Limit of Exploitation (5 page)

The huge C5 Galaxy Transport Aircraft lowers its undercarriage as it gracefully sweeps in over the lush green Oxfordshire countryside for it’s landing at RAF Brize Norton.

The size of a small international airport, Brize is one of the UK’s receiving air stations for personnel returning from Afghan operations. Today it’s receiving a quietly simmering Sergeant John Logan of the Special Forces Support Group.

Now wearing jeans and a North Face jacket, John sits with a numb arse on a long row of canvas bucket seats that line the cavernous cargo bay of the C5. Dozens of other chattering military personnel have also caught the weekly flight to the UK. John chats to no one, his is the only face that’s suntanned, meaning he’s the probably the only one that’s spent time in the field. The bulk of the other passengers would have been enjoying air con in their war.

A section of the cargo bay is curtained off and medical staff shuttle to and fro tending to wounded soldiers on raised stretchers. A pang of guilt hits John’s stomach as he watches the frantic movements of the medics.

The C5 pilot brings the hulking jet aircraft in for a smooth textbook landing that Virgin Atlantic would have been proud of. The screaming turbines power down and the aircraft begins its taxi to the terminal. John delves into his daysack producing the dog-eared notebook Ian passed him on the Helipad back at FOB Eagle. Flipping the pages he mentally starts logging the information written inside.

Logically catalogued are car registration details, phone numbers and map grid references with sketches of weapons hides secretly dug on military training areas. Satisfied with what he’s reading John slowly nods to himself; Ian had come through big time.

The C5 eases to a stop and at last the roaring turbo fans fall silent. The enormous drawbridge like tailgate powers down and crisp fresh country air blasts in. First off amongst a gaggle of fussing medics and ground crew are the wounded on stretchers; John counts twelve. Slinging his daysack over one shoulder he files off the tailgate and follows the herd

As they enter the arrivals terminal John notices groups of beaming family members and loved ones excitedly waiting for their special guy behind viewing glass. No one waits for John, he’s no one’s special guy. He ignores the happy clappy reunions and heads on through the terminal. He thought back to what Taff had said in Afghanistan, he had the Army, and fuck all else. But that was the story of his life. Even as a young kid in London he had stood on his own with no one around to dry his eyes for him. He quickly dismissed the gloomy thoughts creeping into his head. He had work to do.

Following signs for the car park and the long term section, John powers up his iPhone. There’s no messages but the dark blue Vauxhall Omega is right where Ian said it would be. He quickly checks over his shoulder before fishing around in the rear wheel arch for the keys.

After a couple of attempts the Omega turns over and bursts into life, and he loads a Hampshire postcode into the cars sat nav. Following the one way system out to the bases main entrance, John scowls at the RAF personnel manning the front gate just for good measure.

From Brize it’s a long drive down to Hampshire and the Aldershot Training area but John only pulls over once for fuel, a Ginsters spicy chicken slice and a brew. In amongst the shelves of travel books at Fleet Services he picked up an Ordnance Survey Map of Hampshire to plot Ian’s grids. An hour or so later, motorway and dual carriageway peter out to country lanes that meander through rolling heath land.

John drives down familiar routes and passes a large green road sign that screams: WELCOME TO ALDERSHOT HOME OF THE BRITISH ARMY.

He slows the car and turns off the main road into a lonely gravel and sand car park set back amongst the low scrub hills, reverse parks the Omega next to woodland and kills the engine. The only people that usually frequent these car parks are the dog walking crowd or the Army. The place is quiet and his is the only vehicle around. There’s only one exit and entrance to the car park and John makes sure he has a grandstand view of it. It’s time to tune in, time to switch on.

Exiting the Omega he dumps the last of his Starbucks into a nearby bin fashioned from an old oil drum. A light rain is beginning to fall but he doesn’t notice, he’s totally focused as he heads into the tree line and Ian’s grid reference. He’d prefer to do this at night but time is pressing so fuck it, he’d just have to deal with it.

