Invasion (41 page)

‘Docks! They’re protecting
something at the docks.’

‘What docks?’

‘Stand by.’ The Weps/Nav keyed in a request for more localised information. Within
seconds it was back. Teignmouth Dock; five berths, facilities to handle large container ships, warehouses,
storage areas, sheltered harbour, good links to the M5 motorway…

‘Possible target, Teignmouth docks. SAM units are protecting all easterly approaches. Recommend new heading three-four-niner degrees.’

The pilot banked the plane around immediately and settled in to their new heading. He had two, one thousand pound bombs and one canister of cluster munitions, plus a couple of thousand rounds of twenty-millimetre. All he needed now was a target to expend it on.

‘What have we got?’ he asked.

‘Start climbing. Can’t see a thing from down here.’

The pilot pulled back on his yoke and increased power. He did it slowly, giving his crewman time to monitor his equipment
as their radar coverage increased. It also made them vulnerable to detection, but that was the trade-off.

‘Contact! Take us down!’

The pilot pushed forward on the yoke and the plane dived for the surface of the sea. He watched his instrumentation
carefully. The sun had set and the gloom was building rapidly. The sea below the aircraft was calm, no whitecaps to give the pilot any points of reference. Flying in these conditions required the utmost concentration and the pilot’s eyes flicked constantly between
his instrumentation and the sea below. Behind him, the Weps/Nav firmed up the contact.

‘Okay, we’ve got two ship-borne
radar signatures. First contact, military spec, surface type, air-search capability confirmed. Designate target as navy frigate. Second target is stationary, standard sea-set radar signature. Possibly a cargo ship.’

‘Did they see us?’ enquired the pilot. British frigates were equipped with a variety of anti-aircraft weapons and he didn’t want to give the enemy the opportunity to test their effectiveness.

‘Negative,’ confirmed Weps/Nav.

The pilot had a decision to make. A frigate was a formidable foe and one he wouldn’t normally consider engaging, not without the right ordinance. But the cargo ship was something
else. It could be offloading supplies, and those supplies would probably be used to reinforce the Infidel troops on the ground. The pilot burned with the desire to avenge his fallen comrades, and engaging the target ahead would go some way to atoning for his own stupid mistake.

‘Arm weapons
systems and prepare to engage. Recommend simultaneous drop of two LGBs. We’re going for the cargo ship.’

‘Understood,’ the Weps/Nav replied.

He programmed the Laser Guided Bombs for low-altitude release
as the plane thundered across the surface of the sea. They’d
come in hard and fast, right on the deck, popping up at the last minute for bomb release and then bank to the northwest. Weps/Nav suggested using the cluster munitions on the westernmost SAM unit on the way out; their course would take them almost directly over it. Perfect, agreed the pilot. He flexed his fingers inside his flight gloves, settled back in his seat and slowly increased power.

The orderly hated ships. In fact, he
detested
boats of any kind. The water made him ill and the smell of the docks was enough to disrupt his delicate stomach. Add to that the chaos and confusion around him and his nerves were now severely rattled. He just wasn’t cut out for this shit. Still, if it helped to get him out of harm’s way, he was willing to put up with a few hours of discomfort.

As he squatted on the concrete floor of the warehouse, he reflected briefly on the day’s events. If he hadn’t dumped the Prime Minister’s clothes like he had, instead of disposing of them properly, he would have definitely missed his allocated transport. He’d
probably still be on the motorway now, along with the
breakdowns
and the other stragglers. There was talk of fighting too, of air attacks and casualties. God knows what would happen if the Arabians caught up with them here, with their backs to the sea.

‘You lot! On your feet!’

The orderly swivelled
around. The sergeant was
shouting at his group! Thank God! Finally they were on the move. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his combat trousers, and looked around the giant warehouse. There must be at least two thousand troops still milling
around, waiting their turn to board the container ship tied up outside. The other ships had already left and now there was just this last boat to be filled and then they, too, could leave.

