The Ghost Rebellion (23 page)

“
What weapons have we on hand?”

“
Three Rickies, plus whatever is left in the rifle.” Wellington reached under the dashboard and released the brake. “Get—”

A rush of air followed by the sound of something cutting through flesh knocked Wellington out of his seat. He looked up to Agent Strickland, and instinctively grabbed the Mark V as he slid against the floor, out of the cockpit. Had there been a windshield, there would have been a chance it would have deflected such a high velocity bullet. Instead, with the open viewport, Wellington had practically handed the insurgents a target. The back of Strickland’s head spilt blood, along with small bits of bone and brain matter, down the passenger seat. This gore shattered something inside Wellington.

I failed her,
he thought while shimmying to the back of the
Bug
. He reached overhead, undid the latch, and was dumped unceremoniously out into the world, the escape appearing from the outside as a short, squat, metal-monster shitting a Ministry agent against the dusty Indian plaza.
I failed them both,
he thought as he braced himself against the
Bug’s
treads.

He pulled the Lee-Metford-Tesla into his chest, his eyes shut tight as he worked the bolt action.
They are dead because of me.
His thumb pressed the transformer as Gatling guns opened up on his position.
They were counting on me, and I
failed
them.
 

A voice from the past called to him.
Go on, my son. Make me proud.
 

His eyes flicked open. Wellington got to his feet, though it felt as if someone else was controlling him. He knew he was moving into the open. Was someone calling out to him to take cover? What a ridiculous notion. Based on the exit wound in Strickland’s skull, he knew exactly where the sniper had taken position. The scope came in line with his eye. The man’s headwrap was just visible on the other side of his own rifle, but Wellington had been a few heartbeats faster. He saw the offending sniper’s head snap back before he lowered the rifle.

Immediate threat eliminated. Now to begin work on the entrenched separatists. A small team off to his left, taking position behind crates newly unloaded from the moored cargo ship. Another to his right had taken position in front of a small café, tables now overturned and serving as makeshift shields. Perhaps this had been a squad, separated into two teams in order to form a modest gauntlet.

That’s it, boy,
his father said, his voice strangely strong and confident. Not the voice he remembered on their last meeting.
Show these ungrateful bastards the might of the Empire they defy.
 

Wellington spun up the generator on the Mark V, but slipped the rifle over his shoulder before drawing the Rickies. The calls of the separatists he recognised as the local dialect, but he did not know the particulars. His time in war made interpreting the foreign tongue’s intent crystal clear to him. He pulled the trigger of the left Ricky three times, then held up the right pistol and pulled that trigger four times. Before he could confirm kills, Wellington slipped to his right behind a pair of outdoor display stands. He heard the tearing and splintering of wood from a spray of bullets. If not careful, he would find himself pinned in this position, his cover eventually deteriorating under the assault of gunfire. There came another volley, this time from the separatists entrenched closest to him. Then the gunfire ceased. They were either reloading or waiting for him to take a shot.

Wellington holstered a Ricky, and produced a single Firestorm. The canister was barely larger than his hand, and on shaking the weapon vigorously, he could feel its contents coalescing together, giving the grenade a bit of weight. He knew what it would do on impact, but he was preferring a more dramatic punishment for these insurgents.

Wellington tossed the grenade high into the air at the separatists keeping hold in front of the café. Had Wellington allowed the grenade to continue, it would have sailed far beyond the intended target. That, however, had been the intention. They would be able to tell the Firestorm would not land anywhere near them. They would enjoy a sense of confidence. They would let their guard down.

And even if their guard had remained up, they would not have any defence against Wellington’s offensive.

He took aim and fired the Ricky, effectively and efficiently causing the Firestorm to explode above the separatists. The gelatinous compound mimicked a summer’s downpour, only carrying an intense, hungry fire that devoured the men caught underneath it. Screams were filling the air, and one man broke free of the cover to run into the plaza.

Let him burn, boy,
his father said, quite pleased with Wellington’s improvisation.

