RECCE (The Union Series Book 4) Read online

  ‘Your bed space is over there, Griff. It’s nothing special, but it does the job.’

  ‘Reveille?’ Griffiths asked.

  ‘Presuming the boss doesn’t return in a flap because the Guard have brought their timings forward, we’re all up at zero-six for breakfast. Helsinki does some pretty good food, almost as good as any cookhouse in Paraiso - you wouldn’t want to miss it. We’ve all got alarms set, so there’s no danger of you oversleeping.’

  ‘OK,’ Griffiths replied, almost impatiently. ‘Are we done?’

  Slightly taken aback by Griffith’s brusque response, Puppy nodded. ‘Yeah. Just make sure you’re happy with all your kit before you get in your bag, mate.’

  With that, Griffiths slung his kit over his shoulder and picked up the smart launcher with his free arm. He then left us for his bed space.

  Puppy lowered his voice further, watching Griffiths sort through his equipment.

  ‘Moody bloke, isn’t he?’ he observed.

  ‘Yeah, but then he’s not the only one,’ I agreed. I remembered the general sense of confusion and resentment at EJOC’s strategy that I had felt back in Paraiso. Griffiths clearly shared that resentment. He had made that obvious after his previous outburst in the shuttle terminal. Since he knew far more of what was happening in the Bosque than most others did, I supposed it wasn’t unusual at all. I wondered how many other members of the platoon had developed a similar attitude since being left to their thoughts within the confines of Helsinki.

  ‘Nobody’s happy about what’s going on,’ Puppy said, reading my mind. ‘It’s messy. We’ve just got to trust EJOC and get on with it.’

  ‘I know.’

  My 2ic regarded me for a moment.

  ‘How are you, anyway?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I answered quickly. ‘I’ve got a few scars, but otherwise fully fit. That hospital works miracles.’

  He looked unsatisfied by my answer.

  ‘You know what I mean, mate ...’

  Puppy was talking about my mental well-being, I realised. He knew that I had been in a dark place during our last operation, and that I had virtually committed suicide by constantly refusing to be dealt with as a casualty. Whatever he didn’t know, Myers and Skelton, the two troopers in my fire team, would have told him anyway.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  His eyes searched into mine, and then he gave a small smile, saying, ‘The lads will be glad to see you’re back. You did the right thing out there - even if it was a little mental.’

  I nodded toward an empty space on the shelf next to Puppy, changing the subject by asking, ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I lifted my kit onto the shelf and then began to remove my gel armour and the combats I wore beneath it.

  ‘What do you know about this op?’ I asked.

  Puppy shook his head. ‘Not much. I don’t think the Guard have finalised their plan. We received a warning order sent back from the boss in Dakar. The ground they’re looking to seize is a warren dug into a hill, well beyond the frontline. It’s a little risky when you think that Edo’s running out of dropships. Apparently they can barely shift a few battalions, even if they use the ones the Guard are holding onto.’

  I remembered how the Guard had kept a large chunk of their high-tech assets away from the frontline in an act of preservation. Edo simply didn’t have the industry to build new ones, and we certainly weren’t going to give them any.

  ‘Well, let’s hope they use as many of those dropships as possible,’ I said, as I arranged my kit neatly on the shelf, ‘because they’ll need at least a battalion to take a warren.’

  ‘There’s a village there too …’ Puppy added.

  I stopped what I was doing and grimaced. A warren and a village? That was a huge amount of ground to take and hold. Both warrens and built-up areas were extremely manpower-intensive, the complex terrain quickly soaking up platoons and even companies of soldiers.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ I asked. ‘Take and hold the warren until the rest of their army catches up?’

  ‘Pretty much. The Loyalists are retreating, so I think they’re hoping they won’t put up much of a fight.’

  There was no way the FEA or the Guard would leave their dropships behind enemy lines defending a fixed location. Once the warren was captured, presuming the operation was successful, the victors would be left to fend for themselves. The rest of their army would be forced to move up by LSV, or on foot. Considering the state of the local infrastructure, I doubted that either method of movement would be quick.

