Tamsin Beech Ch. 08: Kirkwall

"Prekratit' ogon!" someone shouted outside in Russian. A moment later the shooting stopped.

"ATTENTION IN THE HOTEL!" Zmelya shouted again, sounding impatient this time, "there is no escape. I give you thirty seconds to disarm and surrender. If you do not, I send my troops in to flush you out."

Wiping plaster dust from her eyes, Tamsin glanced around at the others. Her parents, her uncle, her cousin and her lover. Counting the two outside on the Kerrera II, this was all that remained of the resistance. All that stood between President Zakhvatchikov and his dream of total domination. How could she stand to give in to people who thought so little of a girl's life that they would leave her broken body bleeding in the gutter?

Tamsin tucked her crutch under her arm and awkwardly, deliberately pushed herself to her feet.

"Tamz!" Merida hissed, "stay down, they'll shoot!"

"No they won't. This fucker wants us alive mum. Me especially," she hobbled the couple of steps to the shattered window and peered out. The number of townspeople had increased, now outnumbering Zmelya's troops at least ten to one. They clustered together, a mob, blocking the street to either side of the hotel entrance, their mood ugly.

Zmelya looked up and smirked, "Glad you've seen sense. Throw out your weapons. Surrender."

Ignoring the Coalition governor, Tamsin addressed the gathered people of Kirkwall instead, "My name ... is Tamsin Beech, and I ... killed Kim Napp Gylan. Although Colonel Zmelya and his troops here may know me by another name - Tamsin Zakhvatchikov. I am the president's granddaughter."

Zmelya's jaw dropped. He'd had no idea it seemed.

Tamsin continued, as behind her the others rose to their feet, "I didn't ask to be, but neither do I make a secret of it. Now knowing what atrocities my grandfather's Coalition has committed, and is still committing ... I renounce the name and all that goes with it."

Zmelya gestured to a couple of his soldiers to move towards the hotel's entrance. Keaton's militia guards instantly moved into place to block their way.

"I've seen the invaders use Reekies as cannon fodder, hold an entire family hostage to turn their son into a spy," Tamsin tore her eyes away as she spotted a man and woman fall to their knees next to the dead schoolgirl's body. Now would not be the time to get emotional, "I've seen them massacre an entire Welsh town suspected of harbouring fugitives. I've seen them with my own eyes force this country's starving survivors into slavery and prostitution. And ... I've seen them use a nuclear weapon on British soil to murder women and children."

Across the road, she spotted McTavish and her Aunt Jessamy step off the Kerrera II onto the quayside, armed. They too guessed what might be coming. She hoped she was right, "We, are all that's left of the resistance. But we have a plan. A workable plan to force President Zakhvatchikov and these invaders out of our country once and for all. All we need is time."

Armed with knives, axe handles and farming implements, the angry people of Kirkwall began edging forward. Their weapons might be no match for automatic assault rifles but there were certainly a lot more of them.

"So ..." Tamsin took a breath, "the way I see it, you all have a choice. You can either let Zmelya arrest me right here and now and let their atrocities continue ... or you can show that you're still British ... and join us. I won't lie to you. There may be reprisals," she gazed down at the townsfolk, making eye contact with them, "but could you live with yourselves knowing that you could've made a difference ... and didn't?" she glanced over at Malcolm Keaton standing by their door, "wouldn't you rather die on your feet, than live on your knees?"

The people of Kirkwall charged. Several of Zmelya's men tried to scramble back inside the APC, but were dragged out by their legs and set upon with whatever weapons the locals had found. Some opened fire - their Kalashnikovs devastatingly effective at such close range - but were swiftly surrounded and overpowered, their weapons taken from them. One or two that sprinted towards the harbour hoping to commandeer a boat were cut down by Jessamy Beech and McTavish waiting for them on the quay.

In minutes it was over. A crowd of armed Orcadians poured around to the rear of the hotel to deal with the other APC as Tamsin gingerly limped down the stairs to street level.

"You're Zakhvatchikov's granddaughter?" Keaton was flabbergasted, "no wonder I thought you looked familiar."

And I'm his daughter," added Merida sweetly, "what of it?"

"Never mind that now," Tamsin snapped, "Keaton, you have wounded outside. Call your doctor and have them cared for."

Keaton nodded and scurried off. Leonid came up beside her as Tamsin made her way outside, "Some speech."

Tamsin nodded, "It only takes one spark to ignite a fire. It's early days but ... I think we've just witnessed the rebirth of the resistance."

