Following the two running men, something which was easy to do as they were forging a path and shouting loud enough that a child could have tracked them through the ship, he found himself heading up towards the flight deck. A bearded man in dappled green uniform stepped out in front of him and instantly matched his pace.
“What’s the deal?” Jackson enquired nonchalantly.
“CIA wants to send us back on a suicide mission,” Miller said quietly.
“We going?”
“Told them I need orders first,” Miller said, “which they’ll probably get soon enough.” He laughed darkly. “Son of a bitch tried to tell me he’d send in the marines and tell them the team guys were too pussy to go!” Jackson laughed with him.
“That’ll have the jarheads fighting each other to be first off the boat!”
Miller didn’t answer, instead he slowed his pace and watched the two men running medical supplies stop and enter an area with two armed men posted on the door.
“Guys,” Miller greeted them casually as he went to walk through the door as if he had every right to do so.
“Can’t let you in, Master Chief,” the evidently younger of the two men said. “Sorry.”
Miller wasn’t acquainted with the man and his rank badges weren’t exactly emblazoned on all aspects of his uniform, so he guessed the young sailor to be a little in awe of the team.
“CIA suits are calling the shots now,” he told the sentries enigmatically, hoping that their brains would be overloaded by the presence of SEALs and talk of the CIA. “We only need a minute.”
“No harm, boys,” Jackson added with a smile of white teeth splitting his curly, dark beard.
The two sentries stole an awkward, confused glance at one another before the older one nodded and the two men stepped inside quickly to melt away into the confused chaos inside.
Miller hung to the shadows as was his way in life, looking at the people and seeing them for what they were; exhausted, hungry, frightened survivors.
All except one.
In his experience, people pulled from the fire to learn that they weren’t in the frying pan tended to collapse a little, mentally speaking, and the reactions of the dirty, ragged people being tended to were indicative of that experience. Some cried, one laughed and joked like an idiot, but one sat upright on a gurney. His back was what people would call ramrod straight and his hands were clenched into loose fists which rested on his bare thighs just above the knee. He looked thin and dirty, and he desperately needed a shave because the hair on his face didn’t suit him at all, but his eyes were alert and clear as if the emotional outpouring from the others all around him wasn’t becoming of the man.
Miller made straight for him, making a show of picking up a clipboard at the end of his bed with no details written on it but holding it up for show in case anyone realised they shouldn’t be there.
“You’re a soldier,” Miller said in simple statement as the man’s bearing was unmistakable. From his very proper manner, Miller had him down for an English officer.
“As are you, evidently,” Wolff responded. “Are you an American officer?” he asked, confused eyes lingering on Miller’s rank insignia and trying to work it out. His accent was curious, but then again, the first time Miller had met someone from Scotland he’d almost needed an interpreter brought up.
“Master Chief Petty Officer Ryan Miller,” he said as he offered his hand. “US Navy SEALs.”
“Hauptmann Hans Wolff,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand and firing off something in rapid German that neither men caught.
“Come again?” Miller asked.
“My sincerest apologies, Master Chief Petty Officer, I was saying that I had the honour of commanding Two Platoon as Captain, unfortunately I sit before you here now without my beloved Leopard Panzer, without my men and,” he chuckled, although the humour was forced and fuelled by a great sadness and disappointment, “it seems without even my clothes.”
“Captain,” Miller said, “what you’ve been through…”
“Is as nothing when compared to the troubles of others,” Wolff interrupted. “Now, Master Chief Petty Officer—”
“Just Miller is fine, sir.”
“Very well then, Miller, might I impose on you a significant request?”
“I’m guessing that request starts with some clothes, sir?”
“It does indeed and following this, I would ask that you get me out of this room to have a discussion with your commander. As you would say in America, take me to your leader”. Before Miller could respond, a voice cut the room in half.
“What the hell are you doing in here? This area’s off limits. Did you go through quarantine procedures?” Miller turned to see a burly man wearing the rank badge of a junior rating but speaking with the confidence and authority of his size and not his rank. In comparison, both navy SEALs were shorter and seemed smaller, but their compact nature hid their strength. The man wasn’t fazed by their lack of immediate response and started stomping over to them and dropped a meaty hand onto Miller’s shoulder.
“You deaf, shipmate?”
Miller answered silently, reaching up and wrapping the fingers of his left hand around the chubby pinky finger of the brute and bending it almost all the way back to make the man squeal and lower his body weight to save the bones from rearranging themselves into an unnatural configuration. The brute’s eyes flickered at the insignia on his uniform and the colour drained from his face.
“The Captain here needs some clothes, shipmate,” he said calmly, letting the man up and looking into his eyes to convey just how much he wanted the great lump to try something else. “Go get him some.”
“Yes, Master Chief,’ the sailor answered quietly, walking away holding his finger as if he feared it might fall off if he let it go.
“First things first,” Jackson cut in almost under his breath, “you swing by our pad and grab yourself a little something.”
Wolff, dressed in a navy jumpsuit, walked uncertainly on the deck of the ship and complained so politely about the loss of his boots to quarantine procedures as the slipper type shoes they’d given him made him feel like he was back in school.
