Crysis: Escalation (25 page)

‘Come on, you little shit, show yourself,’ Perkins muttered. He was looking through the scope of the L129A1 sharpshooter rifle. The corporal was one of the body-beautiful types, who
somehow managed to hit the gym even after all the PT he did. An attractive guy who knew it, but his good looks couldn’t hide the vicious cast to his features. He knew who to brown nose above
and who to victimise below. As far as Psycho was concerned he was a nasty piece of work.

‘Perkins, why don’t you wind your neck in? Things are quiet. Let’s just leave it,’ Psycho told him. He could see Lumley nodding in agreement. There was only one thing
that career soldiers hated more than the offender conscripts: the fully integrated front-line female soldiers. This had led to a strange alliance between the women and the offender conscripts in
infantry units. Psycho also knew that Lumley, a stocky girl from Derby, was harder than half the guys in his section. She’d had to be, to get where she was.

‘That would be Corporal Perkins, right, Private Sykes?’ Perkins asked, looking up from the scope.

It’ll be Corporal Wanker,
Sykes managed not to say.

‘ROE, corp,’ Psycho told him.

‘The rules of engagement say that we may return fire if fired upon. I assure you that if I slot the fucker he will have shot first. Isn’t that right, Geordie?’

‘Aye, too right, corp,’ Geordie, the thickly-set Lance Corporal manning the TSV’s .50 cal said in his thick Newcastle accent. To Psycho it seemed that every squad in the
British army had to come with someone called Geordie in it. Geordie was Perkin’s henchman in the squad.

‘Walker?’

‘Aye, corp,’ the massively built Afro-Caribbean private from Birmingham said.

‘Wally?’

Walowski was a wiry Pole who had somehow also managed to end up in 2 Para as part of the Offenders Conscription Act. The Pole hesitated.

Psycho got on well with Walowski. The Pole seemed to be constantly surprised at finding himself in the British army.

Perkins turned to glare at Walowski.

‘Yes, Corporal,’ the Pole finally answered.

‘Private Lumley?’ Lumley just stared fixedly ahead, watching her sector. ‘I said “Private Lumley”?’ Lumley ignored him. ‘Stupid bitch, probably deaf as
well as frigid.’ There was laughter from Walker and Geordie. ‘You know what you need, Lumley?’

‘A corporal who isn’t a wanker?’ Psycho suggested. Lumley and Walowski tried not to smile.

‘Right, Sykes, you’re going on report.’

‘Fine, I live on report. I haven’t, however, been to the Glasshouse in a while. Want to keep talking?’ Psycho was still looking down the barrel of the Minimi, watching his
section, but he could feel Perkins glaring at the back of his head. He felt a glare from another quarter as well. He glanced over at Lumley. She was looking less than pleased. Psycho sighed
internally. She was right to be pissed off at him. If she wanted to be accepted then she would have to stand up for herself, otherwise . . .

‘Is it love?’ Perkins asked. ‘Aw, isn’t that sweet. Thing is, I’m not sure that Lumley’s much more of a looker than the scarred-up tart who dumped
you.’

He heard Lumley’s sharp intake of breath. Wally was desperately looking elsewhere. Psycho’s knuckles whitened around the Minimi’s grip. He was going back in the Glasshouse, he
decided,
but not until we’re out of the line of fire.
He would get Perkins when they were back at the forward operating base at Battersea Power Station.

‘What, the East End hard-man got nothing to say?’ Perkins mocked.

‘See those guys over there?’ Lumley asked, trying to ignore Perkins. Psycho nodded. He’d been watching the two men in dark civilian clothes carrying high-end military gear.
They were crouched behind a car about two hundred metres to their left. One of them was observing the same tower block that Perkins’ squad had been assigned to watch through a pair of
binoculars. He had a boxy device slung across his shoulder. Psycho recognised the device as a laser designator. The other man was covering him whilst speaking into a radio headset. Presumably
relaying the instructions being given to him by the observer.

‘Special forces,’ Psycho muttered. Lumley nodded.

‘They’ll be forward observing for the
Anguish
,’ Lumley said. Psycho nodded in agreement. That made him very nervous indeed. It was one thing to exchange gunfire in the
streets with these kids. It was another altogether to start lobbing ordinance into south London.

‘Corporal,’ Walker said. There was something wrong with the brummie’s voice. Psycho glanced round. Walker looked shocked. He had the headset for the TSV’s radio on.

