Battle Ground
False Flag
Darkest Hour
Rachel Churcher
www.TallerBooks.com
BATTLE GROUND
Notes
AUGUST
Prologue
JUNE
Marching
Arrival
Caring
Introduction
Training
Company
Armour
Artist
JULY
Routine
Kindness
Bruises
Monitoring
Patrol
Public
Anger
Camp
Prisoner
Outside
Town
Danger
After
Truth
Help
Confusion
Escape
Terrorists
Safety
Interrogation
AUGUST
Demonstration
Weapons
Decision
Raid
Reckoning
Consequences
Silence
Reality
Confrontation
Reunion
Walking
FALSE FLAG
Note
AUGUST
Prologue
JUNE
Newbies
Disappointment
Assault
Test
JULY
Lessons
Falling
Revenge
Secrets
Miller
Drones
Power
Doubts
Challenge
Lies
Intruder
Missing
Questions
Lost
Answers
AUGUST
Problem
Trap
Assignment
Persuasion
Oxford
Castle
Amy
Return
Bait
Pain
Cornered
Determination
Rest
Progress
Planning
Webb
Action
Breathing
Home
Tracking
Note
DARKEST HOUR
Notes
NOVEMBER
Prologue
Dreams
Promotion
Learning
Profiles
Hostility
Questioning
Photos
Frustration
Navigation
Connections
Family
Insult
Delivery
Conversation
Rendezvous
Captured
Fear
Debrief
Dangerous
Location
Running
Invitation
Forgiven
Drink
Flying
Threats
Journey
Expendable
DECEMBER
Exile
Evidence
Superiors
Elizabeth
Online
Traitor
Birthday
Footage
Neesh
Loss
Grief
Absence
Tribe
Note
Fighting Back
Chapter 1: Targets
Chapter 2: Preparation
The Battle Ground Series
Acknowledgements
About the Author
TALLER BOOKS
BATTLE GROUND
(Battle Ground #1)
Rachel Churcher
www.TallerBooks.com
Notes
Margie’s name is pronounced with a hard ‘g’, like the ‘g’ in Margaret: Marg-ie, not Marj-ie.
Leominster is a town in Herefordshire, UK. It is pronounced ‘Lem-ster’.
BEX
AUGUST
Prologue
Silence. Darkness. My pulse, loud in my ears.
We're under attack.
We need to move. We need to get out. Three floors underground in a nuclear bunker – we're safe while no one knows we’re here, but if they’ve found us, we're trapped. One way in, and one way out.
Voices. Sounds. Hammer blows, slamming through the silence.
I force myself to wake up. Open my eyes, push back the blanket, crawl out of bed.
I need to wake the others.
Boots. Armour. Gun.
Time to be brave.
BEX
JUNE
(TWO MONTHS EARLIER)
Marching
We’ve been marching for days. We’ve slept in school halls, in sports halls, in community centres. Everywhere, people have been kind. We’ve had hot food and blankets, and neighbours have come to thank us for signing up. We’ve even had gifts: clothing, food, small luxuries. No one seems quite sure how to treat us, but they are grateful, so they do their best.
But we didn’t sign up. We’re conscripted troops. We didn’t get a choice. They’ve started doing that now, in the places where they don’t get enough volunteers.
We thought about signing up. We talked about it – Dan and Margie and me in our boarding school library. We’d stay late, after private study and play cards for chocolate, talking. The pay was good, the risks were low, and you’d come out at the end with training and experience. You’d be protecting the people: teachers, doctors, nurses, and everyone else from terrorist attacks and terrorist bombs. The real army would do the proper fighting – we would just be the visible deterrent, the school guards, the hospital security. Keeping the terrorists away from people who wanted to go to work and come home again, safe from the threat of attack.
But we wanted to be the doctors, the teachers, the leaders. Dan and I, we chose to stay at school.
Margie took a different path. She’d been wondering about the terrorists, about what made them fight. She spent time with Dr Richards, our History teacher, working through the causes of the conflict, figuring out what each side was trying to achieve. She said less and less during our card games, and then one day, she wasn’t there at all.
She didn’t show at breakfast, or at the first lesson. I went to her dormitory between classes, and found her books and her tablet stacked neatly on her desk, uniform laid out on the bed, and half her belongings tidy in the cupboard. The other half was gone, along with her rucksack, boots and winter coat. I sat on her bed, feeling as if someone had drained the air from the room. I hadn’t imagined that she would leave. Or that Dr Richards would leave with her, to join the terrorists.
*****
We’re marching again. I’m carrying my clothes and a few possessions in a rucksack on my back. My walking boots are dirty, and I’m wearing the same trousers and T-shirt that I wore yesterday. We don’t stop anywhere for long enough to wash our clothes, but sometimes local people take in laundry for us, and return it in the morning, neatly folded, before we start another day of marching.
