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[Greene Planet]

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Prologue

The angry crowd seemed to move as a single entity. Surging forward under banners resembling those of Nazi Germany. Angry yells rose like a chorus. Fists pumped the air in unison.
Glass littered the ground in front of the throng, petrol and spirits burning in pools next to the glass. Several cars had been overturned and were ablaze. Several shop windows had been smashed and the contents sacked.
The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning fuel and alcohol. The heat coming off the ablaze gave a strange shimmering effect and made the whole scene look slightly surreal. The low evening overcast reflected the fires back down from the sky and magnified it with a light rain.
Abdul Rashiem stared at the crowd through the visor of his riot helmet. Fear was beginning to over take him. Even in his position within the police line he felt exposed. He was only one of a dozen police officers who were of Islamic origin in the southern part of Devon. He himself had been brought in from Taunton to bolster the local force in Ellacombe.
He wasn’t a particularly physically strong man, being of slight build and only five foot, seven inches tall. Yet his sharp mind made up for this. However at this moment he felt afraid. The crowd were an anti-immigration protest group which had been fired up by racists from a new powerful political party, the British Fascist Independence Party.
His fellow officers looked resolved in their intentions of breaking up the throng which was on a direct collision course with a group of immigrant market workers. The workers had been in the town only three weeks but their presence had angered the locals which had been played upon by the political party.
The odds weren’t good. Even with all the latest riot gear and armed response units as backup, the police were outnumbered twelve to one. And more protesters were appearing from side streets. At two men thick, the police line held its ground despite the surge of people getting ever closer.
Two police vans pulled up behind the line of officers and an armed response unit bundled out. Their commander ran to the senior officer in the line. Rashiem could hear what was being said but the look on the senior officers face told most of it.
One gesture from the armed response commander and the rest of his team moved into gaps in the police line, their weapons, mostly a mixture of Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifles and MP5 submachine guns were not raised as yet.
As the line re-organized itself to accommodate the new comers, three men appeared from within the throng. They were carrying AK47 assault rifles. The three men, all wearing different coloured hoodies, knelt down and then opened fire into the police line.
Eight police officers were cut down in the volley. Their blood splashing against their compatriots riot gear. The line broke. Those officers that were not armed ran for cover while the remaining armed officers returned fire, cutting down the three gun men.
As quickly as the gun men fell, their weapons were picked up by the man behind. This carried on till the armed officers had run out of ammunition. But it no longer mattered the throng was on top of them and they disappeared under a storm of furious fists.
Rashiem watched in horror as this scene unfolded in front of him. All of sudden something skidded up to his feet. He looked down to see that it was one of his colleagues MP5s. Dropping his riot shield, he picked up the weapon and aimed it at the crowd. He had never fired a gun before in his life, everything he was doing he had learned from James Bond movies. He pulled the trigger and the gun spurted for a second till it had exhausted the finale twelve rounds in its magazine. The cocking handle locked to the rear and Rashiem looked through the smoke curling out of the weapons breach.
He had only hit two of the protesters, the rest were running towards him, their faces red with rage. The natural instinct to flee over took him and he ran down the street, loosing most of his gear so that he weighed less and could pick up more speed.
Another shot ran out and he fell to the ground, his left leg feeling as if it had been run over by a truck. He reached out and touched the area below the left knee where the pain was coming from. He found a hole big enough to fit a 2p piece. Bringing his hand up he saw that it was covered with blood, his blood.
Momentarily the crowd reached him. All bar one were wearing scarves over their mouths. This one had a lean face, which was unshaven, thick black hair stuck out from under his grey hoodies. The man leaned in closer.
“I hear that everyman has a right to know who kills them.”
Rashiem just laid there, paralysed by terror.
“Well my name is Ashcroft and you have about three seconds to live. So start praying you ing waste of space.”
Rashiem closed his eyes and began a silent prayer to Allah. The pain from his leg blocked most of the impacts of the fist that were raining down on him. It was only a sharp pain in his chest that made him forget his prayers and open his eyes. Ashcroft had shoved a nine inch knife in between two ribs next to his heart and punctured a lung.
Ashcroft looked at Rashiem and saw his eyes open. “Finish your ing prayer.”
Rashiem summoned what strength he could to mouth “can’t”
“I said finish it.” Ashcroft was turning bright red with fury. The rain dripping off his clothes and the barrel of the Czech made cz75 pistol that was now pointed at Rashiem’s head.
Rashiem closed his eyes and began the remainder of his prayer. But he couldn’t finish it. Ashcroft was not a patient man and sent a 9mm round spiralling through Rashiem’s temple.
Ashcroft and the crowd quickly dispersed to look for more people to torture and kill, leaving Rashiem’s body to gush its blood away through the rain and into a nearby gutter.

Edited by Greene Planet, 07 January 2009 - 01:18 AM.

