"Just tell Anna I love her. That's all."
—accredited to Bradley Tinnion, 10th September 2000
Chapter Four: The Gateway Opens
Part Four of Nine
First Steps
Sunday 11th July 1993
"Oi! Doc!"
Sam turned as she left the briefing room to see Ash advancing towards her.
"Where do think you're off to?" the sergeant asked.
"Well I was going to get some more sleep in before the meeting—" she began.
"How much have you already had tonight?"
"Uh, Laura – Doctor Wilson – gave me something after the attack…about seven hours maybe?"
"Sounds like you've had enough," Ash said dismissively. "Out in the field you'll be lucky to get five or six out of twenty-four. You know," he grinned, ignoring Sam's slightly horrified expression, "back in the Malayan Conflict during the Fifties, one patrol stayed out in the jungle for about seven, eight months solid. We'll only be two or three days, eight tops. Come on. We've got a lot to cover."
"You mean right now?" Sam asked.
"Hell yeah! You're serious about coming, right?"
Sam nodded.
"Then come on."
"Don't you need more sleep?"
Ash snorted. "I had all I need during the day, yesterday. I try and stay awake at night."
The quartermaster's storeroom was the first place they raided. Not only had the eight SAS troopers been seconded to the SGP, but a group of personnel who had served as support staff at Stirling Lines had been drafted in as well to care for the patrol's more irregular kit, clothing, vehicles and weaponry. The sergeant running the storeroom, a burly bald fellow by the name of Martin – Sam never quite caught whether it was his first name or surname – had hardly batted an eyelid when Ash asked for her to be measured up for an SAS smock and kit. And, when she made the mistake of asking what the difference between an SAS smock and an ordinary British Army smock was, he turned out to be a true historian on the subject matter.
"These things originate back to 1942," Martin said, comparing the serial numbers on a shelf of crates to those on his clipboard. "The Army started issuing these green, brown and pink – for desert warfare, don't ask me how they work – Denison smocks to any soldier who needed a windproof camouflage jacket. These nutters," he grinned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Ash, who rolled his eyes, "used 'em in south-west Europe, Italy and the Balkans. No sooner has Japan packed it in though, than the Army decides to adopt these drab green olive uniforms. But oh, no, the SAS stuck with the wartime Denison camo jacket until the Sixties when the Army started using disruptive pattern material – here, have a look at this, this is DPM." So saying, the supply sergeant opened a crate to reveal such a uniform. "They used these in the design of the new SAS smock. That's one of these." Another crate was opened; another jacket revealed. "This one ought to fit you; slip it on, tell me what you reckon."
Sam shrugged the jacket on over her usual casual attire. It settled comfortably on her shoulders in a fit that was loose but not baggily so, and the sleeves fitted perfectly. "Yeah, that's really good."
Martin beamed. "At last, someone who appreciates a good fitting. These philistines wouldn't know good tailoring if it fell out of a tree on 'em," he said, smirking in Ash's direction. "You've got your hood here, your pockets are designed to be nice and roomy for ammo, medical gear, grenades and all sorts of odds and sods, and have a look in here—" Martin opened the jacket, holding one panel out for inspection. "—we got the idea for these from poachers of times past – they'd sew a nice big inner pocket in their coats, see? Now," Martin turned to Ash, "what's next on your shopping list for the lady 'ere?"
"You got any pairs of Gore-Tex trousers in that might fit?"
"Yeah, I reckon so. Boots?"
"Should be suitable for the Brecon Beacons – we'll be going on exercises there, it'll probably be pissing it down knowing our luck. If Sam needs dessies or jungle kit we'll get back to you. Socks – usual mix, three sets of each. The trick is," Ash muttered as an aside to Sam, "you wear a thin inner pair under a thick woollen outer pair – stops the friction rub if your boots are a good fit. Cuts the blisters right down. Add in a belt-kit," Ash returned to Martin and raised his voice to normal levels, "DPM undershirt, pullover, bandana and woollen skullcap should round out the wardrobe. She'll have a set of passive-night-goggles and a PRR set as well if there's any left."
"Considering all the spares you lot brought in, I'd be surprised if I didn't have enough," Martin grinned, already rummaging.
"PRR?" Sam asked.
"Personal Role Radio." Martin had returned. "Also, I managed to find a couple of these for you, don't ask where from – don't want to get in trouble with Doc Wilson," he winked at Sam, dumping a couple of camo-green elastene sports bras on top of the pile. "I'll chuck in a scrim scarf and some thermal underwear as well shall I?" Martin asked of Ash.
"And a pack of cam cream if you've got any going spare."
"Coming right up." Martin headed off into the aisles again.
"Uh, what about body armour?" Sam asked.
Ash shrugged. "What's the point? You saw the tape, it didn't do the Black Watch boys any good. Nah, that stuff's just extra weight to slow you down on this job. Don't bother."
Equipment swiftly followed the clothing. Sam was supplied with a PARA Bergen, which consisted of a metal frame and a detachable heavy-duty fabric bag. The bag looked incredibly small when rolled up but as Martin produced more and more kit it grew to simply enormous proportions. By the time he was finished, the bergen contained a sleeping bag, which for reasons neither sergeant explained was known as a 'Gonk bag'; a bivi-bag, or waterproof one-man sheet to be used as a temporary shelter; a portable hexamine stove and blocks of hexamine fuel; a waterproof Allison bag for carrying her laptop in; a brew kit, including sachets of tea, powdered milk and sugar; and a few signal flares; a couple of aluminium water bottles; teabags, packet soup, tins of bacon grill, corned beef, hardtack biscuits and various other foodstuffs. A field watch was passed over, and Sam reluctantly strapped it onto her wrist in the place of the watch her mother had left her, which she stuffed in a pocket of her trousers for the time being.
Another sack was mounted atop the bergen, which Ash told her was called a grab-bag, or otherwise known as a day sack. This was swiftly filled by the two sergeants with another water bottle and two tough robust plastic sacks closed with zips that no one seemed inclined to tell her what their purpose was.
