by Dc Alden
He was fortunate to have been elected just as the breakthrough was made, when Arabia’s oil embargo suddenly no longer mattered, when he’d flown in the dead of night to the facility deep in the Nevada desert to witness the energy miracle, made possible by the tireless work of generations of faceless men and women after the crash of forty-seven.
Now, the lights were back on in California, the very tip of the energy revolution he’d been told to expect, the first of many still-classified programmes to be rolled out across the country that would change lives and re-shape history. But, once again, war had raised its ugly head in Europe, threatening that future for all. What the hell was the matter with the human race? Why did it have to be so Goddam destructive?
The heat of the fire wrapped Mitchell in its comforting embrace and warmed his aching bones. At sixty-seven, he wasn’t getting any younger. He’d won the party nomination by a slim margin, the Presidency by even less, his campaign focussing on reigniting a patriotic flame, on extolling the conservative values of hard work and self-sufficiency, in the belief that America, above all others, was God’s own country. No one had been more honoured, more proud to serve, than Scott Mitchell on Inauguration Day. Yet, since then he hadn’t given the American people much opportunity to warm their hands around that flame of patriotism he’d talked so much about. America’s stock was low and it pained him.
His eyes wandered up to the oil painting that hung over the fireplace, a Leutze reproduction of General George Washington crossing the Delaware River. Mitchell understood the painting was more symbolic than an accurate historical representation, but he found it inspiring none the less, the moment when Washington led his troops in boats across the icy river to surprise and defeat the British at Trenton. The physical hardship back then was unimaginable, the sacrifices too numerous to mention. For Mitchell, the picture said more about the American spirit than any Independence Day speech or schmaltzy movie.
‘Mr President?’ prompted Engel from the sofa.
Mitchell stared at the tiny boats a moment longer, crammed with revolutionary musket men, the frigid waters breaking over the wooden bows. The solution lay there, right in front of him.
‘What were the figures the Ambassador gave us?’
Engle reached for a printout on the table. ‘The numbers aren’t concrete, but they’re predicting initial casualties of over fifty thousand. Ten times that figure will become refugees in the first forty-eight hours, all heading north to avoid the conflict. The Arabians will squeeze them until their backs are against the sea and there’s nowhere left to run.’
‘Nowhere,’ Mitchell echoed softly. He studied the painting a moment longer, then turned and faced the men on the sofa. ‘For as long as I can remember, Britain has been a close friend and ally of the United States. It’s been a complex relationship, that much is true, but what isn’t in doubt is the history we share. The blood that ran through the folks at Jamestown runs through us both today, blood that’s been spilt on battlefields for centuries, as friends as well as enemies. It’s my belief we’re bound by that blood. The United States is tied to Britain in fundamental ways that transcend politics. It’s a relationship we cannot ignore.’
‘You’re going to help them,’ Engle said quietly.
Mitchell nodded. ‘As best we can. Now, this is what I had in mind...’ He spoke for several minutes and, by the time he’d finished, both the Chief of Staff and the National Security Advisor were stunned into silence.
‘Jesus Christ. That’s a big task, Mr President,’ Radanovich finally whispered.
‘But doable, right Eliot?’
‘I believe so,’ Engle agreed after a moment.
‘There’s a lot to consider,’ Radanovich frowned, but this time Mitchell noticed the anxiety had been replaced by a steely focus. ‘Security and diplomatic issues, statements of intent...’
‘Let’s not forget the Rules of Engagement, ‘Engle reminded them. ‘International waters are dangerous places. Anything could happen to spark an incident.’
‘Work it out with Sec Def and the NSC. Zack, you speak to State and Justice,’ Mitchell ordered. ‘I’ll speak to the Israeli Ambassador and the Attorney General myself. And keep Connie up to speed. When the news breaks, the UN and Baghdad will demand answers. I want to make sure she’s equipped to bat any arguments from the Legal Counsel’s office out of the park. Our case has to be absolutely airtight, got it? And make sure she reminds the Security Council that we’ve lost many of our own citizens during this conflict. Remind them that we won’t tolerate the taking of another American life, collateral damage or otherwise. I want that point rammed down the Secretary General’s throat. See to it, please.’
As Radanovich scooped up his jacket and left the cabin, the President turned to Engle. ‘The military aspect will be delicate, to say the least. Time is running out, Eliot, so we’ll have to move fast.’
‘We’re already at DEFCON Three, Mr President. Mobilisation shouldn’t be an issue.’
‘Good. I’m going to recommend raising the alert level to DEFCON Two as a precaution, just to give our detractors something to think about. In the meantime, I’ll need to speak to the NMCC and, in particular, COMLANTFLT at his earliest convenience. We’ll need time with Langley and Fort Meade, too.’
‘Yes, Mr President.’
‘The commercial shipping aspect is crucial. I want a conference call set up with the owners of all major lines by the morning. We can’t do this without them, Eliot, so be nice.’
