“It’ll all be over by then I suspect, Sophie,” said Collins. “You need us. We know it. You know it. So let me tell you straight up that we have been looking into this extensively. There is nowhere in Scotland that could house two hundred thousand people controlling the robot army. And we all know that they started attacking en masse before they captured the three ROCCs—so control’s not coming from the three army bases at Colchester, Catterick and Aldershot.
“As a precautionary first step, you need to find a way to take down comms to Becker. We know they’re using the public telecoms network for at least some of their data packets. What if you shut down the relevant nodes?”
“That was one of the things Jian Yu suggested,” said Sophie. “He and other survivors from GCHQ tried remotely but failed. From the fragments of intel we’ve had from Wales and elsewhere there’s a good chance the enemy have physically secured the telecom nodes in question.”
Ollington said, “We still have the option of airstrikes…”
Faraday started shaking his head vigorously. “No, no, no. We can’t be firing on dozens of telecoms buildings in built-up areas just because of suspect data traffic. That’s insane! Likewise on 2 PARA. As far as we know, they could’ve gone dark for any number of reasons—that’s the whole reason we’re sending the drone and the SAS—to investigate, not to terminate. If—and it’s a big if—we use airstrikes then it will be against confirmed enemy targets. Nothing less.”
Khan seemed to be otherwise preoccupied until that moment. He spoke for the first time. “If I may… How do you know that whoever is acting in Scotland isn’t acting on behalf of the Russians? I mean, it makes sense if the robots are being controlled from overseas, doesn’t it?”
“Interesting theory,” said Collins, “and one that is best tested by taking down all external lines—subsea cables and satellite links—in and out of Britain. Even if it’s possible, that’s going to take some time. I can also share with you that we’ve been following up with our assets in Russia. If it is coming from there then none of our assets know about it. We’ve also learnt that Russian rapid reaction forces didn’t start their recalls until well after the coup was public. If they were planning a takeover they would’ve been all saddled up and ready to ride.”
Ollington nodded, adding, “Certainly they’d be landing their troops by now given you’ve got no effective military anymore.”
Claiborne said, “And before anyone asks, we also believe IC is completely incapable of mounting something like this, much as they’d love to take over and start implementing Sharia law in Britain.
Ollington said, “So that brings us back full circle: once we fully understand our targets only then can we commit our forces.”
Sophie watched Faraday’s reaction. He looked lost for words. The discussions went on for hours. On the one hand time was of the essence, on the other the target was simply too ill-defined to commit. The main argument the Americans used was that their Marine Expeditionary Units could have leading elements deployed in under a day with use of the USAF’s spaceplanes. The suborbital flights could cross the Atlantic in less than an hour. Faraday’s delegation was in no position to bargain. After the meeting, it was just a waiting game. No firm target, no US intervention. They wanted surgical strikes, not a second Vietnam. They wanted to cut the head off the snake—but Faraday just hoped it was a snake and not a hydra.
Home Secretary Khan left the room feeling at the same time worried and pleased. Worried because the CIA and NSA seemed to be honing into The Faithful quicker than they’d hoped. Pleased because he had another motherlode of intel to feed back to The Faithful. Whether he’d end up more pleased than worried all depended on if they’d managed to elude the Americans long enough to make it a fait d’accompli. Once he’d fed back his latest intel to Zane, Hardcastle, Sinclair and Becker he’d take the next step—the step that would turn him from an accessory to a key figure in the making of history.
