Operation Motherland

by Scott Andrews

  "Something funny, miss?"

  I put my hand over my mouth and forced myself to concentrate. "No, Captain, nothing at all. Just... wind."

  I was sitting in my office on the ground floor at Groombridge Place, but I was on the wrong side of the old mahogany desk. I loved that desk. It's amazing the sense of power and confidence just sitting behind a big desk can give you. Props like that help when you're making it all up as you go along, like I'd been. But today I was sat on a hard plastic chair with my hands cuffed behind my back while the man who had introduced himself as Captain Jim Jones sat in my comfy leather swivel chair, facing me across my desk. He pouted sourly and rubbed the back of his neck. He kept doing that. As nervous tics go it wasn't the worst, but it was starting to irritate me.

  The captain was thirtyish, six feet tall, slightly built, with thin sandy hair and big teeth that looked like they were trying to escape from his face. Pretty rather than attractive. He seemed comfortable in his uniform, though, and when I'd been brought in here his men had followed his orders efficiently and without question. Command came easily to him, it seemed. Whoever these guys were, they were well disciplined.

  He narrowed his blue eyes warily, as if daring me to give my assessment out loud.

  "Well then Miss, as I was saying before your breakfast interrupted me, we've taken control of this establishment following a report that you were involved in the trafficking of children."

  There was something about the way he said 'Miss' that made me want to kick him in the shins. I suppose I should have stayed calm and pliant, played the innocent, but he was in my chair and he was patronising me. I wasn't in the mood to be patient.

  "Okay," I replied. "Let's deal with that first, before we get to the question of who you are and by what authority you've taken control of my school. What report? From who?"

  "We have certain assets in play, Miss," he said. Smug git.

  "Right," I snapped, irritably. "In English we say 'spies'. You've got a spy or spies in the trafficking network that I've been negotiating with."

  I paused for a second and ran through everyone I'd come into contact with since I'd started negotiations with Olly a few weeks ago.

  "There was only one person in that organisation who knew where I came from, except Olly," I said. "The spotty one, Smith. He wasn't there this morning. Reporting in, was he?"

  Jones was wrong-footed by that and almost stammered.

  "I can't discuss ongoing operations," he said curtly.

  "Right, so Smith told you I was selling children to Olly, and instead of shutting that scumbag down you waited 'til I'd gone to do business, seized the school, presumably to protect the kids, and then waited for me to get back. That way you leave Smith in place, which means you don't know where the kids end up yet. That about it?"

  The captain rubbed his neck.

  "Thought so," I said. "Only two problems there, Captain.

  "One: I'm not trafficking children, I'm rescuing them. If you talk to the kids from the back of the truck I was driving when you arrested me - kids, by the way, who need medical attention, which is what I should be doing now rather than explaining myself to you - if you talk to them, they'll confirm what I'm saying.

  Two: Olly is dead, as is one of his goons. The other two ran away and the final one is the sod with the bag over his head. I was going to interrogate him and find out where the kids end up, but if you really are the British Army and not just a bunch of roleplaying inadequates, then I'm sure your interrogation techniques will be far more effective than mine. I don't enjoy inflicting pain."

  Captain Jim was not used to people talking back to him. I could see that it was taking a lot of effort for him to stay calm. He was used to unquestioning obedience; maybe I could use that.

  "If what you say is true, we'll have it sorted out in no time, Miss."

  This was not the reasonable, measured answer I wanted. And he'd called me Miss again.

  "And while we're at it," I said, "who the sweet holy fuck do you think you are to come walking into my school at gunpoint and start tossing orders about?"

  "As I've explained, Miss, we are the British Army." He was getting testy. I wondered what would happen if I really pushed him.

  "My big fat arse you are."

  "I can assure you..."

