Conflicting Alliances (standard:action, 3427 words)
Author: Stewart Knight	Added: Mar 28 2001	Views/Reads: 4046/2120	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Team on the Falkland Islands engage an Argentinean insurgency unit. Only survivor of insurgency unit is American mercenary An abridged backstory chapter from The Meek Shall. A novel dealing with so

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The mercenary cowered from Kemp, looking to Dave and explaining quickly,
”It's not here. A couple of miles away we had an ammo and ration cache, 
it's in there with the rest of my equipment." 

Dave nodded, they had found a great many of these caches from the main
conflict, most were destroyed out of hand, but not before the finders 
had amused themselves. Booby trap devices were disarmed and the men 
fired off the ammo and played with the explosives; most soldiers were 
children at heart. 

“What about the stiffs?” Arthur asked. 

Dave thought for a moment. “We'll have to shift them, and their kit, to
the ammo dump, we can't leave them here, not if he's going back to 
Stanley." 

“I'm not shifting the fuckers!” Kemp said. 

“You'll do as you're fucking told,” Dinger said milliseconds before
Dave, cutting him off, ”if you want the dosh." 

Dave, Dinger and Arthur disliked Kemp. Although he was a good soldier,
he was sneaky and sly. Dinger especially despised him. On more than one 
occasion he had caused Dinger to be put on a charge. 

“Out here I am fucking God, if I say you suck their dicks, you suck
their dicks, right!” Dave said bluntly. 

“OK Dave, keep your hair on, I was only saying,” Kemp said. 

“We,” Dave said, indicating the group, ”are not going to shift the
bodies, he is.” He pointed at the American. 

“Thank fuck for that,” said Kemp, ”I hate the thought of touching dead
bodies." 

“While he does, you, for your big fucking gob, can gather up all their
kit and spent ammo, make sure you get it all, understand?” Dave said, 
poking Kemp in the chest. 

Kemp started to protest then decided silence was best. He went to the
area around the bodies and began picking up spent cartridge cases. 

Dave cut plasti-cuffs from the American’s wrists, plastic ties usually
used for plants, telling him he was to carry the bodies to the cache, 
explaining grimly, “Any fucking about, or if you told us any porkies, 
Arthur is going to blow your fucking head off, so, when you’re ready, 
let’s get going." 

“You’re not leaving me here on my own, are you?” Kemp asked. 

“Shut fucking up whinging will you? We're not going far, twenty minutes
there and back. If you see anything, start running. I'm going to check 
that you do the job right too, so get fucking on with it.” Dave was 
sure that it was the still, steaming bodies that had Kemp spooked. I 
hope so, teach the moaning bastard right, he thought. 

The American went to the nearest body and heaved it to his shoulder in a
fireman’s lift. Blood ran in a small stream down the chest and off the 
head and arms of the body. One arm hung from a thin piece of gristle; a 
bullet had hit and almost severed the elbow. 

Dave was surprised at how unconcerned the American seemed. 

The terrain was barren and the flowing hillsides completely devoid of
any trees. The only feature of the whole vista was grass which grew in 
tight tussocks only just spaced far enough apart to walk, carefully, 
foot over foot. 

If the Moon, or the Arctic, had been covered in grass, this is exactly
how they would look, this was the Falklands Islands, was how most 
soldiers liked to describe the Islands when asked. A huge piece of 
peat, set in the South Atlantic. There was a story often told that when 
Noah had sailed his Ark around the globe for a number of years the 
manure had collected at the rear and eventually dumped. The result was 
the Falkland Islands. Every soldier agreed with this. “A great pile of 
shit,” many had remarked. 

The terrain had never been designed for humans. What started as a
twenty-minute tab had become, with the American carrying a body, an 
hours slog. The American obviously had little or no experience of the 
Falklands and it’s inhospitable terrain. For a short time he tried 
walking on top of the grassy tussocks, falling off and landing heavily, 
the body on top of him. The arm that hung by a thin piece of meat had 
been torn completely off, twisting under the body as it fell. The three 
men watched as the American struggled to retrieve the body onto his 
shoulder. 

