Chapter 15

Poole. January, the following year.

“There’s a riot goin’ on out there.”

Jacko looked up from his pint as someone burst in through the pub doors. “Oh?” he asked.

The man who had made the announcement was someone Jacko knew only as Ken. Ken was older than Jacko by a good ten years, and had been a member of the Socialist Workers Party since he was seventeen. Even in his late sixties he was still a union activist, but was currently ‘off duty’. A riot interested him because of the number of protests he had managed to subvert to his own cause when he was younger. This one though, while he supported its general aims, he’d been unable to get near because of the number of TaF Safety Patrols, and the sheer viciousness of some of the fighting.

“What’s ‘appening?” asked Jacko, more interested in Ken than in what might be happening outside.

Ken gave a half shrug. “Not sure how it started; think one of the Safety Patrols got into more trouble than they could handle. Now the bastards are swarming all over the place. Wouldn’t surprise me if they announced another curfew.”

“Couldn’t happen to nicer people,” muttered Jacko, thinking deeply.

Ken frowned slightly. He had never been able to understand Jacko. Ken hated the Safety Patrols and the so called Truth And Freedom Party with a passion. To him they were the very embodiment of the evil he had been fighting against even before his father had enrolled him in the Socialist Workers Party on his seventeenth birthday. To Ken, Jacko, as an ex Royal Marine, must be a fascist and therefore ought to have supported both; yet the disparaging remarks from him over the past few months led Ken to believe Jacko just maybe wasn’t a supporter.

This apparent dichotomy confused Ken. He wondered whether Jacko was a good socialist who had maybe just joined the military to train to fight for socialism. He decided it was time to find out. He thought while he ordered his pint and then relaxed onto a wooden bench along one wall, not far from Jacko, wondering how to start the conversation.

“So what actually happened? Whose fault was it? Who started it?” asked Jacko, trying to get Ken to talk.

Ken shrugged again, relieved that Jacko had started the conversation for him. “Didn’t see it start. Only heard the shouting. But I did hear those silly whistle things the SPs have been issued with.”

“Complete waste of time,” snorted Jacko.

Ken looked up, interested. “Why a waste of time?”

Jacko gave a short laugh. “All it does is let people know where they are. You don’t announce your presence to your enemies. But hey, they’re not exactly the sharpest tools in the box. Probably too thick to use radios.”

Ken was puzzled. The comments Jacko had made were still somewhat ambivalent. ‘Bollocks to this,’ he decided, just ask outright.

“So what do you reckon to the Safety Patrols? Reckon they do a good job?”

It was Jacko’s turn to shrug. “Dunno. Steer clear of ‘em myself. Don’t see much point in ‘em. That’s what the police was supposed to be doin’ after all, but they’re always too busy.”

“Well if the police are busy, maybe we do need the Patrol then.” This was a deliberately provocative remark by Ken in an attempt to draw Jacko out. Ken disliked the police. He’d been arrested four times during his life for activities during various protests. Only once had he been actually convicted of anything, and though all he’d had was a small fine and some community service hours, he’d come to hate the police as the outward sign of an establishment he despised. Unfortunately he was unable to totally hide that dislike in his voice.

Jacko heard it, recognised it, noted it, but otherwise didn’t react. He’d become more than a bit curious about Ken as well, not knowing about his political past. “So do you like the Safety Patrols then?” he asked.

Ken shook his head almost before he could stop himself. “No. It’s quite obvious they’re just Truth And Freedom fascist thugs.”

“Like the police,” said Jacko softly, guessing that this was what Ken wanted to hear. Although he had made it a statement, in his mind it was a question.

“Yes. Exactly!” exclaimed Ken.

Jacko just nodded slowly, almost absent-mindedly. “Well they’re here now; there’s nothing we can do about them.”

“Rubbish. We have to oppose them.” Ken moved to sit next to Jacko, his voice dropping. “Look. Everyone, well, anyone smart, knows the police are just fascist thugs; but they’re just amateurs compared to these Safety Patrols. Truth And Freedom is just another name for Fascist.”

Jacko’s only response was to take another pull at his pint, inviting Ken to continue. Ken did so. “The police need to be retrained to our way of thinking. It’ll need political control. Like the Soviets did.”

“And like Hitler?”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Ken. “They’re not a bit alike. The Soviet Union was a people’s paradise.”

