by Frank Tayell
“We’ve got the rounds,” Johannes said.
“Who’s this, Jo-Jo?” one of the Marines asked.
“Constable Deering, police,” Ruth said. “Not a new recruit,” she added. “I was chasing a criminal.”
“Good enough,” the other Marine said. “Mathews, get her lined up. Johannes, watch for the flare. A blue one, remember.”
“Aye, Sarge,” Johannes said, crossing to the mortar.
Ruth crossed to a battered chair and sat down.
“Don’t make yourself too comfortable,” Sergeant Gopal said. “We’ll be moving out in a few minutes.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Ruth asked.
“We’ve got a bead on their supply dump,” Gopal said. “They’ve been sloppy since they launched their attack at dusk. They had four of their supply trucks drive out, and one of the drivers used their lights.”
“His lights,” Johannes said. “Those thugs only have one use for women and we’ve no use for them.”
“But now we know where their supply dump is,” Gopal said. “More importantly, I think I know where the fuel store is.”
“Wait,” Ruth said. “They have trucks? You mean, like petrol vehicles?”
“Diesel, I think,” Mathews chimed in. “It doesn’t burn as well, but it does burn if we can drop a round on top of it. As long as we stop them using it, they can flee, but not very far.”
“But the pirates have diesel?” Ruth asked. “I mean, we don’t. Not really.”
“Pirates?” Gopal said. “They ain’t pirates. Pirates have gold teeth and treasure maps. Nah, this lot are the enemy. Cultists, I call ’em. Don’t know where they got the fuel, mind, since most of them don’t have a rifle to call their own.”
“Cultists? You mean like a religion? The paper didn’t print that.”
“I mean like at least three religions,” Gopal said. “Basically there are three main groups, but each of those is a collection of individual tribes more than it’s a cohesive unit. Have you seen the thugs with all the knives? They’re the Knights of St Sebastian. About ten years ago, they were laired up in the Wigierski National Park. Poland,” he added. “The knives aren’t exactly a stylistic choice. They didn’t have any ammunition left. Anyway, we’d sent a convoy eastward, aiming for a failing village in Ukraine. These so-called knights attacked it, and killed half our people. The other half threw them out of the forest. Unfortunately, by the time our people made it to the Dnieper River, the knights had beaten us to it. We should have hunted them down, finished them then, but hindsight’s a wonderful thing. They’ve been a nuisance in that part of the world for a decade. Always raiding villages, stealing livestock, but they rarely had any firearms, so we just had to supply the locals with enough ammunition to defend themselves, and with medicines to ensure there numbers grew—”
“Lights and movement, Sarge,” Johannes whispered.
Gopal ran to the roof’s edge, peering through the gap. “I make it four of ’em, on foot,” he said. “When you see that flare, fire. Make sure you destroy the fuel tank, and then drop two incendiaries through the roof of the building next to it. Through the roof, remember.”
“Aye, Sarge,” Mathews said.
“Come on, copper,” Gopal said. “Time to earn our crust.”
Ruth fell in behind the sergeant, following him from the rooftop perch, back across the door-bridge, but not downstairs. He led her through the building’s ruined rooms until they were at the far side of the row. Gopal crouched down by a shattered window, Ruth next to him. She said nothing, just gripped her rifle, and wished she’d not tried so hard to catch the train.
A flare lit up the sky to the north. It didn’t light up the street below them, but cast deep shadows on the shattered piles of rubble. Four of those shadows were moving.
Gopal fired a single shot, then another. Ruth added a few shots of her own, but had no idea if they came close to the foe, let alone if she hit one of the attackers. Before the flare died, she caught sight of one of them. He didn’t have a bandolier of knives or a leather jerkin. His clothing was mud-covered and tattered, clearly looted pre-Blackout wear of a plain, unadorned style. He clutched a rifle in his hands, at least until Gopal’s bullet blew the back of his head off.
“Time to move,” Gopal said.
“That was the flare, why didn’t they fire the mortar.”
