Fiction

By Charles Barker
(Second of Two Excerpts)

The following comes from The Brown Envelope Club (2010, Inkstone Books, Hong Kong, 267 pages), a novel by British-born hotelier Charles Barker about some surprising plots for revenge following warfare in the Middle East. This excerpt appears with the author’s permission.


Autumn 1995, Porlock, England

A dull and dreary summer had come to an end. All the schools were back, and the tourists were fizzling out, except for the elderly who had few cares for the weather and even fewer responsibilities. They pottered into Porlock Weir, looked around the drab, boulder-strewn beach, surveyed the grey and inhospitable sea and the overcast and greyer-still sky and mostly drove straight back out again. Depression they could get for free at their age -- they didn't need to come to gloomy, remote North Devonshire villages for it.

The group staying at Tytherleigh had blended in well over the previous weeks and were by now well acquainted with both their environment and neighbours. They had cultivated an air of eccentricity and were now known locally as “Bennett's barmy boys”.

This suited their purpose well as they advanced their cover of setting up an adventure-training centre. Newcombe had been in touch with some of his previous contacts from Wales and had several school expeditions booked for the autumn. They rightly reasoned that this would reinforce their alibi and, more importantly, provide everyone with something to do. They had all become very fit, were fully familiar with their plans and now were restlessly biding their time.

The last remaining activities now were the commissioning of the boat and bringing her round from Cowes and the collection of the weapons, the latter prospect of which brought a particular feeling of excitement within the group.

-------

It was high tide and pouring with rain on the morning that Masterson and Cooper nursed the Vosper over the shallows into the tiny harbour. The deep, throaty rumble of the engines invited some curious inspection from a few locals, but mostly they had the place to themselves.

Bailey, however, had come out from his pub to see the harbour's new arrival and cat-whistled at her appreciatively.

“What are you going to do with that little beauty then?” he called over to Newcombe, who was just going round to the old lock gate at the inner entrance of the harbour, in which a few yachts floated idly. “Didn't you lot know they've got things called helicopters now to pick people out of the drink?” and consumed by his own wit, he stuck his hands on his huge hips and roared with laughter.

Newcombe rolled his eyes and ignored him, while Chater, who was running up to join his boss, provided the explanation.

“New bit of gear for the AT centre. Not bad, eh?”

“Take me for a ride, Mr Chater?” called Jill from an upstairs window. He looked up, waved a hand dismissively, muttering under his breath, “Get out of it.”

“Blimey,” said Bailey, wiping a tear from his cheek, seemingly not to have noticed his daughter's flirtation. “I thought for a moment you'd declared war on the Taffs.” And pointing to the southern coast of Wales across the estuary, he again collapsed with laughter before retiring back into the warmth of his hostelry.

“He's a bleedin’ nutter, that one,” said Little George who'd only recently arrived in Porlock and joined up with the group.

“Yeh, so is his nymph daughter.  Right little hussy, she is.  She'll get herself into trouble one day,” predicted Chater lugubriously. They had now all assembled on the dock and were critically eyeing up the Vosper. Masterson and Cooper had done a magnificent job on her, and she rested at her mooring with the pride and understated strength that was her hallmark. She was the same sea-grey colour as when first commissioned, but now lacked the RAF insignia. Instead, painted on her stern was her new name, Al Batross, which everyone thought very funny, and her new port of registration, Cowes.

When everyone had inspected her thoroughly, she was battened down and the two sailors taken over to the Anchor for a much deserved toast.

“Al Batross,” they all roared in unison and then laughed happily. Bailey, who didn't understand what on earth they were talking about, laughed with them anyway.

The next few days were spent familiarising themselves with the boat and conducting essential sea trials. Time was marching on, and it was imperative that the team be fully acquainted with the vessel's capabilities and workings.

