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Original Work Powerful Gun Rights and Sovereign Nation Book...

Discussion in 'Survival Reading Room' started by Tyler Danann, Oct 31, 2015.

  1. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    New book I just threw together during the summer. This is the first draft so expect names, details to change about a bit. It'll be about 55,000 words and should be part of a three book series. For fans of my other books it does take place in that universe but isn't too sci-fi. It's more thriller and political-intrigue and action than PAW / TEOTOWAKI.

    It's also very anti-PC ;) and 'racist' ;)

    "Tolerance and apathy are the last virtues of a dying society"
    - Aristotle 384 BC – 322 BC


    It was a fine sunny day in the English countryside, the following previous ones of showery drizzle. For several days now the military base, deep in Bedfordshire basked in the heat of late summer.

    From the base, situated at the top of a hill the lay of the land was noticeable. Off to the east three distant figures left a blue Ford Escort and entered the ancient forest. A young, confident blonde led the way followed by a slightly older man and a dark-haired woman. All of them were in their twenties and wore the olive drab uniforms of the British Army. Once they were deep in the forest the confident one turned back to the other two.

    “This is far enough.” she said smiling her body full of warmth.

    “What have you brought us here for?” asked the brunette.

    “This wood is an ancient forest, there’s not many left in England these days. It’s perfect for us to make to pact before the old oak trees.”

    “A pact?” the young man answered rolling his eyes and looking to the other girl skeptically.

    “Well, we’ll be going our separate ways soon, we could end up never seeing each other again. I want us to make a pact, one that helps bring us back together again. That way, no matter what happens, we’ll always find each other again in future times.”

    The brunette nodded and grinned in agreement. “Sounds like witchcraft,” she laughed brazenly.

    “It’s folk magic, in the olden times people did this all the time. Now what do you both say?”

    “You always were the space cadet, but I’m game,” the other woman said.

    “Me too,” the man said with a chuckle. “I don’t want us to remain parted forever after the fun times we’ve had. If this pact helps, I’m all for it.”

    “Alright! This will take a few minutes.”

    The blonde woman smiled again before producing a Wiccan knife and began speaking ancient words and oaths. The atmosphere grew serious though and even the bird song and outside noise grew faint somehow. After facing the oak and raising her hands she spoke some more before making a shallow wrist cut on herself. She wiped her cut on the side of a nearby oak tree. Then made a similar cut on the tall man and finally the dark-haired woman. The ritual concluded with both making separate blood-marks on the oak tree in a manner so that they circled and almost touched one another.

    The folk magic concluded with a prayer then the somber feeling in the clearing lifted.

    “That was pretty intense,” the man said, accepting a tissue from the witch to dab at his wrist. The brunette did likewise.

    “We’re joined now,” she answered. “If there’s danger, strife or troubled times in the world we’ll hopefully be reunited. This is to remain a secret, if we tell anyone outside of ourselves the pact could go terribly wrong.”

    They all agreed to this and together they hastened to leave the forest before they were missed. After re-entering the blue Escort they departed the area.


    Chapter 1

    Person of Interest

    “So what's your business been in Ireland then?” The Junior Commissioner asked the Yeoman.

    “Oh not much, just driving around,” the Yeoman answered.

    “Just driving around?”

    “That’s right.”

    “Where did you stay?”

    “Various places,” the Yeoman said, “when I was driving around.”

    “I was expecting an address? A residence?

    There was a long pause as the Yeoman ignored the question.

    It was a brightly colored room and the plain day outside might as well have been a world away. For the occupants of the room it was one man in a three-piece suit and the other in well-worn plain clothes. The Yeoman was not in uniform, but he felt as if he ought to be. Outside the steady rumble of heavy goods lorries could be heard. Heysham Ferry Terminal was always busy during offloading, but soon the noise would fade. By that time and for many more hours he could remain detained. He wondered if the anti-terror team rooting into his vehicle outside had found anything. As a reservist member of the Yeomanry he'd be automatically on their radar. It was no secret that the Colonels were disgruntled with the new coalition regime. The registration of his Land Rover Defender would have been tied to his Reservist status, which in turn would have automatically flagged him up as a gun-owner.

    “Eric Weyland do you have an address in Ireland?” the small man’s tone became harsher.

    The Yeoman shook his head. “I wasn’t expecting a welcoming party on my return to Albion. Neither was I expecting a nameless Commissar to be asking me questions,” the Yeoman retorted.

    “My name is Junior Commissioner Brown,” the older man stressed, annoyed at Weyland’s jibe. “Now why were you in Ireland Eric?”

    “Just visiting the country,” the man responded.

    As the Junior Commissioner looked over the file he turned the pages slowly. His person of interest was thirty-eight years old, a shade over six-foot tall. Unlike a fair few men his age he showed no sign of drugs or drink abuse. His skin and eyes were clear and he moved with an athletic laziness, as if he was conserving his energy until it was most needed.

    Weyland knew the border-interrogator had him on ‘suspicion of external activities’. It was a recent law that allowed police investigations for border travelers on the flimsiest whim. Since the great land-slide election of a rabidly left-wing government things had been changing. It had been nearly a year since they took power and already things were going backwards again.
    It had been good times for people like Weyland in the past thirty-years. He was born just after the short but decisive Colonels Coup that started the rift throughout the land. A hard-right government that followed, backed by the military. Nearly twenty years of this had undone much of the lunacy of the previous governments. Even so, the rot was so deep the reform was being constantly undermined by scheming politicians. Many made up a supposedly pro-nationalist coalition.

    Weyland had heard the call to arms ten years ago on the eve of the brief, but bloody Colonels War. The firmly hard-right-wing government that followed effectively reversed the worst of the issues ailing the island. The professional politicians were done away with, a manufacturing industry was restored and the military reformed to being more resource-orientated and island-centric. Most important of all, a power-base away from London, in northern England, was established. Thus giving the Yeomanry a check and balance on London’s stranglehold.

    A Volunteer Force independent from the powers-that-be complimented a mandatory conscription. That became the Yeomanry and, following completion of the conscription system, allowed a new standing army of volunteers. Many of the former conscripts transferred to the Yeomanry rangers, armored troops and air-force but not Weyland. He had a different calling that saw him despatched overseas. Three years passed while he was gone and the winds of change blew once again. The hard-line government, under threat of sanctions from more powerful countries formed a centrist Coalition with other political parties. There were no sanctions against Albion territories but it crippled the ultra-conservative leadership. The left-wing, always masters at winning over the young, had a field day. Once ‘their’ generation came of age the results became clear.

    High on the office wall a picture of the new Prime Speaker Veitch grinned down at Weyland like a mocking Hyena.

    “So whereabouts in Ireland did you travel Eric?”

    “Am I free to leave?” Weyland responded plainly with a bored tone.

    “We just have to complete our search first,” the man said smoothly, “Then there’s also the Anti-Terrorist Act that we used to… initiate our inquiries with you.” The Commissioner spoke the last part rather smugly.

    Weyland looked down at the black and white slip on the table. It reminded him that, thanks to the new powers granted last year in the parliament, coastal and airport security had the power to detain anyone they felt was under suspicion of what they deemed ‘terrorist activities’. It went on to state that he could be held for a maximum of nine hours and items he held could be confiscated for as long as two weeks.

    What perplexed the Yeoman was the fact a junior-commissioner was the man doing the talking. Normally a police sergeant or detective did border interviews. Why such a high-rank?

    A uniformed policeman in through the door he’d entered. It led to a corridor and another door barred the way outside.

    “He’s got a crossbow under the driving seat!” he said to Brown who looked over at Weyland.

    “That’s not against the law,” he replied, causing the commander to shake his head at his underling who stomped out the door, obviously disgruntled that nothing was going down that avenue.

    “There’s a bill in parliament being tabled to outlaw those you know?” The interviewer goaded.

    “I wonder what they’ll outlaw next? Your own batons perhaps?” he retorted with a smile causing the man to flush.

    “Those are already—” the Enforcer began to say before realizing the man meant they’d be outlawed to Enforcers. A notion he found ridiculous.

    “Are traveling with your self-loading rifle?” The policeman asked, referencing the weapon every member of the Yeomanry was armed with.

    “Of course, it’s stowed behind the driver’s seat.”

    “With ammunition?”

    “It’s not much good without it now is it?”

    The short man perused the shipping manifest before taking a headmaster’s tone. “I don’t have any record from the ferry company of your firearm or ammo.”

    “Of course not, it’s not a legal requirement to notify them. I have to leave my vehicle unattended while on that ferry, you can be sure I’m not telling the ferry crew what’s in my vehicle.”

    Weyland took out his Firearms Exemption Authority from his wallet with a satisfied smile and slid it across to Brown.

    Like many Yeomanry policies counter to Britain’s draconian weapons laws the validity of the authority was to the year 9999. Additionally it was transferable to members of his family, even fellow Yeomanry with an officers signature. In essence it was a theoretically unlimited and a subtle ‘up yours’ to any police harassment. The Commissioner looked at it briefly with disdain before sliding it back across the table.

    “I’m gonna be straight with you Weyland, I don’t like you. I’ve read your file, looked at your reports, you have a problem with how this country is being run.”

    “This country is being run by traitors and seditious pukes again. A blind man can see that.”

    “They were democratically elected! Unlike the coup that messed this country about thirty years ago.”

    “That was by consent, endorsed by the working and middle-class folk sick and tired of being abused by the idiots in Parliament.”

    “Consent? I didn’t consent or agree!” Brown countered but Weyland spoke as if he’d not even heard him.

    “If it wasn’t for the coup there would have been a rebellion from the other factions of the military, then you’d really have seen a bloodbath!”

    “What about the police that were executed then? The politicians! The media-directors! The bankers! They lined them up against a wall and murdered them! Those are your Colonels actions.”

    “I would have done it differently, sparing them death, but one way or another high-ranking traitors get what they deserve. They were enemy agents and that was proven!”

    “You’re crazy, that’s not how we should do things!”

    “Yes it is, you’re just too chicken-hearted to accept me telling it like it is.”
    “Rubbish. We know you’ve been traveling around Weyland, the Americans, Asia Pacific areas. We don’t want you filling young minds over here with any nonsense.”

    “Corrupt is it? The Jade people call it the Divine Mandate, it allows lethal force to manifest against those that wish ill-will on the local populace of a nation or people. People had forgotten this in the West, but not when the Colonels reminded folk of it! Over in the USA they fought a war for seven years to stay free from a tyrannical monarchy. So if that’s nonsense to you then you are obviously a half-wit or just trying to wind me up. Which is it?”

    The words flowed like a torrent of water from the Yeoman, stinging Commissioner Brown. The Commissioner knew from the files that Weyland was intelligent, a rabble-rouser and debater, able to speak with others. It was surely why the Colonels had sent him overseas. The question that eluded him, MI6 intelligence and even foreign intelligence was why?

    “Why do you plot against this island?”

    The Yeoman smiled enigmatically but said nothing, needling Brown who stared hard at the eyes that didn’t even look at him. A glassy-zeal or sheen seemed to radiate from them, something that conventional threats could not blunt. Weyland was a fanatic in his eyes, the sort of man who would kill others and not be afraid to make light of it. There was an intensity to his icy blue eyes, it reminded him of a stormtrooper just on the eve of an assault or perhaps a pilot about to dive-bomb an enemy position. Nothing seemed to sway him. Like a sudden turn of the weather, he was calm again.

    “Look, I don’t have a problem with you Enforcers as a rule. I don’t really hate anyone typically, even the traitors, but when things are out of order, Things have to happen.”

    The commissioner went passive and held his hands up briefly.

    ‘Let the fool talk,’ thought the commissioner. ‘He’ll tell us what we know now he’s begun rambling.’

    “You know if it wasn’t for people like the Yeomanry we’d have been invaded and conquered by the immigrant hordes many times over. The Colonels know the score and speak out about it.”

    “The Yeomanry acts like a private army traipsing about this country though. Most of all though, it’s the fact you have carte blanch to wield military grade weapons. That’s a bit much isn’t it Eric?”

    “You only say that because your police tyranny was hamstrung by the Colonels Mr Brown. In the words of my old Colonel ‘Too many traitors in high places, starting from Junior Commissioner upwards.’”

    “You don’t think it’s outdated to have a militia bullying the police and shooting them during a coup?”

    “It’s never an outdated thing to have protection, the Yeomanry serve as a check-and-balance on the tyrannical powers of the police state.”

    “That’s nonsense, the police force protect people, chase criminals and investigate law-breakers.”

    “Good, then leave the Yeomanry to be the Yeomanry and concentrate on people actually breaking the law, not this thought-crime and harassment.”

    “You know when the firearms laws in this country were lax we had a man go on a spree killing in Wiltshire. He reminded me of a Yeomanry type.”

    “He had illegal weapons and was a rogue Gladio operative according to the Colonels. Those were government guys trained to fight if we were invaded, except a few got ideas of their own. One went nuts because his meds were bad and he was spurned by a woman who surprised him in a forest.”

    “Rubbish,” the commissioner said.

    “If people had the firearm rights we Yeomanry have now, spree killers like him would have been cut to pieces on sight.”

    “We don’t trust you Weyland, not me, not the High Commissioners, not the Prime Speaker! We don’t want to take a chance for your Yeomanry to go on the rampage. I don’t understand your stupid gun rights, I think you Yeomanry are a relic, a piece of history from when warfare was a way of life in Europe.”

    “The feeling is mutual. Yeomanry can help if the country is ever invaded. A professional police force would likely panic, go home and even collaborate with the enemy.”

    “Don’t you insult my police force! The regular army is for anti-invasion measures, not your lot.”

    “Our regular army fought for overseas security when we had an empire, then for overseas interests. At least now, following the Colonels War they are overseas keeping the oil lanes clear with the navy. The Yeomanry are more equipped than a regular reservist would be thanks to your gun laws.”

    “My police force can do your job, we have firearms too you know.”

    “And we could do yours a lot better than forcing people into rooms to be asked stupid questions.”

    The officer ignored Weyland and spoke on.

    “There’s another bill going through parliament this winter, it’s called the Yeomanry Amendment Act. The High Commissioner personally oversaw it.”

    “Are we getting a pay rise?” Weyland asked sarcastically.

    “Very funny Weyland, your kind need to be put on a leash. It’s time for checks and balances,” the enforcer smiled with dirty, coffee-stained teeth.

    “Oh really?”

    “Yes, really, we’re getting new powers you see. All your firearms, munitions, armored cars and aircraft will be licensed and regulated! Every county in Albion is getting a new police chief to oversee and individually authorize each part. It won’t be anything like the FEA licenses or section nine authority permits the Colonels write out like fag-paper either. We’ll be vetting the entire Yeomanry independently and unless it’s essential for target practice all your weapons are gonna be under lock and key. Under OUR lock and key.”

    “That’ll never pass in parliament!” Weyland responded sharply. “We get exemption from your daft firearms legislation, we practically have our own section of England anyway. Any policing is done by the Provost not your kind! That’s our Albion Right. Along with freedom of movement, which you are infringing upon right now.”

    “Your ‘Albion Right?” the policeman scoffed with a sudden laugh.

    “I served my time in the military, then the Yeomanry after that. I earned that right just like my father before me.”

    The commissioner went passive.

    “It’ll pass Weyland, the Prime Speaker’s party has the majority now in Parliament.” The passive mood changed again as the Enforcer spoke on.
    “Territory or no, when it concerns this bill we’ll be coming and going as we please. What’s more is you’ll be lucky if we let half of you own a .22 rabbit rifle privately!” he laughed.

    “Well if that comes to pass things will get very interesting plod,” Weyland said with a smile. ‘Plod’ was a slang term not liked by Enforcers.

    “What do you mean? Are you threatening me or my men?” Junior-Commissioner said.

    “I just said, things are gonna get interesting if you take on my Yeomanry. The Colonels will take you down again if you push us.”

    Brown brooded now and stared at the fair-haired Yeoman with angry thoughts. His hazel eyes seemed to cloud and veins showed on a furrowed brow.

    “Well the debate has been entertaining, but I have to ask, am I free to leave now?”

    This caused the Commissioner to lose his temper. “No! You bloody-well stay here until I say so!”

    It was Weyland’s turn to laugh.

    “Well in that case, I consider myself a prisoner then. Which means: 62505 Reservist-Corporal Weyland, blood group AB-Negative...” he went on to state his date of birth and said nothing more.

    “Don’t give me that military crap! What work have you been doing for the Colonels?! We know you are up to something!”

    Weyland’s repeated his prisoner-of-war declaration in a monologue voice and stared into space.

    “Weyland! Answer me! If I have to I’ll get a judge to authorize—”

    The man could not complete the words, a burst of machine-gun fire interrupted him. The terrorist attack on Heysham Ferry Terminal had begun.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
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  2. pearlselby

    pearlselby Monkey++

    Hi Tyler, if this is anything like your other book I have...wow. Did you go to Mikes' this year?
    Tyler Danann likes this.
  3. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Hi Pearl! Yep, I was at the Mountain Hold, but I've been building a new world too, as well as this book of course. :)
    pearlselby likes this.
  4. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    On a slight rise the terrorists overlooked the entire facility from their vantage point. To their left was the ferry docks, the large Stena Traveler was already half-unloaded. The large goods trucks were almost gone and soon the many Albion families would be marshalled off. In the centre was the large concrete plaza for transiting back and forth. Long lines of holiday-makers patiently waited in their cars for the boat to be ready for them. The right-hand area was the administration buildings and the Customs and Excise compound. They knew from prior knowledge only three officers were on duty, with a forth on sick leave. In their crazed and mixed-minds, their dream of a Rabian Caliphate danced over Europe. They were the tip of that spear and now yearned to spill European Christian blood.

    Abdul Efraim and his four suicide-warriors had lain watching the ferry terminal for hours waiting for the moment of attack. Timing was critical. This was not just to be an attack, it was to have a more elaborate touch. Efraim was armed with an AKM, several grenades and over two-hundred rounds of ammunition. His compatriots were likewise armed except for one armed with a PKP machine gun. Mohammed Rehren would have the special duty for the right-hand section of the operation. More ammunition was on hand in the van.

    Efraim’s handlers, now departed. They had supplied the weaponry and transported them the long way from Northern France. Instead of the heavily policed tunnel with the risk of random searches and checks, a private fishing boat had been used Their own agents had dropped off vehicles for them and it was in one of these, a Mercedes S200 that the handler’s now made their way out of the area. As they drove away around to the private-exit gate the strange-looking man suppressed an excited judder that ran through his body.

