Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined

Designated: QUARANTINED
Ricky Cooper

Copyright 2015

This book is licensed for the sole use and enjoyment of the purchaser, it may not be re-sold, reproduced or copied in anyway or any medium. If you wish to share this work of fiction with anyone please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

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This is a pure work of fiction, any similarities to, people, brands, places, entities, or species; living and dead are completely coincidental.
 

Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by
 

Paul Chapman
www.facebook.com/Fragworks-Art-Illustration
 

Draft edited by TGC editing.

www.tgcediting.co.uk
Final editing by Torchbearer editing
www.torchbeareredits.com
 

If you want to get in touch.
 

Find me at my website
http://ricky-cooper.co.uk/

Find me on my page
https://www.facebook.com/R.C.books

E-mail me at
[email protected]
 

Dedications
 

For me, this book has been a wild untamed rush, but one that could never have happened if it was not for my fabulous Beta readers and friends.
 

Mary Philo, Monique Happy and Mark Lewis, Sarah Peace and Shannon Sharpe, not forgetting, Justin Gowland, Christopher Levdahl, December Maglior, and Tom J Leeland and my advisor and long-time friend and brother Norman Meredith.
Without all of you and the help and guidance you all gave so freely, this would be one very rough book.
 

A massive thank you also goes out to my author friends and supporters, especially my co-writer Tania Cooper, author of the excellent
The Broken
series, and with whom I am currently writing the Paranormal Romance series Heaven’s Scent.
Tony Baker, friend, confidant, surrogate brother and author of the outstanding
Surviving the Dead
series, as well as Darren Wearmouth, author and advertising extraordinaire. His advice on advertising and publication methods, are invaluable to any budding or active writer.
 

In addition, I owe a massive debt of gratitude to the stalwart Andy Shaw BRMC (Ret) and Lee McEwan BRMC (Ret) Their advice, help, and none too gentle honesty has been a boon to this writer and his work. I have no doubt at all that without their careful and honest reading of the coal rough drafts, this book would be nowhere near the polished piece it is today.
 

Finally, my ever-supportive family.

If I was to be without any of you, well, I—for one—would not exist, and like me, this book would never have been possible; I love you all from the bottom of my heart and owe a debt I can never repay.

Glossary of terms

UKSFC
:
United Kingdom Special Forces Command
 

HLC
:
Heavy Load Carrier
 

T55-GA-714A turbo-shaft
:
Engines mounted into the CH-47 Chinook helicopter
 

L96A1
:
British Infantry sniper rifle
 

Detonator/Det cord
:
A type of multi yield explosive used in various sectors of civil engineering and the military. It comes in a reel that can be cut to length as needed and can be detonated by either a time/length based fuse or radio detonator.
 

Sco19
:
Designation for British Specialist Armed Police
Russian Phrases
     Skoroy brata
:
See you soon, brother.
 

Proshchay staryy drug
:
Good-bye, old friend
.
 

Svoloch
: Scum (or similar)
 

Debil
: Moron
 

Ublyudok
: Mother fucker (or similar)
 

Zarazhennyy
: Infected
 

Glupyy ublyudok
: Stupid bastard
 

Der'mo, Demony
: Shit, Demons
 

Psikhopat
: Psychopath
 

Vy gnilostnyy lezhal meshok s gryaz'yu , ya budu imet' svoy    grebanyy golovu
:
You putrid sack of filth. I will have your fucking head.
     Voz'mite moyu zhenu i doch', on moy
:
Take my wife and daughter; he is mine.
 

Operational Phrases

E6
:
Cleanse order given to soldiers and personnel for the area to be sterilised.
T.T.O.R
: Time to Operational Readiness.
I.C.O.4
: Infected Control Order Four.
S.A.U
: Specialist Assault Unit (pronounced saw)

Previously in Designated
 

With the decimation of the original teams in Afghanistan and Russia, and rapidly rising casualties in all theatres, Broadhead is forced to expand its field of operations.
 

