by Ian D. Moore
Showing them around, the Corporal guided them to a table where children sat drawing and colouring, indicating for Tom and Holly to join in. Nathan reassured the children that he would return. Only then did they reluctantly join the other children. Nathan watched as they began to chatter and make friends.
"You'll be bedding down next door. Lieutenant Shepherd put in a personal request for you to be kept together."
"Thank you, Corporal, please extend my thanks to Evie, I mean, Lieutenant Shepherd."
"Yes, Sir, I will. Captain Devon will be coming soon to take you to the armoury."
Nathan sat watching the children draw. Every so often, they would hold up their paper for him to see what they had done. With a smile and a double thumbs-up, he encouraged them to continue. They seemed happy enough, given the circumstances. He was sure it wouldn't be too long before they were washed and found a place to sleep, given the volunteer survivors available. A short time later, Captain Devon approached him.
"Are you ready for the armoury induction and a refresher of your weapons training?" As the Captain spoke, he handed Nathan an ID badge with the number seven printed below his picture.
"You'll need this, Sergeant Cross. It's a level seven security pass as you may need access to some classified areas and information, given your involvement so far and a recommendation from Lieutenant Shepherd. Your military rank and number have been re-instated whilst you are here or for as long as we need you. I don't need to remind you that you are still subject to the Official Secrets Act declaration that you originally signed. Now, if you'll follow me, we'll get you kitted out and see if you can still shoot straight, any questions?" Nathan shook his head no.
The officer continued, "You are an exceptional case, Sergeant. After consulting Lieutenant Shepherd, we feel that your skills would be assistive. Ah, here we are, welcome to the armoury."
***
The captain pushed open a huge steel door. Once inside, Nathan could see heavy wooden benches formed in a “U” shape. Three uniformed men braced up, offering a salute to the entering officer and then waiting for the response.
"At ease, lads! This is Sergeant Nathan Cross, REME. He'll need kitting out and some basic weapons refresher training. He's on guard stag at 2200 hours, so get cracking with him, please."
That was a polite way of saying right now.
"Yes, Sir," replied the lead armourer as the two others went to find Nathan a flak jacket, helmet, and webbing belts.
The captain turned abruptly and left Nathan in the hands of the armoury staff. Nathan looked around the sealed room to see steel bars the length of the windows and low-level fluorescent lighting tubes illuminated the racks of different weapons. Here was order, precision, and pride. There were storage shelves full of helmets, webbing, and green and black flak jackets as well as huge steel vaults housing grenades, flares, mortar shells, and two grenade launchers. It was the smell of gun oil that took him right back to his military days the most. The distinctive smell of the thin watery lubricant, reminiscent of patchouli oil, used to clean and prepare weapons hung in the air.
What happened next caught Nathan off guard. The lead armourer spoke, "Well, I'll be damned! Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't Sergeant Nathan Cross; you just couldn't stay away, could you? You missed me that much, huh? You still ain't got any better looking!"
Nathan squinted, trying to see more clearly through the low-level lighting; then it came to him.
"Stewey? Sergeant Chris Stewall, it can't be. Is that you?"
"Hey! Less of the Sergeant, it’s Artificer Staff Sergeant now, if you don't mind," he said, correcting Nathan.
It had been years since he'd seen his old friend, recalling how they had done basic training together at REME HQ in Bordon, Hampshire. They had gone on to serve in Germany and Cyprus; thick as thieves they once were, and there had been many a wild night on the town at Rheindahlen Base in Germany.
Eagerly taking the extended hand of Staff Sergeant Chris Stewall, Nathan studied the man, trying to find any changes from the passage of time. Although only five feet eight inches tall, Chris was as strong as an ox with broad muscular shoulders and a powerful grip from hands the size of small bats, one of which now engulfed Nathan’s. Chris was rugged in a rough and ready way. The short-cropped military haircut, tousled on top and with a mind of its own, combined with a lean face, steely blue eyes, and a cocky smile had separated many a maiden from both her resolve and her underwear in the past.
