“Sure, thanks for your help,” concluded Dyer as the first truck eased its way out of the lay-by and towards the heart of the garrison. Now the job of getting them into the Robot Storage Facility would begin.
10
Monday, February 13th, 2045 1:30pm: Thames House, Central London
The MI5 surveillance drone hovering over Colchester Garrison had almost completed its work for the day. Its operators sat in Thames House, ninety kilometres to the southwest, and had had to keep it below the low cloud that had plagued them all day. They’d tracked the half-kilometre long road-train all the way from BDS Doncaster to the army base. There were fifteen other MI5 drones monitoring road trains that day—all of them at risk of interception and hijacking. Forty percent of the trucks had arrived safely with the remainder still in transit.
The uncovering of further Russian cells operating around the robot army programme had left the Security Service deeply concerned. Sophie Walsh and Dean Ashley sat in front of Diane Maison updating her on Operation Swordfish—the prevention of SVR attempts to hijack one or more robot-carrying auto-trucks while in transit. Her office was a corner, top-floor suite with sweeping views across the river. Its dark wood panelling and high ceiling gave an air of unshakable British tradition and solidity.
“I hear things are going well with the distribution of robots around the country,” she said.
“Ma’am, six road-trains have completed their deliveries with loads secured by the military. Another nine are still in transit. We’re tracking them all downstairs,” reported Ashley.
“And tracking of the suspected SVR agents? Have we managed to find the slippery Mr Dasayev yet?”
“No and that’s what’s worrying us most. What’s more, the other suspected agent, Zhanna Zykina, has not reported into work today at BDS in Doncaster. She seems to have gone dark too,” lamented Ashley.
“So what happened? How could we have lost them both?” challenged a displeased sounding Maison.
“Ma’am,” started Sophie, “we were using police resources to track Zykina. They’ve had her house under twenty-four hour surveillance, but she somehow gave them the slip last night. She came home last night after a jog, but when they covertly entered her house this morning they found it empty.”
Maison shook her head in disgust. She knew that they’d only used police resources because they were overstretched. The police were doing them a favour, but it wouldn’t stop the complaint she’d lodge with the Home Office later on. In her view, if they took the job on then they should have been up to the task. “And Dasayev? What’s the story there? Not another cock-up I hope!”
“Fredrickson and Logan tracked him last night when he went out to a pub in Leeds. At least, they thought it was him. He went into the gents and never came out again. Naturally, they went in to check after he’d taken a while and they found no one. They searched the toilets and eventually found a bag containing a disguise,” reported Sophie, embarrassed at her colleagues’ lack of professionalism. She and Ashley were lead agents on the operation, so carried accountability, if not responsibility.
“So you mean someone came out who they didn’t see go in and they didn’t think anything of it?”
“No, ma’am, unfortunately not.”
“So did they manage to get the impostor on CCTV?” asked a highly irritated Maison.
“Yes they did and facial analysis identified him as a known SVR agent named Vadim Usenko,” informed Ashley in a low voice. He knew they’d been outfoxed by their adversaries and so did Maison and Sophie. For three known enemy agents to give them the slip at this vital juncture spelt more than a foul-up and could be a disaster in the making.
“Quite apart from the shortcomings displayed here, the timing alone gives me great cause for concern. Please tell me the armoured vehicle Vasayev stashed is still sitting in a barn under surveillance.”
“Yes, ma’am, we’ve had twenty-four-seven drone observation since we discovered it ten months ago. Only thing that’s approached the barn since then is the land owner who came by a couple of times. He checks out okay. Needless to say, no infantry fighting vehicle has been driven away,” said Ashley.
“Well, this is the vital time window. Have an additional drone put on that barn. If we’re right about their plan, then they’re going to drive that IFV out of there soon,” instructed Maison.
