Operation Motherland

by Scott Andrews

  OPERATION MOTHERLAND

  I'd managed to fly thousands of miles, refuel twice without incident (if you didn't count that psycho in Cyprus, but he wasn't that much trouble) and make it to my destination unscathed. Then, on arrival, I descend to within shooting distance and wave my wings at anyone who fancies a potshot.

  I bloody deserved to be shot down.

  I pulled hard on the control column, trying to raise the plane's nose and climb out of range, but it didn't respond.

  "Oh shit," I said.

  I was at 500 feet and descending, nose first, towards a suburban street littered with abandoned cars and a single burned-out tank. I tried to shimmy the plane left or right, pumped the pedals, heaved and wrenched the control column, anything to get some fraction of control.

  Nothing.

  Too low to bail out, nothing to do but ride the plane into the ground and hope I was able to walk away.

  My arrival in Iraq was going to be bumpy.

  An Abaddon BooksTM Publication

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  abaddon@rebellion.co.uk

  First published in 2009 by Abaddon BooksTM, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

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  Editor: Jonathan Oliver

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece

  Editorial Assistant (eBooks): Jennifer-Anne Hill

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  The Afterblight ChroniclesTM created by Andy Boot and Simon Spurrier

  Copyright © 2009 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

  The Afterblight ChroniclesTM, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN (.epub format): 978-1-84997-015-0

  ISBN (.mobi format): 978-1-84997-037-2

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  OPERATION MOTHERLAND

  SCOTT ANDREWS

  Thanks to my trusty readthrough crew: Danny, David, Griff, Chris, Phil, Joe and Justin.

  Extra special thanks to: Simon Guerrier for encouragement, advice and the wielding of the red pen of doom; and Paul Kane, for the pleasure of collaboration and letting me play with his toys.

  This book was written during a particularly challenging year, and couldn't have been finished without the steadfast support of my wonderful wife, Emma, and the superhuman patience and generosity of my editor, Jonathan Oliver.

  This one is for Justin Rowles, whose younger self was slightly less terrifying than his fictional counterpart. Slightly.

  PART ONE

  Lee

  Chapter One

  I celebrated my sixteenth birthday by crashing a plane, fighting for my life, and facing execution. Again.

  I'd rather have just blown out some candles and got pissed.

  "Hello? Is anybody there? Hello?"

  "Lee? Oh thank God."

  "Dad? Dad is that you? I can hardly hear you. Where are you?"

  "Still in Basra, but we're shipping out soon. Listen, I don't know how much time I have. Is your mother there?"

  "Er, yeah."

  "Put her on, son."

  I'd been scanning the terrain for about ten minutes, looking for a decent place to land, when small-arms fire raked the fuselage.

  Stupid, careless idiot; I'd been flying in circles, just asking to be shot at.

  The problem was that I couldn't find the airport. I could see the river snaking to the sea, the city straddling it and blending into desert at the edges. I could see the columns of smoke rising high off to the north, and the boats bobbing in the long abandoned harbour. But I couldn't see the bloody airport. So I had to get closer and look for somewhere to land.

  I'd managed to fly thousands of miles, refuel twice without incident (if you didn't count that psycho in Cyprus, but he wasn't that much trouble) and make it to my destination unscathed. Then, on arrival, I descend to within shooting distance and wave my wings at anyone who fancies a potshot.

  I bloody deserved to be shot down.

  I pulled hard on the control column, trying to raise the plane's nose and climb out of range, but it didn't respond.

  "Oh shit," I said.

  I was at 500 feet and descending, nose first, towards a suburban street littered with abandoned cars and a single burned-out tank. I tried to shimmy the plane left or right, pumped the pedals, heaved and wrenched the control column, anything to get some fraction of control.

  Nothing.

  Too low to bail out, nothing to do but ride the plane into the ground and hope I was able to walk away.

  My arrival in Iraq was going to be bumpy.

  "Jesus Dad, what did you say to her? Dad, you still there?"

  "Yeah, just... I, um... listen, Lee, there's something I have to tell you."

  "Ok."

  "The plague, from what we've been hearing here, it's sort of specific."

  "Eh?"

  "You only get it if you've got a particular blood type. No, that's not right. You don't get it if you've got a particular blood type. Everyone who's O Negative is immune, that's what the doc here told us."

  "And everyone else..."

  "Is going to die."

  I was coming in clean towards the road, lined up by pure chance. If the road had been clear, and if I could've got the nose up, I'd maybe have had a chance. But I was heading straight for the fucking tank, and no matter what I did the plane was just a hunk of unresponsive metal.

  There was another burst of gunfire, and this time I could see the muzzle flash of the machine gun on a rooftop to my left. His aim was true and the plane shuddered as the bullets hit the tail, sending fragments of ailerons flying into the tailwind. I yelled something obscene, furious, defiant, then pulled the control column again, more in frustration than hope.

