The New Departure Part I

This is the first part of a series of stories I'm going to write.It's Partially inspired by watching Kelly's Heroes the other night (If you haven't seen it I'd highly recommend it). The New Departure is about a group of soldiers in the middle east, not too far in the future. I'm trying to focus on the characters themselves this time rather than the events occurring. Feedback is always appreciated.

The New Departure
Part I

‘Who’s Camilla Wergeland?’ asks the taller soldier.

‘You wouldn’t know her. She’s really only popular in Norway.’ He pauses to look at the screen on his left wrist. He taps it a few times and says ‘Camilla Wergeland’ at it.

‘Here, have a look.’ He points the console in the other soldier’s direction. There is a small picture of a stunning woman with a microphone in her hand, various coloured lights shine behind her and her small army of dancers. The tall soldier seems impressed.

‘Christ.’ He looks out the window across from him. Smoke obscures the view somewhat but form the noise it’s clear what’s going on. The sound of heavy machine gun fire and high explosive discharge interrupt their conversations every few seconds.

The men are sting with their backs to the wall, inside an empty house. To their left is the front door, securely bolted. The wallpaper is fresh and clean and the whole place seems just built. A set of stairs lead to the upper floors. No furniture, except a small swivel chair and a desk opposite the door with a laptop on it, occupy the room. At the chair is a woman in army fatigues. All three are wearing the same camo save for a tiny flag just below the right shoulder. The tall soldier’s moniker is a Union Jack, the smaller one a Norwegian flag. The Woman carries only the UN symbol with no indication of her nationality.

Her helmet is lying on the floor and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s working silently at the computer with a frown on her face, her tongue clenched between her teeth.

Two Assault Rifles lie beside the men, along with their packs and helmets. Neither shows any sign of worry at the battle outside. If anything they appear annoyed at the racket.

‘So why did you join?’ says the British soldier.

‘Join?’ the Norwegian replies. ‘I was conscripted. I spend six months here and I get all my tuition paid in University. Better than working in those fucking soup kitchens for two years.’

‘Huh. I guess I joined cause of my brother. He’s in Iran. He says to me ‘Darren, the last guy I saw killed in this war was a bloke who drank too much and fell out the window of his barracks in Basra. It’s a sweet deal and no mistake.’

‘Was he right?’

‘About what?’

‘Is it a sweet deal?’

‘Well the foods frankly shit and I’m not a fan of taking orders. But I haven’t been killed. Or had to kill anyone as a matter of fact. So yeah, I guess you could say that. Pays better than what I was doing.’

‘Does it pay enough?’

‘Nah.’

‘Does anything?’

‘Nah. Not without a degree it doesn’t.’

‘So why don’t you get a degree?’

‘Can’t mate. Costs too much.’

‘Well that’s fucking true. Lucky me eh?’

‘Yeah. Lucky you.’

An explosion particularly close rattles the window in its pane. Dust streams from the ceiling. Outside it’s nearly dusk and a red glow is creeping over the city. The battle is dying off now. The woman seems calmer and she types slower.

‘Done yet?’ asks the Norwegian. There’s no answer from the woman for a few seconds, then she turns in her seat. Her voice is clear, with a faint trace of an east coast American accent. ‘Just about. It’ll be a few minutes before we can leave though. I’ve got the Rangers scouting for IED’s.’

‘Who’s your friend?’ She inquires.

‘I’m Darren.’ He pauses. ‘You?’

Again she waits a few seconds before answering. Just as he is going to open his mouth she turns again and says ‘Angelina. Erik here calls me Angel though.’

‘Sweet.’

‘Hmm, not really. It’s short for Angel of Death.’ Darren can’t help laughing at this. She smiles briefly and turns back to the computer. ‘I’m glad you find it so funny.’

‘Lay off him Angel, he’s new.’

‘Yeah, and British.’ She adds.

‘What does that have to do with anything’ he snarls, suddenly angry. Erik laughs again.

‘She’s making fun of you Darren. It’s the oldest trick in the book. He’s French so he’s a coward, he’s German, so he’s a psycho, she’s American, and so she’s a cold bitch.’ Angel tosses an empty coke can at Erik, who dodges it in a routine manner, as if this happens all the time.