[Greene Planet]

Chapter One

The room was lavishly decorated for a breakfast room. White washed walls were adorned with paintings of landscapes from all over the world. A giant African mask hung on the wall that faced the door that led to the rest of the house. All four corners of the room were occupied by exotic plants that all seemed to be well looked after.
The table was solid oak and covered by a thin white cotton sheet. A selection of cereals and bread products were laid out in china crockery. Silver cutlery had been carefully placed next to the crockery ready for use.
Jack Simons, a tall, well proportioned man, sat down in his chair at the breakfast table. His copy of the Independent lay on the table. His eyes scrolled across the news headlines, ‘Unrest in Cornwall’ and ‘Anti-immigration protests in Newcastle get out of hand.’ Another article on the front cover read, “RAF Nimrod lost off the Irish coast.” After running his fingers through a crop of well-combed brown hair, he picked the paper up and began casually sifting through the other pages till something caught his attention. He didn’t seemed to mind what else was going on in the country, as long as his multi-billion pound business empire was healthy.
In comparison his house was quite peaceful for a change, his children weren’t arguing, his wife had fired the old maid whom she hadn’t gotten along with at all.
He looked up from the paper. Across from him, his wife Katherine was busily sharing a joke with the Maria, their new maid over a cup of coffee. Katherine was a good-looking woman in her late forties with long flowing blond hair and a face, which was naturally friendly. Her slender figure was hidden beneath a white dressing gown. She had once been a model and had graced several front covers of fashion magazines. Now she was a lady of leisure, doing charity and volunteer work between taking business trips with her husband.
Maria was their housekeeper of six years A Hispanic woman in her middle thirties. She had been embraced by the family and had all, but in name become one of them.
To his left, his daughter Antonia was texting her boyfriend. Antonia was almost a younger copy of her mother. The same blonde hair All was peaceful. ‘Life can’t get any better than this’ he thought to himself. He took a sip of his morning coffee. Milk and two sugars, the perfect way to start the day.
The nineteenth century design door swung open and Mark, his son, stepped in, half asleep, and slowly made his way to the table and sat down.
“Cup of tea Mark?” asked Katherine
He nodded and yawned.
Maria went to stand up but was stopped by Katherine. “Don’t worry Maria I’ll get it.” Katherine walked over to the kitchen, poured her son a cup of tea from the pot that sat ready on the side and brought it in for him.
“So, looking forward to your last summer before University?” Jack asked Mark.
“Yeah, dad I am.”
“Any plans?”
“Not really, thought I’d just relax with my friends, maybe spend some of that money I saved. Maybe a week’s trip to Ibiza or something.”
“Okay, but you take it easy, you’ve earned it with all the hard work you put into your college studies.”
“Thanks dad. Antonia could you pass me the toast please?”
“Get it yourself.”
“Now what’s up with you?” Jack turned his attention to his daughter.
“Him, coming in at the crack of dawn and waking me up while he throws up.”
“Sis, I can’t exactly control the volume of my vomiting now can I?”
“I suppose.”
Jack looked up from his paper and half threw it onto the table. “You know Kathy, I’m really getting worried about these extremists down in Cornwall, moaning about how many immigrants we now have in this country.” Jack returned to more pressing matters of discussion. “ I mean, plenty of Brits live abroad and you don’t hear those countries moaning about it.”
“It’s probably nothing, just a load of farmers and skin heads letting off some steam.”
“Suppose you’re right. Mark what do you think?”
“Huh!” He still wasn’t awake yet.
“You’re a Uni student now, you’re supposed to have opinions on subjects like this.”
“First of all Dad, I’m not at Uni yet and when I am, I’ll be doing marine biology, and secondly I don’t care what those people down in Cornwall moan about, not as if its going to affect me is it.”
“It may, some of these extremists are even running for seats in Parliament.”
“Dad, I don’t care, I can’t stand uppity students who have nothing to do but campaign about trivial matters. Personally, I’m going to party and study, no protesting what so ever.”
“You do realize that most marine biologists in this country go to Cornwall to do research.”
“Not me.”
“Why not you?” Katherine asked as the maid left for the kitchen.
“I’m going to do research on Great Whites in the Mediterranean. I’ve already planned it out. Besides who would want to go down there with all that trouble brewing?”
“Okay!” Jack gave his son a strange look and then glanced at his watch. “Damn, I’m going to be late for that board meeting. See you all later, bye honey.” He walked around and kissed Katherine goodbye and left the room.
“Dad what are you taking to work?” Mark asked.
“The Merc.” Came Jacks voice from the corridor outside the room.
“Can I borrow the Boxster?”
“Only if you’re careful with it.”
“No worries.”
“But I do.” The front door slammed and Jack was gone. A few moments later the engine sound of a Mercedes SL55 could be heard speeding off.
“Antonia, what’s your plans for today?” Katherine turned to her daughter.
“Going around to see Shane.”
Katherine looked annoyed. The same look she gave every time her daughter went to see her boyfriend. “Right. Well have fun.” She stood up and walked out of the room.
“Now look what you’ve done.” Mark said.
“Me! What did I do?”
“You know exactly what has upset her, now stop acting like a dumb teenager and wise up to life.” With that Mark finished his breakfast and walked out.
“More toast Antonia?” Maria asked.
“Please.” Antonia was still oblivious to the point her brother had tried to make.

