Blackheart

Chapter One.

The truck lurched and groaned, and with one final lurch, shuddered to a halt. The vehicle sat for a minute, finally still for the first time since leaving Calais that morning. The engine hissed as it cooled and its metal frame creaked under its own weight, as if stretching at the end of the long journey. Mildly aware of the changes in motion, Moira stirred – she'd figured the best way to deal with the 5-hour journey to Coevordon was to be unconscious for most of it. She'd set her rucksack up against the wall of the cargo bed and slept on it, tactically electing to ignore the odd bumps and protrusions of it. Still groggy, she noticed that Fletcher, still sitting opposite her, had evidently also had the idea to sleep through the long ride: she uncrossed her legs and kicked him roughly in the shin to rouse him, immediately regretting the decision as the numbness of her legs began to give way to pins and needles. She saw his eyes briefly consider opening before deciding that a few more moments of precious sleep were a better alternative.

She yawned and stretched, scratching the closely shaved side of her head as she scanned the inside of the carriage. Shards of light pierced through the small rusty gaps in the side of the ageing train, small flecks of dust darting through the brightness like gnats. The warped, mouldy wood of the cabin floor was covered in debris. Odd rounds, cigarette butts, snack wrappers, and other such items likely discarded by the truck's occupants over the course of the journey. She checked her watch - it was just about 10:30. She hoped she'd have enough time to get some grub before they moved out again.

After a few moments, the canvas cover at the rear of the truck was flung upwards, flooding the interior with harsh light and freshly disturbed dust. The men and women inside squinted as the light hit them, before wearily gathering their belongings. Sitting nearest the cabin, Moira decided to wait until the truck had been mostly vacated before making a move for it, the decision having entirely nothing to do with the pins and needles attacking her legs. She grabbed her rifle from her lap and held it close, wary of anyone hitting it on their way off the train. She idly twiddled the sling loop as she looked the rifle over. The olive stock had become scratched and battered with age and the metal of the barrel was now a mottled silver as the finish wore away. The thing was covered in about as many scars and abrasions as she was. Years of dodging mortars and bloodying their elbows in battlefield dirt hadn't been kind to either of them, she mused, absentmindedly tracing her finger over a scar on her cheekbone.

"Bloody thing's like a teddy bear to you."

She could hear the smirk on Fletcher's face without even having to look at him. She gave him a cursory glance to see that he'd placed a protective hand over his own rifle. The hypocrite.

"At least I look after mine. I can't believe you brought that pile of rust with you." Fletcher was holding some Chinese AK he'd picked up in Sierra Leone a couple of weeks ago. 

"Not like I had much chance to pick up something better. I'll see about picking something else when we're out in the field, though."

She hated to admit it, but the idea of just dropping her rifle for something 'better' didn't quite sit right with Moira. She'd gotten attached to her G3; she couldn't imagine trading it in for something else. She'd been through too many situations where the thing had saved her life to pick up another rifle. As the last of her pins and needles subsided, she stood up to dismount the truck, slinging her rifle and grabbing her webbing as she did so.

"I guess I could see what they have going spare at the depot," said Fletcher.

"Wouldn't count on getting anything decent. The Soviets are playing hell with the supply routes, slim chance of anything getting across the Atlantic while their subs are still in play," said a voice from their left. A young man, probably about Moira's age. He was wearing a parka over his helmet, the rim of which was pushing his glasses slightly further down his nose than he looked comfortable with. "Are you... F. Alricksson and M. McCrae?"

"Aye," they replied simultaneously.

"It's good you made it. The general isn't here to greet you in person, but he spoke highly of you. I'll be your liaison for your stay at this facility. You'll be heading over to Hanover to rendezvous with the 5th Infantry. They'll tell you what they need you to do. Resupply here, and be ready to move out at 1200."