Invasion (3 page)

Mousa extracted a sheath of intelligence briefing papers from his pocket, handed to him shortly before their flight into the desert.

‘Your Holiness, the financial crisis in Europe continues, its cities plagued by civil unrest and industrial action, fuelled by our socialist allies across the continent who have answered the call for direct action. In addition, converts in many European countries have infiltrated right-wing groups to stir up hatred against our people, resulting in Mosque burnings and physical attacks on our Brothers and Sisters. Many crave vengeance, and it has been difficult to suppress retaliation, particularly in France, where we are strongest. However, the message is loud and clear: Muslim
communities
across the continent are under threat and demand action. Key political operatives within European governments report a sense of fear amongst those in power, yet no administration has the courage to mobilise their armed forces to counter the escalating violence. It’s being viewed as a temporary
aberration, a symptom of the continuing recession and widespread strike action, and sympathetic legal assets plus our own Ambassadors are mounting pressure on local administrations to protect Muslim communities. In the meantime, our joint military exercises go on, practically unobserved. Western security agencies are being monitored and almost universally the intelligence
focus is domestic. The Infidels simply fail to see the storm that is brewing on their horizon. Allah has truly deafened the ears and blinded the eyes of our enemies.’

The Cleric nodded his head respectfully at the mention of the One, True

God. ‘What about the Americans?’

‘Their spy satellites over Europe have still not been replaced after the remote detonation of the Chinese communications satellite ten weeks ago.’

‘Why not?’ queried the Holy One.

‘The nature of the explosion and the loss of a Keyhole bird has given Washington pause for thought,’ replied Mousa. ‘They have yet to re-task another spacecraft. Clearly, they suspect foul play but their diplomatic efforts are focussed in Beijing. Again, our military build-up can continue unhindered.’

‘Good. And our French brothers?’

‘The nuclear codes will be secured within the first hour of the attack. Military Imams and senior Muslim officers will appeal directly to the French forces, over a third of whom are Brothers and Sisters of the faith. Their loyalty, like all Muslims, will be to their faith first. With the President
assassinated and a Muslim-heavy administration waiting in the wings, France will fall quickly.’

‘Excellent,’ breathed Khathami. ‘Come, we must return to the city.’ He rose and headed across the marquee. Mousa followed closely behind, reaching for his personal radio and quietly ordering the Blackhawk to fire up its engines. As they walked back through the trees, the Cleric spoke softly.

‘What does your heart tell you, Faris? About the success of the operation? You may speak freely.’

Mousa considered the question. It wasn’t often the Holy One used his first name, and normally only when his counsel was sought on matters of a delicate nature. He knew his opinion was valued by the man before him and he weighed his words carefully.

‘We simply must succeed,’ he began. ‘Despite their expulsion from our lands and the oil embargoes against them, somehow the Americans continue to advance technologically. Their
economy survives and shows signs of strengthening. There are rumours from our people in Washington.’

‘What rumours?’

Mousa shrugged. ‘Rumours of a new energy source. The details are sketchy, but our mole reports a sense of
some excitement
amongst Defence Department officials.’

‘We cannot concern ourselves with rumours, Faris. Do the Americans pose a threat to the operation?’

Mousa shook his head. ‘No, not yet. It’s possible they may come to Europe’s aid in some way, but the speed of our operations will leave them little time in which to counter our forces. That may change in the future, and for that we must be prepared. Europe has to be conquered
quickly for us to consolidate our positions.’

‘And the Chinese?’

‘Co-operative, because they need our oil,’ Mousa sneered. ‘But
they have no love for westerners, or anyone for that matter. Yes, they destroyed the spy satellite for us and they will be interested bystanders as the operation unfolds, but they are untrustworthy, Godless pigs. They will study our tactics, probe our battle plans for weaknesses. There will be trouble in the future.’

‘I agree,’ nodded the Cleric, ‘but for now they remain allies. And Europe itself?’

‘The economic depression has crippled their military
forces, as predicted. Islam is strong everywhere,
particularly in northern Europe, and our people cry out for justice. Yes, in my heart I believe we will succeed. But we must strike hard and fast.’

