‘We’d best be going,’ he says.
‘I enjoyed that,’ I say.
‘Me too.’ He looks at his watch again and gives me a pensive look. The sky has brightened in the east, but around us the land is silent.
‘I was just thinking,’ he says. ‘Shall we try the anti-ambush, and live-fire the Brownings? We could come from up there,’ he motions to the dirt track that winds upwards beside the quarry face, ‘drive in close, and retreat this way.’ There are some dips and mounds in the ground behind us, and roughly fifty yards from the quarry face is a long intervening ridge of bulldozed rubble about four feet high. It’s the perfect hiding place to retreat to from the car. ‘Just aim for the same place where the targets were. Imagine each one’s an Adoo with an AK. Let’s get those cans so we can scarper afterwards.’
We gather up the mutilated cans and hide them in the car. Then we sit in the front and H puts the box of 9-millimetre cartridges between us. We fill the magazines, chamber one round into the breech and add a final top-up round to the magazine, making fifteen. Then we slip the pistols under our thighs and I start the engine. In four-wheel drive we climb the badly rutted track, circle the rim of the quarry and turn the car around just before reaching the skyline at the top, from where we might be seen. With the engine running, we have a good look on all sides for any movement. It’s time to go.
‘Check chamber,’ says H. I ease back the top slide of the pistol and glimpse the brass casing nestling in the breech.
‘All set here.’
‘Right, take us down.’ I put the car into first gear and without accelerating let the slope carry us forward. ‘Come on, make it real,’ says H, and we accelerate, pitching hard across the braided ruts of the track. H braces himself with a hand on the dashboard grip. ‘I’ll say when,’ he growls.
As the track levels off we hit the flat ground with an almighty lurch. I floor it towards the quarry face, wondering how late H will leave the signal. As the tyres bite into the mud and gravel I can hear the debris from under us smacking violently into the wheel arches. Then, about sixty feet from the quarry face, I hear H yell.
‘Ambush! Ambush! Enemy front! Take the front!’
The brakes lock as I pull the wheel hard to the left. The tail end of the car swings to the right, and the front wheels grind to a juddering halt. H throws the passenger door open and somersaults out. He’s already firing as I hit the ground a couple of seconds later and take up a firing position across the bonnet.
H shouts, ‘Moving now!’ and I aim the Browning. It leaps five times. Beyond the foresight, puffs of chalk burst from the quarry face. Then I hear H’s shout from behind me.
‘Move! Move! Move!’
I sprint away from the car, cowering instinctively as I see the muzzle flash erupting from H’s pistol ahead of me to the left. An uncomfortable feeling. A watery dip in the ground appears ahead of me and I fling myself into it, bring the weapon up and fire another five rounds in the direction of the car. Its blue shape seems to be floating pointlessly against the light wall of stone beyond, and I think for a moment of how much it resembles a beached whale.
Then I hear H shout again and run another fifteen yards as he covers me a second time. I dive and fire as H sprints to our final position, then hear the click of the firing pin as the weapon seems to die in my hands. I make the final sprint to the ridge of rubble. He has both hands on his weapon as I dive in beside him and slither round to face our imaginary enemies at the far end of the quarry.
H ducks below the rim of the ridge and rolls onto his back to check his pistol. The air reeks of cordite and there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears, which resounds at every heartbeat.
‘Alright?’ asks H.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Right, make safe.’
I check and pocket the pistol. Then we stand up and look towards the quarry face. The place seems strangely still after all the noise and movement. H’s eyes are fixed firmly on his car.
‘I’m glad I wasn’t stuck in there,’ he says quietly.
‘We certainly got out alright,’ I say, thinking he’s referring to our escape from fictional bandits. I haven’t felt such exhilaration for years and have a strong urge to laugh out loud. The low gruff tone of H’s voice brings me back.
‘It’s not that,’ he says, still looking intently in the direction of his beloved Range Rover. I follow his gaze. The car looks perfectly intact, only the normally transparent rectangles of window have turned a different colour, as if painted in the same chalky rainwater that’s splashed all over our clothes and faces. Then I understand what he’s staring at, and feel myself biting my lower lip.
‘You arse,’ he says grimly. ‘You just shot my bloody windows out.’
It’s our final week of training. It changes pace and lasts longer. At dawn every day we drive to different deserted places for further shooting practice. The time I’m allowed to aim and fire decreases at each session. Then when H is satisfied that I’m shooting accurately enough, he gets me to sprint thirty yards to the firing position, which makes steadying the pistol more difficult. He wants the weapon to become an extension of my hand, he explains. He shows me a quick-draw technique and lets me keep the Browning in the spare room to practise. I need to be able to draw and fire in my sleep, he says.
Rain or shine, we run everywhere. Sometimes H sets the pace, his rhythm as steady as a mountaineer’s and indifferent to gradient or temperature, and at others he lets me lead, muttering encouragement when the going gets more challenging. He drags me up the cruel slope of Hay Bluff, and we run to the far end of the long plateau called the Cat’s Back, and then along the neighbouring plateau towards Lord Hereford’s Knob. We tackle the lung-searing flanks of Pen-y-Fan and Cribyn in freezing rain. He pushes me beyond my habitual reach but just short of despair.
In the afternoons we work on personal security issues relating to journeys: assessing threats and risks, keeping in touch and keeping to plans, access and escape, emergency routines, and the importance of pre-established safe havens and RV points. We talk through trusted methods of anti-surveillance when on foot: crossing open spaces, doubling back on a pretext and using a friend to observe one’s movements from afar.
On self-defence, things simplify. Everything I’ve seen in films is bollocks, he says. The key thing is making the decision between fight or flight, and sticking to it. Flight is self-explanatory. Fighting is to decide that one will make use of anything and everything possible to defeat or disable an attacker. The hand, knee, elbow and head can all be put to lethal effect, providing they are used quickly and accurately and with complete conviction. Improvised weapons are nearly endless. A newspaper, pen or mobile phone can be used in a deadly manner, and any number of household substances can be used to inflict damage: pepper will temporarily blind when blown from the hand into an attacker’s eyes; bleach will choke; hot water will scald. Queensbury Rules do not apply.
We devote a session to mine recognition, which is my territory, so for a few hours I hold forth on the perverse technology of anti-personnel mines, and the lethal design refinements of the PFM ‘butterfly’ mine designed by the Soviets for Afghanistan, the PMN and its successors, and the almost undetectable Chinese-made Type 72.
Much of the next day is devoted to explosives in general, the improvised versions manufactured by people who can’t afford jets or tanks, and the devious and unlikely ways in which they can be set off. H mentions the high explosive that comes in the form of an adhesive roll that can be swiftly stuck to a door frame like a deadly strip of Sellotape before being detonated. The technique belongs to the Regiment’s curriculum on methods of entry, though we agree that blowing a door from its housing with plastic explosive is usually a last resort.