Carter's Recourse - 1. Chapter 1

A red-painted barn flew past the window, as he sat watching the world race past the train. Rain blew so hard that it was flew horizontally past him in a sky so dark that he would have sworn it was the dead of night were it not for his watch telling him it was the middle of the afternoon.

His fingers rested lightly against his jaw line as he stared, his mind drifting across the reasons for this journey. A promise to a dying old man had cast him halfway around the world to bring a message to a boy the old man could never see again.

It was sentimental rubbish, but there was an obligation he held to a man who had saved his life. Hell, the old man had saved all their lives. And he could have just said no, or lied and forgotten all about it, but how then would he live with himself? No, looking back on it, he had no choice but to be there.

West Harding, Captain, British Army, was a young man had been described by his commanding officers as promising, motivated and on a fast track for promotion. But he didn't feel that way. He'd seen what dedicated soldiers could do and had grown to respect them. They gave their all for Queen and country because it was their duty, only to be spat on by the people at home because they were doing their jobs. And that cut deeply, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was a soldier, and a damn good one, not that it mattered.

Duty, though, was a powerful mistress. Especially when a man who was the very embodiment of honour rammed her down a person's throat. That was why West was on a train, how could he say no to a man who trusted him with his final words to his son?

West sighed heavily, adjusting his position so that his fingers now supported his temple, as he thought about the cruel fates that the world tended to hand out on a whim. The world didn't seem to care that he wanted to do something else; it had thrown together a series of events that guided his life, and try as hard as he liked, still set his future for him.

"Damn," he murmured for the umpteenth time since he had started that trip, knowing full well that really he had no choice.

The steward moving past him stopped to offer him another cup of tea and West winced at the thought. He hadn't known, growing up in Canada, that there was a problem with how they made tea, but not twenty-four hours back and he had quickly discovered they couldn't produce a decent pot of tea if their lives depended on it. He shook his head, going back to staring out of the window at the Quebec countryside streaming past.

How long had he been on that train? It seemed like forever even though it had only been about twelve hours. He'd politely refused when the ticket clerk in Halifax had offered him a sleeper and he regretted that decision when he had been wedged into a seat next to some university kid heading home for spring break.

He had seriously considered making the kid eat his Discman at about two o'clock in the morning when the kid had fallen asleep listening to it with the headphones turned up just enough to be an annoying hiss of sound. Luckily the kid had gotten off the train in Montreal and West didn't have to demonstrate the wonders of British Army hand-to-hand training on him.

Not that he would, but he was exhausted and cranky. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. Nearly two days of planes, trains and busses and he was grimy. He'd managed to get a shave that morning in the small washroom on the train, no mean feat considering the thing swung to and fro like the deck of a ship every chance it got. But beyond that he would have to wait until he could find a hotel in Ottawa.

He yawned into his hand, realizing just how exhausting it was traveling literally halfway around the world. But a promise was a promise and he intended to keep it. It felt strange coming home after being away so long and he could have stayed with his parents, but he didn't want to face them yet--there was something simply terrifying about returning home after everything he had seen. He knew it was reflected in his eyes, and he didn't want to deal with his mother's worry. So why come home at all?

So he had nothing better to do. That would have been a good excuse, except there was a strong desire to go through with this. It had taken him nearly a year to save up the leave he needed and track down the person he needed to see, but after going through all of that hassle it hadn't deterred him, he owed the old man.

"Hey, Mister, are you a soldier?" A little six-year-old was standing next to his seat, shifting nervously as he looked back to where his parents were, oblivious to the fact their sprog had wandered off.

West hesitated a moment wondering how the kid could tell, till he realized he hadn't bothered to change out of his fatigues. The British DPM stood out like a sore thumb on the Canadian train. He had no other luggage with him and so was stuck in what he had been wearing after leaving headquarters in Basra. Aside from the fact he probably smelled ripe, he suddenly became acutely aware of all the funny looks he'd been getting on the trip.

"Yes I am," West replied to the small kid with a wink as he folded his arms to return to his thoughts.

"Nuh-uh!" the kid declared. "You're dressed funny."

West shrugged and tapped the British flag on his shoulder.

"Hey, Robin," the boy's father said getting up, "come away now, let the man alone." He glanced at West, "I'm sorry, sir."

West smiled and shook his head to say it was nothing, glancing up as the train rolled into Ottawa station. He gave a sigh and got up to walk off of the train and into the terminal looking for his luggage.

He stared in puzzlement a moment as the luggage was offloaded, and yet there was no sign of his bags. He waited, turning as the train pulled out of the station, heading on its course for Toronto, and West sighed as he lifted his boonie hat to scratch his head. Spying a purser he caught the man and asked him.

It took them a little while to locate his luggage, sitting in Halifax several thousand miles away, tagged and ready. Suitably unimpressed at the competency of the baggage handlers, and with a promise that the bags would be delivered to him on the next train, which would be in a day or two, West got into a cab and was driven into the city to…what he had been told, was a good hotel.

Ottawa felt foreign to him, even though it was home. The atmosphere was different, the red maple leaf flags everywhere, the driving on the wrong side of the road in cars entirely too large for their own good. Everything was just subtly off, just enough for him to feel mildly out of place. And he realized he'd spent too long in England.

