The Hatcher File

Prologue

Prologue

Tora Bora Mountains, Afghanistan, October 2001

The air danced and shimmied in the bright sunlight and Tom blinked away the sweat that soaked through his headband and trickled into his eyes. The four-man team had been in position for nine days. Tom lay under field camouflage with several canteens of water to combat dehydration – one of his many enemies. The temperature would drop below zero after sunset. The extremes of climate were physically debilitating.

His spotter took a turn watching the cave entrance while Tom rested his eyes and applied soothing drops. The constant wind had dried his eyes and blurred his vision through the riflescope. The two men lay inches apart and, as was doctrine, had barely uttered five words to each other during the course of the day. Tom broke the silence.

“I wonder what he did?”

“Who?” his spotter murmured.

“The target.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what did he do that justifies us killing him?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just follow orders.”

Tom squirmed and stretched out a leg to ease a cramp.

“Yeah, that’s what the Nazis did. Followed orders.”

“What’s your problem, Tom?”

“Just thinking out loud.”

“Well don’t let them hear you back in Hereford. They’ll ship you out the regiment back to the Paras in two seconds flat.”

“My time’s nearly up anyway. I’m thinking about getting out.”

“You’re joking, man. You love the regiment. It’s all you know.”

“Things ain’t the same anymore. You know I followed my old man into the army. He was in the Royal Marines. I just wanted to be a soldier, but now all I seem to be is some sort of assassin. A killer for hire.”

“That’s what soldiers do, Tom.”

“Yeah, but not like this. I mean, who picks the targets?”

“Look, when you applied for the SAS you knew they did black ops. So, why the sudden pangs of guilt after nine years?”

“I’ve had enough. Some geek in military intelligence chooses a target, calls the Regiment and I’m on the next plane to God knows where with a gun in my hand. It’s not what I joined up for.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Disillusioned is more like it.”

“There you go again with your big words. You think too much. That’s your problem. Maybe you should get out.”

Both men lapsed into silence. Tom’s thoughts drifted back to his sniper selection. Together with a spotter, he had lain in a damp, misty field in the Scottish Highlands waiting for a target to appear. The target would pop up for only five seconds during the seventy-two hour exercise and if they missed, they failed. It was a severe test of stamina and patience. It had seemed like a game at the time. It didn’t seem like a game anymore.

The other members of the team were acting as a defensive perimeter. They would rotate at midnight. Twelve hours was the limit they had set themselves for the high-intensity scrutiny of the cave entrance – the routine had become a ritual. Bob indicated that he needed to relieve himself and Tom nodded his understanding. He focused through his riflescope while his partner emptied the contents of his bladder into a plastic bottle, secured the lid and placed the bottle near a Ziploc bag of bodily waste. The enemy had not sent out patrols, but the team would have to move quickly if they did. They would leave nothing behind to indicate their presence.

It was Bob’s turn to break protocol.

“This is a harsh bloody place. No wonder these Afghans are so damn tough.”

“Yeah, they were too much for the Russians. I hope we never get involved here long term.”

“Don’t worry as soon as we pop this guy we’re outta here.”

“I don’t mean us, you fool. I mean Britain.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, it’s too easy to get bogged down here and them Afghans are great at guerrilla tactics. It’s a no-win situation.”

On an unspoken agreement, both men remained silent for the rest of the afternoon as they focused on the cave entrance far below their position. The day dragged on and, at times, the sun seemed frozen in place. Gradually it sank lower until it turned into an orange ball hovering low over distant peaks – then it sank like a floundering ship and darkness fell. Tom switched to night vision and doggedly continued his vigil. The temperature dropped alarmingly and he flexed his fingers to circulate the blood.

An intake of breath from his spotter and a sudden flurry of activity at the cave entrance alerted Tom.

“It’s him,” Bob hissed.

Their quarry had stepped out of the cave entrance, escorted by a loose phalanx of bodyguards. The target was a head taller than his minders and Tom picked him up immediately in his scope. Tom smiled to himself at the poor discipline displayed by the guards who gave scant protection to the target – giving him a clear head shot. He released his breath, steadied his pulse and squeezed the trigger of his L96 sniper rifle. At that range, and with blessedly no wind at the time, it was a formality. The target’s head disappeared in a cloud of spray – a kill shot.

After days of inactivity to the point of stupor, the action was over in the blink of an eye. Such was Tom’s training, and self-discipline, his heart rate had remained constant throughout the whole episode. There was no adrenaline rush to make his hands shake and spoil his aim. The well-drilled team packed and moved off while the panicked militia below scrambled for cover.

The four men tabbed across the mountains by night and concealed themselves by day. It took them seventy-two hours to reach the extraction point, close to the Pakistani border. A day later senior officers of the SAS regiment debriefed them in Credenhall.

Tom sat in the “Who Dares Club” after the debriefing and contemplated his future. He was almost thirty-four years old, the upper limit for active duty with the regiment. He had undergone a remarkable career with the SAS since his recruitment from the Parachute Regiment at twenty-four. Tom would complete nine years of service within months. He had rotated through all four squadrons of the regiment and often been seconded to anti-terrorist duties. His time was up. His future might well consist of training the younger, eager candidates applying for selection. The prospect did not appeal to him.

He had signed on for fifteen years in the Parachute Regiment when he was an idealistic eighteen-year-old. He had completed six years in the Parachute Regiment before passing the selection for the SAS. His fifteen years were up. He was tired, and needed something new.

