Fic, Silk and Steel, Part 83
Jun. 6th, 2012 08:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Silk and Steel, Part 83
Authors : fredbassett & munchkinofdoom
Fandom : Primeval
Characters : Thomson, Stringer, Helen, Stephen, Connor, Abby, Nick, Annie, Ditzy.
Rating : 18
Disclaimer : Not ours, no money made, don’t sue
Spoilers : None
Summary : The team have to deal a difficult anomaly call out.
Warning : Slave!fic.
A/N : The links to all previous parts can be found HERE. Captain Thomson appears with kind permission of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deinonychus_1.
Thomson looked away from the security feed and leaned back in the chair, stretching the taut muscles in his shoulders before he reached for the ever-present mug of coffee. He’d lost track of the amount of caffeine he’d consumed in the past 24 hours, but it was certainly more than was good for him. Scrutinising the footage from the various security cameras dotted around the ARC was probably a futile waste of time and no doubt akin to locking the stable door after the horse had well and truly bolted, but it gave him something to occupy his mind while he waited for further reports from the field team.
Stringer and his lads had been doing their best to contain the latest incursion through an anomaly. Two soldiers had been injured and he was waiting for a report from Matt Rees who’d accompanied the team. The young medic was capable, there was no doubt about that, but he lacked Lieutenant Owen’s hands-on experience with the sort of injuries that could be – and all too frequently were – inflicted by the teeth and claws of creatures that, in Thomson’s opinion, had no place outside a museum display.
Cutter’s insistence on returning the beasts to their own time wherever possible was a policy Thomson had little time for, but the military contingent that had worked with the professor since the anomaly project had been formed now simply seemed to take his demands in their stride. Cutter was still something of an enigma. Thomson found it difficult to square some of the reports he’d read with what he’d seen of the man’s behaviour. The professor had garnered a reputation in the early days for being a hard bastard. He’d had one of Ryan’s men flogged for killing a creature against his orders, even though the man they called Blade had been acting in defence of the civilian team but, in total contrast to Cutter’s earlier actions, Thomson had seen the former academic exhibit an almost visceral antipathy to any kind of physical punishment. He’d certainly undergone some sort of road to Damascus moment in his time in the ARC, but whatever it was hadn’t made it into the reports.
By coincidence, the image currently being relayed to Thomson’s monitor was of the downstairs corridor on the way to the Punishment Room where Lieutenant Owen had been brave enough – or stupid enough, Thomson still wasn’t quite sure which – to save his commanding officer from being flogged to death by putting two bullets into him at close range. Thomson didn’t believe the story Ryan’s men had clearly cooked up between them but he couldn’t blame them for what they’d done. He’d seen enough men die at the end of a whip to last him a lifetime. Tom Ryan had been a good soldier. He’d deserved better than to be used as a political scapegoat for someone else’s deliberate sabotage. Thomson also didn’t believe for an instant that Sir James Lester had been up to no good and, interestingly, neither did Oliver Leek.
Replacing Lester with Leek had been Section 42’s way of getting someone in the director’s job that they could control. Thomson had seen enough of Lester’s relationship with Ryan to have been certain that he could break the man using Ryan as the tool. Giving Miller his head in the Interrogation Room had simply been a means to an end – however distasteful those means had been. And in consequence, Ryan’s loyalty to Lester had almost cost him his life even before Downing Street had had their say in matters. Thomson had known perfectly well that the man had deliberately inhaled water when Miller’s questioning had strayed too close to areas that Lester wouldn’t have wanted to become public knowledge, namely the fact that he no doubt made a habit of taking it up the arse from his head of security.
Thomson smiled ruefully. Everyone had their Achilles’ heel, and that was clearly Lester’s. It was equally interesting that, by the look of things, Oliver Leek had now fallen into the same trap, although how the hell that had happened, Thomson couldn’t even begin to guess. He’d read the reports of the punishment Leek had meted out to Lyle – and he’d heard the gossip about the bits the official documents hadn’t covered – and for the life of him he couldn’t understand how Leek had managed to gain the lieutenant’s loyalty. Like Ryan, Jon Lyle had a reputation as a good officer, one who didn’t suffer fools gladly, yet he had now fallen into the role of Leek’s bodyguard and confidante. And, if Thomson’s guess was accurate, Lyle was now warming Leek’s bed as well, even though he appeared to be in a relationship with Cutter’s delectable assistant.
As far as Thomson could see, half of the staff of the ARC was in relationships of varying degrees of commitment with other team members, and no doubt there was yet more going on than he had a handle on, but he was getting there, although the inhabitants of what was undoubtedly the craziest set-up he’d ever worked in were still capable of surprising him. In particular, Oliver Leek was proving somewhat less malleable than Thomson’s superiors had foreseen. But at least now Section 42 had a better degree of control over Cutter and his bunch of mavericks than they’d had previously, and that was a good start. The ARC was crucial to national security and that made it Section 42’s business. When – and in Thomson’s mind it was very definitely when, not if – news of the anomalies ended up in the public domain, it would be vital to have a strong military presence on the project, one that was reporting directly to the Prime Minister.
