False Flag (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 2)

by Rachel Churcher

  Another, longer pause.

  Breathe, Ketty.

  “Lead Recruit, are you reporting enemy contact?”

  Breathe. Tell him what happened.

  “Yes, Sir. Twelve people, including recruits. They’re gone, Sir. We lost them.”

  “Lead Recruit, stay where you are.”

  I can’t help laughing. The motion pulls my knee, and it turns into a gasp of pain.

  “I can do that, Sir.”

  And he’s gone.

  There’s a moment of silence before my radio starts up again. Bracken’s voice. Shouting.

  “Katrina Smith – are you working with this man?”

  There is fury in his voice, and disbelief.

  Just what I need right now.

  I take a calming breath.

  Careful, Ketty.

  “What man, Sir?”

  “Are you working with Lee?” He bellows into the radio.

  I let out a long sigh. I can’t deal with this.

  “Sir …”

  “Straight question, Ketty. Yes or no.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And are you working for me or against me?”

  My mind is foggy. I’m trying to find the right words, but all I can think about is the pain.

  “I’m working for both of you, Sir.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Say something. Convince him.

  “I’m trying to make this operation a success.”

  He makes a disgusted noise, and cuts the connection. I reach for my glove, and activate it again.

  “Sir …”

  “After everything I’ve done to get you here!”

  I shake my head. I can’t do this now. I can’t do this here.

  Tell him, Ketty.

  “Sir, I need help.”

  His tone changes. There’s a note of concern in his voice.

  “Where are you? What’s going on?”

  “In the woods, Sir. I’ve been shot. The PowerGel’s not working, and I can’t move. I need help.”

  He sounds angry again.

  “You’ll have to wait, Ketty. We’ve got enough going on here. We can’t run an ambulance service.”

  It feels as if he’s thrown a punch.

  “Commander …” I can feel the tears starting. The exhaustion kicking in, as the adrenaline fades and the pain keeps growing. It feels as if my knee is exploding, blood and bone crashing out from the inside. I’ve pushed myself to be here. I’ve worked and trained for both these men. I’m here because Lee will send me home if I refuse, and because Bracken needs me.

  Bracken needs me. And he’s leaving me here in the dark.

  “You will wait!”

  And he cuts the connection again.

  Home

  When they come for me, the sky is already light. I’ve been in and out of consciousness, blacking out, then coming to. I don’t know how much time has passed.

  A medic arrives, and two soldiers to carry the stretcher. He gives me a shot of something that makes the pain float away, and I watch the tops of the trees pass overhead as they carry me back to the farmyard.

  The terrorists have gone.

  When they broke in, the bunker was empty. Stores, food, personal belongings, but no people. They think the rest of the terrorists walked out, ten meters from where I was sitting, and vanished into the dark.

  The body count is three to one. We lost Steadman, and our guards at the gatehouse – that’s where Taylor picked up his armour-piercing bullets. They lost Saunders, and we don’t know what happened to their gatehouse guard. We’ve gained two prisoners – the women from the farmhouse – and some of our guns and armour. They’d sprayed it black, to look like professional armour, and leaving it out to dry let the trackers broadcast overnight.

  I’m back at Camp Bishop. Webb changes my bandage twice a day, and keeps me on a morphine drip, but he doesn’t speak to me. No one is letting me out of bed, and I couldn’t walk if I tried. My knee is twisted and broken, and I’m going to need months of rest and therapy before I use it again.

  I’m angry. I’m frustrated. And I’m in constant pain.

  My PowerGel is beyond repair, and there’s been no word from Brigadier Lee on getting me a new unit. No mysterious deliveries. No more flowers. He knows what this means for me, and how much pain I’m in, and he’s leaving me here without comment. I guess he doesn’t need to explain.

  No one else wants to let me loose with a PowerGel again until I allow my knee to heal on its own.

  I did what I had to do. I’ll get fit again. This will not finish me.

