by Dc Alden
‘Load HEAT round.’
The breech clanged shut.
‘Loaded! Ready!’
There was a moment’s silence, a segment of time that seemed to stretch beyond all earthly constraints. The air inside the tank was thick with tension.
‘God be with us, gentlemen,’ said the tank commander quietly. He adjusted the focus of his main battle sight and brought the lead enemy vehicle advancing up the road towards them into sharp relief.
‘Fire!’
The deep concussion rang around the industrial estate, startling the crowd. Some of the younger kids screamed and the adults instinctively ducked, crouching on the ground. The tattooed man picked himself up and turned to face Newman.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he roared.
Another blast echoed around the estate, quickly followed by two more.
‘Get back to your homes!’ ordered Newman, his voice shaking with adrenaline, his weapon still levelled at the man’s chest.
‘What the fuck’s happening? Who’s shooting?’ the tattooed man demanded, his head swivelling towards the sound of the cannon roaring somewhere close by. Worryingly, Newman didn’t think the man was scared. His eyes bulged and burned with a manic intensity. He turned back to Newman, the mob bunching behind him. ‘I need a gun, gotta defend myself! Gimme that fucking shooter!’ he roared, walking quickly towards the Land Rover.
Newman shot the man twice in the chest, the body flopping lifelessly to the ground. The crowd turned and scattered, heading for the safety of the housing estate. Newman kept a careful eye on them but they were dispersing fast, rolling under the chain-link fence. He fired another burst into the air, just to encourage the stragglers. The fear wouldn’t last long. He was one man, after all, and the mob had grown large. A member of their community had been killed and that meant that, sooner or later, all hell would break loose.
A nearby warehouse suddenly exploded, sending Newman scrambling for cover behind the jeep. Huge sheets of twisted and blackened aluminium fluttered crazily in the air before crashing to the ground nearby. The Arabians had found their range. Newman piled inside the Land Rover and revved the engine.
‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he muttered, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Then he saw the crew, racing around the corner of an adjacent warehouse. He slammed the jeep into gear and roared towards them, stamping on the brakes a moment later. The crew piled in, doors slamming. The commander saw the body on the road and the mob that pelted the jeep with stones and bottles from behind the chain-link fence.
‘Jesus,’ he cringed as the missiles clattered off the roof.
‘I don’t know what’s worse,’ Newman said, roaring towards the entrance to the estate. ‘That lot or the camel jockeys.’ Seconds later they reached the main road. Newman slowed the jeep and checked both ways. To the left the road was clear. Looking right, thick columns of black smoke roiled into the air from the valley below.
‘Looks like you got lucky, then,’ Newman said.
‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ smiled the commander. ‘We got three of the bastards.’
It had been a small victory, but a victory none the less, and they’d all survived the encounter unscathed. In the gathering darkness, the jeep surged across the junction and headed northwest towards the Welsh border.
The pilot skimmed low over the English countryside, searching the ground, scanning his instruments. Fuel state was pretty fair, enough for another twenty minutes before he had to return to Heathrow. Behind him, his Weps/Nav officer also scanned his instruments, finding nothing worthy of their attentions. What they needed was something big, something substantial to assuage the anger and frustration that both men felt on losing the flight to a single engagement.
The pilot felt the same mix of emotions, but now, as the adrenaline of the earlier action faded, he felt something else: fear. As flight leader he knew they’d been flying too close together. Despite the warnings, he’d been lulled into a false sense of security by a combination of superior technology, overwhelming numbers and an enemy in disarray. But that enemy still had teeth and the will to use them. They’d turned like rats in a corner and destroyed most of his flight.
Excuses would be wasted on the Group Commander. This mission was a ‘special’, an attack that had been hastily prepared using recommended personnel, himself included. And he’d made a rookie mistake. He hoped that other elements of the plan were running well. If the failure of this operation were deemed to have been caused by his error, then his career would be short-lived indeed. The Weps/Nav’s voice hissed inside his helmet.
‘Got something.’
