Outcast Page 3

  ‘Endex! Endex!’ he said. ‘Weapons safe. Repeat, weapons safe. All groups to Room X-Five for the team debrief.’

  He walked back into the large room with the metal-framed bed and the glowing red lava lamp. Vargas stood a few paces away, playfully punching Garrido on the shoulder, the pair of them grinning like idiots.

  Celebrating.

  Carter felt the rage simmering in his veins once more.

  The rest of the assault teams trudged into the room, the selectors on their assault rifles set to ‘SAFE’ to guard against the possibility of a negligent discharge. After what had happened a few moments earlier, Carter didn’t want to take any chances. He waited until the last stragglers had filed inside, then folded his arms and looked round the sea of faces as he prepared to debrief them. The drill had lasted no longer than three or four minutes but the men were drenched in sweat from the exertion and adrenaline rush and the weight of the kit they were carrying.

  ‘That was good shit, boys,’ Vargas said. ‘Great work, no? That’s how we roll in the Pumas.’

  He grinned again, bumping fists with Garrido and Zamorano.

  Carter fought a powerful desire to punch the kid in the face.

  He stared levelly at Vargas and said, ‘I’ll discuss the other lads in a moment. But you should be ashamed of yourself. I’ve never seen anyone perform as badly as that.’

  Vargas pulled a face. ‘Who, me? What did I do?’

  ‘You’re a fucking embarrassment. You haven’t listened to a thing I’ve been saying for the past month.’

  Carter pointed out the section of the wall Vargas had riddled with bullets.

  ‘See this?’ he went on. ‘You were a cunt hair away from putting a round in Ramirez’s group.’

  Ramirez’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Shit. No way.’ He stared at the bullet-studded tyres, then looked round at Vargas. ‘What the fuck, man? I could have been killed.’

  Carter expected a show of contrition from the kid. An admission of guilt, perhaps. Or a promise to learn from his mistakes. Instead Vargas spread his fat lips into a grin.

  ‘When I come through the door, people better hide, eh?’ He chuckled. ‘Fabian Vargas don’t take no fucking prisoners, bro.’

  A few of the other guys burst into laughter. Carter glared at him. ‘Make another joke, and I’ll knock the taste of blood out of your mouth.’

  The smile fell from Vargas’s face. ‘You can’t talk to me like that.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you however I bloody want. You almost slotted your own guys, you stupid bastard.’

  ‘Not my problem. They shouldn’t have been in my way.’

  Carter stepped into the kid’s face. ‘If you had bothered listening to the radio, you would have realised that Ramirez’s team had already secured this area and was about to move on to the next room. Instead of staying put, you stormed in here and started engaging targets without thinking. A couple of inches to the right and them lads would be lying in a pool of blood right now.’

  Vargas grunted. ‘You told us to clear this place of bad guys. I was doing my job. Sir.’

  ‘I told you to pay attention and keep your wits about you,’ Carter replied. ‘Not ignore the orders from your mates and charge around the place like a maniac.’

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ Vargas flapped a chunky arm at one of the Figure 11s. ‘We nailed the terrorists. Problem solved.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Carter snapped his teeth. ‘You’ve messed up every step of the way on his drill.’

  Vargas flushed with anger and shot him a screw-face. Carter counted the kid’s mistakes on his fingers as he continued.

  ‘Before we came in, you got flustered by the flashbang going off and failed to coordinate with the other groups. As a result, the teams carried out a staggered entry. That’s a fail. In the first room, you shot a hostage. Another fail. In the second room, you killed two more civilians. Then you missed a target hidden in the wardrobe. On top of that, you triggered two tripwires because you didn’t look where you were going. Either one of those would have wiped out your entire team.’

  ‘This is bullshit.’

  Carter ignored his protest and said, ‘Your attitude is pathetic. If it was up to me, you’d be binned. You’re more of a threat to your mates than the fucking Taliban.’

  A dark look flashed across Vargas’s face. He opened his mouth and started to say something, then thought better of it and pressed his lips shut again.

