CHAPTER TEN

 

 

McTarn

 

THE TIME: APPROXIMATELY 06:00 hours, November 7th. That day of all days. If there is someone up there, He, She or It really has a twisted fucking sense of humour.

The place: a briefing room at Fullwood Army Base, Lancashire. Eleven soldiers, including me, plus one RAF commissioned orifice - sorry, officer.

Outside, the rain beating down, and a gathering storm. Inside, Squadron Leader Tidyman telling us it was the end of the world. And worse.

 

 

I COULDN'T SLEEP that morning anyway. My first clear memory is shambling fully dressed round my home just before dawn.

Home was a small detached house just outside Preston, Lancashire. Rented, obviously. Since leaving the service I'd bounced between security jobs and the dole queue. Doesn't make bank managers reach for the mortgage applications.

I finished up in the front room. Threadbare carpet. An old sofa, a pair of armchairs - one leaking stuffing - and a vintage '70s coffee table with heel marks where I'd put my feet up. Kept forgetting to clean my trainers when I came back from a run.

I didn't bother switching the lights on. Grey pre-dawn light played on the wall, shaped by the rain trickling down the front-room window.

I paced. Flopped onto the sofa. Tried not to think of the six-pack of McEwan's in the fridge. From outside, a soft hiss; the rain. It'd been pissing down for the past week, non-stop.

For the first time in over a week, I switched on the TV. Flooded streets. Houses half-underwater. Odd words came out of the babble: emergency; death toll; evacuation; army.

Army. Teams of squaddies - not even remotely blending into the landscape in their camo gear - piled up sandbags, got old dears out of flooded houses, wheeled in food and blankets for all.

See the nice soldiers. Here to protect you.

Sand blowing across a dirt road. Blood on my hands. Blood on my face.

I switched it off. I looked at my hands. They shook.

Outside, dawn breaking. What the fuck. Sun was over the yardarm somewhere. I fetched a can of McEwan's and popped the tab.

These days, this was as good as it got for me. I wasn't complaining.

I deserved a lot worse.

I took a deep breath, and then a sip.

Someone knocked on the door.

Churchill said you're in a free country if, when there's a knock on the door at five a.m., you know it's just the milkman.

But I got my milk from the corner shop.

I turned, looked at the door. They knocked again.

I parted the curtains. Two men in combats stood outside. Redcaps. Big. Pig-faced. Pig-eyed. Shaving rashes. Practically fucking clones.

One had a moustache, one didn't. Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

I opened the door. No security chain. I'd been meaning to get round to that.

"Robert McTarn?" said the one with no 'tache. Tweedledum.

"No, pal, I'm the fucking Tooth Fairy."

He didn't like that. He tried to push in through the front door. I didn't budge.

"Fucksake," said Tweedledee.

"Are you Robert McTarn?" Tweedledum asked. He was very pale. Looked ragged round the edges. Something was very fucking wrong. Something clenched and curled in my guts like a cold worm. I think they call it dread.

"Aye, that's me. What do you want?"

Tweedledum took a deep breath and pointed to the Jeep parked outside. "Need you to come with us, Robert."

Old habits die hard. Despite it all, I nearly did as I was told.

Nearly.

"You can get to fuck," I said, and shut the door.

On his foot.

Tweedledum just looked at me.

"In case you hadn't heard, I was discharged. I am no longer a serving soldier in the Armed Forces. So with respect, fuck off."

"You're still on reserve list B, Sergeant McTarn. They've called you up." I wondered how many of his teeth I could knock out with one punch. "So please, come on. Let's not make this difficult, eh?"

I wondered just how difficult these two grebs thought they could make it for me. "If I've been called up, where's the telegram?"

They always do that - I don't know any other buggers who even send telegrams anymore. Except HRH, of course, when you make the century.

"Telegram?" Tweedledum looked at Tweedledee, who shook his head. "Have you watched the fucking news lately, mate?"

"No. It just depresses me."

He pulled something from his pocket and shoved it at me. "There. OK?"

I opened it. Read. Bollocks.

"Now will you get a bloody shift on please, Sergeant? We have a national emergency. International. And you're needed. So - please - while I'm still in a good mood, stop dicking us around and get your fucking coat."

"Gonna tell me what it's for?"

"You'll be fully briefed at base."

"You mean you don't know either."

His eyes narrowed; his mouth compressed. "Sergeant, I am not going to ask again."

Jesus. That was it. I'd been trying to pin down the look in his eyes. He was scared. Both of them were.

