Category: Writers Block
I am Kyle Swanson retired captain of the 22 Special Air Service. I was retired because I impeded the progress of a bullet from an Islamic militant’s AK-74 that missed my heart by two inches. It really knocks the breath out of you. It really doesn't help your health at all. Any who, I was now living in a house in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado courtesy of an American friend in the American Special Forces whom I'd met during a joint operation in Afghanistan. I hoped that the fresh mountain air would do me some good. For I'd been suffering chest pains after my close encounter with death. Life was decent. My health was recovering rapidly and the renovations on the house were almost complete. Except for the demons that haunt me at night everything seemed to be sorting themselves out right nicely. I should have known that it couldn't have lasted. My solitary existence in the Rockies where I could cope with my inner demons and dark and possibly questionable deeds in my illustrious career with the SAS. Right and wrong was often times blurry in the shadowy world of black ops especially with intelligence officers along for the ride. I should have known that what can fuck up will fuck up. And therefore I should have shot the CIA officer that showed up on my door step.
Philip Buble was in his mid thirties, short, stocky, and not at all as good looking as yours truly. For some strange reason that I could never fathom women seemed to gravitate to monsieur Buble. Maybe eating snails raises your attractiveness to the opposite sex, because it certainly was not Buble's charming personality. For my personality was well, better than his. I had a rapier wit and sophisticated humor. What girl can ask for more, right? We met on an operation in which I was advising the Central Intelligence Agency as a liaison for the SAS. Buble and I had gotten into a pissing match which resulted in me beating the shit out of the bastard. But alas, he won the girl. Who won that one, I'm not sure. In any case Buble's nose was more widely spread across his face thanks to a well thrown punch by mwa. So every day when looking in the mirror while shaving Buble can be reminded of the fond times we had together. Well at least his looks improved. When I opened the door and saw Buble standing on my front porch I was tempted to grab the Glock tucked into my waistband. “Buble! I didn't expect to see you. I see that the nose has healed."
"No thanks to you," his voice was as flat and cold as a snakes hiss. I reminded myself that this guy was from the CIA and should be careful for he might have plans to number my days. I knew that we were on the same side and all, but CIA types are rather weird about stuff at times. I was rather disappointed that Buble wasn't as glad to see me as I was to see him. After all I saved him losing money to plastic surgeons. I expected him to throw his arms around me and say "Bane you great guy you. I missed working with you. And how is the world treating you big guy." But being the selfish prick that he was. None of that happened. So I drew my gun and shot him! Just kidding! Being the polite person that I am I invited him in. Well I stepped inside and left him to follow if he was of a mind to. I lead the way to my study where I pored myself a large Glen Fidick scotch. I would have offered Buble some but I didn't want to waste good scotch on shit. "How's the knee," Buble asked.
"Fine," I said. I got a bullet in the knee in that operation where I met Buble. I got it do to Buble's incompetence. At the time Buble had just graduated from spook school in Langley Virginia and he thought he would become the next 007. He also thought that seasoned warriors like me knew nothing about black ops. So acting off of some whim he launched the operation with the CIA officers of the Special Activities devision under his command before the right time. Because of that my SAS team and I had to go in and rescue his ass. During the ensuing fire fight I received a bullet in the knee. By some freak coincidence the bullet was defective and did not do as much damage as it should have. After a surgical operation and two months sick-leave I was back on duty with a permanent slight limp. All in all it wasn’t a bad day out for me personally. At least I was still alive. A lot of good men died that day. Including my friend Rob Struan. He was the best sergeant and friend anyone could ask for. Obviously the op was botch but for some absurd reason Philip Buble was not relieved of his position in the CIA. I found out later that the deputy director of the CIA was Buble's uncle. "What do you want Buble? I don't have a lot of time."
"You mean there's something to do out here in the wilderness besides getting in touch with your primitive side? Oh, but I forgot you're already at your most primitive despite your cultured heirs." My anger threatened to swamp my senses but I somehow managed to rain it in. I reached for the butt of my Glock and curled my hand around it the movement concealed by the edge of my desk. How good it would be to shoot this murdering bastard I thought. "Are you here to insult me, or do you have something in mind?" My voice was strangely calm devoid of all emotions.
"Abrupt as usual I see. You Swanson’s are still peasants at heart even though you dress in finery. If Buble meant that as a jibe, it was not. The Swanson family came from humble roots in Ulster Northern Ireland and we were never allowed to forget it. My ancestor of whom I was named for was a humble rifle sergeant during the Napoleonic era with the 60th Royal American Rifles. During the Vitoria campaign he and many other men became rich on the lute of King Joseph who fled from the advancing British. With his new found wealth sergeant Swanson bought himself a commission in the British army. Enson Kyle Swanson proceeded to distinguish himself in the service of the British Empire. Why he did not use his newly found wealth to help the Irish cause for independence was a mystery that none were ever able to solve. The fopppish officers at the time accepted him because money talked marot walked. He also invested in 3 clipper ships which began Swanson’s industry which evolved into one of the most powerful companies in the world. "Are you here to insult me Buble? Or are you here on business?"
"There's an op the agency wants you to lead."
"Is there now? What makes you think I'm interested?"
"You owe Thomas Olzak a favor or two." Thomas was the chief of special ops in the CIA and a close friend of mine.
"That I do. But if he wanted me to conduct an op for him he would have asked me himself and not sent the deputy DCI's lap dog." The corners of Buble's mouth tightened but he kept his cool. Miracles never seace! He might be learning a thing or two.
"There's a personal element for you as well, Swanson."
I laughed, "What personal element could I possibly have with a dirty op of the CIA."
