Flash Flood (12 page)

But the last one had failed to come through.

‘Commence testing,’ said the captain.

‘Testing now, sir.’

The communications officer sent a test signal and monitored the three receivers for the results. They were all fine. He turned round. ‘Sir, all communications equipment is fully operational. There is no reason why we should have missed the transmission.’

‘Thank you, Officer.’ The captain unhooked a microphone attached to his command post by a curly cable and spoke into it. ‘Computer room, this is the captain. Are there any malfunctions on the communications equipment?’

‘No malfunctions, sir. All systems are working correctly.’

The captain slipped the microphone back to his command station. He was aware that the eyes of all the crew members were on him.

‘Communications Officer, is there anything else we can do to re-establish communication?’

‘No, sir. But sir – I’m picking up radio broadcasts saying London is submerged. There may have been some kind of natural disaster there.’

The captain thought. ‘Gentlemen, we have our protocols and we must follow them. We have strict instructions on what to do if our all-clear transmission is missed. That is so that if there is an emergency, High Command know exactly what we will do. We will have to risk exposing our position by sending a signal to High Command. Communications Officer, send the emergency message.’

The communications officer was ready. He rapidly typed the message into his keyboard and watched the thermometer bar on the screen as it was fired off into the ether. ‘Message successfully sent, sir.’

The message sent, they could submerge once more. ‘Dive to three hundred metres. Full speed ahead.’

‘Aye-aye, Captain.’

They all felt the pressure in their ears as the ship began to submerge. There was another feeling too: a deep shudder as the propeller bit into the sea. With a Chinagraph pencil the navigator made notes about their course on a Perspex map.

The captain unhooked the intercom again and spoke to the ship. ‘This is the captain. Our routine all-clear transmission from High Command has been missed and we have had to break cover by contacting them. This has exposed our presence in these waters. We are now in a vulnerable position as we could be targeted by enemy action. We do not know the reason why High Command has missed the routine all-clear transmission. Until we contact them, this boat is in a state of emergency. Everyone will work double shifts and all privileges are cancelled.’

Lieutenant Roberts was coming off duty in the computer room and intending to grab a bite to eat in the mess. Now he hurried down faster than usual. Privileges cancelled meant no watching movies or time off. What on earth was going on?

The cramped mess was crowded when he got there.
Midshipmen, oilers and officers were all trying to grab a quick bite before going straight back on duty.

Roberts grabbed some rather grey-looking stew and a couple of rolls and sat down opposite Andrews, a missiles engineer, who was trying to shovel soup and a sandwich into his mouth as fast as humanly possible. They were also discussing the captain’s announcement.

‘What do you think’s happened in England?’ said Roberts. ‘Why didn’t we get our all-clear?’

Andrews stuffed the last of his corned-beef sandwich into his mouth and stole some of Roberts’s bread roll. ‘I bet some idiot in the Admiralty has used the secure frequency to phone their girlfriend, or some other SNAFU. But this
could
be serious. We don’t know what’s happened up there. The next eight hours or so will be critical. If we can’t contact Whitehall we could even end up launching missiles. After all, that’s what we’re here for. We’re carrying four nukes.’

Nukes; nuclear warheads. HMS
Vanquish
had the capacity to carry sixteen Trident II D-5 missiles, which could each carry twelve warheads …

In Hendon, General Thomas Chambers had been on the satellite link with Chequers. He had some information about the Prime Minister, but it wasn’t helpful. He wasn’t in a top-secret meeting. He had taken off from Chequers that morning in a helicopter. Now General Chambers was waiting for staff at Chequers to get back to him with the flight plan.

Right now, they were having another conversation he’d hoped to avoid. The chief commissioner was trying to persuade the politicians and civil servants in the bunker at Whitehall to give the go-ahead to evacuate the city.

The Foreign Secretary and the two grey-haired civil servants had been joined by a fat man in a pinstripe suit, who General Chambers recognized as a back-bench MP.

‘If we evacuate London,’ said Fat Pinstripe, ‘it could wipe billions off the stock market. It’s just unnecessary.’

The general could see someone behind him. She was only visible from chest to mid-thigh, as she paced in and out of shot, continually rolling up the sleeves of a crumpled purple suit. ‘The world will have seen the news pictures by now,’ she said testily. ‘You’re not going to stop people finding out.’ Her tone was haranguing; it sounded vaguely familiar.

Fat Pinstripe didn’t seem to be taking much notice of her. He turned to Sidney Cadogan and Clive Brooks. ‘It’s a disgrace that they don’t keep us better informed down here. When we get out, we’d better make sure they improve things. We can’t be left out of the loop like this. We haven’t had any proper debate. A decision to evacuate needs proper debate.’

‘You’ve been institutionalized too long,’ said Purple Sleeves. ‘This is real life, not your cosy House of Commons debating club.’

Fat Pinstripe turned round and addressed her directly. ‘It’s you who seems to be playing to the audience, Doctor Kelland. You’re not on
News Focus
now. This issue hasn’t been thought through. If we evacuate, where are we going to put them all?’

She came back at him immediately. ‘Where are we going to put all the bodies if they’re dead?’ She sat down, shaking her head angrily. ‘You asked me to join you for my knowledge of this kind of scenario – just what we’ve been predicting could happen for years. But now you’re not even listening. You’ve
got
to evacuate. I’ve seen situations like this before – and computer models of even more. The sewers will be flooding and disease will start to spread. It’s summer. Yes, it’s not a nice summer, but it’s still warm. Bacteria are going to be breeding like wildfire in that water. And what about drinking water?’

Madeleine Harwood cut in at this point. ‘Can’t you just follow emergency procedures?’ she asked.

The chief commissioner kept his voice even. ‘Yes, once you give the order to evacuate.’

