“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he said. “The XC10s were top of the line before the first laser rifle came off the production lines. These babies were 3D printed down to the smallest part and could be mass produced at a crazy rate. They came pretty close to putting the classic AK out of business before the Forces decided to upgrade to pretty red light shows.” He said this with a sharp edge and Alan felt that the XC10 was to him his youngest: the forgotten child but favoured of the Father, a Joseph with a matte-black coat of one colour.
“How does it work?” he asked as Smythe stared listlessly at the bundle in his arms.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, come this way and I’ll show you on the range.”
He was led through a door on the other side of the work station to a long, bare room that’d been divided up into four narrow lanes by steel partitions. At each was a table, a pile of fresh paper targets and a pair of blue ear defenders. Each ‘range’ was numbered, 1 to 4, and Smythe led him to the furthest and the last.
“Have you ever fired a projectile weapon before?” he asked as Alan unwrapped the new-born.
“A few, back before the disaster. Just for fun. Nothing like this.”
“But you understand the principle?”
“I reckon so.”
Smythe shook his head almost imperceptibly but Alan saw it, wondering if the old man saw this exchange of a weapon as more of an adoption process than an issuing of equipment. If he failed, would he never be allowed to have a carbine of his own? Would he have to show that he could provide a solid, loving, dependent family for the thing before he’d let him take it home?
“Okay. Raise the weapon as you would the laser rifle and feel the weight,” he said and Alan did as he was instructed. The XC10 was much lighter than the laser and more compact, with a fore grip that allowed him to pull it in much tighter to his body. One of his main concerns with the rifle had been close quarter fighting and how difficult it’d been to move from room to room with its long barrel. This weapon made that problem a thing of the past.
“The stock has built-in recoil dampeners so you’ll only feel a slight shove when you pull the trigger but don’t go emptying a mag in one pull - the rig won’t cope and you’ll feel every shot.”
“Okay. Mags?”
“I’m going to start issuing 30 round mags but Teague believes he’s been able to locate 40 and 75 round box magazines. For now we’ve got limited stocks but I’m working on the tools needed to make our own. Try and recover as much raw materials as you can. And don’t leave empty mags behind.”
“I’ll do my best,” he replied. “Can I take a shot now?”
“If you must. Safety is the same as the laser but the XC10 can jam from time to time. We can’t train you for that one so you’ll just have to hope that when it happens you can learn how to do it quickly enough.” He was grinning as he said this and Alan didn’t like the implication. It was like the babe in his arms had a rotten family tree and that the doting father Smythe suddenly seemed more than happy to palm it off on him and be rid of the trouble.
He fired a few rounds, noting the almost gentle kick it gave him and was pleased to see that the grouping on the red inked man at the other end of the range was akin to his work with the laser.
“See, she isn’t so different. Just remember that you won’t be getting the standard 50 shots that the laser put out and there’s no recharging. Once you’re out of rounds you’re down to your wits and that dog of yours.”
He led him back out of the range, taking a chest rig down from one of the racks and handing it to him.
“I’ve preloaded this with magazines. Are you on patrol tonight?” he asked. Alan followed him back into the workshop, taking it off his hands. It was heavier than he was used to.
“Yeah. A night op.”
“When you get back remember to drop by and exchange your empties for fresh ones. You might find it a bit hard to adjust to consumable ammunition after so long with the laser but believe me you don’t want to be caught out with dead-man’s click.”
“What about a scope?” he asked, suddenly realising that the XC10 was only fitted with a standard holographic sight. He’d grown used to the night vision options the laser had given him and given that he was out that night he felt suddenly blinded by the change.
Smythe just shook his head. “We don’t have any for the XCs and we can’t jury-rig the laser rifle sights to these without the battery packs and that would make the weapon useless. You’ll have to do things the hard way.”
“What about goggles or a monocular?”
“I might have a monocular but all my goggles have been already issued. Wait there.”
Smythe disappeared into his personal store room and Alan tried the sling of the rifle, letting it fall to his side before taking it back up again. The laser had been with him since he’d first joined up with Teague and to no longer carry it felt odd, like he’d lost something that imbued him with confidence. It’d never let him down, never misfired and despite the odd refractions in the lens towards the middle of last week he’d felt happy with it. The XC10 however felt like an intruder, a changeling in the crib, an interloper and he wondered if he could make the adjustment without getting himself shot. Or someone else.
“Here we are,” said Smythe, returning. “The last monocular. It was dark in there so I tried it out. Seems to be okay.”
“Seems to be okay or is okay?”
“Oh, sorry, it’s fine. Just don’t get it wet.”
“What?”
“Keep it dry. I suspect it isn’t designed to be submerged but you aren’t going swimming are you?”
“I try not to but-”
Smythe waved him away. “You have your weapon and I’ve got work to do. Any problems, just pop back.”
“Problems? If I have problems it’ll be in the middle of a fire fight and I can’t see myself just ‘popping back’, can you?” he replied.
“I suppose not. Remember though that these beauties were top of the line back in the day.”