"Carina Rodnonkova and Abu Rezik." Carina is the half sister of a Russian Oligarch who is also a colonel in the SVR. Carina was a captain in the same service. The only difference in her and Colonel Ivan Karkov was that she was disillusioned with the Kremlin. So on one evening in June back in 2005 she decided to defect by calling an old university friend by the name of Kyle Swanson. Since I had done a few jobs for the firm, that is the British secret intelligence services they assisted me in spiriting Carina out of Russia to England where she proved to be a gold mine of information about the Russian intelligence services. Abu Razik was a piece of work from Iran. He was a major in the Iranian revolutionary guard. He commands a unit in the Iranian revolutionary guard made up of the best Iranian Special Forces had to offer, known as the sons of Iran. His unit was one of the best I ever saw. When Carina defected Karkov had Razik after her. It was a good thing that she was guarded by a SAS team lead by me. I tangled with Razik and discovered that he was a knife artist. I recall that he had a six inch stiletto at the time which he preceded to stab into my gut and slit me open like a fish. He almost succeeded too; luckily I wasn't bad with a knife myself. He left me a memento of our encounter in the form of a scar on my stomach. "What does Razik have to do with Rodnonkova," I asked Buble.
"Apparently he made another try for her. And this time you weren't around to stop him."
"What about her minders?"
"She didn't have any minders. She insisted on living as normal a life as possible."
"Damn foolish if you ask me. And the DG of SIS agreed?"
"He had no choice. She had a lot more information that she could give."
"Why didn't the SIS have a couple of guys sit on her without her knowing? That's what they should have done in the first place!"
"Look Swanson if you have any complaints with the SIS operational procedures than you can talk to them yourself. The problem at hand is getting her back. It will be a joint operation the CIA and the SIS." A feeling of dread swept through me. I knew how territorial the intelligence services of the world can be. For joint operations are perfect recipes for a fubar. Unless the members of the team had cross trained before and were not controlled by bureaucrats who can't find their asses from their elbows. "I'll take this up on two conditions."
"What are they?"
"I get to pick my own team of operatives and you can’t keep us on a tight leash. You must trust our judgment because we're the ones on the ground."
"So you can screw up the op?"
"Buble I've been leading black ops since you were in diapers and unlike you my first op was not a failure.” anger showed livid on his face.
"Swanson! This will be the last op you ever lead if I have anything to do with it."
"What are you going to do Buble kill me yourself? Are you man enough or are you going to run to your uncle the deputy DCI." His hand darted to his pocket but before it could grasp the grip of whatever weapon was in there I had my Glock 30 45 caliber semiautomatic leveled at his heart.
"I'm a fan of the 45 caliber loaded in a Glock," I said conversationally. "It allows me to carry the venerable 45 ACP cartridge in a light package and round count is amazing compared to the other 45's out there. The Glock 30 weighs only 28 ounces fully loaded with a ten round magazine and one in the chamber, and it can also accept a 13 round magazine from its big brother the Glock 21. Compared to most 1911's out there that weigh around 35 ounces and carry only 7 or 8 rounds. And of course the 45 ACP is the best for stopping power isn't it? The 9mm is decent but if you're going up against a guy on PCP or crack it won't even phase the bastard, but a 40 or 45 is just the right thing. He was really flapping now and he would probably call his superiors at Langley later, if he lived, and I would be in a world of shit. But I couldn't be bothered. "Slowly take whatever you have in that pocket with two fingers and lay it on the desk." With two fingers he drew a Biretta 84 semi-automatic and laid it on the desk. "Now slide it to me, slowly. We don't want any unfortunate accidents, do we?" I picked up the Biretta and ejected the magazine then I pulled back the slide and saw that he had not chamber a round, a true sign of an amateur. A professional would always carry round in the pipe and a fully loaded mag in the grip. In the time it takes to pull back the slide and jack a round into the chamber you could be on the ground with a bullet betwixt your eyes. "Now where were we? Ahhhh, we were discussing my conditions for conducting the op. If you were hard of hearing the first condition is that I'll use the people I want to use, and the second I will have free reign to do as I see fit. Do you agree?" Seeing as he had a 45 caliber Glock pointed at his heart he had no choice but to agree. He nodded wordlessly with hatred burning in his eyes. If looks could kill I'd be dead. "Now go back to your masters at Langley and let them know. And oh yes Philip, I need expense money. See that it's transferred to the necessary banks."
"There must be one CIA officer with you."
"Oh, but there will be the DDO."
"I meant besides the DDO."
"Out of the question dear fellow."
"If you want Rodnonkova to be alive when you go after her then you will have another CIA officer with you."
"Are you threatening me Philip?"
"No of course not. I'm just saying she will be in physically undesirable state if you know what I'm saying. God knows what Razik is doing to her. She will probably need some medical attention when you get there." He smiled a wolfish smile that almost earned him a bullet right then. How I controlled myself was a mystery to me.
"Someone on my team will take care of that no need to fear," I said my voice calm.
"The DCI won't be happy," said Buble.
"Look mate. I'm conducting this op and I will conduct it the way I fucking want. And you agreed to those fucking terms. So shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of my fucking house you fuck." My cultured English public school accent had with my anger changed to a thick cockney one. I had reverted to the accent of my childhood in the slums of London. Buble frightened by the look on my face gathered his briefcase and left. I drained the scotch and pored myself another. Speaking in that accent had brought memories back. Memories best forgotten, memories best buried forever.
wow i like this. :). thanks
I love this! I would like to see more of this story.
Your descriptions are sufficiently succinct. Also, you have an interesting plot. The integrated wit and humor do a good job of holding the reader's interest as well.
Hope you write more