Invasion

by Dc Alden

‘Is it still there?’ enquired Khan.

  Clarke pointed to the console. The radar echo had appeared during the night and had shadowed the Sunflower ever since, sailing somewhere off their starboard bow. It was now moving towards an intercept point ahead, the courses slowly converging. There was a ship out there, a large one, and it was heading their way.

  Khan gazed out at the early-morning mist that shrouded the Sunflower. It had appeared at dawn and descended over them like a grey cloak, restricting their visibility to a couple of hundred yards. The blip on the screen was big, and it was drawing steadily closer. A collision would be disastrous. As Khan slopped the dregs of his coffee over the side, the radio crackled on the control panel. Clarke twisted the volume knob.

  ‘Sunflower, Sunflower, this is US Navy ship Denver requesting you heave-to immediately.’

  ‘Heaving-to now,’ replied Clarke. He glanced nervously at Khan. ‘Here we go, then.’

  The Sunflower’s sails were lowered, while her twin engines gave them steerage control only. After a couple of minutes, the sailboat was drifting with the current and riding the rhythmic swell of the Atlantic. The mist that enveloped them created an eerie backdrop to the tension of the moment, and the only sound they heard was the slap of water under the hull.

  It started as a quiet hiss that grew in volume until a sharp, battle-grey bow with huge white lettering on its hull knifed through the mist and drifted smoothly past them. Khan and Clarke held on tight as the wake of the battle-cruiser pitched the Sunflower from side to side. Along its rails, Marines in full battle gear studied them with interest. Then the stern was past them and, once again, the ship was swallowed up by the mist. Silence descended on the Sunflower, broken only by the firm, southern twang of the voice behind them.

  ‘Hands on your heads, please, gentlemen.’

  Khan and Clarke nearly jumped out of their skins. Spinning around, they found themselves confronted by four US Marines in black tactical gear spread across the deck, their weapons held low but ready. Khan saw the small assault boat just off the port stern, its pilot holding the vessel steady as it bobbed up and down on the swell. Crafty bastards, admitted Khan. They had obviously used the battleship to disguise the smaller boat’s approach. Both men put their hands on their heads. They were quickly and expertly frisked and their identification documents confiscated. Then the Marines’ attentions focused on the Sunflower, which underwent a lengthy and thorough search. Khan and Clarke sat on the deck and watched. The Marines hadn’t bound their hands, simply requesting that the two Brits sit down and keep out of the way, which they did. After an hour the boarding party officer approached them.

  ‘Gentlemen, thank you for your co-operation. Your ID checks out and the boat is clean, so you can continue on your journey. You are requested to head for the US naval base at Williamsburg, where you’ll be debriefed. I believe you have the GPS coordinates and the Denver will escort you part of the way in.’

  ‘Debrief?’ Clarke looked worried.

  ‘Standard procedure now,’ the Marine informed them. ‘All our borders are closed. World’s gone to shit, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘We noticed all right,’ smiled Khan. ‘Why d’you think we’re here?’

  ‘Smart move,’ the Marine replied. ‘Well, that it. The Sunflower is cleared to proceed.’ With that, the officer waved the assault boat alongside and the Marines climbed aboard. As it pushed off, the officer shouted to them. ‘You may want to get a shake on. We got some weather coming down from the north that could get ugly. Suggest you make all possible speed, gentlemen. You’ll be contacted again when you reach the outer buoy at Williamsburg.’

  Khan and Clarke gave them a wave and got to work hoisting the sails. As they prepared the Sunflower for departure, the Marine officer cupped his hands around his mouth.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, welcome to the United States.’

  The assault boat accelerated away and disappeared into the mist. For a moment, Khan and Clarke watched in silence as the white foam of the wake dissipated across the glassy surface of the ocean. Then they turned to each other and embraced, smiling broadly. They’d made it.

  For Khan, it was the end of a nightmare. He didn’t know what the future held for him, but at least he had one. He glanced over his shoulder, through the mist, towards the distant horizon they’d left behind, and his thoughts turned to Alex and Kirsty. He hoped they had one too.

