‘We need to sign?’ asked Jam softly.
‘Oh yes,’ crooned Simmo. ‘In triplicate, on the correct military forms.’ He pushed forward the thick pad and Jam stared with distaste at the stains. He took the pen on its industrial-grade chain and leaned forward.
‘What the fuck is that?’ snapped Jam, pointing.
‘Chocolate.’
‘You sure?’
‘I very sure,’ growled Simmo.
‘And that? There! What the fuck is that?’
‘That is blood,’ said Simmo quietly, his rumble like the distant detonation of a nuclear device.
Jam met the large sergeant’s eyes. ‘How did you manage to get
blood
on your triplicate signing-out book?’
‘Man refused to sign,’ growled Simmo. ‘Called me pedantic triplicate-signing paper-pushing motherfucker. So I stabbed him through hand with pen. Look, there is nick in wood where pen got stuck. It very messy. Got one of tendons wrapped around the nib.’
‘Ahh, nice.’
Jam reached forward to sign. He signed.
‘In triplicate,’ said Simmo.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Jam signed twice more.
‘And him,’ said Simmo, nodding at Mongrel.
Mongrel sighed. ‘What you do if there was nuclear war and we had to urgently get whole battalion’s ammunition in few short seconds because HQ about to be overrun?’ ‘You would have to sign in triplicate on the correct military forms. For every item.’
‘But you have nuclear bombs blasting overhead, room shaking, lights flickering, nuclear fire screaming across landscape ...’
Simmo stared hard at Mongrel. ‘You would have to sign in triplicate on the correct military forms,’ he said without any sign of emotion on his face, without any indication of humour, without any suggestion of anything other than consummate military professionalism.
‘Come on.’ Jam grinned, patting Mongrel on the back. ‘You can see me off at the hangar.’
Mongrel nodded, and they trooped towards the door. Just as Jam reached for the handle, Simmo’s low growl echoed across to the two men and made them freeze.
‘Just one question, soldiers.’
Jam and Mongrel exchanged glances. ‘Told you so!’ hissed Mongrel, and turned with an unaccustomed beaming smile across his battered wide face. Jam turned, dropping the canvas sacks and placing his hands on his hips.
‘Sarge?’
‘You enjoy looking at my little toy?’
‘You mean the HTank?’ Jam nodded, and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and inhaling deeply. Through a plume of smoke he said, ‘Yeah, nice little piece of kit. Impressive CamCloak, and fucking thick armour, hey?’
‘Nice machine,’ rumbled Simmo, eyes gleaming.
‘What you mean, “your” little toy?’ said Mongrel.
‘Is mine.’
‘I ... I thought it belong to Spiral.’ Mongrel smiled carefully.
Simmo shook his bullet head. ‘No. ‘S mine.’
‘You mean it’s your HTank,’ laughed Jam. ‘As in, ownership documentation is stamped in
your
name, you have full financial possession, the HTank does in fact
belong
to you.’
‘No. But it still mine.’
‘OK, OK. Look, Sarge, it’s a very nice tank. We were very impressed. Is it operational yet?’
‘Only on The Sergeant’s say-so,’ rumbled Simmo.
‘Whatever you say, buddy.’ Jam grinned, placing the cigarette between his lips, squinting through the smoke, picking up his ammo and leading Mongrel to the door. As he was stepping through the portal, he turned. ‘One last thing - if I ever need back-up, I’ll be sure not to give you a fucking call.’
Simmo scowled, but Jam and Mongrel had gone.
Data log #12522
CLASSIFIED SADt/6345/SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS UNIT
Data Request 324#12522
SAD
Search and Destroy Missions
When Durell and Feuchter’s warship, currently tagged as Spiral_mobile, was destroyed, hundreds of genetically enhanced Nex soldiers were also destroyed. However, even without the guidance of their masters -the true enemies of Spiral - the Nex had a network of systems in place across the globe which enabled them to continue operations and pose a minimal threat to Spiral agencies worldwide.
SAD missions were instigated: teams of DemolSquads whose mission objectives for the past year had been to search out and completely destroy Nex nests and relevant minor military outposts.