“It didn’t come over our position,” Gopal said as he ran back through the ruined room. “We need a flare that’ll light up their supply dump. We can’t fire blind. This is our one chance to destroy them for good.”
She followed him through gaping holes in walls, across landings strewn with bricks, and then down a narrow flight of stairs just as the building shook.
Gopal turned on his torch, and shone it around the hallway until it settled on a door that had a large B scored through the paintwork. Dust rained from above as Gopal crossed to the door. Just before he opened it, he turned the torch off. He swung the door open, and ran inside. Ruth followed. The room was empty.
It was the kitchen to a restaurant. A wide serving counter gave them a view of the dining area. Twenty years ago, it had been separated by a sheet of plate glass. Now that glass was gone, as were the windows that had looked out onto the street, giving them a clear view of the ruins outside.
“Now we watch,” Gopal said. “They’re firing at the window we were just in.”
“I guessed,” Ruth said. “They’re going to send more people to attack?”
“They do the same thing every time,” Gopal said. “In two minutes, they’ll send over another ten mortar shells, then they’ll attack.”
Ruth propped her rifle on the counter, again wishing she hadn’t come to France. “You mean that we’re going to hold them here?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” Gopal said. “At least until the flare comes. It won’t be long.”
“Right.” The mortar fire had stopped now. An unnatural silence had settled over this corner of the battlefield, but explosions and gunfire reigned in the distance. “Those people, they weren’t carrying knives.”
“What, oh. Yeah, no, those are the Emir’s people,” Gopal said. “They’re the very definition of generational fanatics. Don’t ask who the Emir is, because it changes so often his followers rarely know. That’s one of the few things they’ll tell us when we take prisoners. Not that we ever take many.”
“Who’s the third group?”
“The Free Peoples’ Democratic Army,” Gopal said. “Though they change their name as often as the Emir is assassinated. The knights will torture you and then kill you. The Emir’s lot will give you the chance to convert before they slit your throat. The Free Peoples will keep you alive, but make you wish that you were dead.”
“They didn’t print any of that in the papers.”
“Yeah, well, up until a couple of years ago, they were just another bunch of marauding pirates,” Gopal said. “The world was full of bands like theirs. Then something changed. Someone got them to work together. Don’t know how. By rights they should be ripping each other’s throat out. Instead, they all came here. I reckon whoever managed that gave them their weapons, ammo, and fuel. Well, more fool them, because they’re going to lose the lot as soon as that next flare is fired.”
A mortar round hit the building above and ten feet to the left. The room shook. Dust fell. Ruth closed her eyes, but when she opened them, the street outside was as bright as day. In the distance, she saw figures running towards them. There were at least twenty, in a mixture of leather jerkins and grubby jackets.
“Here we go,” Gopal said. “Short bursts. One magazine. Then you run, I’ll cover you.”
“Right,” Ruth said. She doubted he was going to follow her, but she wasn’t going to argue. And then there was a monstrous explosion that Ruth felt as much as she heard. The sky ahead lit up. The ground shook. The group on the road fell.
“That’s their ammo dump!” Gopal said. “I knew it! I knew it!” And he spoke in a tone th
at suggested he’d only guessed it before. “I saw them bring their trucks in, and knew it had to be there.” He fired, not aiming, but emptying his rifle at the group on the road. Ruth wasn’t sure if she was meant to do the same, but before she could, Gopal stopped firing. “Time to go,” he said.
He turned, and ran back to the doorway. Gopal turned the torch on, shining it down the dim corridor settling on one with an E hacked into the frame. “There.”
Ruth followed him outside. They were in a narrow alley behind the buildings. There was movement to her left. She swung around. But it was only Johannes and Mathews. They had the mortar and ammo. Another flare lit up the sky, then a second.
“It’s the counter attack,” Gopal said. “I told ’em we’d find the supply dump!”
The moment of victory vanished with a gunshot’s sharp retort. Corporal Johannes fell, clutching her leg. Ruth spun around. Her finger was already curling around the trigger before she even caught sight of the ragged figure at the other end of the alley. The man was fumbling with his rifle. Bullets from Ruth’s weapon stitched a bloody line across his chest. The man fell, and Ruth’s gun clicked on an empty chamber.
