by Ricky Cooper
DESIGNATED INFECTED
Ricky Cooper
Copyright 2013
This book is licensed for the sole use and enjoyment of the purchaser, it may not be re-sold, reproduced or copied in anyway or any medium. If you wish to share this work of fiction with anyone please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book without purchasing it for your personal use please return to Amazon.co.uk and purchase your own copy.
This is a pure work of fiction, any similarities to, people, brands, places or entities, living or dead are completely coincidental. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
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Acknowledgements
People often laugh when I say that I am a self published writer; or at the very least get that semi-condescending look that often comes with the thoughts, “can't you get a real job?”
Ninety percent of the time I just nod, smile, and give them a few words; kind ones nothing harsh or nasty, and end the conversation.
Then you get others, whom often show curiosity, and are intrigued by the thought of actually meeting someone on the road to becoming a professional author.
Those are the conversations I choose to remember. Those are the conversations that leave you with a small smile especially if you leave them with your name fresh in their minds; as you never know it could turn into a sale or it may get them to spread the word about you to a friend who would like your particular style of writing. You never know.
But above all this, there is the knowledge that few in the world know what it is actually like, to sit down and put fingers to a keyboard, or pen to paper, and actually start a book; and its fewer still that know what it's like to finish one, except another writer.
When I first started writing this it was actually as a contest entry into another authors anthology and about ten thousand words give or take a dozen. But, after having received the saddening email from them saying the anthology was not going ahead, I sat back and looked at what I had done. A thought came bubbling to the top of my chaotic mind that, I had actually sat down and done what I set out to do, with a passable story. Granted there were errors and I had left one group floating outside a plane for lack of additional word count. But the point is; I had actually done it. I Ricky Cooper, had sat down and written a short story.
Then it hit me; if I could do that in a day and half then why not run with it, make it into the story I knew was locked in there. The one I actually wanted it to be, not the half cocked end pieces slapped together like the ends of a loaf that nobody else wanted.
So, I did. But it wasn't as easy as I am making it sound, it took me the best part of fifteen months from that furtive beginning to the end I am presenting to you now, and to be completely honest I wouldn't have gotten this far without the support of my ever loving and eternally patient parents. The ones who never said “no don't be an idiot you can never do it” the ones who took my fevered ramblings and looked me square in the face and said “go on then do it, if you think you can and truly want to, do it.”
Mum, Dad, I love you both and always will; thank you for everything.
Then there's my three A.M proofreader brother, who bless him would stagger home from work to find me chattering away on my keyboard, only to be accosted and forced to read my latest ramblings.
Lewis, thank you, seriously little brother; without your help and patience I don't know if I would have made it this far. I am sorry to say though it's only the beginning, I think Kenco are looking for stock holders though.
Then there's my sister Sarah and my uncle Stephen. Thank you; Sarah for the endless encouraging remarks and ideas, some of which I used, and Stephen, for that bottomless cup of tea forever in my hand, and the unceasing torrent of praise and support thrown my way.
Finally there are the new guys, the ones who apart from my friends and family know what its like to be stuck at four AM trying to figure out the best way to introduce or even eliminate a character; or what works and what doesn't, and have always been there when I needed advice.
One of which, is Shawn Chesser, a man, who although a few thousand miles away has always been there to answer any and every question I have had, even if they have come in at insane o'clock, and even taken the time to point me in the direction of land when I was figuratively lost at sea without a direction to turn.
Thanks bud, it's not something easily forgotten.
And the same to you Mark Tufo, for that one little spark that set me ablaze with the urge to actually see this through, I don't think you will ever realise just how much of an impact telling someone they should run with it and publish it themselves has on a person.
I sure as hell didn't. Do now though.
Finally, last but certainly not least is my editor, the mad man of the literary world, Mark Lewis.
Mate, without your help I don't think I could have gotten to the stage I have, the advice, tweaks and edits you suggested have been some that I would never have thought of; and certainly would never have noticed with the rose tinted binoculars glued to my face when it comes to my work.
Thank you Mark, I would say this is going to be a fruitful and happy friendship, but I don't think you have realised just what you're in for.
Especially, when it comes to the other tales I have bouncing around inside my head, any ways, thank you to all of you ,without you all, none of this would have ever been possible.
Designated: INFECTED.
1
Afghanistan: 2004
'We're being pulled out.'
Baker stopped mid rep, the barbell held close to his chest. Turning he lowered the one hundred kilogram barbell back onto the rack in front of him as he turned to face his commanding officer. His skin was tanned a deep bronze, baked by the unrelenting heat of the Afghan desert sun.
Slipping his t-shirt from around his neck, he dragged it across his forehead and neck, wiping away the sweat before it could scorch his flesh. Pottergate watched with detached indifference as Baker dragged the worn garment over his battle hardened frame, gauging the man's reaction to the singular sentence he had just spoken.
