One Shot Kill (16 page)

Marc was concerned. There was no certainty he could hit the target without a clear view through the scope and if it clouded over when the other lads arrived they’d have four easy shots. He looked up hoping to see a cloud heading towards the sun, but the only thing in the sky was birds.

Luc had tried to beat the twenty-minute arrival time and burst through the undergrowth between two large trees as Marc sent his first shot a few inches wide of the target.

‘Sir?’ Luc shouted, sounding a touch desperate.

Marc broke out of his sniper state, to look around. Henderson and Goldberg were walking uphill towards the shooting zone.

‘Sir, I’d like another go.’ Luc said. ‘There’s something wrong with my gun.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Goldberg asked.

‘I’ve not hit a thing,’ Luc said. ‘Might have caught the edge of one target, but that was more a fluke than anything.’

Marc’s nerves jangled as he turned back to his scope and tried to focus. He’d hoped that the scratches he’d made in the barrel would cause two or three missed shots and be dismissed as Luc having a bad day. But if Luc had missed all but one target, there was sure to be an investigation.

Marc’s second shot was a near miss, but a minor correction sent the third and fourth flying into the centre of the rectangular target.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Marc said, standing up as Henderson stepped up to him.

‘How did it go?’

‘I hit eleven out of sixteen, sir,’ Marc said, trying to sound confident. ‘Minus one for arriving late at the last target.’

‘Sounds good,’ Henderson said. ‘I’d be surprised if that isn’t enough to book your ticket.’

As Marc spoke he kept one eye on Goldberg, who’d begun inspecting Luc’s gun.

‘I expect it’s dirty,’ Goldberg said unsympathetically. ‘I’ve warned you enough times. You’ve nobody to blame but yourself.’

Sam came scrambling out of bushes from the opposite direction to which Marc and Luc had arrived, which brought a smile to Henderson’s face.

‘Why are you coming from that way?’

‘Got lost, sir,’ Sam said, breathlessly.

‘How’s the shooting going?’

‘Can’t get it right today, sir,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve only hit four from twelve. And I’m late to this shooting zone, so I’ve lost a point for that too.’

‘See if you can make it up here then,’ Henderson said.

‘Luc’s scored one or zero,’ Marc said. ‘Claims there’s something wrong with his gun.’

Marc expected to see a grin, but Sam looked worried as he found a shooting position a couple of yards left of the one Marc had taken. Sam had deliberately missed a couple of shots on the assumption that it would be enough to ensure he finished behind Luc. But if Luc had scored one or less, then all his misses had done was gift second place to Paul.

As he’d already beaten Luc, Sam saw no reason not to try his best. He didn’t need binoculars to identify the target, but was surprised when he looked through his telescopic sight and saw nothing but golden blurs. It was the first time he’d encountered problems with reflected light, but he remembered something that Goldberg had said on the second day of the course.

After a quick rummage in his kit bag, Sam pulled out a leather pouch filled with optical filters and screwed a polarising lens to the end of his scope. The polariser was designed to cut out light coming from a specific direction, and by looking through the scope and rotating the filter, Sam was able to eliminate all the reflections.

The filter also cut out a lot of regular light, so the image through Sam’s scope was gloomy, but still better than anything you’d see when shooting at night. As Marc kicked himself for not remembering the filter pack, Sam aimed his rifle at the target and made four clean hits.

‘That’s more like it,’ Henderson said, as he gave Sam a slap on the back.

‘Seven out of sixteen’s not great,’ Sam said, as he wondered if it would be enough to beat Paul.

While Sam had been shooting, Goldberg had rolled a piece of canvas out on the ground and begun disassembling Luc’s rifle.

‘A bullet seems to have partially disintegrated inside the chamber,’ Goldberg said stiffly. ‘You’ve ruined the barrel. You’re lucky you’re not in the army, because this weapon is useless and you’d have been docked at least three month’s wages.’

‘There was no dirt in there, sir,’ Luc said, sounding uncharacteristically shrill. ‘I spent half an hour cleaning that weapon last night. It was
spotless
.’

‘Then how could this have happened?’ Goldberg shouted, but his expression changed as he raised the barrel up to his eye and looked down towards the disc of sunlight at the far end. ‘Did you try dislodging a bullet with something sharp?’

‘No, sir,’ Luc said.

‘Explain this to me then,’ Goldberg said, as he passed the weapon across. ‘Bullets move fast, they leave long straight trails. How did those great wiggly gouges get there?’

