by Chris James
“Is everything all right, Prime Minister?” inquired a new voice.
“Yes, of course,” Napier replied automatically, glancing down into the lined face of Dame Sally Rent, the English Permanent Representative to the UN.
“Hmm, if you say so,” Rent replied in concern. “I didn’t want to interrupt your chat with Melo. I assume he declined to support us?”
Napier looked into the woman’s clear blue eyes, oddly noticing that she had the kind of lashes which reflected the light as though they were damp. Napier sensed the woman’s concern and felt an abrupt, deeper connection. The Prime Minister said: “No, he gave me a lecture about history—as if I’d ever need such a thing—but we can forget about Brazil’s support. Really, such arrogance. And from a man who comes from a country where the police force kill sixty thousand of their citizens every year. Disgusting.”
“I think we had better get into the chamber, PM.”
The two women’s shoes clicked on the marble floor as they walked towards the entrance.
Napier asked: “India will still back the resolutions, yes?”
“Deshpande told me he would, but he qualified that it might not be possible in the future. If the Third Caliph offers surrender terms and keeps his warriors where they are, he says public opinion in India will harden against us. He said he’s already hearing whispers in Delhi that trade with China is more important than supporting their previous overseers.”
“Really,” Napier muttered, the pain in her head acting as a permanent distraction. Both women stopped at the doors and allowed their lenses to be scanned before entering the main chamber. Napier glanced at the floor and noted how pieces of the tiled skirting had cracked and broken off.
Once inside, Rent took her place at the main table while Napier climbed the few steps up to the guests’ gallery. Napier struggled to put on a smile and nod hellos to the other attendees. When she sat to watch the proceedings, the Brazilian’s words came back to her. She looked around the chamber and tried to recall how many countries had left the United Nations in the preceding years, but the pain in her head ached too intensely. The Council passed the resolutions condemning the Caliphate’s aggression, calling for its forces to leave the European mainland, and to open negotiations to pay reparations. But Napier knew Melo had been right. The Persian Caliphate was not a member of the UN. Neither was China, or any of the Asian nations that bordered China, and neither was any South American country except Brazil, nor any African country except Angola and South Africa.
The feeling of impotence overwhelmed her. The world had changed, and rules that she believed should not apply to Europe suddenly did. Or perhaps they had for some time, but she had not noticed? Somewhere deep in her mind, away from the pain in her temple and away from this crumbling, ineffectual edifice, she felt certain of future events: that the Third Caliph would make more demands for NATO and Europe’s surrender already knowing it would never be forthcoming. He would continue building up his forces in the conquered lands. Then, on some future date, his warriors would sweep across the rest of Europe and destroy it. And by then, a fair portion of the rest of the world would blame her and Coll and the others for the disaster. The course of history would change, and life would go on for those that remained.
She fought to consider what she might do to stop or at least change this course of events. The approach of Dame Sally Rent brought her back to her surroundings.
“Hello, PM. Well, we got what we needed to get,” she said with apparently feigned enthusiasm.
Napier nodded and said: “Thank you for your hard work here, Sally. I appreciate it.”
“Thank you for coming all the way over here, PM.”
“It gives me a chance to meet Madelyn and have a person-to-person chat with her for the first time since this debacle began. When do we leave?”
Rent’s face dropped. “Ah, I’m afraid, PM, that Coll has cancelled your meeting with her.”
“What? Why?”
“She claimed urgent business on the west coast, something to do with sea defences. Secretary of State Warren Baker is waiting in Washington to meet you.”
Napier sighed and shook her head. She considered for a moment and then said: “No, he’s an absolute letch and I have a rotten headache. I can talk to him on the AAT. I need to talk to people who might actually be able to help.”
“Very well, PM. So, back to London at once, yes?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 48
11.02 Thursday 20 April 2062
“YOU’RE A LUCKY one and no mistake,” the slim doctor told Geoff Morrow.
“What happened?” Geoff croaked through a haze of exhaustion, wishing the hospital light in the ceiling above his bed did not shine so brightly.
The young man, whose pointed nose bent to the right, peered into Geoff’s eyes and said: “You don’t remember?”
“No, it’s a bit hazy.”
“You were blown up. On a monorail.” His face flashed a half-smile. “You were hit by over a hundred pieces of shrapnel. One particular piece entered between vertebra C5 and C6 and severed your spinal cord.”
“Jesus,” Geoff breathed.
The doctor quipped: “He’s not here, so talk to me instead. My name is Doctor Raymond.”
“Er, right,” Geoff mumbled, wondering if the man standing by his bed were a doctor or a wannabe stand-up comedian.
“Now,” he said, placing open hands on the sheets covering Geoff. “You are going to have to take it easy for the first week—”
“Week?” Geoff repeated in horror.
“Yes, you’ve been lying in bed for the last few weeks in an induced coma—”
“Why? I thought the GenoFluid bots were supposed to be quick—”
“My, we are a curious one, aren’t we? Well, the spinal cord was obviously no problem, but the bone tissue needed some days to knit back. However, the shrapnel also shredded your liver—you know how important your liver is, don’t you?—and for good measure punctured your left lung. Thus, we decided it would be better to hold you in an induced coma while replacement organs were grown.”
