Invasion (22 page)

When he returned to the apartment, Alex was relieved to find Kirsty awake. She still looked pretty spaced out, but she was up and moving and in the process of getting dressed when Alex entered the bedroom. Instinctively, Kirsty pulled the sweatshirt she was holding to her chest.

‘Alex!’ she protested. She tried to sound suitably outraged, but the attempt was half-hearted. Naked or not, she was glad that Alex was there with her.

‘Sorry Kirsty, but we haven’t got much time. Get dressed quickly and I’ll explain everything.’

Alex went out into the living room. Grouped in the centre of the coffee table were some decorative candles and a box of matches. Alex lit one, illuminating the room with its flickering glow. The light was not very bright but it was enough to see by; besides, Alex didn’t want to draw attention to the apartment. He wandered out towards the balcony. Across the river, the darkness took on a blood red hue, silhouetting the trees that lined the riverbank and beyond. Alex guessed that the airliner still burned over there somewhere. He shuddered at the thought of the carnage.

A faint noise caught his attention and his eyes were drawn towards the river. There it was again, the sound of water splashing. As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he thought he could see a slight luminescence on the surface of the dark waters. Something moved in his peripheral vision, an object that seemed to glide across the gloom below him. As it passed through a watery patch of moonlight, Alex suddenly realised what it was: a rowing boat. He could make out a figure aboard, rowing gently upstream towards the bend in the river at Kew Bridge. He watched it for several minutes until the boat slowly faded from view. The boat’s passing had an almost dream-like quality, a vision of serenity while all around the city burned. A thought suddenly occurred to Alex and, in that instant, he’d formulated a plan.

‘Alex?’

Kirsty was standing in the middle of the living room, her hair askew, dressed in jogging pants and a baggy sweatshirt, her arms wrapped protectively around herself.

‘You okay?’

Kirsty nodded, a thin smile cracking her pale face. Alex grabbed an arm of the overturned sofa and righted it. He patted one of the torn cushions, inviting Kirsty to sit down. She did so gratefully, the effects of the sleeping pill still causing her to feel groggy and heavy-limbed.

‘Alex, what’s happening? Those men with guns, and the plane…’ Her eyes clouded over. ‘Oh my God, those poor people.’

Alex knelt down in front of her and grabbed her arms tightly. Neither of them needed the hysterics again. ‘Look Kirsty, I don’t know what’s happening here, but London seems to be under some kind of attack. I don’t know who by, or why or anything like that, but I do know that we can’t stay here.’

Kirsty paled. ‘Attack? But I don’t understand. Can’t we ring somebody? Surely the TV or the radio will tell us what’s going on? What about you? You’re a bloody policeman, for God’s sake. Aren’t you supposed to know?’

Alex tried to keep his voice calm, his manner reassuring. ‘Everything’s down. I can’t raise anybody, not even my own team. And there’s not a single light across the whole of London. I went up onto the roof and had a look. It’s bloody eerie.’

‘This can’t be real,’ Kirsty mumbled.

‘It is, believe me.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Kirsty’s voiced trembled
as she spoke.

Alex had to keep her calm, keep her mind occupied. ‘Do you know anyone who has a boat?’

Kirsty frowned. ‘A boat? No, I… surely you’re not going to…’

‘Yes, we’ve got to find a boat, get out of the city. Whatever crisis this is, it’s big, big enough to shut down London. People are dying out there and no-one’s coming to help. Right now the best course of action is to get out, while we still can. Christ knows what’s going to happen next, but I’m betting it won’t be good. We’ve got to move, and move quickly. The
roads aren’t safe, that’s for sure. That’s why we need a boat.’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘We can’t just leave. What about my job? My friends, my mum and dad?’

‘They’ll be fine. They’d want you to be safe.’

‘Leaving doesn’t sound very safe.’

Alex got to his feet. ‘I can’t force you, Kirsty. I could stay too, try and head into work, find out what’s happening,
but the phones and radios are all dead and people are getting killed out there. Fact is, I probably wouldn’t make it. Tell me, have you heard a single police siren in the last hour?’ Kirsty shook her head.

‘Exactly. And how long can you stay here before you run out of food, before somebody starts nosing around this block? I’ve already seen one gang outside. It won’t be long before others turn up. You want to be here when they do?’

Kirsty clambered to her feet, her brown eyes wide with fear. ‘You’re scaring me, Alex.’

‘I’m trying to protect us.’

‘Where would we go?’

‘My brother
Rob
lives on
a farm in the West Country, quite isolated. Him and his wife are eco-nuts. They’ve got solar power, a wind turbine, chickens, pigs, a fresh-water well – you name it. We’d be safe there until all this dies down. But if we don’t go now, while it’s dark, we could be trapped here. Right now
a million people
are
wondering whether to make a move or to stay put. A lot of them will try, sooner rather than later. We’ve got to go before every escape route is blocked.’

