by Dc Alden
Mousa’s identity was confirmed and the jeep was quickly waved through. It continued under the arched portico and entered the central courtyard of the Palace, where the driver found a space amongst the numerous vehicles already there. Mousa glanced up, noticing the camouflage netting that had been draped overhead. An orderly approached and gave a small bow.
‘General Mousa, an honour, Sir. General Al-Bitruji is in the command post. I will escort you there immediately.’
With his bodyguards in tow, Mousa followed the orderly along the red-carpeted hallways of Buckingham Palace. He was pleased to see it untouched. Looting by Arabian troops was strictly forbidden, although Mousa had to admit that the temptation to pick up a souvenir here would be hard to resist. They made their way through several rooms into what was obviously a staff corridor. They passed a room that housed several easy chairs, an old plasma TV screen, and piles of newspapers and magazines scattered on a heavily-stained coffee table.
After several more twists and turns through the palace kitchens, Mousa followed the orderly down a flight of smooth stone steps to the palace basement. There was much more activity here, with communications and power cables running along the floor. The cables snaked their way into a large, low-ceilinged storeroom and it was here that Al-Bitruji had sited his command post. A good choice, Mousa had to admit: underground, easy access to the floors above and, if he was not mistaken, an exit to the grounds of the palace itself. A corridor opposite the command post had a heavy blackout drape across it and a sign ordering the observation of light discipline. Soldiers scurried to and fro. The place was a hive of activity.
Inside the command post, a large battlefield command screen was being monitored by a dozen operators. Mousa noticed an air-defence detachment lining one wall, their air-search consoles glowing in the darkened room. No doubt the roof of the palace bristled with anti-aircraft batteries and troops with hand-held SAMs. General Al-Bitruji looked up from a large-scale map as Mousa entered.
‘Ah! General Mousa! Good to see you!’
The overweight Al-Bitruji crossed the room and shook Mousa’s hand, kissing him lightly on each cheek. They had known each other for many years, each man’s steady rise up the ladder mirrored by the other. But there the similarities ended. Although both held the rank of General, it was Mousa who had unrestricted access to the Cleric. Technically, there was no difference in their status, but the reality was somewhat different, as both men knew. It was for that reason that Al-Bitruji tried to humour the tough paratrooper before him. He gently steered Mousa by the elbow out of earshot of the command post staff.
‘So, Faris. Still jumping out of planes with the young bucks, eh?’
Mousa smiled thinly. ‘General Al-Bitruji, the mission I have been given is one of the highest importance. This is neither the time nor the place for frivolity. You received my message?’
Al-Bitruji’s dark eyes darted left and right. Only Mousa’s bodyguards had heard the rebuke.
‘Yes, of course, your message. Come.’ He smiled through gritted teeth, leading Mousa over to the command screen and barking orders at the operators. The display changed to a large-scale representation of Buckingham Palace and its immediate area. Mousa watched as a row of coloured dots moved upwards across the screen. Al-Bitruji pointed to the slow-moving icons.
‘Those are combat engineers, spread out across the grounds of the Palace. They’re carrying imaging equipment that can detect heat sources deep underground. They can also detect large voids and cavities beneath the surface. I have other teams searching every basement and cellar in this building. If there is a tunnel here, we’ll find it.’
Mousa nodded. Al-Bitruji had deployed his troops well. Maybe he’d been a bit hard on his fellow General. ‘How goes the invasion?’ he asked, softening his tone.
Al-Bitruji gave another order and the screen changed to show an overhead view of England and Wales. Arabian forces were represented by green icons and the southern half of England showed large concentrations of them, particularly in the South East and the Midlands. ‘The invasion is going exactly as planned,’ replied Al-Bitruji, clearly eager to please. ‘All preliminary targets have been seized. Our ships are docking unopposed and offloading supplies as we speak. Apart from a brief contact with an enemy helicopter, our own convoy made it here virtually unopposed. The second convoy from the port of Southampton is on its way. That one is made up of heavy armour, tanks and fighting vehicles. In fact, it has almost reached the outskirts of the capital.’ Al-Bitruji pointed to a long line of icons that stretched along the M3 motorway.