Even the parliament buildings they were passing on the way to the hotel looked imposingly foreign, dark and brooding. He stared at them as they swept by, and West wondered if it was too late to tell the cabby to go to the airport and let him go back. A good cup of tea, and try not to think about going back to Basra…

He shivered despite the fact that the sun was baking Ottawa in summer heat; if there was a hell on earth built of man's own creation, Basra had to be it. It was a place where the fact he was in uniform was reason enough to put a bullet in his back if he was unlucky enough to be spotted by one of the militants.

There was the heat, the flies, and the endless patrols all for people that one minute cheered you, the next cheered for your death.

The Radisson Hotel wasn't what he was expecting. He'd gone past the Château Laurier and had expected some modern take on a gothic monstrosity that was better suited to Transylvania than the bright and pretty city he'd arrived in. The Radisson was more contemporary, brick, and smacked of American industry.

Since West didn't have any bags it didn't take him long to go through check-in, and wrapped up in a robe in his hotel room, freshly showered and feeling more human, he could take stock of what he was doing, and how he wanted to proceed.

His only clothes were going through the hotel wash; he'd been promised they'd be back to him as soon as possible, and he contemplated doing a bit of shopping when he got them back, maybe buy some stuff so he didn't stand out quite so badly.

But then again he wasn't there on vacation, he was there to deliver a message, and he wouldn't feel right until he'd done exactly that. It had been killing him for nearly a year and a half.

He stood up and walked back across the room to the shower where he went to comb his short hair and think, using a towel to wipe the last of the shower's condensation off of the mirror. He scrubbed his face down with his hands and stared into his own grey eyes. He'd seen too much, and so much more was waiting for him when he slept--perhaps he was in Ottawa to help ease the dreams? That would make sense—He'd been too long in action, turning down his last couple of leaves in order to make that trip. It wasn't smart, but then there were some things that were too important to just put off.

He was a gangling young man; always too thin, he thought--thin and soft. Twenty-two years old and an army captain, he couldn't be that soft; the uniform, however, suited him all too well, too well perhaps...

There was a knock at the door and he collected his fatigues, gladly putting them on after he had tipped the bellhop. The combination of clean clothes and a shower made him feel a lot better. And he took a deep breath as he set out.

* * *

The Honourable Mister William Carter, Member of Parliament for Toronto-Centre was having a stressful morning. He'd arrived in the blistering heat to discover that the office air conditioner had given up the ghost, and while he sat and sweltered trying to dig through the endless bills and proposals that had mysteriously materialized on his desk overnight, he was trying to pay attention to CPAC and its broadcasting of the cabinet committee on native development.

He felt, often, that he should actually be three people. That way he could do his paper work, yell at maintenance and pay attention to an important committee meeting all at the same time.

He gave up with a curse, rolling up his sleeve and marching out into the main office, where Alicia was sitting at her desk gazing wistfully into a fan that was keeping her cool; she watched him in bemusement as he flipped open the cover to the air-conditioner and began to poke about in there looking for some reason why the thing was being so stubborn.

"I could call maintenance again," Alicia said, picking up the phone and waggling the receiver at him.

"Fat lot of good that will do," Will murmured as he poked again, wondering where he could find some tools in the damnable building. Sure those located across the road in the senate offices or up the road a bit in the PMO had air-conditioning and modern facilities… but back-benchers had to count themselves lucky to have the nineteen-fifties décor and air conditioners older than Will was.

He hated his office; too stuffy in winter and in summer it was proving to be an oven. In frustration he stepped back from the unit and reached out for a heavy object to strike it with.

He stopped and blinked at the soldier standing in the office doorway.

The man was tall and gangling and looked awkward as he stood there, a strange tropical hat in his hands that matched the rest of his desert uniform. And it took Will a moment or two of gaping to register that it was a British soldier. Will set down the book he had grabbed and turned to the newcomer.

"Can I help you?" Will's assistant, Alicia, asked carefully.

The soldier nodded, "Yes, I'm looking for Mister Carter?" And Will stopped, vaguely recognizing the tanned face, the eyes, but that only served to deepen the questions he had about the man who was standing in front of him.

"I'm Mister Carter," he said, squaring his shoulders.

"I know." The soldier seemed to look relieved, then awkward again as he wrung his hat through his hands, "I'm Captain Harding..."

"Right," Will pressed, still puzzled at who this was.

"I served in Iraq under your father."

When that bombshell hit, there was nothing, just dead silence, interrupted only by the air-conditioner whirring to life a second before it sputtered back into silence. And Will contemplated that a moment, before he shook his head and extended his hand.

"My god, West!" he said, blinking and shaking his head, remembering the young man he had helped get into the British army. His father had been killed in action well over a year and a half ago; he'd attended the funeral. He'd said his goodbyes, and yet here was the past standing in front of him in the form of a lanky British officer.

West shook his hand, a firm grip that reminded Will so much of his father. And the soldier shifted from one foot to the other nervously, "Can we talk?" he asked.

Will glanced behind him into his office, realizing that it would be the equivalent of talking in a sauna, and while Captain Harding was dressed for the heat, Will was still in a shirt and tie. He glanced back at the door and shrugged, "Do you mind if we go out? Catch a cup of coffee or something up on the hill?"

Will had no real desire to catch up with an old friend with his assistant seated by the door, ear pressed up to it, ready to discuss it with Lisa the moment she came back from her lunch. As it was he knew there would be a string of questions waiting for him when he got back.

"Thanks," West said, sounding relieved. He heaved a heavy breath and gestured for Will to lead the way.