Traveller Inceptio
32

Traveller – Inceptio

Part 2

Hunter passed through British customs with the usual minimum of fuss. He had nothing worth declaring, so he knew that even if they did opt to search his baggage, they would replace nothing of interest. After he had passed through the passport and immigration process, he simply gathered his kitbag and walked through the entry gates to replace a uniformed driver waiting. There was a cursory handshake before Hunter was led through the enormous, new Heathrow airport to a convenient parking area set aside for police, ambulance, and approved government vehicles. Tossing his bag casually onto the back, he took his place in the passenger seat and began his reintroduction to London traffic.

Hunter was weary. The flight had been disappointingly full, the typical QANTAS flight from Sydney, which had only paused in Dubai to refuel and allow passengers to stretch their legs before the endless night flight to London. He had the usual misfortune of flying cattle class, which meant trying to sleep whilst jammed in with other unfortunates. On this flight the tedium had been alleviated by a couple of pretty Australian girls. They were engaged in the young Australian rite of passage to live and work in the UK while seeing as much of Europe on as tight a budget as humanly possible. The girls had been flattered by his attention, and while one had ended up snoozing, her head resting on his shoulder by accident or design, their presence was nothing more than a pleasant distraction.

The first Hunter had known of this trip was only hours before his connecting flight departed. His CO had informed him of a new assignment to special duties in the UK. Hunter had been slated to attend a two-week training update in hostage retrieval, but this sudden move from his regiment, the Australian Special Air Services Regiment (SASR) based in Perth in Australia’s west, was unusual in that it didn’t appear to be within the normal framework of the commando regiment’s operations. No other members of his team or his squadron were involved, and though training or operational participation with Special Forces in other countries, particularly the USA or the UK, was common, to be initiated with such little lead-time or explanation smacked of something particularly interesting.

Captain Keith Dickson had been circumspect, an unusual occurrence in itself. Normally allocation of an assignment would involve a thorough briefing; each member of the SAS was an elite professional. To be better informed permitted superior decision-making in the field but Captain Dickson had simply shaken his head and said, “I can’t tell you about this one, Hunter, but I know this is right up your alley. You’re going to have the time of your life.”

Hunter had known Dickson since he joined the squadron six years earlier, having survived the gruelling training and selection process that saw him wear the coveted sand-coloured beret. The Australian SASR was closely modelled on the British SAS and was considered by some to be one of the world’s most exemplary military forces. He had served as part of Australia’s military commitment in the Pacific, Indonesia, Afghanistan, and Iraq, as well as a few missions the Australian Government would strenuously deny. A career soldier, Hunter had recently trained soldiers in Northern Iraq and Indonesia, and was back in Australia to complete his linguistics degree at the Australian National University.

Like most in the Special Forces, Hunter was multi-lingual. As the modern military required engagement in some of the world’s most far-flung places, members of Special Forces of any nation learned languages to make them more effective in engaging local populations. Hunter was considered competent in Indonesian, Afghan Dari, Pashto, and French, which he had learned just for fun. Having just cracked 30, Hunter had been in the SAS long enough to not look like a soldier when it suited him. Average height and weight, he could only be distinguished as a military professional by his bearing, exceptional physical fitness, and on closer examination, a few scars. A casual observer would describe Hunter as a pleasant, quiet guy who tended to keep to himself. He had recently undergone one of the most traumatic experiences of his life; the divorce from his wife of four years, a nurse, someone he hardly saw because of their professional choices. They separated not with animosity, but with the realisation they were moving down different life paths. He had been broken-hearted but now concentrated on what he loved most, his job.

As they drove from the city to the narrow English country roads, Hunter took a moment to doze. He suspected he might not enjoy such an opportunity later. The driver had been friendly but professionally aloof, as the British can be at times, and Hunter knew more details on this assignment would come soon enough.

He awoke to replace the mid-morning sun shining strobe-like as they drove through a stand of trees. The location was, not surprisingly, rural. Many military operations involving Special Forces began in a rural setting or at an airfield, so the location was largely irrelevant. He was only interested in how his involvement was required and why this was going to be so different.

“Ah, you’re awake. Lucky; we’re nearly there”, the driver exclaimed. He had introduced himself as Corporal Paul Jones and his uniform was only noteworthy in that it was almost completely unremarkable. Except for his rank insignia and name badge, his only other insignia was the Royal Marines regimental badge on his beret.

Hunter had seen that badge on many occasions in Afghanistan and Iraq, and thought it best not to ask about the regiment’s involvement for the moment. He doubted Corporal Jones would tell, even if he knew.

The car drove along a quintessential English country lane narrow enough for only one car to drive comfortably. Hunter felt relaxed, watching the stands of conifer and ancient stone-walled fields scroll by before the car pulled into a parking area beside what looked like a stately home. On initial inspection, the manor looked tired and overgrown, one of a plethora of old English buildings that in Australia would be treated as a national treasure. One of the things that Hunter found fascinating with the UK and Europe was the all-pervasive presence of history. As a newly established nation, Australia’s historical buildings were all under two hundred years old. Here in the UK, Hunter had visited pubs built in the 1500s, so he had developed a secret fascination for old English buildings like the one he was about to enter.

“Welcome to Welbeck,” said Jones with a small smile.

