‘Anything in particular you want packed, or is it just clothes at this stage?’ asked Chris.
Finart stood and grabbed one of the bags for himself, not bothering to look his son in the face. ‘You won’t be coming.’
Chris stopped dead, his gut dropping at the thought his father was shutting him out once again. ‘What do you mean? Haven’t I done enough to prove myself?’
Finart looked his son in the eye finally. ‘You’ve been adequate so far, I’ll give you that. And that’s why I’m going to ask even more from you.’
A flurry of questions hammered at the inside of his skull alongside his migraine, but Chris forced his mouth to stay closed. If he pushed his father for information, he’d only shut down.
Finart eyed his son for a moment before nodding in satisfaction. ‘Maybe you are finally learning some self-control after all. Take a seat boy, I need to fill you in on the real situation facing the Patriots.’
Chris sat down heavily on the couch behind, his eyes never leaving his father’s face.
‘The basics of what I said tonight holds true. The Governor General’s dissolved the government and declared our party as traitors to the state. But it goes further. The true masters behind the move are the armed forces, or more accurately, General Black. Stephens warned me that there are now two Navy Frigates, packed with hardened veterans sailing across Bass Strait as we speak. We have only a handful of hours until they moor in the Derwent River and come ashore – and it’s a fight that we cannot hope to win at present.’
Chris was horrified at his father’s capitulation. ‘So, you’re just going to give in like that? Not even fight back?’
Anger flared in Finart’s eyes, his mouth opening in a snarl as he smacked a vicious backhand across his son’s face. A jet of blood squirted from Chris’s left nostril as his nose broke, and he gasped in surprise, not even considering retaliation.
‘Watch your fucking manners, boy! Of course I’m going to fight back, you imbecile. But I’m here for the long game, and becoming a martyr isn’t part of the plan.’
Chris grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the coffee table, pressing them under his nostrils with one hand to soak up the trickle of blood, while the other pinched firmly beneath the bridge of his nose. He could taste copper at the back of his throat, and suppressed a gag as he swallowed a glutinous mass of clot. ‘So how do we win?’ he asked, voice thick from his blocked nose.
At his son’s immediate retreat, Finart dropped his hand from where it had hung in the air ready for a second blow. He walked to the side of the living room where a decanter of amber scotch sat beside two crystal tumblers. Picking up the decanter, he poured himself a finger of whiskey and took a sip, rolling the liquid about his mouth.
‘We let them think they’ve won. Black obviously wants his pound of flesh, and I need to find a way to satisfy his need without getting executed in the process. That’s where you come in.’
Chris sat up a little straighter, ready to listen.
‘You’re to defect and give up the location of both safe houses,’ said Finart. ‘Wait another hour, enough time for me to join the men at the northern property, and then you present to police headquarters and hand yourself in.’
‘And the rest of the men, will you tell them what’s happening?’ asked Chris.
‘God no. Use your brains, Chris,’ muttered Finart. ‘I want them to fight, and for a few of them to get killed in the process. Black will need to sate the media and his own soldiers’ desire for blood, so they might as well cull some fools I’ve been planning on shedding anyway. I’ll surrender, blame the bombing on one of the men killed, and hopefully get away with a short custodial sentence.’
Chris was still confused, not understanding how this solved their problems.
‘You on the other hand,’ said his father. ‘You need to become one of them and make them think you were manipulated into the party structure. I don’t care how you do it or what you say. Hell - tell them how I sodomised you as a boy and tied you to a bar heater as punishment for all I care, but make it fucking happen.
‘The army is only here to reopen supply lines and gain soldiers to fill their ranks. Once that’s achieved, they’ll leave to continue the war on the mainland. I’ve gained word that General Black’s about to gamble everything on a massive battle outside Melbourne. He’s built a huge amphitheatre, high walls from which he can fight the millions of undead that fill their state capital. I need him to fail, for his army to be torn to shreds under the teeth of the Infected. And for that to happen – I need a saboteur in his ranks. I need you.’