The SAD missions have been extremely successful in minimising current threat from the Nex. Although all the Nex soldiers have not been destroyed, intelligence shows that they have almost been terminated. They are currently running at a 4% strength when compared to infestation numbers this time last year.
Most recent find:
Brazil, 18km east of Humaita Team:
Jam, Slater, TT [Demoll2]
Nex destroyed:
40 genetically altered soldiers
Current SAD team leader: Jam [Demol_H]
Keyword SEARCH>> NEX, SAD, SPIRAL_sadt, DURELL, FEUCHTER
The Hangar was huge, housing perhaps a hundred helicopters of different configurations and eight SX7 Harrier Jump Jets. Jam, Slater and TT stood, staring out at the rain beyond the corrugated walls and waiting for the Comanche pilot to arrive. They all carried huge canvas sacks - clothing, provisions for their operation in the former Yugoslavia, guns and, of course, ammunition. Slater had already overseen the loading of three KTM 800Vi motorcycles, which had been strapped unceremoniously beneath the Comanche in lieu of missiles, and all the group needed now was a pilot.
Jam smoked, watching the rain and listening to Slater and TT’s idle banter. Slater was a huge man whom Jam had fought with on many occasions and who reminded him a little of Mongrel - both were tufty-haired and sported missing teeth from too many NAAFI brawls, and both took shit from no man. But whereas Mongrel was pure animal, very much in the mould of Sgt Simmo, Slater had more of a philosophical air, although it took a lot to get to know that side of him, and in truth it only rarely appeared after seventeen pints of lager.
TT, on the other hand, was a complete contrast. She was ex-Sniper squad and had moved sideways to the Demolition Teams, or DemolSquads as they were affectionately known. Tall, lithe and muscular, she was extremely reserved and aloof, rarely speaking unless it had to do with work. She had high cheekbones and short blood-red hair, pale blue eyes, and full lips hiding neat little teeth. She was oblivious to Jam’s charms - much to his consternation - but had proved herself on many occasions with her skill with a rifle and telescopic sight.
‘You OK, Jam?’
‘Mmm,’ he said, flicking his cigarette butt out into the rain and watching the heavy downpour destroy the filter. Jam turned, gave Slater a small grin, then said, ‘You check the SAD records? I have - just for my own personal amusement, you understand.’
Slater nodded. ‘Current statistics show Nex strength running at just four per cent of this time last year when ... well, when you blew their warship to Kingdom Come.’
‘Ahh, the old bomb in the bag,’ said Jam, his eyes hard. ‘Makes you come over all warm and gooey inside. What the fuck does four per cent represent, anyway?’
‘Statistics,’ mumbled Slater. ‘There are no current numbers ...’
‘Fucking suits and their fucking statistics,’ snarled Jam. ‘Real figures would had been more use - not four fucking per cent! What’s four per cent of an unspecified amount? Jesus! Now, this is our chance to take out a few more unfortunates ... drop it to two per cent of whatever, eh, mate?’
‘Jam ... better be careful we don’t become complacent.’
Jam winked. ‘Hah! We eat the fuckers for breakfast nowadays.’
Acting on tip-offs and local military intelligence, Jam, Slater and TT were due to investigate claims of a relatively small Nex ‘nest’ in Slovenia, close to a village named Trebija. The Brazil6 SAD mission had been the most recent large ‘find’, and SAD missions were becoming more and more infrequent and thus required fewer and fewer resources from Spiral. A large nest would entail complex military missions with interlocking paths from anything from three to twenty DemolSquads; but for a small gig like this? Jam was happy to do it on his own.
‘Probably be nothing. Rice or something on their scanners,’ growled Slater.
‘You’re so pessimistic,’ said Jam, lighting another cigarette and cursing himself. He was trying - very unsuccessfully and at the request of Nicky, his wife-to-be - to quit. He inhaled the deep blue smoke and slapped Slater on the back, having to stand on tiptoe to do it despite his own six feet of height. ‘Anyway, you haven’t told me yet if you’re coming to my wedding!’
‘I have to check my diary,’ said Slater.
‘You still sulking because I asked Carter to be my best man?’
