Apex (Ben Bracken 2) Page 4

  It is what made me a successful soldier. It is what made me one of Her Majesty’s Royal Army Captains. I was all I could be.

  But that was then. And this is now. And now, as I face the sky yet again, the waves lap below my ear just for a second, and I hear voices. It is so fleeting, so brisk, I’m not sure I can properly make out what they say, before my ears are safely below the surface again. But I am right in the firing line here. Directly in harms way. I would guess I am yards from somebody who I don’t want to be mere yards from, and the only two words I could pick up were ‘...in time...’. I think that’s what it was.

  I try to pull the sea bed up to me, in turn pulling me back down again, and I twist back around to swim for a more secluded exit. I round the rocks, my new seal friend never far away, and swim for 50 yards before I angle to shore again. I see the rocks I am heading for begin steep beneath the surface, dictating a similarly steep exit from the sea. Not the place to launch a rib from. Should be safe enough.

  I take it slowly, revealing myself a soaked inch at a time, and through the droplets streaming across my mask I see I am in a high-walled rocky recess, the waters swelling against the sides like a scaled-up, freshly-stirred tea cup. I can see nothing above the rocks. I look back to the sea, but such is the direction I have travelled, the rocks I have scurried behind, that I can see nothing but the blue ocean, and the sun craning down to meet the horizon in a glittering kiss.

  The scene is beautiful to the eyes but not the ears. All I can hear is the screeching of motors, and the oncoming throb of a helicopter coming from somewhere, the low thudding of its rotors resonating around the granite bowl like a subwoofer.

  I have my bearings, I know where I need to be. I know just where my bag is, and how difficult it will be to get there undetected. I need to see what obstacles lie between my position and my pack, so, as the swell lifts me higher up the bowl, I reach, extend, push up with my legs using whatever purchase I can get, and scramble to the crest. I have to hold with both hands when I get there, my fingers holding fine so far, but the water recedes again and I have to hold myself in space. I make a controlled chin-up, in every sense of the word, and poke my chin out over the ledge, and hold it for as long as I can. I rest my jaw on the rock and let my neck muscles take a fraction of my weight. It hurts my face like crazy but it will enable me to keep hanging there just a little longer, so I can take stock and make a lightning quick plan.

  Twenty people I can see total, three of which appear to be police. The rest are marines, equipped for a training exercise. No weaponry at all. Whoever organized this recovery mission was not expecting any resistance. The plot thickens, glooping like treacle in my mind.

  I look back to where I was, and I see a man I hadn’t noticed before. I had missed him, because he was sitting, and he wears a slate grey suit that serves as better camouflage than any of the people presumably at his command. He sits perched, a white hanky in his right hand hovering by his face ready to mop up any hint of muck or perspiration. He has a pristine, immaculate bald head. Not a hair on it. And he looks like he left his comfort zone in an office somewhere, staring out to sea with a keen agitation. I would guess he is the man I heard moments before, as opposed to the marine stood over him, who himself is separated from the others by a beret and a subservient posture, hands behind his back, leaning slightly over to hint attentiveness. It looks like I have found this scene’s Master and Commander.

  Behind the pair, just higher on the rocks, sits the outcropping I know my pack resides upon. Can I get away with leaving it? What traces are in there of my identity and purpose?

  None, I think, aside from it being essentially a bag full of fibers, fingerprints, hair strands... a DNA treasure trove, should they know where to look and who they are looking for.

  That worries me. If they decide, for whatever reason, that the pack was left there by someone who had anything to do with this curious event, they just might give it the forensic once-over.

  I cannot let that happen. My mind is made up. If I want it back I’ll have to get it, but the peninsula is so open, the rock face so crawling with people, that I can’t just wander off and grab it.

  Shit, that’sexactly what I can do. I place my scuba mask down carefully on the rocks, in case I need to come back later to go searching again. I consider taking my t-shirt off, but elect to leave it on - if they see my conditioning, it may harm my planned deception. I need them to think I am a hopeless bystander to the scene. A poor schmuck in the wrong place at the wrong time - but even that still feels like the truth to me.

  Abruptly, yet with control, I stick my head back beneath the surface of the recess, and gulp seawater, swallowing harshly. It is foul, but will assist the sale of my story no end. I wretch, the salty sweetness clawing with nauseous fingernails down my throat poking a grim finger into my very stomach. I throw myself out of the water and up onto the bank, coughing, spluttering - making a real scene.

  To make sure I have been noticed, I gasp, and add a few extra heaves for good measure, even though the saltwater is now up from my stomach and spraying up out of my nose and mouth for good measure. It’s worked.

  ‘Over there!’ someone shouts. ‘Someone’s in trouble!’

  ‘Is it a survivor?’ someone shouts back.

  Hook, line and sinker. And the Academy Award goes to...?

  I hear footsteps scraping the rocks, but I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in and out hard. Hands grab me, and pull me up onto a flatter plateau.

