Traveller Inceptio

Hunter struggled on the matting as Anderson, the canny American, tried an arm lock that would win the bout, but Hunter managed to wriggle free, miss grabbing a finger, and then place a choke. It was not a clean choke, but it was enough to force submission. Continuing would have found Anderson lose consciousness as the blood flow to his brain ceased.

Anderson patted Hunter’s shoulder in congratulation as they rested and watched the other men each struggle for supremacy. Hunter felt exhausted.

The Traveller team had begun their year of specialised training with a simple jog around Welbeck through the green countryside of Nottinghamshire in the central north of England. Hunter’s research showed Welbeck Abbey had existed in one form or another since the 12th century, but had fallen into disrepair until restored by successive Dukes of Portland in the 17th and 18th centuries. Best known was the mad fifth Duke of Portland, a colourful eccentric who hired 15,000 men to build an underground mansion. There was an extensive tunnel network that included secret passageways, a library, and even the largest ballroom in England of that time: an impressive underground facility that could manage 2,000 guests. They had explored a few of the tunnels, though many were considered dangerous.

The team also became well acquainted with the surrounding countryside, thanks to their team trainer, British SAS Sergeant Nigel Parker. Hunter learned that Parker had served with two of the team’s British SAS troops, McFee and Poxon, in Iraq and Afghanistan. Fluent in Arabic, one of the stories told about him was when he was in Afghanistan. Parker and McFee had supervised a US airstrike against a Taliban position when he had caught some excited Arabic conversation over the radio. Without any thought, he had replied in Arabic, “How far are the bombs from you?”

Assuming they were speaking to one of their own, the excited voice had exclaimed, “Praise God, the headquarters is fine! The bombs hit about 500 metres to our left.”

The radio communications continued, the bombs guided accurately until the voice fell silent as the command post of their deadly and elusive enemy was transformed into a smoking hole in the ground.

Parker had olive skin and it was obvious he would have loved to be part of Project Traveller. He took out his frustration at not being included by driving the men mercilessly, especially in their unarmed combat. “C’mon lads, don’t prance about like fairies!” was his common cry as he strove to have each of the team sharpen their skills. While each member of the team were recognised experts in at least one martial art, Parker’s unarmed skills were legendary, having trained with the Russians in the brutally effective Rukopashnii Boi hand-to-hand combat used by their notorious Spetsnaz troops. While Hunter and the rest of the team had already been trained in Rukopashnii Boi, under Sergeant Parker’s tutelage they quickly became experts, reacquainting themselves with the old companions of sweat, exhaustion, and pain. Hands, feet, elbows and knees became even more deadly weapons, while fighting styles such as Aikido and Judo were implemented to teach locks and painful pressure on joints and fingers. Each team member trained the others in their areas of expertise and their unarmed skills developed rapidly as their bodies and limbs toughened.

Heavy physical training took place in the mornings while in the afternoons they engaged with languages, English history, and traditional arts and crafts.

After a month, Parker introduced other unarmed combat experts of fighting and wrestling styles more in evidence in Saxon England. Vicious Lancashire wrestling became a firm favourite. With origins in Roman wrestling, the style was adapted for the local lads because the occupying Romans found they would never admit defeat. Forced submission using painful locks or chokes was added. It was a tough way to start the day.

Their trainer, a big, brawny fellow with shaved head, cauliflowered ears, mean, piggy eyes, and a surprisingly gentle and likable disposition off the mat, called out, “Oi! Ya done?”

Hunter nodded.

“Ya think this is a fooking summer camp?” yelled their trainer. “Move to your next opponent.”

A well-equipped, all weather gym and combat area had been built in one of the tunnels, including a canvas-floored boxing and wrestling ring and a large square of tatami, the traditional rice mats of a Japanese Dojo or martial arts training area, laid to make it one of the best training areas Hunter had ever experienced.

He watched a moment as the Canadian, Steve Morris, wrestled their smallest team member, American Ranger Sean Leishman. Morris had the obvious advantage of size and muscle over the slender Leishman, but the American had become a legend at removing himself from a tight hold and in using a range of pressure points to force submission. Morris had been in an unbeatable position, but now he struggled to prevent an arm lock on his well-muscled arm.

Hunter wiped sweat from his eyes and turned to his next opponent.

