The Yeoman: Crying Albion Series - Book 1

by Tyler Danann

  “Nothing but what they just told me, have you tried the focus element?” Lance Corporal Athered suggested.

  “Of course I have!” snapped Johnson.

  Since the death of Atkinson the mood within SOTF was edgy and tense. Rebecca had been standing in, but with the new lead from Malthar she was assigned to Interceptor duty, and Control was their new liaison. They were under a lot of pressure, the situation was changing almost every five minutes.

  Only an hour ago the call came in. A Bravo-State-Orange alert was sent out and addresses and trail plans came at them thick and fast. Now, deep in foreign-occupied London they stuck out like a sore thumb to the black and Asian populace. Their Glock 17 was a reassuring bulk under their jackets though. With a pair of magazines secured on the opposite side to their pistol holster they were capable of holding their own.

  Nearby, at an adjacent apartment building, a group of youths were about to go inside when they noticed the two white men.

  “Hey? Are you looking for the guy who flew?”

  Both of them hesitated, then Athered answered.

  “That’s right, we’ve got some business to discuss with him,” he said confidently.

  “What sort of business,” a wary looking Asian youth asked hopefully.

  “Well we want to market the flying technology onto the civilian market. Hopefully soon you kids will have a piece of the action.”

  “Alright! That sounds sick!” a lighter-complexioned lad, exclaimed excitedly.

  “The only thing is he gave us bad directions and can’t find his address,” Johnson added.

  “You just missed him! He drove off right past you with a woman. He lives over there I think.”

  One of the group suspected the pair of white men were not all they seemed and tried to calm down the others. It was too late though the apartment and vehicle they’d driven away in were soon relayed to the eager pair of men. After moving to the apartment they left the youths behind who animatedly argued and talked.

  “Control this is Weasel Six. Probable fix on POI, message to relay.”

  “Go ahead and send Weasel Six.”

  “POI traveling in Gray Ford Puma with passenger, heading south, possibly vectoring to motorway.”

  “Roger that Weasel Six.”

  “Target’s address confirmed, send investigators to the following address…” Johnson read it out to them and the radio communication closed.

  “That’s it, interceptors are now on the case,” Athered said plainly.

  “I hope it’s enough. I want them brought down for what they did to Danny.”

  “Aye, those Yeoman won’t stand much chance now surely?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Johnson responded.

  A group of older youths had just left a petrol station and headed over in their direction. They were foreign, aggressively orientated and unfriendly.

  Athered was tapped by his Corporal.

  “Trouble.”

  The threat moved closer and outnumbered the duo four-to-one.

  “You’re kind doesn’t belong here, this is our territory now,” said one who was obviously their leader.

  “Ministry Police! Move along son, “Johnson said gruffly and with authority. “This is about to be a crime scene, don’t become a statistic.”

  The Rabian Negro was about to press further but Lance Corporal Athered opened his jacket, revealing his Glock pistol.

  Johnson spoke on. “Now fuck off, before more of our friends arrive.”

  The gang leader made some muttering comments to try and save face. The group seethed to do more, but that last vestige of life or death jeopardy held their intentions from attacking. Then he and his crew went back to the filling station.

  “It’s ironic isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Our enemies don’t support the mass immigration that brings gutter trash like them here, but our own side does.”

  “That’s a bit extreme mate. Our politicians are just in a bind over with all the EU regulations, they are the ones that pass the laws.”

  “Well it’s obvious these New Euros don’t like us, if we didn’t have these pistols and maybe the backup on its way we’d be in deep shit and you know it.”

  “Well, I know what you’re saying, but don’t let the boss hear you say that. She and Atty had grandfolks who were immigrants from before the war I think.”

  “They were nowhere near the same class as the crap who the government want to bring in. Scum like that are a waste of space. The EU rules are being ignored by most other countries with the brains to look after their own anyway. You know what? Maybe it is racial warfare being waged in high places just like the Colonels are saying.”

