FALSE FLAG
Rachel Churcher
www.TallerBooks.com
Note
AUGUST
Prologue
JUNE
Newbies
Disappointment
Assault
Test
JULY
Lessons
Falling
Revenge
Secrets
Miller
Drones
Power
Doubts
Challenge
Lies
Intruder
Missing
Questions
Lost
Answers
AUGUST
Problem
Trap
Assignment
Persuasion
Oxford
Castle
Amy
Return
Bait
Pain
Cornered
Determination
Rest
Progress
Planning
Webb
Action
Breathing
Home
Tracking
Note
Darkest Hour
Chapter 1: Dreams
Chapter 2: Promotion
The Battle Ground series
Acknowledgements
About the Author
False Flag (Battle Ground #2)
Note
Leominster is a town in Herefordshire, UK. It is pronounced ‘Lem-ster’.
KETTY
AUGUST
Prologue
Trapped. Cornered. And all I can feel is the pain. The bullet against my knee.
I crawl between the trees, into the darkness, fighting to get away from the voices on the path.
Survive, Ketty. Live through this. Get out of sight, and away from the guns. Away from the tiny fighters.
I crawl, clenching my teeth against the pain, while the children behind me argue about putting a bullet in my back.
Discipline, determination, backbone. Keep quiet, and keep moving.
Let them go. Protect yourself.
Get through this.
KETTY
JUNE
(TWO MONTHS EARLIER)
Newbies
They’ve been marching for days, these kids. They’re scruffy and smelly and dirty. No one’s taught them how to march, and they look as if they’ve never taken a shower or seen a washing machine. Would it kill them to use soap? Or a hairbrush?
They file into the camp, dead on their feet. Have they done any exercise in their lives? The newbies usually look exhausted, but these are beyond that. They’re a disgrace.
Commander Bracken sent Jackson and Miller to meet them, and parade them in along the bypass. If it had been up to me, I’d have hidden them away and brought them in the back way, along the lanes. But it’s not up to me, and here we are. I’m sure the good citizens of Leominster feel much safer, now that they’ve seen the urchins who are supposed to be protecting them.
There are some posh kids in this group, from some expensive boarding school up north. Kids with expectations that the world will be kind to them, and bow to their needs. It will be a pleasure to teach them the truth.
Jackson leaves the new arrivals with the camp staff and walks back to the Senior Dorm. He finds me at my table next to the window, finishing the commander’s paperwork for this evening. He sits down opposite me.
“Did you see that?”
I sit back in my chair, arms folded. “I did. You two just marched that crowd of grubby civilian children past all the cars on the bypass. Feeling proud, are you?”
He ignores my grin.
“They’re going to be tough to train, these kids. They didn’t sign up. They don’t know what’s coming.”
“Neither do the volunteers.”
“No, but these recruits are soft. They don’t want to be here. It’s going to be hard, getting them up to fighting standard. Bracken isn’t going to cut us any slack. We’re the ones who’ll need to put the pressure on, and we’re the ones who’ll get the blame when the kids can’t handle the training.”
He’s right. I can mock them, and I can entertain myself with their incompetence, but I’m the one who needs to impress the commander. I need them to shape up fast, or it’s my promotion that goes to someone else.
“No mercy, then. Whatever it takes to get them trained and ready, we do. Right?”
“Right”, says Jackson, a wicked grin creeping across his face. “I won’t report you, if you don’t report me. Iron fists and steel toe caps. Deal?”
“Deal.” Sounds good to me.
*****
After dinner, we head to the new recruits’ dorm, and hang around outside the dining room. The camp staff are setting up their uniform distribution tables, and Commander Bracken is giving his usual speech. Jackson and I can do it by heart.
“Things I do not wish to see: dirty uniforms; torn uniforms; damaged uniforms; disrespected uniforms!”
We keep our voices down, sing-songing along with him, and watching the recruits we can see from the corridor.
They are pitiful. They are struggling to even stay awake. One hot meal and they think it’s time for bed. Are they expecting a cup of warm milk and a bedtime story?
And then it happens. One of the recruits falls asleep at his table. We’re watching from the corridor, and it is delicious. He’s tiny, this kid. Hair all over the place, scuffed shoes, dangling shoelaces. His head drops, and he actually starts snoring! Snoring, while the commander is talking.
Jackson and I are smothering our laughter, making sure we’re not overheard. We should walk away, but we’re not missing this for anything.
Commander Bracken stops his speech, and looks at Assistant Woods. There’s the flicker of a smile on Woods’ face, and he walks over to the sleeping recruit and crashes his clipboard down on the table. I think the recruit is going to hit the ceiling. He wakes up in a hurry, and gets a fearsome earful from Woods.
I’m biting my knuckles so as not to make a noise, but this is the best entertainment we’ve had in weeks. Jackson is actually doubled over, gasping for breath, and now I’m laughing at both of them.