America has long since gone dark, suffering the brunt of the initial outbreaks, leaving them little more than a collection of closed communities, sheltering within bases and bunkers throughout the United States. Carl and the special response team have been dispatched to offer whatever aid they can and to see if anything can be salvaged.
 

China has gone dark. With zero communication in or out of the People's Republic, everyone is left to guess as to the fate of the one point three five billion people trapped within the borders of a dead country.
 

Amidst it all, ghosts from Derek's past begin to surface. Ridgmont, Derek's former commanding officer, comes calling in search of blood. The loss of his son during a botched operation twisted his mind beyond all logic as he focuses his misplaced rage on Derek.
 

With the formations of new teams, Derek finds his position and role changing; new ranks are levied and bodies mount as Ridgmont circles and the Infected begin to threaten hearth and home.

1
 

Standing in the biting wind, the entirety of Broadhead's tactical units waited. The door to the admin building swung open as Colinson and Baker strode out of it, their mutually grim expressions saying everything, even before Derek began to speak.
 

'Briefing, Hall B—now!'
 

The teams filed off towards the briefing hall while Baker and Colinson stepped back into the admin block.
 

'So, Baker, how we going to play this?'
 

The A4 sheet sat on his desk, a mass of information crammed onto its pale white surface.
 

'You think it's legit?' Baker quietly muttered, answering Colinson's question with his own.

Colinson shrugged, his shoulders tugging at the seams of his shirt. Breathing sharply out of his nose, he pushed away from the table edge and walked to the window. 'No reason to think it's anything but, although having said that, we can't trust anything that's come through the UKSFC. So I don't know what to think.'
 

Derek nodded as he leant against the doorframe, his arms across his chest. 'All this shit started because his mob was passed over in favour of us; fucking arrogant little twat.'
 

Baker's voice rose with each word as he slowly began to lose his temper. Slamming his fist into the wall, he all but bellowed the final word. A loose file box clattered to the floor beside Colinson as the vibrations shook the wall.
 

Shaking his head, Colinson stepped over to the floor-mounted safe and knelt, his fingers dancing over the keypad as he tapped in the sixteen-digit alphanumeric code. The sheaf of pages in his hands slipped into the blank folder in the overstuffed safe.
 

Pushing himself to his feet, Colinson turned and clasped Baker's shoulder, nodding towards the door.
 

'Well, there's fuck all we can do here. Let's go and brief the others; see if we can make head or tail of what the hell we are going to do.'
 

****

Baker, Kingsley, Rawlings, and Bolton stood at the entrance to Hangar Three, the rain lashing about their still forms as the main doors slowly pulled apart. The CH-47f-HC6 Chinook stood before them, its silent shrouded form imposing even in the cavernous hold surrounding it. Baker stepped forwards, his boots echoing in the vast area that seemed to want to eat him whole.
 

'Oi, Bakewell!'
 

Derek stopped mid-stride as the voice echoed across the girder-laden roof; his helmeted head pivoted in search of the plaintive voice. Kingsley and Rawlings entered the hanger, fast on Baker's heels. Bolton hung back, his small frame crouched beside the entranceway, weapon pulled tight to his shoulder as he let the thermal optics illuminate the area. His eyes tingled as he stared into the telescopic sight. The dancing waves of blue and black blended seamlessly as the multi-coloured human forms that were his teammates flickered through his field of vision.
 

Kingsley and Rawlings moved up beside Baker, rifles pressed to their shoulders as Baker still searched for the source of the voice.
 

'Over here, you twat!'
 

Baker's head pivoted to the open ramp way of the Chinook; silhouetted within it stood the smirking form of John Davies.
 

'Didn't think you'd get away with it that easily, did you?'
 

Baker shook his head and made his way to the base of the stairway as a puzzled Kingsley and perplexed Rawlings stood rooted to the spot, rifles held limply in their grasp. Davies grinned at the bald, bearded Welsh man stomping up the steps of the aircraft. A wide grin broke his features as he came level with Team Two's commander.
 

