by Tyler Danann
He did so, turning them on and off again five times.
“Did you see our lights flash Station Twelve? Move the armoured vehicle on our approach! We’re coming in now! Hold your fire!”
The response was barely legible, but seemed to repeat the request.
“Hold your fire! We will be coming across the bridge!”
The radio became nonstop static again as they descended into the river valley below. Despite the gain in speed from the descent Gearson noticed the coolant gauge was now deep in the red zone. Almost immediately the engine began losing power steadily and their speed slowly dropped off.
“Losing power!”
“We’ll be stranded short of the river at this rate!” Gearson lamented.
Remembering a trick from her wayward youth Riley turned on the car’s heater to full and set the fans blowing the hot air at full power. As the heat was directed away from the engine and into the cabin the Puma’s speed levelled off momentarily.
As they came closer they couldn’t tell if any Stingers would greet them. The police garrison had blocked the way ahead with their cars and the closed gateway behind them. It would be a final test, the police vehicles were two cars deep and beyond that was a fifteen-foot high steel gate. The latter of which was rimmed with a concertina of razor-wire. More police cars lined the side of the road and in a car park off to the left.
“We’ll need more speed! Come on car!” Gearson urged the struggling machine.
The dying engine plunged them onwards with a vague renaissance of power. When they closed the gap to about a hundred yards, multiple stingers rushed out from lurking enforcers on either side.
Gearson evaded the first and second set of stingers and increased his speed. As he lined the car up for a straight approach another three pairs skated out that he had no choice but to run over. The car’s tires took multiple hits but they plunged on until they were about to slam into the barricade.
Even as Gearson shouted for Lorraine to engage the gravitic device she was already doing so. The wilting power-train of the Artifact spun up for the last time as it sent the car skywards. They were lifted much more slowly than earlier and only just cleared five feet of altitude. The first set of cars skimmed the damaged tires. In front of them the gates began closing in. Ten feet was attained and the obstacle almost filled the windshield. The ground-effect began to lose power at the seventeen foot mark, just as they cleared the gate and razor wire. The descent was erratic though and much faster than usual. The car wobbled side to side and slammed down, impacting the road, wrecking the suspension and jarring the occupants. Despite his foot to the floor the machine was slowing down to a fast running-pace. They were crossing over the water of the broad river now though. A neutral patch of territory at last was beneath them.
“We made it!” Gearson said triumphantly.
“Not yet we haven’t!” chided Lorraine pointing at the distant tank and bridge before them.
Behind them the Ministry-controlled gate began sliding open rapidly, emerging from behind it was the dauntless Interceptor ready to harry them once more.
The gap between the police cars was adjacent to some trees and Nichols plunged the Interceptor between them and right through the car park. Emerging from it they avoided the lines of cars. The gamble paid off as, with a rattle and bang, the big car nudged aside the police car trying to do a three-point turn to get onto the bridge. It roared past the nearly open gateway and crossed the bridge after them.
“Nichols, we can’t make it!” Rebecca said, knowing it was too close. Once they crossed the border they were hostiles and no amount of bluffing and Ministry privilege would help them.
Facing the two oncoming vehicles the Scimitar tank commander began issuing warnings on the loudspeaker. He was on the brink of opening fire at both vehicles when fresh orders snapped over the radio. He hesitated momentarily as the Guard Room relayed an update, then yelled at his driver with instructions. The tank driver pulled the tanks joystick bars in an opposing fashion, then floored the throttle.
The eight ton machine began to pivot around nimbly, making an opening wide enough for one vehicle.
“Overwatch get through that gap!” came the radio’s voice to Lorraine.
The Puma’s engine was just about done but the grinding pistons worked for all they were worth.
Behind them the gap narrowed by their nemesis.
Eighty feet.
Fifty feet.
The dying engine wheezed and banged as they reached the metallic guardian of Albion territory.