Mousa’s eye drifted down towards the city of Portsmouth, situated on the south coast. ‘What is happening here?’ enquired Mousa, pointing at a cluster of red dots.
‘British marines on the naval base, digging their heels in. Two of our cargo ships have also been sunk by a frigate. They also have air defences. One of our helicopters was shot down with a SAM.’
The pale light of the basement failed to mask the sheen of sweat on Al-Bitruji’s brow. Mousa knew he only had to file one bad report, plant a single seed of doubt about Al-Bitruji’s abilities, and the portly General’s career would be over. He would be shipped back east, to serve out his time in some flyblown posting in the desert. An inglorious end to a long and distinguished career. He kept his face neutral, deriving some pleasure from Al-Bitruji’s obvious discomfort.
A junior officer approached, flicking up a hand in salute.
‘Yes, what is it?’ demanded Al-Bitruji.
‘General, we have found the entrance to the tunnel system.’
‘Show me,’ interrupted Mousa, barging past Al-Bitruji. They marched along a short corridor and out into the gardens at the rear of the palace, making their way quickly across the manicured lawns towards Constitution Hill, where the trees and shrubbery were thickest. Close to the boundary wall and adjacent to a woodland path, Mousa saw several soldiers in a clearing. They were gathered around a small blockhouse, expertly dressed in ornate flowers and vines and partly shielded from the path by thick bushes. Even in daylight it would be hard to spot. As he approached, the soldiers parted silently. Mousa’s guide pointed beyond the heavy wooden door.
‘It leads down to a train platform, General.’
Mousa took the stairs two at a time. At the bottom he found himself in a cavern similar to the one under Downing Street but much smaller. Several engineers were already inspecting the platform area along with some of Al-Bitruji’s combat troops. To his right, the tunnel disappeared around a curve. Mousa jumped down onto the tracks. The smooth concrete between the rails was spotted with oil. Mousa dipped his finger into a small stain and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. Fresh. So, they had missed them. They must have found another train and continued on into the tunnel. Where that led was anyone’s guess.
As if to rubber-stamp his hypothesis, Captain Haseeb and his SERTRAK team appeared in the mouth of the eastbound tunnel. They were panting hard, trying to make up for the lost time that the claymores had cost them. Haseeb approached, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.
‘We’ve defused another booby-trap, but this one was clumsily sited. We cannot be far behind them.’
A low humming noise from the tunnel caused everyone to stop what they were doing and turn to face the growing sound. The humming increased in volume and the object glided gently into the cavern. As it reached the centre of the platform area it slowed and hovered quietly in the air, bouncing and swaying two Yards off the ground. Mousa reached for his radio.
‘Major Karroubi!’
Karroubi’s voice crackled in Mousa’s earpiece. ‘General! I have you on audio and visual.’
Mousa saw the surveillance drone turn and dip its nose towards him. It was grey in colour and just over two metres in length. Shaped like a cigar with two small wings, the drone sported two high-power cameras in its nose and a directional microphone that could pick up normal human conversation at fifteen metres. It was powered by four small multi-directional electric mo
tors, and the built-in helium cells along its toughened plastic body gave it lift. It was very quiet and very fast. Mousa pointed to his right.
‘Continue up the tunnel, Major. Find them!’
The drone’s nose dipped again and its small motors swivelled around and thrust it forward, its low hum echoing off the tunnels walls. Mousa turned to the big Afghan.
‘Follow the bird but do not engage the Infidels, do you understand?’
The Afghan bowed his head. ‘As you wish.’
Haseeb and his team set off after the drone at a fast pace. Mousa watched them disappear around a bend in the tunnel and turned quickly on his heel, making his way back up the stairs to the Palace gardens.
