Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

  They were a contrasting group of varying ethnic, political and religious peoples. They all had differing needs and skills, but had one vital interest in common - they could not remain or exist as temporary residents, with no rights or sense of belonging. They all needed a future!

  Apart from the rescue operation presently in progress over the UK and Eire, his immediate priority – until the snow completely melted – was to secure some sort of permanent prospects for these citizens of the UK.

  ‘Have we got the shortlist and ministries for the new Cabinet, Ann?’ asked Sir Ian.

  ‘Yes, we've got you, me and fifteen ex-MPs and MEPs each with a specific portfolio. The list is here for you to give your approval,’ replied Ann.

  Sir Ian scanned the list and nodded his head tiredly. He had hardly slept for nearly a week now and was looking drawn. Dame Ann continued.

  ‘We’ll get a 7pm flight out of here tomorrow night. That’ll give us some time to prepare for Cabinet at noon the next day. By the way we've got some figures for today’s rescues. There have been 987 sorties flown and our leaflets have been dropped over most centres of population. We've specially targeted blocks of flats and office complexes as it appears that most survivors are in these locations. A total of just over four thousand five hundred people have been picked up already. Ops will cease at nightfall and commence again tomorrow at first light. Not a bad start and I believe that as the sun continues to shine, more and more survivors will creep out of their hidey-holes. I'm told there have been some incredible survival stories so far.’

  Sir Ian smiled briefly.

  ‘Some progress at last,’ he sighed. We need some good news. ‘I don’t suppose there's been any update regarding Stevenage?’

  Dame Ann knew exactly to what Sir Ian was referring. His wife had been at home in the Hertfordshire town when the snow began in December. Ann had made a call to the rescue co-ordinators earlier that day, and a speculative sortie to his specific residence was programmed for the next day.

  ‘No, Ian, no news as yet. I'm sure that we’ll have some information shortly.’ Sir Ian had no idea that Ann had arranged a search - as he would never have authorised jumping the queue for his own personal interest. Of course, he knew all about his deputy’s secret rescue scheme, but that was within his purview to allow, and it was being monitored closely.

  ‘Anything else to report, Ann?

  Dame Ann referred to the sheaf of papers on her lap.

  ‘Yes, there's quite a bit. The newspaper – GB News - was printed and issued this morning across the refugee population, and I have suggested that we publish it Europe wide. I'm going to ask all newspaper agencies across the world to print extracts every day, so that our people everywhere can keep in touch. That will take the pressure off the phone lines and e-mail.

  The tourism industry has taken quite a hit as a result of the snow. As you know, all flights to a cross-section of specifically named holiday destinations were cancelled at Christmas to prevent double-booking, and the potential eviction of Brits at hotels and resorts across the world. Individual countries are recommending that their nationals either delay their holidays, cancel them altogether or just vacation at home. Clearly, some alternative destinations are doing very well out of it – you know, countries that Brits don’t normally visit – like South America for example. One couldn’t book a cruise now for love nor money!

  I'm distributing a questionnaire to all displaced British residents which discusses the potential options for the future. We need to get a clear idea of just how many people we are dealing with. I’ve tried to paint a picture of conditions at home, and convey that it could be many years before the country is back on its feet. Therefore, there will be many difficult questions for refugees to answer, for example: where am I going to live? - what am I going to do for work? - how will I educate my children? - and more importantly; will I ever want to return to the UK?’

  Sir Ian agreed with Ann’s sentiments. These refugees would not be returning to the UK in the short term because it was just not habitable. Apart from the damage caused by the snow, the floodwaters to come would cause untold destruction and under it all were, potentially, millions of cadavers to deal with. It was truly unthinkable and horrific – but the truth was inescapable. He doubted whether many people had made the psychological jump to acceptance of these cruel facts. He knew it may be months before he could even start issuing lists of the dead so that their relatives could achieve some sort of closure, and then try to get on with the shreds of their lives!

  His deputy continued.

