Hunters: A Trilogy (15 page)

Without relent, the blackness let him relive them all.

His had been an almost natural talent. Without even trying, Ken just seemed to end up in a place where the shooting always seemed to have started a long time before the thinking ever did, it was just the way it was for him, and he’d paid scant regard to the circumstance at the time.

The final re-enactment took him back to the mountains, back to the horrific fire-fight, the battle where everyone had ended up getting whacked – including him. From its conception that particular mission had been a total disaster; Ken and his guys should have cancelled it as soon as things started going wrong, sometimes it’s best not to keep swimming upstream, sometimes it’s just better to go with the flow and let fate take its course.

But they didn’t go with the flow, they kept fighting to make things work, and in typical fashion they had pushed on against all of the odds. In the end, as soon as they had been told that the choppers were cancelled, his patrol had inserted into enemy-held territory by another means. Hours and hours spent bouncing along mountain ridges and snow-covered valleys, only moving at night, their silenced quad-bikes puttering away in the thin air of high altitude.

Finally, when the terrain had become too difficult, they had been forced to dump the bikes and continue on foot. That’s when Danny had fallen and broken his back. Ken had made him comfortable, fired up Danny’s rescue beacon and then, with no other choices left to make, told Richie to stay with the casualty whilst he and the remaining four men had carried on with the mission – after all, that’s what they were there for.

A day later, and after one of the worst infiltration marches in his life, Ken and the others had reached their destination, quietly heading into the mountain village as per the plan. All they had to do was kick down the door, grab the bad guy and haul his arse back down the mountain to where the ISAF troops would be waiting for them. They had been assured there would be air cover – Ken knew from then on that the job should be easy. Two miles of running downhill with a captured terrorist in tow, how hard would it be?

Ken leapt into his memories of that night.

Mr Tiny wailed in despair: ‘No, not this, not again!’

Ken dived right in there, was pushed…

It had gone to pot right from the off. For a start, there hadn’t just been the one bad guy, hiding alone with his family as they’d been told the case would be. No, he’d definitely not been alone. The sudden appearance of about two-dozen of the man’s heavily-armed cohorts, quickly put paid to what little respect Ken had left for those wankers back in the intelligence cell. The enemy had burst from cover as soon as he’d sent their Afghan guide into the outskirts of the village.

It was about that time when the shit had really hit the fan.

In seconds the whole scene became one akin to the O.K. Corral – the narrow, mud-walled streets became filled with armed men, everywhere Ken and his men tried to find cover, they only found more gunmen. It seemed as though there were people shooting at them from everywhere. The guide had gone down in the first few moments, a burst of AK rounds chopping him almost in-two.

Then Tommo managed to get himself whacked, hitting the deck like a sack of potatoes, grunting loudly, thigh shattered. Ken ran over to help, looking at the wound, grimacing at the sight. Pieces of flesh and bone were sticking out of Tommo’s combat trousers, the torn lips of his awful wound looking like some puke-inducing flower.

Ken desperately tried to patch up the wounded man. Lying next to him with his first-aid kit open, tracer rounds tearing up the frozen earth all around them, how he himself had never been hit at the time was beyond Ken’s comprehension.

In seconds he had fitted a tourniquet to Tommo’s leg, the wound was horrific and Ken felt the awful sense of inevitability creeping into his guts again, just as it had on that fateful night.

He had grinned at the Welshman’s pale face, ‘Right, come on then Tommo, you selfish Welsh git...we need to get the fuck out of here, hold on tight, mate!’ he’d said, and then hoisted his mortally injured friend onto his own shoulders.

The others started putting down swathes of covering fire whilst Ken sprinted downhill with Tommo across his shoulders, the wounded man, bouncing like a rag doll and wailing in agony as they stumbled and slipped across the ice-covered track. The crazy Welsh bastard was nearly dead from the effects of blood-loss and shock, yet he was still managing to fire wildly at any of the enemy who showed their faces.

The red-hot, empty shell-cases spewing from his juddering weapon fell down the back of Ken’s sweat-filled combat smock, burning his neck. He gasped out in shock and pain. ‘Fucking hell, Tommo – you mad twat!’