  “Just keep your voice low! I shouldn’t be telling you this but Becky mentioned that Ministry Investigators are being assigned to us for inspection and assessment. If they heard a rant like that you’d be arrested on the spot!”

  “What? How come?”

  “She thinks they’ve found a link to a mole or espionage.”

  “What link have they found?”

  “One of Atty’s cabinets was tampered with.”

  “Tampered with?”

  “The auditors going through his office found the trespass-trigger had been released. Atty had a report drafted and was gonna talk to us all about it. Probably would have come to nothing, but with his death and the escape of those girls from Warwick, well it’s rattled the Land Ministry a bit. They are kicking over any old rock to see what’s underneath.”

  “Are we suspects?”

  “Fuck knows mate, after this is over Rebecca will brief us about it. She’s been through one before I think. Should be nothing to worry about. No files are missing or anything.”

  Ten minutes passed and the investigators arrived in a big transit van. They took over, having been given a brief handover report by the two SOTF operatives. Another van arrived, this one was RLC Bomb Disposal. As they carefully entered the apartment with their equipment a third vehicle showed up, a Mercedes S200. It slowly parked and the occupants took in Johnson and Athered without getting out.

  “Can we help you sir?” Johnson asked the window that was tinted. He had his hand resting near his pistol as he did so. The window lowered and he found himself staring into the flushed, mean face of Cordell Mastock.

  “Cordell, I… thought you were on chaser duty with the other Interceptors?”

  The agent said nothing but stared deeply at Johnson like he was scanning him with dangerous, suspicious eyes.

  The corporal hesitated and faltered for a moment, allowing Athered to speak and maintain momentum.

  “We called in the location, it’s in Special Branch’s hands now. Bomb Disposal are checking it out. The quarry is being pursued by Interceptor units now.”

  Cordell stopped his disturbing stare to look over at the youth, “I’ll say whose hands it’s in boy!” Mastock snapped derogatively.

  Both occupants exited the vehicle and seemed ready to make a move.

  “Boy? We found this location, you’d still be chasing circles otherwise!” Athered told them boldly.

  “Don’t give us that line,” Rachel Shears said sardonically. “We were already on route, there was a trace from our systems that led us here. Now stay out of our way,” she hissed as they moved towards the stairs.

  “Hey! Johnson said icily moving to block their passage. “You don’t run this operation Control does!”

  “Watch your tongue, Agent Shildz is badly injured and I’m not in the mood for your attitude!” Mastock snapped.

  Johnson moved aside but as the other agent passed him the rookie SOTF operative spoke hasty words. “We aren’t happy about him getting Danny killed either!” Athered retorted, surprizing Johnson with his gumption. “He was going to retire from all this shite in a few months until you dragged him up north!”

  Mastock’s face enraged as he made a charging-rush attack for the Lance Corporal. He jumped aside though, causing the agent to bump heavily
against a brick wall.

  “Settle down you two!” a voice called sharply halting the altercation.

  It was from High Commissioner Desmond Roberts, he’d exited from a Rolls Royce Phantom. His SAS bodyguard, not far from his side, eyed the situation keenly, calculating if there was to be more violence from the other two. Protection of his boss was paramount and evasion from the scene ghosted before him. The voice of authority swayed the moment though and both agents acquiesced to reason.

  “Johnson, Athered, report back to the Ministry for a debriefing,” he ordered. Both men nodded and left the area.

  After they were gone both Ministry agents relaxed and spoke with easy familiarity to the Commissioner.

  “Those two are trouble, SOTF have treachery running through them,” Cordell said to Roberts.

  “They are just dumb tools like most of the military and police, used correctly they’ll help bring this country to a rightful conclusion. We’ll weed out any treachery and make an example of traitors later.”

  “If they step out of line Commissioner I’ll break them apart, traitors or otherwise. I think they are working against us.”

  “My investigators are thorough and the leak from Atkinson will be found,” Roberts assured them.