There was a silence. Madeleine Harwood caught the eye of the other woman, who didn’t say anything
but her face dared the Minister to back out. ‘Evacuate London,’ said the Foreign Secretary after a long pause.

The chief commissioner cut the connection and addressed the room at Hendon. ‘The government has given the go-ahead to evacuate London.’

The controller took his headphones off. ‘Sir, we’re barely coping with the rescues. We just haven’t got the manpower to evacuate seven and a half million people.’

‘
Do not drive unless your journey is absolutely necessary. If you come across a flooded area, take care
.’

Ben heard the voice and peered into the shop. It was a sculptor’s studio. A figure made of plaster and wire stood in the window, against a backdrop of oyster-coloured silk.

The door was open, the studio dark except for a soft blue light coming from the radio playing on a shelf.

‘
Do not drive through any water if you don’t know how deep it is. Do not attempt to drive through fast-moving water. Keep in a low gear and drive
slowly and evenly to avoid creating a bow wave
…’

That blue display light was such a welcoming sight and the voice on the radio was authoritative and reassuring. Ben cautiously went through the door. ‘Hello? Is there anyone there?’ he called.

The studio was dominated by a table that ran the length of the room. Scattered on it were hammers, chisels, lengths of wire wrapped around card. In the centre was a shape vaguely like a horse’s head, made of wire.

‘
Allow oncoming traffic to pass first
…’

He didn’t hear the movement behind him. Suddenly his arm was grabbed and twisted painfully backwards. He felt something hard digging into his back and a voice hissed in his ear. It had an accent – European-sounding; perhaps Spanish. It smelled of strong cigarettes.

‘Keep quiet and do as I say.’

On the radio the quiet voice continued. ‘
Keep revving and slipping the clutch, otherwise water could enter the exhaust. If your car stalls, abandon it and climb to higher ground
.’

Ben felt like his arm would be dislocated at any
moment. He spluttered out a reply. ‘I’m sorry, I just wanted to get out of the rain. I haven’t touched anything. I’ll go.’

‘Stay still.’

Ben nodded And the pressure on his arms eased, although his captor kept hold of one wrist. Ben moved cautiously, stretching out his shoulders. That had really hurt. The last thing he wanted to do was provoke another attack and be subjected to that pain again.

‘
Once you are through the water
,’ said the calm voice on the radio, ‘
test your brakes as soon as you can
.’

‘Turn round,’ said the Spanish voice. The man kept hold of Ben’s wrist.

As Ben did so, he caught sight of the studio door again. There was a ragged hole where the lock had been. The Spanish man wasn’t the sculptor defending his art; he had broken in.

Ben’s captor was in silhouette, his back to the open door. He must have done that so that he could see Ben, while Ben couldn’t see very much of him. He smelled of river water and drains and his clothes were stuck
to him. Like Ben, he had been caught in the flood.

‘We’re walking.’ He jerked Ben’s wrist, then dragged him along past the long table towards the back of the studio. Ben banged his shins against something on the floor. They came to a door and the man kicked it open, let go of Ben’s wrist and pushed him through.

Ahead was a dingy corridor; on a shelf sat a grubby kettle and a chipped mug, plus a box of tea bags. A staircase led to an upper floor, while under the stairs Ben saw another door.

The Spaniard turned Ben around and he saw that the man’s wrists were handcuffed and bloody. He was holding something, a sharp serrated object: a hacksaw.

He held out his hands towards Ben, stretching them apart so that the chain link between the cuffs was taut. ‘Cut them apart,’ he ordered.

Ben had no thoughts of disobeying. He couldn’t run off now – the man was blocking his exit. And anyway, he looked strong and tough, even if he was handcuffed. He took the hacksaw, positioned it and started working it to and fro. The man stood looking at his
hands impassively. Ben didn’t think about what he was doing, or why the man was handcuffed: he just wanted to get it over with as fast as possible.

The man had obviously already tried to get the cuffs off by other means; his wrists were raw and red and there was a gash across the back of his hand where he had tried to get something under a cuff to force it open. Ben felt his eyes glowering at him as he worked. Deep-set eyes, dark brows and black hair. And he was clearly used to making other people do what he wanted. Judging by the blood on his wrists he could put up with a fair degree of discomfort too.

Ben sawed on. The handle of the saw was biting into his hands, but he didn’t dare stop. The blade became hot, but finally it had cut through the link.

The Spaniard pulled his wrists apart savagely, grabbed the hacksaw from Ben and threw it out into the dark shop. Ben was suddenly terrified by the new look of purpose in his eyes. What was he going to do now?

The man grabbed Ben’s arm and twisted it up again. As before, the pain in Ben’s shoulder told him to go with it or risk breaking something.

This time he found himself forced down to his knees. But that seemed to be what the man wanted because the pressure eased immediately.

Then he pulled open the door under the stairs and twisted Ben’s arm again. Again the pain. Ben guessed he was meant to go through the door. He was reduced to the level of an automaton, his arm like a lever – press for go, press for stop. He stumbled forwards and grabbed for the wall as he saw a flight of steps going down in front of him. He must be in a cellar.

Then the door was slammed and a key turned. Ben was locked in. And it was pitch-black.

He put his ear to the door and heard things tumbling from shelves as the man moved back through the studio. Either he was very clumsy or he was helping himself to the tools on the workbench. After a moment he heard the front door slam shut.

Then there was silence, except for the sound of the radio, softly playing its reassuring messages.

‘
There is no need for panic. The police are still in control. Law and order has not broken down
.’

Like hell, thought Ben. His body started to shiver violently, like it was in the grip of a fit. He realized
how frightened he had been. He’d literally come out in a cold sweat.

Suddenly he heard something that made him go even colder. Somewhere down the cellar steps in the darkness there was a splash.