that are ours. Disease will cripple your hedonistic cities and we will reclaim what God gave us.’

‘I … I know, I dig for lost civilisations, all my life I’ve investigated why they disappeared …’ the archaeologist gasped.

The Mahdi smiled cruelly ‘So you understand yours has come to an end. As did your friends.’ He nodded towards an area at the edge of the firelight.

With great effort the archaeologist turned his head. When his vision cleared a hopeless cry escaped his swollen lips.

Two A-frames. Two naked bodies spread across them, one male, one female, their severed heads skewered onto poles. His friends, his colleagues, his employees. People he had been responsible for.

The Mahdi stepped off the lower step, and from his hidden other hand produced a machete. He turned and as the sobbing archaeologist dragged his gaze away from his colleagues’ bodies, the machete swept in, the sharpened blade blinking orange before cutting through skin, vein, muscle, sinew and finally, snapping spine.

The men at the fire cheered as the archaeologist’s head rolled over the baked ground, coming to rest against the stone fire pit.

Their leader kicked over the bloody trunk and walked back up the steps to the hut.

2

There it was again.

The niggling, tiresome voice, going over the same old shit: There has to be more.

The train began to slow, the tunnel roar lessening. People glanced from their evening papers, with expressions of tired resignation.

Another delay.

The Tube shuddered to a halt. Commuters swayed and banged into each other, the waft of garlic and stale sweat eddied down the carriage. The electric motors whined and stopped, plunging them into darkness. Sighs and groans as the heat grew, women moved restlessly, aware businessmen used the opportunity to rub elbows against their breasts.

‘Hello! That’s my foot,’ he muttered. No one apologised. The damn carriages were not built for anyone over six foot. His neck was bent uncomfortably, jammed up as he was against the sloping top of a door.

The motor whirred back into life, lights, businessmen hurriedly retracted their elbows, some went quickly back to reading newspapers or scanning the ads along the carriage roof, all wary of making eye contact.

Mike glared at the person facing him, moving his toes to ease the pain. A black youth with baggy pants and cap pulled low over an acne stained face stared back insolently. Chewing, his head nodding to the tink, tink, tink, of music through headphones.

Mike closed his eyes. He wanted to get off; he wanted to get off right now and never, ever have to do this again.

Maybe his wish would come true. Ebola in West Africa – thousands confirmed dead. He’d read it on a news board before entering Oxford Street Tube. Even with his eyes shut he was aware of the newspapers around him, all shouting the same headline. There was the on-going battle in the Middle East with Islamic State and flash points of violence and unrest on every continent … the Maya calendar had said the end of the world would happen in 2012 … pretty good call if they were only a few years out.

Mike opened his eyes and glanced at his fellow passengers. Were they concerned with the spread of the disease? He noticed a few people were wearing gloves. He involuntarily let go of the overhead strap and immediately lost his balance, rocking heavily into the youth.

‘Sorry,’ Mike mumbled.

The youth shrugged, and smiled.

Mike snatched back the strap, steadying himself and smiled in reply. Wrong again! People, like events, were not always what they seemed. It was February, so of course people were wearing gloves. Stop worrying so much, open up a little, his parents would say … along with other annoying clichés they loved to spread over his angst like thick sun-cream on a sunny day.

Fear – that’s all that kept him coming back to this hell. Fear of not having a job. Fear of not being able to pay the mortgage. Fear of losing the company car. Fear of not being able to take his girlfriend out for meals. Fear of not being able to go on holiday. Everyone worked, everyone had a job. That’s what you were.

The train screeched to a halt. Mike caught the name of his station through the elbow of the bobbing youth. He squirmed his way towards the door, his Tesco bags catching on briefcases and handbags. No one moved but all complained as he barged them aside. The door started to close. He shouldered past the last women. He was through – no! The bag didn’t make it. The doors slammed shut splitting the plastic. Someone was in the way further down and the doors opened again, giving him a glimpse of his groceries disappearing under uncaring feet. Before he had a chance to react, the doors slammed shut for the final time. The woman he had shouldered aside, smiled with a look to say it served him right, and the train started to leave. Wearily, he bent and picked up a can of beans before being swept along the platform to the exit.

Mike emerged into London drizzle. Traffic a standstill. Ineffectual lights changing red, amber, and green, reflected in dirty puddles. An ambulance trying to cut through, its siren whooping and wailing. A nasty wind blew his umbrella inside out, ripping the material from the spokes. He threw it in a bin.