  “It’s one of the three I reckon,” Shears said matter-of-factly, “the Kaslar female or that young pup of a Lance Corporal is my bet. The question is how serious it actually is? If it’s just intrigue and curiosity that’s one thing, if they’re Yeoman insiders?”

  “Whatever it is I’ll show the investigators how to flush out insiders Rachel,” Mastock turned to face Roberts. “Remember our agreement?”

  “I’ve not forgotten, the Persons of Interest in exchange for your organization’s full cooperation.”

  “Good, how good are your interceptor units? I want Bridleman, and that bitch of his,” Cordell Mastock grimaced.

  “They are up against the most advanced surveillance nation in Europe. Once we see them, we’ll find them.”

  “Once you find them, they’re mine! My organization has been tracking that one for years. This time I don’t want him getting away!”

  Chapter 17

  Flux

  Rebecca Templeton drove the Interceptor at over seventy miles an hour on the motorway, eating up the distance like a relentless force. She’d have driven faster but for the miserable London congestion.

  The death of Danny Atkinson had affected her profoundly but instead of letting it bring her down it only served to fire her zeal onward. The capture of the spy Malthar soothed her rage to a warm glow. He had been a godsend and information was pouring out from the interrogation team, then filtered down all Interceptor Units.

  The Ford Mondeo looked ordinary enough in appearance. There were no overt signs of power or capability, but the V6 engine was extra-tuned to near-racing specifications. It made short work of most speed-limited machines on the road and cornered almost like a rally-car. The Interceptor was equipped with ram-guards at the front and grill-mounted police-lights. Whenever a slower driver appeared she merely had to flash them for a few seconds to clear the way in front of them. Drivers were ultra-wary of being pulled over by the authorities since the penalty-points system had become even more draconian.

  At her side was a Dominick Nichols, he was older than she was, in his late forties and old before his time. His placid attitude and a laid back approach grated Templeton’s predatory mind-set.

  Control had relayed the intel about Riley. Her picture and getaway vehicle was now in circulation among the security forces and hers was no exception. The Kaslar woman was still in some amazement at the turn of events. This was giving way to cold variables and possibilities.

  A Ford Puma? Templeton frowned at the strange logic. Lorraine I thought you’d have had more sense than to use a souped-up mini? There was no license plate for a firm fix, only the color, make and model.

  Nichols plugged in the details to the computer scanner. “Will that data back-feed from the Traffic HQ Becky?” Nichols asked.

  “It should but it’ll take a while without a number plate.”

  “That doesn’t matter, as soon as they hit a camera section of the motorway or A-Road we’ll get a fix!”

  “You don’t say,” she admonished sardonically. “When these two are in our hands I want time alone with them, understand?”

  “Is this because of Danny being killed?” Nichols asked tentatively.

  “Something like that.”

  The Ford Puma roared towards the first set of gateway camera’s. Riley’s driving skills were well-honed, even before she’d learned to drive she had ridden horses on her family estate. That had been before her commitment to the Yeomanry cause though and disownment. Traffic on the roads was generally less than in the times of plenty, people were poorer and costs were higher. In an attempt to keep the thirsty appetite of the capital under control, petrol and diesel were rationed. The M-25 was still a sluggish motorway at rush-hour though. The motorway encircled London and the hour was just shy of the rush-hour.

  Gearson had his third case open and removed the Artifact. It was a torch-like probe that connected on to a data-unit. The latter resembling a ruggedized laptop via a cable.

  “Will that thing truly blind them Kallan?”

  “It should, but as a prototype you never know.”

  The data-unit buzzed to life as Gearson stuck a rubber sucker cradle to the side-window and clamped the probe into it. He then powered the window down slightly and tapped a few keys, bringing the lens jammer online. The probe now activated and semi-autonomously snaked a small inner probe out the gap so it was exposed to the buffeting of the wind. Liquid metals of exotic origin flowed to compensate for the effects but vibrations showed up on fluctuating readings via the data-unit.

