‘Ha!’ Safa snorts again.
‘M67 fragmentation grenade. Fatal radius five metres. Severe injury to fifteen metres.’
‘In case the bazookas don’t work?’
‘In case the bazookas don’t work, Mr Ryder. Two cases.’
The kit is carried through, and each passage shows the instant change from mid-winter to a higher oxygen density and greater heat and humidity. They scurry back and forth. Carrying crates of ammunition, grenades, rocket launchers and the heavy, frame-mounted machine guns.
‘Done?’ Ben asks, placing the last box on the floor of the portal room. ‘Sure we don’t need a jet plane?’
‘A what?’ Safa asks.
‘Jet plane,’ Ben says.
‘What the fuck is a jet plane?’
‘What? It’s a jet plane.’
‘Oh, you mean like a plane?’ Safa asks.
‘Yes, a plane. A jet plane.’
‘Like a bang-tank?’ Safa asks.
‘What!? That’s not the same thing.’
‘Or a pew-pew laser gun?’
The easy banter continues as the new kit is taken from the portal room to be locked inside one of the bedrooms in the last set of rooms.
Harry sees Miri wince as she stands up from lowering the rifles.
‘We can finish this, ma’am,’ he says quietly to her in the corridor as they walk back to the portal room.
‘Thanks.’
‘Good lord,’ the doctor calls out, standing with his hands on his hips surveying the weapons. ‘Are we going to war?’
‘With dinosaurs,’ Ben says. ‘Those are for aimed shots and that one is for suppressing fire.’
‘Twat,’ Safa says. ‘What they called again?’
‘Um . . . one is Barrett and one is Brown.’
‘Browning. Which one is which?’
‘Dunno. Apparently we’re getting a jet plane anyway,’ he tells the doctor.
‘Are we?’
‘Dick,’ Safa chuckles.
‘And a bang tank,’ Ben adds drily.
‘We should get a tank, ma’am,’ Harry says, lifting two heavy crates of ammunition with ease. ‘Very handy is a tank.’
‘Are we really getting a tank?’ the doctor asks.
‘Doctor, word please,’ Miri says.
‘Of course,’ the doctor says, winking at Safa as he goes past towards the door. ‘Carry on, troops,’ he adds brightly.
‘Tango Two. Injuries. Healing?’ Miri asks, sitting in her chair behind her desk.
‘Ah, well,’ the doctor says, assuming a serious, deep-thinking look. ‘In short, yes, she is fine,’ he adds simply. ‘What’s happening with her?’
‘Her physical state?’
‘As I just said, she appears to be fine. Why? What are your plans for her?’
‘Ria and Bertie?’
‘Both fine,’ Doctor Watson says, sitting down heavily to get comfortable. ‘What’s the plan then, eh? Got something cooking, have you?’ he asks with a wink and a nod. ‘And anyway, Miri. I told you to rest, not to carry heavy boxes and machine guns.’
‘Tango Two mental state. Any concerns?’
‘No. Surprisingly. She is healing and appears physically healthy. She is eating. She is drinking fluids. She undertook physical training with the others. I have no concerns for her. She is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as they say. Right, so, as her medical practitioner, I would like to know what your cunning plans are, eh? Cunning, I bet. Cunning and secret. Oh yes. Why did her own side try and kill her?’
‘Ria’s mental state.’
‘Ria is consumed with grief,’ he says in an instant change to a serious tone. ‘I will monitor that as she transitions from her normal life, taking into account her support networks have been taken away. Bertie is . . .’
‘Thank you, Doctor Watson. That will be all.’
‘Plans, Miri?’
‘Thank you, Doctor Watson. I have work to do.’
‘Right, well, I shall go and count some pills.’
‘You do that.’
‘One thing I would say is that confining Tango Two to her rooms without stimulation will of course have a negative effect and potentially invoke a decline in mental health similar to that which Ben suffered. She is fine now. She has been here only a few days, and she is young and robust, but any length of time will not be healthy.’