Marc gulped as Luc looked down the barrel.

‘Sabotage, sir!’ Luc shouted indignantly. ‘I cleaned that gun last night, running through with a soft clean cloth just like you showed me. Those scratches weren’t there, I swear on my dead mother’s grave, sir.’

‘That’s a serious allegation, Luc,’ Goldberg said. ‘Are you certain you want to stick with it?’

Luc glowered furiously at Marc. ‘I know this was you,’ he roared, before charging towards Marc.

Marc dived out of the way, but still caught a glancing punch across the upper arm and stumbled into low branches. Henderson charged in and pulled the boys apart.

‘Pack it in,’ he shouted. ‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s unusual damage to the barrel,’ Goldberg said. ‘Luc isn’t the best at keeping his weapon clean, but I’ve never seen markings like that inside a barrel before. It certainly looks like sabotage.’

Henderson snapped his head around and stared at Marc. ‘Well, was it you?’

‘No, sir,’ Marc said. ‘Those guns aren’t locked up. Anyone with access to the armoury could have done it.’

‘I suppose,’ Henderson agreed. ‘But I find it a hefty coincidence that Luc’s gun should be sabotaged the night before your final exercise.’

Goldberg spoke. ‘To be fair, Captain, Marc was the best shooter by far. It was the other two who had most to gain by ruining Luc’s chances of finishing second.’

‘Marc hates me,’ Luc blurted. ‘He doesn’t want me on the mission with him. Sam and Paul are both too gutless to try something like this.’

‘I’m not gutless,’ Sam shouted angrily.

Henderson turned towards him. ‘So did you sabotage Luc’s gun?’

‘No, sir,’ Sam said. ‘But we’ve been partners all week. I don’t like him having a go at me.’

‘Well, it has to be one of you,’ Henderson said. ‘If I don’t get a confession, I’ll wait until Paul finishes shooting and then get Kindhe up here. He’ll make the three of you do PT for two hours, and then I’ll ask again. If nobody confesses, you’ll do another two hours. And this will keep going until one of you does the decent thing and owns up.’

Paul came up a path looking exhausted and confused. ‘What’s all the shouting about?’

Luc pointed at Marc. ‘Ask your girlfriend.’

Marc was a decent person. He couldn’t live with the idea of Sam and Paul being forced to do drill so he took half a step back from Henderson and raised his hands.

‘It was me,’ he said weakly. ‘I sneaked out to the armoury in the night.’

Luc broke into a huge smile as Henderson grabbed Marc’s neck, shoved him back against a tree trunk and slapped him full force across the side of his head.

‘Are you completely stupid?’ Henderson shouted. ‘Guns aren’t toys, you know? The bullet that exploded in the chamber might have blown his ear off. You’re an absolute bloody idiot.’

Henderson gave Marc two more brutal whacks before yanking him out of the trees and giving him a kick up the arse that sent him sprawling face first into the undergrowth.

‘I said I’d flog the pair of you if things flared up again,’ Henderson roared. ‘It might be the only thing to sort you out.’

‘I’m the victim here, sir,’ Luc shouted indignantly.

Henderson didn’t like Luc, but in this instance he was right.

‘OK,’ Henderson said, after a moment’s silence. ‘This is
extremely
serious. I need to think about this whole mess before making any decisions. Sergeant Goldberg and I will ride back to campus in the truck. You four can have a jolly good think as you walk back and there’d better
not
be any fighting between you. When you arrive on campus, form a line by the main door and stand to attention. Do not move until I’m ready to come outside and speak with you.’

‘What about my last four shots?’ Paul asked.

‘There’s no point,’ Henderson snapped. ‘This has descended into a farce.’

*

Whilst Henderson plotted missions, devised training programmes and attended secret intelligence briefings, Superintendent Eileen McAfferty was actually the commanding officer of Espionage Research Unit B. She was the one who haggled over budgets, made sure there was food on the table and procured everything from plastic explosives to disinfectant and boots for growing boys.

McAfferty’s Glasgow accent always grew stronger when she was cross. ‘I always leave disciplinary matters to you,’ she told Henderson firmly. ‘But I want it on record that I’m dead against any boy getting flogged.’

The captain and superintendent were in their shared office, immediately off the hallway of the old village school.

‘I was flogged as a naval cadet,’ Henderson said. ‘Never did me any lasting damage.’

