The Yeoman: Crying Albion Series - Book 1 (11 page)

Chapter
8

Clash
of Tribes

The journey from
Yeoman territory to their destination took
Weyland
and his co-agent, Andrew Knight nearly three hours. Birmingham had been a
traffic nightmare since the nineteen-sixties and decades on, despite a
toll-road curving north-west around the city, it was still just as bad. Their
vehicle was an old beige-colored Mercedes E Class Saloon. It was less
restricted and wouldn’t draw too much attention.

Unlike Eric
Weyland
,
Knight was much younger and less experienced in plain-clothes operations. He’d
been a rifleman with the
Westmooreland
Yeomanry and
thus was largely unused to urban environments. He suspected that the
brown-haired youth had got to be an undercover soldier more by his upper-class Yeoman
connections than by experience or training. Still, he was keen to learn and
didn’t have an attitude, which allowed
Weyland
to at
least tolerate the guy.

“So what’s our safe house like
then?” asked Knight.

“It’s a small basic flat, has a
main room and spare bedroom or storage. We’ll have to park the Merc on the
street though.”

“I hope it’s not too close to
the city center of Warwick.”

“It isn’t, but to be honest with
you I’m more concerned with making contact with the VIP.”

Knight drew out his HK USP and
checked the magazine before replacing it in his jacket holster. The weather in
the British Isles was a lot more suitable for the easy-concealing of a firearm
than other warmer places. Both wore shoulder rigs for their pistol weaponry.
They were probably the most comfortable way of carrying spare magazines and a
sidearm while remaining undetected. It meant a jacket or overcoat was essential
while armed in such a fashion though.

Knight re-zipped his jacket. “Warwick
is a place with plenty of foreigners nowadays, it could be tricky doing this in
a public place.”

“I know, we’ll not be in the
open when it goes down, hopefully she’ll be at home, we knock on the door, she
answers and then we make our move.”

“Will you just be telling her
and then bundling her in the Merc?” Knight asked, referencing the Mercedes.

“I’ll get us inside first. Her
house is in a semi-detached area, but too many twitching curtains and nosey
neighbors I suspect.”

“We could do it at the college?”

“I’m in my thirties so I’m a bit
old to be blending in there mate.”

“The carpark then?” Knight suggested
sharply.

“No way, my face is too well
known and there’s too many eyeballs and cameras. Listen mate, I make the plan
and it’s her home we do it at. The college is on the other side of Warwick and
far from the nearest motorway or A-road.”

“Alright. So we lay low then
move in together on her home when she gets back from College?”

“That’s what I want to go with.
Remember, her mum knows the danger, but she can’t call her daughter or leave
Albion to get her as they’re expecting that. The Ministry could even be onto
the girl too.”

“Is that why you insisted on the
extra weaponry and body armor?”

“Yep, our friends in high places
have some experimental kit to try out.”

“Are they those Sabre Batons?
Garenby
was saying they generate a real wallop compared to
the police-issued ones.”

“That’s right, there’s a fierce
charge-field given off by it on impact, not sure how it works internally but
kinetics seem to activate it. I hope it doesn’t come to that as all bets are
off if we have to fight our way out, especially with a VIP in tow.”

“We don’t want a ferry terminal
shootout right?” Knight said with a ‘trying-to-be-funny’ grin.

Weyland
glared at him and shook his head.

“Sorry Eric, just having a
craic.”

“Yeah well, I have a feeling
this mission isn’t going to be straightforward. It could well be we’ve got
company that want’s Yeoman blood. Be aware and don’t drop your guard.”

The next morning
it was the day of the apology. The dim sun dawned to typically northern, gloomy
weather. Valerie Beaumont woke-up an hour before college was due to begin with
a daunting feeling. Her mother had unexpectedly delayed her return to Warwick
blaming a heavy workload. Having no car of her own meant she had to walk to the
bus-stop and from there to college.

