Cobra Z (3 page)

“Turn those monitors off. I don’t want to see any more of this.”

1.30AM, 18
th
April 2014, Waterloo Rd, London

Always the same fucking dream. The relentless heart-rending screaming of his men, the tearing physical pain and the blood and the flames. The complete feeling of failure and helplessness and the smell of the dead and the dying and the burning of flesh. Always the same dream that mutated into night terrors that woke him, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, his mouth dry and his mind ripped open by fear and the blackness of the souls lost on his watch.

The psychiatrist told him it wasn’t his fault, and he knew that on a logical level, she was correct. It was a mechanical failure in the helicopter, the brutal irony of that fact not lost on him. Half his men lost, men who had survived nine months unscathed in one of the most hostile military environments known to man. Half his men killed because the bloody helicopter that was transporting them decided to give up the ghost and fall from the sky with them on board. Even though he was an officer, the men he had lost were friends. Sergeant O’Brian, who had saved his life twice in the field, who could drink any man under the table and still be there for the five-mile run in the morning. Corporal Hillier who had the gift of “feeling” when those Taliban scum were skulking in ambush at the side of the road, and had once pulled Croft away just as he had been about to step on a mine. Two short seconds later, and the pair of them would have been scattered in bits across the roadside, balls and legs shredded and useless. Seven heroes dead; seven men he had fought with, lived with, trained with and who he watched die through a haze of semi-unconsciousness, flames and agony. And the worst thing of all? He had lived to remember it all.

That had been eight years ago. The dreams came less frequently now, less than once a month. “Your mind will heal,” they had told him. “It will adjust as it processes the trauma you went through,” they said. And they were right; he no longer jumped half out of his skin at loud noises. He no longer broke down in tears for no apparent reason, or felt his heart pounding in his chest from some random stimulus. He was functional, effective and useful once again. No longer broken, but far from fixed. But the dreams still came. And invariably they were portents of doom, messengers of danger to come.

Sitting up, alone in his bed, he breathed slowly and let the terror subside, soaking in the normality of the darkness around him. He ran a scarred and calloused hand over his shaved head and sighed deeply. Alone he sat, the almost hypnotic thrum of London traffic the only noise audible in the bedroom air. No lover by his side, no children sleeping in the next room. Not even a cat to wake him in the morning. Why risk such loss again?

He didn’t even jump when the telephone at the side of his bed rang. Part of him was almost expecting it. Here it was again, the call in the dead of night. The insistent voice stating that he must be dressed and packed in 10 minutes so as to be ready for the government car to pick him up. The call to duty. No time to shower, the overnight bag already prepared and sat by the side of his front door. His HK P8 pistol loaded and holstered, easily accessible in the gun safe, stripped and cleaned five hours before. Again, thought Croft. Here we go again. This was the sixth time in two years. What were these idiots doing now? What horrors had they unwittingly unleashed this time? Were they so intent on opening Pandora’s Box, on destroying the world? But this is what they paid him to do, and so he went where they sent him. Although he was now a soldier in rank only, he still knew how to follow orders. After all, what else was there for him to do? Besides, somebody had to be there to clean up the mess those incompetent criminals in Whitehall created. It might as well be him.

Croft picked up the phone and listened. “I’ll be ready,” he said to the faceless voice on the other end of the secure landline. Placing the phone back in the receiver, he stood from his bed and walked into the bathroom, the pain in his right knee a constant reminder of that fateful day in Afghanistan, the day he and his men were being shipped home. They all went home, just some went home in pieces, wrapped in a flag that now really had no meaning, dying for a dream of England that never really existed.

8.30AM, 18
th
April 2014, Hirta Island Research Facility

Yep, another goddamn mess for him to clean up. Another fuck up by genius scientists who lacked the common sense to know they shouldn’t meddle with the forces of nature. Scientists who could calculate the nature of the universe but probably needed help to cross the road and tie a shoelace. There was a reason evolution occurred over millions of years, why nature made changes gradually and methodically. Why couldn’t these idiots understand this? Just because you could do something, didn’t mean that you should. And so here he was again, dragged out of his slumber to go to wherever the government needed him. And it seemed they needed him more and more these days.

David Croft felt his stomach lurch as the SA 330 Ouma military transport helicopter was buffeted by the winds coming off the merciless Atlantic Ocean. At least this facility wasn’t on the bloody mainland, and at least this time, the incident had been contained quickly. That was what the emergency dossier on his secure tablet told him. Now stored away in his bag, it had briefed him on everything he needed to know to make the decisions those in power paid him to make. His job held no title and was unknown to all but a select few. This was what the Yanks called “Black Work”. Dirty, unpleasant, and sometimes far from legal. But it was necessary, and he was needed so as to give those in power a sense of deniability. His job was to protect the clamouring, selfish and hypocritical masses from the inevitable mistakes his government and their minions made. This wasn’t a job; it was a way of life, and he knew the very people he protected would scream for his incarceration if they learnt of the things he had been forced to do for their protection. They wouldn’t understand, and they would turn on him and those who made him like a rabid dog turns on its owner. Sometimes, he wondered if the masses actually deserved saving, but he knew that this was not a decision for him to make. He was merely the hired help. And yet the price he paid for their safety was the soiling of his very soul.

Looking out of the window, he saw Hirta Island drawing closer. Another godforsaken rock. The helicopter buffeted again, and rain started to impact on the outside, obscuring the view of his destination, which got ever closer. Croft hated helicopters – understandable really, considering. It had been two years before he had been able to get near one without suffering chaotic palpitations and anxiety. And now all he seemed to do was fly about in the things.

