Invasion (24 page)

It had taken Danesh Khan almost half an hour to climb the fire escape stairs inside Park Heights. On seeing the trucks loaded with armed men approach the complex below him, it had taken him less than fifteen minutes to get back down to the lobby.

He took a moment to catch his breath, then made his way outside onto the mezzanine
level, peering carefully over the railing. The armed men were already inside the mall, milling around the deserted shops and restaurants. Khan did a quick head-count. Twenty, maybe more, and in no apparent hurry to leave the scene. Their voices drifted up towards him, the sound echoing around the darkened complex. It wouldn’t be long before they began to move up to the mezzanine level, maybe check out Park Heights tower itself. He had to get out of there.

Keeping low, he made his way outside the building. His instincts told him he would be safer north of the river, to cross Chelsea Bridge and disappear into the streets beyond. It wasn’t the best plan ever, but it was all he could think of at that moment. He took a quick look outside and headed towards the security hut and the ramp beyond.

The approaching headlights blinded him, the roar of the trucks deafening as they thundered up the ramp towards him. Every fibre in Khan’s body screamed at him to run until the truck tooted its horn as it approached the barrier. In that instant, Khan knew that the driver had mistaken him for one of their own. He forced himself to relax. The trucks slowed, hissing to a stop. The driver in the first truck leaned out and shouted something to him over the sound of idling engines.

Khan could see the silhouettes of two figures on the back of the lead truck, leaning on the roof of the cab. The driver shouted again, beckoning Khan towards him urgently. Khan began to back away, very slowly. Although he spoke fluent Punjabi and Urdu, he couldn’t understand this man’s dialect. Now one of the men on the back of the truck joined in, beckoning Khan impatiently. Khan replied in Punjabi, telling them he was going to get help to lift the barrier, hoping the ruse would work. He’d
almost reached the mezzanine entrance when a loud crack sent him hurtling through the doors, the bullet smashing through a glass pane less than three feet from his body. He slid along the floor on his stomach, scrambling for cover. He stood up and peered around the shattered door. The first truck had crashed through the barrier and was approaching
fast. Khan looked along the mezzanine level to the staircase at the other end of the complex. Two hundred yards at least, and no cover – he’d never make it.

He took a quick look over the railing to the floor below. The men down there had scattered at the sound of the shot and Khan saw several running up the dead escalators to the mezzanine level. It left him with only one possible course of action.

He lifted his weapon and, as the first truck rumbled to a halt outside the glass doors, Khan swung around and fired at the men behind the cab. The long burst sent them tumbling from view and Khan switched targets to the driver, punching several holes through the passenger door and window. The truck lurched forward and stalled, the driver slumped dead over the wheel. Khan turned his attention to the second truck and fired several rounds through the windscreen. The driver ducked and pulled the wheel to the right, saving himself but exposing another man on the back of the truck, who held on with both hands
as it veered across the road. Khan shot him and the man screamed, falling from the accelerating vehicle. The truck roared onwards and disappeared down an exit ramp. Khan fired a few more rounds to encourage the driver to keep going.

The darkness of the distant riverside complex beckoned. Khan kept to the
shadows of the building, cutting across the
moonlit
car park just as the first bullets zipped past him. He turned to see a dozen bad guys spread out across the road in pursuit. Ahead of him, several large buildings squatted near the river, seemingly dark and deserted. And that meant lots of hiding places.

With bullets cracking overhead, Khan leapt over the hood of an abandoned car and headed north towards the River Thames.

In the westbound tunnel, Harry slowed from a reasonably paced run to a jog, then a walk. Finally he stopped, resting his hands on his knees while he took in huge gulps of air. He felt like vomiting. Despite his determination to keep up, despite the rumble of explosions behind them, Harry would rather face the prospect of capture than run another step. His head spun and he sank to his knees, retching loudly. Nothing came up except bile.

He heard Gibson order Farrell back down the tunnel to cover their rear. It was clear from the tension in the soldier’s voice that progress had been far too slow and Harry was in silent agreement. They’d
only just passed the broken train carriage, which was less than a mile in. Still, once they got to the terminus beneath the Palace another train carriage should be waiting. Hopefully, that one would be in working order. If it wasn’t, they could all be in serious trouble. Harry stood up, cuffing his mouth dry as Farrell returned.

‘Sounds like somebody’s
on our arse already. We’ve got to speed up,’ the soldier said, his eyes flicking toward Harry.

The PM raised his hand. ‘Didn’t realise how out of condition I was. I don’t think-’

Forsythe cut him off. ‘Let’s keep moving.’ He headed up the tunnel without waiting.
H
arry took a deep breath and followed on behind. Farrell disappeared in the opposite direction.