***
Faraday relaxed in the armchair of his suite. The still of the nighttime forest surrounded the peaceful lodge—a world away from the chaos back home. It was the first downtime he’d had in what seemed like years and it’d only been made possible by the news he’d received shortly before. His wife and only son had made it out of the bunker and were making their way to the British Embassy in Paris. He hoped they’d be with him sometime the next day if things went to plan. He took another swig of the fine red wine that he’d been savouring for the past fifteen minutes. He knew his rare solitude wouldn’t last—Khan was due by any minute for a private discussion. He’d said he had something on his mind, something he wanted to discuss one-on-one. It didn’t surprise Faraday. They all had a hundred things on their minds. Knowing Khan, he probably wanted to bounce some new idea off him. He’d known Khan a long time through the party and appreciated the man’s lateral thinking, as well as his loyalty. He’d sided with Faraday when news of Hardcastle’s party rebellion had come to light and was rewarded accordingly, taking the prominent role of Home Secretary.
A knock at the suite door came three minutes later.
The stocky, squared-jawed secret serviceman said, “Your visitor’s here to see you, sir.”
With a nod from Faraday, he stepped aside revealing Khan, all dressed down in a casual dark sweater and jeans. “Evening, Nigel.”
“Evening, Malik. Please, come in.”
Faraday closed the door, leaving the agent outside in the hallway.
He said, “Just go on through to the sitting room.”
Khan past the unpainted wooden door to the bedroom on the left and onward to the compact sitting room. Out beyond the stacking sliders was the dark of the forest, a few nature trails then the security perimeter. Dozens of secret service and Marines patrolled unseen, scoping for threats. The open fire had warmed the room, but Faraday only noticed when he’d stepped away from his cosy chair and red wine. He returned to his warm seat and directed his guest to the sofa opposite, across the low, glass-topped table. He picked up the bottle to top up his glass.
“Some wine, Malik?” He knew the less-than-devout Khan liked a sip, although in such moderation he wondered why he bothered.
“Please. Just a couple of fingers will do,” he said with a naughty smile.
Faraday poured the wine and passed the glass to Home Secretary Khan.
After some small talk, Faraday asked, “So, what’s on your mind, Malik?” He paused, and then added, “You said you had something specific. Something you wanted to discuss face-to-face...” He always liked to take care of business first. If Khan wanted to converse the night away that was fine—he’d appreciate the company—but he’d relax better once they’d cleared whatever was on Khan’s mind.
“I think we should reconsider the theory that the Russians are behind it—”
“Do you have new evidence? Or something I’m not aware of?”
Khan took his time laying out the case. At the end of it though, Faraday failed to see what had changed. It was odd that his home secretary was arguing the points more pedantically than normal. Faraday was growing tired of the circular arguments and minutiae. The third glass of red and the fact that he was bursting for the toilet made his mind up.
“Alright Malik, look... I’m afraid I just don’t see it. We’ll keep it in mind, but our priority has to go to the Hardcastle theory. Goodness knows how few resources we have to commit to it—we can’t go chasing everything. Besides, the Americans will let us know if they find anything to the contrary.”
Khan took a breath to speak, but Faraday rose from his chair, saying, “Look, let me just pop to the loo and we’ll have another glass or two. But nothing more on the Russians, please—it’s getting on my nerves I’m afraid...”
“Sure, that’s fine,” smiled Khan, sipping his wine and reclining back into the soft cushions.
Faraday shuffled towards the short internal hallway, taking the door on the right opposite the bedroom.
When Khan heard the door close, he
acted quickly, as if suddenly infused with a huge dose of adrenaline. He reached inside his pocket and retrieved the small white tablet. He leant over and dropped it into Faraday’s wine and grabbed a twig from the kindling in the black metal container next to the fire. He stirred the wine vigorously until the last vestige of the pill had dissolved. He checked the bottom of the glass, paranoid a residue may be there. There was none, so he threw the half-wet twig into the fire. He sat back and took a deep breath. Then he sent an encoded report via his ICS, which used the facility’s wireless network. The encryption used in his report was essentially unbreakable. The fact that encryption was so much better than decryption was the only thing that made ICS—or any other data traffic—secure from the prying eyes of the NSA and GCHQ.
He heard the toilet flush and the sound of running water. The door opened and Faraday returned to his seat, picking up his wine immediately.
