After it Happened Boxset: 1-6 Omnibus Edition, page 98
Although overtly ignored, his indecision and obvious confusion was not lost on anyone present. Uttering a single word, the room clearance began.
“Seek,” Dan growled with low urgency, and Ash rocketed low into the room to work.
A tense minute elapsed, during which they could hear the muted occasional sounds of the dog working the room with his nose for any trace of life or danger. Returning to the doorway with his snout covered in thick dust and cobwebs, he gave his report to Dan by way of a series of loud sneezes followed by a mouth open, tongue out look of satisfaction and anticipated praise.
“Ash says it’s clear,” Dan said, fussing the animal and reminding him what a good boy he was. Sneezing again Ash returned to his position by Dan’s side and prepared to enter the room.
Of the six of them there, four including the dog had done this more times than they could ever count. One had skills which none of the others possessed, and the last was becoming ever increasingly exposed as a fraud.
Moving in with gun and torch raised, Dan muttered, “Go!” and slipped through the doorway, stepping fast to the right with Ash glued to his leg. Mitch flowed through simultaneously, peeling left. When they had gone through, Neil entered and stepped to the right of the door clear of the obvious funnel which would attract any fire.
The dog would have sounded off and returned at a rate of knots if anyone was inside, but this was real life and there were no respawns, so they stuck to the drills.
The moving pair – or trio really – flowed like water through the obstacles, around and between two large green military trucks, until they reached an internal wall at the far end of the dusty, and mostly empty, room. Calling the others up, they now assessed the next obstacle. This door was metal, reinforced at the lock, and far more substantial than anything they had encountered thus far, and as such held more promise. Trying the handle as a man never knew his luck, Dan found it secure. Holstering his weapon, he looked to Neil who silently turned and headed back to the doorway where he had left the disc cutter.
Dan held his disdain for Olivier in check and gestured for him to step up.
“Knock on the door and tell anyone inside that we’re not going to hurt them. Tell them to open up,” he said.
Olivier’s confusion was evident, but he did as he was asked.
When no answer came, he looked questioningly at Dan again but the man simply nodded to him, then looked over his shoulder at Neil who fired up the tool and set to work cutting through the metal. Stepping back to give him space to work, the others waited as Neil sweated and grunted amidst a fountain of sparks. Ash took himself further away, fearful of the light and noise being more sensitive to the latter than all the others combined, and Pietro began to pick at his fingernails with a huge blade to pass the time.
Eventually, the sounds of tortured metal stopped and Neil stepped back. Mitch had found a length of metal, a heavy-duty tent peg by his best guess, and rammed the spike into the obliterated lock housing. Putting all his strength behind it, the doorway popped open and Dan sent Ash in again.
They had struck gold again. The floor was littered with the bodies of soldiers, all wearing the same uniform. Crouching and wiping the filth away from the insignia on the upper arm of the closest one, Dan gestured to Olivier to look.
“Military police,” he announced, having deciphered the degraded writing.
Mitch took the metal spike to the nearest wooden crate, and after the lid was prised off he let out a long, low whistle which attracted the attention of the others.
Crowding around him, they looked down on a box crammed full of new and oiled assault rifles.
“Fucking bingo!” announced Neil, reaching down to lift one of the new HK416 rifles destined for who knew where.
“I read that the French were changing to these,” Mitch said, jealous at having had spent years dealing with the unreliable and awkward bullpup design the British forces insisted he used.
“Clear the rest of the base then come back with the others,” Dan instructed.
~
Within the hour, the remainder of the base was declared devoid of life, and all three of their vehicles were backed up to the doors of the building. A steady stream of two-person teams carrying the heavy boxes out into the sunlight was organized and the remainder of the room was being sorted and catalogued.
Although only a small armoury, they guessed that the addition of the crates of new assault rifles must have been in transit and likely escorted by the small detachment of military police who had succumbed whilst performing their final duty.
In addition to the new, and arguably best, assault rifles there was a rack of the older FAMAS which were destined for replacement. Dan also discovered the larger version of the HK, the 417, which fired the heavier 7.62 calibre and were configured as sniper rifles. A few under-barrel grenade launchers were found which could be fitted to the new rifles, but only one small metal tin of the 40mm bombs could be located, making them a very finite resource.
Neil was busy trying to coax one of the huge diesel-powered military transport vehicles back to life as the others worked, until Dan called for his help.
At the very back of the room, and secured behind a metal mesh barrier, sat two huge machine guns which harked from the days of the second world war, although their design had been much improved over the years.
“Bloody hell,” breathed Neil when he saw the prize uncovered by the removal of ammo crates. Reverting to his favourite BBC English accent, he leaned close to the mesh to see them.
“Haven’t seen a Browning,” he pronounced it brigh-ning, “like that in years.”
“A couple of fifty-cals would be nice,” said Dan in wistful wonder, mentally calculating their destructive power in Leah’s defence plan. “Cut the door for me?” he asked Neil.