We’re trying to guess where they’re taking us, but no one’s telling us the plan. There are rumours: we’re going to London to guard the government; we’re going to Harwich to guard the port; we’re just marching, so people can see the brave volunteers and start to feel safe again.
Our recruiters give us daily briefings, after breakfast, but they don’t tell us anything useful – just how long each day’s march will be, and whether anyone is on report for misbehaving. Discipline means
carrying the recruiters’ rucksacks as well as your own. It’s not a good idea to misbehave.
We’re all lined up in last night’s sports hall, rucksacks at our feet, waiting for today’s briefing. There’s a blister on my left foot, so I’m trying to shift my weight onto my right foot while standing to attention. Everything hurts, and I want to stop marching. I think of my books, on my desk at school, and I wish that all I had to worry about was an essay deadline or busy day of lessons.
The recruiters are standing around outside the hall, making us wait. I can hear their conversation through the open door. The sound of a vehicle makes them fall silent, and they line up, waiting for someone. A battered 4x4 pulls up in the car park, and a tall man in camouflage battle fatigues gets out, followed by a shorter man in a neat uniform. The tall man salutes the recruiters, and gestures to them to enter ahead of him.
The recruiters march into the hall, followed by the two men. The shorter man holds a clipboard and a pen, and stands, ready to take notes. The tall man has high, chiselled cheekbones, an almost superhero-style square jaw, and a muscular build. He stands in front of us and looks us up and down.
“Recruits!” he bellows.
“Sir!”
“I am Commander Bracken of the Recruit Training Service, and thanks to the Emergency Armed Forces Act, you are now under my command. By the end of today, you’ll be at RTS Camp Bishop, where you will stay and undergo training. I don’t want to hear complaints, I don’t want to hear problems. I want to hear solutions and answers. If there’s a problem, get it sorted. If you’re tired, get some sleep. If you’re aching, keep moving. If you’re hungry, go for a run. Be self-sufficient, and we’ll get along fine.”
He turns to the recruiters.
“Any troublemakers I should know about?”
“No, Sir!”
The shorter man makes a note on his clipboard.
“At ease, recruits. See you at Camp Bishop this evening.”
The Commander turns on his heel, says a few quiet words to the recruiters, and heads back out to the car. The shorter man follows. As they drive away, the recruiters are shouting at us to get moving, get our packs on, get lined up, and out of the door. Another day’s march begins.
Arrival
We stop for lunch – a meal of soup and bread, provided by kind people in a church hall on a high-rise housing estate – and I bribe another recruit with a can of drink from my pack to switch places with me so I can march next to Dan. We keep up the brisk pace in silence until we’re out of town, and walking along a busy road. The cars driving past sound their horns as they pass us, acknowledgement of our service.
“What do you think? Sleeping in the same place for more than a night?”
Dan grins. “Sounds good to me.”
“And training. Finally. Do you think they’ll tell us what we’re here for?”
“Nah. They’re going to keep us in the dark. Train us up, and then keep us on call for when the bad guys start something.”
The bad guys. Margie and Dr Richards. Everything seems very real, suddenly. We’ve got so used to marching and sleeping, marching and sleeping – I haven’t been thinking about what happens when we get to where we’re going. That we’re going to be fighting our best friend.
There’s an ache in my chest. I don’t ever want to be fighting Margie.
Dan sees the look on my face, and hurries to change the subject. “What about Batman and Robin?”
I look at him, blank-faced.
“The commander, and his clipboard man. Commander Square Jaw and his sidekick? Batman and Robin!”
And we’re laughing, even though I can’t bear to think about what happens next.
*****
We make it to Camp Bishop in the evening. It’s a field, surrounded by woodland, with temporary modular buildings for dormitory blocks. Two Senior Recruits in uniform are waiting for us a mile from the camp, and they parade us along the Leominster bypass, where people driving home from work will notice our arrival. The bypass runs past the western side of the camp, and we approach the front gate along a narrow lane, lined with trees, that curves away out of sight on the far side. I can see the lights of the town and the streetlights from the bypass as we turn into the camp entrance, past a tall wire fence, a guardhouse, and a line of vehicles painted in olive green and camouflage.
I’m tired and hungry, and the blister on my foot is hurting. As we walk through the gates, we can smell the evening meal being prepared, and it is torture to have to line up, listen to a briefing, and follow the camp staff to our assigned rooms. I’m sharing with five other girls, most of whom joined us on the march. We introduce ourselves quickly – we’re all exhausted and hungry. I drop my pack on my bunk, haul out the sweatshirt I packed at the top, and head back to the dining room.
