Limit of Exploitation (9 page)

“The Heroin is usually transited through Iran and Turkey or straight from Afghanistan across the border into Pakistan. There are overland routes through the Balkans as well, but either way, most of it ends up in Holland before coming to the UK. The final part of the journey is by sea from ports such as Rotterdam on the Dutch coast.”

Phil hangs his head and states the obvious. “Enter Eastern Logistics.”

Sam stares into the ceiling and seems to drift into a dream state. “Enter…eastern…Logistics.”

John stands and takes a deep breath. “OK that’s it then. Tomorrow we prepare; Sam’s got Method of Entry kit to bring along so we’ll plan to be on target tomorrow night. That’ll also give us time to set up that meeting with Senka. Everyone up for that?”

John looks around the faces. They weren’t just up for it, they were gagging for it. Sam comes back to earth.

“Your sister, after the meeting she’ll be exposed, so pack her off somewhere for a while. Does she have a mate she can stay with?”

“Sure.”

“Excellent. Right, you lot can bugger off now then. I need a shower and then do my nails, a girl has to look her best.”

As they shuffled out Sam thought about some of the other Serb war criminals still out there on the run. One example was Goran Hadzic. He had fled to Serbia Krajina in Croatia, declared himself king and took refuge in a monastery. As for Miroslav’s former military boss, Arkan, or more correctly Zeljko Raznatovic, he became an untouchable criminal figure in Serbia who enjoyed high political connections. But it all ended badly in early January 2000 when he was shot in the head at close range in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel in Belgrade.

The U.N. special court in The Hague had so far indicted one hundred and sixty-one people for war crimes in the territory of the former Yugoslavia. Fifty-six had so far been found guilty and sentenced, ten had been acquitted, and thirty-six cases were dropped or the accused had died, usually violently.

The big catches of course were General Ratko Mladic and his political boss Radovan Karadzic. Serbia was desperately looking for membership of the EU and hoped that hanging out two of its most notorious citizens to dry, might swing the deal.

Sam already knew from briefings at Joint Intelligence Command that Miroslav was in London and active. How she would relish the opportunity of personally bagging that fucker. She would keep those thoughts to herself, for now.

In sun bleached beige T-shirts and combats, Corporals Billy Carr and Ritchie Davison sit in the only available shade cleaning their weapons. Dog Tags and Battlefield Morphine Auto Jets hang on paracord around their necks as they gently rub weapon parts with small pieces of rag.

Ritchie is the taller of the two, slim and in his mid-twenties, his tight blonde hair often comes in for ridicule. Billy, more squat and compact, told him he belonged surfing on the beaches of LA and must have got lost on the way to the airport.

They sit with other soldiers from the strike company exchanging banter on anything from football teams, girlfriends, big ears, ginger hair and the various parts of the UK they all come from.

The piss taking amongst the tight knit band is remorseless and accents belonging to scousers, jocks, cockneys, yorkshiremen, Welshman, Irishmen, carrot crunchers and brummies all join in. There are men from Canada, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand also serving in the unit, and everyone gets a slice.

A few of the soldiers brew tea in metal mugs on small portable burners or make curry’s out of army rations in round tins usually used to pack hand grenades in. Strewn about them is the paraphernalia of war. Belt order webbing, chest rigs, combat body armour, helmets, grenades, rockets, various radio systems and shed-full’s of ammunition. The slaggings are interrupted as Ian Braddock, pokes his head around the corner. He nods at the two Corporals.

“You two, with me.”

As Billy and Ritchie stand to leave, the other soldiers take the piss with low whistles and wide-eyed fearful looks.

They follow Ian into a dusty breeze-block building, down narrow hallways and into the makeshift admin office. The place is deserted except for Taff, sat sweating at the wooden table that acts as his desk. In the silence a generator can be heard chugging away outside. Ian checks the hallway, making sure no one is in earshot

“Right you two, you’re on a course in the UK, and it starts in a couple of days.”

The two men exchange surprised looks and Billy answers for both of them.

“Eh? A course Sir? What course?”