"Usually, we keep our speciality gear in the grab-bags," Ash explained. "Nev will have his medical gear in his – we've all got our own trauma kits in our belt-kits, but his is way more extensive – if we take any radio sets then Sid or Gareth or the Boss'll be carrying them in their grab-bags, Scudder and Jimmy are linguists so they don't have any specialist kit – they'll keep ammunition in their grab-bags, probably get landed with more machinegun ammo than the rest of us – Gaz'll probably have a rifle in bits in his, and Froggy and me will be carrying most of the explosives in ours. If you hear a really loud bang, either him or me's taken a hit in the pack." Ash grinned briefly at his own gallows humour. "If we have to dump the bergens for a quick getaway, we just swipe the grab-bags off the top and we lose some weight and bulk but we can still operate properly. You won't be carrying any of that kind of specialist stuff though. You're best sticking any spare ammo you can carry in there, and a bit of food and water, enough to survive a couple of days. These things are also known as 'day sacks', so if you hear anyone using that term, at least now you won't get too confused."
A belt-kit followed. The basis of this was the belt of a set of webbing. Martin indicated the ammunition pouch, which Ash assured her they'd fill up at the armoury; the ration pouch, which was swiftly filled with a couple of bars of chocolate, some packets of powdered soup and a few teabags; the general-purpose webbing pouches; twin pouches for another pair of water bottles, each of which, Sam noticed upon taking a closer look, had a metal mug fitted to their base; a sheath containing a standard-issue bayonet; and showed her how to strap the belt-kit on.
A trauma kit was laid out, then all the components loaded into one of the belt-kit's general-purpose pouches. This consisted of a magnifying glass to help find splinters and stings in the skin, sticking plasters, bandages, cotton wool, antiseptic, intestinal sedative, painkillers, antibiotics, antihistamine, water-sterilising tablets, anti-malaria tablets, potassium permanganate, analgesic, two surgical blades, a generously large container of dry powder, and butterfly sutures. More equipment was passed from the counter to the pouches of her belt-kit: an aluminium mess tin, mug and utensils; matches in a waterproof container and flint for when the matches ran out; needles and thread; a fishing line and hooks; a pencil torch and batteries and a luminous button compass. With a sly wink, Martin slipped a cigarette lighter into one of her smock's many pockets ("It's high time I gave up smoking properly anyway!"), and few packets each of Tylenol, Brufen, and cough sweets distributed between the grab-bag, her belt-kit and smock pockets ("For fatigue and to keep your mouth moist."). Spare radio batteries were produced, and Sam was advised to stash them in her smock's pockets. The belt-kit fitted snugly, the pouches positioned out of the way so as not to obstruct her movement or snag on anything but easy to grab hold of in a hurry.
"The thing is," Ash explained, "while you can carry enough food and water in your pack to last for a week or more dead easy, you don't want to be lugging it all around with you – you just waste energy that way. So, we usually make a bergen cache and use it as an ERV – emergency rendezvous point – and take just enough supplies in the belt-kits to last a day or two or however long for whatever we're doing. Sometimes we take the grab-bags with us, sometimes we don't – it all depends on what we're up to. If you're lying up in an Observation Post, it's a tough enough job hiding yourself, never mind a Bergen as well. If you're doing a recce, you want to move fast and quiet – you can't do that too easily with all this lot on you. And if you're in combat, part of an attack – all-too possible on this particular job – the same applies, but then you might want explosives and all the ammo and medical gear you can carry, so you'll take your grab-bag with you for the job. You do your business, get back to the Bergen cache, and if you need to and the area's clear you can stock up and go off for another few days. You want to pack as much ammo and water in your belt-kit as possible – anything else you absolutely have to have on you, stick it in your pockets. Food's important, but if you're out of water or ammunition you're already dead."
Sam's water bottles were filled, then it was off back to her room, where she dug out her Compaq laptop and stuffed it in the Allison bag. Tricia was, fortunately, off in a lab reviewing the telemetry from the first probe for the umpteenth time, and therefore wasn't present to see her roommate getting changed.
"How the hell did he do that so fast?" was Sam's first thought when she emerged to find Ash kitted up and lounging against the wall opposite her door. She'd only been a few minutes, yet the sergeant had changed into his own field gear and loaded up his bergen, grab-bag and belt-kit with his own gear in that time.
Sam hid a grimace of embarrassment; she'd stared for a couple of minutes at her reflection in the mirror, and felt sure she looked ridiculous.
Ash, however, was either not forthcoming with his opinion or just didn't care about such things. The sergeant merely beckoned for Sam to follow and headed off, not bothering to check if she was following. Struggling against the weight, Sam struggled to keep up with him.
"So, ah…what're we doing for the next three days?" she asked, shifting the bergen on her shoulders to try and get it to hang more comfortably.
"Don't bother," Ash said, without even looking in her direction. "The best thing you can do with a bergen is leave it well alone – trust me, when I went through Selection I tried every trick under the sun with masking tape, bandages around my chest, pads on the shoulder straps, they were all bollocks – your bergen's uncomfortable, and there's nothing that can be done about it. Best thing to do is just ignore it. Besides, out in the field you'll have a more than uncomfortable shoulders to worry about."
"Like what?" Sam asked.
"Staying alive," Ash replied offhandedly. "Right now, we're going down the armoury, see if we can find the weaponry that best fits you. Then I'll show you how to carry it, fire it and clean it – look after your kit and it'll look after you. After that, we're going to load up with all the ammunition we can carry, go to the briefing – Ross and those other lazy bastards should've got their arses out of bed by then," Ash grinned at this, "'cause they know if they're late I'll get 'em shifted myself and no one likes a sergeant waking them up, and then we're heading off to Stirling Lines. We'll do three days of training there, then back here for the op itself."
"What are you going to be training me in, though?" Sam persisted.
"You'll have to wait and see," Ash winked. The news was met with a put-out look. "All right, all right – there's no time or point in training you for survival in a specific type of environment 'cause we don't know what we'll end up in, so we won't be doing any of the usual stuff. Just watch what we do closely and copy that. There's no point taking you through the regular training in radio ops either – we probably won't take any long-range kit with us and even if we do, you won't be needed to use 'em, and these sets—" Ash flicked the microphone of his PRR for emphasis, "—are only good for short range, about a couple of hundred yards. I'll show you how to use these, but there's no need for you to be Morse fluent—"
"Actually, I already am," said Sam, feeling a faint twinge of pride.
