“I’m good. I’m good,” I reassured him.
Russian Federation base, Port of Murmansk 0500 hours, present day.
The communications truck wasn’t designed for injured operatives. Limited space made it difficult to get Portman into a position which didn’t cause him further pain. Gladstone remained alert as the sky began to lighten, and the two doctors took turns watching over their patient.
“Gladstone?” Evie whispered, as she patted his bio-suit to get his attention. “You should try to rest too. We’re safe enough here for now at least.”
“I’m okay, really. I’ll maybe grab a half hour when day breaks, until then we need to be ready in case they discover we’re gone,” Gladstone replied.
The deep
throb, throb, throb
of rotary engines filled the quiet morning air. It echoed around the port and snapped Gladstone’s gaze skyward. Unable to see where the noise came from, he listened as it grew louder, which indicated that helicopters were coming in to land nearby. A sense of hope filled him. Maybe they would be rescued; perhaps Cross and Stewall had managed to convince the rebels to mount an assault, he hoped.
There were other noises soon afterwards, familiar noises from his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. Those were the noises of troop carriers over land. The crackle of a jet could be heard high in the sky, and the boom as it streaked over the port indicated relatively low-level, high-speed flight.
Claxon alarms began to sound across the port base. Soldiers poured from the tented barracks to form lines and ranks. Gladstone peered from the canvas backing of the truck.
“What the hell is going on?” Charles asked.
“Sounds like the cavalry just arrived. There are helicopters coming in from all directions and I’ve heard troop carriers too. Something big is about to go down,” Gladstone replied.
“Do you think they’re Russian, or more of Aslanov’s men, the rebels maybe?” Evie questioned.
Gladstone peeked outside again. “I can’t tell from here. Can’t quite see past the containers more than a few metres either side. It’s too risky to try to move. We’re better off sitting tight awhile longer.”
“But if they start shooting, won’t we be stuck in the crossfire?” Charles queried.
“Good point. While we have some protection here, we wouldn’t stand a chance caught between the two. Get Portman ready to move. We’ll keep going in the same direction until we hit the perimeter of the port. Let’s just hope it isn’t well guarded,” Gladstone conceded.
*****
The sound of the claxons sent the port into a frenzy. Aslanov rushed from his lab midway through production of yet more of the accelerated viral formula. A soldier rushed towards him, hand extended, palm up. He refused to speak or look directly at the doctor.
“Speak man! What is happening out there, speak!” Aslanov yelled, and slapped the man’s palm away.
“Sir. The Federation have come, troops in their hundreds and ships in the breakwater. What would you have us do, sir?” the soldier asked.
“Wait, let me think. Spread word to the troops. If they attempt entry into the port, you are to defend it at all costs. I need more time to finish the serum, then we will have yet more brothers to our cause,” he sneered.
“Yes, sir. Right away.” The soldier double-timed back to the assembled ranks.
“Dimitri, Rostok, get out there and organise the men. Find out how many Federation troops there are, get the men ready for battle,” Aslanov ordered.
“Yes, sir!” both men responded.
While they organised the men, Aslanov would focus on the virus. If he were to proceed with the plan, more troops coming would only assist in the inevitable victory, he concluded.
“Time to visit our guests. They will be a good bargaining tool, I think,” Aslanov jeered, to the empty lab.
His determined strides carried him swiftly and purposefully towards the two guards outside the laboratory that had once been a cell. “Open it!”
The guards obeyed instantly, their black eyes unblinking, despite the ferocity of the order. Aslanov breezed inside, his speech already prepared in his mind for the British captives.
“They’re not here! How can they
not
be here!” he yelled. “Guards, search this place and
find them
!” The rage in his voice made him scream out the orders.
The two guards rushed into the ransacked laboratory, one left, and one right as they proceeded to pull cabinets from the walls, overturn desks, and sweep the entire area.
“Not
in
here
, you bumbling inbreeds,
out there
, find them! Go!” Aslanov shrieked from the doorway.
He could barely control the anger welling up inside him. His body trembled as thoughts of Vadik belittling him surfaced once more.
Where the hell was Vadik anyway?
he thought. He thrashed among the debris, and his foot punted the waste bin hard enough to clatter it against the far wall. He watched as the papers from the meshed bin floated in aimless flight back towards the ground. Then he noticed the escape hatch. He stood beneath it, staring upwards at a patch of open blue sky.
“Aaaaahhhhrrrggghh!” he growled.
Aslanov stormed from the lab, returning to his own. He threw off his lab coat and belted an automatic pistol to his waist. As he passed through the corrugated corridors towards the main barracks, he gathered troops to conduct the search for the missing prisoners.
