Carter's Recourse - 38. Chapter 38

West kept quiet, occasionally looking towards the crowds nearby, to the faces in it, no doubt at least one of them were looking back at him. He smiled grimly, as he nodded to the lieutenant in approval. Making it look like he belonged there, checking his watch, and wondering what time everything was due to start.

The pipe band up in the town centre striking up gave him his answer. As the sergeant at the end of the row of men began to hurl orders the men turned to march in precision. West slipped his regimental baton under his arm, and stepped forward to take the position that was his due to his rank, the lieutenant a step or two behind him, as with a bellow, the soldiers began to march forward, their arms swinging as the sergeant led the count.

West drilled troops every day since he had returned from his leave to Canada. He could appreciate how well the Signals handled their parade march, boots striking the paving stones with a steady trump in perfect step. Coming up through the St. Mary's Walk and onto the High Street, at a command from the sergeant the honour guard swung left and marched steadily along the road that had been closed off for the occasion, past the rows of spectators and towards the foot of the memorial, and the small stage.

West's eyes locked on William Carter, the man, as usual, defying convention and appearing in only his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat standing to receive them. Again, so much like his father, ready to inspect the troops, despite the fact that most of the other local politicians couldn't be bothered to pay attention.

* * *

The band struck up, and as he remembered from so many years watching his father, Will rose to greet the honour guard, standing easy, his hands knotted behind his back as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, his head turned as he heard the rhythmic pounding of boots on stone as it heralded the arrival of the soldiers.

He cocked his head, realizing he was the only one that seemed to be paying attention, and he shook his head simply. Typical of politicians, only acknowledging the troops when they had to, but all too willing to come forward and grab the spotlight alongside a hero if it suited their re-election plans.

He paused, realizing that he was also a politician and in generalizing like that he was labelling himself an opportunist as well. He swallowed and remained focused, watching the troops as they came up the street. A flush of pleasure rose as he recognized Captain Harding leading the honour guard; it was a fitting touch, Will felt.

The general mounted the stage and stood alongside Will, nodding his gratitude to Will's mark of respect for his men, blowing out his moustaches as his meticulous eye swept across the men, narrowing when he spotted Captain Harding, his brow knitting together.

Will noted that look, his own brow furrowing as he read the expression. The sergeant barked out an order and stamped as the men right faced, and the two officers marched forward to present to the general and the Minister with a crisp salute.

The general's arm snapped up to return it. And Will placed his own hand to his chest inclining his head as he was supposed to. Behind him some of the other politicians were waking up and realizing they were supposed to do the same, too late for them to actually accomplish anything.

Will hoped the BBC cameras that were trained on them would pick that up.

* * *

"He's where?" Templeman asked, sounding incredulous, moving around the crowd and staring across at the British Army captain saluting Carter less than twenty feet from him. Templeman couldn't help but smile--had this been an MI5 operation, West would have been picked up before he got within a mile. He almost pitied the MI6 field officer that would have to report to Sir Nigel that they had screwed up, badly.

* * *

Johnson watched the small screen, his hands on his hips and his jaw locked. The British had promised him they'd come through, and so far the ceremony had all the trappings, but they were too fond of their subtlety, and Johnson had never found that to be productive. He worked for an administration that expected dramatic results, demanded something visual that would grab the interest of the media generation and shake it from its numbed stupor into paying attention.

"He stands out," the newcomer murmured from beside him. "Give me a rifle and somewhere high. Who's ever running his protection detail is a fucking moron..."

"That's the point," Johnson replied, glancing back to where Andrew was sitting, glaring at them listening to every word.

* * *

They got underway with a speech from the general, speaking about the exceptional valour of all the men and women that fought for the liberation of Iraq. The strength that it took to see it through despite the insurgents and the terrorists. Of the observance of duty in adversity and what it meant to be a hero, especially in the light of day.

Will nodded slowly, readying his own speech; he would be next, followed lastly by the Mayor. And he felt Lucy slip her hand into his beside him. She was doing her best to remain strong, but he could see how upset she was. He squeezed the slender hand reassuringly, looking about for Brody and Lisa, standing just behind the stage watching with interest as the ceremony unfolded.

Will's eyes drifted across the crowd; most eyes were fixed on the general listening intently, but there was one set of eyes that was watching him. Will focused upon them, meeting the gaze of a slender looking man, middle-aged even though he seemed to carry himself like a man half his age, energetic and his eyes were full of life. He seemed to be staring curiously at Will, one of those reading gazes that Will knew all too well.

