by Dc Alden
A low vibration rumbled in Bertie’s stomach as he watched the ramp raise up and seal itself against the fuselage. For a moment, Bertie forgot his woes as he watched the craft move almost silently, the legs folding up beneath its body like a giant black dragonfly as it spun around and drifted low across the meadow. Then he felt a deeper thump, and the surrounding grass flattened as if blown by a powerful wind. The last thing he saw was the aircraft lifting over the trees and disappearing into the night sky.
Bertie stood motionless, his legs frozen, hollow, barely able to support his weight. He’d rolled the dice and lost. Now his choices were limited. He could make a run to the farm in Lincolnshire, or spill the beans to George, tell him he’d panicked and hope he’d be forgiven. Or he could clear up his own mess and bluff it out. The fact was, he was in deep shit.
A nocturnal bird shrieked, and Bertie spun around, startled. He checked his watch; the sun would be up in a couple of hours. He reloaded the gun, shoved it back in his pocket, and headed back across the meadow. What the next few days held in store would depend on what Bertie did now. He had to think, and he had to act, and do both decisively. Anything else was suicide.
An option that is now officially on the table, Bertie realised.
He plunged back into the wood, and into the darkness.
14
All Aboard
The train stood idle, parked deep beneath the mountain of Monte de la Coche, 35 kilometres outside the city of Chambery. Technically, the snow-capped peak was only 25 kilometres to the east of the city, but to get there, the train had wound its way around the steep, rising ground at La Thule before turning north towards Albertville. Eleven kilometres short of the former Winter Olympic city, the train had branched left onto a highly-restricted railway spur that twisted through a thick pine forest before entering a guarded tunnel entrance carved into the mountainside.
French engineers had laid the spur back in the early twentieth century, to exploit a series of natural caverns beneath the mountain. The idea was to create a route to the city of Annecy to the north, but the engineering project, hugely ambitious for its time, ran into a literal dead end after several costly kilometres of tunnelling. Shortly thereafter, the project was abandoned.
The years passed, and the network of tunnels and caverns inside the mountain lay abandoned until the nuclear age dawned when the French military decided to put the installation to good use. Years were spent refitting the track and signalling systems, building living accommodation and enormous storage facilities for vehicles and equipment. Later, as the Cold War fizzled out, the tunnels were once again repurposed, this time as a dedicated weapons and munitions storage facility.
Henri Platt wasn’t particularly interested in the history of the mountain that towered thousands of metres above his head. What concerned him was the journey he was about to undertake. A train driver with over 22 years’ experience working for SNCF, the state-owned railway company, Henri had transported both freight and passengers throughout his career, driving TGVs to San Sebastian and Geneva, to Munich and Brussels, and the Eurostar to London. He’d even driven nuclear waste to the underground dump at Bure in eastern France. In fact, there wasn’t a single major route on the French railway system that Henri had not travelled. Today was a first, however. Today he would transport munitions, and the prospect unnerved him.
He stood at the window of the control room and stared out at the vast cavern beyond. It was impressive, Henri had to admit, and the engineers had worked wonders to create a railway station and sidings beneath the mountain. Standing idle beneath the arc lights of the main platform was his giant locomotive diesel engine, connected to 690 metres of flatbeds, liquid tanks, and boxcars, plus another locomotive coupled to the rear car for additional power. Officially, Henri was unaware of the cargo he was due to haul, other than that it was flammable, but one of the shunting crew had told him it comprised of missiles, propellants, and munitions, much of it stamped with Chinese writing. Basically, Henri, you’re hauling a giant fucking bomb, the shunter had said, winking.
That made Henri very nervous. He’d never transported military cargo before, but things had changed for all of them. He’d been lucky, however. Identified early on as a key worker, Henri was able to earn a decent wage and feed his family, unlike some of his neighbours whose previous jobs were deemed forfeit. They were office staff and civil servants mostly, people without transferrable skills. Some of them now worked the local farms, but others had packed up and moved on. Henri didn’t know where, nor did he care to ask. It didn’t pay to poke one’s nose into other people’s affairs, not these days.