  September

  Harry stepped down from the helicopter, grumbling as he worked the stiffness from his tired limbs. It had been a long week and he was glad to get back to McIntyre Castle. In spite of everything, he was beginning to regard the place as home. The accommodations were comfortable and the privacy and solitude had given Harry time to successfully traverse his personal minefield of emotions.

  He felt a lot better now, much more so than when he first arrived over three months ago. Harry shook his head. Hard to believe it had been that long, but the many hours he’d spent walking the forest paths and along the shores of the Sound had regenerated him both physically and mentally, and the despair he’d felt in the early days was a now distant recollection. He’d come to terms with Anna’s death and, occasionally, he found himself smiling at a memory of her in happier times.

  In the darkness, Harry and his SAS escort trudged towards the castle, their footsteps now finding the familiar route with ease. Later, after a shower and a light supper, Harry retired to his private drawing room where a fire crackled in the hearth. He settled himself down into an overstuffed armchair and sipped at a cup of tea. His eyes were drawn to the dancing flames that flickered beneath the granite fireplace and his thoughts turned to the events of the previous week.

  The tour of the front line had taken six days, visiting the troops and inspecting the layered defences that stretched from coast to coast. General Bashford had warned against the tour, declaring it too dangerous, but Harry had insisted. Despite his love for McIntyre Castle and the daily video-link briefings with Lord Advocate Matheson and the military personnel at SCOTFOR, Harry had begun to feel rather like a fifth wheel. He’d even suggested a regular trip to Edinburgh to attend at least some of the briefings in person, but again Bashford had argued against it, explaining that the SCOTFOR base was a potential target for Arabian missiles, despite its underground location.

  Harry had relented, resigning himself to dealing purely with the politics of the crisis. But the truth was, there was little to deal with. Negotiations of any kind still hadn’t materialised. Baghdad knew that a British government-in-exile was functioning north of the border yet the Arabians had made no effort to end hostilities. It was a very bad sign.

  Determined to make himself useful, Harry had decided on the front line tour, even overruling Bashford and visiting SCOTFOR in Edinburgh, spending four productive days with Matheson’s fledgling administration and conducting face-to-face briefings with the military commanders. After his final night, spent in a comfortable safe house outside the city, Harry boarded the Dark Eagle and headed east towards the coast and the border with England.

  They touched down outside the busy fishing port of Eyemouth, where Royal Navy frigates and submarines patrolled the coastal waters. The surrounding cliffs and bluffs were dotted with surface-to-surface missiles and anti-aircraft batteries, giving the land-based forces some protection against any potential threat from the sea. But would it be enough, Harry had asked the local commanders. In the long run, probably not, was the answer he feared.

  Across the sea, to the northeast, Norway was still functioning, but only just. Civil unrest, sparked by the huge numbers of immigrants that had flocked to the liberal state over the decades, had thrown the country into turmoil. To add to their problems, Russian forces were massing along the Finnish border. It was only a matter of time before Scandinavia fell. When the Russians reached the North Sea coast, then the British Isles would be directly threatened on two fronts. Militarily it would be an impossible situation. Despite repeated attempts through a variety of
diplomatic channels across the world, neither the Arabians nor the Russians were talking. War in Scotland was inevitable.

  Still, Harry was encouraged by the scale and complexity of the border defences. The undulating countryside had been extensively criss-crossed with deep trench and bunker systems that ran almost the whole length of the border, and every observation point, every listening post and every command centre was linked by a telephone system running on copper wire. It was primitive, Harry was informed, but virtually impossible to eavesdrop on and, therefore, an extremely effective way of communicating between the various sectors in clear speech. Even dispatch riders had been employed, able to travel over rough terrain on powerful motorbikes.

  From a deep trench just outside of Soughtree, Harry had surveyed the gorse-covered no-man’s land to the south through powerful binoculars and had been instantly reminded of grainy First World War footage he’d often seen on television. Of course, it wasn’t as pitted and shelled as the landscape back then, but Harry wondered how long that would last when hostilities finally commenced.

