Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined (29 page)

Broadhead Barracks

Baker's office

Debrief
 

Sharp dropped into the only vacant chair in the room as Baker shoved a cup of black coffee into his hand. The room sat silent as Derek moved back to his chair, the jumbled stacks of paperwork framing him as his face danced in shadows from the glow of his computer monitor.
 

'So... you were saying something about Shaw?'
 

Sharp nodded as he held the cup in his hand, the heat from the coffee leaching into his skin making his palm itch slightly as it burned away layers of dead and calloused skin.
 

'I think he's got some wires loose or at least crossed; that E6 was fucking brutal. Next time, send in the Swarmers or something. I never want to have to slot a six year old again. Shit, her eyes are going to give me fucking nightmares.
 

'He was just so damned calm about it. One mother tried to run with her kid, boy must have been two or three, old enough to know things were bad, but not why.
 

'Anyway, he just turns, lines up on the middle of her back, just below her shoulder blades, and lets rip. Drops her like a sack of rotten spuds then strolls over and puts a round in her head and in the kid's like he was killing off rats or even ants.'
 

Sharp paused, lifting the steaming mug of black liquid to his lips before taking a none too tentative sip, his mind too wrapped up in its own musings to even acknowledge the scalding liquid that rolled down his throat.
 

Baker watched as Sharp set the cup back on the armrest, the corners of the man's mouth glowing a dull red from the heat, waiting with infinite patience for him to continue.
 

'By the end of it, it was hard to tell the civvies from the tangos, especially how most of them ended up in a jumbled heap after Shaw herded half of them into the middle of the Go Sushi foyer and set about them with the Gimpy.

'He's a class-one nut bar; I swear it, off his fucking trolley. At the end, he didn't even bat an eyelid. He just wombled out and hopped into the Marauder like he was off to fucking Tesco.'
 

Derek sipped from the cup in his hand as he leant back in his office chair and stared at the small patch of black mould just above his office door. A jumble of contradicting thoughts danced through his mind as he sifted through it all in search of a solution.
 

'Do you think he's fit for duty?'
 

Baker cast a glance at Sharp as the man pushed himself to his feet and strode across the five-foot gap to the quietly bubbling coffee maker.
 

'I've seen blokes like him before; they always get the work done, but no one trusts them. To be honest, Derek, the guy belongs in a padded cell at the bottom of the fucking ocean, and if he was back in Sterling he wouldn't even be rated for range duty.'
 

Baker winced at the none too subtle remark. No one in the SAS or any Special Forces unit wanted to be bumped down to range duty; it was a career death sentence.
 

'That bad?'
 

Sharp nodded as he dropped back into the chair, cup in hand.
 

'Yeah, that bad.'
 

Derek sighed, not wanting to see the writing on the wall for what it was. Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out a single A4 sheet of paper, its off-white colour making it clear to all exactly what it was for.
 

'Okay, I need you to countersign this. He will never see it and it will go straight to the TRiM team, probably have one of Colinson's lot do the eval. Do you know who it is in Shaw's squad?'
 

Sharp shrugged, making a non-committal noise as he picked up the sheet of paper.
 

'Although, goss has it that it might be Carla. Wouldn't mind having a chat with her sometime. Nice arse on her even if she is a chopper jockey.'
 

Baker smirked slightly as he watched Sharp turn to leave.
 

'Keep your hands to yourself, Staff Sergeant; I don't need a harassment case as well as this crap.'
 

Sharp chuckled slightly as he pushed the door open. Despite the laughter he left in his wake, Derek could see in the way he walked and the slump of his shoulders that this situation was weighing on him heavily.
 

Turning back to the paperwork at hand, Baker sighed as he inked the date and coding stamp and pressed it into the box in the left-hand corner before scrawling his signature and setting it aside. Derek's mind was a fog of images and harried thoughts, the seething mass making his head spin as he tried in vain to pluck a single polished answer from the jumbled mass of chaff and coal scrapings that now choked his brain.
 