The intercom on Thomson’s desk buzzed loudly. “Captain Stringer has just phoned in, sir,” reported the Duty Technician manning the ADD. “The creatures have been dealt with, the anomaly has closed and the team are on their way back. No fatalities, sir,” the man added quickly.
Thomson closed his eyes in relief, glad there was no one in his office to witness his reaction. They couldn’t afford more deaths amongst the security teams. UK Special Forces were spread thinly enough as it was and every death weakened their operational capability. He’d been told in no uncertain terms that the Directorate couldn’t spare any more men. Thomson reached blindly for the mug on his desk and swallowed the last of the almost-cold coffee.
With the team on their way back and the ARC quiet for once, he could afford to relax for a while.
*****
When Thomson opened his eyes, the view on the monitor had changed to one of the science labs. Although it was now early evening, a couple of technicians were still sitting in front of computer screens, staring at incomprehensible data and tapping away on their keyboards. As he watched, one of them, an attractive woman in her late thirties whose name he didn’t know, stiffened and turned around to face someone out of sight of the camera, her face dropping into the sort of blank mask that Thomson had become all too familiar with in his short time in the ARC. The woman shook her head and turned back to her screen, clearly trying to disengage from the conversation.
Thomson quickly brought up the audio feed for that camera and heard a familiar voice declaring, “I really must insist, Cathy. Professor Morris wouldn’t thank me for letting her staff work long hours after such a difficult week.”
Helen Cutter sounded as sincere as a spider inviting a fly home for tea and the woman called Cathy clearly thought the same. She put her hand up, fingering the metal collar encircling her neck, unconsciously betraying her uncertainty.
“The same goes for you, Clive, I’m sure your wife will be happy to see you home early for once.”
The other occupant of the room, a man a few years older than Helen, got up, grabbed his bag, muttered, “Thank you, ma’am,” and promptly fled.
The other woman held her ground for a few moments longer then bowed to the inevitable and made good her own escape, barely taking the time to close down her computer. The door had barely closed before Helen Cutter seated herself at the woman’s desk and turned the computer terminal back on. Thomson watched as, with a few quick keystrokes, Helen gained access and appeared to be scrutinising some recently closed documents. A few minutes later, she took a USB stick from the battered leather shoulder bag that she always carried and inserted it into computer. In less than five minutes, she’d obtained what she wanted, shut the computer down again and made her exit.
Thomson tracked her progress through the ARC, wondering whether she would be paying anyone else’s office a visit in their absence. Helen hesitated outside Annie Morris’s door, staring at it before turning away. Thomson wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the professor’s bodyguard, who had the reputation of being a suspicious bastard – a good trait in a close personal protection specialist – had placed a tell-tale of some kind on the door to alert him to any unauthorised entry and by the look of it, the same thought had occurred to Helen. And even if she’d got past any exterior defences, it was obvious that Professor Morris, for all her surface bonhomie, was not a woman to be messed with, so her computers would almost certainly be protected in some way as well. Lester had brought her onto the project to provide some much-needed hard science and it had been obvious to Thomson from reading the accounts of the attack on the ARC that had provided the excuse for his involvement that the professor’s research had been one of the prime targets. So the exercise of some precautions against outside interference was only to be expected.
The building was now largely deserted. The staff had taken full advantage of Leek’s attempt to return the ARC to a semblance of normality and sensibly fled its confines in favour of their own homes as soon as 5.30pm had arrived. As he tracked Helen’s progress through the building, Thomson was able to discover for himself the extent of the coverage provided by the CCTV cameras. They were well set up, that much was obvious, but it appeared that there were still a couple of cameras off-line, something he resolved to look into more closely the following day.
The main area where the coverage appeared to be patchy was on the lower levels, although Thomson was able to see Sergeant Miller – looking remarkably dry for a man who was meant to have spent the last few hours on a tour of the perimeter fencing in the pouring rain – making his way to the armoury, presumably to check his weapons back in before writing the report that Thomson had demanded before the end of the day. Miller had very much served his purpose so far as Thomson was concerned. He was now going to find himself on a much shorter lead in future. The ARC needed stability now, not division.
Helen Cutter appeared to have given up her attempts at snooping and was making her way slowly back to the atrium. As she entered one of the lifts, Thomson brought up a view of the main gates and saw a line of vehicles approaching. Stringer and his men must have broken a few speed limits on their way back. The camera in the cavernous internal garage showed a group of exhausted soldiers and even more exhausted civilians getting out of their vehicles, grabbing weapons and equipment and making their way towards the door leading into the main room of the ARC.
Stephen Hart appeared to be limping badly, Connor Temple had an angry scrape on one cheek and even the normally-cheerful Abby Maitland looked like she was about to either burst into tears or hit someone. Cutter and Annie Morris were deep in debate about something, as oblivious to their surroundings as the academics normally were, and Joel Stringer looked like a man in serious need of alcohol as he ushered both his men and his charges back into the ARC.
Thomson was practised now in switching from one security camera to another. He’d even worked out how to bring up split screen views, his new-found expertise proving how long the wait had been for the field team to return. He saw Leek, followed as ever by Lyle, leaving his office to make his way down the ramp at the same moment as Helen Cutter stalked into the atrium, looking for all the world like a hunting cat prowling through its territory. Abby Maitland, her head half-turned as she said something to Temple, walked into Helen, throwing her off balance and sending her shoulder bag to the ground, spilling its contents across the tiled floor.
