Invasion

by Dc Alden

  ‘Everybody. We don’t leave a single soldier behind. You said it yourself General, we’ll need all available personnel when we get to Scotland.’

  ‘That may be so,’ warned Bashford, ‘but the blocking force is vital. Their presence will buy us valuable time and, in the process, save lives.’

  ‘At the expense of their own?’

  Bashford held the Prime Minister’s gaze. ‘Possibly, yes. That’s why we asked for volunteers.’

  Harry held up his hands. ‘General Bashford. I’m not trying to debate with you. You’re the senior military commander and I hold your experience and expertise in the highest regard. But legally I have ultimate authority over our armed forces, isn’t that the case?’

  The other officers in the room ceased their low chatter. Even the speaker on the wall had fallen silent. Bashford folded his arms and nodded slowly. ‘That’s correct. I can only advise you, Prime Minister. The final decision is still yours.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Harry approached the wall map, where a line of coloured markers dissected the western leg of England, the final positions of the men staring down the mouth of the Arabian advance. He studied it for a moment, making sense of the lines and distances involved, believing he had a decent grasp of the tactical situation. Hoping was probably a more accurate word, he chided himself. He stabbed a finger at the map. ‘Let’s withdraw everybody, General, all four thousand of them. Send the closest troops to Teignmouth right away and the rest of them north to Scotland. They won’t make it to the docks in time.’

  Bashford joined Harry at the map. He spoke quietly, out of earshot of the other soldiers in the room. ‘That’s very dangerous, Prime Minister. The moment the Arabians get a sniff of a general withdrawal they’ll send everything against us. I don’t advise it.’

  ‘I don’t want a single drop of blood spilt unnecessarily, not for those bastards.’

  ‘In this situation, bloodshed is unavoidable. What we need to focus on is limiting our casualties.’

  ‘We can still do that though, can’t we?’ Harry tapped the icons on the map one after the other, the units on the defensive line. ‘All these vehicles, tanks and so on, they’re as good as written off, correct?’

  Bashford nodded. ‘We’ll lose them, yes. Unfortunate, but necessary.’

  ‘How many men does it take to operate a tank? Or a missile launcher? Obviously I’m no expert, but aren’t some of these weapons platforms automated?’ The general stared long and hard at Harry. He turned away, studied the map again, his eyes roaming the icons, arrows and coloured lines that constituted the defence of Alternate One and the western leg of England.

  Harry moved a step closer, his voice low. ‘Do we really have to risk so many men in a futile defence, General Bashford? Is there any way we can appear to be holding the line when in fact we’re making good our escape?’

  Bashford stroked the white stubble on his chin, deep in thought. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  Harry watched him cross the room. Bashford gathered the other military men into a tight circle, the low murmur of their voices drowned out by the noise from the wall speaker. Harry stepped back as they crowded around the map, their language almost unintelligible. But he had them thinking, that much he realised, and for the first time in a while Harry began to feel a little more confident, a little more hopeful that he’d influenced things in a positive way.

  After another hurried conference, the military men broke up, some heading for the door, others converging around the radio operator, who began chattering into his headset. Bashford called Harry over to the map.

  ‘Well, you’ve thrown a bit of a spanner into the works, Prime Minister. But in essence, you may have hit on something.’

  Harry nodded gratefully. ‘Good. Tell me what you think.’

  Bashford picked a china graph pencil and began scoring it across the map.

  ‘Right now the Arabians are reluctant to use their aircraft, no doubt due to our successes against the Big Eye and the Raptors. So, for now, an air assault is unlikely.’ The general made more marks with the pen. ‘As you know, we have armour here, Challenger tanks and fighting vehicles, dug in and camouflaged along these probable routes of advance. Hard to detect and excellent firepower, but these particular crews are low on fuel. What we propose is that their tanks are emptied and the fuel redistributed to other crews for their own escape runs. The dry armour will then be left in place, with skeleton crews. Their original orders were to fire and manoeuvre but, obviously, with empty fuel tanks they won’t be able to do that. What they can do is engage as many targets as possible, then bug out before the enemy can zero in on them. The crews will then use other transport to make good their escape. As for the infantry units, the order has already gone out – a staggered withdrawal, some to the coast, the rest to the north. In a couple of hours, there’ll be less than a thousand men on the line to halt the Arabian advance.’