With his men, he began to search likely places within easy reach of the laboratory. They couldn’t have gone far, as the base was heavily guarded at all points.
A lone communications relay truck, virtually boxed in by the shipping containers, stood with its transmitter aerial fully extended skywards.
“Who is in charge of this vehicle?” Aslanov demanded.
From the rear, a baritone voice replied, “It is the responsibility of Comrade Tupenev, sir.”
“Where is he?”
“He is dead, sir. He was shot an hour ago in the assimilation.”
“Search it. Now!” Aslanov barked.
As his guards advanced upon the olive-green truck, Aslanov drew his sidearm, purposefully holding back to allow the men to approach first. Six of his soldiers took their positions. Two stood at the driver’s door, one ready to open it and the other ready to fire. Four men approached the back, weapons trained upon the canvas flap. On Aslanov’s nod, the guards simultaneously pulled the driver’s door wide and flicked open the rear flap. A single shot rang out around the base.
“Cease fire, idiot!” Aslanov barked. “There’s no one to shoot at. Can you not see that?”
The troops stood in silence awaiting their next orders.
“Spread out. Check every open container, vehicle, and possible hiding place. They cannot have gone far.”
*****
Gladstone froze as the sound of the shot resonated through the rat-run corridors. “Everyone down!”
The two physicians fell low to the floor as he lowered Portman to the ground, resting his back against the cold steel wall of the storage box. The weapon, seized from the guard, hung from his shoulder. He pulled it to bear in the direction of the sound.
“They found the truck. They’re not far behind us. You two, take Portman. Evie, give me the box of tricks, and I’ll try to slow them down. You need to keep going towards the perimeter, it’s the only hope we have. Here, take this.” Gladstone unslung the AK-102, Evie took it from him. “You know how to fire this, ma’am?” he asked, half-heartedly.
Evie took the weapon from him, and checked the sights, pushing a round into the chamber. “I do. I’ve had training in multiple weapons, Gladstone. I am particularly fond of the Remington pump action, but I can use this too.”
“Fair play. If they come, don’t hesitate, just shoot. In the meantime, stay out of sight as much as possible. When you hear the shooting start, don’t look back.” Gladstone instructed. “Let’s move!”
With Portman supported between Charles and Evie, they began to resume their progress towards the perimeter.
Gladstone kept low to the ground, the bio-suit proving to be more of a hindrance than a help. On reflection, given what he was about to do, it really wouldn’t make a difference if he were to succumb to the virus. He stripped out of the suit, casting it atop the nearest container so as not to give away the position of his wards.
The plastic tray containing numerous concoctions, of which he had forgotten the individual purposes, boasted an array of test tubes, beakers, and improvised Molotov cocktails, as well as a number of filled syringes. He pocketed the smaller tubes and vials, which didn’t stand any chance of leakage or breakage. The larger items, he carried. If he could change direction, draw the search away from the intended route of the others, that would buy them valuable time, and he might take a few of them out too, he surmised.
As he approached the end of a row of containers, the use of the mirrored scalpel proved effective once again. To his left, two soldiers approached cautiously, each checking containers in the row. Gladstone took one test tube containing a yellowy-brown substance, inside which hung a small vial of another, darker fluid, topped off by a short material fuse. He dug deep into his trousers for the lighter he always carried, and smiled. He lit the fuse and waited until the small flame took hold and burned fierce enough to remain lit.
The guards clattered from container to container, making no attempt to mask their advance. Within two metres of the turn, Gladstone flicked his arm around and released the glass tube. The explosion which greeted him didn’t come from the corridor. No, this was farther away towards the camp entrance. He heard the tube shatter, followed by a swish of burning air that he felt sweep around the corner to his position.
One of the guards staggered and bounced from the corner where the two corridors met, Gladstone stared in disbelief as the man literally began to melt before his eyes. His face drooped at a crazy angle, the liquid flesh and tissue no longer held by tiny facial muscles.
Gladstone, frozen to the spot and with a ringside seat at the garish spectacle, watched as the dying guard gargled incomprehensible sounds, his vocal cords long ago burned away. His weapon clattered to the floor as fingers began to fuse, corroded into stumps where hands once were.
“Oh, my dear God,” Gladstone whispered.
The guard finally lay still, wisps of chemical smoke curled from the ragged military jacket. Gladstone edged closer, aware that the second guard could well be nearby. He looked closely at the discarded weapon, checking for any residual liquid which might have come into contact with it. The automatic rifle seemed to be fine, unscathed by the ferocious acidic mixture. He hooked the toe of his thick, military boot around the strap and dragged the gun towards himself. He settled back into a crouch, pulling both sleeves down over his hands to pick it up.
