The Mist, The Moor, and a Man who didn’t belong . . .
Over the years, as well as the usual stuff I write and talk about, I’ve relayed a few weird tales from both my own and my colleagues’ experiences. A friend of mine once joked that as well as the thrillers and spy fiction I write, I should pen something along the lines of Strange Things Soldiers Have Seen. To be fair, I don’t really have the time to devote to such a venture but I still tell the odd story of strange goings on not easily explained. So, nothing too serious here, just a tale I have relayed from personal experience and, weird as it may seem, this did actually happen. Even all these years later, I still don’t have a rational explanation for it. And, well, it’s Halloween so please enjoy it in the manner in which it is meant.
***
Many moons ago, when I was a young Royal Marine Commando, I was attending a promotion course to achieve the rank of Corporal. This was a tough, 3-month evolution with a lot of emphasis on operational-focussed exercises in the field and, as one would expect, leadership of troops in battle. The exercises were both physically demanding and mentally testing, pushing candidates to their limits and often beyond. One of these exercises was a night navigation test, a NAVEX, conducted as the name suggests, overnight in order to increase the difficulty of the test. While not quite as long or as taxing as the 30 Miler completed during our Commando training, this was still a long slog carrying kit, heavy radio and batteries, and weapons over the wild, rough terrain of Dartmoor. The start time was around eleven o’clock at night with the cut-off time being around five in the morning. My NAVEX took place, rather fittingly, in late October. Wet, cold autumnal weather from the west dominating our experiences in the field. When we arrived at the start of the NAVEX, we were met by members of the DS, the Directing Staff, who ensured we were carrying the correct kit, weight, and had at least a rough idea of where we were going. We were split into eight-man sections and despatched off in fifteen-minute intervals in different directions to ensure we wouldn’t just follow each other. My section was particularly strong with a couple of SBS (Special Boat Service) operators, two guys from Brigade Patrol Troop (BPT), and some of the course’s best performers.
When we set off just after 2300h, the weather had calmed somewhat but the damp remained in the air as we set the bearing on the compass and trotted off into the bleak Dartmoor night. We took it in turns to lead a leg of the exercise, each man assuming the responsibility for the accuracy of his map-reading and pace-counting as we couldn’t see any features to guide us in the dark. Within a couple of hours, we were well into the middle of Dartmoor itself, all signs of civilisation many miles behind us as we ran through swollen streams and panted up steep hills, balancing speed of progress with accurate navigation, determined not to screw up and fail the test. It was well into the wee hours when we decided to stop, take on some water and swap over lead navigators. We all gathered around the maps to make sure we knew where we were and where we were going. We noticed that the thick mist that had been collecting in the hollows and valleys was now everywhere, reducing visibility to a few metres. We joked that the DS had engineered this in order to add a further testing element to the exercise. Happy with our position and new bearing, the lead navigator folded the map and stowed it away as we finished off our drinking and shoved some snacks down our throats to keep our energy levels up. Once everyone was ready, we set off again in single file along a small game trail and over a hill, monitoring our bearing to ensure we didn’t veer off and become disoriented in the fog. We had just crested the hill when the front man stopped and we closed up behind him, looking up to see what was wrong.
Still in single file, we watched in silence as a man appeared from the fog, walking towards us a couple of metres from the small track we were following. He had a pale, pinched face, long, dark curly hair, was slight of build, and dressed in a suit and black, slip-on leather shoes with white socks. His suit was grey or silver and you could see it was a very thin material covering a white shirt and skinny black tie. He looked, for all intents and purposes, as though he had just stepped out of a pub after last orders. Except there were no pubs for around 20 miles, no houses or even farms for at least 10 miles. Not even a definitive track or road that led to either or that it could be argued that he was following. He was literally in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of thick fog and going to who the hell knew where. The man didn’t acknowledge us. Didn’t look up, turn his head or comment. Didn’t seem to notice eight armed Commandos stood only metres from him. He merely continued walking with his hands rammed into the pockets of his tight suit trousers, shoulders hunched and eyes locked on the ground to his front. As he passed us, we all turned to follow his progress until he melted into the fog and was out of sight. Nobody moved or said a word for almost a minute until one of the SBS operators spoke.
“Well, that was f**king weird.”
This broke our silent spell and we were soon discussing the odd encounter. Maps were brought out as we tried to identify where our strange visitor had come from and where he was going but nothing to explain this realistically could be found. Someone joked that based on his clothing, he looked like he’d left a crap 1980’s nightclub and we laughed but also recognised the accuracy of this description. We were just about to move off and continue with the task at hand when one of the BPT lads stepped off the track, turned on his torch and examined the ground where the stranger had been walking. Curious, we paused again then joined our colleague when he called us over. He looked up at us while highlighting the bracken and heather around him.
“There was something bugging me about that bloke other than the obvious weirdness. I couldn’t quite work it out at first but then it hit me; he was walking along like he was on a road or a track but look.”
With that, our colleague began walking where our strange visitor had walked, but having to lift his legs high to avoid entanglement in the dense foliage and even at that, encountering difficulties when trying to maintain a forward momentum. I could see exactly what he meant; nobody could walk through that thickness of scrub without staggering or stumbling, yet our nocturnal walker had ambled along as casually as if he was on a pavement in Plymouth. Our colleague spoke again.
“The other mad thing I can’t wrap my head around? I could see his shoes and socks. As clear as day. But how is that possible?”
He was right: Where the stranger had been walking was thick foliage to almost knee height. Yet I had also seen the stranger’s feet clearly. Again, we were silent for several moments as we digested this until the lead navigator suggested we get back to the business of completing the NAVEX and deal with our weird encounter after that. We were, as he reminded us, still on a clock.
With that, we returned to the mud of the thin game trail, confirmed our bearing, adjusted our loads, and jogged off once again into the fog. While I was running, I thought long and hard about our strange visitor and tried in vain to come up with a valid reason for his appearance in that location and his completely inadequate dress for the weather. It also bugged me that he hadn’t acknowledged us, not even a sideways glance. But the walking demonstration my colleague had shown us was what bothered me most. It was completely at odds with how our weird walker had ambled past us, smooth and steady with not even a hint of resistance. And the impossibility of seeing the stranger’s shoes bothered me a lot and try as I might, I couldn’t explain it. But, like the rest of the section, I put it to one side and focussed on our current task. Between the fog and the dark, the navigation was challenging and took all our collective skills to ensure we didn’t stray too far off course. But we were a strong section and confident in our abilities and made good progress through the night.
