Lethal Sky

by Greg Barron

  By the turn of the century Eddie was sixteen years old, and deeply involved in the English Defence League and National Front. He was old enough to fight beside his father in the Oldham Riots, then travel to Bradford, West Yorkshire for the National Front march through the streets that turned a festering situation into a brief but terrible battle.

  The London bombing in 2005 crystallised his hatred. Watching the wounded being carried to ambulances in his London. One of the world’s greatest cities, and the centre of the English-speaking world.

  ‘This is our country. They have no right …’

  Right-wing groups attempted to whip up hysteria on the basis that a tiny percentage of London Muslims were happy that the bombings had taken place. The National Front held urgent meetings, online football forums boiled over with anger. Working against any organised response was extremely tight security, and a public watchful of any hint of violence. Eddie and many others had to bide their time.

  The Arab Spring, Libyan and Syrian civil wars, Afghanistan, famine and war in Africa, followed now by the effects of climate change, all worked together to create one of the largest mass movements of humanity in history. The river of asylum seekers became a tide. In an average year, according to UN figures, around one million humans are forced to leave, not just their homes, villages, towns or cities, but their countries of residence, many of them heading straight for Europe.

  A debate that simmered for years has reached boiling point. The basics of geographic inequality mean that developed countries can’t afford to simply open the doors, giving unfettered access to their welfare systems, courts and sponsored housing. Nor can they let people in to become a new underclass without money or prospects. The flow has to be managed, yet the individual circumstances of asylum seekers are usually tragic. How can they be turned away?

  Britain walks a tightrope with its responsibilities under the Refugee Convention and EU membership. There is little time for integration as the incoming families reach Britain. Eddie hates them. Hates their dark faces and chattering foreign tongues.

  Eddie got interested in religion when he first heard the American xenoevangelists preach religion as an extension of nationalism. Where God and country become intertwined and your soil is sacred.

  He watched YouTube footage of white men burning Korans and holding midnight vigils under the full moon, with American flags hanging limp, praying for the glorious war dead, and against a president who had dared to suggest that gun laws needed tightening.

  In England the kind of spiritual leader Eddie wanted was hard to find. Yet find him he did. An ex-Anglican priest who described himself as a Christian druid, had a blog, a website, twenty thousand followers on Twitter, and held prayer meetings in a clearing surrounded by what he had declared were sacred oak trees. His nom de guerre, Aedd Mawr, was chosen in honour of a famous king of the Trinovantes tribe, whose lands included much of greater London and Essex in Roman Britain, and who had fought in Boudica’s rebellion against the conquering Romans.

  The self-styled druid’s manifesto was a ten-thousand-word mishmash of Christian faith and druidic ramblings. Eddie downloaded the pdf and read it in a night, smoking one cigarette after another, crushing them out in the ashtray until they piled high and he was stubbing them out on each other.

  Foul-smelling smoke in his nostrils, Eddie read that Muslim immigrants are the Philistines of the Bible. The tract used words like ‘counter-jihadist’ and described Mohammed as incestuous and lecherous. It recommended, as essential viewing, the movie Innocence of Muslims, produced by a gang of Coptic Christians and right-wingers in California, a film that sparked Islamic protests all over the world.

  The next Sunday Eddie caught a train to a secret location in the Cotswolds. There he joined two hundred men and women in a forest clearing. They were ordinary people, dressed respectfully, surrounded by huge oak trees.

  With the morning sun slanting through the branches and trunks of those most perfect of trees, Eddie underwent an epiphany. He saw nothing wrong with the incongruity of pagan druidism, nationalism and Christianity combining. The blend seemed to gel with his own beliefs perfectly.

  Aedd Mawr’s sermon went for almost an hour, but it was never boring. The druid priest was wild in appearance, with a long grey beard and hair. He shouted and strutted, turned from side to side and often left the pulpit to stroll through the ranks of his supporters.