[Greene Planet]

Chapter Two

Twelve Months Later

The structure of the inside of the hall heralded from an almost forgotten time. White painted steel girders supported a moss covered corrugated iron roof. The brick walls that ran from the roof to the floor were similarly painted in white, although a shade difference on the lower half hinted that it had been redecorated recently.
A selection of highly polished yet totally uneven wooden panels were on the floor. Ageless dust collected in the cracks between each panel.
Two huge, twelve foot high doors painted in a slightly off-bright green colour stood at one end. The sound of traffic could be heard from the other side. Fire exit signs decorated the doors roughly around head height. A small selection of rusty padlocks hung in various positions, their condition showing that they had not been used properly in years.
At the opposite end of the hall from the double doors were two small inner buildings. In between them a small corridor led off towards the halls other entrance. The space between the roof and the inner buildings roof was occupied by signs prohibiting the potential storage space.
Along one wall, which boasted an array of windows that possessed varying degrees of visibility, stood twenty-five individuals all dressed in Soldier ’95 combat dress. Blue, Air Training Corps berets ornamented their heads. Their arms were locked in by their sides. Twenty-four of them stood in a straight line facing away from the wall nearest them. The Twenty fifth was slowly moving down the line.
As he came parallel to the others, they came to attention and he rattled off an almost blurred sentence. The man came to the last person on the line up.
“I have no live rounds or empty casings on my possession sir.” said Corporal Mark Simons as his Commanding Officer came level to him on the declaration line.
Simons was not of a typical build for a person of nineteen years. Broad shouldered barely six foot tall, with thick arms protruding from the rolled up sleeves of his soldier ’95 shirt. A line of thick brown hair could be seen sticking out from under the back of his beret. His deep blue eyes made contact with his Commanding Officers as he said his line.
Even though he was only a corporal, he was still the second highest ranking cadet on the squadron.
The date was fourteenth of March 2009. It was the last official Cadet night before their spring bash down at the Ice rink the following week. So their commanding officer, Warrant Officer Johnson thought of getting some shooting practice in before they made complete fools of themselves in front of Fleet Air cadet squadron in the shooting competition scheduled for the next month. Fleet squadron had been drawn close to Braddington’s when both changed their commanding officers, who also happened to be close friends.
Braddington Upon Wey was a new town. Situated in the north eastern part of Hampshire, once it had been a village but since the late eighties it had been built up to similar sizes as that of Slough or Staines. Mostly built around several large businesses, the major being the business owned and run by Simons’ father. It also had a fledgling university which was creating quite a reputation for itself in academic excellence.
“Thank you Corporal if you would like to form them up on parade please.” Johnson looked older that he was, taking into account he was nearly fifty seven. His brown eyes stared out from under thick grey eye brows. The lines across his face showed that he had seen and experienced things that his Cadets could only imagine.
“Sir.” Mark turned to his Cadets lined up next to him. “Form up on Cadet Garsener. Three ranks, move.”
The Cadets quickly formed into a neat flight consisting of three ranks, each eight Cadets long. The ones at the front held their right arms up briefly to the person to their rights shoulder to space themselves out. Two other Corporals and a Cadet Warrant Officer filed in behind the flight.
“SQUADRON ‘CHUN………..RIGHT DRESS” commanded Simons from the front of the flight.
The arms went up to show that they were perfectly spaced out.
“EYES FRONT.”
The arms came down and all heads faced the front. Warrant Officer Johnson walked up to Simons.
“Twenty four Cadets, three Junior NCO’s and one Senior NCO on parade sir.” Mark said slightly under his breath so that his CO knew exactly how many were there. It was an old yet pointless practice that had been observed since before Simons had joined the Air Training Corps. Maybe it even went back as far as September 1941 when the ATC was formed.
“Thank you Corporal, take post.”
Simons stepped back, did a smart right turn, marched till he was in front of the towering form of Garsener and then turned left to face front.
“SQUADRON STAND AT EASE……stand easy, right some good shooting tonight people and I hope to see this continue for Wing Training day. I also hope to see you all down at the Ice rink next week when we bring Ashlingstoke down with us.”
“YES SIR” shouted the cadets.
“If that’s all.” He looked around expectantly but no one said a thing. “Okay, SQUADRON. ‘CHUN……………..Cadet Warrant.”
“SIR” Cadet Warrant Officer Borthem, a twenty one year old court aid who was as tall and as skinny as Garsener, turned and marched round from behind the flight coming to a halt in front of Warrant Officer Johnson and turned to face him.
“Dismiss the flight.” Said Johnson to Borthem.
“Sir.” Borthem about turned to face the flight “SQUADRON DISMISSED.”
The whole flight did a 45-degree turn to the right then marched off.
“Mark!” Shane Hawkin and Richard Foresith, the other two Corporals, walked over to him, Shane was roughly the same height as Mark but with a slighter build and blonde hair, Richard was taller and slender with light brown hair and a constantly happy expression on his face. “You’re going to the Ice skating still aren’t you?” asked Shane.
“Of course and we’re still going for a drink afterwards aren’t we?”
“Oh yeah we wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
They picked up their jackets from the NCO training office just off of the main hall and walked out of the building to where Mark’s black R1200 BMW motorcycle was parked across the street. It was unusual for a person of Mark’s age to have such a powerful bike, his parents had put some money away for a car. He had bought a bike instead. Much to the annoyance of his Mum, who hated the thing.
“Mark! Say hi’ to your sister for me.” said Shane as Mark sat on the bike and started to put his jet black helmet on.
“Why don’t you? You’ve got a mobile!”
“Yeah its broke.”
“Not again. Okay, I’ll see you guys in a week and the first round is on you Richard.”
Mark put the helmet on closing the blacked out shutter. He revved the bike and shot off down the ever busy Dorchester road that ran next to the drill hall and toward the town centre.