Abby’s reaction, although Thomson couldn’t distinguish her actual words over the noise of several voices all speaking at once, was clearly apologetic. Temple promptly bent down and reached for a leather-bound notebook that had fallen open on the floor. He picked it up, staring for a moment at the open pages. To Thomson’s surprise, Helen Cutter reacted immediately, snatching the book from him and lashing out with one hand, catching him a vicious blow across his already-injured cheek.
Temple staggered back, a cry of pain clearly escaping his lips. For a moment, Thomson thought Abby Maitland was about to attack Helen, but Joel Stringer stepped between the two of them, one hand placed protectively on Abby’s shoulder, designed to both steady her and send an appropriate message to the clearly furious woman who had reacted with such casual violence to Abby’s friend and flatmate.
Helen stuffed the notebook back into her shoulder bag but clearly thought better of going up against a soldier who looked like he would have quite happily resorted to violence himself at the slightest provocation. There were times, Thomson thought wryly, that the ARC’s status as a Protected Place, where it was an offence to hinder the military in the execution of their duties, was a useful reminder even to people of Helen Cutter’s standing, that there were occasions when avoiding a confrontation really was the wisest course of action.
The other item that had spilled out of Helen’s bag was the USB stick that he’d seen her use to store the information she’d taken off Annie Morris’s assistant’s computer. Before anyone else could touch it, Helen bent down and retrieved the device, tucking it away along with the notebook as she moved to join Cutter and Annie, engaging them in conversation as though the incident with Temple simply hadn’t happened. Thomson admired the woman’s brass neck, although it was clear that sentiment wasn’t shared by either of the academics. Stringer promptly used the opportunity to steer Abby away from the crowd of people thronging the atrium, nodding to Tanya Lacey, the only female member of the Special Forces team, to do the same with Connor. Throughout the incident, the soldier they called Blade had remained at Annie Morris’s shoulder like a dark shadow.
Thomson caught a flash of metal as a knife was slipped back into a wrist sheath. He reached out quickly and pressed a button on the intercom system on his desk, anxious to prevent any escalation of violence in the tense atmosphere of the atrium.
“Lieutenant Owen to the medical room. There are minor injuries to be attended to. I repeat, Lieutenant Owen to the medical room.” His command was broadcasted loudly throughout the ARC
He knew from the staff entry and exit logs that Owen was still in the building, no doubt waiting for the return of his team mates, even though he was officially off duty. As Thomson’s words echoed throughout the ARC, several people in the atrium flinched. He smiled and decided it was time to put in a personal appearance.
He passed Owen in the corridor. The medic was wearing jeans and an old tee-shirt, looking like he’d just woken up.
“I’m told there were no fatalities,” Thomson said quickly, watching relief clear the frown off the lieutenant’s face. “It looks like Rees has accompanied two men to hospital. I don’t know the details yet, I’ll let you know when I do.”
“Thanks.”
Thomson noted the lack of an attached ‘sir’ with approval. Special Forces were notorious for their casual attitude, especially between officers, and its omission was more of a mark of respect than any outsider would recognise. Thomson doubted that he’d ever attain the heights of ‘boss’ from Ryan’s unit, but Owen’s response was a step in the right direction. He would need these men’s loyalty and Owen was influential. The soldiers liked and trusted him. Thomson thrust away the contrast between how Ryan’s men had related to their CO and how his own men no doubt viewed him. Events of the last couple of days had thrown those differences into sharp relief, something Thomson hadn’t really wanted to examine too closely, but try as he might to avoid some things, the thoughts kept on coming back.
As he walked into the atrium, he heard Cutter telling Leek that they hadn’t needed Jenny Lewis’s assistance. They’d used the cover-story of an attack by a pack of pit-bull terriers believed to have been used in an illegal dog-fighting ring. It had provided an adequate explanation for the injuries the two soldiers had suffered, and both Abby Maitland and Stephen Hart had enough animal experience to have passed for RSPCA inspectors. Thomson admired their quick thinking, yet another testament to the experience Cutter and his motley crew had gained dealing with what seemed to be an almost endless procession of creature incursions.
The group started to split up, with Cutter and Annie Morris accompanying Leek back up to his office. Thomson saw Lyle exchange a few quick words with Stephen Hart before following them. Hart looked as exhausted as the soldiers. He had an M4 carbine slung over his shoulder instead of the tranquilliser rifle he usually carried, a testament to how rough the operation had been. It looked like Annie Morris had chosen an interesting day to accompany the field team.
Thomson held out his hand to Hart. “I’ll check that back in for you. Get that leg looked at.”
“It’s just a stiff knee, I’ll be fine.” Hart’s voice was wary, obviously wondering if there was some objection to him carrying that sort of weaponry. Thomson knew perfectly well that Lester had signed the requisite order to allow all members of Cutter’s team – even the hapless Temple – access to firearms despite their Indentured status, but Hart still clearly had concerns.
