Invasion

by Dc Alden

  ‘Good evening gentlemen, and welcome to McIntyre Castle. My name is Bill Kerr, the duty keeper here. Everything’s been prepared, so please follow me.’ They climbed a wide set of stone steps and crunched across a gravel courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the building before them. Harry saw it was a traditional Scottish baronial castle, shrouded in darkness, its distinctive high towers spearing the night sky. Not a single light shone from any window.

  Kerr twisted a large iron ring and pushed one of the heavy arched doors open, its considerable weight swinging silently on well-oiled hinges. He pulled back a heavy inner curtain to reveal a large entrance hall that shimmered in a flickering light. He ushered them in, drawing the blackout curtain back across the threshold.

  ‘This is a fully staffed facility, Prime Minister, so if you have any questions or requests, please ask. We’ll try to make your stay as comfortable as possible.’

  Kerr appeared older than Harry first thought. In the dark, he’d noticed the wide shoulders and the strong, confident stride, but in the light of the hallway it was clear that Kerr was in his mid to late sixties, with receding sandy-grey hair and weathered features indicative of a life spent outdoors. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but Harry suspected that for most of his life he’d worn a uniform of some sorts.

  He looked around him, at his home for the foreseeable future. The large entrance hall was deserted, lit by a single oil lamp that cast a flickering glow across the grey stone walls, the smooth granite slabs underfoot, the high vaulted ceiling above. Where the shadows were deepest Harry caught a movement, then registered the armed soldier who lurked there, watching them. Kerr moved past him towards a wide staircase that wound its way up to the floors above.

  ‘If you follow me, Sir, I’ll show you to your rooms so you can freshen up.’

  A whole suite of rooms had been allocated to Harry, with Gibson and Farrell bunked immediately next door, the landing outside patrolled by more armed guards. It was the safest Harry had felt in quite a while. He took a hot shower and changed into the fresh clothes that had been laid out on his bed. As he dressed he felt a quiet vibration in the air. He went to the window overlooking the grounds and saw another Dark Eagle settling on the wide lawn.

  A short time later, Kerr escorted Harry to a well-appointed drawing room in one of the castle’s towers, where the windows were covered by heavy green drapes and a fire crackled in the stone hearth. The walls were decorated with heraldic shields and oil paintings of local wildlife, sympathetically portrayed against traditional Highland backdrops. In front of the fire were arranged three large sofas, a thick oak coffee table between them.

  General Bashford waited, as did Deputy PM Noonan and Admiral Hughes. They stood as Harry entered, but he waved them back into their seats. Two stewards appeared with trays of tea and coffee then silently retreated, closing the door behind them. Harry poured himself a cup of tea and slumped onto one of the sofas.

  ‘How are your quarters?’ Bashford enquired.

  ‘Fine,’ Harry replied, sipping his tea.

  ‘We’re completely off the map here,’ the General explained. ‘Not a military base for fifty miles, so we shouldn’t draw any attention. All approach roads are under constant surveillance and the whole area is patrolled by a very discreet security force. The cover story we’ve put out is that you’ve relocated to a Cold War command facility near Aberdeen. Planning and operations will continue to be run out of SCOTFOR, where the rest of my team are now based.’

  Harry leaned forward and spooned sugar into his cup. ‘What’s the latest, with the evacuation?’

  The question hung on the air. Harry glanced up, the crackling fire illuminating the troubled faces of the men around him. Noonan dropped his eyes to the floor and Harry felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. ‘Something’s happened. What is it? General Bashford?’

  The soldier took a deep breath and levelled his gaze at Harry. ‘I’m afraid one of the container ships was hit at Teignmouth. Details are sketchy at the moment, but it would appear that it was struck by a low-flying plane. We think it was a suicide mission. The loss of life has been, well, considerable.’

  Harry set his cup and saucer down, spilling the contents across the table.

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Two thousand at least.’

  The blood drained from Harry's face. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The escort ship spent some time recovering survivors but, with the threat of another attack and the light gone, they’ve had to put out to sea.’