Now emerging from cover, Wellington shook a fresh Firestorm, primed it, and then hurtled it towards the rebels peering from the other side of crates stacked dockside. This time, the Firestorm shattered on hitting the ground. Flame swept from the point of impact, the fire straining to keep up with the viscous substance spilling across the docks. The fire would keep them back, giving him enough time and opportunity to throw one more Firestorm. He could feel the liquid switch from one end of the canister to the other, was aware of a shift in the bomb’s weight, and watched it take flight. One managed to get free of the grenade, but his escape ended abruptly on account of Wellington’s aim and the Ricky’s high-calibre shell.

From somewhere far off came distant
pop-pop-pop’s
, but they were not firing at him. That gunfire must be coming from the Army & Navy building. Could the tide be turning in their favour?

The sounds of celebration suddenly tickled his ears. Gunfire was still coming from within the headquarters, but the plaza and dock has been defended. That was why the men were jubilant.

They are celebrating?
The outrage in his father’s voice Wellington knew far too intimately.
What do they think this is? Some sort of Sunday outing with tennis and croquet? They have forgotten their service, their promise to the Empire.
 

Wellington felt himself toss the Ricky aside and slip the Mark V into his grasp. The generator indicated green. Ready to fire.
If it were not for their callous, careless attitude, those agents would still be alive.
 

The rifle hummed gently in his tight grip.

Discipline them, my son. Remind them of their responsibilities, and the consequences of failure.

Interlude

Wherein a Simple Mission Becomes Terribly Complicated

“
Right then, a factory full of Houseboys and the three of us planning to infiltrate,” Bruce said as he laid alongside Ryfka and Brandon across the snow. It was still deeply dark, but the Starlight goggles were evening things out. “Can’t see how this little operation could end poorly.”

Ryfka rapped his shoulder. Her signing was a bit harder to make out, even with help from the Starlights, but Bruce managed.
I have watched this factory for three weeks now. This particular entry point is the most vulnerable.

When they had left Old Blighty, Bruce and Brandon had prepared for a simple infiltration job. They were also packing light, only the barest of essentials for a quick getaway. Now, following a long night of animated conversations with Ryfka punctuated by the slumber-fuelled interjections of Grand-uncle Leib, they were planning a reconnaissance mission on an Usher outpost. No intelligence or logistics for support. No reinforcements for backup. Simply what they had in the field. Bruce had been able to enjoy the brashness of the plan, but now on the factory’s perimeter, the chances of success on any of their objectives looked terribly thin. Whatever original intentions he and Brandon had in making this heist a simple, by-the-numbers grab-and-go were completely secondary. This was Ryfka’s mission now.

Remember,
Bruce signed to Ryfka,
you cover us.
This may be your operation, but Brandon and I have done this sort of thing before.
Besides, if things went pear-shaped, it would be nice to have someone covering their sprint across open snow.

Ryfka’s eyes on account of the Starlights were hidden from view, but from how slow and deliberate her reply was, the Russian could not have been happy with him at present.
Understood, Agent Campbell. Consider yourself covered. Just remember, I have been working undercover inside. Follow the map I gave Brandon, and we all get what we want.
 

I know,
Bruce said, trying not to get curt with their only ally here.
We get the Firebird feather while you get hard evidence for this raid you want. We’re all square.
 

Ryfka nodded.
Don’t cock it up.
 

Somehow, in sign language, the slight came across twice as insulting.

Returning his attention to the valley below them, Bruce turned the Starlight’s magnification to maximum as he examined the low-lying, grey box that was the munitions factory. Ryfka had drawn a pretty good diagram of the outpost, and it looked just as charming as she had described it. For a factory that specialised in bullets, bombs, and other gadgets that went boom, it seemed rather large. On account of its size, this factory made no effort to blend into the wilds of Russia. In fact, it appeared extravagant, as if it wanted to be noticed. Bruce would never admit to it, but that unsettled him.