“Get it strapped up before it stops you walking,” Thomson said, keeping his voice strictly neutral. “I’ve lost count of the men I’ve seen drop out of exercises due to twisted knees and ankles. You can play the hero in the field as much as you like, Hart, but when the op’s over, you get patched up just like any of my men. Got that?”
Hart shot him a swift grin. “That’s what Ryan used to say,” he admitted. He handed the M4 to Thomson and unstrapped the thigh holster that held the Browning he habitually carried.
Thomson slung the rifle over his own shoulder, letting the webbing of the holster dangle from his hand, and watched as Hart limped out of the atrium. Of all Cutter’s team, it appeared he was the only one who didn’t have the services of a bodyguard, but from what Thomson knew of the man’s competence with a gun, he doubted that one was necessary. The one that had undoubtedly drawn the short-straw was Finn, assigned the duty of watching over the unpredictable former academic, but the young soldier just seemed to take everything that life – and Cutter – threw at him in his stride.
Thomson caught Stringer’s eye and jerked his head in the opposite direction to Leek’s room. “Armoury then beer,” he suggested. “I suspect the professors will bring Mr Leek up to speed.”
Stringer nodded and fell into step with Thomson as they made their way to the armoury. His hair, which he wore habitually wore longer than was generally considered acceptable in the military, was plastered to his head with an unappealing mix of sweat and what looked like mud, though it could just as easily have been shit. His black uniform was stained with blood, although he didn’t appear to have been injured.
He saw the direction of Thomson’s gaze and said quietly, “One of the fuckers took a chunk out of Jake Hennessy’s leg. Nicked an artery. Matt did a good job on him but Jake lost a lot of blood before the ambulance got there. Some of it ended up on me.”
“What happened to Marsden?”
If Stringer was surprised that Thomson knew the names of his men and had worked out from watching them return who the other casualty had been, he was careful not to betray his feelings. “One of the things ripped his arm up badly. Abby got it off him by smashing it over the head with her tranq rifle.”
Thomson smiled. “Smart girl.” He’d heard the rumours about Abby Maitland and Joel Stringer, but neither of them let it affect their work any more than Hart and Lyle did, so it was no concern of Thomson’s who Stringer shagged in his spare time.
The armoury was full of soldiers checking back in both their weaponry and unused ammunition amidst the usual round of adrenaline-fuelled bad jokes. A couple of them glanced at him, but didn’t tone down their behaviour, which Thomson took as another good sign.
He paused in the doorway and announced, “I believe you’ll find a larger than usual supply of cold beer in the recreation room, gentlemen. If there’s a second shout tonight, Becker’s team will cover it.”
Without waiting for their response, he looked at Joel Stringer and said, “There’s some in my office as well, or would you rather grab a shower first? The reports can wait. I think I’ve picked up the essentials.”
Before Stringer could reply his phone buzzed. “Matt? What’s the score?” The relief in the other captain’s eyes told Thomson all he needed to know of the answer. Jake Hennessey would live. “Marsden?” A moment later Stringer grinned. “Yeah, well tell him he’ll just have to wank left-handed for a while. Thanks, Matt. Get yourself off home when you’ve finished at the hospital. If there’s another shout Becker’s mob will handle it and Chris Wilkes can go out with them. You need some sleep. See you tomorrow, mate. Good job, well done.” Stringer stuffed the phone back into a pocket of his bloodstained equipment vest and said, “A shower can wait. Beer can’t.”
Springer sprawled out in one of the chairs in Thomson’s office, pulled the tab off the beer can and downed it in several long, appreciative swallows. Thomson slid another across the desk, took a drink out of his own can and then poured two large whisky chasers. He’d had enough coffee to last a lifetime. The beer tasted good and the whisky tasted even better. Stringer shrugged off his equipment vest and jacket, then plucked distastefully at his sweat-stained black tee-shirt. “Christ, I smell,” he commented, tossing the whisky down his throat and holding out his glass for a refill.
“Yes, you do,” Thomson acknowledged with a grin. It looked very much like a third beer was about to go the same way as the two previous ones. It was fortunate he’d taken the precaution of insisting that the catering staff provided extra stocks.
Stringer took the can from him. “Thanks, Ian.”
The use of his first name caught Thomson off guard for a moment and from the look of mild amusement in Stringer’s intelligent brown eyes, that fact hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“You went out on a limb for Ditzy. I’m grateful… so are the lads,” Stringer commented.
“So did you.” It was a statement, not a question. Joel Stringer was well-connected and Thomson knew that he hadn’t been the only one fighting the medic’s corner.
“I’ve worked with him for years, you haven’t. You could have let the bosses have their way, but you didn’t.”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to spend the rest of my time here watching my back.”
Stringer shrugged. “Either way, it was a good move.” Stringer held out his glass for another shot of whisky. “So, if Ryan was set up and Lester’s innocent, who have we got to blame for screwing us over?”
The image of Helen Cutter hacking into someone’s computer came immediately to mind, as did her reaction to Conner picking up the notebook that had fallen out of her bag.
“Ask me again in a couple of days,” Thomson said, swilling the liquid around in the glass and inhaling the aroma before downing the whisky in one.
