by Dc Alden
‘A coup, then? The political situation hasn’t been-’
‘No, I believe these are the opening shots of a much wider conflict. The scale is too large. Our infrastructure, our defences have been deliberately targeted and disabled. This feels like a war.’
Harry’s face drained of colour. ‘A war? With whom?’
‘We haven’t got time for speculation. We have to get you out of here.’
‘Where to? And how are we going to get out of Whitehall? It’s a bloody nightmare out there.’
‘Prime Minister-’
Harry cut him off. ‘Giles, we’ve known each other for long enough and, under the circumstances, I think we can dispense with the formalities.’
Forsythe nodded. ‘Okay, Harry.’ The Brigadier cast a look over his shoulder, making sure there was no one within earshot. ‘What I’m about to tell you has remained a secret from the British Government since work began, many years ago. Quite simply, the situation has never arisen where its use has been necessary.’
Harry couldn’t keep the puzzlement from his face. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘An evacuation plan, one that would be implemented should normal transport and communication channels be deemed to be too risky. Usually, the procedures for a national emergency are clear. You’d be whisked away from your present location and taken under armed escort to an airfield, from where you’d be flown to Alternate One, the command and control complex beneath the Mendip Hills in the West Country. Once there, your Cabinet would join you and together you would take control of whatever crisis the country happened to be in the grip of and continue to govern as the situation allowed.’
Harry nodded, familiar with the general national emergency plans. But it was clear Forsythe meant something else, something quite different.
‘However,’ the Brigadier continued, ‘it was decided many years ago that there may come a time when events ran out of control too quickly, that the Prime Minister of the day would have neither the time nor the opportunity to leave Whitehall by the normal routes without putting him or herself in serious jeopardy, even under armed escort. A large-scale nuclear or chemical attack, for example. A time when even a helicopter pick-up from Whitehall would be deemed an unacceptable risk. That time is now.’
‘Jesus,’ whispered Harry.
‘Before we go any further I need to send the police back across to the MOD.’ Harry started to protest, but Forsythe held up his hand. ‘It’s just you, me and my security team. They’re good boys, all Special Forces. The police can look after your civilian staff.’ A sudden rumble overhead made everyone glance towards the ceiling, the shock wave shaking the walls. ‘We’re running out of time,’ Forsythe warned, signalling to one of his security team.
Harry saw a tall, chisel-faced soldier walk briskly towards them. Like the others, he was heavily armed and dressed in full combat gear. Whereas the Brigadier wore a standard-issue Kevlar helmet, this man, like the others, wore a short-peaked cap in the same grey/black pattern as his combat uniform. The man walked with an easy stride, as if he’d done this a hundred times, not a glimpse of tension, not a bead of sweat. Just a calm, self-assured manner, one that Harry found both intimidating and comforting at the same time. Forsythe did the introductions.
‘Harry, this is Mike Gibson, my number two. Mike’s squad is part of the Sabre Team standby group.’
Gibson held out his hand and Harry shook it, noting the tough skin and firm grip. ‘Sir.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your rank.’
‘Technically it’s sergeant, but we don’t stand much on ceremony in our mob. Everyone’s pretty much on first-name terms.’
‘Special Forces, of course,’ echoed Harry, slightly embarrassed. These men operated differently, had their own rules and rituals, their own way of doing things that wasn’t always by the book.
Gibson pointed to his comrades. ‘Quick introductions then. The big fella is Nasser and that’s Brooks. Bloke by the door is Farrell. We’ve all done this kind of stuff before. You’ll be well looked after.’
Harry felt reassured in the presence of this small but no doubt very capable team of professionals. If anyone were going to get him out of this situation, it would be these guys.
Forsythe waved Morris over. ‘Time to go, sergeant. And keep a low profile,’ he warned. ‘To all intents and purposes we’re in a war situation. Find a radio and listen in. Any official broadcasts will be transmitted across the emergency networks. Try and stockpile as much food and water as you can and don’t move unless you have to. You might be holed up for a few days.’ Forsythe offered a tight smile. ‘Best advice I can give you under the circumstances, I’m afraid.’