  ‘That’s excellent news. And our air defences will still be operational?’

  ‘As you suggested, the SAM units will be left in place and set to auto mode. It means they’ll launch at just about anything, but it’ll buy us time.’

  ‘How many units do we have?’

  ‘Twenty-three, each with at least two live missiles. All in all, we can fire over a hundred heat-seeking and infrared homing weapons, plus some turret-mounted electronic cannons designed to engage low-flying enemy aircraft.’

  Harry’s eyes roamed the expanse of the map. ‘Is there anything else we’ve missed?’

  ‘Probably,’ Bashford replied, ‘but if you want to get the maximum amount of personnel out as quickly as possible, this is the best way.’

  Major Monroe stepped forward. Harry noticed he wore a chest rig like Gibson’s, the pockets filled with magazines, the brass of the bullets contained within gleaming beneath the overhead lights.

  ‘The helicopter is ready to depart, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry. As soon as you’ve sealed the place, head north, yes?’

  ‘You’re staying behind?’ Harry asked incredulously.

  ‘Someone has to,’ Bashford said. ‘Tunnels have to be sealed, equipment neutralised. We don’t want to give the Arabs all this on a plate.’

  Harry understood, nodding silently. ‘Don’t hang around,’ he ordered Monroe.

  ‘The priority now is to get everyone safely to Scotland. Everyone,’ he repeated.

  ‘I understand, Prime Minister.’

  Bashford signalled to Gibson and Farrell, waiting patiently across the room. ‘Time to go, Harry. Go grab what you need and make your way out to the main entrance. I’ll see you there shortly.’

  Harry took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I suppose there’s nothing more we can do, is there?’

  Bashford shook his head. ‘We’ve done as much as we can. It’s time to go, while we still can.’

  Harry took one last look at the map, at the towns and villages that dotted the countryside around them. ‘God help us all,’ he muttered. Then he left the room.

  On the defensive line, the new orders reached the relieved tank and armoured crews in direct line of the Arabian advance. The northern-most units reversed out of their prepared positions and headed for the Welsh border as quickly as they could. The heavy tank units further south abandoned their vehicles in place. There would be no facilities to load them on the waiting ships and it would take hours to reach the docks and the safety of the sea. The crews emptied their fuel tanks and redistributed it to other vehicles, then disabled their engines and spiked the gun barrels. Some crews even booby-trapped their equipment using grenades and explosive shells.

  The remainder, the few who now held the line, quietly sweated inside their vehicles. Hidden along tree lines, concealed behind hedgerows and buildings and even parked innocuously in suburban streets, they watched and waited for the Arabian advance units to appear. From their concealed positions they overlooked the main roads, bridges and major junctions that the top brass had predicted the enemy would use to ad
vance west.

  For some, it would be their first taste of combat and they relished the challenge. Others were frightened, although they did their very best to disguise it in front of their crewmates. Many more were simply relieved, grateful they were nor being committed to an all-out fight. For the most part they were dug in, hull down and well-camouflaged. They would get two, at best three shots at the Arabians, then get the hell out.

  Nearby, the jeeps waited, a driver at the wheel, ready to whisk the escaping crew to safety. Those in built-up areas were the most nervous. As time passed, the reckless, the foolhardy and the plain stupid began to drift out onto the streets, drawn by the sight of battle tanks and armoured fighting vehicles. And the anxious soldiers that manned them.

