“Sir,” whispered Baxter, “they’re cutting us off.”
As Alan had been talking to the crowd, almost pleading with them to stop the looting, some of the smarter individuals had been leading the edges of the crowd further round, to meet up with each other‘s side, forming a complete circle and trapping the soldiers.
Alan was about to give the order to open fire when a shotgun was fired by someone near the front of the crowd, the pellets peppering Alan’s left arm and shoulder, knocking him back, causing him to stumble over the soldier behind him. As he dropped to the ground, his hand clutching his arm, the warm blood wet on his fingers, a sudden burst of fire, an LMG by the sound of it, shattered the shocked crowd, silenced after seeing the officer get hit and go down. A long burst was sprayed over the heads of the mob, and double taps from other assault rifles added to the crescendo. The crowd panicked, broke and ran, heading away from the bunker as quickly as they were able, stumbling in their weakened state, even dropping some of their contraband in their eagerness to get away.
Baxter helped Alan to his feet as he struggled to get up with his injured arm. “You OK, sir?”
Alan, still dazed, didn’t respond immediately. Before he could answer, a tall, lean soldier that he had not seen before brushed the younger soldier aside and stood next to Alan. “Just plant yourself back down again, sir. I need to take a look at that injury.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Rolly, sir. Let’s get your kit out of the way. Give us a hand here.”
One of Alan’s soldiers helped him remove his officer’s kit as they sat him back down, Rolly peeling off the officer’s shredded combat jacket. A pair of scissors appeared, and Rolly was soon cutting away at Alan’s jumper and shirt.
“How’s it looking?”
“Lady Luck’s on your side today, sir. Range was too great. Messed up your arm and shoulder a bit, but give it a week and you’ll be as right as rain. Need to patch you up though. Then get some antibiotics down you.”
Another soldier appeared, along with Ellis. Alan ignored the other soldier. “Ellis, sitrep please.”
“The crowd has dispersed, sir. Area pretty secure, thanks to the 7th Cavalry here.”
“Glad we could assist,” responded Glen who had arrived with Ellis. “Seems you’ve a bit of a situation here, sir.”
“It does that… ”
“Glen, sir.”
“You’re unit?”
Rolly continued to patch Alan’s wound, wrapping a dressing around the major part of the injury, bathing the rest with an antiseptic cream.
“We’re a spec ops unit under independent command.”
“Well, Glen, we’re certainly glad you came along when you did.”
Glen immediately liked this officer. He wasn’t like the one they came across on their way from Hereford. This one seemed switched on, but also down to earth.
“There you go, Major. Not the prettiest job but, in the circumstances, it’ll hold up until we can get you to a medical centre. You do have one, I take it?” asked Rolly.
Alan got up as quickly as he was able, wavering a little, steadied by Rolly on one side and Baxter on the other.
“You need to take it easy for a bit, sir,” advised Rolly. “You’re in a state of mild shock, no doubt.”
“The RGC?” asked Alan.
“We’re about to go in sir,” responded Baxter. “Just making sure the bulk of the mob have moved on.”
“Pass me my weapon.”
Picking the SA80 up, Glen passed it to Alan. “We can help your men. You need to sit this one out.”
Alan winced a little as he clutched his gun in his right hand, knowing it would be extremely difficult and a little painful to support the stock with his left. Nevertheless, he slung the weapon over his left shoulder, trying to ignore the pain, but at least he was able to draw his pistol from its holster. “We need to check out the bunker.”
“You sure?” asked Glen.
“Definitely. There were, are,” Alan corrected, “over sixty people inside it.”
“Rolly and me will come with you. The rest of my team can cover us out here. You expecting anything?”
“We’ve held off an attack from a group of outsiders on a warehouse we have and, as a consequence, things have got out of hand here. How many are you?”
“Just four, but we can manage.”
“That’s good. I have a small force further west. I’ll call in some additional support from them. Ellis, get onto Two-Zero-Alpha. Send a section of four to the RGC.”
“Sir.”
Alan adjusted his SA-80, “ready?”
“Hang on a sec. Golf, Papa. November and Romeo supporting local forces in bunker. Watch our back. Possibility of external armed hostiles.”
“Roger that,” responded Greg. “Plato is with me. Out.”
Glen turned back to Alan. “Let’s make a move then. Lead on, sir.”
Alan checked his pistol and then ordered Baxter and Ellis to remain outside to cover their backs until reinforcements arrived from the warehouse. He was relieved that two additional Special Forces soldiers would be supporting his two men. They were far from being in the clear yet.
The three soldiers moved up the right-hand ramp — the left-hand ramp that descended into the depths of the bunker, giving the occupants access to the air plant and control gear. Both ramps were situated, side by side, at the northern end of the bunker complex. The group arrived at the right-hand dog-leg which took them through the blast door. Once inside, steps took them down to the upper level of the two storey bunker. It was dark: the generators had probably been switched off to make it harder for the looters to see items to steal once in the inner depths of the bunker. The air plant was on their left. To the right, the fifty-metre long corridor stretched out in front of them, the odd flickering light from a torch carried by a survivor or looter could be seen at the far end.
Alan turned right. The common room and sickbay were on their left. They could hear the sound of crashes and movement up ahead — perhaps looters scavenging for more stuff, or, hopefully, survivors of the RGC. The common room and sickbay were empty. Alan’s torch beam lit up scattered medical supplies strewn all over the floor — obviously not what the intruders had been looking for. The double doors of the canteen, next on the right, were shut and, after being tested by Alan, thought to be locked from the inside. After a quick debate between Alan and Glen, Glen and Rolly put their shoulders into the centre of the double doors, splintering the privacy lock and lock recesses. They flew open easily, and Rolly ended up sprawled on the floor.
“Take another step, and I’ll slit your fucking throats,” growled a voice from the darkened room.
Alan shone his torch in the direction of the voice: a scowling face, a clear message on it: Don’t fuck with me.
“It’s OK. It’s me, Major Redfern.”
“Alan?” came a distressed voice from somewhere behind the powerful man facing them.
Alan lowered his pistol. “Just let the hostages out. Then you’re free to leave. No harm will come to you.”
The female voice piped up again as a head popped around the side of the man holding the knife. “Alan? Is that you?”
“Alison? Are you OK? Has this man hurt you?”
Alison stepped out in front, between Alan and the man they thought was her jailer. She ran towards Alan, ignoring the pistol, and flung her arms around his neck. Alan groaned but continued to allow her to hold him tight, placing his left hand on her back, ignoring his pain but keeping his pistol aimed at the unknown figure. Despite the situation, he actually enjoyed the feeling of being needed by someone and the sensation of her trembling body close to his.