Morris nodded, shaking Forsythe’s hand. ‘Appreciate it. Good luck.’
Harry offered his own hand and then Morris and his men were gone. When the echoes of their passage had finally receded, Forsythe ordered everybody out into the corridor. ‘Time to go. Follow me.’ He took a few brisk steps then came to a halt outside the generator room. Harry nearly collided into him.
‘Where are you going, Giles? There’s nothing in there.’
‘Have you ever been inside, Harry?’
Harry frowned. ‘When I first moved into Number Ten, right after the election. I was given the full tour as part of my orientation. Impressive if you’re an electrical engineer, but I must admit I didn’t linger too long.’
‘Then let’s reacquaint you,’ insisted Forsythe. He twisted the two steel retaining levers out of their catches and swung the door open, walking quickly inside. Harry and the others followed closely behind, filing down a shallow concrete ramp.
The room seemed larger than Harry remembered. Against the left-hand wall there were four generators, each about the size of a family refrigerator, humming softly. These were the units that supplied the emergency power to Downing Street, Harry recalled. Against the right-hand wall of the room were the much larger electrical mains cabinets, labelled one to six, which supplied regular power to the Downing Street complex. Each cabinet had a digital display across the front panel next to a numeric keypad and, as Harry looked along the row, he noticed that all the units had a small red light glowing on the display panel alongside the legend Loss of mains power – Call emergency contact number. Above their heads, several thick pipes and cables snaked away from the six units into the floors above. At the far wall there was a workbench with some scattered tools and rags on its surface, and a well-thumbed clipboard hung from a small hook on the wall. Harry was even more puzzled. What the hell were they doing down here? Forsythe turned to Gibson, indicating the door to the generator room.
‘Mike, seal the door as best you can.’
Gibson looked around and found a thick metal crowbar lying amongst a pile of discarded rags on the workbench. He ran back up the ramp and carefully jammed the bar into the door’s mechanism. Satisfied, he leaned on the bar with all his weight but it wouldn’t budge. If somebody wanted to open the door from the outside, they’d have to blow it open. Gibson gave Forsythe the thumbs-up.
‘Well Harry, this is where it gets interesting.’
Harry didn’t say a word, confusion etched across his face. Forsythe pulled out a thick plastic card from inside his breast pocket. He snapped it sharply in half, revealing a smaller, thinner card inside. He approached the second mains power unit on the right-hand wall and, reading from the card, punched a code into the small keypad on its front panel. He then slid the card into a slot under the keypad. Harry stepped back in surprise as the bottom half of the unit hissed loudly and swung inwards, revealing a dark recess. Harry crouched down and looked inside. It was pitch black.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘Our escape route,’ answered Forsythe.
‘You’re joking?’ He could tell from the Brigadier’s expression that wisecracks were the last thing on his mind. ‘Small and dark,’ noted Harry, standing. ‘I’m not good in confined spaces.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Fors
ythe getting down onto all fours. ‘It’s a short crawl of about ten feet to another chamber on the other side of the wall. Torch please, Mike.’
Gibson fished a small Maglite from his webbing and handed it to Forsythe, who promptly disappeared inside the hollow unit. While they waited, Gibson took Farrell to one side. ‘Stay this side until we call you through. Keep an ear out for trouble,’ warned Gibson, pointing to the top of the ramp. ‘If anyone tries to force entry, get to the other chamber fast and seal it from the inside, okay?’ He took a felt pen from his pocket and scrawled four digits on Farrell’s hand. ‘Punch that number to lock it and join us as quickly as you can.’
Harry watched Farrell jog back up the ramp. ‘We’re not leaving him, are we?’
‘No. He’s just going to watch our backs while we organise things on the other side. Besides, he’s got a radio.’
‘I thought that all radios were dead.’
‘We can use them as walkie-talkies over short distances. He’ll be able to give us plenty of warning.’
They both turned at the sound of the Brigadier’s voice, echoing inside the crawl space. ‘Harry! Into the shaft, please!’
