He had left behind a single detachment of men under the leadership of his new Corporal, Victor. They would ensure the town held to their new supply contracts, and help provide protection from roaming Carriers as the farms implemented their defence plans. In the coming months, once the farms were running and self-sufficient, Victor would re-join the platoon in Geelong.
As Cob Hill receded in the distance, Mark’s thoughts leapt ahead to what he might find on return to Geelong. He’d heard nothing about Steph’s condition, didn’t even know if she was still alive. And now, stuck in the truck with no further activities to distract his mind, he could think of nothing else.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mark punched his finger into the call bell for the fifth time outside the main gates of the Old Geelong Gaol. He swore in frustration to himself, his worry growing at the lack of response. The lab complex appeared to be deserted, leaving him with no way of finding out Steph’s fate.
‘Harry works at the Emergency Department, doesn’t he?’ said Vinh from the truck parked behind him. ‘It’s only down the road, let’s try there. If nothing else, they should at least be able to tell us where to find him.’
Mark grunted an affirmative as he climbed back into the vehicle. He looked at his watch and swore as he realised he was due to attend General Black’s briefing within the hour.
***
A young Private stood with clipboard in hand at the entry to the hall, marking off each officer from an attendance list of required personnel as they took a seat. Her eyes widened with recognition, a smile cracking wide across her face.
‘Lieutenant Collins, good to see you, Sir,’ she said, holding out a hand to shake in greeting.
Mark pulled up short, not expecting to be waylaid. His mind was still running in circles, trying to digest the information he’d gained at the Emergency Department, and he’d barely taken in his surrounds as he hurried to meet the General’s summons. At the very least, Mark had found out that his girlfriend still lived. The doctor providing the news had seemed less than impressed at the situation. ‘He accompanied the patient to the main research labs in Canberra. The bastards better get something worthwhile out of it is all I can say – they just left me as the last damned doctor to run this ED.’ The doctor had then excused herself to attend the next patient on her growing list, leaving Mark with more questions than answers. For the moment, he’d have to be satisfied with the knowledge that Steph fought on, and truth be told, it was more than he’d dared hope.
He forced his concentration back to the Private who stood before him, smile starting to falter at the puzzled expression on Mark’s face. He accepted her handshake, making a non-committal greeting in return.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ said the Private, not letting him off the hook.
Mark glanced down at her name badge, hoping it would jog his memory, but came up blank.
‘Queenscliff. We’d only just re-taken the fort. You were newly assigned to my platoon as a Sergeant before the first sortie against the Infected. It went to shit after that officer took us all the way to the town centre without a plan of retreat – surely you remember, Sir?’ she asked, one eyebrow raised.
Mark felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck at the memory. It had been a close-run thing, one that had very nearly seen every man and woman sacrificed for a trial of combat technique that had been doomed from the outset. ‘Yeah, I remember clear enough. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more that day to get all your mates out. It shouldn’t have taken six deaths for command to realise that guerrilla tactics wouldn’t work against an enemy who doesn’t feel fear.’
‘If it hadn’t of been for you taking charge, I don’t think anyone would have made it back. We were gutted when you got transferred after your field commission.’
She looked past Mark at a huddle of officers coming up the hallway. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. I won’t keep you any longer – that’s the General coming now, Sir.’
Mark glanced back at her words. The General looked to be in a foul mood as he strode onwards. A frown creasing his forehead, he marched down the hall with a handful of papers clutched in one fist like he was itching to pick a fight. Mark gave a nod of thanks to the Private and sought a seat inside before he became an unwitting target for General Black’s anger. Spotting an empty seat toward the back of the hall, he parked his arse and took the chance to briefly inspect the men and women present, quickly realising that the speed at which his own squad had been recalled was not unique. Few of the officers wore clean uniforms. Most were patched and dirty, some still splattered with dried blood and gore over the cotton weave. Faces were drawn, fatigue leaving skin pale and smudging grey marks beneath eyes. But to a person, those same eyes glinted with an intensity rarely seen off the battlefield, sparked by rumours of the news to come.
A low murmur of conversation between the seated officers died within a heartbeat, silenced by the arrival of their leader. All eyes fixed upon the General as he took residence behind a rostrum at the front.
General Black ignored the soldiers seated before him, grey eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he scanned his notes one last time. Abruptly he looked up and swept his eyes over the room slowly, leaving each officer with the uncanny feeling they’d received a silent acknowledgement.
‘Thank you for the efforts made to answer my summons at short notice,’ said Black, his voice low and even. ‘I acknowledge the frustration of some at being forced to leave missions at a time of critical importance, however, developments across Bass Strait have forced my hand.’ The General’s mouth narrowed and eyes hardened at his last sentence.
‘No doubt, most here are aware that the Premier of Tasmania and his party of Conservatives have actively opposed all entreaties to lend support to the mainland states. Over the past months their disdain for the greater Australian community has extended to their own people, who they have allowed to be bullied into submission by their coalition partner, a new right-wing party that employs violence, terror and fear as core methods of control,’ Black paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. ‘The media has been hamstrung, any vocal opposition silenced, and our supply lines now severed. Protectionist policies have degraded to overt fascism that has no place in our country.’
