I send all three of them to set up the radios, and head to the back of the tent. The changing rooms and storage areas are separated by canvas dividing walls, and the noise of fifty recruits getting changed is loud in the enclosed space.
As the first recruits emerge with their uniforms in their crates I send them into the storage area and then direct them to find a table and sit down. The other recruits follow, and soon they are all sitting at tables, waiting for me.
I walk to the front of the marquee.
“Tiny fighters!”
“Sir!”
No one reacts. It’s as if they don’t even hear the insult any more.
“Today, you are offering your expert protection to a swarm of schoolchildren. Seeing as you all used to be schoolchildren, I don’t think I need to tell you that these children will be loud, unpredictable, and undisciplined. They will likely be allowed to run round on their own, without supervision. They will go into places they are not supposed to go. They will jump out from places when you least expect them. They will find you, and your armour and guns, particularly fascinating.
“For this reason, your guns are to remain deactivated while you are on patrol. Your first response to a dangerous situation today will not be to fire your guns. Your first response will be to use your radio and report to Senior Recruit Jackson. He and I will assess the situation, and we will tell you what to do.
“Anyone firing an unauthorised shot will face serious consequences. Please remember that.
“We are sharing today’s patrol duties with soldiers from the army.” There’s a murmuring from the recruits. “Yes, tiny fighters. The actual army. Real soldiers.”
“It goes without saying that any orders given to you by a soldier must be obeyed instantly, even if they directly oppose the orders given by me or Jackson.” I look around the room, making eye contact where I can. “Instantly. Without question. In a situation like this, obeying or not obeying could mean the difference between life and death for you, for the soldiers, or for the schoolchildren in your care. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. When the radio equipment is ready, I’ll call you up in pairs. I’ll explain the patrol route, and the places you are not permitted to go. Make sure you pay attention – in here and out there. I don’t want to be making apologies for your behaviour to anyone later – not to the organisers, not to the army, not to someone’s parents. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Questions?”
Even though this is only my second patrol with these kids, it’s already starting to feel routine.
Amy
The process of sending the recruits out goes smoothly. The first team calls in when they reach the end of the driveway and turn back, then the second, and the third. They’re walking at a suitable pace, keeping other patrols within sight, and staying out of the way of the soldiers. So far, so good.
Jackson and Lee are confirming the radio protocols for the day, and we have an emergency procedure set up and ready to use. Taylor is rising to the occasion, sitting up straight, clipboard in hand, waiting for the brigadier to finish speaking. Brown and I find ourselves with nothing urgent to do.
Time to start a conversation.
I pick the table furthest away from the radio equipment, in the far corner of the tent. I make sure my radio is clipped to my belt and switched on, and then walk over and sit down. Brown, clipboard of rotas and information in her hand, follows me. We sit down at the table, both on the same side – I’m not in a hurry to recreate the atmosphere of the interrogation room. She puts the clipboard on the table and waits for me to speak.
This is not my comfort zone, Bracken. I need shouting and fear, and Jackson for backup. Not this.
“So, Amy. How are you getting on?” Inside, I’m cringing. I sound like the worst school counsellor. I sound fake and brittle.
She shrugs. “OK.”
I shake my head, hiding my frustration. “I don’t mean today. I mean at camp. Generally.”
“Oh.” She looks down. I think she’s blushing, but it’s hard to tell in the low light of the marquee.
“You’ve found some new friends.”
“Yeah.”
“You seem to get on with them. Are they helping you to move on?”
She looks up at me, coldly. “Move on from what?”
I could do without this, Bracken.
I want to roll my eyes and say something sarcastic, but that’s not what I’ve been asked to do. Instead, I look her in the eye. This feels aggressive. This is something I understand.
“It must be a shock, having to find your way at camp without Bex and Dan. And then there’s Saunders. You must miss them.” My words are gentle, but the sustained eye contact is not.
I cannot believe that I’m here, playing Good Cop to my own Bad Cop routine – and that her interrogation was only three weeks ago. She’s definitely blushing now, but this is anger, not embarrassment.
So much for Good Cop, Ketty.
“So. Is there anything you want to talk about? How you’re doing a great job of getting on with stuff? What you hope to achieve, long term? What we can do to help?”
She keeps staring at me. She’s gritting her teeth, and I’m guessing she doesn’t trust herself to speak. She’s furious.
“Amy,” I keep my voice gentle, “we’re really impressed with how you’ve put your head down and carried on with your training. Commander Bracken and I – both of us. You’ve set an incredible example for Jake,” I glance over my shoulder to the group at the radio table, “and you’re proving that you’re stronger than we thought you were.
“You’ve been amazing, these past few weeks. No issues, no disciplinary problems, no pushing the boundaries. You’ve accepted the situation as it is, and you’ve moved on.
“I’m here to help, Amy. What do you need from me – from us – to excel at Camp Bishop?”
She lets out a long sigh. I guess she’s been holding her breath. Her shoulders slump, and she sits back in her chair, eyes closed.