The commander picks up his speech again. The sleeping kid is shaking, and the others have a new look of terror on their faces. Good. They’re going to need that.
The commander is reaching the end of his speech, and the kids are going to start leaving with their uniforms. We need to get out of the corridor.
As we’re walking away, the commander addresses the sleeping kid.
“Saunders!”
“Sir!”
“You will stand where you are until the other recruits have their uniforms. When the last of your colleagues has left, then you may collect your uniform.”
Jackson and I look at each other.
“So Saunders is the new whipping boy?”
He nods. “Saunders is the new whipping boy. Let’s see how long it takes to put him in the hospital, as an example to the others.”
I smile. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
*****
When we arrived at camp, we all wanted to be here. We were fit, we were clean, we were eager to get started. We were fighters, and we wanted to be trained. We wanted to get better.
I signed up as soon as they’d let me. It was a ticket out of a dead-end job, and a ticket out of home as well. At the camp, life was simple. Do as you’re told, keep fit, don’t let them see you breaking the rules – and things would go well for you. You could earn promotions, special treatment, new opportunities. Screw up,
get lazy, do something stupid, and expect punishment.
Justice.
It made a change from being punished because your Dad was drunk, or because he’d gambled away the housekeeping money. It made a change from apology gifts that he couldn’t afford, and the anger that followed. At camp, there would always be enough food. Clothes to wear. Enough hot water in the pipes. And protection from the fists and boots of the person who was supposed to be your protector.
I have no idea what he’s doing now. He’s probably been evicted from the house. Without the income I kept hidden, he won’t have been paying the rent. Too bad. You need discipline and determination and backbone to get anywhere in life, and he had none of those things. If he’s on the street, he deserves it.
And I’m here. I’m doing fine without him. I’m going to get my promotion, and I’m getting out of here, too. If training these disastrous recruits is the price, bring it on. I’m ready.
Disappointment
This is going to be harder than we imagined.
These kids are hopeless. Miller took them out for a run, and they’ve come back looking like the last people left alive after some terrible disaster. They’re still standing, but their eyes are begging for the chance to rest and cuddle a blankie. It’s the morning run! They need to do this every day. They have no idea what the weeks ahead have in store for them.
Day one, and they’re already getting their hands on the guns. Command must be desperate. And I’m the one who gets to introduce them to weapons they are nowhere near being able to use.
Miller lines them up, and leaves me to run their first training session. I walk out in front of them, holding up the gorgeous rifle. There’s no way they should be touching these yet, but here we are.
“Can anyone tell me what this is?”
Absolute silence.
“Come on. Anybody.”
No one says a word. They’re all trying to look invisible. Standing up straight and fading into the group. I look them over.
And there he is. Saunders, the whipping boy. In the front row, begging the universe to make me look the other way. He’s out of luck.
“Saunders! Mr Sleepy himself. Can you tell me what this is?”
“A gun, Sir.” His voice is shaking, and it’s practically a whisper. Some people make such easy targets.
“Louder, Saunders!”
There’s a pause, while he takes a deep breath. “A gun, Sir!”
“Thank you, Saunders.” That’s confused him. He’s braced for more, but I turn away to address the group. Keep him guessing what’s coming next.
“This is a gun. But this is not any gun. This is a prototype next-gen power-assisted rifle, firing armour-piercing bullets.”
And you don’t deserve to be playing with it.
“Under normal conditions, you lot wouldn’t get to see one of these until you’d been training for years, if ever. You’d have to pass tests, and show that you’re big enough to use one of these. But these aren’t normal circumstances. This is war, and this is war on our home territory, and the decision makers have decided to let you worms loose with their favourite toys.”
Several of the recruits wince at being called worms. At least they’re listening.
“You’ll be starting off with training bullets. We’ll see how good you are, and whether you deserve to progress to armour-piercing rounds. Don’t be fooled – training bullets will still kill you, so don’t be stupid.”
And don’t get in my way.
“Make no mistake. You are getting your paws on these because the government wants to see them in use. The people in charge, they want you out there, waving these around to show Joe Public that we’re protecting him.”
And lucky me – I’m the one who has to train you to impress Joe Public.
“This isn’t about you. This is about public confidence. About stopping panic and protecting people from themselves. While they can see you, and your guns, they’ll be happy to get on with their lives and leave us to get on with ours.”
If I can train you up in time.
I can’t see any of these kids inspiring confidence, with or without deadly weapons.
“You are not fighting this war. We have a real army for that. You are showing the people that the war is being fought. You are the government’s action figures. The front-line dolls. And public-facing dolls get the best weapons.”
They don’t like being called dolls. There are several scowls on the faces in front of me. I make a mental note to make sure they are clear on this point.