In the shadows of the old fort, moonlight glinted off the Cleric’s glasses, the brown eyes behind burning brightly. ‘It will be so, Faris. In my meditations I have seen the future of Europe, and the flag of Islam flies above its capitals. The eleventh day of June will indeed be a day of liberation.’

Beyond the fort the helicopter waited, its rotors lazily chopping the night air. Khathami stopped short and turned to face a puzzled Mousa.

‘Your Eminence? Is something the matter?’

‘I’ve decided to relieve you of your duties, General Mousa.’

Mousa’s blood ran cold and his eyes instinctively darted to the bodyguards, their weapons held tightly to their chests. His mind raced back over the previous weeks with the Holy One. Had he caused some offence? Imparted some slight?

Khathami’s yellowed teeth glowed in the darkness. ‘Relax, Faris. As much as you would have me believe that your place is at my side, I know that the soldier inside you craves the roar of battle.’ He raised a bony finger. ‘I trust those paratrooper wings on your tunic are more than a soldier’s vain decoration?’

Mousa was both relieved and perplexed. He offered a slight bow. ‘I am at your service, your Eminence.’

‘You will command an airborne unit that will seize control of Whitehall in London,’ Khathami explained. ‘When we return to Baghdad you will organise transport on to Cairo, where you will be met by your new liaison officer, a Major Karroubi. He will brief you on the details.’ Mousa began to speak, but Khathami cut him short with a raised hand. ‘Do not concern yourself now, Faris. The mission plans have already been rehearsed many times. Your new men will not disappoint
and Major Karroubi has come highly recommended. What is important
is that I have your eyes and ears on the ground in England.’ Khathami paused, his voice suddenly quiet as he gazed up at the stars in the night sky. ‘It is a strange land, Britain. Although we are strong there, I believe the Infidels have the potential to resist us. That’s why I need you there, Faris, my best and most gifted warrior.’

Mousa felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, the Holy One’s words triggering strong emotions.

‘I will not fail you,’ he breathed, taking Khathami’s offered hand and kissing it reverently. The old man smiled briefly and turned towards the waiting helicopter. Mousa followed behind, exhilaration coursing through his veins. He was going to war against the Infidels, about to become a major player in events that would see the maps of Europe redrawn, a witness to Islam’s resurgent
history. It was once said that the Holy One could see into the minds and hearts of men, to know their private thoughts and feelings. For a brief moment Mousa almost believed those peasant superstitions.

As they boarded the Blackhawk, Mousa ran through a mental
checklist
. At
44, he was still in good shape, but a five-mile run every morning for the next few days wouldn’t hurt. Some refresher parachute jumps too, and time on the weapons ranges. As the rotor blades reached full speed, Khathami gestured to Mousa, tapping his headphones. Mousa dialled in his own headset to the internal comms channel.

‘You will never make a politician,’ Khathami chuckled, his voice crackling through the headphones. ‘It is plain to see the joy in your heart. You are ready for the task ahead?’

Mousa’s brief surge of excitement had passed and now his professionalism took over. He spoke with quiet determination. ‘Whatever it is, I will ensure its success, your Eminence.’

‘I do not doubt it, General Mousa. It shall be written. In one month, the continent of Europe will no longer exist.’

‘Insha’Allah,’ smiled the General.

H
arry Beecham, the British Prime Minister, shifted impatiently in his chair and glanced at the men and women around the conference table, wondering if they detested this room as much as he did. Lately he seemed to be spending far more time in the fortified bunker beneath Downing Street and he didn’t like it. In fact, if truth be known, Harry was a little claustrophobic.

He glanced up at the reinforced concrete
ceiling as the discussions continued around him. Twenty-seven feet above was the rear garden of Number Ten. Twenty-seven feet. It was like being in a tomb – a modern, high-tech tomb, of course, with direct subterranean access to Downing Street and the Ministry of Defence, but a tomb nonetheless. Harry had been reliably informed on his first visit that the complex, constructed in great secrecy in the 1960s, could withstand a nuclear attack in the ten-kiloton region. Harry was more sceptical. A tower block in Poplar had collapsed some years ago, killing over two hundred people. That had also been constructed in the sixties, Harry had pointed out to the bemused aide. He smiled at the memory, then refocused his mind to the business at hand.