“Would you like me to give you a hand, mate?” said Dinger. Laughing, he
offered the severed arm. 

“You Limey bastard,” said the American, regretting his outburst at the
scowl on Dinger’s face. 

Dinger unzipped the American’s battle smock and stuffed the arm inside.
He re-zipped the jacket with the hand sticking out just below his chin. 


“I’m not a fucking Limey, right! I’m Irish,” said Dinger angrily.
Pointing at Dave, he added, ”He's a fucking Limey bastard.” He kicked 
the American in the backside. ”Now get fucking moving, if it's much 
further, we go back and you get the bullet." 

“It's only just over the hill, man, honest,” the American pleaded,
looking at Dave. 

“Then get moving, and watch your feet. Like a horse, you break your leg,
we put you down,” Dave said, becoming uncomfortable with the American’s 
constant and silent pleas for support. 

The cache was close and on arrival the American ungraciously dumped the
body and the arm in the grass. 

Pulling up a turf camouflaged pallet, he revealed a hole in the ground
filled with ammunition and a number of canvas backpacks. “This is it,” 
he announced. 

“Empty the contents, and we don't want any surprises, do we?” Dave
ordered, putting a pistol he had taken from a dead Argentinean to the 
American’s head. For British soldiers under the rank of sergeant, 
pistols were a prized possession. 

The American sweated as he lowered himself carefully into the hole, head
first, disappearing to the waist. He emerged announcing, “Any 
booby-traps that there were are disarmed now. Here,“ he said and handed 
Dave a rucksack. 

Dave looked disapproving. “What a piece of shit, not as good as our
Bergans. Your name Vasquez?” he asked, reading the name on the back 
written in felt tip, “or was that one of the other fuckers?" 

“That's me,” said the American and pulled himself out of the hole. 

Dinger and Arthur came closer to look as Dave opened the rucksack. They
had positioned themselves twenty yards away to watch the American while 
he disarmed the booby-traps. 

“So, you’re a fucking spick are you? Is that why you were with them,
your long lost cousins, eh?” Arthur asked. 

“No, I was with them for the pay." 

“You would’ve killed us for money? It wouldn't be so bad if we were the
baddies and you were related to them, but for fucking money? Especially 
seeing as you lot are supposed to be allies. I've worked with the Yank 
army, a bunch of wankers but alright, as wankers go anyway,” Dinger 
said, looking threateningly at Vasquez. He looked pleadingly at Dave. 

“You're a wanker as well Dinger,” said Arthur. 

“No, I am fucking not!” Dinger replied indignantly. 

“Fuck off, I saw and heard you, in your doss bag the other night,
pulling your fucking pudding, reading a wank mag with your torch,” said 
Arthur, teasing Dinger. 

“Yeah, well, that's different, you know what I mean, you fucking great
eejit,” Dinger said with a smile. 

Dave had been silent, ignoring the two men as he studied the contents of
the rucksack, watched closely by Vasquez who had inched away from the 
two other men towards Dave. 

“Anything?” asked Dinger. 

“Yep, just as he said, there must be ten thousand dollars in travellers
cheques, some cash and two cheque books,” Dave said and looked at 
Vasquez, asking, “how much are you willing to trade your life for then? 
And don't try and fuck with us, the truth." 

Vasquez was near tears again. “I won't fuck with you man, I swear, I'll
write you a cheque for fifteen thousand dollars each, the cheques will 
cover that, honestly man, I swear,” he pleaded. 

“That's sixty thousand dollars, make it sixty five, and you've got a
deal,” Dave said. 

“What's that in aid of?” Arthur asked. 

“We get a cheque for twenty thousand each, and when that slimy little
bastard Kemp gets here, he gets a cheque for five thousand.” 

