by P. R. Sharp
ACE OF SPADES
CHRONICLES
BOOK ONE
By
P.R.SHARP
A.©.S
CHRONICLES : BOOK ONE
P.R.Sharp has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
Ace of Spades Chronicles Copyright © P.R.Sharp 2014
Cover Art #2 © P.R.Sharp 2015
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS & THANKS
.For patience and beer.
Mum & Dad. Peter B. Danno. Shep. Tim the bar. Cosmic. Bob. Sam K. Nick J. Miss Frobes.
.Credit where credit is due.
Iron Maiden... These Colours Don't Run
John McClane... Die Hard
Baha'u'llah
Marian Diamond
Evanescence... Hello Green Day... Wake Me Up When September Ends B52's... Planet Claire Neil Young... My My, Hey Hey (Out of the Blue) Ozzy Osbourne Undertones... Teenage Kicks. John Milton... Paradise Lost. John Fowles... The Magus. Vincent Van Gogh. Oasis… Columbia
.And not forgetting. H.G.W.. SK.. SS.. CB.. JH.. EAP.. SL.. G.R.. I.B.. S.G.1..
.And of course. M.B
Ace of Spades
PART ONE
FIRE TEAM PAGAN
'For the passion, for the glory,
for the memories, for the money.
You're a soldier, for your country,
what's the difference, all the same.’
Iron Maiden... These Colours Don't Run
W,X,Y,Z
The sweltering, mid afternoon sun beat down on the sniper position of Lance Corporal Xander, as he wiped sweat from the Schmidt & Bender day scope and shifted his crotch against the hard ground. He’d concealed himself against a low, brick wall and had perfect perspective of a middle class, suburban street, which he would classify as most definitely unfriendly. He’d trained the reticle on the same shattered doorway for several tense minutes now, and the back of his Osprey body armour was beginning to cook. He could feel a gully of moisture, slowly rolling down his back like a shallow stream, and he wanted a shower; he wanted a cup of tea. But most of all, he wanted to stretch his spine and legs, and crack the nitrogen pocket that was gradually building pressure around and behind his left knee like an invisible tourniquet. He checked his watch. They were only six hours in! His comrades were out of sight but well within PRR range, and GPS tracking confirmed their position as twenty five metres due south east of his location, moving slowly but with confident intention towards his target area.
They had departed the car park of a huge, multi-screen cinema designated Section Zulu.One.Alpha (Z.1.A) by Blackhawk at dusk, and had twenty four hours to reach the Grid One marker for a supply drop and await any additional directives, before continuing in to Grid Two. One of twenty-five, four man fire teams, each with five grids to search, their mission had been deemed a simple, humanitarian effort by the powers that be; to call in as many survivors as possible before their own helicopter evacuation in Grid Five.
Their briefing at Beachley Barracks just yesterday had been vague and disturbing on many levels. A very young and nervous Major General led the brief, with two battle hardened Lieutenant Generals and one full blown General looking grim and silent in the background. Joint.Helicopter.Command (J.H.C) was well represented too, with the presence of three high-ranking officers. And there was one other gentleman; dressed in an expensive Savile Row three piece suit, he stood to the side and offered no input whatsoever. Motionless and equally distant, this extremely polished though dour-faced looking fellow was obviously MI5 or some other Home Office spook. Xander remembered how the Major General had avoided eye contact of any kind with the convened hierarchy as he took to the platform and uneasily cleared his throat before addressing the gathered troops.
“Let me first say welcome back to all of you who have returned safely from overseas deployment. No doubt you were hoping for some well deserved down time, but I’m afraid that’s not to be. Time is of the essence here, so let’s crack on. Approximately three weeks ago, a viral pathogen of unknown origin began to surface within the red zones, here.” The Major General indicated a large area of suburban streets, highlighted in blushed crimson upon a blown up ordinance survey map. “The exact time frames are sketchy, and to the best of our knowledge, there have been no reports of a patient zero or any terrorist implications. Civilian Authorities thought they could handle it but have struggled to control the situation since the outbreak and as of now, martial law is in place.”
The Lance Corporal thought of how the mood in the vast assembly room had shifted at this point of the proceedings.
The Major General cleared his throat yet again, this time with urgent authority, and immediately, one hundred combat ready Rifles from 1st Battalion, Devonshire and Dorset Light Infantry and the 1st Battalion, Royal Gloucestershire, Berkshire and Wiltshire Light Infantry all fell silent and came to attention in their chairs.
The most chilling part of the brief had been when the Major General had said, “obviously, this is an unprecedented set of circumstances, but; as with all missions, you will react quickly, aggressively and efficiently and be prepared for a rapidly changing situation. Noddy suits are not necessary as the virus can only be passed through direct physical contact; though we do advise full body armour. Because of the nature of this situation, you are authorised to use deadly force. The infected are British citizens and because of that, you will have to make difficult and critical decisions. But above all, do not get contaminated. If you do get contaminated, you will be considered hostile and the appropriate action will be taken. You’ll operate in teams of four. You’ll sweep your designated areas for survivors, keeping line of sight at all times. Radio contact will be at your discretion. I don’t want any rock stars. This is not a video game. There are far too many body bags coming back through these doors as it is; so do it quickly and do it safe. You have your orders.”