"How many words per minute?"
"Four or five both sending and receiving, depending on the length." There were advantages in being an Air Force brat sometimes.
"Huh. We tend to aim for a minimum of eight, but even faster's better," Ash mused, destroying Sam's flicker of satisfaction completely without even appearing to notice. "Medical training – I can show you the very bare basics but if you get badly injured, unless you've already got medical experience, you better hope one of us is around to give you a hand. It takes at least a couple of weeks for proper training. Demolitions – that's my speciality by the way – I can show you how to rig a time-pencil, set up charges, use grenades and stuff, but it takes a couple of months to get someone completely fluent in deciding how much explosive to use on something. It ain't like in Hollywood movies, where there's a fucking great bang, lots of smoke and flame and the bridge comes tumbling down. The trick is learning how to use a minimum of explosive to the maximum of effect – how much to use, where to place it, whether you need a delay in some of the charge timers and so on. If you don't need to use much explosive, then it's a big saving on weight. Map reading; useless, we don't have any maps of the target area. I'll run you through basic navigational skills only. General survival skills, patrolling, contact drills, basic weaponry – we can do all of those. Thank fuck I haven't got to get you up to the standards of the regiment though – in three days you won't even be up to the standards of a regular infantry battalion, never mind my lot."
Sam bristled at this; Ash noticed and sighed. "It's nothing personal, Doc, but you need a bare minimum of two years' experience in another branch of the Armed Forces before you can even apply for Selection for the Regiment. If you get through six weeks of tabbing over mountain after bloody mountain and through forests, over rivers and fuck only knows what else with a pack on your back even heavier than what you're carrying now, you've got Continuation training to get through – training on all sorts of weapons, including Eastern Bloc stuff and trust me, you don't want to know where we got the Chinese Kalashnikov knock-offs; contact drills; basic patrolling SOPs; a month of jungle warfare training out in Brunei; then it's back to Wales for a combat survival course.
"After a fortnight of theory, you then spend most of the next week freezing your arse off running around putting it into practice. When I went through that one, there was a rifle company from the Scots Guards Regiment after me and the others – we use the course along with other units, pathfinders, pilots, all the prone-to-capture personnel – and trust me, getting chased through a freezing cold muddy patch of the Welsh countryside in the middle of the night on foot by a load of Scotsmen in vehicles and helicopters ain't my idea of a fun time, 'specially when they've got an incentive of two weeks' leave and pay if they grabbed us. And after that, you get experience in resisting interrogations – now that's a long way from being a picnic, I can tell you. If you like being put into stress positions while occasionally subjected to white noise, then getting interrogated, insulted and spending time stark bollock naked during some of that, you'll love that course." Sam blanched, and the sergeant, catching her expression, grinned as he continued.
"Get through that, and you get badged. But even then you're only on probation; you can still get binned. Then you go through Counter-Revolutionary Warfare – urban operations, counter-terrorism, hostage-rescue – followed by freefalling; an unarmed combat course; and lastly you get trained up in at least one patrol skill. And that's only the basics – the training never really stops. Hell, you want to know some of what I was up to last year? I spent fourteen weeks cross-training in signalling and electronics as another patrol skill, and that's a good one to mix with demo. It's nothing to do with you being a woman, Doc, it's because you've done none of that stuff. When I signed up for Selection back in '85, there must have been a few more than a hundred and ten blokes with me – by the time I finished training on demolitions, there was only me and eight other lads still in. That's what you're going to have to keep up with."
Sam looked at Ash incredulously. "You must be insane to have gone through all that."
The sergeant snorted, amused. "Wouldn't have made it if I had been. Just got to focus is all. The thing is, you're going to need some of the bare essentials. Now, at all times you're going to need to be totally honest with us. If someone asks you how you feel and you're feeling a bit knackered, say so. If you think you're getting a blister, say so. It's best to get those bastards when they're titchy, 'cause if you leave it until they've got to full size, the only way we can really get rid of 'em is Nev's going to have to sterilise a needle in a flame and then, while some of us hold you down and gag you, jab it in the edge of the blister and squeeze out all the muck inside. Believe me when I tell you, I've done it for meself a couple of times and it was fucking agony. The first few times, it was when I was going through Endurance testing so it didn't matter if I screamed the place down, but out on a training exercise or in the field, you need to bite down on a bayonet handle or something."
Sam shuddered at the thought. "It's that bad?"
Ash nodded. "Look after your feet the way I show you, and if you get any problems tell us right away. If you're injured, don't be brave and bear it – tell us how it is, what problems you're having. Otherwise, you're completely stuffed. You're also going to have to be honest with me when we're going through the armoury as well – if a gun's too heavy or a bit awkward for you or if you're not sure you can handle the recoil or whatever, tellme and we'll look at a different one. Don't go all macho on us, okay? We certainly don't bother with that bone stuff. And don't worry – you ain't going to get ribbed for knowing your limits and asking for something lighter or easier to handle than the rest of us. You haven't gone through training, we have – we're meant to be able to lug our own body weight around at high speed, and unless I'm wrong that's not one of the qualifications of an astrophysicist." This elicited a faint smile. "But you'll sure as hell have the piss taken out of you big time if you go on the mission with a weapon that's too heavy for you, you collapse from exhaustion and we all make it back in one piece anyway. And if you want to know something, absolutely anything, just ask."
"Uh…what does 'bone' mean?" Sam hesitantly asked.
"See?" Ash said approvingly. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Very intelligent question. Means bollocks, shit, completely buggered, naff or upgefucked. If something's bone, it ain't good. And something else to remember: with us, you need to chuck out your dignity and kiss your pride goodbye when you're actually out in the field. Take the bogs, for example. You'd be amazed how many guys get scrubbed during the jungle warfare training just 'cause they get the shakes and refuse flat-out to use a piss and shit bag in front of people."
"Er…what!" Sam stopped in her tracks.
Halting himself, Ash sighed, turning back and noting Sam's horrified look. He'd expected this, but secretly hoped it wouldn't be a problem. This was one of the reasons why the Regiment never took civilian consultants on jobs; it was ridiculous how often people shrank from such a simple issue. "Those plastic zip-sacks in your grab-bag? That's your loo out on the job."