Something was going on. Will was suddenly acutely aware of it. His eyes swept the crowd, the vans parked up the street, the soldiers and the people up on the roof of the Quintens shopping centre opposite him. He settled back on the stranger in the crowd, who had seen him react, and was watching now to see what Will would do next.

Will chose to play it calmly, waiting until the general finished his speech and applauded along with the crowd, rising himself to deliver his own speech. Stepping up to the podium and pulling out his pocket watch, clicking it open while the crowd settled curious to see what he was doing.

Will took a deliberate pause, glancing back at the town clock and down at his watch, leisurely looking over the crowd again; the stranger was still there, watching him. West was front and centre, looking desperate and nervous, and Will closed the watch with a snap.

"My father was never an easy man to understand," Will said, spinning the watch up and catching it again. "He was rigid, disciplined and at times, loud." Will rested a hand on the podium, "Naturally these were all things he learned serving his country, but it was those lessons that he passed on to me."

Will lifted the watch. "There is a tradition in my family that goes back generations. Upon our eighteenth birthday we are each given a watch with the engraving 'Master of your own time', which signals the final transition to manhood and making decisions finally for yourself. My father couldn't wear a wristwatch--he reacted badly to the wrist bands--and so the one his father, my grandfather, had given to him sat unused."

"This was his watch; my mother took me when I was very little to buy it for him for Christmas; I can remember being lifted up to pick it out of the display case for him. My father carried it with him through his time in Northern Ireland, whilst he went ashore during the Falklands War, and in the desert through both Gulf wars. I am told it was his good luck charm..."

Will opened it and turned it to the crowd. "And inside it, my father had engraved that family motto. He was always a man that centred around traditions."

"Sixteen generations of my family have served in the British Army." He nodded to the Cenotaph. "And my grandfather's, and great-grandfather's names are on that memorial. It only seems fitting that my father's name is added to that list of heroes. Not because he would ever consider what he did as heroic. He was a soldier, with a duty, one that he carried out without question or complaint no matter where it took him."

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," Will recited. "My father would want his name on that memorial as a reminder of what those words mean. It is it is sweet and right to die for your country. That it is an honour to give everything when your nation asks it of you."

* * *

"He's in the honour guard, front, centre," came the report through the receiver.

The dark-panelled office was miles away from the sun-soaked High Street of the sleepy rural town, and its lone occupant sat in his heavy leather chair, the television displaying the BBC live footage of the ceremony, the Canadian Minister standing at the podium delivering his speech. A young and energetic man and the occupant could see why he resonated so well with his voters--he could work a crowd.

The occupant shifted his gaze to the back of a cap in the front row of the honour guard, the troublesome Army captain that had managed to capture two of his field agents and had kept them locked in a military stockade for two days.

"Has he made contact?" Sir Nigel asked turning his head back to the receiver.

"Negative, though the moment the ceremony concludes..." the field operative reported.

"Very well, then," Sir Nigel stated. "Do you have a clear shot? Can you neutralize him before he can make contact?"

"Negative," the operative reported. "There's nothing around here that would give me that kind of angle..."

"Very well, then," Sir Nigel replied leisurely. "Stick to the original plan, and intercept Captain Harding at the first opportunity."

"Understood, sir," the operative replied.

* * *

The long-barrelled German-made rifle was braced against his shoulder as he reached forward and adjusted the sights, leaning down to look through the crosshairs, the gun sweeping over the Town centre, sighting in on its final target.

* * *

Prime Minister Thorpe buttered his morning toast, watching the live feed that the CBC had picked up from the Brits. They liked the kind of pageantry the ceremony entailed, and given the current political climate, and the upcoming war vote, half the sets in the country were probably tuned in at that moment.

It was a morbid fascination with another person's suffering, plus a genuine interest to see what was happening.

Carter was his usual self, speaking on duty and tradition and what it meant to be the son of a man in uniform. It was a well-delivered speech, and the CBC would have no end of sound bytes to use over the next week depending on which way the vote would go. It was good--the more press Carter had, the less attention was focused on Thorpe, leaving him free to conduct the delicate negotiations he needed to ensure the vote failed and Canada stayed well clear of the war.

"He looks upset," his wife observed from across the table. They'd never become accustomed to eating in the dining room, and so they sat at the small table in the kitchen watching the portable set. Mrs Thorpe shooed the professional cooks and servers out of 'her' kitchen.