-------

Then came the day for which they had all been longing -- the collection of their arsenal. Kate Lladro had a much larger consignment of weapons heading north into the Irish Sea and so the relatively small order of Carson's was easy to piggy back onto it. Most of the team rankled with the idea of arms being supplied to the Irish. However, they soon realised that their mission was also distinctly lacking in moral virtue, so they buckled down to the job in hand and kept a lid on their thoughts and reservations.

The rendezvous with the large fishing boat was scheduled for dusk, 200 nautical miles due west of the Bishop Rock lighthouse on the Scilly Islands. Masterson was somewhat anxious about this as the seas in this area were turbulent and unreliable at best. The idea of ship-to-ship transfers did not amuse him, but he reasoned that they would soon enough be up against even more demanding challenges, so he kept his own council.

The group set out from Porlock an hour before dawn the day prior to rendezvous. It consisted of Newcombe, Chater, Little George, Carson, Masterson and Cooper. They wanted to recce the pick-up area thoroughly before they met the fishing boat. They certainly did not want to get picked up by the authorities for gun-running for the IRA.

Scott was staying back at Tytherleigh to co-ordinate with the Vosper in case of any emergency and to establish radio communications that could not be traced immediately…. The idea was that they could radio from or to their base at Porlock using a scrambler. There they would have a receiver linked into a telephone network that would eventually be routed to wherever they wished. The network accessed a system once set up by the SAS for their secure use to make untraceable calls when on clandestine missions in other people's countries. Newcombe had been relieved to find that it was still available, otherwise communications were going to be a problem.

The trip was relatively smooth. A slight Atlantic swell was running, but it was clear and dry. Once the dawn came, the night chill dissipated and the trip was enjoyed by all, punctuated with the occasional sightings of tankers and cargo vessels being spewed out of the English Channel to all the points of the globe. They kept their distance as much as possible from these busy sea lanes. They were, after all, a bit of a novelty on the high seas and needed to keep a low profile.

They reached the rendezvous at noon the next day and proceeded to quarter the area with radar and binoculars. As the day wore on, the tension slowly mounted.

By late afternoon, the group was becoming anxious as there was still no sight of their contact, and it was almost dark when the first blip showed up on the radar. The arranged codes were exchanged by radio between the two vessels, and they slowly moved together. They were in hailing distance when Newcombe suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and unease. They were totally unarmed, coming up against a bunch of experienced and doubtlessly cut-throat buccaneers. Their only advantage was a superior craft and, hopefully, the fact that the rogues probably did not even consider that they might not have a weapon.

“Ahoy there, Al Batross,” called a guttural Spanish voice from the fishing vessel's bridge. “We have a small package for you.  Send your tender over, and we can both be on our way.”

Although it was dark now, Newcombe could just make out the name of the ship, Pila, registered in the eastern Spanish fishing port of Palermos. This accounted for the now almost-overwhelming smell of dead fish wafting over the water. He hoped the weapons were well sealed.

“Ahoy Pila,” he called. “Our tender’s a bit small. Can you dispatch yours?”

“Negative, Al Batross, and you better hurry up since the fishing here's real bad, and we don't want to hang around.”

“Where's Suarez?” called Carson.  “He usually manages this run for the Senora.”

“He couldn't make it, alright?” came the blunt reply. “Anyway what's it to you?  You want your gear or not?”

“Okay, okay,” called Newcombe. “We're on our way.” Then to his men, “Jim, Nick and Tony, you take the Zodiac over, but for God's sake, watch out. I don't trust this bunch. Brian, get our boat as close as possible. Let's move it fast. We may have to make a couple of trips.”

“Or a quick getaway,” murmured Jim.

Just then the tell-tale sound of a bullet being loaded into the breach of an automatic pistol was heard and they looked round to see Little George arming a .32 calibre Beretta. He handed it over to Chater and said, “Ere you are, me ol' son. Never know when it may come in 'andy. Mind you, bloke, your size is more frightenin' wivout a gun than wiv it. There's five more rouns in the magazine and 'ere's a couple o' spare clips for good measure.”