"I thought we'd dig latrines or something…"
Ash snorted at this. "Not bloody likely! You try burying urine or faeces and some animal'll go and dig it up sooner or later, and then the opposition's just got to follow the trail of shit and urine. Nah – you do it in your bags, and bring it back here. One's for pissing in, the other's for defecating – whatever you do, don't mix 'em, these things have a weird habit of exploding if you do. We do it all the time, it's nothing to get shy about."
Sam nodded dubiously, still clearly uncomfortable. "So…I take it we'll, you know…" she mumbled.
"Not at all, you'll have to spell it out."
"…use these…bags…in private?"
"Here's a hypothetical situation," Ash said. "We've gone through the Gate. We make a brief stop. Half of us are on stag – sentry duty – while the other half are sorting themselves out. You need to take a piss so you go off into the bushes or behind a tree out of our line-of-sight – I'm guessing that's what you did when you and your mates were off on your camping trip?" Sam nodded. "Say the opposition's been tracking us. You're alone, you're in no state to run 'cause your daks are down around your ankles, you probably can't use your weapon properly 'cause your hands are busy, your senses aren't as alert and there's no-one to watch your back. Tell me, what's to stop 'em from taking you out?" Ash asked. "Eh? They can kill you or capture you and we'd be absolutely fucked. Hell, me and the rest of the lads'd have a difficult enough time busting through their perimeter if they had one, there's absolutely no way we could get you back unless they were complete amateurs. And if you get killed on this job, we're going to have to dump your body at the first opportunity we get where no-one'll ever find it – we can't go lugging cadavers around, we've got enough weight to carry in water, food and ammo as it is. And chances are we'll never go back for it.
"Now, is your life worth more to you than a bit of dignity? Do you really want to risk getting killed or captured and being stuck on an alien planet because you were too shy to take a piss in front of us?" Ash grinned reassuringly. "Doc, I can guarantee we won't give a toss about seeing you in a state of undress. Out on the job, we'll be more interested in staying alert and alive than ogling beautiful women. Hell, Froggy's the biggest lothario the Regiment's got and he'll be more interested in checking his kit and the surrounding area than looking at you. If we didn't have enough self-control to keep from jumping the closest woman and shagging her, we wouldn't have got through Selection in the first place."
Sam still looked uncomfortable. "Tell you what," Ash suggested quietly, "if you're really not sure about it, what if we were all facing outwards with you in the middle of the formation while you do your business? I'll have a word with the lads if you like."
Sam nodded reluctantly. This was one journey she couldn't miss, and if they needed her along…crap. She'd just have to hope that Ash was on the level. "Yeah, okay," she smiled weakly.
"All right. Now come on," Ash winked, "let's get on with the fun stuff."
Ash removed a rifle and ammunition from the weapons rack. The rifle looked immediately familiar to Sam, a weapon known throughout much of the world. "This," the sergeant said, casually slamming a magazine into it, "is the XM-16 A2 assault rifle, a.k.a. the M-16. Like you, it's of American origin," he flashed Sam a wink and a grin at this, and she smiled in response. "Like it, you are going to receive some modifications of British origin." So saying, he handed over the rifle and a set of ear defenders, looping another pair around his neck.
Sam hefted the weight uncertainly, examining the weapon closely. Back when she and Mark had been with their dad on various USAF bases, she'd seen plenty of such weapons of this make, but none like this specimen from the SAS armoury. It was painted weird and wonderful camouflage colours, dappled with bits of black, brown and green, and there was a Maglite torch mounted under the muzzle, held on with bits of masking tape on the stock. For the Security Forces soldiers in the Air Force she'd seen whilst growing up, there was just no way they could tamper with their weapons like that. Weapons were seen as sacred; the SFs could clean them, but that was it.
"It's chambered for 5.56 millimetre rounds, same as our very own SA80," Ash explained. "Time was they were complete shit, the five-fifty-six rounds were absolutely feeble – you could put half a mag into someone and they'd still keep on coming at you. Nowadays, we've got a heavier, higher velocity design, which has a nasty tendency to tumble after impact so it does a lot more damage. We've been using these things since before your lot took them to Vietnam. Don't ask me about the muzzle velocity or precise length – if you want all the nitty-gritty details, either look the bloody thing up in Jane's Arms & Armaments or just ask Froggy, he's our resident egghead on that stuff, a walking talking version of the book. We use this thing for 'Green' – outdoor – work, and usually rig it in an 'under-and-over' combination with an M203 grenade launcher for some extra wallop. I won't be testing you on those though, seeing as the idea is to keep your load as light as possible. How's it feel, weight-wise? It's a bit less than nine pounds when fully loaded, so keep that in mind as you're going to need to be carrying this thing hours on end for bloody miles in such a way you can use it in less than two seconds flat if we get bumped. There's no full automatic setting on it, just semi-auto and triple-bursts, so you don't have to worry about fucking up and squirting off all your ammo in one go. It's not too brilliant, and jams sometimes even today, but it's pretty good."
Sam shifted her hands over the weapon, awkwardly grasping the underside of the barrel and the grip. "It's kinda on the heavy side for doing all that," she sheepishly admitted.
Ash shook his head. "Hang about a sec…" The sergeant stepped behind her. Moving his hands over her own, Ash moved Sam's fingers and palms so she was holding the weapon more comfortably. "Keep your hand on the grip like this and put the butt into your shoulder thus…there you go. Any better?"
Sam shifted her shoulders, reminding herself she'd have to carry the Bergen and grab-bag as well. "Er…yeah, a bit. I don't know for sure if I could carry it comfortably for too long or not," she admitted, a little embarrassed.
Ash nodded, and clapped her on the shoulder. "Okey-dokey, have a go with this thing for now. It's just better for all of us if we're using the same ammo load-out and kit, and if we get bumped it'd be handy if all of us are firing back at the same range. We'll find out in the field training if you can handle carrying it for long distances. If it doesn't work out, you only take a Nine Milly and leave this thing behind."
"'Nine Milly'?"