“Yeah. Back in the day which isn’t TO-DAY. I just hope it doesn’t get me killed.”
Smythe laughed and returned to examining the laser in the rack with his thick lenses and pliers.
“Just remember to keep an eye out for any brass sheets or lead or any metal really. If you don’t the next weapon I issue you with will be a machete.”
Alan thought of a witty reply but kept it to himself, taking both the XC10 and the vest with him as he left.
As he walked into the fresh air, Gary was waiting for him.
“So - let me have a look then,” he said, opening his arms. Alan passed him the weapon and let him cradle the thing. He was beginning to feel like perhaps he’d missed something, that he was supposed to be happier about this change to his personal equipment than he was. Gary seemed to think so, judging by his child-like expression as he cocked, chambered, ejected and just about broke the thing playing with it.
“Old-school sight, eh?” he said, staring down the rails with one eye.
“Smythe says he can’t rig it with NV.”
“He would say that. Probably too much like hard work for him. Reb and I still have the laser for this Op so no need to panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” he replied.
“Sure. You are a bit on the laid-back side of life, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, very little seems to bother you out there. In here is another matter.”
“Why do I feel you’re talking about me when I’m not around?” said Alan, taking back the weapon, much to the dismay of Gary who seemed to want to adopt it himself.
“Because we are, Harding.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s what people do, Alan. Get used to it. Besides, we were kind of being nice.”
“What the hell does ‘kind of’ mean?”
“Reb noticed how cool you are when the lasers are cutting you up or the explosions are going off, but in camp-”
“Go on,” said Alan, feeling the proverbial hairs rising on the back of his neck. He never realised he’d made such an impression that required him to be the topic of canteen chatter. In fact, he’d thought he’d been more discrete, invisible maybe, but it seemed that he’d managed to achieve exactly the opposite result.
“Well, to put it bluntly, you give a shit what people think a bit too much.”
“How do I?” he cried a little too loudly and in a different key. Gary smiled and waited for the penny to drop. It did and clattered all the way down his spinal cord to his clenched stomach. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“As Teague would say - don’t take it personal. I get it.”
“Do you?” said Alan.
“Yeah. You came here as a gardener and you’re trying to prove you’re something more. Truth is, you are, but you don’t need to chase it like a rabbit. You’re on patrol with us not because you’re ‘there’ yet but because you could be. One day. Teague sees potential and, without blowing smoke up your arse, we see it too.” His face flushed red and he started to play with the XC10 just to keep from meeting the compliment head-on.
“Thanks,” he managed to say.
“Yeah, enough bromance, eh? Think about what I said though and I’ll see you in the briefing room later.”
Gary turned and walked away leaving a hot-faced Alan Harding wondering how he’d been so conspicuous when he’d tried so hard to be a no-one, a faceless entity. He’d had the truth of it though - he cared what people thought about him, what they said when he wasn’t there and how he was perceived. Sure, Teague had picked up on his desire to be his own boss, Captain of his own ship, but maybe that was so he didn’t have to subject himself to the scrutiny of a team, of his peers.
But how to stop it? How do you stop caring? He thought about this as he walked back towards his bunk with Moll padding slowly behind him, her tail wagging slowly back and forth and her eyes looking straight ahead. Like someone who didn’t care. Like a confident beast with nothing to prove.
There were still a few hours to kill before the briefing and Alan spent that time rearranging his kit to suit the new weapon. Upon returning to his corner he saw that a new smock, still in its sealed wrapper, was sat upon his pillow with a sticky note attached. On the yellow strip was a smiley face drawn in biro and underneath, written in a very feminine script, were the words ‘LAST ONE. TRY TO KEEP IT IN ONE PIECE, HUN’.
The briefing room was joined to the map room by two wide double doors and was normally locked when not in use. What it’d been before the disaster was anyone’s guess but it’d been transformed for the purpose by folding chairs arranged in neat rows along one wall, a moving partition that had various maps and notes pinned to it with brass pins and a lectern that Teague especially loved to stand behind. It’d clearly been a piece of church furniture and how the Captain had come to possess it, Alan had no idea. It was clearly his favourite place and that evening’s sermon came hand-written on sheets of white A4 paper torn in half to make small, manageable notes with which to preach from.
He began with a few verses from the book of Teague, explaining to the four of them how important that night’s mission was going to be, how they were to be ready for every eventuality and to make it back safe. They were fair words delivered with a passion that set the Captain apart from most leaders - a real care for the people he had the task of sending out into a hostile environment and sometimes to their deaths. It wasn’t forced either but Alan felt as though it came from the heart, lacking any kind of mere pleasantry.
“Well chaps, that’s the important stuff said and we’re the better for it,” he remarked with a wry grin that turned one side of his neat moustache upwards like a comma, marking the pause in the conclusion. “As you know, your lives are more important to me than any patrol and speaking of which...”