    “It will be a good day for us Shieda,” he spoke to his female companion.

    “The Yeoman will make a good scapegoat for when this makes the news.”

    “He wasn’t supposed to be detained though, this will make framing him trickier, Efraim is up to the job though.”

    “Rabian’s are scum, being assigned to them was a slur. We have much better work than agent handling such types.”

    “If it means the Yeomanry are demonized by being associated with the Rabians, so much the better. The faster they are disbanded and out of the way is the better.”

    “Our media contacts will film the carnage?”

    “Yes, but not for a while, I don’t want to risk them getting caught up in it.”

    “I wouldn’t want to be that Yeoman, Efraim has a taste for infidel blood.”

    “So do you Zeneth,” Shieda joked.

    “I have more class than him though, and I waste less fluids than Rabians usually,” Zeneth laughed as they passed the sign for Heysham ferry-terminal.

    All being well they would be back at their safe-house within two hours and enjoying the chaotic news scenes just before tea-time.

    “What’s going on? This is your doing Weyland!” the officer whined. More shots were sounding sporadically and he flinched with the sounds.

    “Not me or mine, this is an attack! Get down!” Weyland kept low against a wall, making sure he was away from any windows. The next burst from the light-machine gun targeted around their building directly.

    The two enforcers searching Weyland’s vehicle had completed their search and were both walking back towards the buildings back entrance. At the first sound of gun shots both were cut down, one died instantly, the other was mortally wounded. He crawled painfully to the faded-red doorway but couldn’t reach the door-handle. The next long burst from Rehren ended his pain and ripped through the single-wall of brick in several areas.

    The adjoining building where ferry bookings were processed took the brunt of it and two customers and a member of staff were hit.

    The Junior-Commissioner ran to the corridor doorway and raced to the exit. He naively thought the main doors were the target, he was wrong. As soon as he opened up the red doorway he had time to see his two Enforcers laying in pools of blood before he too was struck.

    Weyland wasted no time once the bothersome man had left. He knew from experience that Border Custom’s buildings had a small armory. A quick scan of an office-room showed a plain cabinet with serialized weaponry on a sheet of A4 paper. The list showed, two MP5 submachine guns and a Browning HiPower and a HK G36 assault rifle.

    The Yeoman tried the handle but it was predictably locked. A nearby key-press was unlocked though and he tried to calmly find the right key. A second burst of machine-gun fire seemed to directly hammer into the main office area.

    “They shot me! Your men shot me!” came a voice behind him. Turning he saw the hapless Enforcer officer clutching his arm. He was pale and in a state of shock.

    “They aren’t my ****ing men!” Weyland shouted. “If they were I’d already be gone, you’d be dead and there wouldn’t be all this extra racket!”

    The commissioner was stunned. He was well used to an orderly life, routine and predictable outcomes. The sudden changes had him almost mentally undone. He reached for him smart phone and tried to dial 999.

    “Whoever it is wants us dead and to cause mayhem,” Weyland saw the phone. “Don’t bother, by the time they get here it will be a clean-up job, others will be doing that.”

    Weyland considered more conversation, perhaps he could sway the zealous commissioner to his side. Then he dismissed it, like many things Weyland was good at, being a lone-warrior was his forte. He tried the second key and it failed to turn the lock in the safe. As he reached for the third key his arm brushed against his covert body-camera. It was button mounted into his dark green jacket and had activated the moment Brown’s security team flagged him down. It carried on recorded all that Weyland faced. For the Yeoman he absently wondered if it would record his death? He was on an island that either revered or loathed armed citizens, and Heysham was in non-Albion territory and it had plenty of the latter. Then his instincts of defiance kicked in and he felt the spirit of survival call out to him.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
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  5. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    On a slight rise the terrorists overlooked the entire facility from their vantage point. To their left was the ferry docks, the large Stena Traveler was already half-unloaded. The large goods trucks were almost gone and soon the many Albion families would be marshalled off. In the centre was the large concrete plaza for transiting back and forth. Long lines of holiday-makers patiently waited in their cars for the boat to be ready for them. The right-hand area was the administration buildings and the Customs and Excise compound. They knew from prior knowledge only three officers were on duty, with a forth on sick leave. In their crazed and mixed-minds, their dream of a Rabian Caliphate danced over Europe. They were the tip of that spear and now yearned to spill European Christian blood.

    Abdul Efraim and his four suicide-warriors had lain watching the ferry terminal for hours waiting for the moment of attack. Timing was critical. This was not just to be an attack, it was to have a more elaborate touch. Efraim was armed with an AKM, several grenades and over two-hundred rounds of ammunition. His compatriots were likewise armed except for one armed with a PKP machine gun. Mohammed Rehren would have the special duty for the right-hand section of the operation. More ammunition was on hand in the van.

    Efraim’s handlers, now departed. They had supplied the weaponry and transported them the long way from Northern France. Instead of the heavily policed tunnel with the risk of random searches and checks, a private fishing boat had been used Their own agents had dropped off vehicles for them and it was in one of these, a Mercedes S200 that the handler’s now made their way out of the area. As they drove away around to the private-exit gate the strange-looking man suppressed an excited judder that ran through his body.

    “It will be a good day for us Shieda,” he spoke to his female companion.

    “The Yeoman will make a good scapegoat for when this makes the news.”

    “He wasn’t supposed to be detained though, this will make framing him trickier, Efraim is up to the job though.”

    “Rabian’s are scum, being assigned to them was a slur. We have much better work than agent handling such types.”

    “If it means the Yeomanry are demonized by being associated with the Rabians, so much the better. The faster they are disbanded and out of the way is the better.”

    “Our media contacts will film the carnage?”

    “Yes, but not for a while, I don’t want to risk them getting caught up in it.”

    “I wouldn’t want to be that Yeoman, Efraim has a taste for infidel blood.”

    “So do you Zeneth,” Shieda joked.

    “I have more class than him though, and I waste less fluids than Rabians usually,” Zeneth laughed as they passed the sign for Heysham ferry-terminal.
    All being well they would be back at their safe-house within two hours and enjoying the chaotic news scenes just before tea-time.

    “What’s going on? This is your doing Weyland!” the officer whined. More shots were sounding sporadically and he flinched with the sounds.

    “Not me or mine, this is an attack! Get down!” Weyland kept low against a wall, making sure he was away from any windows. The next burst from the light-machine gun targeted around their building directly.

    The two enforcers searching Weyland’s vehicle had completed their search and were both walking back towards the buildings back entrance. At the first sound of gun shots both were cut down, one died instantly, the other was mortally wounded. He crawled painfully to the faded-red doorway but couldn’t reach the door-handle. The next long burst from Rehren ended his pain and ripped through the single-wall of brick in several areas.

    The adjoining building where ferry bookings were processed took the brunt of it and two customers and a member of staff were hit.

    The Junior-Commissioner ran to the corridor doorway and raced to the exit. He naively thought the main doors were the target, he was wrong. As soon as he opened up the red doorway he had time to see his two Enforcers laying in pools of blood before he too was struck.

    Weyland wasted no time once the bothersome man had left. He knew from experience that Border Custom’s buildings had a small armory. A quick scan of an office-room showed a plain cabinet with serialized weaponry on a sheet of A4 paper. The list showed, two MP5 submachine guns and a Browning HiPower and a HK G36 assault rifle.

    The Yeoman tried the handle but it was predictably locked. A nearby key-press was unlocked though and he tried to calmly find the right key. A second burst of machine-gun fire seemed to directly hammer into the main office area.

    “They shot me! Your men shot me!” came a voice behind him. Turning he saw the hapless Enforcer officer clutching his arm. He was pale and in a state of shock.

    “They aren’t my ****ing men!” Weyland shouted. “If they were I’d already be gone, you’d be dead and there wouldn’t be all this extra racket!”

    The commissioner was stunned. He was well used to an orderly life, routine and predictable outcomes. The sudden changes had him almost mentally undone. He reached for him smart phone and tried to dial 999.

    “Whoever it is wants us dead and to cause mayhem,” Weyland saw the phone. “Don’t bother, by the time they get here it will be a clean-up job, others will be doing that.”

    Weyland considered more conversation, perhaps he could sway the zealous commissioner to his side. Then he dismissed it, like many things Weyland was good at, being a lone-warrior was his forte. He tried the second key and it failed to turn the lock in the safe. As he reached for the third key his arm brushed against his covert body-camera. It was button mounted into his dark green jacket and had activated the moment Brown’s security team flagged him down. It carried on recorded all that Weyland faced. For the Yeoman he absently wondered if it would record his death? He was on an island that either revered or loathed armed citizens, and Heysham was in non-Albion territory and it had plenty of the latter. Then his instincts of defiance kicked in and he felt the spirit of survival call out to him.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
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  6. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Two Rabian riflemen closed the distance towards the waiting parked vehicles and the large ferry ship beyond it. The pair were heavily equipped with grenades and managed to reach throwing range before being spotted.

    The marshalling woman in a hi-vis jacket screamed a warning but chaos soon followed. The first grenade landed short of a Ford Focus, blowing its windows out, and sending waves of shrapnel everywhere. The next one rolled under a Toyota Corolla. It was devastating, the occupants were too terrified to leave and blocked in from in front and behind. Then came the explosion followed by more grenades at the other vehicles. Those at the front and rear of the columns drove away at high speed to the very edge of the docks. One car attempted sanctuary on the ferry. As the young couple on board mounted the ramp they smashed head-on into a departing van. For those trying the other direction another pair of Rabian gunmen ambushed them with a salvo of assault-rifle gunfire. Over three hundred people were trapped between the sea and the Rabian positions.

    Albion had experienced tastes of terrorism before, but the Rabian ways were a newer, more grisly dish entirely.

    Weyland had the G36 out of the armory along with the Browning HiPower. While the G36 used a different caliber to his L1A1 rifle the pistol was in 9mm, matching his CZ 75. Tucking the sidearm behind him in the small of his back he added a couple of spare magazines which went into his jacket pocket.
    The Junior Commisioner had resumed calling 999 and was in the middle of a rambling, panic-stricken monologue. When he heard the sound of metallic noises in one of the offices he walked halfway across the main office and noticed the Yeoman.

    “What are you doing? That’s restricted weaponry! You can’t touch that!” Brown said with a high-pitched shriek.

    A door being kicked in sounded and distracted the attention of the policeman though. As he turned a swarthy-faced Arab entered through the internal office doorway. He was an ugly man with a big weapon. Seeing only the lone man with civilian clothes in front of him he pointed angrily directly at him
    “Where’s the Yeoman!” he barked in accented English.

    Brown almost soiled himself at the fear that washed over him.

    “Tell me or you die Kaffir!”

    As the terrorist said this another voice spoke behind him in the Rabian tongue. He stepped through the doorway and focused his attention on the weak-looking man.

    The sight of a man holding his life in the balance broke any flimsy loyalty to his detainee.

    “He’s over—”

    Brown could not complete the words as Weyland opened fire. The machine-gunner took a three-round burst on the chest and the neck. The body armor stopped one of the bullets but the other two tore through his upper-chest and windpipe. Instinctively the stricken Rabian clutched the trigger and a long burst of fire cascaded through the office-complex. Weyland shied back around the corner into the small sub-office corner and stayed low to the ground.

    After the deafening roar had subsided he tracked around the corner, aiming at whatever he saw. The untidy office was now a mess, paperwork, plastic and shards of glass littered the place. On the ground was a dying Rabian, slumped over a bloody PKP machine gun. The troublesome lawman was not moving either. He’s been blasted backwards and was face-up with his back awkwardly.

    ‘So much for your gun control,’ Weyland mused with dark humor.

    The other gunfire had subsided and the silence worried him more now. The terrorist had asked for him specifically, meaning he was a target for them. A feeling of combative rage swished about him and the Yeoman moved forwards quietly. By avoiding major noise from the debris he reached the wall that connected to the main corridor entrance. On reaching the corridor door the Yeoman tried a ruse. He fumbled and tried the door a few times while remaining off to the side of it. Swiftly he removed his hand and arm just as a short burst of AK bullets poured through the middle of it.

    Going to the floor next to the doorway Weyland jammed his Browning against the bottom of the doors base and aimed one-handed. He fired three times through it into the corridor where danger lurked and was rewarded with a yelp of pain. He fired four more times then ripped open the door, while keeping his body clear. No gunfire came and he jerk-looked around the corner next. No sign of the other Arab was there either but the far door was open and a blood trail was noticeable.

    He could hear shouts and screams but Weyland kept his cool, carefully exiting the outer doorway. He saw two armed men distantly firing towards the ferry. They didn’t aim properly and seemed to be spraying their gunfire. Off to his left the man he’d injured moved further and further to the fenceline. From the way he stumbled and clutched at his right arm it looked like he’d been hit twice. Weyland raised his G36 carbine but as he aimed the Rabian unexpectedly fell down. Slowly though the tenacious movements of him crawling towards a van became apparent.

    Weyland knew if he pursued the man he’d catch him but if he opened fire he’d risk the other gunmen being alerted. Then there was the casualties being inflicted by them upon helpless civilians. A third choice seemed to taunt at him — escape!

    His Land Rover Defender was close to try that option, but the welcoming green machine seemed to take on the stain of cowardice. With no time to dig out his cased rifle in the Defender he moved in towards the gunfire. By circling via the fence he managed to completely re-flank the sound of battle. He was breathing well thanks to the rivers of adrenaline cycling through him. Weyland advanced a little ways further and now faced the opposition on the extreme left of the ferry quayside.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
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  7. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    From the ferry area and especially the parked cars it was chaos, people were dead or dying. Five cars were in flames and two more wrecked by explosions. Still the blood-lust of the terrorists was not satisfied. There were still dozens of survivors left and they weren’t done yet. Once they were dead, they could move in against the ferry. Its ramp was still down and made for an enticing sight.

    Abu Halabi reloaded for the fourth time, he was halfway through his ammunition panoply and feeling righteous in his killings. His ISIS brother uttered gleeful invocations and prayers as he fired on and on.

    “Allah Akbar, Allllaah Akbar,” he said with guttural splendour. Two women, young and old went down as he sent half a magazine into them.

    They had made a break for it and now few wanted to run from the cover of their vehicles and were easy prey to the prowling Rabians. As the junior leader of them he mentally felt a rush of excitement. Then the ferry ship’s ramp began closing and he shouted loudly in Rabian to advance on the ship.

    “Allah Ak—”

    The sudden break in his pattern of speaking caused Halabi to turn, he had time to see his brother slumping over. The terrorist shouted a warning noise before more shots rang out, cutting down the dark-skinned man.

    The Yeoman, partly concealed from a low fold in the ground, shot again and again with his G36. His prey fell dying and was partly obscured by a concrete bollard.

    Only two minutes earlier he’d crawled low like a frenzied leopard after choosing to take on the gunmen. After being satisfied they were no danger he waited for the moment. With the iron-sights he watched and saw further danger. Another Rabian emerged from their ambush position and Weyland kept his cool, a second man followed him. They were now less brave on seeing their dead comrades. It was one thing to slaughter unarmed civilians but facing armed opponents unnerved them.
    Weyland shot the biggest one of the two with three rounds, he went down like a sack of potatoes. The second saw the Yeoman though and fired back at him while howling. An experienced enemy would have rushed for cover to engage in a firefight, the last terrorist charged forwards instead. He made it ten yards across the open ground, firing from the hip before Weyland shot him down. The Yeoman heard impacts nearby but was unharmed by the AKM’s gunfire.

    Remembering the last terrorist who had been running away the soldier swivelled to see a distant van racing away to the south. Weyland sent the last of his magazine at it the tiny target but the range was too great and the carbine not up to the task. The weapon held open the bolt on empty and still the dark blue van drove on. Ephraim had escaped and the Yeoman knew he had to be away too, as much as it grieved him to leave without helping the others.

    He, like the Rabian swine, had a mission and if he tarried the authorities would surely cast him into detention. The sounds of firing had all ceased He attempted a still picture of the almost vanished vehicle but discovered his body camera had stopped recording. Weyland hoped the battery had only recently failed, not that it would have shown much anyway, given his prone position.

    The Yeoman stood up carefully left just as the survivors were emerging from their hiding places. To several it was clear he was the one who had saved them. He waved briefly and called out that help would be on its way before moving rapidly towards his Land Rover. He’d parked it on the very edge of the parking area, keeping it from most of the machine-gun fire. Apart from a bullet nick in the back corner it was unharmed. Before climbing inside he had a sudden thought and retrieved the folder Brown had been glancing at. Inside the front-cover was a picture of him taken from his military record with notes and annotations. Without time to read any more he returned to his vehicle and checked his L1A1 SLR was still in its case. It was, as were about two hundred rounds of ammunition in ten magazines. Weyland stowed the G36 next to it and removed the browning from the holster.

    The dead police he drove around sent a weird feeling of guilt and responsibility trespass into him. The memory of the terrorists asking for him in the building made him realize he perhaps was the main reason or at least an influence.

    Was he indirectly responsible for their deaths?

    Weyland didn’t think so, if the foolish idiot called Brown had not detained him he’d have been on his way south unburdened.
    He exited the ferry terminal and turned south-east just as the sounds of the police response unit became audible.

    “They’ll be from Lancaster,” he said confidently to himself. “I hope they don’t try and pin all this mess on me.”

    As the convoy of police vehicle came into view a feeling of fatalism came over him. A Land Rover Defender a match for few vehicles in terms of speed or acceleration. His mental state was that of a wary wolf and Weyland was prepared to fight if they tried to stop his vehicle. The treatment of the authorities of him was not forgotten, despite their casualties. Weyland suspected the dead or dying Commissioner Brown may have never intended to release him if he had his way.

    The lead Enforcer of the police convoy paid little attention to the slow Land Rover trundling along as it approached. They had no report on a green Land Rover, only that shots had been fired and casualties reported at Heysham ferry terminal. They drove past him without slowing down. It was only an hour later when they viewed the surveillance tapes that they saw the Rabians, the carnage and the Yeoman warrior in action. His green off-road vehicle was immediately flagged up for interception.
    The Yeoman drove on towards Yorkshire, avoiding the motorways and using only the A-Roads. His vehicle was not registered to his home address. Instead it was listed under the Yeomanry barracks in the next town from him. For now Eric Weyland was off the radar.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
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  8. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Chapter 2


    Within two hours of the Heysham attack the media-machine was going into overdrive. Complete coverage was being displayed on all major channels. Emergency services attempted to do what they could be the injuries were nasty. The terrorists had used expanding ammunition making bullet-wounds even more devastating. As they worked and toiled among the vehicles the announced death toll grew and grew.