"Browning handgun," Ash explained. "It's the calibre. We've been using them since the Regiment was rebuilt back in the Fifties, during the Malayan Conflict. Very reliable." He then proceeded to show Sam how to chamber a round, where the safety/selector switch was, ran her through selecting firing groupings and showed her how to field-strip the weapon, clean its working parts and reassemble it, and how to fit and use the Kite sight – a British-designed and built lightweight weapon-aiming system that was capable of being fitted to most rifles and light anti-tank weapons, which permitted the firer to aim even in total darkness.
"Right," Ash finally grinned, reloading the rifle and handing it back as he slipped on his ear defenders, "show me what you can do. Put it into single shot mode, I want to see you firing, five rounds rapid."
Sam put on her own ear defenders, clicked the selector switch to the correct position and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Shit. She'd forgotten to cock the weapon. She scrabbled to do so, finally chambering a round. She peered through the sights, squeezing the trigger once. The recoil slammed the butt against her shoulder, causing her to look away from the sight and wince in pain as the barrel jerked upwards, her finger jerking reflexively and firing off a second round. That one stayed in the range, but there was no way it had come close to the target. Forcing the muzzle down again, Sam squeezed the trigger again, then again, then finally the fifth time.
Ash tapped a control and the target, a black disc on a white background, trundled down the range towards them. One hit. Sam stared at the single ragged hole, unwilling to look at the sergeant for fear of his reaction. That single hole was on the very edge of the target disc.
"That," Ash calmly said, "was completely and utterly shit."
Sam cringed; no way was he not going to scrub her.
"Much better than I expected though." Huh? Sam tore her eyes from the target and saw Ash was grinning broadly at her. "I hadn't expected you to hit the target at all."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked weakly.
Ash shrugged. "Have you ever fired an assault rifle before?" Sam shook her head. "Well there you go; it's a more powerful weapon than you've ever used before, it's unfamiliar, and you're completely untrained. How the hell were you meant to hit anything on your first go? Now, let's get to work, eh?
"Where're you going wrong? First off, you never fight your own weapon. Move your leg back a bit—" he crouched down, and his hands touched her left leg, guiding her back half a step, "and twist your shoulders a bit like this," he guided her upper body into a different stance. "Remember, the gun's on your side if you're on its. You want to position your body so the weapon's pointing naturally at the target – if you have to force it, you're doing it wrong. Shift your arm out a bit—" Ash gently repositioned Sam's right arm a touch, "—it'll help absorb the recoil. Now, let's try this again…"
It was hard work indeed. Ash was unrelenting but didn't fit Sam's prior idea of a British sergeant at all, never raising his voice. If she wasn't sure of something, he'd explain it and show it to her again. His attitude seemed to be that he was there to train her up if she wanted, and if she wanted to leave and drop out of the mission then that was fine with him; he wasn't making her do either.
Sam had persevered, Ash had pressed her on, and after almost an hour and a half her aim had improved somewhat and she was absorbing the recoil much more easily, to the point where Ash was satisfied that she was ready to try triple bursts. As he explained it to her, the principle behind using any automatic weapon lighter than a machinegun wasn't to be able to take out multiple targets with a burst, but to put as many rounds as accurately as possible into one target at a time and make absolutely certain that they were down for the count. You couldn't just fire off one shot, bang, and someone would immediately drop dead, as to get a killing shot you needed to hit something vital: the head, a major artery, an important internal organ, and at any kind of distance that was no easy thing to do, especially if you and your target were on the move. And no one, no matter how well trained, could ever hope to be able to take the time for a perfect shot on every single occasion they aimed a rifle. The triple burst setting enabled the shooter to put three rounds into the same point, which would be useful for punching through the armour the aliens had been wearing, and the more shots you put into someone and the faster you could do so maximised the likelihood that you'd inflict enough damage to take them down and could move onto the next member of the opposition, as the sergeant chose to refer to them.
Sam finally got the hang of things, and an hour later she was able to fire off three-round bursts with reasonable accuracy. The extra recoil had been difficult to handle at first, but she was getting used to absorbing it. Ash had commented that while her aim left a great deal to be desired by the SAS, she might just have scraped into the bottom end of a regular infantry battalion or Territorial Army unit, and at least she'd be able to lay down some pretty reasonable suppressing fire at long range while the SAS troopers 'slotted' any hostile contacts. But then, Sam wasn't expected to be able to fight even half as well as any of the troopers in the patrol: she was just expected to be able to survive and make some sort of contribution to a firefight.
After Sam had been practising for a while, Ash drew another M-16 with an M203 grenade launcher fitted under the barrel for himself, and was able to get in some practice of his own while keeping an eye on his student. Both rifle and grenade launcher were painted in the camouflage colours that seemed to be the SAS' trademark, a torch secured with masking tape below the M-16's barrel, and a scrap of camo-blanket wrapped around the rig's muzzle, safely away from any of the working parts but effectively helping to break up the outline. Sam sneaked glances over at him from time to time while reloading her own weapon, noting how he worked his assault rifle with a tightly controlled economy of swift, fluid and well-practised movement, body moving through a long-rehearsed routine to carry, cock, aim, fire, reselect rate-of-fire, re-sight, fire, re-sight, reselect rate-of-fire, fire again, and so on until he had to reload and then repeat the entire process all over again. He operated the weapon like a well-oiled machine, drilling holes in his targets swiftly and efficiently with an ease that could only have resulted from constant hours of practice. If he ever missed, Sam didn't notice.
Emptying another magazine, the sergeant removed it, slapped in a full one, and checked his watch. Sam finished off her own, glancing over as Ash handed her something. It was an automatic handgun.
"This might be a good time for you to get up to speed on these," he offered by way of explanation. "The Browning automatic; thirteen-round clip, 9mm, old, tried, tested, reliable, Belgian manufactured. This thing simply does not fuck up. It'll be your best friend in a tight spot and look after you if you make sure to return the favour. Clean it, keep it loaded and ready, care for it, get it repaired when it needs it – in fact, treat it as you would your firstborn child. This is your backup weapon, only to be used if your rifle fucks up, gets damaged, lost or if you run out of ammo for the Armalite. Don't use your Nine Milly if you can use your rifle. Have a go, we've got enough time before the brief."