Content the rifle wasn’t contaminated, he checked the magazine and chamber before rounding the corner in search of the second guard, moving in the direction of the explosion. From his position, a cacophony of shouts and sporadic gunfire could be heard, sometimes drowned out by smaller explosions from every direction.
Russian Federation base, Port of Murmansk, present day.
I watched shoulder to shoulder with Cross, high up on our vantage point, overlooking the docks as the rebel assault began in earnest. The armoured car blazed through the main guarded entrance to the port. From its bowels erupted a team of eight heavily armed men. Grenades took out the sentries, who had no idea what hit them. Instinctively I pulled my arms over my head and planted my face in the dirt. Cross patted my shoulder and urged me to resume my observations as more grenades exploded.
The Federation troops began to sweep in from the eastern perimeter in a scissor movement designed to trap those in between. Through my basic scope, I could make out men confused by the multiple onslaughts from two directions. Cross never took his eye from his sights, not even as the larger explosions shook the very ground upon which we lay.
The communications tower fell in a hail of fire and sparks. It buckled mid-flight and crashed from the tops of the containers below. Smaller, eruptions signalled the disablement of vehicles as the resistance fighters began the systematic invasion of the port.
“Team one, are you receiving, over?” I heard in my headset.
“Go ahead,” Cross replied with a short static hiss between beginning and end.
“Enemy troops are reforming at your nine, take out as many as you can, over,” the voice crackled.
Even over the radio, the Scottish accent could be detected.
“Roger that, out,” Cross confirmed.
The report from his rifle at the first shot he took sounded more like a muffled cough than the discharge of a high-powered weapon. His shoulder jerked just slightly as the bullet sped towards its destination.
What did that feel like, knowing that to pull the trigger would end a life?
I saw a man fall face first to the ground, unsure of whether the result was Cross’s handiwork. If it was, it was a hell of a shot. We must have been a thousand yards away by my estimation. The infected troops began to regroup and return fire. They were organised now, working as a fighting unit after the initial surprise attack.
“You want to know, don’t you?” Cross said, out of the blue. He fired off another round as I looked at him.
“I want to know what?” I replied, innocently.
“You want to know if you can shoot someone, if you can shoot one of those men there, someone you’ve never met, you know nothing about, and who bears no quarrel with you other than his uniform.” Cross hit the nail.
“I can’t say I haven’t thought of it. It just seems like a sport that way. I’m not keen on the idea,” I argued.
“Listen to me. Those men there, they’re not men anymore, they’re akin to
machines
, killing machines. Do you think they would hesitate to shoot you or attack you on sight?”
“I—I suppose not.” I lowered my gaze, weakness washed over me again, demolishing the strength of my newly erected walls.
I knew it! Weak as you ever were. When are you going to sprout a backbone, idiot? Would you bottle it if Charley was down there? Yes, you would, to save your own worthless skin.
The voices taunted me once more, and the rage inside bubbled as I looked upon the scene of destruction and death. Cross held the rifle out towards me. I took it.
I set the weapon down, emulating the position I’d witnessed him adopt. The bipod allowed me to bring my left hand to the front of the butt, just forwards of my cheek, as my right held the pistol grip of the stock. I pulled my right knee upwards, resting the ankle upon my left calf to create a base for my lower body. The scope on this rifle offered truly amazing clarity. I panned the weapon on the swivel mount, able to read the letters and numbers of vehicle plates, even distinguish the blackened eyes of the soldiers I zoomed in upon.
“Draw the bolt back, flick it up and push forwards to load a single round into the chamber. Remember the distance and adjust your aim accordingly, one notch is equivalent to a hundred metres. The round won’t drop much. Mark your target, steady your breathing, remember the pause before you fire—just as you were taught with the Glock,” Cross advised.
Soldiers flitted across the wide-angle field of view. I spotted Federation troops advancing through the eastern gate, encountering heavy resistance and taking losses. The rebels fared no better in their advance on the front; many were already dead. My crosshairs picked up young Petrov, General Volkov’s son. I watched as he fired off rounds, cutting down two of the advancing enemy infected. My pulse raced as another two split, one to his left, and the other to his right in an effort to flank his position. Head-to-head, he wouldn’t stand a chance. I marked the soldier to his right and tracked him until he advanced in a line towards our position. Sweat began to trickle down my temple, the moisture creating a chilled track down the side of my face. I adjusted my aim to centre the cross on the soldier’s head, fully aware that a clean kill was not only humane, but to injure him would solve nothing.