The town’s Ice Rink was set in a small leisure area and was situated beside a cinema, an Olympic sized swimming pool, an arcade the size of a football pitch and a 24 lane bowling alley.
Most of the building dated back to the 1960s, huge buildings mainly made up of concrete slabs rather than modern bricks. The Ice Rink however was built in the late eighties and was faced with corrugated stainless steel.
“Mark mate, how’s it going?” yelled Shane. He was sitting next to the main entrance with Antonia, Simons’s sister hanging onto his waist.
Nearby, surrounding two other benches, were Emily Berkinshaw, Dan Daube, Mark Rickard, Carl Story, Jason Montgomery, Michael Garsener and John Foresith. The rest of the cadets could be seen milling around in the Ice rink building itself.
“Are we all ready to go and skate?” Shane asked.
“Hey bro.” Antonia chipped in
“Not really Shane I’m crap at ice skating you know that. Hey Antonia.” Simons replied to both of them at the same time.
“Well we all can’t be perfect like me.” said Emily Wyvern who was sitting on Daniel Merrick’s lap, she had a cheeky grin on her face.
Mark just gave her a look with his right eyebrow lifted.
“Don’t look at me like that!” said Emily almost offended. Mark just smiled and looked away.
Suddenly the door to the Ice Rink opened and Louise Ward, one of the most attractive girls at Simon’s University walked past them with a couple of friends in tow. Simons just stood there and stared.
Hawkin shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her out one day.”
Simons didn’t react. He just continued to stare at Louise’s shapely figure as she walked down towards her parked car.
“Here’s Ashlingstoke” said Montgomery and pointed to a Volkswagen Minibus that had 1662 Ashlingstoke squadron plastered all over the side of it. A red Fiat Uno followed behind it. The minibus pulled up next to them and the doors opened to disgorge some twenty or so people aged between 13 and 18. Most of them hung by its doors, while some walked over to the group.
Corporal Harry Tiller and Corporal Samantha Fredricks got out of the Fiat Uno and strolled over to them. Both these two were attached to Ashlingstoke squadron. They were friends of Mark’s, but due to the distance between Braddington and Ashlingstoke, he didn’t speak to them that much.
“Hey how’s it going?” asked Harry
“Not too bad. Yourself?” replied Mark.
“Can’t complain. Been up to much lately?”
“Not really, had to do a complete overhaul on my bike last week. I’ve managed to get an extra 10mph out of it.”
“Impressive, sounds better than what I can get out of my car.”
Mark just grinned and followed the rest of the cadets into the ice rink.