  It’s a warm day, and the windows in my room are open. I can hear the kids training outside on the field, Miller shouting instructions at them.

  Miller, Camp Bishop’s new Lead Recruit. I still roll my eyes every time someone calls him that.

  Learning to be tough, yet, techie boy?

  “Recruit Smith!” Bracken puts his head round the door. “How are we today?”

  “Sir. Good, Sir.”

  Same as any other day. Stuck in a hospital bed.

  He’s come to update me on Brigadier Lee. Lee, who hasn’t spoken to me since the night at the Farm. Who blames me for the escape of the terrorists, and the failure to break into the bunker. Who hasn’t forgiven Bracken for salvaging the mission and bringing home two prisoners, including the one we lost. For not hanging himself. For getting another chance from HQ.

  He sits down next to my bed.

  “I’ve persuaded him,” he says, and watches my face for a reaction.

  I can’t hide my relief.

  “So he’s not sending me home?”

  He smiles. “I convinced him that would be a waste of a good officer. He’s not happy, but he’s letting you stay.”

  “Thank you, Sir. You won’t regret it.”

  “I’d better not.” He puts a hand on my arm. “I think you’re better than that, Ketty. I don’t think you’ll pull anything stupid like that again. I know what he threatened you with, and I know what the stakes were for you. Next time, come to me first?”

  I nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  “You have my word. When my promotion comes through, you’re coming too. If I’m going to London, I want you with me.”

  Because you need my help, or because I know too much?

  I smile. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take Miller? Surely your Lead Recruit has first refusal on a promotion?”

  Bracken smiles back. “I think Miller has some learning to do first. You know he still uses your name to get the recruits to behave? One day you’re going to have to go out there and shout at them, just so he doesn’t lose all his credibility.” He pauses, and shakes his head. “He doesn’t know me as well as you do, Ketty. I can’t … trust him, the way I trust you.” He sounds grateful. He sounds frightened. He gives me a half-smile, and briefly tightens his grip on my arm.

  And I realise the truth. Bracken needs me, and I need Bracken.

  This is my team. This is where I choose to stay.

  I nod. “I’ll bear that in mind, Sir.”

  “And Ketty? We have some news on the terrorists.”

  Tracking

  They’ve been walking for days. We’ve caught sight of them on CCTV cameras here and there, but we’ve always been too late to pick them up. They’re heading north, and HQ wants to know where they’re going.

  So we let them walk.

  We can’t catch them, but we’ve got the prisoners from the farmhouse to work with instead. It’s not what Lee wanted. It’s not what any of us wanted.

  And while they walk, I’m confined to a hospital room. I put everything I had into getting myself fit for that night, and I nearly lost everything when I confronted my recruits on the path – recruits who are supposed to be afraid of me.

  I’m useless, I’m broken, my career’s on hold, but I’m alive. I’m still here, I’m still in uniform, I’m still fighting, and Bracken is fighting with me.

  It’s not what I wanted.
r />   But maybe it’s enough for today.

  Note

  Alcoholism is not a weakness – these are Ketty’s words, not mine, and they come from her unique understanding of her childhood experiences. Addiction in any form is acknowledged to be an illness, not a choice. I do not advocate treating alcoholism as a weakness, any more than I intend to present Ketty as a perfect role model.

  Darkest Hour

  (Battle Ground #3)

  will be published in October

  Keep reading for a preview!

  Chapter 1: Dreams

  BEX

  We’re shifting boxes again. The morning delivery is in, and Dan and I are stacking the goods in the store room. Neesh is taking the delivery – we’re staying out of sight. Our pictures are all over the news again, and we can’t risk anyone seeing us. We’ve been doing this for weeks, and we’ve turned it into a slick operation. No more asking where each item goes. No more stacking stuff in the wrong place. We know what to do and we put our heads down and get on with it. The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can have breakfast and figure out what else needs doing today.

  Someone slams the delivery truck doors, and there’s the sound of the engine starting up. The truck drives away, and Neesh walks back inside.