‘That’s a matter for debate,’ McAfferty said. ‘They’re only boys. It’s barbaric.’

‘I was younger than Marc and Luc,’ Henderson said. ‘They’d make us bend bare-assed over this old vaulting horse, crusted in dried blood. The other cadets were made to cheer every time you took a stroke.’

McAfferty smiled slightly. ‘You’re hardly winning me over with that description.’

‘And I promised Marc and Luc they’d be flogged if there was any more trouble between them.’

As Henderson spoke, McAfferty rifled through a tray of letters. She pulled one out and took on a sly expression as she held it up.

‘I had this through from SIS headquarters in London,’ McAfferty said, before reading a short section aloud. ‘
The risks of serious security breaches are such that it is no longer acceptable for senior officers with detailed knowledge of British intelligence operations to work inside German-occupied territory
.’

‘How does that have any bearing on Marc’s behaviour?’ Henderson asked.

McAfferty smiled. ‘I know you’re keen to drop into France on this operation. But after reading this letter, I can’t help wondering if I ought to run your plan past headquarters first.’

Henderson bristled, but also smiled a little. ‘And I suppose this is only likely to occur if Marc or Luc gets a flogging?’

‘You’re being pig-headed,’ McAfferty said, deliberately ignoring Henderson’s question. ‘And you’ve always been fond of Marc.’

‘Marc’s a great lad, but he’s been utterly stupid in this instance,’ Henderson said. ‘If you’re not going to allow a flogging, what am I supposed to do?’

McAfferty thought for a couple of seconds. ‘The root of all this is that Marc and Luc can’t stand each other. Back in Glasgow, the head of my brother’s school used to give boys who couldn’t get along a set of gloves and stick them in a boxing ring.’

‘That’s common enough,’ Henderson laughed. ‘The PE masters at my grammar school did the same to lads who squared off on the football pitch.’

‘I’d say they’re evenly matched,’ McAfferty said. ‘Let ’em knock the hell out of each other for a few rounds.’

‘They might even learn to respect one another when it’s over,’ Henderson said.

*

After two hours standing outside, followed by regular afternoon lessons and a roast dinner, Sam and Paul found themselves sat against the wall by the open rear doors of the school hall.

‘We could ask Henderson who’s going on the mission,’ Sam said.

‘Ask if you want to, but he’s in a terrible mood,’ Paul said. ‘PT reckons Henderson was having a blazing row with McAfferty in the office earlier.’

‘It’s bound to be Marc and Luc,’ Sam said. ‘Have them fight it out. Tell them to hug and make up then pack ’em off on the mission with Henderson.’

Paul didn’t sound convinced. ‘Those two loathe each other, so I wouldn’t bank on them making up. I’ve never really understood the logic behind making boys square off.’

‘I’d rather stand in the ring than get flogged in front of everyone,’ Sam said. ‘And even if we don’t get on the mission, I reckon it’s gonna be a bloody amazing fight. You coming inside?’

Sam led Paul into the hall, which still had the muggy aroma of roast lamb and boiled veg. There was no proper boxing ring, just a square made from eight rubber training mats which had been nailed to the floorboards to stop them slipping.

Everyone wanted to see the fight, and even the two cooks had stayed late to watch. At one end of the hall, Marc was having a pair of thinly-padded brown boxing gloves pulled over taped-up fists. Luc was a lone wolf at the other end, sitting on the food-serving counter in shorts and white plimsolls with his gloves already fitted.

‘Square up,’ Kindhe shouted.

The big African instructor would be referee, even though his take on the rules of boxing wasn’t entirely conventional.

‘I’m the boss,’ he told Marc and Luc, shaking his enormous fist in their faces as the crowd sizzled with anticipation. ‘Any nonsense and I’ll splatter you into next week.’

Henderson sat with two-year-old Terence on his lap. McAfferty and Boo had seats close to the mats and space was made for Joyce’s wheelchair, but everyone else was on their feet.

‘Four rounds of three minutes,’ Kindhe said, as he pointed to Henderson who was holding a small brass bell. ‘Ready when you are, boss.’

As Marc and Luc glowered at each other in the centre of the mats, Sam’s brother Joel shouted, ‘Get him, Marc.’

The other boys and even most of the staff were on Marc’s side and a cheer went up in his favour. Neither fighter wore a mouth guard, and Luc gave the crowd a scowl.