‘What is it?’
‘Air-search radar, forty-nine kilometres south-south west. Recommend new heading of one eight-zero degrees. We could lose some altitude, too.’
‘Roger.’
The pilot banked to the left and took the plane due south out to sea, thundering over the coastal town of Seaton and out into Lyme Bay. Behind the pilot, Weps/Nav began firming up his data on the enemy signal.
‘I am now detecting three air-search sets, all low frequency. Designate signals as mobile anti-aircraft batteries, probably in passive mode. Locations are static.’
The pilot maintained his heading. He’d reduced his airspeed in order to lower his fuel consumption, but they couldn’t maintain their time on station for much longer. He keyed his microphone.
‘Fuel state is low. Do we have a target?’
‘Not sure,’ came the reply. ‘Three mobile SAM units, all in fairly close proximity. ‘The Weps/Nav studied the map display in front of him, toggling the view to a more detailed one. The SAM units were a few kilometres apart, their radars looking to the east. He studied the contours of the map. That made sense. They were all on elevated ground that dropped away to-
‘Docks! They’re protecting something at the docks.’
‘What docks?’
‘Stand by.’ The Weps/Nav keyed in a request for more localised information. Within seconds it was back. Teignmouth Dock; five berths, facilities to handle large container ships, warehouses, storage areas, sheltered harbour, good links to the M5 motorway…
‘Possible target, Teignmouth docks. SAM units are protecting all easterly approaches. Recommend new heading three-four-niner degrees.’
The pilot banked the plane around immediately and settled in to their new heading. He had two, one thousand pound bombs and one canister of cluster munitions, plus a couple of thousand rounds of twenty-millimetre. All he needed now was a target to expend it on.
‘What have we got?’ he asked.
‘Start climbing. Can’t see a thing from down here.’
The pilot pulled back on his yoke and increased power. He did it slowly, giving his crewman time to monitor his equipment as their radar coverage increased. It also made them vulnerable to detection, but that was the trade-off.
‘Contact! Take us down!’
The pilot pushed forward on the yoke and the plane dived for the surface of the sea. He watched his instrumentation carefully. The sun had set and the gloom was building rapidly. The sea below the aircraft was calm, no whitecaps to give the pilot any points of reference. Flying in these conditions required the utmost concentration and the pilot’s eyes flicked constantly between his instrumentation and the sea below. Behind him, the Weps/Nav firmed up the contact.
‘Okay, we’ve got two ship-borne radar signatures. First contact, military spec, surface type, air-search capability confirmed. Designate target as navy frigate. Second target is stationary, standard sea-set radar signature. Possibly a cargo ship.’
‘Did they see us?’ enquired the pilot. British frigates were equipped with a variety of anti-aircraft weapons and he didn’t want to give the enemy the opportunity to test their effectiveness.
‘Negative,’ confirmed Weps/Nav.
The pilot had a decision to make. A frigate was a formidable foe and one he wouldn’t normally consider engaging, not without the right ordinance. But the
cargo ship was something else. It could be offloading supplies, and those supplies would probably be used to reinforce the Infidel troops on the ground. The pilot burned with the desire to avenge his fallen comrades, and engaging the target ahead would go some way to atoning for his own stupid mistake.
‘Arm weapons systems and prepare to engage. Recommend simultaneous drop of two LGBs. We’re going for the cargo ship.’
‘Understood,’ the Weps/Nav replied.
He programmed the Laser Guided Bombs for low-altitude release as the plane thundered across the surface of the sea. They’d come in hard and fast, right on the deck, popping up at the last minute for bomb release and then bank to the northwest. Weps/Nav suggested using the cluster munitions on the westernmost SAM unit on the way out; their course would take them almost directly over it. Perfect, agreed the pilot. He flexed his fingers inside his flight gloves, settled back in his seat and slowly increased power.
