by Luke Duffy
Next, they all turned their attention to the envelopes containing their new identities and documents. Each month, new passports, driver’s licences, credit cards and even gym memberships were produced for them. Their photographs matched and even their personal details and records were changed on the international databases. For instance, if any of them were ever arrested, their fingerprints would match perfectly to the name and description on the police system.
“For fuck sake…,” Bobby suddenly burst out with anger, “is this some kind of joke, Gerry? Are you taking the piss?”
Gerry looked back at him vacantly then glanced towards Stan for support.
“What’s up, Bobby?”
“This fucking I.D, is what’s fucking up,” he growled, slinging the documents across the table and reaching for a fresh glass of the strong vintage whisky.
Marty snatched up the package and pulled out the passport from inside. He began reading and then erupted with a howl of laughter. Everyone in the room turned to him, expectantly waiting for him to share the joke.
Stan snatched the passport and read the name aloud.
“Sharon Clements.”
The room resounded with the ridiculing guffaws that were aimed at Bobby. He sat there, glowering and threatening each one of them with his wrath.
It was not so much the name that bothered him, but the fact that he was unable to leave the apartment until the matter was cleared up. If the worst happened and he found himself in trouble with the law, or in an accident, the inevitable questions about his identity would be asked. The name, Sharon Clements, clearly did not match the man, his description or his biometrics, and it would not be long until the problem was dropped into the lap of the MoD and followed by a torrent of awkward questions.
Drawing unnecessary attention to themselves was not a habit that the team could afford to get in to.
Bobby sat back and crossed his arms, a deep series of creases spreading across his forehead, as he stared through the large bay windows that expanded the length of the room in front of them. He had been away for almost five weeks and the city awaited, but instead, he would need to remain in the building until the mistake was corrected.
“Get this sorted out, Gerry, and do it quick,” he growled.
“Hey, Bobby, have a guess what my name is this month,” Marty teased him.
Bobby did not answer and continued to sulk.
“Steve Rockwell,” Marty gloated. “Oh, you know I’m going to have some fun with a name like that. I should be a porn star.”
Within an hour, the men had dispersed. Gone to indulge themselves in the things they liked to do during their time off.
Danny, Nick, Marty and Brian, as usual, headed into town to get drunk and party hard.
Stan and Taff, being the older and more mature of the group decided to pass on the bars and clubs, opting for some decent food and a few quiet drinks in one of the local pubs and then the hotel bar.
“Right then,” Bobby announced, finally snapping out of his foul mood. “Looks like I’ll go up and see Roland. There’s always something going on at his place.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Stan replied with a stern look. “Keep away from that white stuff he’s always shoving up his nose.”
“Yes, dad,” Bobby retorted with a dismissive wave of his hand as he headed for the door. “You know me, I’m not into that shit. Anyway, I prefer to sniff glue.”
Bull, as always, made his excuses and waited until he thought no one was paying him any attention before slipping away. His cunning was as subtle as a brass band. His secret was not even remotely secret to the rest of the team, at least. They all knew where he went and what he got up to.
Each one of them had been handpicked for their lack of ties. None of them were married or had children, or siblings. Their parents were either dead or unknown, and every member of the team was legally dead. They had been listed as Killed in Action or died due to accidents and illness.
According to the database, Nick Roberts had died of AIDS and still received a hard time over it from his teammates.
However, three years earlier, Bull had somehow tracked down his mother.
As a baby, he had been dumped outside his local Post Office in a carrier bag with a note asking for anyone to take care of him. He grew up in foster homes and approved schools, bouncing from one town to the next, forever getting into fights and trouble with the police, and never really felt at home anywhere, until he joined the army.
When Bull began disappearing for days on end, then showing up without bruises or stories of wild parties and orgies, Stan and Marty grew suspicious.
It had not taken long for them to discover the truth.
The hedonistic Bull, who usually wanted nothing better than to tear up the town, causing mayhem and living like a ‘Rock Star’, was going for walks in the country and having picnics with his ‘Dear Old Mum.’
Stan and Marty felt no need to confront him over it, and allowed their friend to feel what it was like finally to have a mother.
They could not help sniggering though, as they sat three hundred metres away, binoculars glued to their faces and a beer in their hands, watching the mighty Bull, eating French Fancies and picking wild flowers with his aging mother.
Morning arrived with a multitude of aching heads and blurry minds.
Stan, having been woken early by a phone call from Gerry, was kept busy going from one apartment to the next, dragging his men from their beds, screaming at them like stubborn children in an attempt to get them coherent.
Nick and Brian had obviously struck it lucky and had not gone back to their apartments and Stan’s numerous attempts to reach them on their phones, was an exercise in futility.
Bobby, his head thumping from the hammers that seemed to be pounding away at his skull, forced himself up from his bed when he heard the door to his apartment reverberating from Stan’s assault.