The cycle of training began once again. Sam had to learn different stances and ways of grasping the new weapon, through a cycle of trial, error, Ash correcting her and she then had to strive to learn from his lessons. The Browning was a bit larger and longer than the US Air Force standard-issue Berettas Sam had used once or twice back in her military brat days, had more recoil and a lot more stopping power. Sam soon had the hang of the basics, and Ash drew another Browning for himself.
The contrast in their levels of skill was dramatic; Sam had enough difficulties with targets at ten yards, making headshots only one out of every three rounds she fired on average, and missing completely at least one round in every six or so. Ash, on the other hand, was calmly hitting targets at up to thirty yards away and only missed the head of one of his targets after going through five clips without slowing down. The 'stray' caught a target in the throat, just below where the chin would have been, while all the others were headshots. The 'miss' resulted in a volley of muttered swearing from Ash, who then accelerated in his use of ammunition as though he had a personal grudge against the target range. Sam had believed that Europeans didn't know a damn about pistols, but Ash must have had one in his hand when he was born or something given the accuracy with which he was demolishing the targets.
After her eleventh magazine clicked empty, Ash tapped Sam on the shoulder. "Time for us to shift it," he said. "Got that brief."
The room, on sub-level thirteen, was bare, grey and depressing, furnished with old second-hand-looking wooden and plastic folding chairs that seemed to have been designed more to be stacked neatly out of the way than sat on comfortably. It had been initially designed as a laboratory back when The Pit was first built during the late Thirties, but now was woefully out of date as labs on the upper levels had since been upgraded and surpassed Room S13-96's capabilities. The old lab equipment had finally been stripped out in the Seventies, and the room had been left to gather dust.
Below this there was only one more floor, which had long ago been abandoned and recently commandeered by the SAS patrol as a training area. They were in the very bowels of the base, and few personnel ever ventured to this level. Room S13-96 had been adopted by the patrol as their private little briefing-room-cum-lounge. Someone had found the time to drag an old rickety wooden crate down, upon which now perched an elderly and somewhat battered portable black and white television set. If there was a remote control for it anywhere, Sam couldn't see it. A couple of naked lightbulbs hung from the ceiling and the room stank of a curious aroma of old teabags, stale coffee, cigarettes and a faint whiff of beer.
Ash had told Sam to keep hold of her weapons and the unused ammunition and made her add extra magazines for her rifle, after loading himself up with clips of ammunition and a box of spare rounds for his own and a clutch of bombs for his grenade launcher. The pair of them looked about ready to re-fight the Oman War, as Ash had jokingly put it. Sam had asked what that war had been about, and regretted it after Ash filled her in on the history and insisted on comparing it to Vietnam, then detailing the Borneo War and Malayan Conflict and balancing British successes in those conflicts against American disasters in Korea and Vietnam. The television series M.A.S.H. had also been discussed.
As briefings went, this one was perhaps even more informal than the previous meeting, or so Sam thought at any rate. By the time the entire patrol had entered, she could scarcely believe that a single one of these men had managed to be accepted into any military organisation, never mind a Special Forces unit. They entered in dribs and drabs, slouching down on the chairs. None of them displayed anything resembling the discipline Sam had hitherto associated with military personnel – even their officer was fairly lax. Not one of them was in a complete uniform, with one or two wearing camouflage trousers and t-shirts.
The first to show up were Jimmy and Sid Vicious, as Ash had identified them to her, strolling in chatting together as casually as you pleased, wearing faded and worn black denim jeans and t-shirts bearing the legends "I HAD IT IN BARBADOS" and "STRANGE FRUIT: '78 TOUR WISBECH OPEN AIR ROCK FESTIVAL" respectively. Their appearances were stark contrasts: Jimmy was a mere five foot eight in height, quietly spoken, skinny, dark-haired, somewhat handsome and looked to be barely out of his teens as he sipped at a tin of Coke, while Sid was a noisy, muscularly built dirty-blonde scraping in at six foot four with a boxer's nose and ears that could have concealed radar dishes, and was lighting up his third cigarette of the day while waving a paper cup full of coffee around to illustrate some point he was making. If Ash was to be believed, they both read classical literature for a pastime.
Froggy showed up next wearing his prized "FROGMEN DO IT UNDERWATER" shirt, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth and a battered, well-read and clearly much-loved paperback book shoved in the back pocket of his baggy slacks. It was The Fellowship of the Ring. Scudder had only donned a vest, a pair of Gore-Tex trousers and his boots, and was scratching idly at his tattooed chest through the vest as he talked something over with Ross, the major himself only half-dressed and puffing away at a Silk Cut. Gareth Berensen looked to be a bit drowsy still as he consulted Ash about something involving the armoury Sam couldn't quite follow, chomping on a Mars bar to wake himself up. Nev arrived wearing tracksuit bottoms, a torn Harlequins rugby shirt and minging old trainers, a broadsheet newspaper in hand, which he was reading the sports page of. To Samantha Carter, PhD, standing in their midst and looking at them, they seemed to represent the kind of line-up the police might gather to stand with a particularly physically fit suspect.
"Fancy a fag?" Froggy asked her.
Sam did a double-take. "What!" she finally asked.
"A – fag. Do – you – want – one?" Froggy repeated himself slowly and carefully, much as he might do for those he believed to be idiots or very deaf. He waved his cigarette packet under Sam's nose in emphasis.
"Oh – no, thanks," Sam told him, realisation dawning. "I don't smoke."
Froggy shrugged. "Fair 'nough."
Eventually, Ross called out over the vague hubbub, "All right! Listen up. We're going to Stirling Lines this morning and we'll be coming back Tuesday night—" This was met with much muttered approval from the troopers. "—and Michael Fish's weather forecast off the Beeb looks like complete shit – could get stormy."
"Ah, what else is new?" Sid Vicious asked as he drained his coffee. He crumpled the cup, chucking it across the room and into a bin.
Ross grinned. "Exactly. As you know, we've got a mission specialist, Doctor Carter. Ash? How's she coming? Froggy, shut the fuck up right now!" The frogman smirked one last time at the accidental double entendre, but complied and ceased his sniggering.
"Well, I'm going to give her a run with the Armalite and Browning for now – a full 203 rig'd be a bit heavy-going," Ash reported. "She's not exactly crap at shooting, much better than I'd feared, so I might be able to do something with her. Early days yet. It's the endurance and patrolling that'll be the really important bit."
