Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined (14 page)

Broadhead Barracks
 

'He fucking did what?' Baker's rage fell in a torrent as it spilled forth, the walls of his mind crumbling under the weight.
 

'Left one of the doormen in hospital; the other was knocked cold and revived on site by the paramedics. The two responding officers managed to take him down. He did do some damage before they dropped him; one was left with bruised ribs and the other a split chin from him slamming her into the floor; although, she did manage to get off a shot from her Taser, so I guess it wasn't a total whitewash.'
 

Baker clutched at the arms of the chair he dropped into, his body sagging as he stared back at Colinson. Thoughts danced in his head as he ran through the problems Hawk and his giant can of worms had created.
 

'So, what's this going to cost us?'
 

His singular uttered sentence caught Colinson off guard, the words setting his mind whirling as he ran through the possible implications. He was silent for several seconds as he let his mind sift through the cost of keeping the situation in house and out of the public eye.
 

'Not a vast amount; I would need a few hours to run the numbers, but it shouldn't put too much of a dent in our slush fund.'
 

Baker nodded as he leant forwards, his elbows propped on his thighs as he racked his brains for a suitable punishment detail. A small glimmer of light echoed in his eyes as he settled on a near perfect solution.
 

'We need to set this as a burnout option, but we cannot lose Stabbler; he is too much of an effective operative. We've lost a lot of sway recently with the Americans because of Stabbler's and Richards' defection and the rapidly disintegrating communications network there. Do we still have that shipment coming in from the ROF?'
 

Colinson shifted his feet from the top of his desk, the screen of his computer wobbling slightly as his desk juddered; tapping at his keyboard, he brought up the shipment manifests for the next three weeks.

'Yep, Royal Ordnance due in... tomorrow, as it happens. Four trucks loaded with small calibre munitions and replacement plates for our third generation ballistics armour, and it looks like the prototype wing-packs from the Japanese have also made it in before the border lockdown; that should make the R.R.T boys happy. Hang on a second.'
 

Derek looked up, his grin faltering as he saw the concerned look on Colinson's face.
 

'What's wrong?'
 

Colinson looked up, his face a mixed mask of questioning worry and curiosity.
 

'The wing-pack shipment—it's for fifty prototype suits. The R.R.T only has, at best, half a dozen men.'
 

Baker nodded, watching Colinson's face as it slowly sank in.
 

'Why wasn't I told?'
 

Baker smirked, his eyes dancing with mirth as he began to speak.
 

'Oh, I'm sorry; did you not earlier this week request I make all data transfers and requests through secure email and not hard copy packets? Check your inbox.'
 

Colinson once more tapped at his keyboard, opening the internal mail client and pulling out the private folder marked for internal orders and transfers. His eyes danced as the names and combat data on the sixty potential recruits scrolled up the screen.
 

Nodding, he printed out the pages and set them in a pile in the centre of his desk.
 

'Well, my face is red; when do they get here?'
 

Baker smirked again as he stood and pushed the chair flush to the wall again.
 

'In about ten minutes, and the wing-packs came in early. Woodwrow has been toying with those for the last three days or so; the guy's nuttier than I am. I wouldn't go near one of those things, let alone ride it. Also, bud, before I get going, check for a communication CCed via me from Davies; it's about the G36c and the Diemaco.'
 

Colinson nodded as he watched Derek turn and move to the door. David's eyes tracked Baker as he stopped in the doorway.
 

Baker nodded as David turned his gaze back to the pages in front of him, shifting them in his hands as he scanned them line by line.
 

'Well, I've got a detail to prepare and a bollocking to dish out. Check out that email; it's a good notion on John's part and well worth looking into. Catch you later, mate.'
 

Colinson waved a hand as he studied the dossiers in more detail, only looking up when he heard the door click shut.

****

Baker watched as Woodwrow stood in front of the sixty recruits, their formations looser than he would have liked and their clothes a mix of issued kit and civilian dress, which made him wince at the indecisive nature it showed in some of the men.
 

His eyes scanned the motley assortment of soldiers; the trepidation and eager energy flowed off them as they stood in the pale, watery sunlight that was forcing its way through the heavy layer of clouds. Baker looked up as a shadow passed over him, the thick nebulous body of water vapour and ice passed across the thin ball of yellow water that had replaced the sun.
 

Shaking his head, he pushed his beret back into position, stood, and moved off towards his vehicle, the throaty puttering of its engine drifting across the open expanse of the parade ground.
 

Hunching low, Derek ducked as he pulled the door open, the heat kicking him full in the face as he stared at his wife curled in the passenger seat, her bare feet resting either side of the heater.
 

She glanced up as the cold spring wind nipped at her bare toes, whipping away the heat almost as soon as Derek touched the door handle. She turned, a smile ghosting her features as she stared up at his shadowed form as he slid into the driver's seat.
 

'Maria okay?'
 

Janet's smile deepened as she glanced into the back seat; their daughter was safely ensconced in her baby seat, a small bubble of snot forming over one nostril, its shimmering green film expanding and contracting in time with her breathing. She shifted slightly, the dreams in her head making her fidget, arms and legs batting at unseen foes as she slumbered. Turning into the side of the seat, Maria gently licked her lips, her small, pink tongue tracing over her mouth as she sniffed, the small bubble popping silently.

