Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined (18 page)

Broadhead Barracks
Maintenance and Engineering Block

Woodwrow stood, the glowing bulb above him casting his shadow along the floor as he stared at the blood-wet pack on the table. The harness was slick beneath his fingers as he ran his hands over the inch-wide Cordura straps. His hands danced over the reinforced wires and the heavy buckle at the centre of the rig; with a deft movement, he unsnapped the catch and set the sides of the harness down on the cold metal table.
 

The sound of clanking metal filled the room as Woodwrow set to work with the pneumatic screwdriver hanging from the ceiling. The cold-forged titanium screws rolled past him as he lifted the carapace housing free while the lamp strapped to his head sent a wash of stark-white light into the cavernous interior.
 

Wires snaked and twisted as they wove their way through the myriad of rails and pistons. A network of greased-smeared gears and springs glittered like dust-tarnished gems as he let his eyes roam through the glistening field of poly-carbon plastic and titanium.
 

His brow furrowed as he traced his fingers over the lead guiderail; his fingers traced through the grease as it rolled and piled over his searching digits, the viscous, black sludge staining his skin as he felt the pads of his fingers ripple over the bearings buried under the oily muck. His index fingers dropped for just a fraction of a second as his brow furrowed in confusion. The jagged and burred edges of the runner plucked at the ridges of his fingertips as he traced them over the area again and again, each time finding that one fractional dip.
 

His eyes widened as he let his hands walk their way through the mire, sifting through the torn flecks of plastic and metal to the twisted teeth of the slide and the buckled lead arm of rotary link.
Kid never stood a chance.
 

He pulled his hand free and sat down, wiping the thick layer of grease off his fingers, the rag in his hands grating against his now overly moist skin.
 

His voice filled the room as he ran through his own thoughts.
'Okay, come on
,
Kev, what ain't you seeing? The main lead slide is torn to shit halfway along, and one of the guide bearings is missing. There are no tool marks, but anyone with a modicum of skill and machinist's training could pull that off.'
 

He tossed the rag onto the table as he leant back, staring up at the spot on the ceiling cast from his still glaring headlamp.
 

'The slider on the lead arm is torn to shit as well. The rotary link, although still working, is bent at the joint of panel A; come on, there is something you are missing. None of this should have killed him. He still had the emergency release, so why didn't he deploy it, or call for help on the way down? None of this makes any sense.'
 

His eyes travelled over the frame, the padded crosshatched plate staring at him as he chewed at his bottom lip.
There is something I am missing here.
 

Woodwrow stood, stepped over to the rest of the recruit's equipment, and lifted the lightweight jump helmet from the table. He flipped it over in his hands before picking up a small Philips head jeweller's screwdriver.
 

The clatter of plastic on metal rolled through the armoury as he set the screwdriver back on the bench. His fingers snagged on the edges of the casing as he pulled the helmet-mounted black box from the recorder. The camera's lens winked at him in the light as he tossed the helmet back onto the bench, a dull
clunk
biting at his ears as he slipped the disk into the stereo behind him.
 

Frantic breathing filled the room as the audio files began to play as Kevin dropped once more into the small-wheeled office chair beside him.
'Shit... come on you bastard. Kev, Wayans, come on, guys; I got a major malfunction here... fuck.'
 

His voice grew tense, jarring at Kevin's ears as he listened to the man's final moments.
'Someone, anyone, please fucking help. My pack's fucked. Okay, calm it, Scotty boy.'
 

A soft click filled the room, almost lost beneath the sounds of Hennessey's panicked breathing and the growling of the wind as he shot towards the floor. Kevin's eyes screwed tight as he listened, the scene playing out in his mind as the sucking vortex of sound swallowed him whole.
 

'Oh fuck me, come on, you bastard, fire. Please come on, fucking fire.'
 

Woodwrow jumped as the sound cut to static, the muffled crump of his impact Hennessey's final eulogy. Kevin leant back in the chair, running his hands over his face as he ground away the stray tears that plucked at the edges of his vision. Sniffing sharply, he leant forwards and stared at the still bloody remains of Hennessey's jump pack.
 

'Why didn't you deploy the chute, then? Or did you... no...'
 

Woodwrow leapt to his feet, the sound of tearing Velcro filling the air. With a frantic jerk, he pulled the padded back plate free from its mounts, sending it sliding over the floor as he threw it aside with no more care than he would show a bag of rubbish.
 

'Son of a bitch.'
 

He stared at the gauge set next to the canister; its bright-red neon stripped needle pointed squarely at zero psi. Slamming the plate against the pack, he growled as he stalked towards the armourer's office.
 

The man turned with a stifled yelp as his door crashed into the wall. Woodwrow's seething form stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the glare of the pendant lights behind him. The man pushed his chair back from the desk as Woodwrow advanced through the small office.
 

'You fucking lazy bastard.'
 

The armourer back peddled as fast as his twisted and torn knee would allow, the wheels of his office chair squeaking slightly as they ground over the bare, dust-laden concrete floor. 'Kev, what the hell?'
 

Woodwrow's eyes blazed with unrepentant anger as he stared down at the man before him. 'You… Bobby, you lazy bastard. You cost one of my boys his life by skimping out on the fucking Co2.'
 

Bobby looked at him, his eyes bleeding incomprehension as he stared back at the glowering tower of rage that stood before him. His eyes travelled down to the film of blood that clung to Kevin's fingers as realisation slowly began to seep in. His eyes widened slightly as he stared at Kevin's slowly clenching fists.
 