The rink, was massive. The local hockey team, the Blizzards used it for their matches. At both ends hung huge nets ready to catch any hockey pucks that would fly off into the crowd behind the goal area. The surrounding stands were populated by blue seats embedded in concrete. A huge score board hung from the thick corrugated iron ceiling. Its letters barely visible due to the fact that no power was being supplied to it.
High above the rink and behind the score board sat a raised bar, its huge double glazed windows looked out onto the ice below. People sat there admiring the tricks that young kids were trying to pull off.
One and a half hours of ice-skating passed quickly like a blurred roller coaster ride, the night went so quickly. The cadets skated round and round the rink like formula one cars at a Grand Prix, spraying the other people with ice kicked up from their skates. Soon, when their officers were not looking, Mark, Richard, Shane and Tom slipped away from the rink and up to the bar, obscured from view by the large nets.
They all sat down but Mark stayed standing. “What are we drinking?” he asked while rubbing his hands together to warm them up.
“I’ll have a Budweiser, Mark.” said Tom
“Guinness please mate.” said Hawkin
“How can you drink that stuff?” said Tom in disgust.
“Quite easily, you just take the glass and pour the drink into your mouth.”
“Ha, ha, you knew what I meant.” Tom said sarcastically.
“Richard?” Mark turned to Foresith
“I’ll just have an orange juice.”
“Okay!” Mark gave Richard a strange look “Right I’ll need some money then.”
Richard reached in to his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note.
Mark took it from him and then walked over to the bar. Hawkin turned to Forseith, “Richard for once could you try something alcoholic.”
“No Shane I won’t.” Richard replied
“Come on Richard live a little.”
“You drink what you want.”
The rest just rolled their eyes and turned their attention to relevant conversation, i.e. women, cars, the usual lad talk.
Mark walked over to the bar and was greeted by the barman, a man in his mid thirties about the same height as Simons. A thin mop of black hair poorly hid the fact that he was going bald. “What will it be mate?”
“Two Buds, a pint of Guinness and an orange juice please.”
“Coming right up.” The barman walked off towards a small chiller at the other end of the bar. Near where Mark was leaning on the bar was a TV, showing a football match. Liverpool were playing their arch rivals Manchester United. Liverpool were three goals up. Suddenly the picture changed to that of ITN news presenter Trevor McDonald.
“We interrupt this evenings game to bring you this important announcement.
Just a few hours ago, the British Fascist Independence Party , which in the last general election gained the counties of Cornwall, Devon, Somerset and several northern counties including Durham, promising prosperity after the recent economic crisis in the region due to the foot and mouth out break and the growing immigration problem, have declared independence from the rest of the country for those areas and proceeded to attack and over take Dorset, parts of Hampshire and other bordering counties.
The military have speculated that the rebels were able to take over Ministry of defence bases inside their perimeter with the use of sympathisers within the military infrastructure.
They have also captured some of southern Wales including Cardiff and the Severn bridges. British government forces have managed to stop the attack and have begun to set up defensive positions along a front that extends through the New Forest right up to the River Severn. Another front has been established in Wales stretching from Chepstow near the Severn bridge, to Aberporth on the Irish sea coast.
The Prime Minister has declared marshal law in all areas remaining in government control. The government has ordered that all their establishments and branches are to re – call all personnel for immediate re – assignment.
Parents of any cadets that have been called for active duty are being assured that their sons and daughters will be as far away from the main fighting as possible and that these are just precautionary measures.
Here is a taped broadcast transmitted yesterday on the BFIP’s own television network, by Richard Williams the party leader.”
The picture changed to show a man dressed in an almost Nazi style uniform.
Mark stood there watching. dumb founded, almost unable to move.
“Do you want ice in that orange juice?” asked the Barman, oblivious to what was being said on the television.
Mark shook his head in disagreement and continued to watch the TV.
“My plan is to take Britain back from those people who have degraded our society.
Many of you may not be there with us at the end, but I know you will all do your duty till that day. And that day will come soon.
I promise you, I will not rest until all non – pure Britons are driven from our shores.”
The picture changed back to Trevor McDonald.
“The government has issued orders that any citizen who notices any BFIP activity outside the area of conflict, is to report to any military or police unit. They however are confident that this conflict will not last long and that troops deployed abroad will be brought back to counter this threat.
The Ministry of Defence has released a statement saying that the Nimrod aircraft lost almost a year ago was now thought to have been investigating a cargo vessel possibly carrying military equipment when it was shot down. At the time nothing could be proved but recent evidence has shown that it was downed by a surface to air missile.
We hope and pray that order will be restored over our country. This is Trevor McDonald for the ITN nightly news wishing you a good night and God help us all.”
The TV turned back to the football game. Liverpool had now gone four goals up.
At that Mark walked away from the bar and back over to his friends, who were stunned to see that he had no drinks. The Bartender came over to where Mark had been standing with the drinks. “Where’s he gone?” he asked a man in his fifties who was nearby. The man just shrugged his shoulders and stared back at his pint.
“Where’s the drinks?” asked Shane.
“No time to drink, we need to speak to the CO.”
“What!”
“Come on.” Mark walked briskly down the stairs closely followed by the others, who were confused as to what was going on.
They found WO Johnson on his mobile down on the rink side surrounded by the other cadets who were taking their ice skates off as they waited for him to finish speaking. They waited, before they un – leashed a barrage of questions at him. He just held up his hands in front of him and everyone fell silent.
“Now listen the lot of you, all you need to do is turn up at squadron and the DF respectively tomorrow morning bright and early at 0900 hours in full combat dress. I expect to see you all there and NCO’s phone up the ones who weren’t here tonight. The cadets under sixteen are to stop attending for their own protection. That’s all.”
“Sir.” Was the reply that came from all the cadets and with that they all dispersed to go home. disappearing into the crowd that milled around.
Mark stayed where he was.
“Yes Simons can I help you?” asked Mr Johnson with out looking up, he simply stared at his own ice skates.
“What’s happening sir?”
“You will find out tomorrow corporal. Okay?”
“Sir.”
“Now I’ve got to catch the CO and tell her the bad news.” Johnson said with a grin and gestured to the Ice rink where Mrs Johnson seemed to be whizzing round it at about twice the speed of sound.
Mark walked over to his bike where he had left it parked. He got on it, took a brief look at the stars above him in the pitch-black sky and then put his helmet on and rode off home through the dimly lit streets of Braddington upon Wey.
‘Civil war’ he thought to himself. ‘Britain is supposed to be a civilised nation, we were supposed to have stopped having armed internal squabbles during the 1700’s. Oh well at least I know what to do tomorrow rather than just sit at home doing nothing as I usually do in the Summer holidays.’

