“Before we go on, how can we be sure they were Russian?” enquired Faraday.
Maison said, “Prime Minister, we’ve verified one PC Stewart’s killer from facial recognition and with the help of Six.” She nodded in recognition to Colby, MI6 director. She continued, “The name’s Vasily Lupov—a known SVR agent, but until recently thought to be active in IC-held Syria helping enemy forces.”
“And the other one?” asked Rose, pointing at the photo from the MI5 drone showing on the bottom centre screen.
“Unknown,” she answered.
“What I find interesting is that they didn’t cover their faces. The SVR know better than most about the prevalence of cameras in this country. Why didn’t they just wear masks?” asked Douglas-Smith.
“Good point, James,” said Colby, “and one I was about to raise too. To me it says they either wanted us to know or they just don’t care. The latter is a distinct possibility these days.”
They went around in circles trying to decipher the Russians’ intentions but came to no conclusion. They left it pending on the outcome of investigations.
“Right, so we know they are Russian—probably SVR—and we think we know how they evaded us. Now, James and Diane, can you tell me what the police and MI5 are doing to track these Russians down and what additional resources you may need?” said Faraday.
James Douglas-Smith, the country’s top police officer, spoke first. “We are working with MI5 as well as the Border Force and the military to track them down and prevent them from leaving the country. This has to be our priority now—”
“Do we think that leaving the UK is their next move?” interrupted Colby.
“It has to be,” said Maison. “Why else would they steal two droids in an ambush? If we consider their motives it can only be one thing: technology theft for reverse-engineering.”
There was more round table discussion, but consensus stayed with the MI5 director’s view. They agreed on additional resources and checks at all ports, airports and the Channel Tunnel as well as additional coast guard patrols and coastal reconnaissance flights. What had become clear, though, was that no one had any idea where the ambushers were.
“Okay, I’ve read the reports and heard the discussion—I agree with this hypothesis. Nothing else makes sense,” Faraday decided. “So how do we take it forward from here?”
The grey-haired, ruddy-faced police chief, James Douglas-Smith, said, “It all happened two hours ago now. They could be two hundred kilometres away, either on or off road, and, as Sir Anthony said, it can go for eight hundred kilometres plus on full charge. So it could be anywhere by now. If they’re like most other suspects they’ll lie low and wait for the heat to die down.”
“We know as well as they do that we can’t resource the operation indefinitely. At some point we’ll need to scale it back,” added Khan, whose Home Office budget would be taking most of the hit.
“Whether we find them or not we can’t let this go unpunished,” said Faraday angrily.
“We’ll be lodging a formal protest through all the usual channels I presume?” said Khan.
“Damn right we will and more if I have anything to do with it! Martin, I want a list of options for retaliation on my desk by lunchtime tomorrow.”
“Will do, Prime Minister. We have assets in places that can do a lot of damage, sir,” replied Colby.
“Do we think this is the last of it or are further attacks likely? And should we consider halting the robot deliveries? Diane...”
“Prime Minister, I think we’re all in agreement that if the Russians had wanted to take more droids they would have done so during the A1 ambush. Further, they would have attacked simultaneously if they wanted to steal a Sentinel, for example. They’d have known our response would be to step up security around the convoys after the first attack. So, no, I think the deliveries should continue. However, we should step up security around the convoys—anything less would be seen as negligent,” she concluded.
“Indeed, Diane. We cannot stop the flow of goods in the face of this attack—we need to show the country—and the world—it’s business as usual in Britain,” agreed Faraday, to nods from his political running mates, Khan and Cotterill. This could actually benefit us in the polls, taking public attention away from the health service for a change, thought the PM, his mind dominated by the impending general election.
The meeting convened half an hour later. On his way out of the Cabinet Offices, Prime Minister Faraday ducked in to use the ablutions. Finally, he had a couple of minutes to reflect. He’d left feeling satisfied they’d covered all of their bases. Not a final plan, not a perfect plan, but one he was okay with. Now he could start thinking about the election once more and hatch the next plan with his inner circle: how to capitalise on the ambush story dominating the news networks. Every cloud has a silver lining, he thought, smiling to himself.
