
Some jobs are dangerous. Some job interviews are explosive!
Security consultant and former Royal Marine Commando, Captain Ryan Kaine expects his crew to be the best. When executing classified government military contracts, they need to be.
The latest group of potential recruits are enthusiastic, but by the time Kaineâs done testing them, theyâll discover that enthusiasm alone doesnât cut it in a war zone.
âRetiredâ soldier, Arthur âBig Jenksâ Jenkinson is powerful, tough, and arrogant. Convinced heâll sail through the recruitment tests, Big Jenks strides in and asserts himself from the start. Heâs ready to grind âCaptain Runtâ under his boot heel and show the little pipsqueak what a real soldier can do.
In this first novella in the new Ryan Kaineâs Origins series, find out what happens when the raging fire of arrogance meets the cool ice of experience.
Chapter 1
The Late â Big Jenks
Finally got here. And about frigging time, too.
My carâs hotter than hell. Bloody aircon hasnât worked since I bought the shitting box of rust, but at least the effing thing carried me hereâeventually.
I screech the car to a halt at the barrier and kill the engine to stop the dark blue exhaust fumes fouling the otherwise crystal-clear atmosphere. Then I wait as patiently as possible, forcing myself not to drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I close my eyes for a moment, to chill, centre myself, but it ainât working too well.
Me, I hate screwing up. Hate waiting, too.
Although keen to make a good impression, Iâve missed the start window by over half an hour, although I left home in plenty of time. Chuffing holiday traffic and road works on the M6 screwed me over, big time. Bloody M5 wasnât much better, and as for the frigging A4103.
A complete and utter joke. An âAâ road? Bollocks. Iâve driven over farm tracks with fewer potholes.
Fuming at the added delay, I stretch my lips into a pleasant smile and roll down my side window. A blast of hot air scorches my face. Jeez, itâs hot out there, but way cooler than even a winterâs day in Helmand Province. Need to remember to keep hydrated, especially as thereâs a yomp or two in store for us. Be prepared for heavy exercise, the assessmentâs instructions said.
Yeah, well Big Jenks is always prepped and ready for action.
Movement inside the guardhouse catches my eye. Here he comes. A redcap, colour sergeant, all spit, polish, and bluster. The buffoonâs heavily armed with a weapons-grade military clipboard, ready to cause me untold physical damage.
Watch out for them paper cuts, Colour.
I hide my smirk and a snort behind a raised hand designed to cover the forced cough.
Redcaps donât take kindly to soldiers taking the piss. This old boy is carrying a jellyroll of blubber around his waist, and heâs favouring his right leg. The scarring over his left eye and a cauliflower left ear says heâs either an ex-boxer or he played rugby back in the day. Either way, heâs clearly seen action, but not recently. The bloke must be pushing fifty, fifty-five easy. Closing in on retirement with a mind-numbing security posting out in the sticks. Canât blame him, really. Ending military service with a nice cushy billet must be every soldierâs wet dream. Pity I couldnât hang on for another twelve years and draw a decent pension, but the arseholes wouldnât let me.
The civilian bastards in charge decided I was âSurplus to military requirementsâ. Yeah, me and a quarter of my brigade. Moronic, short-sighted politicians and their defence cuts hacking so deep. The arseholes in charge basically told me to fuck off back to civvy street. Then they left me with nothing more than a âThank you for your serviceâ and a severance cheque barely big enough to cover a decent knees-up at the Royal Oak, my local boozer.
Themâs the breaks, Big Jenks.
On the other hand, the tasty barmaidâs contented smile in her bedroom the following morning made up for my lightning-fast demob into civvy life, as leas partially. The womanâs responses to my ongoing amorous attentions and her enduring gratitude for my skills between the sheets made me smile, too.
Yep, thatâs Big Jenks sure enough. Always ready for a little hand-to-hand combat.
Ha!
But that were six months ago. Hardly found a decent dayâs work since. Government handouts donât do much more than cover the cost of bog roll, which is why Iâm here in the back of beyond, cap-in-hand, begging for work at the only military contractor still hiring. Fucking recessionâs hit every industry the world over. Life is such a goddamned ball ache.
Still, Iâm ready for anything these DefTech beggars are going to throw at me. Keep myself fit and healthy, I do. Big Jenks they call me and it ainât just because Iâm hung like a horse. Donât have no problem finding references, either. Ask the barmaid from the Royal Oak.