"Right. Okay, here's what we're going to be doing over the next three days: in half an hour one of Mason's lads and a Bedford'll be here to take us to D Squadron Lines, seeing as the boys from D are spread between the usual postings in Belize, Malaya, Bessbrook and hell-only-knows where else, and Hayes has agreed to lend us a staff weapon for testing purposes. When we get to Hereford, I want you, Doctor, to see if you can figure out how it works. We'll give it half an hour, then get moving if you get nowhere. If you work it out, we'll get some practice in with it before going on patrol.
"Ash? I want you to take Carter with you – what you do to train her is up to you. The rest of you lot are with me, practising SOPs and generally getting some nice fresh air." A chorus of good-natured groans met this last comment. "Ash, if you feel Carter is ready to keep up with us and you manage to find where we're at, by all means link up. One thing though: Hayes is only clearing Carter for Hereford provided she doesn't get seen by anyone not affiliated with the SGP – you might want to work out a cover story for if the shit hits the fan, G Squadron got back from Columbia last month and they're on training exercises in the area. So don't fuck up, either of you! Any questions?"
"Yeah – if B's on CRW, D's scattered about and the woodentops're training here, what's A Squadron doing?" Jimmy asked.
"They've taken over the Columbian duty, so they'll be out of our way. And before anyone asks, the trainees on Selection are doing the jungle-warfare survival training in Brunei, so we needn't worry about them."
"How 'bout J Squadron?" That was Froggy. Sam saw Ash frown at this.
Ross rolled his eyes. "About half of Mountain Troop's off chasing a clan of Ilk'nya demons in Kazakhstan. Sergeant Parker's in charge of our lot, so they ought to be all right."
Ash grinned. "Oh, yeah. With Danny-boy in charge, them Silkies're going to scream the place down once him and the lads get stuck in."
"Why-aye, more trophies fer the Squadron Int'rest Room," Scudder agreed. "They look bloody good wi' their 'eads stuffed 'n' mounted on the wall."
"Gareth," Ross glanced sympathetically at the young sniper "a few of your mates in Air Troop are back in South Armagh—"
"Aw, shittin' 'ell," Gareth groaned.
"—turns out that Mohra demon you shot back in March had a sister and she's pissed that he's dead, never mind that he wanted to bring about an apocalypse – they're working with Department 19B and the lads of 14th Int, trying to track her down before she does too much damage. The Provos and UVF are getting in the way as usual. The rest of the ice cream boys are deployed in London, seems the Underground's got infested with yet another demon-worshipping cult. Vince Lennox is leading our lot on that job, and they've got that new lad Alex Frost along with 'em for a bit of extra firepower."
"In't Alex the guy with the Crazh'nar'hc demon great-grandmother?" asked Sid.
"Yeah, that's the bloke," said Scudder. "Not very good with magic, though."
"Major Harcourt's working with Trevor Black and Matt Cross," Ross continued, "they're breaking in some new lads from G Squadron back at J Squadron Lines. I heard something about a few guys from Mobility Troop going to the Australian outback a month ago – no confirmation either way on that one so it's either a rumour or classified – but I do know that a couple of blokes from Mobility Troop and the rest of Mountain Troop shipped out to Pakistan recently with some Pinkies. The Green Slime are making noises about a squad of Spetsnaz getting turned into vampires during the Afghanistan War and hanging around after the Soviets pulled out, so I reckon they'll be working with the Russians on cleaning up that one."
Jimmy snorted quietly. "Friggin' A-Team," he muttered.
"Got that right," Sid Vicious agreed.
"Another six lads of Mobility are s'posed to be off in the area of Christchurch in New Zealand – I'm not sure what they're up to, but it seems you-know-who has shown up in Wellington. It could be that his box got the wrong location."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Ash commented, grinning.
"Remember 1989?" Scudder nudged the sergeant. "'E wound up on a building site up 'roond Tidworth way when them fuckin' Cybermen were doon in Birmingham's sewers. My cousin, 'e was working as a bricky there when the bloody thing dematerialised. The gaffer was fuckin' livid 'cause a' that."
Ross stared pointedly at them and the NCOs shut up. "J Squadron Lines got a report from an SBS marine on an oil rig in the North Sea requesting backup urgently, so half of Boat Troop's gone out as reinforcements," the major continued. "Some riggers were going missing – Five thought the disappearances might be the work of the IRA at first; turns out there's some new sub-species of aquatic daemon out there.
"The rest of Boat Troop are still in New York. They're working with that team from UNIT investigating a suspected sighting of William the Bloody and Drusilla in the sewers. So far all they've found is a couple of escaped alligators from a zoo and the vampire-formerly-known-as-Angelus eating rats. The guys reported back to the Lines yesterday to say that they're getting pissed off from the lack of Spike and Dru, but the alligators are very tasty when marinaded in Tabasco and 'Angel' as he calls himself these days is a gibbering wreck. That's the lot."
Sam blinked. "Major…did you just say vampires?" she asked weakly.
"What?" Ash looked honestly surprised. "You can handle wormholes, aliens and ray guns but not vampires, demons and magic?"
Sam slumped in her seat. "What?" she asked, in a small voice.
Scudder sighed, clambering out of his seat and crouching down beside Sam, taking her hand gently in his in a fatherly manner – Ash had said something about him having kids, so she guessed he had a bit of practice. "S'all real, pet," he said quietly. "'S what we do: we fight 'em. Vamps, demons, rogue sorcerers, the works."
"Just whose idea was it to reveal one of Britain's best-kept secrets anyway?" Ash asked, his undertone harsh.
Ross shrugged. "We had a vote before turning in – thought it was only fair that Doctor Carter knew who she was working with."
"So you called a vote without me?" Ash was clearly annoyed at being cut out of the loop.
"Ash, man – would ye have said the Doc was ready?" Scudder asked, turning away briefly from the astrophysicist.
"Well, I s'pose so," Ash admitted.
"Thought so. That's why."
"W-w-wait just a second here, guys – you seriously expect me to believe that vampires and magic are real!" Sam spluttered. "That's just crazy! What next, is Dracula real too, then?"
Gareth sniffed. "Yeah, but he's complete and total tosser – Christopher Lee shows him as way more intelligent than he really is. The sooner someone finds a way of killing the bastard permanent-like, the better."