  ‘You are here because you are thinkers, you are doers, you are patriots. We have been hijacked by the soft, the minions of the left, who will sell our birthright, and for what? What do we get in return? We get violence, and streets our good British children cannot walk down without fear of being attacked. In the name of the Lord God, I declare an end to this. Will we stand as brothers and resist them?’

  The outside dining area at the local pub was packed with those who had made the trek from London for the service. Eddie heard the word ‘Crusader’ at a table nearby, and he strained his ears.

  When he had finished eating he moved his chair closer. ‘Sorry for overhearing, but this is my first time here. You mentioned a group called the Crusaders, can you tell me anything about them?’

  ‘You want to join?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about them. Who are they?’

  ‘We’re British men and women who are ready to stand up for our race, and reclaim this country for our children.’

  ‘That’s what I believe too — I was in the National Front with my dad.’

  ‘You look like a handy young bloke.’

  Eddie shrugged off the compliment. ‘How can I find out more about it?’

  ‘Write down your name, address and number on a slip of paper. I’ll pass it on and someone will contact you. They’ll check you out — make sure you’re not some kind of spy or nothin’ like that. Write on there that you were in the NF, too, they’ll want to know that.’

  Eddie did as he was told, borrowing a pen and paper from the bar. The man he gave it to folded it and placed it in his top pocket. ‘I’ll pass it on.’

  A few days later, Eddie was certain that he saw a man following him. To work and back, even to his local on a Friday night, sitting alone with a newspaper and a pint just close enough to Eddie’s table to hear the conversation. One night after work he suspected that someone had broken into his flat — there were scratches around the keyhole and some papers arranged differently from the way he’d left them.

  Then nothing, but every Sunday he caught the train out for the druid’s service and sat at the pub afterwards, alone, waiting for the 1.15 back to the city. Then, one day, just as his pie, floating in peas and gravy, arrived, a man of about fifty — a hard-looking bloke with tattoos — walked over. ‘You can come and sit with us if you like.’

  Following him across, Eddie knew that he had either passed or failed some kind of test.

  There were eight men there, most with a mug of ale or lager. One spare place had seemingly been left for him. At a nod from the man who led him across, Eddie put down his mug and plate, sat and, without making eye contact, began to eat.

  The conversation and sounds of eating and drinking continued around him as if he was not there. Then, when he had finished eating, wiping the last smear of gravy with the thick pastry and washing it down with a long draught of ale, the other voices fell silent and the tattooed man said, ‘So you’re Eddie Wilder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Then followed a round of introductions, Eddie concentrating fiercely on each name and face so it might be stamped on his memory. This was not the time to fuck up, and he knew it. These people were serious.

  They asked him questions, one at a time, as if they were fully prepared in advance. Asked him about his dad, how he went at school, what he thought of the King. Then, more serious stuff — immigration, the breakdown of family values. God. They wanted to know what was in his heart and Eddie laid it bare.

  Finally they gave him a place and a time in London. ‘That’s the next meeting. If you want to be there,
be there. If not we’ll never see you again.’

  The meeting was the first of many. Eddie proved his worth a hundred times. He rose to near the peak of an organisation rapidly swelling to more than three hundred thousand members.

  Eddie Wilder had found his niche, and now, as he steps out of the train at the Regent’s Park tube station, he is aware of the trust other men place in him. He is not just Eddie Wilder, chef, but one of the leaders of a revolution that is surely coming soon.

  He walks up the stairs and outside, looking across the close-shaven green lawns, then at the dome of the London Central Mosque and the Islamic cultural centre a couple of hundred metres away. The sight angers him afresh.

  Eddie follows the broad concrete paths towards the meeting place, a bench seat overlooking the cricket pitches, London’s BT tower dominating the skyline beyond the fields and trees. This meeting place is not random, but was chosen from a careful study of the placement of CCTV cameras around the park. This particular bench is one of the few blind spots.

  That is not to say that there are no hidden microphones under the bench, in a tree, or even a police nanodrone hovering just over the trees. This, however, is as safe as it gets in this age of facial-profiling cameras and link analysis.

