newspaper and sipping a mug of tea. It was all very quiet and sunny. The diagram Hank was studying showed several star formations - the Plough, Cassiopeia and Orion - and indicated how to use them to locate the North Star.
He placed the transparency back in the folder, put the file on top of the pile he had already looked through, and took the next one from the larger pile he had yet to read. This next pack was well used, the tattered folder barely holding together at the corners. He thumbed through the introduction on the subject of explosive linear cutting charges and turned to a sheet with a list of various mathematical formulas for plastic explosives. Hank sighed. Mathematics was not his best subject.
‘Do I have to memorise all these calculations?’ Hank asked Doles.
‘No.You just have to be able to teach ’em,’ Doles said in his soft Scottish twang without looking up.
‘Just teach ’em, Hanky boy, just teach ’em,’ Clemens echoed loudly in an American accent, also without looking up from his newspaper.
Hank stared at Clemens, a square-jawed, powerfully built rugby enthusiast, wondering if the man disliked him or just specialised in a witless version of the so-called dry British humour. It seemed to Hank that every time Clemens said something to him it was in a condescending Texas accent, and a very bad one at that. And why Texas? Hank wondered. He was from North Carolina, and Clemens from somewhere in south-west England, a ‘janner pig’ as Doles often referred to him.
Hank took a quiet break from the lecture packs and looked through the windows. Autumn had taken a firm grip and the air was moist.The slight breeze had a whiff of rotting sea vegetation that suggested the wind was coming from the south where the beach was only five hundred yards away. The training office, which was quite small considering its responsibilities, the subjects it covered and the various training aides that needed to be stored in it, was situated in a small, mature-conifer wood about two acres in size near the back gate of the camp. Just outside the office, intertwining and connecting over a dozen of the tall pine trees, was a Tarzan course of ropes, wire ladders and cables. It was originally built for the maritime anti-terrorist teams years ago when they were first formed. The men had used it in their daily workout ritual to maintain a high degree of upper body strength and endurance in preparation for the endless training exercises around the world scaling oil platforms and large ships. As the maritime teams grew in size and expertise they moved to a more spacious, purpose-built location. The Tarzan course passed into the hands of the training team, who retained its nickname ‘the pain pines’ and used it to beast the SBS selection courses, and any other military personnel for that matter, foreign or otherwise, who visited the unit to get a taste of how it operated.
The team, just the three of them at the moment due to a shortage of operatives and a quiet period as far as training was concerned, ran together every morning at eight o’clock for several miles and always finished with a round of pull-ups and dips and sometimes a couple of shifts up the thirty-foot ropes. The workouts were generally relaxed affairs with nothing too strenuous, which was the norm for training teams, although on occasion the competitive spirit raised its head and a run ended in a sprint finish. It was up to the individual to maintain his fitness and it was dimly looked upon if a reasonable standard was not maintained. Hank fitted well into the team fitness wise. Over five miles he was faster than Clemens but not as fast as Doles, who was lighter on his feet. Clemens was about equal with Hank on the ropes, where they could both manage five arms-only shifts up the thirty-foot lengths without a rest in between. It was in the swimming pool or the old quarry lake on the heath half a mile away that Hank had them both beat. He was a powerful swimmer and thrashed them easily over any distance including under the water.
Doles was only just past his peak in SBS terms.That meant he could get involved in all aspects of operations except the more strenuous activities such as climbing oil platforms. He was a swimmer-canoeist grade one and qualified to instruct and supervise every aspect of operational training, including diving, climbing, explosives and weapons. Clemens had been in eight years and could be described as reliable with stacks of enthusiasm when focused. He was preparing for his own senior instructor’s course at the end of the year, which would eventually qualify him to run his own team. Hank was disappointed when he learned he was to be on the same course, a comprehensive, intensive four months of lessons and supervisor training. It would no doubt be useful and he’d learn something but he didn’t think it would help his promotion prospects back home; more importantly, it would take a good size chunk out of his time in the UK, which he thought could best be spent in an operational team.
Hank lowered his legs from the desk and flexed his knees. They ached a little and were stiff from the morning run, which he put down to the cold, damp weather he was not used to.
He was feeing bored and wondered when the team was going to start some work. He had done nothing since joining but read lectures and SBS standard operational procedures, go on long drives to get acquainted with the various local training sites, and do a couple of dives in the harbour to keep his diving minutes in date. It was an unusually quiet period according to Doles. The next SBS selection course was not due to start for another two months and the team was waiting to find out what they would be doing until then. Doles suggested Hank lap up the peace and quiet while he had the chance. Once the work started he would have very little down time. Hank didn’t particularly care about having little down time. He was here to work and that’s what he wanted to do.
The door opened and Lieutenant Jardene leaned inside. ‘Sergeant Doles,’ he said in his usual calm, polite manner.
‘Sir,’ Doles replied, looking up from his writing but not standing.
‘Step outside a minute, would you?’ Jardene asked.
Hank liked Jardene. He had one of those toffee-nosed
Brit accents that most of the officers had. Rumour had it he had the education and pedigree to go all the way up. Apparently his father was an army brigadier and his older brother a navy commander. Jardene was fit, fresh faced, direct and intense to talk to, not that Hank had had many conversations with him. Jardene was in overall command of SBS training and therefore Hank’s direct boss. He was the first to welcome Hank to the team with genuine enthusiasm and said how much he hoped Hank would gain as much from his stay as he gave. It made Hank feel even more determined to do well.
Hank watched Jardene and Doles through the window. Jardene was doing most of the talking while Doles nodded with a look of deep concentration.Whatever they were talking about looked important.
The conversation lasted no more than a minute and on completion Jardene headed away. Doles opened the door and leaned in. ‘Bob,’ he said and indicated for Clemens to come outside. Clemens had also sensed something was up and moved quickly. Doles closed the door behind him.
Hank watched Doles talk with the same intensity as Jardene. After a few minutes Clemens walked briskly away. Doles then stepped back into the office and sat back down at his desk.
Hank lifted another lecture pack off the pile, put his feet back up on to the desk, and thumbed through the pages, although he was unable to concentrate on them. Something was in the air and he wanted to be included but he knew that he had to act as if he was politely keeping his nose out of it. If they wanted to include him, they would.
He flicked through the lecture pack notes but could not keep from glancing over at Doles, who was leafing through a file. Doles seemed to find what he was looking for, jotted something on a notepad, tore out the page and left the room.
As Doles walked away Hank got up and went to the window to watch him. Doles headed up a well-worn path through the trees and out on to the road that lead to headquarters.
Hank went back to the desk and slumped into his chair. He tossed the lecture pack down, a tad frustrated, impatient to get involved, and flexed his legs, searching around the aching kneecap for the source of the pain. He checked his watch. Lunch was in an hour. If no one returned in another thirty minutes he decided he would head over to the mess.
He thought about giving Kathryn a call, looked at the phone on Doles’s desk and changed his mind. He had nothing new to tell her anyway, that’s if she even answered the phone. He knew she was screening her calls in case a wife telephoned. Her attitude was beginning to irritate him. He blamed her mother, whom he never got along with, not from the first time Kathryn had brought him to the family home in Boston. He considered her to be an overbearing bully who thought far too highly of herself. But even though she no longer had a direct influence on her daughter the damage was already done. Hank could only hope Kathryn would find one English person she liked enough to start turning her around. The growing instability between them worried him. He had hoped the atmosphere might have mellowed but things were as bad as the first day they arrived in England. It seemed a long time ago since they were at peace with each other. And it wasn’t all her fault. He’d been under a new strain of