  "If you're the army then where were you after The Cull burnt itself out? Where were you when martial law fell to pieces? Where were you when the rape gangs and cannibals and the England-for-the-English death squads started running things? Where were you when I had to lead an army of children into battle, for fuck's sake? We could've used you! What, were you too busy putting 'assets' in place to actually fucking help? And how many of you are there, eh? Seriously, are there even enough of you to be an army? Even if you are all soldiers you're just another militia now. And as for that Royal Decree bollocks, Christ, don't make me laugh. That bunch of parasites bled out and died just like everyone else. Who's left? Fergie? Is that it? Are you Fergie's Forces? God help us. Or is it Harry? He likes a good uniform, that one; just make sure it's not got a swastika on it."

  I was red in the face, breathing hard, and I'd stood up half way through my rant, trying to assert some measure of control over the situation, impose myself on him a bit.

  The captain just sat there, placid, letting me get it out of my system.

  "Finished?" he asked.

  I'd misjudged him. He'd been annoyed by my niggling jibes and insubordination, but a full temper tantrum just brought back his sense of superiority and condescension.

  I nodded and sat back down. So much for that idea.

  "Well?" I asked.

  He spoke calmly and with control. If he was angry he was determined not to let me see it.

  "I can assure you, Miss, that I am a member of His Majesty's Armed Forces. At present the UK has no civilian administration, but the emergency provisions laid down by the government at the start of the crisis still hold. Martial law remains in effect. However, we do not have enough troops to enforce it. Instead, we are engaged in an operation designed to restore some level of order and security."

  I waited for more information, but he said nothing else. "Is that it?"

  "I am not authorised to tell you more," he said smugly. "We are not in the habit of revealing top secret plans to school teachers."

  "I'm a matron, not a teacher, and if you think you're going to restore order by wearing a uniform, looking pleased with yourself and being vague at people then the best of luck to you."

  He smiled thinly and for the first time I suspected that Captain Jim could be quite ruthless if the circumstances demanded it.

  "You misunderstand, Miss. I have more than a uniform." He reached down and I heard the soft metallic click of a button being undone, then he laid a browning semi-automatic pistol on the desk in front of him. "I have my standard issue browning sidearm."

  I was about to make some sarcastic rejoinder when he reached down and produced the handgun I'd been carrying when I was detained. He gently placed it alongside his own.

  "The curious thing," he said, "is that you do, too. And you're no soldier. Which raises some interesting questions, don't you think?"

  Before I could reply there was a sharp knock at the door and the captain barked "Come!"

  A young female soldier entered, snapped to attention and saluted.

  "We found what we were looking for, Sir."

  "Thank you, Private," replied the captain, getting to his feet and holstering his gun. "Bring her," he said, and left without giving me a second glance.

  I felt the squaddie grip my shoulder, so I stood up and was led out of the room and into the main reception hall of the old house. The double front doors were to my right, the main staircase with its plush red carpet was to my left, and a series of doors led to rooms off the hall. Normally this space would be full of life - running kids, play fights, all sorts of wonderful commotion. Now there was just a young man in uniform with a machine gun nestled in the crook of his arm, i
ndicating to the captain that he should walk past the staircase and into what would once have been the servant's area. I followed, receiving a sneer of contempt from him as I passed. Like I cared.

  We went through a small door beside the staircase into a narrow corridor that led to the scullery, pantry and kitchen. But it turned out that our destination was the cellar. As I got to the cellar door I caught a glimpse of the courtyard through a small window. I saw all the children and staff of my school, lined up, stood to attention, being watched by three soldiers whose guns were trained on them. My first instinct was to raise hell, but I'd realised what was coming, so I bit back my anger and followed Captain Jones down the stairs into the armoury. The female squaddie remained in the corridor above.

  A single naked bulb lit the cool, damp, barrel-vaulted chamber where we kept our guns and ammunition. It was not that different to the armoury back at St Mark's, out of which we'd hauled as many boxes as possible while Mac's time bomb counted down. The captain was standing by a box of SA-80 machine guns, inspecting them closely. He lifted one out, felt its heft, and assured himself it was the genuine article and not a replica or a toy. Then he scanned the room, found the ammunition, checked that too, and slammed the magazine into place. Satisfied, he shoved the muzzle hard into my abdomen and looked me in the eye.

