Invasion

by Dc Alden

  He watched as the lights grew brighter, heard the soft purr of powerful engines. Then they came into view, moving slowly from left to right, a three-car convoy of BMW saloon cars. The windows were down, the occupants all young black men, weapons brandished in their hands. They cruised past slowly, assuredly, and Alex noticed the cars had no registration plates. Stolen then, probably from a dealership.

  Music thumped on the air as the convoy cruised slowly past the mini-van and the bodies. Brake lights glowed in the mounting darkness. He heard doors open, voices, then laughter as the bodies on the ground were picked over for items of interest. There were maybe a dozen young men gathered on the street now, jeans and tshirts, pistols jammed into low-hung jeans. Gang bangers, Alex realised, taking advantage of the chaos.

  He stayed where he was, hidden, watching and listening. The laughter was coarse but Alex noticed the men were fully alert, their heads swivelling around the street, hands resting on pistol butts. Whatever had happened out there, there was no one to stop them and they knew it. Worse still, Alex got the impression that if challenged there’d be a fight. He waited a while longer, until the men got bored and moved on to more lucrative pastures.

  Eventually Alex ventured out from his hiding place. He stood in the dark, head cocked to one side, listening for the slightest sound. Nothing. He wondered how far the trouble extended, or was it just West London that was suffering? And what about the power cuts? Again, were they just local? He had to find out what was going on.

  He climbed the stairs and went back into Kirsty’s apartment, peering around the bedroom door. Kirsty was still sleeping, the gunfire outside unable to fully penetrate the double-glazed bedroom window or her pill-induced slumber. He crossed the living room floor, crunching broken glass underfoot, and stood on the balcony, careful to avoid the splintered wooden decking. He looked out across the darkness of the river. Huge flames lit up the area where the plane had hit, the fires still raging unchecked. Even from a distance the devastation seemed enormous. But what he needed to do was to get higher, to see how far the chaos had spread. He had an idea.

  On the top floor was a padlocked access door that led up to the roof. A minute later, with the aid of a crow bar from his toolkit, he found himself on top of the building.

  Outside, the air carried the tang of burning aviation fuel and a pale moon bathed the darkened suburbs in a silvery glow. He walked towards the edge of the building and stopped, looking east towards the city. A chill ran through his body. As far as Alex could see, the whole of London was blanketed in darkness, lit only by the fires that seemed to rage around the horizon. To the south and west just emptiness, the moonlight glinting off the rooftops as they marched into the distance. Fire and darkness. Closer, he could make out the elevated section of the M4 motorway where vehicles burned unchecked.

  The sky over Hammersmith suddenly lit up in a pulse of intense white light, followed by a huge fireball and a shower of sparks. A low rumble reached Alex’s ears. Jesus Christ! Another flash lit up the skyline to the east, followed quickly by three more. Seconds later, several dull thunderclaps rumbled around the horizon. Alex felt his legs go weak. In that moment he realised that, for some reason beyond his comprehension, the country had been plunged into war.

  Southampton Docks, England

  Inside his armoured command vehicle, General Yar Al-Bitruji, Commander, Invasion Forces (Britain), stood over the command console and watched the battlefield information scrolling down the screen. By his side Colonel Farad, his second-in-command, studied it intently.

  ‘Resistance?’

  ‘Light, disorganised,’ Farad explained. ‘The chain of command has been broken and their forces are in disarray. Their command communications relay hubs have been captured and shut down or have been destroyed. The same applies to their landline, cell phone and sub-surface networks. Their spy bases at GCHQ and Flyingdales have also been neutralised and major military bases have all been attacked by sleeper teams with a high degree of success. Surprise has been the key and it has worked remarkably well. We have also captured the major radio and television stations at the BBC and various commercial broadcasters. The pre-recorded message is beginning to be transmitted across the country. So far the plan seems to be working.’

  The General looked at his subordinate, his eyebrow arched quizzically.

