Toy Soldiers (Book 5): Adaptation

by Ford, Devon C.

  “Take the other vehicle and meet us at the airfield,” Fisher told them as he shoved his feet into his boots and pulled open the door under the stairs where they had stowed their emergency gear. Fisher took a spare magazine for the Beretta he carried to augment the two full ones, then picked up a Colt sub machine gun, similar to the larger versions so easily recognised the world over but firing the smaller ammunition like his sidearm. Two spare magazines for that went into a pocket of the coat and he turned to see the uniformed man almost dancing on the spot as he glanced behind him into the darkness, clutching his own service weapon.

  Fisher prompted him to move, climbing into the left side of the vehicle as the panicked soldier drove a little too fast for the narrow roads.

  “Calm it down a little,” he said after one too many close calls with the rocky edge of the road, “we ain’t getting out of here if you kill us in a car wreck now, are we?”

  “No, Sir,” came the reply in a voice that sounded almost tearful.

  “Tell me what you know,” Fisher instructed him.

  “We had watch on the quarantine barricade, like you said,” he blurted out. “All of a sudden they just lit up the night; full auto and flares. Then they went quiet and the noises started in…”

  “What noises?”

  “The screams, like, animal screams…”

  “Like a screech?”

  “Yeah, only… only worse than I ever heard…”

  “Did you call it in?” Fisher asked, trying to get him back on track.

  “The Lieutenant was trying to. He sent me to get you back to the airfield so you could call in reinforcements or whatever…” Fisher chuckled darkly.

  “Sir?”

  “Son, why would the United States military throw reinforcements at this place? We were only here to test the serum against them and now we know that works, well…”

  “So, everyone will…”

  “LOOK OUT,” Fisher snarled as the soldier snatched the wheel over to narrowly avoid a gatepost they were heading directly for. “Eyes on the goddamned road!”

  They arrived at the airfield after a few more miles of tense silence and Fisher slid from the vehicle to start shouting orders for the helicopter to be made ready to fly. The air crews seemed surprised to be roused in the night, but the news of a suspected outbreak encouraged them to get into the air as soon as possible.

  The rotors were turning, and Fisher was standing at the rear ramp when one of the crew tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned him to the bulkhead, where he was handed a headset. The pilot was on the other end, asking when they were taking off. He looked back out into the darkness, wondering how the other two agents could have taken close to half an hour just to get dressed and drive the few miles to follow him, and he made a judgement call.

  “Go now,” he said, “if they aren’t here by now, I don’t think they’re coming.”

  The helicopter took off, rotating in the air to point the nose west before dipping it and surging through the dark sky. Their path took them over the house that Fisher had been in so recently, and when he heard the reports of a fire there through his headset, he couldn’t understand how the idyllic farmhouse, with its surprisingly comfortable chair and potent scotch, was burning. He knew, or at least he strongly suspected, that the other two agents with him had run into the infected shortly after he’d escaped the house, and his thoughts tortured him, wondering if they might still be alive if he’d stayed long enough for them to get dressed and get in the vehicle with him.

  Cold, hard, good sense reasserted itself and he knew that if he had stayed, it wouldn’t mean the addition of two more lives on the aircraft now, but would spell the death of everyone. That guilt hit him immediately as his conscience forced him to give everyone still on the island as much of a fighting chance to survive as possible.

  “Call up the base,” he instructed the crew. “Tell them there’s been an outbreak. Tell them… tell them to do whatever they can.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  The door to the room Downes had adopted as his own burst open as if the big Scotsman occupying the doorway was clearing the room of terrorists.

  “On your fucking feet, Boss,” Mac barked. “Bastards are on the island.” If any words would bring a man into full alertness under any circumstances, it would be the report that Screechers had boots on the ground in their safe haven.

  “Where?”

  “East coast.”