‘No,’ said Slater sulkily.
‘Come on, buddy, you know I’ve been friends with Carter since fucking kindergarten. We’ve done some shit together, fought some fucking battles, been through some real hard times. And I know you and me are friends, but you have to accept my decision like a real man, not sulk like an arse ...’
‘It’s just...’
‘What?’
TT sidled closer, a smile across her full pouting lips.
‘It’s just…’
‘Spit it out, man,’ snapped Jam.
‘He thinks if he’s the best man it’ll help him pull one of the bridesmaids, get him a bit of pussy for a drunken night of debauchery with fruit, or whatever it is that rubs Slater up the right way.’
‘Thanks, TT,’ spat Slater, reddening.
‘Don’t worry.’ Jam winked, slapping the huge soldier on the back again. ‘If it is a bit of pussy you’re wanting, then Jam is the man to ... to ...’ He stared hard at TT. ‘What? What’s that look?’
TT ran a hand through her cropped hair, then smoothed her eyebrows which were immaculately plucked. ‘Do you realise that I went to prep school with Nicky?’ she said softly. ‘We shared a dorm, were very good friends, in fact.’
Jam stared hard at her.
‘We used to have midnight feasts, sneak out into the village and meet the boys, got up to all sorts of mischief-me and your soon-to-be wife.’ She smiled sweetly at Jam.
‘You’re fucking with me, right?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Stop it, because you
are
fucking with me.’
‘Why would I lie? You know I’m friends with Nicky, you’ve seen me talking to her enough times. We joined up together.’
‘She never told me that.’
‘Why would she? Do you know
everything
about your woman?’ She gave a very dark smile. ‘Because I doubt it very much, Mr Jam. But the things she has told me about you!’
The pilot chose that moment to arrive. He was a slim man, with bright eager eyes and the disposition of a puppy: always eager to please. He wore his hair long and generously curled like a middle-aged pop star or footballer, and it lapped around his shoulders, buoyed on a current of air, hairspray and expensive Italian conditioners. To Fenny, Hair Was Life. Which was why it had been with great irony that God had made this man bald at the crown - this Deity of Hair, this ultimately vain and narcissistic male of the species. And Jam secretly knew that if Fenny had decided to shun his flamboyant locks, to cast aside his self-love and hair-lacquer abuse, then God would have shown forgiveness and allowed him the mane of a lion.
God punishes those who punish themselves, he mused.
‘Hiya, Fenny,’ grinned Jam, slapping the pilot on the back and watching with obvious amusement as his tresses bobbed - as if he were auditioning for a TV advert for the ultimate prodigal pelt.
Fenny carried his HIDSS helmet under one arm and surveyed the group with a convivial and easygoing gaze. This and other friendly characteristics had earned him many friends among Spiral, despite his love of getting drunk and pouring his pint into soldiers’ laps.
‘Your team going to Slovenia, Jam, you womanising old scoundrel?’
‘Yeah,’ drawled Jam.
‘I think you’ll find that there’s lots of suspected Nex activity in the city of Ljubljana.’
‘Possibly.’ Jam grinned, his arm still draped around Fenny’s shoulders. ‘But I think you will find that it isn’t enemy territory until we turn it into enemy fucking territory. Now, I have a question for you, my old friend.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, I don’t want you to become tetchy, but every time I see you I always ask myself the question: why don’t you shave off your curls? Get a good Number One, sorted.’ Jam puffed at his cigarette.
Fenny looked a little confused.
‘Why would I do that? Why would I want a ... ugh ... a
shaved
head?’
Jam spluttered. ‘Well, mate, it’s just your curls ...’
‘Yeah?’
‘And, and ... the curls bobbing, and the hairspray ... it makes you ... makes your curls ... like ... with their bobbing ...’
‘Yes?’ Fenny was grinning broadly but with an iron twinkle in his eyes.
‘If he had a pint, I’d choose this moment to take a step back,’ rumbled Slater. He had walked home from the NAAFI on too many evenings with a wet beer-stinking crotch and a strand of stray curl caught between his knuckles where Fenny had been too swift and elusive to suffer Slater’s left hook.