Already they were down from the railing top, having jumped and landed as exactly as any gymnast. Austin looked around for his colleagues and the damned tardy coppers. Ah there, he thought as he saw two carbine-bearing unformed police jogging up to talk to the intruders.
They were shouting, holding out their flat palms, “Stop! Police!”
The men kept on coming as other armed police and guards closed in on them. They seemed unarmed and had no obviously concealed weapons. Other security men took up stand-off positions just in case. They were ten metres from the two would-be arresting officers when they stopped and got out their Tasers. Austin froze and raised his rifle, aiming at the guy on the left, still walking forward as if he was unstoppable. There was something very strange about his gait—so precise, so uniform in speed and motion.
“Stop! Police! I will fire my Taser if you do not stop!”
A red laser spot lit up the chests of both intruders, indicating the aim point of the Tasers. Neither of them stopped and at the same time, both Tasers fired. The two pairs of dart-like electrodes flew through the air striking both suspects in the torso. The intruders didn’t even break step.
Perhaps they’re wearing body armour, thought Austin, as his sense of alarm grew with every step they took. The policemen dropped their Tasers, per procedure, and retreated, instinctively reaching for their weapons. They started back peddling faster, trying to maintain distance. They couldn’t open fire on unarmed intruders and someone would need to tackle and arrest the duo. But who? Austin hoped it wouldn’t be him. These guys looked tough.
“Stop! You are under arrest for trespass—”
The policeman’s voice trailed off as the rightmost intruder—Blue-Scarf—grabbed his weapon by the barrel with lightning speed, pointing the carbine upwards. He wrenched it forward, prizing it from the cop’s hands. Red-Scarf did the same to the shorter policeman. With inhuman strength, both policemen were flung around by the gun strap, releasing them to fall into a heap several metres away. Austin could hardly believe his eyes. But what they’d done had changed the game—they’d just assaulted two police officers which warranted a show of force that would land them in court. He started running towards the intruders—who were now advancing towards the archway to the right of the palace façade. Three other guards were converging on the two—one from the left with Austin and the other two from the front gate guard boxes. Four other guards knelt on one knee taking aim at the seemingly invincible adversaries. He neared Red-Scarf at full pelt and raised his rifle butt higher still, ready for the knockout blow. He rose up and went to slam it down on the hooded head, but, with the reactions of a fly, Red-Scarf lifted his right arm, deflecting the blow. Milliseconds later, he rolled his upper body to land a wicked left hook into Austin’s gut, sending him barrelling backwards. The pain was indescribable as he lost his bearings and saw the world spinning as he tumbled along the deck. When he propped himself up with his arms he saw that the other guards hadn’t fared any better than he.
The intruders were entering the arch, when one of the guards opened fired without warning. Three more guards and one policeman joined him, landing a total of a dozen rounds in Blue-Scarf and at least fifteen in Red-Scarf. Neither of them stopped, but the rounds had shredded the back of Red-Scarf’s hoodie, revealing no blood but something else. At that moment, one thing became clear to Austin and everyone else who saw the grey alloy—these were not men; they were robots.
Austin could hear the radio chatter in his headset. They were evacuating the king and calling in reinforcements. The intruders disappeared though the archway and into the courtyard. Austin could hear sporadic gunfire, punctuated by the war cries of charging guards and the inevitable cries of defeat that followed. The commotion became internal to the palace and more distant as Austin got to his feet and gingerly hobbled towards the enemy. Minutes later, the whup-whup-whup of the first reinforcements filled the sky.
***
Friday, February 17th, 2045 3:00pm: BMC News 24, London
“Welcome to BMC News 24, I’m Ruby Fletcher. The breaking news at three o’clock, “Terror at Buckingham Palace as suspected military robots breach security...” reported the attractive blonde news anchor in her received pronunciation. She wore a white blouse with a round-necked maroon blazer, a style fashionable for formal wear at the time.
