CHAPTER TWELVE

 

 

THE CHINOOK'S WHEELS bumped the ground. The chopper rocked, finally settled. The rotors wound down. As the rotors fell silent, the whistle and howl of the wind came, and the patter of rain on glass.

I got to my feet: "De-bus!"

First order given. That was easy enough.

Doors open - the wind's bitter bite came through. The men baled out. They moved fast, forming a circle round the Chinook, dropping to one knee, guns aimed out. Lomax leant against a bulkhead and watched with folded arms, giving every appearance of being deeply unimpressed.

"Stand by for take off at short notice," Tidyman, unbuckling. "We're not bloody stopping for long."

"With respect sir, we might have to," said Cannock. "Looks like there might be another storm coming in." He pointed. Out to 'sea', a black stain was sweeping in across the sky. "Flying in that'd be suicide."

"I'll be judge of that, Cannock." Tidyman's voice rose; his face was very white. "Just remember who's in command here."

"Sir."

"Best get a move on, either way," I chipped in. "Take it I'm clear to go, sir?"

Tidyman nodded irritably. I decided to leave them to it and hopped out, then turned back. "Sir?"

Tidyman stuck his head out of the cockpit. "Sergeant?"

"Where do we find Dr Stiles, sir?"

"We don't have an exact address. He sort of dropped off the grid."

Off the grid. So, not a private house, then. A squat - some tumbledown cottage or barn? A tent? A static caravan, maybe...

"Sarge?" Chas pointed at the group of men moving in on the chopper. "What about them?"

"Fire on them, man!" shouted Tidyman.

"Beg pardon, sir, I'm pretty sure they're civvies."

"So am I," Tidyman said. "I'm also sure we've got a military helicopter, along with weapons, medical supplies, and food. Which they'll want. This isn't a relief mission. We're here to locate Dr Stiles and get him out. Nothing more. That is our priority. Nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of it." Flecks of spittle had gathered at the corners of his mouth.

I felt my hand drop to the butt of the SA80. I'd been somewhere very like this before. Some orders must not be obeyed.

Luckily, Chas Nixon stuck his head back in through the doorway before I did something stupid. "With respect, sir, they're not showing any hostile intent. No sense in starting a fight yet if we don't have to, is there?"

I stepped in. "He's right, sir. You said yourself I was in charge once we were on the ground."

"But I retain overall command, Sergeant."

"Not in dispute, sir -"

"Better not be!"

Sent to retrieve a fucking mentalist, and now it turns out the CO's one too. Any chance of some sanity round here?

Looked like I was the best bet for it. God help us all.

Pull it together, Robbie. You're not at home now. No time to go on your fucking guilt trip.

"Actually, sir, I was thinking of asking them where Stiles is. Sooner we know, faster we can finish, right?"

Tidyman's mouth twitched violently. "Very well. But the first sign of hostilities..."

"Sir."

Our lads were watching the locals and the locals were watching us. Nobody actually pointing their guns at anyone yet, thank Christ.

"Thanks, Chas."

"No probs."

"Keep an eye on Tidyman. Don't for fucksake let him kick anything off."

"Will do, Sarge."

A thought occurred to me. "Sir?" Tidyman leant out of the chopper. "You have a photo of Stiles?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Think so."

He disappeared back inside the Chinook, emerged a moment later with an eight by ten glossy. The same shot we'd seen in the briefing room.

"Thank you, sir." I turned to Chas. "I'm going to have a chat with the natives. Watch my back."

"Will do."

I slung the rifle across my back and started walking, hands out from my sides.

The apparent leader was a tall wide-shouldered man in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. He had a thick full grey beard and wore a heavy coat with the hood pulled up. The rest were a mixed bag, aged between eighteen and fifty.

The big man had a shotgun. A Franchi SPAS-12. More of a combat gun than something you'd use to clear the rooks off the cornfield, but oh yes, very, very nice. I felt a twinge of Shiny Kit Syndrome. Every soldier gets that when they see a nice-looking bit of equipment. If it'd been loose, I'd've tried swiping it for myself. Unfortunately, the big man was holding it.