Kirsty took a deep breath and nodded. ‘You’re right. Just until things get back to normal.’ She brushed past Alex into the kitchen, returning with a couple of litre bottles of mineral water.

‘We’ll bring these. What
else do we need?’

‘Warm clothes. I know it’s summer,
but it can still get cold at night. Have you got a rucksack or a backpack?’

Kirsty disappeared out into the hallway. After a moment, she returned with a large backpack complete with sleeping bag. She stood there, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, a tired smile on her face, and just for a moment the crisis was the furthest thing from Alex’s mind.

‘Right, er, pack some spare clothes and a waterproof jacket. We’ll need food too, soup, dried cereal, peanut butter, anything like that. And make sure you wear dark clothes. We don’t want to attract any unwelcome attention. I’m going downstairs, get my own gear. Back in five.’

‘Okay. Hurry up.’

Alex closed the door and crept slowly down the stairs, alert for trouble. On the ground floor he clicked on a small torch and entered his own apartment, where he stripped off his shirt and slacks and changed into police-issue black tactical trousers and jacket. He grabbed a rucksack from the spare bedroom and packed clothes and several other items including another torch, batteries, water, a compass, some tinned foods and a small hexamine cooker. He was ready to go in less than three minutes. But there were just a couple more essential items to pack.

From the gun cabinet in the bedroom, Alex retrieved the assault rifle and magazines. If he was going to have a weapon it might as well be a good one. All in all, he had one hundred and twenty 5.56 millimetre rounds for the Heckler-Koch and five pistol mags totalling eighty rounds. Not great, but not bad either. The trick would be to avoid contact, not look for it. Fully kitted and ready, Alex locked the front door of his apartment. Leaving his rucksack in the hallway, he trotted back upstairs where Kirsty was in the process of hefting her rucksack over her shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw the weapons.

‘Jesus Christ, Alex.’

‘Just for protection, that’s all.’

They made a final check of the flat, locking the doors and shutting off the gas and electricity.

‘I’ll
get on to the insurance people
as soon as I get back,’ joked Kirsty. Alex watched the tears roll down her face. He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze.

‘Everything’ll be okay, you’ll see. We’ll probably laugh about all this in a year’s time.’ He could see she didn’t believe him. They crept downstairs to the lobby doors and peered out into the night. Nothing moved. Silently, Alex pulled the door open and moved outside. After a few moments he motioned Kirsty to join him. He leaned close to her and whispered in her ear.

‘Move around the side of the building and keep to the shadows. When you get to the gardens at the rear, head for the bushes near the towpath and keep low.’ Kirsty nodded and headed off.

Alex watched her go, listening to the soft crunch of her feet as she crossed the gravel driveway between the apartment blocks. He waited for nearly a minute before he was satisfied that she hadn’t been seen or heard. He let the main door swing softly back into place, where it re-locked
itself with an audible click. The doors wouldn’t
last two seconds against a mob intent on looting and Alex despaired that he’d see his flat in such good condition when he returned. If he returned, he corrected himself.

Making a final visual sweep, Alex moved off into the shadows. He found Kirsty crouched down behind some bushes. Beyond the shrubbery was the towpath itself. If he was going to find a boat he was certainly in the right area.

‘Where does he live, your brother?’ whispered Kirsty.

‘Near a village called South Lockeridge, in Wiltshire. I reckon the river could take us as far as Reading, maybe further if we’re lucky. It’s about thirty-odd miles from there, so even if we had to walk it would only take us three days at the most.’

‘Walk?’

‘The roads might not be safe, so we may have to cut across country. Don’t worry, I’ve packed a tent and we’ve got enough food and water to last us for a couple of days. And it’s summer,
so the weather’s on our side. In the meantime we find a boat. Let’s get on the towpath, start heading towards Kew Bridge.’

‘What if we don’t find one?’

‘We’re bound to. Look, don’t worry, okay? Now, when we move off I want you to stay a few yards behind me. If I hold up my hand, just freeze and keep as quiet as possible. Have you got a torch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Don’t use it unless I say so. Your eyes’ll get used to the dark quite quickly, so we’ll rely on our night vision. And no talking.’

Kirsty took a deep breath. ‘Okay.’

‘Let’s go.’

Alex cut through the shrubs until they were on the
towpath
. The moon shone brightly in the sky, revealing the damp, gloomy trail along the riverbank.

‘Keep close and keep quiet,’ whispered Alex.

Kirsty smiled weakly and gave him a thumbs up. They made their way slowly towards Kew Bridge.