A bystander’s tourist video of events on the palace forecourt gave way to footage from an aerial vantage point—presumably a news drone. It showed a dark troop carrying chopper landing on the back lawn of the palace and eight SAS commandos filing out. They fanned out and covered the open ground into the back of the palace rapidly.
The footage looped back to the tourist video as Fletcher continued. “These pictures came in just minutes ago and follow the assault of several police officers and Coldstream guards who tried to arrest the two intruders. Eyewitnesses described how they resisted arrest—and continued into the palace itself despite being struck by Tasers and gunfire. We now go over to our reporter outside the palace, Niall Motram... Niall?”
A thinning-haired man, fortysomething, slim in build, with intelligent, brown eyes, replaced the rolling footage. Behind him was a police cordon with attending officers and, beyond that, the palace itself. “Afternoon, Ruby...”
“Niall, can you update us on the latest developments there at Buckingham Palace?”
“Yes... We just heard several explosions from inside the main palace building and sources say that the SAS is now engaging the intruders. Those intruders, as we’ve heard, are suspected of not being two men, as initially thought, but robots—possibly the Centurions the army use and have been receiving in record numbers this week as the new robot army takes shape at bases all over the country.”
“What evidence do we have of this?”
“Well, several people I’ve spoken to described how police tried to Taser the intruders—which, to all accounts, had no effect whatsoever. They then proceeded to fling two would-be arresting officers to the ground like rag dolls. Then witnesses told how both guards and police actually opened fire on them with their automatic weapons, hitting both intruders in the back. They apparently just kept going. But here’s what’s interesting too: at least two people I’ve talked to described one of the intruder’s top being torn open by the gunfire, revealing not blood or body armour but the distinctive alloy of a robot.”
“Now that obviously opens up all sorts of questions... But while we await news of the unfolding situation inside the palace, what do we know about the whereabouts of the king? The king being in residence today at the time of the attack, wasn’t he...”
“Ruby, sources in the Royal Protection Branch of the Met inform us that he was successfully evacuated from the palace. He’s now at a secure location is what we’ve been told. But this raises serious questions about the effectiveness of palace security.”
“Yes, indeed it does, Niall. But before we get onto the question of palace security, we’ve got to ask: who could be behind such a brazen attack?”
“The police’s on-scene commander and others are staying tight-lipped, but I have to say that topping the list of suspects will be the Russians. It’s still very fresh in everyone’s minds .. .the violent ambush on the A1(M) just a few days ago. And, of course, the callous murder of the four escorting police officers. The finger-pointing may also extended to IC who have carried out terrorist attacks aplenty over recent history. Ruby...”
“Thank you, Niall. That was Niall Motram outside Buckingham Palace from where we’ll be getting live updates as events unfold,” said Ruby, reminding the viewers to stay tuned. “We’re now joined by Dr Paul Karlson, lecturer in International Affairs at the UCL and author of the book Britain’s Foreign Relations. Dr Karlson, welcome to the studio.”
“Thank you,” replied the balding, early fifties, Ulsterman with a sense of calm and competence. He adjusted his blue tie and collarless tweed jacket as if not used to being so formally dressed.
“Now, Dr Karlson, you�
��ve been with this story from the start and have seen things unfold. What’s your take on it?” Ruby asked, open-endedly, giving him the freedom to give his insight.
“Well, I agree with everything your reporter just said. Clearly, the Russians look like the most likely candidates for this act. The Security Service and the police have come out publicly and blamed them for the A1(M) ambush—of course, the Russians denied it. The motive, according to the authorities, was technology theft and I know from my own research that they have had an extensive network of spies here attempting just that. So they officially stole two centurions and three days later what looks like two Centurions turn up at the palace. So the hardware looks the same, but the motive is, I have to admit, a little confusing.”
“In what way, Dr Karlson?”
