Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  “And to you,” Gabriel said, automatically. He was struck by the sense that he would never see Robertson again. “General...”

  Robertson saluted, and then left the room.

  “Come on, Prime Minister,” Butcher said, two minutes later. “It’s time to go.”

  Gabriel had never had the chance to explore the entire tunnel network. From what he recalled from briefing papers he’d never had a chance to read properly, the military had taken advantage of commercial tunnelling to add their own network for emergencies. Some tunnels linked government buildings together, allowing swift and silent evacuation; others led to hidden bunkers and archives that were never intended to see the light of day. Some information was in the public domain, he remembered, but the government had managed to keep a lid on most of the specifics. Or so they hoped. Gabriel had also been told that the Russians had gained access to far too much data on the tunnel network and emergency procedures.

  Perhaps it was his imagination, but they seemed to be heading upwards – and the air seemed to be getting damper. A faint smell reached his nose, a stench that made him want to recoil, just before they turned into a chamber that held a large boat. Butcher held up a hand to halt Gabriel while he clambered up and into the boat, vanishing over the side. There was a moment’s pause, and then the engine roared to life. The soldier reappeared and held out a hand to help Gabriel climb up. He was ashamed to realise that Butcher had simply lifted him at the end.

  A thought struck him. “Why Butcher?”

  “Dad was a butcher,” Butcher said. “We don’t stand much on ceremony, Prime Minister. Once someone passes Selection, they’re one of us. The lucky ones get to choose their own handle. The unlucky ones get someone else picking it for them.”

  He waved Gabriel to sit at the bottom of the boat. The sound of the engine grew louder as the other two soldiers climbed onboard and concealed their weapons and uniforms below blankets. It struck Gabriel suddenly that anyone who saw him would know that he was the Prime Minister, but it was already too late to express his doubts. The boat seemed to leap forwards – there was a terrifying glimpse of a grating ahead of them, followed by a smell that made him want to throw up – and then they were suddenly out in the open. He caught sight of the Houses of Parliament and stared, realising that flames were rising up in the distance, from the direction of the Palace.

  The boat started to tilt madly to one side as Butcher pointed them upriver, towards the west. Gabriel struggled to remain calm, even though part of him was convinced that they were going to be thrown into the water at any moment. A handful of other boats seemed to be making their way downstream, clearly intent on getting out of London before something worse happened. He wondered, suddenly, just how much the civilians knew about the crisis. It had never occurred to him to ask...in the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens. The police were responding to the attacks, but did they know what they were facing? And if there really were aliens heading towards London?

  It seemed like a bad science-fiction movie, but it was happening...

  Twenty minutes later, just as they were leaving London, Hughie tapped him on the shoulder and passed him a pair of binoculars. Gabriel glanced at them in puzzlement, and then looked up into the sky. A flight of aircraft were heading down towards London from the west...but they looked odd. Gabriel pressed the binoculars against his eyes and gasped as he finally made sense of what he was seeing. The alien shuttles were larger than the largest jumbo jet the human race had ever produced and they were heading towards London. They’d escaped the city in the nick of time. He tried to estimate how many aliens could be on those aircraft before realising that it was impossible to produce anything like a reliable estimate. For all he knew, the aliens could be microscopic in size – or they could look like stone statues of weeping angels. And perhaps they wouldn’t even be humanoid.

  “We’re still being jammed,” Hughie said, quietly. The SBS soldier had a faint Scottish accent that echoed through his voice. “We can't warn the General or the troops in London.”

  “But they know that they’re coming,” Gabriel pointed out, desperately. Suddenly, he felt ashamed for running. “They must know that they’re on their way.”

  “Maybe,” Hughie said. “Or maybe the aliens have ways to avoid passive detectors. Any radar station that lights up is likely to get clobbered. I don't know, sir. We just need to get you up to the command bunker, and perhaps then we can go back to the front lines.”

  “Or the front lines will come to us,” Mother grunted. “Look.”

  Gabriel followed his gaze. There were more alien shuttles now, hundreds of them, glowing red as they decelerated through Earth’s atmosphere. Just for a moment, he wondered how interstellar logistics could make an invasion possible, before dismissing the thought. There was no way to know how alien logistics worked. For all he knew, the aliens mass-cloned soldiers whenever they wanted to overrun another world.

  He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for the men and women who were about to be caught up in a nightmare. General Robertson had been determined to fight – it crossed Gabriel’s mind that he should have ordered them out, but it was too late. All he could do now was pray for them – and pray that the aliens weren’t savages. An alien race could wipe out all life on Earth.

  The sound of more explosions caught them as they headed onwards, echoing back from London. There was no way to know what was going on behind them either. All they could do was pray. And hope that, one day, they would be able to avenge themselves on the aliens.

  Gabriel shook his head. An hour. An hour after the alien attack had begun and he was on the run. And to think that yesterday he’d been cursing problems he would have given his soul for today.

