Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined (19 page)

'What have I got to do to get out of here?'
 

The thick Bostonian accent filled the room as Baker's gaze wandered over to the weary and weatherworn face staring up at him. Baker let his eyes settle on the battered and worn figure that sat hunched over on the edge of the cot, his elbows pressing into his knees, the stained and grime-coated jeans clinging to his bare elbows as he shifted.
 

'I have something lined up; you may want a shower though. You have...'
 

Baker glanced at his watch, the hands clicking silently to themselves as he watched the second hand slide over the face of the dial. 'Twenty minutes. Then report to Staff Sergeant Bone at the armoury.'
 

Hawk stood and saluted as he waited for the guard to unlock the door. The heavy bundle of keys rattled against the steel bars of the door as the stone-faced soldier pulled the key free and jerked the door open. The guard stepped away, holding the door open, his eyes passively watching as Hawk quickly trotted past him and Baker heading out of the door.
 

****

Hawk marched into the armoury, the shoes of his dress uniform clicking as he moved along the corridor. The starched collar of his dress coat pushed his head up as he strode through the double doors, the heavy thump rolling through the hallway as they swung shut behind him.

Hawk stopped as he caught sight of Bobby, a deep sense of unease rolling through his stomach as he rapped his gloved hand against the window. The gold-banded, white peaked cap clung to his shaven scalp, sweat rolling down his temples as he watched Bone walk briskly to the door, his gait stiff and unyielding as he forced his left knee to bend against the mass of scar tissue that clung to the back of the twisted joint.
 

'Reporting for disciplinary detail, sir.'
 

Bobby cast a scrutinising eye over the man before him, his gaze shifting from the shimmering leather of his shoes to the sparking glow of the brass buttons and polished buckle of his dress jacket.
 

'Well, lad, kudos on the polish and pomp, but...'
 

Bone trailed off as he turned back into the room and walked through towards the loading dock; his hand reached out as they both walked through the rear door. Hawk lifted his hand, shading his eyes as the sun pounded down upon him. Bobby smirked as he pulled the radio from his hip.
 

'Bring 'em through, boys.'
 

A heavy growl echoed through the air as Hawk swallowed sharply. Heavy beads of sweat slithered down his neck as he watched the three ten-ton trucks back into the semi-enclosed dock.
 

The radio in Bones' hand squelched as he watched the trucks slowly reverse into place. Lifting the radio to his ear, Bobby grinned as he listened, the heavy static-blitzed message tickling at his ear like a worm on hook.
 

'My advice, mate, lose the cap, jacket, and gloves. Oh, and lift with your legs.'
 

Bones sent a sharp reply back, watching as the brake lights flared in the heat haze as it shimmered through the pall of exhaust smoke that slithered across the tarmac below.
 

'Okay, I want it all unpacked, stacked, and sorted; the manifest is on the wall behind me and the part numbers are on the crate lids. You have three hours. If it ain't done by then, you're on double duty in the maintenance pool, and those fucks have seventeen hundred weapons to strip, clean, and certify before Thursday.'
 

Hawks' face fell as he watched the rear gate drop with a mediocre clang as the passenger crewman let it slip from his grip. With a chuckle and shouted cursive to the driver, he scrambled like a monkey into the truck bed and rolled up the canvas flap that kept the cargo concealed from the public view.
 

The boxes and crates filled the bed, the neatly lashed rows rising to the canvas ceiling. The dull glow of diffused sunlight made Hawk squint as he tried to peer through to the back of the truck's cab.
 

'You, mate, have one hell of a task. But that's what you get for going loco on a piss up. Good luck to you—oh, and one other thing, mate. See if Push Pin has a spare set of coveralls or boots; your number twos there will get buggered otherwise; but your call, mate.'
 

With that, the soldier smiled and wandered away, whistling to himself. With a sigh of self-effacing anger, Hawk turned on his heel and strode back into the storeroom. He stripped himself down to his undershirt with a wave of care and reverence. The corded weaves of muscle showed up stark and clear on his lean frame as he set the carefully folded clothing onto a chair in the corner of the room, his gloves folded flat atop his peaked cap, riding high in the centre of his meticulously folded jacket.
 