  Harry’s eyes bored into the General’s. ‘Are you telling me people have been abandoned?’

  Bashford nodded. ‘As I said, the threat-’

  ‘No!’ stormed Harry, banging his fist on the table, rattling the cups and spilling more tea. ‘We have to do something. We just can’t leave people in the water to die.’ Admiral Hughes leaned forward, frustration and anger evident in his face.

  ‘And run the risk of losing another ship, Prime Minister? That escort frigate is overloaded, too. We can’t afford any more loss of life.’

  ‘But we-’

  ‘They had no choice. They had to pull out,’ the Admiral stressed, ‘and you can be sure that the decision wasn’t taken lightly.’

  Harry slumped back into his chair. Hughes was right, of course. The naval man was clearly feeling the loss more than most, yet the sheer horror of the event had affected them all, especially Harry. He felt hot, the air around him suddenly thicker, making it difficult to breathe. He ran a finger around the collar of his shirt and swallowed hard.

  ‘I’m sorry, Admiral. This constant loss of life, I…’

  ‘Don’t apologise. This is war,’ Hughes reminded him, ‘and the sooner we all get our heads around that reality, the better.’ He picked up his own cup, taking a moment to sip the hot beverage, easing the tension around the table. ‘Now, surviving personnel at Teignmouth will head north, as per the plan. With a little luck and decent transport they’ll start arriving at the border in the next twelve to twenty-four hours. We should have a clearer picture of what happened then.’ Harry nodded silently. They were getting hit from all sides and the casualty

  list must be… well, he didn’t want to dwell on that. However, the mere thought of it made his stomach churn. He realised that the time to negotiate may come sooner rather than later, if only to end the chaos. If the Arabians were willing to negotiate, that is. The thought of dealing with those bastards made him feel equally sick, but if it prevented any more loss of life then Harry would do it without question. It was the steady ticking of the antique clock above the fireplace that brought his focus back around the table.

  ‘Any word from the Arabians?’ he asked.

  Noonan shook his head. ‘Not directly. Their Ambassador in Washington was summoned to the White House. Apparently, Baghdad is citing some sort of provocation. They have intelligence they say, some sort of European plot to destabilise North Africa and the Middle East. Like the Arab Spring back in twenty-eleven. They’re saying the invasion is a pre-emptive defensive action.’

  ‘Defensive? Killing God knows how many people?’ Harry snarled. He turned to the General. ‘Can’t we hit back at the bastards? There must be something we can do.’

  ‘There is,’ Bashford nodded, ‘but right now we need to consolidate our forces, build up the intelligence picture, our strategic options. We’re in unchartered waters here, Prime Minister. There’s no model or war game scenario for this.’

  ‘One big missile, that’s all we need,’ Harry fumed, twisting his hands together. ‘Punch a bloody hole right in the middle of Baghdad.’

  ‘And kill Arabian civilians?’ tempered Noonan. ‘No Harry, we’d open the door to retaliatory attacks, reprisals against our own citizens. Let’s not forget international condemnation, too. It’s important we maintain the moral high ground.’

  ‘For God’s sake, wake up,’ Harry snapped. ‘Didn’t you hear, Peter? We’re at war. To hell with the UN, we have to do som
ething. ‘The anger was giving way to something else now, an unfamiliar emotion that made his heart race and a sheen of perspiration form across his brow. He struggled to think rationally as a sudden wave of panic flooded his thoughts. He took a deep breath, willing himself to relax.

  He watched Bashford cross the room and retrieve a bottle and glasses from a drinks cabinet. Harry took the offered malt whiskey and belted the contents back in one. He held his glass out for a refill and the General obliged.

  ‘As painful as it is,’ Bashford began, ‘our best course of action now is to consolidate our position. We have had some successes, but we can’t deliver a decisive blow without a strategic plan. For now, we think we may have some breathing space and I suggest we use that time to rest and recuperate. The Scottish border is not directly threatened, and the nearest Arabian forces have stopped just north of Leeds. We have two ASTOR aircraft – that’s Airborne Stand-Off Radar – operating sixty miles behind the Scottish front line, monitoring enemy air and ground movements to the south. If the Arabians start to move in our direction, we’ll know about it. In the meantime, we need to gather our strength.’

