FEUCHTER, QIII, Spiral_NX
CHAPTER 3
SEARCH AND DESTROY
S am and Mongrel stood outside the wide H2 military-green metal-studded door, their faces long, sulking like naughty schoolboys waiting outside the headmaster’s office. They exchanged glances, and Jam wrapped his long leather coat more tightly around his shoulders as if this thick black skin was armour; a temporary protective exoskeleton.
‘You ask him.’
Mongrel frowned, his naturally brooding Slavic features positively hangdog now. ‘I ain’t asking him.’
‘It’s your fucking turn.’
‘But you know what that big dumb bastard said!’
‘Yeah, he said he wouldn’t give us any more ammo, and if we came back to ask for more he might just shove it up our arses. That’s what the bastard said. I just don’t know if he was joking or not - you know, playing around in a friendly sort of fashion, or meaning it in an evil-bastardy sort of fashion. You know Simmo!’ Jam scowled, seemingly unsure of himself.
‘ Da , I know him - and I know he fucking unpredictable.’
They both stared at the wide metal door. The plastic plaque screwed into the steel read: SGT SIMMO -STORES. Such a simple epithet, and yet one which had repercussions throughout the whole of Spiral_H, including the different H2, H3 and H4 divisions. In the same way that a secretary could run a school, the guard on a front gate could run a whole electronics corporation, or an air-traffic controller could coordinate an entire airport - so the nasty shaven-headed squaddie in charge of the stores could run the whole of Spiral.
Sort of.
Sgt Simmo was in charge of weapons, ammunition, gadgets, motorbikes, trucks, tanks and helicopters. If you needed something, you had to see Sgt Simmo. If you needed something in an emergency, you still had to see Sgt Simmo. And always, always, always ... you had to sign for it in triplicate.
‘Just follow my lead, pussy,’ said Jam, and pushed the door open with a gentleness uncommon for the large killer.
Mongrel, muttering insults, followed Jam into the gloomy office which fronted the huge maze of warehouse stores containing a billion items of equipment. The office shouldn’t have been gloomy - it was painted a bright military green, and had plenty of lighting. But something sinister nevertheless created an ominous murky half-light which one could only attribute to the personification of fear in the very air itself, lurking like the bad after-smell of a poisoned curry.
‘He’s not here,’ said Jam, breathing a sigh of relief.
‘Fucking horny old goat probably shagging Mrs Spud.’
Sgt Simmo rose from behind the counter, like a glacier sliding ominously into view. He was a mammoth hulk, a man-mountain with a shaved head, black goatee beard, fearsome bushy eyebrows, and the terrible narrowed eyes of a killer. He weighed in at around twenty-four stone and his barrel chest was just that. He insisted on wearing urban combats, even in desert or jungle combat situations. When asked why, he always replied, ‘Wouldn’t want to fucking blend in, would I?’ even though that, apparently, was the point. His arms, hands, neck and any other bare visible skin was heavily tattooed with lists and military script, and he grinned a nasty missing-toothed grin that told of a life of brawling in pubs.
Mongrel, who was a huge man himself, seemed dwarfed as Simmo reared up from behind that counter.
‘What wrong with Mrs Spud?’ rumbled Simmo.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ murmured Mongrel, reading the list of men that Simmo had killed that was tattooed on his throat with ticks against each name. Mongrel always read that list. It went: McGibbon, Dike, Hando, Pilchard, Begbie, Twat-57, Fat Bob Smith ... and then trailed off into drunken tattoo smush which Simmo would never explain. Not that Mongrel asked, but he knew that if he was to ask then an explanation would be forthcoming - in a violent wide-fisted sort of way.
‘Mrs Spud is fine lady friend of The Sergeant,’
CHAPTER 3
SEARCH AND DESTROY
S am and Mongrel stood outside the wide H2 military-green metal-studded door, their faces long, sulking like naughty schoolboys waiting outside the headmaster’s office. They exchanged glances, and Jam wrapped his long leather coat more tightly around his shoulders as if this thick black skin was armour; a temporary protective exoskeleton.
‘You ask him.’
Mongrel frowned, his naturally brooding Slavic features positively hangdog now. ‘I ain’t asking him.’
‘It’s your fucking turn.’
‘But you know what that big dumb bastard said!’
‘Yeah, he said he wouldn’t give us any more ammo, and if we came back to ask for more he might just shove it up our arses. That’s what the bastard said. I just don’t know if he was joking or not - you know, playing around in a friendly sort of fashion, or meaning it in an evil-bastardy sort of fashion. You know Simmo!’ Jam scowled, seemingly unsure of himself.
‘ Da , I know him - and I know he fucking unpredictable.’
They both stared at the wide metal door. The plastic plaque screwed into the steel read: SGT SIMMO -STORES. Such a simple epithet, and yet one which had repercussions throughout the whole of Spiral_H, including the different H2, H3 and H4 divisions. In the same way that a secretary could run a school, the guard on a front gate could run a whole electronics corporation, or an air-traffic controller could coordinate an entire airport - so the nasty shaven-headed squaddie in charge of the stores could run the whole of Spiral.
Sort of.
Sgt Simmo was in charge of weapons, ammunition, gadgets, motorbikes, trucks, tanks and helicopters. If you needed something, you had to see Sgt Simmo. If you needed something in an emergency, you still had to see Sgt Simmo. And always, always, always ... you had to sign for it in triplicate.
‘Just follow my lead, pussy,’ said Jam, and pushed the door open with a gentleness uncommon for the large killer.
Mongrel, muttering insults, followed Jam into the gloomy office which fronted the huge maze of warehouse stores containing a billion items of equipment. The office shouldn’t have been gloomy - it was painted a bright military green, and had plenty of lighting. But something sinister nevertheless created an ominous murky half-light which one could only attribute to the personification of fear in the very air itself, lurking like the bad after-smell of a poisoned curry.
‘He’s not here,’ said Jam, breathing a sigh of relief.
‘Fucking horny old goat probably shagging Mrs Spud.’
Sgt Simmo rose from behind the counter, like a glacier sliding ominously into view. He was a mammoth hulk, a man-mountain with a shaved head, black goatee beard, fearsome bushy eyebrows, and the terrible narrowed eyes of a killer. He weighed in at around twenty-four stone and his barrel chest was just that. He insisted on wearing urban combats, even in desert or jungle combat situations. When asked why, he always replied, ‘Wouldn’t want to fucking blend in, would I?’ even though that, apparently, was the point. His arms, hands, neck and any other bare visible skin was heavily tattooed with lists and military script, and he grinned a nasty missing-toothed grin that told of a life of brawling in pubs.
Mongrel, who was a huge man himself, seemed dwarfed as Simmo reared up from behind that counter.
‘What wrong with Mrs Spud?’ rumbled Simmo.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ murmured Mongrel, reading the list of men that Simmo had killed that was tattooed on his throat with ticks against each name. Mongrel always read that list. It went: McGibbon, Dike, Hando, Pilchard, Begbie, Twat-57, Fat Bob Smith ... and then trailed off into drunken tattoo smush which Simmo would never explain. Not that Mongrel asked, but he knew that if he was to ask then an explanation would be forthcoming - in a violent wide-fisted sort of way.
‘Mrs Spud is fine lady friend of The Sergeant,’
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