No-one likes the redcaps; they have a habit of turning up and spoiling the fun while you're beating up your platoon commander. But they're not complete girl's blouses. International emergency. The cold worm writhed in my guts again. I was thinking crisis, I was thinking war, I was thinking fucking mushroom clouds over Britain.

"Alright."

"Good boy."

 

 

DRIVING FAST. AVOIDING certain main roads. Sandbags stacked at the roadside. A huge wash of water blown outwards by the wheels as we passed. The wipers beating hard to clear the view ahead.

I sat in the back. Tweedledee looked back at me, offered a cigarette. I took it with a grunt. He lit one up. So did Tweedledum.

"Don't know the details," Tweedledee said. "But there's a major crisis on and they needed to put together a reinforced section PDQ. Someone's got you down as a good section commander. Any truth in that?"

"Used to be."

Translation into plain English for non Army-speakers: a section is eight men. A reinforced section is ten men.

"There's a Chinook coming in from the Sneaky Beakies to lift you out. You'll get the full brief on arrival."

Sneaky Beakies: Special Ops squadrons.

"'Fraid that's all I know."

"Thanks," I said at last.

"Mention it." He turned to view the road. Brought the cigarette to his mouth. Hand shaking as he did.

I finished mine. Stretched across the backseat. Closed my eyes. Might as well put the time to good use.

I dreamed of the desert road. When they woke me on arrival, I was glad of it.

 

 

"SERGEANT MCTARN?"

RAF uniform, shoulder pips. Thin. Pale. Clipped moustache. Old reflexes; I snapped to attention, Tweedledum and Tweedledee on each side of me. "Sir."

"Squadron Leader Tidyman." Sweat on his brow. "This way. We haven't much time."

"Sir?" Tweedledum. "Beg pardon, sir, but what do we do now?"

Tidyman looked back at him. "Make whatever preparations you think best for yourselves." He turned away.

I looked at the redcaps. They'd both gone white.

Poor bastards.

"Good luck," I said and turned away before they could react. I've no idea what happened to them.

"There's a set of combats for you in there. If you can change into them during the briefing I'd be obliged."

"Sir."

"We're loading the remaining kit aboard the transport. I'm in overall command, but on the ground you're in charge. Understood?"

"Sir."

"Good." He opened a door. "After you."

Ten chairs, all but one of them occupied. Lights off. Heads turned our way. They were in uniform, but some had bundles of civvy clothes at their feet. A plasma screen on one wall, a laptop on a table. Thick, stale air; cigarette smoke, sweat.

"This is Sergeant McTarn. He'll be this section's ground commander."

"Robbie?"

A wiry little man with a corporal's stripes, grey hair and a leathery monkey's face. "Chas?"

"Good to see you."

Chas Nixon. We'd served together.

The girl turning back to look at us. The look on her face. Incomprehension and grief.

"We need to start." Tidyman waved me to my seat. On it, folded combats and a pair of boots. I sat. I didn't want to touch them. And yet I did. I touched the fabric, felt the coarse weave.

Fuck. And they wanted me to lead these men? Didn't they know? I couldn't do this, not anymore. A wave of anger and resentment. Stupid bastards. They'd get them all killed. I'd get them all killed.

"You OK, Rob?" whispered Chas. I nodded.

"Alright," said Tidyman. "We'll come to the mission details in a moment, but first..."

I spotted someone else I knew: forty-something, six foot tall, still a private. Alf Mason. Not the brightest, but good at your back in a fight. We exchanged nods.

The plasma screen came on.

"This footage was shot in London earlier this morning."

Not much earlier. It's the same grey half-light I was wandering about in before dawn. They put this together fast.

Filming from a helicopter. The buildings nearest the Embankment are gone. Aerials and chimney pots, the occasional roof - nothing else stands clear.

The streets are awash. The water looks like stewed tea. But you wouldn't be drinking this. Sediment from the river bed, maybe raw sewage as well.

Further out, buildings are only half-submerged. Abandoned buses and lorries are visible on the roads, roofs just above water.

Fuck, it's bad. I look around the room, at people's faces. I see the same looks on theirs too.

Still, least it doesn't look like nukes.

The screen changes. Satellite pictures. I could tell that much; see the banks of shifting cloud and the shapes of sea and land through them. Beyond that, they meant nothing.

"Anything you've seen on the news in the last week is just the tip of the iceberg." Tidyman smirked. "No pun intended."

"Dicksplash," Chas Nixon coughed into his hand.

I suppressed a grin. Tidyman ignored him, a flush rising up his neck. "There's been a media blackout. Here's why. These pictures were also taken this morning. This is the Greenland icecap. This," the picture changed, "is the Antarctic." Tidyman looked round to make sure he hadn't blinded any of us with science yet.

