Limit of Exploitation (2 page)

Paula had no way of knowing how long she had been unconscious for but the long shadows in the warehouse told her it had been a while. Blinking hard to clear her eyes she tries to move, but movement is slow and painful, the freezing warehouse has stiffened her skinny limbs. She knows she is alone, she also knows she has to get out, quick.

She tries to stand but collapses on legs that won’t work properly; instead she crawls on gashed hands and knees through a carpet of rubbish and shit.

She pulls an old Donkey jacket around her shoulders; it stinks but at least its dry and offers some protection against the cold.

Hunched and shivering she creeps barefoot across broken concrete and brick like a bad break-dancer, stumbling her way to a shattered doorframe and freedom.

She drew some weird looks on her way home but so what, she made it. Home for Paula is the typical council concrete box, a high rise that was considered state of the art in the late sixties. A third-hand TV, a well-worn three piece suite and painted walls.
Town and Country
magazine wouldn’t be visiting anytime soon.

Anxious fingers reach for her Lambert and Butler as she tries to control her tears of anger and frustration, its not working and she smashes her fists down on her cheap sideboard. A battered Adidas shoebox of old photos and ancient Christmas cards scatters to the floor as she hits out.

She drops to her knees, face in her hands sobbing her heart out. As she composes herself she see’s a long forgotten photo lying amongst the junk on the carpet.

She stares down at the dog-eared photo. A group of scowling Paratroopers stand around an armoured Land Rover in West Belfast. She calms down; the cogs start ticking over as her brother’s image stares back up at her. She hadn’t kept in touch with John that much since he moved away and joined the Army, over the years they seemed to have drifted apart a little. Looking at his picture now she thought that odd, as growing up together all they had was each other. But that’s families for you.

Paula suddenly jumps up and runs barefoot to the bathroom, she just makes it to the toilet in time before dropping to her knees and vomiting into the bowl. The anger, frustration and nervous energy of the previous twenty four hours need’s a release. Coughing and spluttering she wipes away snot and bile with the back of her hand and slumps into a fetal position on the floor. The tears run free, as she wonders what became of her life. As she hides her face behind clenched fists something scratches her cheek; she looks into her hand to see the photograph of her brother still gripped in her angry little fist. Through her tears, she knows that her one hope for her daughter lies in that photo. Paula needs help, needs it fast. The kind she needs is going to have to be able to deal with a psychotic Serbian gangster who’s drug distribution activities extend to Kidnap and murder. That kind of assistance is not to be found easily, so forget the Police.

She slowly pulls herself up and tears off a length of toilet paper to sort her face out. Grabbing a scrunchy from the sink she ties her minging hair back and wonders where her trainers are, she’ll need them for the trip to the Internet café on the high street.

The screaming turbines of the giant Chinook helicopter beating through the night sky kills any conversation, no ones in the mood for chit-chat anyway.

In the inky blackness heavily armed Paratroopers of the Special Forces Support Group line the interior of the Chinook as it bucks and kicks it way to tonight's target.

Sergeant John Logan flips down the Night Vision Goggles mounted on his Hemet; his world instantly turns into a bright green and black TV. He scans over the other troops of the strike company. Blacked out under Kevlar helmets, weapons and equipment they look robotic, almost mechanical, certainly menacing. The interior of the Chinook has a unique metallic stink of burning plastic and aviation fuel mixed with sweat and oil. The RAF is not big on business class travel.

Much like his sister, John Logan drifted along in his early teens, financing his bed-sit rent from the proceeds of petty crime. School hadn't been an issue, hadn't really been on the radar at all, putting food in his mouth and dodging the truancy officer had been. He would have liked to have known his father, but he died in prison in Glasgow when John was still just a baby. Seeking a better life for her kids his mother had moved the family south to London in search of a new start, but it hadn't really been the success story she dreamed of. Being broke and desperate in London was just the same as being broke and desperate anywhere; just the football teams were different. Their mother's problems with alcohol came with them too, and a young Paula and John woke one day to find the front door open and their mother gone. They never saw her again.

As a kid, a couple of scrapes with the law gave him his first early lessons in discipline, his first warning signs of the shape of things to come if he didn't pull his finger out.