Bob interrupted Tom’s thoughts by pulling up a chair and joining him at the table.

“You’re deep in thought, Tom. Are you still thinking about getting out?”

“Yes, I’ve ninety percent made my mind up.”

“In that case you’d better speak to some of the old boys who hang around the Grapes Pub in Ledbury.”

“What for?”

“Well, you don’t think you can just walk into civvy street and get a job, do you?”

“Why not?”

“Listen, Tom, you’ve been trained with a very special skill set. But, the ability to clear a landing zone won’t get you a job on the Stock Exchange.”

“I hadn’t thought about it much.”

“Look, mate, talk to those guys. They have contacts and information you’ll need. You can make a ton of money if you play your cards right.”

“Thanks, I’ll think about it. You want another beer?”

“No thanks. Got some leave starting tomorrow, so I’m gonna make an early start. See you when I get back.” Bob stood, shook hands with Tom and left.

Tom took his friend’s advice. Over the following weeks, he paid close attention to the whereabouts and activities of some of his ex-colleagues. He learnt how they kept in touch and what types of jobs were available to men of his background. He cultivated a list of useful contacts, men with varied and unique skills and knowledge, men who could survive outside the realm of normal society. He could not pinpoint the exact time at which he made his mind up to retire from the military. The decision crept up on him like a thief in the night.

Tom had mere weeks to the completion of his fifteen years when MI6 contacted him. Soldiers referred to the department as “The Firm” and some old-timers even called it “850” in reference to its old post office box number in Vauxhall. Tom would be a very useful asset to “The Firm” as his skills were many and varied. The numerous courses and missions that Tom had completed during his time with the Regiment made him a prime candidate for wet missions.

He was in The Grapes public house in Ledbury, sharing drinks with friends, when MI6 made contact. He had left his comrades in the saloon area and walked into the small pub garden to escape the music and loud banter for a few minutes. It was a crisp January afternoon, bright and sunny with a chill in the air. A casually dressed man followed him outside.

“It’s nice out here,” the man volunteered.

Tom grunted an acknowledgment. The English were not famous for striking up conversations with strangers.

“You’re Tom Hatcher. I have something to talk to you about that you may find interesting, and possibly lucrative.” The man invited Tom to sit at one of the tables in the small area.

His curiosity aroused, Tom sat down and waited to see what the stranger wanted.

“Let me introduce myself. I work at Vauxhall Bridge. Do you understand what I am telling you?” The man was jiggling two ice cubes in a small glass as he spoke.

“Yes, you’re from The Firm.”

“Precisely. You know of our mandate. I see that your fifteen years are up soon. You haven’t made any contact with your regiment about extending. What are you going to do with yourself?”

“Even if I knew myself, I can’t see why The Firm would be interested in my plans,” Tom challenged.

“Don’t be so quick to judge, Tom. We always have need of good men. From time to time we have, shall we say, certain tasks that require special skills. We like to have a number of people on retainer who would be available under those circumstances. Nothing formal or full time, you understand, old chap. We’ll pay you a stipend to have you on call, as it were. If we use you, you’ll receive bonuses for each job.”

The man reminded Tom of the young Michael Caine, playing the role of an upper class officer in the classic movie “Zulu”. The effect was somewhat spoiled by a small tic that pulled repeatedly over his left eye.

Tom sat in silence – the man waited, only the tic betraying any impatience. Tom deliberately finished his drink, placed his glass on the table and looked the man squarely in the eye.

“Are you talking about recruiting me for the Increment?”

“Oh no Tom, don’t listen to all that stuff. I have heard all the names, the Increment, Group 13 and SAS 75. It’s all poppycock. These groups don’t really exist. That’s just romantic nonsense that circulates on the Internet and is used by second-rate authors. Just regard yourself as a consultant for the Ministry Of Defence.” The man kept the tone light and casual. He flashed a disarming smile.

“Listen carefully,” Tom said, as he rose from his chair. “I’ve had enough of killing to order, of being sent on missions for which I see no military objective. I joined the forces to be a soldier, not an assassin. It’s time for me to go and see the world, and find out what else is out there, apart from targets!”

“Tom, it’s not what you think. It’s not all about killing, you know. You won’t be ordered to do anything in the UK. That’s MI5’s portfolio, you’d be working strictly for MI6.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need orders or missions anymore. I want to wake up in the morning and decide for myself how I’m going to spend my day. Do you know how long it’s been since I made simple plans for myself? Don’t bother answering that. My answer is, ‘thanks, but no thanks’, and I won’t change my mind. Have a safe journey back to London.” Tom turned on his heel and walked back inside the dim interior of the pub.

The man smiled to himself. It was all about timing and the timing was wrong. Tom was a potential asset, whether he realized it or not. The Firm had a long memory and a longer reach. This first approach may have failed, but the next one might not. The Firm could be very persuasive under the right circumstances. He would keep an eye on Hatcher’s file.

Oblivious to The Firm’s long-term intentions for him, Tom returned to his friends, had another beer and forgot all about the man from the ministry. The following Monday a senior regimental officer summoned him. Tom confirmed that he would not serve beyond his fifteen years, and the SAS returned him to the Parachute Regiment that same day. Tom spent his final weeks filling out forms and handing in equipment. Suddenly, there he was on the quiet streets of Aldershot, unemployed. The old adage came to him “Old soldiers never die, they only fade away.” He was not about to die, and he didn’t intend to fade away. That was not his style or his intention.