A short distance after the bridge the vehicles turned off the motorway and on to a minor road that cut through the countryside. Hank was content to take in the sights; the scenery became quite beautiful as the road began to meander, shadowing the course of a river that followed a wide valley.

An hour after leaving the river valley, as Hank started to nod off, the Rover came to a stop. He looked up drowsily to see that the front vehicle had halted at a barrier outside a guardhouse and he shook off his tiredness. A civilian police officer was talking to Stratton through the passenger window. Hank looked around, wondering if this was Ilustram. They were still in the countryside, surrounded by trees, with fields visible beyond. A hundred yards or so behind the guardhouse was a cluster of new office-style brick buildings. A high-security fence stretched in opposite directions from the guardhouse barrier. There were no signs to indicate that it was the entrance to an army camp.

A minute later the police officer raised the barrier and waved the vehicles through. Hank looked into the guardroom as they passed it and saw several more policemen inside. If it was a military camp, he wondered, why were there no soldiers on guard?

The Rovers passed through the neatly manicured complex where half-a-dozen cars were parked in front of the buildings.There was no sign of life. A few hundred yards the other side of the complex the new tarmac road gave way to a dirt track and they headed into open countryside.

They followed the security fence for a mile before veering away to drive through wide open fields.

As they approached a small wood Hank saw the outline of several three-storey buildings within it. They were plain concrete structures resembling unfinished office blocks that had been on fire recently. There were no windows, doors or wooden frames in any of the openings. A couple of battered cars parked off the side of the track leading to the buildings were riddled with bullet holes.

Further on, the other side of the road, a dozen men were dressed in black assault clothing, all armed with sub-machine-guns and wearing chest harnesses. Gasmasks hung from their hips. Beyond them, surrounded by a high earthwork, was a civilian passenger aircraft that looked like it had not been airworthy for many years. Scorch marks surrounded many of the doors and windows. More armed men were exiting the aircraft down a ladder. The men by the road watched the Rovers as they passed.

‘There’s old Geordie Marshal,’ Clemens said.

‘G Squadron,’ said Doles.

SAS, Hank thought. The SBS didn’t do aircraft and there was only one other SF unit in the country that did. Hank watched them through the back window until they were out of sight.

A mile further on a handful of long, narrow brick huts in parallel rows came into view. They looked as if they had been built during the Second World War. Hank recognised the unmarked truck parked alongside the end hut as the stores wagon from Poole. The Range Rovers pulled off the track and parked behind it.

The men stepped out, stretching and yawning, some lighting up cigarettes. Hank stepped out and took in the scenery. It was a bright, cloudless day with a slight chill in the air. Some trees dotted the immediate area, otherwise it was open fields in every direction. He thought he could hear gunfire in the distance carried on a breeze that suddenly picked up and rustled the brittle leaves on a nearby pair of oaks. As he focused on the sound he was interrupted.

‘Listen up,’ Doles said in a raised voice as he climbed out the front of his vehicle, holding a clipboard. Everyone stopped talking and faced him. ‘This is building one,’ he said, pointing to the first building on the road. ‘It’ll be the admin staff basher and stores. Building two, the next one over if you hadn’t guessed, is the galley. Building three, SBS accommodation. Four is showers and heads.’ He checked his watch. ‘Time now is ten twelve. Let’s get everything unloaded. Sort out your beds. Grab a brew and muster here for twelve-thirty ready to go.’

‘What’s the first serial?’ one of the men asked.

‘If you don’t interrupt, Jackson, I’ll get to it.’

Someone nudged Jackson in the back. ‘Yeah, shut it, Jackson,’ a voice said playfully.

Doles moved right along.‘Today will be pistols and SMGs on the range. Before dark the aim is to fit in some car and van drills. Lunch will be nosebags. Dinner whenever we get back.’

Hank observed the men as Doles spoke. Most of them seemed young, between twenty-two and twenty-six he guessed.

‘There’ll be no specific teams,’ Doles continued. ‘Those will be nominated as and when required.You’ll draw weapons at . . . eleven?’ he said, looking directly at the quartermaster for confirmation. ‘You keep your pistols with you until we leave here. They will be on your person at all times and, gentlemen, they will remain loaded with one up the spout, even when you’re asleep. I don’t need to warn you that any NDs - that’s negligent discharges for our non-English speaking guest - and you will be looking for a new career. The serials will be worked out day-by-day, hour-by-hour if need be, so remain flexible. Keep your shit together, move like greased lightning when you’re told to, and I don’t want to hear any stupid questions. Are there any questions?’

There were none.

‘Clemens?’ Doles continued. ‘You’ll look after Hank and familiarise him with any kit and routine he’s not au fait with.’ He then shifted his gaze to Hank. ‘You happy with everything so far?’

‘Not a problem,’ Hank said.

‘Good.’ Then louder to everyone,‘Back here twelve-thirty, weapons cleaned and ready to go.’ Doles walked over to Stratton, who was standing alone across the track, and the two men walked away.

Hank faced Clemens, who was looking directly at him, wearing one of his weird, big-mouthed smirks whereby he let his unusually long tongue protrude from his mouth to touch the tip of his nose. ‘Come on, Hanky boy,’ Clemens said. ‘Let’s git yarll kitted up and on the trail.’

Hank wondered if Marty had been given a jerk like Clemens when he first arrived.

The packs were tossed out of the back of the Rovers and everyone grabbed their own and headed for the accommodation building.

Inside the squat hut it was one long, cold, damp room with a concrete floor and narrow metal beds spaced out along both sides, each separated by a grey metal locker. On a table by the entrance was a stack of clean sheets, pillowcases, blankets and pillows. Hank took Clemens’s lead, grabbed a set, and followed him in to the room.

‘Grab any pit you want, Hanky boy,’ Clemens said, tossing his pack and bedding on to a bed.

Hank took the bed opposite and dropped his pack on the floor. He opened the circa WWII locker, which was empty but for a couple of twisted wire coat hangers hanging on a bent rail.

‘Hank?’

Hank looked around the locker door at Clemens, who was holding up what looked like a large tube of toothpaste.

‘Know what this is?’ Clemens asked, tossing the tube to Hank. Hank looked it over but did not recognise the chemical contents. He shrugged at Clemens.

‘Last time I was here everyone caught crabs, from the beds, or the sheep shagging after hours. I suggest you have a good scrub down with that stuff before you go home otherwise the missus will wonder where you’ve been.’ Clemens flapped his oversized tongue and grinned as he winked at Hank and went back to sorting out his kit.

Hank placed the tube in his locker and looked down at his stained and lumpy mattress. He had slept on worse. He detected movement outside the metal-framed window above his bed. It was Stratton and Doles in the narrow gap between the buildings.They were talking. Stratton sensed Hank’s stare and looked at him. Doles also noticed Hank and the two men moved on. Hank had the distinct feeling they had been discussing him.

The vehicles left the buildings at the precise time Doles had stipulated, with everyone aboard. The shooting range was another secluded spot surrounded by fields and pockets of woodland. Hank climbed out along with the others and helped carry the boxes of ammunition through the entrance.

It was a rudimentary construction with no buildings inside other than a simple concrete shelter to house the boxes of ammunition and targets in the event of rain. It was an open-air, rectangular arena with an entrance wide enough for a vehicle to drive through. The sides were steep earth embankments down to a knee-high sandbag wall all around the inside. It was designed so that targets could be placed and engaged anywhere within it. The embankment curved around the entrance so that bullets could not escape through it unless, obviously, fired into the sky.

‘Listen up!’ Doles commanded as he walked into the range. ‘Load up your pistol magazines only. Grab a

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