‘What is it, Walker?’ Perkins asked, concerned.

‘Someone’s just fired ten LAW 80 rockets into the Houses of Parliament,’ Walker told them. Psycho and Lumley glanced round at him. The rest of the squad were staring at Walker,
appalled.

‘Fuck,’ Perkins said.

‘They’re pulling us back to the FOB,’ Walker said.

‘Fucking little cunts,’ Perkins spat. He had the marksman’s rifle up and was scanning the front of the tower again.

‘Perkins, what’re you doing?’ Psycho asked. Perkins turned on the Londoner.

‘Shut your mouth, you disloyal little bastard!’ Perkins went back to scanning the front of the tower block. Lumley glanced around, looking up at the corporal, worried, and then went
back to covering her section through the optical sight of her SA80.

‘Orders?’ Psycho asked the Corporal.

‘When have you ever given a fuck about orders?’

The sound of the marksman rifle firing echoed around the canyons made by the surrounding tower blocks. Psycho felt his blood run cold. He noticed that the two special forces troopers turned to
stare appalled at the Para squad. Psycho saw someone drop on one of the tower block landings.

‘What the fuck’re you doing!?’ Psycho demanded, not turning round, keeping up observation of the front of the tower block, his Minimi at the ready.

‘That was a kid, he wasn’t even armed!’ Lumley said. She was also scanning her section.

‘No, it wasn’t . . .’ Perkins started. Psycho could hear the panic in the Corporal’s voice.

Then it looked like the entire front of the tower block opened up on them. Gunmen and women appeared from almost every apartment. Fire was pouring down on them. Most of it was inaccurate, but
there were a few people in the tower block that knew what they were doing.
Thank you, the Offenders Conscription Act,
Psycho thought. He, like Lumley, was just hunkering down behind the
sandbags as bullets rained down, sparking off the streets.

‘Contact, contact!’ Perkins was screaming.

‘Smoke!’ Psycho shouted. Nothing happened. ‘Walker, smoke!’
Where was Geordie on the .50?
Psycho wondered. He glanced around. Geordie and Walker were taking
cover as bullets sparked off the TSV’s superstructure. He couldn’t see Walowski. Perkins was all but lying in the vehicle’s footwell, trying to start it up.

Lumley fired the SA80’s underslung grenade launcher blindly over the top of the sandbag. The teargas grenade wouldn’t provide them with as much cover as the smoke projectors on the
TSV, but it was a start.

‘Under the wagon and get the .50 up?’ Psycho shouted at her. Lumley nodded. Psycho popped up and started firing long bursts from the Minimi, hoping to keep people’s heads down.
Lumley scrambled across the floor under the TSV and up onto the back of the vehicle. Psycho then had a chance to realise the stupidity of drawing attention to himself in this situation. It felt
like everyone in the world was firing at him. He curled up behind the sandbags and tried not to get shot through pure positive mental attitude. It didn’t work. His body armour was taking
hits. Each one felt like he’d been hit with a baseball bat. He was glad that he’d upgraded his body armour out of his own pocket.

On the back of the TSV Lumley dragged Geordie out of the way of the .50 cal, racked the heavy machine-gun’s bolt and turned it on the front of the tower block.

Psycho was pretty sure that the slow, rhythmic hammering of the .50 cal was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. The fire slackened off as large holes started appearing in the tower
block in explosions of powdered concrete. He was aware of an SA80 firing and then the jimpy started firing as well.

‘Stop firing!’ Perkins screamed at Lumley from the footwell of the TSV. ‘You’ll draw their fire. Stop firing, you stupid bitch, that’s a fucking order!’
Lumley ignored him. ‘I’ll fucking have you shot for this!’

Psycho saw the tracers from the .50 cal and the jimpy flying overhead. Keeping low, he started back towards the TSV, firing bust after burst from the Minimi anywhere he saw muzzle flashes.

Psycho reached the TSV and found Perkins in the footwell on the driver’s side, still trying to start the vehicle blindly. Psycho hit the button for the driver’s side smoke
projectors. Four smoke canisters popped out of the tubes angled away from the vehicle. They hit the street and started emitting thick smoke. He grabbed Perkins and dragged him bodily out of the
vehicle. Perkins scrambled under the TSV. Psycho unclipped the Minimi from its sling and tossed it into the back of the vehicle and then climbed into the driver’s seat.