Home was a one bed flat in Battersea. A living room with a sofa and TV, a kitchen big enough for one, and – cramped beneath the stairs to the flats above – a bathroom without a bath. A short corridor to the bedroom with furniture you see in show houses – made to make the room look big – by being too small for everyday use. All for the reasonable price of a quarter of a million pounds!

There was a letter on the mat. Mike heeled off his shoes, and put his sodden socks on the radiator. Please let this be the one, he thought. He hung up his suit in the hope it would dry without creases. He used the TV remote as he went through to the kitchen. The 6 o’clock news was giving the headlines. Ebola was spreading in West Africa and the medical facilities were in meltdown. Travel restrictions were in place. ‘Because you reacted too bloody late,’ Mike muttered aloud, putting his rescued can of beans in the cupboard. He opened the letter. His shoulders dropped. Another rejection. He had qualified as a pilot six months ago but finding a job in the industry was proving difficult.

The Department of Health still claimed there was minimal risk but people should take precautions. ‘Is this the same department that didn’t start screening people at airports until ten months after it started?’ Mike continued, opening the fridge and remembering that his food was rolling around the floor of a Victoria Line carriage.

Mike dialled a takeaway and sat watching images of Turkish tanks trying to recapture a town fallen to Islamic State fighters. The Turkish air-force was bombing the hell out of Syria, and NATO was bombing the hell out of the Islamists but no government wanted to put ‘boots on the ground.’

His pizza arrived.

Ebola was reported as swelling the ranks of Islamic State, with propaganda spread via the internet that the decadent, corrupt West had done little to stop the spread of the virus.

His mobile rang.

‘Hi, it’s me.’

Kate! The one beautiful thing in his life.

Mike looked at his watch. About right. She would have picked up her daughter around 5.30. Fed her, told her a bedtime story, fed herself, showered and then called him.

‘Hey you,’ he said, muting the TV, wincing as he bit into a hot slice.

‘Guess what? Managed to clinch the new Mercedes launch, and what is really cool, we persuaded Hamilton along to tie in with the Formula One season starting next month.’

Mike smiled into the phone, picturing her lovely green eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Wow!’

‘Louise in the office reckons this could be the biggest we’ve done since starting the business!’

‘Wow that’s great!’ Mike said, deciding to let his pizza cool and walking to the window. Rain splattered against the glass. An old lady struggled by, yanking a white dog on a lead. He saw her frustration mirrored in his own reflection – towel dried hair, sticking up at odd angles, a frown creasing the bridge of a slightly off centre nose. He rubbed his hair vigorously, going back into the room.

Kate was explaining to him how they thought the tables were going to be arranged and what entertainment they were thinking of doing.

‘What do you think of this Ebola crisis?’ Mike interrupted.

Silence.

‘It’s getting way bad don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know … is it?’ Kate said.

‘Could be the end of the world as we know it!’

‘That’s why I don’t watch the news. Too depressing. You should get out more,’ Kate said.

‘Yeah, or maybe I should hole myself up here, watch everyone die around me and come out as the new world leader.’

Kate sighed. ‘This is too depressing. I’m going to bed. Busy day tomorrow.’

‘Oh yeah I forgot … Mercedes. Everyone will need one of those when their internal organs start rotting.’

‘Good night, Michael.’

The phone was dead in his hand. ‘Shit,’ Mike sighed.

He could not help himself; envy was a lousy mood lifter.

He wished they could live together but Kate who had been divorced for two years was still reluctant to put her daughter through any more change. He enjoyed little Jade, she was precocious but endearing. But he had visions of her at fifteen telling him to fuck off because he wasn’t her real father.

Mike slumped back on the sofa. Kate had never said she loved him? If he was honest he knew the whole relationship was listing dangerously away from him. One more shove and the only thing in his life that made him happy would sink without trace. His desperation to make it work could be that shove.

3

Friday.

Mike was in traffic heading out of London. Relieved the week was over and excited with the prospect of a few days with Kate.

Inching forward, defending his position, he listened to the radio news. Three countries in West Africa had banned people shaking hands, night-time curfews were in place, no large public meetings, no food markets. Medical ships from several nations were anchored off shore, trying to quarantine the infected. The British army, along with others, had gone in to help build medical camps. The reporter went through a league table of European cities with the disease. Paris, the last city to ban direct flights had the highest number – thirty-two in intensive care, four already dead.

His mobile rang. It was Kate.

He turned the radio off. She was right. The news was too depressing and not setting him up in the right frame of mind for the weekend.

‘I’ve got a bad signal,’ Kate’s voice faded.