The orderly hated ships. In fact, he detested boats of any kind. The water made him ill and the smell of the docks was enough to disrupt his delicate stomach. Add to that the chaos and confusion around him and his nerves were now severely rattled. He just wasn’t cut out for this shit. Still, if it helped to get him out of harm’s way, he was willing to put up with a few hours of discomfort.
As he squatted on the concrete floor of the warehouse, he reflected briefly on the day’s events. If he hadn’t dumped the Prime Minister’s clothes like he had, instead of disposing of them properly, he would have definitely missed his allocated transport. He’d probably still be on the motorway now, along with the breakdowns and the other stragglers. There was talk of fighting too, of air attacks and casualties. God knows what would happen if the Arabians caught up with them here, with their backs to the sea.
‘You lot! On your feet!’
The orderly swivelled around. The sergeant was shouting at his group! Thank God! Finally they were on the move. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his combat trousers, and looked around the giant warehouse. There must be at least two thousand troops still milling around, waiting their turn to board the container ship tied up outside. The other ships had already left and now there was just this last boat to be filled and then they, too, could leave.
Unfortunately, there were latecomers arriving all the time and their departure had been repeatedly delayed. The orderly was furious about that. Fuck them! he’d wanted to scream, let’s just go! But instead, they were marched into this giant warehouse and told to wait. He’d tried to explain to the burly Royal Marine sergeant that he was a member of the Alternate One permanent staff group, that he was key personnel, but that didn’t seem to cut any ice with the man. He was shoved in with a group of strangers and told to wait. Still, at least they were moving.
Outside, the sun had set. Although the sky was a wonderful shade of deepening blues, the shadows on the dockside were long and deep. There were soldiers everywhere, from every unit in the army, and there seemed to be a constant, disjointed chorus of shouts and whistles and the roar of engines. It appeared to be chaotic, but the lines of troops that snaked around the quayside shuffled forward every few moments, waved on by torch-wielding naval types.
The orderly craned his neck as he tramped along the darkened quay. The gigantic cargo ship loomed ominously above him as his group was shepherded towards a wide gangway. As he neared the top of the steep ramp, he turned to look behind him. From here he could see over the roofs of the warehouses towards the dock gates. A crowd had gathered there, a large one, civilians by the looks of them. A couple of tanks were blocking the gates and soldiers had formed a line across the road behind them. It was only a matter of time before panic broke out.
As he stepped over the threshold, the orderly prayed that the ship would get underway soon. The vessel stank of oil and saltwater and the orderly’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he entered the darkened ship. He was herded up several tight stairwells, along cramped gangways until he ducked through yet another bulkhead and emerged out onto the open deck. He was facing aft, looking directly at the ship’s main superstructure. He could see figures moving about on the dimly-lit bridge and, higher up, a thin column of black smoke rose into the darkening sky from the boiler stack. Seagulls wheeled and screeched in the air above them.
He was ordered to keep moving and joined a long line of troops who shuffled forward, cutting across the wide deck. The orderly railed at the thought of freezing his arse off on an open deck overnight, but if that was the price of safety then so be it.
Suddenly, he bumped against the man in front as the column rippled to a halt. The dark line of figures ahead of him snaked around a huge, open hatch that looked down into the bowels of the ship. Fear gripped the orderly as the column moved forward again and he found himself alongside the hatch. Carefully, he peered over the edge. There were men down there, hundreds of them, like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. He could see their pale faces looking upwards, the mass of tightly-packed bodies ebbing and swaying under the influx of a never-ending line of figures climbing down two bulkhead ladders to join the throng below. The orderly instinctively backed away, but a rough hand grabbed him by the shoulder.
‘Back in line. Keep moving.’
The orderly turned to see a ship’s crewman, a green luminous wand in his hand, his body silhouetted by the fading sky behind him.
‘I can’t. I mean, it’s-’
‘Don’t worry,’ smiled the crewman, only his crooked teeth visible beneath the wide brim of his cap. ‘It’s only temporary. We underestimated the numbers, see? The other ships have already sailed and everybody has to get on this one.’