Engle left the lodge and Mitchell was alone, turning to bask in the warm glow
of the fire. He looked at the painting once more, at General Washington standing in the bow of the lead boat, wrapped in a thick cloak, his jaw set resolutely, carving across the dark waters towards an enemy that was both numerically stronger and technically superior. And still they followed him, thought Mitchell.
That was the true nature of the American spirit right there; the willingness to risk one’s life for freedom, for liberties earned by the blood of millions, the countless sacrifices remembered by so many, yet truly understood by so few. Now the people of England were labouring under the yoke of a new oppression, while those in Scotland waited fearfully, their future uncertain, their freedom, their very lives, at stake. It was time, Mitchell decided, to remind the world exactly what America truly stood for.
He crossed the room and picked up the phone on the table. ‘Patch me through to the Ambassador’s Blackhawk.’
November
The US Air Force C-5B Galaxy rumbled along the runway, then clawed its enormous airframe into a leaden sky, its four turbofan engines powering its massive grey body up through low cloud and out of sight. It was the eighth transport departure in less than four hours, the senior RAF Air Traffic Controller had informed Harry, and there were still fourteen more flights to go until operations were curtailed for the day. After that, a four-hour window would enable essential maintenance to take place. Once that was completed, evacuation flights would recommence with all possible speed.
Standing in the control tower at Glasgow International Airport, Harry took the proffered binoculars and focussed on a distant C17 Globemaster as it taxied for take-off. After a few teething problems, the evacuation was starting to run smoothly and they were now averaging around twenty-five flights per day, moving roughly twelve thousand people every twenty-four hours. And that was just here at Glasgow. Thanks to the Americans and their fleet of huge transport aircraft, they were also managing to evacuate the same kind of numbers further down the road in Edinburgh. That was about twenty-five thousand civilians a day and the operation had started seventeen days ago without pause. In eastern Scotland, there were several daily outbound flights from Dundee and Aberdeen airports using civilian airliners, plus military transports from the RAF bases at Kinloss and Lossiemouth, transporting roughly fifteen thousand evacuees a day.
And then there were the ships, of course. The sea routes to the west were a lot slower but they carried more people, pa
rticularly in the six vast vehicle-transporter ships that the Americans had supplied for the duration of the evacuation. The numbers were impressive. In total, the number crunchers were reporting nearly nine hundred thousand people out already. The logistics of the operation were astounding and Harry was amazed that things were running as smoothly as they appeared to be. Like any good operation, it was all about preparation and planning and, in the previous weeks, Harry had witnessed levels of co-operation between government, military and civil administrations that he doubted would ever be repeated in his lifetime.
Still, it would be a close-run thing. Since the middle of September, over one hundred Arabian surveillance craft had been shot down by British anti-air defences. On the ground, the border fortifications had been probed by what intelligence officers later discovered were Arabian penal troops, kitted out with remote cameras and sent forward unarmed and under cover of darkness to find potential weaknesses along the British lines. Many had drowned in the deep anti-tank pits or been killed or wounded by the sniper teams that watched the border at night. Those they did capture were often elated at surviving the ordeal and were eager to co-operate. But the signs were obvious. The threat from the south was growing and time was running out. Thank God the Americans had thrown them a lifeline, thought Harry.
The plan, the seed of which had taken root in a log cabin three and a half thousand miles away, was an audacious one: evacuate every soul possible, an impossible task without the might of the US and the assistance of the Canadians. Their old allies had stepped up to the plate, constructing vast resettlement centres in various northern US states and across the border in Canada. At the same time, the British front line had been reinforced with American UAVs and munitions, while military transport planes would fly evacuees to US bases in Iceland. From there, a steady convoy of ships and aircraft would take them to the North American mainland, an operation as impressive as the airlift.
Once the plans had been finalised, the public were informed. It was a no-frills address aired on the country’s single remaining broadcaster, BBC Scotland, and a grim-faced Harry had delivered the very worst news: England was gone and Scotland would be next. All attempts at diplomacy had failed, the UN cowed before the power of Arabia and its new allies. Arabian troops were massing south of the border and war was inevitable. Whatever the outcome, the future for the civilian population looked bleak.
But there was another alternative. The US and Canadian governments had graciously opened their doors and were willing to accept those who wished to flee the coming conflict, to offer them the chance of a new life. The public were urged to register for evacuation, to listen for details of their evacuation day and departure points. Normal media broadcasts would be cancelled, replaced by information messages announcing evacuation procedures and giving advice on clothing and documentation that each individual should take on their journey.
Demonstrations followed Harry’s speech, anger at the Arabians, anger at the administration in Scotland over money, the collapse of the stock market, lost pensions, plummeting house prices, worthless cars, fuel rationing. In the end, none of it mattered. There were only two choices: stay and face an uncertain future, or go, taking whatever one could carry.
