Thursday 27th October 2014 – Lincolnshire, England
GMT 07:03
Patrice Dulay gulped down air and lengthened his stride as he entered the last
straight of his run, determined to finish as close to physical exhaustion as possible.
His attitude to exercise was the same as his attitude toward everything he attempted
in life, he had always tried to push himself harder and harder, aiming to break the
limit of what his body and mind were able to do. Tall and heavily muscled, his
angular features and requisite close-cropped hair accentuated his black skin in the
morning mist and he looked every inch the elite soldier he had become. Tearing
free from the outskirts of the heavily wooded area, the personal compound of
General Douglas Haven came into view on the horizon and he wondered about the
nature of this morning’s interruption by his commanding officer. Dulay had been
contacted on his wrist-worn Personal Digital Assistant a little under twenty minutes
ago with a message requesting his presence at a briefing at 08:30 at the command
centre in the main compound. Nothing was inherently peculiar about the order, as operations were being planned nearly continuously at the moment, and as a newly
graduated agent he was heavily involved in the planning stages, even if he was still
waiting to be sent out on his own for the first time.
What was troubling to Dulay was that the email had come directly from
General Haven rather than from his personal secretary. This was unusual and
bothered him for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, though he was determined to
stay positive and hoped that perhaps he was about to get the call to go on a mission
and that the General wanted to break the news to him personally. Dulay shook his
head, hearing the memory of his father’s frequently sharp words ringing in his ears;
he had been slowing down without even realising it, his thoughts occupying too
much of his efforts. Forcing his concentration back to the physical and mental
challenge of pushing himself harder and harder he pumped his arms and legs for all
they were worth, enjoying the sensation of speed. In full flight he was a glorious
sight; his high school track coach in Marseilles had often likened him to a sports
car, able to shift through gears so smoothly yet rippling underneath with muscular
raw power. Dulay had liked the analogy, and had certainly proved his coach to be
spot on with his assessment; he was a running machine. At 6’3 and a shade under
230lbs he should have been too big to be an exceptional distance runner, but his long stride, muscular build and tireless work ethic had proved a winning
combination both at college and the French military academy, where he still held
the record for the ten mile endurance test.
Pushing himself to a full sprint, he soon passed the marker he used to
measure his distance and, slowing to a gentle trot, he checked his PDA. Pleased
with his time, he breathed deeply in and out to regain his wind as he approached the
security checkpoint outside of the massive concrete barriers that surrounded the
internal compound. Standing separately, the checkpoint bunker jutted out from the
ground like a solid fist and he moved toward it slowly, already feeling a little tense
in anticipation of the familiar but unwelcome security protocol. As he approached
the bunker he glanced skyward briefly, noting the snipers in the towers above him
following his every move, weapons trained on his torso and head. Trying to ignore
them he focused his gaze on the Military Policeman behind the three inch bullet,
blast and shatterproof plasti-glass in the bunker control room in front of him.
‘Pass and palm,’ barked the man through a speaker system, motioning for
Dulay to move forward and place his DNA linked identification card into a small
retractable tray, and his hand in a circular gap to its right. Dulay sighed as he did as
he was ordered. He had quickly tired of the guards and the security procedures applied when someone whished to enter the compound, and although he understood
the reasons why they were important, he had yet to meet a soldier not
uncomfortable with the whole experience, which was always the same; a rude
Military Policeman, card swipe, pat-down and then rectal exam. There was even a
little rhyme the recruits had made up about it, which some of them had taken to
singing whilst going through the procedure; ‘Guard, card, down, brown, you gotta
be clean to get in this town.’ Dulay was not a person prone to bursting into song,
and instead just winced slightly as the clamp in the circular hole tightened around
his wrist, his palm trapped facing upwards. There was a faint whirring noise as a
small needle attached to a robotic arm appeared and moved toward his hand,
jabbing into his palm to retract its bounty of information-laden blood. Dulay
watched in silence as the guard ran the card and blood sample through the security
database, ensuring that the DNA on the card, the database and his blood matched.
There had been significant problems with the system recently; terrorist hackers had
managed to gain access to the computer database a couple of weeks ago for over a
minute and had switched some DNA records around, resulting in the guards
wounding innocent soldiers and recruits whose records did not match with their ID
cards. The commanding officers of the base had been doing their best to reassure everyone that the problem was quickly discovered and the system repaired and
Dulay believed them, but he doubted that helped the men who had been shot and
arrested.