  Jim Newman was one such soldier. An infantryman in the 4th Battalion, The Rifles, Newman’s unit in Aldershot had been shot up and scattered by a suicide attack inside the camp. He’d headed west on foot with several others, until the tank had roared up the road behind them and offered them a lift. The tank commander wanted to refuel and so he had set a course for Blandford in the southwest, where he knew he could find diesel for his vehicle. It was there that the Military Police had guided them to a marshalling area further west. Newman had decided to stay and help out the crew. One good turn deserved another after all and, besides, their regular driver had gone missing and they were a man short.

  The final order had arrived by messenger a couple of hours ago. Newman was manning the jeep, ready to drive the tank crew to safety after their initial engagement. They’d headed north towards the town of Shaftesbury where the Challenger 2 battle tank took up position inside a large warehouse using the last of its reserve fuel. The warehouse was part of a small industrial estate that overlooked the A30, one of the main routes west from the town of Salisbury.

  The tank crew were quite happy with their location, Newman discovered. The industrial estate was on elevated ground, overlooking a shallow valley and the road to be defended. The warehouse walls were made of cinderblock and the half-raised metal shutter gave them a wide arc of fire with minimal exposure. The tank was parked deep inside the unlit warehouse and, as the sun began to set in the west, it lit up the ground in front of them perfectly. Anyone advancing up the A30 would have the sun in their eyes, smiled the commander.

  But Newman wasn’t concerned about the sun, or the Arabians for that matter. At that moment he was two hundred yards away from the warehouse, watching the crowd through the windshield of his Land Rover. They’d gathered a short while ago near the chain-link fence that separated the industrial estate from a sprawling community housing project, drawn by the sound of the tank’s twin diesels. For the most part they stood idle, smoking and chatting in small groups, but their sullen eyes kept wandering back to Newman’s jeep.

  The soldier cast an eye over the nearby housing. It didn’t look very old, but he could see a couple of boarded-up properties, the metal grills daubed in graffiti, an abandoned car by the kerbside. Piles of black rubbish sacks had been dumped near the fence, many split open, the contents strewn everywhere. A couple of vicious-looking dogs sniffed amongst the rubbish, tails wagging furiously, jaws snapping and chomping on God-knew-what. What had no doubt been a clean, tidy housing estate now resembled a Third-World slum. You just can’t help some people, thought Newman.

  As the minutes passed the crowd had swollen, as more residents were drawn to the fence like moths to a flame. There were all sorts, Newman noticed; old people clothed in dressing gowns and slippers, cigarette-wielding mothers surrounded by wailing tots, pale-skinned teenagers in cheap sports clothes and hoods, swigging from cans of lager. He got the impression they weren’t a friendly bunch, nor did they look particularly concerned by events beyond the fence.

  Newman remained seated in his Land Rover, fifty yards away, his M4 automatic rifle cradled across his lap. Despite the weapon he was nervous. Crowds worried him, especially those intent on violence, and now there looked to be over a hundred people. As he watched, a ripple ran through the crowd. Men, maybe twenty or thirty of them, pushed their way through to the fence. They stared at the Land Rover and Newman could feel their eyes boring into him. His uniform represented authority and Newman figured these men didn’t much care for what that meant. Earlier he’d thought about warning them, to get off the streets, to stay in their homes. Now, after watching these new arrivals, their tattooed arms, the bats and sticks they carried in their hands, Newman didn’t think it was such a good idea. He was also thinking about reversing the jeep further away, when a shout echoed around the estate. Inside his chest his heart began to pound. Here we go.

  ‘Oi! You! What’s happening? What’s that tank doing round here, then?’ Newman ignored the man. It was hard to believe that people were still unaware of what was going on. The fence rattled as some of the mob threaded their fingers through the chain link and shook it, testing its strength. Newman wasn’t that worried. The fence that separated them was high, topped with barbed wire and pretty strong looking. No doubt the businesses on the industrial estate also had a keen interest in keeping the locals out. A beer can sailed over the fence, hitting the ground near the jeep with a loud smack. The crowd began jeering, the younger kids laughing and pointing. Newman’s thumb toyed with the safety catch of his rifle, wishing they could get out of there while they still had the chance.