Edging through the dense undergrowth John approaches his destination. He slows, takes note of his surroundings and recalls the details of the sketch map from the notebook. Pausing and remaining perfectly still he listens for any movement. John maintains a heightened state of awareness as he eyeballs what he’s searching for; the primary marker to Ian’s hide. Using a series of markers to guide John to the concealed hide is a system the IRA employed for years in Northern Ireland to hide its arms and explosives from the security forces. That was until a bright young officer named Winthrop worked out how to view the ground from the terrorist’s viewpoint.

Satisfied he’s alone; John approaches the primary, the base of two trees forming a ‘V’ shape in the long grass. He kneels, checking for any sign that someone may have been there before him. Any indication of freshly moved undergrowth, a footprint or discarded cigarette butt and he would bin what he was doing, pretend he was having a piss in the bush and bugger off.

A couple of meters behind the primary he sees a small stream running left to right, the trickling water audible over the rain now tapping through the trees. Moving off again and following the water flow a few meters downstream, he now sees the secondary marker, just as Ian had sketched it. The secondary is a cluster of wet grey rocks jutting out the earth bank into the stream.

John hops across the river and pauses again to listen, all his senses now on hyper alert. He glances over his shoulder and checks the secondary marker is still directly behind him. Then, just like Long John Silver, he carefully paces out to a spot on a long earth bank running through the undergrowth.

John kneels in the wet bushy grass and from under his North Face he removes a small folding shovel, and slowly starts scooping away the wet turf. A steady rain now falls through the tree canopy soaking his head. After a couple of minutes John hits something man made, he freezes.

Putting the shovel to one side he scoops the loose sandy earth away with his hands to reveal a smooth black plastic dustbin lid. Grabbing at the centre handle he lift’s and twists the lid off a buried dustbin and reaches down inside the weapons hide.

John grabs at a familiar shape and pulls out a clear plastic bag sealed with gaffer tape; inside is a SIG 226 9mm Pistol. He reaches back in to pull out a larger plastic bag, this one containing two M4 Assault Rifles. Finally out comes a small black daysack. Ian had been busy boy.

Placing the weapon packages down he wipes the sticky sand off his hands on the wet grass. He unclips the daysack lid and checks its contents; Hand Held Radios, Weapon Ammunition, First Aid Kit and a bundle of twenty pound notes, all nicely water proofed in clear plastic.

John slowly shakes his head. “Ian, you are a fucking star.”

Ripping the protective plastic off one of the rifles, he places the telescopic butt on his knee and reaches into the daysack. A magazine of thirty rounds is brought out and loaded into the M4. It locks into place with a quiet metallic click. Droplets of rain bubble on the weapons surface. The rifle is then hidden under his North Face jacket using a length of Para Cord looped around his shoulder.

Next the SIG is unwrapped, loaded, made ready, chamber checked and it’s de-cock mechanism applied. The SIG goes down the front of his jeans.

After replacing the second rifle, John fixes the dustbin lid back into place and carefully re-camouflages Ian’s hide. He throws the daysack on his back using both straps and sets off through the trees on a different route back to the Omega. Wet jeans stick to his legs but it’s, ignored; at least his feet are dry in his Timberlands. Being piss wet through on Army Training Areas was not a new experience.

After standing off in the tree’s to observe the car park for a few minutes, he approaches the Omega. No one is walking their dog in this shit. He hits the key fob, the four ways flash twice and the boot springs open. He places the daysack in the boot along with the M4, wrapping it in a car blanket, and then hops in behind the wheel.

Firing up the Omega John puts the air con on full blast to clear the now steamy windows. He punches Paula’s postcode into the Sat Nav before checking the time on his Suunto wristwatch and puts the car into drive.

The squeal of the Omegas tyres echo’s through the underground car park as John cruises around looking for an empty bay. On the drive in he noticed the car parks CCTV cameras were old and looked in bad repair, perfect. After a few minutes he finds what he’s looking for, an empty bay in the long term parking section. The vacant slot is out the way but near enough to the security office that the Omega won’t become another London car crime statistic.

He secures the car and leaves two tell tales. The tell tales are slithers of matchsticks carefully hidden in the seals of the boot and drivers door that will fall away should the car be tampered with while unattended. From a nearby plastic yellow grit bin, and lays a thin film of tell tale saw dust where a person would stand to access the driver’s door. Satisfied the vehicle is as secure as it can be; he heads up the exit ramp and checks his iPhone for messages; nothing.