“And look where they are now,” murmured Jacko. “A broken and nearly bankrupt economy. A completely fraudulent election system. The president and prime minister little more than puppets to gangsters and Russian Mafia interests. When they aren’t gangsters themselves.”

“That’s because the proper government was undermined.”

“The proper government?”

“The Communist Party of course. They wouldn’t need elections if there was a Communist government again. They were universally supported. That’s what we need here.”

“Only because nobody was allowed to support any one else,” said Jacko scornfully. “And you think their economy was good under the Communists?”

Ken was all enthused now and failed to notice Jacko’s scorn. “Yes. Exactly. It was a paradise on Earth.”

“Riiiiight. So if we had a Communist government here, what would you change?”

“Well, I’d install political officers into the police and army. Political parties would be banned unless they were allies of the government. The Americans and their lackeys would be kicked out, and all foreign owned businesses would be nationalised. That’s just for starters.”

“So everything that Thorn has tried to do then?”

Ken stopped short. “Yes. No. Er, no. He’s a fascist. I’d do it so that people are free to do what they want. Within the law of course.”

“And the law will say do what the Communist party says or else.”

“Exactly.”

“So as I said. Exactly what Thorn has tried to do.”

Ken finally worked out that Jacko was goading him. “You’re no socialist, you’re a bloody fascist.”

“I’m neither,” said Jacko quietly. “As far as I’m concerned, the difference between Graham Thorn’s Truth and Freedom Party, and your Communist Party is so small as to be negligible. And both are so wrong. Both are fundamentally evil. Hitler’s Germany and Stalin’s Russia had so many similarities it was frightening. You’re right in that Thorn needs to be defeated, and urgently, but you’d just replace him with something identical, the only difference being you think you’d be at the top of that heap instead of the bottom. Never mind the fact that most of the people at the bottom of this heap would be at the bottom of your heap as well. In any case, what about...”

Ken stood up, interrupting him. “You’re a soddin’ fascist,” he said in deep disappointment. “You made me think you were a good socialist.”

“I’m neither.”

But Ken, to whom anyone opposed to radical socialism and communism was automatically a fascist, didn’t hear him. He left again, intending to go and find the riot and break a few police and Safety Patrol heads. He had a bag full of cans of pepper spray, all completely illegal, and intended to use them. He had less than an hour to live, though he didn’t know it.

“That went well,” came another voice.

Jacko turned to see another semi-regular, a man probably in his mid-forties. One whose face he recognised, though whose name he didn’t know. He didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

The stranger just smiled slightly and said nothing. Jacko had no intention of saying anything at that moment, so he just turned back to his drink and ignored the stranger. A few minutes later, a little after nine, his son-in-law, Martin, joined him as they’d arranged, and they laughed and joked the rest of the evening.

A little before eleven, Jacko and Martin left. For a few moments they stood outside the pub where Martin invited his father-in-law to visit the following day for Sunday dinner.

Jacko nodded his agreement and the two parted, walking in opposite directions. It was only the fact that he’d had four pints that evening and was not expecting anyone that slowed his reactions as he approached his yard. He wouldn’t do that again in a hurry.

“Excuse me, I’d like to talk with you.”

Jacko spun, startled, and more than a little chagrined that he’d been surprised so easily. It was the unnamed regular from the pub. “Oh. It’s you. It’s late. If you wanted to say something, you had time in the pub.”

“No. I need to talk to you away from the pub. Away from where anyone else may overhear us.”

Jacko’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you want?” He was suspicious but hid it well.

“My name is, Reed.”

Jacko heard the infinitesimally small pause before the name, and guessed that Reed probably wasn’t his real name. He gave a mental shrug. If Reed wanted to be security conscious, that was his affair. Plus, with what was going on these days, that probably wasn’t such a bad idea. He couldn’t make up a name just like that off the top of his head, so he didn’t try. “Jacko.”

“Jacko,” nodded Reed. “I know you are, were, a Royal Marine. I’d like your help. If you’re prepared to give it.”

“In what way?”

“I used to be in the Grenadier Guards. Me and a few of my, er, colleagues, have formed a,” he paused and smiled slightly, “well, let’s just say an opposition to Earth First. And especially to Truth And Freedom.”

“And what do you want with me?”

“I wondered whether you’d like to join us? I know you’re a marine and we’re army, mostly, but I don’t see that should make any difference.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Seventeen.” He shrugged. “At the moment. All but two are ex-guardsman, just not all grenadiers. The other two are ex RAF regiment.”

