Future's Beginning

by Frank Tayell

  They stretched for an eternity.

  “Go!”

  Sholto sprinted from cover, the heavy footsteps of the assault team close on his heels. He slipped on the pitted concrete, slick from rain, ice, and sea-spray, nearly twisted an ankle in an unseen pothole, but he didn’t stop until he reached the gate in the chain-link fence. It took him a full second to find the padlock, another to position the bolt cutters around the steel, a third to cut through. By then, the rest of the assault team were breathing down his neck. As the padlock fell to the ground, they pushed through, and spread out into the compound. Sholto soundlessly placed the bolt cutters on the ground, though surely Willis had already heard them approach. He un-slung his rifle and followed Siobhan through the gate.

  Immediately in front was a trailer detached from a rig. He ran around its side. Beyond, there were the bulky shadows of the two rigs and then the three containers stacked one above the other. Guttering ran along the top-most container, with a pipe leading down to a recently installed water-butt. Each container had two windows, three-feet square. The two in the top-most container were curtained, with a dim glow coming from behind each. Between the windows was a door, and outside was a narrow walkway, more akin to scaffolding than a balcony. That walkway led to a metal staircase that scaled the side of the containers, and up which the assault team now ran. Heavy boots pounded against metal as they climbed the stairs two at a time. Lights pinned to chests, heads, and rifles jerked upwards, creating dancing pools of light that gleamed off exposed steel, dully reflected off container walls, then shone against the cracked glass of the containers’ curtained windows. The containers’ doors didn’t open. The curtains didn’t twitch. No lights came on. The Marines had split into three teams, and they reached the container doors almost at the same time.

  Whitley, standing where he had view of each team, yelled “Go!”

  Sholto held his breath as the breaching teams pushed their way inside. No shots came. Nor did any explosions. Dim light came on behind the curtained windows of the lower two containers, and then came a word, from above, which was then echoed from below.

  “Clear!”

  “Clear!”

  “Clear! Sir,” Toussaint added, “you better come and see this.”

  Sholto and Siobhan followed Whitley to the lower-most container. Sholto turned on his torch, but scanned the doorway for tripwires before he stepped inside. The danger of those was quickly forgotten as he looked around the container.

  Three armchairs ringed an unlit but smoke-blackened barbecue. Wind-up LED lights were suspended from the ceiling. Further along, three hammocks hung between the walls and above a row of sealed plastic crates. On the floor below a narrow table lay a mosaic of broken crockery. Amid the shards was a corpse, a woman in green army-surplus, shot once in the chest, once between the eyes. In her hands was a suppressed SA80. Opposite her, in a threadbare brown armchair on the other side of the doorway, was the body of a man, again shot twice, again with a gun in his hands.

  Whitley stepped outside, and turned his head upwards. “Status!” he barked.

  “Dead, sir,” came the call from the container above.

  It was echoed a moment later from the top-most doorway. “They’re all dead.”

  “Get everyone out, secure the perimeter,” Siobhan said. “Touch nothing.”

  “Fine, but remember the missing explosives,” Whitley said. “I better get the admiral.”

  “You better do something about them,” Sholto said. He pointed to the gate, where four people with lamps in hands and fishing rods over their shoulders stood, gawping.

  “Hey!” Whitley called, running over to the onlookers.

  “I hope he remembers they’re civilians,” Siobhan said.

  “That’s a problem for later,” Sholto said. “You heard the officer,” he added, addressing the sailors and Marines, but speaking loud enough for the onlookers to hear. “Secure the perimeter, touch nothing in the crime scene.”

  “Crime scene, isn’t that just the case?” Siobhan murmured, her hands patting her pockets. “No gloves. Fine. Let’s take a look. I mean, I’ll take a look, you stay here.” She walked to the stairs. Sholto looked back towards the gate. The crowd was growing. They would be a problem, but there was a more pressing one. He played the light over the ground, then across the depot. He walked over to the nearest rig, clambered up the steps, and checked inside the cab. He found a blanket, a few books, and a pair of discarded bottles, but they’d contained stout, not wine. It had the look of a place someone might come to get a few minutes of relative solitude, not somewhere they’d sleep. He jumped down, and returned to the containers. From the torchlight, Siobhan was in the middle container. Sholto climbed the stairs to join her.

