Tamsin Beech Ch. 12: Windermere

Ada Beech poked her bowl of kimchi with a flimsy plastic fork.

A staple of North Korean cuisine, the traditional dish of salted and fermented vegetables seemed to be all that was on offer aboard the carrier Baekdusan. Even seasoned with gochugaru, spring onions, garlic, ginger or jeotgal, the monotony of the same food day in and day out was beginning to make her wish she'd stayed on the Lenin.

But then she'd be dead, along with the rest of the Coalition fleet.

Hundreds of voices shouted over one another in the carrier's echoing mess hall - none of which she understood a word of. Ada was only beginning to get the hang of Russian so the North Koreans' language was totally beyond her.

Even to the members of President Volk's bodyguard she was just a 'postoronniy' - an outsider. Recruited not from the Russian military like the others, but from a British refugee camp, and therefore considered less worthy. Expendable. Which had made her stubbornly, defiantly, excel at everything she tried her hand at. Weapons training, martial arts and forced marches carrying almost her own body weight in equipment, nineteen year old Ada Beech had proven that whatever the Russian born Spetsnaz recruits could do, she could do equally as well, if not better.

Inevitably because of that, the others recruits hated her. Through her teenage years she suspected that she might have to fight off the advances of the male recruits like some of the other women. But no. They treated her with utter contempt and for the most part simply ignored her, dubbing her 'belokuryy prizrak' - the blonde ghost. The name stuck - and as far as the Coalition were concerned, she'd become Ada Prizrak.

As part of her indoctrination, she'd been taught all about the life of Vladimir Zakhvatchikov - the president she'd originally been recruited to protect. With her life if necessary.

She'd been taught how he'd selflessly sacrificed everything in his early twenties to become a diplomat in England in order to serve his motherland in the best way he could. How he'd taken pity on a local girl - Sorrel Watchcroft. Plucking her from poverty and obscurity to become his consort and later his wife. How he'd then returned home to Moscow - when both Sorrel and their newborn daughter had tragically died in a horrific car accident, to oversee the retaliation against NATO's pre-emptive warmongering.

And finally how he'd led the brave survivors of the Thanatos apocalypse and its aftermath to a new beginning on the shores of one of the very countries that had sought to bring about Russia's downfall and enslave its people - the United Kingdom.

But unfortunately all that was irrelevant since Vladimir Zakhvatchikov - the Old Wolf, was now dead. And the new president - Volk, she knew nothing about whatsoever.

For years, Ada had been curious about a few things. Her Aunt Merida - whom she barely remembered from her days living in Berwick Upon Tweed, had shared the same unusual name with Zakhvatchikov's daughter. Surely that couldn't have been just a coincidence? And her parents, and sister. What of them? The Russian recruiters had never told her exactly what had happened to them or why she'd been living in a refugee camp.

They were dangerous thoughts to have. Ada knew that she was better off keeping them to herself. The president's safety should be her number one priority, and wondering about family members who were in all likelihood long dead was not only futile, but bordering on treason.

Ada tucked a stray lock of her long blonde hair back behind her ear, then pushed her untouched bowl of kimchi aside. She tightened the shoulder straps on her dented Kevlar body armour. There'd surely be scavenging missions into the city planned and if it meant getting off the Baekdusan and away from Captain Soetjoe Geomi's suspicious crew for even a few hours, she'd volunteer.

Major Rosomakha intercepted her as she shouldered her Kalashnikov and strode towards the mess hall exit, "Going somewhere Private Prizrak?"

The Spetsnaz commanding officer was the only Russian aboard that seemed to show her any respect whatsoever. She liked him. Ada snapped to attention and saluted, "Sir. I was going to volunteer for salvage operations ashore sir."

"Leaving the president unguarded?"

"Sir, I ... didn't consider my absence would make that much difference sir."

"On the contrary Prizrak. You're one of my best people ..."

Another reason why the other Russians onboard hated her. Ada was occasionally singled out for praise from her superiors. Whereas they were not.

"... and President Volk has been asking me about you," Rosomakha continued.

"H-he has? ... sir?"

A troubled look passed momentarily over Rosomakha's face like a cloud crossing the sun on a windy day, "He has. And he's ... requested your presence in his quarters this evening, for dinner."

