by Dc Alden
The trucks rolled to a stop outside the blocks. No one said much as Nine Platoon jogged through the rain to their billet, or even later, as they sat around the table cleaning their weapons. It was apprehension, Eddie knew. The whole of the Second Mass had seen the frontier, its multi-layered defences, the undulating terrain sown with all manner of life-taking traps and munitions. Once the bullets started flying, the potential breach points would morph into kill zones of mud, blood, and guts, of that Eddie had no doubt. How any assault could be accomplished successfully was a mystery to all of them, but whatever lay ahead, he was sure they would find out what it was soon enough.
Hot-boxes were delivered to the block, and everyone took polystyrene trays of pasta back to their rooms. Eddie was just finishing his when the shouts echoed around the building.
‘Get in the corridor!’
He followed the others outside, lining up with the rest of Nine Platoon along the walls. Sarge stood at the end of the hallway, his deep Welsh voice filling the void.
‘I want everybody outside the block in five. Weapons and wet weather gear only. And watch your light discipline. If I see anyone waving torches out there tonight, you’ll find yourselves in very deep shit. Five minutes,’ he repeated, then disappeared through the doors.
Anticipation buzzed like a swarm of bees. Eddie grabbed his waterproof and beret, then slung his weapon across his chest. Nine Platoon filed outside into the rain, and Sarge marched them around the camp to the gymnasium. Inside, Eddie saw the whole of the Second Mass had gathered there, a huge cluster of combat uniforms barely distinguishable beneath the few portable lights. At the far end of the gym, rain fell through a shell hole in the roof's corner, forming a shallow lake of water on the floor. It was a shadowy, dramatic gathering, like an ancient clan assembling before their tribal leaders on the eve of war, and Eddie guessed that the dark Northumbrian hills surrounding the camp had witnessed many such gatherings down the centuries.
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Heads turned towards the cluster of battalion HQ staff at the far end of the gym. It was Mac who saw him first.
‘Holy shit. Is that who I think it is?’
‘It can’t be.’ Eddie’s eyes narrowed in the gloom.
Next to him, Digger beamed. ‘See? I told you.’
Eddie’s heart beat a little faster. The RSM barked, ordering everyone closer. Eight hundred men shuffled forward, and then the figure in boots, combat trousers, and a thick North Face coat stepped up onto the platform and addressed the waiting men.
‘Can you all hear me?’ Harry Beecham asked them.
He was answered with a low murmur of sirs. Beecham cupped a hand around his ear. ‘Didn’t catch that. I said, can you hear me?’
Yes, sir! the Second Mass boomed, their voices thundering off the walls.
‘That’s what I thought.’ Beecham smiled as he looked around the crowd of uniforms. ‘I’ve had the honour of meeting some of you before, on that wind-swept airfield back in Massachusetts. That feels like a lifetime ago now, and for those men and women who are no longer with us, it is a life already spent…’
Eddie glanced at Digger and saw his face cloud over. Up on his makeshift stage, Beecham continued.
‘You’ve all seen the frontier, a daunting obstacle that separates many of us from our family and friends, from victory, and from an end to this war. Behind that grotesque scar, behind that blight on our beloved landscape, the enemy, after almost three years of occupation, has become complacent. I stand here tonight to tell you we are about to shatter that complacency.’
A buzz rippled around the hall. The RSM bellowed for silence as Beecham continued.
‘Colonel Butler will brief you in due course, but I wanted to come here tonight and thank you personally, for your service, your commitment to the fight, and for the inevitable sacrifices some of you will make. Rest assured, those sacrifices will never be forgotten.’
Beecham thrust his hands in his pockets as his eyes roamed around the shadowy gymnasium.
‘I’ve been here before, addressing British troops on the eve of battle. That was a tough time for me, both as a Prime Minister and as an individual, talking to men like yourselves, shaking hands with them, wishing them luck, knowing that many of them would never see another sunrise. I look around this gymnasium and I’m reminded of that dark period in our recent history. Now another battle looms, one that will mean more deaths, more injuries, more lives shattered. Such are the certainties of war, but in my heart, I know we will stand victorious in its aftermath.’