  ‘Of course,’ Farad continued quickly, ‘there are some rogue units that continue to operate. A troop of tanks has managed to escape from its barracks near the garrison town of Tidworth. They were last seen headed onto the military exercise area on Salisbury Plain. A small number of aircraft also managed to survive and have engaged some of our fighter jets, but their lack of resources and methods of re-supply will curb their overall effectiveness.’

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ muttered the General in reply.

  He swung open the rear door of the multi-wheeled vehicle and jumped down. He reached for a pack of crumpled cigarettes in his trouser pocket and lit one. Two bodyguards fell in behind him as Al-Bitruji strolled past a column of command vehicles parked alongside a warehouse in Southampton’s western docks. Fifty metres away, in the darkness of a car park, an anti-aircraft vehicle squatted motionless, only the hum of its electrically-powered turret bristling with surface-to-air missiles giving away its position.

  Al-Bitruji and his escort climbed a metal staircase that led to a gantry on the roof of the warehouse. From there, he enjoyed an unrestricted view over the dockyards where huge container ships were bathed in the harsh glow of portable arc lights. Hundreds of logistical personnel swarmed all over the dockside, unloading tonnes of equipment and guiding thousands of troops to their designated marshalling points, as cranes swung continuously from ship to shore and back again, their cargo nets bulging with military supplies. Out in the darkness of the channel, many more ships waited for tugs to guide them into the docks.

  What a lovely target this would make, thought Al-Bitruji. Let’s hope none of those rogue British fighters decide to take a look along the south coast. The skies around Southampton docks were swept continuously by SAM crews located both on shore and at sea, and it would be a foolhardy pilot indeed that would dare run the gauntlet of a bombing run up the Solent. Still, this was a critical time. A successful air attack now could be disastrous.

  Al-Bitruji, along with his battle group, had sailed from Port Said on the Egyptian coast three weeks ago, hidden inside a huge container ship that was now being unloaded a short distance away. From its cavernous hold, thousands of tons of military hardware were being delivered to shore before being checked off and mated with waiting crews. As the General watched, attack helicopters were carefully lifted by crane from the hold and lowered gently onto the quayside. Maintenance crews waited nearby to tow them to specially prepared assembly areas, where they would attach the rotor blades and load the magazines before beginning pre-flight checks. The scale of the operation was enormous and Al-Bitruji silently thanked Allah that the docks had been captured so easily, allowing the ships to dock without losses. But how long would it last? He flicked his cigarette over the rail and made his way back to the command vehicle.

  ‘Get me the Chief Landing Officer,’ he ordered Farad. Within minutes, a middle-aged man in naval uniform climbed into the back of the mobile command centre. He saluted the General smartly.

  ‘How long before the equipment is unloaded?’ Al-Bitruji demanded without preamble. The naval officer’s gaze never wavered. Not intimidated by a General, then, he thought to himself. Maybe I’ll get an accurate assessment.

  ‘Every berth from here to the Ocean Village marina is occupied by one of our vessels, General. The ships transporting your spearhead battalions and their equipment are almost unloaded, maybe an hour at the most. There are still twenty-four vessels waiting to berth and dock space is tight, but we should accomplish this in forty-eight hours or less. The ammunition ships are already unloaded and the munitions have been dispersed around the dockyards. However, I recommend that they be moved imme
diately. We have many more ships en route from the Mediterranean and any damage to the docks would seriously hinder our operations.’

  Al-Bitruji nodded in agreement. ‘Indeed. The forward units have been issued their ammunition and the rest is being moved to a more secure area on the northern borders of the city as we speak. Have no fear, Commander, your docks will be secure. You are dismissed.’ The naval officer snapped another smart salute and left the vehicle. Al-Bitruji turned to Farad. ‘Where are the recce units now?’

  ‘Holding station at the junction of a couple of motorways. Early reports indicate that the roads are relatively clear.’

  ‘Send them towards London as planned. Form up the mechanized units and get them moving to their jump-off points.’

  Al-Bitruji’s eyes were fixed to the system console and its three-dimensional map of the surrounding area. ‘Redeploy these SAM units at my marks. Get those ships unloaded as soon as possible with priority given to any stores required for the helicopters. I want my air assets covering that convoy. And order two security battalions into position and tell them to begin patrols in the surrounding area. I want these docks sown up tighter than an ass’s backside.’