He looked me over. His eyes were pale and cool. Wolf's eyes. Rain spat down between us. The ground squelched underfoot.

I closed the distance and nodded at the other men. I didn't get any responses. They looked surly more than anything else.

I held out the picture. "We're looking for him."

The big man looked down. His bald crown gleamed in the rain. "What you want him for?" A Lancashire burr ran the words together.

"We're not after giving him any trouble."

"What'd he do, you're coming out for him in all this? Did he start it all off or summat?"

For all I knew, he had. "We need his help. Believe it or not, he's a scientist."

"Bugger can barely tie his own shoelaces."

I'd known men like him before. Mam had had family in the countryside, farming folk. Used to long hard hours of back-breaking work and nothing but scorn from the 'townies' who'd have starved to death without them. They'd been hard folk, tough, giving little away. The kind of men I'd want on-side in a fight. What would Stiles have been to him? Pitiable? Ridiculous? Both?

He shrugged, pointed out towards the Hill. "Lives out near there. Caravan in the field. Foot of the Hill."

"Any chance you could show us?"

He shrugged. "Aye."

"Good."

I glanced at the shotgun. Lovely bit of kit there; take a nightmare's head off like a fucking dream. "Bring that with you."

"I was going to, lad."

 

 

WE TOOK THE Landrover with the mounted GPMG and got it onto the main street in Barley, Pendle Row - no way of driving straight up from where we'd landed. From there it was a short journey up the hill-roads to the base of Pendle itself. Alf Mason took the wheel; Mleczko crouched behind the Gimpy in case any large numbers of nightmares showed up. Akinbode sat in the back with his rifle. The big man sat in the back with us, the SPAS-12 across his knees. He only spoke to give us directions.

We went round the back of the Hill. The floodwaters had come in pretty close at that side too. Alf parked as close to the base of the Hill itself as we could get; we left him with the Landrover and sprinted round to the Barley-facing side. The big man loped along without breaking a sweat, while Mleczko, on point, was outright bounding ahead. Me, I was feeling the effects of letting myself go. I was still in halfway good shape, but too many beers, too many takeaways and too many cigarettes were taking their revenge on me now. Still, at least overindulging in them wasn't too likely to be a problem in the immediate future.

Akinbode brought up the rear, making sure we weren't followed. Thank fuck, there was no sign of the nightmares.

The farmhouse was a big, solid-looking square building, built from blocks of yellow-brown stone. Shapes moved behind the windows. I glimpsed a gun. Shotgun or rifle, again. Probably no threat, more scared of us than anything else. But fear could be bloody dangerous. You never assumed anywhere was safe.

Behind us was the Hill. A flight of steps made from biscuit-coloured rock led up a side that was as close to vertical as you could get without needing ropes and climbing irons. Thank fuck we didn't have to climb that. You see, there's always a silver lining, if you look hard enough.

"What now, Sarge?" Mleczko looked flushed and almost happy from the run. I felt like giving the little sod ten laps around the Hill on general principle.

"Check the house, front and back. The rest of you, with me."

Another drystone wall marked out their front garden. I cut round it, keeping low, till I had the meadow in plain sight.

They'd left it lying fallow. Thick tufts of grass and weed sprouted up. Good cover for the approach, but the ground could be uneven. The caravan was tucked away at the far side, close to a thick hedge and under a heavy tree shedding leaves all over its roof. The caravan had to be twenty, thirty years old, the kind you saw on the roads when I was a kid - short and rounded at the ends with a set of wheels in the middle. I stopped at the wall's edge and lifted a hand as the others came up behind me.

I looked at the others. Mleczko jogged up. "Clear, Sarge."

"Good work. Alright; Akinbode, you cover us. Mleczko, you're with me. Spread out across the meadow. Stay low, use the cover. Clear?"

"Clear, Sarge."

"Sarge?"

I glanced at Akinbode. He had a narrow face and quick eyes. Looked like he might have a brain. Always handy. "What?"