If he’d known how events would soon spiral out of his illusory control then he would not be smiling.
14
Wednesday, February 15th, 2045 08:00am: Victor Zane’s Aero-car, En Route from London to Scotland
The sleek, red, eight-seater looked more like a private jet inside than something previous generations would have recognised as a car. Its aerodynamic shape and four electric-ducted fans propelled it through the low-altitude aero-car lane at over 300kph. It was nowhere near as fast as Zane’s Gulfstream-X, but was far more practical for short to medium hops. For a start, it could slow to a hover and land almost anywhere—usually on helipads. But, unlike helicopters, it was quiet, comfortable and a lot cheaper to run and maintain; not that he worried about the trifling expense in the slightest. It also had the cool factor that no other latest generation toy had and that mattered more to Zane than any of its other advantages. The aero-car lane following roughly beside the A1 had reopened after yesterday’s caper with the Russians. Now both he and his passenger, the Right Honourable John Hardcastle MP, had other things on their minds. They spoke conventionally in this assuredly bug-free space.
“Sometimes it’s refreshing to speak vocally.” Zane grinned, unlocking his forward-facing leather seat to swivel it towards Hardcastle. He stroked the soft, cream leather, regarding the casually dressed politician. He had aged considerably since the BIP had come to power five years before. He still looked distinguished and no doubt many would say handsome, but the lines and wrinkles were more prominent now, the hair greyer. Perhaps it’s the strain of what we are about to do, thought Zane, smirking. He had no such qualms. No real close family. His business empire and the world of his ICS-enhanced mind substituting for what most would call ‘normal’.
“Yes, I agree. There’s only so much mind-talk one can have before confusing the voices in one’s head with … well, the other voices in one’s head…” He unlocked the pivoting base of his own swivel seat and relocked it, facing Zane.
“Are you okay, John?” he asked, retrieving two miniature bottles of single malt and two glasses from the side cabinet. He passed one to Hardcastle and extended the mini-tray table from the armrest.
“Yeah fine… Just a bad night’s sleep. So I suppose you want an update on our Westminster Circle,” Hardcastle replied, gratefully accepting the drink and folding down his own small drinks table.
“That would be nice.” Zane grinned, expectantly.
“So, I am happy to report that the Westminster Circle is now fully staffed. Malik Khan came on board fully last night. Took some persuading but he’s all in,” Hardcastle said, the sense of relief telling in his tone.
“How do we know he’s committed?” enquired Zane.
“The same way we know the others are—fully-granted access to their ICS. Once we’ve got that we can literally read his mind as and when we want to. And, Victor, there are no non-ICS on board as you well know—”
“Yes, yes, I know, I was there, but it always concerns me that there are ways to get around our checks.”
“Well, nothing’s perfect and it’s the best w
e have. At the end of the day it’s why we’ve kept the Westminster Circle to a minimum.”
Zane smiled once more. “Yes, my friend … no risk, no reward.”
The aero-car detoured gently away from the air corridor beside the A1(M), banking left away from the restricted zone. To their right was the British Army’s largest base—Catterick—by then home to over fifteen thousand Centurions and over eight hundred Sentinels. By the last delivery, by Friday, there’d be more. After that, the army would be busy integrating the new machines and the thousands of human operators into the organisation. The schedule said it would take a year before they were ready to return to fight IC. But only the incumbent British Independence Party now committed absolutely to going back to the Middle East and North Africa—both Labour and the Tories had gotten cold feet over the endeavour saying they’d reconsider. Most commentators agreed it was simply to win votes, as the people got used to peace and an improved economy. There was also the commonly held view that the war, which concluded five years ago, marked the end of the bad old days.
“And how is our friend Lieutenant-Colonel Becker getting on with his duties?” asked Hardcastle.
