Designated (Book 1): Designated Infected (39 page)

'You okay Kevin?'

He nodded; the shock and fear wearing off quickly as he
began to regain his composure.

'Yeh, I'm fine, we still have the other three patients
to deal with I'll call the next one through to the secondary room and
get the crew to deal with this, if you want to head up to Birch ward
and see about the two there.'

Janet nodded as she left the room walking quickly along
the corridor to the lift, her trainer covered feet squeaking slightly
on the pale grey-blue linoleum lining the corridor. Her chest rising
and falling in sync with the beating of her heart, she impatiently
jabbed at the cold disc of chromed steel watching as the pale watery
green circle ensnared the button.

A soft chiming ring echoed from inside the steel
casement of the lift doors as they slowly slide apart, parting like
the red sea before Moses. Janet forced her way between the partially
opened doors and stabbed at the button for the fourth floor. A dull
clunk rose from the depths of the lift shaft as the cables began the
arduous task of dragging the steel and plastic box up through the
steel girded column.

A small bar of light pulsed behind the doors snaking
through the millimetre wide slit between the slabs of steel
encapsulating her, the light danced across her body reflecting back
off the mirrored wall of the lift, fracturing across the flat,
seamless walls in a myriad of tiny spots as it cast it's jagged
misshapen clones of her shadow.

43

NATO
Training Exercise

Location
Unknown

The tunnel stank. Foetid water lay in thick green-tinged
pools covering the path ahead in a mine field of slime and pitfalls.
Gurgling ripples of passing filth, echoed up from the sunken remnants
of pipework long forgotten. Drains overflowing with excrement bubbled
up from beneath like a geyser. Sending the filth laden spray up into
the air, globules of excreta falling from the ceiling above, like
fat, over burdened slugs; landing in the muck below with a heavy,
wet, splat.

The thick cloying air stung his eyes, making his lungs
burn from the fumes it contained. With a barely suppressed shudder,
he reached into the pouch on his hip. Pulling the ANVP-VP F1 gas mask
from within he slid the toughened rubberised elastic straps over his
head pulling them tight against his scalp. The ridge of cold rubber
clung to his head like glue. His helmet sunk back into position with
a soft hiss, the lattice work of webbing inside balancing the heavy
dome of plastic and Kevlar on his cranium; the thick foam rubber
padding grating against his bare uncovered temples.

Setting the seal on his mask into a more secure
position, he raised his rifle and slowly moved off, water rippling
about his feet as he pushed off into the gaping maw that yawned
before him. He trudged forwards, his breath rasping as he drew in the
foetid filtered air. A foul taste welled up in his throat as he sank
deeper into the stinking bowels of the city.

A snap of his hand sent three men spinning off to the
left as the tunnels diverged. A sign bolted to the wall sat telling
the people brave or stupid enough to enter exactly where they were.
Its gloss white face and Gothic lettering once an eloquent marker for
any would be sightseer, but now, it was just a rust-pitted reminder
of the value of an underpaid and under motivated work force. Waving
his hand right, he sent another three men off as he pushed forwards;
ducking he settled into a crouch, his uniform seeming to drink in the
stagnant waters. His head cocked to the side listening to the sounds
of the tunnel.

A soft lapping echo fluttered across his hearing as he
patiently waited. The sound of the velvet touch of a tongue on water
drew forth the long repressed memories of childhood as he listened to
the echoing return, the soft pattering snaking its way gently through
the tunnels.

Waving his hand he motioned forwards as he gently rose
to his feet, the swirling ripple of his passage bouncing off the
slime encrusted concrete as it radiated forth. The lapping continued.
It swelled, growing, morphing as it drew closer. Coating him in a
film of cadent swirling colour. Memories danced in his mind as he
neared the source of the noise; images of a puppy, its golden coat
glinting in the early morning sun filtering through the windows of
his mother's kitchen. The darting of its little pink tongue as he
watched it, fascinated by its babe like innocence as it drank the
cool waters lain down by his parents.

Rounding the corner, his torch beam bounced off the wet
brick work casting a dazzling, dancing cone of white incandescent
light. As it skipped through the tunnel like a echoing reflection of
a trains lantern the lapping ceased. A pair of eyes glowed in the
dim reaches of the cones beam as he edged forward, a heavy almost
feral growl reaching his ears as he carried on his advance. Then as
if swallowed by the darkness beyond his lights reach, they were gone,
the clicking of clawed toenails skittering over stone the only sign
that something was there.

'Just a dog, move on.'

The man trailing him furrowed his brow as he stepped
slowly through the murky sludge laden water.

'What is a dog doing down here? It would not survive;
the water is to polluted to drink!'

He
stared at the back of the man in front of him as he spoke, his feet
feeling their way along as he trudged through the water topped mire.
Etienne
glanced around him a nagging sense of trepidation stabbing into the
back of his mind; driving him slowly and surely insane as he moved
deeper and deeper into the maze of tunnels.

He stared at the walls around him, a harsh niggling itch
scraping at the inside of his skull; he knew something was not right.
Something in those tunnels was waiting, not only for him, but for his
men, and for those working beside them. Reaching up he reset his gas
mask once again and pushed forwards, deeper into the maze; deeper
into the devil's lair. A malicious grin bloomed across his features
as he snapped on his barrel mounted torch, if it was waiting for him,
then he wouldn't make it wait any longer, whatever it was, wherever
in the labyrinth it resided, he would find it.