  Carter continued with the debrief. For the next half-hour he walked through the stronghold with the other soldiers, pointing out where they had gone wrong and why, commenting on their targeting skills and coordination. Most of them at least made an effort to understand what was required of them. A few of the better-quality recruits even asked questions.

  Maybe some of these lads have got potential after all, Carter mused. Better than the dross served up by Vargas and his mates.

  The sun was already beginning to dip down behind the mountain peaks as the men trooped out of Tyre Village and walked back across the range towards their vehicles. Behind them, the safety officers were busy clearing up the site, removing debris and targetry. Carter made for his Land Cruiser, looking forward to changing into his civvies and getting back to his rental apartment in the city. He had almost reached the driver’s side door when Medel called out to him.

  ‘See you at the party tonight, Jamie?’ he asked as he trotted over.

  Carter gritted his teeth as he remembered. Vargas’s father, General Juan Vargas, was hosting a barbecue at his mansion in El Arrayán. The entire SF team had been invited to attend, including Carter, along with the British ambassador and a few other officials involved in the training programme. Carter had been tempted to give it a miss, but the ambassador had insisted that he put in an appearance, implying that there was a lucrative deal in the pipeline involving the British government and they needed to keep the general sweet. A big arms contract, the ambassador had hinted. Worth a few hundred million pounds down the road.

  Carter had grudgingly accepted.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there. As long as I don’t have to speak to that prick.’

  He tipped his head at Vargas. The kid was folding himself into the front of one of the trucks, laughing and joking with his muckers like a bunch of teenagers.

  Medel laughed.

  ‘You won’t have to,’ he said. ‘Fabian will be too busy entertaining his friends.’ He noticed the uncertain look on Carter’s face and smiled. ‘Besides, it will be fun. Free drinks, food. Music. What more could you possibly want?’

  I can think of one or two things.

  A transfer back to Hereford for a start.

  He grunted and said, ‘I’ll not be staying late. We’ve got a lot of drills to run through tomorrow.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Medel hesitated. Then he added, quietly, ‘A word of advice, Jamie.’

  Carter looked evenly at the captain. Waited for him to continue. Medel glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one else was in earshot before he continued.

  ‘Don’t single Fabian out for criticism. Not in front of the other men. It’s not a good idea.’

  ‘The kid’s an accident waiting to happen,’ Carter said testily. ‘If you want my opinion, he shouldn’t be within ten miles of this unit. He could have killed someone today.’

  ‘Maybe so. But his father is Chief of Staff,’ Medel reminded him. ‘Which makes him one of the most powerful men in the country. General Vargas has lots of friends in high places.’

  ‘He’ll need them,’ Carter said acidly. ‘When his son accidentally plugs one of his mates in training, he’s going to need all the help he can muster to get the kid off the hook.’

  Medel gave him a look. But Carter knew that if there had been a shooting during the exercise, he would have been held accountable. The ambassador would have hauled him in, dragged his feet over the coals. Demanded answers.

  It would have been my neck on the line.

  Not the kid’s.

  Medel grimaced. ‘Just try to be diplomatic. He could make life difficult, you know.’ He raised his hands and went on. ‘You speak your mind, I can see that. But that mouth of yours will get you in trouble one of these days.’

  ‘It already has, mate,’ Carter muttered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Medel asked, creasing his brow.

  ‘Forget it. Just a figure of speech.’

  ‘Look, I’m just trying to help.’ The captain paused before adding, ‘Trust me, OK? You really don’t want to make enemies of the Vargas family.’

  Enemies, thought Carter.

  Too bloody right.

  I’ve made enough of those to last me a lifetime.

  Two

  The Vargas family lived in a palatial mansion set in the foothills outside Santiago, fifteen kilometres from Carter’s drab rented apartment. He’d returned to his lodgings straight from the training base, scrubbed and changed into his civvies, ditched his uniform in a pile in the corner of his room, next to the bag of paperback thrillers and military histories he’d brought with him from back home. Then he’d hopped into the Toyota Land Cruiser provided to him by the embassy and tooled north-east out of the city.