"Thought this guy was a friendly."

"Briefing said psychiatric problems. We don't know his mental state, and for all we know he's armed. So we take no chances. Questions?"

"If he does fire on us?"

"How good are you?"

"Good enough, Sarge."

"We want him alive, so if you do have to, shoot to wound."

He nodded. Christ. Almost sounded like I knew what I was doing. Step back. Assess the situation. Take action. Keep it simple. Forget whatever memories it threatens to bring back.

"Any more questions?"

Akinbode shook his head. Mleczko'd never had any to begin with. The big man said nothing. "You stay here with Akinbode," I told him. "Watch his back in case anything tries sneaking up."

He grunted.

We spread out from the wall, into the low grass, Akinbode spreading himself prone on the ground by the gate and aiming on the caravan.

"Remember to spread out, Mleczko."

"Copy, Sarge."

"Go!"

I ran in a crouch with my head down, picturing Stiles in there pointing a Kalashnikov through the window.

No gunfire. Reached the caravan. Mleczko appeared in the grasses at the far end. I belly-crawled to the door. Reached up and knocked on it. Ducked back, expecting bullets to punch through it. Nothing.

"Dr Stiles?"

No answer.

"Dr Stiles?"

Still nothing. Fuck.

"We go in," I said. I motioned Mleczko to get the door, moving back to cover him.

Mleczko pulled the door wide. The stink washed out; I smelt piss, shit, stale sweat, rotten food.

"Stiles?"

Still no answer. I leant in through the door. This end held a kitchenette. Filthy 1970s lino with old food smeared and trodden in. A sink piled high with filthy pots. I climbed up and stood.

Bathroom at the end, door ajar. Stench making me gag. A faint buzz of flies.

In between the two, the main room. An old TV set in one corner, the screen smashed. A couple of chairs. A small table lying on its side. Threadbare carpet with scattered ash from the table, plus old beer cans, dirty plates, pizza boxes and the like. And a divan.

A man was sprawled on it, on grimy sheets. Even in the grey light coming through the curtains, I could see they were dark and wet.

"Fuck!"

I moved forward.

"Sarge?"

"Stay put."

I went to the divan. The man was Stiles alright. Eyes shut. Face grey. An empty whisky bottle in one hand, a knife in the other. The dark stains were round the hand with the bottle. He'd cut the wrist, but clumsily - gone across, not up the vein.

Stiles' wrist was still oozing blood. Still alive, then. Small mercies. I pulled out a field dressing, bound up the wrist. He let out a weak moan, then coughed and puked out a thin stream of bile.

"Mleczko, get in here!"

 

 

WE DROVE BACK fast. Stiles lolled in the back, head propped up on a blanket roll. He threw up twice more. Joy of fucking joys.

The wind blew harder as we went, and the spray of rain was heavier. When I looked up, the sky was black overhead. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled in with deafening cracks.

Some of the locals were still in the meadow, huddled by the nearest drystone wall. Keeping watch. If it came to an all-out fight I doubted they'd stand a chance. Then again, they could take a few of us with them. Chas still had the rest of the men around the Chinook.

And the rain poured down, and the wind flicked the long coarse grasses of the meadow to and fro.

The storm hit full-force as we reached the Chinook, displaying some truly perfect timing. There were two, three strokes of lightning, almost directly overhead, and the rain became industrial in force, hammering into us like machine gun fire. When it drove into your face, you were practically blind.

"Medic! Medic!"

"Jesus Christ!" Tidyman jumped down from the helicopter as we ran up. "What the hell did you do to him?"

Hassan leant out of the helicopter and looked down at the limp body. "What happened?"

"Found him like this. He cut his wrist."

"Just the one?"

"Aye. He'd put a lot of whisky away, too."

Hassan shook his head sadly. "Get him in here."

Mleczko and the others bundled Stiles inside. Tidyman clambered back into the Chinook, and I went after him. Hassan was spreading a blanket out on the floor. "Put him down here."