Chris felt a swelling in his chest, an odd burning of pride that his father needed him to play such a crucial role. It drowned out the small voice in the back of his head that questioned how he could possibly survive the success of his own mission.
‘Once the army is destroyed on the mainland, there’s no way I’ll be left in jail,’ said Finart, a manic gleam in his eye. ‘Without a martial force to maintain order, the people will beg us to protect them from the Infected hordes across Bass Strait.’ Finart gripped Chris’s shoulder tightly in one hand, leaning forward so that his face was mere inches from his son’s. ‘Once you return victorious, we’ll take this state as our own – that I swear to you.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mark pulled his coat tight about him before stepping through a door and out onto the deck of the Navy Frigate. Rank came with some privileges of which he was happy to take advantage, one being a certain degree of freedom to move about the ship. The men and women under his leadership weren’t so lucky, being restricted to their allocated space on one of the lower decks, hemmed in like sardines in a can.
The Frigate had left the rolling swell of the Tasman Sea and entered the mouth of the Derwent river not long before, and Mark was keen to gain his first view of Hobart. Tasmania was the one Australian state that he’d never visited prior to the outbreak of the plague, and it felt surreal that his first steps on land here would be at the tip of an occupying force.
A faint, acrid smell of smoke irritated his nose. He turned on the spot, quickly identifying the origin, a spiral of black drifting into the sky from a house on fire near the western shore of the river. As the ship drew closer to Hobart city, the spire of smoke was joined by a handful of others, each reaching upward until it was whipped aside by the wind above, leaving a grey haze in the late afternoon sky.
To the south of the river, Mount Wellington was dusted with snow at its peak, giving a postcard backdrop to the city. A shape entered Mark’s peripheral vision, and he turned his head to see who had joined him at the handrail. A Navy officer grunted an acknowledgment to him as he leant on the rail to take in the city view.
‘Any more word on what we’ll be facing?’ asked Mark.
The officer nodded. ‘There’s unlikely to be any overt hostility. Apparently, the Patriots bolted for hiding shortly after being declared an enemy of the state. And I reckon the general citizens will be happy to see us.’ The Navy officer pointed out one of the plumes of smoke rising in the distance. ‘I’d bet a month’s wage that’s a house of a Patriot Party sympathizer who’s finally getting a taste of his own medicine.’
A hard smile creased Mark’s face at the thought.
The Navy officer stood back from the rail and sighed. ‘We’ll be docking shortly, probably best to head down to your platoon. Now that we know we’re being welcomed, the formal brief has been delayed until the troops have disembarked.’
Mark thanked the man for the information and left to ready his soldiers.
***
Vinh dumped his pack on the concrete of the dock. The grey Frigate towered above the soldiers nearby, casting a shadow across the troops who sat waiting for further orders. Although Vinh had gained his sea-legs whilst serving upon a similar ship before the outbreak of plague, some of the other soldiers in their platoon had not handled the swell of Bass Strait quite so well. By the time they’d escaped their lodgings deep wit
hin the Frigate, the sweet cloying smell of vomit had filled the air. He looked down at the two soldiers who had suffered the most, Privates by the name of Stan and Betty. Vinh couldn’t help but smile at their miserably pale faces, knowing it would only take an hour or so of steady land under foot to cure their illness. The smell of vomit on their clothing, however, would be hanging around a little longer.
‘Hey Sarg, I think the Boss is trying to get your attention,’ said one of his soldiers, pointing toward a large building at the end of the open concreted area of the dock. Vinh followed the Private’s direction and saw Mark waving him over.
‘Clint!’ shouted Vinh, rousing his Corporal who was dozing against a pack. At his sergeant’s voice, the man opened his eyes and sat up. ‘The squad’s yours until I get back. Looks like we’re about to get our orders.’
Vinh left his own gear with the rest of the platoon, carrying only webbing and small arms that never left his side. He skirted the crowd of waiting soldiers that crammed the dock area until he reached his Lieutenant. Mark gave him a nod of welcome, then turned to head back inside the building, indicating for Vinh to follow.