He hoped by then he might have some answers.
Authors : fredbassett & munchkinofdoom
Fandom : Primeval
Characters : Thomson, Stringer, Helen, Stephen, Connor, Abby, Nick, Annie, Ditzy.
Rating : 18
Disclaimer : Not ours, no money made, don’t sue
Spoilers : None
Summary : The team have to deal a difficult anomaly call out.
Warning : Slave!fic.
A/N : The links to all previous parts can be found HERE. Captain Thomson appears with kind permission of
deinonychus_1.Thomson looked away from the security feed and leaned back in the chair, stretching the taut muscles in his shoulders before he reached for the ever-present mug of coffee. He’d lost track of the amount of caffeine he’d consumed in the past 24 hours, but it was certainly more than was good for him. Scrutinising the footage from the various security cameras dotted around the ARC was probably a futile waste of time and no doubt akin to locking the stable door after the horse had well and truly bolted, but it gave him something to occupy his mind while he waited for further reports from the field team.
Stringer and his lads had been doing their best to contain the latest incursion through an anomaly. Two soldiers had been injured and he was waiting for a report from Matt Rees who’d accompanied the team. The young medic was capable, there was no doubt about that, but he lacked Lieutenant Owen’s hands-on experience with the sort of injuries that could be – and all too frequently were – inflicted by the teeth and claws of creatures that, in Thomson’s opinion, had no place outside a museum display.
Cutter’s insistence on returning the beasts to their own time wherever possible was a policy Thomson had little time for, but the military contingent that had worked with the professor since the anomaly project had been formed now simply seemed to take his demands in their stride. Cutter was still something of an enigma. Thomson found it difficult to square some of the reports he’d read with what he’d seen of the man’s behaviour. The professor had garnered a reputation in the early days for being a hard bastard. He’d had one of Ryan’s men flogged for killing a creature against his orders, even though the man they called Blade had been acting in defence of the civilian team but, in total contrast to Cutter’s earlier actions, Thomson had seen the former academic exhibit an almost visceral antipathy to any kind of physical punishment. He’d certainly undergone some sort of road to Damascus moment in his time in the ARC, but whatever it was hadn’t made it into the reports.
By coincidence, the image currently being relayed to Thomson’s monitor was of the downstairs corridor on the way to the Punishment Room where Lieutenant Owen had been brave enough – or stupid enough, Thomson still wasn’t quite sure which – to save his commanding officer from being flogged to death by putting two bullets into him at close range. Thomson didn’t believe the story Ryan’s men had clearly cooked up between them but he couldn’t blame them for what they’d done. He’d seen enough men die at the end of a whip to last him a lifetime. Tom Ryan had been a good soldier. He’d deserved better than to be used as a political scapegoat for someone else’s deliberate sabotage. Thomson also didn’t believe for an instant that Sir James Lester had been up to no good and, interestingly, neither did Oliver Leek.
Replacing Lester with Leek had been Section 42’s way of getting someone in the director’s job that they could control. Thomson had seen enough of Lester’s relationship with Ryan to have been certain that he could break the man using Ryan as the tool. Giving Miller his head in the Interrogation Room had simply been a means to an end – however distasteful those means had been. And in consequence, Ryan’s loyalty to Lester had almost cost him his life even before Downing Street had had their say in matters. Thomson had known perfectly well that the man had deliberately inhaled water when Miller’s questioning had strayed too close to areas that Lester wouldn’t have wanted to become public knowledge, namely the fact that he no doubt made a habit of taking it up the arse from his head of security.
Thomson smiled ruefully. Everyone had their Achilles’ heel, and that was clearly Lester’s. It was equally interesting that, by the look of things, Oliver Leek had now fallen into the same trap, although how the hell that had happened, Thomson couldn’t even begin to guess. He’d read the reports of the punishment Leek had meted out to Lyle – and he’d heard the gossip about the bits the official documents hadn’t covered – and for the life of him he couldn’t understand how Leek had managed to gain the lieutenant’s loyalty. Like Ryan, Jon Lyle had a reputation as a good officer, one who didn’t suffer fools gladly, yet he had now fallen into the role of Leek’s bodyguard and confidante. And, if Thomson’s guess was accurate, Lyle was now warming Leek’s bed as well, even though he appeared to be in a relationship with Cutter’s delectable assistant.
As far as Thomson could see, half of the staff of the ARC was in relationships of varying degrees of commitment with other team members, and no doubt there was yet more going on than he had a handle on, but he was getting there, although the inhabitants of what was undoubtedly the craziest set-up he’d ever worked in were still capable of surprising him. In particular, Oliver Leek was proving somewhat less malleable than Thomson’s superiors had foreseen. But at least now Section 42 had a better degree of control over Cutter and his bunch of mavericks than they’d had previously, and that was a good start. The ARC was crucial to national security and that made it Section 42’s business. When – and in Thomson’s mind it was very definitely when, not if – news of the anomalies ended up in the public domain, it would be vital to have a strong military presence on the project, one that was reporting directly to the Prime Minister.