“Thanks George,” replied Chater, making the automatic disappear into a huge hand.

Then to Newcombe's relief, Carson also produced a handgun, but it was too dark to see which model. “Cagey bunch!” he thought. Cooper then added, “Apart from various knives which we all seem to have, there's also a twelve-bore shotgun in the wheelhouse and a flare gun. Don't worry. We'll manage this bunch okay, and if we can't, we shouldn't be trying the main mission anyway.”

“That's true enough,” answered Newcombe. “Right lads, let's move it and get this over with ASAP. Good luck.”

The large inflatable was now in the water, engine running and Masterson at the controls. Chater and Carson jumped in, and they set off on the short distance to the Pila.

Although anxious, this was the first bit of real action and danger most had had in many months, and they were all quietly and professionally enjoying it. They came alongside the Pila and a line was thrown over to them to tie up. A couple of burly sailors dropped a rope ladder over the ship's side, as although the gunnels were not too high above the water, in the swell it was too much to jump or clamber over safely. Masterson stayed in the Zodiac while Chater and Carson went aboard.

They were greeted by a thick-set, swarthy Spaniard with a cap set at a jaunty angle on greasy, unkempt hair and a foul-smelling cheroot wedged in a mouth displaying more gum than teeth. A tatty old oilskin jacket hung open to reveal a revolver stuck into his belt and a large fish-gutting knife in a sheath at his side. There were two other crew members visible and each seemed more piratical than the first, who now introduced himself.

“I'm Alvarro.” He did not offer a hand in greeting. “There's your gear, so get it off quick and we can all get out of here.”

“We'll go as soon as we’ve checked it, Alvarro.” This from Carson, who to Chater's surprise, had just become unusually more authoritative and forceful.

“Okay, but hurry it up.” He gestured to two of his henchmen to give them a hand to open up the boxes. The four started opening up the crates, but as the gleaming and top-of-the-range hardware inside showed itself under the vessel's stern lights, a greedy gleam came into Alvarro's eyes. He whispered instructions to his two other crewmen, and they quietly removed their weapons to cover the group.

“That's some pretty fancy gear you've got there Carson, isn't it?  Suarez had told us it was just a bunch of old AK47s, but this stuff must be worth a fortune.”

Carson felt the extra danger immediately and turned round to see a large old Colt revolver pointed at his chest.

“Not a sound from either of you.” The man holding the gun pulled back its hammer. Chater spun around, but stopped still as he, too, saw himself neatly covered by another crewman. The other two pulled away, and joined their leader.

Alvarro told José to get Masterson in from the tender. Then he instructed the two Englishmen. “You, lie face down on the deck, hands on your head -- quick.” He reinforced his order with a flick of his gun, and they obeyed.

Alvarro was about to issue further orders when he was interrupted by José, talking fast in Spanish and seemingly very distracted. Cursing, he stomped over to the side looking around. The boat seemed to have disappeared into the darkness, and the inflatable was now empty.

“Where the fuck they all gone? Your friends all got cold feet, huh? Well, they don't got any guns and they just lost two compradors.”

He raised his revolver, but to his astonishment heard not the single shot from his Colt, but the loud clatter of a small machine gun. It was his last thought as he fell back lifeless to the deck.

José went the same way, and Carlos, who was twisting round to return fire, found his ankles grabbed in a vice-like grip and had hardly hit the deck when two massive hands grabbed his neck and snapped it like a dry twig. The remaining two crewmen had taken cover and were shooting with an automatic into the darkness by the wheelhouse from where the machine gun had sounded.

At that moment, an arc light pierced the darkness, and the throaty roar of the Vosper rumbled by just feet from the fishing boat. The light picked out one of the crewmen, completely exposed from the seaside. A blast of the twelve-bore from Newcombe lifted the man off his feet and hurled him through the glass window of the wheelhouse.