  Edo was taking a massive risk in attempting such a large-scale operation so far from the frontline, both in terms of its ability to seize terrain with limited numbers, and its ability to hold onto it with little support. I wondered if perhaps they were expecting the Alliance to come to their aid shortly afterward.

  I pulled my thermal bag out of my daysack and laid it out onto the shelf. I then removed my boots and socks and leapt up, sliding into the bag with my head closest to Puppy.

  ‘What’s so special about the warren?’ I asked, as I wriggled within the bag to get comfortable.

  Puppy followed suit, manoeuvring himself so that his head was close to mine on the shelf.

  ‘Apparently there’s a lot of weapons and ammunition there,’ he said. ‘The Loyalists were using it as a logistical hub, like Dakar. We reckon the Guard have decided to take it before the Loyalists manage to withdraw all of their kit north of the border. Deal them a final blow before they manage to escape.’

  I supposed Edo’s new strategy made sense, even if it was ambitious. If the Loyalists were running then it was a good opportunity to strike whilst they were off balance, keeping the pressure on them to withdraw, as well as denying them vital equipment and supplies that they might one day use again.

  The problem was that the Loyalists might need those weapons to defend their province against a new opponent, one that was hostile toward us as well. If the Alliance did choose to invade, then Europa would cease to be our enemy the second their ships entered orbit around the planet. Regardless of what anyone thought of the Loyalists, was it really wise to help Edo take their weapons?

  ‘I’ll tell you what is interesting, though,’ Puppy went on, lowering his voice further. ‘The secrecy behind this whole thing.’ He gestured around the room. ‘This whole building is locked down like a prison. The saucers we’re using to insert are all being kept here with us, instead of in Paraiso spaceport like they used to be. They were moved here a day or so ago, at the same time as we found out about the op. All their maintenance teams are being kept here as well. Nobody’s being allowed out.’

  ‘Why?’ I frowned, deeply puzzled. The hangars where we kept the saucers in Paraiso were perfectly secure. Few people knew that we were deploying from there, using the secretly modified craft to insert into the Bosque by parachute. There was no need to move to Helsinki.

  Puppy held up his hands, and said, ‘No idea. But it seems like we’re no longer just keeping our operations secret from spies in Paraiso. We’re keeping it secret from Paraiso itself.’

  ‘Jesus …’ I breathed.

  3

  Orders

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  My sleep was haunted that night, as it was most nights. But unlike many other troubled sleeps, it wasn’t haunted by the cold staring ghosts of dead comrades, or by the men that I had killed, but by a woman.

  My dream focused upon a single moment … the moment that Yulia had lifted her respirator on the battlefield and then torn mine away to kiss me whilst I lay on my stretcher. The actual act had taken less than a few seconds, but in my dream it lasted for what felt like an eternity. The gentle touch of her lips breathed warmth and relief into my aching body and soul, pulling me back from the brink of despair. An overwhelming desire for her washed over me, and I felt myself longing to pull her closer.

  One thing I had learned about my dreams, though, was that they never allowed me to fulfil my innermo
st desires. In some ways, a pleasant dream was worse than a nightmare, because it reminded me of what I couldn’t have, before dumping me back to the cold reality of the real world.

  As if on cue, at the moment I decided to return the kiss and rewrite history, tens of alarms suddenly rang out at once. The image of Yulia faded as I realised that I was back on my metal shelf in the storeroom, and that the alarms were that of several trooper’s datapads around me.

  Disappointed by the sudden end to my dream, I unzipped my thermal bag just enough to study my own datapad which I had left close to my head. It was six o’clock.

  There was a chorus of groans and curses across the storeroom as thermal bags wriggled and writhed like maggots distressed by the sound of the alarms. One by one the heads of troopers emerged, and hands reached out to silence their datapads.

  ‘I could have stayed in there for another few hours,’ somebody moaned.

