During the Cold War, propaganda campaigns were as important as armed manoeuvres, some would say more important. The constant threat of annihilation meant more of the good taxpayers money could be spent on the military without outcry from those paying the tax in the first place — the hard working people of Great Britain. It was, after all, for their benefit.
SCU1 would be dropped into enemy territory and shift political pawns to the advantage of the NATO group of countries. Missions would be decided by the SCU commander, who’d pick up global intelligence reports and act on what he thought would be of best interest to Britain and her allies.
Missions may have involved the disappearance of top nuclear scientists, who would then mysteriously appear in New York offering to defect, or sabotage of an arms manufacturing facility, which would result in the latest tactical missile programme being delayed by several months. Anything which would make good headlines back home, but could never be blamed on interference from the West, either due to lack of proof or the embarrassment it would cause the Soviet authorities.
It was a great success. At the end of the first five years, SCU1 had successfully taken part in eighteen assignments. Sabotage, kidnap, assassination, it didn’t matter to them. They lost team members, had them replaced, and continued, but nothing was ever pinned on the British government.
At the end of the original five year tour of duty, the entire squad was retired.
Raynor removed a sheet of paper from his document wallet and pretended to study it. In reality, he was studying his surroundings. The open-plan office was spacious, banks of desks, each comprising of four corner units placed in a cross formation with wide aisles between the banks, gave a pleasant environment for the staff. The outside edge of the space, with the views across the city, was taken up with large offices which Raynor assumed were for the management. An interior wall separated the office space from the reception area. On the office side of this partition, a row of printers sat on desks, a coffee machine stood adjacent to them, offering an array of instant beverages to those brave enough to try.
A constant murmur of conversation could be heard throughout the space as orders for the latest implements of death were being placed with the all-to-happy-to-oblige sales teams.
From the corner of his eye, Raynor spotted the office of Joseph Fostervold. He started to head in that direction when suddenly a man in a royal blue, three piece suit jumped from his chair, shouting, fist pumping the air. He sprinted across the office and rang an old ‘last orders’ bell that was mounted to the wall. The man shouted, ‘Get in. Fifty grand sale!’ before performing a series of bows to his colleagues, who were now cheering, applauding, and shouting ‘Nice one Mr Horton.’
The man returned to his seat and regained his composure, ready to call the next name on his list. The next quarter master or procurement officer of a faraway army who no doubt needed some more ammunition or hardware.
‘Um. Excuse me.’ Came a voice from behind Raynor.
Chapter Twenty-Six
1968 saw the birth of SCU2. Five new recruits, eager to do their masters bidding. The Vietnam War was in full swing and the UK government was more than happy to lend a hand in fighting the good fight against the rise of communism. But this one really wasn’t their fight, so there was no major involvement as far as the top brass or the British public were concerned.
The UK provided Jungle Warfare training to the American troops, and later in the campaign it was rumoured that a British Air Force base in Thailand had been specially constructed for launching US bombing raids.
Secretly though, SCU2 were very much involved, but over the course of just five years their role had taken a darker tone. Vietnam was a dirty war. The Viet Cong employed tactics the Americans just weren’t prepared for. Tunnel systems that stretched for miles underground housed entire communities who would live in large spaces dug out from the ground. They would even dig tunnels to allow smoke from cooking to be expelled several hundred metres from the subterranean kitchen where the cooking was taking place. American reconnaissance teams would report the coordinates of the smoke, resulting in bombing of empty ground away from the main living quarters and tunnel systems.
Above ground, deadly traps were laid. The see-saw trap which saw anybody who stood on it falling into a pit of spikes as their weight set the downward plunge of the hinged, grass-covered board they’d stepped on. Snares, spike strips and other deadly implements were all left in the path of the American ground troops. The Americans had to resort to napalm and cluster bombs, but were struggling to keep hold of territories in the south of the country.
SCU2 were deployed to infiltrate the North Vietnamese strongholds and relay information back to their American commanders which would aid in identifying targets for bombing. They were also under instruction to raze to the ground any villages or pockets of resistance they encountered on the way.
Entire villages were burned down, women and children shot in cold blood trying to escape their burning homes. The old, sick, and infirm killed where they lay, or just left to burn as the fires spread.
Sam double-clicked an image file and instantly regretted it as he gagged at the grainy black and white photograph of a smouldering building, taken some time after an attack. The remains of a person could be seen halfway through a window of what was left of a house. What looked like a bullet hole could be seen in the charred skull.
‘Fucking hell.’ was all he could manage as he clicked the next image.
A bonfire, again a black and white image, but not a bonfire made from logs and kindling, this was fuelled by the corpses of ordinary Vietnamese peasants who just happened to be in the way of a covert squad of British soldiers who very few people knew of, and who shouldn’t really have been there.
‘How the hell can this happen without anybody knowing?’ Sam asked nobody in particular.
‘Don’t ask me mate,’ replied Mickey. ‘You work for this bunch of cowboys, not me.’
Sam skipped the rest of the images and chose a seemingly random document to view next.
Raynor spun around and smiled at a short, plump woman of around forty-five. She had brilliant red hair, cut into a bob, curving around her cheeks. Small eyes like a Tyrannosaurus Rex seemed to pierce Raynor’s soul as they peered over the edge of her small, wire-frame glasses. She wore a far too short red and white, floral patterned summer dress, exposing chubby, whiter than white legs. Raynor felt an inward shiver as she scrutinised him.
‘Are you lost?’ She continued, ‘It’s just that I don’t recognise you, and I know nearly everybody here.’
‘New starter.’ replied Raynor. He nodded toward Horton, the blue-suited man who’d just made the sale. ‘Pretty impressive.’ He commented, trying to change the subject.
‘Yes, he is.’ Replied the woman as she gazed in awe at the salesman. She returned her gaze to Raynor, her face screwed up once more.
‘Sorry, I was unaware of any new starter, and where’s you name badge? Nobody should be allowed past reception without a visitor’s pass or a name badge.’
Shit! Think. Quick.
‘The guy from Human Resources, what’s his name?’ Raynor closed his eyes and clicked his fingers, pretending to search his memory.
‘Colin.’ he finally said.
‘Colin was going to get it made up for me, I’ve not seen him since.’
‘But we don’t have a Colin in HR, Colin’s in Purchasing. Do you mean, Clive?’
‘Yeah, Clive, sorry. I’ve been introduced to so many people today that all the names are a blur. You know what it’s like, first day and all.’