‘Black’s given a briefing already to the officers,’ said Mark in a low voice as they walked. ‘It looks like we’ve managed to avoid any real conflict for the moment. The government has capitulated to our demands, while the local population thinks we’ve been invited on shore in lieu of an active police force. All that waits is a clean-up of the Patriot’s Party. There’s no SWAT police left since the poor bastards got cleaned up in that bomb blast, so it falls to ADF to take down the handful of Patriots refusing to surrender.’
‘And let me guess,’ muttered Vinh. ‘Our squad just got pulled out of the hat for the duty?’
Mark grunted a humourless laugh. ‘Was it ever going to be anyone else?’
‘C’mon Boss, was a short holiday in the Apple Isle too much to ask for? I was kind of hoping to sink a few beers in a pub while scaring the locals with war stories from the mainland,’ said Vinh in a dry voice.
‘Plenty of time for that later. Anyway, we only have to take out a few bullies who can barely shoot a rifle, and if they get shot – these bastards stay down. Walk in the bloody park.’ Mark broke off the line of conversation and pointed out a doorway exiting from the hallway to their right. ‘That’s where the briefing’s supposed to happen, hopefully we’re not the last ones here.’
Vinh grasped the knob and pushed the door open. After the cold of the dock and hallway, the air-conditioned room seemed oppressively warm. There was a mix of uniformed cops and ADF soldiers waiting for the briefing. Mark nodded a silent greeting to the Lieutenant and Sergeant of the other platoon who’d scored the same duty, taking a seat behind them. At the front left corner of the room, a man in plain clothes sat on a table. He looked annoyed at being there, one hand unconsciously combing a long fringe backwards to cover a bald spot at the top of his head, while he avoided eye contact and stared fixedly at the back wall.
Another few soldiers entered to fill the last remaining seats. Taking it as his cue, an older policeman with salt and pepper hair stood up at the front of the room. His right hand grasped a small remote, which he used to bring up a photo on the smart board at his back. In the photo, a suited man in his late fifties stared back at the camera with a severe expression. Mark glanced at the younger man in plain clothes at the room’s side and then back at the photo again, noticing the distinct resemblance between the two. It was a similarity that went beyond facial features, to even mirror expression.
‘You may recognise the man on the screen before you, Liam Finart of the now defunct Patriot’s Party of Tasmania,’ said the policeman, his eyes narrowing in anger as he briefly regarded the picture before turning back to the assembled group. ‘This man controls a political party held responsible for the single greatest act of terrorism ever inflicted upon our state. A heinous act that murdered 150 police, paramedics, doctors and nurses - men and women who were doing nothing more than their job.’
The policeman paused, his eyes seeking out the different armed service men and women in the room as if silently paying respect. ‘There are few Tasmanians that are proud of the line taken by our previous state leaders. The abandonment of our northern neighbours during such a time of need is a stain that we will do our best to expunge. Let our first effort in that process be the elimination of Liam Finart and his vile political party.’
A murmur of approval rippled through the audience, policemen and soldiers alike.
‘Like true cowards, the party leaders have run and hidden themselves, while leaving their rank and file members unsupported and without direction. The few Patriot members that were openly known have already been detained – well the ones that were still alive when we found them. You may have seen the smoke above our city this morning?’ said the policeman. ‘I’m not one to condone vigilantism, but I won’t be wasting time to locate those citizens who took the law into their own hands on this occasion.
‘Unfortunately, paperwork and electronic records of existing party members were destroyed by Finart before running, so we may never track down all of them. However, thanks to a key defection,’ said the policeman, nodding toward the balding civilian in the corner, ‘we do know where to find the core leaders. This is Chris Finart, Liam’s son. On condition that he gets to witness the arrest of his former colleagues, he has volunteered their location.’
‘Seriously, you’re going to let his son lead us into a bloody trap?’ asked Mark, his voice incredulous. ‘Why the hell are we trusting this guy, a man who’s proved a traitor to his own goddamned father?’