    First it was twenty-eight, then thirty, forty-eight before stabilizing on fifty two fatalities. Over fifty more were wounded, with dozens of them in a serious condition. Goggle-eyed watchers saw the whole circus of reporters, journalists and news anchors go into an emotional roller-coaster as a version of events slowly trickled out.

    The surveillance cameras showed a lone, white civilian with an assault rifle opening fire while laying down. The quality of the cameras was less than five megapixels, keeping him from being facially identified. Yet the camera’s did not show his targeting the now dead Rabians, nor did they show him waving to the civilians as he departed.

    By the time Weyland had reached his valley farm house the High Commissioner was reporting him as the leader of a terrorist attack. After shaking his head at the news reports coming in on the Freeview TV, Weyland wasted no time. He immediately set up a meeting with the Colonel on the secure line. The duty Yeoman, a Sergeant Chris Payne listened as he delivered his hasty report.

    “Things are moving very fast now Eric, Word from the barracks nearest to you is they’ve got two police convoys worth of active firearms guys blockading the place. So don’t show up there whatever you do.”

    “By the stars what are they going after us for? It’s Rabian’s that did the attack.”

    “They want us dead Eric, they’ll try anything to take us down and making us look bad is the start of it. We might have our own turf, but the police can come and go as they please when they want to.”

    “I didn’t think it would be this soon. Dammit I was almost ready to—” He cut himself from saying the rest. That would be for the Colonels ears only.

    The Duty Operator hesitated then spoke on.

    “Look they want to access the Yeomanry database, but the Company Commander’s not caving-in. He’s at the gate trying to negotiate them to leave. Fat chance of that though.”

    “The Enforcers must know they won’t win a fight against us?”

    “Probably, but we intercepted another transmission that they are trying to get reinforcements. More than likely regular army guys with a general from London. They’ll bring armor with them to try and crash the gates more than likely.”

    “They don’t have the authority though, Albion is separate territory and not under their jurisdiction.”

    “The Home Office can over-rule our territory in some cases though. If they hand over a royal search warrant with a general’s authority, they get access. Otherwise we end up with a battle and that could start a civil war.”

    “Dammit, this house is compromised then,” Weyland said grimly. His heart felt oppressed, like a weight was falling from London onto his world.

    “You have some time, it depends on the Commander, he may purge or safeguard your data. Safeguard your records at your location, bug out from and come quickly to The Estates. DON’T use your main travel vehicle unless you have to, I suspect they have the plates.”

    “Roger that, I’ll get on it.”

    “Good luck Eric.”

    Weyland put the phone down as the feeling of oppression now felt even closer than before. The thought of them searching his house twisted in his guts. The invasion of privacy was one thing but the knowledge that they’d confiscate and possibly ‘lose’ electronic items grinded him even more.

    “They aren’t going to invade my world, not like this anyway,” he said decisively then rushed into action. Weyland spent the next thirty minutes packing supplies and gear into his Land Rover. Another fifteen minutes saw a three-quarter ton trailer loaded up as well. He was playing with fire taking the extra time of storing all his valuables and equipment away from the farm house but refused to let them have their way with his gear and possessions.

    His farmhouse was part of a twenty acre property and it took him five minutes driving to get to a sprawling forest. It was here that his main cache of stores was hidden. He opened up a carefully concealed hatch in the ground. Using a rope and the ladder he unloaded everything into it. When he lowered down the last box the cache was nearly stacked up to the very hatch itself. By the time he’d climbed back in to his Defender the Yeoman was exhausted. Nearly an hour and a half had elapsed. One last sweep of the house saw him bag up any compromising material. Pictures of he and his fiancée, her jewelry and an office drawer containing all his paperwork went into the a spare duffel back. Opening his gun cabinet he removed his CZ 75 P1 sidearm which went into a military holster.

    All that remained was his rifle, the weapons from the ferry port and his bug-out bag and some vehicle stores. He got into his Audi Quattro having loaded most of the gear into the boot. Before he left in the new vehicle he drove his Landrover deep into the woods, far off his land. By using a folding bicycle that was stored in the back he was able to pedal back to his farm house again. Only then was Weyland satisfied to depart.

    The Audi’s engine started with a slight delay but that was understandable given his absence while in Ireland. As Weyland left his home behind he wondered if he’d see it again, the world was changing and he felt like being on board a submarine barely eluding a task-force that wanted him dead or alive.

    It was a one hour drive to secretive Estates that the Colonels tended to frequent. For the first ten minutes as he made his way down the country lanes he expected to face a police convoy. Once he reached the A1 though all was well. Only when he passed a police convoy going the other way did he relax. His adrenaline slowed and more restful thoughts swam into his mind. Weyland thought of his fiancée down in London and the work she did there. It was dangerous but neither would have it any other way.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
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  9. pearlselby

    pearlselby Monkey++

    Wonderful, I was so thrilled to see you here!!!!!!!!!!!! Love the new book too!!!
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  10. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Chapter 3

    The Ministry

    The Land Ministry was an ugly building constructed in the name of efficiency during the late nineteen-sixties. While largely civilian various elements of the Ministry of Defense worked there. A multi-sectioned office within it housed a department known as Special Occurrences Task Force. It was seldom known of by most in the mainstream military, even the MOD folks would struggle to gauge what it actually did. Such was the compartmentalization the shadowy group were only fully known within the Ministry of Intelligence. The Ministry of Intelligence did not dwell in the Land Ministry though and far from the masters eye the servants roamed free.

    In the years gone by SOTF had shrunk from a Platoon-sized formation with detachments overseas to just four operatives though. Originally it was formed to assist NATO fighting military spies from the USSR. Then after the USSR had collapsed they’d been reorganized to spy on other nations within NATO and beyond. After the Colonel’s Coup they’d turned their gaze inward further. and worked with the aim of building a file on suspected terrorists from native-born Britons. The Colonels War which followed left London unscathed and SOTF began to do the same with the Yeomanry.

    Unlike MI5 though SOTF were a military echelon which meant they were much less accountable, could carry side arms concealed, even when off-duty. Such a thing rankled the Land Ministry bosses but section 5 authority came straight from the Home Office.

    On the lowest rung of the ladder was Lance Corporal Brian Athered. He was new SOTF, only a month on the job and only had a year’s military service. Wide-eyed and optimistic. The man had light-brown hair, a boyish face and his athletic appearance radiated charisma, catching more than one ladies eye.
    Next was Corporal Scott Johnson, a career intelligence operative, a decent-enough soldier but rough around the edges. His drinking escapades were legendary, and usually involved being a vulgar and crude. Heavy set and leaning over two hundred pounds Johnson tended to be the bruiser-type of SOTF, albeit an intelligent one.

    The Second-In-Command of SOTF was a striking Sergeant called Deborah Templeton. Some said it was her ruthless ambition that had got her promoted, others that her womanly looks, assets and charms had played a part. She was below-average in height for an army woman, yet muscular and apple-shaped. Her faintly-olive face was attractively beguiling. Soft-features, a slightly aquiline nose and a pair of hazel eyes that had a way of looking through you dominated her looks. Her velvet-voice emphasized a touch of melancholy but it had an authoritarian presence when necessary and if she was pressed too far. Unlike the others who specialized in operational and personnel intelligence matters she was more the experienced covert operative. Since the end of the war, there wasn’t much call for that in SOTF.

    The Officer-In-Charge completed the small unit of five personnel. Warrant Officer Danny Atkinson was an old soldier in the Intelligence Corps, he’d seen conflicts come and go several times. With twenty-one years of service he only had a year to go before a quiet retirement. He figured about four more months of riding the desk then his resettlement training and leave would see him away from SOTF. Atkinson was gray-haired and worn-down from a career of hard-work and harder drinking. His big plummy nose was bloodshot and flushed, as was his face. Dark jaded eyes that had seen it all and jaded him immensely looked at things with a cynical prism. In some ways he was like an older version of Johnson but was well over two-hundred and fifty pounds. Being medically down-graded meant fitness was a distant thing for the officer, which was just as well as would struggle to chase anything for long.

    All were on first-name terms and military rank was seldom used. In some ways they were like a bubble, remote from their parent unit in Bedfordshire but still retaining their military trappings in other ways. They seldom called in sick, were professionally efficient when it came to casework and got the job done by thinking outside the box.

    The radio playing a lame pop tune suddenly interrupted to announce the attack at Heysham. After a minute of listening the pop tune resumed and there was some exchanges between Athered and Johnson.
    In Atkinson’s office the secure line rang and email reports came flooding in from JHQ after a minute had passed.

    The military, political and authoritarian machine began to turn it’s immense cogs and wheels.

    “So much for a quiet few months,” he gloomed before calling in Templeton. She finished what she was doing then sauntered up to his office door. She moved confidently, as a single-woman with no children and worries tended to in Ministry circles.

    “‘Debs,” Atkinson said to Templeton. “There’s a situation up at Heysham, the details have just filtered down to us.”

    The warrant officer tapped a section of his LCD screen.

    “Have the lads start with the Person Of Interest first. It’s a race to get this guy, he’s the priority, we’ve got MI5 and Special Branch in the run as well.”
    “Who is it? Some Rabian?”

    “Nope, one of those Yeomanry scumbags. Intel is showing he led the attack with Rabian’s though. Then he killed his terror team after they’d slaughtering dozens and dozens. No doubt to make it look like they were the only ones responsible and make deflect attention from the Yeomanry onto the Rabian community.”

    “This is gonna get big if a general mobilization is made against them,” Templeton said analyzing the outcomes.

    “Well this isn’t official yet, so treat him as Person of Interest, his status will shift to Enemy Outlaw soon though. MI5 and Special Branch are in the run for this one.”

    “Will Control let us harry the hare this time Debs?” she asked wishing they’d let SOTF deploy on field operations.

    “Hopefully! Let’s show the police how the military can be one step ahead of them in the meantime eh?” He passed her a sheaf of data-requests with a wink. Templeton carefully analyzed them with a hazel-eyed intrigue. The sergeant felt a shiver run through her as she saw the small passport photo paper-clipped in the top right corner. He was a familiar face, all too familiar, one she’d known all those years ago. The name on the form made it clear the man was no twin either. A feeling like her world slowly being shook back and forth began to rattle through her. On the outside her face and body showed little sign of the turmoil starting to develop. Yet inwardly the tough, attractively masculine sergeant was pole-axed.

    “I’m on it,” she said, barely keeping her voice from wavering. She left his office and entered the main area where she and the other two men worked. Things were about to get serious, up until now it had been small scraps of data and leads to nowhere they were routinely collating.

    “Right, top brass are wanting checks on a POI,” the raven-haired woman announced taking a deep breath as she did so. “Brian, get your Issy turned on.”

    “I’m on it,” he responded casually and swiveled his chair to the Internal Security Control terminal. After a moment to log-in he turned to her for search instructions.

    “Search protocol under all spectrums, fields and notes as follows…”
    Athered nodded as he tapped in a bunch of pre-requisite data.

    “Person of Interest — Eric Weyland,” her voice almost wavered. Eric, the one who was so close, yet now so far and a sworn opponent.

    Athered hesitated on hearing the ancient-sounding name before entering it and hitting the ‘search’ key. His screen processed the data for nearly twenty seconds then spat out long list of information that scrolled down ten pages.

    “Alright, give me a print-out of that,” the woman ordered sharply. She hoped that Athered would not be too interested but as the printer began flaring into action her wishes were not answered.

    “Hey he’s former Intelligence Corps!” he quipped with youthful enthusiasm. The data had large notations and circles about various key points. “He went through training nearly thirteen years ago, then left us to join the Yeomanry!”

    “Did he now?” Johnson interjected. “That’s bloody rare, most of those Yeoman guys are front-line types, nationalists, ****ed-off Territorials,” he said with a veteran’s opinion. “A neighbor of mine down in Basingstoke joined ‘em, never would have thought it.”

    “They get a number of civvies joining now too. After they get vetted for Albion heritage,” Athered said remembering some of the adverts. Since the Coalition formed much of the pro-Albion stuff was now banned.

    “Abrasive bastards though for the most part,” Johnson surmised, “but good soldiers I think. They fight for what they stand for, like we do.”

    Templeton glared at him after the last sentence. “They’re army rejects if you ask me, nazi-wannabes abandoning a country to try and form one of their own.”

    “Not this one,” Athered countered. “He volunteered for courier infiltration in Northern Island, tried SAS Selection and Commando duty. Failed on the continuation training phase, passed Commando training though. It also says—”

    Templeton cut him off. “Alright, alright I can read Brian. I don’t need a bloody commentary!” she snapped, the feelings aroused by knowledge almost too much to deal with.

    Her words surprised the rookie though. He’d never seen Templeton show her driven-side.

    “Sorry Debs, just surprised at his record.”

    Deborah Templeton leaned over and snatched the printouts, then stapled them together using Athered’s stapler. She returned to her desk area across the office space. Unlike the two Corporals she had a measure of privacy with a screened off cubical. She was grateful for the seclusion as her face was wracked with worry and emotion. The Sergeant read the sheet and saw much of the tracking data from ten years ago up to present day was speculative. MI6 had caught his trail three times, first in South-East Asia, then in northern India, finally there had been a sighting in Ireland. The Top Secret dossier concluded he was a credible threat to National Security and one of the Yeomanry’s best agents.

    Sergeant Templeton was normally an unflappable woman, it was not the conclusion of the dossier that had her rattled though. It was the fact that she knew him, and not just as a former-friend either.

    Her memories ran back to the halcyon days of when she’s just turned twenty. She and her former best friend Rebecca Riley had the best posting at a training base. It was a familiar place where they both fitted in like a glove. Together the two of them were like a pair of femme-fatales, unstoppable and already short-listed for promotion to full corporal. Then, that fateful August night her world and Rebecca’s changed. After an encounter at a military summer-show Deborah entered a whirlwind romance with the elusive, but dashing Eric Weyland. The memory train of what happened next almost felt like a knife passing through her heart. After a passionate relationship lasting almost two months young Deborah was sure Eric was the one for her. Then the Colonels War erupted and Weyland quit the regular army to join the legions of former soldiers rallying to their banner. ‘To save the country’ as he called it. Her arguments and pleading with him was to no avail, she hated the Colonels and all they stood for and he did not. She was a selective-universalist supporting the ways of multiculturalism for the west. He was a selective-nationalist, or at least an idealized form of one, and a man that had his way with her.

    That was in the past though, the present now threatened her profoundly. If her military overlords or the police authorities knew she’d once been a lover of Weyland her career and life would be ruined. The Yeomanry and regular British Army were bitter rivals and it extended to there being military regulations against current and prior fraternization. Templeton had lied on the declaration form sent out after the Colonels War, she’d even altered records to change her tour of duty dates. Yet now that lie was feeling like a landmine, one that seemed to move from the pavement outside to inside the building.

    There was another way though, if Weyland was killed she’d surely stand no risk of any chance of her secret being discovered. She could at last take her revenge as an additional bonus. The Yeoman had broken her heart and soul so long ago, he’d rejected her. Deborah now silently vowed to be an instrument in taking down Weyland.

    “Deborah are you ok?”

    She looked to the side and saw it was Atkinson, he was near the brew area refilling the kettle.

    “Fine, just working on how to get this Nazi ****.”

    “That’s the spirit, he killed a lot of people, police and civvy alike. Some might support the Yeomanry, even in our military secretly, but they are a menace as this latest outrage proves.”

    “I see it as more than that, this country can’t have two forces dividing us either. The sooner he and the Yeomanry are in the trashcan of history the better.”

    “Well there’s a shoot to kill order just gone out. They’ll probably drop it back to Person of Interest after a few days though. It’s probably the High Commissioner getting angry about his man being slotted.”

    “His man?”

    “Junior Commissioner Brown died at Heysham interrogating Weyland, he and High Commissioner Roberts were close, lovers I think.”

    Templeton shrugged indifferently. She was always one for sexual equality, no matter what concept it took.

    “Any leads?” she asked softly. “All this data is past records, would be good to have leads to get harrying the hare,” she had a keen look now about her. Atkinson frowned. “We can deploy Brian and Scott! They’ll be good field agents for this.”

    “’Debby, that’s more for the police to play with.”

    “Come on Danny, we’re the only Intelligence Corps unit fit to track down rogue military and you know it. We’ve got the equipment, the tools that police could only dream of, our vehicles are as fast as theirs are, yet all the time we are stuck in this office. Even MI5 probably hasn’t got a Ferret unit.”

    “Since the cut-backs we don’t number even half a dozen. Weyland’s unlikely to head to London, probably on his way to Yeomanry territory in central Yorkshire.”

    “Exactly! This is our chance to get on the radar!”

    “What do you mean?”

    “London is notorious for Yeomanry operatives, it’s how they are staying one step ahead of government operations. MI5 has been trying for months and nothing! We get ourselves a part of the chase and it’ll increase our standing. Who knows? We could end up with a permanent field unit if it pays off. If it doesn’t? Well it’s tax-payers money being well spent.”

    ‘Some much for any peace,’ the old Warrant Officer mused, he sheepishly nodded.

    “Well I wanted a quiet time this year but I’ll put out a field-deployment request to Control and see where it goes.”

    “Oh thanks Danny!” Templeton said with a satisfied smile.

    “You keep the lads searching for clues on the Issy in the meantime, it might throw something up from the archives.”

    Atkinson left and Templeton smiled, the last sentence shuddered her slightly.
    “I’ll make it my mission to personally take you down Eric, you and your fascist friends.”

    The radio squawked again, it was a counter-broadcast by one of the Yeomanry Colonels. The two Corporals leaned-in to listen to what their response was to the attack. Before Colonel Sandford’s voice could speak another sentence Templeton pulled the radio from the top of the filing cabinet, yanking the plug from the socket.

    “No one in here listens to their nationalist crap! From now on we focus, I’m going for a fresh-air break and when I get back I want every report relevant from Issy worked out and on my desk!”

    The Sergeant stormed out and when the door had slammed shut the Corporals relaxed.

    “What’s gotten into Deborah? Aren’t we supposed to be impartial and not take sides? Isn’t that what caused the Colonels War?”

    “What goes on paper and in reality are two different things lad. Politics from the top-down. Atty gets told what’s what, he tells Debs and down to us to comes.”

    “Well sure, but I’ve never seen Deborah turn this hardcore?”

