Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

  He waited ten seconds without acknowledgement and tried again.

  ‘All stations, all stations, this is Rescue Alpha 01, transmitting blind on Guard. Does anyone read? We are four persons ready for lift-out located in the Walthamstow area. Please acknowledge. Does anybody read?’

  No-one answered. Either there were no aircraft within range or something else was going on.

  Indeed there was – the controlling AWACs cruising at forty thousand feet had already taken prompt and decisive action.

  In fact Brady’s callsign and location had been already been blacklisted. No aircraft were going to return to his position or within a mile of it. Rescue 377 had already reported the gunfire incident and the operations control centre had designated his position as a prohibited area and no-one was to acknowledge his callsign. Of course, Brady didn’t know this for certain, so tried the radio one more time:

  ‘All stations, all stations, this is Rescue Alpha 01. Nothing heard, so transmitting blind. Four persons departing present position in Walthamstow, E17 6FM at 1400 GMT. Heading south west for the QEII Bridge. Please report this message to Alpha Foxtrot in Brussels. Over and out.’

  Again, there was no reply, so Brady switched off the radio, took one last look around the cellar and climbed up to the roof where his three companions were ready and waiting. Nevertheless, the AWACs had intercepted the message and, as previously ordered, was relaying the message to Ann Fletcher.

  Brady didn’t know that the message had been picked up, and that a transcript was sitting on Ann Fletcher’s desk thirty minutes later. After reading it three times in complete disbelief, she grew incandescent with rage.

  How could Brady – and especially Ross - have screwed up so badly? The other message, lying in front of her listing the names of the five Townsends picked up didn’t contain her daughters’ name, so she could only assume that Chloe was still out in the snow – with Brady and Ross. She knew that although many survivors were being rescued every hour, she had many reports of violent behaviour by parties on the ground, and at least one helicopter had been downed by desperate members of the general public.

  People were starting to panic in the struggle to escape. Consequently, she knew very well that being on the surface was not entirely safe, so she had to come up with a new plan to snatch Chloe from danger. In fact, she had probably been better off in her shelter at No.50 than she was now. Ann just hoped that her SAS man, Ross, had his act together and kept Chloe safe. She was clearly justified in sending Ross on this mission with Brady, but she would have to address this additional problem quickly. The complication was that Brady and Chloe were now on the move and they didn’t have a radio. Clearly, Ross had one, but Ann didn’t want to show her hand to Brady quite yet, so she would have to use her experience and influence to dig Chloe out of this mess without prejudicing her own position.

  However, she had no particular worries about that – she had done it many times before in her illustrious career.

  She picked up the phone later that day and called the Rescue Operations Centre, and asked for a specific senior RAF officer.

  ‘John, it's Ann Fletcher,’ she smarmed sweetly, ‘I need a small favour.’

  Day 26

  Thursday 9th January

  Sandringham House – Norfolk

  HE Ambassador Ann Fletcher, the newly appointed deputy Prime Minister was calling in as many favours as it might take.

  She had received news of the failure of Brady to catch the rescue helicopter, and that he was heading towards the QEII Bridge with Chloe and the others. She would be travelling to Brussels in the morning, but wanted to make the necessary arrangements as soon as possible.

  She hadn’t risen to the dizzy heights within the Diplomatic Corps without making ‘friends.’ She had made plenty of enemies as well, but these she kept at arm’s length and her new-found seat of power made them seem insignificant. Appointed as Ambassador to Paris at the age of forty five, she was the shining star in the diplomatic firmament. Ann was extremely talented and personable, hiding a truly vicious streak of ruthlessness behind cunning and feminine charms. She would stop at nothing to achieve her personal aims and ambition, and her rivals had learned long ago that she was not a person to cross. She had a long, long memory and there were several civil servants and diplomats languishing in sweaty backwaters that had tried and failed to match her drive and Machiavellian guile.