‘Where’s he going?’

‘He’ll try and delay our pursuers. Just keep moving,’ urged Forsythe.

They’d covered another few hundred yards when Gibson raised his arm for the group to halt. As Harry tried to catch his breath, Farrell returned.

‘Two claymores, all set,’ the soldier announced.

Gibson nodded. ‘Sweet. Let’s take point and recce the platform.’

It was only then that Harry noticed a pale light, its faint glow illuminating the curved wall of the tunnel ahead. Thank God, he breathed silently.

A few minutes later, they were jogging up a sloping ramp and onto the brightly-lit platform beneath Buckingham Palace. Harry noticed the cavern here was much smaller than the Downing Street complex, just one platform with several metal benches along its length and a single steel door built into the rough stone wall. Gibson observed that their footfalls created dusty footprints on the platform floor, which meant no one had been down here yet.

An open train carriage waited invitingly
halfway along the platform and they piled in quickly, Gibson settling behind a set of uncomplicated controls that consisted of a few digital read-outs and a single lever. He slapped Farrell’s arm.

‘How many claymores you got left?’

‘One.’

‘Rig it in the tunnel behind us.’

While Farrell got to work, Gibson turned to Forsythe. ‘What happens if we get to Kensington Gardens and the comms equipment
is buggered?’

‘If we’re unable to contact Alternate One, we may have to commandeer a vehicle and head west.’

‘Drive through London with all this going on? I wouldn’t give much for our chances.’

‘It may be our only choice. We have to get clear of the city while we still can.’ Forsythe
checked his watch. ‘It’s after midnight. As long as we’re away by first light, we may have a chance.’

Harry pointed a finger at the ceiling. ‘What about the people up there? I
know the King and his family are at Balmoral, but the Palace staff?’

The Brigadier shook his head. ‘We can’t save everyone, Harry. Our priority is getting
you to Alternate One.’

After another minute or so, Farrell came running up the platform and scrambled aboard the carriage. ‘All set.’

‘Hold tight, then,’ warned Gibson.

He pushed the control lever forward and the carriage began to move slowly away from the platform. Comfortable with its action, he pushed it further, and the carriage accelerated into the
dimly lit
tunnel deep below Hyde Park Corner.

General Mousa blinked several
times,
as the main cavern was suddenly flooded with light.

‘Power is restored, General.’

Mousa shot the combat engineer a look. All around him, engineering troops had exposed wiring cabinets and ducting panels, and were busy ferreting away inside them. Mousa stood and left the room. He’d only be in their way. Outside the control room, a company of his paratroopers were assembling on the platform area. Behind him, a continuous stream of soldiers abseiled down on nylon ropes rigged from the room above.

‘Captain Haseeb!’
The big Afghan was standing at the entrance to the westbound tunnel, a radio clamped to his ear. On Mousa’s command,
he hurried over. ‘Well?’

‘My men have discovered a transportation carriage, General. They are inspecting
it now-’

Two loud explosions reverberated
around the cavern, sending everybody diving for cover. Only Mousa and Haseeb remained upright. Seconds later, a large cloud of dust billowed out of the westbound tunnel. Haseeb’s radio crackled. He nodded quickly
as he listened to the report and then barked another order. He turned to Mousa.

‘More booby traps
,
claymores, this time. I have three dead, one badly wounded. Have we any more penal troops, General? I cannot waste more of my men.’

Mousa gave him a hard look. ‘There’s no time for that. The British Prime Minister may be just ahead. You are the experts at this type of warfare. Send your men on!’ Haseeb hurried away, barking orders into his radio.

‘Major Karroubi!’ bellowed Mousa, his voice echoing around the cavern walls. The Major, busy organising the rapidly growing number of paratroopers, limped over.

‘General?’

‘Send two platoons into the westbound tunnel to support the SERTRAK team. Stay out of their way and let them do their job, but tell them to secure any prisoners and send them straight back to me.’

‘Yes, General.’

‘What of the other tunnel?’

‘It heads north, more or less. Apart from the odd curve, the tunnel runs almost straight. I’ve sent a squad to recce it. No contact so far.’

For Mousa it confirmed what he already believed. ‘Call them back. Where are my surveillance drones?’

‘On their way, General. They should be here in minutes.’

Mousa took a few paces towards the mouth of the westbound tunnel, momentarily lost in thought. Al-Bitruji had set up his command post in Buckingham Palace. What was it about that place? He turned to Major Karroubi.