"It is his father," Thorpe replied. "And with all the stress he is under..."

"Have you called him to wish him well?" His wife was fond of young Carter despite her own conservative Albertan roots, mothering him a little too much in Thorpe's opinion. Not that he minded--in a way he was very fond of Will as well. He was intelligent and intrinsically a good man, a rare combination in a politician.

"I'll call him this afternoon," Thorpe reassured.

* * *

"... My father would be honoured with..." Will continued, as the shot rang out across the town square.

* * *

"What the hell?" Thorpe rose to his feet as Carter collapsed on the stage, and the crowd broke into pandemonium.

* * *

"They shot him?" Johnson choked on his coffee.

Behind him Andrew's vision blurred as he sat staring dumbstruck at the television screen; the cameras flickered, flared and were switched to an emergency test pattern, replaced a few seconds later by a desperate BBC anchorman urging calm...

* * *

Templeman was yelling into his radio, trying to push his way through the crowd of panicked people all heading in the opposite direction, forcing him along with them. He fought a losing battle to get through the tide of humanity that pushed and shoved to get away, reacting in fear.

He needed to know what was happening, but he couldn't hear over the din around him, as his radio earpiece crackled and was drowned out.

He roughly shoved some one out of the way, clambering over a bench, knowing that his only way to get to the podium was around the mass, and he ran around the low wall of the cenotaph, hoping that he would get there in time.

* * *

Bob Hesston leaned forward in his easy chair, as the Anchor took the screen, reassuring people that everything was all right, and that as soon as they knew what was happening they would be able to report it.

He looked thoughtful, as he looked over at one of his aides that was composing his speech for Parliament the next day; both men seemed uncertain of what they had just witnessed.

"Someone shot Carter?" Hesston asked, in disbelief.

* * *

West watched Carter collapse, looking over his shoulder at the telltale glint off of a scope up on the roof opposite, torn between his desire to go after whoever it was, and his need to check that Will was all right.

He made his choice, looking at the young lieutenant beside him as they both ran forward, West putting himself between Carter and any further danger as the lieutenant hauled him off of the podium. The two officers rolled under the podium and out of the line of fire as the crowd broke out into chaos.

West bent down to look at Will in concern, as he pulled his Browning out of its holster and glanced behind him, breathing heavily.

Will winced in pain as he struggled to sit upright, reaching a hand up to his shoulder, and coming away slick with blood. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his upper arm, luckily missing the bone, but cutting deeply.

"Tie!" West ordered, pulling off Will's tie and wrapping it around the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, knowing that there were others out there, and if they were desperate enough to shoot Carter in broad daylight in the middle of a ceremony, then they wouldn't hesitate to finish the job.

He gritted his teeth; he needed to get Carter away while the crowd was still seething around the podium. But how?

He looked at the lieutenant and pointed. "Cap and coat, now!" he commanded fiercely.

The lieutenant didn't hesitate, slipping off the trench coat and passing it to the captain, who wrapped it around Will's shoulders, and slipped the cap onto his head. "Can you stand?" he asked, murmuring a silent prayer.

Will nodded, struggling up to his feet as West nodded to the lieutenant indicating that he needed to stay put. He took a deep breath as he got Will up and ran with him across the street, heading for the shopping centre and the relative safety that would offer.

* * *

Templeman reached the podium and crouched down to come around the side of it, where the mayor was covering old Mrs. Carter to keep her safe. For all his failings, he was still a gentleman and acted responsibly.

Templeman ducked under the stage and came face to face with a scared young lieutenant, who looked like a frightened rabbit.

"Where did they go?" Templeman barked with all the authority he could muster.

The lieutenant shrugged and gestured to the large body of the crowd still sprinting for cover.

"Damn it!" Templeman stood up cursing. Captain Harding and Carter were lost in the crowd, and god alone knew where by now. He watched the police cars speed up, spilling officers out of them, trying to secure the area, the SO-19 armed response unit would be on its way, all too late to catch the MI-6 operative, who was probably long gone.

They'd gone too far this time. Templeman was angry, furious that he hadn't been more proactive in putting pieces together. But he knew he had done everything he could do. He cursed under his breath as he dashed towards the surveillance van, maybe if they were lucky they'd know which way Carter and Harding had gone.

* * *

"My sister..." Will said, cradling his arm as West guided him by the other through the doors to the shopping centre, keeping his head down and pulling Will onwards.