'Kev, seriously mate, I run those checks myself. I even consulted with David's Japanese contacts about the proper maintenance techniques. I wouldn't skimp on anything with those packs. Never. Not just because they are expensive, but you guys rely on those things to survive. Damn it, man, they're your best means of getting in and out of dodge faster than the Road Runner on caffeine.'
 

Bobby 'Push pin' Bone pushed himself into the corner, the wheels of his chair chattering over the concrete. He stared at the advancing monolith of rage as Woodwrow stalked closer. 'Hell, you even poached my assistant into the damned program, so why would I do something that daft with the kit when he is using it.'
 

Woodwrow's advance ceased as soon as the words left Bobby's mouth, his brow furrowing as he looked through the man before him. 'What's the kid's name?'
 

Bobby looked at Woodwrow, his mind a foggy whirl of painkillers and slowly receding fear. 'Damian. Damian Wayans.'
 

Kevin shook his head as he slipped some of the pieces together. Turning on his heel, he sped from the room as fast as his booted feet could carry him. His chest heaved, spurring him on as he sprinted through the drill square, crashing through a squad of marching recruits as Kingsley bellowed out the drill call, his echoing baritone ricocheting through Kevin's mind as he smashed into the double doors and slid over the tiled floor of the entryway.
 

Susan squeaked in fright as she dropped the papers in her hands. Woodwrow glanced over his shoulder, his eyes screaming an apology his mouth couldn't convey as he flew through the door to Colinson's office. The empty chair stared at Kevin, the bruised and burnished leather seeming to twist into a sneering pastiche of a smile. Turning, Kevin slammed the ball of his hand into the doorframe, muttering a string of words so foul the walls turned a pale blue in embarrassment.
 

'He's not in at the moment. I think he went over to the officer's mess for something to eat; he has been missing a lot of meals lately with the mess left over from the last two engagements.'
 

Woodwrow nodded and trotted out the door. 'Thanks, Sue, and sorry about that.'
 

She smiled slightly, her eyes betraying more than she let on as she plucked the papers from the floor. 'Don't worry about it; you're not the first and won't be the last...'
 

She glance up at the door, its empty frame making her flush with anger slightly as she watched the door slowly swing closed. 'Fucking bastard.'

His footfalls echoed as he continued to sprint through the hallways. Swinging left, he shoved open the doors, his feet sliding under him as he forced himself to slow to a complete halt. Woodwrow sucked in a deep, juddering breath as he marched across the small lounge area. Colinson, who sat staring at him over the rim of a teacup smiled as he watched the man approach.

Woodwrow halted, his back ramrod straight as he saluted. Colinson set the cup down, the chocolate brown liquid swirling in the white ceramic; steam whispered up in a swirl of white mist as he brushed the few stray crumbs from his shirt.
 

'Yes, Sergeant. What can I do for you?'
 

Woodwrow's chest heaved as he stood taking a moment to compose himself before replying. 'Captain, pursuant to codes of conduct, section Nine Zero Three, negligent conduct in maintenance of combat equipment and section Nine Zero Seven, negligent conduct that is a direct cause of squad mate death, I am officially charging, in absentia, recruit Zero Six One One Eight, Private Damian Wayans, with the negligent homicide of recruit Nine Five Four Two Seven, Corporal Scott Hennessey.'
 

Colinson sighed as he lifted the teacup from the table and took a long, slow sip. He let his mind float, flickering through the pages of his mind as he pulled the file up; setting the cup back on the table, he pushed his chair away and stood, tugging slightly at the bottom of his uniform shirt as he nodded to Woodwrow to lead the way.

The door to the barracks swung inwards, the chatter dying like the rays of the setting sun as Woodwrow and Colinson entered the room.
 

Colinson's eyes scanned about him, his lifeless gaze landing on Wayans as he sat on the edge of his bed. Smooth plastic-coated cards glimmered in his hand. The cold, white light of the halogen tube lights shifted down his face as he chucked a cluster of matchsticks onto the growing pile in the middle of his footlocker.
 

'Walker, Hartlet, secure this man.'
 

The two soldiers opposite Wayans dropped their cards without question. Rising to their feet, they ensnared Wayans' arms and pulled him to his. The man's eyes were wide with confusion and anger as he tried to wrest his arms from their vice-like grips.
 

'Private Damian Wayans, you are being charged with the negligent homicide of squad member Scott Hennessey. Walker, Hartlet, get this piece of shit out of here and tell Sergeant Cocklin he has my compliments and can do with this man as he sees fit. But please ask him to be gentle; we don't want RMP and SIB asking too many embarrassing questions.'

Both men nodded as they dragged the thrashing form of Private Wayans through the barracks. A heavy, muffled
thump
echoed from behind Colinson and Woodwrow. Both men turned to see Wayans lifting himself from the floor as another soldier slowly stepped away, his left hand already turning an angry shade of red. Hartlet smiled at Colinson as he curled his hand into the neckline of Wayans' shirt.
 

'He slipped, sir; must have hit the doorframe.'
 

Hartlet slipped his foot in front of Wayans' ankle and shoved, his head bouncing off the doorframe with a stomach-churning crunch as the man's nose buckled under the impact.
 

'Oh look, he did it again. Wayans, you really must be more careful.' Colinson nodded as he watched the men drag the groaning human-shaped sack of potatoes out the barracks.
 

'That's what I saw. He most certainly tripped but do make sure he doesn't do it anymore on the way to the guardhouse, lads. Once is enough.'
 

****
                                                       

Baker stood in the doorway to the base's gaol, his eyes searching as he studied the two men perched on the single cots as they balefully gazed back at him from behind the inch thick bars of their cells.
 

The dark green paint flaking off the aged steel rods, its chipped and dented layers baring out the years and tales of the countless men who had, for one reason or another, graced the four-person block with their presence.