In the Wrong Space and Time

XI

"COME ON, JOHNSON, WE'VE GOT to get the resources from the courtyard!" I cup my hands over my mouth to project my voice, calling out to Tyra.

At my call, she whips around, brown ponytail swishing dramatically, and agilely makes her way to me through the crowd of scientists bustling about.

The officer beckons to us to follow him, and the three of us proceed out of the noisy factory wing with brisk movements.

"Is there anything specific you'd like my men to do, doctors?" The soldier speaks effortlessly, his steady breaths unwavering even as he takes large, quick strides.

"Yeah, tell some soldiers to bring the grenades straight to the Chem lab. I'll tell someone to send a message to my chemists to get to the lab as soon as possible," Tyra orders curtly.

"Yeah, I'll... figure it out as I go," I pant, being unused to the pace that we are walking at. Almost jogging through the halls of the Barracks, we reach the double doors in record time.

Slamming open the entrance doors mercilessly, the soldier leads us out to the courtyard, where a stockpile of crates and the outline of a cannon are silhouetted in the boot of a large truck. A few muscled men in the distinctive red uniform of the Queen's Guard are already at work, loading the crates onto a pushcart with the help of a sizable number of our own soldiers.

"Okay..." I mutter to myself as my eyes scan over the entire situation, trying to figure out the best course of action.

Approximately thirty crates. They have enough people to help out with that.

"How heavy is the howitzer?" I pose the question to F. M. Primero, who is supervising the loading of the resources.

"Around 90 kg, why?" He spares me a glance over his shoulder.

"Since the howitzer's on top of the truck, it won't be easy to get it down with just two men. Get someone to bring a sturdy dolly here and six of your strongest soldiers to begin moving the cannon," I throw out ideas as my brain keeps churning. "Three men can stand on the truck's boot and load the howitzer off, then the other three men on the ground can haul it onto the dolly."

"Quick thinking, Caroline. All right! Jamison, Richards, Damocles, White, McIntyre, Brighton and Rhodes!" F. M. Primero lists out surnames off the top of his head. At the mention of their names, the seven soldiers closest to us stop moving the crates and snap to attention.

"Sir, yes, sir!" Their voices, though overlapping slightly on the first word, become perfectly synchronised at the end of the sentence.

"Brighton, go and get a dolly and come back with it as fast as you can," F. M. Primero addresses a stockily-built man, who salutes and immediately takes off running.

Enthusiastic, I see, I silently muse, raising an eyebrow.

F. M. Primero continues addressing the six remaining soldiers. "I want three of you to load the howitzer off of the truck, and the other three are responsible for receiving the howitzer from them and setting it onto the dolly. I don't want to see any damage being done to the cannon, because it is an antique from the Queen's armoury. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir!" They chorus, and a little while later, Brighton comes running back, a dolly in tow.

He sets the cart at the foot of the truck. Three of the soldiers leap onto the boot and begin picking the howitzer up with considerable effort, their bulging biceps straining against the sleeves of their uniforms.

As Brighton helps to keep the dolly steady, the other three men take great pains to ensure the safety of the cannon as they receive it from the calloused hands of the soldiers standing on the truck.