Ha!
Letâs see what DefTech has in store for yours truly.
The colour sergeant pulls on his pristine Royal Military Police cap with its red cover, hence their nickname, Redcaps, and glances in the mirror hanging on the back of the guardroom door. Heâs checking itâs straight before opening up and stepping out into the stifling heat. A wispy silver moustache pushes out from his upper lip, looking like the slime trail from a slug. Not a great image if you want to impress. Probably just started growing it to build some kudos ahead of his retirement. Wonder who gave him permission to grow the daft thing?
The Redcap turns the corner and marches past the barrier towards me, trying his best to hide the fact heâs nothing but a gimp. As he approaches, he runs his right index finger down the form attached to his clipboard. Checking off names, I bet. Looking for mine.
The old boy stops alongside my open window and sniffs at me as though Iâm giving off a bad smell. Sod that, I had a shower this morning. Used deodorant and everything. In the aroma department, Iâm okay. In the time-keeping department though, Iâm a bag of excrement as far as the military is concerned.
Okay, Big Jenks, best behaviour. Smile, but donât make it look too cocky.
âCorporal Arthur Philip Jenkinson, formerly of the 16th Air Assault Brigade, I assume?â
He stares down his nose at me, acting like heâs trodden on a steaming lump of dog turd, but his tone is bored and impatient, not aggressive.
âYes, Colour Sergeant,â I say, keeping my voice level, non-committal but keen. It ainât easy getting the right balance, but I could have chosen a career in acting, me. Might still do, if I fail this gig.
âGood guess,â I add. âYou must have my car registration on that form, right?â
âNo, son,â he says, smirking and starting to take the piss, âyouâre the last one to arrive. Black mark already.â He tuts, shakes his head, and makes a mark with his pen. âThe captain wonât be impressed with tardiness.â
Tardiness? Jesus.
Been reading a thesaurus have we, Colour? Send you on pre-retirement education courses, did they?
âIâm betting you wonât last âtil lunchtime,â he says after checking the time on his watch and marking it down against my name, making sure I see him do it.
I think about giving him the harrowing tale of my hideous journey, but why bother? Heâs nothing but a bleeding doorman. âThe other candidates made it on time,â heâd say. âYou should have left earlier. No sympathy in this manâs Navy.â So, I keep my mouth shut and wait until I can toady up to the captain, whoever the fuck he might be. The paperwork summoning me to the job interview didnât give many details away. Date, time, location, and âRough terrain PT gear essentialâ. Bugger all else. The instructions didnât even say how long the tests would take. At least overnight and maybe the whole weekend. Iâm that good, if I get past the jobsworth redcap, and the âtardinessâ tag, Iâm bound to make it âtil the end.
Good candidate, me. One of the best theyâll ever test.
âSorry, Colour Sergeant. My mistake for being late, but Iâve got a hundred quid that says Iâll be the last man standing. What odds are you giving?â
âCheeky little sod.â
The slugâs trail twitches into a stiff smile. Iâm clearly getting to him, warming him up. The old Big Jenks charm. Works every time.
âIâll take two-to-one,â I say to the old boy.
âNo gambling allowed on the ship.â
Ship?
I look around, taking in the Royal Navy Shore Training Establishment, HMS Tillingford. Itâs not particularly impressive. Nothing but an ancient airfield, built circa WWII, surrounded by rusting chain-link fencing topped with shiny new razor wire. Seven single-storey buildings, some little more than wooden huts and a large brick-built two-storey monstrosity, surround a concrete drill square. Typical Royal Navy. How come they call land-based training bases HMSâHer Majestyâs Ships? This place is set in the foot of a valley surrounded by thickly wooded hills. Canât even see a lake or a river. No open water anywhere, but they still call it a ship?
Pretentious arseholes.
The old colour sergeant turns and points to a bunch of cars off to the right. âPark your jalopy over thereââhis arm arcs to the left and targets the two-storey building on the far side of the drill squareââand then get yourself over to the main admin block, double-time.â
âThanks, Colour Sergeant,â I say.
After all, no harm in being polite, is there?
I reach for the ignition key, hoping the engine wonât let me down, when the old boy leans closer to my open window.
âWant some advice, son?â he says, lowering his voice and fixing me with a pair of steel grey eyes.
âAlways happy to take guidance from my betters, Colour Sergeant.â
Yep. I can schmooze with the best of them.