Janet chuckled softly as she watched her daughter. Reaching back, she gently wiped the small trail of goo from her top lip, the baby wipe cold to the touch as it slipped over her daughter's skin.
 

'Yeah, she's fine; fighting the good fight in there, probably against a big pink bunny and walking marshmallows, but she seems to be holding her own.'
 

Derek grinned as he pictured the scene.
 

'That's my girl; speaking of my girls, how's my favourite one doing?'
 

Janet smiled as she traced his jaw with her fingers, a peal of laughter dancing in her eyes.
 

'I just told you that, didn't I?'
 

Derek smiled slightly as he put the car into gear and began to make his way to the front gates.
 

'Very funny, but seriously, how are you feeling?'
 

Janet sighed as she leant against the cold glass of her window, the heat from the car making them fog slightly. She idly traced her finger through the condensed vapour as she thought of a reply.
 

'Tired, worn out, and well, stretched thin like too little paint on a very large canvas. There hasn't been any let up with the hospitals; those damned units being installed into them aren't helping things and the number of Infected being admitted is climbing. They had to cut my maternity leave short, as you well know, and I just can't keep the pace up. Maria, god bless her… she took a lot out of me when I brought her into this world. Wouldn't change it for anything, but she did one hell of a number on me. I haven't felt this tired since my days in pre-med; we need a babysitter or even a live-in nanny. I can't keep dragging her into the line of fire every time I leave the house. I am petrified that something will happen to her when my back is turned.
 

'But... that's not what truly scares me, not with the hospital, anyway.
 

'It's getting harder and harder to spot the early cases; they bare such a resemblance to people with a very heavy bout of flu that, unless they're a fast carrier and shoot through the stages to three or four in a matter of hours, we can't tell.
 

'Only thing that confirms it is blood work, and that takes hours, if not days sometimes, to come back. We're so damned short staffed and overworked, that some of the technicians and haematologists are pulling double or even triple shifts just to beat the backlogs. I just don't know what to do, we need help, and we need it fast.'
 

Derek sat silent as Janet's words sank in. The strain in her voice and the pale circles of fatigue under her eyes made her look a lot older than her twenty-nine years. Sparing a glance at the gate staff, he slipped out onto the roadway and headed towards home, a singular sentence finding its way from his mind to his lips as he flipped the indicator and merged into the traffic.
 

'I'll see what I can do; I promise.'
 

His words, although heartfelt and strong, ultimately went unnoticed as he glanced in Janet's direction and saw her sleeping form curled against her seatbelt.
 

****
 

Colinson stared at the slightly flickering screen of his computer, Davies' private correspondence sitting in stark black and white on the screen.
 

Derek, David, I have been going over a few of the reports from the other teams as well as previous reports from before I was on board, and while the G36c is a good weapon, it makes no sense to have it circulation alongside the Diemaco. Now, Woodwrow and the RRT have had nothing but positive feedback on the system and I feel it would be a better solution to retire our frontline rifle in favour of the Diemaco.
 

It makes us a far more flexible unit on the ground if we are all singing from the same hymn sheet. You'll find a few reports attached to this. Let me know what you think and if it's an implementable option. Also, on another note, I have heard from Anna about some unusual occurrences with the nightshift in the labs. I don't know whether she has raised the issue with either of you. I am checking into it myself but thought it best to raise it with both of you, as well.
 

Colinson leant back in his chair as he let the message sink in before lifting the phone from his desk. He leant forwards once more, hit the speed dial key, and listened to it ring.

12
June Third

Broadhead Barracks
Drop training
 

'Right, kiddies, you want in?'
 

A chorus of nods and spoken affirmations drifted on the crisp afternoon air. Woodwrow shivered slightly; he sorely missed the four days of brief sun and heat. As much as he enjoyed the jumps in France and Italy, the weather was less than hospitable when soaring through the air in excess of one hundred miles per hour, wearing only a lightweight suit.

'Who here has experience with wing-suits?'
 

A hawk-faced, sandy-haired soldier raised his hand, catching Kevin's attention. 'What's your name, kid? I got the list of candidates but no photos.'
 

The candidate shuffled slightly as he looked at Woodwrow, slightly embarrassed for being put on the spot so suddenly. 'Wayans, sir.'
 

Woodwrow grinned as he looked at the recruit, his swathe of curled facial hair splitting in two as he spoke.
 

'Right, sunshine. First off, I ain't a sir. I ain't anything but one of you. We drop together, we fight together, and we either go home together, or we die trying. So call me Kev or Woody, but not sir; that goes for the rest of you, as well. Rules are different for Captain Colinson and Lieutenant Baker; they run the show and we kill what we are told to kill. Anyway, I am getting ahead of myself here. You've got experience in the suits—good. You seen one of these before?'
 

Kevin reached down and pulled away the heavy, green canvas tarp that lay at his feet, revealing the prototype wing-pack. The recruit's eyes boggled as they stared at the slim, lightweight frame on the floor.