The next day was cold and harsh. Although the sun shone brilliantly, there was no clouds so no atmospheric heat was retained. Outside the drill hall, all of Braddington upon Wey’s cadets stood ready and waiting in their Soldier ’95 combats. CWO Borthem kept them all in check and made them stand in one long line while they waited for the minibus.
Soon the squadron Mini bus arrived at the drill hall and picked the cadets up and headed out towards RAF Odiham the nearest RAF base to Braddington upon Wey.
As they pulled in they passed a small convoy of a minibus and two Land Rover defenders.
Merrick tried to see the faces of who ever were inside. He recognised one of them. “Hey I think that was Fleet squadron that just went past.”
“Was it? I wonder what they were doing here?” said Lindsell
The Mini bus carried along the perimeter track. As they passed a small clearing between the buildings and hangars, Foresith saw a C-130J Hercules parked on the tarmac next to 7 squadron’s huge green hangar. The hangars doors where open and inside could be seen several CH-27 Chinook mk3s.
In the air about two kilometres away were twelve AH-64 Apache Longbows coming into land. Their weapon hard points bristled with Hellfire anti-tank missiles and 20mm unguided rocket pods.
Next to the huge mass of the grey Hercules was a couple of tables , which were covered with equipment. Several officers stood behind the tables looking expectantly at the approaching mini bus. There was also two Land Rovers next to the tables, identical to the ones they had seen earlier. Mounted on the roof of each were 7.92mm General Purpose Machine guns.
They pulled up next to the C-130J and quickly got out of the minibus. An officer, who’s rank epaulettes showed Wing commander rank tabs, was standing near the Hercules waiting for them. The group all got out and formed up following CWO Borthem’s instructions. When they were all standing in a flight the Wing commander standing in front of them started talking.
“1662 detached flight Braddington upon Wey, you are now to be integrated into the Territorial Army as an addition to the normal policing services of this country. In this you will be assigned to patrol your designated area. In your case, Braddington upon Wey and Hortridge Down Borough. You will be armed and authorised to use what force is deemed necessary to stop the Rebels from destroying any vital government installations or main roads and railways.”
The group all shared glances with each other. Some of surprise, some shocks, some of excitement.
“This does not mean that you are all James Bond and have a license to kill, you are not frontline troops, you are reservists and will be treated as such. You are there to uphold the peace through non – violent methods if at all possible. These are desperate times and this may seem like a desperate measure, but it is necessary. Deadly force may be used but only if it is absolutely necessary.
Since you share your Hall with the Army, it will be turned into a base of operations, with bunks, armoury, briefing rooms and even a couple of cells. You will spend six weeks on patrol and six weeks off to pursue anything you like. The police in your area will also be armed, they will need all the assistance you can offer them and vice versa. You are not at their disposal and they are not at yours. When some of you reach the age of twenty you will be eligible to be called up to regularly services, this however is voluntary. Thank you. That is all.”
The officer walked off and a Leading Aircraftsman approached CWO Borthem with a piece of paper.
“Could you please get your cadets in single file and in this order.” said the airman.
“Right fall in you lot.” Borthem fell into line first, closely followed by Simons, Garsener and the remainder of the group. They got into line and where called up one by one to the tables.
When it was Simons turn to go to the table, he walked up to it and looked at the equipment laid out in front of him. There was a full set of winter DPM’s, PLC webbing, an L-85 rifle, five spare magazines, a Berretta 92F with concealment holster and five spare magazines. Also were a Kevlar helmet and a full set of electronic navigation and radio equipment.
.Simons moved onto the next airman who was handing out bags. He packed all his equipment away in the large black bag supplied by the RAF regulars. He walked over to the minibus and was about to stow it away when one of the officers standing next to the Land Rovers called to him.
“Corporal if you would come here please?”
“Sir.”
“Here is a Light Support Vehicle. It is fitted with a GPMG on a small hatch in the roof. It also has been out rigged with armour plating, GPS navigation, medical facilities and extra ammunition storage when on re – supply missions. Only NCO’s are authorised to drive these vehicles. Okay, is that understood?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Put your kit in here and you will be driving this back to your HQ.” The officer gestured to the LSV.
Simons stowed his kit away and walked back over to where Warrant Officer Johnson was standing with the other NCO’s.
“Ah Simons, you’ve received your equipment?”
“Yes C.W.O it’s in that LSV over there.” He pointed to it.
“Right take Corporal Foresith with you and report back to the DF apparently they are tearing the place apart back there.”
“Yes Sir. Come on Richard lets go.”
Foresith followed him over to one of the LSV’s, he glanced over to see Hawkin and Garsener getting in the other. Simons started up the engine and then pulled up behind the minibus which by now had started to move off.

[Greene Planet]

Chapter Three

Twelve Months later

The metal and concrete Bunker was like an oven. It’s five inch thick steel walls trapped the heat on the inside and with the sun beating down outside it was even worse. The Bunker itself was situated on a large grassy mound at a junction of the M3. It had a commanding view of the motorway and surrounding countryside.
The aim of the installation and the one similar about twelve miles down the motorway towards London, was to protect the vital supply route. All it really did was cook the troops that occupied it alive. At least six had passed out through heat exhaustion and today was no different.
“No Johnson not that crate.” Richard Foresith put the crate that he was carrying down, leaned against the metal wall next to him and put his head in his hand. He was trying to direct Johnson and Everton on how to re – pack their kit into waterproof crates. He wasn’t having much success.
“Sarg this is heavy.” They whined after picking up the correct crate and starting to move it to the open bunker door.
“I don’t care.”
Brough who was standing at the door watching a small convoy of Challenger and Warrior tanks escorting some twenty or so four ton trucks, began to laugh at the almost comical scene in the bunker.
“Sarg.” Said Rickard who was manning the GPMG.
“What.” Foresith spun round annoyed at being interrupted from his direction of the packing up.
“I’m getting a strange message on the short range radio.”
“Let’s hear it.” Foresith picked up an additional radio head set, plugged it in and put it to his ear..
“Sierra Hotel Echo 06 to any call sign, we are on fire, loosing altitude fast, need assistance. We are going down at grid 734 by 124.”
“That’s our location.” Foresith said looking at a map on the wall.
“Is someone there.” Came the voice on the radio.
“Sierra Hotel Echo 06, this is Tango Alpha Bravo Whisky 03, ground call sign. State type of aircraft and cargo. Over”
“03, Echo 06, We are a C – 130 carrying medical supplies to the front line. We were hit by three Javelins, surface to air missiles. Operating on one engine. Our altitude is 130 feet and falling.”
“I can see them!” shouted Brough looking out of a gun port in the bunker’s wall with binoculars.
They could see a trail of fire and smoke arcing towards them through the brilliant blue sky. But they still couldn’t see the aircraft itself.
“We have visual on you Echo 06.”
The actual aircraft came into view now, parts of the tail plane, wings and fuselage were missing and the parts that were left had their mid grey paint scheme scorched and burnt from fire.
“03 how do I look?”
“You want the truth Echo 06.”
“Yes.”
“Like .”
The aircraft shot over them. As they scrambled to get out the main door a huge explosion rocked the ground. They all stopped dead. No one spoke till Foresith picked up the radio again.
“Sierra Hotel Echo 06 this is Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey 03 come in. Over.” Foresith kept repeating into his radio as he and his patrol ran out of the door.
As they left they stopped again. 100m away was the C – 130 J’s remains. It had gorged out a large trench as it had skidded to a halt.
“Oh my god.” exclaimed Brough.
Foresith switched the radio to long range. “Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey Base this Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey 03 come in. Over.”
“Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey 03 this is Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey Base.” Said Borthem’s calm voice over the radio.
“Base, 03, we have one downed C – 130 J near our position. Require assistance. Over.”
“03, Base.” Borthem’s voice sped up. “contacting emergency services and sending LSVs to your location out.”
“Right.” Foresith switched off the radio. “Let’s see if we can get those men out of that aircraft.” yelled Foresith as he started to run towards the wreck. The others reluctantly followed him.
When they reached the cockpit, which had been forced upwards by the fuselage snapping in half on impact, they smashed open the side exit door with the butts of their L–85’s to find three people in the cockpit.
Foresith, Brough and Everton got the men out while Rickard, Harwood and Johnson went into the main hold to recovery any equipment or men they could find.
Of the three men in the cockpit, only one was alive, the rest had been killed on impact. There were no survivors or salvageable kit in the back as Rickard made clear when he walked up to Foresith and just shook his head and walked off again.
‘What a mess’. Foresith thought to himself.
Minutes later the fire engines, the LSVs and the ambulances arrived to clear up what remained of the once huge aircraft.
Borthem and his patrol got out of one of the LSVs.
“Blimin’ ‘eck John that’s a rather low note to end a duty on.” Borthem
said looking at the wreckage.
“They didn’t have a chance.” said Foresith soberly.
Borthem turned towards him. “Look mate I didn’t mean to..”
“No that’s all right. It’s just this stupid war.”
“Okay well we are here to relieve you, go back to base and chill on LSV and base duty.”
“I stand relieved.” John said. He picked up his stuff. “Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey 03 on me.”
His patrol walked over to him. “We stand relieved. Get your kit into the LSVs, we are going back to base to relieve Simons and Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey 01 when they get back”

