Things to Come – Part 2

By | January 16, 2007

A little explanation is perhaps in order here. Suze has pointed out that my stories are getting darker recently. But don’t worry, there’s sex in this instalment and even more in the next part.  🙂  You may have already worked out where this story is leading, if not, all will become clear soon.

Rev.8:  7 The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth: and the third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up.

Tuesday, 4 August 2048

The expeditionary force of the army of the New Russian Federation arrived off the coast of Britain with the rising sun. Brigadier Steven Brown VC of the first battalion Royal Engineers watched the motley assortment of ships weigh anchor off Lincolnshire with bitter regret. They were still a force to be reckoned with, tenacious as ever, proud and undefeated in battle, yet hitching a ride on a mixture of aging military vessels and commandeered merchant hulks.

Steven recalled how his father had once remarked to his mother, “Felicity, it’s a scandal, ambulances with empty tanks, but the bloody army never seems to be short of fuel or anything else.” He had been right of course and if the nations of the world applied their resources to healing, rather than squabbling over the remains of the planet then how much suffering could be avoided?

Prime Minister Collins had announced the redeployment of the majority of the Russian land forces to England a few months before “A historic moment and the dawn of a new era for relations between our two countries … Providing protection for us from the new threats across the world …”. For “threats” read the United Korean and Northern Chinese Empire. The Russians we supposed to be getting medical supplies and technical assistance for their bio-decontamination programme in return.

Two hours later and most of the twenty thousand strong force had disembarked. Steven waved to his pilot, finger skyward, describing a circle in the air. The Harrier GR12’s engines began to rotate and come to life. Steven brought the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the massed ranks of grey-green uniforms one last time.

He raised his radio to his mouth, “Bear trap set. Go.”. He sprinted for the aircraft and clambered up the ladder, kicking it away from the fuselage when his first foot was in the cockpit.

Somewhere off the coast of Denmark seven hatches opened on the SSBN Vengeance, heralding the end of the Russia army. The MIRVs rained down across bases in Russia and the disembarking Russians in Norfolk.

The Russians were unable to respond, their missiles spent subduing China in the Asian wars. The empty maws of the silos now dark and impotent.


Steven climbed out of the aircraft feeling sick. He wished he could have flown the aircraft back to base, at least then he would have been occupied, not contemplating the mass murder he had just been party to. He pulled off his helmet and headed towards the embarkation station.

“Brigadier. Brigadier!”, the junior medical officer shouted after Steven. “I need your film badge to check your exposure.”

Steven tore the yellow badge from his flight suit and threw it over his shoulder at the fresh-faced medic. “There’s really no need for that …”

Steven turned and threw him against the wall, smashing his helmet against the brickwork next to the man’s head. The MO winced as the visor shattered, throwing shards of plastic across his face.

“Do you think I care about how much radiation I got from that fucking massacre I just took part in?” He glared into the medic’s eyes. The cloth on the MO’s crotch began to darken as his bladder failed him. “I just killed two hundred thousand men on two continents with four words. Do you think Prime Minister Collins is proud of me? DO YOU?”

It took three red caps to drag Steven away and sit him in a room with a single metal-framed chair at its centre. Empty metal shelves lined the walls, the dust on the shelves held the silhouettes of boxes recently removed. The final evacuation of the British Isles was in full swing.

Steven held his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. Only his anger at what he had done prevented him from weeping.

His few minutes of solitude where ended when a woman entered the room. “Brigadier”, she saluted. He looked up. The scrapped back brown hair tied in an excruciatingly tight ponytail and intense expression could not disguise her classical good looks. She was feminine in a severe cat-like way, that and almond shaped grey green eyes made his pupils dilate.

“Captain McKlusky, senior MO”, she proffered her hand “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, fucking marvellous. What sort of question is that? How do you think I feel?”

“Believe me Brigadier, self pity is not the way to deal with this.”

“You didn’t major in psychiatry did you? Spare me the PTSD speech. For your information this is self-loathing, not self-pity. I’m just a bloody sapper but just because I took a few bullets crossing the Yangtze I get the ever so slightly dubious honour of organising a massacre the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the Cairo offensive in 2033.”

