by Alex Scarrow
The phone was ringing incessantly on Trent’s desk, an old-fashioned bell-and-hammer trilling that didn’t sound as if it were going to stop any time soon.
‘If you don’t talk, they’re going to shell us!’ said Tom.
‘Relax, amigo.’
‘Relax?’
The phone stopped ringing.
Trent had his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his lips pursed pensively. ‘They’re calling our bluff. This is just them pushing to see how serious we are.’
Our bluff? Tom absently shook his head. It wasn’t ‘our’ bluff – it was yours.
Trent had the military radio in one of his big hands. On one frequency he had those poor marines down in the compound; on another he had fleet command. His thumb was absently tapping the frequency dial.
‘Dougie, this is crazy. We’re going to be exchanging fire any second now – over what? A flag? Over what-the-hell-nationality we get to call ourselves?’
Trent narrowed his eyes. ‘Ideology. You want the last nation left on earth to be a communist one?’
‘You serious?’
‘Deadly serious. You want that, Tom? Because if we roll over on our backs now, that will be it. No more USA.’
‘Look, frankly, I don’t give a flying crap what flag we have to salute—’
‘You hear that, soldier?’ barked Trent.
The marine nodded obediently. ‘Yes, sir, Mr President.’
Trent glared back at Tom. ‘Staff Sergeant Friedmann . . . you took a goddamn oath thirty years ago to honour your country, your flag and your president. What the hell was that, then? Huh? Some cheap frat-house oath? Just a bunch of bullshit words?’
‘Look, Doug, I’m not doing this with you now. We’re friends. You’re my friend first, my president second.’
‘I am your president first,’ Trent said slowly. ‘You’d do well to remember that.’
‘Jesus . . .’
Tom studied his friend’s impassive face. It was like a shopfront closed for business: shutters down, blinking neon nightlights on. Come back tomorrow, folks.
I know what this is about, thought Tom. This isn’t about ideology.
Tom knew Douglas Trent better than anyone; better than any of his trophy girlfriends or Republican buddies. What he’d always admired about the man was his open cynicism. None of that In God we trust crap. None of that Four score and ten years ago dewy-eyed patriotism. He knew how the world worked for those in the know: money and influence. The holy duality. From the moment he’d stepped into the duplicitous world of politics, he’d been the I don’t talk bullshit – I talk business character.
This isn’t about patriotism. This is about him. This is his ego.
Trent’s fist was clamped round the radio like some grubby mitt round a baseball.
‘Doug, this isn’t about our flag . . .’
Trent glared at him, and Tom sensed that this might be the very last time he’d ever get to use his friend’s first name. ‘You have to let this go.’
The sound of the first gunshots echoed up from the compound.
Lieutenant Tidwell could feel the vibration through the sandbag he was cowering behind as a dozen rounds smacked into it. It was like sitting on one side of a punch bag with Mike Tyson on the other.
Keeping our heads down . . . while they outflank us.
Tidwell waited for a pause in the gunfire, then stuck his head up like a meerkat. Through the railings, beneath the shadows cast by a row of stunted trees, he could see figures jogging to his left, heading for the embassy’s front entrance. Tidwell had a section of men manning the concrete sentry post there. Far better cover than here . . . and far tougher for them to dislodge the guys dug in there.
Right here was where Tidwell would’ve picked to break in: iron railing and bushes – that’s all that separated the USA from Cuba right now. Easy pickings. The flanking manoeuvre was clearly a feint.
He felt something hum past his face, like some high-speed insect on a can’t stop now errand. The sand bag beside him suddenly spat sand into his eyes and he ducked back down again.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’
‘You OK, sir?’
‘I’m good, I’m good!’ he shouted above the rattle of gunfire. ‘Got grit in my eyes.’ He swiped at his eyes with the ball of his hand and rapidly blinked until tears started rolling down his cheeks. ‘They’re moving to the left, towards the entrance!’ he yelled as he tried to deal with the intense stinging in his eye.