Unfortunately, there were
latecomers
arriving all the time and their departure had been repeatedly delayed. The orderly was furious about that.
Fuck them!
he’d
wanted to scream
,
l
et’s just go!
But instead, they were marched into this giant warehouse and told to wait. He’d
tried to explain to the burly Royal Marine sergeant that he was a member of the Alternate One permanent staff
group
, that he was key personnel, but that didn’t seem to cut any ice with the man. He was shoved in with a group of strangers and told to wait. Still, at least they were moving.

Outside, the sun had set. Although the sky was a wonderful
shade of deepening blues, the shadows on the dockside were long and deep. There were soldiers everywhere, from every unit in the army, and there seemed to be a constant, disjointed chorus of shouts and whistles and the roar of engines. It appeared to be chaotic, but the lines of troops that snaked around the quayside shuffled forward every few moments, waved on by torch-wielding
naval types.

The orderly craned his neck as he tramped along the darkened quay. The gigantic cargo ship loomed ominously above him as his group was shepherded towards a wide gangway. As he neared the top of the steep ramp, he turned to look behind him. From here he could see over the roofs of the warehouses towards the dock gates. A crowd had gathered there, a large one, civilians by the looks of them. A couple of tanks were blocking the gates and soldiers had formed a line across the road behind them. It was only a matter of time before panic broke out.

As he stepped over the threshold, the orderly prayed that the ship would get underway soon. The vessel stank of oil and saltwater and the orderly’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he entered the darkened ship. He was herded up several tight stairwells, along cramped gangways until he ducked through yet another bulkhead and emerged out onto the open deck. He was facing aft, looking
directly at the ship’s main superstructure. He could see figures moving about on the dimly-lit bridge and, higher up, a thin column of black smoke rose into the darkening sky from the boiler stack. Seagulls wheeled and screeched in the air above them.

He was ordered to keep moving and joined a long line of troops who shuffled forward, cutting across the wide deck. The orderly railed at the thought of freezing his arse off on an open deck overnight, but if that was the price of safety then so be it.

Suddenly, he bumped against the man in front as the column rippled to a halt. The dark line of figures ahead of him snaked around a huge, open hatch that looked down into the bowels of the ship. Fear gripped the orderly
as the column moved forward again and he found himself alongside the hatch. Carefully, he peered over the edge. There were men down there, hundreds of them, like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. He could see their pale faces looking upwards, the mass of tightly-packed bodies ebbing and swaying under the influx of a never-ending line of figures climbing down two bulkhead ladders to join the throng below. The orderly instinctively backed away, but a rough hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

‘Back in line. Keep moving.’

The orderly turned to see a ship’s crewman, a green luminous wand in his hand, his body silhouetted by the fading sky behind him.

‘I can’t. I mean, it’s-’

‘Don’t worry,’ smiled the crewman, only his crooked teeth visible beneath the wide brim of his cap. ‘It’s only temporary. We underestimated the numbers, see? The other ships have already sailed and everybody has to get on this one.’

‘But I-’

The crewman grabbed his elbow, moving him forward along the line. ‘That’s it son, one foot in front of the other. As soon as we’ve rounded Land’s End you’ll be able to come up on deck, stretch your legs, get a bit of fresh air. Captain might even let you stay up here.’ He jabbed a finger down into the hold. ‘In the meantime, you’re down there with the others. Only take us a few hours to round the point. The frigate will look after us.’ He cocked a thumb over his shoulder.

The orderly looked past the crewman and out to sea. He saw the dark silhouette of a warship, maybe a mile away, the sea churning to white foam in its wake. There was something
else out there too, a dot on the horizon that was growing larger even as he watched it.

‘What’s that?’ asked the orderly.

‘What’s what, mate?’

‘That.’

The crewman turned, following the orderly’s pointed finger.

‘Arm LGBs!’ barked
the pilot.

Behind him, Weps/Nav flipped the switch to arm the fuses for the Laser Guided Bombs. Nothing. He tried it again, several times. A red light blinked on his display.

‘Arming failed! Arming
failed!’