  Twenty minutes later, he rolled up at the wrought-iron gate at the front of the Vargas property.

  Carter gave his details to the bovine-faced security guard and arrowed the wagon down a stretch of tarmac flanked by aprons of manicured lawn dotted with exotic trees and shrubbery. At the far end the drive led to a wide carriage circle with a tiered water fountain in the middle. Beyond the circle stood a white-stuccoed house two storeys high, with a pair of ornamental balconies on the first floor and a porticoed entrance with columns as thick as ballistic missiles.

  He steered clockwise round the carriage
circle, pulled up at the twelve o’clock position and got out. A grinning valet bowed slightly and took the keys to the Land Cruiser. A maid greeted him in front of the entrance and ushered Carter through a lavish hall adorned with local artwork, with corridors peeling off on either side. They carried on down a long corridor, past a guest bathroom and a kitchen with a central island so big you could land a plane on it.

  Carter crossed the living room, stepped through the French doors at the rear and emerged onto a broad flagstoned patio fronted by an infinity pool, facing out across a vista of gentle rolling hills and vineyards. Fire pits warmed the cool night air.

  To one side of the pool, a powerfully built grill master with a bushy moustache tended to cuts of meat smoking on a stainless-steel grill. The mouth-watering aroma of fire-cooked lamb, chicken and sausage wafted across the garden.

  A bunch of people were milling about or chatting in small groups, sipping bottles of beer or glasses of wine. Carter recognised a handful of the lads from the training group at the range. In among them, a few smooth-faced civilians dressed in casual shirts and jeans, pretty women in summer dresses with plunging necklines. Wives and girlfriends of the soldiers, he guessed.

  ‘Carter. There you are,’ a smooth voice called out cheerfully at his back.

  Carter looked round and saw a slender guy in a dark grey suit strolling towards him.

  Simon Langton, the British ambassador.

  Langton had the bland appearance of a career diplomat. Carter had met his kind before, in embassies around the world. After a while, you started to recognise the type. The hair was side-parted and as grey as the suit he was wearing. The lips were tightly puckered, the eyes faded but alert, the jaw cleanly shaven, the brow slightly creased in restless calculation. Langton had that familiar mix of arrogance, insecurity and suspicion peculiar to those who worked in the backwater embassies. He gave the impression of a man who had spent his youth trying to claw his way to something more meaningful, had fallen short, and was now condemned to see out his career in a mood of perpetual frustration and disappointment.

  ‘Good of you to make it,’ Langton went on in his public schoolboy accent. ‘Let’s get you a drink. What’s your poison?’

  ‘Beer,’ Carter said. ‘Lager, if they have it.’

  An eyebrow arched so far up Langton’s face it threatened to disappear into his hairline. ‘You’re a Geordie, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be drinking a hearty brown ale or something?’

  Carter laughed drily and said, ‘Just because I’ve got the accent, doesn’t mean we’re all the same.’

  ‘There’s a red on the go, if you’d prefer that. From the general’s own vineyards, no less.’ Langton indicated his glass. ‘It’s actually rather pleasant.’

  ‘Beer’s fine, thanks.’

  Langton snapped his fingers and gestured to one of his flunkies, a round-faced redhead with heart-shaped lips. One of the embassy junior staffers. She disappeared through the kitchen door and came back a few moments later clutching a bottle of Heineken. Carter nodded his thanks, took a pull, and savoured the feeling as the ice-cold lager slipped down his throat.

  Christ, that was good.

  After the day I’ve had I needed that.

  ‘Heard you had a spot of bother at the camp today,’ Langton said. ‘Something involving the general’s son.’

  Carter frowned. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘The captain mentioned it. Confidentially, of course.’

  Langton indicated a group of figures beside the infinity pool. Medel was among them, drinking cervezas with his fellow officers. Fabian Vargas sat a few metres away at a table with Garrido and Zamorano, sharing a bottle of Chivas Regal. As Carter looked on, Garrido leaned over to the kid, whispered something into his ear. Vargas nodded, and then the two of them rose slowly from their chairs and slipped into the mansion through the French doors. Zamorano remained at the table, smoking a cigar.