The sky was beautiful, no clouds, no aircraft, just birds gliding along on the wind. Summer truly was in full swing. Squirrels ran when they heard Simons and his patrol coming. Up their trees and into the invisible safety of the leaves above.
Simons and the rest of Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey 01 were just north of Tesco’s super market in Sharrington and were moving back towards the town centre after taking a slight detour along the main road.
Suddenly tracer fire flew just above their heads.
“Down, down, down.” yelled Simons.
They dived into a small irrigation ditch just as rounds smashed into the grass, kicking up brittle dry mud in their faces. Quickly getting their weapons ready. Daube and Merrick fixed small mirrors to their bayonets and poked them up over the edge of the ditch.
“I have five rebels in sight with Bizon-2 sub-machine gun and OTS-14 assault rifles.” said Daube.
“I concur.” Said Merrick taking the small mirror off his bayonet and putting them both away.
“Montgomery get the GPMG ready, You myself and Merrick are going to give covering fire for Daube and Garsener. You two are going to out flank the rebels, try and run to that ridge to the right of them. You should be relatively protected there. Wyvern is also going to take them out with the L – 96 A1 sniper rifle. Merrick you and me are giving covering fire with Montgomery. Does everybody understand?”
There was a grim chorus of agreeing nods.
“On 3 – 1 – 2 – 3, fire.”
Montgomery pushed the GPMG forward on its bi-pod into firing position. Wyvern leaned up with the sniper rifle, Merrick and Simons opened fire with their L – 85s.
Daube and Garsener started in a crouched run but were soon racing across the grass, road and up the side of the ridge towards the rebels. Their rifles slung across their backs as so they could move faster and not be burdened by their weapons.
Wyvern managed to get two rebels with her rifle. Montgomery got another, but Merrick and Simon’s weapons were not accurate enough at that distance. They both managed to make sure the rebels kept their heads down so that Garsener and Daube could reach the rebels unharmed.
Daube and Garsener were about four feet away. They rose up over the small ridge and opened fire, their weapons set on full automatic. The two remaining rebels didn’t have a chance.
Simons was down in the ditch changing a magazine when Garsener’s voice came over the radio. “All rebels neutralised.”
He stood up and walked over to where Garsener was standing. As he went he made visual sweeps with his rifle of the surrounding area so that no more rebels would be able to surprise him.
After getting his patrol to cover off around the dead rebels. Simons inspected what was left of them.
“They’re only kids!” He exclaimed . All five rebels were roughly 12 – 15 in age. “What are the rebels doing giving assault rifles to kids and just letting them loose. At least, we’re organised.”
“If you say so. Look at this.” said Garsener picking up a scrap of paper that had fallen out of one of the rebels pockets. It was part of an ordnance survey map with several details scribbled on it. “It’s a map Sarg, one detailing our exact route and radio frequencies.”
“What!!” Simons ran over and looked at it. “Bloody hell, If they’ve got this then.”
A sudden look of fear went over his face.
He stood up again quickly and spoke into the radio.
“Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey Base this is Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey 01. Over.”
“Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey 01 this is Tango Alpha Bravo Whiskey Base go ahead over.” John Foresith voice came through clearly.
“Base, 01. change all radio frequencies, code alpha red. Over.”
“01, Base. Roger, although Mr J will want to know why. Over.”
“Base, 01 who else is out. Over.”
“01, Base. 02, why? Over.”
“Base, 01. Pull them back. Over.”
“01, Base negative, 02 out of coms range investigating a report. Over.”
“Base, 01 get an LSV to them right away. Over”
“01, Base roger wilco. Out.”
Simons re – adjusted the radio. He turned to face the worried face of Garsener.
“All we can do now is hope and pray the LSV gets to them before the rebels do something.”
Garsener nodded in agreement.


