Five years ago, I'd lasted two weeks into a tour of outer Desert-stan before being blown up and losing my lower left leg. Despite my short stay, my brain recognised the sound of a rifle barrel on metal. Not that the early warning had stopped me having my butt kicked. My hand hurt, the pain was blocking out most things, but somewhere inside a dark figure was striding forward. That dark figure was anger: anger at the world, anger at the enemy, anger at the loss of a limb and the painful rehabilitation, anger at whomever was robbing this place.
A rough arm embraced me around the chest and wrenched me to my feet. I could feel the firearm slung across my attacker's chest and saw the glint of the knife he was about to use on my throat. For a moment I was thinking more about whether the glint was moonlight or a chance sighting of the compound lights. But then I remembered that the light source was far less important than the fact the knife looked really sharp.
The dark figure stepped forward. Enough.
My left elbow flew back, hitting flesh, then my right, stunning the attacker. I bent, pulling him forward with me, and then reached between my legs. My right hand was useless, but I was able to grasp the attacker's right ankle with my left hand and hook it with my right forearm. I rolled down and dragged the leg up, locking my hips against his, and then pulled. Perfect rolling knee bar: thank you basic unarmed training. The attacker screamed as his knee snapped, but I wasn't done yet. I scrambled away from him toward my fallen flashlight. The heavy aluminium light was the perfect baton. My attacker tried to block the swinging left-handed blows but the dark figure was still incensed, leaving a bloody red mess of the man's skull in his wake.
Out of breath, I tried to collect myself, to settle some of the adrenaline and push the dark figure back into the recesses of my mind. I realised the evening had only just started. My attacker was on watch, he was kitted for a night operation, with a radio throat mike, dark blue clothing that blended into the low light of night, a suppressed Heckler and Koch UMP – not a common firearm – and body armour. I was surprised he didn't have night vision goggles and a helmet, but his kit suggested a professional team, here for something they shouldn't be here for. It wouldn't be long and someone would come looking; I might as well take the fight to them.
It was a ridiculous idea. Unknown assailants of an unknown number, whom I was going to confront for some unknown reason. I guess it was partly adrenaline, partly that sense of service drilled in by basic training, but probably it was just that desire to prove myself as a warrior. Most people would just take up a contact sport, I was going to hunt down armed thieves in a shipping yard at night; shrinks would have a field day with that logic.
I needed to arm myself and go on the hunt. I looked around and saw my Beretta. It had stove-piped as the gun had fired and been knocked from my hand, the nine millimetre casing sticking up and jamming the gun. I picked up the gun and tried to clear it, but couldn't, the fire in my hand reminding me how useless I now was at piano. Next was the UMP: holding a sub-machine gun one-handed was also out of the question. It works in the movies, but I'm pretty sure that the movies have their own set of physics, one where the hero can take on a small army of people shooting at him and only be in danger of losing his shirt.
That left the knife, a mean looking Randall Model 16 fighting knife.
I grabbed for my radio, finding it missing, then realising it had been taken from me and smashed while I had been lying on the ground complaining about my hand. The one my former attacker was wearing had a coded key pad, which made it useless to me, unless I wanted to have a one-way argument without looking crazy. As keen as I was to go after the rest of the people my attacker was with, I knew I needed backup. The other security guards I worked with were scattered all over the compound, they'd have a hard enough time regrouping, let alone reaching me quickly. My mind was made up.
The knife went into my belt and the now bloodied flashlight clicked on in my left hand as I headed for the closest call box. There are call boxes scattered over the compound, for emergencies much more mundane than this. The box contains a radio handset and medical kit, exactly what I needed right now. I was trying to run, but my prosthetic had slightly twisted during the fight and was causing me to limp. Five years ago I would have covered the ground at a brisk, athletic pace, now I was moving with an inelegant rolling gait at just faster than jogging pace. I'd adjust the leg, when I reached the call box, so that I could move better. Still no replacement for my running leg that was sitting at home with my neglected gym gear.
"Larry!" I whisper-shouted into the handset. "It's Steve out on the north-west perimeter."
While I waited for Larry to pick up his end of the line, I worked on catching my breath and opening the medical kit with one hand and my teeth.
"Steve? Why aren't you calling on your radio?"
"No time for that. You have to call in the cops. We've got some heavily armed S-O-B-s out here stealing stuff."
"Shit. You okay?"
"I'll be fine. Just call it in, yeah?"
With so much metal around, phone reception is terrible: radio and landline is pretty much the only way to communicate around here. I heard Larry pick up his phone and make a call before coming back on, "Middle of the night, armed response will take a while to get mobile, but they said they'd send the chopper."
That was good, but even the police helicopter would take time to get here and, even with their thermal imaging cameras, it would take them time to find these guys. I was still the closest and best option, plus that dark figure in my mind was stretching and warming up: someone was ready for round two. I adjusted my artificial leg, readying it for action again.
"So, what are they stealing?"
"Beats me." I replied, but I intended to find out.
It didn't take me long to find my attacker's friends. I knew I was looking for a truck, something big enough to hold the contents of one or more shipping containers, and something that could be used to unload the container onto the truck. That meant reversing sirens.
I crawled quietly forward to observe the thieves, keeping to the shadows. The pain in my right hand flared anew, making me wince with each shuffle across the asphalt. My right hand had become my weapon, as I had used the surgical tape from the medical kit to tape my broken hand around the confiscated knife's handle. Now the knife was both a splint and a menacing seven-inch blade.
The thieves were spread around the truck, four of them, keeping an eye out for people they could shoot. Another similarly dressed man was operating a forklift, unloading pallets that were stacked high with something, I couldn't tell what. My main concern was not what they were stealing, just that they were willing to kill for it, which meant I was willing to lethally persuade them to stop. Definitely trying to prove my warrior status.
Five guys, armed and dangerous. I didn't love those odds, but I always liked a challenge.
The first thief was easy: I slithered up to him on my belly, almost silently. He was expecting people to be walking around, not crawling, so I managed to get within arm's reach of his legs. Quickly, I slashed the blade across the inside of his upper thigh. The legendary Randall was razor sharp and the thief merely swatted at his leg, thinking at first that he'd been bitten by a bug. Then the sting grew as the blood pumped out of his femoral artery, but he was already weak, too weak to cry out, too weak to stand, falling as though fainting. He tried feebly to grab at me as I crawled past him, but his strength faded as his life ebbed away.