General Mousa watched
impassively as the badly-beaten figure of the policeman was dragged unceremoniously
out of the CMC, a thin trail of blood marking his departure along the corridor. As a rule, Mousa didn’t normally soil his hands with the messy business of torture as a means to extract information, but it had proved necessary in this particular
case. And the information Sergeant Morris had rasped through broken teeth was exactly what he wanted to hear. Beecham was still alive.

The invasion plans had called for the elimination of the various heads of the EU states. A country suddenly robbed of its political rulers while at the same time plunged into chaos and armed conflict would rapidly become disorganised, leading to political indecision and communications
failures. In the meantime, any mobilisation by military forces would be hindered by a lack of credible political guidance save for their own senior officers, who would be unable to act without the necessary civilian authorisation. And so it proved to be the case.

According to the latest reports, Arabian forces were streaming into Western Europe against scattered and disorganised opposition. In some areas they had advanced virtually unopposed, their enemies defeated before they knew what had happened. The Italian, Dutch, French, Spanish and Belgian leaders
and several of their high-ranking Cabinet members
were all reported killed or missing. Only the German Chancellor had escaped, a last-minute change to her schedule saving her life and avoiding the suicide bomber who had detonated his explosives in the lobby of the Reichstag building in Berlin. Her helicopter had been found abandoned an hour ago by Soviet forces outside the city of Rostock on the Baltic coast. She probably made for Denmark, assumed Mousa.

Strategically, the elimination of state leaders
had proved to be successful. Devoid of any serious opposition, the Arabian forces were seizing their objectives with minimal casualties and, more importantly, the towns and cities were suffering far less damage than they would normally endure in a long, drawn-out campaign.

But now, an opportunity had presented
itself. As a nation, the British people were normally slow to anger and demonstrated a blind faith in their politicians, something that Mousa fully intended to exploit. A captured Beecham could be used as a political pawn, forced to address the nation and declare an end to hostilities. The Holy One himself was concerned
by the potential for resistance in Britain. If Mousa could negate that resistance, sap the will to fight from the populace, it would be a considerable personal coup. And afterwards, when the nation had been suitably subjugated, Beecham would be removed, quietly but permanently.

The omens boded well. Beecham had survived the truck bomb intact and was somewhere in the locality. According to the policeman, he’d been joined by others, a small detachment of soldiers
tasked to protect him. But where would safety lie? The policeman, nursing his third broken finger, had recalled through gritted teeth a whispered conversation in which he’d
overheard the phrase ‘tunnel system’. Further interrogation of the other prisoners had revealed nothing of any significance. They were telling the truth, or what little truth there was to be told. So, Beecham was probably still hiding close by. But where?

Mousa stepped out
into the basement corridor, deep in thought. The Downing Street complex had been searched thoroughly and, apart from one or two civilians hiding amongst the rubble, it had proved to be deserted. Which left only one conclusion: there was another tunnel right here beneath Number Ten. Where else would it be?

He stopped pacing and looked once again at the heavy steel door to the generator room. He reached out and grasped the topmost handle, pulling it down. It moved
less than an inch and held fast. Mousa pulled down harder, but it wouldn’t move any further. He grasped the handle with both hands and used his bodyweight to try and shift it, but it remained locked solid. He bent down and tried the other one, heaving it upwards with all his might. Mousa prided himself on his physical prowess, but to his surprise and, mounting anger, he couldn’t move the handles any further. He straightened up, slapping his hands clean.

‘Major!’

Karroubi emerged from the CMC and hobbled out into the corridor, his right lower leg wrapped in a field dressing. ‘General?’

‘Get the combat engineers and a SERTRAK team down here as quickly as possible.’

‘You think that-’

‘Yes, Major Karroubi,
I think they went behind this door. It’s the only place we haven’t looked and the door appears to be jammed.’

Mousa balled his fist and pulled it back, about to crash it against the door in frustration. He stopped in mid-air, suddenly mindful of the possibility of booby traps. Instead, he gently rested an ear against the cold steel, his voice barely rising above a whisper. ‘And the devil himself must have sealed it from the inside.’

Four inches away from Mousa’s left ear, Trooper
Farrell also had his head pressed against the steel door. He’d heard movement outside, had leaned in close to try and improve the acoustics, then nearly jumped out of his skin when the handles had been forced from outside. But the steel bars jammed into the mechanism,
preventing any further movement. He heard low, muffled voices but it was impossible to catch what they were saying. It didn’t matter anyway. Whoever was outside wanted to get in here, and that meant it was time to get moving.

Farrell moved quietly away from the door and trotted down the ramp. He ducked through the false panel and sealed it from the other side, punching in the locking code. A minute later, he was down on the cavern floor.