‘Should we reinforce—’
‘No, stay put!’ He fumbled in his webbing for the water bottle. Found it, blindly unhooked it and uncapped it, cocked his head back and poured the warm water on to his face, blinking frantically to dislodge the grain of sand beneath his eyelid that right now felt like a goddamn bastard-bitch of a flint boulder.
He got it. Blinked again to double-check. Gone. He shook the water off his face.
‘We stay right here! They’re trying to get us to spread out.’
Tidwell could hear the growl of an engine nearby being zealously revved. Then heard the rattle and clank and squeal of rusty tracks beginning to turn on their wheels.
‘Incoming!’ shouted Farez.
Tidwell poked his head over the bags again and snatched another half-second appraisal before ducking back down. One of the T62s had been using the distracting small-arms fire to make its way down the Malecon highway over the decorative flower beds towards the perimeter fencing.
A plain and simple plan, knock down the railings, flatten the bushes and pull back, leaving a handy breach for the Republican Guards to spill through.
He leaned back on his haunches to get a look into the sandbag horseshoe next door to see if Farez and Ross had the javelin set up and ready to fire. He caught Farez’s eye and saw him tapping at his wrist – need more time. Ross was huddled down with the launch’s bulky tube balanced on his right shoulder; they were still waiting on the thermal-targeting system’s coolant to green-light a good-to-go.
He cupped his mouth. ‘Fire when you’re ready!’ he yelled across the gap.
‘Yes, sir!’
The rattle of gunfire coming at them from an increasingly widening arc was clearly designed to keep their heads down, to keep them from launching anything at the approaching tank. Over the noise he could hear its growl and clanking. It was growing louder . . . closer.
Still leaning backwards, the small of his back aching to change position, he waited for a thumbs up from Farez. Finally he got it.
Tidwell cupped his mouth. ‘We’ll give you covering fire in ten seconds!’ he yelled across the gap to them, then pulled himself forward until he was leaning back against the sandbags.
He looked at Corporal Gant and the other four marines waiting to get into the fight. ‘Don’t bother aiming . . . just pray and spray, OK?’
They nodded.
Tidwell mentally counted down the last five seconds, then . . .
‘NOW!’
All six men rose together, poking as little of themselves above the sandbags as possible, but enough all the same to present as targets. They unleashed a spattering of volley fire across the parched lawn, through the iron railings and into the shaded flower beds beneath the trees.
Tidwell saw the Cuban soldiers dropping down and scrambling for cover. As far as he could tell, none of their un-aimed shots had found a target. Nonetheless their volley had the intended result, sending them diving to the ground.
There was a lull.
Ross clambered to his feet, levelled the launcher’s thermal targeting reticule at the approaching T62 until he had a lock on, then dropped back down out of sight. He levelled the javelin straight upwards and launched it. The missile popped forward out of the launch tube like an embarrassing misfire. A momentary, fifth-of-a-second pause later the missile’s propellant kicked in and it soared into the clear blue sky like an eager greyhound released from its trap.
Tidwell watched it arc sharply in the sky above them. It did the tightest turning circ
le it could given its ferocious speed, a tidy vapour trail a hundred metres up then straight back down again.
The blast was so close that the percussive wave hit them at almost the same time as the light flash. He felt their sandbag emplacement wobble precariously. Then the boom. Too slow to cover his ears, he knew his hearing was going to be screwed for the next few minutes. The roar of the skirmish now reduced to a muted white noise, he watched as, seconds later, charred and jagged fragments of the tank clattered down around them, along with lengths of iron railing.
Shit.
He chanced another quick look over the sandbags. The chassis of the T62 was burning ferociously just a few metres short of the railing it had been rumbling towards. Their perimeter barrier, however, was gone. The javelin had done the tank’s job for it.
Frikkin marvellous.
The enemy was in.
The windows in Trent’s office rattled furiously in their frames. Trent, Tom, even the marine sergeant, ducked instinctively at the sound of the blast across the compound.
Tom hurried over to the desk, picked up the deck phone and held it towards Trent. ‘Jesus Christ, call them! Before we lose the connection!’
Trent stared at him, blue eyes icy beneath his bushy blond eyebrows. For a moment Tom wondered whether he was considering ordering the sergeant to arrest him or, worse, shoot him.
