The First Shot – Part 6

Lieutenant Allen Thrumball was born to a working-class mother and father just outside London. He’d done well in secondary school, was a talented athlete, but he’d never been good enough to get scholarships to apply to university. His parents didn’t have the finances to help, and there was a growing unease in the country about the expansion of the countries in Asia and Eastern Europe. So, like many other Englishmen and women in a time of crisis, he joined the Army.

What Allen lacked in scholastic aptitude or athletics he made up for in soldiering. He rose rapidly through the ranks to sergeant before the merger of his country with the Americans became official. With the Army’s backing, he attended an American college online, graduated, accepted a commission as an officer, and was deemed worthy of service in His Majesties Special Air Services. He’d been a soldier for many years, and done cross training with units like Major Ward’s Rangers and Petty Officer Chambers’ SEALs, but this was only his second mission as an officer.

Allen couldn’t help but think about how things were playing out as he sat on a street corner opposite the Old North Church. His education on the American’s war for independence was nonexistent, aside from knowing it was one of many wars the British Empire was fighting at the time. He had to bow to the wisdom of Major Ward on this matter. Not only because of his knowledge, but because he was still the senior Commonwealth officer and in command.

The thought that the Commonwealth wouldn’t even come into existence for centuries had crossed the young officer’s mind, but it hardly mattered. He knew nothing of this time or place, and after seeing the MAJ in action, he wasn’t particularly inclined to start anything that he’d later regret.

That brought him to his current mission. He was searching for Thomas Bernard without knowing who the man was or what he looked like. All he knew was what the MAJ had told him. Luckily, Allen had done a few details with the American Secret Service when the President came to speak with the Prime Minister when the talks for formalizing the Commonwealth Charter were underway.

He’d been on the periphery of the security cordon – mostly watching people from rooftops with a high-powered rifle – but the tidbits of information the attached agents had given him were priceless.

It was tough to look inconspicuous just standing on a street corner, and there wasn’t a tablet or phone to pull out and fiddle with to look busy. He noticed a few soldiers walking the streets give him a curious look, so he tipped the hat he’d stolen in their direction and moved out of sight. Once around the corner, he slid his hand into his jacket and sought the reassurance of his pistol. He removed it from its holster and slid his hand into the opposite pocket, grabbed the silencer, and quickly screwed it on the muzzle. The silencer would reduce the velocity of the bullet, but it was more than enough to take down unarmored soldiers if they got too suspicious.

He peeked back around the corner. The soldiers were still holding their position, but were facing the other direction. He scanned the scene and looked for anything out of the ordinary. He watched people’s hands to make sure they weren’t in their pockets carrying a weapon. He looked at people’s eyes. People who were scanning the area were usually up to something.

He stopped and reminded himself the man he was looking for wasn’t a trained operative or assassin. He was a scared man who wanted to warn his people about how the enemy soldiers were going to attack.

Allen found his target when he stopped in front of the church and two other men headed around back. He was an unremarkable-looking man, with a piggish-nose, and eyes that flitted around the area. They lingered too long on the soldiers, but the Redcoats were still looking in the wrong direction.

Allen used his jacket to conceal his pistol as he pointed it from the hip in the man’s direction. One pull of the trigger and he could change this war and world history. That was not the kind of responsibility he wanted, so he kept his eyes on the street looking for danger. He needed to make sure no one alerted the soldiers to what the American patriots were up to.

“Target acquired.” He sent the message to his teammates and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The area wasn’t crowded by twenty-second century standards, but there was a steady stream of people moving back and forth. He kept an eye on all of them, and discarded them as threats one by one. So, it came as a surprise when another average-looking man walked past Bernard and deftly stabbed the American in the throat.

Bernard was just as stunned as Allen. His hand shot up to stem the bleeding, but it was already too late. The knife had severed the jugular and he would bleed out quickly.

“Shit.” Allen reacted.

His first shot was fired from the hip. He was used to his HUD’s aiming features and not having them was making him careless. Silencers didn’t truly silence a weapon firing, but it made it much softer. The bullet striking the brick of the church as it flew past the assassin wasn’t soft at all.