“Kid? Get the man some coffee,” Miller instructed.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Hernandez told Wolff, “we’ll fix you up.”
They did. Wolff was dressed in green US navy fatigues and gifted a pair of their assault boots which were taken from the ample store of gear the team had collected. Miller didn’t ask where or how, but he knew for damn sure he hadn’t signed a single requisition order.
“You’ll need this,” Jackson said as he rifled through the stacked gear. “What’s your shoe size? Twelve?”
“Forty-four,” Wolff answered, earning a bemused look from Jackson before he snapped his fingers in realisation, then discovered he had no idea whatsoever of how to translate the information.
“Here, try these,” he said as he handed over a new pair of boots to a grateful but somewhat bemused German tank captain. He looked around, found an empty chair to sit on and slipped his feet into the boots before lacing them.
Standing and taking a few tentative stamps to check the fit he drew himself up and nodded a formal thanks to the men.
“Sir, mind if I ask what happened out there?” Miller asked quietly, seeing Wolff’s face slacken and lose all semblance of expression for a moment.
“I… am not entirely certain,” he answered as he sat down again. “How many days has it been since the island was lost?”
“Sir,” Jackson said hesitantly, “it’s… it’s been almost two weeks.” Wolff chuckled in surprise before answering.
“Oh! Yes, of course…” his face dropped again. “We were overrun in minutes when they attacked. I knew… I knew that some of the people escaped on boats, but also that many were left behind. Some did not even know that there was a danger until it was too late… in the end only I and another soldier remained with the few people.”
�
�One of your guys?” Coleman asked from behind Miller.
“No, sadly I do not know the outcomes for any of my men. He is… he was a sergeant of the British Panzersoldat, and… and a very brave man…” They all let the silence hang in the air as if each man was paying his own quiet respects.
Wilson interrupted perfectly at that point, handing Wolff a cup of black coffee and hovering with sugar ready in case he wanted some. Wolff accepted the drink with thanks and cupped it in both hands wearing a very far-off look in his eyes.
“But I am forgetting, I must warn your officers of another danger,” Wolff said, almost shouting as the thought hit him full force. “There is a new type of the infected peoples. The British called them names, only I do not know that this one has a name. There were Screechers and Limas, for the slow type and also for the kind that can run, only this kind has entirely no hair and makes noises to communicate with the others. It is both very fast and very strong.”
“And it’s new? Not just one of the faster infected?” Miller asked.
“No, we have never seeing anything of this kind. They are so much worse than the Limas.”
Miller wanted to push further, wanted to get as much detail on the enemy as possible because, deep down, he knew he’d be facing off with them sooner or later. He didn’t push, however, because the distant look had returned to Wolff’s eyes and Miller knew when a man was close to the edge.
Jackson wasn’t finished with the clothes and boots, breaking the conversation up by taking more gear from their stash to equip their new acquaintance. He picked up a black pistol, drew back the slide to show Wolff an empty chamber, and reversed it to hand the gun to him grip first. Wolff took it gratefully, accepted the loaded magazine and fitted it to the weapon.
“This is most very generous of you,” he said, suddenly unsure where to put the weapon before Jackson held out a holster and belt for him complete with a pouch containing spare magazines. Wolff took them and regarded the weapon.
“How you say, ‘only the best’,” he said with a smirk, adding, “which is why you chose German manufacturing from Sig Sauer. This is a very good weapon, and I must thank you again.”
“It’s the best there is for what we do,” Miller said enthusiastically, even if he didn’t share in the gun worship of some of his team. Wolff looked closer at the slide to see an engraving of an anchor to differentiate it from the other versions of the P226 he’d seen in his career. Feeling as though he’d been accepted into some kind of elite club, he stood, feeling elated, realising after a few seconds that the sensation didn’t leave him immediately and transformed into being lightheaded. He reached for the back of the chair he’d been sitting on and missed, prompting Miller to arrive at his side in time to prevent the stumble from becoming a fall.
“Okay, Sir,” Miller said as he guided the German to the closest bunk, “you take a lie down here.”
“I must…” Wolff said, trying feebly to push back and get to his feet. “I have to…”
“You need a rest, Captain,” Miller soothed him, “you’ve done enough for now. Just rest.”
Wolff, unaware of just how exhausted he was and beginning to feel the emotional and physical effects of his last moments with boots on the ground, closed his eyes and lay back.
“Keep an eye on him,” Miller murmured to his team, seeing at least one wide-eyed look returned. “He’s not bit, but you just keep an eye on him, okay?”
The Daves—Coleman and Shepard—nodded back. Miller turned his gaze in turn to Hernandez and Wilson who agreed, then he turned to Jackson.
“Come on,” he said darkly. “Time to go find out what the CIA expect us to do, but ten bucks says I already know.”
FOURTEEN
The decision to leave the remote island was a simple one in the end. The temporary sanctuary had resources to sustain them, but after a man returned near dead from exposure after falling and twisting an ankle while hunting sheep, and one of the civilians fell from the rocks into the sea and disappeared collecting eggs it became obvious they weren’t going to thrive there for any length of time.
