Metamorphosis Read online

  METAMORPHOSIS

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by A.G. Claymore

  Edited by B.H. MacFadyen

  Copyright 2012 A.G. Claymore

  This is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, Places, Incidents and Brands are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of any products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Other Titles By Andrew Glen Claymore:

  http://agclaymore.blogspot.ca/p/available-titles.html/

  Table of Contents

  Spin Buldak

  UN Route Control

  Central London

  East London

  From the Author

  Spin Buldak

  Kandahar Province – Afghanistan

  May 13, 2016

  Liam stared at the rough wooden door of his room. Something was definitely different. In the fifteen months since his capture he had rarely spent more than a few weeks in the same location. Every few days, his captors would pull a dusty sack over his head and throw him under a tarp in the back of their quarter-ton truck. Usually the drive was no more than an hour, but sometimes he would bounce around the bed of the truck for an entire night, choking on the dust thrown up from the unpaved roads. Occasionally, he would roll against another hostage, but he was always gagged so introductions were problematic.

  There was always a pattern under the chaos; indicators that proved his continuing value as a prisoner. Every few hours, an unarmed guard would enter the room to check on his shackles, watched by two stone faced men with type 56-I assault rifles, a Chinese variation on the venerable Soviet AK-47. Sometimes they would bring food, other times they would just kick Liam awake before checking his bindings. Even after so many months of captivity, they still considered him a dangerous prisoner.

  They had good reason to.

  Fifteen months earlier the rocket-propelled grenade had missed the aft engine of the Chinook but managed to sever the controls for the massive rear rotor. The huge blades feathered, refusing to hold up the back end of the hundred-foot-long transport. The engine, suddenly free of resistance, changed to a high-pitched whine. The helicopter began a sickening, spiraling dance, its tail swinging ever faster as the ground blurred past the open tail ramp. Liam’s C7 assault rifle was torn from between his knees, striking a man across from him before cartwheeling out the back.

  If they had not been close to landing before the RPG strike, Liam knew he would never have made it to the ground alive. Of course, if they had not been landing, the rocket wouldn’t have posed a threat. His captors had understood when best to use their old Soviet weapon.

  The spiral violently shifted to a new pivot point as the open ramp caught on a ridge of boulders, spinning the front end around the suddenly stationary tail. The starboard side of the fuselage slammed into the rocks with a thundering roar of rending metal and shattering rotor blades. Liam’s harness held him to the port side of the aircraft and the deformation of the airframe absorbed much of the force, leaving him bruised and unconscious. When he came to, his throat was choked with the soot of burning fuel and rubber seals. He was hanging in his harness, nine feet above the wreckage and the wounded.

  Not all of them were wounded soldiers. He noticed several men in local dress moving among the inert forms on the ground. One man bent over the loadmaster, assessing his wounds before moving on. Liam understood what he was seeing – they were looking for prisoners and wouldn’t waste resources to keep a severely wounded invader alive.

  These were the men who had shot them down.

  He slid a hand up to the quick release on his harness as the man moved over to a trooper who lay, moaning, almost directly below. Placing his boot against the remnants of the now vertical floor, Liam hit the release and pushed off with his foot. He landed on the man’s back as he stooped over the wounded soldier, driving him forwards and off to the side. Pulling his knife out, he drove it through the base of the man’s skull, scrambling his motor control.

  The struggle had drawn attention. Three more men came from behind a section of the wreckage, AK-47’s held at the ready. Liam knelt rooted to the ground, frozen in the act of cutting the sling of the Kalashnikov strapped to the back of his first victim. He was trying to work out the logistics of getting it into action when the balance of force shifted back into his favor.

  Danraj Rai, a sergeant in Liam’s own regiment had been in the Chinook. He was returning from Kandahar after bringing in a high-level enemy prisoner and Liam had been absurdly pleased at the man’s friendly greeting on the tarmac. Rai’s reputation was such that many young officers actively sought his approval, knowing it would carry weight with the tough, gritty men of the regiment. Such pandering had always struck Liam as false, and those officers usually ended up washing out. Liam preferred to simply treat him with the same respect that he showed to all of his men. He wanted their respect, but he wanted it to be genuine.

  The tough Nepalese had been a member of the famed Royal Gurkha Rifles until Her Majesty’s Government announced in 2007 that all members who signed up after July of that year would qualify for automatic citizenship. Danraj, who had already served for five years, would be overlooked by the new legislation and transferred out of his beloved unit in protest. The Special Air Service had found a natural recruit in Danraj, and he quickly earned the respect of his fellow troopers. Even during the week-long endurance evolution at the Brecon Beacons, he had remained impervious to the hardships.

  Liam knew the stories about the Gurkha Rifles but he had never thought to see a demonstration. The SAS trooper still carried his deadly kukri knife and now he came to his feet behind the hindmost of the three men, bringing it in from the right, slicing the heavy, curved blade clear through the man’s neck. He reversed the blade, stepping forward and backhanding it against the second man, taking the second head before the first had hit the ground. Liam froze in shock for a moment. That’s just the sort of diversion I was looking for. Liam sawed at the sling with all his strength. Feeling the strap part, he cocked the weapon and brought it into his shoulder with a smooth, practiced motion. The burst of heavy 7.62 mm projectiles stitched across the third man’s torso just as he was bringing his own weapon to bear on Danraj.