The assassin was good. He didn’t stop to see who was shooting at him, he just started walking at a brisk place for the nearest cover. He turned to provide the smallest profile possible in the direction the shot had come from. Allen begrudgingly respected the man. The Easterners had sent capable soldiers to end the Commonwealth threat against them.

Fortunately, Allen was pretty good at his job. He resisted the urge to charge into the crowded street, stepped back out of sight of the soldiers, brought his pistol up into a proper stance, aimed, and fired. The shot was from thirty meters away in a rapidly clearing crowd – they’d seen the bleeding man and heard the crack of the first bullet – so he got a full view of the round drilling through the side of the man’s head and leaving a gaping exit wound. Blood and brains splattered the side of the building as the assassin slumped to the ground very dead.

Allen quickly lowered the gun and hid it in the folds of his jacket. “Bernard’s down. You’ve got hostiles incoming. One tango down. I’m Oscar-Mike.” He sent the terse message as he turned and walked away from the church.

The soldiers were hurrying toward Bernard and the dead assassin. Soon they’d shut down the surrounding area and search for the culprits. Allen would be long gone, but the MAJ and CSGT were still inside.

He wished them good luck as he turned the corner onto another block. They had a designated rally point in an alley not far from here. He’d wait there until morning. If they didn’t come he’d head back across the harbor to Charlestown and regroup with the rest of the team. After that, they’d just have to figure everything out for themselves.

 

***

 

Colour Sergeant William McGee was known by many names. The marines in his unit who didn’t call him fire-crotch called him Willy the Fish, because he could drink like one. As far as anyone knew, he held the battalion’s record for alcohol consumption. It was a term of endearment, but that wasn’t how most people saw him throughout his early life. The most common name yelled at him was “ye little shit”.

Willy had grown up wild. He’d never known his birth parents, and he’d bounced through the system for fifteen years before landing with someone who didn’t take his shit anymore. He wasn’t Dad to Willy, he was the Old Man, and he was a tough old bastard. A former Royal Marine, Willy’s foster father had taught him as much discipline as was legally allowed outside the military. The man taught Willy how to fight, how to read the room, and how to say stupid shit without someone wanting to beat your ass for it. Although, Willy thought he had that down already.

Ultimately, he’d joined the Royal Marines because of the Old Man. If he was being honest with himself, the Old Man had saved his life. Sure, joining the marines had almost gotten his ass shot off half a dozen times, but he was still kicking. Now he was kicking in the door of an eighteenth century church in the eighteenth century. Life was weird.

Willy went right while the MAJ went left. They advanced down the side aisles and cleared each pew. They moved with a purpose, because speed was their only advantage here. They were horribly exposed.

“Clear.” The MAJ had longer legs and finished his sweep five seconds before Willy.

“Clear,” he echoed and placed the gun back inside his coat. He didn’t want to scare the locals who would be coming by soon to make history.

They found some cover to hide behind and waited . . . and waited . . .  and waited. A loud crack was the only reprieve from them hiding behind heavy curtains like a couple of thieves.

“Bernard’s down. You’ve got hostiles incoming. One tango down. I’m Oscar-Mike.” The LT’s voice came over the comms.

“Redcoats are going to be in here any minute.” The MAJ grunted as they hurried from their hiding spots toward the back doors.

They just hoped the American Patriots got those lanterns into the tower or whatever it was they were here to ensure happened. Willy didn’t care much about English history, so he cared even less about American History. They made it to the rear wooden door, opened it, and nearly stepped on two dead bodies slumped on the steps. They had multiple stab marks with blood leaking out of their chests and necks that he could see.

“Shit.” The MAJ looked around, and saw two men walking calmly away from them about fifty yards away.

The men looked back and locked eyes with the MAJ.

“I’d venture to guess these are Pulling and Newman.” Willy tried to keep the smart-ass out of his tone, but it was hard.

“Move!” The MAJ grabbed Willy and pulled him back inside the church just as rounds started cracking into the plaster where his head used to be. “Take two lanterns up to the steeple and leave them displayed for a few seconds. That’s all the time the Patriots need to send the signal to Revere. Go! I’ll hold them off.”

