Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

  Although they had two Secret Service bodyguards with them for the entire trip, no-one even noticed the family and security was not really an issue.

  When the snow storm began, the family had no real concerns, but by the Tuesday evening they came to fully realise the predicament into which they had stumbled. An attempt was made by the US Embassy to fly them out, but there were no airports open and even military transport was grounded. So, like everyone else, they were marooned.

  There are two hundred and three rooms and eleven suites at Claridges, with a one hundred percent occupancy at that time of year. However, by the Monday night, one hundred and eighty rooms had been vacated by nervous guests, and all but four of the suites were unoccupied. Most of the staff had deserted their posts, but some had come staggering back when defeated by the weather. All of the remaining guests were non-British citizens, ranging from American and Japanese tourists, to a Saudi Prince plus entourage and to an African politician. In total, there were ninety souls in the hotel – and at noon on the Tuesday, the senior manager on duty closed, bolted and barricaded the front doors. He was not letting any of the hoi-polloi into his hotel! He wasn’t interested in life or death situations at that stage– merely the welfare of his well-to-do guests.

  Roisin O’Donnell was on the fourth floor – the top floor – of the hotel and was surrounded by sumptuous luxury. The hotel staff did their best to maintain standards, but it soon became apparent that the high and mighty may well have to muck in with everybody else. The exception was the Saudi Prince who refused to prejudice the privacy of his family, and remained locked in his suite – until all died of exposure within six days.

  This reduced the numbers to eighty and with a combination of hotel know-how and US Secret Service organisation, the guests and staff settled into a sort of ‘wartime’ spirit. Food, water and LPG supplies for cooking were abundant, and quite frankly, the hotel could have saved and fed many hundreds of fellow Londoners trapped in the snow on the other side of the barricade.

  However, they didn’t, and apart from a couple of deaths caused by untreated medical pre-conditions, the group survived adequately well. The roof buckled and caved-in on New Years’ Day, but this hardly troubled the occupants, as they all simply moved down a floor. Every day, they would all troop up to the fourth floor to observe the carnage without, and then all troop back to the safety of their card schools and hot food. Yes, it was cold, but bearably so, as everyone was issued with mountains of linen and blankets. They all ate in the kitchens, and most of the guests lounged there all day, soaking up the warmth provided by the ovens.

  By the fifth of January, although most of the guests were tired, dishevelled and cold, the remaining seventy-seven had survived and it wasn’t long before a member of staff had tried to escape via a third floor window. He didn’t have much luck and immediately sank up to his waist before being hauled back into the hotel by his co-conspirators. Consequently, that was the end of any further attempts to effect a quick getaway.

  On the sixth of January, Day 23, a large US helicopter appeared outside the front entrance of Claridges and hovered for about twenty minutes, until the O’Donnells had a chance to wave at it from a front-facing window. The crew waved, took photographs and signalled with thumbs up.

  The next morning, the same helicopter appeared and a winchman lowered himself down to a fourth floor window, whereupon he entered the building. He identified the O’Donnells and less than one hour later, the family of the US President and their Secret Service aides were flying across the Channel en-route for the American Embassy in Paris.

  The remainder of the guests were promised ‘imminent’ rescue by the American winchman. However, they had to endure another five days before they were picked up by British registered aircraft on a standard rescue patrols.

  When Sir Ian James heard the full details of this incident, he stored the information away at the back of his mind, noting the attitude of the US authorities, and that he may have to adapt the way he dealt with them in the future. Despite the fact that their support had been truly magnificent up to now, how long would it be before they - and the rest of the world – lost patience with Britain and its problems?

  Day 23

  Monday 6th January

  Nr Boston – Lincolnshire

  Mike’s family posted a lookout on the main roof, and a guard remained outside the visitors’ room throughout the night. By morning, Mike had calmed down a fraction, but was still determined to expel the two men as soon as possible. He didn’t like their attitude one little bit – and despite the protestations of his wife and father, had decided that they were going, immediately after they were provided with a warming breakfast.

  The two strangers had lit a log fire to keep warm, and a fug of smoke wafted out of their room when Mike took them their food.

  ‘Here you go. Enjoy the grub. Have you got any flasks I can fill with hot tea or coffee? And we’ll give you a packed lunch. I’ll be back in an hour and escort you off the premises.’

  The older man stared at Mike malevolently.

  ‘So, you haven’t changed your bloody attitude, then? I just don’t get you, matey. I can't understand what you’re so frightened of. We mean you no harm, yet you treat us like a couple of escaped criminals. It's not right!’

  Mike was unrepentant.

  ‘Look, I’ve got my priorities and you two are pretty low down that list. I haven’t got enough food to feed you and who knows when rescue will arrive? I’ve can't afford to take risks with the safety of my family and that means you must be on your way. As I said, I’ll be back to get you in an hour. Be ready!’

  At that, Mike left the room, locking the door behind him.

  ‘Watch that door carefully, love,’ he said to his daughter, who was on guard, ‘call me if you are worried by anything they do. Don’t hesitate; and if they break out – aim for their legs.’