What did the president eat, Ada wondered. Surely not kimchi. She'd heard rumours about the stormy relationship between the president and his troubled consort, Ludmila Mudak. Many of the Baekdusan's crew had suffered bouts of depression or anxiety after they'd witnessed the British resistance wipe out the Coalition fleet. But with Ludmila Mudak it had manifested as unpredictable and increasingly violent mood swings.

"Will, um ... Major Mudak be there, sir?" Ada asked cautiously.

Rosomakha quickly shook his head, "Uh, no. Just the two of you. Major Mudak has been assigned ... duties elsewhere. Dress in civilian clothing. Be at the president's suite at eight o'clock sharp."

Bewildered, Ada nodded, "Yes sir."

Where was she going to find civilian clothing?

Rosomakha smiled. But Ada couldn't help notice the hint of sorrow in his dark eyes, "Now go. Sergeant Kazan is leading a salvage operation into the city and wants volunteers."

. . .

Barely a mile away, waves lapped at the frosty shingle beach underneath one of the old Napoleonic fortifications guarding the harbour entrance. Like the delicate kisses of a cautious lover, they swept up over the uncountable millions of tiny pebbles then withdrew with a soothing shush.

The woman's naked body that had been washed up the night before would lie there at least until high tide. Or until it was picked over by crabs, gulls or other predators that roamed the devastated city. Her once glossy black hair hung in lank tangles about her angular face. Curves that had once been squeezed into too tight uniforms to tempt the appetites of senior Coalition officers now turned blue grey in the chill wind.

Most of the people who'd known her would assume she'd jumped. Plunging to her merciful death from the flight deck of the damaged aircraft carrier. Most. Except for the one who'd shoved her into the water ... and the one who'd ordered him to do so.

CHAPTER TWELVE: WINDERMERE

Stirlingshire, Scotland, winter 2064 ...

PART ONE: IN COLD PURSUIT

President Zakhvatchikov's people really had done excellent work clearing and repairing the main artery through to the south. With the inhospitable terrain, brutal weather and sporadic attacks by the resistance, Yeonmi guessed that many must have died during the years it took to complete.

Using a dog-eared 2014 AA road atlas, the North Korean was able to navigate her Ukrainian built BTR-94 easily down through Scotland's snowy Cairngorm mountains as far as the outskirts of Stirling in under a day. Past deserted crofts and shuffling columns of refugees, speed was of the essence. The simple act of sabotage she'd carried out on Fort George's last remaining GAZ Tigr wouldn't delay any pursuers for long, and Tamsin Beech's maternal instinct would have her desperate to get her son back. Fresh snowfall would obliterate the armoured personnel carrier's tracks but with only a few passable roads to choose from, they'd guess which way she'd gone. The charred wrecks and other obstacles still lying under inches of snow on the icy road were easy to weave around or else shunt out of the way. Not something she wanted to make a habit of though - since the APC was transporting such a precious but potentially volatile cargo.

Angus Beech Denisovich and her own young daughter Jag-eun Neugdae slept or burbled merrily for much of the drive - securely strapped in and only becoming more vocal when they deemed it time for feeding or a nappy change.

On each occasion, Yeonmi parked up in the centre of the carriageway well away from buildings, wrecked vehicles or natural features that might be used as cover from which to stage an ambush. She then carefully scanned her surroundings with the cracked binoculars found in the cab for any sign that she might get interrupted. When, and only when she'd decided it safe to do so - and with a loaded Kalashnikov close at hand just in case, she'd tended to the two infants' needs.

Treating them both with the same degree of care, she breast-fed, cleaned and redressed them. Without a doubt, Yeonmi loved her own daughter unconditionally. But the Beech child also needed to be kept healthy, for when it came time to decide his fate.

After what she assumed to be the carrier Baekdusan had unleashed on Edinburgh, the city was going to require a wide detour. The Arthur's Seat volcano had devastated much of the city over forty years previously, spawning the Reekie infestation. The Soteria satellites had caused floods along much of the coastline. And one of the Baekdusan's Topol ballistic missiles had now finished the job, turning the whole area into an uninhabitable radioactive wasteland.

"Cheongcheonhaneuren janbyeoldo manko, urine gaseumen huimangdo manda," Yeonmi sang softly to the sleepy infants as the sky darkened. The temperature was dropping noticeably outside as she reversed the BTR-94 into the cover of a derelict Lidl supermarket off Stirling's Goosecroft Road to spend the night, "jeogi jeo sani Baekdusaniraji, dongji seotdaredo kkotman pinda."

