Fall of theBalearics
27th April,
2046
Office of the
Mediterranean Naval Command
Europa Road
Gibraltar
Dear C,
You asked for
information about fleet movements.
As of today,
Allied Fleets are converging on the Balearics. Where you and your Separatist
buddies are stranded with the Russian attaché. One fleet will be coming by Gibraltar in the next day or so, the other
ships are being assembled near Palermo. Then they sail for the Balearics and
all hell’s gonna set loose. It’s going to be worse than Barcelona.
Speaking of which, send my regards to the ‘living legend’. Sammy was
lucky to get out of there alive.
Needless to say, keep this to yourself and the ‘legend’.
–
This message will be wiped from your console in an hour. Do not make any
digital or physical copies.
I remain,
M.
“See?” Caren waved the letter above her head. “You’ve always doubted
Martin but he’s proven himself yet again. And he called you a ‘living legend’.
Come on Sam, the fleets are coming here and that means the mission is over.
Finished. Game over. Let’s pack our bags.”
Samuel grimaced at her, the closest thing he had to a smile. He turned
his head so he could glance out through the crack in the blinds at the
sun-scorched plains outside.
“You can leave whenever you wish but I’m staying until it’s done. And
that was sarcasm from Martin.” He grunted. “He thinks it can replace his marked
lack of intelligence.”
Samuel paced from one end of the room to the other, his hands clasped
behind his back. He turned smartly once he reached the opposite mildewed wall
and his shoes scuffed up clouds of dust.
Caren took her feet off the table and balled up the letter in one hand.
She swivelled in her chair and threw it into the dying hearth behind. She
watched it crackle and shrivel up into slivers of charred ribbon.
“I’m not leaving, Caren,” Samuel said, walking right up to her. “I’ve
got my orders.”
Caren raised her eyes from the embers and looked at him with her
idiosyncratic wry smile. Her gaze met his and they stared at one another for a
long moment. Then finally she relented and, with a heavy sigh, swivelled around
to face the desk. Her hands hovered over the desk, which was littered with
curled papers like a battlefield strewn with corpses. She selected one and
produced it with a flourish. She smoothened it out on her jeans and read it
aloud.
20th April, 2046
Office of European Armed Forces Intelligence Division
Rue de Tréve
Brussels
Belgium
Dear Mr S W,
We’ve agreed, after some deliberation, to allow you to extend your
mission in Spain. This was not made lightly but you’ve always been an exemplary
operative and we’re inclined to grant you this one request.
But you should know, Mr Whitecliffe, that the situation is going to
escalate in the very near future. We cannot give you any exact date but you can
fill in the blanks considering the battles on the mainland.
None would begrudge if you decided to flee. You are and will always be
regarded very highly for your service to democracy.
Do not attempt any further contact with us for the duration of your
mission.
–
This message will be wiped from your console in an hour. Do not make any
digital or physical copies.
With great solemnity,
The Council.
Samuel snatched the sheet from her hands and flung into the fire.
“That should’ve been destroyed days ago,” he growled. He glared at the
rest of the papers. “For that matter, all of this needs to be destroyed. If the
Goddamned Separatists should find it …”
“We’ll be long gone,” Caren replied, gathering the papers with graceful
sweeps of her hands. She stacked them in one pile, hitting them off the desk to
keep them even with each other.
They walked out into the blinding Spanish sun, their brows creased and
lips pressed thin. Their car, a nondescript machine that was still lingering on
from the early 2000s, waited for them in the baking heat. Caren got to the car
first and hopped into the driver’s seat. Samuel watched her with a deepening
frown.
“What’re you doing?”
“Now’s not the time for heroics, Sam. You deserve better than a sandy
grave.” The car roared as she ignited the engine.
“You think I want glory, Caren? I’m perfectly fine if I die anonymous.
I’m a spook, a ghost in the night. I know what I signed up for.”
He leaned on the car, despite the brutal heat. He pressed his face close
to hers. His shadow fell over her, enveloping her in darkness.
“Do you know what you signed up for?”