Evidently a repeat of that incident was not going to occur today, or at least
not right now, as the guard in front of Dulay looked up from his screen and
indicated to his companions to advance to stage two of the check. Immediately,
four Military Policemen armed with automatic rifles appeared from the rear of the
bunker and advanced on him, their weapons drawn and aimed squarely at his chest.
Dulay stepped back slowly, removing his right hand from the clamp and raising his
arms as two of the guards split off to flank him, taking up firing positions at a safe
distance. The other two men aggressively closed on him, one thoroughly patting
him down whilst the other scanned him with an electronic wand. The wand probed
him for any chemicals or tools that he could possibly use in explosives or as
weapons, and was also use to scan his PDA for any viruses or hacking software he
could use to attempt to access the secure mainframe. Given the all clear, one of the
Military Policemen commanded him to drop his running shorts and proceeded to
give Dulay an unpleasant time with a very cold, gloved finger. ‘All clear,’ he announced after the inspection, but even as the men opened
the entrance to the compound and scuttled backwards into their bunker they did not
lower their weapons for one second. Dulay pulled his shorts back up, picked up his
ID card and strolled into the compound, stopping to allow a small group of soldiers
on their morning run to pass. Nodding a brief acknowledgement to the commanding
officer who led them, he continued onwards to the distinctive black steel building a
few hundred yards away. It was a symbolic structure, purposely designed to be very
different from the other buildings on site; the military wanted the building to
scream exclusivity and accomplishment, they wanted visiting soldiers and recruits
to desperately want to be part of the few who were elite enough to be part of the
unit it housed and their recent but already legendary history. Their wishes had come
true as the building had already spawned plenty of folklore, rumours and tall tales
that helped build on the myth of the agents who called it home. Dulay swiped his
ID at the entrance, the electronic lock acknowledging him as the most recent
addition to the club and his right to enter. As it did so the door slid smoothly open
and he entered the barracks for the elite soldiers of the European Union Terrorist
Task Force, known worldwide simply as the TTF. Thirty minutes later and Dulay was showered and dressed in camouflage cargo
trousers and a black t-shirt, waiting in briefing room number four for General
Haven. As he stood alone he felt the familiar mixture of excitement and trepidation
that he had regularly been experiencing since he first signed up for the TTF
selection process. It had been a whirlwind eighteen months in which he had found
himself constantly challenged and pushed, discovering more and more about
himself as he progressed. In essence the principles of the unit went against
everything he had previously experienced. Unlike traditional soldiers TTF agents
were more often than not sent out in the field as lone wolves, covertly investigating
and infiltrating terrorist organisations before attempting to annihilate them from the
inside. Backed with cutting-edge technology and the best training available, they
were a lethal force that had helped the European Union strike countless of telling
blows against its terrorist enemies.
It was the lone nature of the role that Dulay had on occasion struggled with;
previously he had been in the French Army and then the French special forces
division, the RPIMa (Regiment de Parachutistes d'Infanterie de Marine) and had
never worked in teams of less than six people. He had grown accustomed to the rapport of a group of men working together for a common goal and he enjoyed the
banter and the team spirit. The feeling of someone watching his back had always
been a great comfort to him and it was still taking him time to adjust to the single
operative mentality, unable to trust anyone. It was something which went against
his natural instinct to see the good in people. Many agents had had the same
problem in the past and so as part of the training process they were now forced into
spending days and days in isolation; it was the only part of the training Dulay had
not enjoyed, the only area he had not excelled in, often finding himself locked in
battles against the memory of his father’s critical voice. It had been a draining
experience but he had passed the constant tests, though at what cost he wasn’t quite
sure yet; he had certainly reopened some mental wounds that he would have rather
have forgotten forever.
Coughing nervously, he scratched at the small but almost permanent
indentation in his palm from the DNA test, finding his mind wandering away from
any positive thoughts about the meeting and toward the negatives; what if it had
been decided that he was unfit to be in the unit after his most recent evaluation?