***

Hurley grunted as he hefted his pack. Though each was all too familiar with the weight of packs and weapons when traversing the roughest terrains, their current format was one with which they were less familiar. Instead of automatic weapons, they carried sheathed iron bars and staffs, which made their going no easier.

“I forgot how truly beautiful this area is,” Hunter said, a chill wind whipping around them. He gazed up to the mountain peaks of the famous Brecon Beacons in Wales, notorious as the assessment and survival training grounds of the British SAS. It was no secret that more than a few had perished on these rugged crags.

“Aye, it’s fucking glorious,” grunted Hurley without enthusiasm.

“It is very beautiful,” conceded Morris. “We have peaks like this in Canada, of course, and they are glorious in the spring. Like this, lots of alpine foliage and such. They punish you if you don’t open your eyes though.”

There were grunts of agreement.

“I had a mate die here,” offered Hurley. “Bloody froze to death in the final assessment for the SAS, you know. They had to cancel it as a couple of blokes lost some toes. The weather here can turn, just like that,” he continued as he clicked his fingers.

Hunter watched as one of the Brits, a good-looking lad by the name of Poxon, used his staff as a walking stick.

“Beats carrying heavy weapons,” he offered with a shrug.

They all nodded, for none had touched a firearm since their training had begun. Their unarmed combat had been expanded to training with knives, staffs, and even a rough tree branch. While all military are trained in the use of a knife or bayonet, the staff, a traditional weapon the English called the quarterstaff, was reasonably new to Hunter. Even with their reinforced gloves, fingers were bruised and the odd bonk on the head with the padded staff demanded a greater degree of care and attention.

“Sure, but you have to admit this has been fun so far,” Hunter replied. The men around him were bearded, a look with which they were all familiar from time in the Middle East. “It’s as if nature conspires to dazzle with its beauty at times.”

They struggled on with muscles screaming. Close to the top of one of the peaks, they settled to rest.

“Okay, I admit, this is fun. In fact, it’s a bloody relief to be away from the usual run of life for a change. But, let’s admit it, what’re our chances?” grumbled Hurley.

One of the Americans, a tough looking veteran of Delta Force named Kitchener, agreed. “Yeah, it’s a little ambitious, don’t you think? Send a team back to pre-medieval England. I’m not complaining, but really?”

Hurley nodded. “Yeah, there’s no way that any government will have the balls to send a team one thousand years into the past, no matter how well trained and prepared. Imagine it, being sent to Saxon England.” He shook his head in disbelief.

Hunter grunted in agreement. This is a good team, he thought, and experienced. Most of us know each other from past operations.

While Lieutenant Tony (Ozzie) Osborne was a fellow member of the Australian SAS, Hunter already knew the Americans, Leishman and Anderson, from engagements in exhausting sweeps through rugged mountains in the southeast of Afghanistan and north-west Pakistan.

As if reading his mind, Anderson said, “Hey, Hunter, this is like searching for Taliban. Remember what that was like?”

Hunter nodded. He all too clearly remembered the smell of burning bodies in the tunnels and the sound of concussive explosions that thundered down the valley as enemy-complex entrances were destroyed.

“Rugged country.” Morris nodded in appreciation.

Morris had been involved in scouring the mountain ridge known as the Whale’s Back, a rugged Taliban hiding and resupply area in Afghanistan, as part of a Canadian Special Forces Joint Task Force 2 sniper patrol, which meant lugging 110lb rucksacks over impossible terrain. Morris assisted in a kill that was a record, a 2400 metre shot into the chest of an ISIL resupply truck driver. As one of the longest successful sniper shots in military history, Morris was the stuff of legend.

Hurley had once asked Morris, “What are you doing here, Morris, old mate? I mean, I can understand the political imperative of having the Aussies and the Yanks, because they say they own The Transporter, and of course us Brits because the project is in our country, but why a Kanuk, for God’s sake?”

Morris simply shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “No idea, Hurley, no idea. Someone must have owed someone a favour is all I can imagine.”

Three other British SAS completed the team: the redheaded Scotsman, Cameron McFee, the impressively muscled Londoner, Ian McAlister, and the youngest team member, Andy Poxon.

Hunter nodded as he stood. “Whether this actually goes ahead or not, it’s been bloody great—only you bastards smell.”

There were curses as stiff muscles were massaged and packs hefted. Their objective was a good few hours walk away.