Battersea, South London
Khan ran for his life towards the River Thames. Behind him, the sounds of deadly pursuit echoed across the night air. There were at least a dozen bad guys behind him, maybe more, and they were coming up fast. He veered right, cutting across the dark expanse of an open car park. He heard a shout and glanced over his shoulder. His toe caught a raised kerb and he tumbled across the concrete, rolling painfully over the weapon slung across his back. He lay still, peering beneath a parked car as he caught his breath. Several figures had reached the edge of the car park, spread out and alert, their weapons sweeping the darkness ahead of them. Khan rolled away and crawled towards a grassy slope, dragging himself down the short bank. Back on his feet, he headed east along the riverbank.
A short distance away was Battersea Harbour. Like its nearby cousin in Chelsea, Battersea Harbour was a luxury hotel and residential complex that boasted a private marina, with low-rise apartment blocks forming an expensive boundary around its wooden jetties. Khan headed straight towards the marina. He forced his way through the landscaped shrubbery and found himself on a wide footpath overlooking the man-made harbour.
Now he had two choices; one, keep moving and double back on himself, losing his pursuers in the labyrinth of apartment blocks, walkways and streets between the river and Nine Elms Lane. But that would mean heading back to where he started, trapped on the south bank of the river. Or two, find an empty apartment or hotel room amongst the many hundreds in the area and hole up inside, where he’d stand a good chance of avoiding detection until his pursuers eventually gave up their search. But for how long could he stay hidden? Without food or water it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to venture out onto the streets again. But maybe there was a third choice, staring him right in the face.
Keeping low, Khan headed towards a flight of stone steps that led down to the marina. He stepped over a chain from which dangled a small sign that read ‘Private’ and headed down to the wooden jetties. There were numerous boats tied alongside their moorings, ranging from sailing boats to luxury motor cruisers and rigid inflatable craft. Sailing boats were out; too much effort to get moving and far too slow. He dismissed the motor cruisers too; a gleaming white craft would make an excellent target out on the dark waters of the river. No, he needed something else and, as his eyes swept the small harbour, he spotted the very thing. He moved quickly along the jetty.
The twenty-four foot Targa was tied off between a single-masted yacht and a small skiff. Khan gave it the once-over. It looked like a work boat, its dull grey paint flaking and its sides blackened by the constant rub of jetty tyres, but if she would start she would be perfect. He noticed that the mooring lines had been tied expertly around the cleats. Whoever owned this vessel obviously possessed a fair degree of seamanship skill, which was a good sign.
She was called Kingfisher and she wobbled on the water as Khan jumped aboard. He moved forward into the small wheelhouse, which had a two-berth cabin immediately below it. Khan hissed a quick ‘hello’ just in case there was anyone aboard, but thankfully the boat was empty.
He looked around quickly, familiarising himself with the layout as best he could in the darkness. There was a small chart table to his left with what looked like several river maps clipped to its surface. He pulled himself up onto the pilot’s seat and acquainted himself with the controls, searching the immediate area for an ignition key. Nothing. He went out onto the aft deck, removed the hatch cover of the engine compartment and found what he was looking for. Strapped to the underside of the cover was a small tool-wrap. He unfurled it on the deck and found a medium-sized screwdriver.
Back in the pilothouse, he jammed the blade into the ignition slot and forced the barrel. Khan was relieved to see the ignition lights glow red and watched with mounting satisfaction as the fuel needle crept up to the full mark and the oil pressure gauge levelled out. Even the battery was fully charged. As Khan had suspected, the Kingfisher was well maintained.
He turned the screwdriver another notch and the small but powerful inboard engine rumbled into life. Outside, Khan replaced the engine cover and untied the mooring ropes. He held his breath. Above him he could hear the shouts of his pursuers echoing around the car park. Soon they would head towards the marina and that would be that.
