by Tyler Danann
“He had illegal weapons and was a rogue Gladio operative according to the Colonels. Those were government guys trained to fight if we were invaded, except a few got ideas of their own. One went nuts because his meds were bad and he was spurned by a woman who surprised him in a forest.”
“Rubbish,” the Commissioner said.
“If people had the firearm rights we Yeomanry have now, spree killers like him would have been cut to pieces on sight.”
“We don’t trust you Weyland, not me, not the High Commissioners, not the Prime Speaker! We don’t want to take a chance for your Yeomanry to go on the rampage. I don’t understand your stupid gun rights, I think you Yeomanry are a relic, a piece of history from when warfare was a way of life in Europe.”
“The feeling is mutual. Yeomanry can help if the country is ever invaded. A professional police force would likely panic, go home and even collaborate with the enemy.”
“Don’t you insult my police force! The regular army is for anti-invasion measures, not your lot.”
“Our regular army fought for overseas security when we had an empire, then for overseas interests. At least now, following the Colonels War they are overseas keeping the oil lanes clear with the navy. The Yeomanry are more equipped than a regular reservist would be thanks to your gun laws.”
“My police force can do your job, we have firearms too you know.”
“And we could do yours a lot better than forcing people into rooms to be asked stupid questions!”
The officer ignored Weyland and spoke on.
“There’s another bill going through parliament this winter, it’s called the Yeomanry Amendment Act. The High Commissioner personally oversaw it.”
“Are we getting a pay rise?” Weyland asked sarcastically.
“Very funny Weyland, your kind need to be put on a leash. It’s time for checks and balances,” the enforcer smiled with dirty, coffee-stained teeth.
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really, we’re getting new powers you see. All your firearms, munitions, armored cars and aircraft will be licensed and regulated! Every county in Albion is getting a new police chief to oversee and individually authorize each part. It won’t be anything like the FEA licenses or section nine authority permits the Colonels write out like fag-paper either. We’ll be vetting the entire Yeomanry independently and unless it’s essential for target practice all your weapons are gonna be under lock and key. Under OUR lock and key.”
“That’ll never pass in parliament!” Weyland responded sharply. “We get exemption from your daft firearms legislation, we practically have our own section of England anyway. Any policing is done by the Provost not your kind! That’s our Albion Right. Along with freedom of movement, which you are infringing upon right now.”
“Your ‘Albion Right?” the policeman scoffed with a sudden laugh.
“I served my time in the military, then the Yeomanry after that. I earned that right just like my father before me.”
The Commissioner went passive.
“It’ll pass Weyland, the Prime Speaker’s party has the majority now in Parliament.” The passive mood changed again as the Enforcer spoke on. “Territory or no, when it concerns this bill we’ll be coming and going as we please. What’s more is you’ll be lucky if we let half of you own a rabbit rifle privately!” he laughed.
“Well if that comes to pass things will get very interesting plod,” Weyland said with a smile. ‘Plod’ was a slang term not liked by Enforcers.
“What do you mean? Are you threatening me or my men?” Junior-Commissioner said.
“I just said, things are gonna get interesting if you take on my Yeomanry. The Colonels will take you down again if you push us.”
Brown brooded now and stared at the fair-haired Yeoman with angry thoughts. His hazel eyes seemed to cloud and veins showed on a furrowed brow.
“Well the debate has been entertaining,” Weyland said suddenly, “but I have to ask, am I free to leave now?”
This caused the Commissioner to lose his temper. “No! You bloody-well stay here until I say so!”
It was Weyland’s turn to laugh.
“Well in that case, I consider myself a prisoner then. Which means: 20650 Reservist-Corporal Weyland, blood group AB-Negative...” he went on to state his date of birth and said nothing more.
“Don’t give me that military crap Yeoman! What work have you been doing for the Colonels?! We know you are up to something!”
Weyland repeated his prisoner-of-war declaration in a monologue voice and stared into space, ignoring the man.