  “All clear, you two. Thanks for making a start on this. There’s a couple of pallets outside the door – can you handle the rest?”

  Dan assures her that we’ve got it in hand, and she heads back to the shop.

  I stand up and lean backwards, stretching and straightening my spine. Dan rolls his shoulders and leans against a stack of boxes.

  “You OK, Bex?”

  “Yeah. Just aching from the heavy lifting.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  I turn to look at him, at the look of concern on his face.

  “I didn’t, did I?”

  “Twice. Woke us all up with the screaming, but when Charlie checked on you, you were still asleep.”

  I can feel the blush rising on my face. “I’m so sorry …”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. We just … we worry about you.”

  I nod. “Yeah. Thanks.” I lean against the boxes, next to him.

  “Was it Saunders?” He asks, gently.

  I have to think for a moment. What was I dreaming about last night? Which nightmare woke everyone up this time?

  “I think so. Saunders and Margie. Leaving people behind.”

  It’s always about leaving people behind. Jake, Amy, Saunders, Margie, Dr Richards. There’s always someone I can’t take with me. There’s always someone I can’t save, and it is deeply, horribly upsetting. Sometimes it’s people I know are OK, and I think I’m losing them, too. I’ve dreamt about Dan before, and Mum and Dad. People I could still lose. People who could still suffer from my mistakes.

  Dan puts a hand on my arm.

  “Come on. The truck’s gone. Let’s get some fresh air.”

  My hands are shaking as we walk back to the loading bay. Dan grabs two hoodies from the hook next to the door, and we put them on, pulling the hoods up to hide our faces. Bright lime green, with ‘Morgana Wholefoods’ printed across the back, the hoodies aren’t subtle, but most people will be paying attention to the colour rather than the people wearing them.

  We step outside. The service road is empty, so no one will notice if we’re not working. The sun is just rising, and the clouds are streaked in orange and pink, with deep, purple shadows. It’s beautiful, and it’s wonderful to be able to stand in the open air, just for a moment.

  *****

  I start climbing the stairs back to the flat. Dan cracks open the back door of the shop and gives Neesh a wave, keeping his face hidden, and she waves back. The delivery is stacked. The pallets are leaning against the wall, the hoodies are back on the hook, and we’ve closed the shutters on the loading bay. Time for breakfast.

  Charlie lets us in, toothbrush held between her teeth as she negotiates the locks on the door.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Good.”

  “You thirsty? Kettle’s on.” She grins, and waves a hand at the kitchen as she walks back to the bathroom. “Mine’s a tea, thanks!”

  I close the door and reset the locks, then follow Dan into the kitchen. He’s pulling mugs and teabags from the cupboard, so I lean into the fridge and pull out the milk. The fridge shakes as I push the door closed with my knee, and the biscuit tin on top rattles.

  The biscuit tin that holds two handguns and a pile of bullets. Our desperate attempt at buying ourselves a last stand, if the government tracks us down.

  I take the milk to Dan.

  Amy walks in, still in pyjamas, still yawning. She walks over to me and gives me a warm hug. When she pulls back, I see that her eyes are puffy and red.

  “Was it Joss? The dreams?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, closing my eyes. Amy’s the only one who knew Saunders’ first name. In all the time I knew him, I never thought to ask.

  She hugs me again, and this time I hug her back.

  “We’ll get through this, Bex,” she whispers. “It’s not your fault.”

  *****

  We didn’t talk about the night at the bunker. Not until we got here. Not until we felt safe again.

  On our long walk north, each of us lived with what had happened alone. We walked. We split up to walk through towns, we joined up again on quiet country roads. We slept under bridges and in disused buildings. We kept ourselves out of sight, and we kept walking, putting more miles between us and the farm. Between us and Saunders, who died protecting his friends. Protecting us.