Arthur and Dinger laughed, clapping Dave on the back. “That's fucking
brilliant Dave What do you say Yank?” Dinger said. 

“I couldn't give a shit pal, whatever you say, sixty five thousand? It's
a deal,” said Vasquez, offering Dave his hand. 

Dave shook the Americans hand and nodded. “You can write the cheques
now, and I'll keep hold of the travellers cheques, you two split the 
real money four ways, and when we get back to Britain we'll sort out 
the rest, agreed?” he asked. 

“Sounds fair to me, I'll nip back with the Yank for another stiff and
you have a shuftie at the rest of the goodies in the hole,” Arthur said 
and placed plasti-cuffs on Vasquez.  “Just in case,” he explained. 

When Arthur and Vasquez returned with another body, wrapped in a poncho,
it was dumped beside the first. 

Dinger allowed Vasquez five minutes rest and a sip of water before
placing him again in plasti-cuffs and setting off for the last body and 
Kemp. 

When the three men came in sight Dave noticed that Kemp was struggling,
helping the American. 

Closer and Dave noticed Kemp kept his eyes low and was very quiet. He
had a large, angry red patch on his cheek that was starting to swell. 
”What happened?” asked Dave. 

Dinger smirked, an evil look in his eye. ”The Yank couldn't manage, the
stiff was literally going stiff. I told Kemp to give him a hand because 
we’d never get the job done otherwise. The little fucker gobbed off at 
me.” Dinger pinched Kemp’s cheek and smiled. ”Bless him. So I gave him 
a slap. He was sitting on his arse having a fucking brew up when I got 
there and I had to finish off clearing up." 

“Will you never fucking learn?” Dave asked Kemp. 

“Look at the fucking state of me, blood and shit all over my combats,
there was no need for that Paddy bastard to fucking hit me,” Kemp 
protested, moving quickly as Dinger came towards him. “Enough!” Dave 
shouted. ”Dinger, leave him, and you, shut fucking up." 

All five sat down to boil water for tea and prepare a meal. All rations
were of the dried, reconstituted type and they started swapping packets 
to find their preferred menu, even Vasquez was made an offering. 
Hauling the bodies had exhausted him. The short meal finished, Vasquez 
was placed in plasti-cuffs and a poncho draped over him to keep out the 
chill. The team went out of his earshot to discuss the next move. 

Kemp was first to make a suggestion. “I say we waste him anyway, tight
bastard could probably afford a lot more than five thousand. It’s 
fucking dollars, that's only two or three thousand quid." 

“I hate to agree with a smelly, lazy, ugly little shit like you, but it
would be the safest thing,” Dinger said. 

“We made a deal,” Dave said simply. ”What do you think Arthur?" 

Arthur was not blessed with a great intellect, but made the most
intelligent comment. ”If we can trust him, let’s keep to the deal, but 
can we trust him? He's not as daft as he’d like us to believe and this 
is major shit we're into. We’d all be in deep shit if we fuck this up 
or he spills his guts to the Monkeys." 

All four nodded. 

Dinger said, ”Then we should take a vote." 

“You know what I think, I'm going for a shovel recce,” Kemp said, making
for his pack. A shovel recce was Army slang for a bowel movement, the 
shovel being used to dig a hole. 

“Wipe your arse properly!” Dinger shouted after him and he received a
middle finger for reply. 

When Kemp had gone Dinger said, “I was listening to him whinge on the
way back, the money was spent before he knew how much it was going to 
be. The first time he gets pissed he's going to spill his guts, he's 
the one we should be worried about, we should  think about doing 
something about him and the Yank. I say we fuck up the two of them." 

“A bit drastic isn't it, Dinger?” Dave said, looking at Dinger with
surprise. ”Who's going to kill him, you? He's supposed to be on our 
side, one of us, that really would be murder." 

“Fucking right I would do it. That bastard’s going to drop us in it, I’d
feel safe if he was out of the way. We're talking proper money here, 
more than I’ve ever seen, and you’d be surprised what I would do for 
that amount." 