We finally closed in to the finish point of our NAVEX and had completed it with a little time to spare, checking in with the DS then changing into dry clothing before wolfing down a massive, greasy breakfast in one of the derelict stone barns of the old farm complex. Over huge mugs of steaming tea and coffee, we discussed our weird occurrence with each other and guys from the other sections but by then the oddity had worn off and it was treated as an amusing rather than spooky encounter with many jokes and outlandish theories bandied around.
I’d almost forgotten about the encounter until a former colleague and I got back in touch a couple of years ago and he reminded me of it and the memories came flooding back. He now lives in Southwest England and regularly visits Dartmoor, recalling the memory of the occurrence every time he visits. For those, like me, who rarely make it to the region let alone Dartmoor itself, the memory faded with time and age as day-to-day life took precedence. Odd though, that as soon as I was reminded of it, the details were immediately as clear as they had been on the night in question, right down to the cheap fabric of the suit. And I found myself once again, stood on a slim, muddy trail in fog-bound Dartmoor watching a man dressed for a 1980’s nightclub glide past a section of armed Commandos without so much as a glance. And again, I was completely unable to determine a realistic explanation for this encounter.
So, there you have it, a wee Halloween-related tale appropriate for the time of year. Hope you enjoyed it!
The morning walk with Kota. A time when he gets to run free along beaches or among woods and tracks and I get to think about the days, weeks, and months ahead and what I need to be doing to achieve my aims.
There is, as always, the writing. The editorial requests from Penguin and the deadlines they have given for my latest novel The Kill Chain. The ongoing work on some other fiction that I’m also in the process of writing. A series of short stories I’m actually racing through, enjoying the difference in pace and production this new-to-me format provides. Then there’s the posts, articles, and updates that I promulgate on various platforms. I’m also helping other people who are writing books of their own, providing tips and suggestions gained from my own experiences to help them on their own writing journey.
I still also keep my hand in with a bit of consulting work for specialist intelligence or military organisations and have several periods coming up where I’ll be conducting these. It’s quite flattering that, even as I approach official ‘old fartdom’, my skills and experience are still valued enough to attract interest from aforementioned organisations.
Earlier this year I secured a business mentorship program, whereby I have access to key professionals in all fields of business development with an aim to building my current writing business bigger and better. This is a lot of hard work but an absolute privilege to be a part of. And what it’s also identified is areas where I should be expanding and offering far more to people interested in my writing than I currently have been. Admittedly, this has mostly been down to time constraints with most of the international work I have been involved with in recent years lending very little free time with which to concentrate on other matters. But having scaled back on these deployments, I now have the opportunity to focus more on this issue. And that’s where this business development program comes in.
My mentors are all individuals at the top of their game and, as such, are not only excellent at delivering instruction and training, but in ensuring I have challenging assignments to complete, all aimed at growing and expanding my current writing platform. And, while I’ve never not completed any of the tasks or assignments, a dim view would be taken if I hadn’t bothered to apply myself. Like I said earlier, I feel very privileged to have access to such a program and never take it for granted. So, in a nutshell, I will now be providing far more content than I ever have before and, particularly as I’m now under the Penguin Random House umbrella, will also have a far bigger international exposure.
Cloak & Dagger is just one of the new initiatives I’m developing with my mentors. Entertaining and interactive presentations from myself and individuals from across the spectrum of clandestine operations in the military, police, and private sector arenas. Think undercover police officers, former intelligence operatives, former special forces, kidnap & ransom negotiators, hostage rescue etc, etc . . .
We’ve been working hard to pull all this together and I’m pleased to be able to say that we have the first trial run next month to an audience of business professionals. Intimidating? A bit, considering the audience demographic. But intimidating in a good way. I’m a process driven individual by and large, plan everything out, assemble all the parts and elements required for the task. But if things don’t progress fast enough, I also need for things to just get going, kick the project off and work out the kinks along the way. Which is how I initially thought about this venture. Book a venue, advertise it, see who shows up, deliver the presentation, learn from it, rinse and repeat. And that might have worked. Might have. But having been guided by these mentors for the best part of the year, I now have no reservations and know that it will work. And work well.
And that’s what was filling my brain on this morning’s walk with my trusty canine companion. Writing, writing, writing, consulting, and presentations. Platform building, marketing, advertising, venue hire, reviews integration, interactive media, content management, and delivery. I’m a very busy bee at the moment and will be for the foreseeable future. Which is good, for me and for anyone interested in my books and writing.
So my morning walks with Kota have a twofold benefit really. One, of course, is the enjoyment of the coastal walks and happy companionship of my canine buddy. The other is that hour or so of coordinating everything in my head, so that once I’m back in my office, it’s head down and crack on with the plan. A plan that now, is moving from theory to reality and is as exciting to me as the day I dedicated myself to writing that first novel all those years ago.
Have had such great feedback from my short story that I made free to the readers of my novels that I thought I would make some more free stuff available to give a further taster of my books and writing. Here’s a free sample from my last published novel, A Day Ahead of the Devil. I’ve made a couple of the first chapters free individually some time back but have put them together now for a bigger chunk of the story. Hope you enjoy!