The radio equipment was useless, the supplies were all gone, and Julian Palmer still suffered from an illness that left him short of breath and coughing uncontrollably whenever he tried to speak or move.
That left command decisions to the two lieutenants, who made sure to privately lean on the only experienced non-commissioned officer remaining in their much-diminished group.
As testament to the newly discovered maturity of the younger Palmer brother, thanks largely to his display of courage and leadership during their escape from Skye, his confidence had grown enough that he felt comfortable asking for help and advice. That self-admitted fallibility, that air of vulnerability, made him infinitely more trustworthy to the men and women who looked up to him for the answers.
That was a benchmark for him personally, to learn that he didn’t have to appear above every other person in all respects, and when he dropped that expectant air of thinking that everyone else was there to serve and obey him, he found their attitudes changed miraculously.
He pulled the collar of his jacket up tightly around his neck to brave the outside world, stopping short of the exit with a rambunctious snap of his fingers as he remembered to roll the cigarettes from his meagre supply of dried up tobacco. He made one for himself and rolled a second on the off chance that the man he was meeting would want one, then wrapped himself up tightly and went outside.
“Wotcha, Sir,” the royal marine sheltering from the wind in the sunken doorway said in cold greeting. The chill in his bones was expressed through the slight chatter of his teeth which in an instant made Palmer feel deeply for the man who wasn’t one of his own in terms of the structure of Her Majesty’s armed forces, and he was struck by the urge to show kindness.
Lifting one of the precious, rare remaining smokes on the entire island up as an offering was intended to make the man feel better about life, if even for just a few moments.
“God bless ya, Lieutenant,” the man exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as he eagerly accepted the offered smoke with twitching, icy fingers. Palmer lit it for him, the two men huddling together to shield the vulnerable flame from the brutal wind whistling along the low coast, and then they straightened together as the grateful marine puffed on the small cigarette to inhale almost lovingly. He thanked Palmer again, adding an appreciative gesture with the smoke between his thumb and forefinger, leaving the young second lieutenant to wander through the stormy weather to meet the man he was out there to see.
“Is there a reason,” Lieutenant of Marines Lloyd asked at the top of his voice to beat the howling of the wind, “why we couldn’t meet inside?”
“Happy to, Christopher,” Palmer replied, similarly raising his voice to be heard before the wind died down as they reached the sparse cover of a small, spartan building. “Happy to, only out here there’s little to no chance anyone will overhear our collective thought process,” he said, admitting that he wanted the two of them to decide the fate of everyone.
A sudden thought struck Palmer then, having spent years imagining himself to make major at the least, unless an exciting opportunity arose for him in either civvy street or somewhere closer to parliament, that the higher up a man climbed in rank, the fewer contemporaries there were to discuss matters with in confidence.
The two men were, at least militarily speaking, the only men on the island currently at full fitness who didn’t have to call anyone ‘sir’. That thought extended to one of sadness at the loneliness his older brother must have been suffering to have no senior officer on whom to rely.
Palmer produced the surviving cigarette with a smile and offered it to Lloyd, managing to disguise his joy when the man declined it. Both were like that, and the armed forces were usually made up of men who smoked constantly or those who religiously avoided the vice, but the two officers fell into the small camp of being inclined to take it up when the mood took them.
Palmer lit t
he cigarette and puffed on it greedily, clamping a hand to his flat stomach as a rolling growl emanated from him loud enough to be heard over the outside elements assaulting the shack they sheltered inside. In answer to the offer, Lloyd produced a small bottle and offered first taste to Palmer, who happily obliged, weighing the contents carefully and stopping to ensure he didn’t take an ungentlemanly portion for himself.
“So, Olly,” Lloyd said to begin official proceedings. “You want off the island sharpish, am I correct?”
“You are, my dear man, quite correct.”
“But our options are more than a little limited,” Lloyd countered.
“Quite. By all estimations we have sufficient fuel to make it back to our original point of departure at the absolute best.”
“But, obviously our original point of departure is not our intended destination?”
“Indeed it isn't,” Palmer responded, fighting a flash of annoyance that the final supply of tobacco was almost spent and readjusting his grip on the damp smoke to hold it between the filthy, cracked nails of his right hand. “I’m thinking Stornoway. There’s of course a possibility of meeting resistance but weighed against the possibility of running out of fuel and finding ourselves adrift in the seas of Scotland, I’d wager our chances against the Screechers on any day of the week.”
“What does Mac think?” Lloyd asked carefully, raising the subject that both officers would seek the approval of the senior SAS trooper left alive, but that the decision would fall on their shoulders along with the consequences.
“I rather suspect he dares and expects to win,” Palmer replied, pleased with his wit but conscious enough not to betray that with a smirk.
“Good, because the boys are disciplined enough but the civvies are close to an uprising if we don’t do something decisive or feed them. You know what they’re like.”
Palmer did know what the civilians were like, and up until recently, he’d probably had more affinity for their situation than he had for the men under his temporary command, but like small children he found that if you fed the civilian contingent of their survivor group and gave vague answers when they demanded to know if they were there yet, then the wheel stayed on their particular wagon.
Toy Soldiers (Book 6): Annihilation Page 9
