Carter's Recourse - 33. Chapter 33

"Sir?" West's sergeant examined the orders and looked up at his superior officer questioningly as West marched out of one of the 60's-style temporary buildings that were anything but temporary.

"They're signed by the Major." West nodded, slipping on a pair of brown leather gloves and tucking his peaked cap onto his head. He regretted not being able to put on the camouflage fatigues of the rest of his men, but he didn't want to arouse suspicion of the two men in the Volvo who were waiting beyond the gates.

He walked around the front of the Land Rover and tested the bull bar that protected the front grill, glancing at the other vehicles sitting in the midst of the marshalling area, and his men armed with their rifles and dressed for yet another night out on the Yorkshire moors.

"Sir, you're not coming with us, sir?" the sergeant asked in a low tone.

West slipped the Browning hi-power from its holster, checked and chambered a round as he slipped it back again. "You have your orders, Sergeant. I'll rendezvous with you here," West tapped the map. "You know what you have to do."

"Sir, yes sir." He rounded on his men. "Alright you mangy lot, you heard the man," he began to bark orders that sent his men scrambling to their Land Rovers; at the back of the small convoy the Saracen armoured car purring to life was drowned out by the roar of the Chieftain main line battle tank turning over.

West checked his watch, six o'clock; Major Wessex was driving home by this point for his weekend furlough time with his missus and two kids, and the Garrison Commander was attending a tour of inspection down at the Menwithhill Raddome Base. The officer on duty at the camp wouldn't question the orders; the amount of manoeuvres West's company had been undergoing, this one would just blend in as yet another of the deployment procedures. No one would notice if he slipped out ahead of them, they'd just assume he was supervising the operation.

The sergeant flashed him a thumbs-up as he climbed up into the passenger seat of the armoured car, and West turned, the wool overcoat sweeping out behind him as he marched across to where his Land Rover was waiting. He smiled tightly; this was it, and if he was lucky he'd pull it off.

He sat down behind the wheel, glancing down at the directions, over top of the newspaper announcing Colonel Carter's memorial. The papers were making a big deal of honouring a hero--some positive press amidst all the dark war reports, and the fact that the colonel's son was coming for the dedication... West knew he had one shot at this as he started the Rover and glanced back out of the window to his troops, pushing back his peaked cap and smiling.

Never give a creative Canadian access to military hardware.

* * *

"Ayup," the first observer nudged his partner, "that's him. You were right, looks he's trying to slip out during the manoeuvres."

"Of course he is," the second one said, leaning forward in his seat to watch as the Land Rover pulled up to the gates and the young army captain passed something over to the gate sentry. A few minutes later the Rover pulled out into the Yorkshire countryside, driving in the direction of the A1 motorway.

"You think he's trying to warn him?" the first asked, folding his own copy of the newspaper that was detailing the Canadian Minister's visit.

"He knows he can't reach a phone," the second replied as the Volvo followed the Land Rover at a discreet distance back, the two high round red lights distinctive as was the small Union Jack sticker above the square licence plate. "His only chance is to reach the Minister directly."

"Well we have him now, definitely." The first shrugged, "He's absent without leave, abandoned his post with his men. We can pick him up at any time."

"I know," the second said with a smile, accelerating the Volvo after the Land Rover.

* * *

The Yorkshire moors were hauntingly beautiful in the evening light, endless rolling hills emblazoned with purple heather and bright yellow gorse. He drove past babbling streams, swinging the Rover down through peaceful green valleys. The moor was a region of extreme visual beauty, hiding dark secrets of an ancient military history ensconced within its depths.

The moors and war, they seemed to have gone hand in hand since the Romans had first chosen the site for one of their outposts two thousand years before. It seemed only fitting to West, as he glanced into the rear-view mirror marking the set of lights sweeping up towards him.

He smiled grimly as he accelerated as well. They wanted a chase, he'd give them one. He'd grown up driving pickup trucks and a Bronco throughout high school. He knew how to drive a Land Rover. When you were being shot at in the desert and the only thing keeping you alive was your capacity to drive at high speeds, West had become damn good at it.

He shifted gears, the Rover bouncing along the narrow country roads as he rounded tight corners and kept the speed up. Every so often he glanced at his directions, keeping an eye out for the nav-markers that would tell him where to turn.

It was easy to get lost out in the endless moors, and he kept a close eye on where he was. He slipped across the A1 and continued along the roads heading towards Darlington. He spotted the first, an old brick wall that was crumbling, and he slowed the Rover enough to round the corner.

* * *

"He knows we're following him," the second said tightly, as the Volvo squealed around the corner after the Land Rover, keeping pace with the heavy military vehicle, but on the narrow country roads there was no way to catch up.

* * *

West ducked his head as the Rover bounded over a hump bridge, crashing to the road again and hammering him around the inside. The kid in him wanted to whoop for joy, as the professional soldier in him gritted his teeth anticipating the next nav-marker.