‘Me too,’ Mike said. ‘Everyone around is calling home saying they won’t be back until …’

‘Mike, I’m in Stuttgart,’ Kate shouted.

‘Oh.’ His mood sank.

‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve been with Mercedes all day and there’re still things we haven’t covered, so they’ve asked me to stay over.’

Shit! She was always doing this. ‘OK, well, I’ll pick you up from the airport tomorrow. What time are you getting in?’

There was a lot of crackle on the line, then her voice came back as though she was sitting beside him.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I have my car at the airport. I’ve called my parents to look after Jade. It’s probably easiest if we catch up next week.’

‘Fine,’ Mike said.

‘Look, I can’t help it, Mike. This is really important to me and they’ve booked this incredible hotel and want to take me to a new club that’s just opened, and … well … you know.’

‘Fine.’

‘I’ll call you when I get back … miss you!’ The line went dead.

An S-Class was now trying to turn right at a no-right junction. Mike laid his hand on the horn. ‘Fucking Mercedes!’ he shouted.

Suddenly the weekend stretched ahead of him. The thought of what he was missing gave real pain. He loved Saturday mornings with Kate. Slowly waking up, hearing the distant sounds of TV downstairs, the squeaky voices from Jade’s favourite cartoon. Kate was always so horny in the mornings. Usually they could finish before Jade rushed in and squirmed into bed with them, asking impossible questions like: when are you going to marry mummy?

‘When she gives a shit,’ Mike whispered, staring at the sea of red lights ahead.

His phone rang and he picked it up excitedly, not looking at caller ID.

‘Mike, it’s Mum.’

Bollocks.

‘Can you come over?’

‘I … ahh …’

‘You must. Something’s happened.’

***

Stonebridge Lane was a typical private road in a moneyed town in Surrey – a collection of detached bungalows and 30’s houses, with barely enough space to walk between. In the glow of Victorian-styled streetlamps he could see square patches of short winter grass with empty flower beds which he knew would already be planted for spring; polished cars in gravel driveways; speed bumps; Children at Play signs. Mike hated it. He pulled into the driveway behind his sister and sister-in-law’s car.

When he walked into the brightly lit sitting room, four anxious faces turned to him.

‘Hello, all,’ he managed a smile.

His mother stood and gave him a brief hug. As did his sister, Jill and sister-in-law, Stephanie. There were tears in their eyes.

Mike frowned.

His father, the retired but greatly respected Sir Nigel Huntley, shook his hand. Always so bloody formal. ‘We’ve some worrying news about Craig,’ he said, gesturing for Mike to take a seat as if he’d entered the room for an interview.

Mike sat, taking a biscuit from the coffee table. His older brother, Craig. Wherever there was trouble in the world his brother was inevitably mixed up in it. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘He’s missing,’ Stephanie said quietly. ‘He was meant to phone over a week ago, on our anniversary.’

Mike sat forward, the biscuit halfway to his mouth, glancing from his father to a picture on the mantel of Craig at his university graduation. ‘It’s happened before.’

‘This is different,’ his father snapped. ‘You obviously haven’t been watching the news,’ he paced the area behind the sofa in front of the French doors.

‘I don’t get Channel Nine.’

His father glared at him.

It was a sin in the family not to be aware of Craig’s every report. But Mike’s pride in his brother’s achievements wasn’t about the fact he was a famous TV news reporter. He enjoyed watching his brother’s success but not as much as he loved his indifference to danger, the devil-may-care attitude. He wanted to be like that: throw up his hands and not give a shit about the consequences.

Mike raised an eyebrow. ‘Is he out in Africa?’

‘No … no why would you say that?’ his father said.

‘Ebola?’ Mike said. ‘Seems pretty big news at the moment.’

‘Bollocks, storm in a bloody tea cup,’ his father snorted. ‘More kids die of malaria in a year. You don’t hear them making such a fuss over that do you?’

‘This … feels different. More sinister …’

‘Can we get back to Craig,’ Stephanie sniffed.

Mike’s mother placed a hand on Stephanie’s head, stroking her greasy-looking hair. ‘Of course, dear, of course.’

Sir Nigel – knighted for services to the banking industry – produced an atlas from the bookcase. He slapped it down on the coffee-table and stabbed his finger at a bit of greenery half way down the Central American isthmus. ‘It’s been headline bloody news the last couple of days,’ his father said.

Mike frowned. ‘I’ve said, I don’t get Channel Nine.’