His best mate, partner in crime, and loyal friend hadn't changed so much at all, and it was so good to see him, Nathan thought and shook the proffered hand heartily.
"Last I heard, you were working your way through the female population of Cyprus," Nathan added. He winked as he spoke, knowing that it would have taken something pretty serious to have changed his old friend’s ways.
"Ah, well, you see, I think I finished them all, got myself posted to Afghanistan for a tour or two. Along the way, I met my wife Alisa. We settled down back over here, and then a couple years back, Sam, my son, came along, so the old hound dog had to change his ways, which wasn't a bad thing, I guess."
With a flash of that cheeky boyish grin backing up his statement, he swirled his hand above his head to imitate the invisible halo there.
"It's good to see you, Stewey, or should I call you tiffy now? So what toys do we have to play with?"
"To you, I'll answer to both. I'm not going to insult you by training you on the SA80 or the LMG, you know how to use and maintain both. Most of the guard detail personnel have the SA80, though some have SUSAT scopes on," Chris said.
He used abbreviated Army terms for the standard issue Small Arms 80 rifle, fitted with the Sight Unit Small Arms Trilux scope, a sturdy all-rounder usually reserved for the better shooters in any company, with the LMG being the Light Machine Gun.
The British Army loves to abbreviate things.
Nathan and Chris had completed cover and concealment, including tactical arms training, together. It had always been a competition between them, to see who could pull off the best shot.
"I am going to give you the low down on these babies though, kindly requisitioned from Catterick Garrison—which means we nicked them, and wait for it, I pulled a few favours to allow me to issue you with one," Chris said, cracking the snap locks on the army green cases to his left and grinning like a clown.
“Allow me to introduce you to the L115A3 AWM state-of-the-art long-range sniper rifle. Isn’t she a beauty?” Chris was barely able to conceal his joy as he handed the weapon over.
It was sleek, lightweight, and felt good to hold, with a built-in bi-pod, iron sight unit, and weaver rail for multiple scope fixings as well as sound and muzzle flash suppressor. This rifle had been well designed, with one purpose in mind.
“I like it. Tell me the specs. I know you’re itching to,” Nathan said, seeing the twinkle in Chris’ eyes.
“What you have is a long-range sniper rifle good for 1400 metres and beyond in fine conditions. It takes a .300 calibre Winchester Magnum round, magazine fed with a capacity of five rounds each. This’ll take a head off from a very long way away. It’s a low-recoil and low-maintenance weapon. Watch me as I fit and remove the mag, operate the safety, and lock and load. You’ll have time to play shortly. You can fit your own scope if you want, though the fences are well floodlit so a night scope probably wouldn’t be of much use on the base,” he surmised.
He showed Nathan how to operate the mag, load and cock the rifle, releasing the safety before a “click” sounded as the trigger was pulled. Chris handed it back to Nathan for him repeat the procedure.
“Behind you, Sergeant, you’ll find webbing, a flak jacket, your choice to use it or not, and a Kevlar lid to protect your noggin, though with a nut that thick, I doubt you’ll need it!” Chris said, with a wink to Nate.
“Take five magazines. We’ll sort you a box of rounds to go. Zero your scope in; you can use the indoor range out back. Go easy on the rounds though, we
’ve only a limited supply until we can get the Garrison to send more. Here’s a cleaning kit to be going on with. Get yourself set and we’ll hit the range in a half-hour; we’re on stag at 2200 hours. Don’t forget.”
“We’re on stag? Did you say we? I guess you’ll be coming with me then? Did you volunteer, or were you asked politely as I was?” Nathan winked at his friend as he spoke, with only the barest hint of sarcasm in his tone.
Nathan's own rifle had been sent to the armoury along with the Remington for safekeeping. There was no sign of the laptops yet, he thought. Asking Chris to pass him the Sako, Nathan removed the Gnome night scope and disengaged the sight clamp, allowing him to use the day scope. Fitting it to the AWM Sniper Rifle gave him a formidable piece of fighting kit that would not only perform well, but he thought it really looked the part too.