I unbuttoned my shirt.

"What you've been seeing on the news isn't restricted to the UK. It's global. Virtually every country on the planet is experiencing, or about to experience, flooding on a catastrophic scale."

"Good news for the Africans," said a goatee-bearded soldier with a Liverpool accent. The one black soldier in the room - Akinbode - gave the speaker a killing look.

"Parfitt," snapped Tidyman.

"Sorry, sir."

Tidyman carried on. "We have no idea what's caused the rapid melting of the ice-caps."

"Not global warming, sir?" Akinbode.

"Unlikely. No predictions concerning global warming have suggested anything happening at this speed. If the current rate of meltdown continues, we're looking at a rise in sea level to 720 feet within a matter of days."

No-one looked any the wiser. I could almost hear Tidyman reminding himself he was briefing a gathering of thick-headed squaddies.

"If that happens, almost the entire British Isles will be underwater."

Gasps, cries of "What?" Somebody even said "The fuck?" and then ducked down - a small, wiry soldier of about twenty with cropped, light-brown hair. I read his tag - Mleczko. Trying to pronounce that was going to be fun.

"Multiple storm fronts are also appearing. The first storm surge is expected to hit London within the hour. Another five, possibly six, are expected by the end of today, all over the coast. And that'll just be the start."

My stomach hollowed out; nothing inside my ribcage but echoing space. Looked like I'd never be going home now. I didn't have much there - books, a few souvenirs. But what was there was mine.

But there were photos. Mam. Me and Jeannie. Aw Christ, I didn't have any with me.

Focus, Robbie. Couldn't do anything about that now. The Army had been my family. Like it or not, I was back in. These men depend on you, Robbie. Focus on that.

Shirt off. Trousers and shoes off. I dressed without looking.

"We have contingency plans for incidents like this."

Grab all the top wankers and put them somewhere safe.

"The central government has already been evacuated from London. The capital's flood defences have already failed. We're broadcasting what information we can to the public, but the harsh truth is it's hopelessly inadequate to the task. Nothing on this scale was ever anticipated. There's virtually nothing we can do for the bulk of the population. We don't have the resources."

They never do.

"Central government will hand over power to regional control centres, as they would in the event of nuclear attack. They will do what they can to control the situation."

Probably fuck-all except sit tight.

"Teams such as yours are being sent to retrieve key personnel to secure locations."

Like I said, grab all the top wankers.

"Because of the nature of the crisis, I'm afraid we've been caught somewhat on the back foot. So some teams - like this one - have been put together at short notice. We've had to pull in people from the reserve lists." Another smirk. "Sorry for any inconvenience."

"Wankstain," Chas coughed. Sniggers broke the tension.

"Nasty cough, Corporal Nixon."

"Sorry, sir."

"I know this is a lot to take in, but I'm afraid there's more." Tidyman licked his lips. What could worry him worse than the floods? "We'll get to your mission in a moment. But first, I'm going to show footage shot by a team sent in to investigate reports from London earlier this morning. It was emailed over in the last hour." Deep breath. "This is the part we've really kept the lid on, men. It's easiest if you see for yourselves."

 

 

THE SILENCE STRETCHES on and on, till Tidyman breaks it.

"Before anyone asks, yes. It's exactly what it looks like. They're dead. But they're moving. They kill and eat the living. And the only way to put them down is to destroy the brain. Questions?"

The medic's hand went up - a young Asian guy, tall and wide-shouldered. Hassan.

"Other than what's causing it."

Hassan's hand went down. A few people laughed.

A klaxon blared. Tidyman shouted over it.

"Your destination will be north-east Lancashire -"

The briefing room door burst open. A Flying Officer, forty-something, stocky and bald on top. He looked scared. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Knock before entering!"

"Sorry sir."

"Well?"

"Floodwaters entering the compound, sir."

Tidyman took a deep breath. "Alright. Let's wrap it up."

"Probably got about ten minutes, sir."

"Thank you, Cannock." The airman ducked back. Distant shouting, feet thudding. Splashing. In water.

A man's face flashed up on the plasma screen. Long black straggly hair, streaked grey. Thick beard. Gaunt face, deeply lined. Reddened, bleary, staring eyes.

"Your target," Tidyman said. "Dr Benjamin Stiles."

"Fuck's he gonna tell us?" muttered Chas. "Apart from the best brand of White Lightning to get your brains fucked on, I mean."

"Pack it in, Chas."

"Alright, Sarge. But you must admit."

I knew what he meant. The poor bastard looked a total train wreck.

Still, I didn't have anything better do, so I sat back and listened.