  We didn’t have a destination in mind. We just wanted to get away. I thought we might cross the border into Scotland, but we realised it would be too dangerous to try. The guards on our side of the border would catch us, and we’d be handcuffed and sent to London for questioning. Used to get to the people who took us in.

  But someone was watching. Another resistance cell tracked our progress, and when they had the chance, they picked us up and brought us here. At first, we thought we’d been found, that the government had tracked us down. Two cars pulled up, blocking the country lane, and when we turned back, two more drove up and stopped behind us. We all reached for the guns, buried in our backpacks, but before we could get to them we were surrounded. The rebels searched our bags, and questioned us at gunpoint until they were happy with our story, then they bundled us into their cars and drove us to Newcastle. Not Scotland, but far enough away from Makepeace Farm to offer us some comfort.

  Neesh’s health food business is the front for their operation. The money they make subsidises their safe houses. Five of us share the top-floor flat above the shop. Neesh lives in the flat downstairs, and Jo and the others from the bunker are in other safe houses, elsewhere in the city. We work when we can, and we do what we can to help – but our faces are on the news, and on Wanted posters across the country, so we’re mostly stuck in the loading bay and the flat. The hoodies are useful, but we can only use them in the service road, out of sight of the street.

  So we learn to live together, in each other’s pockets. We learn to do what Neesh and Caroline ask us to do. And we try to ignore the locks on the door, and the handguns in the kitchen. I don’t want to think about what happens if we’re traced here. I think the nightmares will seem tame if we have to fight, trapped in our tiny safe house. And I don’t want to lose anyone else.

  *****

  “You know what we need?” Dan pushes away his empty cup, and stands up.

  Amy laughs. “You think you’re the king of this kitchen, don’t you?”

  “I am!” Dan puffs out his chest in mock offence.

  We’re crowded round the small table – two chairs, a kitchen stool and a couple of packing crates to sit on. Charlie’s come back to drink her tea, and Jake snuck in while no one was watching.

  Dan walks to the fridge and throws open the door, and looks upset when we drown out his announcement by
shouting over him.

  “Sandwiches!”

  “Breakfast sandwiches,” he corrects us. “Bacon and sausages and eggs and … what else do we have?”

  He peers into the fridge, and starts pulling out packets and boxes, passing them behind him without looking. Amy and I jump up and ferry the ingredients to the worksurface, and then we’re all helping. Opening, chopping, mixing, frying, while Dan stands behind us, slicing bread at the table.

  I find I’m blinking back tears. I don’t know what I’d do without these people. They’re holding me together, after the camp and the bunker. After Ketty and Jackson and Bracken. They’re reminding me that I haven’t lost everyone. That I can still get up in the morning, eat sandwiches with Dan, be useful to the group, laugh, watch the sunrise.

  That this didn’t end with Saunders. That we’re still walking.

  Chapter 2: Promotion

  KETTY

  Early meeting this morning, so I’m up and out of the tiny rooftop flat by seven, checking my khaki Service Uniform in the mirror by the door before I leave. After a week in the job, I still can’t resist a smile at the Corporal stripes – Brigadier Lee might want to leave me as an RTS Senior Recruit, but someone else in the Home Forces wants me and Bracken in London. No argument from me – I’m out of the Recruit Training Service, I’m out of Camp Bishop, and I’m not going to waste this promotion. I just need to keep Colonel Bracken sober enough to do his job.

  Down five flights of stairs, painkillers and the elastic support bandage on my knee controlling the limp in my stride, and out onto the street. It’s a short walk to the office at the Home Forces Building, and I want to be at my desk before Bracken gets in, ready with coffee and this morning’s briefing. There’s a chill in the air as I walk, and the thin slice of sky between the buildings is striped with orange clouds. It takes getting used to after life at camp, this feeling of being hemmed in by buildings. No training fields and woodland here. No one to train, and no one to discipline, either. No Lead Recruit job. I’m at the bottom of the ladder in London, and so is Bracken, but if we work together we can climb our way up.