  She was also generous when dealing with loyalty, and this morning was trying to make contact with the relevant military controllers who could send another helicopter to pick up her daughter. She had reached an Air Marshal who had been ‘friendly’ with Ann during a posting to Rome - subsequently influencing his career progression - and was now attempting to convince him to divert a crew to north-east London to search for Chloe.

  ‘You're putting me on a bit of a spot Ann. I’ve been ordered to search for survivors in a completely random manner. You can imagine that I’ve had many such calls requesting special priority. I’ve got family back there as well, you know.’

  Ann was not to be deterred, and was really not concerned about this chap’s family.

  ‘Of course I understand, John. You’ve got a job to do – as we all have. By the way, how is Lady Christine, I understand she was in Gstaad with you when the snow started? Oh my, I remember, we all had such fun in Rome, didn’t we?’

  Sir John Manners went silent for a few seconds whilst he considered the implied and ‘oh-so-subtle’ threat. He and Ann had ‘dallied’ once or twice in Rome, but he really didn’t want his wife to find out now.

  ‘I also understand, Dame Ann, completely! I’ll sort something out. Can you e-mail me direct at my HQ with all of the info you have and I’ll get onto it in a day or two.’

  Ann was icily calm and specific when she replied.

  ‘I don’t think so, John. There will be no evidence of my request on your computer and I think you can deal with this ‘request’ today. I’ll pass you the information on this line – now!’

  Sir John sighed with resignation at the other end of the line and took down the relevant details of the whereabouts of the four persons to be picked up. He could see no profit in locking horns with this woman. She was just too powerful and quite frankly, he didn’t fancy a posting to the Falklands or some other far-flung outpost in the Third World. Like most of Ann’s contacts he simply gave in graciously. There was no alternative when dealing with Ann Fletcher.

  ‘Thank you, Sir John. I won't forget your kind assistance,’ and she abruptly hung up, having achieved what she wanted.

  Ann smiled to herself and then turned to her next order of business – arranging suitable accommodation for her daughter and Chris. She could deal with Brady in due course. She spent the next fifteen minutes ‘persuading’ a civil service officer of her acquaintance to arrange suitable quarters for her daughter. Somewhere in the South of France perhaps, or a villa in Italy, she hinted? Chris’s family were making headway through the processing procedures and she’d arrange for them to join Chloe if she really had to, but that could wait – she may need to adopt another option to avoid inconvenient loose ends.

  Ann sat back in her leather desk chair, smiling smugly to herself. However, not one to dwell on one issue for too long, she applied herself diligently to the business of the day – a huge pile of correspondence lay in her in-tray.

  She could apply herself to the ‘Brady situation’ when the need arose.

  Day24/25

  Tuesday/Wednesday 7/8 January

  Nr Boston – Lincolnshire

  Mike and his eldest son waited until first light before moving from their position at the top of the stairs of the pub/restaurant he owned and ran, and in which he and his extended family had lived and survived since the storm began in mid-December.

  The assault led by the two strangers Mike had grudgingly sheltered the previous day had temporarily stalled. His son had followed instructions and fired upon anything that appeared in the skylight. It appeared that t
he boy had hit something, because since the incident all had gone quiet. That was several hours ago and as the sun now rose brightly over Boston, Mike was planning, and dreading, the next move. However, he was dog-tired and his senses were dulled.

  ‘Well,’ he smirked, ‘I was bloody well right about those two. You just can't trust anyone in these circumstances. I’m willing and able to give help to anyone who asks, but the trouble is that some people just take the mickey. You offer help and the next thing you know they are taking over and chucking us out into the snow! Well, I'm not bloody having it. We've worked damned hard to get where we are now and I'm not giving it away to some random thugs.’ Mike was ranting wildly.

  His son remained silent, still stunned and shocked by the shooting incident. The rest of the family were down in the kitchen, resting and preparing breakfast. They were all dumbfounded by the attack the previous night and were discussing the future:

  ‘Surely there will be a rescue team out looking for survivors like us?’ questioned Mike’s daughter.