“Weyland! Answer me! If I have to I’ll get a judge to authorize—”
The man could not complete the words, a burst of machine-gun fire interrupted him. The terrorist attack on Heysham Ferry Terminal had begun.
On a slight rise the terrorists overlooked the entire facility from their vantage point. To their left was the ferry docks where the large Stena Traveler had already half-unloaded. The large goods trucks were almost gone and soon the many families would be marshalled off. In the center was the large concrete plaza for transiting back and forth. Long lines of holiday-makers patiently waited in their cars for the boat to be ready for them. The right-hand area was the administration buildings and the Customs and Excise compound. They knew from prior knowledge only three officers were on duty, with a forth on sick leave. In their crazed and mixed-minds, their dream of a Rabian Caliphate danced over Europe. They were the tip of that spear and now yearned to spill European Christian blood.
Abdul Ephraim and his four suicide-warriors had lain watching the ferry terminal for hours waiting for the moment of attack. Timing was critical. This was not just to be an attack, it was to have a more elaborate touch.
Ephraim was armed with an AKM assault rifle, several grenades and over two-hundred rounds of ammunition. His compatriots were likewise armed except for one armed with a PKP machine gun. Mohammed Ragi would have the special duty for the right-hand section of the operation.
Ephraim’s handlers, a man and a woman now departed. Fair-skinned, intelligent and of an odd demeanor they had both supplied the weaponry and transported them the long way from Northern France. Instead of the heavily policed Channel Tunnel with the risk of random searches and checks, a private fishing boat had been used. It now was far from sight, heading the long way back south to Wales and beyond to France. The two agents were not going there, but headed to the vehicles another agent had dropped off for them.
It was in one of these, a Mercedes S200, that the handlers now made their way out of the area. As they drove away the strange-looking man suppressed an excited judder that ran through his body.
“It will be a good day for us Rachel,” Cordell Mastock said. The faintly ugly man spoke to his female companion with confidence. With ultra-dark eyes that twinkled slightly with a scarlet hue he was unlike others. Some might class him as a gloomy Breton, or a dark Celt from the remote mountains. The truth was he was neither though and hailed far from the British Isles as did his partner Rachel Shears. Their true names were of a similar distance from the ones they now assumed.
“The Yeoman will make a good scapegoat for when this makes the news,” Shears responded. Unlike him, she was more easy on the eye, with reddish hair and lighter hazel eyes.
“He wasn’t supposed to be detained by the police though, this will make framing him trickier. I hope Ephraim is up to the job.”
“Rabian’s are scum, being assigned to them was a slur. We have much better work to do in London than agent handling the turd-skins.”
“If it means the Yeomanry are demonized by being associated with the Rabians, so much the better. The faster they are disbanded and out of the way is the better.”
“Our media contacts will film the carnage?”
“Yes, but not for a while, I don’t want to risk them getting caught up in it.”
“I wouldn’t want to be that Yeoman, Ephraim has a taste for infidel blood.”
“So do y
ou Cordy,” Rachel joked.
“I have more class than him though, and I waste less fluids than Rabians usually,” Cordell laughed as they passed the sign for Heysham ferry-terminal. All being well they would be back at their safe-house within two hours and enjoying the chaotic news scenes just before tea-time.
“What’s going on? This is your doing Weyland!” the officer whined. More shots were sounding sporadically and he flinched with the sounds.
“Not me or mine, this is an attack! Get down!” Weyland kept low against a wall, making sure he was away from any windows. The next burst from the light-machine gun targeted around their building directly.
The two enforcers searching Weyland’s vehicle had completed their search and were both walking back towards the buildings back entrance. At the first sound of gun shots both were cut down, one died instantly, the other was mortally wounded. He crawled painfully to the faded-red doorway but couldn’t reach the door-handle. The next long burst from Ragi ended his pain and ripped through the single-wall of brick in several areas.
The adjoining building where ferry bookings were processed took the brunt of it. Two customers and a member of staff were hit.