Stepping back, he turned again, his movements precise and faultless as he moved towards the now silent trucks.
 

****
 

His muscles burned as he pulled, the crate sinking into the solid, carbon-sculpted flesh of his abdomen as he lifted it clear of the stack. The heavy steel casing ground against his sleeveless flesh, causing red welts to push out of his arms as he curled his hands tighter into the handles.
 

His legs quivered as he walked, his feet little more than lead blocks hanging from his ankles as he reached the end of the truck bed. Gritting his teeth, he hopped forwards, his knees screaming as he hit the floor; his back cracked as he doubled over the harsh, folded edge of the box digging deep into the tops of his thighs.
 

His breath came in short, heavy gasps as he levered himself upright. Staggering forwards, Hawk slid the box onto the shelf, the handles clacking against the steel casing as he turned, his feet sliding on the grit-laden floor as he made his way back to the loading dock.
 

The sun scorched his shoulders as he dragged the next box from the bed of the second truck. Lifting a hand to his forehead, he left the box half perched on the rear bumper as he cuffed away the layer of hot sweat from his brow. Flicking his wrist, he sent the drop sailing on to the scorched tarmac before turning, crate in hand, and trudging back towards the storeroom and the blessed coolness of its shadowed interior.

15
 

They stood at attention, watching in silence as the cadre of military police dragged Wayans through the drill square, his eyes manic as he cursed and kicked. The men blinked hard as a shower of grit and dirt sprayed their faces, not a single eye twitching to follow as the screaming form of their former teammate and comrade was dragged away. The dull clunk of closing doors rolled over them as one of the military policemen slammed them shut, even as Wayans screamed through the impact-resistant partition at the stoic forms of his former squad mates.
 

Woodwrow stood next to Baker and Colinson, both men flanking him as he watched the van pull away, taking with it the sour taste of shame and the bitter note of failure. 'Court martial, I am guessing.'
 

Colinson nodded as they watched the van slip from the gate and turn away, Wayans' screams muffled and dying as the vehicle dragged him further and further from their sight.
 

'Why'd he do it?'
 

Colinson's eyes settled on Woodwrow as he let the words sink into the man's mind. Woodwrow shrugged, the gesture all to lackadaisical for the situation and made Colinson's anger peak slightly as he stared at the soldier in front of him.
 

'Hennessey was gay, motive enough for someone like Wayans. We did a full check on his internet history. Some of the message boards and chat rooms he frequented make Abu Hamza seem like Amnesty International; the guy was a class-one homophobe and unfortunately for Scott, he knew how to fuck up the kit enough so that it worked once and then collapsed on the proper deployment.
 

'I'll give credit where it's due; it's actually quite clever and I wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't dumped the Co2 as well as all the mechanical tampering.
 

'Me and some of the other boys will be parcelling up his kit, the stuff that hasn't been taken as evidence, anyway. Maybe something more physically damming will turn up then. Small comfort it will be to Hennessey's family and his partner. The bloke was sobbing when I told him about Scott. I hate doing that—telling their kin and loved ones makes me feel like such a louse and in need of an extra shower.
 

'Shame, though. Scott was a good kid. Knew him of old… bit of loudmouth and could hold his booze as well as anyone, but solid as concrete under fire.'
 

Baker flicked his gaze from one to the other as the conversation trailed off. Coughing into his fist, he glanced to Colinson before speaking. 'Dave, which of us is going to send this through?'
 

Colinson's brow rose an inch as he pondered the question, his mind turning slowly as he sifted through the threads of his indecision. 'Well, I am the arresting officer and officially in command of the unit as a whole, but if you want to step in when the time comes, feel free.'
 

Baker nodded; snapping his gaze over to Woodwrow, he jerked his head and began to walk back towards the armoury as Kevin fell instep beside him.
 

'We need you to head to Brize Norton. We have a specialist advisor coming in from the US.'
 

Woodwrow stumbled as he coughed into his balled fist, trying to hide the fact that he had almost choked in surprise. 'Hang on... all flights have been grounded in and out of, not only here, but the US as well. He would have been either shot down on the way in or shot as he stepped down off the plane.'
 