  “Slow down to about sixty Lorraine, and keep the speed as constant as you can.” Gearson said watching the figures now turn green from yellow. “That’s it. Ok, now we find out if the technos-folk did a good job when they made this.”

  “First camera’s dead ahead,” Riley said with fear in her heart.

  “Steady now, scanner has a lock,” Gearson said optimistically. “It has a lock and… neutral signal feedback!” the man spoke almost exultantly.

  The Ford Puma passed under the bank of three gantry cameras with the rest of London’s traffic.

  “We made it?!”

  “That’s what the device says. We’ll know soon enough whether it ghosted their cameras.”

  “How soon?” enquired Riley.

  “If there’s half a dozen flashing lights behind us,” chuckled Gearson.

  The atmosphere in the Interceptor Units was tense. For nearly forty-five minutes the radio traffic, once buzzing with activity, now faded to five minute status checks. To make matters worse an overturned lorry on the route ahead of Templeton had pole-axed any efforts of speedily checking the way ahead. Even the hard-shoulder lane was blocked, preventing her from using that as a shortcut.

  All around the M-25 Special Branch in vans and pursuit vehicles resorted to pulling over any Ford Puma that came into sight. Specialist Firearms Units took up position on overhead bridges and reported on any vehicles matching their foe’s description. The tactic was sound enough but by the time every bridge was manned their quarry was off the M-25. They took a snaking, northward’s route, using off-the-beaten-track A-Roads to remain at large.

  An hour elapsed and the frenzied trackers at London Control were gobsmacked as to how their technological CCTV was failing them.

  Commissioner Roberts was spitting feathers, he made phone call after phone call to the technicians who ran tests and diagnostics. Still they could not force a false result. The Ford Puma was eluding them.

  Off in the corner, with his perennial companion, Ministry agent Mastock shook his head after seeing Roberts throw up his hands for a tenth time.

  “It’s a wonder that idiot got the election rigged without discovery,” Mastock said sardonically.

 
“It’s not over yet,” Shears grinned hopefully. “Roberts will blockade the motorway next, even the A-Roads.”

  He listened passively as she spoke on.

  “Police helicopters will follow them, then we’ll have our prize.”

  “You’re assuming they haven’t passed any blockades already though.”

  “True,” she conceded.

  “Don’t underestimate Gearson. I thought I had him cornered in Vladivostok but he gave me the slip! Killed two of my attack-beasts and maimed my former assistant. She thought he was an easy-mark like you do. Abdul Ephraim was the sole survivor from Heysham, he’s recovering in Birmingham, rabid for revenge. Then there’s our man Shildz badly wounded up in Warwick! Don’t make the same mistake they made, take no chances against either him or the Yeoman!”

  Rebecca Templeton was, like Lorraine Riley, unlike the mainstream-thinkers. Both were left-handed, yet she drove using her cerebral logic as opposed to visceral instincts. Instead of heading north on the M-25 she went west, using the M-4 Corridor, then north using interconnecting A-Roads. She knew Riley’s tactics from their training days, they matched her own unpredictable techniques when it came to escape and evasion. The lorry-delay had cost them massive time though and she’d driven as fast as she’d risked given the congested traffic. Her bodyguard was beginning to annoy her though with his doubts and whining.

  “I think we’re onto nothing now Rebecca!” he chastised. “Let’s call it a day.”

  “I’m not giving up until after nightfall! That Puma is not far now.”

  “Let the uniform’s handle it, they can keep an eye out in the towns and cities. They’ll crop up and hold them for us to pick up later.”

  The intelligence sergeant ignored him but gripped the steering wheel like a vice. After another minute of driving he spoke of turning back for London and she cut him off

  “Whose name is this vehicle in Nichols?” she said coldly.

  “Yours, I think?” Nichols conceded with a hint of mockery.

  “Correct. What rank are you the equivalent of?”