They stopped beside a blonde woman in her late twenties, kneeling in the wet road as she held the murdered schoolgirl in her arms and howled, a keening that sent a shiver up Tamsin's spine. Beside the pair, a fisherman in patched yellow oilskins and a boy both looked lost, totally unable to cope with the strength of emotions they were feeling.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," said Tamsin, a lump in her throat.

The man looked at her, as if he was looking through her, not registering anything outside his own grief.

"I feel responsible," she continued, "if we didn't come here this wouldn't have happened. Believe me if there was anything I could do to bring her back I'd do it."

"Don't apologise Miss," said the fisherman, his voice empty and emotionless, "ye did nothin' wrong."

Tamsin clenched her jaw, "Your little girl will always be remembered, I promise. I'll make sure of it. She was the spark. What ... what was her name?"

"F-flora, Miss. Flora Deerness."

Letting Leonid support her, Tamsin placed her good hand reassuringly on the man's shoulder, "Well I promise you ... by the time my grandfather and his regime are beaten, everyone in Britain ... will know the name Flora Deerness."

The girl's father looked deep into Tamsin's eyes, searching for an explanation, but finding only the truth in her words, "Thankyou."

"Tamsin!" Phoebe interrupted, "ye better come quick. They've taken Zmelya alive."

PART FOUR: GIRL FLORA

While Merida and Phoebe helped tend the wounded, Ross, McTavish and Leonid warily watched the unpredictable crowd. After Tamsin's public confession it was just possible that the townsfolk might turn on them next. Bounty hunters might be amongst them, eager to claim whatever price had been put on Tamsin and her mother's head. Though the sudden appearance of a Reekie in their midst, armed with a blood soaked butcher's cleaver seemed to have something of a calming influence.

"Best keep your mouth shut mate," Ross whispered to Leonid, "one sniff of a Russian accent ... you're liable to get torn apart."

With Hamnavoe resting at the hotel, Malcolm Keaton led Jessamy and Tamsin through Kirkwall's narrow streets to the town's police station.

"I think I could've found my own way," said Jessamy sarcastically. Keaton's eyes widened and he awkwardly looked away.

Cheers followed them, as the locals celebrated their victory, firing stolen Kalashnikovs into the air and parading around wearing pieces of blood stained Coalition uniform.

"You should tell your people not to waste ammunition," Tamsin advised the Orcadian leader, "if the president ever gets wind of what you've done, they might be needing it."

Keaton squeezed through the crowd of angry onlookers gathered outside Kirkwall's police station, "MAKE WAY THERE! Give them a while to let off steam Miss, uh ... Zakhvatchikov."

Tamsin fixed him with a hard stare, "My name is Beech. It never has been, nor ever will be Zakhvatchikov."

Keaton looked abashed, "Sorry ... Miss Beech."

"Back at the hotel ... where the fuck did you learn to give a speech like that?" Jessamy asked her niece, impressed.

Tamsin shrugged, "Needs must. We've finally got a plan to defeat the Coalition once and for all. I wasn't about to let some jumped up local governor upset all that. Any ideas how Zmelya found us?"

Jessamy glared dangerously at a couple of Orcadians until they moved to one side, then pushed her way into the police station, "Let's go ask him."

The Orcadians had decided not to simply shoot Zmelya in the street during the hotel skirmish. For his crimes against the islanders he was to be publicly executed. Once word got around, more of the local people would have chance to attend. It was their right after all. Battered and bloodied, Zmelya had been thrown into the same police cell Jessamy Beech had occupied twelve years before. He sat on the narrow cot scowling at his jeering guards with one eye swollen shut and broken teeth.

"Whatever happened to your jailer, Keaton?" Jessamy asked, "youngish guy, zits. Douglas was it?"

Keaton thought for a moment, "Dougal. Er ... to be honest I was a little pissed off he let you and Hamnavoe escape. He was ... punished."

Jessamy nodded grimly then turned to face Zmelya through the rusting bars of the holding cell, "So, shit for brains. How'd you find us?"

"Poshël v zadnitsu," muttered Zmelya, and spat blood on the bare stone floor.

Tamsin stepped forward, leaning on her crutch, "My aunt's not here to kiss YOUR ass or anyone else's. Vy ne ponimali, chto govoril po - russki, ty? Now just answer the fucking question."

Zmelya's one good eye widened in surprise.

"I didn't know you spoke Russian," murmured Jessamy.

"I've picked up a few words, from you know who," Tamsin turned back to Zmelya, "so how did you find us?"

"A one-eyed beggar tipped us off. He's in a cell at my headquarters."

