Sandbox, p.1
Sandbox, page 1
Copyright
First published in the UK in 2016
Copyright © 2016 by Sean Henderson
The right of Sean Henderson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All material is either reproduced with permission or under the doctrines of fair use and fair dealing.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Editor: Sian Parkhouse
Cover design: Sean Henderson
V4
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
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Chapter 1
The foot tunnel seems to go on forever. A procession of reinforced concrete arches heads off into a vanishing point, each one appearing exponentially smaller than the next as they fade further away. The gaps between are interspersed with simple light bulbs, throwing dark shadows under the arches where the tunnel meets countless identical side passages.
Any noise here would be magnified a hundredfold by the immaculately rendered walls, but now there’s just an unnerving silence rebounding about the bunker corridor.
From nowhere a mouse comes scuttling along the floor, keeping to the edges and the shadows. It pauses under the dark shelter of a curved concrete bulwark, sniffs cautiously then rushes as fast as it can through the brightly lit space until it reaches the black gloom of the next arch. It stops again – nervous now – for there’s something wrong. It can smell man.
It tries to run again, but too late. With the tiniest squeak of horror, the mouse disappears under the heel of a large jackboot, which has stamped down from its shadowy hiding place. A crunching sound announces the destruction of the creature’s small bones and the end of its short life.
The owner of the jackboot shifts his balance forward, allowing the nearest bulb to illuminate one side of his bitter and pock-marked face, still red and sore from a cold water shave with no soap just before he came on guard duty. His earth-grey uniform bears the collar insignia of the Schutzstaffel, Himmler’s elite defence corps of racially pure soldiers, more widely known by their double S abbreviation. The soldier’s sleeve reveals that he is merely a senior rifleman, one of the lowest ranks, but it is the skeleton key insignia that marks him as a member of the 1st SS Panzer Leibstandarte, the personal bodyguards of the Fuhrer.
The soldier lifts his foot and peers underneath at the bloodied mess he has created on the concrete. A sneer of pleasure has time to pass his lips before another man’s muscular arm suddenly swings around his neck and the astonished guard is pulled violently up and back into the shadows.
Another crunching sound announces the destruction of the man’s small neck bones and the end of his shortened life.
The guard’s body drops to the floor, one leg sliding awkwardly out from the darkness to lie motionless in the light, until that limb too is pulled back into cover. Now anyone coming down the corridor would only know the senior rifleman was there if they tripped over his broken corpse.
That same corpse is just at this moment being stepped over by rubber-soled combat boots. They belong to an impossibly tall and wide wall of a man who has come out of the shadows pressing his fists together – fists as enormous as two hams.
His trousers are dark and nondescript, but his vest is bright white and his bodybuilder arms have full-sleeve tattoos depicting war scenes throughout history, including the gruesome mutilation of General Custer at the Battle of Little Big Horn on his bulging right triceps.
If you looked past the large horseshoe moustache that takes up a disproportionate part of the face of the man they call Stormforce, then to judge from his deeply lined and tanned skin, he could be Native American or Mexican. But it would probably be unwise to ask, as his snarl and his glowering eyes would suggest someone with little time for stupid questions.
Two comrades move out of the side passage behind this towering presence. A short overweight and bespectacled man in camouflage paint and a Ramones T shirt keeps watch while a tall lanky youth prods at the dead German guard with sand-coloured Timberlands. He simply nods his admiration, just as a fourth man appears in the corridor. He wears the uniform of a Standartenfuhrer or regiment leader, though he is clearly one of this group’s number for there is most definitely something incongruous about the young man’s appearance. There’s nothing wrong with his uniform, which looks perfect, right down to the Totenkopf or death’s head on his cap. The drawn and silenced Luger in his hand is the correct model for 1945. So it must be the fact that the young man is black, which would have been a peculiar first for the times.
‘Take his uniform,’ he instructs the others in the voice of the sixteen-year-old controlling this avatar.
‘Where next Vanguard?’ whispered Camo9834 – or just Camo as he preferred to be called – when the group paused at the corner of a tunnel.
The young black man he’d addressed was blocking their way, holding back his leonine dreadlocks with one hand and peering around the edge of the wall to survey the movement of soldiers further down the passage and between various doors leading off the corridor. To gauge from the smoked glass and lettering that declared the names and ranks of their occupants, these twelve or so doors were offices or at least part of the administrative structure of the bunker.
‘You and I have the uniforms,’ interrupted Strafe before Vanguard could reply. ‘We can get close enough to the soldiers and take them all out between us.’
Strafe had rushed to take the rifleman’s clothes before the others because the guard had an MP40 and so far only Vanguard had acquired a weapon. He’d have been happier keeping his Timberlands, but the uniform and the submachine gun came as a package and a powerful weapon was as much a part of Strafe’s gamer image as the twin scars that cut across his CGI eyebrow.