'What do you mean that we're being pulled out Sir? The boy's aren't going to like this, we're this close...'
Baker held his fingers scant millimetres apart, brandishing the parted digits in front of Pottergate's face like a meat covered weapon as he pushed on with his anger soaked tirade.
'To catching that grey bearded, turban wearing fuck, and now they're pulling us out.'
Pottergate smiled tightly, shaking his head. He sighed, a detached almost mournful sigh as he stood, looking at Baker. Pushing down the burden weighing on his soul he continued to speak. 'Sergeant, we, by which I mean you and I, are being pulled out along with S.A.U Broadhead. The rest of the task force is staying here, to be headed up by a team of American Navy Seals. You, the rest of Broadhead and myself, are being reassigned.
A crisis has arisen back home and in Russia, we're being sent in to deal with them. This is primarily due to Broadhead's dealings with Division Thirty-Six and The Red Directorate.
Unfortunately the French, well they are sitting this one out, stating that and I quote.
“As the threat bypassed our shores, the problem is not one for our forces”.
Although to be honest it's more of a blessing than a curse.'
Baker snorted derisively as he took in the stateme
nt. He knew several members of the Bureau de Confinement Biologique, and in his experience they were all good operators.
Although the same could not be said for the heads of the unit or their government for that matter; a wry smile tugged at his lips as he thought of a comment made by Etienne Dubois when he was ordered by a young cabinet official to lay down his weapon when being addressed by a minister of state.
Mo' lon la' Ve he had said, the Latin phrase tripping of his tongue as easily as his native language. Baker's smile widened as he pictured the image of the young official, asking rather curtly for it's translation and the look on his rapidly reddening face as Etienne did as he was asked.
'Come and take them.'
Baker's chuckle drew a curious glance from his grey haired commander, as they carried on walking across the sun-baked earthen square outside the barracks. Putting curiosity aside Pottergate carried on.
'The Germans did offer aid in dealing with the situation but had to withdraw; an outbreak occurred in Munich three days after the offer was made. It was a little odd, with its occurrence at that exact point. But our sources in Munich confirmed it as genuine and thus far, they have it contained to six city blocks.'
Baker stared at his commanding officer, delving deep within the words he had spoken for any hint of deception, all the while keeping their gazes locked. Baker knew the Erste Biologische Kampfbrigade, were better than most when it came to dealing with the virus.
'Can't fault them, they're stand up guys, well trained and well armed, so I have no doubt the information is legit. On that note chief, how are we getting home?'
Despite his tone and the fact he had found the words to ring true, something still wasn't sitting right. Soon something was going to happen.
Casting his gaze around the encampment, he wondered which of the three hundred men stationed here would be going home again in a box. Pottergate motioned for Baker to follow as he turned and walked away, listening intently as Baker fell instep beside him.
'Fadei Bogatir, from the Red Directorate is helping with that particular situation as we're being shuttled from here to Russia; before being sent home. Apparently the Russians sent in several Directorate members to aid in the containment, in return for our......'
Pottergate paused measuring the weight of his words as he spoke after a moment's pause he finished, sarcasm lacing his words as he spoke. 'Services.'
Baker groaned, the memories of nights spent in a vodka induced coma thanks to the six foot eight Russian and his Directorate team mates flooded his mind. On days when he let his guard down and let the memories flood in, he swore he could still smell the fumes rising from the depths of his gullet. Shaking the unbidden memories loose, he turned and smiled sardonically as his slightly venomous retort rolled forth.
'How compassionate of them, sending in their own men to contain a mistake they dropped in our laps while we mop up the mess in their kitchen, bunch of turnip munching alcoholics.'
Pottergate suppressed a smile as he ploughed on; although he couldn't hide the soft twitching of his moustached lip.
'Fair exchange is no robbery Derek, although one does get the feeling that they are getting the better end of the deal here. Having said that, with the ship being Russian they will have access to files we would never see, but beggars can't be choosers. After all, we are getting a free ride home.'
Baker muttered a string of curses that would have turned the air a pale shade of blue, if anyone had actually heard them properly.
'At least Division Thirty-Six played it straight; Rook and his team are a bunch of solid, stand up men despite being American. Fadei and his lot don't trust anyone, especially those not sporting a Russian accent.' Pushing open the plywood door in front of him, Baker walked off to his bunk, occupying himself with rearranging his bergen as the room fell silent. Several of the men in the small semi-submerged dug out barracks turned to the source of the sudden quieting, watching Pottergate intently.
'Gentlemen, pack your gear and be ready to move by nineteen hundred hours, we are being re-tasked. You will be furnished with a full briefing in transit. Just know that this is a Code Four operation, so prepare accordingly.'
The room became a hushed buzz of controlled movement as the men moved methodically through their duties. Baker locked eyes once more with Pottergate who simply nodded before turning and heading back through the door to get his own kit ready for transportation.