They detailed their efforts to track down the missing Russians. Maison was far from satisfied but could live with it for the time being. Although mightily tempted, they didn’t need the distraction of disciplinary action at that point—they were overstretched as it was and she still believed at least Ashley and Sophie were competent. Later on there would be time to do the after-action reviews and censure those found lacking. For now, they had to continue with Operation Swordfish and disrupt the Russian plot. She believed they were on the right track regarding the hijacking part, but what came after that was anyone’s guess if she was honest with herself.
There were plenty of theories. The most parsimonious of them was that they’d simply steal at least one Centurion and one Sentinel and somehow spirit them back to Russia for reverse engineering. That was the plan that made most sense. After all, they’d been trying to get their hands on the latest tech for years. The fact was the cost of failure for Russia simply wasn’t high enough anymore. For the price of a few spies—which they seemed to churn out proficiently and numerously—they had a decent chance of hitting the jackpot with the bounty of British tech they could steal. It used to be that there’d be sanctions, diplomatic pressure and the threat of EU and American pressure too. But now the Russians didn’t really care if Britain huffed and puffed over one transgression after another. There was little trade anymore, no EU and no NATO and the nuclear umbrella of both countries did the rest.
Some analyst had suggested mass attacks by Russian-controlled robots. But to Maison that was too far-fetched. For a start, what would they gain from it? Secondly, they’d not been able to breach British military cyber-security in any significant way for a very long time. Likewise, gaining physical access to the three operations centres to launch an attack was preposterous. The underground ops centres were below Colchester, Aldershot and Catterick garrisons so were nigh-on impossible to over-run without a full scale invasion. And even if they’d managed to covertly infiltrate the centres, every robot operator was monitored by their section officer. No, the SVR planned a snatch-and-grab. Now it was a question of where and when.
They moved on to the sniper killings that had taken two promising young MI5 officers’ lives ten months ago. Pardew and Green were just waiting outside of the office where the three of them now sat when a remote sniper using a PWP—Precision Weapons Platform—had taken their lives. The final report was due for release and Maison had finished reading it just the previous day.
“I know how shaken up the two of you were seeing what happened to Pardew and Green. It was a terrible loss for all of us,” she said sombrely. “The final report’s out tomorrow and, as you probably already know, it’s inconclusive.”
The incident had changed Sophie’s perspective more than she cared to admit. They’d never caught the sniper and they didn’t even know which of their many enemies carried out the attack. The fact of the matter was that there was only so much they could do to prevent future sniper attacks. It was all too easy for a flying PWP to slip under London’s security blanket undetected and fire off a few shots. Even if there was local help launching the PWP, the shooter could be anywhere—in another country or in the next street—making him or her impossible to catch. But, for Sophie, the residual threat played on her mind when walking the streets. When life could be snatched from one in such a fashion, it challenged her inner security. Ashley was shaken too, but he’d long since accepted that life was fragile. He’d grown up in a rough area of town and had seen more than his fair share of gang violence and bloodshed. Violence seemed to be either just above or just below the surface as a common thread throughout his youth and c
areer.
***
Monday, February 13th, 2045 6:30pm: Somewhere in Leeds, England
Pavel Dasayev sat at the booth in the far left corner of the large, modern pub in the centre of town. He sipped his pint of lager and observed the scene. The long bar was tended by just two young barmaids and the place was only a quarter full. Most of the patrons were in for an after-work pint or three, while some sat eating the usual pub grub at dark, round tables between the booths and bar. He watched the door and the wet pavement beyond, streetlights and the colourful neon of the pub’s sign reflecting off its rain-soaked surface. Pod-like autonomous cabs whizzed past, with nothing of their quiet electric hum sound penetrating the pub’s plate glass windows and wide doors.