The intercom on Thomson’s desk buzzed loudly. “Captain Stringer has just phoned in, sir,” reported the Duty Technician manning the ADD. “The creatures have been dealt with, the anomaly has closed and the team are on their way back. No fatalities, sir,” the man added quickly.
Thomson closed his eyes in relief, glad there was no one in his office to witness his reaction. They couldn’t afford more deaths amongst the security teams. UK Special Forces were spread thinly enough as it was and every death weakened their operational capability. He’d been told in no uncertain terms that the Directorate couldn’t spare any more men. Thomson reached blindly for the mug on his desk and swallowed the last of the almost-cold coffee.
With the team on their way back and the ARC quiet for once, he could afford to relax for a while.
*****
When Thomson opened his eyes, the view on the monitor had changed to one of the science labs. Although it was now early evening, a couple of technicians were still sitting in front of computer screens, staring at incomprehensible data and tapping away on their keyboards. As he watched, one of them, an attractive woman in her late thirties whose name he didn’t know, stiffened and turned around to face someone out of sight of the camera, her face dropping into the sort of blank mask that Thomson had become all too familiar with in his short time in the ARC. The woman shook her head and turned back to her screen, clearly trying to disengage from the conversation.
Thomson quickly brought up the audio feed for that camera and heard a familiar voice declaring, “I really must insist, Cathy. Professor Morris wouldn’t thank me for letting her staff work long hours after such a difficult week.”
Helen Cutter sounded as sincere as a spider inviting a fly home for tea and the woman called Cathy clearly thought the same. She put her hand up, fingering the metal collar encircling her neck, unconsciously betraying her uncertainty.
“The same goes for you, Clive, I’m sure your wife will be happy to see you home early for once.”
The other occupant of the room, a man a few years older than Helen, got up, grabbed his bag, muttered, “Thank you, ma’am,” and promptly fled.
The other woman held her ground for a few moments longer then bowed to the inevitable and made good her own escape, barely taking the time to close down her computer. The door had barely closed before Helen Cutter seated herself at the woman’s desk and turned the computer terminal back on. Thomson watched as, with a few quick keystrokes, Helen gained access and appeared to be scrutinising some recently closed documents. A few minutes later, she took a USB stick from the battered leather shoulder bag that she always carried and inserted it into computer. In less than five minutes, she’d obtained what she wanted, shut the computer down again and made her exit.
Thomson tracked her progress through the ARC, wondering whether she would be paying anyone else’s office a visit in their absence. Helen hesitated outside Annie Morris’s door, staring at it before turning away. Thomson wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the professor’s bodyguard, who had the reputation of being a suspicious bastard – a good trait in a close personal protection specialist – had placed a tell-tale of some kind on the door to alert him to any unauthorised entry and by the look of it, the same thought had occurred to Helen. And even if she’d got past any exterior defences, it was obvious that Professor Morris, for all her surface bonhomie, was not a woman to be messed with, so her computers would almost certainly be protected in some way as well. Lester had brought her onto the project to provide some much-needed hard science and it had been obvious to Thomson from reading the accounts of the attack on the ARC that had provided the excuse for his involvement that the professor’s research had been one of the prime targets. So the exercise of some precautions against outside interference was only to be expected.
The building was now largely deserted. The staff had taken full advantage of Leek’s attempt to return the ARC to a semblance of normality and sensibly fled its confines in favour of their own homes as soon as 5.30pm had arrived. As he tracked Helen’s progress through the building, Thomson was able to discover for himself the extent of the coverage provided by the CCTV cameras. They were well set up, that much was obvious, but it appeared that there were still a couple of cameras off-line, something he resolved to look into more closely the following day.
The main area where the coverage appeared to be patchy was on the lower levels, although Thomson was able to see Sergeant Miller – looking remarkably dry for a man who was meant to have spent the last few hours on a tour of the perimeter fencing in the pouring rain – making his way to the armoury, presumably to check his weapons back in before writing the report that Thomson had demanded before the end of the day. Miller had very much served his purpose so far as Thomson was concerned. He was now going to find himself on a much shorter lead in future. The ARC needed stability now, not division.
Helen Cutter appeared to have given up her attempts at snooping and was making her way slowly back to the atrium. As she entered one of the lifts, Thomson brought up a view of the main gates and saw a line of vehicles approaching. Stringer and his men must have broken a few speed limits on their way back. The camera in the cavernous internal garage showed a group of exhausted soldiers and even more exhausted civilians getting out of their vehicles, grabbing weapons and equipment and making their way towards the door leading into the main room of the ARC.
Stephen Hart appeared to be limping badly, Connor Temple had an angry scrape on one cheek and even the normally-cheerful Abby Maitland looked like she was about to either burst into tears or hit someone. Cutter and Annie Morris were deep in debate about something, as oblivious to their surroundings as the academics normally were, and Joel Stringer looked like a man in serious need of alcohol as he ushered both his men and his charges back into the ARC.
Thomson was practised now in switching from one security camera to another. He’d even worked out how to bring up split screen views, his new-found expertise proving how long the wait had been for the field team to return. He saw Leek, followed as ever by Lyle, leaving his office to make his way down the ramp at the same moment as Helen Cutter stalked into the atrium, looking for all the world like a hunting cat prowling through its territory. Abby Maitland, her head half-turned as she said something to Temple, walked into Helen, throwing her off balance and sending her shoulder bag to the ground, spilling its contents across the tiled floor.