Vanguard pulled himself up to his full height and stepped up to Strafe until the tips of their jackboots touched. His avatar was just that all-important inch taller than the gunslinger, so the point was made. Strafe was also dressed as a lowly soldier and even if neither of their uniforms was their own, their ostensible ranks at least mirrored the fact that Vanguard was their team leader.
‘If we go in all guns blazing, the guys in the offices will call for back up and we won’t get any further,’ he calmly explained to Strafe, who was fidgeting with one of the piercings on the side of his nostril.
‘It’s no problem: I can take them all!’
‘We don’t have enough ammo,’ Vanguard stated, less calmly this time. ‘Trust me. I’ve tried it.’
Strafe sucked air through his teeth, all set to argue, until Stormforce stepped in front of him and simply jerked a huge thumb back at Vanguard – a clear and threateningly terse instruction to listen to their leader.
‘We can take the secret passage to get past the soldiers,’ Vanguard announced and that got all three looking at him in surprise.
‘What secret passage?’ asked Camo excitedly.
‘It’s in one of the offices.’
‘I’ve tried the offices,’ said Strafe. ‘There’s a bunch of soldiers ready to fight you in every one.’
‘Not this one,’ Vanguard told them enigmatically. ‘I thought there might be something useful inside because of the name.’
‘The name?’ Camo echoed, but Vanguard just grinned.
‘Follow me quickly when I give the signal.’
He concentrated, watching the soldiers’ movements again for what was almost longer than the others’ patience would allow. Then suddenly his left hand went up and made the signal for file formation and they were off. Vanguard stepped out into the corridor where German soldiers were still chatting to each other just twenty yards away, oblivious to the strange group of four men dipping into the office of Gruppenfuhrer Dietrich.
‘Okay I give up,’ said Camo, closing the door gently behind him and inspecting the leather and walnut décor of the large office that seemed identical to all the others bar the absence of soldiers. ‘What is about this guy’s name that got you interested?’
‘It’s Dietrich,’ replied Vanguard. ‘It means lock pick or skeleton key in German and that’s exactly what this Division has as their insignia.’
To demonstrate he tapped the badge on his sleeve.
‘You knew that Dietrich meant skeleton key in German?’
‘Yeah!’ Vanguard responded defensively, especially irritated by Camo’s raised eyebrows.
‘Really?’
‘Well, no. Not at first,’ he admitted. ‘But I ran all the names through a web translation app. That’s how I found out.’
‘Daniel, how d’ya get enough time to do all that?’ Strafe asked from what looked like the comfort of a large armchair.
The Vanguard avatar simply shrugged, reluctant to concede that its owner rarely bothered to attend school these days.
‘Don’t use my real name. Let’s try to stay in character,’ he told Strafe instead, to change the subject.
Strafe looked back at him and shrugged indifferently.
‘So come on... we can take the secret passage,’ Vanguard added, pointing to a set of closed curtains.
Camo nodded with understanding. ‘Course! Who’d have a window in a bunker?’
‘But this is the only one that goes anywhere,’ Vanguard called back after vaulting the sill into a narrow passage lit by flaming torches.
A high-ranking officer with round glasses, podgy cheeks and a sad excuse for a moustache trotted self-importantly down a long sand-bagged corridor behind a tall flustered-looking soldier. The rifleman was uncertain whether to reduce his pace because his illustrious charge was struggling to keep up or whether the officer would be more impressed with his escort’s long manly strides. The soldier knew that it would be extremely dangerous to displease the pompous little man behind him and he was so busy contemplating a humiliating demotion and exile to the Russian front that he completely forgot to check before he walked out into the T junction and straight into Stormforce’s flying elbow.
The officer couldn’t help flinch at the sight of his guard crumpling uselessly at his feet, but if Heinrich Himmler – the Reichsfuhrer of the SS – was frightened by the sight of the enormous tattooed henchman, then he didn’t show it. Nor was he likely to show fear when the tubby frame of Camo appeared from behind Stormforce and began executing a series of flamboyantly excessive martial arts moves before him – none of which was connecting so far.
With the time permitted by this unexpected display, Heinrich Himmler began to unbutton his holster in order to extract a pistol the game designers hadn’t anticipated he’d ever have much use for.
‘Get closer to him Cam!’ Vanguard called out irritably.
Camo responded by reaching swiftly into his backpack and grabbing a stick grenade, which he immediately threw back down the corridor behind the others, before finally jumping forward and taking out the SS leader with a chop to the neck. The grenade exploded, blowing sand and dust out over the crouched backs of his friends.
‘Wrong button. My bad,’ Camo explained. ‘Nice takedown though eh?’ he asked, nodding his head back towards the unconscious military commander. The only one to respond was Stormforce, who gave a thumbs up.