She needed sleep. Desperately. If she was to get as far as Cumbria the following day she'd need to be alert and have her wits about her. The road atlas wouldn't account for meteorite damage or natural hazards she might encounter farther south.

Yeonmi built a small fire and made herself relaxing camomile tea while humming the English words of the same lullaby to herself, "Just as there are many stars in the clear sky, there are also many dreams in our heart. There, over there, that mountain is Baekdu Mountain, where, even in the middle of winter days, flowers bloom."

Another song about a distant homeland, that in all likelihood she would never see. Britain was to have been their new home - an island easily defensible from outsiders. But no-one in the Coalition could have foreseen that their downfall would be engineered from inside the UK's borders.

Yeonmi had spoken almost perfect English for years. And Russian. And Mandarin. Enemies could be fooled into giving away all kinds of secrets if they thought someone didn't speak their language. With a watchful eye on the parked BTR-94, Yeonmi stepped out into the deserted town as fat snowflakes began spiralling down from the overcast sky - a steaming tin mug in one hand, MP-443 Grach handgun with extended magazine in the other.

The sex with Jessamy Beech's gullible daughter had been good and satisfying. Phoebe had been eager to please - an enthusiastic if inexperienced lover. Yeonmi regretted having to take advantage of the other woman but it had been the only way to get what she'd needed - transport and a way out of the fort. Perhaps in another life they could've continued and formed a proper relationship.

In another life. With Zakhvatchikov dead, she'd get to the rendezvous, take her rightful place at the head of what was left of the Coalition's forces ... and wreak bloody vengeance on Tamsin Beech and her resistance for what they'd done.

. . .

"Can't you go any fucking faster?" Tamsin Beech asked coldly from the GAZ Tigr's passenger seat.

It took a second for Leonid to realise she was asking him a direct question. Following the clear tracks of Yeonmi's stolen BTR-94 couldn't have been easier. With cloudless skies and spindrift pirouetting lazily across the glittering road ahead, conditions were perfect. Which was why he'd noticed the cairns down the right hand side of the road straight away.

At first he took them for piles of mossy white boulders covered with a layer of fresh snow. But on slowing down to view the third or fourth they'd passed a little more closely, Leonid realised just what they were. Pyramids of human skulls, picked clean and bleached by sun and wind.

Markers, to show the edge of Reiver territory.

Tamsin followed his gaze, "Reivers," she said in a flat tone.

Leonid nodded, peering cautiously up at the silent hills bordering the road on all sides. Were they being watched?

Finding the Tigr's spark plug leads, in the undergrowth where Yeonmi had thrown them back at Fort George, had taken almost an hour. So by the time they were eventually on the road, the North Korean had a long head start. Tamsin clutched a Grach tightly in her lap, as if ready to spring into action the moment they caught sight of the stolen BTR-94. Where was Yeonmi taking Angus? And why? One thing was certain - there was much more to the North Korean woman than being a simple refugee. She'd taken advantage of Phoebe Beech's trusting nature and manipulated Jessamy's daughter into helping her. She was dangerous.

"If she keeps heading south, we'll need to skirt around Edinburgh," Leonid suggested a while later, as snow laden clouds began to spread ominously across the horizon, "there's most likely still fallout. I'd be surprised if the Coalition's colonies don't get affected by it."

"Serves them fucking right," Tamsin responded.

"Tamz. They're civilians. They had nothing to do with the war or the atrocities the Coalition committed."

"Neither did our son," Tamsin snarled.

Leonid had no answer for that. Since finding Tamsin near hysterical in their son's empty room, a knot of fear had twisted in his stomach. He didn't like the way she'd changed. Leading the resistance had demanded a certain ruthlessness but this callously cruel attitude was the antithesis of the woman he'd fallen in love with.

Fighting Zakhvatchikov and his Coalition invaders had consumed Tamsin's life for so long, it had come as a blessed relief when she'd discovered her pregnancy. With having something as pure and wholesome as caring for a baby, she and Leonid could begin living a normal life and put the horror and atrocities of war behind them. She clearly remembered the night she'd told him he was going to be a father ...

It had been in their small but cosy room back at the fort, during one of their lengthier love making sessions. Leonid had swept his hands up her waist and over her breasts, feeling how hard her nipples were, "I could do this with you every ... single ... day," he'd said, groaning as she'd gyrated her hips under him on their rumpled bed.