Not a hundred
miles south the weather was not much different in the rural fields of Wiltshire.
The Chief Director of the Defense Science and Technology facility had arrived
at the vast base early. Harold Chambers had been in charge of the
Porton
Down facility for two years and always liked to set
an example. Every working day he passed the memorial dedicated to his
predecessor, Mark Fuller.

The short,
slightly built man with reddish cheeks got out of his green Jaguar XJ12 sports
car and beheld his workplace. The main administrative buildings were mostly
red-brick colored and of a protruding, symmetrical architecture. At only two or
three stories high
Porton
Down’s buildings were not
tall, but they sprawled out like a neat jigsaw puzzle. The car park was only a
short way from the circular forest-feature that stood before the white-brick
entrance. Moving at his usual waddling gait the Director approached the
entrance area.

The security
guard and military detachment greeted Chambers as he passed through the
sandbagged barricades. Somewhere around the base a four-man patrol was
wandering randomly for any threats, intruders or curious outsiders. There had
been no fighting at
Porton
Down during the civil war
but the Land Ministry insisted on it being fully manned and defended all the
same.

Entering his
office he took off his jacket and put it on the hook a phone-call from his
secretary.

“High Commissioner
Roberts sends word that he’s on his way Harry, he says it’s urgent to speak
with you in person.”

“Very well,
let me know when he arrives,” Chambers responded with an exhale of breath.

Opening a
desk draw he took out a small bottle of Scottish whiskey and poured himself a
glass. The Director was a borderline alcoholic and well aware of how dangerous
the Commissioner was. More importantly, Chambers was well aware of what the
reason of his visit could be. He unlocked and opened a filing cabinet to
withdraw a red-colored folder from within it. Opening the file he took a deep
drink of the alcohol and shook his head in dismay before replacing it in the
cabinet.

Within an
hour the man had arrived and with him were a cavalcade of bodyguards and
advisors. Most stayed with the vehicular convoy but Roberts and his two
bodyguards went in with him.

Once outside
his office the two guards waited in the corridor and Commissioner Roberts
entered, taking a chair opposite him.

“Good morning
Director,” he spoke with serpentine intentions.

“What can I
do for you Commissioner?” Chambers asked innocently.

“It concerns
the genetic research began by your illustrious predecessor Director Fuller.”

“Oh,”
Chambers said with an air of bewilderment. “What research would that be?”

“Operation
Wormwood.”

“Operation
Wormwood?” Chambers pondered, playing ignorant.

“It concerns
the use of specialized NBC weaponry against our enemies. You do understand the
importance of this with the current situation?”

“I do, yet is
it of any relevance though? Chemical and bio-weaponry are practically outlawed
nowadays. Even strategic nuclear weapons are loathed but tolerated.”

“Hah! You as
Director should know we are above such moralizing nonsense. I will jog your
memory, Wormwood was intended to target Russian and Eurasian genetics.”

“At the end
of the Cold War research was halted. It was never seriously considered for battlefield
delivery due to the Soviet’s not having an equivalent, besides the ethical
morality of it.”

“Ethical
morality? For a bioweapons director you have a strange mindset Director.”

“Since my
appointment
Porton
Down has been mostly focused on
common cold research and influenza prevention.”

“I’ll be
blunt with you
Mr
Chambers, all current research
activity and development is to cease while instead Operation Wormwood is to be re-activated
and heavily invested in.”

“Commissioner
Roberts, our leaders have signed treaties and agreements never to deploy
weaponized—”

“Don’t give
me that legalize nonsense,” he interrupted smoothly. “We are permitted to do
whatever we want for defensive purposes. Research is research.” He grinned like
a snake and drew out a folded piece of paper from the inside of his suit. “How quickly
can you develop a genetic bio-weapon targeting these specific genetic
haplotypes to the following specifications?”

Roberts
passed the paper over to Chambers who began reading it. The shadow-leader
continued talking.