  The sergeant grinned and nodded at his officer as he knelt to take an assault rifle from one of the dead men. Liam grinned back, struggling to hold in a racking cough. The man’s a bloody psychological weapon. As the sergeant was cocking the AK-47, a burst of rounds hit him in the back, punching out the front of his body and cutting the strap on the right side of his load-bearing web gear. With a grunt of surprise, Danraj pitched forward onto his face. His right hand grasped for the hilt of his knife as Liam ran to him.

  Dropping to a firing crouch, he shouldered his weapon to fire short bursts at the four men approaching from the same direction as the first three, but they scattered behind boulders as soon as they saw him appear. The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end and he spun around, throwing himself to the left, a rifle butt narrowly missing his head. His surprise assailant had been thrown off balance when his strike missed and Liam wasted no time in putting a three round burst into his torso as the man staggered to find his footing. He spun back to the boulders but pulled the trigger on an empty weapon. He took a magazine from the belt of a dead warrior. He was just ejecting the empty magazine from his weapon when another man came over the slope behind him.

  Liam dropped his empty rifle and drew his sidearm, squeezing the trigger of the Sig Sauer P226 only to find that the round was a dud. Cursing whatever coalition coun
try had provided the ammunition, he threw himself at the man, planning to smash the absurd look of relief from his face. The man was too stunned from his glimpse of certain mortality to bring his rifle to bear. Liam heard a satisfying crunch of bone as he impacted the man. Was that his ribs or my own collarbone? In the rush of adrenaline he couldn’t tell.

  And didn’t care.

  The two men slid down the slope bringing them into the midst of eight more men. Seeing he was unarmed, they pulled him to his feet only to find that he had managed to get the pins out of one of his flash-bangs. The blast blinded the men and impaired their balance while Liam, partially conditioned to the effects during his training at Hereford, began to weave his way back up the hill, knowing that he had to rearm himself and defend his sergeant. He cursed. Should have taken one of their weapons. The flash-bang had muddled his thinking.

  When he crested the hill he found himself staring at four armed men plus a fifth, better dressed and carrying his assault rifle slung over his shoulder. It was all over. The well-dressed man, obviously the leader, was holding Danraj’s kukri in his hand as he looked up at the SAS officer. “One of yours?” he had asked, nodding towards the sergeant. Liam’s shoulders slumped. He stared dully at the man, knowing an answer was needed. Finally he simply nodded.

  “A Gurkha,” the warlord said in mingled tones of anger and respect. He looked back up at Liam. “If men like this follow you,” he said, a calculating look coming into his eyes, “Then you must be a man worth a great ransom.”

  Am I worth anything? thought Liam. My sister is hardly rich. My wife has a brother, but he’s more likely to ask them for money if they contact him. As to being a leader of men, he had never felt easy in command. It was what had driven him to apply to the SAS. He had wanted to prove himself, to re-forge himself as the kind of man he had always wanted to be. He found himself tested on an almost constant basis. His men were the epitome of initiative and it was all he could do to keep up with them. Most days, he wasn’t really sure who led whom. He never felt that he was a bad soldier, but he still wasn’t sure that he was cut out to lead.

  “Better to die than live a coward,” the warlord said, looking down at Rai’s still form, then translating it for his men. Liam watched them nod in approval as their leader looked back at him. “Their motto is obviously more than just words.” He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose it doesn’t apply to officers?”

  Liam had been given no chance to answer the insult, as a rifle butt had crashed into the back of his head before he could begin to frame a response.

  Fifteen months later, he stared at the door, still not sure if he was meant to lead soldiers but dead certain that something fundamental had changed about his current situation. He hadn’t seen anyone for over a day now. He would have been thrilled to get a solid night’s sleep for the first time in over a year, but he found himself waking every three hours, to find that no-one had bothered to come in and kick him awake. I wonder if I’ll have to re-learn how to sleep more than two hours at a time, he mused as he walked over to the door.

  He stood before the door for a moment, wondering how he could get it open while he was still in shackles. Better listen first, he thought. If a guard is out there, I wouldn’t want to startle him into shooting me. He stepped forward and leaned his shoulder against the door so he could place his ear against it. As his ear touched the rough wood, the door swung out into the next room, spilling him onto the floor with a dull clatter of hand-forged chains.

  He rolled to his feet, looking around the empty room. The only furnishings were a table and chairs, smooth wood worn by countless decades of use. In the center of the table, a piece of paper was pinned to the surface by a kukri. Sergeant Rai’s blade, thought Liam as he reached out and pulled the heavy weapon free. He pulled the paper off the tip; it contained a simple message in English.

  You’re worthless. Go home.

  Nothing I haven’t thought already, he half-joked to himself. Liam looked at the two other doors in the room. One showed bright light seeping in underneath. The sun, he thought. Haven’t seen the sun in more than a year. He was surprised by a sudden reluctance to approach the door. After so long in captivity, he had become accustomed to the brutal comforts of routine. He had withdrawn into a protective shell where the world couldn’t reach him. He took a deep breath.