'What in God's name are you doing here, you English twonk?'
 

Davies chuckled as he motioned behind him. 'Ain't just me here, big man.'
 

Looking over Davies' shoulder into the slowly brightening interior of the HLC helicopter, Baker met the heavy gaze of the entirety of the second team. Shaking his head, he shoved Davies in the shoulder and entered the plane.
 

'Damned English pup can't even be left behind without showing up.'
 

The chatter died out as the two T55-GA-714A turbo-shaft engines fired. Their roar seeping into the hold dulled, but only slightly, by the metal skin of the aircraft. Kingsley pulled a spare Norwegian jumper from his kit bag at his feet, folded it into a sloppy pillow, and shoved the waded, bunched material behind his head as he listened to the growl of the engines vie for supremacy against the birthing of mother nature's storm child.

Rain lashed the night's sky, turning the crisp, frozen ground into a mire of slush and mud. The thick, heavy wheels tossed up a freezing spray of grit and semi-frozen dirt as it taxied out onto the runway. Baker watched as one of the ground crew was pelted by the tyres' cast off; the crewman stoically ignored the semi-frozen lashing as he skilfully guided the lumbering craft to its take-off position.
 

Shifting in his seat, Baker looked about him then at Rawlings, who sat with his rifle cradled in his lap. The L96A1 long rifle bounced as the muscles in his right leg began to tremble; the caffeine roaring through his system brought out every nervous childhood tick he had fought so hard to control all his adult life.

Baker watched as his long-time squad mate and friend toyed with one of the .330 Lapua rounds his rifle fired, the pointed and bevelled cylinder rolling across his knuckles, gold-tinged yellow light dancing across his face as the glimmering shell reflected the glow from the lights above them.
 

His left eye began to twitch, seemingly winking of its own accord as the overdose of highly caffeinated coffee flooded his alcohol-addled system.
 

Baker forced himself to look away; the worry tugging at his mind was going to get him nowhere. Setting his sights on the viewing port opposite, he watched with an idle curiosity as the pole lamps ringing the base slipped away behind the veil of autumnal rain; the hazy misting curtain of droplets swirled in the down blast of air from the rotor blades as the aircraft lifted its ponderous bulk into the water-drenched, inky blackness of the sky.
 

****

A black square slipped open and ropes spilt from the hold as, one after another, the team slid to the floor. With practised ease, they moved away, weapons ready as the rain lashed at their shifting forms. A sharp motion from Baker, and Davies peeled off leading Reiley, Jones, and Hamilton into the writhing wall of water. Baker pushed forwards, the rain lashing about him as he swept his rifle in a smooth arc covering the area to his front.
 

'Rawlings, Bolton—find a high perch; give us some cover.'
 

Baker watched as Rawlings and Bolton moved off into the burgeoning wall of water. Baker and the remaining contingent from Team Two made their way forwards. Rippling pools of water rolled away from their falling feet as they made their way across the black tarmac surface of the road. Kingsley's eyes closed to little more than slits as he gazed through the hazy blur of water and ice; the haze-ridden darkness shifted before them as the eight-foot-high chain link fence of their objective appeared from the shadows.

Dropping to his knees, Kingsley slid forwards. The reinforced kneepads of his combat trousers scraped over the floor as he spun, his back coming to rest against the fence as Baker planted his booted foot in his cradled hands.
 

The muscles of his shoulders bunched, the steel-like tendons snapping taut as Kingsley heaved, propelling Baker upwards. The fifteen-stone soldier left the floor, water cascading off his form as he curled his fingers over the top of the fence; with the grace of a cat, he landed, tucking his body into a tight roll as he absorbed the impact through his legs.
 

Baker rose to his feet, moving with practised ease through the pooled shadows cast down between the pole lights of the gravelled path beside him.
 

Dropping back to one knee, he slowly eased open the top of one of his vests pouches. The coiled spool of detonator cord felt like grease-covered string as he wove it through the links of the chain and padlock holding the gate closed.
 