“Rock apes,” muttered Jacko.

Reed smiled slightly. “They don’t like that name.”

“Who’s your leader?”

Reed gave another slight smile. “With respect, I’m not going to tell you that. I’m sure you understand my caution.”

Jacko nodded approvingly. “Rank?”

“Who? Me?”

Jacko shook his head. “No, your CO.”

“He’s a Sergeant-Major WO1. Ex Scots Guards who moved here five years ago when he left the army.”

“And he’s your most senior?”

“Uh huh.”

“And what do you want me for?”

“Well, we can see a war coming. Between the Truth And Freedom supporters and the people. In a way it’s fortunate that Thorn has decimated the British Army as it means there are more people we might be able to call on. Unfortunately it’s also meant that there are a lot of ex-soldiers, particularly the younger ones, who may have been conned into joining the Safety Patrols. But many have also just gone missing as well. Possibly into TaF training camps, but we think most have just been rounded up by Thorn and his bully-boys.”

“And done what with them?”

Reed shook his head. “We don’t know. That’s the problem, no one seems to know. Did you know that almost every member of the Honourable Artillery Company, a Territorial Army regiment, has gone missing; along with their entire families. We’re worried.”

Jacko frowned slightly. As an ex member of the Royal Marines’ SBS he knew the HAC were more than just any old regiment. Instead they worked very closely with the special forces, the SAS, SBS and to a lesser extent the SRR, tasked with scouting behind enemy lines. In a sense they most closely resembled the Long Range Desert Group of World War Two. He hadn’t realised they were gone though. He wondered whether they had been ‘collected’ by the Confederacy as an expert, behind the lines, reconnaissance force.

“How long ago?” he asked quietly.

Reed shook his head. “No one knows. Not for certain. At very least two years we think, probably longer.”

“Well that almost certainly rules out the TaF then, they’ve only had serious power for about twenty months or so.”

Reed looked unconvinced. “Possibly, but they had a lot of influence in the year prior to that.”

“Not enough, I wouldn’t have thought, to get rid of an entire Terry regiment, plus families.”

Reed shrugged, “We don’t know. If they’ve gone into hiding that would be one thing, but where have their families gone? That’s what worries us the most. That’s why we’ve started to organise ourselves again.”

“Hmm. Maybe they’ve gone off into space. Fight this alien army that’s supposed to be coming our way.”

Reed looked surprised. “You know,” he said slowly, “I really never even thought of that. What with all the censorship and stuff, you just don’t hear of this space alien thing any more.”

Jacko just shook his head gently, smiling to himself.

After a few moments Reed looked up. “Well, would you be interested in joining with us?”

“No, but I think you should join us. Come on,” he waved for Reed to follow him into the yard.

Reed looked stunned. “You mean you have your own opposition group?”

Jacko just grinned.

“How many?”

“Lots.”

“Lots?”

“Yeah. Lots.”

“Hmm.” Reed looked sceptical. “So who’s your leader?”

“Now there’s a bit of a story in itself. In a way it depends on your point of view.”

“Oh?”

Jacko opened the side door to his flat and invited Reed up the stairs and into the tiny sitting room. “We’ve organised ourselves as a group of semi-autonomous cells, Maquis style. You and your group would just be another of those cells. Your current leader would stay as your leader, and in theory only you and he would ever meet me; but only because you’ve already met me. My local leader is,” he paused and gave the ghost of a grin, “an RM First Lieutenant.” The fact that he was a recently redundant SBS officer Reed didn’t need to know. “There is a fairly full command structure above that, but don’t ask me who or where because for the most part I don’t know.”

“How on Earth did you manage to organise all that?”

“Off Earth,” answered Jacko.

“Off Earth?” Reed looked confused. He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean mean?”

“It means we didn’t organise it. Not entirely. It was organised for us. Like you, we organised ourselves into many small, tiny, independent groups. However a...” Jacko paused and then decided this wouldn’t compromise their security too much. “A field grade officer from the Confederation helped us to organise. Put different groups in touch. Helped set up lines of communication and got us equipment. We set up our own command structure though, where possible based on existing ranks, or at least, rank on retirement. So far it’s worked very well.”

“Is he still around?”

Jacko shook his head. “No, but we can get in touch with him, or rather his staff, if we need to. They have a better overview, but we supply them with intelligence. They help us to,” he paused again, “let’s just say there are fewer TaF thugs around than there might otherwise be. Of the nastier ones, anyway.”