‘Sorry, my little English flower – but I’m not going alone, see? Some of these sweaty tossers are coming with me, see?’ Tommo’s lilting accent totally out of place, in this place, this place of death.

Ken laughed and then slipped, nearly dropping his passenger in the process. Tommo screamed in agony, and then loosed off another long burst of fire. Some more hot cases to the neck. ‘Pack it in, for fuck’s sake, Tommo!’ Ken cursed and then turned to run.

Laughing and panting, they ran. Ran like crazy, ran and laughed, fired and cursed – drowning in madness, sweat and blood. Ken staggered down the track, the wounded man across his back now unconscious, he turned to stop and pick up Tommo’s fallen rifle. And then, looking like some eight-limbed porcupine, rifle barrels sticking out like spikes, he bumbled off downhill with the weight of his load making him wobble like a drunk. Nowhere safe to go, steep rocks to the left and a wide-open river to the right, all he did was make best speed straight down the track.

Ken turned briefly, he saw the others in the team fanning out behind, trying to get out of the deadly trap, all of them firing like crazy in valiant defence of their attempt to save Tommo. Screaming voices almost lost under the vicious chattering noise of firing weapons, their percussions sounding like huge, iron hammers hitting oversized anvils. The reports boomed and rolled around the steep-sided pathway to freedom. He watched as his friends battled for their lives, fought for his life, firing and screaming, trying to raise the promised air support on their radios whilst laying down fire onto fleeting glimpses of the battle-hardened, Afghan mountain-fighters. There seemed to be hundreds of the bastards.

For twenty minutes they ran – and it was running, of that there should be no doubt, none of that heroic ‘withdrawal’ rubbish here, they simply ran like hell – stumbling and slipping down the hill, tracer rounds whapping past their ears, howling ricochets bouncing from the walls of the narrow track and caroming off frozen rocks on all sides.

The only thing that did go right was the location of the ISAF troops. They turned out to be exactly where they were supposed to have been. British Infantrymen spread out along the river valley, listening to the advancing noise of battle in nervous anticipation. Ken had never been so glad to see the sight of a fresh-faced officer in his whole damned life.

Dumping Tommo with the medic, he screamed ‘Follow me!’ at the heavily-armed troops, then turned and ran up the hill to where he heard his friends engaged in a mass fire-fight. As one, without question, and with the hoarse voices of their NCOs chivvying them into action, the platoon of highly-trained infantrymen faithfully followed Ken into the deadly battle.

As he ran around the side of a large rock, Ken saw his three friends – they were crouching in a ditch at the side of the track, huge flashes of light blossomed outwards as they fired their weapons towards the enemy. Jimmy looked to be wounded – he was lying on his side, holding his left leg with one hand whilst aiming and firing his rifle uphill with the other. Ken saw the deathly pallor of his face, Jim’s frozen features leaping out at him from the flickering light of weapon fire. The smile of sickly relief he gave upon seeing Ken and the others coming back to help, was a picture that had remained embedded in Ken’s mind ever since that awful night. Time slowed and even though he tried to escape from the scene, it was impossible – it had captured him, incarcerating his mind within its historical prison.

He began to sprint, feeling his weapon recoiling as he started blasting at the enemy who were now just feet away from his comrades. He killed two of them, then two more, watching as they crumpled downwards like deflated balloons, hot blood flying to land like modern art across the frozen white canvas of the river bank. Lifting his eyes up, Ken searched for more, the flashing of muzzles and chaos of battle blinding him as he desperately tried to see what was going on.

He saw a man approaching his friends; the guy was firing wildly from the hip. As he leapt into the air above the ditch, with muzzle spurting flame, one of his wayward bullets found its mark. The lucky shot took Ken’s legs from under him – with a sickening thump, the hurtling piece of lead ploughed into him. The bullet smashed into his webbing belt, punctured his water bottle and then glanced off his hip-bone, departing into the night with several pieces of Ken’s flesh in tow. His legs flew from under him and he bit the dust, landing on his face, teeth clicking viciously, open mouth slammed shut by the impact of his unexpected fall. The force of the impact sent sparks flying across his vision, he shook his head in desperation, trying to regain some focus, trying to…

Then, in that one, frozen moment – like a poster for an action film – Ken saw the attacker diving onto his friends. In slow-motion he saw Geordie leap to his feet and smash the butt of his weapon into the man’s chest, the Afghan staggered backwards and then, to Ken’s complete and utter horror, the man exploded. With the whine of ball-bearings slicing through the air, Ken’s friends disappeared within the all-consuming fireball of a powerful suicide bomb.