Harry got down on his hands and knees and began crawling inside the power unit. He shuffled quickly through and stood up, finding himself in a small concrete room with a steel door in the opposite wall. A single wire-meshed bulb lit the space from the low ceiling above. After a few moments Gibson, Nasser and Brooks had made their way through, dusting themselves off as they stood up.
‘Farrell is watching our six, Boss. He’s got the code to seal both hatches.’
‘Very good, Mike.’ Forsythe turned and walked towards a small numeric keypad set into the wall. He punched a sequence of buttons and Harry heard a faint whirring noise then an audible metallic click. He looked up as the bulb above their heads dimmed slightly.
‘I’m getting claustrophobic already,’ muttered Harry nervously.
‘I’ve got a cure for that. Follow me.’ Forsythe took a couple of steps and pulled the steel door open. He stepped to one side. ‘After you,’ he said, motioning Harry through the door. Harry gratefully complied, finding himself standing on a wide metal gantry. He looked down.
‘Jesus Christ.’
The Sleeper
Allah be praised! He was amazed and overjoyed that he’d made it this far, into the very lair of the enemy. It had taken years of hard work, both physical and mental, not to mention the humiliation, the deceit, the loss of his family and friends, the isolation. Shortly, all that would be at an end. The war had begun and soon his Brothers would arrive on the shores of the Infidel.
He had engineered his place here with the Sabre team, hoping against hope that the regimental rotations would place him in Whitehall on this day. They did, and he had thanked Allah profusely. It was a sign, of course; a sign that his mission was a righteous one. And now he was here, standing on the steel gantry, alongside the Prime Minister. Like the others, he was amazed. It was truly an impressive feat of engineering, something that the Infidels had always been good at.
He thrust an innocent hand into his pocket and produced a stick of chewing gum. In reality, he was making sure that his one remaining transmitter pad was still safely tucked away. He’d been issued six of the small devices some years ago, but four had either corroded over time or simply refused to work. Now he had two. He’d just placed one in the generator room, directly above the false panel, innocently bracing his hand on the unit and steadying himself as he crouched to enter the crawl space.
Roughly the size of a coin, the transmitter had a strong adhesive back that would attach to almost any surface. Small and unobtrusive, once adequate pressure had been applied to its coated surface, the pad would begin transmitting a low-frequency signal that his Brothers should be able to pick up with their tracking equipment – if they were quick enough. The signal lasted for only seventy-two hours, after which the tiny battery would be dead and the signal would cease to transmit. No matter, he still had another. This one he would somehow try to attach about Beecham’s person. The signal would follow him everywhere and, with luck, he would be detected when his Brothers stormed this underground complex.
But he didn’t give it any more thought. It was all about faith, really. Faith had brought him this far, had silently comforted him through the long hours of darkness and through all the hardships of his training. Faith had provided him with the strength to live among these Godless people and so faith would deliver him back into the warm embrace of Islam.
A few feet behind him, on the other side of the false panel, the transmitter began signalling its presence. Trooper Nasser had every faith that his Brothers would not be far behind.
Stockwell, South London
The bomb had taken out the top deck of the bus, blocking the junction of Clapham Road and sending terrified commuters running for the side streets. Black smoke spewed from the wreckage, blackened bodies littering the road. There was an ambulance on the scene, dozens of police officers, but still chaos reigned. Comms had gone, dropped out completely, no-one talking to anyone else. The screams and shouts from the junction, the sirens, the car horns as traffic began to back up on all directions only added to the chaos.
Khan, Max and Spencer took cover in their van, watching the horror unfold a hundred yards away. The upper deck of the bus was missing and there were several cars on fire around it. Those who hadn’t abandoned their vehicles were lying dead or injured inside them. People were running everywhere, along the streets, over cars, trampling others underfoot in an effort to escape. Khan punched the door in frustration, startling the others. Target One had something to do with this. The respectful farewell at the mosque in Morden, dumping his surveillance, a bystander shot in cold blood, just yards from where they were now parked. And now this. It was all beginning to add up.
‘Get us out of here, Max. There’s nothing we can do. Blues and twos, yeah?’