  His daughter stared wide-eyed after her father as he went back downstairs. Was he actually telling her to shoot the two men if they broke out? She was a bit rattled by the situation, and was now desperately praying that the two men just stayed put till her father and brothers returned.

  At 9am sharp, Mike returned and opened the door to the bedroom and the two men were standing in the centre, dressed and ready for departure as instructed. They had obviously decided that Mike was intractable and since he held all the trump cards, they had little option but to be on their way.

  Mike handed over the flasks of hot coffee and two packs of sandwiches for which he received no thanks.

  ‘Right, son, you cover them. Please follow me upstairs, gents and we can get you on your way.’

  The two men trudged upstairs sullenly, donned their goggles and climbed the ladder up onto the roof where Mike’s other son was on guard. Mike passed up the skis and poles and stepped out onto the roof. The older man was bitter:

  ‘Thanks for nothing mate, well meet again I'm sure, and I'm also pretty sure that the boot might well be on the other foot!’

  ‘Is that a threat? If it is, you’d be well advised to be in a position to carry it out. Now, on your way, and don’t come back. Adios!’ Mike’s tone was curt and uncompromising.

  The man scowled and skied off away from the house closely followed by his son who, strangely, had not uttered a single word since they’d arrived. However, he made one strange gesture just before he skied after his father. He turned to Mike and widened his eyes and shook his head as if to say: ‘Be careful.’

  Mike watched them go until they were out of sight, a sense of foreboding pervading his inner core.

  ‘Right,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll continue the four hour shifts around the clock until further notice. All weapons at the ready and I’ll brief the girls about hiding in the cellar if there's trouble. I don’t think we've seen the last of those two characters!’

  The family spent the rest of the day making improvised banners advertising their presence in the pub, which they affixed firmly to the roof, so that they cou
ld be seen from the air but not from the ground. Mike didn’t want any more visitors. He also spent time considering the alternatives if the two men returned with reinforcements. During the hours of darkness the building was particularly vulnerable to attack, with only a solitary guard on the roof. Although there was a half moon, and the snow gave off an eerie glow, visibility was not great and he imagined that a determined force might take the guard by surprise. They'd have to be careful, and as a consequence he decided to take the midnight-to-4am shift himself.

  He described what the elderly folks should do in the event of invasion, and armed them with a pistol for last ditch defence. He gave each of his children a rifle, one to his father – who was keen to redeem himself after yesterday’s disappointment – and one for himself. The real problem was that an assault team could come from any direction and so the guard must expose himself next to a chimney stack to enable all round surveillance. It was a thorny problem, but one for which he couldn’t see an immediate solution.

  Evening came and went without any excitement. Mike had made a few defensive preparations, and it was just before midnight when he took over from his father on the roof.

  ‘Nothing to report, son,’ he whispered. ‘The visibility is not too bad with this half-moon, but there is quite a bit of cover for anyone approaching with evil intent.’

  ‘Thanks, dad, you go down and get some supper. It's on the Aga.’

  Mike took up his position by the chimney and used his binoculars to scan the horizon. There was nothing new to be seen. He tried to keep warm by walking from chimney to chimney but that didn’t help at all. It was a clear, starlit night and he estimated the temperature to be around minus five degrees Centigrade. He wasn’t fatigued at all, as adrenaline was pumping through his veins with the prospect of some bastard trying to invade his castle. He was damned if he was going to let anyone do that.

  The minutes ticked by slowly until about 3.30am, when Mike’s attention was drawn towards the rear of the main pub building. He stood perfectly still and strained his eyes and ears to try and pick out the source of the disturbance. There it was again – a scraping sound. Mike moved round to the rear of the chimney and crouched down, taking cover. The sound came again, so Mike decided to take action.

  The pre-arranged signal was two short blasts on the compressed air foghorn carried by each lookout. He hoped that this would achieve two aims: firstly, wake up his family and spur them into immediate action, and secondly, frighten off any potential attacking force. However, it might also let potential invaders know that the defenders were awake, armed and alert.

  The foghorn blast pierced the Lincolnshire night.

  However, before any assistance could arrive a familiar voice called out:

  ‘Still on bloody guard are you? Well it won't do you any good, there's a dozen of us and were taking over! We've got you surrounded, so just give up and let us in, and we might not hurt you or your precious bloody family!’

  Mike wasn’t really surprised. He hadn’t liked or trusted the fellow from yesterday, and the silent signal his so-called son had passed was now confirmation of his suspicions. He didn’t reply, but fired off a single shot into the air.

  Another male voice called out in alarm.

  ‘You didn’t say they were armed, Mo! You said it would be a piece of piss!’

  This told Mike two things. The attackers were probably not armed and that they were afraid. Two vitally important things in his favour. It was time to speak out.

  ‘Okay, why don’t you all just leave while you still can, before someone gets hurt? We've got a dozen guns with loads of ammo and we know how to use them. So, just go away. You’ll all be picked up soon anyway – didn’t you see the helicopter over by Boston this afternoon?’

  ‘You can bullshit all you like. I saw only four of you and two guns. We’re coming to get you; you bastard - we've got nothing more to lose.’