He led Hunter through a nondescript side door and down a long hall with a creaking timber floor. The building was obviously part of a much larger complex, a few smoking chimneys and a couple of parked cars the only evidence that the place was inhabited. As this was so far removed from the usual military base, Hunter suspected he might at least enjoy the novelty of the location. Corporal Jones opened another nondescript door into a dull little office and Hunter noted a security camera in the cornice. Despite appearances, security protocols were in place. The room held a heavy and bureaucratic World War 2 vintage timber desk, the sort favoured by the British military and hard-core public servants throughout the Commonwealth. Behind sat a middle-aged woman in civvies who also looked heavy and bureaucratic. As Hunter entered, she looked up and smiled in a professionally distant manner.

“Staff Sergeant Hunter, welcome to Welbeck. I trust your trip has been comfortable. My name is Joyce Martin. I’m the chief administrative officer for this project. I’ll just need your passport and a few other details, thank you.”

As she confirmed Hunter’s identity against those already on her computer, Corporal Jones assisted in some unusually stringent inward processing: fingerprints and retinal scans electronically confirmed. While the building and furniture were dated, the equipment seemed state of the art. But for some framed English hunting scenes on the wall, the office was completely devoid of decoration and personality. Joyce suited her office perfectly.

As if reading his thoughts, she addressed him crisply. “Sergeant Hunter, Corporal Jones will now take you to your quarters. Others will arrive throughout the day, so please feel free to explore and to make yourself at home. You’re scheduled for a briefing with Captain Murdoch about midday, so you have a few hours. Welcome again.” She nodded curtly and turned back to her computer as if he was no longer there.

Jones led Hunter to a newly renovated servants’ quarters that smelled of new floor coverings and paint. The rooms looked comfortable, in a typically functional style, with two single beds, desks and computers. They were rooms that would likely be used for little more than sleep. Following a snappy English palm-out salute, Jones left Hunter to himself.

Stowing his minimal gear in a wardrobe, Hunter noted two sets of military issue fatigues and boots. One set had his name stencilled on the right chest and the other had the name ‘Hurley’. Obviously, Hurley hadn’t yet arrived, so he changed into jogging gear and decided to sweat it out while he surveyed the area and killed some time.

Still morning, the day was as full of promise as an English day can be. Hunter knew the clear skies would likely cloud over and become chilly and wet. Still acclimatised to the Australian weather, Hunter found the English spring air bracing as he stretched. Welbeck was of classic design with an angled, green copper roof. It once must have been a place of pomp, though manicured emerald green lawns were interspersed with neglected gardens. He jogged past an assault course with which, he was certain, he would later become acquainted and then headed out to country roads, past fields where cattle and sheep grazed peacefully.

The kilometres passed quickly and as he jogged back, he watched another jogger approach. Even from a distance, he could tell this was a woman: blonde ponytail bobbing as she ran, shapely legs clad in black running tights. As they passed, she nodded and gave a small smile in greeting. She seemed a fit, petite woman likely to belong to the facility.

On returning back, his roommate had arrived and was just settling in. Hunter immediately recognised Hurley as an SAS sergeant he had once met in Iraq. In his business, it wasn’t uncommon to meet in the oddest locations, and this occasion was typical. After greetings and a laughing acquaintance, Hunter showered in a common ablutions area while Hurley settled in. They later sat in the room and discussed what they knew, which Hunter found wasn’t much.

“No, lad, I’ve been told nothing,” explained Hurley, a tough Irishman with a perpetual half smile. “I was told to be here a week ago, and here I am.”

“Not much of a budget.” Hunter grinned. “I flew economy from Australia.”

Hurley snorted. “And I had to catch a lift on an air-force transport. You’re right, not much good news as far as any budget is concerned.”

Hunter chuckled, realising that despite his half smile, Hurley was the type who didn’t laugh much. “Saw three others arrive soon after me. They look like Americans.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Americans? In England? What’s this all about, I wonder?”

Hurley shrugged in dismissal. “Well enough sitting around. I’m hungry! You hungry? I‘m guessing they’ll feed us.”

Their exploration found much of the building in a preserved state like a museum, though some rooms were being renovated as tradesmen installed furniture, lighting, and computers. Eventually their soldiers’ innate sense led them to a small cafeteria where they were greeted by a stout English civilian cook who happily shook their hands and introduced himself as Brian. He set about producing a hearty, typically English meal of toad in the hole; meaty Cumberland sausage that coiled turd-like on a bed of traditional Yorkshire pudding, mashed potato, gravy, and thankfully, not the customarily English overcooked vegetables.

“Jesus, if I eat like this for too long, I’ll end up as fat as a pig,” Hurley commented in his Irish brogue as he shovelled more of the gravy-laden sausage and Yorkshire pudding into his mouth.

Hunter found the food suited what he needed, which was an energy boost and a full stomach. He was just surprised at how, so far, things seemed so unstructured, almost laissez-faire, and he commented as much.

Hurley laughed. “Live it up while you can mate; they’ll be up to their usual tricks soon.” He finished off his meal and started on a steaming mug of tea.

As Hunter had predicted, the day had become grey and blustery and an open fire burned in a convenient fireplace. The three Americans Hurley had seen earlier made their appearance. Hunter knew two as Rangers from his times in Afghanistan, while Hurley knew the other: not an American, but a big, blonde Canadian named Morris. Two other English SAS soldiers soon arrived, both known to Hurley.

They sat enjoying the camaraderie and the contented full-stomached warmth of the room when a Royal Marine corporal advised them of a briefing time-change to 1300.