”I agree, I don't trust Kemp," Arthur said. 

“Fuck me,” said Dave, ”am I going to be next, or one of you?" 

“Calm fucking down, we're not talking about us, we're talking about that
slimy little shit, we'll end up having to do something about him 
eventually. If we get our story right, we can't be caught, think about 
it,” Dinger insisted. 

Dave thought and could not fault the logic. The problem was that Vasquez
would also have to be eliminated, and Dave felt uncomfortable about 
reneging on the deal. 

“OK Dinger, the honour’s on you, whenever you like. Vasquez is going to
have be done as well. In for a penny, in for a pound." 

“No, in for lots of pennies and lots of pounds,” Dinger said as Kemp
rejoined the party. 

“Well, what have you decided, is he for the chop?” Kemp asked gleefully.


“Yeah, he's for the chop, and it's your job, if you think you can manage
it?” Dinger said, handing Kemp a rifle and cocking it. 

“No fucking problem,” Kemp said and stood up. 

As Kemp walked the short distance, Dinger loaded a belt of ammunition
into the General Purpose Machine Gun sitting at his side. Looking at 
Dave and Arthur in turn he said with a shrug, ”If a jobs worth doing, 
it's worth doing well.” At short range the weapon would have a 
devastating effect. 

As Kemp reached Vasquez the American’s face turned pale, realising what
was his fate was to be. 

“We had a deal!” he said as Kemp pulled the trigger, letting another two
rounds off into him as he twitched and died. Kemp turned to towards the 
three sitting men and Dinger fired a long burst from the machine gun 
that took him in the chest and groin. Kemp rose into the air, his body 
flailing and spouts of blood erupted wherever he was hit. Most of the 
bullets passed straight through him and those that met resistance 
shattered bone and ricocheted to exit in another part the body. His 
bones were destroyed and the body fell to the ground with a dull splat. 


Arthur and Dave jumped when Dinger fired, not expecting him to shoot.
They both sat stunned, looking at Dinger, not having been truly certain 
that he meant to kill Kemp. 

“Good riddance, I won't have to listen to his fucking shit anymore,”
Dinger said jovially to no one in particular. 

“I never thought you’d really do it,” Dave said. 

“Neither did fucking I,” Arthur said. 

“Neither did I,“ said Dinger, “at least not until he wasted the Yank, I
fucking liked him and hated that annoying twat Kemp." 

The three men distributed the empty cases from the sight of the original
engagement and moved all the bodies into a more believable position to 
show that the contact had come in that particular area. 

Dave decided the American’s body should be put into the hole and
destroyed with explosive, along with any other items that may make the 
scene look suspicious. The body was made completely unrecognisable. 
That was Arthur’s suggestion. His identity would be kept secret until 
the cheques had cleared. 

When asked, the story was that the patrol had come upon the Argentineans
while they had been setting up and in the ensuing fire-fight, Kemp and 
the whole of the Argentinean party had been killed. This and any other 
details agreed upon, Dave called a contact report and asked for a 
medical evacuation. 

It took barely thirty minutes for reinforcements to arrive and the three
survivors were transported by chopper to Port Stanley for debriefing. 

All three men earned a mention in dispatches for the action but no
medals were given to the survivors. Ironically, Kemp received a 
posthumous Military Medal. 

There was no publicity of the awards, it being prudent to keep the
matter quiet to avoid any publicity. The conflict was not officially 
over and the MOD did not wish to answer questions as to how it was 
possible for the Argentineans to again invade the Falkland Islands, 
with however small a force. 

In a bar, three weeks after returning to England, Dave, Arthur and
Dinger gave a toast. 

“To absent friends,” Dave said and raised his glass. 

“Absent friends,” Arthur said. 

“Absent friends,” Dinger said and swallowed the brandy in one gulp. “My
cheque cleared today,” he said absently. 


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