The Assessment: Ryan Kaine

By Kerry J Donovan

Some jobs are dangerous. Some job interviews are explosive.

Security consultant and former Royal Marine Commando, Captain Ryan Kaine expects his crew to be the best. When executing classified government military contracts, they need to be.

The latest group of potential recruits are enthusiastic. By the time Kaine's finished with them, they'll know enthusiasm alone doesn't cut it in a war zone.

When 'retired' soldier, Arthur 'Big Jenks' Jenkinson attends one of Ryan Kaine's recruitment trials, he thinks he's a shoo-in. Powerful, tough, and arrogant, Big Jenks strides into the assessment centre and asserts himself from the start. He's ready to grind 'Captain Runt' under his boot heel and show the little pipsqueak what a real soldier can do.

Big Jenks in for a rude awakening.

The raging fire of arrogance meets the ice cool hand of experience in this Ryan Kaine origins novella, from bestseller Kerry J Donovan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fuse Books
• Release date: May 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201261849

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Late — Big Jenks

Finally got here. And about frigging time, too.

My car’s hotter than hell. Bloody aircon hasn’t worked since I bought the shitting box of rust, but at least the effing thing carried me here—eventually.

I screech the car to a halt at the barrier and kill the engine to stop the dark blue exhaust fumes fouling the otherwise crystal-clear atmosphere. Then I wait as patiently as possible, forcing myself not to drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I close my eyes for a moment, to chill, centre myself, but it ain’t working too well.

Me, I hate screwing up. Hate waiting, too.

Although keen to make a good impression, I’ve missed the start window by over half an hour, although I left home in plenty of time. Chuffing holiday traffic and road works on the M6 screwed me over, big time. Bloody M5 wasn’t much better, and as for the frigging A4103—a complete and utter joke. An A road? Bollocks. I’ve driven over farm tracks with fewer potholes.

Fuming at the added delay, I stretch my lips into a pleasant smile and roll down my side window. A blast of hot air scorches my face. Jeez, it’s hot out there, but way cooler than even a winter’s day in Helmand Province. Need to remember to keep hydrated, especially as there’s a yomp or two in store for us. Be prepared for heavy exercise, the assessment’s instructions said.

Yeah, well Big Jenks is always prepped and ready for action.

Movement inside the guardhouse catches my eye. Here he comes. A redcap, colour sergeant, all spit, polish, and bluster. The buffoon’s heavily armed with a weapons-grade military clipboard, ready to cause me untold physical damage.

Watch out for them paper cuts, Colour.

I hide my smirk and a snort behind a raised hand designed to cover the forced cough.

Redcaps don’t take kindly to soldiers taking the piss. This old boy is carrying a jellyroll of blubber around his waist, and he’s favouring his right leg. The scarring over his left eye and a cauliflower left ear says he’s either an ex-boxer or he played rugby back in the day. Either way, he’s clearly seen action, but not recently. The bloke must be pushing fifty, fifty-five easy. Closing in on retirement with a mind-numbing security posting out in the sticks. Can’t blame him, really. Ending military service with a nice cushy billet must be every soldier’s wet dream. Pity I couldn’t hang on for another twelve years and draw a decent pension, but the arseholes wouldn’t let me.

The civilian bastards in charge decided I was Surplus to military requirements. Yeah, me and a quarter of my brigade. Moronic, short-sighted politicians and their defence cuts hacking so deep. The arseholes in charge basically told me to fuck off back to civvy street. Then they left me with nothing more than a Thank you for your service and a severance cheque barely big enough to cover a decent knees-up at the Royal Oak, my local boozer.

Them’s the breaks, Big Jenks.

On the other hand, the tasty barmaid’s contented smile in her bedroom the following morning made up for my lightning-fast demob into civvy life, as least partially. The woman’s responses to my ongoing amorous attentions and her enduring gratitude for my skills between the sheets made me smile, too.

Yep, that’s Big Jenks sure enough. Always ready for a little hand-to-hand combat.

Ha!

But that were six months ago. Hardly found a decent day’s work since. Government handouts don’t do much more than cover the cost of bog roll, which is why I’m here in the back of beyond, cap-in-hand, begging for work at the only military contractor still hiring. Fucking recession’s hit every industry the world over. Life is such a goddamned ball ache.