Eddie swallowed as he realised that, just for a moment, the Prime Minister had looked right at him.
‘You’re fighting for your families, your friends, and neighbours, all of them struggling beneath the yoke of tyranny behind that frontier. You’re fighting for freedom and liberty, and believe me, there is no greater cause to die for. So, gentlemen, I bid you goodnight, good luck, and may God watch over you all. Thank you.’
The RSM brought the room to attention as Beecham stepped down from the platform. Four heavily armed soldiers fell in around him and then he was lost in a crowd of senior officers. The air in the gymnasium buzzed.
‘So, Digger was right.’ Steve smiled in the gloom, the first for quite a while.
‘See? None of you believed me.’
‘Course we did,’ Mac shot back. ‘That’s why we didn’t take the bet.’
‘Bullshit.’
The RSM barked again and Colonel Butler climbed up on the platform. ‘Thank you, Sarn’t-Major.’ He adjusted his eye-patch as he looked at the faces of his battalion. ‘You’re done for the evening,’ he told them, ‘and morning parade is cancelled, so use your time wisely. Rest, gentlemen, catch up on your much-needed beauty sleep. It might be the last chance you’ll get for a while. Tomorrow, after lunch, the Second Mass will be on the move. As the prime minister has just told you, we’re going back into the fray, so start switching on. Understood?’
Yes, sir.
As they filed out of the hall, Eddie could feel the surrounding tension, laced with excitement, and maybe more than a little trepidation. They’d trained their arses off. They had every confidence in their weapons, equipment, drills, and each other. Whatever the future held, they’d handle it, overcome the obstacles, prevail. Still, Eddie found it hard to shake the image of that deadly frontier from his mind.
Outside, the rain was falling heavily. The whine of jet engines filled the night air, and the rising thunder of helicopters battered the surrounding buildings. A moment later they were passing overhead, the shadow of the Apache clattering above them, followed by the Eurocopter and the Black Hawk, so low that Eddie could feel the vibrations in his stomach. Then they were gone, disappearing over the hills to the north, the thunder fading to nothing.
‘Show’s over,’ Mac said, watching the sky.
‘I beg to differ.’ Digger grinned in the darkness. ‘It’s about to begin.’
13
Excess Baggage
Three hundred metres west of Chalfont St Giles in Buckinghamshire, Bertie pulled the Toyota into a narrow lay by. He powered down the window, switched off the engine, and listened. As expected, it was quiet, and the only sound that Bertie could hear was the breeze rustling the high hedges on both sides of the deserted road.
They were far beyond the city now, and life in the sticks was supposed to be pretty normal. Farmers still did their thing, because everybody had to eat, but the village pubs were all gone, boarded up and closed, like every other drinking establishment in England and Wales. Country fairs were banned too, so no more cheese-chasing or dwarf-throwing, or whatever yokels did at those things. British country life was dead. No, he corrected himself. It is dormant.
Still, it was nice to be out of London. It wasn’t a particularly cold night; the sky was clear and littered with stars, and the air had that faintly sweet tang of cow shit, which was unsurprising considering everything north and west of their current location was a mixture of farmland, wild
meadows, and thick woods. The perfect place to carry out a clandestine hand-over, it seemed, but all Bertie wanted to do was get back to Hampstead.
‘Aren’t you concerned at all?’
Bertie glanced in his rear view mirror. ‘About what?’
‘Being traced,’ Al-Kaabi replied. ‘Your phone signal, for example, and the car’s GPS. Your location history will be recorded, not to mention your licence plates.’
Bertie shook his head. ‘The car’s been modified; every time the engine stops, it wipes the sat nav’s history. My phone is powered off and in case you hadn’t noticed, the plates are filthy.’ Bertie yanked the door handle. ‘Wait here.’
To the south-east, he could see the sharp silhouettes of the village rooftops, but everything else was dark, rolling hills. He walked north along the road until he saw the break in the hedge, just as George had described. He whistled low, and a figure stumbled out onto the road.
‘Oh, thank God!’ Timmy Gates cried. ‘I was freezing to death—’
‘Be quiet!’ Bertie said. He started walking back towards the car. Gates hurried behind him.