Ian gets up close and personal. “Oh this is a very special course Corporal Carr, one of a kind in fact. It’s called the ‘go and get your fucking Platoon Sergeant’ course. You heard of that one lads?”

Ian gets blank looks in return so from his map pocket he produces Paula’s email to John and hands it over. Ian had done some digging on John’s situation and grilled Taff for information. In the face of some hard Q&A, Taff had crumbled and printed off the email.

Ian catches the daggers that Taff is now getting from Billy and Ritchie.

“Never mind that fat fucker, he spits out more shite than fucking Wiki leaks. You telling me you knew nothing about this?”

Ritchie slowly nods. “We had an idea something was up Sir, but we didn’t think it was this bad.”

“Bad? Bad ya say Davison? This is a drama on an epic fucking scale son. You know John Logan as well as I do, so you know this WILL end in tears if he’s left to go rogue.”

Billy exchanges a look. “What do ya want us to do Sir?”

Ian takes a step closer and lowers his voice.

“He’s gonna need a hand lads. Get ya asses over there, RV with Logan and do what needs to be done. I don’t care what ya have to do or how ya have to do it. I can only smoke this off for so long. Are we on the same page here boys?”

Neither man bats an eyelid, they know what needs to be done and accept it. With a final scowl at Taff they turn to leave.

“One more thing. If you two inbreeds fuck this up, then it’s shit sandwiches all round. We will be royally fucked, including me and my pittance of a pension.”

Ian turns his attention to Taff, still trying to look busy at his desk.

“And you fat boy, get the fucking brews on.”

Midnight, and another wet miserable one in the capital. A steady rain was falling on the deserted streets of south London. Down on the railway line that ran along the rear of the lockup units, all was still. The tracks shone in what little moonlight there was, and in the distance a lone dog barked at whatever dogs bark at when it’s pissing down.

In the deep shadows of a road bridge that crossed the tracks, John, Sam and Phil squatted in silence. It was a good night for a Close Target Reconnaissance. The area was only lightly populated, the pubs were shut and it was unlikely that anyone would be hanging around in the rotten weather for chit-chats.

After being dropped off by Jack in a freshly stolen Renault Trafic Van, the three had moved from a drop-off point at the top of the railway cutting and slid down the tree lined banking to the tracks. Arses soaked from the wet grass, they had made their way along the tracks to the cover of the bridge. Here they waited, settled into their surroundings and waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Jack was now on his way to plot up the other side of the target to get some eyes on.

The three wore cargo pants, black ops-vests and personal radios with covert Phonito ear-pieces. After a quick run back to the transit hide, both men were now armed with the M4 Rifles. The weapons were short barrelled, fitted with integral Picatinny Rails and the Aim point red dot sighting system.

Sam had scoffed at their firepower and instead just had her SIG stuffed down the front of her cargos. But John didn’t care; if it came to a fire fight with the Zemun he would make sure the right people won it. The Zemun had all the characteristics of a competent enemy; intent, capability and opportunity. They also had an armoury. If they were in the unit then they would be carrying, why wouldn’t they be? John’s earpiece suddenly crackles into life.

“This is Jack, check over.”

With his left hand John thumbs the small press to talk box crocodile clipped to his vest and quietly speaks into his mic.

“That’s good to me.”

With only the two of them on the net there was no need for any formal voice procedure, they just got on with what was important.

Jack was now parked up in the dimly lit street near the café, observing the EL lockup unit.

“That’s me on plot, no movement on target, no light, and no vehicles.”

“Roger that. That’s us towards the FRV.”

Jack responded. “That’s you towards the FRV.”

A Final Rendezvous, or FRV, is the point on the ground where any final patrol preparation can take place before action against a target. It was also a known location that people could meet up in if there was a drama.

With John leading they set off down the line paralleling the tracks. Half jogging along, the gravel quietly crunches underfoot.

John looks up to his right. Against the night sky he can just make out the inky black silhouettes of the buildings that back onto the railway line. They keep moving as the rain soaks them. Google Earth reckoned they had about two hundred meters to go to the break in the fence that John had seen a couple of days earlier.