Yet life wasn’t too bad at all for Henri Platt. He lived just outside of Paris, in a small, well-kept town that had escaped much of the carnage that had engulfed France’s capital city. Before the rise of the caliphate, Henri was the train-driver chap. Now he was respected, an important cog in the caliphate’s logistics machine, a transport captain who regularly drove his train all across the caliphate. Some of his neighbours believed he was well connected within the Islamo-French military, a rumour that Henri neither confirmed nor denied. He was just a train driver, a hugely experienced one, but a train driver nonetheless.
The clanking of shunting rolling stock reverberated inside the mountain complex. Whistles blasted and men in hi-vis overalls swarmed around his train, checking couplings and air lines. Henri turned away and sat down with his crew of four. They spent the next hour checking their charts, the potential obstacles of bends and gradients, the trunk lines, spurs, and junctions they would need to negotiate. The run to Lyon was fairly straightforward but their orders were to avoid the major cities, which meant some careful route planning with the National Operations Centre in Paris. Officially, their cargo was logged as machine parts for the damaged ports of Calais and Boulogne; the French resistance might not be the force it was during World War Two, but there were still some anti-caliphate terrorists out there who were well-armed and motivated enough to derail a train like theirs.
Another hour had passed before Henri was informed that his cargo had been loaded successfully. Together with his crew, he walked the length of the train, checking mountings, couplings, safety bolts, air-lines, and running lights. There was nothing to suggest that the cargo was military, the boxcars and sheeted flatbeds were unmarked, rusted, and weather-worn, and that gave Henri some consolation. Satisfied that all was well, the crew split up. Two men headed back towards their engine at the rear of the train, and Henri and his co-driver, Jean-Michel, climbed up into the huge front locomotive.
They ran through their departure checklist and radioed the mountain controller for authority to travel. It was granted, and Henri gave the order to depart. Diesel engines roared, and an enormous thunder of steel and machinery echoed beneath the mountain before the train started to move. Through the window, far in the distance, a small pinprick of fading daylight marked the entrance to the mountain complex. That was where the mission would truly begin, Henri knew.
What he didn’t know was that he was hauling every Chinese-made missile and rocket that the caliphate’s western theatre had left in its arsenal. Those munitions had been earmarked for what the military planners in London were now preparing for; the assault on the caliphate’s northern frontier. The train driver knew nothing of this. All he knew was that his cargo contained thousands of tons of fuel and munitions and that the journey ahead of them would be a lengthy one.
‘Train is rolling,’ Jean Michel reported from the seat next to him. ‘Speed is ten kilometres per hour.’
‘Let’s keep her there until we clear the mountain.’
‘Oui.’
It took another 20 minutes before the train left the bowels of the Monte de la Coche. The densely-wooded valley beyond was already dark, and the train was using minimal running lights, which suited Henri just fine. The more invisible they were, the better.
He leaned back in his chair and shook a rare cigarette from a crumpled packet he kept in the cab. The ha
nd that lit it shook, and Henri realised that for the first time in his career, he was troubled at the thought of what lay ahead.
They assembled behind their accommodation block at Otterburn camp for the last time. They wouldn’t be coming back, which was all they’d been told. There were so many unknowns, but only a single certainty; they were going back into combat.
Charlie Company stood on parade as a fine curtain of rain swept down from the hills and drifted across the blacked-out camp. A hundred men formed up into their designated platoons, carrying their equipment and weapons, black deployment bags at their feet. They were ready to move.
Eddie waited in the darkness alongside Mac, Steve, and Digger. Thanks to the exoskeletons they all wore, standing around with their gear and guns wasn’t the strain it used to be. The skeleton didn’t make them supermen, but the technology helped to distribute the weight through their feet instead of building pressure on their joints, back, and hips. Knowing what lay ahead, they’d take any advantage they could get.