He checked the throat pulse and airways, unwrapped the dressing on the wrist wound. "Will he be alright?" Tidyman demanded.

The medic didn't look up. "Can't say for sure just yet, sir. Give you a sitrep soon as I can."

The wind picked up into a roar and the Chinook rattled from the force of it. Muffled curses came from the men outside. "Let's get airborne," Tidyman shouted over the tumult. "Get out while we can. We can get him better attention at a secure location."

"Beg pardon, sir." It was Cannock. He stepped out of the cockpit. "We can't fly in this. Just look at it."

Tidyman didn't. I'd already seen it. Even without looking, I could hear the rain hitting the bodywork. It sounded like a platoon of drummers going flat out. Like machinery. Like machine guns, all firing together.

"Stop contradicting me," said Tidyman. His eyes had a fixed, unblinking look to them now, and he spoke through his teeth. They were bared, like an animal's.

"Sir, we have to wait out the storm. It's all we can do."

Tidyman's gun was in his hand. I hadn't expected him to move so fast. The Sig-Sauer was lined up with Cannock's face before either of us knew what'd happened. All of a sudden, Tidyman looked very calm.

"You can take the bird up yourself," he said. "Or I shall do it for you. I'm quite capable, you know." I don't know if he meant flying the Chinook or blowing the pilot's brains out. I guessed at both. "Now which is it to be?"

"Sir, if we try taking it up in that -"

Tidyman cocked the Sig-Sauer. "Is that your final answer?"

"Sir!" Lomax called out, but he was frozen. His eyes met mine. The same thought passed between us both: Fuck.

I leaned in. Reason wouldn't work. Use a language he'd understand. "Sir, I understand we have to complete the mission. I know. But if we attempt to fly in that, the chopper will go down. If that happens, we die. You die. And most of all, so does Dr Stiles. And the mission will have failed."

A bead of sweat - or it might have been rain - ran down Tidyman's temple. His eyes flicked over to me. I had his attention anyway. "But if we wait out the storm, sir, we can fly out when it's clear. We get Stiles where he needs to go, and the job's done."

After a moment, he nodded, and lowered the Sig. "Alright," he said. "Carry on, Cannock."

Cannock swallowed hard, looked at me, then back to Tidyman. He nodded quickly and went back into the cockpit. His hand hesitated on the door as if to pull it closed. I wasn't surprised if he wanted to, but then maybe that would set Tidyman off again.

I looked at Hassan and the others; they were all staring at us. They quickly looked away again.

"Sergeant?" I turned back to Tidyman. "Alright. If we're staying here, here's what we do. I want you to send the men out and confiscate all firearms."

That weight in the belly. Something dropping away.

This is the moment. The order I cannot obey. I just know it. "Sir?"

"All firearms, Sergeant. This is a potentially hostile situation. Leaving them armed is insanity."

I fought to keep my voice level. "How are they supposed to defend themselves if those things attack, sir?"

"That's not our problem, Sergeant. Anyway, as long as we're here, they don't have to worry, do they?"

"We'll be returning them on departure, sir?"

He stared at me and his mouth opened, twisting into an aborted laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, Sergeant. We'll be abandoning them to those things. If they have weapons, you can guarantee they'll fire on us. It only takes one lucky shot."

The man shouting, holding out his hands. The pleas. But I'd had my orders. Hands reaching out. The shot.

He had a point, perhaps. There might be a good reason. Just as with the plans to pull all the key players back and leave the common herd to drown. There might be a good reason, but guess what?

There is always a good fucking reason. Whoever gets left to die, whoever gets the bombs dropped on them. Someone, somewhere, always has a good reason why that has to be done.

Tidyman was carrying on. "We will confiscate the firearms and we will take them with us."

Watching them walk away down the road, through the plumes of sand blowing across. Carrying their dead. Trying to call them back, screaming it, but they kept going.

"If we do that, sir, these people will have no chance of survival." I tried to keep my voice level.

Tidyman leant close. His breath was sour and rank. "For the last time, Sergeant, that is not our problem. We have our priorities. Civilian rescue is not one of them. I will not put the mission in jeopardy over a few minor qualms about a handful of surly yokels."