  By now, the attic window was slowly opening and Mike was shuffling towards it, hoping to get inside before anyone reached him. His son was half leaning out, pointing a pistol in no particular direction in an attempt to cover his father’s retreat. Mike heard further movement as he approached the opening – quite near – so he shouted to his son:

  ‘Fire off a couple of rounds; you might wing one of them!’

  His son did as asked, but got carried away and pooped off four shots into the early morning frost. Mike scrambled into the attic room and turned to join his son at the ledge.

  ‘Well done son, but steady – we don’t really want to hit anyone.’

  Mike’s daughter was now at the foot of the ladder reporting that all of the older family members were safely hiding in the cellar, and grandad was perched in the kitchen – armed and dangerous!

  Mike thanked her and told her to take up a position with her other brother at the foot of the stairs, behind the barrier of chairs and sofas placed there in anticipation earlier.

  Mike surveyed the scene outside, which had now grown ominously quiet. He considered the options: either they had scarpered or were creeping ever closer. Mike turned to look backwards up the roof and caught a glimpse of the leader – Mo. He had reached the window and had a half-brick in his left hand, which came crashing down onto the glass above their heads.

  As the window shattered, Mike and his son fell as one into a crumpled heap onto the floor at the base of the ladder. They were both shaken and covered in shards of shattered glass, but essentially unhurt.

  They rolled away from the window, stood up and retreated towards the doorway. At that point, a gloved hand dropped a Molotov cocktail through the hole in the window.

  It was lit.

  It fell six feet, bounced onto a chair, back over the armrest and onto the floor.

  It wasn’t a very good incendiary device because, thankfully, it didn’t explode. It set fire to the carpet and the armchair, but there was no flying glass or spurting fuel to cope with?

  ‘Jesus,’ shouted Mike, ‘you stay here and shoot at anyone who appears at that window. Can you do that? I'm going to get the extinguisher in the bar. I'm depending on you, son!’

  His son was starting to panic, but nodded as Mike left the room, shutting the door. He bellowed down the stairs at his other children hiding behind their barricade:

  One of you, go into the bar and get the fire extinguishers. Quickly!’

  Three shots then rang out, and Mike immediately turned and re-entered the attic.

  ‘What's happening, son?’

  ‘A face appeared, so I did what you said. I think I hit him, because he screamed and fell away. Oh, God, do you think I’ve killed him, dad?’

  Mike said nothing and returned his gaze to the attic window, the armchair was blazing fiercely now but luckily most of the fumes were going straight up through the broken window. His daughter then burst through the door with two fire extinguishers and whilst Mike covered them with his rifle, the two children fought the flames and within thirty seconds the fire was out. The room was now full of CO2, poisonous fumes and smoke, so Mike ordered his children out into the corridor, whilst he knelt in the frame of the open door, rifle pointed at the window.

  He knelt like that for nearly four hours, until daylight.

  His next priority was to see what other damage had been done, but he wasn’t looking forward to poking his head out over the window ledge.

  He couldn’t know if the intruders were playing a waiting game as well?

  Day 25

  Wednesday 8th January

  Walthamstow – East London

  It took Chloe a few seconds to absorb Brady’s bombshell – and then she exploded.

  ‘But, you can't be! You're dead! You're buried in Germany! Mum said you died in a plane crash when I was a baby!’

  Brady surveyed the other faces in the room, noting their shock and astonishment.

  ‘Well, Chloe, it's a long story and one I’ll be happy to relate in due course, but please be assured, I spoke with your mother not thirty-six hours
ago, and she explained everything to me in full.’

  Chloe was ‘gobsmacked’ to say the least and abruptly sat down, joined by Chris, who put his arm around her in comfort. Then, the ever phlegmatic Les spoke up.

  ‘Well, we are all somewhat taken aback – two surprises in as many minutes, but I'm sure that you have other business with us, Mr…….?

  ‘Wing Commander Andrew Brady and my colleague here is Ross Bryant - SAS. We’re here to get you out and Chloe’s mother has arranged a helicopter to lift us all to safety. It will make a fly-by today at noon to transmit precise pick-up details. Is your radio still working, Mr Townsend?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed, ‘what frequency shall I set?’

  Brady checked a notebook in his pocket:

  ‘266.9MHz – can we set it up and complete a radio check. It's a standard frequency which has been allocated for all aircraft in this sector picking up other survivors.’

  Les tuned the radio and Brady completed a standard military RT check, which was acknowledged by an aircraft nearby, flying night operations.

  ‘That's good,’ smiled Brady, ‘now, we need to prepare for lift out. You should dress warmly, but no bags – only what you can carry – passports, other ID, sentimental items. If we are ready at noon, there’s a good chance that the chopper will pick us up then.’

  Sue then interjected to try and calm the situation – she sensed a volcano erupting in Chloe.

  ‘Now, how about a nice cup of hot soup Mr Brady? I'm sure you could use one – we certainly could. Can I assume that there will be room for our dog on the helicopter? Also, please make yourself at home - and perhaps we could hear the story regarding Chloe – I'm sure she also has a few questions of her own.’