“Well, it’s confusing so far as its intent. It’s a very public attack, which appears to be targeting the king. It was carried out in broad daylight in front of hundreds of onlookers at a world famous landmark. These images stick in the memory and that’s usually what terrorists want rather than hostile foreign powers. Whiles it’s true the Russians are far less sensitive to British and world opinion than they used to be, it still does matter to them and they wouldn’t pull off something like this without purpose. And I’m struggling to understand what the purpose actually is. One thing is clear though: the Centurion droids used are being controlled by someone—”
“Yes, so on that, some quarters have suggested that Islamic Caliphate are behind this. Your take, Dr Karlson?”
“Yes... Now with IC we have the opposite problem. I’m sure they’d love to have pulled off an attack like this—very public, striking at the heart of the British establishment and a great morale booster if they’d managed to steal and control a couple of army droids. They know as well as we do that this new robot army is going after them sooner or later and this would be an absolute publicity coup even if they couldn’t hijack the robots in the field—”
“So you believe they are behind it, Dr Karlson? Is that what you’re saying?” interrupted the newswoman.
“No, Ruby, I haven’t finished my point... They would have loved to do it but they simply don’t have the capability. At least as far as my research shows, the security around these robots is light-years ahead of IC’s know-how. I’d go as far as to say that neither the Russians nor anyone else would be capable of hacking the control network. It’s designed with hacking attempts in mind and, so my learned colleagues at UCL say, practically impenetrable.”
“So the Russians may have the means, but not the motive and IC have the motive but not the means?” she summarised.
“In a nutshell, yes,” said the academic, nodding. “Now what will be interesting when the SAS take these robots down is whether their serial numbers match up to the stolen units from Tuesday’s ambush.”
Fletcher paused as if distracted then looked over to someone—perhaps the producer—beside the camera. “Excuse us, Dr Karlson, but we’re just getting news that the engagement inside the palace has ended. The first of the paramedics and other emergency services are being allowed to enter the building...”
An inset view of ambulances driving onto the forecourt and paramedics rushing out appeared on the screen. Police and guards followed.
The attack was over. The SAS had won the day.
***
Friday, February 17th, 2045 4:20pm: Inside Buckingham Palace, London
The stocky, fortysomething black man and good-looking, mid-thirties blonde hurried along the deep red carpet towards the crowd. There were mainly uniformed and plain-clothes police, guards and palace officials in suits. A low hum of intense conversation filled the long, high-ceilinged corridor. Oil paintings held in ornate, gold-leafed frames of ancestors, horses and scenes from British history adorned the mint-green walls.
“So you still didn’t say what took you so long, Dean,” said Sophie, glancing sideways at her colleague.
“Ah... Trouble at Jamie’s school. I got called in after he was found playing games on the school computer. The missus was otherwise engaged,” he said with disapproval.
“Oh, was he in trouble?” she enquired.
“Just detention. But I’ll be taking away his video games access at home if he does it again. That’s a major deal for a twelve-year-old.”
“Too addictive these days, so I read. Never been into that kind of thing myself. So ... what have we here?” she asked, as they neared the gaggle around the entrance to the ballroom. There were more police inside, including two white-clad forensics officers. Each stood next to one of the two fallen figures in different parts of the grand expanse of luxury. There were char marks around both bodies and evidence of the raging battle that had ensued. The arm of the nearest robot was exposed—the arm of its hoodie having been shredded.
An armed officer stepped forwards holding a small scanning device. “ID please.”
First Sophie then Ashley scanned the RFID embedded in their hand. Their mug shot and details popped up on the scanner’s screen to the approval of the officer.
“Ok, thanks,” he said, moving aside. “DSI Matuku’s over there.” He pointed to a tall, suited man with red hair talking to the nearest forensics officer. Both stood with their backs to the entrance, looking down at the robot, which was lying belly-up.
“Afternoon.” Sophie smiled. “I’m Sophie Walsh and this is Dean Ashley; we’re both from the Security Service.”
They shook hands. “Hi, I’m DSI Bryn Matuku, CID,” said the detective with a slight New Zealand accent.
“So, what do you have so far?” asked Sophie.