Its early evening and the streets are heaving. Dodging the rush hour traffic careering along Tooley Street John heads for London Bridge Station and the Underground. The station is a scene of manic activity as waves of commuters pinball in all directions heading for the train or tube home. Suits with copies of
City AM
yak into smartphones as they rub shoulders with students carrying huge multi-coloured rucksacks.

John fights his way through the masses to a ticket window and buys an oyster card with cash. Peeling off one of Ian’s twenty-pound notes he tops up the pre-paid travel card with plenty of credit from a row of automated machines and then sets off through the turnstiles heading for the Northern Line.

John is eye’s about. Alert and aware he can feel the hard metal of SIG rubbing against his stomach under his T Shirt. He makes mental notes of who is around him as heads down a shining escalator to the platform. Paula’s local station is only a couple of stops down the line and it doesn’t take long before the packed tube is pulling into the familiar territory of Stockwell Station.

When he hits the street again he immediately breathes in the sights and sounds of a world he left behind all those years ago. The high street hadn’t changed that much, maybe a few more shops had been boarded up, but it still maintained that tatty lived-in state. Mothers with pushchairs spill out of Boots the Chemist, a young couple, both speaking on mobiles, head in to a Tesco Metro and leery lads in hoodies hang out at the Bus Stop. John wondered if any of them had ever even heard of place called Afghanistan.

De ja vu is a strong emotion and John drinks it in as he walks through his old stomping ground. On the corner next to a Greggs that used to be a pub, he spots something new however, a Starbucks and he heads straight in.

Fresh brew in hand he turns off the bustling high street into a narrow residential side road. Kids in baggy West Ham shirts kick a ball around, while teenage girls sit on a wall and text on cheap mobiles. The
Coronation Street
type housing ends after a hundred metres, courtesy of the Luftwaffe, and Paula’s high rise block looms into view across an open green.

John eyeballs the collection of cars parked up in resident’s only bays at the base of the block. Do they look like they belong in this area? Does someone have a trigger on the flats? He thought back to Paula’s email and the people that she was tangled up with. Just a few minutes on the internet told John that the Zemun were a very capable opponent so he was taking no chances and would treat them with respect.

The towering block looms over him on his left, the rows of parked cars on his right. Casually sipping Starbucks best he looks natural, looks like he belongs there. He ignores the blocks main entrance and keeps walking. At the end of the flats he turns left by some railings, and follows the side of the building until he comes to a set of double doors that were once a fire exit.

It’s been years since the fire exit has seen anything resembling maintenance and they’re held closed by a length of flimsy electrical cord. John yanks at the metallic doors and is immediately hit by an overpowering stench of stale piss.

Stepping over rotten KFC boxes, crushed cans of Fosters and the odd syringe he heads in semi darkness down a grey hallway to the lifts. John forms the same impression of the place Senka had a couple days previously as the lift doors close.

Taking a left on exit, he wanders along the walkway and sees Paula’s pale blue front door coming up. Ignoring it he keeps walking past to a far stairwell. At the top of the stairwell is the same stink of piss hanging in the air, only this time mixed with bleach, at least the residents were trying. With the stairwell clear of anyone hanging around, it’s time for the big Logan family reunion.

He peers through Paula’s kitchen window and sees her standing at the counter with her back towards him doing kitchen type stuff. His tap on the window makes her jump. As she spins around John can almost see her brain trying to process what her wide eyes are telling her. She claps her hands to her mouth. John raises his eyes to heaven and points to the front door mouthing through the glass,

“Open…the…fucking…door…you…mong.”

With a quick nod she disappears into her hallway and John hears a security chain being unlatched.

“John, Jesus Christ, it really is you!” Paula is gob smacked, looking like she’s just won the lottery.

“Hey ugly, been a while.”

“I can’t believe you’re stood there, you actually came!” Her smile abruptly drops as she remembers why. “I had no one John, no one else, no one else can help me, I’m sorry I had to ask, I…”