Mark dropped below the top of the wall, grabbed Chris by the neck of his shirt and yanked him close. ‘What the fuck is this shit?’ he whispered. ‘That’s not a stronghold, it’s a fucking holiday retreat. If we’re about to be ambushed, I swear to god I’ll cut your balls off with a blunt knife.’
Chris opened his eyes wide and held a palm up in submission. ‘It’s not my fault they’ve got no eye for defence. You got to remember, they’re politicians and rednecks, not bloody soldiers.’
Mark shoved Chris away and looked back over the wall at the target again while considering his words. Politicians they may be, but at heart they were callous bastards that thought nothing of murdering anyone who stood against them. Men that had no compunction about using violence, combined with the military grade rifles on view, could place his soldiers in more risk than he cared for. If he had to choose who lived and died, he’d lose no sleep over the loss of a Patriot’s life. With a subtle hand gesture, he called Vinh over.
‘We’ve been authorised to use a full armed response at the slightest hint of violent resistance, yeah?’ whispered Mark.
Vinh nodded at him in confirmation.
‘Take a look at the fire power at their disposal, there’s at least five assault rifles that I can see.’
Vinh squatted back down after taking a look himself. ‘AK-47’s. I haven’t seen one of those in years.’
‘I reckon those fire-arms convey a ‘hint’ of violent resistance, don’t you?’ asked Mark.
Vinh looked at his officer, face tight as he obviously understood the dubious ethics of the question posed.
‘We’re here to get a supply of soldiers and food to continue the war back on the mainland, not to risk the lives of our men against a megalomaniac and his henchmen,’ said Mark. He pulled Chris back over again. ‘Are there any women or children in the property, innocents that might end up collateral damage?’
Chris shook his head in a negative. The slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth going unnoticed by Mark.
‘Ok, that settles it. We ambush the group at the front, a few grenades should do it. Whoever’s left moving, we’ll take as prisoners,’ said Mark, heart beating hard at the grim finality of his own decision.
Mark waved up the three soldiers whose rifles had ML40AUS GLA grenade launchers fixed below their barrels. ‘I want one grenade each through the living room window, then we all follow in hard. If you see a hand on a weapon, shoot to kill. Ready?’ he asked, eyeing his detachment briefly. Thumbs up received, he turned forward once again.
‘Fire.’
Hollow pops sounded as the grenades left the barrels, followed almost instantaneously with triple explosions in the living room of the house, glass smashed outward as a hail of ice-like shards.
‘Go, go, go!’ shouted Mark. He vaulted the brick wall and sprinted forward with his men, rifle raised to shoulder and both eyes open, scanning for movement. Within seconds they had reached the front wall of the home, slapping their backs flat against the brick to either side of the empty window frame. An interior light reflected off shards of glass in the lawn, some already spattered wet in crimson. Hearing movement inside, Mark spun around the corner of the window frame and squeezed his trigger, burying a round in the shoulder of a man entering from the hall. His rifle fell from his hands and he dropped to the ground screaming. Mark stepped over the bottom margin of the window and into the room, joined at either side by another two soldiers. Vinh had taken the others, spreading out around the house to prevent escape from any other egress.
The grenades had done their job well. Two men still sat on the main couch, dead. Legs missing from the lower thigh down, and chests punctured with shrapnel, they wouldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. Mark followed a set of bloody drag marks to the corner of the room, to where the survivors had retreated. One man was prostrate in the doorway unmoving, two more held up their hands in surrender.
‘Secure them,’ ordered Mark. ‘I’ll take that one,’ he said, referring to the man he had shot moments before. Mark pulled a heavy zip-tie from his webbing and roughly secured the man’s hands behind his back, ignoring his sobs of pain.
He left one man to guard the prisoners and entered the hallway, rifle wedged firmly against his shoulder. Two sharp cracks echoed from the rear of the house followed by a scream of agony. Mark increased his pace and emerged into a kitchen area already subdued. One man lay on the ground beside an island bench clutching a ruined knee, another crouched against the wall with both hands raised.
Vinh stood tall, framed by the back doorway through which he’d entered. The sergeant pointed toward a closed door in the far wall of the kitchen with the tip of his rifle. ‘Someone’s gone in that room, I think it was Finart.’
Mark stood to the side of the door, stretched out a hand and tried the handle gently, expecting a spray of bullets to come through the panels at any moment. Nothing. The door swung open with a slight push. Mark took a breath and turned abruptly around the edge of the doorway with weapon raised. The room was sparsely furnished, holding nothing but a single bed tucked in the far corner beneath a window.
‘I surrender!’ On the floor, spread-eagled with his hands on the back of his head was Liam Finart.
Mark dropped his rifle to hang by its sling and pulled another set of cable ties from his webbing. He knelt heavily onto Finart’s lower back, grinding his knee into a kidney to keep him compliant. Liam grunted and swore as Mark ripped down one hand at a time to secure them behind his back.
‘I’ll have your fucking job for this, I’ve already surrendered!’ said Finart, face down into the carpet. ‘This is police brutality!’