A DAY AHEAD OF THE DEVIL – SAMPLE
1
SPECIAL OPERATIONS BARRACKS, GHAZNI PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN, AUGUST 2021
Her eyes snapped open and she sprang from the thin mattress, reaching for her boots as she flinched at the explosions shattering the night. Heavy machine-gun fire accompanied a cadence of crumps from the mortars that were creeping closer to the small barracks where, until moments before, she had been sound asleep. Boots tied, Samira stood, scrunched her long, dark hair into a ponytail and secured it with a hairband, flinching as the concussion from a mortar round buffeted the thin metal walls of her room. They were getting closer. Bending, she scooped up her tac-vest and threw it over her head, fastening the Velcro side panels to fit to her body. Running her hands across the pouches, Samira nodded, satisfied that she had her full complement of ammunition and grenades. From the rack under the window, she retrieved her rifle, attached the sling to a clip on her tac-vest, removed and checked the magazine before reloading the weapon and cocking it. Another explosion shattered the windows and she turned her face away for a brief moment before picking up her helmet, giving a sharp tug on the attached Night Vision Goggles to ensure they were secure. As she donned the Kevlar helmet, Samira could hear the urgency in the voices carrying through the chaos of the fighting outside. Making her way towards the door, she smelled smoke and saw, for the first time, the flicker of fire from somewhere near the armoury. The voices were louder now and Samira identified some of them. Sergeant Khan directing a sniper to start finding targets. Captain Noor ordering someone to get air support immediately. Other voices calling urgently for information on the enemy’s positions. She burst out of her accommodation as a mortar exploded among the vehicles parked near the gate, pieces of Humvees now lethal projectiles in their own right as they scythed through the air at speed. Men were shouting as they spilled out from their sleeping quarters where, like Samira only moments before, they’d been resting peacefully. Samira ran at a low crouch towards the familiar figure of Captain Noor as he stood talking into a satellite phone and barking out commands to the commandos around him. He looked up as she approached and lowered the handset to address her. ‘This is not good. Somehow more than two hundred Taliban have entered the city and taken control. It appears that all the other Army and Police positions have been abandoned and the troops deserted. We are the only point of resistance and we must hold. I am trying to get reinforcements and air support but nobody is answering. And we have no radio comms, must have been knocked out.’ Samira shook her head. ‘I don’t understand, how could they get here so fast without us knowing? Where were the warnings from Headquarters? The Americans?’ Noor spat. ‘My suspicion is that our Headquarters have abandoned the Province, and us, to save their own skins. I’m just about to call Kabul and get them to support directly.’ Samira struggled to comprehend the enormity of Noor’s words. The rank and file of the Afghan military had been deserting in droves, abandoning towns, cities and provinces ahead of the Taliban advance. But the Ktah Khas, the Special Unit, her unit, had always fought. Always. It’s what made them different. What had made the difference for the past ten years. As the American draw-down had taken effect it had become apparent very quickly that the Afghan security forces would fail. But the Ktah Khas had not failed. Had continued with the fight. Even now, as the Taliban made great gains through the country, Samira and her fellow commandos had been taking the fight to the enemy. She was brought back to the moment by Noor grasping her shoulder. ‘Go to the roof with the sniper and give me updates on the enemy positions so that I can inform air support if they ever answer. GO!’ Samira spun and ran towards the main building complex, bounding up the external staircase and on to the roof. In the dim light she could see the sniper positioned at the southern end of the roof and she called out as she approached him, crouching as she ran. ‘Friendlies approaching rear, friendlies approaching rear.’ She slid next to the sniper, taking care not to bump him, lowered her NVGs and activated the laser sighting on her carbine as she spoke. ‘What have we got?’ The sniper, a new member to the unit, replied quietly. ‘At least two mortar teams out of view, recoilless rifles in closer and four or five groups closing in on all sides.’ Samira gave a sharp intake of breath. This was a significant force for their small unit to deal with at the best of times. But without air support? Insanity. She shook her head. ‘What’s your ammunition status?’ ‘Good. I’ve brought spare, might need some help refilling the empty magazines.’ The sniper moved suddenly. ‘Fifty metres, half-left, base of building, four men, rifles and rockets.’ Samira looked through her NVGs, following the sniper’s indication and saw the men at once, noting the shoulder-mounted RPGs or rockets as the sniper called them. Flicking her safety catch to the ‘fire’ position, she moved her green laser over the torsos of three of the men as she spoke. ‘Marking targets.’ The sniper grunted in affirmation and Samira squeezed her trigger, firing small bursts of rounds into the chests of the men she’d painted with her laser. The suppressor of her carbine muffled much of the noise and she heard the sniper’s shot as he took out the final Taliban fighter. Samira scanned the kill site for several moments to confirm all four were dead. Turning her head to observe the other side of the street, she noticed a furtive movement through the green hue of her NVGs. She focussed her attention on the area but saw nothing further to indicate anything suspicious. Samira continued to monitor the street to her front, looking for targets, determined to engage them before they could get close to the base. The sniper whispered to her. ‘They’ve stopped the mortars. Everything is too quiet.’ Samira nodded her agreement but felt no relief; in her experience such a silence was usually the prelude to a concerted attack. Adrenalin was coursing through her, a familiar sensation as she anticipated the close-quarter combat to come. Below her, within the confines of the concrete walls, she could hear whispered directives being ushered as each commando came to the same conclusion she had arrived at: Something big was coming. She heard Captain Noor speak in English to one of the squadron’s Team Leaders and tell them that there would be no air support coming. Samira realised with a jolt that if Noor was talking in English he must believe the Taliban to be within earshot. Is that possible? She was about to ask the sniper when a riot of noise erupted from all directions as the base came under heavy attack. Chunks of wall exploded as RPGs and heavy machine-gun fire tore into the defensive structures. Mortars rained from above in numbers far in excess of what they had already experienced. Samira tried several times to return fire from her position but the wall around the roof was being shredded by the incredible weight of fire from the Taliban. She rolled away from the wall and crawled to the other side of the roof as green tracer rounds ricocheted in crazed directions off the walls protecting her. At the other corner she took a deep breath and raised her head above the parapet, aiming her rifle. She saw a group of Taliban running across the wide road and engaged them immediately, their bodies dropping on to the hard-packed dirt road as her rifle clattered and bucked in her shoulder. Samira dropped back behind her cover just as a heavy burst of fire tore into the wall sending chunks of stone into the air. She rolled away from the area and tucked herself against another corner, changed magazines and tried to work out what she was going to do. The noise was horrific; a constant barrage of explosions and weapons’ fire tearing the defences of their small base to pieces. She looked up as the sniper sprinted towards her and dropped to her side breathing heavily. ‘I can’t do anything from up here, they have us surrounded and pinned down. I’m going down to help with the fight there. Why is there no air support?’ Without waiting for an answer, he took off at a crouch and made it to the staircase, quickly dropping out of sight. Samira rose to her knees to follow him when a giant explosion rocked the entire building, deafening her and knocking her over. She shook her head and pushed herself up just as a second, more violent blast lifted the entire roof several feet and lit up the sky in a hellish illumination of red and orange. Samira’s breath was knocked out of her as the roof dropped and began collapsing under her feet. With no time to collect her thoughts she staggered towards the stairwell as giant slabs of the roof began falling into the darkness beneath her. She was dimly aware of an increase in the shooting below but focussed on making it to the stairs. As she reached them, she noted that they remained mostly intact but were twisted and buckled in some places. In the compound below she saw a giant hole in the perimeter wall and the warped, burning chassis of a car: The standard Taliban suicide borne vehicle bomb. She had no doubt that the explosion on the other side of the base had also been a car bomb. The stairs moved under her weight but didn’t come away from the wall. Samira took the steps several at a time, determined to get to the ground before they collapsed underneath her. They groaned in protest and sagged a little but they held and she gave an unconscious grunt of gratitude as her feet hit the earth of the compound. She began running towards the last place where she had seen Captain Noor but dropped to the ground as a stream of bullets zipped past her face. Samira rolled on to her side and raised the carbine up to face the threat. Two Taliban ran towards her, adjusting their aim as they approached but she engaged both men before they could focus on her prone figure, cutting them down mid-stride. Without pause for thought, she was on her feet again, sprinting towards the Operations Office and, hopefully, Captain Noor. All around her, heavy fire was being exchanged at close quarters as the Taliban continued to breach the base. Her ears were ringing but she could still hear explosions and feel the blast waves as grenades and RPGs detonated within the walled compound. A movement caught her eye and in the darkness beyond, she saw a green laser being waved around in a circle and was grateful for the signal that identified the rally point. As she reached the location, she saw it was a small corner that had been fortified with sandbags and whatever solid cover the commandos behind it had managed to grab. Samira clambered over the raised protection and landed on her back before rising to her knees and taking in her new surroundings. There were six of her fellow commandos returning fire while several others were sat with backs against the sandbags, yelling into telephones. Samira saw that Captain Noor was among them, alternating between a satellite phone and a conventional one. She could tell by his expression that things were bad; she had never seen concern on his face before but now he was shouting into the phones, frustration and anger contorting his features. She was about to make her way to him when the commando standing beside her dropped suddenly, collapsing to the ground. Samira grabbed him by the straps of his tac-vest and turned him over to check for injury. The blackened eye socket pooling dark blood and the limp body told her the commando was dead, not injured. Taking several of the dead man’s magazines and a couple of grenades from his tac-vest, she stuffed them into her own pouches. She then sprang up, rifle on aim and took the commando’s place. Her first burst cut down a Taliban fighter who was already aiming his RPG at their position. As he fell dying to the ground, the weapon went off and the projectile screamed harmlessly into the night sky. Movement to her left caught her eye and she turned her weapon to face it but lowered her aim as she identified the sniper and another commando sprinting towards her. Samira moved to one side as the men leapt the small barricade and took cover. She turned her attention back to the fight and opened fire on a small group of Taliban who were attempting to reach the stairs. She saw two of them drop but the other pair retreated around the corner of the building and out of sight. Someone stood beside her and she saw that it was the sniper, long rifle up on aim and firing into the darkness beyond. Samira scanned the area for further targets but none presented themselves to her. She could hear Captain Noor talking to someone on the phone and cursing whoever was on the other end. Again, so out of character from a commander they respected for his calm, considered leadership. The sniper bumped his hip against hers to get Samira’s attention. ‘He’s not going to get any air support. I spoke to my cousin who is a policeman in Kabul and he told me it’s chaos up there as all the foreigners are flying out of the country.’ He turned his face to look at her. ‘They’re leaving. The Americans, the British, all of them. They are running away.’ Samira stared at the sniper as he turned his attention back to monitoring his fields of fire. It couldn’t be true. Their American partners had sworn to them that they would always be here. Yes, in smaller numbers but the Special Forces would never leave Afghanistan. Would always be there to provide air support and intelligence to the Ktah Khas. She shook her head; the sniper’s cousin would have heard a rumour and, in typical Afghan fashion, exaggerated the facts to make it more interesting. But the seed of doubt remained. Even when air support hadn’t been immediately available to their missions in the past, a reason and alternative was always provided. This time felt different: Getting no response to their support request was unheard of and for the first time since the battle began, Samira felt a small stab of fear in her stomach. She’d been with the unit for over three years and had been a commando with the British-mentored CF 333 before that. Had fought hundreds of engagements with the Taliban, ISIS-K and Al Qaeda. Been wounded and injured many times over the years but had never believed her death was imminent. Until now. She turned to look at Captain Noor just as the sniper screamed a warning. ‘CAR BOMB FRONT ENTRANCE!’ Samira threw herself to the ground, covered her ears and opened her mouth as the air was split by an apocalyptic explosion and a blast wave that destroyed the cover around the commandos. She shook debris off her back and legs and turned to face the direction the blast had come from, knowing that a follow-up team of shooters would be racing towards them. Around her the other commandos were doing the same and a heavy weight of fire was soon streaming across the compound, the bullets tearing into the dozen Taliban attempting to cross the open ground. There was a lull when the last man fell and Samira used the time to change magazines and take stock of their situation. Looking around the remnants of their ruined position, she saw four bodies on the ground and two injured receiving treatment from the medic. Their cover from fire now consisted of a mere two levels of sandbags, barely enough to lie behind for protection. Captain Noor crawled forward until he was in their midst and Samira moved to one side to give her commander some room as he addressed them quietly. ‘The situation is bad. We are alone and no help is coming. No help is coming ever again. The Americans are leaving Afghanistan now. They started last night and will all be gone by today. The world has turned its back on us.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘From what I have learned from my contacts many of our senior officers have also run, taken flights to Dubai and Qatar to go and count their money.’ He spat on the ground before looking up again. ‘The Taliban are expected to reach Kabul by tonight at the latest and will probably take it with little to no resistance. Who will fight them without the support of our allies and no command structure from our own security forces?’ Samira cleared her throat before speaking. ‘So, what is the plan?’ The Captain let the question hang in the eerie quiet before replying. ‘There is one piece of good news. All Ktah Khas commandos and other special ops soldiers will be evacuated from the country under the order of the Americans and British. Their families will also be allowed to go with them.’ A murmur ran through the small group and the Captain raised his hand. ‘But . . . the airlifts will only take place from Kabul airport. Nowhere else. And by the time we make it there, the city will be under Taliban control.’ The sniper faced his commander. ‘What do you want us to do, Sir? There’s too many Taliban out there for us to kill. Another attack like that last one and we will be defeated.’ The Captain opened his mouth to reply but was stopped by the sound of a voice coming from a loudhailer beyond the compound walls. ‘Captain Noor, Captain Noor. Can you hear me?’ The commandos remained silent and focussed on the darkness around them as the disembodied voice continued. ‘Captain Noor, please answer me. You and your soldiers have put up a very brave fight. There is no need for anyone else to die here. Let us talk like men.’ Noor cleared his throat and shouted his reply. ‘I can hear you. Who are you and what do you want?’ The reply was immediate. ‘Captain Noor, I am Qari Hazrat, commander of over two hundred mujahideen fighters surrounding your base. We control the entire province and it is now part of our glorious Islamic Emirate. By nightfall we will take Kabul and clear it of the infestation of parasites and blasphemers who sit on their gilded thrones. Then the Taliban will rule this Islamic Emirate by the will and laws of Allah and his prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. So, to keep fighting is not necessary. Surrender, give up your weapons and you will be free to return to your homes if you give your word that you will never take up arms against the rightful rulers of the Emirate.’ The silence was almost absolute, broken only by the occasional wail from the wounded beyond the walls and the cackling from fires burning within the base. Noor leaned into the group as he spoke in a quiet voice. ‘I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any Taliban. I don’t believe he would honour such a surrender. But . . . we can’t defeat them. No one is coming to our aid. I can’t order you what to do anymore. The time has come for each of you to make your own choice.’ The sniper spoke up, voice raised in frustration and fear. ‘What choice? Surrender or die?’ The Captain regarded him. ‘There is another option; run. We fight our way out of here, make it to the streets and find a way to Kabul.’ The sniper shook his head. ‘They have every street blocked, I saw it from the roof. And even if we did survive and get out of the city, you heard him, they have control of the whole country.’ Samira met Noor’s gaze. ‘I’m running. There’s no choice for me. You know what will happen if those animals get their hands on me, no matter what they promise.’ Noor nodded. ‘I’m running too. We are Ktah Khas; the Taliban know we have been responsible for killing so many of them that I don’t believe they will let us go.’ The sniper leaned in, hissing his objections. ‘Where are you running to? You really believe you can make it all the way to Kabul? And even if you do, then what? Check in at the Ariana desk, enjoy some green tea in the departure lounge while you wait for your flight? No! Everything will be in Taliban hands, including the airport. I think we should put down our guns and negotiate.’ Noor’s response was halted by the interruption from the loudhailer beyond the walls. ‘Captain Noor, time is running out. I need your answer now. It is a good offer for you and your men. Take it but take it now as I am losing patience.’ Noor spoke quickly. ‘Show of hands; who is running?’ Samira looked around and saw that, along with her and Noor, only Sergeant Khan raised his hand. Noor spoke again. ‘Three of us. That leaves six who want to negotiate, yes?’ Samira confirmed the count and nodded at Noor who pointed to the sniper. ‘You. You will take charge of the group who want to negotiate. It is better the Taliban hear one voice to avoid confusion and honour their agreement. So, speak to Qari Hazrat now. Let him know you will be coming out of the front entrance, unarmed, carrying wounded and that you accept his conditions.’ The sniper nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’ Noor shook his head. ‘No. It’s better you know nothing of our plans in case they change their minds and torture you. If you know nothing you can tell them nothing. Now speak before he changes his mind.’ The sniper paused for a moment then turned, placing his rifle on the ground and cupping both hands to his mouth as he yelled. ‘We accept your merciful terms and are coming out, unarmed and carrying our wounded brothers.’ There was silence for several seconds before the reply. ‘A wise decision. Come out of the front entrance in single file unless you are helping the wounded. If we see any weapons we will kill you all.’ The sniper motioned for his group to take control of the casualties. Captain Noor gripped the younger man’s shoulder. ‘May Allah bless and care for you brother. Go now and know we will do nothing until all of you have left.’ With that, Noor grabbed Samira and Sergeant Khan, pulling them out of earshot from the remainder. ‘Plan: Samira, prepare a Humvee for us. Khan, you and I set demolitions to breach the wall on the south perimeter that will give us direct access to the widest part of the road. This should catch them off-guard; they’ll be expecting any escape to come from one of the gates. We can’t move the vehicle until the breach so we will set it, join Samira in the Humvee, detonate the charge then drive through the gap. We go fast and we go hard, try to use as many of the main roads as possible for speed then cut west on the tracks when necessary. If we lose the vehicle we steal another by whatever means we can. The quicker we reach Kabul, the sooner we know what we are dealing with. Questions?’ There were none. Samira ran to the vehicle parking area and selected one of the Humvees furthest away from the damaged ones. The vehicles were always ready for immediate deployment but she went through the checks anyway. The .50 Calibre heavy machine gun was loaded and its complement of ammunition stored as she had expected. Grab-bags of medical, food, water, ammunition for the carbines and batteries for the NVGs and other equipment were all secured in their allocated spaces. Four M-72 light anti-armour weapons strapped against the vehicle framework completed the inventory. After a quick check that the ignition fired, Samira turned the vehicle off, opened the doors and waited. She couldn’t see Noor and Khan from her position but knew from experience the men would be quick. She attempted to slow her breathing, nerves kicking in now that she was not active. She watched as the small column of those who chose to surrender shuffled past her, the healthy supporting the weight of the wounded. Their distorted shadows danced like demons in the red hues from the light cast by the fires and the smoke plumes drifting across the compound. Samira didn’t believe the Taliban would hold up their side of the agreement. They loathed the Ktah Khas. Hated them worse than they despised the Americans even. No, Samira had no faith that her colleagues making their way to the front entrance of the base would ever see their homes again. A Taliban prison perhaps, but not their homes. Movement drew her attention and she saw the figures of Noor and Khan sprinting towards her. Noor leapt into the passenger seat and Khan took the rear, the Sergeant pushing himself out of the top cover and taking control of the .50 Cal. He was also watching the movement of the sniper’s group as they made their way towards the front entrance. Monitoring their progress, Khan counted down the distance the group had to cover before reaching the gate and updated Noor and Samira. ‘Thirty metres . . . twenty metres . . . ten metres . . . last man through.’ He dropped back into the vehicle as Noor fired the remote detonation unit. The explosion shook the compound and the flash lit up the entire area as Samira started the ignition and floored the accelerator, propelling the vehicle forward. Using only the infra-red headlights and her NVGs, she sped towards the roiling smoke and dust cloud and saw the wide breach in the wall. They hit the rubble at the base of the breach and the Humvee was airborne for a brief moment before the vehicle landed, bounced then skidded as Samira turned it on to the wide thoroughfare of the road. Khan was already back up and manning the machine-gun as Noor stared ahead and gave clear directions. ‘Roadblock, thirty metres, no alternative route. Engage.’ Sergeant Khan opened up with the heavy machine-gun, the large rounds slamming into the vehicles and men blocking the road ahead. Samira aimed the Humvee at a point where two vehicles had been reversed against each other, knowing that they would provide less resistance than the front of a car where the heavy engine block was situated. There was a pause in the firing as Khan dropped back down and secured himself an instant before the Humvee smashed into the roadblock, the big American vehicle sending the smaller cars spiralling away into the darkness, metal screeching and sparks flying. Khan was back up in the turret as the Taliban opened fire from behind them, the booming reply of his heavy machine-gun soon silencing even that token resistance. Noor clapped Samira’s shoulder. ‘Good work. Take the next left then immediate right. After that it’s only a couple of kilometres to the highway.’ He was silent then, his attention focussed on the streets around them as the Humvee sped along the deserted roads. The streets were dark and empty for the most part, the occasional corpse on the road the only sign that any life had existed at all. There was no pursuit and other than the sounds of sporadic gunfire in distant parts of the city, almost no indication of further Taliban presence. Despite this, Samira’s stomach was tensed in anticipation of ambush or encountering another roadblock. Risking a quick glance at Noor she could see from her commander’s intense focus to their front that he was feeling the same way. Samira continued to follow Noor’s directions and breathed a sigh of relief when they burst out of a side street and hit the main highway, the Humvee’s tyres squealing in protest as she spun the wheel to point the vehicle north. North to Kabul.