Usher had been quiet for many years, “quiet” a relative term at best. Bruce and Brandon had tangled with them early in their partnership across America and Canada. Usher was definitely an obsession with the Fat Man, even though their recent ventures were more characteristic of predators preoccupied in building private empires than watching the world burn. Bruce preferred them the latter as opposed to the former. Perhaps that was why the Ministry was so caught off-guard when Books was pinched. They had grown comfortable in Usher’s “shadow government” schemes, and had not seen that coming. Who knew that plonker was such a high-value target?

Then he felt his throat tighten. Who knew that plonker would wind up saving his skin in Edinburgh four months ago?

Now, looking at these Houseboys patrolling the perimeter in lock-step as a well-oiled, fine-tuned machination told Bruce they were returning to that Golden Age of Chaos. Someone had given this old raven a kick up the ass.

Bruce went to give Ryfka the signal to move into position, but her pleasing figure was no longer there.

“
Where did she go?” he asked.

“
She slipped away just after you and she said whatever you two said to one another. The only reason I know this is I happened to be looking in your direction. Silent as the grave, she is.”

Bruce swept his Starlights around the surrounding ridge. Nothing. There was no movement whatsoever. Not even a clump of snow tumbling down the hillside. Wherever she had slipped off to, she was invisible. The snow, the darkness, the wilderness of Russia accepted Ryfka into her embrace and now they were one.

Bloody terrifying—but then he had always preferred bloody terrifying women.

“
Ready, mate?” Bruce asked, adjusting the hood of his snowsuit.

With a nod, Brandon flipped his weather-white hood over his head and belly-crawled out of their cover, leading the way down toward their objective. Here out of sight of the factory there was nothing but layers of snow. Bruce and Brandon slinked silently from the top of the ridge, but remaining undetected meant an achingly slow progress down their slope. They had not made it a quarter of the way before Bruce noticed the cold beginning to creep through his clothes.

Brandon was just in front of him, so Bruce was able to see his left hand slip against ice instead of the snow needed to make modest traction. Bruce’s right hand shot forward like a bullwhip, his fingers clamping around Brandon’s ankle. His other hand drove deep and hard into the snowdrift. They slid a few inches, and Bruce felt a lump in his throat as he watched chunks of ice and powder tumble down the hill.

Then Bruce heard a hard
pop
, followed by a sharp, almost deafening crack. A fairly heavy branch, its reach wide and many-fingered, landed just behind them and started to roll down the hillside. Bruce let go of Brandon, and began to follow the branch. He kept rolling, even as he felt the branches brushing and clawing at his suit. Then when the branches stopped, he stopped as well. Easily done as the slope underneath him had evened out. Bruce peeked out from his hood. Brandon was also hidden under the multitude of branches and a slight dusting of snow. The guards by the factory, barely visible against the surrounding snowdrifts, stood there for a moment. One of them shook his head, and with a hard rap to his mate’s shoulder, they turned back towards their post at the factory.

While their backs were to them, Bruce and Brandon slipped closer in behind the fallen branch. At the break point, he could see in his Starlights the shards of wood, some of it still fresh with life, and the bullet that had weakened its hold on the tree. Ryfka really was quite a cracking shot.    

“
You alright?” Brandon whispered.

“
Might be a bit bruised up,” he replied. “None the worse for wear.”

“
Five minutes, then we move.”

Five minutes of remaining still. It was nothing new to Bruce, but that time in enemy territory, well within range of a firearm, might as well have been five hours.

Assured that the guards were out of earshot and the stillness had returned, Bruce and Brandon crawled free of their branch cover and huddled behind a modest rise in the snow. Brandon then slipped out a Remington-Elliot, checked its processors, and passed it on to Bruce. “So, running or crawling?” he asked, producing from the haversack what looked like a shotgun case of some description.

“
Considering the snow?” Bruce eyeballed it. There were still plenty of hours of darkness left to them. “Crawl.”