‘It’s on the bloody BBC!’ Sir Nigel said. ‘If you took some interest in the world around you, you might have seen it!’

‘Can’t be in the headlines otherwise I would have…’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Nigel, stop having a go.’ Mike’s mother rubbed the space between her eyebrows before smiling tightly. ‘Would you like some tea, love?’

Mike shook his head. ‘I’ll have a beer if one’s going.’

Sir Nigel snorted but Jill jumped up before he could say anything. ‘I’ll get it.’

‘Thanks, love.’ His mother sighed deeply. ‘Craig’s been covering these Islamists taking control of this region in Central America.’

Mike took a bottle of Heineken from Jill, nodded his thanks and took a couple of mouthfuls. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really!’ Sir Nigel shouted.

‘Nigel, shut up!’

Stephanie started to cry.

Wow, thought Mike. This was turning into some Friday night.

His mother turned back to him, frowning. ‘They captured some British archaeologists looking for Inca remains. Demanded that America remove all troops from the area but even before they could officially respond, beheaded them, posted it all on YouTube today.’

‘Oh,’ Mike said. ‘Missed that.’

‘Yes.’ Stephanie’s eyes were red and puffy. ‘Craig called regularly but I’ve heard nothing for over forty-eight hours. I spoke to the news director and he admitted he’s worried.’

Craig and Stephanie both worked for Channel Nine. Five years ago, on one of the diminishing occasions Mike and his elder brother had got together for a drink, Craig had told him about this new girl in marketing. She was ten years younger and Craig was unsure how to ask her out for a date. He had shown Mike a picture: Stephanie, smiling and attractive in a Glenn Close kind of way. ‘Go for it, Mike had said. ‘What’ve you got to lose?’

Craig and Stephanie were married eight months later.

‘I just have a bad feeling, Mike …’Tears rolled down Stephanie’s cheeks. Jill put an arm around her shoulders.

His father went back to pacing. ‘Your brother left with the Honduran army to see if they could find these archaeologists. They ran into trouble – an armed gang, the army said. Bollocks, I say – must have been the bloody Islamists. Anyway, after the exchange, the Hondurans, who are reputed to be well trained, seem to have lost Craig. The useless bastards arrived back without him.’

Mike stood. ‘But he … he wasn’t … you know … he was seen alive?’

‘No bloody idea. The area is remote. Could be days before we hear anything. Then it may only be from the kind of pictures we saw last night …’ he patted Stephanie’s head gently and avoided the glare from his wife.

‘The areas remote, he’s lost, out of signal,’ Mike said, finishing his beer. Refusing to let his already bleak mind think on any other scenario.

‘But he normally carries a satellite phone,’ Stephanie sniffed. ‘They can be used anywhere.’

Mike rubbed his eyes. Craig must be safe. He was the family standard bearer, the hero, the place where his parents pride rested, where his belief resided that he had it in him to do better. It was unthinkable that anything could have happened to him. Mike placed his bottle on the coffee table, glancing at another framed photo on the mantel. Craig, standing on a rocky track, a ruined village in the background, wearing the blue bullet proof vest reserved for the press. Tall, broad shouldered. The trademark Channel Nine baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, a confident smile, on a friendly but tough looking face. He looked very much like his father did in photographs taken of him at a similar age. Mike had inherited features from his mother’s side. She had been a children’s TV presenter. A lot of his mates at school had fantasised over her which had caused embarrassment and a few fights protecting her honour.

‘Daddy has been on to the Government, but they can’t tell us anything,’ Jill said.

‘There’s a surprise,’ Mike said. Come on Craig, ring Steph’s bloody mobile and tell her you’re safe and sound!

There was a yell from the conservatory. Jill’s kids. ‘Stop it, both of you!’ she shouted.

Mike looked at her. She hated anything that upset her suburban routine. She could never understand why Mike could not settle down and hated Craig’s dangerous lifestyle. She was younger than both of them, but looked much older.

‘I’ll make some tea and see what the problem is,’ his mother left.

‘We have to give it a bit more time, it’s tough but we must just be patient,’ Mike said.

Sir Nigel glared at Mike. ‘Sit back and wait. That your advice?’

‘And pray, yeah, I can’t think of anything else,’ Mike crossed his arms.

‘As I understand it from Craig’s boss,’ Stephanie said quietly, ‘the Foreign Office is urging the Honduras Government to do everything possible. But reports are still so sketchy no one knows for sure what’s going on …’

‘Bloody useless,’ Sir Nigel said.