“One minute to landing, Major,” the voice of the co-pilot stated over the intercom. Thank Christ. Croft grabbed hold of the door handle and readied himself for touch down. Even a cold, wet, barren rock in the Atlantic was better than this.

There were people waiting for him at the helipad … but then there were always people waiting for him. That was his life now it seemed. Some carried worried faces, others had defiant eyes. Some even reeked of resentment, as if Croft’s presence was an insult to their existence, to their competence. And in fairness, in a way it was. If he was anywhere on orders of Whitehall, it meant that someone or something had failed. Despite the safeguards, despite the systems, and despite the training, human error always crept in. That was one of the first things they taught him at Sandhurst, a message battered home in his SBS training.

“All plans fall apart upon engagement with the enemy.”

And didn’t he know that all too well. Hadn’t he experienced that very thing time and time again? He held his breath as the helicopter touched down, and sighed internally as the motion stopped and the ground became his new home. Another bullet dodged. Another day to carry on living.

“You are safe to disembark, Major.” Croft didn’t respond; he undid his seat harness and opened the door, mindful of the rotors that were still spinning as they slowed their rotation. There were three people there this time, two struggling with umbrellas as the wind buffeted them, toyed with them. Grabbing his bag, he stepped from the helicopter and made his way over to where they stood anxiously. One of them saluted – the one who stood in the rain without protection, the soldier and the driver of the car that waited to take Croft to his latest massacre. He saw the hint of fear in the man’s eyes, the look that told him the man had seen something no human being should ever see but lived to talk about it. Not that the man would ever speak a word of what he had seen here. That was what the Official Secrets Act was for. Croft saluted back, gave the man a nod that relayed respect. Nobody spoke for there was nothing that needed to be said, and they retreated quickly to the relative warmth of the car. The next 30 minutes would determine whether 47 people got to live or die.
All in a day’s work
, thought Croft.

12.47PM, 23
rd
April 2014, Hyde Park, London

The bench was bitterly cold, but Bill sat there nonetheless, his back resting firmly against the ancient wood. He was far from comfortable, but he ignored that as best he could. Seated, seemingly oblivious to the world around him, he pretended to read the newspaper on what many would assume to be a lunch break for one of London’s many white collar employees. This was, of course, not the case. A gentle breeze flirted with the newspaper, and the trees behind him whispered their secrets to each other, laughing at the stupidity of the fleshy creatures that dwelled around them.
Look at how important these pathetic monkeys think they are
, said the trees.
Look at how they run about their lives as if their lives actually mattered
.

He had done this numerous times before, but still he was nervous. No, that was the wrong word. He was almost sick to his stomach. He was risking so much for what amounted to little in the way of personal gain. He knew that at any moment a hand could drop on his shoulder, the agents dressed in black with well-oiled machine guns could pick him up off the street, or more likely from the illusory safety of his home in the dead of night. One minute, he would be safe in his own self-indulgence, the next, he would find himself trussed up in the back of a black van with a bag over his head and a boot on his throat. But still, he did what needed to be done because it was what the Lord demanded. And the Lord it seemed resorted to blackmail these days.

His instructions were clear, and he knew he was never to again meet the man who had given them to him. The man who Bill knew would give his life for his God. The thought depressed him, for Bill had never found such passion in life for anything, had never found a cause worth fighting for. No, but he had found frailty and weakness, which had allowed them to get leverage over him. So he had submitted, pledging his allegiance and his soul, prepared to betray his country and the man he worked for, the man who trusted him with the safety of these sacred isles, with the secrets that could bring governments down. Bill sat here, as he did every month, pretending to be mesmerised by the propaganda that the British Press called “News”, pretending to be one of the sheep, one of the drones that worked the gears and oiled the machine that allowed society to run. He was trapped. If the secret of his affliction came out, he’d be ruined, most likely imprisoned. And if the secret of his betrayal did not come out, the same was likely to happen. There was nothing for him to do but do as he was told and hope, just hope that they would tire of him. He sat and he waited until the time his contact had given him.

He paid attention to those around him, every stranger scrutinised, mindful of the risks he was running and mindful of the forces lined up against him. He had to remember that he lived in a surveillance state that not even George Orwell could have imagined. Even here, in the heart of Hyde Park, there would be cameras and agents watching for those who went against the order of society. All wrapped up in the soft, loving blanket of safety and security. It was for the children after all; it was for the next generation that the present surrendered their liberty to the ever-pervasive glare of the state. And most of them did it willingly, giving the agents of oppression the information they craved through their smartphones and social media. There was no denying what the country had become; he worked at its very heart after all. He saw how the people went about their daily lives under the illusion of some mystical freedom that they believed existed. Democracy, what a fucking joke. And deep down, they knew they were watched, they knew that data was being collected and stored, but there seemed to be some form of mass social dissonance that hid the truth from their eyes. So every day, the people of this country woke up and ignored the elephant in their living room. They went to work, they watched TV, and they paid their taxes. They drank their beer, raised what they thought were their children and groaned about how this incompetent government was ruining the country. If only he could shout to them that the government knew exactly what it was doing, that it was slowly stripping away their liberties to serve the vile forces of the Son of Perdition. The Devil dwelled below the surface of this warped and fetid society and shaped the living world to create his master plan. And by their acquiescence, they had all become his willing servants. But not Bill – no, he was apparently now a warrior of truth. Why did it have to be religious nutters who had discovered his secret?