“Ah yes, my friend Becker. Reliable, loyal Mr Becker… He’s gone on his little trip as planned—”
“Just get to the point, Victor, we’ve only got an hour until we arrive!” exclaimed Hardcastle, half-joking. Sometimes he wished Zane would be less mysterious with his verbal speech—or else he might suggest switching back to the more efficient ICS mind-talk.
“Ok, ok, my Right Honourable friend.” He smiled. “Becker is in the Brecon Beacons on exercise with 2 PARA. So right now, he’s sitting in his mobile control trailer. Only The Faithful are with him—the grunts are out getting rained on, playing their war games. The rest of The Faithful will have sown their seeds by close-of-play tomorrow, my friend. They’re not called The Faithful for nothing, you know!”
“And the deliveries? How did the little interruption down there affect the schedule?” probed Hardcastle, looking down to the motorway where the ambush had taken place.
“No big deal. We have extra capacity anyway. Besides, all of the important deliveries are in place and there’s the critical mass now to make this work. By Friday we’ll have it done.”
Hardcastle let out a breath of relief. “That’s good news. Not long now, Victor.”
He beamed back at Hardcastle. “You can always trust United Logistics… We’re With You All the Way!” He quoted his company’s tagline then laughed.
15
Thursday, February 16th, 2045 09:40am: Near Pen y Fan, Brecon Beacons, Wales, UK
The Brecon Beacons National Park was a spectacular of wilderness landscapes covering an area of over twelve hundred square kilometres, but Becker’s regiment of six hundred troops from 2 PARA were here for a series of training exercises their CO had sprung on them at short notice. He spied the overcast horizon from behind the camouflage webbing. The ridges of the Brecon Beacon mountains reminded Becker of huge sandstone dunes as he stood at the threshold of the mobile command unit. The peaks, standing at nearly a kilometre high, were comprised of harder wearing rock, allowing them to maintain their watch over the valleys carved by glaciers in the last ice age. The wind was blowing a fresh northerly, but where the unit was positioned—against the lee of a lesser peak—it was more sheltered from the elements than the troops were. He took another lungful of fresh mountain air and pivoted back into the hi-tech oasis in the sea of wilderness. The workstations were arranged galley-style with seats for five either side. Each of the ten places were the same—egalitarian, with no privileged special chair for Becker. Up front was the cab with two seats, allowing the manual driving sometimes necessary when off-road. Vehicle guidance systems of the day were good, but still didn’t match up to humans at some things. Nine of the workstations were taken up with paratroopers in battledress uniform. They wore head mounted displays while their fingers danced over their large, brushed metal touchpads. The wall mounted displays in front of each soldier mirrored what was seen on their head mounted displays. Some spoke orders into their mics while others confirmed statuses and updated the theatre map.
Becker surveyed his men. He was proud of them. They were nine of The Faithful—all implanted with ICSs, like him, and all fully paid up members of The Plan. When the time came, he knew he could rely on these men. He walked over to his seat. The army didn’t have ICS-interfaced gear—at least not outside of the lab anyway—so he donned the head mounted display and assimilated the latest moves in the war game to take the old farm buildings. His side of the command unit was directing the assault, while the other five behind guided the defenders. He could tap into any of the field soldier’s helmet-cams, getting a first-person view of the battlefield. He could issue orders to their heads-up displays projected onto their helmet visors as well as using audible commands when the situation suited. He loved the power the setup gave him. With just the stroke of his hand and the tap of his digit, he could send a fire team to a position and tell them to lay covering fire onto an enemy position. He and the four men sitting next to him had granted enough ICS access during the exercise to make coordinating such moves a breeze. It was far less cumbersome than talking it all through—thought was efficient, speaking was not. In Becker’s view, the army was missing out on a huge opportunity by resisting the use of ICS technology. Sure, they still needed thinking troops with a measure of field-control, but the speed of combined action and the avoidance of mistakes made it a no-brainer as far as he was concerned.