The whispered voice of Sergeant Zola crackled in his earpiece; “Standby,” pulling Xander back from the memory.
The damaged front door to the property he’d trained his sights on, rolled on its hinges and slipped to the ground accompanied by a teeth grinding squeal. After a few seconds, a naked man staggered from the end of terrace house; covered with deep festering wounds and wearing the distinctive signs of smoke damage, he dragged his torn, bare feet across the shabby welcome mat and basked in the sunlight.
Sergeant Zola’s voice, this time with slightly elevated stress, crackled once again through the earpiece of his PRR, advising Xander to ‘stand by’ yet again and to ‘be alert’, as the noise made by the fallen door was sure to provoke the infected to their location. Xander readied his trigger finger and waited for the man to turn. When the target rolled his head, Xander held his breath and fired. The gratifying way that the action of his rifle responded to his light touch was momentarily replaced with an inner smugness that only snipers of his calibre could appreciate. When the bullet hit home, the .300 Winchester Magnum obliterated what was left of the man’s face, and ended its short subsonic journey with a wisp of brick dust, embedding itself within the masonry of the building. The target seemed to stand surprised for an age before his knees buckled and he keeled over like a macabre puppet with his strings cut.
Xander slowly exhaled as a single bead of sweat rolled down his temple and onto the rifle’s cheek piece, as another figure exited the building. This time it was an elderly woman. The flesh from her left elbow down to her wrist was gone, the exposed bone yellow and black in places; the surrounding meat, burnt and crispy, resembled charred hog roast. Her lower jaw was missing and she hovered above the body of the shot man. Xander un
hurriedly, noiselessly; ejected the spent shell, cupping it with his fingers. He placed this on the ground next to his thigh before sliding the bolt action forward. He put the woman out of her misery with a single tap to the forehead. She fell backwards as another target came into view.
Another old woman.
Another single head tap.
Two shots left.
“Nice grouping!” Corporal Yates said through the PRR. Xander smiled as Sergeant Zola added his own admiration of his assassination proficiency with “one hundred and eighty!”, and then watched with a cocky smirk as Corporal Yates emerged from a walled garden. Wearing his signature bandanna, screen printed to resemble a grinning skull pulled tightly around his face; Corporal Yates performed a satirical pagan jig, complete with manic jazz hands. Zola rolled his fist in the air and the dance came to an abrupt and immediate stop. Rifleman Walker appeared next and took up position behind the shell of a burnt out Ford Cougar, nervously aiming his SA80 at the door, whilst the Corporal side stepped the freshly dropped threesome and tucked in behind Sergeant Zola. Yates scanned the windows, sweeping his SA80 up and down, left and right, as the Sergeant prepared to enter the house armed with a tiger striped US Military issue M4 Carbine.
The Armoury had given each Fire Team an 'open store' policy before departure, allowing them to pick and choose between the available weapons packages. M4's had been 'on loan' and in a testing period from the USMC for nearly five years and came equipped with a grenade launcher, and the Sergeant preferred its short, overall length, compared to the SA80. Fire team members were also offered a choice of combat shot gun and/or side arm as back up, with Pagan opting for the awesome Benelli .12 gauge semi-automatic for crowd control, and the SIG-Sauer P226 9mm pistol as a fall back; a gift to the British Army from the Swiss. However, the side arms were unavailable at the time of their deployment, and would be dropped with supplies once they hit the Grid One marker.
Xander spotted an apprehensive fidget from the young Rifleman. The rookie checked that his safety was off and even from this distance; Xander saw the colour drain from Walker as the two senior members of the team were swallowed by the shadowy interior of the house. The ground and first floor had suffered fire damage days ago and there was still a consuming stench of burnt fibre and plastic in the air. Tattered curtains, once fresh and bright, hung like black, raggedy robes against the heat shattered double-glazing of the front window; tentacles of green algae spilled from the upper bathroom overflow. The sound of wood breaking from within the house snapped his awareness back to the scope and he blinked salty perspiration from his eyes.
No movement.
The thud of more breakages came from within and then a figure appeared at the door. The image through the scope revealed a nodding skull. The reticle remained motionless on the targets head before Xander released his trigger finger and lowered the stock of the L115A3 rifle, allowing it to rest on the ground below his right armpit. The Corporal stood in the doorway. He removed his skull bandanna and waved him over. His expression said it all.
House clear.
Xander folded the rifles bi-pod and got to his feet. His left knee made a cracking noise, and he winced before performing a low sprint across the road towards the relative safety of the three storey Victorian wreck. He browsed over his left shoulder and saw multiple contacts approaching from a side street, then heard the Sergeant telling the young rifleman in his characteristic tenor, to 'check the back'.