Abby’s reaction, although Thomson couldn’t distinguish her actual words over the noise of several voices all speaking at once, was clearly apologetic. Temple promptly bent down and reached for a leather-bound notebook that had fallen open on the floor. He picked it up, staring for a moment at the open pages. To Thomson’s surprise, Helen Cutter reacted immediately, snatching the book from him and lashing out with one hand, catching him a vicious blow across his already-injured cheek.
Temple staggered back, a cry of pain clearly escaping his lips. For a moment, Thomson thought Abby Maitland was about to attack Helen, but Joel Stringer stepped between the two of them, one hand placed protectively on Abby’s shoulder, designed to both steady her and send an appropriate message to the clearly furious woman who had reacted with such casual violence to Abby’s friend and flatmate.
Helen stuffed the notebook back into her shoulder bag but clearly thought better of going up against a soldier who looked like he would have quite happily resorted to violence himself at the slightest provocation. There were times, Thomson thought wryly, that the ARC’s status as a Protected Place, where it was an offence to hinder the military in the execution of their duties, was a useful reminder even to people of Helen Cutter’s standing, that there were occasions when avoiding a confrontation really was the wisest course of action.
The other item that had spilled out of Helen’s bag was the USB stick that he’d seen her use to store the information she’d taken off Annie Morris’s assistant’s computer. Before anyone else could touch it, Helen bent down and retrieved the device, tucking it away along with the notebook as she moved to join Cutter and Annie, engaging them in conversation as though the incident with Temple simply hadn’t happened. Thomson admired the woman’s brass neck, although it was clear that sentiment wasn’t shared by either of the academics. Stringer promptly used the opportunity to steer Abby away from the crowd of people thronging the atrium, nodding to Tanya Lacey, the only female member of the Special Forces team, to do the same with Connor. Throughout the incident, the soldier they called Blade had remained at Annie Morris’s shoulder like a dark shadow.
Thomson caught a flash of metal as a knife was slipped back into a wrist sheath. He reached out quickly and pressed a button on the intercom system on his desk, anxious to prevent any escalation of violence in the tense atmosphere of the atrium.
“Lieutenant Owen to the medical room. There are minor injuries to be attended to. I repeat, Lieutenant Owen to the medical room.” His command was broadcasted loudly throughout the ARC
He knew from the staff entry and exit logs that Owen was still in the building, no doubt waiting for the return of his team mates, even though he was officially off duty. As Thomson’s words echoed throughout the ARC, several people in the atrium flinched. He smiled and decided it was time to put in a personal appearance.
He passed Owen in the corridor. The medic was wearing jeans and an old tee-shirt, looking like he’d just woken up.
“I’m told there were no fatalities,” Thomson said quickly, watching relief clear the frown off the lieutenant’s face. “It looks like Rees has accompanied two men to hospital. I don’t know the details yet, I’ll let you know when I do.”
“Thanks.”
Thomson noted the lack of an attached ‘sir’ with approval. Special Forces were notorious for their casual attitude, especially between officers, and its omission was more of a mark of respect than any outsider would recognise. Thomson doubted that he’d ever attain the heights of ‘boss’ from Ryan’s unit, but Owen’s response was a step in the right direction. He would need these men’s loyalty and Owen was influential. The soldiers liked and trusted him. Thomson thrust away the contrast between how Ryan’s men had related to their CO and how his own men no doubt viewed him. Events of the last couple of days had thrown those differences into sharp relief, something Thomson hadn’t really wanted to examine too closely, but try as he might to avoid some things, the thoughts kept on coming back.
As he walked into the atrium, he heard Cutter telling Leek that they hadn’t needed Jenny Lewis’s assistance. They’d used the cover-story of an attack by a pack of pit-bull terriers believed to have been used in an illegal dog-fighting ring. It had provided an adequate explanation for the injuries the two soldiers had suffered, and both Abby Maitland and Stephen Hart had enough animal experience to have passed for RSPCA inspectors. Thomson admired their quick thinking, yet another testament to the experience Cutter and his motley crew had gained dealing with what seemed to be an almost endless procession of creature incursions.
The group started to split up, with Cutter and Annie Morris accompanying Leek back up to his office. Thomson saw Lyle exchange a few quick words with Stephen Hart before following them. Hart looked as exhausted as the soldiers. He had an M4 carbine slung over his shoulder instead of the tranquilliser rifle he usually carried, a testament to how rough the operation had been. It looked like Annie Morris had chosen an interesting day to accompany the field team.
Thomson held out his hand to Hart. “I’ll check that back in for you. Get that leg looked at.”
“It’s just a stiff knee, I’ll be fine.” Hart’s voice was wary, obviously wondering if there was some objection to him carrying that sort of weaponry. Thomson knew perfectly well that Lester had signed the requisite order to allow all members of Cutter’s team – even the hapless Temple – access to firearms despite their Indentured status, but Hart still clearly had concerns.