He would find it and then as it stared into the muzzle
of his rifle, he would kill it.

****

Dieter glanced out from his perch, the four foot drop
ending at the sluggishly moving swirl of detritus below him. He
lifted his hand motioning over his shoulder and felt the water shift
softly as his second in command slid in beside him.

'We leave two here, secure the exit, then split into two
fire teams and converge back here in ninety minutes to regroup.'

He watched the silent movement of Mathias' reflective
lenses, the M2000 mask distorting his features as he nodded and slid
away once more to relay the orders to the rest of the team. The G36
assault rifle lay heavy against his back as he gently fingered the
smooth pommel of his KM2000 combat knife, rising, he silently slid
over the edge of the precipice before him and like an eel, slid into
the water.

The others did likewise, barely a ripple rolling across
the glass like surface of the water as they lowered themselves to the
floor three feet beneath the oil slicked water, boots sinking into
the cloying, sludge like, filth beneath them.

With swift gestures he sent his second in command and
four other members of the unit away, their movements fluid as they
melted into the shadows.

'We are to connect up with the French force before
rendezvousing with the British team, remember they may not recognise
us initially so unless you are fired upon or drawn into physical
combat under no circumstances are you to fire upon any one you come
into contact with, am I clear?'

The two sentries nodded and dropped into covering
positions hugging the entrance wall.

****

Dieter glanced left and slid his feet slowly through the
water, pushing his hunched form across the tunnel's width as he
scanned the depths of the darkness, the hollow whine of his night
vision goggles buzzing in his ear like a gnat caught in a glass.

He watched the fluorescent green rod of his laser marker
slice through the black, cutting a swathe through the thick
impenetrable curtain that hung before them. Even with his goggles he
was struggling to see more than seven feet ahead of him.

'Damned useless pieces of shit.'

Andreas cast a sidelong glance at his commander as he
slipped through the darkness, even though no more than five feet
separated the two men, to him, Dieter was little more than a talking
ink blot on black canvas.

'What's up with you old man.'

Dieter flipped off his younger counterpart, the comment
a running joke amongst the team.

'How long are you going to keep that up, I am only three
years older than you Andreas, and one year older than Mathias.'

His ear bead crackled in his ear as he spoke.

'Will you two shut the hell up, we can hear you over
here.'

Dieter's brow furrowed at the clipped foreign accent.

He felt it levering its way into his ear canal as
hunched, stalking, wraith like forms began to materialise from the
darkness of the tunnel before him.

Like actors on a stage they moved with precision and
grace echoed only by the silence that followed their every movement,
the gentle lapping at Dieter's boots his only indication of their
passage through the normally still and stagnant waters of the sewers.

'You boy's are good, the stories about you lot aren't
exaggerated; although, your vocal noise discipline needs a bit of
work.'

Their voices sounded muffled through their gas masks,
the words coming out clunky and riddled with a buzzing static as they
spoke.

'You must be Baker.'

A soft chuckle echoed from behind the black tinted
lenses of Baker,s SF10 gas mask.

'And I am guessing you are Dieter, got a last name?'

The German nodded, his head feeling heavy as his neck
strained under the weight of his ballistics helmet and gas mask.

His German accent lilting the words as they buzzed
through the masks vocal diaphragm, 'My last name is Engel; although I
do not know why you need to know it.'

A small smile pulled at the corners of Baker's eyes,
making them dance with an unrequited mirth.

'Because, Dieter; I like to know who I'm working with,
the rest of your boys are on the other side ain't they? Guessing from
the team deployments you've got...what five here?'

He did a very quick mental check as he ran through the
statistics of all the N.A.T.O country teams.

'If I'm remembering correctly; you operate on a twelve
man fire team, so that probably means you left your two close
quarters assault specialists as rear guard at your entry point and
have another five man assault team going through the left tunnel
branch.'

He lifted his hand to his neck pressing down on the
vocal receiver for his throat mic.

'King, this is Cherry, just made contact with the Erste
Biologische Kampfbrigade, you got anything your end?'

The line fizzed and crackled as he waited for a reply,
he glanced forwards noticing the slightly surprised look emanating
from behind Dieter's mask at Baker's flawless pronunciation of the
divisions name.

'My aunt's German.'

The look increased tenfold as Baker answered his unasked
question.

'Cherry, yeah, I got one hell of a headache.'

Baker frowned, his brow crinkling behind his mask as he
listened to Kingsley's reply.

'What you on about.'

He listened to a stifled hiss as Kingsley began to
reply.

'One of the krauts butt-slammed me in the head, guess I
made him jump. I think his name was Mathias; although with the
ringing in my ears, it might as well be Gertrude.'

Baker heard Dieter's deep throated chuckle drift lazily
down the tunnel as Kingsley groused at being smacked in the head with
the butt end of Mathias' rifle.

'Well that's what you get for blending in with the
shadows, keep telling you to smile in dark places.'

Baker smirked as Kingsley let of a rapid-fire stream of
cursives.

'Yeah, yeah love you to Solomon, now keep it on a swivel
and play nice. I got to talk to their C.O. Cherry out.'

He
dropped his hand back to the fore grip of his rifle as he stepped
forwards holding out his left hand to Dieter, the Kevlar infused
leather hugging the creased and calloused skin of his hand.

The flexing of his fingers made the battle worn material
groan in complaint as it strained against his extending digits. The
German reached out and clasped the proffered hand in his own;
squeezing it firmly, with a short, sharp, shake.