  The General stepped out of the vehicle and lit another cigarette. Farad joined him a moment later.

  ‘All orders confirmed, General. Spearhead mechanized units are headed towards the motorway jump-off points. ETA, ten minutes.’

  ‘Good. Let’s get moving.’ As he was about to climb back into his command vehicle, the General stopped in his tracks. Farad collided into him.

  ‘General, my apologies, I-’

  Al-Bitruji held up his hand for silence. Slowly, he walked a few steps away from the armoured vehicle, his head cocked to one side.

  ‘What is it, General?’ Farad whispered.

  Then they heard it, the low droning noise that grew in volume, high above their heads. The airborne phase, Al-Bitruji realised, scores of tactical transport aircraft, each one capable of carrying over a hundred fully loaded paratroopers and their equipment. Al-Bitruji saw them then, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, their turboprop engines throbbing gently. The General rubbed his neck. Somewhere up there was his nemesis, streaking ahead of him towards London. ‘Get the command vehicle moved up to the outer orbital motorway as soon as possible. If a helicopter becomes available before then, get it to pick us up en route. Let’s move.’

  ‘At once, General.’

  Farad barked at the operators hunched over their screens inside the command vehicle. Seconds later, Al-Bitruji watched with satisfaction as the long line of armoured vehicles beside the warehouse roared into life in a cloud of grey exhaust fumes. Armoured doors were slammed shut and secured and top hatches clanged open as vehicle commanders waited for the order to move. Farad signalled to the commander of the lead vehicle. The multi-wheeled armoured beast lurched out of line towards him and rocked to a halt a few metres away. The vehicle commander threw up a salute.

  ‘Awaiting your orders, General,’ he yelled above the noise.

  ‘We move on London,’ Al-Bitruji said, climbing back inside his vehicle.

  ‘At last,’ grinned the commander.

  The Tunnels

  Harry Beecham found himself back in Downing Street. He was in the kitchen sipping a cup of coffee when he heard his wife calling his name. It seemed to be coming from outside in the street. He stood up and walked across to the kitchen window, looking down into the devastated cul-de-sac. To Harry’s surprise Anna was there, along with Matt Goodge and her other close-protection officers. David Fuller was there too, and they were all looking up at him, waving. Harry was confused. What did they want? His wife was beckoning silently. She couldn’t speak because something black was oozing from her mouth, some kind of disgusting, treacle-like substance that dripped in thick clumps onto her blouse. Then Harry saw something from the corner of his eye. Fire.

  A sheet of flame was moving slowly towards the group below him, approaching

  them from behind. They seemed unaware of the danger, still grinning and waving, Anna still vomiting that strange-looking substance. Harry wanted to warn them, tried to open the window, but he couldn’t shift it. He started hammering on the glass and pointing, his shouts becoming louder and louder, but still they waved and smiled. The fire crept closer until it was right behind them and then it stopped. Harry screamed at them to run, but they just carried on waving, oblivious to the danger. Then the fire swept back and rose up like a huge, burning wave. Harry was rooted to the spot, horrified, as the flames hung menacingly over them. The tears coursed down his cheeks and his voice suddenly failed him. All he could do was watch.

  Then, the wave of fire crashed down, engulfing the smiling, waving group below.

  Harry screamed.

  ‘Prime Minister, wake up!’

  Harry sat bolt upright on the sofa, his shirt bathed in sweat and a blanket tossed to one side. It took him several seconds to realise where he was.

  Brigadier Forsythe took a step back. ‘Are you alright?’

  Harry retrieved a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and shakily dabbed his sweat-soaked face. ‘Yes. Just give me a minute.’

  Forsythe filled a plastic cup from a nearby water-cooler and offered it to Harry, who gulped it down greedily.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Prime Minister?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Harry snapped. ‘Just a bad dream. It’s nothing,’ he lied. He pushed himself off the sofa and stood, rubbing his face. ‘God, I could use a shower.’