Anxiously alternating his attention from looking over his shoulder into the fire damaged property, to casting his eye along the barrel of his rifle, Xander gathered his convictions and tried to focus on the job at hand. Since their insertion, they had been running. Reactions were tested as they encountered multiple hostiles just yards from their drop point. They had amassed a huge following and were outnumbered, leaving them very little time to think. Gaining safe access to this house might give them a few secure moments before moving on. He spotted an infected inching towards the kerb nearest to him. He put him down with a single, suppressed shot, just below the nose. A large Easter egg sized section of skull span into the air and landed in the road with a soft splat. However, the body flew sideways and slammed into the side of a parked car, setting off its alarm system. Xander clenched his teeth and sucked air. The high pitched noise would surely signal more infected to their position, and getting cornered was not part of the plan.
He shouldered the rifle and ran over to the vehicle where he smashed the passenger window with the butt of his Benelli, then he quickly clambered head first through the broken window, and pulled all the fuses from the fuse box and ripped all the wires out from below the dash. The alarm gradually began to peter-out as he pulled himself free, but when he looked up, the noise had alerted several infected like a dinner bell, and they were all heading straight for him. He felt his throat tighten and his bowels relax.
Five years to the day after the attack on the Twin Towers, he had been in a similar situation in Garmisir with Corporal Yates; substituting infected hordes for the
Taliban, that is. With a Captain from the Household Cavalry in command, Xander had experienced his first real battle in Afghanistan, and it would have a profound effect on his fighting skills; not to mention his aptitude for personal and/or team survival. Taking heavy fire from three sides and with the enemy less than one hundred yards away, he'd witnessed two Afghan soldiers get blown to pieces by a mortar round which landed right on top of them. They had been standing in the exact same spot where he had been only moments before, and his first and only reaction was one of relief. He remembered shielding his face from the blasted sand and when he glanced at the scorched ground to make sure that he still had both his legs, he saw a portion of face complete with hair and eyeball, stuck to his boot toe, staring back at him. The local military were adequately trained and along with a few Afghan Police, they were their only backup for the fight. But it was unspoken, common knowledge that local boys fighting along side the allied forces were usually the first to get taken as cannon fodder by the enemy; and he was glad to come out unscathed, legs and all in one piece, after the attack. When he returned to the UK for Christmas in 2006 and told his friends and family about the siege at Camp Garmisir, they informed him that the battle with the Taliban had been featured by the Daily Mail and had even been compared to Rorke’s Drift.
The Sergeant poked his head out around the front door frame and shouted for him to "get his arse in here." Xander jogged backwards and took out another fiend as it tripped over the same garden wall from where Yates had appeared. Once in the house, they lay the broken front door on its side, across the melted UPVC frame, and wedged it with a frazzled sofa. It wouldn't stop them for long. "The back garden is full of these buggers!" The Sergeant said.
"They're bloody everywhere." Said Xander. Zola scratched his goatee biker’s beard, as he often did when he was scheming, and looked around, glancing up the stairs. "This is a terrace, right?" Xander nodded. He got the distinct impression that the Sergeant knew exactly where he was going with this train of thought, and it came as no surprise when he tapped Xander on the shoulder and motioned for him to get up to the first floor. He was quickly followed by the others. They could hear a half dozen infected kicking and shoving the makeshift barricade holding them back at the front door; giving them the added impetus to react without question to the Sergeant’s next order. "Throw anything you can find down the stairs. Don't make it easy for them to get up here." The squad wasted no time. They heaved a double bed over the banister, followed by a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a writing desk, suitcases, a single bed from the spare room on the second floor and its matching furniture. In no time at all, they had completely blocked the stairwell with every piece of furniture that wasn't nailed down.
"What now?" The young rifleman asked, apprehensively hopping from foot to foot, as if he desperately needed to urinate. The Sergeant grinned and pointed above their heads towards the ceiling of the third storey. They all looked up and saw the lo
ft hatch. Twenty minutes later, as Xander clambered through a hole punched out between the rafters, the team momentarily surveyed the street, now carpeted from pavement to pavement with infected.
1.2
Ace of Spades
GRID ONE
'Yippee-Ki-Yay Motherfucker...'
John McClane... Die Hard.
The Victorian terrace resembled a nightmarish, daytime drunken street party, with hordes of infected stumbling into each other and more exiting houses and adding to their numbers from neighbouring thoroughfares and alleyways. The squad had made too much noise barricading the stairwell with furnishings, and the subsequent destruction of, and escape through the roof was far too tempting for the infected to ignore. From their rooftop vantage point, it would be easy enough to pick them off one by one, or lob a few grenades into their midst to thin down the masses; but they would soon be out of bullets and it would only serve to attract more. Pagan had learned within the first few minutes of being dropped, that unnecessary shooting only lured them out, suggesting that their senses were as acute now as they had been when they were...
...normal...
Walker had made the best analogy, observing that the infected were like wasps. A lone wasp was easy to deal with; you either killed it, or ignored it. It would either sting you, or eventually go away and bug someone else. But killing a wasp was a bad idea, as they give off a powerful pheromone that sends a distress signal to all other wasps from their colony, which swarm around their fallen comrade and cannibalise the remains. Walker wasn't suggesting that the infected did this; they did not attack each other, but they had seen with their own eyes the way that one infected could almost summon another, just like wasps homing in on a picnic.
"Well," said Zola, "as much as I would like to… we can't stay up here all day."