Instead he snatched the phone from Tom’s hand, and dialled a number.
Outside, the lull after the explosion was populated with the staccato crackle of gunfire.
‘Yes,’ said Trent after an agonizingly long wait.
Then another damned wait.
The gunfire was increasing in volume and intensity. He could hear orders being barked in the rare interludes, the marines out there sounded as though they were being beaten back from their positions, withdrawing from the compound and into the building itself. He looked at the marine sergeant, who appeared increasingly desperate to leave the stuffy confines of the office and get out there to help his comrades.
Finally, Trent’s impassive face stirred into life as someone took his call.
‘Yes, it is President Trent speaking . . . Uh-huh. Yes . . . to President Ramon Questra. Directly to him, please.’
Tom sighed with relief. He was torn between wanting to hurry over to the window to get a clearer picture of how much more time their marines could buy them, and staying right where he was, watching Trent as he offered up their surrender.
Don’t say anything stupid, Doug.
His friend looked up from the ink blotter on the desk in front of him as he waited patiently. He noticed Tom gripping the edge of the desk and glaring at him . . . and winked. ‘It’s OK, I got this covered, buddy.’
‘Doug, just be careful,’ said Tom. It was all he could think to say right then.
Trent held up a finger to shush him. ‘President Questra?’
On a quiet day, from where he was standing Tom might have heard the deep voice of the Cuban leader leaking from the old-fashioned earpiece. Not today.
Trent was listening, nodding. Then finally drew in a breath to reply. ‘No. No . . . No. I’m sorry, Ramon. I’m really sorry but that’s completely unacceptable.’
Tom spread his hands. For God’s sake, what the hell are you—
Trent held up his hand to stop him from talking. ‘Ramon . . . Ramon! Be quiet! I’m the one speaking now!’ He had quietened the Cuban leader.
He took in a deep breath and pursed his lips. ‘I want you to know this for the record, for goddamn posterity – you’re the stupid sonofabitch who pushed the situation to this. This is entirely on you.’
In his other fist, Trent still had the military radio. He thumbed the frequency dial and lifted it quickly up to his other ear. Phone on one side, walkie-talkie on the other, Tom suspected the man would have paid anything right then for a photographer to be here in the room to capture this moment, to capture his majesty, his command . . . his coolness under fire.
Trent spoke one word into the radio. ‘Go.’
Then back to the phone. ‘Ramon? Did you hear that? That was me giving the command. Why don’t you go take a look to the east?’ He placed the phone gently back in its cradle and the walkie-talkie down on the blotter. He smiled at Tom. ‘Now, old friend, we’ll see where our chips fall, shall we?’
‘What the hell have you gone and done!’
‘What needed to be done.’ Trent walked round the desk towards the tall glass doors of his office that led on to the small balcony outside.
‘You . . . you crazy bastard!’ snapped Tom at his back. ‘You stupid, arrogant, crazy—’
Trent ignored him. He was standing out in the sunshine, a clear target for any Cuban sniper in the compound, hands casually clasped behind his back as if he were admiring a Rothko on a gallery wall. He was staring out to sea, the deep blue water glistening and sparkling, inviting one and all to kick off their shoes and jump on in.
Over his shoulder, Tom saw the thin tendril of a white vapour trail rising up into the sky from the flat horizon.
CHAPTER 44
‘We’re about twenty-five kilometres away,’ said Naga, looking up from the AA roadmap that she’d spread out across the smooth lino floor. ‘That’s one more day without any road blockages. Two if we’re unlucky. Although –’ she sat back – ‘if the trucks get totally blocked, it’s probably close enough to walk the rest of the way, really.’
The entire group was sitting in the entrance area of a large camping store, surrounded by a ring of solar-powered lanterns. Leon had found an unfolding stool for Freya to perch on and he stood behind her, gently working the upper half of her aching back. With the addition of all the children, it had the appearance of some bizarre middle-school sit-in demonstration: Kids Against Camping Stores!