Darkness descended quickly, the sky about them seeming to swallow the sun whole as the pole lights flickered to life. The harsh halogen lights of the compound illuminating the night sky like the sun; bathing the interior of the small forward operating base in a warm but somehow bitter light. The four foot thick rampart topped Hesco bastion walls of the compound stood like silent sentinels, shielding them from the beasts that dwelt in the dark.
The patrolling soldier, a nineteen year old private from North Cumbria, dropped, clutching his throat long before the rifle shot was heard. The rattling echo rolled across the rutted fields surrounding the small forward operating base as his gurgling choked gasp for air died on his lips.
His eyes faded to nothing as the blood bubbled forth, the crimson liquid seeping between his slowly diminishing grasp as it dribbled away, carrying his life with it.
The soldier pitched forwards slamming into the dust covered walkway as his life and pain finally left him. The base exploded into a flurry of action as spotlights danced across the open plain surrounding the forward operating base. They found nothing, even as patrols combed the area vainly searching for the man they knew they would never find.
Baker watched silently as they lifted the young man's body on to the stretcher and carried him away, a small lone tear rolled down his face as he stared at the gently rocking boots of the deceased soldier.
'What a bloody waste.'
Pottergate stared at Baker mutely holding his own private counsel as he listened.
'Kid's here five minutes before he is shipped back home in a brushed steel box, he deserved better.'
Baker turned to Pottergate as he bit down hard on his frustrated scream, his teeth grinding together harshly.
'Any chance we can get him sent home on our flight out?'
Pottergate, nodded silently before turning. As he walked away, his back ramrod straight and the night's air carrying away his reply, all Baker heard was the faint whispers of what he thought was.
'I'll see what I can do.'
****
The plane was noisy, harsh and empty. Cargo containers groaned with the subtly shifting mass within them, the noise doing nothing to drown out the ever present droning rattle as it was jostled by the unrelenting swirl of the wind only inches away behind the aluminium and steel shell of the plane.
A pallet shifted, the team's equipment pivoting in mid air before the load straps went taught and stopped it crashing to the floor of the hold.
The plane rocked and jolted as Baker and the rest of the team dozed in their seats. The canvas webbing groaning beneath them with their shifting bodies as the plane slid through the void.
Baker shifted his legs slightly the cold aluminium frame of the chair beneath him making comfort a scarce commodity, levering his feet further towards the skin of the plane he finally settled into a semblance of comfort and closed his eyes.
The engine noise drowned out any chance of conversation as it rattled around the interior of the plane; their ears throbbed as the vibrations wormed across their camouflage clad bodies. The thin walls of the aircraft cold to the touch as it slid through the air high above the ocean, Kingsley shook his shoulders as the icy tendrils of the colds searching fingers seeped into his flesh.
The squealing thump was the first indication of the Hercules C1's first stop of its short tour over Europe and Russia. The rear cargo ramp whined as the tail section split open allowing the ever widening gap of daylight to filter in. Squinting his eyes against the watery glare of a British morning Pottergate watched a wry smirk playing across his worn ba
ttle hardened hide as the load master seemed to melt from the plane's siding, making Baker jump ever so slightly as he approached the coffin. The remaining members of Broadhead snapped to attention, all of them crisply saluting as the coffin was slowly rolled past them. The British flag adorning its top rippled softly in the air circulating through the plane's hold. Baker cast his gaze out of the plane as the coffin continued its sedate journey onto Terra firma. The burial detail stood on either side of the gangway, rigidly at attention. All of them saluting, faces blank as slate; Baker cast his gaze from one to another his probing eyes locking onto the clean shaven Corporal at the foot of the ramp. The young man's face remained an impassive mask as his eyes shimmered with un-shed tears. Nodding sharply as if in silent thanks and recognition the Corporal turned on his heel, the clean, freshly starched uniform lining his weary frame as the eight man detail lead their comrade home. Four minutes later the team once again found themselves taxiing down the runway.
As the plane lifted off and settled into the journey towards destinations unknown Pottergate got to his feet. Resting his back against the pallet containing their bergens, he tapped his ear, indicating for them all to turn on their personal communicators. His voice crackled through the ear beads of their headsets as he spoke, his words dancing amidst a wall of static; Derek idly wondered if the cold or the altitude was affecting the equipment slightly.
'Okay, boys and girls, we are headed to Russia.' His statement was met with silence; he smirked as he watched their less-than-amused reactions. 'Well, don't all cheer at once, for fuck's sake.'
A ripple of a chuckle left one or two of the men as he pushed on, straining to make himself heard over the engines even with the aid of the communicators.
'The Russians have asked us to “help” clean up a mess they made. It seems that the virus we encountered in the Panjshir Valley somehow found its way onto a UK bound Russian freighter. We think it was brought on board by a “stow away,” although reading between the lines the vessel's captain has been known to aide in the expatriation of anyone with enough money.