“Alright, alright,” he shouted back towards the doorway, the sound of his own voice echoing through his mind and causing him to wince. “I heard you. Just give me five-fucking-minutes, will you?”
The banging stopped, Stan obviously moving on to the next door.
Bobby slumped on the edge of his bed, his hair standing on end and his eyes bloodshot and unable to focus. He grimaced at the taste in his bone-dry mouth and glanced around the room, looking for his clothes but unable to see or remember where he had left them.
In fact, there was nothing he could remember from the previous evening.
From behind him, he heard a low rumbling groan.
Startled, he spun around, his drunken vision taking a second longer to catch up with the rapid movements of his head and almost causing him to black out as his eyes seemed to rattle within their sockets.
He looked for the origin of the noise and noticed a large mound in the middle of his bed, covered with the thick white duvet. He blinked hard and pinched at the top of his nose in an attempt to focus.
“Sorry, love,” he croaked, “but I’ll be honest with you. I don’t remember your name, and I think it’s pointless you telling me, because I’ll be asking for it again in about five minutes.”
The covers moved and a tangle of blonde hair appeared from underneath. A pretty face, though smeared with lipstick and mascara, turned to him with just one eye open, struggling to focus in the same way he had.
“It’s okay, I don’t remember yours either, and I can’t remember anything that we did. So it couldn’t have been all that great. You can make it up to me by getting some coffee though, if you really want to.”
Bobby nodded and smiled.
“Touché…”
It took Stan and Taff the better part of two hours to locate and round up their team. They were all a little worse for wear, all except Bull.
He was as sober as a judge and grumbling about being dragged to HQ before having had the opportunity to spend some money and raise hell.
They walked and staggered along the dimly lit corridors of the bunker, turning corn
ers and cutting through rooms. The intoxicated members of the team were struggling to keep their bearings and some were beginning to feel dizzy.
“What’s going on, Stan?” Brian asked as he drained the last of his coffee from his thermos mug.
Stan was getting annoyed with being continually asked the same question.
“I haven’t a clue,” he said dismissively. “We’ve been dragged in for something and that’s all I know.”
He turned to Brian and looked him up and down.
“Look at the fucking state of you lot. You’re like a bunch of teenage kids on your first holiday to Tenerife.”
“I wish I was in Tenerife,” Bobby grumbled.
They arrived at the briefing room and immediately, they realised that something big was going on. The space was crammed with people, all in a hurry and rushing about. It was a hive of activity. More so than usual.
The men in lab coats were particularly interesting, a rarity in the bunker and especially, in the tactical briefing rooms. They stood in a huddle, talking quietly amongst themselves and comparing their notes from the stacks of paper and files that they held in their hands.
Taff looked across at Stan and raised a questioning eyebrow.
Gerry was at the far end, speaking with a couple of Intelligence Officers and he made his way over to Stan and his men when he saw them arrive. Normally, he would smile and make small talk, but this time, his expression was complete seriousness and clearly, there was no time for formalities and trivial chitchat.
Samantha was also there, and began to cross the room, making a beeline for them.
“The briefing will start in about ten minutes,” she informed them. Then she noticed their condition and her face formed a look of frustration and impatience.
“Oh, I see the children have been allowed out to play again?”
Her statement was aimed at the whole group, but her attention was focussed solely on Bobby as he stood swaying.
“Fuck off, Sam,” he spat, rubbing his hand against the side of his head. “I’ve got a hangover that could put a rhino on its arse and I don’t need you adding to it.”
The history between Bobby and Samantha was still recent and the rawness between the two had still not subsided enough for them to deal with one another without one having to make the other feel uncomfortable.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Please accept my apology…, Sharon.”
Marty snickered and nudged Bobby in the ribs.
“Shit and fall in it, Samantha.”
She turned to Stan, satisfied that she had accomplished her mission in ruining Bobby’s day.
“I suggest you all go and get more coffee, and quick.”
8
Danny peered down from the open door and watched the jungle rapidly sweeping by below. A blanket of endless shades of green drifted along beneath his feet, looking like a patchwork quilt of lush foliage. The trees were so closely packed that it was impossible to see the forest floor. Only when the continuous mantle of high reaching glistening wet leafs and branches were broken by fast flowing rivers and sheer cliff faces, did he see any ground detail.
It had been many years since he had dressed like a soldier, but now, wearing jungle uniform and boots, and carrying an M4 ArmaLite, he once again felt like he was on operations with a regular army unit.
Although Danny was the newest member of the team, he was no stranger to war. He had served his share of operational tours with his parent unit and even been a member of the Pathfinder Platoon of the UK Airborne Forces. Strong and extremely fit, there was no physical challenge that he would not face, including a hard fight with the odds stacked against him. Tall and dark haired, with long arms, he had been a talented boxer in his time, even representing the British Army overseas.
Everyone had instantly warmed to Danny when he first arrived, making him the butt of all their jokes, testing his character and level of retaliation. Bull had learned the hard way. After subjecting Danny to a horrendous night of taunts and practical jokes, he fell asleep in a drunken stupor and as a result, lost both of his eyebrows to Danny.
