Toy Soldiers Box Set | Books 1-6

by Ford, Devon C.

  Fisher nodded; eyes cast down.

  “Seriously,” Jacobs told him. “Not our problem. A few thousand people isn't even a drop in the ocean. There’s the last few evac boats to go and after that we withdraw. We’ll come back, get a foothold, succeed. Just think, your lure device will save more lives than it cost to develop.”

  Fisher nodded again, running those words over in his mind again and again until he started to believe them.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “I don’t bloody believe it,” Oliver Palmer said with breathless incredulity. He lowered the binoculars from his face only to lift them up again to peer into the sea at the approaching boat. “Can nothing kill the man?”

  “Doesn’t look like it, Sir,” Maxwell said, unable to hide his tearful elation at seeing the unmistakable bulk of their missing senior NCO standing on the prow of the fishing boat.

  “You there,” Palmer said to a loitering trooper. “Evans. Be a good man and pop back to HQ? Tell them to get the kettle on and advise Captain Palmer that our erstwhile SSM has risen from the d—” he cleared his throat and went on. “—that our missing SSM has reappeared.” The trooper bobbed his head in answer and turned to jog back to the hotel, luckily for Palmer ignoring his slip of the tongue.

  The boat pulled up, a gleaming rank of smiles facing them, and Johnson stepped off the boat first to look down at his boot on the damp concrete of the dock.

  “Je-sus Christ,” Maxwell said.

  “No, just me,” Johnson answered, shaking hands with the man before drawing him in for a rough display of back-slapping that didn’t quite qualify as a cuddle. He stepped past, making eye contact with the men who beamed at him until someone started clapping at the back of the gathering crowd. Others took it up, until a ridiculous cacophony of applause thundered around the docks for their safe arrival over hundreds of miles and far too many months spent apart.

  “Welcome back,” came a polished voice as Lieutenant Palmer stepped to the front. Johnson eyed him carefully, recognising some form of significant change in the aristocratic brat but unable to put his finger on what it was.

  “Good to see you, Lieutenant,” Johnson said, unsure if the way the young man was looking at him meant that he should offer a salute. Palmer surprised him then, holding out a hand and wearing a wry smile of a man much more mature than the last version of second Lieutenant Oliver Simpkins-Palmer he’d met.

  Johnson took it, gripping it firmly but not crushing the hand to dominate or humiliate him.

  “Very good to have you back,” Palmer said again, looking over the larger man’s shoulder at the rest of his oddball crew stepping onto dryish land. “And I see you’ve gathered a flock?”

  “Something like that,” Johnson said, breathing out a sigh of relief as the emotions of being separated and alone flooded him, threatening to tip him over the edge of a cliff he hadn’t known he’d been teetering on.

  “Clear the way,” Palmer announced loudly, “let’s get these people back to headquarters. Mister Maxwell? See that the men return to their duties, if you please?” Johnson turned to catch Maxwell’s stare and raise an eyebrow in amused query. Maxwell shrugged.

  “Big boots to fill,” was all he said.

  Johnson threw an arm around his shoulder again and drew him close to mutter, “Thanks for looking after them.”

  “A lot’s changed,” Maxwell said back, filling the SSM in before he was ambushed by the remaining officers. “Captain Palmer was sick, pneumonia, and Lieutenant Palmer located one non-issue spine which he’s been putting to good use. Mister Lloyd’s still around with the Bootnecks.”

  “Ah, my marines will be pleased to hear that,” Johnson said, genuinely happy for them before he darkened the mood. “We stopped by Portree on the way up here…”

  Maxwell faltered, falling out of step with Johnson, before answering.

  “That was our Rourke’s Drift,” he said darkly. “If it wasn’t for Mister Lloyd and Mister Palmer, we’d all be done for.”

  “Was that when the Captain got sick?” Maxwell smiled in amusement.

  “No, I meant the younger version. Stepped up and then some.” Johnson lapsed into amused contemplation before his features darkened and he asked the question on his mind.

  “How many?” Johnson asked, meaning to ask how many of theirs were lost. Maxwell wiped at a cheek and sniffed before answering.

  “Too bloody many.”

  Captain Palmer, despite his obvious suffering, insisted on standing to shake the hands of everyone presented to him in the lounge of the hotel where the fire still roared to aid his recovery.

  “Please forgive my appearance,” he apologised pointlessly, “but I’ve been rather the unemployed layabout these past couple of weeks. Please, who do we have here, Sergeant Major?”

  “Sergeant Hampton and Marine Enfield, you know, Sir. Lance Corporal Daniels and Miss Perkins too.” Palmer smiled graciously and bowed his head in greeting.

  “This is Jean Pierre and Miss Philippa…” Johnson frowned, realising he didn’t know her full name.

  “McAndrew,” she said, her voice prompting a gleeful recognition to wash over the captain’s face.

  “A Canadian, no less,” he exclaimed, making her smile and, unless Johnson was mistaken, blush a little.

  “This is Ellie and her Amber,” he said, gesturing to the tired woman holding a little girl who buried her face into her mother’s neck.

  “This is Jessica, our budding radio operator.” Jessica gave a bored wave as if the conversation of the adults was already sending her to sleep, “and this,” Johnson said proudly as he brought Peter to the front and placed both meaty hands on his slender shoulders, “is Peter. Honorary member of both the squadron and the Royal Marines.”

  Peter smiled, trying to hide his pride and failing. Johnson stopped embarrassing him and introduced the last two people of their group.

  “Sergeant Bufford, Special Boat Service and Astrid Larsen of the… the.. Forz-varitz… Spetzi-komm…”

  “Forsvarets Spesialkommando,” she said as she stepped forwards and gave a curt nod, “Norwegian special forces.”

  “My,” Palmer exclaimed, “what a truly exceptional and eclectic group you’ve collected. Truly, truly amazing. Please, you must fill me in on what’s been going on, but I’m certain you’ll want to clean up and get some food first?”

  “Sorry, Sir,” Johnson said, “but I’m afraid we have to talk before that.” Something in his tone registered with Palmer on a nerve-jangling level and the officer understood immediately.

  “Mrs Maxwell?” he called out, hearing a muffled yell of response coming from the kitchen area before she appeared through the double doors, removing a stained pinafore and drying her hands on it.

  “Yes, Captain?” she asked as she walked in, smiling at the new additions and old acquaintances alike.

  “Not I, thank you, but I wonder if you could take our guests through for a bowl? Mrs Maxwell’s baked a fresh loaf of bread or two unless my nose deceives me?”

  “It doesn’t,” she confirmed, “this way, please.”

  They filed out, leaving just the military personnel until Johnson asked Daniels to go and eat with the others, politely dismissing him from a decision above his level of responsibility.

  Before the conversation could begin, the front door to the hotel burst inwards to show a bearded royal marine officer, his chest heaving from exertion and his face red from the cold air outside. He fumbled to unstrap the rifle from his upper body and launched forward to wrap up the shorter sergeant in a rough hug, prompting a round of curses from the man.

  “Bleedin’ Christ, mind me fucking knee!” he hissed. Lieutenant Lloyd recoiled in concern, looking down and seeing no obvious missing limb or other such grievous injury.

  “Bent the bastard the wrong way when the Sea King went down,” he said. Lloyd turned to Enfield, seeing both men changed by what they had been through.

  “And the others? Lee?”

  “Gone in t
he crash,” Enfield said. “Just us now.” Lloyd seemed close to tears but nodded and brought his two missing men back into him for another brief, brotherly embrace.

  “What’s got you so intense, Sergeant Major?” Captain Palmer asked, concern lacing his words.

  Johnson told them. Explaining about the chance meeting with the team of elite US navy personnel and the sad facts that they relayed. He told them about the abandonment of the British Isles and the last evacuations planned from nearby countries before the whole world contracted back to their home waters in defence.

  Palmer in turn told the story of the island, and how there was some form of testing facility there which led to the outbreak and subsequent emergence of a new form of enemy.

  They discussed the behaviour of the swarms, of how something was making them all converge into one place as if responding to an undetectable call to arms. That prompted knowing looks between the two brothers before the younger offered an explanation.

  “It appears that the former residents of this town were affected by the outbreak. However, they all decided at some point to head east with no regard for the small matter of the North Atlantic Ocean barring their way to the mainland.”

  “Must’ve been the same thing,” Lloyd said. “No other explanation. Something’s been drawing them to places.”

  “Well, I can confirm that part,” Johnson said. “The Americans have a kind of device that attracts them. They used it to get the Screechers all into one place before they hammered them with some vaccine or something, only it didn’t kill all of them.”

  “It turned some of them into clever bastards with no hair?” Lloyd asked. Johnson nodded.

  “Those bastards,” younger Palmer exploded. “I apologise,” he said quickly with a gesture towards Astrid before returning to his rant. “All that time and effort wasted when they could have simply evacuated survivors and been done with it.”

  “I suppose they thought they could skip the twelve years of war and go straight to their own Waterloo,” Captain Palmer offered. “Seems to be the modern way, don’t you agree? Win the war before it begins?”

  Silence answered his words as everyone fell into their own thoughts.

  “So where does this leave us?” Astrid asked the group. “We can continue to Norway and attempt to join their final evacuations, or we can do as the Americans say and go to Iceland.”

  “I say, Norway by boat is rather a long jaunt,” Julian Palmer offered. “Isn't Iceland much closer?”

  “Still five or six hundred miles of open ocean,” Johnson said. “And I don’t much fancy trying to do that in a little fishing boat without the chance to refuel.”

  “And did your American friend say when any such deadline would be?” the captain asked him with a direct and intense look.

  “Not specifically, but I would suggest we don’t hang about.”

  “Listen to me, please,” Lieutenant Palmer pleaded with the group of civilians whose fates were so intertwined with the military men as to be practically family in more ways than just literally. “Please,” he said again, louder this time and holding up both hands for quiet. When the noise dropped to a rolling mumble, he spoke again.

  “That’s better, thank you. Now, we’ve found ourselves in this predicament before and without fail, it has proved a bad idea to stay.”

  “Says you,” barked a Scottish voice from the back. “That’s no your home back there.”

  “No, it isn't,” Palmer answered stiffly. “My home was far to the south and was overrun many months prior. I have accepted that, just as I am asking you to accept our word that we must evacuate.”

  The noise sparked up again in protest, albeit to a far lesser degree this time, but it was clear to him that he wasn’t winning the hearts and minds of the locals. He shot a pleading look to what qualified as a civilian warrant officer, prompting Denise Maxwell to hold out a hand so he could help her climb up to the platform he addressed the people from.

  “Please, if we can have a little quiet?” Palmer tried, recoiling in shock as the smiling Mrs Maxwell placed forefinger and thumb in her mouth and huff out a sharp, piercing whistle that was every bit as impressive as he’d seen it done on film.

  “Shut it,” she ordered when the stunned faces all turned to her. “Now, they can’t make you go, nor will they waste their time doing so, but I’m going. Stay here and hope someone will come back for you if you like, but I’m going to give my family the best chance of surviving all this crap and that means going. Come with us or stay, just stop wasting everyone’s bloody time about it.” She stepped down, hopping lightly to land back where she began and stalked from the room without bothering to pick a route that avoided anyone.

  They parted like the proverbial Red Sea before her, allowing her an unimpeded exit which returned Palmer to their primary focus.

  “We leave tomorrow,” he said, “and we’ll need to gather sufficient fuel to undertake the journey.”

  “In what?” a woman asked near the front. “The little fishing tubs? We won't make it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s rather a case of needs must,” Palmer insisted. “I’m sure if we just rally together and dig deep for that spiri—”

  “Blow it oot yer arse!” someone yelled, bringing a ripple of laughter afterwards. Palmer gave up.

  “Very well,” he announced with steel in his voice this time. “As Mrs Maxwell said, come or don’t come, just don’t get in the damned way.” He jumped down and went to walk out before a small hand shot out to grab his upper arm. He turned to see the woman who spoke up about the boats, looking directly into his eyes and almost pleading with him to listen.

  “Madam,” he said, “I assure you—”

  “Lochinver,” she said, cutting him off and making him pull that involuntary face he did whereby his chin retracted so far it became non-existent.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Lochinver,” she repeated as if he was the one not making sense. “Head west from here. There’s a larger port there where we should find other boats and fuel to see us through.”

  “I… you have my thanks, Miss?”

  “It’s Mrs, but you’re welcome,” she answered having misinterpreted his manners for an attempt on her virtue before breezing past him.

  Lieutenant Palmer ignored the other shouted questions aimed at him as he made for the door and walked fast back to their headquarters where he sent runners to gather the interested parties.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The mission to the mainland had no shortage of volunteers. In the end it was decided that it was more of a specialist task, hence the addition of the more specialist soldiers selected to undertake it.

  A handful of civilians went along, all with knowledge of boats amassed over careers of varying lengths spent at sea, and that included their stoically unsmiling Jean Pierre.

  “I can help,” Peter assured Johnson, standing in his way to force an answer from the man. “I’ll stay on the boat and you know I’m a good shot.”

  “I know you can, and I know you are,” Johnson answered, careful not to sound patronising but trying to be firm with his kindness. “But you’re staying here this time. We’ll be back in a few hours with a new boat hopefully, then we can get out of here.”

  Peter sulked. In spite of his maturity he was still a ten-year-old boy being told that he couldn’t do something he was adamant that he wanted to do, but it was more that he didn’t want to be separated from the only grown men in his life he had ever trusted.

  “You’ll be fine here, lad,” Johnson assured him, bending down conspiratorially. “Besides, who’s going to look after Kimberley and Jessica?”

  Peter frowned, knowing that he was being played like a fiddle but unable to raise a valid argument.

  Johnson stood up straight, ruffling the boy’s shaggy hair as he turned away to swing one leg over the rail of the boat. Their plan was to find something larger and more capable of safely transporting passengers in greater comfort than having them huddle in co
mmon areas as they had on the small fishing boats that had brought them there.

  The argument, one which Peter had listened to through a crack in a door, went on for almost an hour about whether they should risk attempting to get another boat, but when the fact was pointed out that there wasn’t enough fuel left where they were to run both boats over the distance, nor was there a capacity to safely store and carry additional fuel, it was reluctantly agreed that a mission to the mainland was indeed necessary.

  That mission didn’t ned to be a large-scale one, but the discussion eventually fell on allowing Lieutenant Lloyd to take his remaining royal marines as a reactionary force in support of the mixed bag of specialists who would represent them all at the sharpest end of the spear.

  The two effectively homeless special operators joined up with the flotsam of the SAS patrol to reform as a foursome, which best suited their tactics. The plan was that they would sail to Lochinver, select an appropriate replacement for their smaller boats, and clear it using the special forces team as the marines provided support and cover should anything unwelcome come from the inland direction.

  As a plan it was simple, but it was simple purely because there were so many of the working parts they were unable to plan for, hence being more of an objective outline than an actual plan.

  Johnson, much to the dislike of the Palmers and his acting replacement Maxwell, insisted on going. This left the younger Palmer, who he had learned had stepped up and earned the respect of the men following his actions during the withdrawal and every day afterwards, in Stornoway to organise their supplies and the civilians opting to join them. The scattered remnants of their squadron, less than twenty men of the multitude they’d started out with, stayed there to make that happen under the young officer’s guidance.