Chris dropped his gaze from the back wall for the first time, dead eyes meeting Mark’s line of sight. ‘Why? Because no man that inflicts horror on a child of the type that I endured while growing up, deserves any compassion or loyalty. This was my first chance to escape him. I took it.’
Something in the man’s lack of expression gave Mark pause. He’d seen the damage wrought on many a comrade’s mental health by PTSD result in similar detachment, but then again, there was something about his eyes that didn’t sit well with his gut. Mark bit his tongue, holding back further dissent, but it wouldn’t change the fact that he’d be watching the backs of his men carefully throughout this mission.
The policeman changed slides on the smart screen, bringing up a map of the greater Hobart area. Two red dots highlighted the separate locations that they would target. ‘We’ll hit both locations simultaneously in two hours time. They are known to be armed and likely resistive to arrest. If a party member surrenders, they will be taken into custody and given a fair trial, but,’ said the policeman with a hawk like smile, ‘at any hint of violent resistance, a full armed response has been authorised.’
***
The police van went over a pot-hole in the road at speed, jostling the detachment of soldiers against each other that Mark had chosen for the mission. Despite the cramped room in the back of the vehicle, Chris still had space to either side, Mark’s men and women unwilling to even brush a thigh against him.
Chris ground his teeth together. He was going to have to try harder, force himself to control his facial expressions and begin to act. It didn’t take a genius to work out that not one of the squad around him had extended an ounce of trust in his direction. He tried to suppress a rack of shivers that convulsed his chest and legs in the cold of the van. The only person to be denied body armour, Chris sat with nothing more than a shirt to protect his chest from the bitter cold of a dying afternoon, but more importantly, nothing to absorb or deflect the impact of bullets that would surely come his way once uninformed party members saw his presence and named him traitor. The Lieutenant had even held out a vest to him before pulling it out of reach, ‘If you’ve got a bomb planned, I’d prefer you get your share of shrapnel in the chest. If not… I guess you don’t need one.’ There hadn’t been a flicker of pity in the man’s eyes, and Chris had realised for the first time that his father had been right all alon
g.
In the Patriot’s current form, they didn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell of defeating the ADF. Absolute professionalism and ruthless pragmatism had typified his contact with men and women in the armed ranks so far. All were veterans of a hundred battles against an undead enemy that knew no retreat. As much as he hated to express the sentiment even in the privacy of his own head, they deserved respect as a worthy adversary.
If the Patriots were to have a chance to take full control of the state, they needed the army destroyed, or weakened to such an extent that they could not spare troops to bring the wayward state back under control. Given enough time, the Patriots could form their own defence force to repel any future impositions. Chris marvelled at the calculating genius of his father, a man that had broken him so many times over the years, both mentally and physically, until his scars had finally deformed him into the type of adult that desired to be at Finart’s side. Chris allowed himself a slight smile. He would do as bidden. Convince the enemy he could be trusted, and then rip their heart out from the inside.
Chris casually rested his hands over his lap to prevent anyone seeing the hard-on that had risen at the thought.
***
Mark slowly lifted his head above the top edge of a waist-high brick fence and checked out the property behind. The Patriots had done them a minor favour in choosing a semi-rural outer suburb with one-acre blocks to seat their hideout; the chance of civilians becoming collateral damage in a gun battle at least diminished by the stretches of open space. He’d ditched the police van 500 metres down the road, proceeding on foot to avoid the car engine declaring their presence. The ten soldiers making up his detachment took positions along the length of the fence line in preparation, their eyes all locked on Mark awaiting his next order. The house was at the front of the block, less than forty metres back from Mark and his men. A long window lined a living room at the front, with much of the interior hidden by a blind which was pulled down to knee height. Visible through this gap was at least five military rifles, each propped against the couch between a pair of men’s legs. It seemed too easy and had the stink of a set up.
Plague War (Book 3): Retaliation Page 20