  ‘You will have to chair the international conference being set up for next week, Wednesday the fifteenth of January, in New York at the UN, to discuss the refugee situation. Governments are being asked to volunteer and submit numbers of immigrant families they can take on a short and long term basis. I expect you’ll be there at least a fortnight. I can hold the fort here, if you approve.’

  ‘You really think it will take that long? I presume we’ll need an army of civil servants to do the paperwork – I suppose someone is organising that?’

  ‘Yes, Ian, and you will have one of the new Cabinet with you to assist. It won't be that bad and it’ll get you away from all this for a while. I can fly out to swap after a week or two if you get too tired.’

  Sir Ian was resigned to his fate,

  ‘Fine, we’ll see how it goes. How’s the weather looking?’

  Ann Fletcher referred to a sheet amongst her papers which had the latest Met report.

  ‘Not good, I'm afraid. This area of high-pressure will be pushed out of the way by Sunday and a warm front is due in by that evening, bringing rain - and lots of it! We’re going to get massive amounts of flooding as the temperature rises, and the risk to life of anybody not above ground by then is increased dramatically. The sea ice around the coastline is all but gone in the south, but isolated patches remain in the north, the Irish Sea and the Scottish Islands. Parts of the shoreline are beginning to become distinguishable as the snow recedes. However, I'm told that fog will become an issue next week and may hamper rescue ops.

  We are stepping up rescue flights and all heli-craft are being retro-fitted with skis for landing on snow if it's safe enough. That’ll be up to the judgement of individual pilots. More ships and helicopters are being requisitioned, many of which will be manned by returning troops.’

  The PM looked even glummer.

  ‘It's just one more thing after another. We get a foothold in this fight to the death and then something else jumps up to bite us. Will it never end?’

  ‘We’re doing our best Ian; we can do only that for the present, and no more. I don’t believe that anyone is criticising our methods. I reckon that most rational people understand what we’re up against!’

  Sir Ian looked up at Ann and shook his head.

  ‘No Ann, I don’t think anybody really comprehends what we are up against – and how many rational people do you know?’

  Day 25

  Wednesday 8th January

  Walthamstow – East London

  At 1140am Brady switched on the radio, checked the frequency on Les Townsend’s ancient set and made a brief call.

  ‘Rescue 377, do you read, this is Alpha 01?’

  Silence. Brady repeated his call once again.

  ‘Rescue 377, do you read, this is Alpha 01?’

  Ten seconds passed before a reply echoed through the cellar.

  ‘Alpha 01, good day, this is Rescue 377, reading you loud and clear, go ahead.’

  Brady passed his message:

  ‘Rescue 377, good-day, Alpha 01 reads you loud and clear. We are in position at the pre-briefed location. We have nine pax and one dog for pick-up, over.’

  Rescue 377 replied instantaneously.

  ‘Roger, Alpha 01, for security: Authenticate ‘Alpha Foxtrot’.

  This was a method the military used to ensure that their radio contact was indeed genuine.

  Brady was ready and replied immediately.<
br />
  ‘Roger 377: I authenticate ‘Charlie Zulu’, over’

  ‘Roger, Alpha 01, authentication correct. We are one-fife minutes out. Are we able to land at your location, over?’

  ‘Negative, 377, you’ll have to hover and use a winchman, over.’

  ‘Understood, 01, please be ready as we don’t like to expose ourselves for too long. Any hostiles?’

  ‘Negative 377, it appears all clear and we’ll be waiting and ready. Alpha 01, over and out.’

  ‘See you in one-four minutes, 01, good luck, 377 out.’

  Brady switched off the radio and turned to the waiting passengers. He and Ross had closely supervised their preparations for the lift out. They were all dressed warmly, with no baggage. All they were allowed to carry were wallets and handbags holding personal identity documents and small items of sentimental value plus any cash they had. Brady had shown them all upstairs to inspect the way out, and had allocated the order in which they would be lifted up to the chopper. Sue first, with the dog, followed by Lynne, Marie, Les, Matt, Chris and Chloe. Brady and Ross would bring up the rear.