Dan is there ahead of me, his smart shirt crumpled and dirty and his hair untamed. We stand in line for bowls of meat stew and mashed potatoes. It smells amazing, and I’m so hungry when we sit down to eat that I don’t think I taste it at all. We don’t speak until our bowls are clean. It’s so good to be full, and sleep in a real bed, and to have finished our long march.
We’re just commenting on how happy we are to be here, when Commander Bracken walks in with his sidekick. Batman and Robin. Dan grins at me, and I grin back.
There is an ear-grating sound as everyone pushes their chairs back at once to stand to attention.
“Recruits!”
“Sir!”
“At ease.” I gratefully take the weight off my blistered foot.
“Welcome to RTS Camp Bishop, Unit 77B! You can sit down.” The noise of all the chairs moving again silences the Commander. He looks around the room, appraising us as we sit. I look at the people around me. Dirty faces, dirty hair, dirty clothes. I’m pretty sure the first order of business is cleaning ourselves up and getting ourselves looking smart again.
I’m right.
“You’ve seen your dorms, you’ve seen your beds. There are showers, there are laundry rooms. By tomorrow morning, I expect to see all of you cleaned up, sweet-smelling, and presentable. Breakfast is at six-thirty.”
A murmur builds around the room, and drops away as the commander continues.
“On your way out of this hall, you will collect your Recruit Training Service uniforms.” The camp staff are filing into the space next to the door, setting up long tables, and carrying in bundles of clothing. “Take care of your uniforms. Keep them clean and smart. Problems are to be addressed to the camp manager.”
“Things I do not wish to see: dirty uniforms; torn uniforms; damaged uniforms; disrespected uniforms. You are responsible for cleaning, fixing, and protecting your uniforms. Outside this camp, you are on show. The public trusts you to protect them, to be professional. This starts with looking smart and demonstrating your capability to look after yourselves.”
I’m exhausted, and I’ve had a good meal. All my muscles ache. It’s all I can do to stay awake while the commander talks. I’m fighting to keep my eyelids open, when, at another table, someone’s chin drops to their chest, and they begin to snore.
We all understand, and we all know that could have been any of us. The commander pauses, and nods to Robin. His assistant strides over to the sleeping recruit, and slams his clipboard down onto the table in front of him.
“Name!” He shouts, into the boy’s face. He’s awake, now, and terrified.
“Saunders, Sir!” He’s slurring his words. He’s sitting up straight and giving his head quick shakes to wake himself up properly.
“Mister Saunders. Do you think it is respectful to sleep while the commander is talking?”
Saunders shakes his head. “No, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”
Robin steps back, and the commander continues.
“Recruits!”
“Sir!”
“Stand!” The chairs scrape against the floor again.
“Camp staff will call out your names. When you hear your name, walk to the table, collect your unifor
m, take it back to your dorm, and check it. Any problems, bring it back. The camp manager will be here to make exchanges and make sure you have what you need. Saunders!”
“Sir!”
“You will stand where you are until the other recruits have their uniforms. When the last of your colleagues has left, then you may collect your uniform.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Saunders’ voice shakes as he responds. As we wait for our names to be called, I see him clenching his fists, and pinching his leg, struggling to stay awake. I can’t help sympathising – that could so easily have been me.
The camp staff are calling out names, alphabetically. I’m up quickly, and I give Dan a nod as I leave. I take the bundle of clothing with my name on, scribble a signature on the list of recruits, and head back to the dorm.
*****
We discussed it, of course, while we played cards and enjoyed our library privileges. Dan didn’t like the loss of our rights, but he thought the government was doing the right thing, hiring new soldiers and making new laws to fight the terrorists. We’d beat them more quickly this way, and life would go back to normal. Margie was angry, and couldn’t talk to Dan without shouting. She could see our rights being taken away, but she couldn’t see a path to bringing them back. She was sure we were selling our democracy and our freedom in exchange for safety that the government couldn’t give.
I listened to them both, and I struggled to decide. Fighting the terrorists was a good thing. Soldiers on the street to keep us safe had to be a good thing. The cost wasn’t too high if it saved lives, was it?
I didn’t think it would affect us like this. Margie’s disappearance. Our conscription. Our rights to finish our education, to make decisions about our own lives – those had been taken away, and we hadn’t even noticed.
And the bombings didn’t stop. If anything, the bombers became more brave, more destructive, more daring. They seemed to be everywhere. Attacks became more frequent, and the government used this as an excuse to hold onto power. The more the terrorists attacked, the less power remained with the people. We had signed away our freedoms for empty promises of protection.
The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3 Page 1