  "I'm authorised to shoot looters," he said quietly. "In fact my C.O. positively encourages it. But lucky for you I like to get my facts straight before I start shooting. So I'm going to give you one chance to explain to me how a young nurse and a house full of children happen to be in possession of enough army property to wage a small war. And you'd better make it good, Miss Crowther, because the serial number on that box tells me that this ordnance came from a Territorial installation about ten miles from here, and the men who were guarding it were found tied up and murdered last month. As you can imagine, we take a dim view of people who kill our colleagues."

  I took a deep breath and maintained eye contact. Such pretty blue eyes, but they were hard and cold. I didn't doubt he'd shoot me if I said the wrong thing.

  "I thought," I said, "that you were here to stop me trafficking children?"

  "I am. And I'll do as you ask - talk to the children from the truck, interrogate your prisoner, check on Olly and see if he's as dead as you say. It's easy to check a few facts and find out if you're lying. But this," he gestured to the crates, "is another matter. And I'm still waiting."

  There was nothing to do but tell the truth.

  "I took control of this school a few months ago," I explained. "Before that it was briefly run by a man called Sean MacKillick - a ruthless, violent psychopath. He was setting himself up as some kind of tribal leader until he was betrayed and killed by the children he was attempting to lead. Then I stepped in and took his place. These children were - are - horribly traumatised. I'm trying to look after them and keep them safe. It was MacKillick who raided your base, killed those men and took the guns. I just sort of inherited them."

  His eyes were sharp and calculating as he considered what I'd just said. I stood there underneath the light bulb, with my back to the staircase, waiting for his decision, knowing that I might only find out what it was when a bullet hit my spine.

  Looking back at that moment, I think he believed me. I fancy that I saw the change in his eyes, the instant he chose trust over fear. But I may be wrong. I'll never know. Because at that precise moment the young woman soldier from upstairs was thrown down the cellar stairs. I looked down and to my left and saw her eyes blink once in surprise before she died. Her throat had been slit and there was arterial blood still pumping from the gash.

  "Drop the gun," said a familiar voice behind me.

  Oh no.

  Captain Jim still had the machine gun jammed into my stomach but he was looking over my shoulder at the boy coming down the stairs. Then he looked back to me and held my gaze. I suppose that's one of the things about soldiers - they're trained to stay cool even when awful things happen out of the blue. I could see the captain calculating the odds, weighing his chances, not sparing a second thought for the poor dead girl lying next to me on the floor.

  "I said drop it," barked Rowles as he came down the stairs. I couldn't see him, but I presumed he had a gun aimed at the captain's head.

  I needed to try and defuse this situation.

  "I thought you were walking back, Rowles," I said, maintaining eye contact with the captain, telling him with my eyes that he shouldn't do anything hasty.

  "They had horses. I nicked one. Who are these bastards?" asked the boy.

  "They say they're the British Army."

  "Ha. And who are they really? More traffickers? Militia? What?"

  "Thing is Rowles, I think they might be telling the truth. I think they may actually be the army."

  The captain inclined his head slightly, acknowledging what I was doing, giving me leave to continue

  "So why have they got everyone lined up outside like they're about to start shooting?" asked Rowles.

  "He's got a point, you know," I said to the captain. "You go around kidnapping people at gunpoint with no explanation, they're going to assume you're just another bunch of thugs. They're not going to think 'hang on, maybe they're here to help, maybe they're lining us up against a wall for our own good'. They're going to think 'oh look, another shower of bastards with big guns', and they're going to start a fight. You can't blame them for that. After a year of fighting for our lives against all sorts of gun toting, uniform wearing bully boys, why would anyone give you the benefit of the doubt if this is the way you do business?"