  Harry rubbed his face, grateful for the alcohol that had momentarily stemmed the rising panic. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical, it was emotional too, he realised. And it wasn’t just military expertise that would be required in the coming days. Diplomacy was key, and if there were talks to be held, with Baghdad, with Washington, he had to be on top of his game. Bashford was right. What he needed – what they all needed – was rest.

  ‘Look, there’s nothing much we can do here tonight,’ Bashford concluded. ‘SCOTFOR is monitoring the situation, so I suggest we all retire for the evening, try and get a good night’s sleep. We have some intelligence people coming in from Edinburgh in the morning for a briefing session and you’ll be able to speak to the Lord Advocate via telephone. Things will look a little clearer then.’ The General got to his feet and picked up a wall phone. Moments later there was a soft knock on the door and Bill Kerr entered the room.

  ‘Ah, Bill. Can you escort the Prime Minister back to his room and ensure that he is not to be disturbed? Breakfast at seven for everyone else, if you please.’ Harry got to his feet, feeling too tired, too fragile to argue. His thoughts returned to Teignmouth, to the cold, dark waters of the English Channel, where he heard the cries for help, saw in his mind the oil-covered faces bobbing in the sea, condemned to die by fate and circumstance. Harry paused by the door, slowly turning to face Bashford. When he spoke he felt his voice tremble.

  ‘Somewhere down the line, those bastards are going to pay for what they’ve done. In blood. Do you understand, General?’

  Without waiting for a reply, Harry left the room.

  Alternate One

  Mousa felt the rumbling beneath his feet, despite being told that the main cavern was deep below him under thick rock.

  The attack on the Infidel command post was going well, and Mousa had landed in the Mendip Hills a mere five minutes after the area had been secured by his airborne troops. He paced around the helicopter on the ridge above while, far below, two SERTRAK units were fighting their way through the tunnels and caverns of the underground facility. There was also contact nearby, in the town of Wells, where British soldiers were engaging his forces in house-to-house fighting. Mousa smiled in the darkness. Not only did he enjoy a fight, but the ferocity displayed by the defenders meant that his quarry was close. It was only a matter of time now.

  A short distance away, Karroubi conferred with Mousa’s signaller. The General strode over and joined them.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The SERTRAK commander reports that the enemy forces have been neutralised, General. There are several prisoners, military and civilian.’

  ‘Lead the way!’

  A short while later, Mousa found himself in the main cavern of Alternate One. The huge chamber was littered with debris and bodies, and the air was thick with the smell of spent cartridges. In the centre of the cavern a small group of prisoners squatted miserably on the floor, their uniforms bloodied and filthy, surrounded by a large number of SERTRAK personnel. Mousa searched the terrified faces of the civilians amongst them, but Beecham wasn’t there. He noticed a British officer amongst the huddle and had him hauled to his feet. The officer was bleeding from a head wound, and held a field dressing against his temple to stem the flow of blood.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Monroe. Major Monroe.’

  ‘Where is the criminal Beecham?’

  Monroe stood a little straighter. ‘Under the provisions of the Geneva Convention I am only-’

  Mousa slapped the Major so hard the sound echoed around the rocky walls. Only the smirking Afghans holding him prevented Monroe from falling to the ground.

  ‘Last chance,’ warned Mousa. ‘Where is Beecham?’

  Monroe spat blood onto the floor, the field dressing dangling from his head. He straightened up, and Mousa recognised the spark of defiance in his eye.

  ‘Under the provisions of the Geneva convention I am only-’

  Mousa pulled his pistol, jammed it into Monroe’s chest and shot him. The sound was deafening in the cavern and Monroe flopped, wide-eyed, to the floor. Mousa stepped over the still-breathing body and approached the prisoners. Before he could say a word one of the civilians, a bald man in his fifties, scrambled to his feet.