“Cut it yourself,” he responded, pointing to the disc cutter sat idle on the floor nearby. “Just don’t cut your foot off or anything,” he said before patting him on the shoulder roughly and returning to his resurrection project in the outer room.
“Thanks,” Dan replied icily, earning a look from Ash as they were joined by Mitch, whose own appreciation for the destructive capability before him was evident. He told Dan he could clean them up and get them working, so long as they found enough ammo to make it worth their while lugging them back.
In truth, he was hoping for some smaller support weapons, but the big point-five-ohs would be a major addition to their prize fund.
Their vehicles were loaded with weapons and ammunition, a good third of their haul being given over to the big beasts and the massive ammo they fired.
As the last of the crates and lockers were prised open, Dan jumped at a sudden sound as Neil first fired the struggling engine of the truck, heard it whine tiredly before it barked into life and ejected a gigantic cloud of black, unburnt diesel into the room and caused a mass exodus of choking scavengers.
“Sorry chaps and chapesses!” he boomed from the doorway of the raised cab he stood proudly in, unable to hide his obvious pride and excitement. The main doors were hauled open to both clear the air and allow the big transporter to escape the dusty mausoleum.
Just as Dan was about to call for the saddle-up and return journey, Mitch excitedly jogged up to him.
“You’ve got to see this!” he blurted out, then turned on his heel and headed for the furthest corner of the room. Hauling a big canvas all the way back from a large crate, he shone his torch into the gap he had splintered into the wood.
Dan peered down and saw a dull green tube with a raised polygon at the end. As it dawned on him what he was looking at, Mitch couldn’t contain himself any longer. “AT4s,” he said, beaming an excited but borderline evil grin. “Anti-tank rockets.”
Echoing Neil’s earlier comment, Dan leaned back with his own smile.
“Bloody hell.”
THE INSIDE MAN
Olivier took himself away after becoming bored with the menial task of carrying boxes. The people who, only a few months before, had viewed him with respect and often fear now ignored him or worse; they treated him as an equal.
Sullenly he wandered away, kicking at the overgrown thorns which had endured the lashing storms and cold temperatures. He regarded his new acquisition; the dirty sidearm caked with dirt which he lacked the sense to realise was the remains of its previous owner. He guessed the gun wouldn’t fire in its current state, but he enjoyed the feeling of holding it. He wandered clear around the back of the big building where everyone else still contributed to the collective cause.
Had he been the soldier he had told everyone he was, he wouldn’t have been looking at his feet and sulking. He would have noticed the trodden grass and – had he been half the man that Dan and Mitch were – he would have sensed that he wasn’t alone.
By the time he realised he had made a mistake, the undergrowth to his left rose up and clamped a powerful arm around his neck, stifling any sound he could have made instantly. As terror hit him hard in the chest, the undergrowth to his right also came to life and easily pulled the rifle and sidearm from his hands without any obvious resistance before it sank with his slow and controlled descent to the ground, and placed its own camouflaged face in front of him.
The eye contact made him freeze, although the arm around his neck had already done most of the job. There was something in those eyes, some primal fear made him stay very still in some genetically predisposed, hard-wired self-preservation way; as a rabbit would do when a bird of prey cast a shadow over the grass ahead.
He stared into those eyes, and knew he was about to die.
“Quiet now,” growled the monster before him in French, “do as I say and you will live.”
~
The three trucks they had brought as well as the newly reanimated military transport were loaded and secured. Dan called everyone in and addressed the group in simple, short sentences, pausing occasionally for Pietro to translate his words. From the smirks on the faces of the others, he was certain the big Russian was adding some artistic license to his speech, but he let it ride.
He told them they had done well, that they should rest a short while and eat something before they headed back.
“Tonight, you’ll be home in your own beds, and Sanctuary will be safe.” He smiled broadly, not because he was a happy man as such, but more that he knew his facial expressions would need no translation. He climbed onto the bonnet of the big military truck and scanned a 360 out of habit. Whenever he gave other people a rest break he automatically stood watch over them, sacrificing his own downtime for the comfort of everyone else. That’s just what leaders did. Ash sat on the ground and watched him, as Mitch put one foot on a large wheel and hauled himself up to the vantage point.
“Impressive swag,” he mused aloud, gaining a grunt of agreement from Dan.
“I’ve added a box of tricks in the back of this one,” he went on, nodding his head to the rear of the vehicle, “and we can talk about how to use them when we get back.”
Slightly perplexed, but in truth too tired and preoccupied to take too much notice, Dan merely grunted his agreement again before voicing his concerns.
“Where the fuck did Walter Mitty go?” Meaning that he hadn’t seen Olivier in a while.
“No idea,” answered Mitch without concern, just as the red-faced Frenchman reappeared from the side of the building. He stood still, as though he didn’t expect to see the two men who intimidated him so much stood up high and staring at him, before averting his eyes and scurrying past them. He didn’t get far, as Ash spun around to block his path. Olivier stood still again, and Dan, fearful that he would feel persecuted told his dog to leave him.
