Paul Grzegorzek - Flare

A soldier a few years older than me with the crown of a Major on his chest tab and a fierce expression under his Kevlar helmet accepted a salute from the guard and gestured at me irritably.

“You go in the second vehicle with the Secretary, but I’ve got no orders about her .” He hiked a thumb as Emily as if she was a piece of luggage, instantly putting my back up.

“What’s your name?” I demanded, suddenly tired of all this military posturing and following orders.

“Major Curtis.”

“Well, Major, I’m not sure what my official title is but I’m on the Secretary’s staff. If I say she goes, she goes.” I tried to look imposing as I spoke, forcing away the remembered reflection of dandelion hair and hollow eyes.

The Major looked at me for several long seconds and then shrugged.

“Fine. Not worth the hold up to argue. Second vehicle, if you please.”

I nodded and climbed into the rear of the second Landrover, wedging myself in between two soldiers and a man in a civilian suit with a hard expression and a tiny pin on his lapel that I’d seen somewhere before.

Two more men with suits were in the vehicle, one driving while the other sat on his own on the seat just behind, with space next to him for the Secretary.

Emily sat next to me, and suspecting I wouldn’t get any answers from the other passengers I chose to wait until the secretary arrived for an explanation about our midnight ride.

I didn’t have to wait long. Outside, soldiers leapt into vehicles and then the Secretary himself came out, a Kevlar vest strapped over his shirt and an incongruous-looking helmet perched on his head with the rim touching his glasses.

He climbed in and looked around, nodding at me before slapping the driver on the shoulder.

“Are we good, Geoff?” He asked, sounding wired.

The driver nodded. “We’re good sir. Following the Major’s lead until we get there.”

As one the vehicles pulled away, soldiers on the gate lifting the barrier and dropping it again the moment the last vehicle was through.

The Secretary half-turned in his seat to look at me, frowning slightly when he saw Emily but not passing comment.

“I guess you want to know where we’re going, eh?” He asked, his hands fidgeting with the top of his vest.

I nodded. “Wouldn’t say no.”

“About an hour ago, one of our patrols ran into another army unit. They had the audacity to tell our men to stand down and submit to their authority, claimed they were acting on behalf of the Deputy Prime Minister.”

I felt a sudden surge of hope. If there were other, higher members of the cabinet out there then the Secretary’s reign could be cut thankfully short.

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened? Our men refused and then some hothead on the other side started shooting. We had greater numbers and the upper hand, of course, but now the others are holed up in a petrol station and we can’t dig them out. One of ours was sent back for reinforcements, so I’m going out there to wave the olive branch and see if we can’t bring them over to us.”

“But surely if they are working for the Deputy Prime Minister then we’ve got a duty to submit to his lead?” I asked, instantly regretting it the Secretary spluttered with rage.

“Have you ever met the man?” He demanded. “Edwin Collins couldn’t lead ants to a jam pot! He’s a pencil-pusher of the worst order, and one of the coalition, not even a proper politician if you ask me!”

“So why am I here?”

He took a deep breath, visibly forcing himself to be calm before continuing.

“You’re here because I want every word I say recorded. Whatever happens tonight, I need everyone to know that every decision I make is for the good of this country, and not for personal power.”

I nodded as if I believed him. “Of course. I’ll make sure I record everything.”

“Good,” he said, turning back to look out of the windscreen, “see that you do.”

The roar of the engine and the vibration of metal on metal drowned out any attempts at further conversation as we tore through country lanes at breakneck speed.

Judging from the number of abandoned cars that had been forced up on the side of the road, I guessed that the army had already cleared routes that led to and from the camp in case of situation like this where speed was of the essence.

We’d been driving for about half an hour when I began to hear faint popping sounds, a little like fireworks in the distance, but as we drew closer the cracks became louder, more sustained and I realised that we were listening to gunfire.

The convoy pulled to a halt in the middle of nowhere and I craned my neck to get a better view of what was going on, but all I could see was the back of the first Landrover as it disgorged soldiers who immediately fanned out around the vehicles, rifles pointing towards the hedges that lined the road.

“Out out out!” The soldier nearest the rear door yelled, and pushed it open to jump into the road and join the defensive formation.

Emily, the suited man and I got out more slowly, the man joining the two other suits to form a protective ring around the Secretary as his shoes touched tarmac.

The gunfire was louder now but sporadic, occasional bursts ripping through the air as ghostly light from the Aurora bathed the scene.

A tired, filthy soldier ran up to the Secretary and saluted, his uniform stinking of cordite and his face smeared with dirt.

“We’re holding them sir, but they’re good. I’m not sure it’s safe for you to come any closer yet.”

The secretary nodded as nervous sweat dripped from under his helmet, his eyes wide as he flinched from each burst of gunfire.

“How many casualties?”

“Seven, sir.”

“How many of ours?”

The soldier glanced down and then back up before speaking.

“Uh, seven sir.”

“What?”

“Like I said sir, they’re good,” the soldier said hurriedly. “they’re not regular army.”

“What do you mean?” The Secretary’s eyes were bulging behind his glasses, no doubt as he saw part of his dream of a country unified under his leadership slip away.

“They claimed to be 21 SAS sir, out of London. Said they made their way to the barracks when the flare hit, then tabbed on foot to Downing Street through the fires. Tough bastards, sir.”

I could hear the admiration in his tone, and wondered how he could justify fighting people that should be on the same side, particularly those he held in such high regard.

Even I had heard of 21 SAS, a reserve regiment with several bases, one of which was in London somewhere, and I could well imagine them running through the fires if that’s what they put their minds to.

“What’s the situation now?” The Secretary demanded, fists clenched.

“They’ve taken cover in a petrol station. They’ve got a sniper on the roof and perhaps a dozen men inside. They’re well-armed too, sir, plenty of ammo. We won’t dig them out in a hurry without a lot more men.”

“Fuck it!” The Secretary swore. “Do you think they’ll talk?”

“Maybe to you sir, do you want me to see if they’ll agree to a ceasefire?”

He nodded. “Do it. But I want their guarantee that I’ll not be targeted. Remind them that I’m a cabinet member.”

The soldier saluted and hurried off while the Secretary paced up and down in the road, clenching and unclenching his fists as he waited for an answer.

Ten long minutes later the same soldier came running back, grinding to a halt in front of the Secretary and almost bowling him over.

“Sir,” he threw a hasty salute, “they’ve agreed to talk sir.”

The Secretary nodded, but made no move to step forward.