He’d never met Zhanna Zykina before, but had seen her file photo and found her most pleasing to the eye. He’d thought that if she looked good on her official SVR file mug shot then she’d look even better in full feminine regalia. Dasayev was a different kind of spy—one who could blend in by looking like most British men in their early forties: pale, balding and overweight. But his additional pounds were superficial—beneath his black leather jacket and standard blue jeans he was a trained killer and extremely fit. He’d been in the country for almost two years, but he now saw light at the end of the tunnel, as the British would say. He didn’t dislike the place and was not unhappy living there and working as a robot maintenance tech. However, like Zykina, he was only dimly aware that he didn’t truly have a choice. He wondered how he’d become so loyal to the oligarchy in Moscow. He didn’t get paid much and they treated him like shit in the army—especially when he joined up all those years ago. They’d even tricked him into signing paperwork to be part of an experimental implanted technology programme. But those details were all a bit hazy now. It was half a lifetime ago. Now he loved Mother Russia and felt an inexplicable loyalty to her and the SVR. He couldn’t imagine living without his ICS either. It had become part of him, interwoven with his internal voice and a guiding light telling him right from wrong.
Five minutes later, he sensed that Zykina would soon walk through the door. This happened to him sometimes—especially with regard to his work. He could almost see the petite, tan-skinned beauty in a dark, fitted coat stepping in from the rain and into the pub. A hood covered her head from the inclement weather and the CCTV cameras found outside. It was like a premonition. But when it actually happened it was more like déjà vu, since the augury seemed to fade like a dream with time. He decided to get up and buy her drink in preparation for her arrival: a glass of pinot noir. He thought that she looked like a red wine kind of girl.
He checked his watch and, right on cue, there she was. She took a quick look around and spotted him straight away, waving as if they were on some carefree date night. Two men chatting at the bar stopped and turned their heads as she walked past them. A third man, who Dasayev pegged as being on a real date, looked reflexively past his companion’s shoulder as Zykina passed their table. The girlfriend didn’t look too impressed, folding her arms and pulling a face. They’d deliberately chosen this pub as it was one of the few that was not part of the national CCTV network. Both agents had arrived directly outside the pub, minimising their exposure to detection.
Dasayev got up to greet her and whispered in Midlands-accented English, “Hello darling... You’re looking stunning.” He hugged and kissed her mouth, but didn’t push his luck for fear of making a scene. She felt good, smelt good, and looked good. Part of his mind censured him and forced him to get back on task.
“Hi baby,” she replied in an equally convincing Home Counties accent. She smiled her inviting smile as if greeting a new, exciting boyfriend and sat down next to him, holding his hand.
They continued their conversation, both smiling as if smitten by new love without a care in the world. They needed to talk normally rather than via ICS or else onlookers might find it strange.
“Is everything in order?” he asked quietly, holding eye contact while still smiling.
“Yes, I’ve obtained the schedule. The target road-train sets off at 8am tomorrow. It will pass the intercept point at 9:15am. I will transfer the details to you now...” she said.
His ICS notified him of the incoming data and he directed it to accept. He could now see the document she had sent: auto-truck registration numbers, schedule, contents et cetera.
“Ok, received. Only two ARVs and a police drone. This should be easier than we think. No armed guards in the trucks themselves?” he enquired.
“No, I have not observed that on any of the trucks that went out today. It’s not in the plan for any of the deliveries. No reason to, they’re in Great Britain, a country of law and order with the best police in the world,” she replied mockingly.
“Ok,” he smiled, “we have a go from Moscow for tomorrow. Other cells are in place and ready to do their part of the plan. We will set off for the safe house shortly and wait there until morning. We will proceed to the storage location in the early hours. Then it’s show time, as they say. We will soon fight together and get one over on these arrogant Brits!” He grinned.
He tried his luck once again, still playing the boyfriend part, and leaned to kiss her. She didn’t stop him, parting her soft, full lips more willingly than he expected. He was becoming aroused now and was telling her as much with his ICS. Now he just hoped that they’d find a fruitful way to spend their last night in Britain.