Geoff’s spirits lifted as he said: “A brand new, cloned liver? That’s fantastic news, thanks.”
Doctor Raymond sniffed in dismissiveness and said: “If you’re a heavy drinker, then yes, I imagine it would be fantastic.”
Geoff felt his senses coming back rapidly. He blinked and blinked again, and then asked: “My lens isn’t working.”
Doctor Raymond said: “We’ll let you have it back soon.”
“So, where am I?”
“In an Italian military hospital a few clicks north of Milan.”
“What? What’s the date?”
“20 April.”
Again, Geoff blinked his eye to try to get more detailed data from his lens, as he disliked having to rely on this strange doctor.
Doctor Raymond chuckled and said: “Nope, your lens still isn’t there, sorry.”
“That can’t be right,” Geoff insisted as recent memories flooded his mind. “The Caliphate was steamrollering right over the whole of Europe. We’d be finished in just a few weeks. If it’s late April now, then those bastard ragheads should already be in London. Lisa, Lisa will be—”
All eccentricity vanished from Raymond’s demeanour and he said: “Hold on a minute. The invasion paused on the night you were injured. For the last four weeks, there has been a break in the fighting. The Third Caliph has demanded that NATO and rest of the European countries surrender—”
“No shit?” Geoff said.
“So that he can look like the good guy when he’s finally stockpiled enough ACAs to roll over the rest of Europe in all of five minutes.”
“That’s mad. We can’t surr—”
“We won’t, sweetie-pie,” Doctor Raymond said. “Our nutcase in Tehran is not the only one who has been building up forces.”
Geoff exhaled and closed his eyes. He waited for the shock in his mind to settle. Doctor Raymond told him t
o rest and that he should not try to do too much. Even though he was young and fit, spending so much time immobile necessitated a period of physiotherapy to get his muscles working properly again.
When he was alone, Geoff tried to get out of the bed and only then understood the importance of the Doctor’s instruction. He wisely lay back down. The details of the monorail exploding came back to him and he realised how lucky he’d been. He had more questions about who had found him and how. These queries faded to leave a new and alien feeling: a desire to return to Lisa. A voice in his head kept telling him that he should be dead now, dead like so many other people the Caliphate’s machines had slaughtered since February.
His breathing accelerated and dampness spread over his chest and arms. As he lay sweating, he realised his luck must have run out. At any other time in history, any combination of his injuries would have killed him. And for what? His name on a by-line? Where exactly would he find his Big Scoop that would make Alan in London give him a proper contract, that would see him pick up a gong at the next Press Awards? Not that there would ever be another Press Awards.
Of greater significance, if he had died on that monorail, what would have happened? Alan would have found another desperate stringer and paid them even less than Geoff. Lisa would have given birth, and their child would have grown up with a different father, for Geoff had no doubt Lisa would move on eventually, and he’d want her to be happy in any case.
More than any other, the thought of his child growing up without him gripped Geoff. In an instant, he realised he had to do everything to stop that happening. And going to the frontline of a war NATO was bound to lose, no matter how long the enemy prevaricated before delivering the final blow, was about the stupidest thing he could do. His imagination roamed the possibilities: he and Lisa could escape with the child to somewhere remote like Scotland. Then he chided himself for such ludicrous fantasies, as though there’d be any escape. Perhaps it did not really matter. Europe and England were finished. But that did not mean Geoff had to accept the fact.
He wiped the sweat from his forearms on the coarse hospital sheet and spoke aloud: “One thing at a time. First get better. Then get out of here. Then get back to Lisa. Then make sure she gives birth okay. Then think about safety.”
Chapter 49
09.01 Friday 28 April 2062
CRISPIN WEBB STARED at his boss with renewed respect. As the days turned into weeks and still the Caliphate made no move beyond the territory it had gained up until 15 March, she seemed to regain more of her composure, her old grace. He followed her along the corridor to the COBRA meeting room, noting her improved posture, how she carried her head higher and kept her shoulders back, like she used to before the war.
She walked alongside General Sir Terry Tidbury, in conversation with him. As they were of equal height, she looked the soldier straight in the eye as they spoke, and a flame of pride flickered more brightly inside Webb. Part of his cynicism wondered if she were taking illegal substances, but he believed he would be the first to know if she were. His own intake of all drugs bar those that actually helped him medically had fallen to almost zero since his heart attack nearly two months earlier. In an ironic turn of events, he had begun regular, vigorous physical exercise and found the high from swimming sixty lengths in forty-five minutes was almost comparable to the artificial highs he used to get before his heart let him down.
The boss had benefitted as well, in many ways. He smiled when he recalled her description that they were sitting on a bomb that could go off any second, or maybe not for months, so therefore the concern had to be managed. She’d taken more time to be with her family and more obligations had been delegated.