  Arriving at precisely 7a.m., Terry Caldwell is waiting for him, sitting on the bench looking like a businessman in his black coat and hat, holding a phone up to his ear as if making a call. He is no businessman, however, and when in uniform, wears the crossed tipstaves and pip of a deputy assistant superintendent on his shoulder boards. Terry is one of three highly placed ‘friends’ among the Metropolitan Police.

  Cops, Eddie long ago learned, know better than most people about the trouble that comes from wave after wave of immigrants. And the North Africans are the most violent, the most troubled. The lower ranks of England’s police, dealing with the crime these people bring, are full of right-wing sympathisers, and their influence at the top is growing.

  Eddie sits down on the bench. Looks away from Terry, seemingly disinterested.

  ‘Terry, what’s up?’

  The other man continues to hold the phone to his ear as if on a call. ‘Something so fucking huge you’re not going to believe it.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘All hell’s breaking loose. Nothing to the public yet, but we were informed, confidentially, that terrorists — some Arab terror cell — have biological weapons and they are going to deploy them, somewhere over London, we don’t know. They could kill millions of people.’

  ‘Fuck. When?’

  ‘Today or tomorrow. They’ve just stolen drones they’re going to use on London — five of them.’

  ‘Drones — fuck.’ Eddie feels a hot flush of blood burn the skin of his face. ‘You say it’s Arabs going to do this, right?’

  ‘From what I understand, yes.’

  ‘Al-Qa’ida?’

  ‘No, some new lot. Syrian or something. They’re all fucking Muslims.’

  ‘Well that means if we throw every Arab in London into the sea it can’t happen, right?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I called you.’

  ‘Fuck ’em. I’ll fight for this town with my life.’

  Terry Caldwell clasps Eddie’s hand in the secret handshake. ‘I’m with you, brother. Stay here while I go, alright?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, thanks.’

  Eddie feels a folded piece of paper, slipped into his hand by Terry, and he surreptitiously pockets it. He waits for a further ten minutes before he stands up and goes back the way he came. The journey home takes forty-five minutes, and on the way he reads the written directive Terry gave him — evidence to take to his comrades.

  He sends out a Snapchat message to everyone on his contact list — the leaders and district organisers of the fastest growing right-wing organisation in the world. The words are urgent. They talk of war. Of marshalling an army.

  Eddie feels the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. The weight of the future of the Anglo Saxon people. The brown horde have just given him a weapon.

  The weapon of fear.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  LONDON

  LOCAL TIME: 0700

  Tom has always hated the whole CONTEST structure, stacked as it is with politicians, because decisions so often become political rather than tactical. Now, as the situation worsens, the COBRA room has become the primary operations centre for the crisis.

  Taking advantage of a momentary lift in the fog, a screen shows footage of a Pantech truck moving down the A406, taken from the Fury drone overhead; monochrome footage with target marks. Peak-hour traffic is thick but flowing around the truck. Troops on the ground will be getting the same vision from the drone through their GUs, or ROVER — Remote Operations Video Enhanced Receiver — units in the hands of platoon commanders.

  The Home Secretary is speaking: ‘OK, right now they are heading south on the A406. We have a roadblock with spikes being assembled on the Eastern Avenue Interchange. As soon as the truck nears they’ll stop traffic and block all lanes. Then our troops will surround and immobilise it.’

  Tom Mossel’s fist is clenched. ‘My advice is that we put a missile through that truck right now, while we have the opportunity.’

  Lord Pullman, scion of the British establishment, snorts. ‘Such an action would be reprehensible in the extreme.’

  ‘Did you listen to one single word I said before? This is our opportunity; I strongly advise that we take it.’

  The Home Secretary glares down at him, but there is a note of empathy in her eyes. ‘Sorry, Tom, but what if they already have biological material onboard? A missile will disperse it …’

  ‘I don’t think it is onboard that truck yet. They have to take them somewhere and load them up …’

  ‘You may well be right, Tom, but we can’t risk it. We’ll try the roadblock first, at any rate. We’ve got blocks on all side roads.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Mossel explodes. ‘How can you not understand what we are risking here?’