Miri listens intently. Her eyes narrow with the slightest of motions that shows her attentiveness. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
‘Are you going to execute her, Miri?’ he asks quietly, all trace of joviality gone.
‘Thank you, Doctor. You have been very helpful.’
‘Helpful is my middle name.’ The joke falls flat. Silence, sudden and awkward. ‘It’s not. It’s Hamish actually, but . . . Ah, right, you are looking down at your desk, which indicates the conversation is now at an end.’
Miri thinks with her hands flat on the warm, wooden surface. The others pass the doorway, glancing in to see her almost frozen. Back and forth they go. Carrying weapons. Carrying boxes. Talking. Joking.
She takes one of the notepads from the desk before walking out into the corridor to stare at the bare walls, then down towards the main room for long seconds of deep thought. ‘Safa?’
‘Yep,’ Safa says, walking backwards carrying a heavy crate of ammunition with Ben.
‘I will be busy for the next few days and not always here. You are in charge in my absence. I want you fit and ready.’
‘We are fit,’ Safa says.
‘None of you are in peak condition. Increase your training to be ready.’
‘I beg your fucking pardon?’
‘Do not keep the prisoner confined to her rooms. She can come out if the weapons are secure. Train with her. She may have skill sets and practical knowledge that you are lacking.’
‘Lacking? What the . . . We are fit. We’re bloody fit as anything . . .’ Safa protests.
Miri holds the silence for a second. ‘Good. Then work harder.’
‘Where are you going?’ Ben asks before Safa can explode in righteous fury at being called unfit and lacking.
‘Train,’ Miri says, striding into the portal room. ‘Get better. Work harder . . .’
She smiles to herself at the bluster coming from Safa as she programs the tablet to bring the Blue back to life.
The game is underway.
Nineteen
Pressure can be described as continual physical force.
Mental pressure is the perception of continual force, although the force is not always apparent.
It’s not apparent now. It’s subtle and very suggestive, but by degrees it is increased, and with it the atmosphere within the bunker grows with each passing day.
Miri uses language like an artist with constant studied, deft touches.
The prisoner can be given more freedom. The prisoner can move about freely if the weapons are secure. The prisoner can eat with you. The prisoner should train with you.
Miri suggests one thing while meaning another to create a penetrating, yet unseen jarring sensation, while all the time working to shape a new reality. A groomer. A player. It’s what she is. It’s what she does.
The days roll on. You need time to heal and I am working. That’s the answer she gives when Ben asks what she is doing and why everything is taking so long. She suspects Ben knows a great deal more than the others, but she also knows that he is intelligent enough to keep those thoughts to himself – and she would know if he didn’t, because of Safa.
Safa is pure honesty. There is absolutely no deceit with that woman. If Safa thinks it, Safa will say it, and if Ben relayed his suspicions, then Safa would voice them. Safa has not voiced them, so therefore Ben has not spoken of them.
Work harder. Get fitter. Be better. Do more. Why are you relaxing? Why are you drinking coffee again? Work.
A team gels and excels when there is a defined hierarchy. Miri knows that. She pushes them to knit and bond with each other. She has to be caref
ul though. Too much, and it looks tyrannical. Too little, and she runs the risk of over-familiarity. Good work today. Relax tonight. It’s a nice evening – you should eat outside with the prisoner.
To plan at this level means to see and know everything, and that takes time, but she has a time machine, and what would have taken her months to achieve in the past can now be done in weeks.
I want to see the surrounding area. The prisoner can come with us. Harry will arm with a Barrett rifle. Ben and Safa will arm with pistols. The prisoner will be given a pistol, but not a magazine. A spare magazine will be carried by Safa and given to the prisoner in the event of an incident serious enough to warrant the use of live rounds. Do you all understand?
That was exactly two weeks after Cavendish Manor. Fourteen days since Tango Two was taken captive. Miri gave them the brief and watched as they kitted up and made ready.
The weather was changing. The humidity was growing stronger every day, the precursor of what Harry and Miri recognised as a rainy season. They set out after breakfast. Doctor Watson tagged along too, dressed in a sleeveless fishing jacket, baggy khaki shorts, long socks pulled up to his knees, rugged walking boots, a floppy hat and a pair of huge binoculars hanging from a strap round his neck.