  Downes was dressed before the brief exchange was complete, sitting on the bed again to lace his boots, as Mac picked up the major’s webbing and checked it for magazines before holding it ready for the man to shrug into.

  “The boys ready?”

  “Smiffy’s on the door,” Mac told him. “Dez has gone to rouse the others.”

  That made sense to Downes. Smiffy was still limping from the sprained ankle he’d given himself kicking the head half off a Screecher, so Dez being the runner was the sensible choice.

  “Major?” snapped a crisp voice from the lower floor of the small house. “Major?”

  “Here!” Downes answered in a clipped voice that was all business. He appeared at the top of the stairs to see Captain Palmer at the foot of them, similarly dressed for battle. He saw the anger and concern in the younger man’s eyes and felt for him; they’d been through hell enough already, and the responsibilities heaped on the man who should, by rights, be in command of a section of main battle tanks, had so often threatened to be too much for him to bear. “Your men?”

  “Half on patrol on the north coast, half in town,” Palmer answered, hesitating before he anticipated the next question. “No way to get word to them, I’m afraid.”

  “Has anyone sent word to Colonel Kelly yet?”

  “The Colonel was the one who sent word to us, Major.” Before Downes could respond, a knock on the open door grabbed their attention. Maxwell was there, eyes wide with the same fear and indignant rage that his captain mirrored.

  “Men are forming now, Sir,” he reported. “What’s our orders?” Palmer looked to Downes, as though admitting that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Dez reappeared at that point with steam emanating from his exposed head and face into the cold night air.

  “Locals are awake and getting out. I’ve told everyone to form up in the little town square thing by the pubs.” Downes nodded to acknowledge the report but Dez wasn’t finished.

  “Couple of the local boys are fishermen,” he went on, “reckon we can get to St Kilda through the Outer Hebrides if we can get enough people into boats.”

  “Where?” Palmer asked, confused.

  “You’ve heard of the Deep Sea Range?” Downes asked. Swirling information about missile ranges in their remote northern areas.

  “We… we have people there?”

  “Unmanned base,” Mac explained as he dragged the bags of spare equipment and ammunition from the corner of the room. Dez slung his MP5 and hefted the GPMG taken so long ago from one of Maxwell’s abandoned Spartan wagons.

  “Defensive position?” Palmer asked.

  “We can line everyone up at the docks with our backs to the sea,” Dez answered. “Other than that, there are multiple approaches. If it was armour or vehicles, we’d stand a chance, but…” he shrugged to indicate that the Screechers could come at them any way they liked.

  “Do it,” Downes said before turning back to Palmer. “Is there anyone we can send in a vehicle to fetch your men back?” Palmer looked at Maxwell, knowing that he couldn’t afford to lose him, if he wanted the men and the civilians kept in check. He turned back to the major and drew himself up.

  “Yes, there is.”

  “What the bloody hell is all this noise about?” Oliver Simpkins-Palmer complained as he yanked open the door to investigate the shouting and banging which had woken him. Everywhere he looked, he saw people running, carrying children and possessions in a state of panic.

  “We have a deployment, eh?” croaked an elderly voice as a private from a Scottish infantry
regiment led the mostly senile old man down the stairs.

  “That’s right, Colonel,” he said reassuringly, “we need to get you in the fight. Show the lads how it’s done.”

  “Splendid!” Colonel Tim crowed from inside the multiple layers of knitted clothing he was wearing to counter the ill-health that had afflicted him since arriving on Skye. He saw the second lieutenant and tried to wave his family claymore towards him. “Blighters want another crack at us, Palmer!” he cackled. “Get your hat on and grab a revolver.”

  Oliver Palmer didn’t bother answering, having lost all patience with the old man shortly after arriving on the island and realising he held no power there. He’d spent the subsequent time doing very little, as his brother had removed even the small amount of responsibility bestowed on him, preferring instead to trust the royal marine lieutenant in his place.

  “Olly,” the voice of his brother snapped. He turned to see him dressed for battle and wearing a hard look of resolve.