“So, what time does Norlin arrive tomorrow?” asked Faraday, after Khan’s wife.
They talked until eleven, with increasingly long pauses between dialogue. Faraday’s speech had become progressively slurred—far quicker than the additional glass of wine could account for. His eyes closed progressively longer before the open periods faded along with his consciousness. His head lolled to the side and he started snoozing silently, his jaw easing open.
Khan said, “Nigel ... Nigel?” No response. He got up and shook him gently, calling his name once again. Still nothing. Out like a light.
He reached into his pocket for a second time, this time removing a tiny, oval capsule. He reached over the low table and cracked open a small plastic bottle of mineral water. He side-stepped towards the sleeping Faraday and placed the capsule in his mouth, getting in as close to the oesophagus as possible while not choking the man. He poured in some water, gradually but steadily, and then closed the slack jaw. The prime minister swallowed then coughed reactively. Khan released his grip, satisfied the capsule was now on its way into the sleeping Faraday’s stomach.
He instinctively looked around and saw nothing to his dissatisfaction, so made for the way out. He opened the door causing the secret serviceman to approach from a few metres down the hallway.
“Going, sir?”
“Yes, the PM’s asleep already—we’ve all had a long, long day...” Khan smiled.
“I understand, sir. You people sure have your work cut out. Have a good night now.”
“You too.” He left as casually as he could manage and crossed his fingers. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon he’d be calling the shots on the British side. And mourning the loss of a dear friend and colleague.
***
Something didn’t feel right to secret service agent Lance Hammill. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Maybe how that British politician guy, Khan, had seemed a little too urgent—his body language not matching his oh-so casual words. Maybe I’m just tired and in need of a workout, thought Hammill. He always felt more negative, more paranoid if he went so much as twenty-four hours without some form of exercise. He shook his head and went to walk away, work his joints a little. He’d been standing in the same spot for too long. As long as he kept the hallway in view, he’d be within orders. After a few paces, he stopped and started rationalising. Where’s the harm in checking on the PM? Just to make sure. Old fella’s asleep anyway. After all, security before privacy... He about-faced and used his key card to open the door, deciding not to call it in for fear of embarrassment. He called quietly, “Sir, this is Agent Hammill. Just doing a routine check.”
No answer, so he called again. Louder this time, nearing the lounge area. He could hear the gentle crackling of the fire and felt its radiant warmth once it was in view. There, in his armchair, sat the British PM. Hammill approached him, observing the empty bottle of red and two wine glasses as well as the four-fifths full bottle of water. He let out a breath as he saw the PM’s chest rising and falling. Hammill reached over and felt his neck for a pulse. A little weaker than his own, but definitely alive. He stood back and sighed, shaking his head.
“Way too paranoid,” he muttered.
Agent Hammill left Faraday sleeping in his chair and started thinking about what he’d seen on the news. Things in Britain were looking bad and he wondered if his old Marine Corps unit would soon be dragged into someone else’s fight. He hoped not—he still had good friends in the service and didn’t want to lose them just because that bunch over in Europe couldn’t take care of their own mess. He hoped—liked many other Americans—that there’d be no return to the bad old days of being the world’s policeman. Same old, same old, through the ages, he thought. He closed the door gently, looking forward to the end of his shift.
***
Monday, February 20th, 2045 7:30am EST: Camp David, MD, United States
“Thanks for the early start today,” said Faraday.
He sat in the same seat as the day before, with the same people even down to the CIA and NSA officers on the video wall. His mind was too full to think much of the day’s coming highlight—the reunion with his wife and son later than day. It didn’t help that his head was throbbing with one of the worst hangovers of his life. He’d enjoyed chatting to Khan the night before—especially once he’d gotten the man off his near-obsession with his The-Russians-Did-It theory. Still, he was surprised, as four glasses of red over such a long period wasn’t normally enough to make him feel this bad. Isn’t fine red wine supposed to cause less of a hangover? he thought. He felt as if he’d drank two bottles of the cheapest plonk. He looked over at Khan. The man seemed as fresh as always, although he had drank at least eight times less wine than Faraday.