Come on, Brown. Give me something to take back to Bracken.
I look back at the radio team and give her a few moments to calm down. The brigadier has left. Jackson is talking to Taylor, and they’re both checking something on the clipboard. Taylor seems engrossed, and Jackson seems calm. He really is working wonders with Jake’s training.
I look back at Amy. She hasn’t moved. She’s resting her head on the back of her chair, and I realise that she’s crying. She’s quiet, and her eyes are still closed, but there are tears on her cheeks. She’s trying to control her breathing.
This time I do roll my eyes. There’s no one to see me, and this is all I need. A recruit in tears, when I’m supposed to be having a friendly chat.
“Amy,” I try again, “I’m just trying to help. We want you to do well at Camp Bishop. We want you to succeed.” She sobs, once. “There are opportunities for you, as a recruit. What do you want to do? Where do you see yourself going, after your training is complete? Are there some skills you’d like to develop?”
Nothing. I’m not getting through. Her face crumples and more tears flow down her face. She takes a ragged breath, and makes a choked-off sobbing sound.
Round of applause, Ketty. You’re rocking this. Just what HQ wanted.
Enough. This approach is going nowhere.
“Recruit Brown!” My near-shout makes Jackson look up in surprise.
She makes a half-hearted attempt to sit up straight. She opens her eyes, but they’re red and puffy. She’s still crying.
“Sir!” It’s a quiet croak, but it will do.
“One question, recruit.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me – where do you see yourself in a year?”
She closes her eyes again, and takes another deep breath.
“It’s a simple question.”
She shakes her head.
“One year, recruit. Where will you be?”
She p
uts her hands over her face and smears away the worst of the tears. I lean towards her, and ask her again, hissing into her ear.
“Where will you be?”
Her voice is tiny, barely more than a whisper, but I hear her confession.
“Out of here,” she says, distinctly.
Return
I send Amy outside with a couple of bottles of water to wash her face and get herself under control. There’s nothing I can do today, apart from getting her home safely, and passing my report to the commander. I can’t tell whether she’s our spy or not, but keeping her head down and making new friends is clearly an act while she looks for a way out. I stay near the door, keeping her within sight. The last thing I need is for her to walk away before I can get her onto the coach.
Jackson and Taylor have everything under control. I make sure they have the lunch rota, and before long they’re calling patrol teams back for sandwiches in the marquee. The cheerful woman from the ticket office brings crates of food across to us, and checks that we have everything we need.
Everything except my assistant, thank you.
The brigadier comes back as I’m finishing my sandwiches. He sits down opposite me and leans his elbows on the table.
“How is everything going? Any problems?”
“Everything seems fine, thank you, Sir. Any trouble on your side?”
He shakes his head. “No sign of anyone who shouldn’t be here. But then, that’s half the reason for us being here, isn’t it? An effective defence is an effective deterrent.” He smiles at me, but his gaze is calculating.
“I suppose so, Sir.”
He looks at me silently for a moment, then speaks again.
“So – what’s a capable officer like you doing working for someone like Bracken?”
I’m so surprised by his question that I’m not sure I’ve heard him correctly. Is this the follow-on from our last conversation? I blink, stupidly, and try to think of something to say.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Sir.”
He relaxes a little, and shakes his head.
“I mean that you’re wasted in the Recruit Training Service, Smith. Look at the ease with which you’ve got this whole patrol system set up and working like clockwork. The recruits respect you, your radio team doesn’t question your judgement, and apparently you can handle crying teenagers and nauseatingly cheerful staff without breaking stride. You know there’d be a place for you in the army. Something more challenging than this.” He waves his hand to indicate the marquee, then lowers his voice. “It’s a shame, what happened at Camp Bishop.”
I look up. Apparently he’s not done surprising me.
“The escape. The prisoner. The recruits. Bad luck.” He shakes his head again.
I have no idea what to say. When I say nothing, he carries on.
“But it shouldn’t affect your career prospects, Smith. You’re not Camp Bishop. From what I can see, you’re the person holding it together,” he looks around the marquee, “but you don’t have to go down with the ship.” He winks at me. “Word to the wise. There’s a place for you, if you want it. But don’t wait too long.”
Are you trying to promote me? And if so, what are you trying to do to Bracken?
“You know how to reach me. You’ve got my number.”
“I have, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“Think about it,” he says, as he stands up. I remember to stand, too, as he walks away.
*****
The rest of the day runs smoothly. No terrorists, no careless children, no surprises. When the last coachload of children has left the area, we’re free to pull the patrols back and head home.
Again, this should be the end of a tiring day, but again I’m on edge as we begin the drive back to camp. The gathering darkness makes all the woodland seem haunted, all the fields full of shadows.
I can’t relax until we’re back on the bypass, the lights of Camp Bishop shining through the trees against the darkness that used to be Leominster. The commander is waiting at the gate to meet us.
“Good day?”