You think you can, don’t you, big man? The bottle is on the table where you left it. Need a slug or two? Do you think you’ll see redemption and that your wife and kids will once again love the wreck of a man you’ve become?
My hand closed around the grip, my knuckles white with a mixture of aggression and fear.
“Simon, focus. Concentrate on your breathing, nothing else. The target isn’t real. It’s just a target. Focus, breathe, then loose,” Cross urged.
I fought against the turbulence in my mind, matched only by the maelstrom in my gut. My breathing steadied, my thumb flicked the safety off, and I settled once more.
No! He is your brother. He is one with you.
“Nathan, I can’t. I just—can’t,” I spluttered.
That was new. That wasn’t the voice I heard a minute ago. This was different. This voice didn’t goad me, it ordered me, and yet, it wasn’t my own conscience talking.
“Quickly, safety on, pass me the weapon,” Nathan urged.
In a matter of seconds, he had adopted a sniper’s position, flicked off the safety, and sent a round into the skull of the right-hand soldier I had tracked. He aimed again, the left soldier sent pirouetting to the ground, only feet from where Petrov took cover. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes searching my own.
“What happened?” he asked, an undertone of genuine concern in his question.
“I couldn’t fire. Not, I
couldn’t
fire, I just physically couldn’t pull the trigger. That soldier, he’s infected, just like me. I couldn’t kill him,” I explained.
“You’re telling me the infected cannot kill other infected, right?”
“Seems so. But then, how is it that you can?” I mused.
“Now that is a question. Wait one. Go ahead zero.”
My headset crackled once more as the incoming message was relayed.
“Team one, this is zero. We are preparing to enter the base. There’s a large force approaching the front gates, be advised.”
“Roger that zero, wait one,” Nathan responded. “Pass me the glasses, Simon.”
I handed him the binoculars. For a moment, he scanned left and right, appearing to be planning something. He looked at the large group of soldiers discharging rounds indiscriminately.
“Zero, team one, over.”
“Go ahead, team one.”
“Zero, observe the chemical barrels twenty yards from hostiles. That’s ethanol. Team one requesting permission to take out the barrels. Zero, use tracer rounds to ignite it, over,” Cross instructed.
“Roger that, team one. On your mark.”
I picked up the stacked barrels, each with a bright orange sticker proclaiming the chemical content. Sure enough, the letters C2H60 were clearly stamped in white lettering. Nathan slammed rounds into the barrels one after another. In all, twenty-one barrels were pyramid stacked inside some sort of meshed enclosure. The rounds came quick and fast as I observed the contents begin to spill across the intended path of the combatants.
“Zero, team one. Fire tracers now. I repeat fire tracers now! Light ‘em up, over.”
“Roger that. Firing.”
I’ve seen fireworks many times in my lifetime, but nothing prepared me for what I saw now. A stream of bullets lit up the gradient heading down towards the port. Shot after shot streaked yellow-orange across the sky towards the barrels. The infected continued to charge the front gates in a bid to thwart entry by the rebel forces. They ran through puddles of ethanol, unaware of what was about to happen.
The white-hot, pyrotechnic-charged tracer rounds—ignited by the burning powder within the casing—made contact with the explosive chemical washing over the surface. At first, I saw nothing untoward occur. The initial muffled explosion threw a few of the advancing guards sideways, sending them rolling into their comrades. Each toppled guard soon rose again, only this time, something else appeared to be happening.
Through my scope, I could see no flames or fire and yet the troops erupted simultaneously. They staggered forwards, rounds pinging from every static object as they began to fire in their agony and confusion. Flames licked at their uniforms, the only sign of conflagration being the odd curl of yellow from the men themselves. Across the pooled ethanol, shimmering images of enflamed bodies filled my periphery, the sheer heat rippling the very air around them. I could see their faces begin to distort, clothing gave way to melting skin as they succumbed to the invisible inferno.
“You shouldn’t watch that, it isn’t pretty,” Nathan advised.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I replied, tearing my eyes from the scope.
“Come on, now we get up close and personal. The rebels will take the main area now, once the fire dies down.”
We began to make our way towards the port, the outer ground uneven and rocky. Nathan knelt to take out stray enemy soldiers. He was deadly, and I lost count of the number he took down. I covered the arc of fire, keen to at least try to do something to help.
Through the radio, contact with the prisoners in the midst of a fight for their own lives was confirmed. It spurred us on, into the fray.