"She's all right, we need to get you out of here..." West insisted as they ducked through a side door and down a flight of steps into the car park, West trying to guide Will back towards the Land Rovers at the far end of the asphalt.

He drew up short, staring at the men searching them already, no doubt hurriedly searching for them.

"This way," Carter said breathlessly, fighting the wave of pain and nodding across the road at the small lane beside the school.

"What?" West asked in confusion.

"I grew up around here," Will reassured. "Trust me." He led the way across the road, shaking his head to keep the pain from clouding his vision. There were other people gathering on that side of the road; after running in a full panic, they were finally beginning to feel safe, slowing down and turning to look back towards the centre of town, where the sound of sirens could be heard.

Will ignored them turning the collar of the heavy coat up and keeping his head down as he pushed through the throng of people towards the lane; they just looked like two soldiers slipping through. A couple of people looked at them, but no one saw past the uniforms. At least Will was grateful for that.

He was feeling a bit dizzy from the blood that was soaking through his tie, and running down his arm. And he held his hand up as the blood dripped off of it, the two men jogging hurriedly down the densely wooded lane that crossed the old railway line through the centre of the small town. This way they would reach the recreation ground, and from there...

Will stumbled, trying to think despite the rush of pain keeping up with West, noticing the gun in his hands, and looking back behind him. "You should put that away," he nodded down at it. "People notice that sort of thing here..."

West lifted the gun and nodded, slipping it into the deep pocket of the coat, checking around him as they approached the far end of the lane, the large rolling field of the recreation ground. A local cricket game had been in progress, now all the players were lined up against the fence, staring at the emergency cars rushing by.

Will gestured as the pair of them crossed the road and ducked through the gate, West nodding to the cricketers as the pair of them started to walk across the recreation ground, West reaching out to grab Will each time he stumbled.

"You're still bleeding..." West observed, helping Will slip the jacket off as they wandered around behind the pavillion away from the prying eyes.

West scrutinized the wound and pulled off his own tie, strapping it tight and redressing the wound. "You need to get to a hospital..."

Will shook his head, coughing as he began a cold sweat from the blood loss. He pointed to the far end of the Rec. "Get me over there...." he nodded to a gap in the trees.

West shook his head, "Will..."

"Do it, soldier!" Will commanded, forcing his way forward as he slipped his arms into the coat to hide the bloody shirt. Stumbling again until West came to carry him. The young captain looked back behind him, not sure who he could trust, or who he could turn to. He gave up and nodded to Will, helping him forward.

Will drifted in a bit of a haze, the pain threatening to drop him into darkness as they stumbled out onto Diplocks Way, the industrial park, crossing the road as West all but carried Will, whose feet felt like leaden weights, as he fought down the pain and tried to keep going.

"Will..." West called, realizing they were heading to the very edge of the town. "Where are we going?"

"Trust me..." Will replied reassuringly as he turned off the road and through a fence. West kept up with him, staring in amazement at the collection of camper vans and caravans that were corralled around a muddy area, upturned washers and other assorted junk around. It was like they'd stepped through a fence into a post-apocalyptical nightmare.

A couple of people in dirty clothes, mismatched and garish colours stood from their seats around oil drum fires, to stare at the two men in uniforms. A couple of them reached for bats, as they formed up a tight rank, the younger ones calling for others.

"Uhhh Will...?" West asked uncertainly.

Will coughed again, as he tried to straighten up. "Collins..." he asked, looking about, "Earnest Collins?"

"I'm Ernie," an old wiry-looking man in his late sixties came through the collection of people to stare at them. "Who are you?"

Will smiled at the familiar lined face, as he struggled forward a step. "Granddad..." he murmured, his coat falling open stained red.

Ernie blinked. "Billy?" squinting as he stepped forward. "Oh my god..."

Will smiled. "I think I got myself into a bit of trouble..." he managed a weak smile.

"You wouldn't be the first of my grandchildren to do that," Ernie replied coming forward to take Will from a by now very confused West. "Get inside," he said, at the sound of approaching sirens. "I take it they're looking for you?" he asked nodding behind him.

Will coughed and nodded, "You could say that."

Ernie shook his head. "Welcome to Pikey Park," he murmured shaking his head as he helped Will inside the cramped caravan, ushering West in along with him. "We'll take care of it," he nodded, as he set Will down on the grimy mattress. And Will nodded his thanks.