  “Julian,” he answered, one lip curling in jealous derision. “Come to mock the unemployed?”

  “Olly, I need your help.” The words shocked the young man into forgetting his arrogance.

  “What’s happening?”

  “There’s been an outbreak on the west coast of the island,” Palmer Senior told him quietly, “our American friends are either dead or have abandoned us. We have to make a stand and consider fleeing the island.”

  “What? And go where? Are you sure?” he bombarded his brother with questions, all of which were ignored.

  “Can you find Lloyd and the others? They’re patrolling the north coast.” Younger brother fixed elder with a hard look, as if suggesting his brother only wanted him when the officer he rated as a better soldier wasn’t available. The fact that he was being sent to fetch his preferred replacement only added insult to the injury he felt he had been dealt. Before he could say anything, his older brother recognised the look on his face and grabbed his shirt with both fists. He took three hard paces forwards to slam the second lieutenant into the interior wall.

  “This is no time for your childish jealousy,” he snarled. “How many times have we come through the fire against the odds? How many? The one time you were asked to do any real soldiering, you did well. So why the hell can’t you just do what I’m asking of you without the bile?” Oliver shoved his brother back to break the grip and stepped up with the same savage look in his eyes.

  “Real soldiering? Like seeing to the civilians and keeping the mad old bat of a Colonel out of your way? Like managing the lists of supplies while you send sergeants out in charge of patrols?”

  “Yes,” Julian answered with the same vehemence. “All of those activities you think are boring, that you think are beneath your lofty station”—he sneered those words at him—“that is real soldiering; doing the hard work that doesn’t win you a blasted medal.”

  The two brothers stared at one another for a few seconds until their anger began to abate.

  “Please, Olly, go and get our men back and let’s save as many people as we can.” Oliver drew himself up, adding a very military bearing to his stance, and he accepted his brother’s orders.

  “Keep the civilians moving,” Maxwell shouted, waving his arms frantically to force the flow of people towards the handful of fishing boats that illuminated the docks with their harsh deck lights. Even such a small number of people—no more than two hundred in Captain Palmer’s estimation—packed into a confined area like the small dock in the town, seemed like a stampede trying to pass through a funnel. He feared that the gunfire would start soon, that the time to get as many people as possible safely off the island would be over.

  With each minute that went by, with each boat that filled up and pushed off to safety, the sense of dread grew heavier in his stomach. He looked at his watch, counting the minutes since his brother had left and hoping that he would have found the detachment of marines and yeomanry and would have turned them around to bolster their armed defences.

  As that thought struck him, the concern of having enough space on boats to evacuate them all dragged him back down into frightened depression.

  Then the shooting started. One rifle fired, then it was joined by half a dozen others, like a contagious infection, but any other noises were drowned out by the screams of the terrified civilians who crowded onto the boats, unheeding of the warnings not to overload them.

  Palmer heard clear voices ring out above the din; voices of Maxwell and Foster, the marine that Lloyd had placed trust in. Those voices called for order, for calm, for action without panic and they were like rocks on the shallows that the fear broke upon.

  Palmer saw them then, coming from the higher ground, shadows flitting between the buildings as the last of the civilians pushed out to sea. The firing had stopped as no more targets were spotted, and in the lull in noise, Palmer heard a sound that cut through his flesh to chill the very marrow of his bones.

  The shrill, barking cry of an animal pierced the air. It froze the men, too, and more than one frightened face turned to look at the captain as though he could save them, could reassure them somehow. He knew they wanted that from him, knew that he could tell them that it was just a Lima, and hadn’t they killed plenty of Limas before?

  He tried, but he couldn’t force the words from his mouth.

  The sound came again, undulating and yowling like a wolf’s cry. It was undeniably an animalistic attempt to communicate, and his fear rose as high as he had ever known when he realised, with utter horror, that this was something altogether new.