2
KABUL AIRPORT, AFGHANISTAN, AUGUST 2021
The C-130 Hercules dropped suddenly and Nick Morgan’s stomach lurched as the big aircraft descended at speed, a defence against any anti-aircraft missiles targeting the plane. Grabbing the webbing straps above him, he pulled himself upright and looked out of the window at the chaos he and his team were about to enter. On the aprons and runways below, he could see people and vehicles moving around in big numbers, far more than any normal airport should ever have. Civilian airline jets taxied past military aircraft with various national flags prominent on their tails. Beyond the walled perimeter of the airport, he could see columns of dark smoke rising up from various locations around the city. Nick adjusted his gaze to look at the area adjacent to the boundary and saw thousands of people corralled into the streets outside the airport entrance. He could imagine the panic and chaos on the ground as each Afghan fought for entry to the airport and the chance to escape the coming Taliban. Dropping back in his seat, Nick thought about the operation ahead and what little information he and the team had to go on. Plucked from their support role in Kenya to the Secret Intelligence Service, SIS, or MI6 as they were known to the wider world, and straight on to a plane to Afghanistan. Their mission directive covered by a rather vague ‘key personnel extraction in advance of hostile actors’ imminent ownership of operational terrain.’ Of course, they’d been keeping up with the news and had received some intelligence briefs from the analysts on the situation in Afghanistan, but these had been general in nature. His team’s operational focus honed on their current area of responsibility, East Africa and the resurgent terrorist threat. That had changed with the call and subsequent online meeting with the Operations Officer, ordering Nick to shelve whatever he and the team were doing and prep for immediate deployment to Kabul. Civilian profile and ready to hit the ground running on arrival. He’d been advised to take vehicles with them, another sign that the situation on the ground was pretty volatile. Some support assets would be available and they’d be working closely with and possibly directly to, British Embassy, Foreign and Commonwealth Office and the SIS Head of Station. That convoluted chain of command in itself warned Nick that there were severe challenges ahead for him and the team. When he’d asked the Ops Officer outright how bad the situation in Kabul was, he’d been given the standard euphemism of ‘fluid’; a term usually reserved for situations of utter chaos. Nick looked down the aircraft at the vehicles strapped to the deck and observed his twelve-man team sat either side of them as the C-130 spiralled into its fast, final stage of descent. Most of the guys leaned back in their seats, eyes closed, some listening to music, others lost in their own thoughts staring into space. Every man had spent time on the ground in Afghanistan at some point with most having completed multiple tours. Nick had been deployed to the country regularly since 2001, when he’d been a young Special Air Service Trooper on secondment to the Special Boat Service, the SBS. Originally, he’d felt deflated at the thought of not deploying to Iraq with the SAS, his own regiment. But the intensity of combat he’d experienced on that first deployment with his maritime counterparts had given Nick a depth of experience which rivalled that of even some of the more seasoned special forces soldiers. Since then, he’d returned regularly to Afghanistan in various roles: Conventional assaults, High Value Target detention ops, Surveillance, Support to SIS Stations in Kabul and Kandahar, Operational Mentoring of Afghan Partner Units. Twenty years of operations had taken Nick from Trooper to Warrant Officer second class – WO2, in the Regiment and he was regarded as safe pair of hands in a tight spot. And this current situation, as far as Nick could tell, definitely qualified as a tight spot. His last briefing before wheels-up in Nairobi had been that lists of the personnel Nick and his team were expected to extract from Kabul would be compiled and waiting for them on arrival. But if experience had taught Nick anything it was to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Judging by the chaos unfolding below him, Nick had very little confidence that the lists would be ready and waiting. But he’d been here before. They all had. Dropping into ‘fluid’ situations and getting straight to work, relying on no one else to bail them out when things didn’t go to plan. He doubted that this operation would be any different. The plane bounced slightly as the wheels touched down and the engine sound increased as the C-130 braked hard, moved into a slow taxi and turned. After a minute the aircraft came to a stop and the crew made their way through the plane, unshackling the vehicles and cargo ready for an immediate unloading. Nick stood and stretched as the ramp at the rear of the aircraft was lowered and the light poured in. He picked up his chest rig and pulled it over his head, the weight compounded by the Kevlar plates and magazines of ammunition stuffed into the pouches. He secured the Velcro side flaps and, grabbing his pack and rifle, walked between the vehicles and the fuselage, down the ramp and into the madness of Kabul International Airport. The heat and noise were the first sensations he registered and as he walked down the short ramp, the frenetic activity all around him the second. Aircraft and vehicles moving in all directions and even for the brief few seconds he watched, Nick saw one near miss as a Kam Air jet almost collided with a large bus that was speeding between stands. He lowered his sunglasses against the glare and pulled his satellite phone from his pack and found the pre-set number he was looking for. As he waited for the connection he glanced back at the aircraft and saw his team busy unloading it with the assistance of the Royal Air Force crew. A voice answered his call and he turned his attention back to the task at hand, his reply short and to the point. ‘Hi, it’s Nick. We’re wheels down. Where do you want us?’ He listened as his question was answered and directions given. ‘Thanks, we’ll be with you in about ten minutes.’ Nick stowed the phone and turned back to brief his team. ‘Okay, once we’re good to go we’ll make our way to the QRF building at the other side of the Military Terminal. They’ve got us an office set aside to use as an Ops Room and Station is going to brief us on current situation.’ The men nodded their understanding and turned back to getting their equipment and vehicles off the aircraft, Nick stepping aside as the first Toyota SUV was driven down the ramp. He looked up as the sound of gunfire carried over the din within the airport and wondered if it was incoming or outgoing. From what he understood, the Taliban were already in Kabul but had not attacked the airport for reasons best known to themselves. The UK had deployed around seven hundred soldiers from 16 Air Assault Brigade, many of them Parachute Regiment, Nick’s regiment before he had passed SAS Selection. That had been one small piece of welcome news; he was bound to know, or one of his team would know, a couple of decent contacts within the Paras that they could call upon for some help if needed. A shout caught his attention and he saw Luke, one of his Team Leaders, giving him the thumbs-up that the vehicles were packed and ready to go. Nick moved to the first and jumped in the passenger seat as his team followed his lead and mounted up in the three cars. Nick looked at the driver, a Mobility Troop Corporal from D Squadron. ‘You know where you’re going John?’ ‘Yeah Nick, been out here a couple of times and remember it pretty well.’ Nick nodded and turned his attention to monitoring the chaos surrounding them as John negotiated around vehicles and aircraft who seemed for the most part to be far less concerned with what was going on around them than the SAS team were. They were approaching a strong barricade and Nick noted that it was British soldiers manning the defences, their vehicles bristling with various calibres of machine-guns ready for any eventuality. John slowed the vehicle down as they approached and lowered his window. Ahead of them, the vehicle-mounted weapons were immediately turned to cover their arrival. Nick watched as a Lance Corporal silently gestured for them to hold up their Identity Cards. Each man held his ID card out of the window and after several seconds of studying them through his rifle’s optical sight, the Lance Corporal beckoned them to approach. When Nick’s vehicle reached the Lance Corporal, their ID cards were checked again, much to the driver’s impatience. ‘What’s the point of checking them twice mate? They’re either good first time or they’re not.’ Nick could see the Lance Corporal weighing up who these men were with their Army IDs, armed and travelling in civilian clothes, before giving his reply. ‘We check twice; once at safe range just in case it’s another suicide bomber, and once close up in case they’re forged. We got caught out with a few of them on our first couple of days. Where you lot headed?’ Nick leaned over and replied, deploying the team’s basic cover story. ‘QRF building mate, we’re security team for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office staff.’ The Lance Corporal raised his eyebrows. ‘FCO? Good luck, they’ve been nothing but a pain in the arse for us since we arrived. Maybe you lot can sort them out, let them know we’re not here to run around after them all day.’ Nick grinned. ‘I hear you. We’ll see what we can do.’ The Lance Corporal made a hand gesture and a barrier was raised and a heavy truck reversed, opening a gap between the defences that Nick and his team manoeuvred through. As they made their way along the row of buildings, Nick noted the lines of people being hurried towards waiting military and civilian aircraft and for the first time, appreciated that a full-scale evacuation was underway. The tail markings of German, French, Dutch, British and numerous other nationalities on the planes underlining the fact that every country was leaving. A complete evacuation after twenty years of fighting. Although the term evacuation suggested at least some semblance of planning and execution, what Nick had witnessed so far seemed more akin to fleeing. He turned back to the driver as they passed a row of armoured vehicles similar to the ones they had encountered at the checkpoint. ‘Is that SFSG?’ The driver nodded. ‘Yep. Not sure how many but definitely their wheels.’ This was another piece of good news for Nick. SFSG, the Special Forces Support Group, were veterans of many high-intensity operations. Allocated directly to Special Forces, the Paras, Marines and RAF Regiment soldiers that made up their ranks thrived on their role in support of SAS and SBS tasks around the globe. Nick was happy they were here as their mobility and firepower would be a massive asset if things got close to the wire for he and his team. The car slowed and Nick turned his attention to the building the driver was turning towards. People were rushing in and out of the entrance and dozens more were spaced around the immediate vicinity shouting into mobile phones, hands cupped to ears to drown out the incessant din of aircraft engines and voices. The car came to a halt and Nick exited the vehicle, grabbing his rifle and rucksack. His team followed suit with each driver locking the vehicle behind them. John nodded towards the building and addressed Nick. ‘I’ll stay here and guard the cars and the kit Nick. There’s way too many people milling about and no security that I can see.’ ‘Good call, John. I’ll see about getting a couple of spare bods attached for admin and security while we’re located here.’ With that, Nick led his team towards the entrance. Around him he identified German and French being barked down mobile telephones, urgency and frustration apparent in every call. When he reached the entrance, Nick pushed his sunglasses up on his head to adjust for the dim interior. Two armed soldiers stopped his team and again, checked their IDs and their mission before allowing them to proceed. Nick waited until all his men were through the check then led them along a corridor bustling with people rushing past or talking loudly into phones. Remembering his earlier conversation, Nick found the stairwell he was looking for and led his team up, cursing as he was bumped by two Polish officers running down the stairs. On the next floor, he found the office he was looking for, marked with a plastic British flag and a printed Foreign and Commonwealth Office sign underneath. He pounded his fist on the wooden door and heard the immediate response of the locks being turned. The door opened slightly and a pale-faced young man in wire-rimmed glasses looked at him. Nick raised his ID card. ‘Nick Morgan and Team. Security. Stuart Ashby is expecting us.’ The younger man swallowed and glanced at Nick’s tac-vest and weapon before nodding. ‘Yes, okay, he’s in a meeting just now but should be done in a minute. Come in and you can wait.’ He pulled the door open and Nick saw the large office space was crammed with people standing and seated over desks, telephones and computers. The noise was constant with all manner of British dialects competing with ring tones for dominance of the space. Nick and his team followed the young man and he led them to a smaller room where another group of people were furiously typing on laptops or mobile telephones. Some of them glanced up and stared at the newcomers for several seconds before turning their attention back to their own tasks. There wasn’t much free space so Nick and his men slotted themselves between individuals where they could. The young man touched Nick’s elbow to get his attention again. ‘The meeting should be over any minute now and I’ll grab Stuart as soon as I see him and point him your way.’ Nick nodded his thanks and leaned against the wall, looking back into the main room and the frenetic activity within it. From what he could gather from the snatches of dialogue he was picking up, the frantic conversations seemed to be focussed on identifying and confirming who was to be evacuated and requests for more time and assets with which to achieve this. He could also sense something else in the room. Less tangible perhaps, but none the less real for that: Fear. Now that he’d identified it, Nick could see the physical manifestations of fear on the individuals’ faces. The wide eyes, clenched jaws, beaded sweat on foreheads, flushed cheeks. These people were scared. Nick assumed that for most of them, this was the first time they would have been involved in anything like this. The first time that their diplomatic status had come crashing into the real world that their political influencing had created. Nick reached into his pocket and retrieved his mobile phone, powering the device up and retrieving his messages. He stabbed out a quick missive and sent it, watching for confirmation that the message had gone before turning the device back off again and stowing it away. It was a deal they’d made with each other not long after they’d got together. That no matter where they were or what they were doing, they would always check in with each other and say where they were and how long they might be out of communication. Sometimes they couldn’t say directly but in veiled speech, they could usually get their location and information across without any security compromise. Nick’s reminiscing of his personal life was cut short when his name was called from the main room, and he turned towards the familiar, upper-class voice as Stuart Ashby, Head of Station for SIS Kabul approached him. Nick regarded the tall, angular figure with the unruly mop of dark hair and extended his hand to meet that offered. ‘Stuart, good to see you again. How’s tricks?’ Stuart Ashby paused and regarded the SAS man with a sardonic smile as he rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Hello Nick. Good to see you again too. Tricks, as you put it, are not good. Not good at all. In fact, to put it bluntly, tricks are fucking awful.’ Nick raised his eyebrows in surprise at the profanity. He was now under no illusion that things were bad in Kabul. Despite what he had personally observed since his arrival, the erudite and urbane Stuart Ashby’s use of the F-word was the most serious indicator yet that Nick and his team were definitely in a ‘fluid’ situation.