“You’re a hero.”

“WAS a hero. Now I’m a murderer.”

She bent forward, flipping out a torch to check his pupils. He couldn’t resist staring down her open shirt. “Hello ladies!”.

McKlusky slapped him hard across the face.

He rubbed his cheek, smiling wryly, “I probably deserved that.”

“You did, the next time you treat one of my staff like that I’ll give you a prostate exam you’ll never forget.”, she turned to leave. “Let me know if you experience headaches, fatigue, nausea …”

“… what about any stiffness?”

McKlusky turned back towards Steven. She licked her lips slowly, “I find that’s quite normal for my male patients.


Wednesday, 5 August 2048

Steven emerged from a whisky induced coma to the sun streaming his cabin’s porthole. The door was propped open. A young private SA-85 slung across his chest watched him wake up, obviously posted to ensure he didn’t injure himself or anyone else.

“Are you OK, Sir?”, asked the private, “Anything I can get you, Sir?”

Steven smiled, US training. “How about a bottle of whisky, then, another bottle of whisky. Oh, and one for yourself.”

“Sir, General Hague said you could have anything but alcohol, Sir.” For a moment the private almost smiled. “I think it might have been something to do with you throwing up on his boots.”

Steven squinted to read the soldier’s name badge, eyes still suffering the after effects of a good malt. “Giles? That’s more like it, act like a human not a soldier.”

“Sir?”, Giles was confused, this was Brigadier Brown VC, hero of the South China campaign telling him not to be a soldier.

“You see this?” asked Steven, pointing to his chest. “See it? It’s a Victoria Cross. Everyone thinks it’s made from metal from captured Russian guns used against us in the Crimea. Do you know that’s bollocks? You see the guns were originally Chinese and never used in the Crimea. I suppose the symbolism is still quite apt in a way, let’s face it I killed a few Chinese lads in my time, now I’ve got a couple of hundred thousand Russians to add to that. D’you think the light Brigade would have been proud of me?”

Giles didn’t know what to say. “Er, er well …”

“Don’t worry mate, I used to be a soldier, now I’m just a fucking murderer.” Devilish realisation painted a broad smile across Steven’s face, “Did I really tell Hague that he was an idiot?”

“Yes sir, apparently he went purple, according to one of the lads in the galley. That was just before you threw up and passed out.”

Steven chuckled to himself.

Giles snapped to attention. Steven heard footsteps approaching. From just out of sight a vaguely familiar voice said “Giles you’re relieved.”


“Report to the infirmary, Corporal Evans needs to give you a quick exam.”

Giles hurried off, past the owner of the voice.

“Hello McKlusky, come in.”

“Dianne, please.” The MO slipped into the cabin and closed the door. She touched the intercom panel, “Infirmary. Stacey, Giles is on his way down, keep him occupied for a couple of hours will you, and lock the bloody door this time, the last time I walked in on you both.”

“So you do house calls too?”

“Only for heroes.”, she sat on the bed next to Steven.

“I’ve told you I’m no hero. I used to be a soldier, now I’m not sure what I am.”

“The King’s going to knight you, well, that’s what one of Hague’s secretaries tells me.”, she rested her hand on his.

“Well tell him not to bother.” Said Steven dismissively.

“Oh shut the fuck up!” Dianne planted a full, passionate kiss on his lips, her tongue probing his mouth.

Hands began to unbutton his jacket and shirt. The heavy smell of sweat and whisky seeped from every pore on his body. “I could shower …”

“… later.” She moved down his body, kissing his chest, exploring the contours of his toned body. She reached a rough knot of scar tissue on his left side, across to a surgical incisions on his stomach, then down to his belt buckle.

Steven slipped his hand inside her khaki shirt and squoze her plump breasts. She pushed against his palms, wanting him to crush them in his muscular hands. A button popped on her shirt and all pretence of foreplay disappeared. Clothes flew across the cabin until they were laying together on the narrow bunk, naked.

“Your bedside manner’s far superior to your psychiatry.”