  A mile ahead of him, the highway had been dug up and blockaded with a pile of huge, reinforced concrete posts, each over twenty feet long and several yards in diameter. On either side of these massive obstructions, the roadside verges had been deeply excavated and the trenches flooded with water to drive enemy troops and armour onto soft, open ground, ground that had been liberally sown with anti-tank mines.

  He’d visited the machinegun nests and anti-tank batteries, had peered out through the camouflaged fire-slits of the logged trench walls, and had even spent a night in one of the accommodation bunkers, a gesture that endeared him to the soldiers but unnerved Harry as he struggled to sleep inside the poorly lit, claustrophobic chamber. He was assured that the timber ceilings could withstand an artillery attack, but Harry wasn’t so sure.

  Eventually he reached the west coast near the town of Eastriggs, overlooking the grey waters of the Solway Estuary. There, as darkness fell, he spoke informally to the troops, listening to their various contact reports, nodding in sympathy as many recounted the loss of friends, family and loved ones. Others grinned in the failing light, relishing any opportunity to even the score a little and Harry felt humbled by their courage.

  After a dinner of hot rations in a draughty tent, he delivered an impromptu speech, using the back of a truck as a temporary platform. Harry had assured the tired, dirt-streaked faces gathered beneath the trees that he’d do all he could for them, that diplomatic efforts were still ongoing, that a truce could still be negotiated that would see families and friends reunited once again.

  Clambering down from the truck, the handshakes and words of encouragement paving his route to the Dark Eagle, Harry had felt ashamed. He’d lied, of course. To tell them the cold truth would have broken their already fragile spirits. For now, they had hope. Their tired smiles and optimistic banter had told him that much and to extinguish that hope would have been criminal. Harry could have told them that the Russians were about to invade Scandinavia, that churches and synagogues had been boarded up, that there were rumours of deportations, that most of England had returned to a begrudging normality, but he didn’t. Far to the south, beyond the horizon, streetlights once again painted the sky with their orange glow. People had returned to work, the TV stations were broadcasting their censored schedules, the pubs remained closed, alcohol banned, and there was still a curfew in place. But life went on.

  In stark contrast, the border was a black region, a dark stage set for war. All along the border British troops were dug in, ready to face the enemy whatever the outcome. And there could be only one outcome. Yes, Harry had lied to them, but only to spare them from the hopelessness that he’d begun to feel himself. Leaving the front line behind, Harry watched the dark ground pass below the helicopter and wondered, yet again, how many had died, and how many more would die until the fighting stopped. No, he decided, this wouldn’t end with more British deaths, lost in a futile attempt to stop the Arabian war machine. There had to be another way out, for all of them, and he had to find it quickly.

  There was a soft knock on the door and Bill Kerr entered the drawing room, a thankful interruption to counter Harry’s darkening mood.

  ‘Anything else this evening, Prime Minister?’ the Scot enquired.

  ‘Nothing, thank you Bill. Early call tomorrow, please.’

  Kerr nodded and retired from the room. The fire in the grate had diminished somewhat and Harry debated whether to place another log on top. He decided not to, instead watching the blackened wood burn to a deep red. It was time to ask for some serious help. He wasn’t sure if he’d get it, but it was his duty to ask. They’d been called on before, many years ago, when another enemy had stood on England’s doorstep. As friends they had answered that call and, together, they’d been victorious.

  This time, however, there would be no D-Day, nor even a VE day, when celebrating crowds would flock to Trafalgar Square to sing, dance and rejoice in the outbreak of peace. No, this time all they could do was attempt to escape the coming maelstrom that threatened to engulf them all and lay waste to a land that Harry had grown to love.