They were all sweating by the time they walked up the steep bank to the plateau above the bunker. Insects buzzed and lifted in swarms as they moved slowly through the long grass. The huge Barrett fifty-calibre rifle was strapped to Harry’s back. All of them save the doctor armed with a pistol in a holster.
Miri spent a long time in that clearing. Walking back and forth. The doctor moved here and there, studying insects, flowers and plants, and staring through his binoculars. The other four stayed together, chatting easily with hands resting on butts of weapons.
‘Bet I can draw faster than you,’ Safa said after growing bored at Miri and the doctor pissing about.
‘Bet you can’t,’ Tango Two said, smiling back at her.
‘I so bloody can.’ Safa pulled her pistol from the holster to eject the magazine and the round in the chamber. ‘Safe, unloaded.’ She showed the weapon to Tango Two before sliding it back in.
‘Seriously?’ Ben laughed, taking the magazine from Safa.
‘Ben, count down from three,’ Safa said as Tango Two pulled her own pistol out to check.
‘Safe, unloaded,’ Tango Two said.
‘I know it is,’ Safa said.
‘I know you know, but I’m just confirming,’ Tango Two said.
‘Whatever. Ready?’
‘Ready.’
Miri was absorbed in her own work of measuring distance by footfall, but she heard Ben counting back from three and saw the blur of hands as Safa and Tango Two drew to aim.
‘Mine!’ Safa exclaimed.
‘Best of three,’ Tango Two said.
Safa won. Then it was winner stayed on, and she drew against Ben too. He unloaded his pistol magazine and handed it to Tango Two, who held it in her hand while laughing at being beaten by Safa. Miri counted her steps, but clocked the prisoner was now holding a magazine of live rounds, while a pistol rested in a holster on her hip.
Safa won again. Ben took his magazine back, then Safa and Harry played. Safa won again and extolled the virtues of good sportsmanship by calling the others slow twats. Tango Two won against Ben, but drew level with Harry. Ben won against Harry, but Harry complained that his big hands made it harder to draw as fast as Ben’s dainty hands. Miri counted steps. The doctor stared at insects.
The application of force to create pressure. Create an environment for a bond to grow. Water the seeds and study the results.
‘Firing practice?’ Miri asked as they finally walked back to the bunker after spending half a day traipsing about the clearing and tree line. It was the right time to stay with them and join in. Friendly, but not close. Polite, but not familiar.
‘What about Tango?’ If Safa thinks it, Safa will say it.
‘She can join us. Firing-range protocols will apply at all times and she will only be given live rounds at the firing line.’
‘Don’t shoot us, shithead.’
‘I won’t.’
An afternoon of obliterating paper targets pinned to a sandbag firing wall. An afternoon of drinking coffee and holding competitions. The doctor asked to be shown how to shoot. They each took turns to guide and show him. Tango Two included. Firing-range protocols were adhered to at all times, but as the afternoon wore on, so the acute awareness of the prisoner having access to live rounds abated.
‘We’ve got a time machine, so if you do shoot us, we’ll come back and shoot you,’ Safa said when they began.
‘And that makes no sense at all,’ Ben said.
‘It does.’
‘It doesn’t’
‘It so does. If Tango shoots us, we can just come back and shoot her with the time machine.’
‘We’ll be dead. How do we come back from being dead?’
‘Fuck you, egghead.’
And so it went on. Ben explained timelines. Miri listened. The doctor joined in. Harry chuckled as Safa got confused. Tango tried to explain, but got herself confused in the process until the topic reverted to the so if we go back and shoot us as kids line of thought.
‘Ensure the prisoner is locked securely. You’ve had a relaxing day. Work hard tomorrow.’
Those were her parting words as Miri left them that evening. Give a little and grow the bond, then take some away to imbue the insidious, jarring feeling.
The days rolled on.
Tell me what happened that led you to being here.
Tell me what happened up until I arrived.