"Not many vampires are 'specially happy 'bout 'im," Sid Vicious added. "Bram Stoker gets an interview with the little gobshite an' funding to write his book, next thing you know, everyone knows how to kill vampires. Word is, The Master contracted the Order of Takara to off the greasy little sod, and old Kakistos was good and pissed at Drac for almost a century."
Sam slumped in her seat. "You guys are crazy," she whispered.
"Tell ye what," Scudder grinned, "when we get back, we'll show ye summat o' the supernat'ral, then ye can decide for yourself."
"Look, Doctor, we all know this is a lot to take in. There isn't a man in this room who didn't think the whole situation was ridiculous when he first heard about it," Ross said reasonably. "You don't have to take our word for it, okay?
"Now, next item of business: our kit. The patrol is to last up to eight days: after that, we're getting off the planet and coming back here, one way or another, so that's how much food and water you'll need. Nev, you sort out the medic kit."
Although all the troopers had medical experience, the whole of the SAS being trained to a high standard, Nev, being a patrol medic, was partly NHS trained. He would automatically get trauma equipment, including a complete intravenous set and field dressings for everybody.
"We won't be worrying about taking any radios heavier than PRR sets, not on this job. Sid and Gareth, I'd like you two to run a complete check on our sets."
The two troopers would check that each set taken along had a fresh battery, that everyone had spare batteries, and that the sets actually worked.
"Ash, Froggy, can you sort out the dems kit?"
Trained as demolitions specialists, they would sort out what to take by way of explosives. Not knowing what they might have cause to blow up, if anything, they'd take a supply of PE4 – plastic explosives. They'd take the PE out of all its packaging and wrap it in masking tape to keep its shape. This would save the noise of unpacking in the field and any risk of compromise as a result of dropped rubbish.
"Personal weaponry: 203s with Brownings as back-ups all round."
"What about the heavy stuff?" Ash asked.
"We'll take a gimpy," Ross decided, referring to the popular machineguns. "Scudder, Sid? You up for carrying it?"
Considered by some to be the best weapon in the British Army's armoury, the 'Gimpy' was considered to be a battle-winning weapon. The SAS had always made extensive use of the weapon since the Borneo War in the Sixties. Capable of hitting out to eight hundred metres and punching a 7.62mm round through a brick wall when in a light role and mounted on a bipod, the weapon was belt-fed and designed to spread its fire around a beaten zone one metre wide and a hundred and ten metres deep. In this light role, the gimpy was heavy even without ammunition, weighing in at twenty-four pounds, but on the whole well worth taking along. As was often the practice, the two-hundred-round spare ammunition belts would be shared out and carried by the other members of the patrol, with the exception of Carter.
"Sure, no prob," Scudder nodded.
"Sounds good to me, Boss," Sid Vicious grinned.
"What about anti-armour capability?" Nev asked.
Ross shrugged. "I haven't a clue there. The opposition could have giant walking tanks like those things in the Star Wars films, or for all we know they're still using horses and carts and pinched some fancy weapons from a crashed flying saucer. We could take a Carl Gustav, but…"
The others nodded in agreement. The 84millimetre recoilless rifle was a lot of extra baggage for a threat that might not even materialise. "Go lightweight?" Gareth suggested.
"Something like a LAW 80 would come in right handy against any buildings or bunkers we find, like," Scudder pointed out. "They'll go awf if'n they hit the proper bloody wall."
"LAW 80s are too heavy for this job," said Ash. "We don't know how far we'll have to tab, or how long we'll be on the move."
"66s then," Ross decided. "We'll take four – no sense in overdoing it."
The American-manufactured M72 throwaway anti-tank missile was a favourite weapon. It didn't go through as much armour as some of the others, but it was the most easily portable and therefore best-suited for a 'just-in-case' contingency role. The 66mm rocket had become popular with the Regiment during the Oman campaign and the Falklands War, proving itself to be particularly invaluable in the Pebble Island Raid. It was extremely compact, less than two feet long when collapsed, and weighed about five and a half pounds. In order to be fired, all a soldier had to do was extend the weapon, aim through the simple scope and tap the rubber detent that formed the firing mechanism. Although the weapon was good for only one shot, it was also simple in design, being a fire-and-forget weapon that lacked any fiddly onboard electronic equipment and therefore rarely suffered from technical or environmental faults.
"What do we do for SAM cover?" Jimmy asked.
"Like the anti-armour kit, we don't know if we'll need one," Ross said. "It'd be nice to justify carting along a Stinger, but I think it's going to be out of the question."
Ash shook his head slowly and doubtfully. "Yeah, it wouldn't be feasible to take it all the way. But being without any SAM cover at all leaves us vulnerable. How about a compromise? We take a Stinger and four missiles in with us. We cache them at our first RV point unless it looks like we'll need them right away, but that way we can always go back and dig 'em out if something crops up."
It was a good suggestion, and Ross considered it carefully. The American Stinger system was a very effective hand-held surface-to-air missile, ideal for protecting small, isolated units from enemy air attack. It had certainly proved its worth in the Falklands and the Gulf. The weapon's main drawback, from the point of view of this or any other patrol, was that the launcher alone weighed thirty-three pounds and its individual missiles were each a similar weight.
"I'll carry it if it makes any difference to your decision," Ash put in, noting Ross' continued hesitation. "And it's not sheer masochism – I'd feel a sight happier."
"All right, you've got it," Ross said. "But we dump it at the first RV, no arguments."
Ash grinned. "Right you are, Boss."
"What about mortars?" Nev asked.
"I doubt we'll have much call to use them," said Ross. "As for the quiet stuff, we'll take a pair of Welrods in with us. Jimmy, Ash? You two'll get the most use from them.
Jimmy nodded. "Sounds good."
"Each patrol will carry a Claymore. Four fragmentation grenades and two white phosphorous each. That ought to take care of the hardware," he said. "We won't be exactly travelling light, but it's a step up from water pistols and a big stick. Anything else?"
"Yeah," said Sid Vicious. "Have we got a callsign yet?"
"X-ray Tango One," said Ross.
"Christ only knows where they dug that up from," Froggy snorted.