  The Home Secretary never loses her cool. ‘I understand, but we must assume the worst-case scenario — and work on the assumption that there are LSS-253 strain spores inside that vehicle.’

  Tom slumps back in his seat, shaking his head. The litany of examples of drones ‘accidentally’ killing civilians over the years have led to a culture of hesitancy among politicians and senior commanders. Pilots and sensor operators on UAV missions are constantly frustrated by having a known target in their sights and not getting clearance to fire before they get away.

  Yet the accidents still happen. In Yemen, Somalia, Pakistan, Iraq and Afghanistan, almost three thousand people died during Obama’s Presidency alone, from drone strikes. Many of them were non-combatants.

  A Human Rights Watch report details six specific drone attacks by Israeli Defence Force drones on Gaza. These attacks killed twenty-nine civilians. In three cases, they fatally attacked children playing on rooftops far from any fighting or armed combatants.

  Some observers, however, have placed civilian casualties in drone strikes at six per cent, far less than those incurred in traditional aerial bombardment. But this is London. Not Yemen or Afghanistan. Despite the terrible prospect of a biological attack, these politicians, Mossel realises, will never authorise any strike with even a remote chance of civilian deaths. He drops his head to his hands, knowing they are making a terrible mistake.

  Strapped into the side seat of the Lynx Wildcat, PJ scans the road, craning his neck to look down at where the truck streams south.

  God, he thinks, if only it was as easy as sending a Papa or Hellfire missile into the front cab. Yet the driver is careful to stay close to other traffic. Collateral damage is OK in Afghanistan but not in London.

  Instead they have to wait. There are five choppers above them now, all loaded with men. The second that Pantech stops, even at a traffic light, they will be down on it like a pack of dogs on a rabbit. PJ feels the adrenalin rush of impending action. Roadblocks, he
knows, are being set up, one just a little way ahead.

  ‘Hey,’ says Ronnie from the seat beside him, ‘they’re turning off into Walthamstow.’

  PJ feels another jolt. ‘Why?’ He peers out again. ‘Yep, they’re taking the Selborne Road exit.’

  ‘There’s a roadblock. They won’t get through.’

  Ahead he can see the vast concrete buildings of the Walthamstow Shopping Centre and its huge signs — Poundland, Waterstones, Dorothy Perkins, Superdrug. Where else would you go to shake off a shadowing aerial force?

  Ronnie again: ‘Hey, shit, they just went straight over the spikes.’

  ‘Christ no, must have solid rubber tyres — or foam-filled, anyway.’

  PJ looks down, watches the truck stream straight through the barriers, picking a gap and shouldering a Met SO15 Iveco van aside before continuing down towards the shopping centre with its towering new six-level car park. PJ knows the place well. He and his mum used to shop there sometimes. Him on a bench reading Commando comics while she spent hours window shopping at the little clothes boutiques she liked. ‘We’ve got problems,’ PJ shouts, ‘they’re heading into the car park. Get us down on the roof. Now. Hurry.’

  The Lynx pilot blares on the klaxon, scattering the cars of early-arriving staff, and settling towards the clearest space on top of the building, rotors clattering. PJ dismounts first, Ronnie behind him, then the chopper lifts off and the second bird comes down. 2CG troops coming out at a run: Kisira, the unit medic, dark-skinned and with amazing physical prowess, one of the great fighting all-rounders, followed by Kutay and Jay.

  ‘Right, let’s go, we’re looking for a Pantech truck, licence number T56430. Take a level each and keep us updated over the GU. I’ll take the first one down. Don’t wait for backup — engage if you see them.’

  One of the features of the GU is a split-screen mode whereby PJ sees video feeds from the other operatives, rather like multiplayer game screens. He sprints for the steps, takes them three at a time, watching the others, on other levels, doing much the same thing.