  The last of the anti-aircraft crews behind the defensive line had finally received word and no-one questioned their new orders. They’d manoeuvred their SAM vehicles as much as possible, but now their fuel tanks had run dry and they were immobile. Soon their positions would be plotted by the Arabians and the anti-radar missiles would home in on them. Within minutes, most of the crews were already aboard the waiting transports and heading either southwest towards Teignmouth or northeast towards Gloucestershire. The high-tech equipment inside the abandoned SAM vehicles continued to scan the skies to the east aggressively, their missile tubes and gun barrels ready to unleash their deadly projectiles.

  For the Arabian technicians, the British anti-aircraft radar signatures were now distinct, their sweeps regular, predictable. Far to the east, their positions were plotted and re-plotted, checked and double-checked for any evidence of a ruse, a ploy by the Infidels to lure in their fighter-bombers and swat them from the sky. They had to be sure. It took another fifteen minutes to confirm the information. When it was, a handset was lifted.

  ‘Get me General Mousa.’

  Mousa watched Major Karroubi heading towards him through the trees. He climbed out of the helicopter and met him halfway across the clearing.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Enemy anti-aircraft units have been located and pinpointed.’ Karroubi handed over a slip of paper.

  ‘This is confirmed?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied Karroubi. ‘I confirmed it myself.’

  Mousa pushed past his subordinate and ran to the command bunker. His voice boomed around the hard-packed earth walls, startling those inside. ‘Engage the enemy SAM units! Order the assault force west and release the fighter-bombers as soon as the SAMs have been neutralised. And get the ground units moving. Now!’

  As the stale air hummed with bellowed orders and frantic radio traffic, Mousa’s eye was drawn to the battlefield display, where the transmitter icon in the Mendip Hills still glowed faintly. In the reflection of the Perspex, he saw Karroubi limping up behind him. Mousa turned. ‘Have my helicopter fuelled and ready to go, Major. We head west as soon as the way is clear.’

  In the grounds of Windsor Great Park, twelve multiple-launch anti-radar rocket batteries waited for the order. The coordinates of the British SAM units had already been plotted and entered into the on-board computers, while sensitive instruments mounted on the roofs of the armoured vehicles continuously tracked wind speed, humidity and air temperature. That data would be factored into the course and trajectory estimates of the missiles’ on-board targeting computers.

  In the glowing confines of his command vehicle, the battery c
ommander suddenly leapt to his feet as his comms link warbled in his ear. He listened intently for a moment, confirmed the order, then turned to his second-in-command.

  ‘All units! Execute launch order! Launch, launch, launch!’

  South Lockeridge

  The village hall was packed, the villagers themselves eerily silent by the time Khan had finished his talk. ‘Briefing’ was a more accurate word, he decided, as he scanned the worried faces around the stuffy hall. Outside, beyond the tall windows, the sun had begun its descent to the west, casting long shadows across the village green. A group of children played there, their laughter leaking through the windows as they chased each other around the grey stone war memorial.

  Khan squinted into the setting sun as it dipped, its fading yellow bars lancing across the room, illuminating a million tiny dust particles drifting lazily on the stale air. Above the stage where Khan stood, a faded Union Jack hung limply from the rafters, framed by a pair of heavy, ruby-coloured stage curtains. Around the walls, hand-made posters proclaimed a recent production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, a car boot sale near Swindon, and the Lockeridge Fete and Country Show, scheduled to take place over the August bank holiday. Khan stared at the poster for a moment, guessing that that particular event would not be taking place this year. Maybe for the next few years, he speculated. He hoped he was wrong.

  He looked down from the stage at the anxious faces before him and wondered again whether he was doing the right thing. It seemed like a good idea earlier, and Rob had been adamant, but the details of his escape from London had shaken them, had silenced the sceptics around the hall. Now, the pale and frightened faces that stared back at him caused Khan to question his own judgement, but he quickly dismissed those doubts. The villagers had a right to know what was happening in the wider world, in the towns and cities around them. Forewarned is forearmed, Khan had insisted. What he didn’t have, though, were answers.