The first to leave were those who lived near docks and airports, evacuated early in order to clear the approaches for the huge numbers of refugees expected to descend on local towns and cities. Women and any children under sixteen were also prioritised, along with pensioners, the disabled and hospital patients well enough to travel. With the vulnerable safely away, the main evacuation began in earnest. Those who had cars took them, abandoning them near their designated ports and airports. Each evacuee was allowed only two items of luggage, although many people tried to bring more. At departure points across the country, car parks and loading areas were full of containers, each one overflowing with clothing, luggage and thousands of other confiscated items. It was a question of space and weight, the civilians were told. There could be no exceptions.
Airport terminals were particularly eerie places. Normally bustling with lively activity and awash with light and colour, war-footing regulations had transformed the terminals into gloomy, unlit halls flanked by shuttered and darkened shops. Military personnel waving torches ushered the evacuees quickly along jet ways or out onto windswept tarmacs, where the huge mouths of waiting US transport planes swallowed them like plankton before embarking on their flights to Iceland.
For many others, the journey westwards would be less comfortable. Directed to ports all around the rugged coast of Scotland to await evacuation by a variety of ocean-going vessels, from giant American container ships to rust-stained ferries and cruise ships, their journey across the stormy North Atlantic to the United States would be a long and uncomfortable one. On the way, some ships would dock in Belfast or Larne, depositing those who wished to re-join their families in an as yet unscathed Ireland. How long this would last was unclear, but many who watched and waited by those Irish docksides, where their own descendants once waited to embark on a similar journey, were taking no chances. The ships would be back.
Yet, despite Harry’s pleas, despite the inevitability of war and the uncertainty of occupation, there were many in Scotland who simply refused to leave. There were a multitude of reasons why just under half the population failed to register for evacuation. In many cases loved ones were still missing, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, fiancées and friends, trapped in England or elsewhere when the invasion had begun. For most, there had been no contact, no word from those who were missing and who may still be desperately trying to reach home. To abandon them was unthinkable. Someone would be waiting when they finally made it back to Scotland.
Others simply had no intention of deserting the country of their birth, the homes they’d grown up in, the streets and parks they’d played in as children, the property that they’d worked hard to purchase and maintained with loving pride. If anything bad was going to happen then at least they would be on familiar territory, surrounded by friends and family. They would take their chances when the Arabians came. After all, what was the alternative? To start all over again in a foreign country, common language notwithstanding?
Some argued that it would be years before so many people could be housed properly, before the economies of America and Canada could absorb the sudden, massive influx of immigrants who would all have to be fed and sheltered and then assimilated into society. And what was a resettlement camp anyway? What happened when the winter storms blew south and the snow piled high? In Canada, the temperature dropped through the floor. How were the very old and the very young supposed to survive that? So, despite Harry’s calls for reason, despite the warnings and the dangers, many stayed. But no matter what course of action people decided on, the future was uncertain for everyone.
Harry lifted his binoculars and tracked another transport aircraft as it rotated off the runway and thundered upwards into the grey skies. He watched it bank across the city, climbing to the west until it was lost in the clouds. So far the operation had been a success. The numbers were looking good, but there was still another million evacuees to get out, give or take the odd thousand. After that it would just be Harry, his staff, the senior military commanders and the British forces that were mostly concentrated along the border.
Inspired by the bravery of those that had decided to remain behind, Harry briefly contemplated staying himself, but General Bashford and just about everybody else had overruled him, including President Mitchell in Washington. They were right, of course. Not that Harry was scared; since his acceptance of Anna’s passing, since the true scale of events at home and across Europe had become known, death no longer held the fear it once did, but his responsibilities now lay with the evacuees. Harry’s final destination was to be a newly-established camp on the windswept plains of Montana, where he would spend the winter with his people, working alongside the US and Canadian administrations, making plans for all their futures. And it was up to Harry to
lead them into that future.
After all, fate had already decided he would survive the bomb at Downing Street, the Arabian troops who hunted him deep below the streets of London, the flight to Alternate One. He had a purpose now, a responsibility to those who were facing a life filled with uncertainty, and it gave him strength. His duty was to oversee the ongoing evacuation and get as many out as quickly and efficiently as possible. That was his focus now.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes as he watched an ageing American Airlines 747-400 start its take-off run, urging it along the runway and up into the sky as it thundered past the tower. But they’d better be quick. Time was running out.
Wiltshire
The village of South Lockeridge had escaped detection for just over four months when the first Arabian troops appeared at the northern and southern barricades. Behind the bulldozers, armoured vehicles and trucks full of soldiers waited to advance towards the village. The deception was over, but for Alex and the others it wasn’t unexpected. A week before, Arabian helicopter gunships had flown over the village several times, proof that they’d finally been discovered.
A village meeting was quickly convened and their original strategy reiterated.
No resistance. A delegation was formed to greet the Arabian troops on the village green. Alex stayed out of it, while Andy Metcalfe decided he would act as spokesman, the remainder of the delegation consisting of his small clique and some of the older folk. Metcalfe reckoned any Arabian anger would be diffused by the sight of the old ’uns as he cajoled and bullied the pensioners to stand around the war memorial. As Alex waited with the other villagers across the green, he noticed Metcalfe and his boys burying themselves in the middle of the seniors.