I nod. “Good day. No problems.” The recruits are collecting their crates and walking round us back to their dorm. Jackson supervises the process, and carries the radio equipment himself.
“No sign of our friends?”
I think about the Land Rover in the field, the men watching the coach as we drove past.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“Something you’d like to discuss, Lead Recruit?”
“Yes, Sir.”
We thank the driver, leave the coach at the gate, and walk to the commander’s office. The sound of the recruits sitting down to dinner follows us across the field.
*****
“So you told him about the terrorists?”
“We don’t know that they were terrorists, Jackson. We only know that they were watching us. Maybe they were watching everyone.”
I push my empty plate away, and unwrap the chocolate bar the kitchen has given us for dessert. We’re alone in the senior dorm – the other Senior Recruits had eaten before we came home.
“What – they just like watching traffic? Come on, Ketty. That was the bad guys. That was Ellman’s friends, sizing us up for an ambush.”
“And they decided not to attack.”
“They decided not to attack today.”
He’s right.
“One day at a time, right? If that’s who they were, then they’re thinking about stealing the armour. They’re giving it some serious thought. They’re researching our movements.”
“And if they knew where we’d be, who told them? Do we have a spy? Or did the HQ grapevine do the trick?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.”
“But Brown …”
“Brown said she wanted out. That doesn’t make her the spy. We didn’t see any terrorist scouts when we only leaked the patrol information to the kids.”
“Maybe they were hiding.”
“And maybe they didn’t get the message, because Brown isn’t a spy. She’s barely keeping herself sane, without Ellman and Sleepy – who, by the way, she seems rather keen on.” Jackson raises an eyebrow. “I doubt that she’s running a secret messaging service as well as making herself invisible and plotting to leave as soon as she can.”
“And are we letting her walk back in here, with no consequences?”
“We have to. HQ says we have to. The commander wants to keep her away from the gun sessions now, too, but that’s it. She’s going to train with Woods while we’re running the gun training. Paperwork. Preparation. Being a good assistant.”
“Clipboard skills?”
I laugh. “Clipboard skills. Very important, Jackson. Especially when you need to wake up sleepy recruits.”
We both laugh at the memory of Sleepy, jolted awake by the crash of Woods’ expertly handled clipboard. It seems a lifetime ago.
“And what was going on between you and the brigadier? He seemed rather keen on you.”
Jackson pretends to leer at me, then leans on the table in a passable impression of Brigadier Lee’s actions this afternoon.
“It’s so good to see you, Ketty. You’ve got my number, Ketty.” He mocks our conversation in a sing-song voice.
“It’s nothing like that. I think he wants to offer me a job.”
“Have a job, Ketty. Come and work for me, Ketty.”
I throw the chocolate wrapper at him. “Enough, Jackson. It’s not like that. And anyway, why would I want to leave the glamorous Camp Bishop?”
He grins. “I knew it. It’s me! You can’t leave me.” His chestnut brown eyes grow wide. “You can’t live without me.”
“Yes, Jackson. That’s why I stay. Your dubious charm is all that keeps me here. Don’t ever leave me.” I keep the delivery deadpan and sarcastic, but he keeps grinning anyway.
Which makes me laugh, in the end, because he’s right. What would I do without him, and Miller, and Bracken, and the recruits? I’
ve built a reputation here. I’m the go-to recruit scarer. I know how to handle the kids, and how to work with Bracken. Jackson and I make a slick team. When it comes to getting results from the tiny fighters, we work together so smoothly. I can usually tell what he’s thinking, and he can usually work out what I want him to do. It’s easy.
But is easy what I want? And is Bracken, with his schemes and his weakness, my only way out?
Can Brigadier Lee get me the promotion I need? And what’s the price I’d have to pay for leaving Camp Bishop? Can I build myself a reputation somewhere else – somewhere I don’t have Jackson to back me up?
Get it together, Ketty. You sound like Amy Brown.
I’m not my team. I may be a valuable asset to this camp, but I could be just as valuable somewhere else. Somewhere better. I’ll give the brigadier a call, when this is over.
I stand up, and flash Jackson a grin as I walk away. He grins back, still laughing.
Bait
Another day, another patrol. Nearly a week after the last excursion, and we’re loading the coach again. This time we’re heading for Cardiff, to help at a football match. We’ll be inside the stadium, and some of the kids are very excited about being able to watch the game. I’m going to enjoy explaining to them that their job is to watch the crowd, not the pitch.
Bad luck, tiny fighters. You’re here to work.
Jackson, gun safely in his pocket, sits next to me in the front seat. Taylor, Brown, and the other recruits are behind us, settling in for the drive. Brown is grudgingly coming as my assistant, but she’s sitting as far away from me as she can, on the back seat of the coach with her friends. On the other hand, I think Taylor is looking forward to helping Jackson again. They seem to enjoy working together, and Jackson is certainly bringing out the best in him. No more sulking, and no more broken noses.
False Flag (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 2) Page 14