  And, hallelujah, it responded. That second burst of fire must have knocked something loose. I never thought I'd be grateful that someone was shooting at me.

  Of course, at twenty feet and however many knots, there wasn't that much I could actually do.

  The nose came up a fraction, just enough to change the angle of attack from suicidal to survivable. Not enough to actually stop my descent, though.

  I'm pretty sure I was yelling when the tail of the plane slammed into the turret of the tank, snapped off, and pitched the plane nose first into the hard-packed earth.

  The world spun and tumbled as I screamed in tune with the crash and wrench of twisting metal. The plane somersaulted, over and over, down the road, bouncing off cars and buildings, losing its wings, being whittled away with every revolution, until it seemed there was just a ball of warped metal and shattered plastic cocooning me as it gouged the ground, ricocheting like some kind of fucked-up pinball.

  Eventually, just as the darkness crept into my vision and I felt myself starting to black out, the world stopped spinning.

  My head was swimming, there was blood in my mouth, I was upside down, the straps of my harness digging into my knotted shoulders, but I was alive.

  "One more life used up, Nine Lives," whispered a familiar, sarcastic voice in
my head. I told it to piss off.

  Then I realised that I was wet. I reached up and wiped the slick liquid from my face. When my eyes could focus and my dizzy brain began to accept input, I realised that I was soaked from head to toe in fuel.

  I heard gunfire in the distance, as someone started taking shots at what was left of my plane.

  And I couldn't move.

  "All of them?"

  "All. Lee, you're O Neg. So am I."

  "And mum? Dad, you there? I said what about Mum?"

  "No."

  "Oh. Right."

  "Now listen, she might be safe if you can just quarantine yourselves. Don't leave the house, at all. For any reason."

  "But what about food? The water's been switched off, we've got no power. There's these gangs going around attacking houses, Dad, they've got guns and knives and..."

  "Lee calm down. Calm down. You mustn't panic, son. Breathe... You okay now?"

  "Not really."

  "I know. But you're going to be strong, Lee. For your mum."

  "She's going to die isn't she... Dad?"

  "Yes. Yes, she probably is."

  "But there's no doctors, you know that right? The hospital's been closed for a week. They put these signs up saying to wait for the army to set up field hospitals, but they haven't shown up. They're not going to, are they?"

  "No, I don't think so, not now. I know it's hard, but it's all up to you, son. You're going to have to nurse her. Until I can get there. I'm coming home, Lee. As fast as I can. You've got to hang on, understand?"

  "But what if you're not fast enough? What if something goes wrong? What if I'm left here, alone, with... with... Oh God."

  I reached across and unclasped my harness. It snapped free and I slumped, shoulder first, into a mess of tangled metal. I screamed as my left shoulder ground into a sharp metal edge. Something felt wrong about the way it was lying. I tried to move my left arm but all I felt was an awful grinding of flesh and bone.

  It was dislocated.

  Add that to the disorientation, which would probably give way to concussion, and the numerous possible wounds that I'd yet to discover, not to mention the chunk of my lower lip that I'd bitten out with what remained of my teeth...

  Actually, I'd got off pretty lightly all things considered. If I could just avoid getting burned to death, this might even qualify as a good day. I squirmed in the wreckage, trying to find a gap through which I could wriggle, some way to gain purchase. It was agony; every move ground my shoulder joint against the slack, useless muscles, causing shooting pains so intense that they made my vision blur.

  I could hear cries from nearby streets, and more gunfire, as men closed in on my position. I really needed to move.

  Finding nothing that offered any chance of escape, I braced myself as best I could and pushed hard, using my full body strength to try and force my way out, like a bird kicking its way out of a metal egg. My spine cracked like a rifle, and my legs burned with effort. My shoulder joint minced the flesh that surrounded it, and I screamed in impotent fury until finally I felt something near my feet give ever so slightly. I redoubled my efforts, taking every ounce of strength I had in my small, wiry frame, and concentrating it in my feet. Oh so slowly, I forced a metal strut backwards and it groaned in protest.

  Eventually it bent far enough to let in a small circle of sunlight. I squirmed again, rotating inside my shell, until my head and shoulder were positioned beneath the opening.

  I gritted my teeth. This was really going to hurt. I closed my eyes, and pushed myself upwards, squeezing my agonised shoulder through the tiny gap. I felt something rip inside my arm and I screamed again. Once my shoulders were clear I was able to pull my right arm through and use it to push myself free.

  Just as my feet emerged, the mass of wreckage beneath me shifted under my redistributed weight, pitching me forward. I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground.

  I lay there on the hot, baked earth and I smiled through the pain.

  This dirt was Basra.

  I'd made it.

  "Lee, focus, you've got things to do."

  "Right. Yes. Okay."

  "Now we're shipping out of here before the week's out."

  "Back to England."

  "Yeah."

  "So, what, I should see you in ten days or so?"