The Cobra Intelligence Group breakfast meeting had been a long one and, despite copious amounts of coffee and croissants fuelling the heated debate, it was beginning to show on the tired and strained
faces around the air-conditioned room. The CIG was made up of representatives from MI5, MI6, GCHQ, the Joint
Intelligence Group, Defence Intelligence
Staff and Special Branch and each and every agency had taken the opportunity to demonstrate their own specialist insight into what was fast becoming
a national crisis.

Over the last eighteen months, the economic recession gripping Britain had developed into a full-blown depression, plunging Harry’s administration into a state of permanent
crisis and the country into despair. Despite the bailouts and intervention from Brussels and the IMF, nothing seemed able to halt the slide of the pound, the rise in interest rates and double figure inflation.

Harry had ordered a programme of sweeping financial cuts, prompting a campaign of industrial action that plagued the public and private sectors. Schools and hospitals had begun to close, while mountains of rubbish piled up on the streets and power cuts rolled across the country. On strike days, public transport ground to a halt and every week more and more people took to the streets, the seemingly endless demonstrations
resulting in
ever-rising
levels of violence. Britain was being crippled by militant action, stirred up by thousands of hard left agitators, anarchists and general troublemakers. With unemployment pushing the five million mark, people were desperate.
Harry understood their frustration – the
skyrocketing
fuel prices, interest rates heading towards twelve per cent and the cost of food production that triggered long queues at supermarkets. Recently, in his darker moments, Harry had begun to wonder where it would all end. The chants were getting louder, the newspaper headlines more hysterical, his own car pelted with missiles every time he left Whitehall, the twisted faces of hate that screamed for his head – any head – on a pole outside Downing
Street. The
same despair had also gripped Europe, the scenes of public protest and violent disorder mirrored right across the continent, where many had been killed in clashes with the police and security forces.

As the meeting wore on it was clear that the CIG attendees were pretty unanimous in their conclusions. Hard times called for hard measures and the use of water cannon and tear gas, emergency
arrest and detention powers, even a partial military deployment, had been debated around the room. Harry, feeling increasingly isolated, had refused to invoke such measures. This wasn’t South America, he pointed out. Not yet, as someone
from Defence had grimly noted. But if the thin blue line crumbled, if the mobs turned uglier, then all the measures discussed this morning might be unavoidable. And once they went down that road the country would never be the same again, Harry realised. A way forward had to be found, and found quickly. The people needed hope, enough to calm the palpable frustration on the streets. But hope was in short supply.

The economic depression had been triggered by the Russian energy field failures, the Arabians using the opportunity to ramp up the price of gas and oil to previously unimaginable levels. They had insisted it was due to production problems, but Harry wasn’t buying it. Meanwhile the Chinese, always ready to take advantage of a western crisis, waited in the wings to become Europe’s biggest creditor
as they sought to buy up the ever rising mountain of European debt. Quiet diplomacy, once the soothing balm of British foreign relations, wasn’t working either. If Harry didn’t know better he’d probably entertain the anti-western conspiracy theories being bandied around the room, but to do so would invoke a siege mentality within the administration and that would be bad for everyone. Besides, he argued, what good was a broke and busted Europe?

So the meeting had ended, grim looks in evidence
as the attendees left the room. Harry left too, his Communications Director, David Fuller, hurrying behind him. As they made their way back upstairs into Number Ten, Harry’s thoughts turned to the forthcoming dinner that night with the US Ambassador. After years of Euro-centric governments in Whitehall, Harry had focussed significant diplomatic efforts in re-kindling long neglected Anglo-American friendships.

The US economy, in difficulties for nearly a decade, was now beginning to show signs of a marked recovery. After the Gulf and Afghan
withdrawals,
and the Arab Spring that had eventually given birth to the Arabian super state, America had been badly let down by her allies in Europe. No one had fought her corner
when the Grand Mufti Khathami had decided to cut off oil exports to North America, when the same economic woes had gripped the US as they had here in Britain and, as a result, Washington had pursued a somewhat isolationist foreign policy. Harry didn’t blame them for that, and had often felt ashamed at the almost unbridled joy exhibited by many fellow politicians at America’s downfall.

