The door clattered open behind them, and CSM Saunders, followed by Sergeant Thompson, made his way into the conference room. “All set, sir. Ready to go see?”
Alan moved away from the window, satisfied all was well within the warehouse, picked up his SA80, and headed for the door. “Yes, let’s go and see what all the fuss is about. We’ll leave Charlie in your capable hands.”
“It’ll be in one piece when you get back sir,” responded Sergeant Thompson.
The three men headed downstairs, reunited with their Land Rover, and headed north to where Zero-Delta were holed up, observing the movements of the intruders. They arrived after a thirty-minute drive, taking it easy in case they came across one of their visitors scouring the area.
Corporal West guided the two men through the trees, leading them to a piece of high ground where a listening post had been set up and they connected with the NCO in command, Lance Corporal Brodie. West stayed with Jon Belmore, who was off stag, while Alan and Scott went forward for a recce. On a signal from Corporal Brodie, Alan and the CSM dropped down onto the ground, followed by an uncomfortable leopard crawl, their assault rifles resting in the crook of their arms, towards a point where they could get a good view of the interlopers.
Scott grunted. “I’m too old for this.”
“Quiet,” hissed Redfern.
They were soon alongside Jordan and Kirby who were on stag.
“Two on, two off?” the captain whispered to Corporal Brodie.
“Yes, sir. Don’t know how long we’ll be here for, so best they get some sleep.”
They edged further over the ridge where they were met by a number of flickering lights below, out to about 200 metres, surrounded by vehicles on three sides.
“Looks like something out of a Western, circling of the wagons,” hissed Scott, looking at the encampment cordoned off with at least half a dozen vehicles on three sides.
“Seems well organised,” responded Alan. “What’s their routine?” he asked Corporal Brodie.
“Pretty much just sitting around the camp fires in small groups. They have at least two doing a circuit of the camp, armed naturally.”
“Constant?”
“Yes, sir. Always two, and they change every hour on the hour.”
Alan laid his SA80 on the grass in front of him and extracted his binoculars from their case. It was still light enough that he could see the colour of the grass through the layer of ash that his elbows had disturbed. He readjusted his surgical face mask. A dank smell permeated his nostrils. He was immediately conscious that they were probably kicking up invisible particles that were more than likely still contaminated. They were all having to live with this new state of affairs. He held the binos up to his eyes and zoomed in to the camp. It was set up on the edge of a copse, with the vehicles forming a semi-circle around it, the treeline as the base. To the far right, he could see a blue civilian Land Rover parked across a hard-packed lane, guarding the entry and exit to the camp. Further east, the lane met up with a minor road, which in turn linked up to the main road. Two armed civilians, a man and a woman, both in their mid-thirties, stood guard. He watched as two more armed Tangoes came into view approaching the blue Land Rover, and stopping and conversing with the sentries before continuing the circuit of the camp, out to around a hundred metres. There was a car park area next to the entrance where the road sentries could keep watch over the rest of the group’s vehicles. Well organised, thought Alan. There was the bus, a couple of campers and the Luton van. The rest of the assorted transport had been used to coral the groups sitting round their camp fires.
“Some tents going up.”
Alan shifted his binos to where Scott was indicating. He could see at least two of the groups were erecting what looked like four to six-man tents.
“Looks like they’re settling down for the night.”
He moved his focus back to the perimeter, the vehicles about two metres apart. Zooming in to one of the camp fires, to a group of eight, he could see they were cooking some sort of food in a large pan bedded in the flames. One of the younger males was stirring it. There looked to be enough in the pot for the small group. A couple of bottles of what probably contained wine, or some other form of alcohol, were being passed around. Each person took a swig in turn before passing it on, faces lifted in laughter. He studied their attire. It was pretty ragtag: various layers of different types, and conflicting colours and style of clothing. All to keep out the chill of the rapidly cooling night.
Alan noticed movement close to the treeline and switched his gaze. It appeared to be a line of camp beds just inside the trees, with an awning strung out from the trees above them. What looked like a female was bending over one of the occupants of the camp beds, administering something.
“Looks like they’ve got some form of medical set-up,” he informed no one in particular.
Scott zoomed in closer and studied the facility. “Yeah, that’s what it looks like. Look at their faces. Some are pretty badly scarred. There are a couple not wearing hats, and you can see hair loss. Either third-degree burns or radiation sickness would be my guess.”
A movement suddenly caught Alan’s eye as he saw a man stride over to the group around the cooking pot. Alan shifted his elbows until he was more comfortable. The man bent down, tapped what looked like a young woman on the shoulder, and gestured that she should come with him.
“Check this out.”
Scott took his cue and focused on where his OC was looking.
There was a minor altercation, the woman shaking her head. A slap across the girl’s face appeared to end the argument. With no interference from the group, she was led away to one of the tents that was now fully erected and bundled inside, the man following behind her.
“Not so civilised after all,” commented Scott.
“Have you done a full count?” Alan hissed to Corporal Brodie.
“Yes, sir.” The NCO pulled out a small pocket notebook from his combat jacket and squinted at it in the rapidly diminishing light. “Twenty-two males aged between sixteen and fifty. That’s approximate, sir.”
“I don’t want to know their birthdays.” Alan smiled.
“Fifteen females and thirteen kids. Kids are five girls and eight boys. I’d say at least half the kids were under ten.”
“What about the sick?”
“Seven, sir, but difficult to judge their sex or age.”
“Weapons?”
Corporal Brodie consulted his notebook again. “Nine SA80, seven shotguns, five are double-barrelled, two, maybe three hunting rifles, a Gympy, and all seem to be carrying a sidearm. Including the women.”
“Not too bad,” suggested Scott.
“Still thirty-plus armed civilians who might not take too kindly to our intervention. Particularly taking orders from the Government and the military again.”
“We need to keep an eye open for that Gympy. If someone knows how to use it—”
“Right, I’ve seen enough. Keep me posted on any new developments, Corporal Brodie.”
“Will do, sir.”
“I picked up some grub for you and your lads on my way out of the warehouse,” added the CSM.