He left the assault to his teammates and contacted one of the other units he was controlling several hundred kilometres away in London. He mind-spoke to Foxtrot-Eight, one of The Faithful, carrying out his work. This was real work, work that mattered, not some run-of-the-mill war game that no one would care about in a few days’ time.
“Foxtrot-Eight this is Becker. Report?” asked Becker to just one of the dozens of Faithful spread all over the country.
“Sir, everything’s in place. Just exfiltrated the first target, now proceeding to the Pimlico Tube station and target two.”
“Any issues?”
“No, sir, they trust me, recognise my face. Detailed security sweep’s not due for another three days. It’s all sewn up, sir.”
“Good work, friend. We’ll be hailed as heroes when all this is done. Your work will never be forgotten.”
Becker clicked off and contacted Foxtrot-nine in Manchester...
16
Friday, February 17th, 2045 2:40pm: Outside Buckingham Palace, London
It was the first sunny day for what seemed like weeks—a rare treat for the hundreds of tourists milling around outside the world’s most famous palace. The sky was a blue hemisphere of cloud-free clarity, the late winter sun already low and golden. The long shadow of the main building extended past the front railings, casting the famous facade into shade. The palace was first made the official monarch’s residence with Queen Victoria’s ascension in 1837. The Royal Standard fluttered lazily that day indicating His Majesty, King William, was in residence. Guard boxes stood beside each of the three front gates on the forecourt of the palace grounds as well as against the facade itself. Clad in their distinctive red tunics and bearskins hats, the soldiers of the Coldstream Guard were charged with protecting the palace. The units, manned by fully trained, serving soldiers carried assault rifles complete with fearsome looking bayonets. Although the Royalty Protection branch of the Met Police took a lead on dealing with nuisances and intruders, the guards were ever ready for the first sign of trouble.
Private Oliver Austin dreaded the prospect of having to deal with the type of loonies that tried to breach palace security. Just last month some fruitcake from Nigeria had scaled the twelve floor railings at night before officers could respond. Guards had intercepted him first and warned him to calmly proceed to the nearest exit gate. He’d refused and drawn a knife, saying he wanted to discuss the treatment of his people in Northern Nigeria with th
e King. One of the guards had raised his bayonet and caught the intruder on the forearm, cutting him slightly. Thankfully, the police got there—eventually—and Tasered the joker. Unbelievably—to Austin, at least—the poor colleague who had no more than scratched the fool had been suspended pending an inquiry. And that was why he dreaded it. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, he thought pessimistically.
He was happy that the weather was nice, as he stood in the left-most guard box below the famous frontage. The alert level had finally been shifted back to ‘Heightened’ after the Russian attack earlier in the week. It was hundreds of kilometres from London and the Ruskies were probably long gone—back off to the Motherland working out how they could make billions from stolen British tech. Slippery bastards, he thought as he considered the news reports he’d read about them. He wished he’d been there to have a pot-shot at them. He considered himself a great marksman, but, truth-be-told, wasn’t too sure how he’d fare against Russian SVR agents. Most of them were former SPETSNAZ and up there with the best. His mind wandered to football and the title race between his team—Arsenal—and their arch rivals, Spurs. They were playing at the Emirates stadium the next day and he was off shift and planning to watch the match with his mates and a few dozen beers. He smiled to himself. Happy days...
His day was about to become less happy, as tourists started moving away from a section of railing, pointing at the two figures trying to climb it.
“Oh God, here we go...” muttered Austin, his senses suddenly keener as he got ready to move.
Both men were dressed in jeans and dark hoodies and wore leather gloves. Shades and face-scarves obscured their faces. The one on the left wore a red face scarf, the one on the right a blue one. They were lean, strong and moved with a precision Austin had rarely seen outside of the military—nothing like the fruitcakes that normally invaded the grounds. Perhaps young activists of some sort ... possibly, he thought.
Overlord Page 14