"You enjoy it that much?" she'd giggled, her motion on his cock teasing out her own quiet moans.

Leonid had been thrusting his hips to mirror her own motion, to increase the depth of his penetration, but as the pace built up he withdrew a little too much from her and his cock slipped out with an audible plop, "More than you'll ever know. You're ... krasivaya, Tamsin Beech."

"Krasivaya? What's that?" she'd lifted her pelvis to invite him back inside her, but for a moment Leonid had just indulged in stroking his slippery cock over her skin, from the top of her inner thighs, down over her shaven mound and the slickness of her labia.

"It means beautiful," he'd caressed her inner lips then, flicking the tip of his cock back and forth along the warm slippery groove, concentrating special attention on her clitoris.

Eyes tightly shut she'd moaned aloud, enjoying the friction of him against her, "Will you still think I'm ... krasivaya, when I'm fat?"

Leonid had leaned forward to kiss her again, long and hard, exploring her mouth with his tongue, encouraging her to do the same, as she ground her hips, "When are you ever likely to get fat?"

She'd squealed with surprised delight as he'd suddenly penetrated her once more, wondering how far the sound might carry in the old building, "Ooh ... uh, I don't know. I'm just saying that I might ... mmm, put on a little weight over the next few ... uh, months."

Leonid had thrust all the way into her, filling her. Becoming more forceful with every movement, more vigorous, as he satisfied both their needs, "Uh, why?"

She'd wrapped herself around him then. Arms, legs, pressing herself desperately against him as if wanting to become one body as all rational thought was swept away by the warm, smothering tsunami of her orgasm. Seconds later, Leonid too had let out an almighty grunt as he'd ejaculated deep inside her.

When she'd got her breathing under control minutes later, she'd tenderly stroked the back of his ear, "For fuck's sake Leo. Do I have to spell it out for you? I'm ... beremennaya. Pregnant. You're going to be a father."

"Stirling is the next major town," Leonid announced abruptly.

It took Tamsin a second to realise where she was. She rubbed her eyes and yawned.

Leonid continued, "But ... it could be a Reiver nest for all we know. I, uh ... think we should stop for the night and drive through when it's daylight."

"Stop?" Tamsin stared at him as if he'd gone stark, raving mad, "we're not stopping. We keep going until we find the bitch."

Beyond the Tigr's scratched windscreen, snowflakes began to tumble lazily down from the leaden sky onto the stolen BTR-94's tyre marks.

. . .

In a smoky tavern on Whitby's harbour front, Jessamy Beech sipped her whisky. She'd not tasted decent single malt since Mull, when Hamnavoe had retrieved the bottle of Tobermory she'd secreted in the distillery wall years earlier. And whatever locally produced rotgut was in the smeared glass in front of her wasn't decent single malt.

It might be capable of stripping paint too, but at least it did the job.

Whitby couldn't really be called a community. Not like the one they'd created at Fort George at least. A collection of semi derelict stores and workshops repaired with tarps and salvaged chipboard, the North Yorkshire fishing town was for the moment at least, merely a place for boats to land their catch, refugees to beg for food or shelter and anyone else to go looking for information. A wretched hive of scum and villainy as her brother Ross would have called it.

Jessamy's search had so far turned up nothing. After the nuclear attack on Edinburgh she'd deliberately avoided Dunbar and North Berwick because of their close proximity to it. Moving down the coast past St Abbs and Eyemouth she found many of the Coalition outposts of Northumberland's coastal towns had been hastily abandoned. Quite understandably.

This was how it had once been for her as a bounty hunter. Rubbing shoulders with the dregs of what was left of society - the rapists, paedophiles, traffickers and dealers who'd used the end of civilisation to carve out their own seedy little niches. Hoping that for the right price, one of them might have a scrap of knowledge she could use in hunting whatever quarry was at the top of her bounty list.

The dozen or so other 'customers' eyed her warily through clouds of zabveniye or whatever else they were smoking. Respectfully keeping their distance. They knew only too well who she was. Despite having been away for the better part of twelve years, her reputation had remained ...

"Jeshamy Beech the boun-ty hunter," slurred a drunken voice next to her. A tattooed slab of a man leaned precariously against the bar, gold teeth and four parallel scars across his bald face and head as if he'd tried wrestling a bear and lost. The voice sounded strangely raspy - hoarse and breathy.