11
Monday, February 13th, 2045 11:30pm: Severalls Industrial Estate, Colchester, England
Mickey was chuffed to have the boss give him such an easy, well-paid gig. Ten grand for a few days’ hanging around a dark warehouse—Bloke must be bonkers, he thought of Mr Zane, laughing to himself. The other two goons—or security officers, as the boss called them optimistically—were there with him. Alfie and Beast were youngsters in comparison to Mickey with his chequered history of security work and criminality. It didn’t seem to bother Mr Zane when he hired them into his private security force. He knew these two lads were hardly lily white either. Probably wants us for his dirty work, thought Mickey. And very soon they would need to actually do something other than sit around bullshitting over the Hammers’ latest win in the Europa Cup group stage. The auto-truck was ETA five minutes and they’d need to get tooled up and keep a look out just in case. He didn’t know exactly why they were receiving a load this late at night. He didn’t know what was in the container they’d received months ago either. He didn’t want to know—the less he knew the less he’d need to lie about if the law got involved. As far as he was concerned, he was just doing his job and following orders. The forty-footer still sat there in the corner, all locked up, its shipping seal still intact. He was long enough in the tooth to realise that no one paid this kind of money without there being some kind of risk involved. This was a dodgy deal of some sort, but he knew better than to ask Mr Zane what it was.
He checked the time. “Oi, yer couple o’ layabouts... Get off yer arses and ’ave a look outside! Got this lorry comin’ soon. I’ll wait in ’ere. Gimme a shout when it’s coming and I’ll open up. Alright?”
“Yeah Mickey, alright,” said Alfie.
The hulk of a man, Beast, just grunted and followed the smaller man through the door outside.
A few minutes later, Alfie stuck his head back inside and said, “It’s comin’ up the road, guv.”
“Alright, keep a look out for the pigs. First sign of trouble and I’m outta ’ere. Got it?” said Mickey.
“Yeah, me as well.” Alfie went back outside and ducked behind a bush beside the perimeter wall next to Beast as the auto-truck slowed. It executed a slow left turn as the wide, segmented door started rising to let it in. The autonomous truck edged forwards until it sensed it could complete the final forty metres of its journey. It eased into the warehouse illuminating the dark space, stopping five metres short of the rear wall. Mickey closed the door as soon as it had cleared the front wall. Alfie and Beast returned from outside.
<
br /> “Right, boys, our instructions are to check it over, make sure it’s not been touched then bugger off out of ’ere.”
“What d’yer finks in it, guv? Wouldn’t we be better off knowin’, see what we’re gettin’ ourselves into?” asked Alfie.
“Listen, mate, you boys are ’ere to do the doin’. Leave the finkin’ to me. Got it?”
“Alright Mickey,” conceded Alfie, but was still curious as hell.
They checked the truck. All was in order, with the load intact.
“Right, you two louts,” said Mickey, smiling, “who’s up for a few pints and go see some chickin’ dippers?”
“Yeah, alright Mickey,” replied Alfie.
“Yeah, can do,” said an unsmiling Beast.
“Jesus, Beast, smile you miserable bastard! Yer just made two large, mate!” exclaimed Mickey in jest.
Beast said nothing. They locked up and left.
***
Eight pints and three private dances later, Alfie returned to the warehouse alone. Mum used to say it was good to be inquisitive—means you’ll be clever when you’re older, thought the impulsive and lagered up Alfie. He didn’t know why, but he hated not knowing what was in that auto-truck. He was the same at Christmas as a kid—not many years ago in fact—on one of the few occasions he’d actually got a present. He simply had to unpeel the paper and have a look. He worked at it as Hardy had taught him at the young offenders’ institute. With these modern trucks it’s bloody harder than it used to be, he lamented to himself. Finally, he managed to unbolt the siding and get it moving a few inches before it seemed to lock in place again.
He retrieved the compact torch from his mouth and slurred, “Bloody fing!”
He pointed the beam inside the truck and his jaw dropped. “Bloody ’ell!” he muttered, suddenly feeling a lot more sober and a lot more frightened.
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