'What do you see, Keegan?'
I took the glasses and looked down onto the Kent and Sussex Territorial Army Firing Range and Armoury.
A chain link fence stood between us and the complex. A burnt-out saloon car was wedged into one section directly in front of us, presumably the result of someone's ill-advised attempt to ram their way in. It was riddled with bullet holes. There were plenty of possible entry points; the fence wasn't much of a barrier, it was falling down in various places, but the state of the car implied that the complex had been defended at some point. Was it still?
Off to our right were the firing ranges. A brick trench looked out onto a long stretch of grass with a huge sandbank at the far end. Propped up in front of the sand stood the fading, tattered shreds of paper soldiers, stapled to wooden boards. Many had fallen to the floor, or hung sideways at crazy angles as if drunk. Both the trench and the sandbank could provide excellent cover for attackers or defenders.
Directly in front of us stood the main building. It was two storeys high, brick built, with an impressive sign hanging across the large double doorway proclaiming its military importance. Many of the windows were smashed, and the far right rooms on the top floor had been on fire in the not too distant past; streaks of black scorching stretched from the cracked windows to the roof.
The car park in front of the building was empty except for one shiny BMW which, bizarrely, appeared untouched, still waiting patiently for its proud owner to return. Beyond the car park, to our left, was the driveway, lined with single storey outbuildings which appeared to continue behind the main building; there was more of the complex out of sight, presumably a parade ground and maybe an assault course.
There were two sandbag emplacements at the entrance to the main building, but there were no men or guns there. They were the remains of a previous attempt at defence, long since abandoned.
If I were defending this place where would I station myself?
I scanned the roof and windows of the main building but could see no signs of life or other, more recent fortifications – no sandbags, barriers or not-so-casually placed obstacles behind which to hide. The firing range appeared empty, as did the outbuildings lining the drive. Perhaps any defenders would be stationed behind the main building, but that would leave them unable to cover the most obvious routes of approach, so that seemed unlikely. So either I was missing something, or the place was deserted.
I was just about to hand the binoculars back to Mac when I caught a glimpse of a brick corner poking out behind the portico entrance to the firing range trench. I shuffled left a bit to get a better view and found myself gazing at a solid, brick and concrete Second World War pillbox. Anyone in there would have a 360° view of pretty much the entire complex, a mostly unimpeded line of fire, and bugger all chance of being killed by some yokel looter with a shotgun.
I pointed to the pillbox and handed the glasses back to Mac, who nodded; he'd seen it already or, more likely, been tipped off by Bates earlier.
'Bit obvious, though, innit,' he whispered, handing the glasses to Green, who took his turn scanning the area. 'I'd have someone somewhere else too, covering the approach to the pillbox. Now, where would that fucker be, d'you think?'
'Sir,' whispered Green. 'The car in the fence. Rear right wheel.' He passed back the binoculars and Mac took a look. He grinned.
'Not too shabby, Green. Not too shabby at all.' He passed the binoculars to me. Sure enough, just visible poking out from behind the rear wheel was a boot. As I watched it moved ever so slightly. There was a man under the car. Between him and the pillbox all the open spaces in the complex were exposed to crossfire.
We didn't have walkie-talkies, so the next thing was for Green and Wolf-Barry to skirt the complex, staying in the woods. They'd meet halfway between our positions and compare notes. Green scurried away while Mac and I shuffled back from the edge of the wood into deep cover and sat up against a couple of trees. Mac took out a battered packet of Marlboros and offered one to me.
'They might see the smoke, sir,' I pointed out. Mac glared at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to pitch a fit, but eventually he nodded and put away the packet.
'Fair point,' he said. He regarded me coolly. 'Yesterday, why didn't you just shoot that bitch?'
Because I'm not a murdering psycho whose first instinct is to open fire.
Breathe. Calm. Play the part. Earn his trust.
'Wasn't sure that I'd be able to get her mate before he shot Hammond and the others. Didn't want to shoot first, I suppose. But I was just about to pop her before you did. So thanks. Saved me the trouble.' I grinned, trying to make out I thought it was funny. 'Good shooting, by the way.'
'Had lots of practice, ain't I.'
Oh very good, hard case. Make out that you shoot people all the time. I know where you got your practice – shooting pheasants on Daddy's estate in your plus fours and Barbour jacket.
Then again, not too fast. I didn't know what happened to him during The Cull. I didn't know what he'd been doing for the last year. He could have been on a killing spree. After all, who'd know? He may have been a pampered Grant Mitchell clone, but I knew it would be dangerous to underestimate him.
'Killed many people since The Cull started, have you?' Casual, unconcerned, sound interested not appalled.
'A few.' Cagey, giving nothing away. 'No-one who didn't have it coming, anyway. First time's the worst. Easier after that.'
'So who was first, then?'
Long silence.
Green emerged, limping, from the trees and the moment passed.
'What the bloody 'ell happened to you?' said Mac.
'Slipped, sir. Think I've twisted me ankle.'
'Fuck me, Green, I'd have been better off sending my little sister. Right, sit down. What do they reckon?'
'The parade ground round back is deserted and they can't see anyone, so it's probably just the man under the car and the one in the pillbox. The Colonel and his men are going to take up firing positions in the main building, on the top floor left. Our job is to take out the guy under the car without drawing the attention of the pillbox. He said that's your job, sir.'
But Mac was already moving. He'd pulled a vicious looking knife from his backpack, placed it between his teeth, and was crawling away on his belly.
'Cover me, Keegan,' he whispered as he slithered out of the woods and began inching his way towards the car, which sat about fifty metres away and down a slope. The long grass provided good cover.
I took up position at the tree-line, nestled the rifle into my shoulder and scanned the area for nasty surprises. The place was as quiet as the grave.
And then, just as he made his final approach to the car, Mac burst out of the grass and ran as fast as he could back towards the trees, blowing our cover completely. I thought he'd lost the plot until the car exploded in a sudden blossom of flame and smoke, flinging Mac forward onto his face. He staggered upright again and continued running. No-one opened fire, and he made it back into cover safely. He sat next to me panting hard.
'Fucking tripwire,' he gasped. 'There wasn't a man under the car at all. Just a fucking leg, attached to a piece of wire that some bastard was tugging. Lured me in and I didn't see the booby trap 'til I crawled right into it. Fucking amateur!' He threw his knife in fury. It thudded into a tree, thrumming with force.
'Where's the puppeteer then?' I asked.
'The wire leads off to the left, so anywhere between the car and the main gate I reckon. But we're blown now. There could be any number of hostiles in there and they know we're here. We need a rethink.'
At that moment there was a crackle of static and an ancient tannoy system hissed into life. A man's voice echoed tinnily around the buildings.
'This facility is the property of His Majesty's Armed Forces and is defended. In accordance with emergency measures, and standing orders relating to Operation Motherland, any attempt to infiltrate this facility is an act of treason. Any further incursions will be met with deadly force. This is your first and last warning.'
The speakers fell silent, as did we.
'What the sweet holy Christ,' said Mac eventually, 'is Operation Motherland?'
He bit his lip and surveyed the complex nervously.