The little Puma passed the slender gap between concrete dragons teeth and the tank’s tracks. As they did this the heavy diesel engine roared again to herald the movement that would seal the way in, but the Interceptor kept on coming.
As the tank began re-rotating side-ways Nichols did not let up.
“We’re not gonna make it! Hit the brakes!” Templeton warned realizing they were heading disaster.
“I thought you wanted them this badly?” spoke the man mockingly, knowing they were too far committed to turn back now.
Rebecca could not even respond as the Yeomanry garrison opened fire from the guardroom and defensive sanger. Rounds struck the Interceptor causing her to try and keep down low.
“You cowering whore!” he insulted as the powerful 7mm projectiles struck home. Several were slowed down by the bullet resistant glass but not stopped. A couple glanced off but one with a steel core ripped into Nichols’ chest. The Interceptor hurtled on though, aiming for the now-shrinking gap.
The Interceptor almost slipped between the dragons teeth and tank but it was a gamble too far. The sharp tracks of the tank slammed into the side of the Ministry machine, blowing a tire and winding Rebecca as her door partially caved in. The side-windows shattered, sending the fragments all over the place. Then they were beyond the tank and racing towards the swerving chicane lined with razor-wire. It was meant to slow down a threat but Nichols kept his foot on the gas. He felt the violent numbness of the gunshot wound intensify, and saw two Yeomanry Provost on foot ahead of them, where the razor-wire ended. Both men wore their distinctive red berets and had SMGs slung as they dragged the last line of defence across the road. It was a heavy spike chain there was no avoiding. The guardroom was over a hundred yards distant though and confusion reigned. Beyond the obstacle was their prize, the Ford Puma and their prey within. It had broken down and the engine spewed steam.
Both occupants were getting out and no Yeomanry, save the two Provost half-way across the road were noticeable. The Scimitar tank rotated its coaxial machine gun but could not risk firing given the darkness and friendly forces nearby.
“How badly do you want them now Kaslar!?” Nichols said angrily, almost unhinged by the craziness of the chase. He aimed the car at the edge of the obstacle where both men were.
The Provost men were both Lance Corporals but one had the foresight to throw the chain the rest of the way across the road. He was closest to the dragons teeth than the other and jumped for them. The other naively believed the car would stop short or swerve.
The redcap was struck head-on by Nichols and died instantly as he went flying over the car to land savagely amid the shard-wire. The car smashed off the compact concrete pyramids, injuring the sheltering Provost in there.
The remaining three tires were rendered useless by the sharp spikes and the Ford Mondeo went violently out of control. It swerved once, then twice before leaving the road towards a tree-lined drainage ditch.
Gearson and Riley could only watch as their relentless pursuers missed the first outlaying trees, but go on to smash into a lone oak tree.
Nichols seatbelt was on but no airbag was triggered from the steering wheel. His body jerked against the restraint like a ragdoll and his head struck the glass in a horrific fashion. Templeton’s seatbelt and airbag saved her from serious injury, but the incredible whiplash wrenched both her shoulders.
Still barely conscious she watched as two figures approached
with guns drawn. Her face was bloody from the glass cuts, and red streaks were already showing on the clean white material of the airbag. With a last attempt at defiance she attempted to reach for her pistol. The nest of pain from her shoulders made her cry out in agony and the defeat descended into her heart. Then the pain was too much and she fell into unconsciousness.
Chapter 20
Fragile Sanctuary
Their enemy was taken to the hospital at the nearby Yeomanry Redoubt of Westfield. Originally Westfield was a small town garrisoned by an army base, now it was a Yeomanry garrison of Rangers and light armored units.
On the other side of the border, with the rain pounding down once more, the watching police could do nothing. They couldn’t even salvage their wrecked interceptor unit as it was on the other side of the bridge. The Scimitar light tank watched them with a wary eye, training it’s light cannon on the flashing machines. An Albion machine-gun nest manned by Yeoman Rangers relayed information to the Yeoman barracks and beyond to The Estates. From there the aftermath started. It should have been over, but Yeomanry politics was a complicated business, and with the bloodshed at Beaverbrook a subtle maelstrom was forming.