He left the lectern and crossed the room, standing before the display of maps and diagrams which, despite having the appearance of being haphazard, betrayed a neat arrangement that kept the important information from being overlapped by the trivial. From where he sat, Alan could see rows of well written comments in red and black ink, ruler-drawn lines and compass-marked circles around key areas which brought him to the conclusion that Teague probably stirred his tea with some sort of spyrographic device.
“You can consider tonight to be the first step in what I’m sure you’ve surmised is our planned evacuation.”
He looked from the squad to the board and back again, pointing to the map with one of the corners of his notes that he’d brought with him from the lectern.
“This plan is, as usual, a need-to-know and each stage you’ll be involved in will reveal a little more of the overall scheme. I intend to play our cards pretty close to my chest. I’m not beyond believing that a spy from any of our enemies might decide to infiltrate our ranks and it would be no hardship for them to do so. Our survivor numbers have risen from day to day and hence why I urge you to keep the details of this and subsequent missions within these four walls. Are there any questions at this stage?”
Gary raised his hand and with a nod, Teague let him speak.
“Sir, do you have any reason to believe this might be the case?” he asked.
“Nothing substantial, Swanson. I’ve noted a few instances that have given me pause for thought. A few intruders into restricted areas. The same breaching our habitation rules. The persons involved have been dealt with in such a way as to eliminate them from suspicion but it’s given me more than enough reason to tighten up our operations here. Thank you for your question. Are there any others?”
No one spoke. Teague held the silence in his free hand for a minute or so before nodding once and returning to the board.
“Okay. Down to the nitty-gritty. In order to even consider moving so vast a stockpile of equipment and a large number of non-combatants, we’ll require a greater number of vehicles than we currently have. Therefore our utmost priority is to secure enough transport to achieve this move.”
It was a testament to the understanding that Teague had with his own people that no one even considered asking where they were moving to and each had absorbed the simple truth that it was a need-to-know and right then they didn’t need to know. Alan was the only other person in the room who did know and he expected the worst. To move such a distance would require heavy transport indeed.
“To this end,” continued Teague, indicating one of the perfectly marked red circles. “We have sourced the first two Rhinos at an abandoned military outpost 45 miles east of here. Your task will be to recover these vehicles and bring them back. Their size and pulling power will be perfect for transporting the bulk of our stocks to our new location. Are there any questions?” Reb raised her hand. “Yes?”
“What’s the local risk factor?”
“Patrols report a large force of survivors in that area who haven’t made an attempt to join us. You are to consider them hostile and avoid any engagement with them. They appear to have ignored the outpost thus far but do not rely upon this. You’re to get in, acquire the Rhinos and get out with the minimum amount of disturbance.”
“ROE?” asked Gary.
“Fire if fired upon. Anything else?”
“Sir, if I may, how much leeway do we have on site?” asked Steve and Alan thought he saw Gary shake his head but he couldn’t be sure.
“The transports are your primary objectives. Do what you can to achieve their safe removal. The site is considered abandoned and the locals are believed to be hostile. That’s leeway enough to act as your CO sees fit. Swanson, you understand your role as acting CO?”
Gary nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Good. That’s all I have to say.” He checked his watch and seemed happy with the results. “Be prepared to leave in 10 minutes. You’ll be driven to within a few clicks and left to tab the rest of the way. Keep it dark, chaps and make it back in one piece. Dismissed.”
Alan watched as Teague left the briefing room through the doubl
e doors and let them slam shut behind him. He suddenly felt nervous. This was his first actual mission and not just a routine patrol. The exodus that Teague was planning required a successful outcome that night and he realised that the whole thing was real now and not just training. He wondered why he’d been invited to join, why he’d picked him to go along on such an important mission. He had little to offer and he’d never even seen one of these ‘Rhinos’, let alone driven one.
Gary got up from his chair, turned and beckoned the others to do the same, forming a semicircle around him.
“Okay, you heard the score. It’s a night op and it’s quiet so I want this done by the numbers and as quickly as possible. Reb, you’re on point when we reach the DZ. Steve, you and Harding will take the first Rhino, Reb and I the second.” He handed the two drivers a laminated map in an illuminated case. “The last thing I want is a horde of tribals coming down on us or giving us chase too soon. If we engage before reaching the vehicles I’ve been given discretion to lay-up until the following night if I see fit and try again. If we engage during or after then we will make our way home ASAP, trusting that McNeil and his secondary unit will cross paths with us here,” he said, pointing at another map marker with his gloved finger. “They’ll then attempt to draw fire before we hit base and leave us with a clean run home. Clear so far?”
Every one nodded. “Good. Let’s do this and let’s make it back together in one piece.”
The squad broke up and made for the cars that would carry them to the DZ, adjusting buckles and slings as they went, perhaps from nervousness more than need. It was at this point, as Alan’s nerves were fast climbing the ladder to fever pitch, that Gary pulled him to one side out of earshot of the others and leaned in close to speak to him.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Nervous, but okay.”
“Good. Nerves are good,” he said, nodding emphatically with every syllable. “Treat it like a patrol, nothing more. We get the trucks, we get out. You’ll be riding shotgun with Steve so just keep him from crashing into a tree or something.”
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