‘I’m on it.’ Max fired the engine into life, reaching under the dashboard and flicking on the blue and red emergency lights. It wasn’t something they did often, but this was an emergency. Besides, they didn’t want to be mistaken for terrorists by a nervous cop armed with an assault rifle. Max swung the van around and put his foot down, leaving the carnage behind them, strobe lights and siren carving a path through the traffic and growing crowds of rubberneckers.
‘Where to?’
‘Millbank,’ Khan said. ‘Let’s find out what the hell’s going on.’
Max swung the van hard around a corner, screeching left onto Lansdowne Way. Almost immediately he began to slow down.
‘Shit. Look at this.’
A multiple-vehicle pile-up was blocking the junction of Wandsworth Road, pedestrians running in all directions. Khan saw a group of people hiding behind a low wall, bodies piled on top of one another. What the hell…?
‘Go around,’ he barked. The van reached the junction and mounted the pavement, swinging around the pile-up and into Wandsworth Road. Max stamped heavily on the brakes and Khan fell forward against the dashboard.
‘Bloody hell, Max!’ he shouted.
Max pointed through the windscreen. On the road, as far as they could see, scores of vehicles had been abandoned, their doors hanging open. Several were burning as other vehicles tried to weave through the smoke and wreckage, hampered by the obstacles and bodies scattered across the road. Further down towards Vauxhall, a petrol station was burning, a huge wall of flame licking hungrily around the overhead canopy. Through the flames, Khan could make out the incinerated shells of several vehicles, and a column of black smoke boiled into the air.
Something clanged off the van’s bodywork. Khan flipped off the van’s emergency lights.
‘We’re taking fire! Turn around, find another way!’
In his haste, Max stalled the vehicle. Another round ricocheted off the bonnet. ‘Shit!’
‘C’mon Max!’ screamed Khan. He registered movement from the corner of his eye and saw a figure emerge fr
om a convenience store on his left, not more than twenty yards away. The man was walking quickly towards them, wearing a desert pattern combat jacket and black jeans. The weapon he was bringing up to his shoulder was a black assault rifle. Before anyone could react, the man opened fire. Khan just made it, ducking below the dashboard as the side window and windscreen exploded in a shower of glass. The noise from the weapon was deafening. Bullets hammered the van, ricocheting off the Kevlar-lined walls and burying themselves into anything that would yield to their deadly velocity. Like Max.
Khan, pistol in hand, suddenly realised that he hadn’t got down in time. His eyes travelled upwards. Max’s face was unrecognisable, as if it had been stoved in with a giant hammer. Surprisingly, there was very little blood, but Khan could see wisps of smoke rising from the wound in his face. He turned away quickly. The gunman was probably closing on them, carefully skirting the van. Maybe he’d seen Khan duck down and was just waiting for an opportunity to empty another magazine in his direction. Maybe he had already walked away, in search of his next victim. Or maybe not.
Khan didn’t move a muscle, straining to filter out the sounds around him and pinpoint the shooter’s position. In the distance, he could hear a siren wailing and the roar of the petrol station blaze. Closer, he heard the pop and tinkle of glass exploding and the dull thump of vehicle petrol tanks igniting. He realised he couldn’t hear any human sounds at all – no shouts, no screaming, no crying. It felt like he was alone in this nightmare. He couldn’t even hear Spencer in the rear of the van and he dare not even whisper to him. No doubt he, too, was trying to stay as quiet as possible.
There. The crunch of glass underfoot, very close. Khan was down in the passenger foot well, his head below the window and his back pressed against the passenger door. He heard the scrape of a foot directly outside the van and twisted his body around as quietly as he could manage. Khan knew he had to use deadly force and the thought of killing suddenly made him feel nauseous, but he had no choice. This was one of those ‘kill or be killed’ situations they’d discussed during his training. The instructors had spoken about it on the weapons ranges and in the classroom, and some of those guys had to make that fateful decision once or twice during their careers. There was no set procedure for it in the manual, but it didn’t matter in this case. Khan knew that the gunman would shoot him in an instant.