The helicopter transported the team eastwards, banking and twisting as it followed the contours of the landscape. On occasion, its rotors were just inches away from the treetops, an indication of the skill of the pilot.
The noise was deafening.
The open doors on either side of the fuselage created a storm of wind that howled through the interior, making it impossible to hear anything other than the ear-splitting thump of the whirling blades and the growl of the engines.
Danny had nothing to say anyway.
He did not feel like engaging in conversation with anyone. Just a brief glimpse around the interior of the aircraft at the others, dressed in multi shades of green, told him that the rest of them felt the same way.
Instead, he leaned back, ignoring the powerful stench of aviation fuel and rested his head against the helicopter’s interior. As he continued to stare out at the wild tropical landscape, the vibrations from the motors, travelling through the aircraft’s structure, sent him into a mild trance.
They had a job to do now and they were all busy tuning themselves into their environment, lost in their own thoughts and preparing themselves in their own private ways. Some were trying to sleep, while others, like Danny, remained locked in their own little world.
Brian was fruitlessly attempting to get through a chapter in the book he was reading, fighting a losing battle against the gale that tore at the pages. In the end, he gave up and angrily stuffed the novel into the space beneath his seat, wedging it between two heavy steel boxes of ammunition.
Stan was busy staring at a map and a number of photographs, glancing out of the doors on either side as he orientated himself to the ground while speaking with the pilot through the headset at the same time.
Danny caught his eye and Stan nodded at him, holding up five fingers, informing him that they were almost at the Landing Zone.
The mission brief had revealed nothing new, at first. As usual, they were given a summary of the global situation.
Military reverses in the wars against Korea and Iran were forcing the western governments to rethink their strategy. China had managed to sink the aircraft carrier, USS George Washington, creating a severe dent in the ability to provide air operations and close support for the land based units engaged in South Korea, having already been pushed back during the massive Korean counter offensive from the north.
The Iran front had become bogged down in a stalemate. The war had lost its momentum and had begun to resemble something from the First World War, with both sides digging in and occupying heavily fortified positions and launching small-scale assaults that yielded very little in the strategic sense, and neither side gaining the upper hand.
The technologically advanced west did not have the resources to sustain a prolonged war in the Middle East. To begin with, things had gone well and it looked as though the American and British armies, along with limited supporting units from France and Germany, would secure another easy, initial, victory against the conventional troops of Iran. Then, as had happened in Iraq, an anticipated insurgency would need to be dealt with, but Britain and the US believed that they had adequately prepared for that eventuality.
When Iranian resistance proved to be much stronger than what their neighbours, Iraq, had been able to muster, the western armies immediately run into problems. The enemy hit back with similar, state-of-the-art weapons, provided to them from Eastern Europe and China, and wielded them with a skill and strategy that matched the invading troops.
Iraq had been a relatively easy invasion, with the Iraqi commanders unable to think in a completely three-dimensional perspective and adjust for their lacking of sophisticated weaponry. Their infrastructure had been severely damaged through years of sanctions and their army was already demoralised.
Iran was a different beast.
Their soldiers proved to be of a much higher calibre and the Irani
an commanders were extremely well trained and practiced in the arts of warfare. They had better tanks, weaponry and even their pilots were better skilled than the Iraqis had been. When the invasion began, the allied airstrikes proved ineffectual. Due to the concentrated and extremely effective anti-air defences of the enemy, many of the guided missiles and manned aircraft were shot down before reaching their targets.
In the end, the allies had to push on without having gained complete air superiority.
Soon, all the stocks of the technologically superior weapons that the British and American forces relied upon so heavily, began to dwindle and the troops on the ground had to rely solely on their skills as soldiers. It had become a war of attrition and a political disaster, as more and more body-bags were sent home, containing the remains of fallen sons, fathers and brothers, fighting in wars that the majority of the public did not agree with.
The allies were fighting multiple wars, on multiple fronts and things were not going the way they had wanted. The words ‘Nuclear Strikes’ were often thrown around in the media, and to many people, it seemed that the world was on the brink of an apocalypse.
None of this had been revealing news to the men of the team, but when the men dressed in lab coats stepped forward and began to explain the situation through the eyes of the World Health Organization, WHO, Stan and his teammates were enlightened to a much larger and potentially more devastating threat.
One that none of them had realised even existed.
They had all seen the news footage of South America and Africa, in the grip of famine and disease, but that was nothing new. The Third World was always suffering while the First World got fat and happy. What really caught their attention was the epic scale of it all, and the distinct similarities of the suffering and the effects it was having on them, socially and economically. Considering that both continents were separated by a vast ocean, their symptoms were very similar, almost identical.
Entire towns and cities had been wiped out by a mysterious virus and the authorities were battling hard to keep it out of the limelight, for now.
