“Shadowsword, do you copy? I repeat do you copy? Over”
Acts slowly coaxed his brain into letting him leave the warm comfort of the small fire. He slowly got to his, weary after a day’s hiking up the afghan mountain range. Snow crumpled under his boots as he made his way carefully across the large platform naturally formed against the side of the mountain. Wiping the snow off the radio he responded.
“Shadowsword to kingpin, I copy, over”
A chill came over the agent as the subtle breeze crept into his thick jacket. The fir lining the hood had all but frosted over, leaving his neck red and sore.
“Kingpin to Shadowsword, Moses and Lev have done a reccy over the area, no stragglers spotted, you’re good to go. Good luck. Over”
“Copy that, over”
He began stretching each of his muscles methodically, holding each stretch for 10 seconds as he had been instructed. It seemed petty, but the thought of pulling a neck muscle on the way down was unbearable. A very real possibility when jumping from such an altitude as the parachute had to open had less than a second to open fully. It was a tricky jump. The outcomes were endless, such as not jumping far enough away from the mountain face and getting his chute caught, or worse, not stabilising himself through the cloud and knocking his head on the sheet wall of ice.
Putting those thoughts aside he lit his last cigarette, a filthy habit, slowly killing him, but eh? What did he really have to live for anyway? He had no children, Sarah, the love of his life had left him, and addicted to pretty much all the stuff he shouldn’t be. But in his current situation he was beyond caring. It wasn’t his fault really, so he told himself. His parents had left him on the steps of a hospital and ran away. He was adopted by a couple who lived in a rough place. They loved him, but they could only do so much. Soon into High school, he tried weed, and from there on, it escalated into all sorts of things. He was a bright and honest kid, but the company he was sharing slowly weeded that out. Soon after his dad died. He had tried to stop a gang of teenagers from nicking cars tyres and they broke his temple with a baseball bat. He died in intensive care day later aged 60. From then on Acts swore to get his life straight, it was what his dad would have wanted, he couldn’t bare thinking about becoming what had killed his father, who had saved him at only the age of two. He studied for his A-levels with all his mental will. He failed. He would not let life push him over that easily though. Has soon as he was of age, he enlisted.
For the first time in days he unzipped his large jacket and packet it tightly in his rucksack. He rummaged through his duffel bag and pulled out his chute and his Kevlar thermal vest and BASE jump suit. He struggled for what seemed for hours pulling on the wetsuit esc suit. It reminded him of going surfing with his uncle in the summer holidays with his new sea gear that he had gotten for his birthday. The freezing north Atlantic still chilled him to the bone. He didn’t get a baddass bullet proof vest though. He strapped in onto himself and pulled the bulky silk parachute rucksack over his shoulders. For the last time he pulled out his briefing folder and opened it.
“Kuh-e Bandaka, northwest Afghanistan, 7th September, 2012. Eliminate scouts inside the insurgent camp, without detection. Radio Psalms when accomplished. Leave the camp and go to the LZ. Wait for extraction. Signed: Genesis.” He muttered to himself. Genesis was the top brass of MI6. So he had gathered, none of the operatives had even seen him. Or her. Or it, for that matter. it was all very mysterious. Not that he cared. It was not his place to be asking such questions. As long as he got paid this was a hell of a lot better than the regular Army. He couldn’t face another week in the Army. He hated everything about it. He had lost his best friend. His only friend. The only person he could rely on. He had helped him through his children problems, and his wife problems. The memory drew a new canvass across his mind for the thousandth time. He knew this painting well, it plagued his dreams. The first dash of pale brown began the masterpiece as the convoy passed through the desert town. Next the dark grey of the mobile phone the man on the side of the road was holding. Then a thick stroke of black as the explosion cast its way across the canvass, enveloping the truck in front of his. The incessant strokes of orange flames, the screaming as one of the men did his best to jump into the bowl of water the painter used to clean his brush, the pieces of body cast lazily about the paper. He did his best to rid himself of the image. The artist slowed down. He began blurring the picture with strokes of water as tears filled the young Acts eyes. Next to blazing Humvee lay his best friend. The canvass enlarged as he ran towards him. Thin streaks of white hastily made their way across the page. The body lay still. The sides of the painting suddenly turned deep red as one of the white dashes hit its mark. The image blurred. The artist regained control and began sweeping strokes of pale blue all across the paper. Blurred slightly by the blinding desert sun. He then began filling in the top and bottom with jet black, slowly enveloping more and more until Acts lay unconscious on the floor.
His hand sub-consciously felt the place where the round had passed straight through his stomach and out the other side, tearing out the tube like flesh. He gagged at the thought. He had woken up a few days later. The medics had saved his life and taken him to a hospital. He’d had to drink through a tube for half a year whilst undergoing intensive re-constructural surgery. It was a miracle that he’d recovered.
He crumpled up the paper and threw it into the fire, shrivelling up and turning black. He strapped his bags onto his belt, they were heavy, if he hadn’t strapped them on correctly they would destabalise him mid jump. He slipped his goggles over his eyes and stepped forward. He recited his instructions over in his head. Jump. Land. Move to extraction point. Place equipment. Move into camp. Takeout guards. Radio in strike team Psalms. Move to LZ. Collect gear. Get the hell outta there. He unclipped his radio and held in front of his face.
“Shadowsword to Moses, any updates?. Over”
“Moses to shadowsword, Lev’s done a thorough sweeping of the area with the Quad Rotor and thermal imaging shows nothing out the ordinary, over.”
“Copy that, over”
“Oh one last thing” stuttered Moses. “Me and Lev have become quite attached to you after babysitting you for the last few months. So, please don’t die. Over.”
“Thanks Dave, you and Alf do the same. Over”
Acts put out the fire and removed as of his trace as he could. He looked over the edge of the overhang. A few thousand feet below underneath the dense sheet of cloud lay the camp. Its back faced the giant mountain, and front faced out down a narrow valley. It was very much boxed in. down through the centre of the valley stretched a long tarmac road along which came all the supplies which were needed to keep the place going. This place was the Taliban FOB which controlled miles and miles of ground all around. Its main priority, a small city lying just outside of the mountain range. Because of its location it was near impenetrable. Normally, MI6 would never allow such a James Bond esc entrance, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He knew that somewhere on the left had slope of the valley lay Moses and Leviticus, lying down, high powered sniper rifle scopes in hand, taking note of very movement inside the camp.
Cautiously he took five steps backwards from the ledge and placed his earphones inside is frozen ears. The iconic intro to Back in Black warmed them up a bit.
He sprinted towards the edge.