Willy didn’t even stop to contemplate that this couldn’t possibly be how history turned out, but he knew orders when he heard them. He rushed to the stairs and even took a couple of seconds to lock the front door on the way. He was only halfway to the stairs when banging and shouts to open the door in the name of the King started coming from the other side.

He didn’t have time for that. He heard more cracks of silenced rounds smacking into the church and knew he needed to hurry. He was in great shape, so running up the short distance to the steeple didn’t even have him breathing heavy.

He cursed for a few seconds trying to find the lanterns and then for something to light them. There was plenty of oil lying around, but the tinderbox was hidden. He hadn’t smoked since he moved into the Old Man’s house. He laughed at the irony before he found the supplies he needed. It took him thirty seconds to light the lanterns with the antiquated materials before bringing them over toward the window. Then he froze.

He had no idea which side to put them on, and he didn’t have time to think about it. The sound of footsteps rushing up the stairs was all the warning he had. He stuck the two lanterns on the sill, and whipped around to meet the newcomers. He was expecting to see redcoats with their big, awkward muskets pointed at him, but instead a short man vaulted off the last step and launched himself toward Willy.

A gleam caught the lantern-light and gave him the split second he needed to avoid the knife. He twisted, but it still cut a deep gash across his forearm. He didn’t have time to curse as the stinging pain worked its way through his whole body before the man was all over him.

The guy was fast. A few punches and kicks landed before Willy even knew what was happening. One made him crumble down to his knees, and he was barely able to get his arms up to avoid a knee to the face that would have broken his nose. He was in a shit position and he knew it. The only silver lining was the guy didn’t hit nearly as hard as some of his mates, so he was still in the fight. When he caught an opening he launched himself at the attacker. He caught a punch to the chin, but he powered through it. One hand grabbed the man’s cheap jacket and the other raked his face. As he dug his fingers in, Willy felt the flesh mask dislodge and slide off in his hand.

“Fucking wanker!” he growled as the Chinese agent threw a powerful kick at his head.

He ducked under it and sprang up with the full power of his legs. He caught the assassin hard in the upper-chest and they both went sprawling. The tackle caused them to knock both lanterns onto the floor. The weak glass shattered and fire crept onto the wood.

He didn’t have time to think about it as both men struggled for position. Willy ended up on top in the man’s guard. He rained down a few punches, but the man caught and trapped one of his arms.

Willy knew the man was going for the triangle choke. He was already lodging Willy’s arm against his throat while using his legs to increase pressure on the back and side of his neck. Willy had been choked out on more than one occasion by this move, so he knew how to counter it. It was too late to get his arm out of the lock it was in, so he made sure to get his footing right before starting to lift up the man. As predicted, the man tried to grab Willy’s leg and pull it out from under him, but he’d already moved them out of his way.

Willy was short, but this man was shorter, and that screwed the little assassin. He lifted the man up until he was over his head and then slammed him hard back onto the wooden floor. The wooden boards below them cracked, but the floor held. The wind was knocked out of the little assassin, which allowed Willy to worm out of the hold and get his hand on his gun. In a smooth motion he slid it out of the holster and pointed it at the man’s chest. The man was reaching for his own belt, but he was too slow.

Willy put three rounds into the guy and he stopped moving.

The fire was starting to grow and he was standing over a body, but the Royal Marine took a second to catch his breath and massage his throat. He’d have a few bruises from this fight tomorrow. He looked down at the assassin – a worthy opponent – and saw a red light flashing in his hand. Being an expert in demolitions, Willy immediately knew what that was. He didn’t hesitate. He sprinted for the stairs and threw himself headfirst down them.

He wasn’t concerned about the injuries he’d sustain as the high explosive grenade detonated. It easily destroyed the steeple and showered glass on the crowds gathering on the streets below, but it also hit the extra fuel for the lanterns. The barrels the flammable liquid was in were disintegrated under the pressure wave of the explosion and spewed everywhere.

Half the Old North Church went up in flames as debris and fire rained down into the city around it.

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