John was fit, well-built and handy with his brain as well as his fists. He had been looking for something back then, something to belong to and somewhere to channel all that energy, all that frustration. The Army and Afghanistan gave him ample opportunity.

His radio earpiece sparks into life as the Chinooks Loadmaster starts his run in commentary. “Two minutes, that's two minutes to the LZ.” The Landing Zone is just two minutes away.

In John's green and black world he watches the Loadmaster raise two fingers in confirmation. He repeats the hand signal to the other soldiers who pass it on down the row of troops. They look back at John. He is their confidence, where he goes, they follow. A career soldier just turned thirty John has a presence, a professional air. Strong, capable; feared and respected in equal measure.

The Loadie pipes up again, “One minute, that's one minute, give 'em shit lads.”

The screaming jet turbines noticeably change pitch as the aircrafts double sets of rotor blades slap the air hard. Heads instinctively turn as soldiers eye the tailgate, they've been here before, and they know what's coming.

The troops stand as one and face the tailgate ramp. They adjust equipment and check their weapons. Their faces are impassive in the roaring darkness, no going back now.

The Chinook flares, it vibrates on an invisible cushion of air as the pilot sticks back; rotor blades thump as it comes in for a fast tactical landing. The lower portion of the tailgate powers down into the open position and a small red light mounted to one side flicks on, soldiers brace themselves.

There's a firm bounce on landing, the red light flicks to green, but the Para's are already moving as fast as they can down the lowered tailgate and out into the black churning dust cloud.

Breathing hard, the heavily laden troops run flat out, away from the vulnerable helicopter and drop to one knee in a defensive perimeter on the shale covered desert floor. Weapons are held up and ready, eyes lock onto night sights that scan the countryside around the LZ.

John quickly gathers up soldiers and moves them off towards a group of low buildings forming a compound at the base of some distant foothills. Through his NVG's the compound, designated TANGO to the Troops, looks like a collection of light green shoeboxes. Soldiers start to fan out in well-practiced formations as the Chinook batters away into the night sky.

Overhead is the continual drone of an Apache Gunship providing top cover for the advancing friendly forces. High above the Apache are a pair of prowling RAF Tornados on standby to deliver precise guided munitions if required. Completing what the army terms a package, and at an altitude of thirty-thousand feet, is an E-3 airborne warning and control system, or AWACS if you're not a geek. Based on a Boeing 707 airframe the AWACS provides the surveillance, command and control, and communications functions for the strike company's mission.

Down in the real world John snaps off instructions into the boom mic attached to his earpiece. “Billy as soon as your last man is in get off to the Fire Support position mate and observe TANGO.”

The broad Liverpudlian accent of Billy Carr quickly acknowledges. “Roger that, moving now.”

John checks on the other troops. Heavily armed black figures move purposely across a green moonscape towards the target compound. Small Infra Red identification patches on the soldiers upper arms and helmets glow bright green through his NVG's.

The Taliban were known to use isolated border compounds such as this one as operating bases to store weapons, food and narcotics. Military Intelligence had warned that the approaching green shoeboxes could hold all sorts of nasty surprises for the unwary.

Whip cracks suddenly split the air overhead. The compound buildings erupt in dazzling white flashes as automatic fire bursts from shadowy windows and doors. Soldiers slam into the earth and return the Taliban fire.

“BILLY GO, GO, GO!”

Billy Carr and his teenage Paratroopers are already off the leash, attacking towards the nearest building. The rest of the formation slips into the time honoured procedure of fire manoeuvre, they move hard and aggressively, they want to get in and get it over with. The compound all but disappears in bursting dust clouds of automatic fire thudding against it.

Green and Red Tracer Bullets, outgoing and incoming, fill the night sky and bounce at crazy angles off rocks and buildings.

The first section of troops reaches the compound and stacks up beside a doorway with no door.

The first soldier, with SA80 Rifle ready, observes the buildings entry point, a second soldier closes up tight behind him and produces a High Explosive Grenade. After a quick nod of confirmation between them, grimy fingers pull free the grenades safety pin and its then lobbed over the shoulder of the first soldier and through the open doorway.