‘Way to go!’ the giant rumbled inexpressively, using the rarely heard bass tones the others knew had to be created through an electronic voice-changer.
Camo wasn’t sure if Stormforce intended sympathy or sarcasm. He turned to see what Vanguard’s expression might be, but was disappointed to find that his best friend had already set off again.
Their avatar team leader was probably half-way down the next corridor before he called back, ‘Get his uniform and the guard’s keys. It’s just the main bunker to go now.’
With hands like bunches of bananas and the strength to punch holes in people, it made little sense for Stormforce to have the last soldier’s submachine gun and so the giant hadn’t made a play for it. But it had taken a fair amount of squabbling before Strafe finally convinced Camo that Himmler wouldn’t look right with one MP40 – let alone both of them. Much to Camo’s chagrin, Daniel’s Vanguard avatar had supported Strafe in this view. Daniel realised that it wasn’t of course authentic for Himmler to be wearing camouflage paint either, but from the point of view of their gaming team strategy – Strafe needed the guns.
Daniel felt that the decision was easily rationalised. If their pre-made group had his own character Vanguard as their strategist, their hero, their captain, and if Stormforce was their hench and their tank, then Strafe was the team’s DD – their Damage Dealer – the bringer of high damage per second firepower and therefore maximum pain to their enemies. So it made sense for Strafe to have the best and the most guns. And anyway – Daniel thought but didn’t say – Strafe should definitely have both the guns, because his best friend Camo couldn’t shoot for shit.
As for Camo’s own character class in the team... Well, ideally he’d be their engineer, but more often than not he’d blow himself up when he planted mines, so you couldn’t rely on him to have their back. He was certainly a massive brainbox, a totally solid friend and pretty damn amazing with a computer when they weren’t playing, but all that didn’t help much once the games started. If anything, his avatar’s role was to cart around a lot of the unsexy peripheral kit that nobody else had the spare perks or the inclination to acquire, but which didn’t often help you win games.
Maybe the other two thought that Camo was just a bit of a liability in these games, but if they did, then they didn’t say it. And much as he really needed to win, Daniel had never suggested his best friend found himself another team better suited to his gaming inability.
He shuddered such an idea away and walked his own Vanguard avatar along the corridor beside Strafe – victoriously dual-wielding his MP40s – and behind Camo, now portraying a similarly portly but differently fake Himmler. The four of them were approaching two German soldiers standing sentinel outside a reinforced metal door. The soldiers initially displayed caution as their team advanced, but then they saluted and their faces visibly relaxed when they recognised Camo as the Reichsfuhrer, Heinrich Himmler.
‘Heil Hitler!’ they declared in unison.
Cameron returned their salutes, but the others did not.
‘The Fuhrer is expecting you,’ the guard on the left stated reverently. ‘May we check your papers please?’
Camo flicked a look back to Vanguard, who was already thinking the same.
‘Strafe. I believe you have our papers.’
‘Yeah guys,’ Strafe responded. ‘Why don’t you check these?’ he challenged, opening fire at point blank with his MP40s.
Vanguard swiftly bent down to snatch up one of the dead guard’s keys from his belt and insert it with a click in the steel door.
‘Go!’ Vanguard told them all.
Stormforce stepped forward and smashed the unlocked door off its hinges for the others to pile through. They found themselves in a plain ante-room with maps and half a dozen desks but only three clerks frozen in shock. The men began to cower miserably on realising their doom, but they were not spared by Strafe, who sprayed them with two magazines’ worth of bullets for good measure.
‘Keep going!’ Vanguard urged and they barged through into a plush room glowing with the flames of a huge log fire just as their target jumped up out of an armchair at the commotion. He was a short man with a greasy fringe and a Hitler moustache – unsurprisingly, given who he was.
‘Get him!’ ordered Vanguard, but the Fuhrer had already pulled a Luger from inside his woollen jacket and yanked a terrified Eva Braun out of another chair to shield him. Stormforce was looming behind them and Strafe had levelled his sights at Hitler’s forehead.
‘Careful!’ Vanguard barked. ‘Nobody move!’
The Fuhrer – looking nervous but defiant – had his pistol pressed to Eva Braun’s head. He was watching Strafe’s trigger finger for signs of movement, but also scanning the room with quick flicking glances for what the others might do.
‘Get back Schweinhund! Or she dies!’ he shouted hoarsely at Strafe, who had ignored Vanguard’s injunction and was edging slowly forward.
‘Do as he says,’ Vanguard told him, though he himself was using the opportunity to creep further around Hitler’s flank, his own Luger trained on the man’s pistol hand. His whispered words, ‘I’ve got this’ could only be heard through his team’s headphones.
‘Get back! Last warning!’ Hitler snarled at them.