  ‘Yes, I'm sure there will be,’ said Mike’s wife, Susan, ‘but how long will it take them to organise? Mike’s absolutely right to be cautious and keep us safe. That's been proved already,’ she argued loyally.

  They all agreed, but Mike’s father was not convinced. He was concerned with his son’s all-round demeanour. He was also disturbed by the shooting incident. If the attackers responded now, they might be driven to excessive violence and as a consequence the family would certainly suffer. However, he kept his views to himself, but decided to keep a closer eye on Mike.

  Meanwhile, upstairs, Mike was preparing to poke his head up above the parapet. He called up two of the other children and placed them in tactical positions around the bottom of the ladder which led up to the attic window. The ladder wasn’t too badly damaged by the fire from last night and still functional, so Mike approached it confidently.

  He warned his three boys to keep alert, and hoped that his daughter and father were looking out for the others downstairs. Mike had a pistol in his right hand and used his left to guide him very slowly up the ladder. As he reached the top he stopped and listened. He heard nothing and was becoming more convinced that the intruders had scattered. He then held up his bobble hat above the level of the entrance to the window and waved it to try to attract some attention.

  There was no reaction.

  So, he waited thirty seconds and repeated the wave.

  There was still nothing from outside, so he gradually eased his head up until he could see clearly out of the window. The sight greeting him was not at all pleasant. The young boy, who had accompanied the dodgy bloke who visited yesterday, lay in the snow. His face was a mess. It was clear that his son’s shots had hit their mark. The boy was definitely dead. His staring eyes told him that – there would be no need to check for a pulse on this luckless body.

  Mike was genuinely sorry for the lad, but not remorseful. He hadn’t wanted to kill anybody, but they'd left him no choice. He felt sorrier for his son who’d have to live with this for the rest of his life.

  Then Mike re-scanned the area beyond the body, keeping up a commentary of his progress with the boys below, neglecting to mention the dead body. He climbed out onto the roof itself and stood up. He scanned the area carefully around his position and establishing that it was clear, edged up to the ridgeline and took in the entire vista surrounding the pub.

  ‘All clear,’ he shouted, ‘but you three stay down there for a while yet, just to be sure.’

  Mike had an idea and wanted to complete a quick task before letting them up. He hadn’t announced that there was a body on the roof, so he decided to bury it before any of the children joined him. Accordingly, he dragged the dead boy about five metres away from the house, to where the snow was piled high, and heaved a load of fresh snow onto the corpse. In less than five minutes, there was no trace of the poor boy. He returned to the roof, lay his pistol down and began to erase any blood from the tiles with snow. He didn’t want to leave any tell-tale evidence for the rest of the family.

  He was feeling much more relaxed now. He had seen off the intruders and maintained the integrity of his home. They were safe, surely!

  A voice suddenly resounded from above him:

  ‘Thanks for burying the lad, you bastard! You’re right, I have got my own priorities – and today my priority is you!’

  At which he fired both barrels of his shotgun into Mike’s chest.

  Mike flew backwards five metres and landed, dead, in the snow just inches away from the man’s buried accomplice.

  The man turned his head and bellowed instructions:

  ‘Come on lads, we’re in. Get up here fast!’

  The three children in the attic were confused and petrified. They all called out in fear:

  ‘Dad, DAD – are you alright?’

  ‘No he’s bloody well not,’ shouted the man, ‘now lay down your weapons – we’re coming in.’

  And before any of them could reply, or act decisively, the man sprang into the gaping orifice in the roof and scrambled down the ladder. The three children had already stood up and were pointing their rifles in the general direction of the roof light. The man hadn’t had a chance to reload, but was far too quick for the boys. He jabbed the stock of his shotgun onto the head of the first, knocking him cold; turned to the next, who had actually dropped his rifle in fear, prodded him in the stomach and chinned him as his head came forward, also rendering him unconscious. The third boy, unfortunately, was a bit quicker and trained his gun on the man, but before he had a chance to fire, he was hit by a round fired from the roof by another accomplice of the leader. He fell, like a stone to the floor, mortally wounded.