“God,” whispered Reed. “I just never realised. We hoped others might do what we’re doing, but never dreamed it could be this organised.” He frowned for a moment. “So how come no one’s ever noticed TaF bodies?”

“Because as a general rule we don’t target large patrols, just individuals when we can get them alone. In a few cases we’ve managed to convert them to our cause, but mostly we have a foolproof method of disposal. Why? What have you done?”

Reed shrugged. “We’ve disposed of a small patrol. About a month ago they came snooping around. Lucky for us they were complete amateurs and we heard them miles away.”

“Where are they now?”

“At the bottom of a quarry lake, wrapped in iron chains. They’ll probably be discovered eventually, but by then,” he shrugged. “Hopefully by then it won’t matter.”

At that moment there was a gunshot. Both men instantly recognised it for what it was.

“Shotgun,” said Reed.

“‘Bout quarter of a mile away,” added Jacko. He frowned. It seemed unlikely to him that the riot would have come this way, always assuming it had even lasted this long. This must be something else. He flicked the sitting room lights off and opened the curtains. The two men watched and listened intently for a few minutes, but there were no more shots.

“TaF?” hazarded Reed. “I know I’ve seen a few of them carry shotguns.”

“Possibly. I know we don’t use them, but I think we can get some if needed.”

“What do you have?”

“Here? Not a lot. But we have a small variety. Mostly clubs and coshes of various types, some military issue knives, a few firearms.”

“Anything special?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘special’. Why?”

“All we have are kitchen knives, which are good enough I guess, but not ideal, and some home-made garrottes. We had three pistols which were originally liberated from dead Iraqis back in oh-three.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately we’ve run out of ammo for them, so they’ve been hidden out of the way.

“What type of pistols?”

“A Makarov and two CZ-75s. Both use nine mil ammo, but one’s a ninteen-mil. cartridge, the other an eighteen-mil. They’re not truly interchangeable.”

Jacko just nodded. He wasn’t going to offer to supply them with ammunition, though he was pretty certain he could. Not yet anyway. He wanted to wait and ensure this wasn’t a set-up. He didn’t think it was, but he wanted more certainty. “Nothing like that I’m afraid. I’m not even certain what pistols we do have altogether.”

Another shot rang out.

“That wasn’t a shotgun, but I don’t recognise it,” said Reed as the two men quickly moved away from the front of the room.

“I do,” said Jacko shortly. “Come on.”

He dashed across the yard towards where he stored the kayaks. From a wall inside a small office just alongside them, he grabbed a steel tub full of screws, bolts, washers and similar, all of various sizes. Rooting quickly through it he pulled out a small plastic bag from which he quickly retrieved a small, snub nosed revolver. He spun the chamber, counting quickly. “Five rounds left, not much use.” In fact there was a part box of ten more buried in the same tub, and a few more boxes hidden around the place. If he wanted to, he could quickly lay his hands on about fifty rounds. From an adjacent folder full of invoices, he slid a knife out and offered it to Reed. “Sorry, this is my entire stock. Don’t want to risk a raid and be caught holding illegal goods now.”

Reed gave a wry smile and, from a hidden pocket, pulled a ten inch carving knife.

“I’ve got used to this.”

Jacko nodded. “Come on then.”

The two men slipped out of the yard and down the narrow, unlit, lane. They kept close against the hedges on each side, Reed about five yards back and on the opposite side. Both men were wearing dark clothes, but this was just chance and they were not in any other way camouflaged. The main road was lit, and as they approached it, Jacko slowed and signalled for Reed to stop. Glancing quickly behind him, he saw that Reed had closed to about five feet back, still on the opposite side of the lane, and had crouched down to reduce his silhouette. Jacko nodded once and carefully peered around the corner. There was nothing moving. Jacko waited for a short while, frowning. There may not have been anything moving, but now he came to think about it, there was a car parked just across the main road from the lane, one he’d never seen before.

He could hear shouting now, and waited a moment longer, trying to identify both its direction and its movement. It was coming towards them but probably still a minute or so away. He gestured Reed forwards and whispered what he’d learned.

Reed popped his own head out and had his own very swift look before drawing back into cover.

“There’s what looks like an alley-way down to the right and opposite,” he whispered pointing in that general direction.

Jacko grinned. “Proves you don’t know the area,” he whispered back. “That’s most likely where the noises are coming from. That’s a short cut through to the back of the High Street.”