A low grumble of anger sounded amongst the soldiers. Black tolerated the interruption for a few moments before lifting his hand for silence.
‘Not three days ago, the last place in Australia where people could live in relative safety was rocked by an event that I cannot leave unanswered. Over eighty percent of the state’s police force were slaughtered in a callous act of brutality that also claimed the lives of many health workers.
‘Police. Doctors. Nurses. Paramedics. That’s years of training and experience – gone. We desperately need their like over here, and yet the bastards killed the lot of them without a second thought, all in a bid to consolidate their own power,’ said Black, a raw quality entering his voice. ‘Not twenty-four hours after the bombing, and how did Premier Stephens respond to this outrage? By announcing that the Patriots Party would prop-up police numbers through creation of an armed militia as an ‘interim measure’. They created a vacuum that needed to be filled, and the bastards had the audacity to do it with a straight face,’ said General Black, one corner of his mouth lifting in contempt.
The rumbling of anger that had sounded earlier grew in volume. Officers muttered to colleagues at their side, unable to maintain silence any longer. Movement to the side of Mark drew his eyes. The Regimental Sergeant Major that had taken him to task during their last meeting, stood ram-rod straight, fists clenched at his side, face red with fury. Unable to restrain himself any longer, the Sergeant Major spoke above the noise of the room, a voice used to cutting above the roar of battle drawing the attention of all present.
‘This can’t be tolerated! It’s time for them to learn the army has teeth. Surely, we’re here to not only protect the country against outside threats, but also from
those home grown? General, when will we be given the chance to grind these bastards into the dirt?’
Instead of anger at the audacity of his soldier, General Black became hawkish. Leaning forward, he gripped the rostrum with claw like hands, satisfied at the resolve displayed by the soldiers before him.
‘I agree whole-heartedly with you Sergeant Major, and can guarantee you’ll have your wish. We sail in six hours for Hobart.’
Mark heard more than one in-drawn breath at his words as the General ploughed onwards.
‘I have come to this meeting today, directly out of a phone conference with the Governor General and Prime Minister who currently reside like toothless relics safe in Hobart. I have advised them in explicit terms to expel the Premier and his party from power, call a state of emergency, and invite the army in to restore order.’
‘And if they don’t?’ asked the Sergeant Major.
‘Then they’ll face an armed coup,’ said Black without flinching. ‘We will be landing on Tasmanian shores in fourteen hours time. Whether or not we’ll have a fight once we get there is up to them, but either way, this situation will end within the next twenty-four hours.
‘Two Navy Frigates anchored in Corio Bay are already loaded with supplies, with the last component needed being your platoons. The Infected can wait for their next meal while we turn our attention elsewhere, because now is the time to restore order to the running of our country.’ He stood back from the rostrum, leaving his notes discarded on the surface.
As a group, the officers seemed stunned at the rapidity of action laid out.
‘What the fuck are you waiting for?’ roared Black, his eyes wide at their inaction. ‘Any soldier not boarded within the next six hours will be left on the dock, so. Get. Fucking. Moving!’
The spell was broken, chairs overturning as soldiers sprang upwards and made for the exit.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chris took a swallow of scotch, focusing on the burn in his throat as the neat spirit travelled to his stomach. He raised the glass again, bringing it to his lips before he realised it was empty - just like the bottle of single malt he’d been working his way through since seeing his father earlier in the afternoon. Finart had been odd, like he was truly rattled by something. He’d spent his whole life unconsciously imitating his father’s mannerisms, watching his reactions to different situations and absorbing his opinions on politics, women and society. Chris had rarely scored higher than indifference on his father’s radar for much of his life (more often in the ranges of contempt). Despite this, he knew his father better than any person, better than he knew himself. For the first time that he could recall, today he’d seen his father unable to make a decision with his confidence badly shaken. And that had made Chris very nervous. His father was like granite in his mind, an unmovable stone that the hopes and dreams of opponents smashed upon like balsa wood. So, if he was floundering for a course of action, it meant something was severely wrong.
Just the day before he’d been riding a wave of elation, basking in the respect of the central party members for his role in destroying the police force. But more importantly, his father had for the first time looked at him with something like… pride. Everything had fallen in place after the bombing like his father had predicted. Premier Stephens had read aloud the speech that his father had prepared to announce the formation of a Patriots militia, and the party had moved onto an even footing of power within the Coalition. Once their militia was grounded within all facets of the police, the Patriots would own the entire force. As a senior party member, Chris knew that he would become almost untouchable, free at last to sample any depravity that took his fancy.
But now... His father had answered a call from the Premier late in the morning. Chris hadn’t heard a word of the conversation, but he’d seen the colour drop from his father’s face as he listened to the leader of the Conservatives. Finart had slammed the phone back onto the cradle, then picked up the closest item of weight – a heavy crystal tumbler – and thrown it at the living room wall. The glass had exploded against the plaster, showering the carpet in ice-like shards. Finart had slumped into an armchair with his head in his hands, a picture of abject hopelessness. Rocking slowly, he’d stayed that way. For thirty minutes.