Smoke was rapidly filling the street, obscuring the tower block’s view of the TSV.

‘Cease fire!’ Psycho shouted as he started up the engine. If they lit up the smoke with muzzle flashes then the people with guns would know where they were. Lumley and Walker stopped
firing and immediately hunkered down as rounds were still sparking off the superstructure. Perkins threw himself into the back of TSV.

‘Drive! Get this vehicle moving, Private Sykes!’ Perkins screamed at him. Psycho put the vehicle into reverse, swung it around ninety degrees and then headed down the street.
‘Walker, Lumley, I need you on the MGs now,’ Psycho shouted. Both of them got up, Walker reluctantly. Lumley swung the .50 round so it was aiming back up the way they had come at the
street full of thick smoke.

All of them were thrown forwards as Psycho slammed on the brakes.

‘What the fuck are you doing!?’ Perkins screamed from where he was lying in the back of the TSV. ‘Get this vehicle moving now!’

The two special forces troopers leapt into the back of the vehicle.

‘Appreciate it,’ one of the special forces guys said and started covering out the back of the TSV.

‘I think your friends have had it,’ the other one said. Psycho looked behind him. The top of Walowski’s head was missing. He couldn’t see the wound that had killed
Geordie, he just saw the man’s dead eyes staring up at the night sky. Perkins was still screaming at him. One of the special forces guys put their hand on his shoulder.

‘Mate, trust me on this, you need to start driving, okay?’

Psycho nodded and started heading for the FOB. He could see the unmistakable silhouette of the derelict power station ahead of him as he watched the light from the missile’s engines rise
into the sky beyond the FOB.

‘Look, we say nothing about it kicking off, okay,’ Perkins said. Nobody answered.

Yeah right,
Psycho thought,
who would have thought Mrs Sykes’ little boy was going to turn grass?

The ground shook and the horizon behind them turned to fire. Psycho glanced behind. It was only then he realised how beautiful it all was. It was only then he realised how much he’d
enjoyed the firefight.

He can hear a voice.

‘I’m not sure how much more the subject can take of this, physiologically speaking,’

None, I can’t take any more, please, you have to kill me,
he thinks. He wants to scream this at them but he can’t.

Another voice now: ‘This is not what we intended. We’re not sadists.’

‘I’m not sure that this poor bastard would know it.’

2017, Stirling Lines, Hereford

Dragged out of the back of the wagon. He hit the floor and was given a bit of a kicking. Psycho curled up into a ball. He’d had worse, frankly. He was hungry, he’d
had little to eat over the last week, but it was how tired he was that got to him. Not just lack of sleep, not the solid mass of aches that was his body, it was the physical and mental fatigue that
made him feel that he was just stumbling through a half-world.

‘Get up, maggot!’ More kicking.

The Special Forces Support Group had been the hunters on the week-long escape and evasion exercise. Psycho and the other hopefuls who had made it this far had been given a World War 2 era
greatcoat and a tin with some bits of survival kit in it. Basically he’d been living rough for the better part of the week. He’d made it as far as Bristol and had hid out amongst the
homeless camps there. He had thought about trying to jump a train and heading back to London, but decided against it.

He had turned himself in at the end of week for the final part of Special Forces selection: RTI, or resistance to interrogation training. This would also be conducted by the SFSG, many of whom
were Royal Marines, RAF Regiment and Paras, Psycho’s regiment, all performing under the watchful eye of instructors from the SAS, SBS and Special Reconnaissance Regiment.

‘Get up, you piece of filth!’ And the boots came in again.

Sorry mate, as cold and wet as the ground is, I like it down here, even with you kicking me,
Psycho thought. He was pretty sure that even with them kicking him he could go to sleep on
the ground.
You want me up, you’re going to have to . . .

He felt himself being dragged to his feet. His legs threatened to buckle.

‘What unit are you with?! Where are the rest of your men?’ someone who’d been eating curry recently screamed in his face. He wanted to give them his name, rank and number, he
really did, he tried but it came out a slurred mess. The punch to the stomach doubled him over. Made him retch up his last meal.

‘Disgusting!’

Psycho tried to collapse but arms grabbed him and pulled him to his feet before dragging him towards a set of Quonset huts.

It seemed pointless to Psycho. He was so tired he wanted to cry, but it didn’t make him want to talk. He was so tired he didn’t think he could talk. He just nodded
off when he could and was woken up by shouting or by collapsing to the ground.