Gopal ran to the fallen corporal. “You all right, Jo-Jo?” the sergeant asked as he pulled a bandage from a pouch at his belt.
“Didn’t hit an artery,” she hissed. “Just damned painful.”
“Constable, can you take her back to our lines. And pass on a message to whoever’s in charge. Mathews, how many rounds do we have left?”
“Ten, Sarge.”
“What’s the message?” Ruth asked.
“Tell them to attack,” Gopal said.
A moment later, Gopal and Mathews were sprinting down the alley, carrying the mortar and ammo, leaving Ruth alone with the injured corporal.
“Do you know the way back?” Ruth asked as she helped Johannes up.
“Sure, just head away from the gunfire,” she said. “You should reload.”
Ruth checked her pockets. “I don’t have any more ammunition for the rifle.”
“Me neither,” Johannes said. “I’ve got a couple of grenades. Took them from one of the knights. You know how they work? Pull the pin and throw. Here.”
Ruth dropped the rifle, took the grenade, but after the briefest hesitation, put it in her pocket and drew her revolver. With her other arm holding Johannes up, they limped away from the alley. Johannes pointed to a building with a letter M carved into the wood.
“Through there,” Johannes said.
“The letters are a code?” Ruth asked.
“Yeah. Basically, letters are good. Letters with numbers are bad. Numbers on their own are very, very bad.”
The door led into the almost intact ground floor of a small house. A hole had been hacked into the wall of a nearly immaculate living room, and that led to another home, another hole, and finally to a door that led outside, and almost straight into a mob.
“Password!” someone barked as rifles and lights were levelled.
“I’ve no idea,” Johannes said. “But we’ve got them on the run.”
The officer Ruth had met earlier stepped through the ragged line. “Corporal? Constable? You got the supply dump?” he asked.
“Aye, sir,” Johannes said. “Has to be their principal artillery depot. I think we got the fuel store as well. Sergeant Gopal says you should attack.”
“Good work,” the officer said. “And you, Constable,” he added. “Get back to our lines. We’ll take it from here.”
Flares and artillery arced up through the sky, turning night into day. No return fire came. At least, Ruth didn’t think it did. The ground shook all around them as the enemy position was pounded into dust.
Just before they reached the British lines, a white flare, and then a blue one, arced up from close to the enemy position. The British artillery stopped firing, at least on that section of the front.
“Are they surrendering?” Ruth asked.
“No,” Johannes said. “That means the infantry’s about to go in.”
Chapter 22 - The Home Front
15th November, Calais & Dover
“Put her here,” a medic said gesturing at a cot.
“She can talk for herself,” Johannes said as Ruth eased the corporal down onto the stretcher.
“Then you can’t be too bad,” the medic said, pulling a pair of surgical scissors from his pouch. A second later, the corporal’s trouser leg and bandage had been cut free, the soiled cloth placed in a plant pot. The medic unclipped a battered metal bottle and poured a liberal dose of purple liquid over the wound. “You’ll be fine,” he said. A moment later, a new bandage had been slapped on the corporal’s leg, and the medic vanished before he could be asked any questions.
“Is that it?” Ruth asked.
“The best healthcare in the world,” Johannes said. She lay down on the stretcher.
“I’ll see if I can find you a blanket or something,” Ruth said. As she turned around, a familiar voice spoke.
“There you are,” Captain Mitchell said. His uniform was covered in as much blood as Ruth’s. “You’ve been helping with the wounded, too? Good, but we need to get back to Kent.”
“This your boss?” Johannes asked.
“Captain Mitchell. Corporal Johannes,” Ruth said.
“Corporal,” Mitchell said. “You’ll be here for a few more hours, I’m afraid. There’s a bottleneck in the Tunnel, but we’ll have you home soon. Ruth, we need to go.”
“Thanks, copper,” Johannes said. “See you back in Britain some day.”