‘Is Faisal with you?’
‘No, he’s washing his hair.’ Bertie glanced over his shoulder. ‘Of course he is. Just get a move on.’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm,’ Gates grumbled.
Thirty seconds later they were back at the car. Gates scrambled inside and a moment later Bertie was behind the wheel and driving north-west towards Amersham.
‘Faisal! I was so worried!’ Gates gushed, hugging and kissing Al-Kaabi.
‘I’m here now,’ soothed Al-Kaabi, holding him.
‘Did you get what they asked for?’
Al-Kaabi smiled. ‘More than enough to buy us a new life, Timmy.’
Bertie’s stomach churned. He had nothing against gays, but he didn’t want to see them getting jiggy with each other either. ‘We’re not out of the woods yet,’ he warned them, watching them disentangle.
Gates glanced out of the window. ‘Nonsense, we’re in the middle of nowhere. You’re the first people I’ve seen since George dumped me behind that hedge.’
‘Helped you to escape, you mean.’ Ungrateful shit.
‘What happens next?’ Al-Kaabi asked him.
Bertie shrugged. ‘I’ve got to drop you at a certain point. That’s me done after that.’
‘George says they’ll take us west. Wales, probably, or somewhere up north. Then a boat to Scotland, or Ireland.’
‘At least you’re getting out. You’re lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ Gates echoed. ‘I’m leaving a life behind, Bertie. Friends, family, and then there’s the gallery; I have important work there. I’ll be missed.’
‘Friends like that evil bitch Spencer, you mean?’
‘I won’t hear that talk, not from—’
Gates stopped himself. Bertie stared at him in the mirror. ‘From who? Someone like me, is that what you mean?’
‘That’s enough, Timmy,’ Al-Kaabi interjected.
‘Listen to your friend,’ Bertie warned, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. Despite everything he’d done, Gates still looked down his nose at him. He really was an ungrateful bastard.
‘Let me ask you a question,’ Bertie said, watching Al-Kaabi in the mirror. ‘The word is, you’ve lost Ireland, and Alliance troops are massing in Scotland. So, what’s the plan?’
Al-Kaabi stared out of the window. ‘Believe it or not, I don’t have a hotline to Baghdad.’
‘You’re an intelligence officer at Northwood. You must know something.’
‘What I know is inconsequential. The data I’m handing over is something else entirely.’
‘What sort of—’
‘With respect, Bertie, just get us where we need to be, okay?’
‘Right you are.’
The road twisted through the countryside. Bertie glanced at the map display, saw the turning a couple of hundred metres ahead. He slowed, flipping his lights off, allowing the Toyota to decelerate so he wouldn’t have to pump the brakes. He saw the lane and turned the wheel. Mature hedgerows crowded either side. No one spoke as they drove deeper into the countryside. After several minutes, Bertie let the car roll to a stop and yanked the handbrake.
‘This is it.’
Al-Kaabi twisted around in his seat. ‘Here?’
‘So I’m told.’ He climbed out. The hedgerows had given way to a dark, rolling landscape of fields and distant woods. Bertie pulled his coat tighter against the chilly breeze.
‘What now?’ Al-Kaabi asked. He was almost invisible, a dark hooded figure standing by the Toyota. Gates clung to him like a limpet, his face pale.
‘This is as far as I go. You need to head further up this lane. Someone will meet you.’
Al-Kaabi disengaged himself and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for helping us.’
Bertie took it, gripped it. ‘Good luck.’
Gates said nothing, just linked his arm through Al-Kaabi’s. As they walked away, Bertie pulled the Ruger from his pocket and shot Al-Kaabi in the back of the head. The hollow pop echoed across the field, and Bertie saw the intelligence officer drop to his knees then roll sideways onto the ground. Gates jumped like he’d been electrocuted. He spun around, and Bertie saw his eyes, wide with fear. He took aim and shot out the left one. Gates staggered backwards, but instead of falling, he weaved like a drunk towards the Toyota. Bertie was dumbfounded. How is that possible? He watched his hands flapping at the door handle, and it disturbed him. Bertie marched towards him and shot him again, twice, three times in the chest. Gates staggered against the door, gurgling and spitting blood, but still, he stayed upright. He stared at Bertie with his one remaining eye, his lips moving, his words jumbled, nonsensical. Then his knees finally buckled, and he fell to the ground, smearing a bloody hand across the rear window. Bertie stood over him, unnerved and sickened.