  ‘Yeah, no shit,’ another trooper agreed. ‘Whose idea was it to get up this early, anyway?’

  I pulled open my thermal bag and swung my feet out onto the cold floor. I rubbed my eyes, trying to erase the image of Yulia that still hung at the back of my mind.

  It was strange how quickly I had come to lust for a woman I had once despised. She was an attractive woman, though her hard exterior and my hatred for the Guard had blinded me to the fact. It wasn’t simply her one brave act of compassion for her people that had caused me to see past her Guard uniform, though - she understood me in a way that no other woman could - she knew the horrors of war as I did, and she too had been damaged by the suffering it caused. We were kindred-like spirits, but I knew that I needed to forget her. There was no chance of me ever meeting her again.

  A familiar voice spoke out from the shelf across from me: ‘Alright Andy? We were wondering when you might turn up!’

  It was Myers, my point man and the youngest member of my section, half emerged from his thermal bag and grinning from ear to ear.

  There was a small commotion as the rest of my section realised I had returned. I exchanged handshakes with them all as they padded barefoot from their bed spaces to greet me, cheered by the return of one of their comrades.

  The loss of a trooper could deal a devastating blow to morale, so the safe return of another injured trooper had the opposite effect. The platoon were no doubt grieving for the trooper who had died at Dakar, and mourning the early departure of Frankie. They would latch onto good news like a life raft.

  I was just showing Wildgoose- the section sniper- the scar left by my hasty treatment in Paraiso, when the sergeant major’s voice bellowed across the room - ‘Start motivating, One Section! I want you all scoffed up and good to go in the next hour, ready orders!’

  The tall sniper smirked. ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ I returned, and began pulling on my socks and boots.

  The platoon rapidly prepared itself for whatever the morning might bring. Combats were quickly pulled back on, the fabric adjusted so they fitted correctly - woven with wires and sensors that did everything from allowing our equipment to communicate across our bodies, to detecting and even treating our injuries, our combats were as important to us as our rifles or our respirators – and thermal bags were stuffed back into daysacks, with care taken to ensure that they were right at the bottom and that they weren’t burying something more important.

  Troopers filed through a corridor connected to the far end of the storeroom, making use of a small washroom to wash and shave. The washroom clearly wasn’t meant to be used by an entire platoon - with only three sinks and no shower – so how anyone was managing to keep properly clean was a mystery, but I suspected that many of them hadn’t bothered at all. We spent much of our time sweaty and dirty anyway. The most important thing was to shave, because even a small amount of stubble could affect the seal of our respirators.

  ‘Looks like the boss is back then,’ Puppy observed, as the two of us joined the queue for the sinks.

  Sure enough I saw Mr Barkley ahead of us, staring bleary-eyed into the mirror as he shaved the stubble from his face.

  ‘He must have come in while we were asleep,’ Puppy guessed, quietly.

  I nodded slowly. Mr Barkley looked absolutely exhausted. I imagined the pressure that the platoon commander must be under. Along with his small team of three troopers that allowed him to move independently from the rest of the platoon, he had been working with the Guard and the FEA to plan their operation, trying to influence their strategy to the will of EJOC, whilst still maintaining their trust. He would have been in constant communication with brigade as the plan unfolded, trying to interpret the intentions of both the FEA and their hard-line counterparts - the Presidential Guard. At the same time, however, he would need to offer our platoon to the operation in such a manner that we could deliver the greatest effect. Working with other armies in such a manner was an extremely difficult balancing act, but it was necessary if we were to bring the conflict in the Bosque to a swift and favourable conclusion. Now, having returned in the early hours of the morning, Mr Barkley needed to prepare and deliver his orders to us, and then oversee the final preparations we made prior to our departure.

  Being a platoon commander must be a tiring, stressful job, I thought to myself, but being Recce Platoon’s platoon commander must be something else.

  The platoon commander finished towelling off his face, and then turned to leave. He noticed me as he passed. This time, though, he didn’t flash me a smile like he normally would - instead he regarded me with a cold, blank expression.