It's not the movies, there's no sheet of roaring flame, just a gut thumping dull boom as the HE Grenade does its job. Over pressure from the explosion belches out a black cloud of sand and soot from within the room. Paratroopers storm in, darting left and right they pour deafening automatic fire into any possible Taliban hiding place and identify internal doorways and windows. The soot and shit cloud sticks to gaunt young faces; the stink of cordite and burning chokes lungs.

Outside its near dawn and John takes stock of his surroundings. Fire, smoke, shouting, mayhem, deafening bangs, and ear splitting cracks as bullets snap past.

In previous raids the SFSG had come across Taliban from Pakistan and the Yemen, regular troops from Iran and Syria, and fighters from Chechnya and Saudi Arabia. There had also been a sprinkling of British Muslims too.

Billy is having a busy day at the office and barks into his boom mic, “Ritchie can you clear the next one kid? I'll give fire support from here?”

Through his radio earpiece a broad cockney accent replies, “Roger that scouse, moving up now; don't shoot me in the arse!”

Soldiers check weapons and prepare kit for the next move. They pass around ammunition belts, Grenades and Rockets, they breathe heavy and drip sweat. Faces are dirty, gaunt and drawn, making them look older than their years.

Outside in small courtyard Ritchie Davison and his section group behind a low wall between two mud brick houses. The freckle faced Ritchie turns to his section. “KIWI! KIWI! Get Taff Davies, Brummie Parker and Yorkie up here to me!”

Soldiers' crawl up to the wall on hands and knee's, they set up General Purpose Machine Guns, MINIMI's and aim their rifles. The frantic work rate is interrupted as Ritchie spots danger.

“FRONT! FRONT! FRONT!”

Instinctively all heads snap around to face front. A handful of Taliban break cover and cut across the frontage of Ritchie's section. In the confusion they don't see the troops forming up behind the wall. A gift.

Weapons burst into life, automatic fire batters out towards the sprinting Taliban. Invisible fists punch them forward, invisible legs trip them up amid the snapping bullets kicking up dust and stone around them. The Taliban go down, they stay down as the echo of high velocity weapon rapports bounces round the foothills.

John takes a minute and leans against the mud brick wall of a nearby house. He spits out gritty phlegm as he rubs at the two days of growth under his chip strap. As he stares out at the mangled bodies and settling dust, a bright golden sun breaks over the mountains to dissolve the grey false dawn.

Miroslav sits in the rear of his Silver Mercedes and silently watches a large Dutch flagged bulk-carrier off-load sand and aggregate into small mountains on the deserted quayside.

After his military service, and a sprinkling of war crimes along the way, Miroslav rose quickly in the ranks of the Zemun Clan. At the end of the day, in or out of uniform, an organised crime is an organised crime. With the downfall of the Slobodan Milosevic government and an influx of former paramilitaries with military training and wartime experience, the Zemun's connections with elements of the Serbian secret service, the UDBA, grew. In March 2003 former members of Arkans Tigers with the alleged collusion of the UDBA assassinated Prime Minister Zoran Dindic. Not even a Prime Minister could stop this gravy train.

Later In November 2009, in Buenos Aires, Argentine Police arrested five Serbian drug couriers and seized nearly five hundred kilograms of cocaine, while at the same time in Serbia police arrested over six hundred people in the biggest anti-drugs operation ever carried out in that country. Drugs were being routed by the Zemun Clan from Uruguay and Argentina via South Africa to Northern Italy, Turkey and Montenegro. These arrests upset the party in Belgrade and forced Miroslav and his boss, Zeljko Vujanovic, into a period of market research.

A study of the London crime scene convinced them that any one with the will and motivation to take control of business could do so; you just needed to do what the other guy wouldn't. Naturally that involved a violent change in the criminal status quo, and a few wide-boy Yardies and ageing Irishmen needed convincing that the revenue from drugs, prostitution and racketeering south of the river was about to change hands. They were yesterday's men; Miroslav and a handful of his tigers did the convincing. Hostile takeovers are never pretty. With the shutting off of the Zemun's South American drug routes, Afghanistan came as manna from heaven.