[Yossarian]

The wind howled, and the rain pounded on the roof of the derelict industrial building like the steam hammers that had once been the beating heart of this old steelworks. To the untrained eye, this particular building looked like many others, the Victorian edifice ripe for conversion into flats or offices. But, to anyone with the sort of tactical awareness honed, perhaps, from a career spent in the special forces or security services, certain things stood out. The unusually high perimeter fence for instance, which was fashioned from hardened steel, and topped with razor wire. Or the Tazer mines clamped to the fence. Or the night vision cameras, peering down from their lofty mounts, feeding uninterrupted footage back to the facial recognition systems housed within the building.

To the eye, untrained or otherwise, the building appeared dark and uninhabited. But someone with the sharpest hearing might just - only just - have been able to pick out the dark strains of Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead. And if that same person was able to scale the fence, evade the security apparatus, and gain entry through one of the barred windows, they would bear witness to a scene of unprecedented savagery. For this was the headquarters of the Power Klub Consortium.

Within the main atrium of the building, the concrete walls dripped with condensation and shook to the music. Row upon row of shirtless men hung from ergo edges. Weights swung from harnesses strapped to their waists. A rhythmic murmur rose and fell - STRICT HALF CRIMP... STRICT HALF CRIMP...

At the far end of the atrium, a steel door opened, then swung back with a deafening clang. The room fell silent, all eyes on the man - also shirtless - who had entered. He swept towards the systems board, positioned above a steel checker-plate dais. He pulled on, and performed two Crusher crimp sequences back to back. The shirtless crowd signalled their approval with grunts and fist bumps.

The man flexed his biceps in a gesture of triumph, before stepping down from the dais. He swept over to a bank of computer screens, then clamped a headset into position. Another man appeared, bearing a gilt tray loaded with steaming frikadellen. The man took one, closing his lips around the hot German meat-based snack in a languorous oral embrace. He tapped at a keyboard and the main screen burst into life. A face appeared, underlined by a somewhat incongruous beaded necklace.

“Well, this is a surprise Shark. You do realise I only normally authorise Skype calls with full-time Lattice assets...”

“At level eight and above. Yes, I know the drill Tom. But this is important. A Power Klub agent stationed in Germany has revealed details of a high-level disinformation operation, concerning Action Directe...”

“Simpson. I know, we dealt with that. It’s taken care of...”

“No, not Simpson. That was simple - you got to Doyle and Koyamada. He was erased... This time it’s different - it has spread, and we can’t contain it. Word is that Gresh is involved...”

“Oh my God...”

“It’s a fucking nightmare. You’ve got to...”

“You’ve left me no choice Shark...”

“Barrows and Littlefair?”

“They’re our only route out of this colossal shitstorm. This is a Level Nine Lattice operation now - God help us. Good night Shark.”

“Night night Tom.”

[UnkArl]

 

[Will Hunt]

YYFY
 

[sherlock]

Great work 

[gollum]

Very funny!!!!

[Yossarian]

Struggling somewhat with the next chapter...

Torn between a Lee Child first person / five word sentence approach, possibly voiced by Fiend or Tomtom. Or in the style of McNab, echoing Gollum and Mark S. Or go full Hobbs and Shaw and spin-off Barrows and Littlefair as a separate storyline...

[SA Chris]

I'd have Barrows / Littlefair first succeeding then failing with containment, and Randal going for the last rest and sending a sleeper code to a the rogue operative who only goes by one word.

DENSE

[tomtom]

Or the  direction seeking self made property magnate - famed for his multi year jihad style assault on a Malham sports route. Gliding around in his white Range Rover between his student buy to let’s and Aldi?

Midweek he shuns his middle class shackles and spends his hours rolling in the limestone dusted crevices underneath the Tor, hoping to cleanse his soul from the day to day trappings of capitalism (and also playing fruit ninja).

I really do want to write in 5 word sentences. Sheeeeet...

[tomtom]

Dense would be good. Stuck in a remote oil rig somewhere in the ‘stans - doing one armers on a home made fingerboard whilst watching stick it on loop. With a signed photo of Doylo wonkily bluetacked on the wall above.

Operative Anderson.

[Falling Down]

Dense said nothing.

[lagerstarfish]

Struggling somewhat with the next chapter...

Torn between a Lee Child first person / five word sentence approach, possibly voiced by Fiend or Tomtom. Or in the style of McNab, echoing Gollum and Mark S. Or go full Hobbs and Shaw and spin-off Barrows and Littlefair as a separate storyline...