"You are sentencing these people to death, sir." My voice sounded hard and flat. I said it without thinking. Sometimes something kicks in, some override. Emotion. Something. Makes you helpless. Your actions seem to belong to somebody else. You hear your voice, see your body move, but they belong to someone else. That was happening now.

Tidyman's face was white with rage. "I am giving you an order, Sergeant. Now get out there and take those guns off those people if you have to shoot every single one of them to do it."

"No, sir."

For a blissful second, I thought Tidyman was about to give himself a stroke and save us all the trouble. "What did you say?"

"I said, I will not obey that order. Sir. They're giving us no trouble and we can cross that bridge when we come to it if they do. We can't fly yet and we may face attack from those things. If that happens, they have weapons and they have local knowledge which will come in pretty damned handy."

"I am in command here!"

"And I am in charge on the ground, sir."

"Were." His head swivelled. "Corporal Nixon -"

I stepped in close. "The Chinook has the carrying capacity to take most 'if not all' of the local residents with us sir, and no hassle. Doing so will not jeopardise the mission in any way, shape or form. And I'll be quite happy to tell them that, not to mention your little plan of leaving them behind to be eaten alive. Sir."

His mouth snapped open. Sound came out. A sort of screeching. He might have been planning for it to turn into words, but there was no time to find out. The gun was out of its holster again, and coming up.

I caught his wrist and twisted. Tidyman screamed and dropped the Sig. Then kicked out at me. It caught me on the thigh. I blocked a punch, then caught his hand as he tried to scratch my face and nutted him as hard as I could.

Another thing I hadn't done in a while, but it wasn't a bad job. A good Glasgow Kiss is supposed to hurt the other guy more than you. On those grounds, I did pretty well. My forehead smarted a little, but Tidyman's nose crunched under the blow and warm blood splashed my face.

Blood on my face, blood on my hands. Grained into the skin. Still there. Still there now. Impossible to shift. Always carried with me. The blood. The guilt. My guilt.

His head snapped back. His eyes crossed and rolled up and the weight of him sagged. I lowered him to the ground. He let out a weak groan.

Everyone was staring. Hassan, Mleczko and the rest had all frozen over Stiles, and Cannock and Hendry were in the cockpit door. Chas was at the main door of the craft, looking in. He looked down at Tidyman and then up at me.

Shit.

We looked at each other for a few seconds that lasted a lot longer for me. Chas had been there too, that day in the desert, outside the city. He'd seen what I'd seen, been part of what I'd been part of. He understood. But at the same time, he'd stayed in when I'd left. Maybe he was just a tougher nut than I'd been, I don't know. Or maybe it was just that he'd been in too long; had nowhere else to go.

After a moment, he nodded and turned away.

Lomax stood there watching, about as easy to read as the fucking Sphinx. After a moment, though, he nodded too. I breathed out. Then I picked up the P226 and unbuckled Tidyman's gunbelt, strapped it round my own waist. Well, he wasn't going to need it now. Shiny Kit Syndrome again..

Cannock looked from me to Tidyman and back again. "Thanks for before," he finally said.

"Mention it. Chas?"

"Sarge?"

"See to the Squadron Leader, if you would. Get Hassan to look him over once he's finished with Stiles. In the meantime, better place him under restraint."

"Copy that. What about the men?"

I wiped my face. It felt cleaner, but traces of blood were still on my hand. "Stand them down for now. We're in the same boat as the locals. Better off pooling resources."

"Makes sense."

I stepped out into the rain and looked across at the farmers as Chas barked out orders. The big man with the shotgun gave a slight smile and nodded. I nodded back. Finally a response. I wondered how much he'd seen.

Chas drifted up. "He's in cuffs for his own good, but he's still conscious and he's coming round. My guess is he'll be breathing hellfire and damnation. Want me to give him a little tap on the head?"

Tempting, but perhaps not. "Maybe later, Corp."

"If you say so."