Eddie spied a dangling strap hanging from Steve’s rucksack and snapped it home. ‘There you go,’ he told him, slapping his pack. ‘You’re all good.’
‘Cheers, brother.’
‘Keep it down,’ Mac warned as the CSM brought them to attention. The company commander stepped out of the building and into the rain. Like the rest of his men, his face was smeared with camouflage cream and he was loaded with gear. His voice echoed off the walls of the empty buildings around them, a last-minute pep talk that wasn’t necessary. They were ready.
When the OC was done, the company fell out and headed towards the parade square where the transport waited. It was an odd mixture of vehicles, a few military trucks, but most of it was civilian; container lorries, coaches, minibuses, and civvy cars. Nine Platoon was directed to two dark-coloured minibuses with a smiling otter logo and the words Otterburn Primary School and Nursery stamped on the doors. They piled aboard, bunching tightly together in the cramped vehicle, their rucksacks and deployments bags secured beneath a waterproof sheet on the roof-rack. The surrounding vehicles were leaving at ten-minute intervals, and after almost an hour’s wait, it was finally their turn.
The driver, wearing NVGs, fired up the minibus and headed towards the camp gates. When they drove out onto the main road they turned left, heading east. Eddie looked over his shoulder, saw another vehicle leave the camp and disappear into the darkness in the opposite direction. Ahead, there was nothing to see beyond the struggling windscreen wipers. They were running without lights, and the night outside was cold, dark, and wet, but for now, the boys of Three Section were warm and dry. Make the most of it, Eddie told himself, because he knew it wouldn’t last long.
‘Heading east,’ someone up front said.
‘Fucking Columbo,’ Mac joked, and that got a laugh.
‘It’s good to be on the move,’ Eddie said. ‘All that waiting around was doing my head in.’
‘Agreed.’ Steve’s face was pressed against the window, his eyes roaming the darkness outside.
‘This time next week we could all be dead,’ observed the joker up front.
Mac growled. ‘You keep flapping your gums, you won’t have to wait that long.’
The banter faded, and the soldiers lapsed into silence. Squeezed between Mac and Digger, Eddie gave up trying to watch the world outside and closed his eyes, hoping the warm air and the gentle rocking of the vehicle would send him to sleep.
The prime minister had mentioned sacrifice, and since then, all Eddie could think about was the impending assault of the frontier, of the Second Mass slogging their way through freezing mud as flares and tracer rounds lit up the night, of bogged down vehicles and incoming artillery. Of carnage and death.
And despite Beecham’s optimistic words, those dark thoughts wouldn’t go away.
15
No Justice
Edith was escorted into the governor’s outer office and invited to sit. She forced a smile as Davies’ personal assistant rose from behind her desk.
‘Can I get you anything, chief justice? Tea, coffee?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
She sat with her knees clasped tightly together, her Louis Vuitton handbag resting by her smart black shoes. Once again she’d been summoned to Davies’ inner sanctum. She recalled their last meeting and Davies’ concerns over the forthcoming crucifixions. She wondered if that was the reason she was here. Perhaps he’d had second thoughts. Perhaps he would override her decision, but in her view, that would send all the wrong signals. She might have a battle on her hands, but the prospect didn’t faze her. She was Davies’ intellectual superior, and if she’d been born a man, it would be she who occupied the grand office beyond the highly polished double doors, and not the former junior minister.
The PA’s phone warbled, and she snatched it up. She nodded, said yes sir, then put the phone back down.
‘You may go in now,’ she told Edith.
The chief justice got to her feet. As she approached the doors, the woman told her, ‘You need to cover up, ma’am. Governor Davies has a guest.’
Edith wondered who it could be as she lifted the chiffon scarf from around her neck. When she entered Davies’ office, she saw the governor on a couch near the glass wall, talking quietly to another man. Only one of them stood as she approached.
‘Chief justice, good of you to come,’ Davies greeted her, shaking her hand. He introduced the man on the opposite couch. ‘This is Colonel Al-Huda, senior criminal investigator with the CID.’