Graphic novel obviously

[SA Chris]

Dense said nothing.

The biggest trick Dense ever pulled was making you believe he didn't exist.

[Yossarian]

The next section of what critics are saying could be the the greatest work of sport climbing-themed fan fiction since Simpson & Gaskin’s classic tale The Mystery of the Invisible Belayer, and hopefully the perfect antidote to lockdown...


 

[Yossarian]

Chapter Two

Odyssey Sector - Kalymnos, Greece
36.9533° N, 26.9798° E
1640 ZULU

On the face of it the training camp looked like any other. A selection of expensive rucksacks were strewn across the rough limestone boulders. A copy of London Climber lay open on a spread featuring Louis Parkinson discussing his signature range of inflatable volumes. A young couple in matching Patagonia trucker caps were drinking sports drinks and arguing about an fintech investment that one had made without the others approval.

High up on the rock face a tall, ruggedly-handsome graphic designer was being top-roped on a 6a+. His legs were shaking uncontrollably.

“I don’t understand it. I can campus 158, I’ve been using blood-restriction straps, I take beta-alanine. My LatticeScan said I have low-sweat genetics and below average bone density. I’ve had my hair cut like Dan Turner. I should be climbing at least 6c...”, he cried down to his belayer.

The belayer looked up with a concerned face. The face, mirroring the rest of his muscular physique, was angular and taut - the result of the strict ketogenic regime and hours spent alternating body-weight exercises and experimental fingerboard routines with blocks of intense shadow-dancing to the albums of Welsh house music innovator and DJ Sasha. His skin was tanned a deep dark brown from a long summer putting clips in under the unrelenting Greek sun. His hair was shaved and his sinewy neck, encompassed by a beaded necklace, poked out of a lime-green Sportiva t-shirt.

“Come on mate - you’ve done your tantric visualisation routine - you’ve got this!”

“Arghhh, I’m giving it everything!”, screamed the climber, and he lunged for the next hold. Apparently not noticing a line of well-chalked jugs, he flailed for some crozzly edges, cut loose on the barely vertical rock, and performed a series of campus pulls to reach the chain.

“Smashed it!”, he cried, before collapsing on the rope.

“Wicked mate!”, replied the belayer, with slightly strained enthusiasm. He was well-practised in the kind of effusive banter that these soft southerners needed. Unlike the truly committed who’d abandoned careers, wives and children to relocate to Sheffield, this lot rarely had their minds on the job. Distracted by fine wine, statement camper-vans and new-season OffWhite, it was rare for any of them to make it past 6c+. But dressed in Arcteryx trousers and box-fresh Solutions, they were enthusiastic enough, cheerfully comparing exquisitely-composed photographs of their bespoke walnut and zebrano training facilities in the bADASS bOARDS pages of London Climber.

This time though, the strain on his face came not as a result of his frustration with these punters, but because he had just been thrust back into a dark world he thought he’d left behind. A terrifying prospect, and a mission that he already knew was wrong - absolutely, unquestionably wrong - with a man he thought he’d never, ever see again. He lowered the climber to the floor, unclipped his GriGri, and reached into his bag for the encrypted satellite phone. He needed to hear the message again - maybe, just maybe, it was a dream, a fragment of memory from an operation long ago. He entered the 12 digit alphanumeric passkey, and put the device to his ear. It crackled, and then he heard the voice, tinny though the earpiece, but - he shuddered - unmistakable.

“Hello Mate! I need you for a job.”

He let out an involuntary groan, barely able to stand unsupported.

“Be just like the old days! You and me on a mission. And don’t think you’re getting out of this one - I’ve still got the photos from Mongolia - pretty spicy stuff mate - know what I mean! Alright then mate - it’s mostly need to know. I need you in the Frankenjura within 48 hours, low-vis entry, use false papers. Set up a covert OP at Krottenseer Forst. And bring...”

The fear flashed through him - the man could barely breathe...

“A knee pad!”

He dropped the phone.

After all these years, why now? He’d thought he’d seen the back of him...

Staring up into the sky, his awful, ear-splitting scream was laced with bitter hopelessness...

“EMMETTTTTTTTTTTTTT”

[Duma]

Ha!

"exquisitely-composed photographs of their bespoke walnut and zebrano training facilities"

Excellent!