She adjusted her grip on the wheel and squinted out at the sweltering
horizon. On a nearby hilltop a communications station could be seen squatting
beneath a cloudless sky.
“Don’t tell me you care about the EAF, or democracy or any of that
crap,” Caren said, still squinting at the communications station. “Just because
of Barcelona, because the EAF bombed the wrong place-”
Samuel moved away from the car, shaking his head. “You don’t know what
you’re talking about.”
“Get in the car, Sam. How else’re you going to get back to town?”
The motorway that ran down the length of the island was deserted. Fields
full of dust languished beyond the ditches. Abandoned sheds and broken
sprinkler equipment denoted where farms had once been. Samuel rolled down the
window and threw his hand into the whistling air.
Their car squealed to a halt at a makeshift checkpoint. Where once a gas
station had done its business, a military outpost had now been established.
Separatist flags snapped in the wicked wind and sun-tanned soldiers raised
their hands to cover their eyes as they examined Samuel and Caren. A soldier
sauntered up to them, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He held some variant
of a touchpad in his hand.
Caren rolled down her window and smiled up at him. “Hello.”
The soldier frowned at her and made a few taps on his pad. “You do
realise the interior’s off limits, right? Everyone’s been evacuated. Who are
you?”
“We’re part of Vladimir’s crew,” Caren replied. “I can show you my
permit if you want.”
The soldier, a native Spaniard, growled softly at the Russian officer’s
name. “Ugh, you’re one of his foreign dogs? That man’s a pig. Wait a second …”
He was looking at Samuel. Samuel gave him a curt nod. The soldier
pointed at him and spoke softly to Caren, as if they were discussing a caged
predator. “That’s Whitecliffe, isn’t it?”
Caren nodded.
The soldier turned his wide eyes back to Samuel. He extended his hand
across Caren towards Samuel. “It’s an honour, signor. I heard about what
happened in Barcelona. You’re a hero for the cause. If we had a hundred of you,
we’d have the Federalists on the run.”
Samuel shook his hand. “Thank you. But can you let us through my friend,
we’ve go to report to the Russian. You know he doesn’t like to be kept
waiting.”
“Of course sir.” The soldier straightened and waved for the barricades
to be removed from the road. “It’s an honour sir. Truly.”
They sped away from the checkpoint in a billowing cloud of dust and
sand. Samuel twisted in his seat to look back through the window at the
soldiers. They watched them for a long time, like statues standing amongst the
heatwaves.
The harbour town of Puerto de Rodriguez welcomed them with hostile
stares. People stared at them from the upstairs balconies of apartment blocks.
Plaster peeled off the walls like old skin. The Separatist banners hung over it
all and the soldiers sat with their idle fingers twitching at playing cards,
cigarettes or triggers.
Caren chewed her lip. “I don’t like it. We should leave now. We’ve that
boat down by the East District-”
“No,” Samuel interrupted her, his voice harsh. “I’ve a job to do.”
Caren set her jaw and Samuel could see muscles pulsing beneath her skin.
He skimmed a finger over the dashboard, creating a furrow in the bed of dust.
“Take me to HQ and you can do what you want.” He glanced at her from the
corner of his eye as they neared the Plaza de San Martín.
A monolithic
monument to the Spanish Civil War covered them with its shadow. Children were
climbing on it and a squad of soldiers sat beneath, smoking and drinking on
empty munitions crates.
“I’ll cover
for you, Caren. I can create a distraction while you get away.”
Caren said
nothing to that. They entered the Plaza and she turned right, away from the
Separatist HQ, away from the Russian and away from Samuel’s vengeance. His
hand, which had been drawing trenches on the dashboard dust, balled into a
fist.
“What’re you
doing?”
The soldiers
looked up from their game and the children stopped playing on the monument.
“I’ve read
your file, Sam. I know what happened to your last partner … but you can’t do
anything for him now. Come home.”
Samuel forced
a smile he did not feel. His hand dropped to his waist, where he kept his pistol
holstered. “Stop Caren. Now.”