“Two heaps of metal that used to be Centurion-Mk2s—courtesy of His Majesty’s SAS. No fatalities, but plenty of injured,” he said in a calm, slow, measured tone.
And what else happened? thought Sophie impatiently before Ashley asked the same.
“SAS took them out with grenade launchers—direct hit on this one. Three direct hits on the other. And both took more than a hundred rounds each, according to the SAS sergeant I interviewed. Seriously tough machines these.”
“So we know what did it but not who,” stated Sophie, furrowing her brow slightly.
“Right, and I doubt we’ll find out at here at the scene of the crime. The technical guys are trying to trace where the control signals came from but I suspect they’ll need GCHQ help. They record all data traffic as far as I know,” he said, looking at the MI5 agents for confirmation.
They said nothing about GCHQ. Sophie asked, “So have you matched the serial numbers yet?”
Matuku nodded and she sensed what he was going to say before he said it. “Yeah, they match the stolen Centurions—they’re the ones the Russians took.”
17
Friday, February 17th, 2045 5:45pm: Briefing Room A, Cabinet Offices, Whitehall, Central London
The second visit to the briefing room in the same week was wearing on Prime Minister Faraday’s patience. The polls now put the BIP ahead of the opposition, but he was well aware that his handling of current events would weigh large in the electorate’s collective mind. Never mind about all the good things his government had done over the past five years—the more recent a meme was the more weight voters would place on it. Still, political future was one thing—he’d have to put that aside for the time being and focus on the disturbing events at the palace. He had his own theories about who did it, but he resolved to keep an open mind on the matter. At least until the so-called experts said their piece.
The same attendees were gathered as had been present on Tuesday. Sitting to his left were head of the military, Field Marshal Sir Anthony Rose, Home Secretary Khan and Defence Secretary Iain Cotterill. On his right sat MI5’s Diane Maison, Met Police Commissioner, James Douglas-Smith and head of MI6, Martin Colby. A dozen junior ministers and aides were also there. He knew most of them by name, the others by face.
Faraday said, “So let’s start off with your briefing please, James...”
“Certainly, Prime Ministe
r...” started Douglas-Smith. He went on to describe the day’s events, as a factual description without going into too much theory or supposition. He covered the lines of enquiry they were following up. Forensics had not found any leads; the robots and their clothing had been thoroughly wiped clean of any trace evidence. He divulged that the robots had arrived in a driverless cab, which had dropped them off right outside the palace, on The Mall. The cab company’s database showed it had picked them up at a lock-up in Slough to the west of the centre, near Heathrow. They were currently investigating how the robots got to the lock-up in the first place.
Then he came to the salient point. “Prime Minister, we’ve also traced the two robots back to the Russian ambush on the A1(M). It’s the two missing droids,” he concluded.
There was a brief pause as they assimilated the news, bar the MI5 and MI6 heads, who already knew.
“I see,” said Faraday, his mind still dissecting the implications.
“This might be a good time to discuss what we’ve managed to find out, along with our friends at GCHQ,” said Maison, looking to Faraday. He waved her on to proceed, taking a moment to look up from his internal deliberations.
“Right, so what we’ve managed to find out so far is that the Centurions were being controlled via a number of long-range WiFi routers in the area. The models in question have ranges of up to three kilometres in a built-up environment like London. It seems that each of the seven routers used had been hacked. Why there were seven we don’t know, but we suspect they wanted plenty of redundancy and the cost of getting it was marginal. We visited all of their physical locations—four were in offices, one in a shop and the other two in cafes. GCHQ went back, checked recorded data traffic via those seven routers, but have so far drawn a blank. Packets of data seemed to have been routed across half of the world’s computers, many of them behind firewalls we can’t penetrate. But we never expected it to lead right to whoever’s done this—it’s obviously a well-planned operation by an organisation with significant resources. I have to say that all the signs point towards the Russians. The most parsimonious answer is usually the right one in my experience,” said Maison.
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