  "I'm afraid it's not quite that simple. They're not just letting us go home. I'm still a soldier and I still have to obey orders. If I try to just come home, I'll be shot as a deserter. They executed one of my mates yesterday. He wanted to stay here, got a local girlfriend, kid on the way. Tried to slip away, got caught. They shot him at dawn."

  "Bloody hell."

  "Apparently there's some big thing planned for when we all get home, but nobody's saying what."

  "So what do I do?"

  "You go back to school, to St Mark's."

  Before I could gather my wits and rise to my feet, someone started kicking the crap out of me.

  I tried to roll away from the kicks, raise my good arm to protect my head, find some space in between the blows to reach down and grab my Browning, which was tucked into my waistband. But with one arm useless, and my head woozy with shock and pain, I ended up just curling into a ball and letting the blows come. My attacker was shouting and firing his gun in the air, laughing as he kicked me to death. Luckily he was wearing trainers, not hobnail boots. So it was going to take him a while.

  Then, what was left of the plane exploded. The shockwave actually rolled me along the ground a bit, like a balled-up hedgehog. My mouth and eyes filled with dust and sand. The kicking stopped. I cautiously removed my arm and saw my assailant sprawled on the floor beside me. There was a short metal stanchion protruding from his forehead. I uncurled myself, lurched upright, reached down and took the AK-47 from his still twitching hands.

  He looked younger than me. Dreadful acne, dark skin, khaki combats, plain white t-shirt. He lay there on the sandy ground, staring sightlessly into the sky. My first victim of the day. I hoped he would be the last, but I didn't think it likely.

  A yell from the far end of the street reminded me that he had friends. I had to move. I staggered as fast as I could in the opposite direction. I had no idea of the layout of this town, but it was their home turf. I was one wounded boy with a useless arm, a half-empty machine gun and pistol with a couple of clips; there were probably loads of them, armed to the teeth. I had salvaged no water from the crash, the midday sun was beating down on me hotter than anything I'd ever experienced before, I was losing blood, sweating as I ran, and had no idea how to come by safe drinking water.

  I was so screwed.

  I wished I had some of Matron's homebrew drugs on me. Just a shot of that had kept me fighting in the battle for St Mark's despite shattered teeth, a broken arm and more blows to the head than I could count. But I'd left without saying goodbye. I regretted that now; I'd almost certainly never see her again. Still, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I'd probably have ended up blubbing or, worse, trying to snog her, and that would have been excruciating.

  A bullet pinged off a brittle brick wall next to my head as I dodged down an alleyway, weaving in between burned-out cars and abandoned barricades. This was pointless. If I could get far enough ahead of them I had a chance, but I just wasn't capable of any kind of speed. I'd never outrun them.

  I had to go to ground.

  "Back to school, seriously?"

  "Listen, some of the teachers stayed behind didn't they? And some of the boys?"

  "Yeah, but..."

  "No buts. It's the only safe place I can think of. They've got weapons there, in that bloody armoury, haven't they?"

  "Uh huh."

  "Then get back there, join up with anyone who's left, arm yourselves and wait for me."

  "You promise you'll come?"

  "No matter what happens, Lee, I'll be there. It may take a while, that's all. If you're at St Mark's you'll be as safe as houses and I'll know where to find you. Promise me.
"

  "I promise."

  I emerged from the alleyway into a housing estate. Residential tower blocks rose up in front of me, some burnt out, some with great gaping holes punched in them by depleted uranium shells, one reduced to nothing but rubble. Their balconies were festooned with clothes, bedding and the occasional skeleton. This desolate, abandoned maze of passages, flats and stairwells was my best chance of eluding my pursuers.

  I stumbled across the churned up paving stones, heading for the doorway of the block that seemed most intact. The sound of pursuit echoed eerily around the empty estate, making it impossible for me to know how many pursuers there were, or how close.

  The blue metal door to the block lay half open. I shoved it, using my good shoulder. Something inside was blocking my way, so I had to shimmy through the narrow gap into the musty, foetid darkness of the stairwell. My foot sank into something soft and yielding. I felt something pop beneath my boot, and a pocket of evil smelling gas was released that made me gag and choke. I tried to free my foot, but it was caught on something hard. I looked down to find that I was ankle deep in a bloated corpse, my lace end snagged on a protruding edge of fractured ribcage.

  After I'd dry heaved for a minute or two I slung the machine gun over my shoulder, reached down and gingerly unsnagged the lace, smearing my fingers in vile black ichor as I did so. I limped away from the unfortunate wretch, wiping my fingers on the wall as I went.

  That man (had it been a man? I couldn't be sure) had been dead for some time, but he'd outlived the plague. He still had a gun in his hand, so I assumed he'd died fighting. On the evidence so far, it looked like Basra was still as violent and deadly a place as it had been before The Cull.

  And I'd come here by choice. Bloody moron, Keegan.