The force of the blast blew him onto his back, his position and the depth of the ditch saving him from any further injury; other than some damaged eardrums and a bullet hole to the fleshy part of his hip, Ken was unscathed.

The same did not apply to his friends. They were all gone.

‘Oh, Christ – I can’t do this again...Oh Christ, oh God…’

He tried to erase the scene, tried to think of other things, anything. But he was unable to. George made him wait. Wait until the awful sound of Geordie and the others’ flesh had finished raining down in a sickening torrent. Ken became detached. Somehow the horror, too deep now, allowed him to leave the reality. Instead, he was given the opportunity just to watch. Turning back to the scene, he watched in that terrible, disconnected fascination as his own figure rose to its feet. It was him and yet it wasn’t.

He felt, he tasted, he saw, and he heard, but it wasn’t him. He was detached.

Like some enraged Demon, he began to advance up the hill past the smoking crater of his friends’ last stand. Within five minutes, Ken had killed any man who showed his face, it was all close-quarter stuff and he was a master at that particular art. He heard the others, the infantrymen, shouting and firing around him, saw their fire leaping into the darkness and heard their rifle-launched grenades exploding amongst the fleeing enemy. But he didn’t stop advancing.

Ken continued up the hill, killing everything in sight. His leg had gone numb and he couldn’t seem to hear or see properly, he didn’t need to...anything that moved received the same treatment, two rounds to the body and one more to the head. Never stopping, just reloading, advancing and screaming: killing, killing, killing. The rage had taken him and its red mist filled his vision.

Only the voice of some young corporal saved Ken from going back to the very top of the mountain. ‘Hey, mate! Mate, stop there, mate…’

Other voices, lower, their tones quiet after the shock of battle.

‘That guy’s a nutter...did you see him?’

The corporal’s voice again. ‘You can ease up now, tiger! They’ve all gone, they’re dead – we’ve killed them all!’ He walked across and threw Ken a bottle of water. The corporal’s action ended the madness.

Ken felt himself blink and let the redness ease away from in front of his eyes. Sitting in total silence with his hands shaking slightly as the adrenaline coursed through his veins, he sat and watched as George’s presentation of his life continued.

He went to the funerals; it had been a big affair because, as Ken had found out later, there were just two survivors, only he and Richie had made it down from the mountains that night. Tommo and Danny hadn’t made it after all. Geordie and the rest – well, the crows were probably still picking up the pieces.

Ken’s injuries healed and he soon returned to the game. All of his past was portrayed before him as he watched the form of his own shadowy figure, stalking the hunted ones as they stole across the darkness of George’s endless horizon. In complete silence, Ken sat and watched the demise of at least one hundred people, all of them killed by his own hands. When the whole, terrible shadow of those killing days was thrown into the light, it presented a very grim portrayal of his life indeed. It was a depiction that was really starting to annoy him.

Almost as though he had sensed Ken’s rising displeasure, George fetched him back, whatever he did...un-hypnotised him...quickly bought the show to a premature end. Ken breathed a sigh of relief and turned towards the old man. With his emotions on overload, he sat and waited for George to speak. Sitting and smiling at Ken in that maddening way of his, the old man didn’t appear as though he was about to say anything. Instead, he sat with his hands in his lap, fingers of the left hand calmly drumming on his thigh and looking at Ken with what appeared to be some degree of amusement.

Seeing this and not being in the slightest bit amused himself, Ken decided to get the ball rolling on his own. ‘Who are you, why have you shown me this crap?’ he said, pointing at his head in a clear reference as to which ‘crap’ he was talking about. ‘I don’t need this right now, and if you’re thinking that I’m gonna tell you how sorry I am...then you’re wrong! More wrong than they were – I never asked for any of that stuff, it was just a job and I’m not sorry I did it. Yeah, there were times when it went pear-shaped, sometimes we did it right and sometimes we…’