They were determined to keep him from making contact with Will; West was just surprised they hadn't waited. It didn't matter to him though, just meant he had to buy himself a little time. He ignored the next nav marker and swept the Rover into the heart of a small Yorkshire village; finding a large roundabout he swung the Rover around it, riding it around fully, passing the exit he needed and going for a second time.

* * *

"He's mental!" the first complained, grabbing the hand hold over the passenger side door, feeling the kebab he'd had for supper rebelling against his insides as the Volvo followed the Rover as they spun around the roundabout for the third time.

"Just shut up, will you?" The second heaved the wheel over as the Volvo's back-end fishtailed the car around to cut the Rover off on its next time around.

* * *

West smiled and waved as the Rover cut away from their makeshift road black and swept back up the road he'd come down, returning to the nav-marker, the Volvo a few hundred feet behind, trying to catch up again.

If the situation weren't so serious, West would have admitted he was enjoying himself. Colonel Carter had been the one to teach him to drive a Land Rover, showing him the thrill of putting the rugged vehicle through its paces, and West understood the joy the Colonel had seemed to take in being behind the wheel. Somehow it seemed fitting that it was that same training that was helping West save the Colonel's son.

He cut the wheel sharply as the Rover's bull bar smashed through an old wooden gate, the four-by-four bounding across a sheep-dotted field, West glancing back behind him at the bouncing set of headlights telling him that the Volvo was still trying to keep up with him.

* * *

"Don't lose him!" the first called.

"Shut up!" the second growled, his eyes hard as he scanned the field, watching the Rover ahead of them hit a dirt track and swing back towards the road. He cut the wheel and pulled the Volvo to try to cut him off before he could reach the far gate.

"Should I call for some help?" the first asked, fishing for his cell phone, as the Volvo bucked again, sending the cell phone from his fingers and rattling under the seat.

"Sit up!" the second reached out to pull the first up into his seat as he tried to reach for his phone. "We don't need help, I can get this prat."

* * *

West smiled again, the Rover rejoining the road, sweeping out and around a bright yellow Ford Cortina, a couple of startled children in the back pointing to the Army man and waving.

West nodded and tipped his cap, pulling ahead of the Ford, watching to make sure the Volvo was still hot on his heels, looking down at the map, and up again. Northallerton was right ahead of him, and if he could reach the train station ...

He entered the edge of the picturesque Yorkshire town, slowing just a little as he cut down one of the side streets, jumping through a red traffic light and pulling around. He could see the train station ahead of him, and gritted his teeth.

* * *

"I've got you now!" the second sneered, as the Volvo cut around the Rover, the two vehicles squealing to a stop in the car park out front of the train station.

He sat, catching his breath a second, looking up into the face of the British officer sitting behind the wheel of the Land Rover.

"Stay still..." he murmured... "Stay..."

The Land Rover suddenly flew into reverse, braking around the corner of the train station. The two MI6 operatives swore as they gave chase again, pulling round the corner.

The second slammed on the brakes, as the Chieftain tank's barrel swung up and around to level at the small Volvo, army troops in combat fatigues and assault rifles taking up firing positions around the car, the audible snap of hammers being drawn back and released, cocking weapons.

First looked towards the second, "I warned you he was creative."

* * *

"Sir!" the sergeant saluted his CO as West stepped around the tank, tucking his baton under his arm and surveying the two prisoners that were being handcuffed and searched by a couple of his men.

"Good job, Sergeant." West nodded in satisfaction, walking forward and smiling. "I want them taken back to the Garrison and secured in the stockade..." he paused, "as quietly as you can; Major Wessex will deal with them both on Monday. For the moment I want them kept separated and no one's to talk to them."

"You won't get away with this, Captain Harding," the second of the two, the former driver spat out.

"I have my orders," West stated pulling out a piece of paper and tapping it lightly, " and my men have theirs." He turned, "Gag them as well, I don't want them talking to anyone before the Major gets to talk to them."

"Sir, yes sir!" the sergeant saluted, turning to issue orders to his men again.

West looked back at the station, the sound of the train whistle getting closer, how long until the two MI6 agents were noticed missing? How long until they figured out where he went? He wasn't sure, he just hoped he had enough time to get to where he was going, and enough luck to find Will once he got there.

* * *

"Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum just got arrested by soldiers," the field agent reported, as Templeman stood alongside his car, his own binoculars to his eyes, surveying the train station sitting amidst the other buildings in the small village with the array of military firepower surrounding them.

He swept across the scene, from the tank to the officer in charge, the captain's stars on his shoulder clear in the dimming evening light despite the distance. He watched as the officer issued some final orders to his men and turned to walk down to the train platform, the troops loading the two prisoners into the back of the Saracen armoured car, the convoy sweeping away shortly thereafter, a couple of soldiers climbing in to drive the white Volvo along with them.