‘A map of the area, quickly.’

Karroubi snapped his fingers
and a waiting orderly complied. Mousa unfolded the map and laid it on the floor, studying it carefully. After scrutinising it for several seconds, he tapped the document with his finger.

‘The westbound tunnel, it leads to Buckingham Palace, I am certain of it. If the Infidels would go to such lengths to evacuate a Prime Minister this way, the same would surely apply to their Royal family, which means that this system can be accessed from underneath the Palace. Get General Al-Bitruji on the radio. Tell him there is a tunnel entrance somewhere beneath him. It must be found, quickly. We may be able to get ahead of them.’

Karroubi turned to a waiting signaller, who was already hailing Al-Bitruji’s command post. After a hurried three-way conversation, Karroubi reported that the surveillance drones had arrived and were being brought down to the cavern along with their operators.

‘I’m going to Al-Bitruji’s command post,’ Mousa announced. ‘Have transport waiting for me in Whitehall and call me when the drones are ready to fly. Stay close to the radio, Major. I may need you to move quickly.’

‘As you wish, General.’

Mousa secured himself inside a small harness and was winched up to the room above. There
was still blood on the walls where the explosive light fitting had detonated, but Mousa was pleased to see that the false electrical unit and the wall behind it had been removed completely, allowing Mousa to pass unhindered into the generator room. Two paratroopers fell in alongside him as he made his way out into a rubble-strewn Whitehall. Smoke hung like a heavy curtain across the street and distant gunfire echoed on the night air. A Humvee waited, engine idling. Mousa hopped aboard with his escort and the vehicle swung
around, heading towards Parliament Square.

The jeep turned right into Birdcage Walk. Mousa watched as hundreds of prisoners, their hands clasped above their heads, shuffled slowly forward towards Parliament Square, guarded by Arabian soldiers. By the look of most of them they were office workers, maybe government personnel. Many wore shirts and ties, and some wore clothes that were torn and bloodied. There were others mixed among them, wearing uniforms
;
soldiers, police officers, surrendered
or captured. Mousa didn’t give much for their eventual fate.

The jeep hummed along the Mall, the driver weaving left and right to avoid the hundreds of discarded parachutes that drifted across the road. When
they reached the gates of Buckingham Palace, Mousa saw that the black iron barricades had been wrenched from their concrete plinths and lay twisted on the parade ground. In their place, two armoured fighting vehicles had taken up position either side of the entrance. Mousa watched as their forty-millimetre guns tracked the Humvee as it approached. A soldier waved a fluorescent wand and the vehicle whined to a halt.

Mousa’s identity was confirmed and the jeep was quickly waved through. It continued under the arched portico and entered the central courtyard of the Palace, where the driver found a space amongst the numerous vehicles already there. Mousa glanced up, noticing the camouflage netting that had been draped overhead. An orderly approached and gave a small bow.

‘General Mousa, an honour, Sir. General Al-Bitruji
is in the command post. I will escort you there immediately.’

With his bodyguards in tow, Mousa followed the orderly along the red-carpeted hallways of Buckingham Palace. He was pleased to see it untouched. Looting by Arabian troops was strictly forbidden, although Mousa had to admit that the temptation to pick up a souvenir here would be hard to resist. They made their way through several rooms into what was obviously a staff corridor. They passed a room that housed several easy chairs, an old plasma TV screen, and piles of newspapers and magazines scattered on a heavily-stained coffee table.

After several
more twists and turns through the palace kitchens, Mousa followed the orderly down a flight of smooth stone steps to the palace basement. There was much more activity here, with communications and power cables running along the floor. The cables snaked their way into a large, low-ceilinged storeroom and it was here that Al-Bitruji had sited his command post. A good choice, Mousa had to admit: underground,
easy access to the floors above and, if he was not mistaken, an exit to the grounds of the palace itself. A corridor opposite the command post had a heavy blackout drape across it and a sign ordering the observation of light discipline. Soldiers scurried to and fro. The place was a hive of activity.

Inside the command post, a large battlefield command screen was
being
monitored by a dozen operators. Mousa noticed an air-defence detachment lining one wall, their air-search consoles glowing in the darkened room. No doubt the roof of the palace bristled with anti-aircraft batteries and troops with hand-held SAMs. General Al-Bitruji looked up from a large-scale map as Mousa entered.

‘Ah! General Mousa! Good to see you!’

