The driver of the Land Rover cursed as the front bumper clipped a large Range Rover, jarring the Land Rover’s occupants.
“Take it easy, Bennet,” ordered Scott sitting in the rear with Kothari and Baxter. “Best we get there in one piece, eh?”
“Yes, sir, just want to get there to support the lads.”
“Me too,” added Alan, looking across at the driver. “But there’s no immediate threat.”
The distance from the RGC to the warehouse was about thirty kilometres, and they soon approached Mere, the halfway point. This was the location of the RGC’s reserve stocks, which had remained relatively untouched but also unguarded so far. The convoy climbed Chaddenwick Hill, dropping down towards the outskirts of the small town. The Mere bypass skirted the northern edge of the town, the treeline along the edge of the dual carriageway obscuring their view of the town itself. Alan had considered diverting one of his vehicles to do a drive-past, checking out that the warehouse was secure, but decided against it. Better to keep the convoy together until they knew what they were up against.
They raced through the southern edge of Nor Wood curving south between Zeals to the west and Wolverton to the east. The road then took them west, passing Bourton to the north. Most of the survivors of these communities, many suffering and dying from radiation sickness, starvation and dehydration, had been encouraged to make their way to the RGC encampment where they would receive minimal medical treatment and, eventually, food and water.
“Five minutes out, sir.”
“Keep your eyes peeled, lads,” added Scott.
Weapons were held at the ready, Scott and Kothari covering out of the back of the canvas-topped Land Rover, the rear flap having been rolled up out of the way, even though it meant some dust made its way into the back. Alan slid back the front passenger window and he too prepared his weapon ready to repel an attack. They caught glimpses of Wincanton now as the convoy passed beneath Common Road. Bennet maintained a steady speed, having slowed down as they approached the built-up area. The vehicles crossed Moor Lane as they drew closer to the industrial estate off to the right.
“Junction coming up,” warned the driver.
“Standby,” added Alan.
Alan checked the wing mirror and could see Zero-Echo slowing down, increasing the gap between themselves and the lead vehicle should anything go wrong. Bennet swung the vehicle left onto the slip road, curving around until they climbed and crossed over the A303 they had just left. The road ahead was clear and, within seconds, they cut across the large roundabout, Morrison’s supermarket off to the right. It had been stripped of whatever was left by the men of his unit and added to the RGC stocks in the warehouse they were about to visit. There hadn’t been much left in the way of food and bottled liquids though as panic buying, setting in as the war went progressively from bad to worse, had depleted what stocks the supermarket chain and all the others, such as Tesco, Sainsbury’s and Asda, had. A major industrial estate was further east, but the one they were heading for was ahead and off to the left.
They crawled down Dyke’s Way, the crew scanning the road ahead and the buildings around them. Passing smaller industrial units either side, the main warehouse, significantly larger than anything else in the area, just under 10,000 square metres, came into view. Turning left down Murray Way, their access was blocked by a chicane of broken down vehicles, dragged there intentionally, which they negotiated until they arrived at the sandbagged entrance guarded by two soldiers. The gates were open, ready, and they drove straight through, the other vehicle not far behind. They parked up and Alan jumped down, weapon in hand ready.
A corporal came over and threw him a salute which he returned. He was impressed with his unit, how discipline had been maintained, considering the circumstances and the break down in law and order elsewhere. What Redfern didn’t know was that he and Scott were held in high regard by the soldiers, and they to a man, including two Women’s Royal Army Corp (WRACs) soldiers, recognised that if they were to survive they needed to hold together and follow this man’s leadership.
“Corporal West, what’s the disposition of your men?”
“There’s me and Laura watching the front, two round the back, and a two-man foot patrol poking around the perimeter. Two are off stag. Could be a long day, sir.”
“I’ll leave Echo and the RGC lads here. You come with us when we’re ready to go and pay Delta a visit. Sar’nt Major, get Echo’s vehicle hidden round the back, and then all to report upstairs.”
“Inside the warehouse?”
“Yes, except ours. Park Echo and Charlie close to the back doors. If we need to move quickly, I don’t want our transport blocked in. Leave two additional men to cover them. Sarn’t Thompson, you take command of Charlie until we return.”
“Doing a recce?”
“Yes.”
The CSM went to instruct the men while the major and Corporal West headed inside. The NCO took the lead, holding the door open for his OC. They passed through a small reception area, a long leather sofa with a sleeping bag lain along it: somewhere for the lads on stag at night to grab a couple of hours’ kip in the warm when it was their turn to stand down.
Before going upstairs, Alan poked his head through the door into the main warehouse, an open area lined with large battery chargers for the forklift trucks off to the right. He acknowledged the civilians sitting in a group at the far side, chatting and drinking tea. Work had been suspended while the emergency was on, and no supplies would be moved to the RGC or feeding centre until further notice. There were enough supplies to last the feeding centre for at least two days. Beyond that, a decision would need to be made about restarting the supply convoy. Across from Redfern, row upon row of steel racking towered twelve metres high, holding up to 6,000 pallets of food, water and other essential supplies needed to keep the population the RCG had assumed responsibility for alive. The warehouse, 10,000 square metres in size, could hold nearly 4,000 tons of supplies. Beyond the lines of racking at the far end were the loading bays where the supplies were loaded onto an HGV to take the food and supplies to the camp.
“Civvies OK?”
“Yeah,” laughed the corporal. “Cushy number for them, sir. Sheltered, two good meals a day, beats pulling bodies out of houses or digging up fields.”
“Sure,” responded Alan, pulling his head back inside the reception area and moving towards the stairs that would take them up into the office area on the second level. Two flights of stairs found them at the entrance to a corridor, passing between two partitioned offices. At the end was a wide open space where over a dozen quad desk units had been pushed back against the walls. To their left, a long window section overlooked the upper levels of the warehouse, palletised goods clearly visible on the upper levels of racking.
The two soldiers turned right, passing other offices, the toilet area and kitchen, where one of the civilians cooked for the soldiers and the workers downstairs. The offices were now used as quarters for those soldiers off duty. Two of the men would be asleep somewhere now. In the corner was a larger office, now the small unit’s HQ, with a double-aspect view, windows looking out over the front and sides of the entrance, and to the left, on the other side of two more partition offices, was a long conference room, their destination. Both entered, and Alan laid his SA80 on the long conference table and looked through the windows that ran the entire length of that end of the warehouse. Once the soldiers returned from their foot patrol, one would position themselves in the HQ where they would have an excellent view, north and east, and a second soldier would place himself in the conference room. Alan looked out onto the front car park where he spotted the foot patrol moving down the road out at the front. He looked further, beyond the small building across the road, his view out to the fields to the north-east and west.