  ‘Well, Carter?’ Langton asked. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Carter replied bluntly. ‘Just some differences of opinion. It’s been straightened out.’

  He didn’t want to discuss the Tyre Village incident with Langton. If the ambassador knew that Carter had given the kid a bollocking in front of the unit, he’d never hear the end of it.

  Langton exhaled and said, ‘I sincerely hope that’s the case. The last thing we need is any bad blood between you and Vargas junior to muddy the waters. Bad for business, you know.’

  ‘I said it’s fine.’

  Langton glanced at his watch and said, ‘Right, we’d better introduce you to the general. He’s very keen to meet a genuine SAS legend, apparently. Come on. And for God’s sake, make sure you keep the general and his son onside.’

  Carter bit back his irritation as he followed Langton across the garden. He hated this part of the gig. Being wheeled out to meet the big boss, like some performing seal doing tricks for the crowd.

  As if this job wasn’t bad enough already, I’ve got to kowtow to a foreign Rupert.

  They approached the grill master. The big guy with the moustache.

  Langton coughed to clear his throat and said, ‘General Vargas, may I have the pleasure of introducing Warrant Officer Jamie Carter, of the Special Air Service Regiment.’

  The general was a heavyset guy in his early sixties. At first sight he looked more like a Mexican drug lord than a senior military man. He stood at around five ten, with a brush moustache, jowly cheeks and eyes carved like surgical incisions into the fleshy folds of his face. His thinning hair was shot through with streaks of grey.

  General Vargas smiled thinly. ‘So you’re the man in charge of training the Pumas,’ he said in thickly accented English.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Good, very good.’ The general tended to the grill, flipping burgers and sausages. Smoke drifted up from the sizzling meat. ‘I like the SAS. Fine warriors. Yes, very fine. I was an elite soldier myself, once, you know.’

  ‘Is that so, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said proudly. ‘We were feared by everyone. We were the real deal. Killers. Our enemies trembled at the mention of our name.’ He gave an ugly laugh. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I would have made an excellent soldier in your unit.’

  ‘I expect so, sir,’ Carter replied tersely.

  ‘I imagine you have been on many dangerous missions?’

  ‘One or two, sir.’

  ‘I have been on many myself, in my time.’ Vargas smiled, revealing a set of stained yellow teeth. ‘Perhaps one day, we shall sit down and enjoy a bottle of brandy, and I will tell you about my years purging my country of Communist scum.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I look forward to it.’

  I could be back at Hereford right now, Carter thought. Preparing to go out and fight, or working on an anti-terrorist op.

  Instead I’m having to indulge this twat.

  ‘And my son?’ the general asked. ‘You’re teaching him well, I hope? No problems I need to know about?’

  In the corner of his eye, Carter spied Vargas and Garrido strolling back to their table. Giggling and rubbing their noses. Vargas reached for the half-empty bottle of Chivas, poured himself a slug and knocked it back. Garrido exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Zamorano and passed him something hidden in his hand. Zamorano promptly got up from the table and strolled inside.

  ‘None, sir,’ Carter lied. ‘No problems.’

  Vargas nodded and said, ‘I believe Fabian will make a fine commander one day. Who knows? Perhaps in time he will become a great general, like myself.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m sure he will.’

  The general smiled again. Carter tensed his jaw and felt the blood boiling in his veins. I don’t know who’s the bigger prick, he thought. Fabian Vargas, or his father.

  Another guest bounded over requesting a word with the general in private. Vargas excused himself, much to Carter’s relief.

  He left Langton in conversation with one of the junior staffers and found a quiet spot near the balcony. Figured he’d stick it out for another hour before calling it a night. He’d make his excuses, leave the party and make the short drive to his apartment. Grab one of his books and head over to the local cantina. Carter was a regular at the joint. He spent a few hours most evenings at a table in the corner, reading and sipping black coffee.

  The owner, a fanatical Blackburn Rovers supporter, jokingly referred to the Englishman as the Quiet Gringo.