  Mike’s family, in the kitchen below were horrified by the sounds filtering down from above. Only two had weapons - Mike’s daughter and his father. They looked at each other in trepidation and it was Mike’s wife who took control.

  ‘Quick, push the table against the door. Until we hear from Mike we let nobody through that door!’

  They all scrambled to move the heavy table against the door and were just congratulating themselves on accomplishing the task, when the man’s voice boomed out from beyond:

  ‘I'm armed and I'm coming in. I will not hesitate to fire – as your bloody husband has just learned. So, stand back or it’ll go very badly for you all.’

  The family gasped. What the hell had happened to Mike and the boys? The women all started to cry and although Mike’s father was shocked to the core, he remembered Mike’s orders for such an event, and tried to galvanise the group into action.

  ‘Right everybody, down to the wine cellar, quickly! Grab anything you can food, water, clothing. I know Mike has stashed some stuff down there, but we will need as much as we can carry. Come on - quickly!’

  They scrambled around crazily, in panic, for the next ten minutes whilst the man outside screamed maniacally to let him in. He started to bang against the door and fired two shots from his gun into the oak. However it had no immediate effect and after fifteen minutes the remaining members of the family had transferred to the cellar, taking everything they could lay their hands on. They crammed into the underground room, and Mike’s father shut and locked the heavy wooden door lined with metal. He and the others pulled a large filing cabinet across the entrance for further security.

  They all then sat down and waited.

  The men upstairs eventually broke into the kitchen half an hour later, using brute force and ignorance.

  They searched for the family and after a few minutes one of the raiders discovered their hiding place. Two of the men tried forcing the door until the leader told them to stop.

  ‘We’re better off leaving them in there. They won't come out without a fight anyway, and they’ll probably starve to death in a few days – or freeze. Just leave ‘em and we’ll get some grub.’

  The intruders were delighted with their days work, and the six sat down to their first hot meal in weeks. They g
orged themselves stupid, after tying up the two wounded boys and stuffing them in a spare bedroom – the very one that Mo had been locked in two nights before.

  Two of the intruders threw up violently because they weren’t used to such rich, hot food and the quantities involved. Mo was contemplating his next move, but decided that he would not be moving from here in the near future. He had recce’d the house and allocated bedrooms to his crew. They had one each – luxury. Warmth, copious amounts of food and water plus BOOZE – loads of it. He wasn’t overly concerned about the young lad who had been killed by Mike’s son. He was only a stray he'd picked up and was continually whining and moaning. He didn’t want to come on the raid anyway, and was actually trying to negotiate when he'd managed to get his head shot off. Anyway, his death was a good pretext to prove a case for ‘self-defence’ if it came to the crunch with the authorities.

  The six men settled down for the night after a day of indulgence and most fell into a deep, alcohol-fuelled sleep. The next morning, they would start to post a lookout for attracting potential rescuers – but also take steps to deter any visitors – they weren’t giving away what they'd fought so hard to win! Mo was unable to grasp the irony of the situation.

  Poor old Mike lay in his icy grave, as did the boy, left rotting in a hole rapidly dug in the snow to conceal both bodies. They'd just be two more victims of the storm, washed away when the snow eventually melted. Mike’s two other boys spent a freezing night without food or water and were exhausted and suffering from exposure by morning.

  The remainder of the family were not much better off. Although, it was not particularly cold in the cellar – it maintained a temperature of a steady 16.5 degrees Celsius, they were frightened and disoriented. They assumed the worst about the fate of the four men upstairs and were distraught. They ate a meagre, cold meal and settled down for a restless night, barely willing to consider what horrors the morning might bring.

  The morning brought no change. The man left the Scaiffe family in the cellar and continued as before. They set up a guard on the roof and ate a hearty breakfast. They ignored the two boys tied up in the bedroom and continued to indulge themselves.