Move, Bertie!
He jogged back to Al-Kaabi. The man was lying on his side, and blood ran freely from his nose and mouth. His eyes were wide open – he never knew what hit him – and that made Bertie feel a little better. He found the security belt around Al-Kaabi’s waist and checked the contents; a tiny data drive and a folded sheaf of hand-written notes in swirly Arabic. Perfect. He shoved it in his coat pocket.
He struggled with the bodies, dragging them across the road and rolling them into a ditch by the side of the road. He got into the Toyota and continued up the lane towards the actual rendezvous point. He drove without lights, trying to keep his speed down, swerving to avoid the fences and deep verges, until he saw the wood ahead. He pulled off the road, threw open the door, and plunged into the trees. He stumbled through the undergrowth, low branches whipping his face and snatching at his coat. He couldn’t believe what he’d done, the sudden decision he’d made. It was rash and stupid and treacherous, but Bertie was convinced that eventually, the disappearance of Al-Kaabi and Gates would lead right back to the big house in Hampstead. When that happened, The Witch would give him up in a heartbeat. They would take away Bertie, question him, torture him. Then they would execute him. He couldn’t risk it.
He dodged left and right, branches lashing and snapping, leaves crunching underfoot. Ahead, the trees thinned, and then he staggered out into a meadow, chest heaving, breathless. He stopped and looked around. The meadow was enclosed on all sides by the same thick woods he’d blundered through. And there was something else there too, a black object out there in the open. Bertie squinted his eyes. Is that a helicopter?
‘Don’t move,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Lemme see those hands.’
Bertie froze, lifted his arms. Figures appeared out of the darkness and moved towards him, black helmets, black uniforms, black weapons, their faces obscured by insect-like goggles and balaclavas. One thing was clear though; the Stars and Stripes flags on their chests. One figure looped plastic cuffs over his wrists and zipped them tight.
‘There’s a gun in my right coat pocket,’ he t
old them.
They searched him, found the gun and the pouch.
‘Where’s the other one? The other passenger?’
‘He didn’t make it,’ Bertie said. ‘It’s just me.’
‘We’re moving,’ he heard one of them say, and powerful hands grabbed his arms and propelled him forward. Helmets bounced in the darkness in front of him, the long grass swishing beneath his feet. Ahead, the helicopter took shape, but Bertie couldn’t see any rotors, any jets. It stood high on three black legs, like a fat lozenge. It was the strangest flying machine Bertie had ever seen, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting the hell out of England.
He ducked under the twin fins, and then his feet hit a steel ramp. The inside of the craft was gloomy, lit only with thin red strip lights. Bertie saw two rows of seats, like an airliner. A figure appeared, this one in a flight suit, his face obscured with a helmet and visor. One of the soldiers handed him the pouch. He snapped a torch on, checked the contents, checked Bertie’s ID card.
‘It’s all there,’ Bertie told him.
The figure shone the light in his face. ‘Where’s Al-Kaabi?’
Bertie blinked. ‘I told you, he didn’t make it. It’s just me.’
‘You’re not Gates.’
‘He didn’t make it either.’
The mouth beneath the black visor cursed quietly. ‘Offload him,’ he ordered. They spun Bertie around and forced him back down the ramp.
‘Wait!’ he yelled, digging his heels in. ‘I brought you the intel! It’s all kosher!’
‘Move!’ one of his captors urged, pushing him down onto the grass. They marched him a short distance away and cut off his plastic cuffs. The pistol was unloaded and shoved back in his pocket. One of the black helmets jerked his barrel towards the trees.
‘Get out of here.’
‘Please! Take me with you! They’ll kill me!’ Bertie begged, but the soldiers were already backing away and disappearing into the aircraft.