    “Oh, she is when she goes hard for something, she’s like a woman possessed.” Johnson nodded. “Short of killing her there’s no way to stop her when she gets her claws in.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I saw that look about her once at a Sergeants Mess function in Germany. She’d only been promoted a month ago, so was pretty green to being a senior NCO.”

    “What happened?”

    “I was only a Lance-Jack then and was in charge of overseeing the waiters. Anyway, a Sergeant Major, a real rough-arse, didn’t like women in the military at all. He fondled her while she was looking at some pictures in a corridor. It happened really quickly, one minute he was walking past, then next he’d gripped and groped then thrown her down and was off walking again. Only I saw it, but she brushed it off, yet that look in her eye told me another story. I thought the matter was over though. Then in the early hours of the morning the guy was found half-dead in the gutter by the RMPs. Someone had used a heavy baton and cracked his skull open.”

    “Stars above! What did the military police do?”

    “Nothing, no-one knew or saw a thing, it was a crazy night. For whatever reason the SIB investigation never questioned me, so I didn’t have to make lies or truths. I wasn’t going to put myself forward either. Deborah said she didn’t remember much and had a fairly good alibi,” Johnson smiled warmly with the memory.

    “Did he die? The sergeant-major?”

    “No, he was given a medical discharged due to his injuries though. He had a habit of having roving hands and bullying ways so there was probably no shortage of suspects.”

    “How do you know it was her though?”

    “I saw the way she looked at the guy as he was leaving the Mess. She knows I saw it happen too, that’s why when we heard about the guy being discharged she looked at me and smiled.”

    “But that—”

    “Enough chatter, we have to get reports done, we don’t want you getting a medical discharge now do we?”

    Both laughed but inside Athered was concerned SOTF was entering dangerous new waters.

    They worked until early evening on the reports and collations. Brian Athered was hatching a plan, one that was as dangerous as being an enemy spy. He worked on old files, catching up on previous work put aside as they waited for other units to confirm data. First Johnson left, then Atkinson. Deborah had a casual desire for the young Lance Corporal, but the new workload and Weyland’s reappearance muted her feelings. She would have worked until ten at night but for the fact she had a sergeants mess function.

    “I know I was pushing about that POI, but don’t work too hard Brian. You don’t get paid any extra and no-one gives you any thanks for it,” she said with a faint smile as she left.

    “I won’t be long Debby, just finishing up some of the backlog,” he lied.
    As soon as she was gone the young man worked for three more minutes. He went over to Johnson’s area where the plate-glass windows were. They gave good views of London but all Athered was interested in was if Templeton had left the building.

    Indeed she had, the tiny figure in a pale skirt and dark jacket walked confidently past a crowd at a bus-stop towards the tube station a half-mile away.

    She was a desirable woman, but Brian Athered had already been warned the senior ranker was off-limits, besides which, he was already seeing a university student from Estonia. His young blood did occasionally wonder about Templeton though. He could tell there was an experienced prowess about her, a winsome aggression compared to his more gentle blonde girlfriend.

    Athered put the thoughts aside and sprang into action. The offices of SOTF were unique in that there was no security camera’s watching over them. The outside corridors had them but even Atkinson’s office was internalized to SOTF. Working fast he unlocked the filing cabinet and found the bulky file he was looking for. Taking it to the photocopier he began to copy the entire thing. After nearly a hundred pages were done he manually ratcheted the mechanical page counter on the photocopier. Then he enclosed the photocopied documents into a new file cover, secured them to it and stuffed the lot into his backpack. Finally he returned the original file to Atkinson’s office, locked the cabinet and put the keys into his hiding place. Now, in his possession was the raw and unfiltered data about the Yeomanry from the Ministry’s number one agent. Instead of having to sift through biased news programs and media articles Athered would have that dangerous entity feared by those in power. The truth!

    Athered left the Ministry building without hindrance by the Asian security guard. His flickering fear give way to relief as he rode the tube home. With the data he’d stealthily obtained he was surely breaking the Official Secrets Act, various Army Acts and numerous regulations forbidding classified material from Ministry buildings. The file was classified as Secret, which made him wonder what on earth Top Secret rated stuff would reveal. Athered had that rare combination of a daring nature and an ability to get to the bottom of something, no matter how difficult or formidable.

    It wasn’t just the new assignment that had him thinking, but the whole screwed-up situation Britain was in. People seemed careless or too numbed-out on a zillion and one distractions. Everywhere people had their digital distractions glaring about. Even though he was in his twenties and no stranger to the technology, it seemed very odd. After two stops he got out and made his way on foot the short distance to his small apartment.

    His girlfriend was already home in the living room studying her books.

    He wanted to read the file right away but instead hunger gnawed at him, causing him to resisted the urge to read about the Yeomanry first hand. Natalya had already eaten so he cooked up a microwave meal. As he watched the LEDs count down he thought about when he was a young teenager. Both his parents had put him up for adoption as a baby so foster parents raised him instead. Both he and they were anti-Yeomanry. The Yeomanry defiance that had carved out a vast chunk of England used to bother him, especially when he was younger. Yet now he was more ambivalent about them. Despite a media campaign that seemed to host a smear-story or demonization piece Athered was starting to critically work things out. The Yeoman Colonels, their habits and crimes seemed either exaggerated or justified when weighed against their goals and what they were up against.

    On many levels the nationalist ways of Albion’s Yeomanry made sense. They did not want a debt-based, service-driven economy, but instead one that actually minted its own money interest-free to a central bank. The work industry should be home-grown of medium to high-quality and providing jobs to its people. Out-sourcing jobs, importing a majority of food and goods seemed a bad idea given how unreliable it could be in uncertain times. The uncertain times were never far away either.

    Athered again delayed reading the file as his routine demanded he turned on his laptop to check on the foreign news. He saw that the Chinese were beginning to draw down their export market. The operative sucked in air through a tooth and nodded. Their middle-class was now coming of age and the factories could barely keep up with demand. Reading between the lines and from analyzing the intel reports at work Athered knew it differently. The USA and Europe’s easy goods days were at an end. The cheap, affordable goods that China was world famous for would slow to a trickle and increase in price. The workshop of the world was about to become the workshop of Asians only. With China’s inroads into the dirty, but resource rich African mines the shortfall in profit could be more than easily ridden out. In the meantime Europe would get poorer and poorer economically as it tried to borrow its way out of debt.

    Closing the news window on his machine he finally opened the red folder containing the intelligence dossier he’d smuggled out. It was from an agent code-named Remora. His picture was that of a plain dark-haired fellow. One who could easily pass for Scottish or Irish. Indeed it seemed to prove that they were serious about eliminating low-paid jobs for the masses. Labor exchanges allocated jobs that were needed to an area based on the individuals skill and desire for work. The work shy either starved or needed a very good reason to claim a food and shelter allowance. exemption certainly seemed and hey objected to a society that reveled in having low or even zero-standards.

    The Yeomanry Colonels took a lot of stick from the media and most government parties for their immigration and repatriation policy. The general ignorance of most Britons meant they bought into whatever the newspapers told them in print, and whatever they heard their favorite politician ramble on about. Here though, the MI6 agent once again seemed to vindicate the Yeomanry’s declaration. Immigration from Britain was fairly strict for non-Europeans. They had to show essential skills not present in Albion. Even then this was not a certainty of permanent residency as the labor departments were striving to a form of self-sufficiency. When it came to skilled workers that were home-grown. Since the Colonels War ten years ago most of the foreign folks not of European origin had left. Most had voluntarily left with their families, many of these taking the repatriation bonus. Those few hundred that remained were ignored and shunned for the most part. Meanwhile the flood of foreigners already in Britain was poised to increase to a tsunami if the Prime Speaker’s government had their way.

    Thinking of this gave Athered pause for concern, but he read on, like many Britons he put such fears to the back of his mind.

    When it came to crime and punishment the figures and estimations were startling. Far from the soft and caring ways of the Crown Prosecution Service the tough-love approach was driving down crime. Hanging for capital crimes had been reinstated, along with corporal punishment for underage offenses. Hard labor for non-capital crimes was common, very often this constituted primitive farming and mine reactivation.

    One of the big public works programs reinstated by the Yeomanry was mining. During the Thatcherite era the nearly all the coal mines of north-east England had been closed down. Although reasons like efficiency, economy and ‘competition’ with overseas nations were given as a reason the Colonels knew better. The closures were part of a secret agreement to disinherit the working class people. Wages and job security had always been high for miners until the closures. After this suicide and alcoholism had been a scourge. Athered read how already one major mine had been painstakingly reactivated using a prison labor-force. The work had been dangerous and grueling but in some cases former convicts were granted a parole and even a pardon.

    Unemployment, which had reached historic highs during previous decades and not dropped much during the Coalition, was incredibly low. The trader reckoned that the Colonels were being economical with the truth. yet even he acknowledged that the Yeomanry’s oversight of Albion was paying dividends. The rest of the dossier read in a similar fashion. Overall, the Yeomanry and their populace of the fledgling nation of Albion were seeing the start of a paradigm shift. Perhaps even the start of a golden age.

    “Small wonder there’s such a propaganda war and opposition to the Yeomanry, they have turned their part of the country around compared to the stagnation here!” Athered exclaimed.

    “What is it?” his girlfriend said, startled by his sudden announcement.

    “The truth! We’ve been lied to about Albion, about the Yeomanry. Here take a look, only you must promise not to tell of it to anyone.”

    Natalya understood English to a high standard and agreed to keep it too herself. Her blue eyes widened and she made several gasps and looks in surprise at him.

    “Why do they lie to us here? In my country there is no this level of deception?”

    “They don’t want us to know, we’d either rise up in order to change Britain to the Albion model or rush to emigrate to Albion.”

    “Can you not get the word out?”

    “Not like this, It would be traced back to me in a heartbeat. No, when the time is right we must try and give this to the Yeomanry, they’d know who the trader is, or at least have a good idea from all this data.”

    “If we do that we’d be outlaws. I’ve still another two years at university,” Natalya said with a worried voice.

    “Albion has universities too, they’ve just opened one in York. We can’t move yet anyway, I can do more good from within the walls of the Ministry than outside it. It sound’s crazy but I’ve a feeling we have to bide our time.”

    “What do you mean?” she asked in a sultry manner.

    “I’m in the middle of a big case, there’s a Yeomanry spy-ring in London, I can help the Yeomanry from the inside, don’t ask me how, I’ll have to figure out a way.”

    “I never took you to be a double agent Mr Athered,” his coy blonde woman said with a deeper tone. Her bright eyes enticed him.

    “I never thought you’d be one to be my sidekick either Miss Anyanova,” he said softly, drawing her lovely face towards his.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
    srchdawg, rle737ng and pearlselby like this.
  11. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Ok! Good news, I've got the cover artwork professionally done for my book. It cost me a few dollars but I got a very good discount on it! :)
    There's a little more to follow for posting but soon the book will be published too!


    What do you folks think of it?
    DuxDawg and Ganado like this.
  12. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Chapter 4


    The college of Warminster was much changed since the founding days of old. Apart from the ancient castle of Warwick newer, more efficient yet ugly buildings took the place of older, more traditional ones. The influx of multicultural students was also a gradual process and the college was no exception.

    Valerie Beaumont sighed as another lecture began. Unlike the ones she had signed up for two years ago the new ones were not what she’d had in mind. Her classes included compulsory subjects in ‘Universal Tolerance’ and ‘End of European Traditions’. The tall sandy-haired girl sat in the lecture hall crowded with other students. The smells and noises of foreign foods and language rustled and floated about as the lecturer rambled on and on. For her the novelty-factor of it was fading fast, as if to reinforce her feelings the next sub-title on the projector ‘The evils of European colonialism’ flashed up on the screen.

    Valerie texted an emoticon of rolling her eyes to her friend. Her classmate, Nicola Woodvine, smiled at and responded with a a message about how terrible it was such benefits were shared with others.

    Another page from a leftish-acclaimed book appeared on the screen demonizing the royalties of old. The Romanov Tsar’s where portrayed as an out-of-touch group of white supremacists who looked down on the poorer classes within their realm.

    Valerie raised her hand and the lecturer paused to take a question.

    “Tutor, I agree the early Tsar’s of Russia did some questionable things, but didn’t Tsar Nicholas the second and his forebears enact beneficial changes to the Russian people?”

    “Absolutely not! The people overthrew his kind after they’d had enough of the Tsar’s absolute monarchy! They wished for liberation and the glory of communism.”

    “Tutor, did not the Romanov dynasty abdicate to pass on power?”

    “Of course not! It had to be taken by the proletariat!”

    “I’ve heard it said that the people who overthrew him were a revolutionary minority who misled the people to advance their own interests?” the girl stated.

    “Absolute nonsense! Communism is a force for good as you will soon learn.”

    “But sir, they savagely murdered an innocent royal family most brutally, with no cause and it triggering a violent civil war.”

    “Well, these things happen, world war two which followed was much worse too.”

    Nicola Woodvine raised her hand and the lecturer nodded.

    “Miss Woodvine.”

    “Was that war not indirectly triggered by agitation and Communism threatening central and western Europe though sir?”

    “Of course not, the Nazi party wished to take over the world. I’d have thought you’d learned this at secondary school. Now please, be quiet, that’s enough questions asked!”

    Soon afterwards the lecturer began showing his Bolshevik heros of the USSR in an almost ecstatic fashion. This was followed by the communist takeover of China and Vietnam. Both girls weren’t even taking notes now nor were many others. The grades in such politically-correct subjects weren’t joined with the others though, but a rumor had it that the next college year would see it so.

    For the younger ones in primary and secondary school the draconian ways of enforced multiculturalism were already in place. Parents who home-schooled their children to side-step this ran the risk of a random visit from the Social Services Authority. While it did not result in arrest and child-stealing, all it took was the wrong word, gesture or intention for a mandatory schooling-order to be sent through the post. Failing to heed this would see the SSA return once again, but this time with enforcers backing them up. Holding a guardianship warrant the SSA could effectively seize the children in a state-sanctioned home and school them in a location far from the area the parents were in. So far the guardianship warrants were seldom deployed and when they were, only with who they deemed the ‘worst’ offenders. For the children of home-schoolers though forced ‘familiarization’ sessions with groups of foreign children in the inner-cities was commonplace.

    Two hours later the lecture was over and more than a few students couldn’t wait to leave. Beaumont and Woodvine, along with a few others were kindred spirits in a maelstrom of liberal confusion and emotion.

    Omar Jordan wasn't far away and re-checked his phone and viewed the picture he’d been sent. A name was below it, along with the target's class schedule but he already knew who she was. As he and his friend watched the leggy blonde leave the lecture hall with Nicola Woodvine he smiled with the thrill of the chase. He’d been in England for two years and felt aggressively confident. His parents were first generation asylum-seekers from southern Iraq. His best friend was Jesse Young an Afro-English boy of mixed parentage and somewhat in the shadow of Omar. Both were dark-skinned and above-average when it came to intelligence but it was Omar who was the leader. He had that edge in fast-maturity over boys a similar age and was handy with his fists. He viewed the willowy blonde girl as a personal challenge. The other boys at the college tended to be emo-style wimps or academic bookworms, making competition for him quite mild. So far he’d had his way with other girls but a blonde one, even a dishwater blonde, would mark new meat for his sexual appetite The fact he was being assigned potential troublemakers to punish made his job even more appealing.

    At the communal locker area he made his move.

    “So what are you up to after classes Val?” Omar said, moving in close to her, invading her personal space a touch.

    “Nothing much, why?” She said neutrally, taking half a step back.

    “Well maybe you and me could go out on a date?” He said with a hint of aggression to his deep accent. The brown eyes seemed to show a masculine nature some would have been intrigued by. Valerie Beaumont was, unlike most others at the college both conservative and pro-White.

    “I’m sorry, but I don’t date outside of my race.” Valerie said quietly with the hint of dignity. She turned back to her locker. In the second before the iron-clad rejection sank in Valerie knew she’d crossed a line.

    “You what? That’s fuckin’ racist!” the youth slammed the palm of his hand into the locker next to hers. The loud bang rang through the area and several others stopped what they were doing.

    Nicola turned and joined her friend. “Why’s it racist? Because your feelings are hurt?” the brunette said.

    “I wasn’t talking to you bitch!” Omar grumbled.

    “Yeah well just to save you the time I won’t date you or your mate either,” Nicola added.

    “Come on Omar,” Jesse Young said, knowing when they weren’t getting anywhere. “We can do it another way,” Young added as the two left the area.

    “That told him,” Valerie said somewhat haughtily. “If only more girls took a stand they wouldn’t be bullied by the Omar folks.”

    “You want to be careful Val, I’ve heard he is bad news. His dad is supposed to be well connected.”

    “I can deal with trash like that Nikky. My grandparents fled Russia to get away from bullies and they always taught me to stand up to them. The ones that don’t stand up end up getting shot or gulaged!” The girl calmed down a bit and worried others might have heard. The area had gone quiet again though. “We ought to report this.”

    “I don’t know, if we do things could turn out bad for us,” her friend warned remembering something.

    “What do you mean? He insulted me and you, that was harassment.”

    Nicola sighed and took a deep breath. “The College Code has a big section on equal opportunities and racial discrimination.”

    “What’s that got to do with us? He’s the one who pestered me.”

    “I know but my parents have warned me about the Omar types. Anything to do with race and you’re foreign, you get the benefit of the doubt.”

    “Why did you defend me if you knew this?” Valerie said in a moment of frustration.

    “I don’t like seeing my friends bullied, especially by that swine,” Nicola said with a glint of warmth in her hazel eyes.

    After lunch-break the afternoon subjects for both girls were in separate subjects. Valerie’s was in philosophy with Miss Grimes as Tutor. Barely ten minutes had elapsed before the door opened. The head tutor, Mr Gladstone, entered and spoke with the class tutor, then left the room as quickly as he’d entered it. Mark Gladstone was someone who gave her the creeps. He was overweight, short and seemed to be always scrutinizing with the beady, narrow-set eyes of his. Miss Grimes called out Valerie’s name.

    “Mr Gladstone would like to speak with you in his office,” her tutor said politely.

    Valerie got up and wondered if her friend had complained about Omar’s behaviour. On leaving the class Gladstone was outside and walked with her without saying a word. On turning right at the corridor to approach the Head Tutor’s office her heart and stomach felt wrenched. Stood against the wall outside was Omar and his friend Jesse. The looked impassive for the most part but a smug look on Omar’s features created an air of apprehension about Valerie.

    She had never been in trouble at school, outside of the usual minor mischief. Without acknowledging the two students Gladstone opened the door and let Valerie enter his office.