  “Make ready,” he called, shouting the only thing he knew to say. It had the effect he wanted in that it did indeed steady the men. They all leaned into their weapons and waited for a fresh hell to fall from the shadows.

  Fisher’s arrival on the windswept deck of the carrier in the middle of the night was met with little reaction. The report that they had lost most of their forces based on the island was met with less reaction than he expected, and his seniors were only interested in the results from the deployment of the serum.

  Residual movement, that was the term they used. Residual movement was a good day as far as they were concerned. Jacobs asked him outright if there was any reason not to go ahead with the full-scale deployment of the sonic lure devices and end all of the infected with the serum.

  He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to add a feather of failure to his cap and delay the plan to start saving the world because some dead scientist wanted to try it out on a redhead or something, to make sure it worked on all of them. Residual movement, that was the terminology that stuck in his head. If the combined military might of the United States Armed Forces couldn’t handle a few infected left, then who was he to throw fear into the mix?

  He said no, and Jacobs snatched up a telephone handset to mutter into, before replacing it a few seconds later.

  “You need a break,” he told Fisher. “Get a hot shower and some chow; the show’s about to start.”

  Before the first of the sixteen devices planned so precisely to land on UK soil dropped, before the cargo planes full of serum-filled munitions landed in The Canary Islands, ready to be loaded onto three AC-one-thirty-H gunships, a lone, small cargo ship fought through the choppy sea around the north west tip of the Isle of Skye.

  The man at the helm, a reclusive Scot who was less than impressed to be roused by twenty armed men demanding his assistance, piloted his craft recklessly in order to satisfy the two officers who shouted encouragement to him.

  The decision to abandon their vehicles and head directly to the evacuation site was driven by the young second lieutenant who appeared to his royal marine counterpart to be far more enthused than was his usual languid style.

  In short, he imagined the younger man had received a rocket directly up his arse.

  They heard the gunfire as soon as they rounded a headland against a choppy tide, before the flow of the water pulled them faster towards the Portree dock hidden from sight
by the dark rocks.

  “I say!” Palmer yelled at the semi-toothless man spinning the wheel to keep them steady. “Can you turn around,” he shouted clearly and slowly as though he was conversing with a foreign waiter and was ignorant to how offensive he came across as, “and bring us into the dock stern first?” The old man looked at him like he was insane for a few beats, before shrugging and muttering something only he could hear.

  “Look alive, boys,” Palmer cried as he checked the magazine in his own weapon and charged it, ready to forge a path through the huddled men of the yeomanry and marines. When he reached the rear railing, what would soon become the very front rank of the fight, he turned a full circle and treated them all to his best bloodthirsty smile. The men all knew him, so none were convinced as to what the spoiled aristocrat was up to.

  “It’s about to get rather busy here,” he went on, “so any man not willing to get his hands dirty should make his way to the rear and give us all a little more space.” His roguish smirk, visible to all of them under the harsh, bright deck lights, lent him an air of being a little unhinged.

  As much as the men mistrusted him, given their previous experience, they recognised his bravado for what it was.

  “You buying the drinks afterwards, Mister Palmer?” shouted a voice from half a dozen paces away. Palmer, blessed with outstandingly good fortune, recognised the speaker and could even marry the wet, windswept face with a name.

  “Help me get the others out of this steaming pile of shit, Sergeant Cooper, and I’ll share a brandy with you all.”

  “Yeah,” Cooper added, pushing his luck, “but are you buying the bottle, Sir?”

  Palmer checked his weapon once more and pulled a spare magazine from his webbing to hold it alongside the gun as a statement of intent. “Cooper, I’ll buy a whole bloody barrel of the finest stuff if we see the dawn.”

  As he delivered the line, thinking—hoping—for once that he had managed what he had seen so many officers achieve and made the men want to follow him into danger, the boat’s engine note changed pitch and ramped up to bubble the water at the stern.