The battle is clearly over. No sound except a faint mechanical groaning emanate from the window. The sun is sinking behind the skyscrapers, and the day’s extreme heat is fading. In an hour it’ll be colder than winter.

‘The rangers back?’

‘Most of em’.’

They pull their gear together, clearly in no hurry. Angel closes her laptop and pulls the tie from her hair. Darren sees her properly for the first time as she stands up. She’s of middle height, about 5’ 6’’, with ash blond hair and earthy green eyes.

Erik smacks Darren across the back of the head, waking him from his reverie.

‘Don’t bother. You’re barely high up enough to say hello to her. Ask her out in the middle of a war and you’ll be court marshalled. Save it for Camilla Wergeland.’

‘Shut up Erik.’ Is his only response.

Angel pulls the bolt on the front door and pulls it open. Dust is everywhere. The entrance opens out onto a broad street near the city centre. Tasteless steel and glass skyscrapers poke out of the ground, torn apart by missile and gun fire. The road is strewn with chunks of metal and husks of machines. Down the road a squadron of Mark III Predator Unmanned Arial Vehicles take off, their Hellfire missiles glistening in the late sun. Flanking them is a collection of other UAVS. Pathfinders, EagleEyes and a large group of Mark II Rangers are all in evidence.

One Ranger flies down the broadway and up to Angel with the eagerness of a puppy. Angel pats it and sends it on its way. Noting Darren’s stare she says ‘They need recognition when they’ve done well. Good dog, y’know?’

‘But it’s just a machine.’

‘This machine may have saved your life today. Would you like to be tramping through Dubai knowing that there could be a nail bomb around every corner?’

The Ranger pulls up to Darren and nudges him on the arm. He half heartedly pats it on where he thinks its head should be.

‘Anyway this is T Rex, he’s my favourite.’ Erik looks at him with a warning in his eyes.

‘Right. OK. Good boy Rex.’ Says Darren

All around is the smell of gunsmoke. Gaping holes pour it out incessantly. Smashed UAVS lie strewn on the ground, twitching uselessly. It’s finally night in the city. A deathly silence descends. It’s a battle without the smell of blood. No bodies can be seen.

Down the street the Predators clear the buildings and drift out of sight. The rest of the UAVs join them in stages. Finally the three soldiers are left alone in the empty street.

‘What next?’ Asks Eric.

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New Story. 1,300 words. Go.

‘We’re all pulling double shifts’ he sneers, small crumbs still lingering on his chins. ‘It’s a difficult situation for the whole station. I hope you understand.’

I hope you understand. And if I don’t? I shake my head slightly and walk out. Time off delayed again. We’re all pulling double shifts. Bastard. Still, I consider, it’s probably for the best that I’m the first to go on patrol with the new kid. The guys round here well, they’re not corrupt as such. Just a little, uh, tarnished. A corrosion of low level bad hangs around them, cultivated over years of seeing too much of the night and too little of their wives, manifesting itself in petty shakedowns and minor extortion. Sure the rookie will get exposed to that sooner or later, but he needs someone to show him that it’s not all alcoholism and abuse of power.

He’s waiting in the garage, by my squad car. Nice guess. He isn’t smoking or leaning against the door, just standing stoically waiting for me to join him.

‘Hey’ I shout, walking towards him. ‘Parks isn’t it? You’re with me today.’ He holds out his hand and I shake it briefly. ‘I’m Detective Blake.’

‘Nice to meet you sir, I’m Preston’

‘Any relation of Preston Parks on Duke Street?’

‘Uh…no sir, not that I know of’

‘Huh’ that, apparently is where the conversation dies.

We idle along Main Street, but the scanner is silent. I decide to show Preston some of the town.

‘You been here before?’ We haven’t said a word in twenty minutes.

‘No, sir. To tell you the truth I hadn’t even heard of the place until I was transferred’ I let out a short laugh at that. That’s word for word what I said to the old superintendent when I first got sent here.

‘Sir?’

‘Oh nothing, you just made me remember my first day.’

As the car rolls out of the nicer part of town I recall exactly what happened then. If memory serves Barr showed me the best place to get a freebie of coke and spent the rest of the round stopping in to ‘friends’ houses.