He followed Chris to the indoor range, a long corridor stretching out to the rear of the armoury with several tons of sand at the far end. It had a pulley system in place, to make it easier to refresh used targets, and a sturdy wooden bench with a bulletproof glass shield surrounding it, which served as a firing area. Chris had picked up an array of small tools to assist in the process of scope alignment and to rectify any issues that each of the weapons may have that could have been overlooked. Handing Nathan some army green ear defenders, Chris ushered Nathan towards the main firing bench.
"Throw a block of three down first and then take a look at the grouping. Using the scope click system, you can adjust accordingly. We'll shoot at 100 yards first, then extend to two. If we can zero to that range, it's just a case of mil dot adjustment from there on in. Use the bi-pod for a firmer base."
"Got that!" Nathan confirmed, while pushing rounds into the magazine.
After covering his ears, Chris began the first burst. While the report from the rifle wasn't overly loud, the confined space funnelled the crack from the weapon discharge, making it sound like a firework even through the ear defenders.
Nathan stepped up beside Chris and tapped his shoulder to indicate he was there and would be firing. He rested the weapon on the bi-pod stand, checking the scope for focus, and made final adjustments to the targeting range. While aiming dead centre of the silhouetted chest at the cardboard target, Nathan cocked the rifle, releasing the safety before slowing his breathing, all in a matter of seconds, and on the breath out, held and fired. He felt the rifle buck, but with only a slightly stronger recoil kick than the Sako, he would be able to anticipate it on the next shot.
Nathan could see that the first shot had gone straight and true but slightly right of centre. After lining up to the same spot, he fired again, and then a third round, before clearing the weapon and setting it to rest. Chris had been watching Nathan shoot before removing his ear defenders.
"You've still got it, mate. Not bad for a first try, not bad at all. A little right by the looks of it but elevation is perfect; adjust and send the last two down."
"It's a hell of a weapon, Chris; you can really tune into it, and the shooting position is just about spot on. I'll extend the shoulder butt just an inch maybe."
"I told you it was a beauty," Chris said, smiling and preparing to watch Nathan fire his last two shots. Happy that both weapons were set, they returned to the armoury to collect the remaining kit.
"Webbing you'll need to size to fit you; it's standard issue. Take this too, for CQB, but given what's out there, if you need to use it, you're gonna be pretty screwed," Chris said, handing him a sheathed military combat knife.
Chris had a point about using hand-to-hand fighting in Close Quarter Battle, given the last few encounters he’d had with the infected deadheads.
"That’s you done, Nate. Sign the register for me to book your kit and rifle out. Box of rounds here. At the end of your stag, your weapon comes back here to the lock-up cabinets; you'll be issued a neck chain key. That stays with you and is your responsibility. Don't lose it or I'll have your balls for breakfast!" Chris said, and Nathan knew that he would too, friend or not.
"Thanks, Chris. As precise, professional, and subtle as ever. I'll see you on the fence in a half-hour or so. Gonna go check on the kids first."
"You got kids?" Chris asked, turning to meet Nathan's gaze, surprise in his tone.
"No, mate, they sort of found us on the way here, so we've been taking care of them a while"
"Found us? Is Katelyn with you?"
"I'll tell you all about it on stag; we'll have a couple of hours to kill. Catch you in a bit."
Nathan turned quickly, not wanting his friend to see the flash of pain in his eyes at the mention of Katelyn's name; he knew he'd have to tell Chris later and relive that fateful night one more time.
Nathan fixed the combat knife to his belt, using the adjustable strap at the point of the sheath to fasten the blade firmly to his upper thigh. It would prevent movement when on the ground or running. He adjusted the webbing to fit snugly, loading spare magazines into the pouches at the front, along with an Allen key for the scope mounts, just in case they came loose. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder and carrying the box of rounds, he made his way over to the hangar, now being utilised for indoor sleeping. He used his torch on entry to pick his way through the slumbering bodies occupying the floor space.