  Chapter Four

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 1

  “Anything we should know, sir?”

  The military officer sighed. Robin had been busy organising what medical help he could for the wounded, after a handful of ambulances and policemen had finally arrived. They’d reported that London’s railway stations had been hit as well, causing massive casualties as well as jamming up the road network. The emergency services were overwhelmed trying to deal with the chaos. And they still had no idea what was going on. The radio seemed torn between increasingly hysterical bulletins and requests for the public to remain calm and in their homes. Judging from the level of traffic on the streets, Robin suspected that that particular request was going unheeded.

  “Yes,” the soldier said. A handful of other armed soldiers had appeared, causing many citizens to start edging away from them. Robin wasn't so impressed, if only because he’d spent his probationary period in Southampton, wrestling Royal Marines on Friday nights. “There’s a good chance that whoever did this to us” – he waved a hand at the pile of smoking rubble that had once been Buckingham Palace – “is likely to start landing ground troops. You’re looking at ground zero for their invasion.”

  Robin stared at him. A terrorist attack was understandable, even if there had been a hideous failure in intelligence that should have allowed them to detect the plot in time to derail it. Even a handful of bombs detonated around the city was understandable; Islamic Fundamentalism had been suspiciously quiet over the last few months and the radicals knew that they needed to keep staging spectacular attacks to boost their cause. But an invasion…Robin had taken part in drills where the Met had been seconded to the military for a military emergency, yet no one had believed that Britain might actually be invaded. The nightmare of an uprising from the poorer – and Islamic – parts of the country seemed more plausible.

  “We’re at war,” he stumbled, finally. “Against who?”

  “We’re unsure as yet and we don’t have time to speculate,” the officer said, firmly. “I need you to get the civilians out of the area as quickly as possible – starting now. God alone knows how much time we have left.”

  Robin allowed his eyes to trail over the gardens and the surrounding area. A
small number of policemen and medics had finally shown up, allowing them to start treating the wounded – although only one ambulance had arrived, which had been pressed into service to take the worst cases to the nearest hospital. From what little he’d heard from other police officers, London was gridlocked. Everyone who had a car seemed to be trying to get out of the city and to hell with how it impeded the emergency services. The BBC wasn't helping. It was either jammed up with static or raving about explosions in a dozen cities.

  “I can’t get everyone out…”

  “You have to,” the officer said, quietly. There was an earnest tone in his voice that somehow stripped Robin’s final doubts away. He saw a pair of soldiers carrying handheld antiaircraft missiles setting up a position on one side of the gardens. If the enemy intended to send in paratroopers, the British Army would give them a hot reception. “I don’t know how much time we have left.”

  He strode off in the direction of his men, leaving Robin staring at his back. Robin’s training asserted itself and he began to bellow orders. God knew how he’d wound up as senior officer on scene – the mobile command centre had probably been stuck in traffic – but at least no one was arguing. The wreckage of Buckingham Palace had probably concentrated quite a few minds.

  “Start moving the civilians out of here,” he ordered, sharply. “Draft able-bodied men as stretcher-bearers if necessary; start moving them at least a mile from this location.” He found himself grappling with a completely unexpected problem. If an invasion force – absurd as it seemed – was about to land in Central London, where was even remotely safe. “Take control of the traffic and get it moving away from here – commandeer any vehicles that can be used for moving casualties and put them to work. If anyone gives you trouble, arrest them and we’ll worry about charges later.

  Time seemed to slow down as an endless flow of civilians, government civil servants and worker drones were pushed out of the area. Most of them saw the pile of debris and didn’t argue, but a handful seemed insistent that whatever was happening had nothing to do with them. Robin ignored their pleas, then their threats, and finally had a couple arrested and dragged away. The remainder finally got the message and headed away from Central London. A few who might have protested saw the soldiers and their obviously lethal weaponry and made themselves scarce. Robin nodded at two of the soldiers as he checked his radio again, but all he could hear was static. Whoever was jamming them had neatly shattered the Police in London. There were thousands of officers on the streets, cut off from their superiors and probably facing their own private nightmares. Dear God – if the country was really being invaded, what did the invaders intend to do with the Police?

  He pushed the thought aside as he helped a pair of constables manhandle a wounded civilian down towards a waiting van. A team of doctors were at least trying to separate the minor wounded from those who needed a hospital immediately, but it was a terrifying nightmare. Hardly any of the civilians were used to violence and anarchy on such a scale and many of them seemed to be on the verge of coming apart. Robin might have joined them if he hadn’t felt responsible for managing the crisis. It was certain that no one senior to him had made it to Buckingham Palace. He remembered the explosions all over London and shivered. The invaders, whoever they were, might have taken out Scotland Yard. And if they’d done that, they would have fragmented the entire network.

  “Sergeant,” a voice bellowed. He turned to see the officer he’d spoken to before, looking grim. “How quickly can you get the rest of the civilians out of here?”