Ash would not. He took a quick series of steps forward on his big paws and sniffed the air before dropping into a defensive pose and baring his teeth. A low but evidently threatening growl emanated from the big dog prompting Dan to snap at him louder to leave the man alone.
Olivier backed away, and when he saw that Ash would not follow he turned and walked fast.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked the dog, who had relaxed but still watched the man walking away. Ash ignored his master, and maintained visual contact with his target.
The two men stood on top of the truck looked at each other, as though both tried to figure out what that exchange had been about.
“I always said Ash was a good judge of character,” Mitch said.
“Me too,” agreed Dan, but almost absently. He had ignored his dog’s intuition twice before, and it had almost cost him his life.
“Was it me or did he look like he’d been crying?” Dan asked the soldier.
In his reply, Mitch betrayed the very reason why he needed a commanding officer. Why, although ruthlessly effective at any task of soldiering, he worked better when the decisions were made for him. He lacked that extra layer of instinct which could turn the tide of an engagement. He merely dismissed the odd turn of events with a joke.
“Probably went for a piss and remembered how small it was!”
Dan smiled the appropriate response, but didn’t let the thought dissipate with the moment. Jumping down from his perch, he called aloud for everyone to head home.
He didn’t realise that the look he had seen on Olivier’s face was one of shame; a look of a man ashamed of himself, ashamed of his jealousy, ashamed because his lies were uncovered. It was a look of a man who would sell his own mother for status, and it was the look of a man whose loyalty could be bought for a very low price.
~
The two lethal patches of undergrowth listened as the sound of four engines faded away into the distance. They stayed put, not moving an inch, until they were certain that nobody had remained behind to ambush them in the unlikely event that the little man they had captured decided to betray them. To betray his country and his army.
Slithering low to the ground they returned to the small section of fence they had cut and so painstakingly fixed back into place so as not to show any sign of their entry into the camp. Walking fast but quietly over the uneven ground they moved in silence until they regained the position of their vehicle.
Combined with the detailed activity report and carefully drawn map from his sniper, le chasseur had now obtained real-time intelligence on the strength and capabilities of his adversary. He knew the basic approach to the defence of the walled town by the sea, and, vitally, he now knew how to crack it open like an egg.
The chess pieces were forming up, and the king would fall to him.
GAME CHANGER
Waking with a gasp, sheeted with sweat and fighting to control his breathing, Steve took a few seconds to realise where he was.
He was on a folding cot, restrained by a sleeping bag, in a room with other people who all seemed blissfully unaware of the terror he had been in.
If it wasn’t the reliving of the horrific events which caused him to transform from pilot in the air to a bleeding sack of meat and bone on the ground, then it was something else. More terrifying than the twisted and contorted memories and false memories of the helicopter crash, was his other recurring nightmare. The same one he had just experienced, which led him to jolt awake in such sudden fear of his own death that his body was sticky and cold as his heart pounded in his chest. In this repeating dream, he again stood on the steps of the commandeered town hall in their unhappy camp, and as he was delivering his victory speech to the grateful masses, his nemesis appeared and gunned him down. In his own nightmare, the madman he had cheated out of air superiority came to exact his terrible revenge, and the gun raised towards him in slow motion. He saw the barrel rise, was powerless to do anything about it, and stood transfixed by the black circle of the business end of the gun and waited for the flash.
That flash signalled his demise, it foretold his death, and each and every time it felt completely, utterly, and inescapably real.
Trying and failing to gain command of his breathing, his shoulders heaved and he clutched both hands to his breast bone and forced his lungs to slow their desperate race to burst.
Two whole minutes passed before he felt in any way in control of his body again, and if he hadn’t known better he would have thought he was having a heart attack. He knew he wasn’t, because he had experienced the same sensation over and over, at least three times each week for months now.
Slowly extricating himself from the damp sleeping bag he swung his feet out of the bed to the cold floor. In the shaft of light in front of his face beaming in from the artificial lights outside, he saw his breath mist before him. The cold December air hit his damp body then, and brought on racking shivers which made his teeth chatter involuntarily. Knowing he would not regain any sleep that night, or probably much the night after, he struggled to his feet still shivering. At least if he was done with slumber for the night then he might as well make himself more comfortable and wash away the cold layer of sweat.
Remembering to retrieve the walking stick which he hadn’t needed for months, he shrugged a blanket over his shoulders and retrieved the towel and armful of clothes he had laid out for the following day; a practice he had been accustomed to for as long as he could remember, from long days at sea waiting to run to his aircraft at a moment’s notice, to the days spent on intensive training where an extra minute of sleep could make all the difference. He may be damaged, crippled, and have no access to a helicopter for the remainder of his life, but he was still, at heart, a warrior.