The Junior-Commissioner ran to the corridor doorway and raced to the exit. He naively thought the main doors were the target, he was wrong. As soon as he opened up the red doorway he had time to see his two Enforcers laying in pools of blood before he too was struck.
Weyland wasted no time once the bothersome man had left. He knew from experience that Border Custom’s buildings had a small armory. A quick scan of an office-room showed a plain cabinet with serialized weaponry on a sheet of A4 paper. The list showed, two MP5 submachine guns and a Browning Hi-Power and a HK G36 assault rifle.
The Yeoman tried the handle but it was predictably locked. A nearby key-press was unlocked though and he tried to calmly find the right key. A second burst of machine-gun fire seemed to directly hammer into the main office area.
“They shot me! Your men shot me!” came a voice behind him. Turning he saw the hapless Enforcer officer clutching his arm. He was pale and in a state of shock.
“They aren’t my fucking men!” Weyland shouted. “If they were I’d already be gone, you’d be dead and there wouldn’t be all this extra racket!”
The Commissioner was stunned. He was well used to an orderly life, routine and predictable outcomes. The sudden changes had him almost mentally undone. He reached for his smart phone and tried to dial 999.
“Whoever it is wants to cause mayhem,” Weyland pauses on seeing the phone. “Don’t bother, by the time they get here it will be a clean-up job, others will be doing that.”
Weyland considered more conversation, perhaps he could sway the zealous Commissioner to his side. Then he dismissed it, like many things Weyland was good at, being a lone-warrior was his forte. He tried the second key and it failed to turn the lock in the safe. As he reached for the third key his arm brushed against his covert body-camera. It was button mounted into his dark green jacket and had activated the moment Brown’s security team flagged him down. It carried on recorded all that Weyland faced. For the Yeoman he absently wondered if it would record his death? He was on an island that either revered or loathed armed citizens, and Heysham was in non-Albion territory which had plenty of the latter. Then his instincts of defiance kicked in and he felt the spirit of survival call out to him.
Two Rabian riflemen closed the distance towards the stationary vehicles and the large ferry ship beyond it. The pair were ready with their grenades and managed to reach throwing range before being spotted.
The marshalling woman in a hi-vis jacket screamed a warning but chaos soon followed. The first grenade landed short of a Ford Focus, blowing its windows out, and sending waves of shrapnel everywhere. The next one rolled under a Toyota Corolla. It was devastating, the occupants were too terrified to leave and blocked in from in front and behind. Then came the explosion followed by more grenades at the other vehicles. Those at the front and rear of the columns drove away at high speed to the very edge of the docks. One car attempted sanctuary on the ferry. As the young couple on board mounted the ramp they smashed head-on into a departing van. For those trying the other direction another pair of Rabian gunmen ambushed them with a salvo of assault-rifle gunfire. Over three hundred people were trapped between the sea and the Rabian positions. Slowly the death toll mounted.
The islands of Brittania had experienced terrorism before, but the Rabian ways were a newer, more grisly dish entirely.
Weyland had the G36 out of the armory along with the Browning Hi-Power. While the G36 used a different caliber to his L1A5 rifle the pistol was in 9mm, matching his CZ 75. Tucking the sidearm behind him in the small of his back he added a couple of spare magazines which went into his jacket pocket.
The Junior Commissioner had resumed calling 999 and was in the middle of a rambling, panic-stricken monologue. When he heard the sound of metallic noises in one of the offices he walked halfway across the main office and noticed the Yeoman.
“What are you doing? That’s restricted weaponry! You can’t touch that!” Brown said with a high-pitched shriek.
A door being kicked in sounded and distracted the attention of the policeman though. As he turned a swarthy-faced Arab entered through the internal office doorway. He was an ugly man with a big weapon. Seeing only the lone man with civilian clothes in front of him he pointed angrily at the officer.
“Where’s the Yeoman!” he barked in accented English.
Brown almost soiled himself at the fear that washed over him.