The Redcap gives me a sideways look that tells me he ainât buying it. âDonât keep the captain waiting any longer, or heâll tear you a new one.â
âReally?â
Some retired, rum-swilling navy captainâs gonna tear me a new arsehole?
Yeah, right.
âDonât look at me like that, sonny-boy. Captain Kaineâs fair, but he doesnât take kindly to malingerers wasting his time.â
âBig Jenks ainât no malingerer, Colour Sergeant.â
He taps his clipboard against his leather-covered wristwatch, telling me times a-passing, but gathering informationâs important. It might give me an edge and, as the old boy said, Iâm already a little âtardyâ.
âCaptain Kaine? Donât think Iâve ever heard of him.â
âDoesnât surprise me. The captain isnât one to seek publicity. Not like others I could mention.â
Now Iâm intrigued.
âThis Captain Kaine. Tough cookie?â
âTougher than you, son. Tougher than most.â
Bollocks.
Ainât no one tougher than Big Jenks, but I keep my face straight and nod like Iâm taking the his warning seriously.
âIâll bear that in mind, Colour Sergeant. Ta very much.â
âWhat are you waiting for? Get a move on. The other candidates are most likely in the gym by now, listening to the briefing.â
After he manually raises the barrier, I turn the ignition key. Thankfully, my luckâs finally in and the ancient Fiatâs gutless engine catches first time. I crunch it into first gear and point the bonnet towards the car park.
#
After hiding the embarrassing Fiat behind a top-of-the-range Audi A4 and making a mad dash across the drill square, toting my backpack, I duck into the nearest latrine to change. Iâve brought along standard PT fatiguesâgreen T-shirt, black shorts, black trainers, no socks. Donât need socks, âcause my feet never blister. Then I hot-foot it to the gym, following the oh-so-helpful signs. Hand-written they are, real amateurish. What the hell have I let myself in for?
Before barging inside, I press my ear to the door panel. A bloke is talking, but his voice isnât carrying well, and heâs too quiet for me to hear him properly. Sod it, here goes nothing. Need this job, me.
The hinges squeal loud and harsh as I push through the double doors. Eight heads turn to find out whoâs disturbing them, the ninth, standing in front of the others, is still talking. Heâs short, slimâbordering on scrawny, the runt of any litterâand late thirties or maybe early forties. His face is craggy, but some might call it handsome. I wouldnât, âcause Big Jenks donât see at blokes that way. The scrawny guy doesnât look in my direction, doesnât break his rhythm.
ââŠall come highly recommended, and Iâve vetted most of you myself. So, I donât expect anyone to find the assault course too taxing, not while youâre fresh. Just familiarise yourselves with the layout to begin with.
âOver the next two or three days, youâll have plenty of opportunity to learn its special peculiarities, but for the first run we wonât even be putting you on the clock. Think of it as a pre-trial exercise. A meet-and-greet. Competition will come later.â
Still in the doorway, I snap to a smart but silent attention. Waiting.
âYou have thirty minutes to warm up,â the little guy continues. âAfter that, gather at the start of the course. Private Simms will lead the way. Dismissed.â
The five men standing in a straight line, dress right and fall out. Then they troop into one corner and are taken through a series of standard stretches by the one called Simmsâa tall, muscular guy in his late twenties. The candidates, my competition, are well-muscled, and look pretty fit. Each gives off a testosterone-rich vibe.
They may be my competition, but they ainât scary. Not in the least.
After a few moments watching and studying, Iâve seen enough to know I can take each one of them with one hand tied to my crotch. Oneâthe largestâmight cause me to break into a sweat. As for the other four? No hopers. Cannon fodder. A waste of space. Donât know why theyâve even bothered to turn up.
The other two men, one of whom is a monster, a real giant, are dressed head to toe in dark blue, the same as the runtâT-shirts showing DefTech logos, long shorts, ankle socks, and trainers. They gather around the little guy and are clearly the DefTech assessment team I need to impress.
Câmon now, Big Jenks. Best behaviour.
Finally, the three men in blue turn and fix six beady eyes on me.
Runt is shorter than the other two by a good eight and ten centimetres. In fact, next to AndrĂ© the Giant, heâs not far off being classed as a dwarf.