  Robin blanched, reading the bad news in the officer’s face. “Too long,” he said. They’d managed to get most of the people on the move, but the traffic wasn't taking the hint and heading away from Central London. Entire streams of people were being pointed away from the Houses of Parliament and being told to run. It was all a horrible ghastly mess. “How long do we have?”

  “Maybe five minutes, maybe less,” the officer said. “Radar has picked up enemy craft heading towards London. The chances are that they’re coming here. You have to get the civilians out of the line of fire.”

  Robin nodded and blew hard on his whistle. “Everyone away, now,” he bellowed. The other policemen took up the cry. “Move…now!”

  He looked up at the officer, who had one hand on his pistol. “I’m qualified to fire in the line of duty,” he said, quietly. “I could stay…”

  “You’re needed elsewhere,” the officer said. The sound of thunder – no, it wasn't thunder – echoed in the air. “Go!”

  ***

  Fatima had never felt so pressured in her life. She’d been on duty at the hospital when the police had sounded the alert and had been rounded up to go to the remains of Buckingham Palace. Seeing the rubble had shocked her, but there hadn’t been any time to sit down and cry – not when there was work to be done. Hundreds of people had been wounded and there weren’t anything like enough medical supplies to treat them all. From what she’d overhead, the emergency teams that should have been first responders to any crisis had been caught in traffic, as had most of the ambulances in London. Her mobile phone was useless and the pager she’d been given as they ran out the door had gone blank. She had been forced to improvise splints and bandages for half of her patients.

  “Lie still,” she said, sharply. The wounded man in front of her had been one of the guards in front of Buckingham Palace when the bomb – or whatever – had blown it into a pile of rubble. His leg was clearly broken in two places and it was quite possible, judging from the bruises, that he had internal injuries as well. She’d bandaged him up as best as she could, but he really needed an operation. It didn’t look as if he was going to get one any time soon. “I said, lie still!”

  “They need me,” the man insisted. He sounded delirious, or perhaps he was going into shock. Fatima put her hand firmly on his chest and held him down gently. “I need to…”

  “You need to get better,” Fatima said. She’d heard stories of what happened in Pakistan and other less-developed countries when bombs exploded without warning, but she’d never expected to see it in Britain. Someone should have taken control at once and started coordinating all of the emergency response teams. Instead, everything was chaotic and the only people who were trying to establish order were a handful of policemen, who looked as frightened and helpless as the rest. “You can’t go back to your unit with a broken leg.”

  She wanted to give him something for the pain, but there were no painkillers left. A pair of civilians pressed into service as stretcher-bearers appeared and gently lifted the wounded man onto a makeshift stretcher. Fatima checked his leg carefully, warned them to ensure that their charge didn’t try to sit up, and then waved for them to go. There was no time to rest – she had to deal with the next wounded person. It seemed that there was no end to the wounded; men, women and children, half of them looking as if they didn’t quite believe what had happened to them. This was Britain, not some Third World country where the natives killed each other at the drop of a hat. Disasters weren’t supposed to strike the British mainland.

  A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped. “You need to get on your way,” a policeman said. He looked about as worried as Fatima felt, but he seemed to have it under control. “You need to escort the patients back to the hospital. This place isn’t going to be safe much longer.”

  Fatima looked up. All over the area, policemen and soldiers were shouting at civilians to move. The wounded were being carried off, followed by those who could walk on their own and the remaining medical staff. She started to follow them automatically, and then stopped dead. This was London. What the hell was going on that meant they had to risk moving so many wounded people at once?

  “All I know is that this place is about to get very unsafe,” the policeman warned. He was holding something back. Fatima had done a course in reading people back when she’d been studying to be a doctor. “I think you’d better start moving – now.”

  He sounded so
earnest that Fatima picked up her bag before quite realising what she was doing. She could hear the sound of thunder in the distance and see plumes of smoke rising up into the sky. Something was clearly badly wrong…shaking her head, she started to follow the wounded. They’d need her when they reached their destination, wherever that might be. It seemed as if the police and soldiers were closing off all of Central London…

  ***

  “I think that’s most everyone out,” Constable McEwen reported, grimly. The sound of thunder was growing closer. Robin hadn’t been able to stop himself from scanning the horizon, looking for incoming aircraft. God alone knew what was heading their way. “Sergeant…”

  “Time for us to leave, then,” Robin said. The armed policemen might be a help, but it was far more likely that they’d just get in the way. It wasn't as if they’d trained with the soldiers – hell, all the plans to hold major exercises had been curtailed by the shortage of cash. He remembered his wife, suddenly, and shivered. At least Helene was out of London, safely away from the chaos that had gripped the city. God alone knew how long it would be before the more rowdy element of the city’s population decided that it was a great opportunity for looting, raping and burning. “Get everyone back to the cordon and keep moving the civilians further away…”