  ‘Well, I think we can accommodate you there,’ replied the Brigadier. Harry wasn’t surprised.

  When he'd crawled through the false panel in the generator room, Harry envisaged scrambling through small, dark tunnels for the next few hours. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He’d found himself standing on a steel gantry looking down upon a large cavern, the concrete floor a good forty feet below him. Above his head, halogen lights hanging from the ceiling illuminated the small-gauge railway tracks that disappeared into the blackness of two wide tunnels in the far wall. An underground railway station, directly beneath Downing Street! Harry was astounded.

  He continued down the steel staircase, his footsteps echoing around the concrete walls, Forsythe and his SAS team following on behind. The tunnels were lit by small green lights recessed into the smooth walls and seemed to head off in different directions. Harry wondered where they went. He turned around. Several rooms had been cut into the face of the cavern, the largest of which boasted a glass wall that looked out over the small platforms. To his right, Harry noticed a corridor that led off somewhere else and he counted several doors along its length. Yet, despite the tunnels, the tracks and the small platforms, there were no trains to be seen.

  ‘Well, Harry, what do you think?’ Forsythe and his men were all looking at him, sizing up his reaction. Harry began to say something but words failed him. ‘Impressive, isn’t it? I was pretty speechless when I first saw it, too. Hard to imagine that this sort of thing could be built in secret without anyone upstairs knowing about it. But there you have it. This way please, Harry.’

  Forsythe led them into the large glass-fronted room, which turned out to be a high-tech control centre. There were numerous display panels on the surrounding walls and a small bank of consoles with several swivel chairs in front of them. Forsythe turned to Gibson.

  ‘Comms, please Mike. Quick as you can.’

  Gibson nodded and left the room, while Nasser and Brooks moved off to make a quick recce of the cavern and tunnel entrances. Harry watched them go.

  ‘What the hell is this place?’

  Forsythe rolled a chair across to Harry. ‘It’s an emergency transport system, for use by the Prime Minister, his Cabinet and members of the Royal Family. It was built in secret over many years using state-of-the-art tunnelling techniques. Above Top Secret, all this.’

  Harry was suitably impressed. ‘Where do the tracks lead?’

  Forsythe pointed through the glass to the tunnel
s across the cavern. ‘The left-hand line turns due east and runs beneath Buckingham Palace. There’s a smaller platform facility there, located directly under the rear gardens. From the Palace the tunnel turns northeast, where it terminates in Kensington Gardens. Access to ground level there is via a staircase leading to a seemingly disused but very secure Royal Parks police office. From there, you have quick and easy access to the M4 and M40 motorways and there’s also a designated area close by for helicopter landings.’

  ‘Is that the plan, Giles? Leave London by helicopter?’

  Forsythe leaned forward in his chair. ‘If this is an all-out shooting war, then we need to get you out of the city, to the emergency control facility at Alternate One in the West Country.’

  ‘How do we get there?’ asked Harry.

  ‘There are two options. One, we take the left-hand tunnel, travelling beneath the Palace and rendezvousing with a helicopter in Kensington Gardens, which will fly us out under cover of darkness. Or two, we take the other tunnel to Mill Hill in North London. That one terminates inside a nondescript Ministry of Defence storage depot. From there it’s a short drive to Northolt, then air transport to Alternate One.’

  Harry glanced towards the dark tunnels, their curved walls washed in a pale blue light. At least they would be protected from the horrors on the surface.

  ‘Where’s the power coming from?’

  ‘Direct spur into Dungeness nuclear power station. The actual amount of electricity drawn is very small, so we don’t even register on the main grid.’

  ‘What about communications?’

  ‘Good point,’ replied Forsythe. ‘Let’s see if Mike’s had any luck.’

  The Brigadier led the way through a glass door into the adjacent comms room. Here, several telephones and computers were arranged on a central table along with two military-spec radios. Mike Gibson, headphones on, was listening to one intently while stepping slowly through the airwaves. Across the table, Brooks and Nasser had returned from their patrol and were thumbing through directories and punching telephone numbers. Gibson looked up as Forsythe entered.