I’ll keep this short and sweet. I’m sure most of you will have guessed by the image above that I finally have some news regarding the publication of my latest book, The Kill Chain. Thanks to my brilliant agent Andrew Lownie, I have just signed a 2 – book deal with Penguin Random House. I’m still coming to terms with being pitched by the most respected publisher in the world, very keen to secure The Kill Chain and a follow-up. Having become accustomed to me pitching my work to publishers, it was a surreal experience to be courted and convinced to commit to a great deal with Penguin Random House. They were very complimentary about the storyline, the characters, and the plan for a trilogy which they are keen to work with me on. A lovely invitation to London to meet and greet which I will partake of once my current domestic circumstances calm down a bit, having just moved down the coast a tad and humping and dumping the contents of a four bedroom house in vans, cars, and wherever else we could squeeze our belongings.
A film scout is also currently reading the book with interest and I will of course update with any developments on that front. But again, absolutely amazing to have my agent pass on that piece of news as well!
So, I’m currently sat in the living room of my new home as of yesterday, the faithful hound Kota sleeping at my feet, and taking a breath for a beat just savouring the moment of having just signed the contract with Penguin Random House. An amazing start to a new venture and one that would never have been possible without the support of you, the reader. My books wouldn’t exist but for the people who read and enjoy them and continually encourage me to write more. So to you, thank you. Thank you so much for being with me on the journey from typing out the bones of my first novel on an ancient laptop in a dusty room in Afghanistan to signing a cracking deal with the world’s most respected publishing house from the living room of my new home.
And now, a healthy shot of rum (or four) methinks . . . . . .
As my Readers await my next book, of which I have some exciting news coming soon, I want to thank you for your patience and understanding. As such, I’ve written a short story as a small token of my appreciation. A bit of fiction, but, with the craziness in the world at the moment, it could turn to fact any given day. Anyway, take it for what it is, a fictional story based around current events. Hope you enjoy it.
Writing books is tough. No two ways about it. You do it alone, day in-day out because you’ve got to produce the work that readers are going to expect. You constantly second-guess your story and your characters; Are they good enough? Is this really going to work as a novel?
I can’t speak for other writers, but I know that I get very focussed once I’m into the writing process. I’ll be hammering away at the keyboard all day and don’t like distractions that pull me out of my zone, so to speak. It was only two days ago that I learned the lesson that, while this is productive, there is a balance to be struck.
I have my partner to thank for highlighting this to me. I’d had a good day writing my latest work in progress and we were talking about our plans for the next day. I mentioned that I would, as usual, be behind the computer, smashing through the word count. As an aside, I happened to mention that one of my literary heroes, Gerald Seymour, was giving a presentation at the Edinburgh International Book Festival. My partner asked me why I wasn’t going to see him and I came up with the usual ‘…prioritising my writing…’ justification.
She then stated that I should really go to the event, that I would enjoy it and probably learn some valuable points from such an esteemed author. I countered with several reasons revolving around the expense of travelling down to sit in a room with a huge crowd and not really have any engagement. Her next statement surprised me and gave me pause for thought: ‘You should really go. You never really do anything outside of the writing.’
Now, she wasn’t complaining about our social lives as we make sure that we enjoy our free time together. What she was getting at was that when it comes to writing, all I do is write. Here was the chance to meet ‘the best thriller writer in the world’ according to the Sunday Telegraph, and I was dismissing it to spend another eight or so hours typing in the porch? She told me that I should definitely go and guaranteed me that I would enjoy it.
Her words struck a chord and I recognised the truth in what she was saying. The writing can’t just be about the writing. Influence, inspiration, validation, motivation. None of these traits can be completely nurtured by the self; they require external providers from time to time to refresh them.
So, I found myself taking the train to Edinburgh, (editing a first draft MS throughout the journey. Old habits and all that…) moderately enthused about the forthcoming event. Entering the event location I was stunned to see so many people in attendance. The thriller genre is clearly alive and well among the readers visiting the EIBF. Gerald then took to the stage with the compere and made their introductions.
For the remainder of the presentation I was absolutely rapt. Gerald was witty, smart, self-deprecating and a great speaker. He spoke of his writing process, his approach to research, how he remains current despite being in his fortieth year of writing books based around espionage and suspense. His anecdotes were fascinating and he related how he fed them into his novels.
I left that presentation with a renewed sense of motivation and determination to be good at what I do. I picked up some real gems of information to aid and assist my writing from one of the world’s best. In short, I had one of the most productive experiences of my writing career, despite not spending eight hours on the lap-top. And all because my partner gave me the kick up the arse that I needed to recognise the real value in something.
I read my first Gerald Seymour book, Harry’s Game, in 1984 and bought his latest, A Damned Serious Business, yesterday, 15 August 2018. Having started reading it last night, I am already as invested in ADSB as the sallow, 16-year old me had been in the pages of Harry’s Game.
This was a good lesson for me. That, yes, a writer needs to write otherwise there is nothing for people to read. But also that we need to step away from the keyboard now and again and expose ourselves to positive influences and experiences to help motivate us and maintain our passion for what we do.
In short, sometimes it’s necessary to close the lid of the lap-top to inspire us to be better writers.
Initial cover for my latest novel. Looking good and happy with the overall effect. Different from Only the Dead in that this book centres around a small team of rural Police Officers thrust into a life and death situation while completely cut off.
Similar themes of PTSD and maladjusted, former Special Forces soldiers remain but have maintained my character-driven form for the premise of the novel.
Have also leapt upon one of the comments from my review team who coined the phrase ‘First Blood meets The Bill in this cracking read.’
After a wee snag regarding title formats that didn’t match exactly, both formats of the book are now linked together on Amazon. Have to say, all engagement I have had with Amazon throughout this process has been very positive and responsive, very pleased!
A wonderful evening that brought together all the people who have supported me throughout. Lots of laughs and tremendous company!
The stunning table set for canapés and coffees, courtesy of Teresa Coull Events. The whole evening was a hit thanks to the planning and organisation and beautiful touches like this.
The obligatory speech, giving a little bit of background as to how the book came about.
Advance copies for reviewers arrived and very excited. Already have a really good review from a fellow author that a publication is looking to include if they have the available space.