What if they’d decided to re-assign him back to his old unit? He had heard rumours
that the French forces were struggling in Algeria again and he had even heard whispers they were close to being overrun. Perhaps they were calling back all
soldiers assigned to the EU in order to bolster their forces?
Another nervous cough escaped his throat as he stared at the thick steel
door, waiting for General Haven, commander of the TTF and the man responsible
for Dulay’s new standing as an elite agent, to make his entrance. They had first met
nearly two years ago when the General had been visiting the RPIMa during an
evaluation for the top brass of the EU who were responsible for the combined
military forces. Dulay, one of the fittest and most proficient men in his unit had
been chosen by his superior to put on a show on the obstacle course and shooting
range; later that evening Haven had sought out Dulay in the barracks and informed
him that he was going to be entered for the TTF selection process and that he would
be hearing more via his commanding officer. With that General Haven had simply
turned and walked out. A few months passed and Dulay had heard nothing more
until one morning a chopper showed up at his base in Algeria to whisk him away to
Brussels to begin the arduous task of proving himself worthy of wearing the black
beret of the TTF.
Since then he had had much more frequent contact with General Haven,
who seemed to take an extremely close interest in Dulay’s progress through the training, something that had at first worried him; he had quickly learnt of the
General’s reputation and had heard many unsavoury whispers and rumours about
his past that made him nervous. Haven was young for a man in his position, only
just pushing forty five; strong, fierce and ambitious, everyone in the unit knew he
was someone to be feared as well as respected. One particular story from the many
that had stuck firmly in Dulay’s mind was about the General’s days as a young
officer with the Royal Marines. Whilst on a peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan,
Haven was leading an eight-man night patrol that stumbled into a major fire fight
between rival opium dealers. According to the story, Haven ordered his men to hold
their ground and observe; for twenty minutes they watched until only a few men
from each gang were left. Then the patrol attacked, wiping the survivors out in a
matter of minutes. The unit allegedly discovered a hundred kilos of opium, fifty of
which made it to the relevant authorities, fifty of which mysteriously disappeared, a
fate shared over the next few years by the patrol members who, one by one, ceased
to exist. The rumour mongers claimed Haven killed them all personally, not only to
keep them quiet but also so he could get a full share of the profit from the opium
sale, money he allegedly used to bribe officials into promoting him. Dulay considered the tale to be far fetched and more likely to be based on
gossip than fact, but there were a dozen other such stories circulating at any one
time, some of which were harder to ignore than others. Haven was considered a
brave and astute soldier by all, but not many people trusted him. Dulay certainly
didn’t to begin with, but the Frenchman had never seen any behaviour that
warranted suspicion, and over time he had come to admire Haven, who, in his eyes,
had an iron spine, a fierce intellect and a passion for the military, all elements of his
personality that Dulay wished to emulate.
As such, the General had become his mentor and role model, and Dulay had
assumed the role of star pupil, though he had never been overtly shown any
preferential treatment over the other trainees. A quick glance at his PDA showed
Haven to be ten minutes late, which was unlike him, and, with his anxiety building
a little, Dulay headed back out of the briefing room and into the dim metal corridor
to see if perhaps he had got the wrong room. He strolled up the hall a few paces,
glancing into the briefing rooms immediately around, all of which stood dark and
empty with their doors ajar. Walking on further however he could see that the
briefing room at the end of the corridor was occupied, the door hanging slightly ajar
and the light inside visible until a figure inside walked across its path and blocked it entirely. Surprised that anyone else was in the area at such a time of day, Dulay
listened intently and could faintly hear a voice, seemingly talking on a phone,
though it was so soft that he could not determine who they were or what it was they
were discussing. Having recently acquired agent status, Dulay was firmly in the
loop regarding any missions being planned and he knew that this morning there
were no briefings due to be going on. Curious, he approached the door, walking
more stealthily without even consciously thinking about it. As he got closer he
could make out some of the words.
‘…I need the equipment and intel sent to the safehouse ASAP. Yeah, he
has. Nighthawk is the code name. Ok. No, I don’t…’
Dulay was now just outside the door, leaning against the corridor wall,
tensed up, his breathing slow and deliberate, his mouth open to enhance his
hearing. He was so involved with what was going on in the room that when the
booming voice resonated from behind him it caused him to jum