"Lucky break for you then. What about ... current troop numbers stationed on Lindisfarne? Any ideas? Or do I need to call my Reekie friend McTavish?"

"I've no idea," Zmelya let out a long sigh, "do with me as you wish. I've been on these miserable fucking islands since the attack on Berwick Upon Tweed. Twelve fucking years!"

Jessamy stepped forward, with a sudden bright intensity in her eyes, "What do you know about Berwick Upon Tweed?"

"Why?" Zmelya glared at her insolently, feeling his teeth with the tip of one grubby finger, "it's ancient history. Our Reekies softened up their defences and we moved in. End of story. General Volk was in charge ..."

"And killed my brother you piece of shit!" barked Tamsin.

"Easy Tamz," Jessamy placed a hand gently on her back. Their line of questioning had suddenly taken an unexpected turn and she was determined to get some answers, "so, what happened to all the prisoners?"

Zmelya looked at her, "What does it matter?"

"Humour me," Jessamy insisted.

Zmelya shrugged, "The president's daughter was sent to Scarborough, his granddaughter ... you," he pointed at Tamsin, "to Lindisfarne and the other women and children to our holding facility. Is there any chance of some water?"

Jessamy motioned to one of Keaton's militia guards, "Holding facility? Where?"

"Fort George, near Nairn."

She exchanged a look with Tamsin, then returned her attention to Zmelya, "If you say you know nothing about Lindisfarne I'm inclined to believe you."

Tamsin nodded her agreement.

Jessamy continued, "I'll ask Keaton to treat you well and get you cleaned up. We're not savages Colonel Zmelya. Even to those who deserve it. But you will still be executed as planned."

Leaving Keaton with his prisoner, Jessamy led Tamsin back outside into the street.

"What was that about?" Tamsin asked. When Jessamy turned to her, she was shocked to see tears gathering in her aunt's eyes.

"Ada. Phoebe's sister. If what Zmelya said is true, that's where she might be."

. . .

Back at the hotel later that evening, Jessamy took Malcolm Keaton to one side, "I'm guessing from the lack of war with the North Koreans that President Zakhvatchikov is now in charge of the entire Coalition. He has nukes, so you need to be careful. If they find out Zmelya is no longer in charge I wouldn't rate your chances."

Keaton stared at her wide eyed, "N-nukes? As in nuclear weapons? What should we do?"

Jessamy shrugged, "Tell anyone who trades with the mainland to keep Zmelya's execution under wraps. Dress your militia in Coalition uniforms, keep using the APCs and don't let your people ransack their HQ. Comms are unreliable so if you keep up the illusion of normality ... hopefully when their jets do a reconnaissance flypast they'll just see everything as hunky dory down here on the ground. Your lives depend on it, Buster."

Keaton nodded his gratitude, "Thanks for the advice. Wait a second, look ... I'm sorry about, y'know ... before. I was a prick," he delved into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, "I'm grateful for what you've all done here. You've brought my ... OUR community together. Given us a purpose. And ... well I think this belongs to you."

Keaton held out Jessamy's Royal Marines Commando knife. The same knife that had been confiscated from her twelve years earlier. The same knife she'd taken from a dead Reiver in Dalmally when she'd been only eighteen, "I've been keeping it ... as like, like a trophy. A knife that once belonged to the great Jessamy Beech."

Jessamy smiled as she held it up to the light, "It could do with a sharpen. But thankyou. Thanks for taking care of it."

. . .

The day after Zmelya's execution by hanging, most of the population of Kirkwall and a few from the outlying islands turned up for a joint funeral honouring Flora Deerness and the others that had died in the coup. On a sunny autumn day with the stained glass windows reflecting every colour of the rainbow on the red sandstone walls, they were laid to rest in a quiet corner of St Magnus Cathedral itself. Now and forever more, local heroes.

Tamsin couldn't help herself scanning the floor as she hobbled around the magnificent building, curious, searching for wide marble slabs that might mark the entrance to another Soteria command bunker. It seemed that many of them had been cunningly hidden when various cathedrals and castles - all solidly constructed buildings, had been undergoing renovation work over the years. But she found nothing. There was no escaping the path fate had laid out for her. Tamsin Beech was going back to Lindisfarne whether she liked it or not.

Flora Deerness's father insisted they take his boat - a forty foot green fishing vessel aptly named 'Girl Flora.' A welcome addition, powered by sail as a backup to conserve fuel as well as a large diesel engine.

"We can't take your boat Mr Deerness," Tamsin had argued, "that's your livelihood."