“Tell me or you die Kaffir!”
As the terrorist said this another voice spoke behind him in the Rabian tongue. He stepped through the doorway and focused his attention on the weak-looking man.
The sight of a man holding his life in the balance broke any flimsy loyalty to his detainee.
“He’s over—”
Brown could not complete the words as Weyland opened fire. The machine-gunner took a three-round burst on the chest and the neck. The body armor stopped one of the bullets but the other two tore through his upper-chest and windpipe. Instinctively the stricken Rabian clutched the trigger and a long burst of fire cascaded through the office-complex. Weyland shied back around the corner into the small sub-office corner and stayed low to the ground.
After the deafening roar had subsided he aimed around the corner, tracking the carbine at whatever he saw before him. The untidy office was now a mess, paperwork, plastic and shards of glass littered the place. On the ground was a dying Rabian, slumped over a bloody PKP machine gun. The troublesome lawman was not moving either. He’s been blasted backwards and was face-up with his back twisted awkwardly.
‘So much for your gun control,’ Weyland mused with dark humor.
The other gunfire had subsided and the silence worried him more now. The terrorist had asked for him specifically, meaning he was a target for them. A feeling of combative rage swished about him and the Yeoman moved forwards quietly. By avoiding major noise from the debris he reached the wall that connected to the main corridor entrance. On reaching the corridor door the Yeoman tried a ruse. He fumbled and tried the door a few times while remaining off to the side of it. Swiftly he removed his hand and arm just as a short burst of AK bullets poured through the middle of it.
Going to the floor next to the doorway Weyland jammed his Browning against the bottom of the doors base and aimed one-handed. He fired three times through it into the corridor where danger lurked and was rewarded with a yelp of pain. He fired four more times then ripped open the door, while keeping his body clear. No gunfire came and he jerk-looked around the corner next. No sign of the other Arab was there either but the far door was open and a blood trail was noticeable.
He could hear shouts and screams but Weyland kept his cool, carefully exiting the outer doorway. He saw two armed men distantly firing towards the ferry. They didn’t aim properly and seemed to be spraying their gunfire. Off to his left the
man he’d injured moved further and further to the fence line. From the way he stumbled and clutched at his right arm it looked like he’d been hit at least once. Weyland raised his G36 carbine but as he aimed the Rabian unexpectedly fell down. Slowly though the tenacious movements of him crawling towards a van became apparent.
Weyland knew if he pursued the man he’d a fair of catching him but if he opened fire he’d risk the other gunmen being alerted. Then there was the casualties being inflicted by them upon helpless civilians. A third choice seemed to taunt at him — escape!
His Land Rover Defender was close to try that option, but the welcoming green machine seemed to take on the stain of cowardice.
With no time to dig out his cased rifle in his vehicle he moved in towards the gunfire. By circling via the fence he managed to completely flank the sound of battle. He was breathing well thanks to the rivers of adrenaline cycling through him. Weyland advanced a little ways further and reached the extreme left of the ferry quayside.
The ferry area and especially the parked cars was chaos, people were dead or dying. Five cars were in flames and two more wrecked by explosions. Still the blood-lust of the terrorists was not satisfied. There were still many survivors left and the attack was far from over. Once they were slain, the terrorists planned to move in against the ferry. Its ramp was still down and made for an enticing sight.
Abu Halabi reloaded for the fourth time, he was halfway through his ammunition panoply and feeling righteous in his killings. His ISIS brother uttered gleeful invocations and prayers as he fired on and on.
“Allah Akbar, Allllaah Akbar,” he said with guttural splendour. Suddenly movement became apparent to them. Two women, young and old went down as he sent half a magazine into them both. They had made a break for it and now few wanted to break cover from their vehicles, lest they become easy prey for the prowling Rabians. As the junior leader of them saw them fall he mentally felt a rush of excitement. Then the ferry ship’s ramp began closing and he shouted loudly in Rabian to advance on the ship.