Sharp leant against the wall, watching as Westing pushed the barbell away from her chest. Her cheeks, flushed from the exertion, glistened under the harsh glare of the strip lights in the ceiling. Sharp's eyes travelled over her body, taking in the sight of the soaked sports bra clinging to her modest frame like a second skin. She let the barbell drop with a heavy clang onto the T-shaped mounts above her head. With a guttural grunt, Carla heaved herself upwards, a film of glimmering sweat clinging to the bench as twisting spectres of steam rose from her heat-soaked body.
 

'So, you gonna stand there and perve on me all afternoon or you gonna hand me a towel and tell me what the hell you want, Dick?'
 

Sharp smiled contritely as he stepped into the room, the paper in his hand flapping as he moved.
 

'Well, I had considered it, but then I wasn't sure if your golden nuggets would poke my eye out if I moved too quickly.'
 

His Scottish brogue sliced his words in half as he spoke. Westing's eyes glittered with mirth as she cupped her breasts, jiggling them slightly as she spoke, her words laced with laughter.
 

'Oh aye, these are damned deadly in the wrong hands, watch yourself, soldier.'
 

Sharp smirked as he lifted his eyes from her modest cleavage, his grey-green orbs landing on Carla's for a second before he stepped towards her, his body relaxed and loose as he set the A4 page in front of her and nodded towards it.
 

'Gonna need you to liaise with Baker and Colinson on this. I've got some "concerns" about Shaw; it's to do with the Paddington op. Don't know what it is, but he was too calm, too collected, and too damned casual. Need you to go scooping and see what's what.'
 

Westing nodded as she looked over the page in her hand. Sighing, she plucked her towel from the floor and ran it over her neck and hair.
 

'No problem. Gimme three days to get a time set up. I am due to work on setting up the six new support crews coming; RAF has been kind enough to send us over some of Harry's mates, benefits of having Lizzie as a boss I suppose; but this...
 

She waved the page in the air as she spoke.
 

'Shouldn't be a problem. We don't need section fours running around the shop. In country or not, it's a weak link we don't bloody need. Now go on, fuck off; I need to get this set finished and showered before those flying penises get here. RAF boys are hornier than you bunch of swinging dicks.'
 

Sharp barked with laughter as he moved back towards the door, the sound of the weights clinking off one another filling the room as Carla's soft grunts of exertion flirted with Richard's ears.

****
 

Shaw sat staring out across the expanse of grass and copses of trees that bordered the ever-expanding base. He glanced at the pistol in his hand, the .38 calibre weapon glinting dully in the evening sun. He sighed as he set it on the bench beside him and clasped his hands together, staring at the glowing yellow ball just above the horizon. Images bounced in his head, pleading calls and the tears of men and women as they begged him for their lives.
 

The smouldering, hate-filled stare of an aged man as he knelt on the floor tearing back the sleeve of his shirt as he brandished the tattooed numbers that crawled up the inside of his forearm, the muttered Hebrew curse floating through the air as he spat at the toes of Shaw's boots.
 

The blinding flare of his weapon's muzzle as he squeezed the trigger silencing the pleas in a wave of chattering brass and hot lead.
 

'Is that thing really going help anything?'
 

Carla stopped four feet from the side of the bench, the revolver between Shaw and her as she cocked her head to one side, shoulders relaxed and hands hanging loosely at her sides as she waited for him to reply.
 

'Probably not, but it would certainly clear my head of the horror show bouncing round in there at the moment.'
 

Carla did all she could not to smile at the dark humour, as much as it gnawed at her. Motioning at the empty space on the bench, Westing spoke, her voice soft with an almost musical note to it.
 

'You know you missed our appointment. I was sat waiting in the naffi for over an hour.'
 

She watched mutely as Shaw shrugged, his demeanour cold and uncaring as Carla stepped closer to him, a question leaving her lips as her trainer-covered feet sent gravel chips skittering away.
 

'Mind if I take a pew?'
 

Shaw shrugged once more, pulling the revolver closer to his hip. She sat, the steel slats of the bench cold against her denim-covered rump. Carla wiggled slightly as she sat, tugging at the inner seam of her jeans as it began to grate against her skin.
 