At the rear Phil suddenly slows, then stops and cocks his head. He can hear a noise over the rain, a metallic twanging sound. It was coming from the rails. Behind him in the distance a rush of air was rapidly growing in volume.

“Train!”

The three of them instinctively hurl themselves against the grass banking as an intercity blasts past them at warp speed in an explosion of noise and light. Faces down against the grass, a torrent of wind rips and pulls at their clothing as the express screams past for what seems like an age. Above the rage of noise Phil states the obvious.

“Fuck meeee!”

As quickly as it appeared the train thunders away into the night and all noise is snapped out. With his ears ringing John looks at Sam and Phil. “Okay, let’s get going.”

After a few more minutes trotting down the line John skips over the rails and see’s the break in the fence. Kneeling on the wet gravel he signals with his left hand in an exaggerated chopping motion, his weapon held ready in his right. Sam and Phil close in, they speak in lowered voices.

“Okay straight up this banking and just below the lip is the FRV.” Nods all round. As a standard operating procedure the three of them quickly check that all buttons and zips are closed and secure, and all Velcro fastenings on their chest rigs closed up. Nothing that could be associated with them would be left on the target. Then slowly and with deliberate movement, they make their way up the sodden banking through waist high grass.

The bushes and small trees offered good cover from view as they approached and occupied the FRV. As they began to settle they started to make out the roof-line of the units against the lighter night sky. Piss wet through and saturated from the long grass, their cargo pants cling to their legs. John could feel water sloshing in his Timberlands.

From his observation point adjacent to the front of the unit, Jack scans the area with a set of mini binoculars. The place is blacked out and silent. Nothing is moving on the street and the only sound is rain playing on the roof of the Renault Trafic. In his earpiece he receives John’s call.

“That’s us in the FRV”

He thumbs a rapid click clunk click clunk in response by pressing on his PTT twice. No need for chit-chat at this point, everyone was committed.

Kneeling in a tight group in the undergrowth, the team pause in the shadows with weapons ready. They remained perfectly still and let the silence develop while they tuned in to their surroundings. At least the dog had stopped barking and binned it for the night.

Across the courtyard John points out the rear entry point, the CCTV and the light fixings. Sam notes the unit’s security keypad and swipe card reader to the right of the reinforced door. Without taking his eyes away from the unit, John whispers. “Okay Sam, let’s go live.”

She slides off her daysack and unclips its lid. Reaching inside she takes out a small electronic device that looks like a large calculator with wires coming out the end. She slips it into the map pocket of her soaked cargos. Back in the daysack she attaches a small black antenna to a dark green steel box about the size of a box of tissues. Attached to the box is a battery pack of the same size and shape. Next to the antenna jack plug is a small silver toggle switch with ON/OFF stamped on a plate next to it. This is the Red Monkey.

The monkey is a piece of military Electronic Counter Measure equipment familiar to any soldier who’d had the privilege of humping the thing around Northern Ireland. In the ECM world the monkey was classified as an inhibitor, its job in life was to jam radio signals from a terrorist attempting to initiate a remote controlled device. The spin off is that it also jammed mobile phones, fucked peoples TV’s up and jammed CCTV for about a fifty metre radius, or more specifically on this occasion; Miroslav’s CCTV.

At last Phil was impressed. “They’ll be a store man somewhere over the water wondering where the fuck that went.”

“In a minute they’ll be a ton of people wondering where their TV picture went.”

As Sam flips the toggle to the on position, Red Monkey gave a small chirp letting her know that it was now operating, on someone’s back and fucking them up. She pulls on her daysack and nods to John.

Phil slowly adopts a kneeling position and aims his M4 straight at the rear entrance of the EL Unit. Using the slim trunk of one of the trees to support his fire position, he alternates his observation between the left edge of the unit and the entry point. The rain trickling down his back is forgotten. John gets on the net. “That’s us towards the unit.”

Click clunk, click clunk, was Jacks response.

Sam and John swiftly move past Phil, out from the FRV and together they silently jog across the courtyard to the entry point. Backed up against the brickwork John hits send.