“Foxtrot-Three-Three-Alpha, please tell me that’s you…”
Rushed radio traffic was exchanged between the two armoured hulks and the route for extraction was agreed. The Sultan followed in the wake of the larger Warrior, which was the obvious choice to take the lead, and they all listened with wet eyes and breaking hearts to hear the shaking voice of a young woman talking through her tears incoherently to hear the sweetest of rare sounds when Amber spoke a single word into the radio in the rear section of the Warrior.
“Mummy?” she asked in a small voice before bursting out in tears for Kimberley to hug her tightly.
“We need to get clear of whatever the hell is going on here,” Johnson said to Daniels over their link.
“Agreed,” he said. “We’ve seen concentrations of Limas at the front, with a strong force of Screechers behind, then miles of stragglers lagging behind them. They’re all heading north by north-northwest, from what we can tell.”
“What’s north-northwest of here?” Johnson asked back.
“Bristol,” Bufford interjected dourly, leaving a moment of silence hanging afterwards.
“Jesus,” Johnson muttered, “I thought even the Screechers would have better taste than to go to bloody Bristol.” The joke was a weak one, but for the few people who had visited the city recently, the words held more than a little merit.
“Something’s off about it all,” Daniels offered pensively. “Can’t quite put my finger on it yet, but it’s got to have something to do with the Americans… Let me think about it and we’ll talk when we find somewhere safe to stop.”
That was their current priority—finding a place beyond the reach of the steady flow of slow-moving zombies to stop and reunite the stricken mother and daughter who were crying inside the two respective vehicles with inconsolable happiness. They headed directly east, an agreed compromise between turning directly away from the flow of dead back towards the coast, which would hinder their overall goal of heading to the far north west of Scotland, and trying to avoid said flow of dead.
“Is it me…?” Daniels asked over the radio after almost twenty miles of relatively flat A-roads.
“No,” Johnson answered, “they’re definitely thinning out.” Another ten minutes showed no signs of any Screechers on the move, so they took a turn north and stopped at the nearest patch of raised ground. Emerging carefully with weapons raised, they inspected the tracks and undersides of their vehicles to ensure they weren’t carrying any biting hitchhikers.
As soon as the all-clear was announced, a young woman with the same fair hair as little Amber dragged herself clear of the Sultan’s hatch desperately. Dropping to her knees and sobbing, she reached out to beckon her little girl to her and held her so tightly, like she’d never let go again.
“Oh my baby, my baby,” she said over and over as she showered the girl with kisses all over her head and face. “My baby. Who found you? Who looked after you?”
Wordlessly Amber leaned around her mother and smiled with her right index finger pointing at the unlikeliest of rescuers. Picking Amber up and carrying her, she threw her free arm around Peter’s neck and pulled him tight to her.
She whispered fast in his ear, and although Johnson couldn’t hear the words, he was sure it was her thanks for saving the girl. He’d done more than that, the SSM knew. He’d not only saved her life but had cared for her with a patience he was sure many adults couldn’t muster even under normal circumstances. When Ellie released the boy, he was grabbed roughly by the big man’s hands. Johnson eyed him for a second with a mixture of ingrained fear and relief, before hugging him close just as the woman had done.
“You frightened the shit out of me,” he berated the boy as his eyes lifted to take in the bedraggled appearance of Larsen and nodding his heartfelt thanks to her for risking her life. Peter stayed close to him, not quite hugging him but not withdrawing either. A girl cleared her throat to get the attention of both of them, and Peter pulled away from the hug he was returning, not able to tell Johnson just how much it meant to him.
“And who’s this?” the SSM asked.
“This is my sister,” Peter said, his words choking on the tears he was holding back, “Jessica.” Just the simple act of speaking her name triggered the pent-up emotion hidden away for so long, and Peter collapsed into Johnson, who wrapped him up tightly in an embrace that made him feel safer and more secure than he had ever felt in his entire life.
TWENTY-ONE
The testing of the device had been a success and had elevated Fisher’s standing greatly. The applications for the adapted technology were huge, and he had received the reports from their AWACS early warning aircraft that the effective radius of the device was roughly forty miles, which gave them the ability to cover about five thousand square miles with each device.
He was no fool. He knew that the plan would be to attract as many of the infected into single locations for the air force to wipe them out, and that was how they would reclaim Britain, if it was deemed viable. But now, he had given them a way to do it with minimal expense. Already the reports had upwards of ten thousand infected gathering in the city they’d chosen far to the south of their remote, offshore location. He knew that back at Langley, their technical people would be figuring out the distances and times required, based on the information they were gathering now on how to use a ripple effect to drop the devices and pied-piper the infected all into one location, where they could be hit with napalm, or whatever, and be wiped out.
Obviously, they would still need to deploy ground troops to check every room in every house and building in the whole country, because there still had to be plenty of people who had been infected and turned after shutting themselves away at home.