“No.”
He stared at
her, disbelieving. “Pull over.”
“No.”
He was
reaching for the wheel before he could think about it. Caren gasped and the car
swerved hard left, into an abandoned market stall. The wheels squealed as they
hit the curb and Samuel could smell something weird from the gearbox. Wood
shattered around them as the car ploughed through the stall. Samuel caught a
glimpse of an advertisement for Santander Bank before they crashed through the
modern glass walls of an office block. His head connected with the dashboard.
He saw himself
on the shores of Barcelona again, the horizon red and the silhouettes of
battleships ghostly. He could hear the skyscrapers crumbling behind them, could
feel the tremors of artillery strikes. He was standing with James. The boat was
coming for them. Then … then …
Then he felt
the seatbelt fastening him into place. The side of his face was lifting off the
dashboard now and he could see blood smeared on it. He sat there, thinking
about Barcelona and how he could hear the bombers but couldn’t see them. He
heard the car door being flung open but it sounded like James opening the case
of his sniper. He felt hands around him, dragging him from the wreckage of the
car but that wasn’t right … he’d been the one holding James, cradling his
broken body as the soldiers jumped from the boat.
“Sam, you
fool,” a voice said. “Come on, we have to get out of here. The ships .. it’s
starting.”
The voice of
his partner, his friend. But the voice was too soft. Was James already hurt?
He could hear curses in Spanish. The soldiers, the Separatists, had
given James a burial at sea … as if he was one of their one.
But he could still save James. The planes were coming but the bombs
hadn’t landed yet. If James just took cover.
James was directing him somewhere, tugging on his elbow. Where was he
going? Away from the boats?
Samuel threw off his partner’s grip and tried to pull him down to
safety, through the breeze of shrapnel. His partner snapped at him and shrugged
him off. If only James could understand what was coming.
His partner dug his fingers into Samuel and yanked him further along,
away from the boats and away from salvation.
“That’s Whitecliffe,” a voice in Spanish cried out.
Then; “Let him go or we’ll open fire!”
“Get a medic, get help, quick!” Samuel shouted.
He blinked but couldn’t see clearly. There was sand in his eyes. If only
they could see the future like he could.
He squirmed out of his partner’s grip and tried to pull him to cover but
James twisted his arm and threw him away. He scrambled on the sand … but it
wasn’t sand. It was the carpet floor of an office building.
Samuel turned on his back, a sickly feeling mounting in his stomach. It
had happened again, the flashbacks … at the worst possible moment.
Caren was walking to the soldiers when they opened fire, her hands were
open in a plea for calm reason. The bullets ripped through her. Her shirt was
torn to shreds and her body danced in the air under the impacts like a
marionette held by a jittering drug-addict.
She took a step backwards after the firing had stopped, still on her
feet. Then her knees buckled and she keeled over. Her hand went out to catch
herself, as if this was a situation that could be salvaged.
Caren’s effort to keep herself up failed and she collapsed face-first
onto the carpet. Samuel hoped she hadn’t cut her face on the glass shards.
Samuel’s body moved independently of him. Like a movie, he felt as if he
were watching something that was happening to someone else. Everything
registered in his mind a second too late. But someone was still in control of
his body. Someone made him jump to his feet, made him roar at the soldiers, who
were shocked as they looked to him. Flames of embarrassment leapt into their
faces.
“We thought she was a traitor,” one blubbered.
He was on knees, pressing his fingers against Caren’s pulse. The
soldiers were calling a medic.
Behind the chatter of short-tempered Russian officers on mobile phones,
Samuel could hear the beginning of the Allied bombardment.
His thoughts flicked briefly to the children who’d been playing on the
Civil War Monument.
Around him, the Balearics began to fall.
But he, himself, had already fallen.
Gerald O’ Donovan 5th Year
“This short story has it all
–pacing, atmosphere, superb evocation of time and place, suspense, characters
and technical inventiveness. The maturity and skill of Gerald’s writing is
exceptional. Brilliant stuff.”-Author Ciarán Collins