Mark ignored the threat, instead calling out to his sergeant as he roughly pulled his prisoner to standing and shoved him back into the kitchen.
‘Update! Are we clear yet?’
Vinh re-entered the kitchen at his summons, the tension that had been on his face moments earlier, now softened. ‘We’re done, Boss. All rooms cleared, and perimeter covered. Three fatalities, another three wounded; all subdued and under control.’
‘And our men?’ asked Mark, shoving down on Finart’s shoulder to make him sit against a kitchen wall next to the other prisoner. Finart stared balefully up at his captors.
‘No casualties.’
Mark nodded. ‘Good, get these pricks out to the road. I want us ready to leave ASAP.’
Vinh and a Private hauled the two prisoners to their feet and pushed them in the direction of the hallway, a barrel in the small of their backs giving impetus to move quickly.
***
Chris watched the three grenades explode, flames reflecting off his eyes in the dark, pupils dilated with excitement and adrenaline. Men screamed as shrapnel wedged into their bodies, tearing flesh and limbs apart. Their cries of terror and agony a backing track as the ADF soldiers beside him vaulted the low fence and ran to finish the job. Chris revelled in the sound his former colleagues made. He felt nothing for their suffering, and cared not at all if they lived or died. His father would be at the back of the property as planned, lying low and ready to surrender. The chances of him catching a bullet were minimal, so all that was left for Chris to do was enjoy the moment and reinforce his position as a defector.
As the soldiers stepped through the shattered remains of the window, Chris climbed over the fence and followed in their footsteps, running half bent over. He waited for Mark to move further into the house before entering the living room himself. Blood dripped slowly from above, an arterial spray in stark contrast against the ceiling white. An AK-47 lay on the carpet next to a severed lower limb that absurdly stood upright with foot still in shoe. He’d arranged the purchase of the assault rifles from a Chinese contact three years prior, and his finger itched to pick one up and feel the kick in his shoulder as he fired the weapon. But not today. If he was seen with a rifle, he’d be shot on sight by one of the soldiers, a risk he couldn’t afford. He’d have to find something else for the job at hand. Chr
is picked up a short length of broken timber from the window frame and found himself pleased by the unexpected weight of hardwood.
‘Oi! What the fuck are you doing here?’ said the grunt left behind to watch the two prisoners. ‘You’re supposed to be on the street.’
Chris ignored the implied instruction and walked over to the soldier who stood above a wounded prisoner, his thigh muscle laid open by shrapnel. It was Frank. The bull of a man stared up at him through eyes hooded with pain. As recognition dawned on the man’s face, Chris smiled.
‘You brought them here, didn’t you?’ panted Frank. ‘Fucking traitor.’ The big man tried to spit at Chris, but only succeeded in coating his own chin in a string of saliva.
‘At least I’m not a traitor to my own country,’ said Chris loudly, ensuring the soldier could hear him clearly. Chris swung the short piece of timber like a nightstick, straight into Frank’s mouth. With hands tied behind his back, the man was unable to defend himself. Upper and lower teeth snapped off at the gum, his lips torn to a bloody mess and jaw broken. Frank tried to scream a further insult at his abuser, but the sound emerged as a garbled mess punctuated by blood-frothed sputum.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ bellowed Mark, emerging from the hallway behind Vinh and their prisoners. ‘Get your hands off my prisoner and drop that weapon, now!’
Chris dumped the piece of wood, but maintained a defiant posture next to the huge man. He pointed down at the prisoner. ‘This man was personally responsible for setting off the bomb outside the police station. When I begged him to reconsider, he just fucking laughed at me. The bastard doesn’t deserve to live another minute!’
Frank stared at the men above him, trying to form words through mangled lips as he shook his head in denial. Chris met his father’s eyes for a brief second and saw the man give a slight nod.
‘If you lay another hand on that man, I’ll see you charged,’ growled Mark.
‘What? After you attacked this place without a single opportunity for surrender? Don’t be a fucking hypocrite. I’m just here to get some justice for the cops he killed.’ Chris looked down at Frank, drew his foot back then kicked the man viciously in the front of his neck, crushing his trachea. Frank convulsed on the floor, unable to draw breath through his destroyed windpipe. His face became flushed, turning purple, then blue. His kicks became increasingly feeble, until he eventually lay still. Eyes wide open in surprise at his own death.
Chris felt his hands get savagely pulled behind his back and cable tied together by the Sergeant. He didn’t fight, waiting to see what would happen next. Mark loomed into his field of vision, fist clenched in rage.
‘Get this bastard out of here,’ he growled. ‘Whatever’s left of the police force can deal with him.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mark sat behind a trestle table next to Vinh on the edge of St. David’s Park. Beautifully manicured lawns covered the ground, and between the occasional tree, Mark could make out the sandstone facade of the Hobart Supreme Court. The two men sat in basic field uniform, both feeling somewhat naked without their usual weapons at hand. A banner shivered in the winter breeze above them, inviting the men and women of Hobart to enlist. Today would see a sentence handed down to Liam Finart for his role in the police station bombing and other crimes against the state’s citizens, and the army had decided to make use of the expected crowds for a recruitment drive.