“Some day, Marine,” Ruth said. “Some day.”
Ruth fell into step next to Mitchell as they threaded their way past the stretchers. “Why aren’t they taking them back to Britain?”
“There’s no train,” Mitchell said. “There should be two locomotives in reserve, ferrying the injured back and supplies forward, but Cavendish recalled them to England.”
“She must have wanted a clean run for her train so it could plough straight into the garrison.”
“I’d say so,” Mitchell said. “Who knows where the trains are now, but they weren’t in Folkestone. The general was told some story about diesel replacing steam, and he didn’t question it. Idiot of a man. I’m not sure I’ve got the authority to remove him. Well, no, I know I don’t have the authority to remove him, but I would have done if I knew how to run a battle. I doubt I could do it worse than him, but the Marines seem to have it hand despite his pusillanimous interference. We need to get back to Folkestone and get the admiral to come over here. She needs to take command, at least for now, and I need to get word of this to Atherton.”
“I met him,” Ruth said. “The general, I mean. Yeah, he didn’t seem…” She trailed off and came to a halt as, on the stretcher ahead, a medic pulled a blanket over the face of a corpse.
“Why?” Ruth murmured.
Mitchell looked at her, and seemed to take in her stained uniform properly.
“You weren’t simply helping with the wounded, were you?”
“I helped carry some mortar rounds.”
“To the front?” he asked.
“I dunno. Where exactly is that?”
“Good question,” Mitchell said. “I’m going back to Kent. I’ve got to get word to Atherton, and I’ve got to find Cavendish. You can stay here, if you want.”
“You mean, to fight?”
“If you want to. Or just to help in anyway that’s needed. My attempts to keep you out of danger have been a singular failure. If anything, they’ve got you into more trouble than if I’d left you alone.”
“No,” Ruth said. “It wasn’t you. It was Emmitt. He thinks I’m this Sameen person. As long as he’s alive, I’m not going to have a quiet life. But we need to stop Cavendish first.”
Isaac was by the train. The locomotive was no longer smoking, and the ammunition had been unloaded.
“The fire’s out,” he said. He took in Ruth’s uniform, but said nothing. “I’ve removed t
he bomb. It was a simple device. Nothing complex.”
“Plastic explosives?” Mitchell asked.
“No, they’d used mortar rounds to create mines, and those were attached to the timer. They probably set it up in about ten minutes.”
Ruth jumped as a length of metal was thrown out of the closest wagon to clang against the adjacent set of tracks.
“They’re taking the metal racks out, converting the wagons to take stretchers,” Isaac said. “As soon as we can get a locomotive up here, they’ll take the wounded back. Do you know how many were seriously injured?”
“About two hundred in the last twenty-four hours,” Mitchell said.
“How many dead?” Ruth asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mitchell said. “Not yet. At least a hundred.”
“They really threw everything into this attack, didn’t they?” Isaac said.
“Because they were told that the British lines were going to be destroyed from the inside, and that there were small arms waiting for them in Kent,” Mitchell said.
“You’re going back?” Isaac asked.
“Yes,” Ruth said. “We need to stop Cavendish. Justice needs to be done. Even now. Especially now.”
There were bicycles in the access tunnel, piled near the furthest end of the aid-station beyond a cruder operating theatre than Ruth imagined could exist. The bicycles weren’t being guarded. If they were there in case the Marines had to make a final, hasty retreat, Ruth was certain they would never be used.
The air in the Tunnel was stale, acrid, tinged with burning metal and oil. The pool of light from the torches cast weird shadows on the detritus littering the Tunnel’s floor. At first it was pleasant, being alone in the dark with nothing but the back of Isaac’s coat to look at. Soon, Ruth’s mind returned to the bloody and confusing hours among the ruins of Calais. The faces came back to her. Private Bhatt’s, then Hennessey’s, then the injured and dying Marines lining the service tunnel. Then came the face of the snarling blond cultists.
“Ruth?” Mitchell asked.
Ruth had stopped cycling. Her feet were on the ground, but her eyes were far away.