“It’s no problem,” said Claiborne, looking fresh-eyed and well rested. “I hope everyone slept well. We have a full agenda ahead of us. Now then, I believe you have an update for us Beth...”
All eyes turned to the CIA analyst there virtually on the video wall.
Collins said, “Yes I do, Madam Secretary. We’ve had something of a breakthrough in narrowing down the location in Scotland...”
She went on to explain how they’d linked Hardcastle, Zane and Becker to a fourth suspect, a man named Roman Sinclair, a forty-three-year-old British Citizen residing in St Andrews, Scotland. Russian mother, Scottish father and CEO of E-Vision Entertainment; he was super-rich and politically right wing—definitely a supporter of a return to the gilded age of early twenty-first century capitalism. He had personal links with both Zane and Hardcastle stretching back some way. Collins explained the CIA thought it more than a coincidence that the same man owned the E-Vision campus to where much of the laboriously-traced data packets had been ending up. It was on the strength of this that they’d dismissed the idea that E-Vision’s servers may have been co-opted as part of a botnet.
Collins continued, “We’ve managed to tap into some of their internal security cameras...”
“And?” said Khan, seemingly unable to wait to hear what they’d discovered.
Faraday—feeling decidedly woozier than just a few minutes before—was surprised by his colleague’s edginess. It seemed almost as if he was taking it too personally, having lost the air of objective detachment that kept decision-making effective at times like those.
“And ... nothing really,” she said. “Just ... well, people working and talking and drinking coffee. Certainly not a military droid control centre. Not from what we can see.”
Khan’s whole body seemed to relax as he let out a breath and tried to ditch the furtive looks.
Something was happening with Khan, but Faraday couldn’t quite say what.
They continued listening to Collins and then to her NSA counterpart on the adjacent video wall display. Five minutes later, Faraday felt terrible—dizzy, and nauseous. He started wondering if he’d caught some damned stomach virus. Norovirus perhaps or something like that. He decided that all the stress must have been getting to him and had suppressed his immune system. The alcohol had probably done the same.
Claiborne looked
at him and said, “Are you alright?”
Faraday said nothing and just shook his head. Feeling nauseous, he went to get up, placing his hands on the armrests to assist him. He felt his arms weaken and his vision fade. Then his senses shut down and his consciousness departed him.
21
Tuesday, February 21st, 2045 5:30am: Southern Edge of the Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales, UK
Sergeant Matt Bastian found the situation crazy beyond words. The whole robot coup was unexpected enough, but this was completely off the wall. That he and the other three SAS men had been deployed against 2 PARA was something he never thought he’d live to see. The CO had been clear: Colonel Becker and his brigade were suspected of leading the coup. No one had told Bastian exactly how Becker could manage this astounding feat from the middle of nowhere—which meant the higher-ups probably didn’t know themselves. It defied logic as far as he was concerned. The robot army was enormous and without enough AI to be engaging targets autonomously, even if all of Becker’s six hundred odd men issued the orders ... unless they had worked out a way around it somehow.
They’d arrived fifteen klicks from Becker’s suspected location in a civvy car, dressed as hikers in case the colonel had posted lookouts or drones or roadblocks. It was deserted and still dark on the rain-soaked A4054 on the southern edge of the National Park. The lay-by on the narrow country road was just outside of the Welsh valley town of Merthyr Tydfil, lying to its north. The overhanging trees and steep embankment that flanked the road veiled it from overhead—and possibly hostile—surveillance. Private Brown had hand-launched the recon drone five minutes ago on its hunt for Becker and 2 PARA. They’d gone dark and low cloud had prevented British and US satellites from getting a visual.
Overlord Page 22