  ‘He’s gone to Scotland,’ he blurted. ‘Left by helicopter some time ago. That’s all any of us know.’

  Mousa stared at the man for several seconds, trying to control the rage that was beginning to boil inside him. ‘Where?’ he said slowly. ‘Where in Scotland?’

  ‘No one knows,’ the man stammered. ‘The orders were clear. All troops and equipment are to head for the border.’

  The pistol shook in Mousa’s hand. How he wanted to shoot the man in the face, unload the magazine into his fat head until it was empty. But that would be foolish. There was more to discover here, of that he was sure. He turned to the SERTRAK team leader. ‘Interrogate them all, one by one, until you discover where the Infidel has fled. Use any means necessary.’

  Back on the ridgeline, Mousa paced around his helicopter in the darkness. A cool night breeze gusted across the ridge top, tempering his anger. He’d failed. There weren’t many times in his career when he would freely admit to it, but this was one of those times. Not only that, but he’d disobeyed the Holy One, his insubordinate actions not only costing lives but also the loss of some very expensive military hardware. Mousa had never seen the Holy One angry before, but he had a feeling that that might change in the near future.

  On the plus side, his forces had discovered a previously unknown military complex that could give his intelligence people some high-grade material, and there was also a spectacular attack on an enemy ship on the coast, so the news wasn’t all bad. But would it be enough to save his skin?

  ‘Let’s get back to London,’ he informed the loitering Karroubi. Moments later, the air filled with the whine of powerful turbine engines. The General climbed aboard the helicopter and strapped in, Karroubi jumping in beside him. The pilot immediately pulled up on his collective and the helicopter rose into the air, the escorting gunships falling into position on either side. Mousa watched from the window as the helicopter banked over and headed east.

  Scotland. That would be where the real battle would take place. The British forces would reorganise, strengthen their positions, but they would be squeezed tight, with nowhere to run but north, where the sea would trap them. They would fight like cornered rats.

  As the helicopter skimmed west towards the capital, Mousa prayed he would survive the wrath of the Holy One, allowing him the opportunity to take part in the inevitable campaign to the north. For a moment he forgot his mounting troubles. He smiled in the darkness, relishing the thought of the bitter fight to come.

  The Road South

  Khan finished packing the last of his things into a small rucksack. It wasn’t much

&
nbsp; – a few clothes, some food and water, a couple of items kindly donated by the villagers. He hefted the rucksack over his shoulder, snapped off the light to his room and went downstairs.

  Outside, the night was clear and bright, made brighter by the earlier flashes in the western sky, a sign that the war machine had finally outpaced them. All they could do now was avoid the danger as best they could. For Khan, he was sticking his head back into the lion’s mouth, but that was preferable to hiding here in the village, hoping and praying that the outside world would pass them by. It wouldn’t, of that he was certain.

  He climbed inside the Range Rover, stowing his gear on the back seat and programming the Satnav for the forthcoming journey. He heard a chorus of protest from the geese, then the crunch of gravel. He looked through the windshield to see the others approaching. He switched off the ignition and climbed out to greet them.

  ‘We’ve come to see you off,’ Kirsty told him.

  ‘Thanks. Nice job with the blackout curtains,’ he told Helen, pointing at the darkened farmhouse.

  ‘You think?’ She glanced over her shoulder. When she spoke again her voice shook with emotion. ‘The kids think it’s all a game. I wonder how long we can keep that up?’

  ‘I want to thank you,’ Khan said quickly, stepping forward. He held out his hand, saw the tears on Helen’s face glinting in the moonlight as she took his. Her grip was warm and firm. Then she snatched it away, turned on her heel and headed back the farmhouse. Rob watched her go.

  ‘She’s not coping too well,’ he admitted. ‘She’ll come around, though. She’s tougher than she looks.’ He shook Khan’s hand warmly. ‘Thanks for everything. You can always come back here, if things don’t work out. Whatever happens, I wish you all the best.’

  ‘Thanks, Rob. You too.’

  Kirsty stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Danesh. Without you, we’d still be stuck on that riverbank.’