*
Rebecca Templeton began to awake two hours later in a hospital bed. Someone had undressed her and a hospital gown was now all she wore. Both her shoulders were back in their sockets but the pain lingered, her head was a nest of numbness and her right hand was bandaged tightly. Her face was mostly cut with shallow wounds from the glass, but a deep cut under her ear had five stitches.
Weyland watched the woman with memories of old from where he sat watching her. He smiled as she suddenly relaxed her gaze on him.
“Hello Rebecca.”
She was not shocked or surprized yet nor was she blazing with her usual fanatical hatred of the Yeomanry. Perhaps it was the fact she knew Eric Weyland already or perhaps it was resignation too?
“It was the nurses who undressed you, in case you were wondering,” Weyland said.
Templeton was groggy from the painkilling drugs but the agent narrowed her deep eyes at Weyland. She felt without any shame or embarrassment at her near-nakedness beneath the sheets.
“Very funny Eric,” she pulled her wrist, feeling a metallic bracelet that revealed itself to be a handcuff.
“You’re in a Yeomanry Redoubt, Westfield Hospital, about an hour from the border. And you’re Albion’s prisoner now.”
“I’ve lost this one,” she said softly in resignation.
“Yes you have, and it’s a shame it came to this.”
“It’s a shame you left me to join the Yeomanry,” she said with a hurt look.
“I asked you enough times to come with me,” he said gently. “Back then, with you and Lorraine at my side… we could have been unstoppable.”
“My former best friend?” she said with a barbed slant. “The one you convinced to abandon the army and join Seymour’s uprising. The three of us fighting with fascist Albion? Not on my ancestors would I choose that.”
“It’s not half as draconian as the media-fuckwits make out and you know it.”
“Where’s Nichols? My driver?”
“Dead, gunshots and the crash killed him, your airbag worked, his didn’t,” Weyland said emphasizing the last part.
Weyland knew from their own intelligence that Interceptor Units had retuned airbags for intense collisions only. For it to be deactivated completely spoke of sabotage. Templeton immediately knew the implication.
“I’d switched seats during the pursuit, Nichols always used to drive as passenger…”
Weyland nodded slowly, not sure whether to believe her or not.
“That means he or maybe someone in your organization wanted you dead or out of the way.”
“No, that’s insane.”
“It isn’t for the enemy you serve,” Weyland said firmly.
She looked away from him to stare at the high ceiling.
“When this is over, try and leave this island Rebecca, you know too much and I think your own side want you dead or out of the way.” The proud woman shook her head and Weyland spoke on. “Nichols was going to turn you in.”
“Turn me in?”
“We found a recorder on him too, had you talking about Lorraine on it ?” Weyland shrugged. “It just shows another reason why you chose the wrong side.”
“The wrong side doesn’t abuse my folk,”
“Oh don’t start that nonsense again. We get enough of it pumped out from the Ministry Media.”
“And after I’m well enough your precious Colonels will have me on a televised show-trial and executed. Just like after the coup.”
“I don’t think so. Times have changed.”
Lorraine Riley entered the room despite the protestations of a nurse. Her arm was in a sling and she still felt jarred with whiplash.
For a moment there was a silence as the two women took in one another. Then Weyland broke the silence.
“The pact we made at the oak is complete my love,” he said to Lorraine. “We are as a trio again, but one is now our enemy,” Weyland spoke with a touch of finality to his words. “The pact must be ended, one way or another.”
“I didn’t want to shoot you Rebecca,” her former-friend said.
“I know,” she conceded, “but Eric’s right it must be ended, or else it will destroy us the next time.”
“I agree, I don’t think such a thing was meant to help now given our choices since then. Instead it’s twisting and threatening more than us I fear.”