  “Three dead,” Siobhan said. “All have guns in their hands, and at least two bullets inside each.”

  “I know him,” Sholto said, pointing at the young man furthest from the door. “I don’t know his name, though. He was in Markus’s pub back on Anglesey. The barman attracted a mixture of ex-military and the impressionable young.”

  “I know her,” Siobhan said, pointing at the woman lying face down on the floor. “That’s Lexie Keegan.”

  “The woman who told Kallie about the riot?”

  “Except she called herself Lexie not Alexis, but yes, I’m sure it’s the same person. Lexie said she was a former search and rescue pilot. She volunteered her services to me a few days ago. Said if we needed a helicopter pilot, she’d like to help.”

  “Before you went to Dundalk, so before we decided to go back to the airport?” Sholto asked.

  “Yes, but everyone knows about the fuel tankers,” Siobhan said. “It’s not a great leap to assume we’d send an expedition there.”

  “She didn’t put her name forward earlier in the year, back on Anglesey, when Mary was looking for pilots,” Sholto said.

  “Perhaps she wasn’t a pilot. Perhaps she just wanted to be part of that expedition so she could sabotage it. Perhaps, when no expedition was quickly forthcoming, that’s why they stole the claymores. Or perhaps she was genuinely trying to get out from under whatever this was. It’s dangerous to let our imaginations race ahead of the evidence, but she was someone I wanted to speak to. After seeing the wreck in Dundalk, and considering the company she kept, she was at the top of my list of leads.”

  Sholto shone his light around the room. “We’re supposed to think they shot one another, yes?”

  “I don’t know,” Siobhan said. “You’ve seen crime scenes, haven’t you? When people are shot, they usually drop their weapon. These two are holding theirs. The exception is Keegan, lying face down. Her side arm is next to her hand. Yes, it’s possible that someone might think they killed one another, but I certainly don’t.” Her torchlight settled on two enamel mugs on a scavenged wooden side-table. She played the light across the floor, until she found a third mug. “Three mugs. What was it you said, that these people aren’t imaginative?” She picked up a mug from the table. “There are a few drops of clear liquid inside. Could be something. It could be water. It could be they contained something and then were rinsed out. There’s a damp stain on the rug here. Hard to tell what it is. Go and check the container below. See if there’s any mugs, cups, or glasses that have been recently used.”

  Sholto took one last, searching glance around the container, then headed to the door, the stairs, then the container below. Inside, there were two tumblers on a table between the armchairs. Both were empty save for a small splash of clear liquid. He raised an empty glass to his nose and sniffed, but all he could smell was the room. He lowered the glass and sniffed again. The most potent smell was that of death, but beneath it was a chemically floral scent. Now he considered it, there had been the same smell in the container above. Was it air freshener, or was it something else?

  In his time, he’d seen more crimes scenes than most. He’d even staged a few, but nothing quite like this. There were too many clues, and too much evidence, and it was
all contradictory. And that, he realised, was the point.

  With guns in their hands but without bullet holes in the walls, it was unlikely that Willis’s people had shot one another. Unlikely, but not impossible. Siobhan might be able to test whether the bullets in the bodies came from the guns on the floor, but it would take time.

  The glasses with a splash of clear liquid could have contained a sedative, or perhaps a poison, or perhaps it was water from when the glasses had been rinsed out. There were no bottles close to the glasses. If the poison was self-administered, then someone had to have collected the bottles, but in which case, why leave the glasses on display? From the admiral’s uncertainty over what was in the wine bottles, it was unlikely that they could test any samples. Would they send an expedition to the police station or to a forensics lab to bring equipment back? Perhaps not, but they could be expected to spend a good few hours discussing it.

  He checked the nearest corpse. It was cold, but the blood was still tacky. He wiped his hand on his leg.

  “Clever. Very clever.”