  ‘Right, are we ready to go? It's time to say goodbye to your home - you might not be coming back for a while. Ross, will you go up and clear the area whilst we wait in the bedroom for your go-ahead.’

  ‘Okay, Andy. I’ll call them up one at a time. You don’t really want to be up there trying to cope with the down-draught.’

  The family took one more look around the cellar, traipsed upstairs one final time and waited nervously on the landing awaiting the call forward from Ross. None of them had ever been in a helicopter before, let alone been winched up into one!

  They had all been full of questions about where they were going and what was to become of them, but Brady was as much in the dark as they were, so couldn’t really give them much information. He merely looked at his new found daughter, Chloe, and made one short comment:

  ‘At least you’ll be seeing you mother soon.’

  Chloe smiled thinly, rolled her eyes to the ceiling and looked away.

  *********

  Across the road, Joey and Mickey had been biding their time, but were beginning to grow very impatient.

  ‘The others are going to be wondering where the fuck we are, Mickey! If something doesn’t happen soon, I'm going back to get reinforcements,’ threatened Joey.

  Mickey was about to voice his agreement when they heard the whop-whop-whop of an approaching helicopter.

  ‘Right, let's go, it's time to get out of here!’

  The pair sprang up, abandoning their gear, but not their weapons and hurried across the road towards No.50. They left the cover of the house as the helicopter dropped into the hover.

  ********

  The winchman commenced his descent as soon as the chopper was steady above the roof where Brady and Sue stood. Within sixty seconds a bewildered Sue and a terrified Bracken were safely inside and Lynne was on her way up.

  Mickey and Joey were around at the front of No.50 and realised that they must act swiftly if they were to be picked up. So, they made their way round to the rear and appeared just as Les was being hauled inside the body of the helicopter.

  They were both brandishing weapons and shouting wildly, attempting to be heard above the noise and snow swirl generated by the chopper. Brady was standing on the roof with Chris, and Ross stood just inside with Chloe.

  All that the helicopter crew saw was weaponry being pointed wildly in their general direction by Mickey and Joey. The pilot had strict Operating Instructions for such a situation, so he applied the engine power to maximum and wheeled the aircraft sharply away and upwards, away from the potential threat on the roof. Within ten seconds they were three hundred metres away and out of danger.

  As it climbed away and the noise receded, Mickey and Joey were apoplectic.

  ‘Where the fuck are they going? Come back, you bastards!’ at which point Joey raised his rifle and prepared to fire a shot at the disappearing chopper.

  However, Ross, ever vigilant and aware of his prime duty, was too sharp for him and dropped him with a double tap to the body. As Mickey turned in surprise, pointing his gun at Brady and Chris, Ross obliged once more and shot him twice.

  Chloe screamed and Ross grabbed her roughly, placing his hand roughly across her mouth:

  ‘Quiet, lass. There might be more of them.’

  Brady was aghast. Two dead men, no chopper and two survivors on his hands. He stood paralyzed with shock until Ross got a grip:

  ‘Brady, get Chris inside – we need to get back on the radio and call that chopper back here, pronto. I’ll take Chloe. If there is anyone else about, we’ll need to get under better cover.’

  Brady didn’t move.

  Ross shoved him hard towards the roof breach and screamed at him again:

  ‘Come on, mun, get a hold of yourself. They’re dead and we might well be if they’ve got any mates around the corner. Get inside, for fuck’s sake!’

  Day 26

  Thursday 9th January

  Royal Air Force Station Rheindahlen – Germany

  Eve and John Stubbins, their daughter Violet and son Henry had been on holiday in Paphos, Cyprus when the snow had started on the fifteenth of December.

  They had arrived at their private rental villa with heated swimming pool just outside the town on Saturday the fourteenth, for a well-earned three week break in the winter sun. It was something they had enjoyed for the past five years with their two teenaged children. They all adored the Cypriot way of life, cuisine and the reliable winter temperatures which hovered in the mid-twenties centigrade. They lived in Settle, North Yorkshire, and most winters up on the high ground were usually snowy and cold. The warmth of Cyprus made Christmas very pleasant indeed.