‘But I-’
The crewman grabbed his elbow, moving him forward along the line. ‘That’s it son, one foot in front of the other. As soon as we’ve rounded Land’s End you’ll be able to come up on deck, stretch your legs, get a bit of fresh air. Captain might even let you stay up here.’ He jabbed a finger down into the hold. ‘In the meantime, you’re down there with the others. Only take us a few hours to round the point. The frigate will look after us.’ He cocked a thumb over his shoulder.
The orderly looked past the crewman and out to sea. He saw the dark silhouette of a warship, maybe a mile away, the sea churning to white foam in its wake. There was something else out there too, a dot on the horizon that was growing larger even as he watched it.
‘What’s that?’ asked the orderly.
‘What’s what, mate?’
‘That.’
The crewman turned, following the orderly’s pointed finger.
‘Arm LGBs!’ barked the pilot.
Behind him, Weps/Nav flipped the switch to arm the fuses for the Laser Guided Bombs. Nothing. He tried it again, several times. A red light blinked on his display.
‘Arming failed! Arming failed!’
The pilot smiled, recognising the subtle touch of God’s hand. A price had to be paid for his failure, and Allah, knower of all things, had decided it must be here, now. Nothing mattered anymore, not the humiliating debrief, nor the wrath of the group commander. Only Paradise awaited. Insha’ Allah.
The frigate was coming up fast on their left wing, the fighter-bomber a mere ten metres above the waves. He dropped the nose a touch and pushed the throttles to the stops. Weps/Nav shuddered in fear as he realised what the pilot was about to do. They were travelling too fast and too low for him to eject. A flash of tracer from the frigate lanced behind the fighter-bomber as it headed directly for the grey hull of the huge container ship. The pilot depressed his cannon trigger as the starboard beam loomed large in front of him. Behind him, Weps/Nav closed his eyes and hung his head in a final prayer.
The ripping sound made the orderly yelp in fear. Others spun around as the thunder echoed across the bay. Some saw the speeding object and screamed for cover before heavy-calibre rounds began impacting across the crowded deck. The crowd surged and the orderly screamed as he lost his balance. He tipped sideways, then backwards, plunging with several others into the gap
ing deck hatch and tumbling sixty feet towards the squirming mass below.
He hit the crowd, arms and legs flailing, crushing those beneath him. His eyes remained open, registering the forest of legs around him, sensing the irreparable damage to his body. Someone writhed beneath him in the darkness, moaning in pain, cursing. The crowd around him surged, the heavy boots crushing his broken chest, his shattered legs and cleaved skull. He gasped in pain, praying for release from the Hell into which he’d descended.
A moment later, the fighter-bomber ripped through the side of the ship, the twin one-thousand pound bombs detonating almost immediately. The resulting explosion lifted the vessel from the sea before blasting it to pieces across Teignmouth docks, hurling steel, concrete and bodies over a half-mile radius.
Western Scotland
The Dark Eagle came in low and quiet over the treetops, barely visible against the night sky, flaring gently between glowing markers in the secluded grounds of McIntyre Castle. After the rotors had wound down, General Bashford stepped out of the aircraft and motioned the others to follow him.
Harry hopped out onto the grass, stretched his aching limbs and took a deep breath. For the first time since the invasion had started he was beginning to feel a little more composed. The air was cool this far north and he stood there for a moment, enjoying the peace and tranquillity of his new surroundings. Nobody rushed him here and there, nobody bawled commands or brandished guns in his face; the threat of imminent violence appeared to have receded.
Although night had fallen, the sky was clear and visibility was good. Above him, the heavens were dusted with stars and a soft breeze whispered through the surrounding pine forest, carrying with it the gentle lap of water against the distant shoreline of Kerrera Sound. It really was quite beautiful, sighed Harry. A pity he’d arrived under such God-awful circumstances.
With Gibson and Fuller trailing behind, Harry followed Bashford towards the turreted building that loomed ahead. As they drew closer he noticed a figure waiting in the shadows, torch in hand, beckoning them. When the man spoke it was with a strong Scottish accent.