The overweight Al-Bitruji crossed the room and shook Mousa’s hand, kissing him lightly on each cheek. They had known each other for many years, each man’s steady rise up the ladder mirrored by the other. But there the similarities ended. Although both held the rank of General, it was Mousa who had unrestricted
access to the Cleric. Technically, there was no difference in their status, but the reality was somewhat different,
as both men knew. It was for that reason that Al-Bitruji tried to humour the tough paratrooper before him. He gently steered Mousa by the elbow out of earshot of the command post staff.

‘So, Faris. Still jumping
out of planes with the young bucks, eh?’

Mousa smiled thinly. ‘General Al-Bitruji, the mission I have been given is one of the highest importance. This
is neither the time nor the place for frivolity. You received my message?’

Al-Bitruji’s dark eyes darted left and right. Only Mousa’s bodyguards
had heard the rebuke.

‘Yes
, of course, your message. Come.
’
H
e smiled through gritted teeth
, leading
Mousa over to the command screen and bark
ing
orders at the operators. The
display chang
ed
to a large-scale representation of Buckingham
Palace and its immediate area. Mousa watched as a row of coloured dots moved upwards across the screen. Al-Bitruji pointed to the slow-moving icons.

‘Those are combat engineers, spread out across the grounds of the Palace. They’re carrying imaging equipment that can detect heat sources deep underground. They can also detect large voids and cavities beneath the surface. I have other teams searching every basement and cellar in this building. If there is a tunnel here, we’ll find it.’

Mousa nodded. Al-Bitruji had deployed his troops well. Maybe he’d been a bit hard on his fellow General.
‘How goes the
invasion?’ he asked, softening his tone.

Al-Bitruji gave another order and the screen changed to show an overhead view of England and Wales. Arabian forces were represented by green icons and the southern half of England showed large concentrations of them, particularly in the South East and the Midlands.
‘The invasion
is going exactly
as planned,’ replied Al-Bitruji, clearly eager to please. ‘All preliminary targets have been seized. Our
ships are docking unopposed and offloading
supplies as we speak. Apart from a brief contact with an enemy helicopter, our own convoy made it here virtually unopposed. The second convoy from the port of Southampton
is on its way. That one is made up of heavy armour, tanks and fighting vehicles. In fact, it has almost reached the outskirts of the capital.’ Al-Bitruji pointed to a long line of icons that stretched along the M3 motorway.

Mousa’s eye drifted down
towards the city of Portsmouth, situated on the south
coast. ‘What is happening
here?’ enquired
Mousa, pointing
at a cluster of red dots.

‘British marines on the naval base, digging their heels in. Two of our cargo ships have also been sunk by a frigate. They also have air defences. One of our helicopters was shot down with a SAM.’

The pale light of the basement failed to
mask
the sheen of sweat on Al-Bitruji’s brow. Mousa knew he only had to file one bad report,
plant a single seed of doubt
about Al-Bitruji’s abilities, and the portly General’s career would be over. He would be shipped back east, to serve out his time in some flyblown posting in the desert. An inglorious end to a long and distinguished career. He kept his face neutral, deriving some pleasure from Al-Bitruji’s obvious discomfort.

A junior officer approached, flicking up a hand in salute.

‘Yes, what is it?’ demanded Al-Bitruji.

‘General, we have found the entrance to the tunnel system.’

‘Show me,’ interrupted Mousa, barging past Al-Bitruji. They marched along a short corridor and out into the gardens at the rear of the palace, making their way quickly across the manicured lawns towards Constitution Hill, where the trees and shrubbery were thickest. Close to the boundary wall and adjacent to a woodland path, Mousa saw several soldiers in a clearing. They were gathered around a small blockhouse,
expertly dressed in ornate flowers
and vines and partly shielded from the path by thick bushes. Even in daylight it would be hard to spot. As he approached, the soldiers parted silently. Mousa’s guide pointed beyond the heavy wooden door.

‘It leads down to a train platform, General.’

Mousa took the stairs two at a time. At the bottom he found himself in a cavern similar to the one under Downing Street but much smaller. Several engineers were already inspecting the platform area along with some of Al-Bitruji’s combat troops. To his right, the tunnel disappeared around a curve. Mousa jumped down onto the tracks. The smooth concrete between the rails was spotted with oil. Mousa dipped his finger into a small stain and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. Fresh. So, they had missed them. They must have found another train and continued on into the tunnel. Where that led was anyone’s guess.

As if to rubber-stamp his hypothesis, Captain Haseeb and his SERTRAK team appeared in the mouth of the eastbound tunnel. They were panting hard, trying to make up for the lost time that the claymores had cost them. Haseeb approached, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.

‘We’ve
defused another booby-trap, but this one was clumsily sited. We cannot be far behind them.’