“I want versions
that linger and also disperse quickly. Assault troops need it to disperse
rapidly for taking enemy positions. For areas of distant attacking like
headquarters and the like the version needs to be a lingering one. Ideally the
nerve-agent should be
antropine
resistant.”

Chambers went
several shades paler on absorbing the chilling data. The code lettering R1b was
highlighted several times in red lettering. To a lesser-extent R1a was also
included.

“Commissioner,
these are purely European markers.”

“Did you
expect it to be non-European? Our biggest threat is Albion, in case it escaped
your notice these are pure European people.”

“Yes but we’d
be targeting our own people, civilians and soldier alike with chemical weapons.
Commissioner isn’t that a line too far?”

“Our own
people? Our
enemies
Director, our
enemies. It’s unfortunate it’s come to this,” Roberts said matter-of-factly, “but
if war does break out against Albion, all options must be on the table.”

“Well yes
but, population centers being manned by Yeomanry troops could be struck,
civilian deaths would be horrendous! We’d be a pariah to the international
community.”

“Leave the
military deployment to the military Director. Media-relations and diplomacy are
my world not yours,” Roberts said sternly, his hooded eyed like gimlets. “So
just do your job and get on with this.”

“Of course,
of course,” stammered the Director.

“Now, how
soon would a prototype be ready for military trials?”

“I don’t know
Commissioner, about a year? Possibly less if we scale-up with EU funding?”

“You have
three months, I can authorize human-testing to speed things along, army
volunteers, prisoners and the like should do.” Roberts said it all without
emotion and not unlike someone placing a shopping order.

“I’ll pass
the word down Commissioner. It’ll take at least a week to get our other work
mothballed.”

“Good, oh and
I expect progress reports to be filed every week. The Land Ministry’s Research
Division will be following your progress very closely. It’s all in the
paperwork I gave you.”

The Commissioner
got up to leave and called in Cordell
Mastock
. Taking
a thin package from him he placed it on Chamber’s desk.

“For your
predecessor’s memorial plaque,” Roberts grinned before departing the office. Looking
inside the package Chambers saw a single blackthorn flower.

 
The Director’s heart raced and he opened his
drawer to pour out a large draught of liquor. Getting up he went over to the
window and watched as the Commissioner entered his Rolls Royce Phantom.

Part of
Harold Chambers despised Commissioner Roberts. Genetic warfare was a new low
for the corrupt and sociopathic Land Ministry. Was that not to be expected
though? Chambers knew Fuller’s death was almost certainly murder and not
suicide as the coroner declared. Yet he was powerless to do anything and the Commissioner
knew it. His memorial was no heartfelt gesture to his old mentor, it was a
warning and the Blackthorn flower served as a reminder to obey and provide.

The Land
Ministry convoy had pulled away towards the distant gateway now and Chambers
summoned his research team leaders. After an hour of hammering out the
close-down and mothballing of current research, it took another hour to work
out the preliminary details for the genetic weapon. Finally by lunch-time the
office was his again and he relaxed once more.

Chambers suspected
what the endgame for Albion was and he didn’t like it. Yet as with many good
men in bad positions, he was almost entranced with a spectators view. If he
resigned his position another would be found to take it and with it went his wealth,
house and high-station. The company relocation package and emergency refuge
would be soon found for another. He had a wife and three children, two of which
were in an exclusive private school. There were undoubtedly Land Ministry
informants at
Porton
Down, it was possible even his
phone and computer were bugged. His mind was his at least but even that had its
own demons to contend with. Resignedly Director Chambers poured himself the
last of the bottle into the glass, and let the alcohol numb his roaring
conscience.

Valerie walked
with her friend from the college laughing.

“I can’t
believe you said it! You laid into the whole rotten establishment!”

“I know! I
was applauded by half of the audience!”

“What are we
going to do now? Is surely going to expel both of us for this?”