“Get it strapped up before it stops you walking,” Thomson said, keeping his voice strictly neutral. “I’ve lost count of the men I’ve seen drop out of exercises due to twisted knees and ankles. You can play the hero in the field as much as you like, Hart, but when the op’s over, you get patched up just like any of my men. Got that?”
Hart shot him a swift grin. “That’s what Ryan used to say,” he admitted. He handed the M4 to Thomson and unstrapped the thigh holster that held the Browning he habitually carried.
Thomson slung the rifle over his own shoulder, letting the webbing of the holster dangle from his hand, and watched as Hart limped out of the atrium. Of all Cutter’s team, it appeared he was the only one who didn’t have the services of a bodyguard, but from what Thomson knew of the man’s competence with a gun, he doubted that one was necessary. The one that had undoubtedly drawn the short-straw was Finn, assigned the duty of watching over the unpredictable former academic, but the young soldier just seemed to take everything that life – and Cutter – threw at him in his stride.
Thomson caught Stringer’s eye and jerked his head in the opposite direction to Leek’s room. “Armoury then beer,” he suggested. “I suspect the professors will bring Mr Leek up to speed.”
Stringer nodded and fell into step with Thomson as they made their way to the armoury. His hair, which he wore habitually wore longer than was generally considered acceptable in the military, was plastered to his head with an unappealing mix of sweat and what looked like mud, though it could just as easily have been shit. His black uniform was stained with blood, although he didn’t appear to have been injured.
He saw the direction of Thomson’s gaze and said quietly, “One of the fuckers took a chunk out of Jake Hennessy’s leg. Nicked an artery. Matt did a good job on him but Jake lost a lot of blood before the ambulance got there. Some of it ended up on me.”
“What happened to Marsden?”
If Stringer was surprised that Thomson knew the names of his men and had worked out from watching them return who the other casualty had been, he was careful not to betray his feelings. “One of the things ripped his arm up badly. Abby got it off him by smashing it over the head with her tranq rifle.”
Thomson smiled. “Smart girl.” He’d heard the rumours about Abby Maitland and Joel Stringer, but neither of them let it affect their work any more than Hart and Lyle did, so it was no concern of Thomson’s who Stringer shagged in his spare time.
The armoury was full of soldiers checking back in both their weaponry and unused ammunition amidst the usual round of adrenaline-fuelled bad jokes. A couple of them glanced at him, but didn’t tone down their behaviour, which Thomson took as another good sign.
He paused in the doorway and announced, “I believe you’ll find a larger than usual supply of cold beer in the recreation room, gentlemen. If there’s a second shout tonight, Becker’s team will cover it.”
Without waiting for their response, he looked at Joel Stringer and said, “There’s some in my office as well, or would you rather grab a shower first? The reports can wait. I think I’ve picked up the essentials.”
Before Stringer could reply his phone buzzed. “Matt? What’s the score?” The relief in the other captain’s eyes told Thomson all he needed to know of the answer. Jake Hennessey would live. “Marsden?” A moment later Stringer grinned. “Yeah, well tell him he’ll just have to wank left-handed for a while. Thanks, Matt. Get yourself off home when you’ve finished at the hospital. If there’s another shout Becker’s mob will handle it and Chris Wilkes can go out with them. You need some sleep. See you tomorrow, mate. Good job, well done.” Stringer stuffed the phone back into a pocket of his bloodstained equipment vest and said, “A shower can wait. Beer can’t.”
Springer sprawled out in one of the chairs in Thomson’s office, pulled the tab off the beer can and downed it in several long, appreciative swallows. Thomson slid another across the desk, took a drink out of his own can and then poured two large whisky chasers. He’d had enough coffee to last a lifetime. The beer tasted good and the whisky tasted even better. Stringer shrugged off his equipment vest and jacket, then plucked distastefully at his sweat-stained black tee-shirt. “Christ, I smell,” he commented, tossing the whisky down his throat and holding out his glass for a refill.
“Yes, you do,” Thomson acknowledged with a grin. It looked very much like a third beer was about to go the same way as the two previous ones. It was fortunate he’d taken the precaution of insisting that the catering staff provided extra stocks.
Stringer took the can from him. “Thanks, Ian.”
The use of his first name caught Thomson off guard for a moment and from the look of mild amusement in Stringer’s intelligent brown eyes, that fact hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“You went out on a limb for Ditzy. I’m grateful… so are the lads,” Stringer commented.
“So did you.” It was a statement, not a question. Joel Stringer was well-connected and Thomson knew that he hadn’t been the only one fighting the medic’s corner.
“I’ve worked with him for years, you haven’t. You could have let the bosses have their way, but you didn’t.”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to spend the rest of my time here watching my back.”
Stringer shrugged. “Either way, it was a good move.” Stringer held out his glass for another shot of whisky. “So, if Ryan was set up and Lester’s innocent, who have we got to blame for screwing us over?”
The image of Helen Cutter hacking into someone’s computer came immediately to mind, as did her reaction to Conner picking up the notebook that had fallen out of her bag.
“Ask me again in a couple of days,” Thomson said, swilling the liquid around in the glass and inhaling the aroma before downing the whisky in one.
He hoped by then he might have some answers.