    A uniformed Land Ministry Policeman stood waiting inside. A pair of chairs opposite the tutor’s desk was vacant. Valerie was in a state of bewilderment, what was a policeman doing in the office?

    “Please take a seat Miss Beauford.”

    She did so.

    “Mr Jordan has put in a formal complaint against you.”

    “A complaint?” the teenager said in disbelief. It was like a distant bombshell had gone off within her head.

    “He tells me you racially insulted him?”

    “He asked me on a date and I told him no. Then he became abusive and insulted me and Nikky.”

    The policeman pulled out his notebook and checked the details.

    “So you didn’t cause distress to him by using racial or prejudicial language?” Constable Jeneston said.

    A part of Valerie knew she was in a trap and implored her to be silent or evasive, yet another part conceded that explanation and understanding was key.

    “I said ‘I’m sorry but I don’t date outside of my race,” the girl said truthfully. “I didn’t know saying a personal stance was offensive?” A moment of pause occurred, then the uniformed man noted down some words and showed it to Gladstone.

    “Excuse us for a moment,” the Chief Tutor said and both he and the constable left the room.

    A thousand and one thoughts went through her and with nervous hands she fished out her smart phone from her cardigan pocket.

    ‘Being interviewed by Gladstone! Ministry Police r here!’ she rapidly keyed before sending it to Nikky.

    As she waited for a response a feeling of oppression gripped her. It was like some hidden entity or spirit seemed to be hounding her. Did she make this happen? Was it her fault? She didn’t have to say the race word.

    Then another voice seemed to sound from inside her. It was her father, the father she’d known before her teenage years, the one who’d been slain as an officer in the oil wars.

    ‘Stay strong, give ground but do not give in!’

    This gave her some fortitude, although the doubting thoughts seemed to swim around her like predatory sharks.

    The door opened again after about ten minutes of this, only Gladstone entered, giving her some relief.

    “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

    She shrugged with an air of tense apprehension.

    “Mr Jordan and his friend wanted to press charges against you,” the short little man spoke slowly and with a solemn way about him, “but the Ministry Policeman and I agreed to a compromise.”

    ‘Don’t tell me I have to go on a date with the brown creep?’ she thought anxiously.

    “You are to publicly apologize, in front of the entire college to Omar and his friend about your disgraceful behaviour.”

    Valerie felt a deep sense of embarrassment, it was enough for her that she was private about her views without it being common knowledge.

    “Can’t I just apologize privately? In the corridor or office?” she countered meekly.

    “In view of the seriousness of what you did that is not appropriate.”

    “Seriousness?” Valerie wanted to lambast Gladstone, but her father’s words stopped her short.

    “Do you want me to explain how many college rules you broke? Perhaps the Race Relations Act that the Ministry Policeman could have charged you with should be spelled out?”

    “I don’t know what the Race Relations Act even is?”

    “Ah, of course, it was before you were even born I think. In layperson’s terms, anyone who offends another person on the grounds of ethnicity, race or background has broken the law. The offending person need not have intended to cause offense if the offended party is distressed with what has taken place.”

    Valerie was speechless, she had no idea such a law existed and now that she did, she wondered why on earth it was applying to her. It was bad enough that her father had been slaughtered by a mob in Iraq, now Iraq seemed to be upon her and Omar was its manifested ringleader.

    “You’re a very lucky lady, because this is your first transgression you won’t be expelled from the college, as long as you apologize that is.”

    “Transgression? I didn’t know I even did anything wrong? Omar insulted Nikky and I. Isn’t that against the College Code under bullying?”

    “Your racist ways—”

    “I’m not racist—”

    “Your indirectly racist ways and lack of cultural understanding top the list and take precedence. I can see the tolerance classes aren’t doing any good.”

    Valerie knew the man was as dangerous opponent and changed tack.

    “I will apologize to them publicly. May I please leave?”

    “In a moment, I’ll inform the officer outside.”

    In the corridor Ministry Constable Jeneston waited earnestly. He was slightly disappointed the blonde would not face a harsher punishment. After going over the details on the radio his Sergeant was unsure about going through with it. He doubted they could get a race-related charge to stick with the Crown Prosecution Service, not enough for a good chance of conviction anyway. The college was technically not a public place either and her sentencing could result in negative publicity. ‘Not in the public interest’ was the likely result. Yet Jeneston was ready with a new line of investigation.

    The short man left his office and smiled awkwardly.

    “She agrees to apologize,” the Head Tutor said. He was starting to be relieved and his fears of a public relations nightmare began to drift away.

    “This girl and her friend; are they both politically active?”

    “I don’t think so, they both study hard, Miss Beauford’s father fought and died overseas, in the oil wars I think. I recall she did an essay about it.”

    “Was he a Yeoman?”

    “This was before the Colonels War so I don’t think so.”

    “I see,” the policeman said slowly.

    “Wait, her mother commutes to Albion I think. She’s training the Yeoman girls over there. Medical type stuff, not a combatant. ” The policeman’s eyes widened and Gladstone knew he’d over-talked and attempted to gloss over it.

    “It’s just while there’s a shortfall, nothing political you understand. Just as a volunteer.”

    “Go on…” the Ministry officer prompted. His notebook was already out again like a flash from the inside of the constable’s jacket. The spineless man spoke on and the pencil began scribbling.

    “We’ll be in touch later Mr Gladstone,” the constable said after nearly a minute of note-taking. “Don’t go far from the city,” he added with a wiry smile.

    Chapter 5


    At the prearranged hour the two forces met in secret under the flag of truce. It was mid-afternoon at an ancient railway bridge built by the Victorians in a previous age. Back then the island of Great Britain had practically ruled the world. The harmony of the village, town and city was in equilibrium. Now though the island was spiritually and physically torn by dissent and oppression.

    On one side was a small convoy of military Land Rover Defenders that Albion forces crewed. The green and black paint on the vehicles went well with the dozen soldiers nearby. They kept watch for danger nearby, knowing full well that on the opposite side of the river was the Ministry who did the same as they. The London-based organ of state apparatus represented the very nadir to Albion and the Yeomanry. Only three years ago a border clash had resulted in two Ministry men slain to the cost of a wounded Yeoman. There had been an emergency meeting between the Ministry leadership and the Yeomanry to defuse tension then. An escalation was avoided, but now it was set to begin anew.

    Some of the Albion troops carried long-barreled L1A5 battle-rifles but most held Janson bullpup carbines. Both weapons were chambered in the unique, hard-hitting caliber of 7mm. This was optimal for the British Isles in general, while it packed a punch it was controllable by most soldiers when fired in bursts or even full-auto. The bullpup excelled at close-quarter fighting in the streets and lanes of English towns. The battle-rifle was more for rural engagements, its longer barrel allowing a more accurate shot. A few Yeoman privately imported light caliber 5.56mm M4 carbines but these were few and far between.

    On the opposite side of the bridge a Rolls Royce and two Mercedes vans that comprised the Commissioner’s bodyguard. In contrast to the well-supplied Yeomanry the Ministry troops relied on ageing stocks of imported HK MP5s and pistols. A single Ministry riflemen had an L1A1 battle-rifle but even from afar it looked like it was a museum piece. No doubt looted from a military base during the Ministry Restoration two years ago. Unlike many of the rural and town-born Yeomanry the ministry bodyguard in civilian clothes were mostly city-types. About half were thuggishly presented with tattoos and swarthy demeanors, a visible sign of how changed Britain’s urban centers had become. To the undisciplined and untrained they were young, angry and intimidating indeed. The other half were more professional, clean-cut and urban Caucasians. They made up a kind of upper-caste of the Ministry’s Close-Protection branch. Yet they were older, some in their late fifties, a clear sign of the demographic tilt towards multiracial blood in Britain.

    It was not the case with the Yeomanry troopers of Albion though, they were late teenagers and young lads in their twenties and thirties. All were of Briton stock, that unique fusion of Germanic Anglo-Saxon, tempered here and there with a touch of Celtic vibrance. A violent cohesion seemed to be ever present in them, it lurked below the surface, not quite noticeable unless under times of hardship and necessity. It was something not seen since the days of the Wars of the Roses. They were neither militia, nor regular soldiers like the remenants of the British Army, nor were they, for the most part, an actual elite fighting force. The Yeomanry occupied a niche that gave them the benefits of both a conventional and asymmetrical unit. It was one of the Colonel’s master-strokes, but also one that had complex drawbacks unique to the times they lived. Originally about half of the Yeomanry were made up of regular soldiers from front-line units. Their Colonels, Majors and Captains had answered the call and made possible the impossible.

    Colonel Alexander Seymour had originally been part of the Grenadier Guards and was the elected leader of the Yeomanry. He was the only full colonel unlike the others senior leaders of the Yeomanry who were Lieutenant Colonels. Yet in the spirit of brotherhood they all regarded the other as his equal and Colonel was used casually whether a Lt Colonel or of full-rank. He viewed his older half-brother with an icy stare. High Commissioner Roberts, chief of the Land Ministry smiled back distantly with the air of superiority about him.

    Both adversaries were of a similar age. Yet Seymour and his Yeomanry wore camouflage while Roberts and his bodyguard were in smart, plain clothes. The gulf of military and civilian was as clear as the fragmented nature of the country. Day-to-day the island muddled on but across the jaggedly diagonal border of Albion and England the seismic shift was stark. On the one side the cultural decline and crumbling decay was relentless, while on the other it was a slippery ascent urged on by their Yeomanry overlords. Underneath the surface though the tensions remained like a compound explosive. The detonator was in place, but no ignition or spark had been made yet.

    The Colonel was the fitter of the two, a lifetime of military service and no medical issues reflected this. He was tall, muscular and had an aggressive prowess about him. Born and raised in the country he’d risen as an officer, first in junior positions during peace, then by waging coup for power and finally outright war to win Albion for his people. Silver-hair that had once been neither fair nor dark showed on his eyebrows, his head being covered by the brown beret of the Yeoman. Dark blue eyes that were weary but deep viewed the arrayed forces before him. The majority of the Ministry Bodyguard opposing them were likely former police force. Yet a handful looked to be ex-army, possibly special forces. His own Yeoman were evenly matched and both sides knew to engage in a firefight would cost them both dearly. The United Nations and NATO had given a final warning that any more warfare would lead to a taskforce and blockade being launched. Each week an observer platoon from a neutral country roamed both territories unannounced, acting as heralds and occasionally mediators. For this meeting though, it was strictly between the elites, the observers being well-occupied with the Heysham incident.

    Commissioner Roberts finished his hip-flask of brandy before sending his security chief forwards. Roberts had been mostly office-bound and was largely an urban creature which reflected in his pudgy frame. He wore no hat which showed greying hair with a slight bald-patch. In his hooded, grey eyes was a glare of inner-cunning and covert supremacy. They viewed the Yeomanry with a mixture of disdain and contempt. Roberts was older, cunning and cynical from a lifetime of scheming and plotting. Put together in different circumstances the two would make a devastating team. As it was they almost seem to reflect a devastation of relations instead; the taking of power from government by Seymour’s coup first, then the civil war second.

    The security chief walked over to meet Seymour’s counterpart. Both were unarmed and showed this was so. Then, switching places with one another the Yeoman walked over to await the Commissioner while the security chief did the same for the Colonel.

    The two leaders closed the distance to both their seconds. Neither was armed, as per the agreement and the bodyguards did their duty. Both men showed open hands first then jackets before turning around completely. To be sure the Colonel and Commissioner were frisked.

    “No weapons,” the Yeoman Sergeant confirmed in a clear Cumbrian voice.

    “Not armed,” echoed a Ministry fellow, his Bristol tone contrasting both groups.

    The two leaders walked forwards beyond both sentinels until they were only five yards apart. Both stopped and for the first time in years they were face to face again.

    “Greetings brother,” the Colonel said, opening the dialogue with a positive note.

    “You’re no brother of mine,” the Commissioner said quickly.

    “Oh? Do we not share the same father?”

    “That bond ended when you launched your war on this country.”

    Seymour ignored the jibe. “Albion is not yours now, but I called this meeting to avoid future bloodshed.”

    “You are ready to annex Albion then?”

    “Never, but you put a stop to the Welcoming Bill and I’ll talk with my Colonels about setting up a trade-zone.”

    “A trade-zone?”

    “Yes, it can be a buffer-area where your people, no matter what their race, calling or creed can trade and exchange with my people of Albion.”

    “Why on earth should I try and do that?”

    “Are you serious? Food supplies are barely coping, your economy is on the brink, you can’t keep printing money which isn’t backed by anything. Your nation, the once great Britain I salvaged Albion from, isn’t producing anything. You import most of your energy and ninety percent of your food. The oil and gas industry is paralyzed thanks to environmentalist pressure and massive taxes to pay for your welfare state. Need I go on?”

    “You are an economist now as well as a tyrant?” The Commissioner remarked dryly, unbothered by the plight of Britain.

    “I have a good team of advisors, many of whom left Britain to join Albion. They all say the same thing, with limited cooperation we’ll be stronger, but this invasion of so-called New Europeans has to stop! Then we can work on getting this island back from the brink.”

    “The brink is perhaps what will bring people together, that way they’ll need the safety I can provide more than ever.”

    “Safety from foreigners you are bringing in! They may not wear the uniform or emblem of an invading army,” he stated, “but they are surely acting like one! I saw the writing on the wall years ago, only now is it providence.”

    “What do you care about Britain? You have your Albion, you have UN recognition. What I do with Britain via the government is none of your concern, you showed that during the civil war.”

    “I care about this whole island, not just Albion!”

    The Commissioner laughed and looked to the gloomy, overcast sky.

    “I remember when you were first admitted to the Inner Way. You were full of noble ideas and ways. I gave you the recommendation to join, along with two Grand Masters. Both of whom you had killed.”

    “Yes, I thought I was entering an enlightened order of people to build a better tomorrow. Instead I was entering a cabal of Satanic refuse!” the Colonel hissed venomously.

    “You were our greatest apprentice, and our greatest failure. You abandoned us, formed your own band of pretenders then waged war upon us. As a heretic your fate by us will be the worst imaginable.”

    “I abandoned the Inner Way when I learned of its seditious ways and ill-will against this island’s people.”

    “You don’t understand the forces we follow, what they require, it’s necessary to bring about chaos for order to emerge. An order in which we could become planetary overlords!”

    “I slew your Grandmaster with my own hand. Don’t push me into resuming the war baby-killer.”

    “You won’t defeat us Alex, we’ve been around for longer than you imagine. The Inner Way has powerful friends, ones that will smash you and your rogue nation. We’ve done it before, and we’ll do it again. It won’t be pretty either. When we have our way with upstarts and turn-coats an example has to be made.”

    “Albion can hold the line,” countered Seymour. “We’ll just wait you out as your nation becomes weaker and weaker to the point where it doesn’t exist anymore. You’ll be among your own funeral pyres when the tidal wave of foreign hordes keep coming and settle. We Albion folk will watch on from our lands and lament what it’s come to, but we’ll survive as your Britain collapses.”

    “So will we! We’ll always survive, always exist! If Britain falls, we’ll have places elsewhere we can start over. For you and your Albion, that’s all there is. Most other nations regard nationalist leadership as poison. It’s a dead-end for the new age we are in. The real power is in supranationalist entities that wield power by proxy.”

    “Albion will smash through any dead end, whether you like it or not brother, the Yeomanry is here to stay and that secretly terrifies you. It challenges your Brotherhood agenda to destroy nearly all other Europeans. We will arise as a true nobility that leads for the common folk as the world looks on.”

    “We’ll see.”

    “Yet neither I nor my Yeomen want warfare or conflict.”

    “Really?” laughed Roberts. “Your coup killed hundreds in cold blood and a decade later your war killed thousands!”

    “A necessary act given the circumstances your traitorous vermin brought to a head. I am not here to argue, but to mend bridges.”

    “Hah! Let’s hear your mending then?”

    “Abandon this scheme to flood the island with desperate foreigners and troublemakers. Do this and we can have a peaceful resolution with a trade-zone. A place for the middle-ground to find a way. It worked for Ulster and Ireland, it can work here too!”

    There was a pause between their talking before the Commissioner filled it.

    “Very well, the Inner Way will consider your request when I put it before them.”

    “When will I have an answer? A firm official answer I can take to the UN and NATO?”

    “At the Annual Conference down in London. I expect you’ll be sending a delegation?”

    “When have we ever not? It’s a Yeomanry tradition, something you’d do well to recall.”

    “I’d appreciate it if you could attend,” Roberts looked expectantly at his brother.

    “I’m not a fool Des, Colonel Matthews and his Rangers are for public relations. They will attend as they’ve done so before.”

    When the meeting concluded both sides made their way back to their vehicles. At the Yeomanry side the old Colonel leaned into the passenger side of his V8 Defender. Waiting for him was Yeoman Weyland, his driver.

    “That was the most powerful man in Britain you just saw me talking to, what did you make of him?”

    “He reminded me of a cross between a politician and a headmaster,” Weyland bluntly said with an unfazed smile, causing the Colonel to laugh.

    “That’s a fair description, I’d have used much worse,” Seymour said. The sound of the other vehicles starting their engines rang around them.

    One of his two trusted bodyguards passed back Seymour’s Janson carbine and the Colonel passed it, in turn, to Weyland through the window. He stacked it in the twin-rifle rack as the two soldiers climbed in the back. The leader moved around to get in the passenger side. The leading vehicle turned and Weyland followed, keeping the usual distance between it.

    As a convoy they drove from the buffer-zone territory of the Midlands north-eastwards for the border proper with Albion. The Colonel lit up a high-grade cigarette, something he often did while being driven. Cigarettes were like a luxury item and could sell for as much as an hourly wage each. Seymour offered him a cigarette and Weyland shook his head. He’d normally not be on driving duty, but Colonel Seymour was a strange man in some ways. While the NBBC media painted him as a fanatic keen to kill Weyland found him to be more of a brooding commander, charismatic yet dangerous if you crossed him. He was not aloof like some of the other Colonels though, but liked to always mix with his men and women. It was his way of bonding, much like the leaders of old who always made a habit of learning about the warriors under their command. People respected a tough leader, especially one who dealt fairly with others, for the most part. The other Yeomanry were die-hards for Seymour, yet Weyland was more cautious, he’d traveled too much to be encapsulated by leaders, even gifted ones like Colonel Seymour.

    “I have a new assignment for you my boy. It’s unrelated to this meeting, well mostly unrelated. Everything we do against the dark forces is partly related.”