Edith felt the icy fingers of fear brush the back of her neck. The military’s Criminal Investigation Department was known for hunting spies, traitors, and religious transgressors within its own ranks, but she’d never met a single member of the caliphate’s notorious secret police. Al-Huda’s presence unnerved her. You have nothing to fear, she reminded herself, forcing another smile.
‘Colonel Al-Huda. A pleasure indeed.’
Al-Huda nodded from his seat. Davies gestured to an easy chair between them, and Edith perched on the edge. Al-Huda was a cross-looking man, she noted, which was no surprise given his profession. He wore a black suit and a white shirt buttoned to the neck, and the only adornment was a gold lapel pin with the crossed swords of the caliphate armed forces. He eyed her curiously, his head tilted to one side as if deciding what to make of her. Edith thought she detected suspicion in those light brown eyes, and the icy digits brushed the skin of her neck once again.
‘Colonel Al-Huda is investigating a crime, Edith. He was hoping you might help him.’
Edith forced the smile wider. ‘I’m happy to assist in any way possible.’
‘I have unpleasant news,’ Al-Huda told her without preamble. His voice was scratchy but his English was impeccable. ‘Your friend Timothy Gates is dead.’
So, they’ve found him. It was probably the smell. ‘Dead?’
‘He’d been shot several times, then dumped in a ditch. In Buckinghamshire.’
Edith didn’t have to fake the sudden wave of shock. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’ Al-Huda nodded, his eyes boring into her. She felt a ripple of panic and reached into her handbag for a tissue. She dabbed at dry eyes and said to Davies, ‘Could I get a glass of water?’
As Davies snapped to his feet, Al-Huda stared at her but said nothing. Inside, she shrivelled and blew her nose as a distraction. Davies handed her a glass and retook his seat. She sipped the cold liquid as the investigator continued his questioning.
‘You and Gates were friends. Good friends, I believe.’
Edith nodded. ‘For many years. Timmy was a well-known figure in the art world, before the Great Liberation.’
‘And you knew he was a homosexual.’
It wasn’t a question, Edith realised. What else did he know? ‘I did, but his sexuality was something we never discussed.’ She took another sip of water to slake the sudden dryness of her mouth.
‘He was a regular visitor at your Hampstead home, yes?’
Edith nodded again, her heart thumping inside her narrow chest. ‘As I said, we’d been friends for many years…’ Her voice trailed off. She put down her glass. ‘Can you tell me what happened, Colonel Al-Huda? Timmy was a law-abiding citizen. He was very careful to play by the rules.’
‘Was he indeed?’
Perhaps he’s testing me. As well as the unease she was feeling, there was another emotion plucking at her consciousness; anger. Bertie had lied to her. She forced herself to focus as Al-Huda got to his feet and crossed the room to Davies’ drinks cabinet. He poured himself some juice and swallowed a mouthful as he stared out of the window.
‘Who told you about the nuclear attack in China?’
Edith felt the blood drain from her face. She twisted the straps of her handbag, her palms suddenly damp, her thoughts tumbling aimlessly like clothes in a dryer. Her tongue was frozen in her mouth. Her eyes flicked to Davies, and he looked away quickly. You told him?
Al-Huda turned and faced her. ‘Well?’
Edith surreptitiously pinched the skin of her finger until the pain sharpened her focus. The next words out of her mouth could be pivotal, so she went with her instinct. ‘Timmy told me. I thought he was joking, so I ignored it. He was an occasional eccentric. He would often make controversial statements, to get a reaction.’ She raised an eyebrow and asked, ‘Is it true?’
Al-Huda ignored the question and strolled back towards them, his hands clasped behind his back. Edith felt like she was being cross-examined in one of her own courtrooms.
‘Did Gates mention anything else during these outbursts?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Did you ask how he came by such information?’
Edith shook her head. ‘It was late, and the mood was all very light-hearted.’
‘You’d been drinking alcohol.’