’… there’s a British base in Belize that they’re contacting to see if anything can be done,’ Stephanie continued. ‘Other than that, you’re right, we just have to wait.’

‘I’m sure any moment we’ll get news that he’s safe. He’ll be on TV giving his latest report,’ Mike said, picking up the remote and clicking on the TV. Channel Nine was broadcasting breaking news that the United States was imposing travel bans to and from West Africa, aid was going to be affected and the situation was escalating. A global disaster was imminent unless all nations united to fight the spread of Ebola. Mike turned down the volume while glancing at his father.

‘Storm in a teacup,’ Sir Nigel muttered, pacing furiously.

‘Talking of which,’ Mike went through to the kitchen and conservatory stepping over the two children who were now laying out a wooden rail track. He saw his sister’s cigarettes on the window ledge. His mother had her back to him watching the kettle boil. He opened a door and lit up. The smoke burnt the back of his throat. It was a black night; the rain had stopped but he could hear water dripping from leafless trees. An aircraft flew low, on finals to Gatwick Airport a few miles away.

Mike threw the cigarette out onto the wet grass to piss off his father and went into the kitchen. His mother was pouring water into the pot.

‘Your father’s been talking about going out there, so he can be closer to the action.’

Mike put the lid on the pot. ‘That’s crazy.’

His mother shrugged. ‘He just can’t stand sitting doing nothing. He’s very restless at the moment. I think he’s quite bored.’

‘So, it’s not about Craig then?’

‘Oh, don’t be like that, love. He’s a bit more reactionary than the rest of us, that’s how he copes, by doing.’

‘Yeah, I know, but this is Craig’s career. And he does know what he’s doing,’ Mike said quietly.

She sighed deeply. ‘Carry the tray out will you love.’

Mum says you’re thinking of going out there,’ Mike set down the tray and glanced at his father, ‘you’re not serious are you?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘I don’t think that’ll achieve anything.’

‘You wouldn’t. Achieving anything is not high on your list of priorities is it?’

Mike stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘You know if Craig was in trouble I would do whatever it took to try and get him back safely.’

‘But as usual Mike, it would be too bloody late.’

Mike gritted his teeth, softening his expression as he looked at the rest of them. ‘Well it’s obvious all I’m achieving here is aggravating father so,’ he held up his phone, ‘any developments let me know.’

Jill pulled her cardigan tightly round her and squeezed Steph’s hand, his mother looked up from pouring and nodded sadly.

Mike went into the hall, put on his coat and picked up his car keys. Guilt engulfed him and he dropped the keys back on the table. Then he snatched them up again, suddenly angry that Craig’s predicament had been turned to almost make it feel his fault. He would do anything to help Craig but there was nothing to do at the moment. He slammed the door behind him and trudged to his car, his mood as black as his shadow cast from the porch light.

4

Captain Brent Winterton watched the jungle slide by.

He glanced across the helicopter to his companion. The noise made conversation difficult. He had tried but she had pulled a file from her briefcase the moment they had taken off and had not looked up since.

His brief: she was a major within NATO intelligence and he had been ordered to give her whatever she wanted. The few words she had spoken sounded like she had a French accent but he could not be sure. Her name was certainly French; Michelle Blanc. It had been a few months since they had seen a European woman and although Major Blanc was not beautiful, the lads back at base were going to find her attractive enough. She had thick black hair, pulled back from her face, brown wary eyes that had a Bardot slant and thick black eyebrows. Her figure was hidden within baggy khaki overalls. There was no insignia or any identification on it to tell Winterton which part of NATO she was from.

After an hour and a half, the RAF Chinook landed at a military base on the border between Belize and Guatemala. Once an insignificant dot on the MOD map, now it was a forward operating base against the latest Islamist uprising. The camp was self-sufficient and serviced direct from Britain by RAF transport or a naval supply ship from the Gulf of Mexico. Its existence was not a secret to the Belize Government, but its operations were. Up until a few weeks before there had been talk that the base would close – there was too much strain on the military elsewhere to justify its maintenance. Now it was back up to full strength. A full SAS squadron, two Chinooks, four attack Lynx helicopters, logistics, MI6 officers and further support personnel – nearly a hundred people.

They hurried from under the slowing rotors towards a complex of temporary buildings.

‘Welcome to our … home.’ Winterton gestured around him. ‘Would you like to see your quarters before a tour of the base?’

‘No, captain. Please have your team assemble in twenty minutes.’

Winterton nodded.

‘And captain, tell your men nothing about me. No salutes. Show me communications.’