  Change loomed beyond that door.

  Thomas…

  He took a moment to straighten his uniform, filthy and torn though it was. His boots were still intact but his laces had been taken away on the day of his capture. He walked to the door and pushed it open. He closed his eyes, raising a hand to shield them from the unaccustomed brightness, his chains clinking with soft, reassuring familiarity. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to a point where he could open them again, though he kept his hand up to reduce the glare. It was cold.

  So many people.

  He seemed to be standing across the street from a market. A row of houses, perhaps two hundred feet long, had open fronts and a few even sported awnings to shield the shopkeepers and their goods from the elements. An open ditch ran along the side of the road, crossed at intervals with makeshift bridges of timber and metal sheeting.

  Some of them were selling food.

  Liam was suddenly aware that he hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. Forget it, mate. You have no bloody money and you don’t even know their language. Just find a way to contact a NATO unit. He scanned the shop fronts, oblivious to the looks he drew from the pedestrians as they flowed past.

  “Planning to mix it up, are you?” The voice came from his right and Liam looked over to find a man in his mid twenties smiling at him. He wore traditional local garb, but of better quality than most of the people walking through the market.

  “Mix it up?” Liam said, bewildered by the phrase but relieved to find someone who spoke English. “I wasn’t feeling particularly belligerent at the moment.”

  “Well that’s good to hear.” The young man nodded down at Liam’s right hand. “You might find us a little more peaceful if you put that giant blade away.”

  Liam was surprised to see that he still held Rai’s kukri. He shoved it into his belt with a rueful grin. “Do you know where I might get my hands on a phone?” He nodded over at the market. “I was hoping to find one over there, but I don’t have any money on me so I may have to promise payment when my people pick me up.”

  The man grinned. “I can help you there,” he said. “We have a phone at my house.” With a gesture he indicated the direction and they both moved off down the street. He gave Liam an appraising glance. “You’re the Tommie they took from the big helicopter last year?” When Liam nodded, he went on. “Looks like Kourash doesn’t feed his prisoners very well. You’ll join me for some food?”

  Liam knew he should be more suspicious but a year in isolation had a way of changing how you reacted to people. He felt a strange exhilaration to be talking to anyone and, though he knew he might be walking into another trap, he couldn’t tear himself away from human contact just yet. He also knew that to accept the first offer would disappoint this man. Fortunately, his unit heavily stressed the learning of local custom. “I shouldn’t impose,” he said smiling.

  The young man waved a dismissive hand. “It would be no imposition, I assure you.” His expression showed that he approved; Liam was obviously in need of some decent food, but he was still making an effort to behave like a civilized man.

  “You’re very generous,” Liam responded, hoping he wasn’t talking himself out of food. “But I’m sure you are a busy man.”

  “Not so busy that I can’t spare food for a new friend,” the young man flashed a friendly grin. “You’ve had fifteen months of the worst sort of hospitality. I wouldn’t want you to think ill of my people. I insist; you should come for chai at least.”

  “I would be honored.” Liam turned to face the man properly. “Liam Kennedy,” he said, extending his hand.

  “MirBacha,” the young man responded, shaking Liam’
s hand to the accompaniment of soft rattling. “Let’s go over to the market and have a blacksmith take those chains off.”

  He led the way to a stall where a bull of a man with a sooty salt-and-pepper beard and pakol hat crouched over a small brick forge. A young boy sat in the doorway behind him, hand-pedaling a bike wheel to drive a bellows. The smith pulled out a glowing strip of metal from the forge, pounding out the shape of a knife blade on a small square anvil at his feet.

  As it became apparent that MirBacha was coming to see him, he shoved the blade back into the forge, greeting the young man with a smile and a nod, one hand touching over his heart. MirBacha responded in kind before explaining with a few sentences in Pashto, along with a general wave, indicating Liam’s chains. His exchange complete, he turned back to the young officer. “He says he will take them off in exchange for the chains themselves. You don’t have any emotional attachment to them, do you?”

  Do I? thought Liam. The one good thing about the last fifteen months has been freedom from decisions. Not having to constantly make life-or-death choices that may or may not be to the liking of men with far more experience than I have. He shrugged. It’s time to stop hiding from my responsibilities. “He’s welcome to them.”

  As the chains fell away, Liam’s arms began to rise of their own accord; accustomed to compensating for the extra weight, they now had to be recalibrated. MirBacha watched with amusement as Liam took his first unfettered steps in front of the small shop, his face reflecting a wonder he had not anticipated.

  “Come, first I will see that you have a proper meal, then, when you feel more like yourself, you can call your people.” MirBacha led the way back across the market and into a side street.

  “Your accent sounds American.” Perhaps he lived there for a time.

  “Not quite American,” he shrugged. “My father was a relatively wealthy man, so he sent me to study at King’s College in Halifax. I spent a year there, just making sure I had a solid grip on the language, then five more to get my Engineering degree.”