  ‘Lance Corporal Moralee,’ he acknowledged, with a small nod. ‘I was wondering when you might return.’

  There was no warmth or feeling in his words, in total contrast to his usual friendly demeanour.

  ‘I’m glad to be back, boss,’ I answered.

  Mr Barkley never replied. Instead he continued on his way, abruptly ending our conversation. I turned to watch him go, slightly taken aback by the cold shoulder he had given me. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, his apparent indifference to my return was more cutting than the harshest of threats from the sergeant major.

  ‘He’s been like that since Dakar,’ Puppy said, as I watched Mr Barkley go.

  I said nothing. I didn’t know exactly what was going through the platoon commander’s mind, but I had a good idea: he was upset because he had allowed himself to be drawn into a moment of madness, and he blamed me for it.

  Several containers filled with food had been placed in the centre of the storeroom whilst I had been having a wash. My stomach rumbled at the smell of fresh, hot food that wafted through the air as I returned, and I realised I hadn’t eaten properly since leaving Paraiso Hospital the day before. I was starving.

  ‘Not bad, huh?’ Myers smiled, as he handed me a box loaded with food.

  I peered into the box. Unlike the rations we ate in the field, Helsinki did indeed produce food on a par with any warren or barracks in Paraiso City.

  ‘Who brings the food in?’ I asked.

  ‘The B Company lads drop it off inside one of the airlocks,’ Puppy answered. ‘Then we just send a work party to collect it.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘All that just to keep us apart?’

  ‘Yeah. Mad, right? We’re totally isolated. All of our supplies are dropped off that way. I haven’t seen anyone apart from the ground crew for the saucers, and they’re not allowed out either.’

  ‘Have you spoken to any of them?’

  ‘The ground crew? Yeah, a couple of times. They don’t know any more than us, except that they’re constantly sending the saucers out on dummy patrols.’

  ‘The whole FOB must be wondering what the hell is going on,’ I said.

  ‘Well, normally saucers are kept here anyway,’ Puppy explained, ‘so I doubt anybody would notice the increase in patrols. B Company must know something’s up, though. They’re bringing us food and kit, and they’re placed on standby without even knowing what for.’


  Perching on the shelf beside my kit, I chewed thoughtfully on a soft bread roll, wondering what was so important about our mission that it required such a high level of secrecy. Everything we did in the Bosque was classified, but now it had been taken to an extreme. B Company appeared to be being kept completely in the dark, despite being our reserve force if things went wrong. Would they even know when we had deployed?

  Not long after I had finished eating, the platoon was called in for orders. We gathered in the room next door, quickly assembling into our sections under the direction of the sergeant major. Chairs scraped against tiles as we took our places around the holographic projector, whilst the sergeant major double-checked to make sure that all the entrances were closed.

  It was rare to see the entire platoon all assembled as one audience. The sections would often work independently from one another, so that we could go for weeks on end without seeing our comrades. I still didn’t know every member of my platoon, despite having been with them for several months, but I had no doubt that they knew who I was, though: Andy Moralee, the man who defied orders to fight his own one-man-war. I knew that my section agreed with my actions to an extent, but what did the rest of the platoon think?

  There was a subdued hush across the rows of seated troopers. No jokes were exchanged, no murmured rumours or uttered complaints … it was like the atmosphere before a funeral.

  The platoon were tired, of that I had no doubt. Not physically tired, perhaps not even mentally, but they were emotionally tired. They were struggling to identify with the conflict they were engaged in, and I couldn’t blame them. They had fought fiercely to take control of Dakar, the largest city out in the Bosque, only a few days ago. Friends had been injured - one so badly that he would be sent back to Earth - and another had died outright. Then, once the city was secured, our own “allies” had descended upon it like an army from the dark ages, killing huge swathes of the population as punishment for not having resisted the Loyalist occupation. Nobody wanted to fight on the side of the Presidential Guard anymore.