There was a cry from the darkness as Pila's sole survivor decided that enough was enough. “Please senors, please, I surrender, I....” There was an ugly-sounding gurgle followed by the thud of a body landing heavily on the steel deck.

Masterson emerged from the shadows, dripping wet, with a small Ouzi submachine gun in one hand and a large hunting knife in the other. He called out loudly and clearly. “Ship under control, Major. About to conduct search of vessel and secure. Tony, let's check out below. Nick, make sure these jokers are all has-beens.”

“You all okay?” called Newcombe.

“Affirmative, Major.” replied Masterson and disappeared down a hatch, followed by Carson. There was not much to check and they were back on deck in minutes. Chater had completed his inspection and found that indeed, the Spanish crew all were history. He looked up at Masterson with a grin.

“You SBS guys don't hang about, do you?  Bloody heck, that was some nifty work.”

“Yeh, well, Major,” he called over to the Vosper. “Pila secured and under our control. All crew dead and accounted for.”

“Shit!” muttered Newcombe under his breath, then louder, “Good work. We're going to try and get alongside you and tie up. Can you put down some fenders and be ready to take lines.”

“Will do.” The party aboard Pila put down their various weapons and prepared to receive Al Batross. Although the swell made it difficult, Cooper's superb seamanship soon had the old launch in position and firmly tied up to the fishing vessel. He stayed aboard with the engines ticking over while Newcombe and George clambered up to the Spanish boat.

George was grinning hugely and really seemed to be enjoying himself. The others, however, all seemed more pensive. They were efficient at what they did and had been highly trained for it to varying degrees. They did not actually relish taking life, though, and now was a time to consider their position and circumstances carefully.

Carson by this time had fully checked the cargo. Their own consignment was complete to specifications while the main bulk seemed to consist of old AK47 assault rifles and ammunition, explosives, mainly old-fashioned sticks of dynamite and attendant detonators and wiring.

“So, what shall we do about this little lot?” asked Chater.

“Nick, George and Tony, you get our gear transferred to Al Batross,” commanded Newcombe. “Then cast off, and one of you bring the Zodiac round and get her aboard and stored also. Jim and I will fix this boat to scuttle her. Then Brian can come by and pick us up.”

“What about all them guns” asked George? “Reckon they could come in 'andy, Major?”

“No. They're not ours, and we don't need them. Come on, we've been here long enough. Let's get moving.”

They went about their respective tasks. Masterson and Newcombe rigged the whole vessel with the explosives to blow her out of the water, along with the grisly remains of her crew.  The task took longer than expected, but after half an hour they were ready with fuses set for detonation in 10 minutes.

The others had completed their orders and were now waiting astern of the doomed fishing boat. Cooper brought the Vosper in close and the two jumped aboard as she passed, eager hands catching them as they landed.

“Right, Brian, get us the hell out of here.” Cooper did not need a second bid and within seconds had the powerful launch travelling at full speed away from their fateful rendezvous.

The fireball that preceded the roar actually erupted several minutes early, but they were safely out of danger. What was left of the Pila sank immediately along with the evidence of her last hours.

“Well, that was a dandy evening's caper,” said Chater, pulling on a large gin and tonic. The victualling of Al Batross had included a well-provisioned bar in the main cabin, among less indulgent commodities. “What else have you got planned for us, this evening, Mike?” Out of the combat situation, the use of rank was again replaced by the informal camaraderie of first name for their leader. This had not been discussed, but just seemed to come naturally.

Newcombe replied, “Let's get back home and talk it through with Ian after a decent meal and rest. It’s been a while since any of us had this sort of action, and we need to get right out of the combat zone to discuss tactics and implications.” He swallowed hard on a beer.

“I agree,” said Masterson. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to get out of these clothes and warm up. Right now I'm freezing my bollocks off.”

“Yeah, go ahead, Jim,” said Chater. “Incidentally, that was a nice job you did back there. Thanks, pal.”

“Forget it.” With that, he retired to the bunks up forward.