I switch my attention back to the whipping boy. His eyes widen as he realises that this isn’t over.
“Saunders! Step out here.”
He slouches out from the line of recruits, still willing the universe to ignore him. He’s making it so easy for me to get them all quaking in their shiny new boots.
“Stand up straight, Saunders!”
He twitches his backbone a little. His shoulders still sag, and he looks as if he’d like the ground to swallow him up.
“Straighter! You’re the line between life and messy death for those civilians out there. Try looking as if you could protect them from a bomber.”
He straightens his shoulders, and I realise that he really is trying. This is honestly the best that he can do. I roll my eyes and shake my head. We have some long, torturous months ahead of us.
“It’s like working with fluffy kittens. Grow some backbone, recruits!”
“Sir!”
He gives it his best shot, and it’s a big improvement.
“Better. Now, Saunders. At ease. I’m going to hand you the gun. Show me how you’ll be holding it when you’re on patrol.”
He stands clumsily at ease, and puts his hands out to take the gun. He looks terrified. His grip is hopeless, and he moves his hands along the barrel, trying to figure out how to hold it. I’m about to grab his hands and put them in the right places, when he seems to get it. He grasps the pistol grip firmly, and cradles the barrel with the other hand. His sudden confidence takes me by surprise.
“Not bad, recruit. Not bad.”
I take his hands and correct his grip, just enough to make him doubt his own ability. His fingers are ink-stained, and his fingernails are chewed. He watches everything I do, making sure he knows how to get it right next time. His quick, shallow breathing is close to panic.
I take his shoulders and turn him round to face the group. He really is tiny, compared to the rest of them. Tiny, and fragile.
“This is a good grip. Watch and learn!”
Miller and Jackson and the other Senior Recruits are waiting as I split the kids into teams. I assign each team a Senior Recruit and a gun, and take the last team myself. The fluffy kittens follow every move as I show them how to take the rifle apart, clean it, maintain it and rebuild it.
As I work, I teach them the mantra.
“Safety on. Unclip the magazine, put it down. Unclip the pistol grip. Slide the handguard off the barrel, unscrew the barrel from the gun. Slide the stock up and away from the central section. Slide and unclip the elements of the central section. Lay them out neatly on the table.”
I demonstrate several times, taking the gun apart, laying out the individual pieces, putting them back together. Some of the kids are whispering the mantra, desperate to memorise the actions.
I let them have a go. And it’s all I can do not to laugh.
There’s the kid who gets everything in the wrong order. There’s the kid who knows the mantra, but can’t make his hands stop shaking to take the gun apart. There’s the smart kid who thinks she knows what she’s doing, but forgets to clip the stock back into the gun before she attaches the pistol grip.
It’s like watching a troupe of clowns.
Every time they get something wrong, I shout a little louder. By the end of the session, they’re all shaking, and they all know how much they have to learn.
The whistle sounds for lunch. I call the recruits back into lines, and make sure they know h
ow disappointed I am.
“That was pathetic! None of you is capable of handling a gun. None of you is competent enough to maintain a gun. None of you should be anywhere near a gun.”
And if I had anything to do with it, you wouldn’t be.
“But the commander wants you out there, looking competent and scary. And to be scary, you need guns. We will train, and train, and practice, and practice until every last one of you can handle a gun. Maintain, clean, hold, and use a gun. Look after your own gun, and look as if you know what you’re doing with it.
“We are a very long way from that point. You have a lot of work to do.”
I can see their shoulders sagging. The despair kicking in.
“Dismissed!”
And they slouch off to the dining room like injured puppies.
*****
I left school when I turned 16, as soon as they’d let me out of the doors. I went straight to the indoor market and found a job, cleaning and doing the filthiest tasks at the butcher’s shop. Ken, the butcher, told me I wouldn’t last a day. All the other girls he’d hired walked out after an hour. But I’m not other girls.
After a month of mopping blood and breaking bones and scooping chicken guts into bags, I demanded a pay rise. He was so shocked, he agreed – but it wasn’t enough to leave home. Dad still thought I was at school. Where he thought I was going at five in the morning is anyone’s guess. He probably never noticed.
I worked, all the days I could. After work, I ran. I had a circuit of the park I could do in the dark, in the rain, in the snow, and it kept me sane. I’d end the run with a takeaway on a park bench with the other school dropouts, and when I went home to get some sleep I’d leave them there, drinking cheap lager and picking fights.
I got into a few fights to start with, with boys who thought they could take advantage, and girls who didn’t like how I was keeping myself fit and holding down a job. We’d wind each other up, but most of the time we’d laugh it off, play-fight, and see who could swear the loudest to shock the passers-by. It was good to let go, and let off steam occasionally, but I would always be at work on time the next day. No point letting Ken down and losing my job.
False Flag (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 2) Page 1