He looked again at the brief report received by fax on the effects of the device. As anyone would expect, the first to reach the location of the device were the faster ones, and calculating how many of them used their superior—or at least less impaired—physical abilities to get to the city first gave an indication of how many would follow. That swarm, that migrating herd, that infected singularity merged and grew from all directions, all heading for the same spot, like iron filaments in water with the introduction of a magnet. The sheer numbers on the thin printout in his hand didn’t fully reflect the gravity of the situation; either how many had died or how many had turned and still needed to be dealt with.
What he wanted, and what he proposed in the report he was trying to formulate, was for his idea to be used as the method for purging Britain of the dangerous infected. He would sell it as the most cost effective way. Not cheaper in terms of dropping bombs, because he knew better than most people just how many his country had stockpiled ready for all-out war; but in terms of not destroying the infrastructure, buildings and resources that such a devastating bombardment would cause, and hence minimising the future rebuilding costs. His way would mean that the infected simply bled themselves to death and would be just a pile of bones and puddle to clean up by the time US forces arrived to put boots on the ground.
The UK was a perfect foothold to reclaim Europe and beyond, and if the American forces could develop the fastest way to clear an area of infected and kill them off by the thousands, then the riches of half the world would be theirs for the taking.
They could emerge as the dominant power on the entire planet.
Fisher’s personal ambition wasn’t quite so grand, but he would be a fool not to seize the opportunity on offer. The least he expected when the business was done was a position as section chief somewhere.
His reverie was interrupted by the mechanical sounds of the fax machine chirping and chuntering as another vital piece of information was received, and as he watched the printer arm shoot back and forth over the roll of paper, he jumped slightly, startled by the sudden noise of the satellite phone’s shrill ring.
“Fisher,” he said in economical answer to take the incoming call.
“This is Jacobs,” came the slightly delayed and d
etached voice, “pickup by chopper at twenty-one-fifty your time for briefing.”
“Understood,” Fisher answered, hearing the call cut from the other end.
He slowly replaced the receiver into the case and rested the fingertips of his right hand there, smiling. If Jacobs was involved, then he knew Langley and, in turn, the White House, would be investing in his plan.
A glance at his watch told him he had a little under thirty minutes to be at the nearby airfield, so he threw on the heavy coat he was sure he’d die of exposure without in the harsh landscape and drove himself.
The ride to the carrier stationed thirty miles to the west was short but uncomfortable as the helicopter bucked and dropped, thanks to the icy crosswind it flew through. Fisher could only imagine how harsh it had been there in the middle of winter and was thankful he’d arrived as the worst of the weather was beginning to break. He was amazed how the conditions could so drastically switch from a fresh covering of perfect dry snow to a diagonal downpour of stinging rain like a million needles aimed for any gap in a man’s clothing where skin was exposed.
Those musings killed the time until the engine note changed and their airspeed slowed for the pilot to begin clawing his careful way sideways to land the skids on the rolling deck. The rotors powered down and Fisher unstrapped to reach for the door as it was opened from outside. Another agent greeted him. Fisher didn’t recognise him, but the appearance of a man in a suit was so out of place on a navy warship that it made his agent status obvious. The man shouted over the noise to confirm he was who he was and led him inside.
“Briefing room is this way, Sir,” the man said, offering nothing more but leading the way to what counted as a large room aboard the floating fortress.
“Fisher,” Jacobs called out to him as he walked in, “take a seat.” Jacobs didn’t introduce any of the dozen other men sitting at the chairs arrayed before a raised dais and Fisher saw a mixture of uniforms which were primarily naval. Others not in uniform were just as obvious, but the briefing started before he could get a bead on them.
“Okay then, I’ll get right to it. Aerial surveillance reports indicate that the use of the device was far more effective than expected, with a confirmed radius of roughly forty miles give or take, depending on the terrain,” Jacobs explained, telling Fisher that everyone in the room was just as read-in on the situation as he was, if not probably more so. “Other devices are either being retrofitted in theatre or are in transit from the US and expected to be fully operational for deployment within seventy-two hours. Mister Robertson will fill you in on the method.”
Robertson, tall and built like a sportsman but appearing oddly timid in the company he was presently keeping, stood and adjusted his spectacles. The man was clearly with the agency and not an agent, so Fisher marked him down as one of their eggheads immediately.
“Gentlemen,” Robertson began with more confidence in his voice than Fisher expected from his demeanour. He nodded towards the back of the room and the lights dimmed in response. A projector started up to flicker a bright display against the solid wall to their front. A map of the UK appeared, quickly followed by another acetate sheet laid over the top, showing a red circle.
“The plan is to drop a series of devices in sequence over a period of nineteen days.” Another three sheets were laid over the displayed image with more red circles appearing and overlapping. “These devices will bring out any of the infected people and cause them to congregate in a single area, ready for the deployment of a cure.” Murmurs rippled around the briefing room and Fisher shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Estimated time before we are able to begin operations there is eight to twelve days.” Robertson nodded at Jacobs and sat again. Jacobs’ eyes found Fisher and his expression invited him to chime in. With a long intake of breath, Fisher steadied himself and stood, proceeding to walk to the front of the room to be able to turn and see everyone’s faces.
“Are you planning to drop this special ordnance and congregate every possible infected being into the same location as the test area?” a man in a naval uniform asked.
“Negative, the area…” Jacobs looked to another suit, who consulted a stack of papers for a frustrating handful of seconds.
“Bristol.”
“Bristol is being used as a secondary test area to deploy the serum and also test the most effective munitions against the infected. The other devices will be dropped ranging north to south and will cover most of Britain, eventually leading everything to…” He once again snapped his fingers impatiently at the man with the papers, who desperately rifled through them to find another place name.
“Hastings,” the agent said eventually.
“So the infected all end up at Hasti—” Jacobs shot a quizzical look at the agent, who froze with no idea why that had caused the man any confusion. “Seriously? We’re having another Battle of Hastings? Anyway… it’s been calculated that this is the best area that won’t damage any real infrastructure or impede deep-water ports for the eventual repopulation efforts.” He scanned the room to make sure there were no little hands raised in the air and wrapped things up.
“First off, gentlemen,” he said confidently, “let’s be clear on what we mean by the word ‘cure’…” He paused to take in the expressions on those faces. “The ‘cure’ being developed is a serum that prevents any of the infected from representing a danger to any living person or animal. It kills the infected person by causing massive haemorrhaging. It is not pretty, but it does work. I’ve seen it.”
“Seen it how?” asked a voice from the front row. Fisher opened his mouth to respond but Jacobs cut him off.
“The how and the why and the where are classified,” he said abruptly. “What’s important is that the serum is in production, the first batch of which will be delivered very soon.”
Fisher’s eyes went wide for a second before he got himself under control. Professor Grewal had been adamant that further testing was required, but Fisher’s eagerness to provide results had forced his own hand in reporting the success back to Langley. Both Grewal and Chambers—who he found far more amenable than the Brit—were in agreement that the ‘cure’ as they all liked to call it, wasn’t ready for use without more testing. As Jacobs went on explaining more of the logistics of how it would all happen, Fisher leaned back against the edge of a desk and tried to sum up the courage to interrupt the more senior man.
That courage never materialised, or at least his career aspirations stopped the words from forming in his mouth, but either way he stayed silent, as the plans to bring troops over the Atlantic in time for spring were discussed.
“What about the evacuation of anyone left there?” a voice asked from nearer the back, unaware or simply unconcerned that ‘there’ was more accurately ‘here’.
“Quarantine and evacuation protocols will be dealt with by the military,” Jacobs answered, “and the President has agreed to expedite all applications for asylum from British citizens, but this is not our primary concern. Our primary concern is developing the most effective method for corralling and destroying those infected.”
“What’s the method for deployment of the cure?” a man asked, the wings on his US navy uniform indicating that he was a pilot.
“Airburst munitions,” was all Jacobs said.
“Specifically?” the aviator asked, unperturbed at the attempted stonewalling. Jacobs sighed.
“As of oh-eight-hundred tomorrow, three AC-one-thirty Spectres will be stationed in Las Palmas. They will have the necessary munitions supplied to them and the delivery will be by forty-mike-mike and one-oh-five-mike-mike airburst. Any other questions?”
“What about a BLU-eighty-two with a daisy cutter?” one man asked.
“Too much serum to waste in one go if it fails. Next?”
“Las Palmas?” asked another voice uncertainly, sure they were asking a stupid question but going ahead with it anyway.
“The Canary Islands,” Jacobs explained, reciting information he’d rec
ently learned by the sound of his voice. “The outermost region of Europe, a little off the western coast of north Africa in the Atlantic, owned and controlled by the Spanish government. We entered into an agreement with that government some months ago but since then contact with their continental base of operations has been lost, with obvious assumptions for what that means. There is a contingent of government on those islands who are effectively trading new lives in the US for all their surviving citizens for use of the island chain by our forces indefinitely.”
“In-flight refuelling?” the pilot asked.
“KC-one-thirty-fives,” Jacobs told him, the information meaning nothing to many in the room but evidently satisfying the man asking.
“When do we start?” asked a new speaker.
“In forty-eight hours,” Jacobs said. “As I said, deployment of the sonic lure devices will begin in the north and head progressively south, providing the fastest time on target for our planes when the party starts.”
The briefing was dismissed, leaving Jacobs and Fisher at the front of the room. The two men’s eyes met and Jacobs must have detected the trepidation in Fisher’s.
“Forty-eight hours,” he said again, waiting for Fisher’s acknowledgement.
“Forty-eight hours. Understood.”
TWENTY-TWO
Finding somewhere to safely park two armoured vehicles under cover was no simple task, given their size. The sudden and oddly concerning lack of wandering zombies made the task infinitely safer and more simple, and while that conundrum was pushed temporarily aside, they settled on a large industrial garage unit.
Bufford and Larson got out first, the former having been cooped up inside the Warrior for too long and the latter insisting that she was fine, in spite of having expended almost all of the ammunition she’d been carrying only a few hours previously. They entered the unit via a small pedestrian door, before emerging a full ten minutes later as Bufford hauled on a chain to roll up the big shutter and admit the two vehicles reversing inside. The roller shutter came down behind them and Duncan immediately set about searching the large workshop for fuel stores.
Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 97