    “With respect Colonel, you promised I’d be released on leave sir.”

    “I know it,” The officer said, watching Weyland’s hands clench the steering wheel tighter than usual.”

    “My fiancée is still in London, I worry about her sir.”

    “I know that too Eric.”

    “I’d like to go and work with her Colonel, help bring her north when she wraps up operations. I spoke with Major Garenby and he’s arranging for a new agent handler to—”

    “As I’ve said already,” the Colonel said with a deep intake of the cigarette, “you’re too well known now for that sort of work in London. Facial-recognition cameras are all over the place, massive enforcer presence is rampant. Then there’s the non-Europeans that have taken over three-quarters of greater-London. Even the City of London is getting its share. Scotland Yard has put a ten-thousand pound bounty on your head as well I’m informed. No, for this next one you’re the only man I trust, this is personal. It concerns a comrade who is no longer with us and an oath I made long ago.”

    “Oaths are powerful things, not to be broken lightly either sir.”

    “Indeed, some might think I treat my men and women as expendable assets, but you’re all like children to me.”

    Weyland nodded then grinned. “Even the crazy rangers Colonel Bladen and Turner lead?”

    “Even them!” Seymour laughed. “Yet even a father must risk his own going out into danger. It’s like that when you have high rank, the risks of the father shrink in some ways on the one hand, but grow in others. It can be tough at the top, yet always the lower ranks have the lion’s share of danger. I learned that when I saw the dying in the Rabian lands, then here during the coup and wars.”

    “That’s how the world works though sir, the Yeomanry troops have the burden of danger, the upper ranks the burden of command.”

    “Indeed it is. Yet that may be shifting a bit if all goes to plan,” the Colonel said with an optimistic smile. “If it does, my brother will have the shock of his life.”

    “Is that what my mission concerns sir?” asked Weyland.

    “No, I’ll get you the information on that back at the Estates. Yet for now, tell me Eric, have you ever been admitted to a secret society?”

    Weyland took his eyes off the road to look directly at Seymour momentarily. His face was deadly serious, like switch it had gone from one mood to the next.

    “You can speak freely, my bodyguards in the back are sworn to keep silence.”

    Weyland looked back to the road and the relentless vehicle in front of him. It, like his vehicle had convoy and hazard lights flashing. Each time he saw it flash seemed to be a warning. To even be a member of any secret society was against Albionic Law. A law signed by all twelve of the Colonels.

    “I’ve been asked to join the Knowlen Brotherhood in the past Colonel.”

    “You can call me Alex son.”

    “I thank you sir, but all the same, as the highest of Yeoman, I must call you Colonel, Colonel.”

    “Fair enough Eric, so why did you not accept the invitation to the Knowlen?”

    Weyland paused before speaking. Why would the Colonel even ask such a thing of him?

    “Of course not, I serve my own people not a Semetic mystery religion.”

    “You can still serve your own folk in a secret society though. One that inherently serves Albion.”

    Weyland refused to speak on, fearing he was being tested further, but the Colonel prompted him shrewdly.

    “Why did you turn down the offer from the Knowlen?”

    “I considered it an alien, non-native thing Colonel. It felt like I’d belong to something entirely different than my own…” Weyland struggled to find the appropriate words. “Belonging I guess.”

    “Well said, that’s somewhat vague but a good approximation of them,” the Colonel said with a nod.

    “The border to Albion isn’t far, you can freewheel now,” his officer said, indicating it was time to leave the convoy and drive independently.

    Weyland didn’t need to be told twice. He turned off his hazard lights and indicated right to overtake the front vehicle. In doing so he took the powerful machine up to eighty-miles per hour.

    For a time there was a silence as the increased drone of the engine dominated the cabin. When the mile marker for Pontefract Castle neared he slowed it down to sixty-miles an hour.

    “I used to be one of them,” Colonel Seymour said quietly.

    “The Knowlen?” Weyland asked gob smacked.

    “Them first, then a more secretive, much more powerful group shortly afterwards. The Commissioner and I were in it together.”

    “Good gods sir!”

    “This was before even the coup took place. I was younger than you back then, just a junior officer believing everything I’d been told. Things were or at least seemed a lot more optimistic, like everything was to play for. My family had connections to powerful people on this island going back to before the Tudors. A family legend says the Normans or Templars discovered secrets during the Crusades elevating them in status. Whatever the case, the invitation came and I took it. That’s when I joined the Inner Way.”

    “I’ve never even heard of them sir.”

    “Almost no-one has, to actually rebel and leave it like I did and tell the tale is rare indeed. I got lucky though, a fellow rebel aided me in doing so. For the Commissioner though, he was all the way or nothing, he thought he could work from the inside and bring it down. He was wrong, the person that was my half-brother went in too deep and never returned from their dark ways.”

    “So was it you and one of the other Colonels that broke off from the Inner Way?”

    “No, he was a merchant banker. He and I formed a pact to break away and form a better Britain, an Albion. So the seeds of the coup were planted,” the Colonel smiled at the memory of those heady times. “Then, during the chaos and confusion the Inner Way sent their assassins in. He was cut down and killed but I, along with other Yeoman fought on and the coup began proper. The Inner Way were not happy to say the least, but the coup was successful and I became too powerful for them to take down. After the war and this territory we now call home they know better than to mess with us. Though weakened, they still pose a threat.”

    “Colonel, why exactly did you leave the Inner Way?”

    “They practice dark ways and arts, there was and is a plan to enslave the world and we are their number one target I think. So, amid a cauldron of child sacrifice and molestation I saw it was time to take a stand.”

    “The Inner Way kill and abuse children?”

    “They sacrifice them.”

    “That’s horrific!”

    “Indeed, fortunately I learned of this from the rebel banker before I’d been fully admitted into their cabal. In this way I was not tricked into murder and abuse, there’s usually no going back once you are in that deep. Yet one of them showed me the darkest secrets of them actually killing a young boy, in order to prove what he said was real.”

    “By the powers sir that’s the lowest of the low, I thought such things were from a previous age.”

    “Not a chance, the Inner Way and those like them still indulge, it’s just a lot more secretive and behind closed doors. They wear masks so even a video camera can’t prove who is who.”

    “Was that when you chose to rebel?”

    “Yes, I gathered loyal officers to me. From there we plotted and schemed like madmen on how to try and turn around this precious island from their clutches. It took us half a year and all kinds of maneuvering to set up the take-down of a government and the Inner Way. Then, on the day I was supposed to be admitted into the Inner Way, the coup was launched instead. What a time! It was like the fates and destinies crying out for liberation. We killed many Inner Way types with our battles and executions, but let me tell you, not one of them deserved a fair trial.”

    “I’m not judging you Colonel and I doubt many other Yeoman would, but did you not think to try and blow the whistle and bring charges through the courts?”

    “No-one would have believed us, the judges would either have thrown it out of court or been part of the whole racket.”

    “I thought the coup was to take down the corrupt government, but all this time there’s been a much darker force at play?”

    “Exactly. There were twenty of us when it started, nineteen military men and that one civilian who helped show me the true dark heart of the Inner Way. I wasn’t corrupted with the taint of their child murdering ways but I think he was. Yet perhaps something awoke in him, a force to redeem through our actions. Whatever the cause, he opened the door and that’s how I escaped the Inner Way. They didn’t know any of this until the day of the coup when we were smashing down doors up and down the land. The element of surprise, the way of unpredictability. These are elements the Inner Way cannot easily work out or fathom.”

    Weyland paused as he took in the gravity and secret history of the coup.

    “This was the merchant banker fellow? The one who got you out to begin your work?”

    “Yes, he was a young half-Kaslar lad, born into a family steeped in such things. I often came close to killing him when I learned the Inner Way’s true nature, I feared that perhaps he was playing me somehow. I’m glad I stayed my hand. I could have protected him better perhaps, but he always liked the cities and the ladies too much to be among the towns and village folk. The Inner Way suspected he was rogue though, he had done a lot of digging and revealed many of their members to us.”

    “What happened to him?”

    “Inner Way contracted some of their killers, they tracked him down, took out his bodyguard and mortally wounded him in a savage fashion. By the time I got to him he was on his last breath, cuts all over him, dying from blood loss. Before he died he asked that we go easy on his folk if they needed a place to shelter.”

    “Was this because his kin were a part of the Inner Way and wealthy elite?”

    “That and the fact we both knew there was a good chance of a backlash against his brethren. So I swore they’d have a place if they had no place else to go. It was the least I could do for him.”

    “That’s bold sir, a few Yeoman have a rough bone to pick on that I think. Many don’t trust them at the best of times.”

    “Don’t I know it, I had to make a few compromises but the coup held firm. One of the biggest gripes was infiltration, but with outside help a system was in place for detecting and weeding out undesirables.”

    “Don’t saboteurs, spies and the like try it on though? I don’t just mean bad Kaslar folk but people of Albion stock who are working for the enemy.”

    “Yes, but they get spotted and shown the door. The ones that get through are small fry, deliberately watched and followed discretely. That way the enemy thinks we are not totally infallible.”

    The old Colonel grinned with the words and wound down his window to smoke another cigarette. He offered one to Weyland who took it readily. When it was half-used he smiled in the afterglow memory of victory.

    “The past is the past. I did what I could, and avoided a civilian total war, which was my biggest fear during those times. Anyway, that’s enough about me.”

    Weyland nodded, they’d almost reached the first outer-base of the Estates and he began to slow down to about forty-miles-per-hour.

    “If it’s about Ireland I’ve already—”

    “No, it’s about your past my boy.”

    Weyland fell silent, knowing it was his turn to answer prying questions. He nodded slowly.

    “You left the Intelligence Corps to join us during the war. We haven’t forgotten that. Now, Rebecca Riley was also formerly Intelligence Corps was she not?”

    “That’s correct Colonel. We heard your plea and answered it, despite both our families disowning us.”

    “There was a third though was there not? A person close to you at that time. The one you couldn’t convince to join our struggle.”

    Weyland knew who he meant, he didn’t seek to ask how, when or who. He nodded.

    “Deborah,” Weyland stated with a sigh. “It was a case of her honor to her folk versus my sacred duty to mine. She would not even consider joining us, try as I did.”

    “It wasn’t meant to be for her. Nor others too, other Yeomanry have their sad departures from family and friends before and during the war.”

    “It was just as well really I think, our roads are separate ones, destiny was having sport of us. She’s probably long gone elsewhere now, probably made passage to Kaslar territories in Levant. A fair few of them went there after the war.”

    “Indeed, but I think the fates have an unsurpassed humor when it comes to that one.”

    “What do you mean?” he asked in disbelief. Did the Colonel know of his secret pact, only days before he joined the Yeomanry?

    “Deborah Templeton is part of a counter-Yeomanry cell. The Ministry set it up a while ago but we’ve just recently heard of it.”

    “Who are they?”

    “Special Occurrences Task Force. SOTF, or Soh-taff as it’s pronounced. We are the occurrence and they feel they’re special enough to take us on.”

    “By the gods colonel!”

    “SOTF are assigned to bring you in, dead or alive. You’ve been targeted, any Yeoman operative or senior rank for that matter is of course, but you’ve topped the list since Heysham, putting me at second place. Well done for that,” he joked with characteristic humor.

    For Weyland the fact he was an enemy did not bother him the slightest, but that it was her that spearheaded the efforts sent waves of shock through him. “Of all the people on the island! Is she at large in Albion?” he exclaimed in disbelief.

    “No, but we think it’s possible they’ll be launching a strike against us. With all that’s been going on, consider yourself promoted to Yeoman Raven, our highest operative rank.I didn’t know about Raven rank sir.”

    “Few do, it’s our highest operative rank, here,” the Colonel said, reaching into his combat jacket. He fished out a pair of capsules in two separate containers “Knowing what you know now, it would be wise to use them if the worst is to befall you.”

    Seymour passed the first one to Weyland who took it. It was a white capsule pill inside a small plastic case.

    “This one will put you in a deep, dreamlike coma for a couple of days. If captured by regular forces, the police and suchlike I recommend using it. With a tracking beacon activated we’ll scramble a rescue team.”

    “I’ll stitch them into my clothing,” Weyland said sharply as Seymour passed him the second capsule this one being red.

    “Is this a spare pill?”

    “It’s cyanide, you know what it does. If you have to use it don’t bite down it or there’s a risk you’ll have an agonizing death. Swallow it down, death will come within about thirty seconds.”

    “Surely the first pill will be enough? With a rescue team on standby?”

    “The first pill won’t do you much good if you’re fighting Inner Way operatives, elite troops and SOTF. They know some of our tricks. Intel suggests they can nullify the effects or at least silence our tracking beacon. Your choice on using them, but it’s to be considered.”

    “They say suicide is the cowards way out Colonel.”

    “Better to take your own life than suffer for their torture and vile ways. Being kept alive for days and days for their pleasures is certainly something any man should seek being a coward to avoid. Make no mistake you are one of their top targets now, not just from SOTF. Along with myself and all the other Colonels, you’re a marked man.”

    Weyland took a deep drag of the cigarette, he rarely smoked, but heavy talk was made easier by the effects of it.

    “Well, I suppose it makes it more real though somehow, like we’re facing the threat more than others.”

    “That’s the spirit, we either endure and see in victory or become broken by our fate.”

    The final checkpoint to the Estates loomed.

    “Do you still want this final mission? I can assign another in your place? You don’t have to accept it.”

    “I never was tested that much overseas sir, not compared to some of the others.”

    “Don’t give me that Eric, I’ve had high praise from your Eagle Commander and his report on you speaks otherwise. This mission might not be London, but it is behind enemy lines.”

    “I don’t want an empty promotion Colonel.”

    “And I don’t want a dead Raven either, especially one who hesitates if he has a Kaslar girl from his past in his sights.”

    “She chose that road and I’ll not sway from mine, especially not now.”

    “Good, we’ll brief you in-depth at The Estates. Oh and Eric...”

    “Our conversation stays in this Defender sir?”

    The leader of the country nodded. “That’s what I like to hear.”

    They reached the final checkpoint which Weyland slowed the Land Rover down to a slow-crawl. As the double-sentry team saw their commander they both saluted before one raised the armored barriers.

    The Yeoman was now a raven but instead of elation he only felt the grip of anxiety. He’d written off the pact the three of them had made as youthful shenanigans. Yet his past had returned to haunt him even as a mission loomed ahead.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
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  13. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Chapter 6


    Natalie Neville was a person given to progressive goals and causes. When the Northampton Refugee Center had come into view she felt her heartbeat increase with the excitement. She had been raised on a rich diet of Cultural Marxism espousing the greatness of charity and generosity. A natural-born liberal Natalie was easily swayed by her friends. They yearned to help the 3rd world people. During college the notion of altruism manifested into full-blown liberalism. After university she proudly entered into ranks of the Anti-Western Alliance. A political faction of the hard Left-Wing. Even Alfred Neville thought over-the-top. The AWA. The interlude of the Colonels Coup, instead of interrupting her had only engaged her into being more active. When the AWA had been disbanded she was always one for the protest marches. Then when the refugee hordes had begun to show up in France she found her new direction. She and her band of friends became swept up into a new, underground faction. The Unite Against Racism group were massive and radical proponents of a multicultural society. They were not content with the former colonies of the United Kingdom having a place on the island. The Jamaican, Indian and Pakistani ethnicities that made up a majority chunk of non-Europeans living on the island were just the beginning. They had notions of a globalist island with as many people from non-European countries as humanly possible receiving shelter and a new life. Africa and the war-torn Middle-East were the new life-blood for the UAR. Nearly half of them were either mixed-race or self-loathing Britons. The rest, like Natalie Neville and her friend Gemma Waters were idealists, driven to try and make the world a better place.

    When several thousand of the New Europeans were admitted and detained at Northampton it was a cause for celebration. For the UAR the lack of attention the refugees admitted to the country were receiving was a cause for action.

    Alfred Neville, her brother, had always been uneasy at her going on her various travels and adventures. Something felt more than wrong though with the Refugee crisis. It did not escape his eye that many of the so-called refugees fleeing various parts of Africa and the Middle-East were not all they seemed. Many were not old, injured or with children. Most were male, of fighting age and with a look about them. Like many middle-class people outside of Yeoman territory, he had faith in the security services sorting out the good from the bad. Neville only wished his sister to be careful when she went off with her friend Gemma on the train to Northampton.

    She did not return that night and he assured himself that she’d probably gone to Gemma’s for the night. The next morning there was still no word, her phone did not answer and he left voice-messages, emails but still nothing. Then the house-phone rang, it was from the hospital in Northampton. Over the phone they’d only told her she’d been attacked, but once he arrived Neville learned the truth.

    Natalie had been viciously gang-raped and almost beaten to death by unknown assailants at the Northampton camp. Her friend Gemma was in a similar condition.

    When he’d arrived his sister was conscious but almost catatonic. Her voice was weak and what seemed like bites and marks covered what he could see of her neck, arms and hands. One side of her face had a fresh bandage covering the gaping wound from the hard asphalt.

    “No, no no…” she would say faintly for a time. Her eyes had lost their spark, and she barely even recognized him.

    Her memories were infested with dark faces peering down at her, strong arms holding her arms and legs. Her own underwear was stuffed in her mouth preventing her screaming out. All the while a thrusting body on top of her invaded her most private place. Dark and dirty hands stroked, touched and scratched. Very noisy muttering, almost mantra-like could be heard along with commenting in languages utterly alien to her. The stink, sweat and odor was over-powering. Natalie could not see the rapists properly, for her head was forced to the side by more than one brown hand. Her cheek almost buried in the concrete almost had a pain that drowned out the other more shameful ones. As soon as one man’s filthy urge was expended another pressed down upon her to take his turn. Then came another and another for what seemed like hours.

    Earlier that day, she and her friend Gemma had separated from the others and gone deeper into the camp, away from the main gateway. A beady-eyed man who spoke a little English made his presence known to Gemma who’d been handing out bundles of food and sweets from a backpack. Natalie was just beginning to record an interview with the man using her smart phone. Every now and again the man would glance out of the corner of his eye. A crowd of young men had surrounded them. One snatched away her phone. Natalie had asked for it back but they demanded money. Gemma, always the louder, more butch one of the two, shouted and argued. She punched and lashed out at the sneering thief but this only excited the crowd now closing in. Hands began reaching and pulling and before either could think of escape they were pulled to the floor. Natalie’s memory train reached a long circle and once again it returned to the terrible incident. In front of her eyes she was barely aware of her brother now with his head in his hands and the foreign doctor.