Baker smiled as he carried on walking towards the squat, low-hanging brick building that was slowly growing all the larger. 'Benefit of having an influential boss; and I don't mean Colinson, not that he is my boss anyway.'
 

Woodwrow smirked as he turned, resting his back against the cold brickwork of the wall as he slowly let himself slide towards the floor. A packet of Benson and Hedges appeared in his hand as he dragged a cheap disposable lighter from his pocket.
 

'So who is this expert, then, and what makes him so damned valuable to us, that old Liz sees fit to have him or her brought in through the quarantine?'
 

Baker smiled as he caught the scent of burning tobacco, the dull glow of ash tickling the corner of his eye as Woodwrow lit the overly long cigarette, the blue-tinged smoke boiling away from him as he spoke.
 

'He is an EMT specialising in medical care in hostile environments. In other words, he is coming over here to advise the NHS paramedics on how to best prepare for casualties in Infected areas, which with the state of things, is just about everywhere.'
 

Kevin smiled as Baker finished speaking, a pall of pale blue-grey smoke hanging in front of him as he stared at the floor, his face a mask of indifferent humour. 'So why you sending me? Send one of the bootstraps to go pick him up.'
 

Baker chuckled as he pushed himself to his feet and turned, looking down at Woodwrow's crouched form. 'Like I said, it's Brize Norton. The triad of the north-west has become a pit of random infections lately, so the whole place is on high alert for anything and everything. We can't go in mob-handed, so the S.A.Us are out of the question and the Crabfats have their hands full just keeping the local civvies safe and their base secured. You will be going in, in kit with full load out and a bounce bag for our new guest. He was an Army Ranger before becoming an EMT, so he can handle himself. Just make sure both of you get out in one piece and the whets are on me.'
 

Woodwrow sighed softly to himself as he ground the glowing stump of the cigarette out against the ground with his foot before slipping the dead filter into the breast pocket of his jacket. Pushing himself upright, he studiously dusted himself down before sparing a parting glance at Baker. 'When does he get in?'
 

'Two forty tomorrow morning, so you have time to shower, change, and get your kit prepared before you leave.'
 

Nodding, Kevin tucked his hands into his pockets and walked off towards the R.R.T barrack block. 'This fucker better be worth the hassle. If I end up buying a piece of it protecting his sorry arse, I am going to come collecting, Baker.'
 

****

The rain lashed the windows as he waited, the slow rocking of the Land Rover doing nothing to abate the surge of boredom that overthrew him as the winds curled over the flat expanse of the runway. Their buffeting eddies brushed over the vehicle like water over stone as the gentle rocking of the car began to lull him into a fugue of weary sleep.
 

His mind wandered as he sat there, watching the rhythmic thumping glide of the wiper blades as they skated across the windscreen in a vain attempt to slap away the deluge of water.
 

'Great day to be a duck… or from Atlantis,' he muttered to himself. As he straightened up his eyes, he caught sight of the plane as it dropped towards the runway. 'This fucker better be worth the trouble.'
 

Sliding the car into gear, Woodwrow pulled to the side of the apron as the C130 slowly rolled to a stop. Kevin climbed out of the car and reached across to the passenger side, lifting his Diemaco L.M.G from the foot well and put his arm through the sling drop. The heavy, coarse fibres plucked at his fingers as he set it over his head and shrugged through it until it settled into place over his neck and shoulder. With a flat-palmed slap, he made sure the magazine was seated before sending a round into the chamber and setting it to safe. He let it hang from the sling as he pulled his helmet and HUD plate from the passenger seat.
 

Woodwrow shivered slightly as he set the cold lump of metal and plastic onto his head, the weight pressing down on him like a comforting blanket. He snapped the chinstrap into place and pulled his HUD plate into position; the sheet of clear, micro-meshed Plexiglas dropped into place with a dull click.
 

Reaching up onto his shoulder, he pulled the coiled wire from the pouch on the back of his shoulder and set the connector into the socket with a soft click. A grin slithered over his face as the screen bloomed into life, the dull, blue glow shimmering over his face as he watched it flicker and dance.
 

Woodwrow dropped his fingers to his left forearm and tapped at the touchscreen console. The lightweight piece of plastic glowed as he called up the preloaded file of the man he was here to meet.
 