Predictions of a large attendance had been accurate. The lawns of the park, along with the surrounding roads were jam packed with people who came to see the end of a disturbing era for their state. Large screens were set up outside the courts to televise the judge’s address. The mood was quiet, yet grim. Some carried signs and chanted demands for capital punishment. Most, however, waited in silence for the screens to turn on and proceedings begin.
Mark’s booth was one of twenty set up around the perimeter of the park. Interspersed between them was military propaganda. Pictures of soldiers in heroic poses called the Tasmanian population to do their bit in the Lysan Plague war. Vinh smirked as he pointed out one particularly laughable depiction of a Carrier, made to look so weak a mere puff of wind could knock it over. But then again, if they depicted the horrific reality, they wouldn’t fill a single line of their recruitment page and business was slow enough as it was. Mark had come with a detachment of men, but with so few taking up the opportunity to die under the teeth of the Infected, there had been little work to keep them occupied.
With nothing to do, Mark was unable to distract his mind from thoughts of Steph. Lines of communication were heavily restricted, and for some reason her status had been altered to “restricted access” since arriving in Canberra. The only people with knowledge of her condition and what was happening were the top brass and research division. Mark drew some comfort from the fact it meant she was likely still alive, but the rest of the secrecy was somewhat unnerving. It would be a cruel fate to survive the plague, only to become a test rat for study and dissection.
Abruptly, the screens flickered to life. People quietly jostled in the crowd, trying to obtain a better view of the judge on display. Knowing there was scant chance of a signup while the sentences were pronounced, Mark stood and left the recruitment table to gain a view of the proceedings. The judge silently turned a few pages on his table, his face calm and dignified. Eventually he looked directly into the camera, ensuring that he was addressing not only the members of the courtroom before him, but also the population of Tasmania that watched with intense interest. Over the preceding days, sentences handed down to other members of the Patriots had ranged in lengths of five years to life for those found guilty of murder. And now came the moment that the man responsible for launching the party would learn his personal fate.
‘For the intimidation and murder of political opponents, the fire-bombing of demonstrators, and the recent bombing of the police headquarters; as leader of the Patriot’s Party, Liam Finart carries a heavy burden of responsibility. No direct evidence has been produced to directly link him with any distinct act of violence, nevertheless, it is this court’s opinion that Mr. Finart owns a burden of guilt for their occurrence. Through nurturing discontent, fear and divisiveness in our state’s population, he created an environment where such repulsive acts of violence could flourish. For that he must be punished.’
A low murmur of conversation that had continued across the park as the judge spoke now hushed as each person awaited the penalty. The judge paused as he lifted a different page to the top of his notes.
‘I pronounce a custodial sentence to be served by Mr. Liam Finart within the state’s penitentiary system of no less than eight years.’
A roar of discontent erupted around the park at the lenience of the sentence, one that by the expression of the judge must have been heard through the walls of the Supreme Court. He waited for the noise to lessen before addressing the camera once again.
‘This case today brings an end to a troubling time in our state’s history. The loss of loved ones to recent acts of violence will not be forgotten, however, this should not preclude us from looking forward. Recent political policies have stopped Tasmania from taking her rightful place alongside the other states of our country as they fight the evil of Lysan Plague. We are now the last infection free bastion of hope within our great nation, protected by virtue of distance and sea-locked borders. In the past we have sent our sons and daughters to die in foreign lands for the sake of another nation’s freedom – why would we not do the same for our own country?
‘On the other side of Bass Strait; Australian men, women and children are in the fight of their lives, staring down a danger that threatens to wipe us from the face of the earth. Have they given up? No, they have not,’ said the judge, his cheeks pink with energy, eyes glassy with passion as he stared directly into the camera.
‘We owe them our support,’ he said. ‘For what it’s worth, as a man past the best days of his youth, today I resign my post in the judiciary to enlist in
our nation’s army.’ The judge pulled off his wig of white curls and dumped it on the desk before him, exposing a close shaved head of grey stubble. ‘And I call on all men and women of ability to consider doing the same. Many of us have friends and family on the mainland, and it is now that we must come to their aid. There is hope yet, all that is needed is men and women brave enough to hold a rifle, stand their ground and be counted.’ The judge pushed back his chair and left the view of the camera, leaving nothing but an empty chair on screen.
The crowd started to murmur, volume steadily growing as people started to process the judge’s words. A few pointed past the screens to the cordoned off steps of the Supreme Court. A lone figure had exited the front of the building, and with mild surprise, Mark realised it was the same judge that had been on the screen not moments before. He’d taken the man’s earlier words with a grain of salt, not really expecting him to follow through. The judge paused at the top of the steps where he removed the red robes of his position, exposing a simple navy business suit. With every eye drawn to his passage, silence fell like a heavy curtain as he eased his way through the crowd, heading straight towards Mark’s table.
Vinh shoved the relevant paperwork into his officer’s hand as the judge arrived and took a seat opposite. Mark placed the form before him.
Plague War (Book 3): Retaliation Page 21