  They’d been killed within the last few hours. It was after he had taken his team to the airport. The question was whether these people had died before or after it had become clear Markus was selling the wine rather than simply poisoning himself. The admiral would ascertain a more accurate time of death, but even that would only narrow it down to within a few hours. Yes, there was too much evidence. So much that any investigation would drag on for days, perhaps weeks, and with the results remaining inconclusive.

  “Yes, clever. But too clever.” It was, more or less, the confirmation that he needed.

  “Sholto!” Siobhan called from above.

  He hurried upstairs.

  Willis had lived in the top-most container, but there were two separate metal-framed beds, both with neatly squared away sheets. It was safe to assume that the second bed belonged to the man slumped against the wall, a shotgun in his hands, a bullet hole in his forehead.

  Willis sat in an armchair, a pistol in his lap, a bullet hole in his chest, but the shot clearly hadn’t come from a shotgun.

  “I think the plan was to stage a shoot-out,” Sholto said. “I think they were drugged, and were expected to be in the same container. Fire a shot into each, and then empty a magazine or three into the container walls, relying on the sound of gunfire to bring so many people the crime scene would be contaminated. When Willis’s people were discovered split over these three containers, the plan was changed. They opted to confuse the situation.”

  “Maybe.” Siobhan shone her light under one of the beds. “Take a look. Careful! It’s the claymores. I can’t see any wires but… but just be careful.”

  Sholto eased past her and knelt down. A tan-coloured canvas bag lay under the bed. Carefully, he lifted the unclasped flap, and opened the bag. “One. Two. Three… I can’t see how many more without moving the bag. Can’t see any wires. No tape. No detonators. I don’t think they’re live.”

  “I think the bag was left there so we could find it,” Siobhan said. “Willis was ex-military, and so were some of his people. He’d know how to use plastic explosive. He’d know how to use a remote detonator, and from the gear they’ve scavenged, he had no qualms going out beyond the checkpoint.”

  “He managed it without being spotted,” Sholto said. “That’s worrying in itself. But okay, if he wanted to blow us up, he’d have done a better job of it.”

  “If you wanted to frame someone as a bomber, how do you do it?” Siobhan said. “How many people would recognise plastic explosive if it didn’t have wires in it? That’s why the claymores were taken. It was so whoever discovered them would instantly recognise what they found, and draw a line between Willis, the missing explosives, and the bomb that had killed you.”

  “Not quite,” Sholto said, drawing his knife from his belt. Carefully, he ran it between the top of the bag and the bottom of the bed. Then, just as carefully, he reached around probing what lay beyond the bag. “Nothing above. Help me move the bed.” He stood.

  “What do you mean, not quite?” Siobhan asked.

  “I think the claymores were taken because our thief didn’t know what plastic explosive looks like.”

  “You have an idea who’s behind this? Do you have a name?”

  He told her.

  “Seriously?”

  “Who else? It has to be someone who can enter the command centre unseen. Someone who knew what was in the armoury. Someone with access to information. Someone with authority. Lift.” They raised the bed, flipped it over and laid it on top of the other bed. Sholto bent down again, checking the bag. “No wires.” He eased the knife underneath the bag, then carefully lifted it. “No traps.”

  “We’re supposed to think that Willis planted the bomb,” Siobhan said.

  “I think he did. He wired it, anyway. I don’t think he planted it himself. People would have noticed him hanging around the command centre.”

  “Then, let’s see, what did they hope would happen?” Siobhan said, taking a step away from the bag. “The bomb was supposed to go off when Petrelli’s bag was opened. They had no way of guaranteeing when that was, but they probably expected it to be before lunchtime. Nor could they guarantee that all of you would die. They would expect someone to come back. The armoury would be searched, and it would be discovered that the claymores were missing. A search would be conducted, and Markus would be found dead. Would they have returned to his body and shot or stabbed him? Would they have removed the bottles, or left them there for us to assume poisoning? Either way, we would have looked for his previous associates and come here. They wanted us to find these bodies, then the claymores, and then… then what? What are we missing, because none of that makes any sense? Yes, it creates fear, anger, terror, but how does that benefit anyone?”