‘This is the place where most of your work will be.’ I say honestly. Really the police only deal with poor people’s crime; the stuff done behind closed doors around Trees Lane is none of our concern. The houses round here are tightly packed together, leaveovers from when the big steel plant employed the whole district. Preston seems about to say something, but he stops short.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Could you show me the other parts of town first, I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a lot of here.’ Preston’s shaping up to be a real comedian.

‘If you like, I suppose’ I pull up the car at the next intersection and turn around. In no time at all we’re cruising past the tall white mansions of what the people call the better part of town. Old growth trees line each and every fence, privacy you can’t buy, privacy you inherit. Everything stinks of power and privilege and pots of really old money. The sharp contrast between the two neighbourhoods startles me for a second, despite the fact that I’ve driven this town end to end more times than I care to remember. It’s a difficult situation for the whole station. Damn difficult situation for the whole city, for Christ’s sake. Course, lots of the rich are on it too but they get the pure stuff. Makes no difference in the end. Shit build up in you, makes each trip higher, more intense. It makes you extroverted, by turns happy and violent; you’re either everyone’s best friend or breaking a bottle over the bar.

‘Preston, you ever heard of Trace?’

‘I…’ Before he can answer the scanner squeals, the tone urgent on the other end.

‘All cars, this is control, is anyone in the vicinity of Trees Lane? She asks. I pull up the mike and respond. ‘Affirmative Control, this is WPD Detective Blake WI-113. We are currently on Park Road, please advise.’

‘Detective Blake we have reports of a domestic disturbance at 21 Trees Lane, please proceed.’ I place the mike back in the holder and set off.

We stop the car in the driveway of the house. The front gate is lying open, odd at this time of night. As we approach the door, we can clearly hear shouts coming from the Third floor. I walk up the steps quickly and knock heavily on the door. No response. I knock again. ‘Sir, this is Detective Bl-.’

I’m interrupted by a pounding gunshot and the shattering glass that rains from the window above us. I kick the lock, but the door is solid oak. I pull my gun and fire a shot into the woodwork. The door yields to another kick. A second and third shot echo through the empty house Preston and I race up the wide marble staircase and open the entrance to the master bedroom.

A woman slumps, clearly dead, backwards on the four poster bed. Huge exit wounds show on her chest and a smaller entry mark on her neck. Ludicrous amounts of blood paint every surface, and standing, undisturbed, smiling like the devil incarnate is the smallish man of middle years who has just murdered her.

He stays stock still, with an ineffable grin decorating his pallid features. His eyes bear all the hallmarks of a chronic Trace addict. He stares off in his own world, unaware of the horrific scene he has orchestrated.

Both Preston and I are holding our pistols tightly, their sights never straying from his head. We need not have worried, the offending weapon lay, partially submerged in blood, at his feet. Large calibre cases surround it. He still hasn’t moved a centimetre since we entered.

Every fibre of my body screams to pull the trigger and punish him, to be judge and jury. Except the judge and jury of this city wouldn’t kill him; not by a long shot. Guilty but insane. Not Guilty by reason of insanity. Manslaughter, hell they might even get away with justifiable homicide. With the fucked up higher ups here they’ll probably give ‘em a goddamn medal. My thoughts are fighting against the revulsion I feel. Kill him and chalk up a score for us for a change. Kill him and clean up a tiny corner of the world. Kill him and show them that they’re not above it all. Kill him .KILL HIM.

The explosion of the gun deafens us all, plunging us into a pit of silence, punctuated by an incessant ringing. Sound returns in waves of unfocused noise.

When I open my eyes the man is lying back against the wall, adding to the blood all around him. Fuck. FUCK. I lost. I killed the poor motherfucker. The drugged up bastard didn’t even know what he was doing and I shot him right in the face.

It takes a while for me to notice that Preston is as ashen faced as me. I’ve got to do something, I’m the goddamn detective. I say ‘Hey, uh, Preston…don’t worry you did nothing wrong…you-.’

And finally, I realise.

My gun never fired.

But Preston’s did.

***

We didn’t even catch any heat for the whole thing. Resisting arrest; happens all the time. The chief countersigned all the paperwork without a second glance.

That was fifteen years ago, and Preston’s a high up in the force now, in LA or Washington I think. He manages the police force for the whole district and I’m damn glad he does. I’m glad there’s one person up there with the incorruptible moral sense to dispense justice like that.

Sometimes though, I wonder if I should be.