  ‘Take it easy, mate,’ says a voice. ‘We’ve got you. We’ve got you.’

  They put me in the recovery position, and I splutter out the last of the briny spew.

  ‘That’s it. Get it all out,’ says that same someone, while rubbing hard between my shoulder blades. Good man. Despite it being self-inflicted, he acted swiftly with evident good training. Even in the circumstances, I can appreciate, as an ex-military officer, commendable behavior on behalf of another soldier. Good man. In another time, this man may have saluted me, and I would have welcomed him under my wing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, between hot breaths, and begin opening my eyes. ‘I was stupid, I thought I could help.’

  There are two men standing over me, in the familiar dark green of Her Majesty’s most loyal.

  ‘You gave us a proper fright!’ says the man at my back. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Who is he?’ another more distant voice says. ‘Where did he come from?’ The voice is clipped by urgency and stress, and even though I’ve only heard it once before, I know it’s the main man. I look to the voice, and see him navigating the rocks in ludicrous black leather slip ons. White gym socks peek from beneath his trouser legs as he walks, invoking an impression of a pudgy, shorn Michael Jackson.

  The other men stand to attention in greeting him.

  ‘I heard a big smash, from round the top there,’ I say, pointing up to the top of Morte Pointe, ‘and I saw the plane. I jumped in, thinking I could help, but I’m... not much of a swimmer.’

  I look down in shame, as if I’ve dishonored my whole family by being a crap swimmer.

  ‘No harm done,’ says the likable squaddie at my side. ‘Good effort, mate.’

  I feel the bald man look at me, and I look back at him. He is scrutinizing me with jiggling blue eyes, sweat dribbling down his nose and pooling in a tiny hanging droplet on the end of his nose.

  ‘I was stupid,’ I say. ‘I’m not really one for the big occasion. I’m sorry. I just wanted to help.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ says the man, curtly. ‘Take him back up to the village, please.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry for the trouble’.

  A radio crackles somewhere close by, snapping the man from his examination.

  ‘Come in, alpha, come in, over,’ says a scratchy voice.

  ‘Go, go,’ says the bald man, while taking a radio handset offered to him by his second-in-command. He turns to shield the conversation from me, but I’m already tuned in.

>   ‘Yes. Yes? Err... Come in? I mean. Roger? Sod it -what the fuck is happening?’

  I almost laugh at that. As if the cloak hadn’t already slipped, the full pencil-pusher is revealed.

  The men usher me away, but I keep my focus on the conversation. The voice at the other end of the line speaks again.

  ‘So far it’s a negative, over.’

  ‘What?’ screeches the bald man, who now stares out to sea as if trying to catch a glimpse of who he is talking to or what they are looking for. He hushes down to a whisper, suddenly aware of who might be listening. I feign wobbliness, so as to slow our exit from earshot.

  ‘Is the woman there?’

  ‘Affirmative. The cargo is missing however. We will have to engage a full search which will take time and manpower, and won’t be easy to do on a sinking plane. Over.’

  I’m struggling to hear the whisper, over the rushing sea and rolling foam.

  ‘Jesus Christ, do you know what’s on the line here? You know what you are looking for? It’s red, small, should be attached to her head...’

  ‘Her head is missing, Sir, over.’

  I can’t hear anymore, but I wouldn’t hear anything anyway. The bald man has been rendered speechless. And he’s not the only one. Everything has changed.Everything.

  Dear God. The earring. I have what they are looking for.

  We keep walking, even though my mind is swimming with possibilities and racing with concern.

  ‘My bag is just over there, could you grab it for me?’ I say, trying to keep the urgency out of my own voice. I want to get away from here right now.

  ‘Sure mate, just a second,’ says my accompanying marine, who hops the rocks nimbly to retrieve my pack. He shoulders it and brings it to me. ‘I’ll carry this one, while you get your breath back.’

  I glance over his shoulder, down at the men by the sea. A debate is raging between the bald man and his commander. I can’t quite hear what is going on, but voices are raised and tension is fraught.

  ‘I feel better, thanks. I’ll take it,’ I say, trying to keep it light but plainly struggling. I need the bag. I need to get out of here now. Any second, they could realize that my being here is not quite as innocent and hapless as they thought.

  And at that very moment, both the commander and the bald man turn to look at me, and I’m reacting before I even know that I have done.

  It starts with a very sharp, hard stamp down onto the left knee of the marine with my bag. I don’t like doing it, I don’t want to do it, but the man seems honorable - at least honorable enough to listen to his commanding officer, who may order my detainment. His knee buckles slightly the wrong way. No snap is heard. He’ll be out of action for a few months, repairing those ligaments I just jarred from the joint, but he won’t be dead, which was the alternative. He screams, and drops as the knee falls from beneath him, and I catch the bag as he tumbles.

  ‘Get him!’ screams the bald man.