"Pfft. Better helpin' kick these Coalition bastards out, than up here catchin' the dregs Miss," he'd replied, "I can crew on any o' the boats here. Only difference bein' I willnae be skipper."

Tamsin regretfully replaced her Aunt Jessamy's SA80s with Scandinavian made Kalashnikovs plundered from Zmelya's armoury. They had only a limited supply of 5.56mm ammunition for the SA80s, whereas 7.62mm for the Coalition weapons would be readily available. She grabbed herself a spare MP-443 Grach and Coalition uniforms.

With both vessels armed, provisioned and equipped with shortwave radios provided by Keaton - Jessamy, Hamnavoe, Ross, Merida and Phoebe would steam southwards onboard Kerrera II to see if there was any truth in Zmelya's story about a Fort George holding facility. While Tamsin, Leonid and McTavish would head towards the mouth of the River Tay, and what had once been the city of Perth. Any further and they might risk detection by the Coalition fleet still anchored in the Firth of Forth.

After that, there was still one last vital piece of the puzzle that needed slotting into place to ensure their plan's success, before any one of them could even consider returning to Northumberland ...

. . .

The day of departure arrived. Another blustery and overcast late autumn day with a sky the colour of an old bruise. Ripples moved rapidly across the Peedie Sea - disturbing moorhens nesting amongst the bullrushes around its perimeter, and a school of Minke whales made their way across Wide Firth just beyond the harbour.

Girl Flora would leave first, and there were long and tearful farewells between Tamsin and both her parents. They were used to seeing her embarking on dangerous missions but this somehow felt different. So Leonid and McTavish were ordered in no uncertain terms to take care of their daughter. Despite still walking with a pronounced limp, Tamsin had discarded her crutch, insisting that she was more than capable of looking after herself.

"Tamsin?" Jessamy called to her niece from the quayside, as she directed the loading of spare drums of diesel from the Kerrera II.

"What is it Aunt Jessamy?"

"I want you to have this," Jessamy handed over her black Royal Marines Commando knife.

Tamsin ran a thumb along the freshly sharpened blade, "Wow. But ... Phoebe's your daughter, shouldn't she have this?"

Jessamy chewed her top lip for a second, considering how to word what she was thinking, "I ... don't want Phoebe following in my footsteps, Tamsin. I don't want her to be a killer. Like us. If we defeat the Coalition, the world will change. There'll be no need for our kind anymore. But for now you may find it useful. Take it ... it's yours."

Tamsin nodded, seeing the wisdom in her aunt's words. Then all that remained was to to give each other a goodbye hug and to be on their way ...

THE END OF CHAPTER EIGHT

Major Ludmila Mudak moaned with relief around the thick, veiny shaft filling her mouth. The idea of another man joining her and Volk always pushed her over the edge. Her heart raced, leaving her body trembling, and beside the desk, Supreme Marshal Volk's strong hands tightened on the back of her head, "Definitely sounds like you actually enjoy being spitroasted. One at both ends?"

She nodded enthusiastically as his cock pressed deeper into her mouth, pushing insistently against the back of her throat. Gagging for air, she was helpless ...

... and loving every second of it.

With Volk's fingers entwined through her glossy black hair, she couldn't answer as his cock fucked her throat with increasing speed. Short, fast thrusts ... tiny droplets of his seed coating her tongue with each pass.

Volk growled as he pulled himself free of her mouth. Releasing his grip on her, he smiled, "I'm not ready to finish with you just yet."

Ludmila gasped for air, already missing his taste, his presence in her mouth. Her neck strained towards the thick, swollen flesh. But a low chuckle drew her attention up to Volk's face as he tucked himself back into his pressed uniform trousers, "You realise that when our transport shows up, I'm going to let the pilot fuck you too?"

"Mmm ... I was ... counting on it actually Supreme Marshal," Ludmila panted. Only a couple of weeks before, Volk had barely noticed her, oblivious to her more obvious attributes. But it had only taken one date, one kiss and he'd been snared. Caught like a fish on a hook to do whatever she suggested. Addicted to her. Although he didn't yet know it.

With paperwork and files strewn across the floor of his office, she lay back on the broad expanse of his desk, her blouse open, the heels of her stilettos squeaking as she moved. Beyond the ancient leaded windows, gales blasted rain in off the North Sea at Lindisfarne Castle. She loved this place. The bleakness, the remoteness of it. The castle had an air of permanence - not at all like living onboard the Lenin between steel walls and at President Zakhvatchikov's constant beck and call.