Why did Mother order you to be killed?
Why did Mother order me to be killed?
What food does the prisoner like? Do you all like Chinese food? Make sure the prisoner is locked in securely. The prisoner can take a lamp from the other rooms into her quarters.
The application of pressure. Tango Two is a prisoner. A captive. Do not trust her, but give her freedom. Do not like her, but spend time with her. Do not let your guard down, but give her a loaded gun.
‘How long have you been here?’ Miri asked as she walked the prisoner back to her rooms after a communal feast of Chinese food eaten while they all listened to the rain lashing the windows.
Tango Two had to think of the answer. The days had all merged in her mind. Time is different here. There are no clocks on the walls. No watches. Their body clocks work with sunrise and sunset.
‘I think three weeks?’
It had been twenty-three days. A highly trained captive should know exactly how much time had passed.
‘Goodnight,’ Miri said, pulling the door closed.
‘Night, Miri,’ Tango Two said.
She turned from the door towards the bathroom as the familiar clunk of the bolt came, but it was different. A different sound. Like it wasn’t rammed home properly. At that moment, she felt comfortably full and relaxed from the meal and felt no need to investigate. Tango Two used the bathroom, her bathroom, and made her way into the bedroom, her bedroom. She turned on the lamp, her lamp. She pulled back the soft throws on the bed, her bed, and she thought about the door and the bolt and why Mother tried to kill her. She thought about the Chinese food she ate and the jokes with the others. They even had a bottle of beer each. She smiled to herself at the memory of Harry scowling in distaste and saying this fizzy stuff is not ale.
She got into bed and turned off her lamp. She lay in the darkness, listening to the rain on her window, and thought about the door and the bolt . . .
She stayed barefoot, as she knew the floor of the corridor made no noise when walking without shoes. She paused near to the other rooms. No lights on inside. She pushed the door open to the main room, heavy with the pleasant scent of Chinese food, beer and the smells of the others. Smells now so familiar and homely, but this is not her home. A sense of duty kicked in. A sudden internal reminder that she is not part of whatever this is.
She moved across the main room to the doors on the other side and silently pushed through to see Miri’s office empty and the corridor bathed in blue with light spillage from the portal room. Her heart rate increased. Her senses ramped. She listened carefully, but heard nothing other than the rain lashing the bunker outside.
Fortune favours the brave. Your allegiance is to your country, to your service. Agents are selfless and will give everything and do anything for their country.
She stopped at the doorway to the portal room and stared in at the shimmering blue light, seemingly alive with the motion of colours pulsing across the surface. The tablet was on the side. The screen was glowing.
Berlin 2061.
Home.
Right there. She moved towards it. Trepidation and excitement mixing in equal measure. She could go home. She swallowed and hesitated. She is an agent. She has duty and allegiance. This is not her time or home. These are not her people.
As the uncertainty of those seconds stretched, so she heard the strike of a match and darted back into the corridor to see the rear door slightly open. The smell of a woodbine floated down. Her eyes flicked to the portal, then back to the door. She is an agent. She has duty and allegiance.
She stepped silently through into the night air and the pouring rain to see Harry standing under a huge umbrella propped against one shoulder. His free hand holding the cigarette that curled smoke up to roll round the underside of the material. She stayed in the lee of the building, protected from the drenching rainfall. Harry smoked. Facing away. Huge, yet passive.
Thoughts whirled through her mind. She is an agent. Alpha told her to do what it takes. Mother tried to kill her. The portal is open. Harry is alone.
She took a further step out to let the rain drench her hair and run down her face to drip from her nose and chin, and she waited. She waited for the rain to soak her top to make it cling to her body. She waited for the chill of the water to cause the physical reaction to her nipples under the flimsy, sodden material. She arched her back slightly and lifted her chin to show the slenderness of her neck while widening her eyes like a doe. They were taught this. They were given lessons on how to look and appear vulnerable and alluring. Alpha said to do what it takes. She is an agent. She has duty and allegiance.
Extracted Trilogy (Book 2): Executed Page 17