The sharp crack was swallowed by the pounding rain about them as the low-yield cord detonated, the chain clinking to the ground as its links tore apart. Baker reached out as Kingsley grabbed hold of the gate from the other side, both men heaving it aside with the muffled squeaking of wheels. Baker shook his head, pea-sized droplets flying forth in a sparkling halo of water.
 

'Echo Two, Echo Two. Echo One. Infill completed.'
A soft double-click echoed in Baker's ear as he waited for Davies' reply.
'Roger that, Echo Two in position, no movement within perimeter.'
 

Baker sent a double-click through the radio as he waved Baxter and Clarkenwell forwards, the two soldiers skimming past their commander, the gravel beneath their feet barely making a sound as they ghosted by.
 

Kingsley appeared from the shadows as Baker reached the door. His chocolate-brown eyes seemed to glow as he dropped to one knee; with a nod of his head, Baker watched as Clarkenwell twisted the handle on the door and pushed open, flattening himself to the wall at the last second. Baxter, his LMG pulled tightly to his shoulder, rushed past him, sinking into the pitch-black corridor and vanishing from sight.
 

****

Rawlings watched the stark-white forms of his comrades and friends disappear into the building, the rain plastering his already soaked ghillie suit onto his prostrate form. He shifted his sight picture onto the right hand side of the building as he felt the rain ease slightly, the incessant pounding dropping to that of a spring shower.
 

'Thank Christ for that; Damned rain was doing my nut.'
 

His sardonic quip went unanswered, the constant pattering of rain on grass his only answer.
 

'Oh Two, what? You ignoring me now? Bolton?'
 

Silence greeted his questioning; the pattering of rain seemed to call out to him as his hackles rose. Slowly, his hands left the rifle's stock, sliding over the slick, wet grass towards his sidearm, the pistol lying mere centimetres away on the waterlogged ground beside him.
 

'Don't.'
 

The voice was cold and calculating with no trace of emotion in the single word. Pushing the cold and callous warning aside, his hand still made its slow journey towards the handgun.
 

'I wouldn't if I were you, buddy; you won't make it. Your spotter saw sense—just give up.'
 

The cold steel of the man's weapon pressed into the folds of Rawlings' ghillie suit, worming its way through the dense fibres to the nape of his neck. The cold kiss of the steel muzzle made Rawlings tense involuntarily, stilling his movements instantly.
 

'Good lad. Now, hands out to your sides raised off the floor, shoulder level.'
 

Rawlings did as he was told; slapping wet footsteps drew his attention as he saw Bolton lifted from the floor, his hands trussed behind him. Flicking his gaze forwards, he calculated how long it would take him to roll and bring his weapon to bear; he tensed his body to do just that, his hips shifting ever so slightly. He rolled his shoulders and was about to move when black leather filled his vision and his entire world went dark.
 

'Told you not to move.'
 

****

Davies crouched at the corner of the building, water dripping from his rifle's silencer as he watched the irrepressible fluid shift along the lip of his helmet. The glimmering liquid coalesced into hanging globules, and then with all the grace of a parachuting hippo, fell to earth, bursting against the top of his gloved hand.
 

Rising silently from his crouched position, he began to skulk forwards, the low-hanging windows beckoning him and his three men. Davies lifted his gloved hand towards the reinforced, mesh-laced windows when his eyes snapped shut, blinded by the sudden light
 

The windows shone. Shaking his head, glowing afterimages remained in his vision, the swirling formless shapes dancing across his eyes as he forced himself to gaze into the room beyond the glass. He bit down hard onto his bottom lip as he watched ten black-clad soldiers converge on the four men inside the building. Pushing himself back from the window, he motioned to the others to back up as he scurried into the welcoming arms of the shadows.
 

****
 

Baker's teeth ground together as he watched them close in, the Heckler and Koch MP5SDs they carried never wavering. Baker slowly raised his hands to shoulder height and a soft grin played over his features as he watched Baxter and Clarkenwell switch from target to target, their weapons held ready.