But things had changed recently; in the last few months, US exports had risen, the dollar had been slowly strengthening, the power cuts that had bankrupted the state of California and affected every major US city had ceased almost overnight. Something was going on across the pond and Harry was glad that he’d reached out to Washington in his first months as Prime Minister, offering a hand of friendship that was tenuously accepted. Relations
were still fragile, but Harry believed he was considered
a friend in Washington, and right now that friend needed help. Tonight, at dinner with the Ambassador, he’d find out if help was forthcoming.

In the lobby of Number Ten, Harry dismissed Fuller and made his way upstairs to his private apartment on the top floor. Anna, his wife, was working on her laptop in the kitchen when he entered.

‘Missus B,’ he chirped, brushing her blonde hair back and pecking her cheek.

‘Hi,’ smiled Anna, tapping away at the keyboard. ‘How was the meeting?’

‘Tedious,’ he sighed. His wife knew about the CIG meetings, was aware of the type of topics discussed in the deep level bunker below ground. And it frightened her. Harry could hear the edge in her voice, saw the lines that creased her forehead, remembered the fear in those pale blue eyes when the paint had splattered against the car window, when she came face to face with the baying crowds beyond the shields and the barriers. She’d changed
in the last year, and Harry had seen her strength and confidence
falter in the face of mob violence, of class hatred, at becoming an establishment hate figure alongside her husband.

The thought of exposing his wife to such animosity made Harry’s stomach churn. His marriage was important to him, more than anything, but he also had a duty to the country, to all those people out there who were suffering similar strains and pressures. Anna knew that, accepted it, but wasn’t coping as well as she might. She was a good person, decent, caring. She didn’t deserve this. The bloody job was making them both old, Harry fumed.

He forced a smile as he watched Anna close her laptop and move it to one side. ‘Can we leave town this weekend?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to be around for this bloody march.’

‘Of course. I can work from Chequers.’ Harry poured them both a coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, loosening his tie. A siren suddenly wailed on Whitehall and he saw anxiety cloud her eyes again, the worry lines around her mouth deepen. He took her hands in his. ‘Hey, it’s probably an ambulance.’

Anna squeezed his fingers, then brought them up to her mouth and kissed
them. ‘I know, I’m being stupid. Just spooked
again, that’s all. A weekend in the country will do us both good.’

‘You bet.’

‘What’s on for the rest of the day?’

‘I’ve got that school thing in Greenwich, remember? The wing opening?’ Anna frowned. ‘I thought you were going to cancel? Because of the dinner
tonight?’

‘I’d love to. But, as David rightly reminded me, I made a personal commitment. Besides, the developers are significant party donors.’

‘They’d understand, Harry. What’s more important – preparing for a dinner that may reap considerable rewards for the whole country, or a school wing opening?’

Harry frowned. ‘You’re right, I know. It’s tricky, that’s all.’

‘Then cite security concerns, the march, whatever.
Or s
end someone else.
What about Kay Fleming?’

Harry thought about his barrel-figured Minister for Education, her negative reaction to an abrupt change in her schedule, her famously abrasive manner.

‘No, Kay’s all wrong for this. Like I said, it’s more of a personal commitment. I made a promise, when they
broke
ground, in front of the board, the parents and pupils. I went to school there, remember?’

Anna laid her hands on the table. ‘In that case, I’ll go.’

Harry shook his head. ‘No way.’

‘Yes,’ Anna insisted in a calm voice. ‘It’s only Greenwich, and it’ll be more personal if I go. Anyway, I’m beginning to feel like a prisoner here. It’ll be nice to do a bit of meet and greet, take my mind off things. Who knows, it might give the polls a little boost too.’

Harry thought quickly. True, it was a short trip, made even shorter in a ministerial car that didn’t stop for anything across town. He’d insist on a larger police escort too, strong but subtle, just to keep Anna reassured. And maybe she was right
,
maybe the media would spin it in a positive light
.
‘You’re sure?’ asked Harry, squeezing
her shoulder.

‘Certain.’

‘You’ve
saved my life,’ he smiled, scraping his chair back and kissing her cheek. ‘I’ll speak to David, get things organised with the Governors. Can you be ready by three? The unveiling’s supposed to take place after the final bell, give the kids and parents a chance to see the ceremony.’

Anna nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘You’re an angel. Thanks.’

He turned, closing the apartment door behind him, and headed downstairs.