Neat and effective. All done right under the noses of the locals, who were well accustomed to military training exercises. They didn't even bat an eyelid as the operation was carried out. Carrying on with their business and casting curious glances to see what was going on, but not questioning it as anything more than what it was.

Templeman focused again on the officer on the platform, and he chewed his lip. Climbing back into his car, "Attention; all of you hold back, I'm going to follow the new contact and see where he goes. Mary, I want you to follow the convoy and find out what's going on back at the base."

"Understood, sir." Mary clicked off the line as Greg drove his car down to the station, pulling into the lot and climbing out, leaving everything but his cell phone behind. He didn't want to arouse suspicion.

The captain was a little ways down the platform as Templeman purchased a ticket from the automated ticket machine, taking the time to look like nothing more than a businessman heading home. Aware that the captain had spotted him and was keeping a close eye on him.

Templeman decided the direct approach was probably the best as he sauntered down the platform. "What time is the next train?" he asked pleasantly.

The captain's eyes tightened. "A few minutes," he said, Templeman catching the accent, too soft to be American. Canadian probably, a Canadian in a British uniform ordering troops--that wasn't that unusual, but that was rare. Templeman made a note of it as he leaned back against a wrought-iron Victorian pillar.

"Lovely night for it though," he said jovially, tucking his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. "Makes a change from all the rain."

"The rain's not so bad, once you get used to it," the officer replied, seeming to relax. He still appeared agitated, but obviously he'd dismissed Templeman as nothing more than he appeared.

Good, Templeman thought, that would help him get to the bottom of what was going on.

He looked down at the newspaper in the captain's hand, "They're making a lot of fuss over this memorial..."

He watched the captain flinch, and tighten his hand around the newspaper. "He was a good soldier," the officer murmured.

"Oh, you knew him?" Templeman asked, turning as the train swung into sight closing rapidly.

The officer chewed his lip, also watching the train. "I served under him," West replied.

"Oh, that's fortunate," Templeman said, playing a hunch. "I was just heading down there, I'm a reporter and they asked me to cover the story..."

The officer turned in surprise, "You're covering the memorial?"

"Oh yes," Templeman nodded, folding his arms and stroking his beard; he had to act quickly if he was to capitalize on this opportunity, the train was nearly upon them. "There's a lot of interest in heroes these days... Well," he shrugged, "I don't have much of a story yet, but if you served with him, perhaps you could give me some background?"

The captain seemed to weigh it, glancing back towards the entrance to the platform, before nodding his head. "All right," he murmured as the train pulled to a stop, and the two men climbed aboard the antiquated train that would carry them southwards.

Templeman smiled as he followed the officer along to their seats; he had an in and he was going to use it.

* * *

West was uncertain about the reporter, occasionally looking for an opportunity to excuse himself. But if there were more MI6 agents after him, then being in the company of a reporter was the safest thing for him.

He'd come to learn the man was called Greg, that he worked freelance on newspapers across the northeast, and seemed fairly knowledgeable. West had surmised that if Templeman was working for MI6, then he would have arrested him by now. But there was still something about Templeman that caused West pause.

He felt his hand flexing over where his sidearm sat, the Browning hi-power that Colonel Carter had given him in Iraq. A rugged old-fashioned version built to be more solid than the ones they had been issued. A true friend, the Colonel had said handing the weapon across to him before he set out on his first patrol. He'd carried it throughout his two years in Basra, and was glad to have it there now.

Convenient, that was what was bothering West. It was just too convenient that someone heading to Halisham for the monument would choose to get on the train at the same time as he did. Was he being set up to walk into a trap? Nothing about Templeman's body language said anything about that.

He was a distinguished looking man--late thirties, early forties, with keen eyes, a Vandyke beard and a well-tailored suit. His accent placed him as well-educated, upper middle class English, and his questions, directed and to the point seemed to fit with who he said he was.

West folded his arms as he glanced across at the reporter again.

Templeman looked up, "You were telling me about patrol duty during the occupation; tell me, were you there when the colonel was killed?"

West's eyes flicked back to the window, some nameless suburbia sweeping past as the train rocketed along, trucking its relentless course towards London from Edinburgh, thinking back to that day yet again.

He nodded, at length, "I was there, in fact it was my life he saved..."

"You were the officer that sat with him that night in the basement..." Templeman leaned forward, remembering the story from the news. "You were hidden by some locals until you could be rescued."

"Yes," West said closing his eyes slowly. "After... after he was shot the insurgents were closing in, and all we could do was hide. I spent all night with him, while he lay dying."

* * *

The frank way he said it caused Templeman to draw back, steepling his fingers, the pieces didn't add up. This young man, the memorial, MI6. He had to report in to London, and he excused himself to use the toilet, pulling out his cell phone to make a call, glancing out of the window as they pulled into a station.

He swore when he caught sight of West ducking off of the train and he let his shoulders sag. The boy was a frightened rabbit on the run, but as Templeman made his way back to their seats and looked down at the newspaper left behind on the seat, he had a good idea of where West was heading.