AndrĂ© must be pushing fifty, and heâs massive all over: shoulders you could land a helicopter on, a full head of dark hair in a military buzz-cut, and a huge black beard, navy style. Iâm guessing AndrĂ© is this Captain Kaine geezer. The bloke the Redcap Gimp said would be able to tear me a new arsehole. Weâll see about that. Heâs big, but old and probably half my speed, especially in terms of reaction time. Can I take him?
Hell yes.
The third guy is a six-footer and litheâanother fit-looking dude. He has mid-length blond hair and deep blue eyes, but his skin is smooth and wrinkle free. Damn it, the guy looks like he should still be in schoolâsixth form college at best.
I wait and watch them staring at me, and it doesnât take me long to realise Iâm totally wrong. Seconds only. The way AndrĂ© and the schoolkid are deferring to the little one makes it clear heâs the geezer in charge.
Bugger me sideways, Runt is Captain Kaine!
Whatâs all this fucking bullshit? A puff of wind would put the little guy flat on his arse.
Redcap Gimp must have been yanking my chain. This is bullshit. Iâm half expecting a TV crew to pop out of the woodwork and tell me Iâve been Punkâd.
After a full minuteâs silence, Captain Runt approaches, frowning all deep and serious, like. AndrĂ© and Schoolkid follow half a pace behind.
In the background, Private Simms is balancing on one leg, demonstrating a quads stretch. Heâs angled himself so he can eye me without turning his head. The candidates are pretending not to watch or earwig, but I can tell they are. Let âem.
âYouâll be Corporal Jenkinson?â Captain Runt asks, stopping three metres from me, keeping more than an armâs length away for safety. âNot impressed with your time-keeping, Corporal. Stand easy.â
I stamp my left foot shoulder-width away from the right and clasp my hands behind my back, thumbs interlocked, palms open. Although Iâm standing at ease, I remain stiff-shouldered and tense, prepared for action. If this is all for Punkâd, Iâll make it look good for the cameras. A real-life show pony, thatâs me.
âSorry, sir. Wonât happen again, sir.â
He stands still, brown eyes studying me closely. Canât tell what heâs thinking, which is weird. I can normally tell whatâs going on inside peopleâs heads. My old squad buddies used to reckon I was part psychic. Some tried calling me Wizard, but I soon stomped that out of them.
Itâs Big Jenks or nothing.
âIf youâre unable to make the assessment session on time, how reliable can you be? Tell me why I shouldnât send you packing right away.â
Fuck.
âAs I said, sir, Iâm really sorry âŠâ I work through my explanation, struggling to strike the right balance between apologetic and keen, and finish with a plea, âI need this job, sir. Please give me a chance.â
During my explanation, André steps alongside the captain.
âWhat do you think, Staff Sergeant?â Captain Runt asks the big bugger. âThink heâs worth a second chance?â
AndrĂ©âs beard bristles as he creases up his face. âNot sure, Captain. Doesnât look like much. Seems a little scrawny to me. Might not be up to it.â
Scrawny? Me? Say that to me outside, you giant bastard.
Iâm ready to explode but hold myself in check, just about. If these arseholes think they can wind me up, Iâll show them how cool Big Jenks can be.
Captain Runt drills me with another appraising look before turning back to AndrĂ©. âDonât remember reading his application, Staff Sergeant. Who put him on the list, and when?â
âMajor Valence added his details yesterday afternoon, sir.â
âAn afterthought, eh?â
André smirks.
Iâll teach you to smirk at me, dickhead. Just you fucking wait.
The captain nods and turns to face me again. His eyes are still calculating. Weighing up my worth. Time to pull my big nuts out of the fire.
âIâm no afterthought, Captain Kaine. Iâm up to anything you can throw at me. Try me. Iâll beat any man here in any military test you care to set. Any man.â
Risky perhaps, arrogant probably, but I need this job, and I ainât backing down to no one. If the runt of a captain and his lackeys give me the chance to show what Iâm made of, theyâll end up begging me to stay.
The guys in the background have stopped stretching and have given up all pretence at ignoring the scene. Theyâre all looking and listening along with Private Simms. Iâm guessing theyâre wondering what the captain will do as much as I am.
Eventually, after what seems like ages, Captain Runt nods, says, âWeâll see,â and turns about-face. âFollow me.â
I jump to attention and fall into marching step behind him. No idea what heâs got in store for me, but I can handle it.
Bring it on, Captain Runt.
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COLLAPSE
Stuart campbell says:
Stuart Campbell says: