The Yeoman: Crying Albion Series - Book 1

by Tyler Danann

  “Allah Ak—” his comrade began to answer.

  The sudden break in his pattern of speaking caused Halabi to turn, he had time to see his brother slumping over. The terrorist shouted a warning noise before more shots rang out, cutting down the dark-skinned man.

  The Yeoman, partly concealed from a low fold in the ground, shot again and again with his G36. His follow-up shots despatched Halabi, who fell dying, partly obscured by a concrete bollard.

  Only two minutes earlier Weyland had crawled low like a frenzied leopard after choosing to take on the gunmen. After being satisfied they were no danger he waited for the moment. With the iron-sights he watched and saw further danger. Another Rabian emerged from their ambush position and Weyland kept his cool. A second man followed the first. They were now less brave now on seeing their dead comrades. It was one thing to slaughter unarmed civilians with bullets and grenades but facing armed opponents unnerved them.

  Weyland shot the biggest one of the two with three rounds, he went down like a sack of potatoes. The second saw the Yeoman though and fired back at him while howling. An experienced enemy would have rushed for cover to engage in a firefight, the last terrorist charged forwards instead. He made it ten yards across the open ground, firing from the hip before Weyland shot him down. The Yeoman heard impacts nearby but was unharmed by the AKM’s gunfire.

  Remembering the last terrorist who had been running away the soldier swivelled to see a distant van racing away to the south. Weyland shot off the last of his magazine in a futile attempt to bring it to a halt, but the range was too great and the carbine not up to the task. The weapon’s internal bolt held-open on empty and still the dark blue van drove on.

  Ephraim had escaped and the Yeoman knew he had to be away too, as much as it grieved him to leave without helping the others. He had a mission and if he tarried the authorities would surely cast him into detention. The sounds of firing had all ceased. He attempted a still picture of the almost vanished vehicle but discovered his body camera had stopped recording. Weyland hoped the battery had only recently failed, not that it would have shown much anyway, given his mostly prone position.

  The Yeoman stood up carefully left just as the survivors were emerging from their hiding places. To several it was clear he was the one who had saved them. He waved briefly and called out that help would be on its way before moving rapidly towards his Land Rover. He’d parked it on the very edge of the parking area, keeping it from most of the machine-gun fire. Apart from a bullet nick in the back corner it was unharmed. Before climbing inside he had a sudden thought and retrieved the folder Brown had been glancing at. Inside the front-cover was a picture of him taken from his military record with notes and annotations. Without time to read any more he returned to his vehicle and checked his L1A5 SLR was still in its case. It was, as were about two hundred rounds of ammunition in ten magazines. Weyland stowed the G36 next to it and removed the Browning from the holster.

  As he made to leave the dead police he drove around sent a weird feeling of guilt and responsibility trespassed into him. The memory of the terrorists asking for him in the building made him realize he perhaps was the main reason or at least an influence for the bloody attack?

  Was he indirectly responsible for their deaths?

  Weyland didn’t think so, if the foolish idiot called Brown had not detained him he’d have been on his way south unburdened.

  He exited the ferry terminal and turned south-east just as the sounds of the police response unit became audible.

  ‘They’ll be from Lancaster,’ he thought confidently to himself. ‘I hope they don’t try and pin all this mess on me.’

  As the convoy of police vehicles came into view a feeling of fatalism came over him. A Land Rover Defender was a match for few vehicles in terms of speed or acceleration. His mental state was that of a wary wolf and Weyland was prepared to fight if they tried to stop his vehicle. The treatment of the authorities of him was not forgotten, despite their casualties. Weyland suspected the dead or dying Commissioner Brown may have never intended to release him if he had his way.

  The lead Enforcer of the police convoy paid little attention to the slow Land Rover trundling along as it approached. They had no report on a green Land Rover, only that shots had been fired and casualties reported at Heysham ferry terminal. They drove past him without slowing down. It was only an hour later when they viewed the surveillance tapes that they saw the Rabians, the carnage and the Yeoman warrior in action. His green off-road vehicle was immediately flagged up for interception.

  The Yeoman drove on towards Yorkshire, avoiding the motorways and using only the A-Roads. His vehicle was not registered to his home address. Instead it was listed under the Yeomanry barracks in the next town from him. For now Eric Weyland was off the radar.

  Chapter 2

  Crossroads

  Within two hours of the Heysham attack the media-machine was going into overdrive. Complete coverage was being displayed on all major channels. Emergency services attempted to do what they could but the injuries were nasty. The terrorists had used expanding ammunition making bullet-wounds even more devastating. Deadly explosives meant some maiming and crippling was a terrible burden to the injured. As they worked and toiled among the vehicles the announced death toll grew and grew.

  First it was twenty-eight, then thirty, forty-eight before stabilizing on fifty two fatalities. Over fifty more were wounded, with dozens of them in a serious condition. Goggle-eyed watchers saw the whole circus of reporters, journalists and news anchors go into an emotional roller-coaster as a version of events slowly trickled out.

  The surveillance cameras showed a lone, white civilian with an assault rifle opening fire while laying down. The quality of the cameras was less than five megapixels, keeping him from being facially identified. Yet the camera’s did not show his targeting the now dead Rabians, nor did they show him waving to the civilians as he departed.

  By the time Weyland had reached his valley farm house the High Commissioner was reporting him as the leader of a terrorist attack. After shaking his head at the news reports coming in on the Freeview TV, Weyland wasted no time. He immediately attempted to contact Colonel Seymour on the secure line. The duty Yeoman, Sergeant Chris Payne, answered explaining the Colonel was away from the base. He listened as Weyland delivered his hasty report.

  “Things are moving very fast now Eric, word from the Hereward barracks is they’ve got two police convoys blockading the place. So don’t show up there whatever you do.”

  “By the stars what are they going after us for? It’s Rabian’s that did the attack.”

  “They want us dead Eric, they’ll try anything to take us down and making us look bad is the start of it. We might have our own turf, but the police can come and go as they please when they want to.”

  “I didn’t think it would be this soon. Dammit I was almost ready to—” He cut himself from saying the rest. That would be for the Colonels ears only.

  The Duty Operator hesitated then spoke on.

  “Look they want to access the Yeomanry database, but the Company Commander’s not caving-in. He’s at the gate trying to negotiate them to leave. Fat chance of that though.”

  “The Enforcers must know they won’t win a fight against us?”

  “Probably, but we intercepted another transmission that they are trying to get reinforcements from the south. More than likely regular army guys with a general from London. They’ll bring armor with them to try and crash the gates more than likely.”

  “They don’t have the authority though, Albion is separate territory and not under their jurisdiction.”

  “The Home Office can over-rule our territory in some cases though. If they hand over a royal search warrant with a general’s authority, they get access. Otherwise we end up with a battle and that could start a civil war.”

  “Dammit, this house is compromised then,” Weyland said grimly. His heart felt oppressed, like a weight was falling from London onto
his world.

  “You have some time, it depends on the Commander, he may purge or safeguard your data. Safeguard your records at your location, bug out from and come quickly to The Estates. DON’T use your main travel vehicle unless you have to, I suspect they have the plates.”

  “Roger that, I’ll get on it.”

  “Good luck mate.”

  Weyland put the phone down as the feeling of oppression now felt even closer than before. The thought of them searching his house twisted in his guts. The invasion of privacy was one thing but the knowledge that they’d confiscate and possibly ‘lose’ items grinded him even more.

  “They aren’t going to invade my world, not like this anyway,” he said decisively then rushed into action.

  Weyland spent the next thirty minutes packing supplies and gear into his Land Rover. Another fifteen minutes saw a three-quarter ton trailer loaded up as well. He was playing with fire taking the extra time of storing all his valuables and equipment away from the farm house, but he refused to let them have their way with his gear and possessions.

  His farmhouse was part of a twenty acre property and it took him five minutes of driving to get to a sprawling forest. It was here that his main cache of stores was hidden. He opened up a carefully concealed steel hatch concreted into the ground. Then, using a rope and the ladder he unloaded everything down into it. When he lowered down the last box the cache was nearly stacked up to the very hatch itself. By the time he’d climbed back in to his Defender the Yeoman was exhausted. Nearly an hour and a half had elapsed. One last sweep of the house saw him bag up any compromising material. Pictures of he and his fiancée, her jewelry and an office drawer containing all his paperwork went into a spare duffel bag. Opening his gun cabinet he removed his CZ 75 P1 sidearm which went into a military holster. A Benelli M4 shotgun was normally present but that was at Hereward Barracks in the armory there.

  All that remained was his rifle, the weapons from the ferry port, his bug-out bag and some vehicle stores. He got into his Audi Quattro having loaded most of the gear into the boot. Before he left in the new vehicle he drove his Landrover deep into the woods, far off his land. By using a folding bicycle that was stored in the back he was able to pedal back to his farm house again. After collapsing it and packing it in with the other stuff he almost gave into the urge to rest. Pushing the temptation aside Weyland felt satisfied but near the limit of his body’s capacity, both mentally and physically.

  The Audi’s engine started with a slight delay but that was understandable given his absence while in Ireland. As Weyland left his home behind he wondered if he’d ever see it again, the world was changing. He felt like being on board a submarine, barely eluding a task-force that wanted him dead or alive.

  It was a one hour drive to secretive Estates that the Colonels tended to frequent. For the first ten minutes as he made his way down the country lanes he expected to face a police convoy. Once he reached the A1 though all was well. Only when he passed a police convoy going the other way did he relax. His adrenaline slowed and more restful thoughts swam into his mind. Weyland thought of his fiancée down in London and the work she did there. It was dangerous but neither would have it any other way.

  Chapter 3

  The Ministry

  The Land Ministry ruled from an ugly gray building. It had been constructed in the name of efficiency during the late nineteen-sixties. It was largely made up of various civilian elements of the Ministry of Defense who worked there. A multi-sectioned office within it housed a department known as Special Occurrences Task Force. It was seldom known of by most in the mainstream military, even the MOD folks would struggle to gauge what it actually did. Such was the compartmentalization the shadowy group were only fully known within the Ministry of Intelligence. The Ministry of Intelligence did not dwell in the Land Ministry though and far from the master’s eye the servants of the MOI roamed free.

  In the years gone by SOTF had shrunk from a platoon-sized formation with detachments overseas to just four operatives though. Originally it was formed to assist NATO fighting military spies from the USSR. Then after the USSR had collapsed they’d been reorganized to spy on other nations within NATO and beyond. After the Colonel’s Coup they’d turned their gaze inward further and worked with the aim of building a file on suspected terrorists from native-born Britons. The Colonels War which followed left London unscathed and SOTF focused its gaze upon the Yeomanry.

  Unlike MI5 though SOTF were a military echelon which meant they were much less accountable, could carry side arms concealed, even when off-duty. Such a thing rankled the Land Ministry bosses but the section 5 authority to do so came straight from the Home Office.

  On the lowest rung of the SOTF ladder was Lance Corporal Brian Athered. He was new to the detachment with only a month’s experience there, together with a year of military service. The wide-eyed, optimistic prism he saw the world gave him a fluid appeal among friends and associates. The man had light-brown hair, a boyish face and his athletic appearance radiated charisma, catching more than one ladies eye.

  Next was Corporal Scott Johnson, a career intelligence operative. He was a decent-enough soldier but rough around the edges. His drinking escapades were legendary, and usually involved being vulgar and crude. Heavy set and leaning over two hundred pounds Johnson tended to be the bruiser-type of SOTF, albeit an intelligent one.

  The second-most senior rank of SOTF was a striking Sergeant called Rebecca Templeton. Her faintly-olive face was attractively beguiling. It wasn’t a face that radiated beauty in a conventional way; she had soft-features, a slightly aquiline nose and a pair of dark hazel eyes that had a way of looking through you. Some said it was her ruthless ambition that had got her promoted, others that her womanly looks, assets and charms had played a part. She was below-average in height for an army woman, yet muscular and somewhat broad-shouldered. Her velvet-voice emphasized a touch of melancholy but it had an authoritarian presence when necessary and if she was pressed too far. Unlike the others who specialized in operational and personnel intelligence matters she was more the experienced covert operative. Since the end of the Colonels War, there wasn’t much call for that in SOTF though.

  The Officer-In-Charge completed the small unit of five personnel. Warrant Officer Danny Atkinson was an old soldier in the Intelligence Corps, he’d seen conflicts come and go several times. With twenty-one years of service he only had a year to go before a quiet retirement. He figured about four more months of riding the desk then his resettlement training and leave would see him away from SOTF and the military for good. Atkinson was gray-haired and worn-down from a career of hard-work and harder drinking. His big plummy nose was bloodshot and flushed, as was his face. Dark jaded eyes that had seen it all looked at things with a cynical, fatalistic outlook. In some ways he was like an older version of Johnson but was well over two-hundred and fifty pounds. Being medically down-graded meant fitness was a distant thing for the officer, which was just as well as would struggle to chase anything for long.

  All of them were on first-name terms and military rank was seldom used with a similar policy on wearing civilian attire instead of camouflage. In some ways they were like a bubble, remote from their parent unit in Bedfordshire but still retaining their military trappings in other ways. They seldom called in sick, were professionally efficient when it came to casework and got the job done by thinking outside the box.

  The radio playing a lame pop tune suddenly interrupted to announce the attack at Heysham. After a minute or so of the brief message the pop tune resumed and there was some grim exchanges between Athered and Johnson.

  The secure line in Atkinson’s office rang, followed by email reports from JHQ a short time later.

  The immense cogs and wheels of the military, political and authoritarian machine were now turning.

  “So much for a quiet few months,” he gloomed before calling for Templeton. She finished what she was doing then sauntered up to his office door. She moved confidently, as a
single-woman, feminist-minded and with no children and worries tended to do in Ministry circles.

  “‘Becky,” Atkinson said to Templeton. “There’s a situation up at Heysham, the details have just filtered down to us.”

  The warrant officer tapped a section of his LCD screen before slowly swiveling it around to face her.

  “Have the lads start with the Person Of Interest first. It’s a race to get this guy, he’s the priority, we’ve got MI5 and Special Branch in the competition as well.”

  “Who is it? Some Rabian again?” she asked leaning forward to take a look. The screen showed a screen-capture from Heysham’s security camera with a slender figure moving towards a landrover. “Looks Caucasian to me.”

  “Exactly, he’s one of those Yeomanry scumbags. Intel is showing he led the attack with some Rabians. Then he killed his terror team after they’d slaughtered dozens of civvies. No doubt to make it look like they were the only ones responsible and deflect attention from the Yeomanry onto the Rabian community.”

  “This is gonna get big if a general mobilization is made against them,” Templeton said analyzing the outcomes. “Will Control let us harry the hare this time Danny?” she wished they’d let SOTF deploy on field operations. It had been months since the last time.

  “Hopefully! Let’s show the police how the military can be one step ahead of them in the meantime eh? Here’s the intel on who this guy is.”

  He passed her a sheaf of data-requests still warm from the printer. Templeton carefully analyzed them with intrigue. The sergeant felt a shiver run through her as she saw the small passport-sized photo on the top right corner of the front page. It was a familiar face, all too familiar, one she’d known all those years ago. The name on the form made it clear the man was no twin either. A feeling like her world slowly being shook back and forth began to rattle through her. On the outside her face and body showed little sign of the turmoil starting to develop. Yet inwardly she was pole-axed.