  Don't do anything stupid, Captain, please don't shoot the boy.

  He considered what I'd said, his gun muzzle still nestled in my tummy, Rowles' gun still pointing at his head.

  "We're the army, Miss," he said. "We don't have to explain ourselves."

  "And that's the kind of arrogant bullshit that gets people killed," I replied angrily. "Of course you have to explain yourselves. Anyone can get army guns and uniforms these days, they're just lying there. The point of the army is to be better than that. You're supposed to protect us from the thugs, not act like them. That girl on the floor, what was her name?"

  "Julie, Julie Noble."

  "Well Julie Noble would still be alive if you'd just knocked on the door and introduced yourselves instead of waving guns around and lining up children like cattle."

  "These days people have a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later," he said. "We've lost a lot of good soldiers trying your approach. It's proven more efficient to seize control and then explain later. Saves lives."

  "Army lives. But how many innocent people have been killed resisting you before they knew what was going on?"

  He shrugged. "A few."

  "Even one is too many. Your job is to risk your lives to keep them safe, but you're risking their lives to keep yourselves safe. And if you do that you lose what little authority that uniform gives you. The boy behind me is eleven. Look what this world has driven him to. Look what you're driving him to. Someone is going to die here in a moment - you, me or a eleven-year-old boy - if you don't start acting like a proper soldier. And I'd really, really like it if no-one else died today. So be a dear, Jim, and put the bloody gun down."

  "Him first," he said.

  I rolled my eyes. It was hard to know who was the bigger child, the soldier or the schoolboy.

  I glared at him and said: "Rowles, lower your gun please."

  "But what if he shoots you, Matron?"

  "He won't."

  "I can take him, Matron. Just say the word."

  A momentary flash of disbelief crossed the captain's face.

  "Oh, he's not lying, Captain," I said.

  "Listen, son," said the soldier.

  "No no no!" I interrupted, frantically signalling him to stop. "Don't do that. Don't."

  There was a long pause and then Rowles said: "I don't like people in uniforms telling me what to do." The emotionless calm in his voice
told the captain everything he needed to know about Rowles' state of mind and why it would be a really bad idea to patronise him.

  "Rowles," I said firmly. "you've never disobeyed a direct order from me, or moaned once if you don't like an order I've given. As long as I let you say your piece before I make up my mind you let me make the call. Right?"

  "You listen and you're fair. I trust you."

  "Trust me now and put down the gun. That's an order."

  After a moment's hesitation I heard the sound of his gun being uncocked. That was half the battle. Now which way would the captain jump?

  "He's eleven years old," I said quietly. "You've invaded his home and kidnapped his friends at gunpoint. He's done nothing wrong, nothing you wouldn't have done in the same situation. This is your fault, Captain. Your actions led us here. And your actions will determine whether this ends peacefully or not. I don't think you want the blood of children on your hands, do you?"

  The captain was staring at the floor, at poor dead Julie, his jaw clenched, furious and armed and eager to avenge the death of a soldier under his command.

  "No, I don't," he said eventually. But it was an effort, I could tell.

  "Good," I said. "Then here's what we're going to do. Rowles, throw your gun over here."

  He did so.

  "Captain, lower your gun and uncuff me. Then we'll walk out of here, brew up a nice cup of tea, have some of Mrs Atkins' flapjack and sort this out like civilised adults."

  The captain half laughed, a mixture of amusement and warning. Then he nodded.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as he withdrew his gun from my stomach.

  But I was a fool.

  Quick as a flash he stepped sideways and opened fire at the staircase behind me. The noise was unbearably loud in that enclosed chamber. I whirled to see what was happening and felt something hot and sharp hit my left ear. I caught a glimpse of Rowles diving to his right, gun in hand, muzzle flaring. The light bulb was shot out and we were plunged into darkness, lit only by strobe flashes of gunfire.