Still, I’m ready for anything these DefTech beggars are going to throw at me. Keep myself fit and healthy, I do. Big Jenks they call me and it ain’t just because I’m hung like a horse. Don’t have no problem finding references, either. Ask the barmaid from the Royal Oak.

Ha!

Let’s see what DefTech has in store for yours truly.

The colour sergeant pulls on his pristine Royal Military Police cap with its red cover, hence their nickname, Redcaps, and glances in the mirror hanging on the back of the guardroom door. He’s checking it’s straight before opening up and stepping out into the stifling heat. A wispy silver moustache pushes out from his upper lip, looking like the slime trail from a slug. Not a great image if you want to impress. Probably just started growing it to build some kudos ahead of his retirement. Wonder who gave him permission to grow the daft thing?

The Redcap turns the corner and marches past the barrier towards me, trying his best to hide the fact he’s nothing but a gimp. As he approaches, he runs his right index finger down the form attached to his clipboard. Checking off names, I bet. Looking for mine.

The old boy stops alongside my open window and sniffs at me as though I’m giving off a bad smell. Sod that, I had a shower this morning. Used deodorant and everything. In the aroma department, I’m okay. In the time-keeping department though, I’m a bag of excrement as far as the military is concerned.

Okay, Big Jenks, best behaviour. Smile, but don’t make it look too cocky.

Corporal Arthur Philip Jenkinson, formerly of the 16th Air Assault Brigade, I assume?

He stares down his nose at me, acting like he’s trodden on a steaming lump of dog turd, but his tone is bored and impatient, not aggressive.

Yes, Colour Sergeant, I say, keeping my voice level, non-committal but keen. It ain’t easy getting the right balance, but I could have chosen a career in acting, me. Might still do, if I fail this gig.

Good guess, I add. You must have my car registration on that form, right?

No, son, he says, smirking and starting to take the piss, you’re the last one to arrive. Black mark already. He tuts, shakes his head, and makes a mark with his pen. The captain won’t be impressed with tardiness.

Tardiness? Jesus.

Been reading a thesaurus have we, Colour? Send you on pre-retirement education courses, did they?

I’m betting you won’t last ’til lunchtime, he says after checking the time on his watch and marking it down against my name, making sure I see him do it.

I think about giving him the harrowing tale of my hideous journey, but why bother? He’s nothing but a bleeding doorman. The other candidates made it on time, he’d say. You should have left earlier. No sympathy in this man’s Navy. So, I keep my mouth shut and wait until I can toady up to the captain, whoever the fuck he might be. The paperwork summoning me to the job interview didn’t give many details away. Date, time, location, and Rough terrain PT gear essential. Bugger all else. The instructions didn’t even say how long the tests would take. At least overnight and maybe the whole weekend. I’m that good, if I get past the jobsworth redcap, and the tardiness tag, I’m bound to make it ’til the end.

Good candidate, me. One of the best they’ll ever test.

Sorry, Colour Sergeant. My mistake for being late, but I’ve got a hundred quid that says I’ll be the last man standing. What odds are you giving?

Cheeky little sod.

The slug’s trail twitches into a stiff smile. I’m clearly getting to him, warming him up. The old Big Jenks charm. Works every time.

I’ll take two-to-one, I say to the old boy.

No gambling allowed on the ship.

Ship?

I look around, taking in the Royal Navy Shore Training Establishment, HMS Tillingford. It’s not particularly impressive. Nothing but an ancient airfield, built circa WWII, surrounded by rusting chain-link fencing topped with shiny new razor wire. Seven single-storey buildings, some little more than wooden huts and a large brick-built two-storey monstrosity, surround a concrete drill square. Typical Royal Navy. How come they call land-based training bases HMS—Her Majesty’s Ships? This place is set in the foot of a valley surrounded by thickly wooded hills. Can’t even see a lake or a river. No open water anywhere, but they still call it a ship?

Pretentious arseholes.

The old colour sergeant turns and points to a bunch of cars off to the right. Park your jalopy over there—his arm arcs to the left and targets the two-storey building on the far side of the drill square—and then get yourself over to the main admin block, double-time.

Thanks, Colour Sergeant, I say.

After all, no harm in being polite, is there?

I reach for the ignition key, hoping the engine won’t let me down, when the old boy leans closer to my open window.

Want some advice, son? he says, lowering his voice and fixing me with a pair of steel grey eyes.

Always happy to take guidance from my betters, Colour Sergeant.

Yep. I can schmooze