***
It took some time to locate his allocated area and find the children, and when he did, he placed the rifle out of sight, just in case either one stirred. They had each been given inflatable single mattresses with covers and a pillow and were sleeping soundly. Nathan bent down to Tom, sliding his leg back under the sheets and covering him over; he kissed the boy’s temple before checking Holly. He shuffled, bending down towards her, pulling the covers over to keep out the night air as she muttered something, not quite awake, perhaps dreaming.
After kissing her forehead, he picked up his rifle and headed to the gatehouse to report for guard duty and to receive orders. Despite the chaos, the children had looked so peaceful in sleep. The gatehouse was a bustle of activity between gunfire and muffled explosions, and the night stag duty was the most active, as it seemed that the deadheads didn't seem to like sunlight. Nathan saw Chris almost immediately and headed over to greet him.
"You and I will be covering the west fence tonight, my mate. We'll be on the towers and in radio contact covering the guard details. If you're ready, let's crack on."
"I'm good to go." Nathan confirmed.
***
At the steps to the tower, Chris handed Nathan a two-way radio.
"If you see anything, sing out and I'll do the same, channel seven. The fence is shallow and semi-circular so we can cover each other if needs be. Don't take chances and shoot to kill, not wound; they were once human, remember, but not now." Chris waved before turning to walk towards his own tower.
"Stay safe, old friend. I've got your back," Nathan shouted after him.
***
Climbing the steps to the small wooden platform over-looking the perimeter fence, Nathan had a good view of the illuminated base. There was a sea of tents of all sizes, some of which had low light emanating from poorly sewn seams, as the revolving workforce of volunteers took up duty, while those coming off shift got some sleep.
Looking down over the fence, Nathan could make out a gap of mown grass about twenty feet wide and surrounding the entire base, then farther outwards to rough ground, which had been littered with scatter anti-personnel mines. Behind that, a substantial tree line with pretty dense foliage would provide cover for any incoming deadhead aggressors.
He scanned, using the rifle’s scope, able to see by the floodlights mounted on the tower, and picked up the fallen bodies of at least three deadheads. Guards had been posted every fifty feet, covering the entire west fence. All were issued with SA80 rifles; males and females stood side-by-side as one force to protect those within the base.
*******
Doctor
“I am Lieutenant Dr. Evelyn Shepherd 17305050. I need to speak to the Commanding Officer immediately
!” Evie's eyes found Nathan’s as she spoke, watching the expression on his face change. She was sure she had seen shock, surprise, even a sense of betrayal in them before they had led her away to the interior offices at the rear of the main block.
The room she'd been ushered into was white-walled and with the barest functional furniture present; a wooden-topped table with a chair facing it, a small side table to her right, and a roll-down white board on an aluminium easel, complete with marker pens. It seemed this room was a meeting or interview room and not used very much. A fine layer of dust had settled on the surface of the table.
It wasn't a long wait before the door opened and she had recognised Captain Devon. Behind him came another officer; Evie noticed the gold crown on each shoulder of the immaculate uniform the man wore. They both came to the opposite side of the desk as she stood, out of respect to the higher ranks before her; no need to salute, as she was not in uniform.
"Lieutenant Shepherd, this is Major Paul Sower, second in command here at the base. I would like you to tell him everything you know up to arriving at the front gates. I have already informed Lieutenant Colonel Connell, who should be making his way back to us shortly. He is currently escorting Dr. Charles Fitzgerald and his team, investigating the wellhead site. Please sit down, Lieutenant."
"Fitz is here? Umm, apologies, Sir, I mean, Dr. Charles Fitzgerald is at the wellhead? Can you tell me how long it will be before he could get back to the base, Sir?" Evie asked.
The major answered this time, and Evie studied the man as he spoke. He has short, military-cropped dark hair, flecked with grey and appeared to be in his late fifties. A wizened, worldly look about him and the lines at the corner of his eyes betrayed a life of hard work and responsibility. Yet, his body still looked remarkably lean. The pressed shirt he wore was meticulously creased at the sleeves, his shoes polished to a mirror shine; she could see he was a man of standards and principles, and when he spoke, it was in a slow measured tone, asserting confidence without trying too hard.