Terry and Napier reached the entrance to Cabinet Briefing Room A and Napier’s PA, Monica, opened the door for them. Crispin heard Terry insist that a young lady should not be obliged to hold doors open for men, and he saw Monica’s pasty white face redden under the General’s gaze. He knew the soldier was a family man—both of his sons had followed their father into the British Army—but he still wondered if he could detect an element of lust behind the General’s chivalry, for Monica, while not having the natural elegance that real feminine beauty required, did have in abundance that certain quality of handsomeness which made some women highly attractive.
None of that mattered to Crispin, despite his habit of analysing what made heterosexual women attract heterosexual men in the event he could find some titbit that might help him obtain a better quality of homosexual man. He let out a sigh of melancholy for a time in the past when the stress of his job—which he now realised was no stress at all—led him to the seedier clubs in London for some hot and dirty escapism, escapism which in fact he now understood was merely a physical balm for a confusion inside him that the present conflict did little to assuage.
He followed the others into the meeting, already knowing that his group was the last to arrive. He scanned the faces of the attendees and sat at his designated seat next to the handsome, bald general whose politeness carried an erotic undertow of constrained violence.
The boss started: “Okay, everyone. Thank you for coming this morning. Most of today’s agenda is not dissimilar to what we cover most mornings, so in the absence of a sudden and unforeseen eruption from Southern Europe, I don’t anticipate we’ll be here very long. Before we begin, however, I’d like to introduce you to the new Defence Secretary, Mr Liam Burton.”
A lean man with narrow limbs rose from the seat next to Napier, nodded his head and gave the room a confident-sounding, “Hi,” before sitting again,
“As you will have anticipated, I thought it wise not to delay appointing a replacement after Phillip resigned on Tuesday. While I was sorry he decided to go, I think he was aware of his shortcomings in handling his portfolio.”
Crispin glanced around the room to see eyebrows rise at the boss’s polite understatement of Gough’s deficiencies; after all, he’d been a career politician, and England’s immediate future did not offer the job of politician as a viable career choice anymore.
Napier went on: “However, I am delighted Liam has agreed to take the portfolio on. Some of you might know he spent twelve years in the army before embarking on a career in politics, and had held a number of Parliamentary Secretaryships before being appointed to the role of Chief Whip, from which position he has been promoted.”
Crispin stared at Burton while Napier made the introduction and noted a plainness in his mannerisms; he did not preen with arrogance nor look awkward with self-consciousness.
Napier sat and Burton rose. He said: “Thanks very much, PM. I actually went into politics because I wanted to help ordinary squaddies get kit that actually works for a change,” he paused and then looked in abrupt surprise at Sir Terry Tidbury and blustered: “Oh, no offence intended, General Sir Terry.”
Terry laughed and replied: “None taken.”
Crispin nodded in appreciation at Burton’s smooth execution of the joke.
Burton assumed an affability and said: “Anyway, as this is my first COBRA I’ll probably just observe and get the hang of things before I start sticking my oar in.”
“Thank you, Liam,” the boss said. “We’ll begin as usual with the daily threat level. Terry?”
“No change, PM. The computers’ predictions still have the same margins for error which they’ve had for a couple of weeks now. As we all know, every day there are incremental probability increases as we assume the enemy continues to build up his stockpiles of munitions to execute the next stage of the invasion as efficiently as possible. Yet again, today our computers estimate he has not yet reached a position where he is more likely than not to recommence his advance.”
“Thank you,” the boss said, as though she were talking to a food delivery service as they confirmed her order. She addressed the rest of the room: “One item I want to deal with quickly is opening England’s borders to European refugees. I will put it to Cabinet at our regular meeting this afternoon, but I just want to
ask all of you if you’d like to make any comments or suggestions. Anyone?”
Foreign Secretary Charles Blackwood cleared his throat and said: “Frankly speaking, PM, I’d imagine only the most racist of people would consider refusing our fellow Europeans help in this time of extreme crisis.”
Opposite Blackwood, Home Secretary Aiden Hicks shrugged his ample shoulders and said: “If the roles were reversed, we’d hope—even expect—them to do the same for us. I have instructed local authorities to reactivate their emergency shelters, to take them out of mothballing and provide estimates of the numbers they can accommodate.”
Next to him, the Head of MI5, David Perkins, sniffed like a rat that scented food and cautioned: “I would urge certain restrictions, PM. We won’t know if the Persian Caliphate has placed advance agents among those refugees—”
Napier broke in: “Even if they had, what information or other advantage could such individuals gain and pass on to the enemy?”
Perkins stammered and gave a half-smile that appeared to Crispin to be a sneer. Perkins said: “With the greatest respect, Prime Minister, my business is to minimise and if possible neutralise threats to the security of England. If we throw open our borders, we could allow in all kinds of undesirable—”
“So what?” Napier interrupted.
“Excuse me?” Perkins said.
She answered with care: “Do please explain to the COBRA committee, Mr Perkins, precisely how a citizen of a European country can represent a threat greater than the threat we currently face? I do not for a moment believe that a single, or even a few, of the enemy’s forces would trouble themselves to hide among refugees because any miniscule gain would not be worth the effort. If I understand the military situation properly, then our foe has us completely where it wants us.”