  ‘All personnel, detain the man in shorts and red t-shirt,’ bellows the commander at his side. I see heads popping up all along the rocks, like meerkats from burrows. They have a new objective, and I am it.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. It won’t mean anything now, even if the soldier hears it as he wails. But if this situation turns out as important as Jeremiah made out, he may understand my actions one day.

  I shoulder my pack and start running up the rocks to the trail, hopping as I go. I am so very aware that I am barefoot, but there is nothing I can do about that at the moment. Besides, shoes might make me slip. The shadows arch long across the terrain, ever deeper thanks to the setting sun. The commotion behind me changes the complexion of the scene. I have to get to the trail.

  I feel a sharp snag, and a hot tear in my left foot. It’s an agonizing rip, yet small and contained. I’ll have to check it out later, and ignore it for the time being. Within a few steps, my footing is less sure, as blood is pouring onto my toes, slickening my grip. I need the trail.

  It is about 50 yards away, above me, straight ahead, as it cuts laterally across the belly of Morte Point like a slash of slate, dust and gravel. But between me and the trail, are two onrushing marines. They are not armed, mercifully, and this will boil down to a quick flashpoint of hand to hand.

  There are two tricks when it comes to taking on multiple adversaries. The first is to confuse them, and to detach yourself from that confusion by knowing you caused it, and buy yourself tiny fractions of seconds with which to work and gain the upper hand. Keep them guessing. Be unpredictable. Don’t forecast it.

  Secondly, make every move considered and deliberate. That is so hard to do in heated moments when fists fly at you from all directions. But they have the upper hand, and they know it. They assume victory, thanks to the favor of numbers, and you must tear it from them. They know that each strike they make can be made up for by a follow-up strike from their accomplice. The solitary party has no option for this. Strike to injure. Strike to debilitate. Strike to end it there and then. No one will make it up for you. If you need to buy time for such blows, do so. It takes experience for that, which the average person or soldier may not have. Always best to act without hesitation and with prejudice in mind. Because you never know when you might get another chance.

  I pick one of the men, the nearest, who is slightly to the left, and scream ‘my foot! My fucking foot!’ as I run to him as fast as I can. His eyes widen and slows his approach. His shoulders slacken a touch. He has been distracted. His colleague, who I am yet to make eye-contact with, has to divert his run slightly to address me.

  We are simply yards apart, but I already have engineered the situation into bestowing upon me the upper hand. By slowing and slackening the nearest, and forcing the other to approach me at a sharper angle, they end up under each other’s feet quite quickly. I keep speed, hold eye contact with the one on the left, and, darting right at the last moment, lash out hard with my right arm, guessing the angle and trajectory to perfection, aiming with anticipation more than anything else at the face of the soldier on the right.

  It’s like the combat equivalent of basketball’s ‘no-look-pass’. I don’t break eye contact at all with the man on the left, but drive the heel of my right palm, at speed straight into his friend’s nose, crumbling it immediately. Again, not a killing strike - these men could have been my own colleagues, and I know what it is like to be asked to follow orders without questioning their true meaning. The soldier tumbles forward, and pretty much knocks his friend over. As the remaining adversary stumbles, his left arm flails high as he tries to save his balance. It’s a gift, and again, I act without prejudice. I take the arm, locking it at the shoulder, and force the mans head down - straight into my rising left knee.

  The impact and immediate ache in my own knee lets me know I got it right. Two broken noses. A few weeks out, then they’ll be back. I repress a wave of satisfaction, as I make the last few steps to the trail.

  It makes progress so much quicker, as I sprint along the lateral path. I’m back facing the sea again. The scrape of gravel behind me tells me more boots are on the trail, and they may be quicker than me.

  The trail snakes around the outcropping, and I follow it as it points me back out to see again, this time on the northern side of the peninsula.

  With their shoes, and my shredded left foot, they are surely gaining on me, and I need to swing things back in my favor. They are gaining. Fast. I can hear them scrambling after me. They’ll give me a proper shoeing for what I did to their mates, and quite rightly so. I would have done just the same once. The sea approaches, the cliff edges near. I have risen far higher now, thanks to the incline of the trail, and we are some 100 feet up, possibly a shade less.

  With the sea on my left, the trail starts to make its long wind back to the hill, the cemetery and the town, but all I can see in that direction are the red and blue lights of the emergency services, and high-visibility jackets heading towards my vicinity. No way out. At least not with my freedom.

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nbsp; ‘Come here you!’ I can hear someone shout in the distance behind and below me, and I pause to stare at the horizon, and notice what looks to be the south coast of Wales miles in the distance, sandwiched like a layer of peanut butter between two vast slices of orange bread, such is the pallor of the sky and its reflection, and look down. The water is distant, and the deepest of blues, and I throw myself off the cliff. This peninsula is crawling with my adversaries. I would much rather take my chances down there. I have what they are looking for, and if I can put enough distance between myself and them, I can use my skills and training to make a real go of escape.