  “We’re missing the last act of this little drama,” Sholto said. “But I can tell you how it began. They had a plan but it involved the grain ship sinking, not running aground in Dundalk. I suspect their plan also didn’t involved The New World being sent down there. That changed things, and it’s why they stole the mines. What changed today is that Kallie found the small boats in Dunkirk, and the larger vessels in Calais. We’ve found our salvation. There is hope. Enough hope to even quell a mutiny. Don’t you think it’s odd how talk of a mutiny has grown so vociferous? Out of all that’s happened, that’s the easiest piece of this chaos to orchestrate.”

  “And now we’ve found the ships, they need to act before we retrieve them?”

  “I’d say they’re clearing up loose ends,” Sholto said. “Or finishing up that task, because they began it before Kallie found those ships. They want Markus dead because he was in that pub. When I questioned him, he said something about poison, so he clearly learned more from Rachel than what he’s told us so far. Willis and these people, they were the foot soldiers, the muscle. They were in the pub to watch Markus, and to watch Rachel as well. You say Keegan was a helicopter pilot? I bet she knew how to sabotage a plane, and I’m sure that, among them, they knew how to wreck a ship. No, they were loose ends. They had to die.”

  “So now we arrest them,” Siobhan said. “Except we don’t have evidence. No, we have evidence. We have a ton of it, but nothing concrete. Nothing that won’t count as circumstantial.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sholto said. “There won’t be a trial, but there might be justice. We need to—”

  The explosion echoed across the harbour. The container shook. Outside, came screaming, but more in fear than pain. As Siobhan ran to the door, Sholto grabbed the canvas bag. Heedless of any potential traps, he emptied it onto the floor. There were only six claymores. His mind went blank, momentarily unable to complete the simple calculation.

  “There are two more missing,” he said. “Two more!” But Siobhan had already gone. Sholto took two steps towards the door before he doubled-back, gathered up the claymores, and scooped them into the bag. That in hand, he ran to the door, out onto the walkway, and to th
e stairs. He’d descended three steps when a second explosion rent the air. He paused, foot raised.

  “One more. Only one more.”

  He’d descended another two steps before the final missing mine detonated. He jumped down the remaining stairs and sprinted to the gate. Toussaint was there, but he was alone.

  “The lieutenant’s gone to investigate,” Toussaint said. “Sounded like the explosion came from near the checkpoints.”

  “And Siobhan?”

  “Gone to get the admiral,” Toussaint said, “not that she’ll need a warning. Everyone will have heard that.”

  A piercing scream came from the direction of the explosions.

  “It’s not just people who’ll have heard it,” Sholto said. “The zombies will have, too. Come on, we’ll help.”

  “The lieutenant told me to guard the crime scene,” Toussaint said.

  “There’s no point,” Sholto said. “We won’t have time to collect the evidence, let alone process it. No, there’s no point now. Here.” He thrust the canvas bag into the specialist’s hands. “The claymores. There are six of them.”

  “Then that’s all of them accounted for,” Toussaint said, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

  “Let’s hope so,” Sholto said.

  Together, they ran towards the screaming.

  Chapter 18 - Fighting Retreat

  Belfast Harbour

  The narrow tongue of land they’d fortified jutted into the Irish Sea at a forty-five degree angle. To the south was the Victoria Channel, blocked by the sunken wreck of a cruise ship. South of that, across the water, were the rubble-filled craters that had been the city-airport, and the industrial units that turned to farmland and villages as Belfast diffused into the Ards Peninsula.

  Two roads led from the harbour into Belfast itself, Dargan Road in the north, and Seal Road in the south. Between them ran a narrow flood-channel filled with a brackish mixture of run-off rain and over-spilled seawater. That channel, and the narrow width of the two roads, was what gave the harbour its security. To the south of their temporary home, where Seal Road met the mainland and turned into Herdman Channel Road, was a narrow front, one hundred metres long, between an aggregate depot and a chemical processing plant. It was from there that the screams came, until they abruptly stopped.