He jammed his foot against the jetty and pushed off, drifting out into the oily waters of the harbour. He scrambled into the wheelhouse and eased the throttle forward a notch. The propeller bit into the black water and the Kingfisher began to make headway. Ahead of him, he could see the open gates of the harbour entrance and the darkness of the river beyond. He muttered a silent prayer of thanks that the tide was high enough.
The moon had slid behind a bank of cloud and visibility was momentarily restricted. He kept the revs low, passing the harbour gates and drifting out onto the river. Almost immediately the current caught the bow and turned the small boat downstream. Khan increased power and turned her back to starboard, his eyes scanning the riverbank above him. Nothing.
Ahead of him in the darkness were two bridges. The first was Grosvenor Bridge, the crossing used by commuter trains heading in and out of Victoria Station north of the river. Almost immediately after that was Chelsea Bridge, the span used by motorists. Khan couldn’t detect any movement on either crossing, but from his position on the water it would be difficult to spot anyway. He had to risk it.
The Kingfisher’s engine echoed off the damp walls of the Grosvenor Bridge pier as the boat slid under the wide, iron span above. Khan cut the revs to idle to keep the engine noise down, but the strong current threatened to turn the bow and drag him back towards the marina. He had no choice. Khan pushed the throttle to the stop and the water at the stern turned to white foam as the Kingfisher surged forward. Anyone on the riverbank above would surely hear the boat’s engine, but it was time to put some distance between himself and the danger behind him.
Moments later, Khan was relieved to see Chelsea Bridge pass above him as he headed further out towards the middle of the river, cutting the power back once he had cleared the bridge. Behind him a flare arched into the air and popped high overhead, the river suddenly bathed in a green phosphorous light. The illumination wavered and flickered, casting the dark, looming towers of Park Heights into sharp relief. The flare fizzed and hissed beneath its tiny parachute as it drifted out over the water. Khan instinctively ducked when he heard a long burst of automatic fire, but he soon realised it was directed elsewhere and the darkness returned as the flare extinguished itself on the river.
To his left, the shadowy expanse of Battersea Park drifted by and Khan breathed a small sigh of relief. He had escaped, buying himself a brief respite from the chaos on dry land.
Behind him, the sky over London glowed red. But here, on a small boat on the river, Khan felt cocooned from the violence and carnage that raged around him.
And there was something else, too. He had a plan now, a plan that would take him upriver and out of the city.
Somewhere beneath Euston Station
The pace had started well enough, but the further north they went, the slower progress became. Tony Brooks was more than a little frustrated, but so far there’d been no sounds of pursuit. Not yet, anyway, but that didn’t mean they had to move like a couple of pensioners.
Deep in the shadows, Brooks stopped once again, turning to face the way they’d come, a small pair of binoculars clamped to his eyes, his ears alert for the sounds of pursuit. Nothing. The empty tunnel stretched away into the distance, back towards Downing Street. He jogged after Nasser, still strolling along as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
‘Come on, Naz, let’s move it.’
Nasser stopped. He pulled out his water bottle and took a few small sips. ‘What’s the rush?’
Brooks frowned. ‘Is that a joke?’
‘We have to leave a trail, you know that.’
‘We’re wasting our time. No-one’s after us. Maybe they know the boss has taken the other tunnel,’ Brooks speculated. ‘We should head back.’
‘No,’ Nasser ordered. ‘We stick to the plan.’
‘Bollocks to that. If the lads are in trouble we go back. Besides, we stand a better chance of getting to Alternate One if we can hook up with them again.’
Nasser cocked his chin. ‘What’s up, Brooksy? Frightened of missing the chopper?’
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
Suddenly Nasser’s eyes narrowed. He held up a hand for silence. ‘Shh!’ He glanced over Brooks’ shoulder. ‘We’ve got company.’
Brooks spun around, dropping to one knee. He brought his weapon up into his shoulder, peering through the optical sight. ‘Can’t see shit,’ he whispered.