Chris had watched in stunned silence from the next room. Violence was nothing new. There were few walls in the house or bones in his face that hadn’t borne his father’s anger over the years, but seeing the great man rocking back and forth like a fucking loser – that was unsettling.
Eventually Finart had gathered himself back together, his face almost succeeding to reassert his usual facade of control as he ordered his son to call a meeting of the Patriot’s core leaders. That had been three hours earlier. Now Chris had a living room full of men, all instinctively on edge at the unusual call up. He had neglected to join the group, preferring to sit and wait on his own in the adjacent dining room.
A heavy hand fell onto Chris’s shoulder from behind, startling him enough that he would have spilled his drink if there had been any left. He glanced down at his shoulder, and saw coarse black hair coving the knuckles of the hand. Anger surged through Chris’s brain that the man had dared to touch him.
‘Get your fat, fucking hand off me, Frank, or I swear the next time you turn the ignition of your car, it’ll go up in flames with you inside.’
Chris noted with satisfaction how the hand whipped backward as if burnt, and he turned around and glared up at the huge man. Despite Frank’s size and strength, he looked nervous in Chris’s presence. Frank was one of the few people aside from his father that knew of his other kills, and had started to treat Chris like he was mentally unstable.
‘What’s going on?’ The big man’s gaze wavered about Chris’s face, refusing to meet his eyes. ‘We’ve all been here for over an hour now, and still no word from you or Finart as to why.’
‘I called you all here because my father requested it. Is that not enough for you?’ said Chris. ‘Maybe he’d like to know that you’re starting to question his tactics?’ Chris smiled inwardly as Frank backed away a step, one hand raised in mute submission.
‘Nah, don’t do that. The other men just asked me to enquire. We thought we might be able to brainstorm some solutions if there’s a problem facing the party, that’s all, I swear.’
Chris opened his mouth to reply, when suddenly the front door opened, cutting their conversation dead. Finart slammed the door behind himself and strode into the living room where the eight men he’d requested to attend waited. His argument with Frank already forgotten, Chris stood and walked out of the dining room to join the group. That he nearly lost his footing due to the effects of the scotch was not lost on his father, who raised one corner of his mouth in disgust before turning back to the others.
‘We are about to experience somewhat of a setback to our cause, however, not one that is insurmountable,’ said Finart, his voice calm as he took a seat in his usual corner armchair. Not a person spoke, each waiting for their leader to elaborate.
‘I always knew that the removal of the police force would likely prompt a response from our pathetic excuse of a Prime Minister and his lackey the Governor General. Well, it turns out they’ve decided to see how much power they still have,’ said Finart. ‘They just issued an edict to State Parliament, dissolving the government, and declaring our Patriot’s Party an enemy of the state.’
‘I’m not going to jail,’ muttered Frank, cracking his knuckles where he stood, taking up the majority of the doorway into the dining room.
‘Nor do I intend any of us to end up there,’ said Finart. ‘We are the only Party with a true vision for the future of our state, a vision that is free of the shackles of the mainland.’ Finart stood again, his body becoming animated as his voice rose in volume. ‘I have no intention of laying down our cause for some limp wristed bastard hiding in government house. If they want to treat me and mine as criminals in our own state, they will soon find that I don’t give in
so easily. I’ll be waiting with gun loaded and a spine of iron that will not yield to an authority I no longer recognise!’
Chris’s heart raced at his father’s words, hammering against the ribs of his chest like a battering ram. He looked at the other men in the room and saw that his reaction was not alone. All looked like they were ready to fight, muscles twitching and eyes bright with fundamentalist fervour.
Finart rode the wave he’d created. ‘I’m putting it to a party vote. All in favour of resisting this imposition with any force necessary, say aye!’
To a man, the room roared its approval. Finart nodded in satisfaction of the outcome and sat once again. ‘Good. Now it just comes to details of how we carry forward.’ His eyes flicked up to his son. ‘Chris, get me some paper. By the end of this meeting, I want the outlines of our resistance created.’
***
By the time the last party member left, night was falling. Chris was sober again, the buzz of scotch replaced with a gnawing headache. The pounding at his temples a product of not only a hangover, but stress at the changes due to occur within the next 24 hours.
Not one of the party members had left for their own home. Finart had been adamant that they immediately go underground, with the group splitting to be housed at two properties out of the city. The properties had been acquired by his father long before, however, all paper links to Finart had been erased. If placed in the hands of an adequate detective, it wouldn’t take more than a few days to track them down – but it was a start that could be built from. Each property had a cache of weapons. If they were found, they’d go down fighting.
Chris went into one of the spare bedrooms, grabbed a chair and dragged it over to the built-in wardrobe. He needed the extra height to pull down a couple of big duffle bags from where they were stored at the top of the cupboards. Each bag held seventy litres, more than enough for what he and his father would need in the short term. A bag hanging in each hand, he walked back to the living room and his father and dumped them on the coffee table.
Plague War (Book 3): Retaliation Page 19