  NorthEast England

  Major-General Mousa shielded his face as the Kiowa Scout helicopter behind him leapt back up into the air and twisted away over the rooftops. Bodyguards in tow, he straightened up and headed through the rain towards a nearby stairwell, the last gusts of the rotor blades whipping around his uniform. He made his way down to the fire escape stairs of Corbridge city centre police station, currently being used as the temporary headquarters of the Northern Army Group. And General Mousa, taking those stairs two at a time, was its newly appointed commander.

  He dismissed his bodyguards and strode along the busy corridor to his office, ignoring the hurried salutes of his staff. Colonel Karroubi, recently promoted on Mousa’s personal recommendation, got to his feet in the outer office as Mousa entered. He beckoned Karroubi to follow him into his inner sanctum and slammed the door. Mousa flopped into a high-backed swivel chair and swung his boots up on the desk, waving Karroubi to a seat. The wood panelled walls were decorated with dozens of maps and high-definition photographs.

  ‘How was the field inspection?’ his subordinate asked.

  Mousa scooped up a remote control from the desk and powered up the command system screen mounted on the wall to his right. He called up the military dispositions of the Northern Army Group and the display filled with electronic information.

  ‘Unsatisfactory. Those three brigade commanders you reported? I’ve had them arrested for gross negligence, amongst other crimes. The military court in Baghdad will hear their pathetic excuses in due course, but in the meantime it leaves our assault capability undermined. We need replacements flown in from Arabia and brought up to speed as soon as possible. Here are the names.’ Mousa fished inside the breast pocket of his combat jacket and produced a slip of paper.

  ‘They’re all Iraqis, Ashira men, so they can be trusted. And the LDDs?’

  ‘En route. They passed through Gibraltar yesterday.’

  The Layered Defence Destroyers were enormous armoured bulldozers, powered by massive turbo-charged diesel engines and fitted with giant bulldozer blades which were used to literally scoop out and bury enemy defences. Armed with mini-missile launchers and electronic guns, the LDDs could deliver a withering storm of fire as they approached dug-in positions while, inside their cavernous holds, a platoon of infantry would be ready to storm enemy positions once they had been breached. In addition, wide caterpillar tracks and Kevlar plated bodies allowed them to surmount almost any terrain and sustain considerable damage, making them a formidable weapon indeed.

  After studying camera footage from penal troops and LARVE surveillance birds, Mousa had ordered two LDDs to be shipped from their base in North Africa. The Infidel defences along the Scottish border were multi-layered and complex, he knew. There were concrete road blocks, anti-tank pits and vehicle traps and other obstacles too
numerous to mention. In border towns, approach roads had been excavated and buildings demolished to form enormous rubble mountains. In sprawling forests, the roads and tracks had been blocked by felled trees and anti-tank teams watched and waited along every possible approach.

  Elsewhere, thousands of artillery and mortar crews changed position on a daily basis, adding further complications to the attack plans. And that was just the ground forces. While British air assets had been depleted, the sky above the border hummed with air-search radars, an indication that the Infidels still possessed significant surface-to-air capability. Mousa had to be careful, particularly with his own air assets. He couldn’t afford another debacle.

  With such formidable defences facing him, Mousa had decided that the LDDs would be invaluable. Deployed skilfully, they would clear a path clean through the British lines, scooping up concrete and dirt, weapons and bodies, and allowing the tanks and troops behind to breach the defences and attack the enemy from the rear. Once that happened it would be over very quickly.

  But the LDDs were still en route, lashed down inside a transport ship that was at this very moment steaming up the western coast of Portugal towards the port of Sunderland, a mere sixteen kilometres from where Mousa now sat. He did the calculation in his head. Seven more days at sea, a day to offload, three days to move them along a specially-cleared route to their new bases, another three days for their crews to prepare them for battle – the huge blades were removed for shipping – and another two days to advance them towards their jump-off point. Three weeks then, maybe a month. A long time. Still, since his exile to Damascus Mousa had learned to become a patient man; besides, the delay would give the replacement officers more time to familiarise themselves with their new commands.

  ‘What about our sea defences?’ Mousa enquired. ‘I needn’t remind you of the importance of security in our northern ports.’