"I do. Want to see how Hassan's doing with Stiles?"

"Not particularly," sighed Chas. He half-turned away, then turned back. "You know, Sarge, you probably could've disarmed him without smashing his hooter like that."

"What's your point?"

Chas grinned. "Good to have you back, Robbie," he said, and moved off.

Time to talk with the natives again.

I made my way over. Most of them had drifted away by now, but the big man was still there.

"Looks like we'll be staying here for a while," I said at last.

He grunted. "I could have told you that, lad."

"Aye, well. We'll not be a bother to you."

"Come in handy, having you lot around. If those bloody things come back."

"Things?"

"Don't piss about, lad. You know what I'm talking about."

I nodded. "We're better off co-operating."

"What I thought. You want to get your lads in out of this?"

"Where did you have in mind?"

He gestured. "Pub's down at the end of Pendle Row. They can still pull a decent pint, even in this. Might be the last chance to get one in for a while."

I nodded. "Just keep 'em away from the optics to be going on with."

"We'll manage, I'm sure." He offered his hand. "Ged Wynn."

"Robbie McTarn."

I headed back to the chopper. "Chas? Move the men into the pub. Just leave whoever we need to keep watch on this." I gestured to the Chinook.

"You mean Tidyman."

"I mean both." I climbed aboard. Stiles was still out. Tidyman too. "Thought he was waking up again."

"Had a bit of a dizzy spell," said Chas. One thing about Chas Nixon, he could always keep his face admirably blank if he wanted.

"That'll give us some peace." I pushed through into the cockpit. "Sir?"

Cannock and Hendry looked up. "Either of you know where it is we're supposed to be going?"

Cannock shook his head. "Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

Hendry chipped in. "It's in the Cotswolds somewhere, Sergeant. That's all we were told. The only one with the exact location is Squadron Leader Tidyman."

I took a deep breath. "Please tell me we have a contact frequency."

"Yes. And a call sign for them. Windhoven. Twice a day - oh-nine-hundred and twenty-one-hundred."

And we were nowhere near either. Fuck.

"I suggest we get on the radio, and see if we can raise anyone else - army base, airfield, anything."

"Good thinking."

"Aye. Parkes!"

"Sir." Parkes showed her face at the doorway. She looked terrified.

"Work with the pilots. See if you can raise anyone who can point us in the right direction." I looked over at Cannock. "Do you want to see if you can get anything helpful out of Tidyman when he's a bit more awake?"

Cannock nodded. "Will do."

"Sergeant?"

Lomax. "Aye?"

"We'll need to secure the chopper. I mean physically secure it, in this storm. There's some tarps and guyropes in back. Am I OK borrowing a few of yours?"

"I'll see to it."

"Thanks."

I clapped Chas on the shoulder and we stepped down. Ged Wynn was still standing by the drystone as we approached, the broken shotgun over one arm.

"Haul three of the lads in to help Lomax. Get the chopper secured and then all we've got to do is sit tight till the storm clears."

"What about Tidyman?"

"Think the aircrew'll back me up. Frankly, Chas, as long as we're not leaving these poor sods completely fucking helpless I'll be happy facing the music. Worst comes to the worst, you just followed my orders."

He grinned. "Might be a plan securing a perimeter out here."

"Could be right. But we're not near a major population centre. Bit of luck, all we need to do is sit out the storm."

"Ged! Ged!"

Someone was running up the footpath.

I felt my hands moving of their own accord to slip the SA80 from behind my back, closing round the barrel and pistol grip. My thumb was on the safety catch.

Ged ran towards the newcomer, catching him as he almost fell. We reached them a few seconds later.

"Billy!" Ged shook the lad by the shoulders. "What's up?"

The lad was about nineteen, at a guess, with a round pallid face. He looked from face to face, like a scared kid half his age. "They're coming," he said. His voice sounded thick, slurred, as if something was wrong with his mouth. "They're fucking coming."

"You were saying, Sarge?" muttered Chas.

"Chas?"

"Yes, Sarge?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, Sarge."