    “She’s in deep shock Mr Neville but her wounds will heal, they aren’t life-threatening now,” the Pakistani doctor said blandly.

    As a short-staffed hospital he was one of only two doctors and went over his list for the next patient to visit. He looked once more at Neville. “She’ll come around eventually, but will need therapy and care. Someone will be around shortly to talk with you about this.” Once he’d finished speaking the bald slender man trotted off leaving the room.

    Specialist police tried to interview her later that day but she could provide no information. There were no cameras at the camp he learned and over one thousand ‘visitors’ as the refugees were euphemistically called. Some of Natalie’s UAR friends visited and were both puzzled and shocked.

    “This is terrible, I hope they catch those responsible without coming down hard on the others,” said one who had her hair dyed purple and a peace-symbol around her neck.

    “They probably didn’t understand our culture though and misread her intentions,” said an apologist with tattoos around her neck. “After all it’s our racist colonial history that’s brought this about.”

    “Don’t be angry Alfy, Natalie’s bravery and courage will inspire the UAR. She’ll be empowered by it in the end.”

    The words were like seeing a heart riddled with thorns. “Get out! All of you cretins make me sick!” He snapped. A nurse came in and ushered the UAR women out of the room. Shortly thereafter he was alone again.

    “I vow to whatever god, mechanism or force is out there that this will be avenged Natalie,” he hissed.

    He stayed the whole day until nightfall before leaving for home. That night he felt wave after wave of sorrow, rage and heartache wash over him.

    Growing up he’d known a few people from ethnic minorities, most were Asian, one or two were African. The nearest newsagent shop had an Asian family living there and were onto their third-generation. Although none were his friends, he did not consider them foreigners either. His civic-nationalist view being that, while their parents were foreign, their children were not. This, by his reasoning, made them no longer foreigners. Somewhat different but no longer cultural outsiders. The new wave of foreigners challenged all that, and Natalie’s attackers only reinforced the illusion-breaking moment.

    Until that day Alfred Neville had, by almost every facet of his life, a productive law-abiding citizen of Britain. He was a member of a wealthy gun club that he paid into religiously, had no criminal convictions or outstanding charges. His house was fully-paid for and far from any trouble and ethnic minority folk. He drove a top of the range BMW which was his pride and joy and had a more ordinary second car as an everyday workhorse. In his job as an IT manager he was secure and prosperous. He had reveled in being a single man, womanizing his way around the dating sites and bars. The opulence and attraction of his materialistic lifestyle now paled. The attack on his kin now felt like a great torpedo had been fired into his world. Alfred Neville had never been in a fight, had no military training and was considered a typical meek Briton. In his target shooting hobby which he excelled at, he was incredibly discrete. None of his neighbors would have guessed that he was a gun owner either and practiced vermin control and clay-pigeon shooting on nearby farmland. Almost all of Neville’s life and views were beyond reproach, almost all that was, apart from his firearms collection.

    Going to his gun cabinet he removed the entire contents onto the living-room carpet. Carefully and diligently he began packing two large sports bags. Into these went his rifles. One was a large caliber .303 Lee Enfield with scope and the other was a much smaller rimfire carbine. His Ruger 10/.22 had a folding stock and was very light. Magazines for both weapons were next and these two went into the bags.

    Removing a few loose bricks from his garage wall revealed a dark secret from the days before weapons were restricted. Once, similar types were recognized as licensed section 1 firearms. Now though they came with a prison sentence of 5 years minimum for those caught by the police with them. His first illegal weapon was an unlicensed war-trophy, a Walther P-38 pistol wrapped in oily rags. After he checked the ultra-reliant working parts for function he reached in and removed a longer, heavier object from the cavity. Unwrapping the rags revealed a zippered gun bag. Inside it was a seldom-used AR-10 in 7.62mm. Unlike the Lee Enfield the AR-10 was semi-automatic and of a much more deadly caliber than the Ruger. As an illegal import it too was under the radar. Ammunition in two steel ammo boxes for both weapons was the last to come out.

    Neville mused on what was to come. Part of him had been intending to cast both of the section 5 weapons in the sea or a deep quarry. The other part speculated they’d be useful if there was a total breakdown of society or foreign invasion. Now though they would be put to a more personal, directed purpose.


    As Neville suspected, there were no arrests made at the Refugee Center, some enquiries were made but with no way of knowing who was who it was a thankless task. Some of the newcomers, thanks to their continental handlers, knew they could claim it was ‘racism’ if they felt they were being victimized. To a man they had destroyed their passports and identity papers. None of them claimed they could speak English, nearly all claimed to be from Syria the latest war-zone and demanded translators. Had the inhabitants been native-born Britons the police had options and powers to separate, bully and cajole. As it was though the overworked police of Northampton were powerless to do anything except keep the center contained.

    As night fell a solitary car slowly approached the rear fence with its lights off. It went parallel for a time to the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Then, after making a ninety degree turn the vehicle faced the back gateway.

    Neville took a few deep breaths then accelerated at full power towards the back gates. The Vauxhall Vectra’s roar and the smashing collision aroused many of the inhabitants. The heavy chain-link fence almost resisted the impact but age, fate, along with the forces of velocity and mass had their way with it. A small group of huddled men saw the gate crashed open and the vehicle plunged headlong towards them. An old Arab was bashed aside and a docile Negro had his spine shattered by the mass of metal. Neville reversed immediately. The huge, crowded Nissan Huts heard the commotion and several dark faces appeared at windows. Upon seeing the smashed gates and car’s headlights shining brightly from outside the camp they announced to the others excitedly what had happened. Like a wave of hysteria they interpreted that they were being set free and vehicles awaited them. This was the moment they were waiting for, a chance to taste the delights of western women, luxury and lay waste to the weak-westerners. The headlights flashed several times frantically, exciting the inhabitants further.
    Neville had lowered his window and opened the car door. Stepping out and using it as a rest he shouldered his Ruger 10/.22. The telescopic sight was ordinary but with the glare of his headlights made easy work of picking targets. He let the first of them exit the gates then opened fire.

    The suppressor and sub-sonic ammunition were like a near-silent death. Four young refugees were slain before they even knew what was happening. As the doors to the main Nissan Huts were thrown open he switched to them and fired without even aiming. .22LR bullets were small, but the hollow points made vicious wound-trajectories. The copper-jacketed lead zipped and dashed through flesh to ricochet at weird and strange angles as bone and tissue became vectors of ruin. Nevilles finger speedily shot off the thirty-round banana magazine and slapped in another. The other entrance to the Nissan Hut became carnage, he paused and shot into windows and through the thin sheet metal of the Nissan Hut.

    From within the crowded huts the occupants howled and screamed like animals. The noise attracted the attention of the police but they ignored it, figuring it was another squabble among themselves.

    “Let the scum kill each other for all I care,” said a grizzled old Sergeant to his younger Constable. “I’m sick of us having to play babysitter.” He returned to his video-streaming of an old Blackadder comedy show as the noisy racket got louder.

    The hard-core refugee fanatics knew that to remain in the huts was suicide and they too charged out the door. Most of them were either Arabs or Muslim Negros.

    By now Neville had changed to his primary weapon, the AR-10. This rifle had no suppressor but as it roared out shot after shot the high-velocity hollow-points created their own tale of mayhem.

    An Arab male who had boasted of his laying with the pretty English girl had his lungs shot out. The bullet went in through an expensive jacket and left a great fist-sized cavity as it slew the man behind him. Both men fell together as they’d lain together earlier with their female victim. Through the optical sight Neville watched with a passive relief that he was taking his revenge. No law or court would ever grant him vengeance in the ancient way, but his own will of retribution would settle the matter. A crawling man with his spine severed cried out while another looked at the ruined leg that would never work again. The rapists themselves understood the danger and began to hide. At this though the ones who knew the guilty pointed and shouted at a few of them. This granted them a reprieve as his sights laid death on those they chose would receive the bullet. At first Neville, with efficient euthanasia, would slay the wounded. Then, as the horde became maddened and confused he poured an unrelenting salvo, after salvo as it surged for the gates. The weapons he used were not full-auto or burst-fire like the Yeomanry and military had access to and the horde pressed on. The high-velocity rounds slammed into them though, blunting their intentions, but not stopping them entirely. He slew a dozen more angry invaders outright and as many were mortally wounded, more than one with the same bullet.

    The attacker was fortunate that the ‘New Europeans’ mistakenly believed it was the police from the main gate firing on them. This drove them directly into the firing range Neville awaited them at for more vengeance. He only had four magazines for the AR and by the time the last one was empty his vehicle was becoming a target for rocks and debris.

    Ignoring the missiles the somewhat rotund office-worker shouldered his Lee Enfield and fired once, blowing a fist-sized hole in a chest that trembled violently. Then he worked the bolt then fired again. By then though the enraged mob were almost upon his car.

    He jumped inside to slam the door and lock it from the central console. With the driver’s window down though one big Negro began climbing in through it. Neville pulled out his P-38 and pumped two bullets into the big man’s skull. Those behind the dead Negro pulled his body out of the way before a tanned face appeared and tried to overpower the driver. Neville shot another four times, silencing the shrieking face before finding reverse and flooring the accelerator, sending the Vectra racing backwards.

    The horde began to race after him but Neville felt confident now. He stopped after once hundred yards and got out again.

    “For Natalie!” the angry white man cried with a point of his finger. “That was vengeance for Natalie, my sister!” He shot the remainder of his sidearm into the bloodied horde before driving away again.
    Neville’s heart raced with intensity, sweat soaked his shirt and leather jacket. He suspected the Vauxhall Vectra might be a suspect vehicle now, but a few miles away his main escape car was parked at a library. It was still there as he pulled in but the entire city seemed to be screaming with sirens.


    The Yeomanry garrison was unofficially the edge of a border town between the outside world and their fledgling state. The ancient flag of green and blue proudly displayed the Albionic dragon and its companion the White Horse. Originally the members of the garrison were made up of Warwickshire Yeomanry, but since the border had shifted north-east they were now Border Yeomanry. Colonel Sandford indirectly commanded them but it was Major Turner who was elsewhere when the man arrived. It was at the night hour was almost at the point when they’d close the crossing-point between territories. The guardroom TV was showing an old Benny Hill broadcast from decades past. Suddenly it was interrupted by a news-alert. There had been an incident at one of the British refugee camps further south. A man had clandestinely entered with a high velocity rifle slaughtered many dozens. A blue BMW car screamed up to the checkpoint before halting suddenly at the metal gate-barrier. Two camouflage-clad men left their sandbagged bastion with rifles raised.

    The driver was in his early forties, dark haired and with bright hazel eyes. Yeoman Fuller knew something was wrong with him and tightened his grip on his SLR. There was a bright intelligence that radiated from his roundish face, like one who would be able to figure his way out of a labyrinth with raw deduction alone.

    “My name is Alfred Hale Neville,” he said with a voice loaded with emotion. His pinched face showed relief. “I’ve just waged war against foreign invaders who raped my sister and her friend.”

    Yeoman Fuller’s eyes went wide and the nearby Corporal made a signal to the guard room.

    “What brings you to us Alfred?”

    “I would like to claim asylum in Yeomanry territory. Although I’ve always spoken dismissively of you Yeomen, that time is over. If you’ll have me I’d like to join you, if not, let me turn around and go down fighting.”

    The young soldier looked hesitant but the older Yeoman got on the radio.

    As the flashing lights drew closer the barrier was raised and Neville, under close-guard drove into a fragile sanctuary.


    In the guardroom the duty field officer Captain Dan Buckley appraised the situation mentally as Sergeant Joe Quinn now advised him. Both he and the old Sergeant had briefly interrogated the man and now, back inside the fortified guardroom, they decided his fate.

    Captain Buckley knew what he had to do by his heart, but his head told him the smart thing to do was not at all on the same alignment. Quinn was more for safeguarding their position and placating the police outside their border.

    Buckley though watched the BMW through the camera monitor intently. Neville was without weapons now, all had been removed from both him and his vehicle. From where he sat in his BMW he was almost resignedly at peace. They had no spectrum equipment handy for vetting outsiders like this, it was down to gut instincts and good old fashioned intuition instead. By the time they'd have called in Eagle Intelligence there would be a media circus on the border. The officer was silent as his stream of conciousness went on within him.

    “It’s trouble and you know it Dan,” the old ranker said, interrupting his thoughts. “He could be a spy, one that’s made to do things in order to look plausible.”

    “You saw the news report Joe, she was someone’s daughter. If a man can’t be sheltered for taking retaliation against such a thing within Albion, then it’s not an Albion I want a part of.”

    “I know, but assuming he’s above board, it could be war with Britain if we allow him in.”

    “I know it but if we turn him away now we’ll look like we’re abandoning our own code.”

    “Invaders don’t have rights, especially when they attack our folk. If it was us in their realm, we’d be shot on sight for abusing one of their own. Killing innocents is terrible, but those refugees, most of them aren’t innocents, our intelligence proves that.”

    “The masses in Britain don’t believe us though! No matter how many broadcasts we make.”

    “This one at our doorstep does.”

    “Sir,” a Yeoman corporal spoke through the bullet-resistant glass. “The civvy police are demanding we hand him over.”

    “Are they specialist firearm units?”

    “Just patrol ones I think. Not threatening us though,” the Yeoman replied.

    “Fire if fired upon, pass the word,” the officer ordered before turning to the Sergeant. “Sergeant Quinn pass the following order. Mr Neville is to be given passage under guard to The Estates. The Colonels can decide his application.”

    “Roger that sir,” the sergeant nodded with the feeling of let-down.

    The two men moved quickly out the guardroom door and made their way to the sandbagged search area.
    “It’s your lucky day Alfred, welcome to Albion,” Sergeant Quinn said bluntly.
    The man’s eyes brightened and he bowed his head in prayer.

    “Thank you, thank you,” he implored.

    “Don’t thank me yet mate, the Colonels have to decide your fate, not us. We’ll secure your weapons for you here, if you’re granted asylum they’ll be restored to you, if not you can have them and leave to where you wish.”

    This was done without a fuss and the Sergeant got in and switched places with Neville. They drove the BMW a short distance to the duty driver location without incident. There Neville was transferred to the back of a green Land Rover that was part of the main garrison.

    “To the Estates with this one Carter,” the Sergeant ordered the duty-driver.

    “What’s the duty Sarge?” he responded, wondering what entry to make in the driver’s log.


    “Are we getting the invaders now as well?” Carter complained.

    “Does he look like a ****ing invader?” the Sergeant said sardonically pulling a face.

    “Well no but—”

    “Just drive him there son and less of your gob. I’ll follow in his BMW, I always wanted to drive one,” the Sergeant grinned. As the senior rank moved away the driver of the Defender turned to his new passenger.

    “So what’s your story then mate? the Yeoman asked casually to the nervous-looking man.

    Neville said nothing, his tiredness and adrenaline now seemed to give way to a sleepiness.

    “Did you **** off the Prime Speaker’s government?” he quizzed, trying to coax an answer.

    “I retaliated and killed invaders,” the bookish man said wearily to the astonishment of Carter. He asked more questions but the fugitive was exhausted. The drone of the engine and fading adrenaline soon had him asleep for duration of the drive north.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann
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  14. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Things are starting to kick off now, so get your PC kool aide firmly purged from your system folks. The S is about to get real.

    Chapter 7

    The Alliance

    The Ministry conference room was a place rarely opened to outsiders. Even those within the Ministry umbrella tended to be considered undesirables unless fully vetted. The High Commissioner used to consider the SOTF a mere puppy compared to the might of his police and enforcers. The growing threat from Albion and their elusive Yeomanry intelligence cell’s meant even he had to listen to his advisers for extra help. Only one, Richard Granby was seated with him in the room, the other three were Unknown to them. Cordell, Sarah and their newest addition, a wolfishly alert operative named Synel Shildz, sat on the side of the table. They took their place as the newly formed Ministry Elite.

    A fifth person, Dominick Nichols sat with them as well. Unlike the agents Nichols was quite ordinary to the hardened agents. He was a re-enlisted Ministry Guard who’d been brought in to make up the numbers. All wore suits but the bodyguard wore dark grey, where the others wore the others wore dark blue.

    “Warrant Officer Atkinson and his team are waiting outside now Commissioner,” came a pleasant voice from the secretary outside.

    “Send them in please Laura,” he responded.

    As the four-person group that made up the SOTF entered the room Roberts scanned them in hawkish fashion with his gaze. The outsiders, unlike his agents, had been disarmed on exiting the lift and without the remote threat of assassination he breathed easy.

    “Welcome to the conference,” Roberts said drily before rambling on for a few minutes about SOTF history and their accomplishments. It was more to butter them up to the three special agents than for any friendly reason of endearment.

    “I’m told you can get me the Yeomanry spooks who spy and collude in my cities officer?” the Commissioner asked Atkinson.

    “We can Commissioner, but our manning levels are awful, on paper we should have at least a dozen more operators.”

    “Ministry resources are tight right now, what I can do for you is lend you the support of my top agents.”

    Atkinson looked at the two men and one woman who regarded them. The two men looked like killers, the sort that would be perfect for handling extraordinary rendition overseas and rough interrogations. The younger one seemed a shade more even-handed, yet the murderous intent seemed to burn in them all.

    “Agents Cordell Mastock, Sarah Shears and Synel Shildz,” High Commissioner Roberts spoke as he introduced his elite spies.

    Atkinson raised an eyebrow at the exotic name of Shildz. The Commissioner picked up on it and nodded.

    “They are from overseas, brought them in from the cold you might say,” Roberts joked.

    His own agents ignored the humor. The youngest and oldest ones Mastock wrote off immediately as unsuitable. One was too innocent, the other too old. The woman and seasoned-looking fellow named Johnson seemed to show promise though.

    “I’d tell you more but your vetting clearance isn’t quite high enough. Suffice it to say they’ve been trained in top secret conditions and locales elsewhere, they have some equipment that will help in our task too.”

    Deep inside him the old warrant officer was wary, the agents had no look of the discipline and bedrock of army life or training. Yet lurking in Atkinson’s periphery was the coward in him. It saw a pension and overseas life not far away if he stomached just a few more months of the Ministry madness.
    “SOTF welcome the aid Commissioner,” Atkinson said readily.

    Even Templeton, the most open-minded to change felt instinctively wary. She saw the red-headed woman as a rival. Shears was younger and taller than she was. Even the way she dismissively registered her was an affront. All of the Elite group seemed to be cold and stand-offish, like they were factions within a faction. Yet Mastock looked at her with a disdain, an anti-Kaslar disdain she wondered?