And there, right in the middle, was Grace, sitting cross-legged next to her new friend. In another life Leon would have been teasing her about that already. But in this life he felt nothing but relief that something good was finally happening for his sister.
‘What if we get there and there’s nothing, though?’ asked Denise. ‘All our supplies are in the trucks.’
‘Then we take a couple of days’ worth of water and food with us. If there really is nothing there, I suppose we just go back to the trucks,’ replied Naga.
‘Then what?’ asked Royce.
Naga stretched her arms back behind her and uncrossed her legs. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
‘The message has today’s date in it,’ said Royce. ‘It’s not old. It’s good.’
‘The date is automated,’ said Fish. ‘The Stephen Hawking style being the big clue there.’
Royce cocked his head, trying to figure out if Fish was having a poke at him.
Fish continued. ‘We have to prepare for the possibility that this is going to be a disappointment. That when we get to Southampton docks we’re going to be looking at a lot of nothing.’
‘I know,’ said Naga.
‘And possibly a lot of other people looking at nothing,’ said Leon.
Heads all turned his way.
‘I’m just saying. We heard the message. These kids heard it too. Others will have. We might get there and find hundreds, maybe thousands, of other people just sitting there, waiting for somebody to look after them.’
Leon looked around. ‘All of them needing food and water. If we just rock up with our backpacks . . .’ He didn’t want to elaborate on that point in front of the younger ones. ‘I just think we need to be prepared for, you know, a whole bunch of different possibilities.’
‘We’ve got about a dozen firearms,’ said Royce. He looked around at the other men, his fellow knights. ‘And proper trained-up lads ready to use them.’
‘Look,’ said Leon. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s a rescue attempt going on. But just in case we’re wrong, just in case . . . we need some kind of contingency plan, right?’
Naga nodded and the foyer went silent. Nobody seemed to have one ready.
‘If it’s bogus, we’ll have to start over,’ said Danielle. ‘From scratch.’ Her eyes suddenly widened. ‘What if we could find a ship and sail it ourselves?’
‘Anyone here secretly a marine engineer?’ asked Fish, looking around. ‘No? What about a pilot? Or a navigator? No? Bugger.’ He shrugged and shook his head sarcastically. ‘Otherwise a brilliant plan, Danielle.’
‘Hey! I’m just trying to offer some ideas!’
‘Well then, idiot-check them using your inside voice first, OK?’
‘Fish, come on,’ chided Naga. ‘Stop winding her up.’
‘A ship isn’t that bad an idea,’ said Leon. ‘I mean, it’s not like we have to sail it anywhere. The point is that it’d be like the castle – it’s sitting on salt water, right? It would give us some degree of protection.’
Royce looked at him. ‘So if we turn up and there’s no US Navy waiting for us, we just go and set up camp on a ship?’
‘Right.’ Leon nodded. ‘We base ourselves on a ship and we can forage from there.’
‘For how long?’ asked Naga.
Leon shrugged. ‘If there’s any rescue attempt, I guess that’s where it would come to. Eventually.’
‘Our plan B is just wait and hope?’ said Fish.
‘Southampton’s a big freight port, isn’t it?’ said Freya. ‘Which means there must be thousands of those freight containers full of, like, stuff. It’s got to be a better place to forage than Oxford was. And –’ she looked up at Leon – ‘as he said, a ship’s just as good as any castle.’
Naga was nodding at that. ‘So that’s our plan B. Plan A is get rescued. Failing that, we make Southampton our new home.’
‘And what if we turn up and half of England is sitting right there?’ asked Royce. He shrugged. ‘Even if there’re rescue ships waiting, are they going to have space for all of us?’
‘If there were that many people left, I think we’d have come across more than just these children on the way down,’ said Freya.
‘Yeah.’ Fish nodded. ‘I don’t expect it’s going to be like Glastonbury or anything.’
‘But there could be thousands,’ said Royce. ‘And if there’re no rescue ships, what if they all have the same idea? Setting up camps on ships and all foraging in the same place for the same food and water?’ He spread his hands. ‘We’re gonna end up fighting with all the others for scraps. I say, if there’s no rescue, then we got to go somewhere else.’