The factory area was dingy. Most of the compound was in shadow due to huge Oak trees that circled the perimeter fence. Crisp packets and beer cans could be seen all around where they had been idly thrown over the fence. Several pieces of machinery and construction vehicles, bulldozers etc, lay dormant around the factory building itself. Collecting dust so to speak.
This was common across Britain now. Industry that was non essential to the war effort were closed down and forgotten about. This cement factory on the outskirts of town was just one sad example.
The building was made out of corrugated iron from the floor to the roof. It was almost completely rusted over due to neglect over the past year since the war had broken out. Inside you could barley see a thing it was so dark. All that private Wella, who was hiding in a shadow by the door, could see was buckets, several partition walls and still cement containers of varying shapes and sizes.
“Wella to Hawkin, all clear Sarg.” The radio in Hawkin’s ear blared.
Quickly the rest followed Hawkin to the doors, they walked cautiously in and took up covering positions. The only light came from a small array of dusty and half-shattered windows near the roof. Around them was a large collection of rusty machinery, piles of rubble and ladders leading into the murky heights.
The patrol slowly made their way through the building checking every inner room as they went.
When they came to what appeared to be a large opening, they found several crates filled with firearms. Everything from Makarov PMs to several old MG 42 support machine guns.
Hawkin walked over to Berkinshaw. “Do a sweep down here, I’m taking Hill up to that walkway, see if we can spot anyone up there.”
“Okay sarg,” she replied and then gave out instructions to Bramford, Wella and Whiteford.
Hawkin walked over to the ladder, signalled Hill to cover him then proceeded to climb under his watchful eye and his L–85.
When he got near the top he removed his Berretta handgun from its holster, climbed till only his head was visible over the edge of the walkway. He brought his Berretta round to bear and scanned it.
After making sure that it was clear he almost jumped the last three rungs of the ladder and landed in a kneeling position, put the Berretta away and swung his L – 85 from behind his back.
He signalled Hill to follow him up. After two minutes Hill appeared over the edge of the walkway and clambered on.
Hawkin then began to walk slowly down with Hill close behind him. He looked below him to see a container twenty feet below, which held several tons of cement powder.
Down below Berkinshaw and the rest moved parallel with Hawkin through the building.
Something moved in the darkness.
Wella went down on one knee and signalled that he had seen something.
Berkinshaw signalled for them all to spread out and to move behind cover. Suddenly two men with AK 103’s jumped out and started firing. The patrol dived for cover.
Hawkin turned to look, saw the situation that was unfolding below him and started back to the ladder with Hill three feet in front of him. But when he was about six feet from the ladder several small charges went off severing the section of walkway he was on and sending it plummeting down into the gloom.
Hill stood there in disbelief for about ten seconds but was sobered up when several rounds hit a section of metal plating just above his head.
He shimmied down the ladder and ran to Berkinshaw’s position.
“Sarg we have…….! Where’s Hawkin?” exclaimed Berkinshaw.
“Dead, he fell when those bastards blew up the walkway. They killed him, the ing bastards killed him.” replied Hill almost in tears.
Berkinshaw stared into space for a few seconds then turned on her radio. “Man down, I repeat, man down.”
Everyone turned to face her in disbelief.
“Let’s get those ers.” She said gritting her teeth. Everyone grimly smiled and nodded. “On 3 1 – 2 – 3 – fire.”
They stood up and unloaded their magazines on full auto at the rebels. They were thrown back about twenty metres by the shear force of 170 5.56mm rounds slamming into them.
Walking over to the dead rebels, they ejected and replaced their empty magazines in a swift and fluid motion. Bramford removed the empty ammo belt from his GPMG and put a fresh one in.
“Hold it.”
A third rebel had jumped out from behind them and was pointing an OTS-14 straight at them.
“You will pay for these deaths.”
“They paid for the death of our sergeant.”
“Well we had planned to get you all up there but, we will make do with him. You on the other hand will die here and by my hand.
He raised the OTS-14.
Someone behind and out of sight tapped him on the shoulder.
“Not now, I’ll sell you a gun later.”
He tapped again.
“Go away!” said the rebel with out turning round.
He tapped again.
“What!”
The rebel turned around. A fist landed straight in his face, then he was elbowed in the stomach and then kneed in the face.
The patrol stood gob smacked as a very dusty Hawkin came into view. Covered head to foot in grey powder.
Hawkin looked at the rebel on the floor. “That’ll teach you for getting my combats dirty.”
“We thought you were dead!” exclaimed Whiteford.
“Oh thanks.” Said Hawkin with a sarcastic grin.
“But you fell 20 feet.”
“Into a container of fine concrete powder, admittedly I’m bruised like , but apart from that I’m fine.”
The LSV came crashing through the wall, Foresith at the controls and Rickard manning the GPMG on the roof.
The patrol just sat there staring at them.
Foresith got out and cautiously walked over to them. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah.” Replied Hawkin.
“Simons thought you guys might be walking into a trap.”
“We did, but we managed to get through it alright.”
“Well we need to get back to base, all of you hop in.”
They climbed into the back of the stuffy Land Rover and drove off through the bristling heat of summer

Edited by Greene Planet, 11 January 2009 - 07:01 PM.