  However, by Day 3 of the storm, after they had watched, with growing alarm, the Prime Minister’s speech on their satellite television, they became extremely apprehensive. The rest of their holiday was spent glued to the TV, trying to make sense of it all. John had contacted the airport and discovered that there were no flights into or out of the UK until further notice. Although, the family was not due to fly back until the fourth of January, they made several visits to the Easy Jet office in Limassol with their hire car, and had rung the British High Commission in Nicosia, but with no success. They couldn’t even get through to speak with anyone who might pass them information.

  On their visit to the airport, they noticed about twenty various UK based aircraft parked on the aprons, merely sitting and waiting – very much like the twenty thousand other British tourists now stranded on the island.

  About a week before they were due to return home they eventually managed to get through to the High Commission in Nicosia, who advised them to obtain a copy of the Cyprus Mail, which featured guidance from the island’s administrators. They bought a copy and hungrily read the information within before deciding on a way forward.

  They had few options. Firstly, they could remain in their current accommodation – rent to be paid by the High Commission – (they had little money remaining anyway, since their bank cards were of no use) – and await the end of the storm. Secondly, they could fly out to another country at their own cost and try their luck from there. Finally, in due course, the High Commission would be authorising their airline to fly them back to a yet unknown destination in Europe for an indefinite period, pending a resolution of the crisis. There was absolutely no chance of returning to the United Kingdom.

  The family talked it through at length, and although the children wanted to stay in Cyprus and lie on the beach instead of going back to school, Eve and John wanted to get back nearer to home. Both had close family in the UK and wanted to be nearer to them. So, the decision was made.

  On the fourth of January, the Stubbins packed their suitcases and boarded the Easy Jet night-flight 6009 to Monchengladbach in Germany. They arrived at 4am, tired and hungry, and into a hell of unimaginable proportions.

  They were led off the aircra
ft into an airport lounge where they spent the next seven hours, without food, awaiting the arrival of a British representative to process their personal details. The children entertained themselves with Gameboys and at first were mildly amused by the chaos – however this feeling rapidly changed. They were forced to join a queue of literally hundreds of other ex-holiday makers and waited until 3.30pm before they reached the front. They gave their names and were supplied a questionnaire, their passports examined meticulously, supplied with vouchers for food and drink, and instructed tersely to return the completed forms ASAP.

  The paperwork took them an hour to complete after which they joined another queue. By 9pm, they reached the front once more, where the questionnaire was taken by a bad tempered, albeit British clerk, and their passports re-examined. More food vouchers were issued; then they were directed to a departure lounge and asked to return tomorrow morning at 10am.

  The family were now beginning to wish that they'd listened to the kids and had remained in the sunshine of Paphos, but that was now a forlorn hope. After spending an uncomfortable and restless night on hard plastic chairs, John joined yet another queue and by 2pm, was given yet more food vouchers and tickets for a coach which would take them to their temporary accommodation – tomorrow morning at 10am. An airport map showed the location of the bus pick up point, which was at the other end of the departure lounge, at Gate 34. Another night was spent, this time on the floor, with no proper washing facilities. Children wailed, elderly folks moaned in distress and one man died of a stroke. It was physical and mental torture of the worst kind!

  By the next morning, the increasingly despairing and fatigued Stubbins family queued yet again for their bus, which conveyed them and their luggage to their present location. This destination had been allocated because John was a surgeon and Eve a dentist. They were dropped off at a barrack block at RAF Rheindahlen, HQ RAF Germany. An efficient and very friendly RAF corporal showed them to their rooms – one for the children and one for the parents, and gave them a short overview of the situation. He also gave them a map of the base, an update on the storm and a copy of the GB News. He informed them that an orientation session would take place this evening at 2000 hours, at which they could ask questions and would probably learn ‘what might happen next.’