'So this is what Mr Expert looks like. Norman, huh? Well, let's hope he ain't as boring as his name sounds.'
 

A soft snort of derision left him as he stared at the image before him; the soft-featured, bespectacled face that stared back at him was wholly unremarkable. From the close-shorn hair that perched atop his head like the fuzz on a peach to the weather-lined face that bore its age with pride, the look of self-assured and time-tested skill bled from the man's eyes.

Kevin's eyebrows rose slightly as he scanned through the man's operational history and was surprised more so at his age than the seventeen-page long list of declassified operations. 'So, he's only pushing forty; could have fooled me.'
 

He muttered to himself as he trudged towards the now silent aircraft, his feet kicking through the layer of water that sat atop the runway like an inch-thick sheet of glass.
 

The tail of the plane folded open, the heavy whine of straining gears echoed through the air as the bottom hit the floor with an almost gentle thump. Soft ripples rolled out from the ramp as the silhouette of a man made its way down as others scurried in the half-light behind him.
 

The six-foot tall silhouette strode down the ramp. His hazel eyes seemed to glow with an innate curiosity as he turned up the collar on his weather-beaten leather pilot's jacket, the lamb's wool lining tickling the unshaven edges of his jaw.
 

The stubble-laden chin dropped low as he hunched his shoulders against the deluge nature had cast upon him. Woodwrow watched as he made his way towards him; the scuffed and beaten jacket glimmered in the rain as the man slowly advanced. The embroidered patch on his left breast was stained and worn, the once gleaming white cotton dulled with age and stained by the passing years. Its two-inch high lettering slowly shifted into focus as he closed the gap further. The letters 'EMT' stood muted but proud under the circular stars-and-stripes patch sewn on just below the line of the collar.
 

Stopping just feet short from Kevin, he looked up; a roguish grin toyed with the corners of his lips as he stuck out his hand. The rough, calloused palm grated against the palm of Woodwrow's ballistic gloves as he clasped the man's hand in his own.
 

'Name's Meredith. Norman Meredith. Pleased to meet ya.'
 

Woodwrow nodded towards the Land Rover. 'Yeah, same. Kevin Woodwrow, commander of Broadhead RRT. We shouldn't stick around too long; the decontamination team's due in any minute and they ain't too kind to whomever they find on the strip when it comes to cleaning the import kit.'
 

Meredith nodded as he strolled towards the vehicle. The rain dripped off the rim of his baseball cap as he reached for the handle of the door and pulled, listening to the dull clunk of the lock as it relinquished its hold and the door swung open.
 

'You know what you have gotten yourself into with this?'
 

He nodded as they clambered into the waiting vehicle, a grin tugging at his features as he settled into the seat. He glanced around him, his sense of place slightly skewed as he stared at the steering wheel on the right hand side of the car.
 

'Never gonna get used to that.'
 

Woodwrow chuckled as he set the key in the ignition and started the car. 'That's what you get for driving on the wrong side of the road, backwards ass Yank.'
 

Meredith snorted, a smirk playing across his face as he tugged his cap over his eyes. 'You asked if I was ready for this?'
 

Woodwrow didn't spare him a glance as he slowly guided the vehicle onto the roadway, rapidly cycling through the gears as he picked up speed. 'Yeah, I did. Why?'
 

Meredith could all but contain his mirth as it twisted his lips, causing Woodwrow more than a little discomfort as he watched the stranger out the corner of his eye.
 

'Well... to be honest, buddy, I am pretty unflappable ever since my mom turned around and told me she was a full-fledged dominatrix at sixty. Then the next day, I wander out of my room to find her, a young girl—no more than twenty—and a kid the same age, who, no lie, could have been my son come wandering out of the bedroom door in front of me. I mean, in that situation, with me in my underpants and them in several states of undress, what can you do but say good morning and walk right on by? The look on that kid's face, though, was priceless. At least he'd had fun, if the grin on the girl's face was anything to go by.'

                                                ****

Meredith stood before the heads of every ambulance service in the nation, their faces bleeding scepticism and scorn as he slipped the cap from his head and ran his fingers over his close-cropped hair.