“End it then,” the SOTF woman said. “It’s better enemies should oppose enemies than destroy themselves from within.”
“Can you lift the pact Lorrie?” he asked doubtfully.
“I can try, it will take a few minutes though. We can’t have any interruptions.”
Weyland locked the door as Riley began to lift the pact that bonded Rebecca to them both.
She had just finished the ritual when tense commands and distant commotion from the lobby became noticeable.
“They are coming for me,” Rebecca said fatalistically. “Nichols ran through some of your men at the border, they’ll want Kaslar blood.”
Weyland initially thought Templeton was being gloomy and despondent but Riley reluctantly nodded her head.
“I was there Eric, it was a bad scene and crash, she’s lucky we had a radio-link to Station Twelve to calm things down so we could get her here.”
Weyland heard more shouting from beyond the doorway and corridor. He knew tempers could flare easily given such an agitated number of warriors and healers arguing it out. Already a back and forth argument distantly filtered through into the room. A name among the jumble of words became noticeable, it was one he recognized all too well. Captain Burnside.
“It’s Captain Burnside,” Weyland said tensely. “He must be the duty officer from the border crossing. That’s normally his turf I think.”
“Oh no,” lamented Riley. “I had no idea he was in that district!”
“They moved him from the Scottish border last month. He’s hardcore, even by my standards. During the war he wasn’t shy about killing. They say ever since the war he’s been a bit pissed-off it ended as soon as it did. He’s a good warrior, but dangerous to cross.”
“We can’t let him hurt Rebecca though Eric! She’s helpless and in our care now!”
“She obviously forgot about that when she harried you all the way up from London,” Weyland said pragmatically. His cold streak stunned the wounded woman in the bed whose fate lay in their hands. “She’d probably turn us over in a heartbeat if it was us in a London hospital.”
He looked vengefully at her in the eyes, causing Rebecca to turn away with a fearful look about her.
“Even so Eric, it’s not right. We can’t just let it happen on our watch.”
Weyland took a deep breath, he loved Lorraine but crossing a Provost captain like Burnside was very risky. Colonel Donaldson had chosen Burnside for his war record
and experience. While he was a diligent border-commander mercy and understanding were often secondary to the pursuit of a secure territory. Then again he felt that after all he’d been through, this was a final test now emerging from the fog of fate.
A voice called out Weyland’s name from the corridor outside, it was Andy Knight returning from the reception area.
“What’s going on Andy?”
“Burnside is raising hell trying to get your prisoner’s ward details. It looks like he doesn’t want to cause a panic in the hospital but isn’t being quiet about it either.”
“How many has he got with him.”
“A platoon of infantry from the redoubt, and a section of Provost are with him, most of the infantry are outside preventing people from leaving.”
“Where’s Burnside?”
He’s still in the reception area but I don’t know for how long until he start’s kicking in doors.”
“Alright, I’m going to talk to them. Diana, wait here and lock the door after me.”
“I should go—”
“Not this time love, you stay with Rebecca and don’t let anyone in. If Burnside gets in, give her this!” he said, passing the cyanide pill to Riley. He whispered what it was to before moving to the door.
Andrew Knight joined him as he walked down the corridor towards the reception. Unlike Weyland, he liked to make full use of wearing his civilian attire.
“I hope you know what you’re doing mate, there’s a lot of them,” Knight cautioned, “and Burnside matches our authority.”
He was right, as much as it gurned at Weyland. The complicated rank and experience structure of the Yeomanry, meant that Captain Burnside was a gray area. He and his Provost had powers allowing the arrest of any non-commissioned rank.
“There’s no rules or guidebook on this one,” he remarked sharply, “just follow my lead and be ready if it goes downhill.”
They’d turned a corner and ahead of them was a cluster of fellow Yeomanry milling about the lobby. One of them saw the flash of uniform and made the Provost leader aware.