    “We have a mission for the SOTF,” Roberts said. “There’s a city in the Midlands I want a field unit sent to. I’ll go into details later, for now I want one of my agents to provide Land Ministry oversight.”

    “This is most irregular Commissioner,” Atkinson said softly. “Special Occurrences is a military unit, civilians must be vetted and processed for side-by-side activities.”

    “Danny, with respect you are not within your barracks or jurisdiction now though.”

    “I expect the agents are suitable?” Atkinson said changing tack.
    “The Land Ministry have absolute clearance for its agents,” Richard Granby said with a dull drone. “They’ll likely teach your operatives a thing or two,” the advisor chirped sardonically. Johnson glared at him with a glint in his eye, he kept his voice from responding yet mouthed a few choice words at the civilian.

    “I see,” Atkinson said merrily, “well we SOTF have a few tricks up our sleeve as well you know,” the old officer responded.

    “To put things bluntly, I expect the apprehension and capture of our enemies Officer Atkinson, hand them over to Land Ministry forces. Shoot to kill only if necessary. Live captives are preferred.”

    “Understood Commissioner. Are we getting a boost in numbers? With us at platoon strength we—”

    “That will depend on your performance would it not?” the leader countered sharply.

    “I expect it would, but a small boost of numbers for SOTF, authorized by you from our home base would benefit—”

    “After I see how your branch performs, not before,” Brown smirked wirily.

    The meeting went on for a time longer before it concluded, then SOTF left the office to return to their inner sanctum several floors below. Once there they all converged on their own leaders office for heavy talk. The officer had few answers though.

    “Are they out to replace us? Apart from Dominick I don’t trust any of them,” Deborah said.

    “Even he’s a bit suspect,” Johnson grumbled.

    “Why’s that mate?” Athered asked.

    “He’s ex-security provost, MPGS. Not the proper army if you ask me. Better than the other three though.” Indeed they all knew the Military Provost Guard Service was at least within their rubicon.

    “I don’t like any of this either,” Atkinson said to his three operatives, “but it’s the only way we can stay on top of the situation.”

    “Them being lumped in with us is a bit much,” Deborah said frankly, “but like Danny says, we need a boost in numbers, as do they I suspect.”

    “A boost in our own numbers though,” Johnson retorted, “not these civvy agents we know little about. If you ask me those three ain’t ex-military either, more like black ops spooks, death-squad-types, executioners who’d be happy to kill entire villages on a false flag. I say we refuse Danny.”

    “No way! We’re stuck with the hand Roberts dealt us. We aren’t a bunch of Yeomanry who do our own thing Scott! Not even in SOTF. Here’s the script. Nichols the duty bodyguard is assigned to you Debs? I want you with him in London districts as your guard when chasing.” Templeton nodded. Vehicular pursuit was a role she excelled at.

    He turned to the two men.

    “Scott, Brian I need you as eyes-on-the-ground, working as follow-on for Debs.”

    “What about for the mission up north?” Brian Athered asked.

    “I’ll probably go on that one lad. I have to show Roberts we’re flexible. We need most us down here. Let the Land Office run with things for a bit in my absence.”

    His three operatives protested but the old officer wouldn’t have it any other way. Templeton’s earnest ways had triggered some of the old fire in him and he wanted one last hands-on mission.

    “It’ll be alright, that Synel character can do all the hard work I’ll probably end up on overwatch from the chase car,” he joked.

    Atkinson was light-hearted about it on the outside, but on the inside he was dreading the next few days.

    Copyright Tyler Danann
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  15. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Chapter 8


    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 Westmoreland 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, it 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. Weather in the British Isles was a lot more suitable to ease of concealing 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.

    “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 with the young pups 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.”

    “So we lay low, I make plain-sight moves and we 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 onto. 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.”

    “There’s a fierce charge-field given off by it, not sure how it works 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 the 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 Bakersby.

    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 Brown 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 of was a borderline alcoholic and well aware of how dangerous the Commissioner was. More importantly, Chambers was well aware of what the reason was. 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 Brown and his two bodyguards went in with him.

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

    “What can I do for you Commissioner?”

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

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

    “Operation Wormwood?” Chambers pondered, playing ignorant.

    “Operation Wormwood concerns the use of bioweaponry 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 Bioweaponry are practically outlawed nowadays.”

    “Hah! You as Director should know we are above such moralizing nonsense. I will jog your memory though, 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 Brown, our leaders have signed treaties and agreements never to deploy weaponized—”

    “Don’t give me that legalize nonsense,” Brown 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?”

    Brown passed the paper over to Chambers who began reading it.

    “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 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,” Brown 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 and diplomacy to the Prime Speaker’s government.” Brown 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. Inside was a single blackthorn flower.

    “For your predecessor’s memorial plaque,” Brown grinned before departing the office.

    The Director’s heart raced and he poured out another 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 Brown. Genetic warfare was a new low for the corrupt and sociopathic Land Ministry. Was that not to be expected though? Chambers knew Bakersby’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 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 knew what the endgame for Albion was and he didn’t like it. He could delay and push the researchers to nullify the 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. Resignedly Director Chambers poured himself the last of the bottle into the glass, and let the alcohol numb his roaring conscience.

    Copyright Tyler Danann
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  16. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Chapter 8 (Continued)

    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?”

    “I don’t care for him or that college, I’ll call my mum and see about getting a visa for Albion, it shouldn’t be too difficult being as though she works with the Albion Nursing Service. You could be sponsored too, getting a visa is quite easy.”

    “I never fancied myself as a nurse Val.”

    “Then join the Labor Service, they allocate jobs people are suited to, you don’t need silly qualifications that expire or have to pay for either. They take care of training and everything.”

    “Won’t they suspect us as spies or something?”

    “My mum tells me the detection systems are a wonder, as long as you’re honest you’ll be fine Nicola.”

    The two girls almost didn’t notice the large group trailing them led by Omar. One of them scuffed his feet on a raised paving stone giving Nicola reason to turn.

    “Valerie run!” her friend said chillingly, grabbing her arm briefly.

    Together they ran, but they were nearly a mile from any built-up area and few places were around to try and escape into. Both girls, while not unfit, were tiring and neither wore running foot-ware. A construction site lay ahead with several builders and workmen inside.

    “In here!” Valerie said and both rushed in.

    The building site was only just being started though. There were plentiful materials scattered about but no buildings whatsoever, not even a portacabin. A wasteland beyond the site overgrown with shrubs was the only cover. Beyond that was a car park and from afar opposite the college seemed to overlook them distantly.

    Both girls pleaded with the workers as the gang closed in.

    Omar was almost demonic with rage. The girls had humiliated him and now thought they could get help. By the time they’d closed the distance the two English girls had new allies. His cohorts began to falter as the workers immediately stood in front of the girls. They faced the gang of ten with tools raised.

    The Arab youth who led them was not deterred though and reached for his wealthy father’s section 5 revolver. It was a small .38 Smith and Wesson and would suffice for what he had in mind. He drew it out and threatened them. Three of the construction folk faltered and ran off to raise the alarm but one, a firm-hearted Geordie laborer stood his ground.

    Omar did not hesitate and shot the man dead with three quick shots. Both Valerie and Nicola were rooted to the spot by the violence. The dying man next to them was stood up one moment and down like a stone the next.
    “You’ll be next if you don’t do as I say!”

    In her mind’s eye Valerie saw herself in Iraq where her father had been killed. Angry Iraqi insurgents who’d infiltrated a village and whipped up a mob were replaced by Omar and his crew. Smart designer clothes clad the men who fanned out. Apart from one tag-along lad from a nameless council estate the rest were foreign. They spoke words but she barely heard them. Her friend tugged at her arm.

    “Didn’t you just hear me? Get your clothes off!” the angry one said. “I want to humiliate you like you humiliated me! Racist bitches like you need to be trained on how things are gonna be!”

    Nicola’s courage to move acted and she withdrew deeper into the building site. Two of Omar’s crew wanted to follow but he called them back with a yell.

    “Let her run! We’ll get her another day. For now we’ll play with this one. She can watch!”

    “Lie down on the floor!” Jesse Young repeated.

    But Valerie could not, she merely slid down onto her haunches and made herself into a tight, crouching ball. She did not consciously do it, but merely acted on some instinct that came to her. Her arms and hands were raised against the sides of her head, resembling someone sheltering from artillery fire or a disaster-threat.

    With her back to a pallet of bricks she became catatonic to the demands of her abusers. Omar had raped before but was slightly taken aback by the woman’s actions. He needed her spread-eagled to take his needs out on her and curled up like a rock posed a problem.

    One of his crew burst out laughing.

    “Do we carry her away back to the collage?” the lad joking way.

    “Shut the **** up!” Omar scowled. “I’ll beat the bitch into what we want!”

    Taking his revolver he clubbed the girl several times. The weapon was tiny though and still Valerie defiantly held to her posture. Taking the gun by its barrel he struck again with the blunt sights as a crude cudgel. This time a faint whimper of pain came from the girl, causing her to move. Yet crouched as an impenetrable ball she remained.

    As Valerie endured more blows from the pistol whipping her friend watched agonizingly from behind a stack of breeze block. Nicola was part-Irish and was drawn to do what her ancient kin had done.

    A brick came flying from nowhere aimed at Omar. It missed him by several inches but struck an arrogant *****ian gang member behind him in the neck. The house brick had been hurled as hard as Nicola could manage and crushed the windpipe of the youth. He went down and struggled to breathe as another brick sailed towards the group of ten. This too was a direct hit as a skull fractured on impact. The Irish were renowned skirmishers and ambushers, even up to the tragic Troubles of the previous decades. In some quasi-relevant way Nicola felt a strange joy at seeing her enemies fall and redoubled her efforts.

    As a clueless Eurasian tag-along fell to the ground she dodged a stone thrown back by a flanking ganger. In response her own brick struck his ankle, sending the Arab to the floor howling and crying out.

    Omar caught a glimpse of the other girl now. He turned from the battered blonde and fired at the elusive one. His shot missed by an inch but blew fragments of a nearby breeze block into her face, stunning her momentarily.
    A nimble lad called Ali from North Africa rushed over, keen to capitalize. Before Nicola could recover the fast opponent had her and two more joined him. Try as Nicola might the trio were all over her and in a heap she went down to the ground. Jesse Young moved in and reached down. First he threw Ali aside then the other two.

    “I’m first!” he declared, wanting the girl fresh before having to pass her on.
    Nicola had some breathing space as the new adversary was distracted, she scrambled away on her back like a crab. The big black youth closed in though. Espying a long-handled spade lying nearby she hurled it along the ground, hoping to strike Jesse Young’s legs. He preempted the move though and jumped up before diving down on top of her, crushing the wind out of her.

    “You’re a sly little ****,” he said lustily throwing the spade aside. Young easily weighed a hundred pounds more than her and Nicola knew there was no escape this time.

    From the waste ground two men raced across to the building site. Weyland had watched the scene from an elevated vantage point. Both he and Knight expected Valerie and Nicola to catch the bus together and go their separate ways. From there they could tail Valerie back to her house and make the move.

    Omar and his gang changed everything. When the two girls had fled to the building site he’d hoped the gang would have lost interest and dispersed. The gunshot from Omar raised the stakes and without saying a word to Knight they both moved in.

    There were over three hundred yards between them and the building site and Knight had time to ask snap questions.

    “Lethal or non-lethal.”

    “Use both if you have to.”

    “What happened to subtlety you said—”

    “I’m not having to explain to a mother why we let her daughter be gang-raped! All bets are off!”

    The two ran on, passing one of the construction workers. He stopped and tried to tell them what they already knew.

    “Undercover police! Get to safety!” Weyland said venomously without breaking his stride. The civilian obeyed and the two men ran onward past him.


    Ali, watched impatiently as Jesse Young worked on his victim. She fought back like a wildcat though biting and scratching where she could to the extent that the rapist couldn’t properly initiate his foul deed.

    “Ali, get up here and hold her arms!” Jesse scowled without turning from Nicola.

    Before Ali could move a faint scuffing of boots on dirt distracted him. He had time to turn as a heavy, yet slender rod struck him hard in the face. The charged blow shattered bone effortlessly forever maiming him, but for now he was propelled into unconsciousness. The Moor fell without the others noticing properly. The other two had their backs to Weyland who barged past them to set upon Jesse Young. Knight was already engaging them as he did so.

    The black lad was trying to hold both Nicola’s wrists with one hand while the other tried to probe about with his manhood. A split-second later Weyland sent his sabre baton whipping down and around in an underhand arc. The vicious blow struck between Young’s legs, destroyed both testes and fractured his coccyx. Even as the assailant drew back his arm for more follow-up blows his fellow Yeoman was rampaging his own attacks into both the other gangers. One fell from a destroyed skull while the second was paralyzed from the neck down as the deadly baton did its work.

    The element of surprise ended as an angry bellow of pain from Jesse Young rang out. Weyland delivered a full-force baton-strike that deflected off the Negro’s skull. Undaunted, he delivered a final strike that shattered his nose. Only then was the rapist stunned into a world of agony and pain. A booted kick sent the black youth off her and for good measure he delivered a final blow that clouted against the fallen man’s spine. By now the inner-charge that gave the sabre baton its extra bite dissipated. Knight put down his enemies with less finesse than Weyland, but unleashed just as much ferocity. Both of them lay slumped upon the other bearing cracked skulls and maimed limbs that would never mend again. Such was the ferocity of the sabre baton. It’s kinetic energy crackled internally, both men had used the rounded side of their batons instead of the vague wedge-like one. It was supposed to be less-lethal that way but at full power the weapons were indeed a force-multiplier.

    Nicola Woodvine tugged up her pants seeing the armed man standing over her. He stayed low on instinct and used the stack of breeze blocks for cover as he circled the remaining enemy.

    Knight was on the opposite side doing the same but had less cover to work with. Only two more of the gang remained on their feet, but one of them was armed. Two more were unconscious or dead with another holding his ankle and moaning like a girl.

    Omar had ceased his onslaught with the revolver and put it down to take up a heavy sledgehammer.

    “No man will ever want to have you after I’ve—”

    “Armed police! Drop the weapon!” said Knight moving in on the group.

    Omar’s face suddenly changed as he seemed to take on a different aspect.

    “Don’t shoot! Project Cadre, codename ‘Sading.’”

    Knight said nothing but paused a little.

    “I’m Omar Jordan, a Cadre leader!” continued the enemy. “You all should have been briefed about us being active here? Anyway this bitch has been targeted for removal. We’re just having fun before the Ministry get here to take her away.”

    “Is that so?” said the Yeoman lining up his pistol again.

    “Yeah! I thought regular police had been told to stay out of our areas?” he asked with a hint of arrogance.

    “Guess what, we’re not your ****ing police mongrel,” Knight said with a snarl.

    He waited for Omar’s expression to change with horrific realization before the Yeomanry operative fired a double-tap from his handgun.

    Weyland was stalking up towards the adversary just as his accomplice opened fire and the other agent went down to the ground instinctively. The first bullet struck center of mass into the target as did the second. The 9mm hollow-point ammunition was neither large nor small compared to other types, but they made short work of wrecking Omar’s vile heart. He sank down, dropping the sledgehammer.

    The last gang member was the only white lad of the group, he took off running and Knight drew a bead. His weapon fired once and the boy fell forward to the floor adjacent to a wall. He crawled away around it clutching his leg and yelling.

    Weyland seethed at Knight’s actions but concentrated on the mission. He raised up the near-naked girl gently.

    “Your mum sent us Valerie!”

    “What?” she whimpered.

    “We’re from Albion. we’ve got to get you out of here!”

    The violence was almost too much for the girls though and for a moment they viewed the armed pair with intense shock.

    “You’re the one on the news, the Heysham killer!” Woodvine said with a combination of fear and awe.

    “I was there, but not as a killer of civilians and police like you’ve been told. Terrorists were my enemy on that one, and those raping our women like they nearly did with you girls.”

    He picked up Valerie from the ground and she stayed on her feet, albeit in an unsteady fashion.

    “There’s no time! You have to trust us Valerie, we can’t stick around! You are wanted on trumped-up charges and we have to move! We’ve a safe place and can guarantee you won’t be harmed,” Weyland said holstering his baton.

    By now onlookers from the college were closing in and it was time to move.
    “Enforcers!” warned Knight.

    Valerie thought the ordeal was over when the sight of a blue-flashing light on an unmarked vehicle appeared. The Ford Mondeo roared to a halt inside the building site. Warrant Officer Atkinson got out together with a much younger man. Both were armed though, Atkinson with a pistol and the unknown one with a carbine. Both Yeoman agents dived for cover, Weyland close to Valerie and Knight close to Nicola.

    “SOTF! Surrender!” the carbine gunmen had time to say before gunshots rang out back and forth.

    Weyland had a slight advantage as both adversaries seemed overconfident. Atkinson went to throw a stun canister but an uncanny pistol shot that missed his face fluked a hit on the musty device. It exploded with choking smoke enveloping him with a loud, rushing whoomph, he went to the floor painfully. As he went down the other opened fire again, almost catching Weyland with a short burst of automatic fire. A bullet skimmed his waist, ripping the light armor like paper. As he cowered behind a stacked pallet Knight fired back unassailed and winged the police enforcer slightly.

    As some more gunfire went back and forth an unexpected sight passed them on the right and they both noticed it was Jesse Young staggering like a ZOMBIE. Despite his injuries he had roused himself from unconsciousness and blindly wandered to get away from the terrible scene. There was a pause then two silver objects, one after the other came hurtling over from the police car. They landed perilously close to Young and the other group.

    Weyland had the presence of mind to flatten to the ground completely. He held his hands to his ears, protecting his face and head. Then both devices exploded, sending a strange, non-fragmentary pressure wave that first reached the staggering gang-tough. He was dashed violently into a chain link fence then swept to the ground, this time he could not fend off unconsciousness. The brick-wounded ganger who’d been nearby was likewise afflicted. Slightly further away was the main target of Weyland. His low-profile, body armor and instincts paid off. He felt a ringing pass overhead and a pressure-wave that tingled over his light body armor and fingers.
    Knight was more shielded from his solid pallet of breezeblocks but the two girls were not and both fell unconscious from the weird effects of the shock-grenades.

    Copyright - Tyler Danann

    That's the last upload for the chapters I'm afraid folks. If you want to know what happens for the rest you'll have to buy the book. :)
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  17. Tyler Danann

    Tyler Danann Monkey

    Last edited: Dec 20, 2015
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