‘Certainly, major,’ Captain Winterton smiled. ‘We’re very informal too. No salutes. That’s for the parade ground lot.’ He opened a door to one container with aerials and satellite dishes on the roof and gestured her to follow him.

Winterton led her down a short hallway. A door opened and a grey-haired man, stubble, t-shirt and white skinny legs poking from baggy shorts, stepped out. ‘Ah, captain,’ he said pushing his reading glasses up his nose. ‘This our guest?’

Winterton nodded.

‘Good.’ He held his glasses to the bridge of his nose as he studied Major Blanc, then held out his hand. ‘I’m Unsworth.’ He shook her hand.

‘I understand you’re on secondment from MI6.’

Unsworth nodded. ‘Captain, would you mind … there’re some matters I would like to discuss with the major in private.’

Winterton shrugged. He watched them walk down the corridor. His sergeant joined him.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Trouble,’ Winterton murmured. ‘Get the men together. Briefing twenty minutes.’

The sun was setting behind a parked Chinook, making the helicopter, and its giant, drooping rotors, look like a fantastical alien. The building clinked and pinged from the days’ heat. Winterton closed the Venetian blind, casting lines of burnt orange along the far wall. He slumped down in one of the easy chairs. He had been out for six months. Four more weeks and his tour was over. A bit of R&R and then off someplace else. Probably the Middle East although this Islamist thing could change things. Still, that was his life. He loved it. Couldn’t think of anything he would rather be doing. Had done the family thing. Hadn’t worked. Needed to keep moving. He leaned back in the chair, stretched and yawned.

Major Blanc and Unsworth entered. ‘Keeping you up, captain?’

Winterton grinned. Major Blanc had shed the overalls and Winterton was impressed with the figure they had been hiding. The mottled green combat trousers fitted like a pair of fashion jeans. The only ones in the briefing that were going to be disappointed were the breast men.

Major Blanc walked to the front of the room, turned and looked down at Winterton.

‘Captain. Before the men arrive I think it fair that I tell you a bit more about why I’m here.’

Winterton nodded glancing behind her at Unsworth who was sitting, shuffling through papers.

‘Unsworth knows all about me, he’s been briefing me on latest developments in the region and how my mission can best be accomplished.’

Winterton found her accent distracting, transported briefly to another world when he and his now ex-wife had spent a romantic week, the only one if he thought about it, in Paris. He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on what Michelle was saying.

‘I’m French Intelligence on loan to NATO. I analyse NATO military involvement and calculate the political implications for any one participating country. With NATO’s multinational resources it’s wise to use them prudently. You understand, captain?’

‘With you so far. The last I checked this was a British base.’

‘Precisely, captain.’ She smiled tightly. ‘That is why this operation will be conducted under NATO authority. My authority. If anything should happen no one can point the finger directly at Britain. The local government will deny any knowledge. Is that clear?’

Winterton leant forward. ‘Why didn’t you go to the UN base?’

‘What we are dealing with affects the whole world. The UN is a peacekeeping force. This is not a peacekeeping mission. The American Special Forces are not up to full speed in this region. The local army’s hopeless, so: you’re it.’

‘Brent,’ Unsworth handed Winterton a single sheet of paper. He scanned the text then glanced from one to the other. ‘I need to authenticate these orders with the boss?’

Michelle pulled herself further onto the desk and crossed her ankles. She stared at him. ‘Off you go captain, be a good soldier.’ She glanced at Unsworth. ‘We’ll wait but if you could bring back a decent cup of coffee that would be appreciated.’

Winterton frowned with irritation and left for the communications room.

Corporal Rupert Harris was ex Royal Signal Corp, a sharp faced man with rapid, precise movements. Winterton scooted over a chair and sat next to him. ‘Rupert, get me Hereford HQ will you? Colonel Ripley.’

Corporal Harris punched in the keys that would securely link them via satellite to the SAS colonel. Winterton picked up the headphones and signalled Rupert to leave. ‘Colonel. I need some clarification on Pitbull.’

There was a pause. Winterton had never seen eye to eye with Colonel Ripley. It was a well-known fact that commissioned officers such as him rarely performed chopping roles in the field. The killing was left up to the troopers and NCOs. The likes of Winterton, were usually directed into planning duties. But against all odds he had been granted field work, perhaps because his chopping ability was exceptional.

‘Go ahead, Brent.’

‘Our recently arrived guest informs me that we are to go in under different management?’

There was a pause. ‘Pitbull’s a bit sensitive, captain. Could get messy. PM