She felt, more than saw, Shaw's lingering sidelong gaze as she plucked and pulled at her jeans.
 

'They're worried, you know.'
 

Westing's head snapped to the side, her eyes locking onto Shaw as he spoke, suddenly unsure of herself as she sat in the isolated corner of the base.
 

'Who are?'
 

Her voice kept its soft lyrical cadence as she fought with herself and her sudden involuntary need to flee. Digging her fingers into the meat of her thigh, Carla focused on the sudden burst of pain as she slowly rearranged her thoughts, letting Shaw's sudden statement sink in.
 

'Everyone… you, Baker, Colinson. All of them, really. I know Sharp made a formal statement about me. About Paddington and what I did.'
 

Carla shifted slightly closer to him, her fingers scatting over the cold metal beneath her, her clipped nails digging into the weather-worn paint that coated the anodized steel.
 

'And what makes you think they're so worried, Rufus?'
 

He cast a baleful look in Carla's direction as he leant forwards, his elbows resting against his knees.
 

'The fact that right at this very moment, I am scared shitless of myself. How ironic is that? I am... scared... of myself.'
 

Carla sat and watched his face for a moment, studying the play of emotions that flowed like water across his features, the haunted shimmer of self-doubt and fear that glowed in his eyes, mingled with the encompassing pall of anger.
 

'And why do you think that makes people worried about you?'
 

His eyes darkened as he stared at his hands, his hands reflexively opening and closing as he leant forwards trying in vain not to cry.
 

'Because it makes me the weak link, that point in the chain that will eventually crack under the strain and do something stupid. I thought I could hide it behind a veneer of indifference and calm self-assurance, but I can't.
 

'I can't get that girl's eyes out my mind, the look of pain and shock spreading through her as I pulled the trigger. She was supposed to be able to look to a soldier for help; instead, I betrayed her and the hundred others in there.
 

'If I am the weak link, then how can I lead my tea? How can I get them in and out of country safe and intact? I
can't
is the answer to that.'
 

His voice cracked as he turned to look at Westing, her pale, watery, blue eyes filled with sympathy and a heavy, comforting dose of familiarity.
 

A small smile ghosted over her lips as she set a hand on his shoulder, her right slipping across her lap to the revolver that sat between them. Her fingers carefully and quietly lifted the weapon, its weight settling into her fingers as she let it glide slowly over the thick layer of paint. Leaning forwards slowly, the weapon slithered past her denim-clad buttocks, falling deftly into her right hand as she pushed the drum free and emptied the rounds from the chambers; their soft semi-metallic clink flirted with her ears as they hit the floor, rolling into the leaf-clogged gutter below.
 

'Rufus, you have a track record longer than my old nineties ponytail, all of it flawless and irrefutably perfect. A weak link is something you are not.' She let her hand rest against his forearm, her fingers soft and teasing as she carried on talking. 'The only people I have met with more force majeure than you are Derek, Davies, and the old guard.'
 

Rufus glanced down at her hand as it softly kneaded his upper forearm, his face a blank mask as he turned to stare out at the open fields and horizon as the sun slowly made its descent.
 

'That's a crock of horse dollop, and you know it.
Force majeure
? What did you do, swallow a fucking dictionary?'
 

Westing ignored the pointed comment and continued the subtle guidance.
 

'May well have; fuck knows what they shove in the mash in the mess hall. Half of it tastes like burnt rat shit, anyway.'
 

Shaw snorted derisively, his shoulders loosening slightly as his mood began to shift. Sensing a break in his armour, Carla softly squeezed his arm as she spoke, shifting her weight, slowly drawing his slightly off balance.
 

'Come on, let's get you back to the sack rack; you look tired as hell.'
 

With a gentle tug, Carla drew Rufus to his feet as she stood up, leading him with soft words and a sympathetic smile to the Land-rover thirty yards away, the now empty pistol safely tucked into the pocket of her jacket.