The pilot smiled, recognising the subtle touch of God’s hand. A price had to be paid for his failure, and Allah, knower of all things, had decided it must be here, now. Nothing mattered anymore, not the humiliating debrief, nor the wrath of the group commander. Only Paradise awaited.
Insha’ Allah.

The frigate was coming up fast on their left wing, the fighter-bomber a mere ten metres above the waves. He dropped the nose a touch and pushed the throttles to the stops. Weps/Nav shuddered in fear as he realised what the pilot was about to do. They were travelling too fast and too low for him to eject. A flash of tracer from the frigate lanced behind the fighter-bomber
as it headed directly for the grey hull of the huge container ship. The pilot depressed his cannon trigger as the
starboard beam loomed large in front of him. Behind him, Weps/Nav closed his eyes and hung his head in a final prayer.

The ripping sound made the orderly yelp in fear. Others spun around as the thunder echoed across the bay. Some saw the speeding object and screamed for cover before heavy-calibre rounds began impacting
across the crowded deck. The crowd surged and the orderly screamed
as he lost his balance. He tipped sideways, then backwards, plunging with several others
into the gaping deck hatch and tumbling sixty feet towards the squirming mass below.

He hit the crowd, arms and legs flailing, crushing those beneath him. His eyes remained open, registering the forest of legs around him, sensing the irreparable damage to his body. Someone writhed beneath him in the darkness, moaning in pain, cursing. The crowd around him surged, the heavy boots crushing his broken chest, his shattered legs and cleaved skull. He gasped in pain, praying for release from the Hell into which he’d descended.

A moment later, the fighter-bomber ripped through the side of the ship, the
twin one-thousand pound bombs detonating almost immediately. The resulting explosion lifted the vessel from the sea before blasting it to pieces across Teignmouth docks, hurling steel, concrete and bodies over a half-mile radius.

The Dark Eagle came in low and quiet over the treetops, barely visible against the night sky, flaring gently between glowing markers in the secluded grounds of McIntyre Castle. After the rotors had wound down, General Bashford stepped out of the aircraft and motioned the others to follow him.

Harry hopped out onto the grass, stretched his aching limbs and took a deep breath. For the first time since the invasion had started he was beginning to feel a little more composed. The air was cool this far north and he stood there for a moment, enjoying the peace and tranquillity of his new surroundings. Nobody rushed him here and there, nobody bawled commands or brandished guns in his face; the threat of imminent violence appeared to have receded.

Although night had fallen, the sky was clear and visibility was good. Above him, the heavens were dusted with stars and a soft breeze whispered through the surrounding pine forest, carrying with it the gentle lap of water against the distant shoreline of Kerrera Sound. It really was quite beautiful, sighed Harry. A pity he’d arrived under such God-awful circumstances.

With Gibson and Fuller trailing behind, Harry followed Bashford towards the turreted building that loomed ahead. As they drew closer he noticed a figure waiting in the shadows, torch in hand, beckoning them. When the man spoke it was with a strong Scottish accent.

‘Good evening gentlemen, and welcome to McIntyre Castle. My name is Bill Kerr, the duty keeper here. Everything’s been prepared, so please follow me.’ They climbed a wide set of stone steps and crunched across a gravel courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the building before them. Harry saw it was a traditional Scottish baronial castle, shrouded in darkness, its distinctive
high towers spearing the night sky. Not a single light shone from any window.

Kerr twisted a large iron ring and pushed one of the heavy arched doors open, its considerable weight swinging silently on well-oiled hinges. He pulled back a heavy inner curtain to reveal a large entrance hall that shimmered in a flickering light. He ushered them in, drawing the
blackout
curtain back across the threshold.

‘This
is a
fully staffed
facility, Prime Minister, so if you have any questions or requests, please ask. We’ll try to make your stay as comfortable
as possible.’

Kerr appeared older than Harry first thought. In the dark, he’d noticed the wide shoulders and the strong, confident stride, but in the light of the hallway it was clear that Kerr was in his mid to late sixties, with receding sandy-grey hair and weathered features indicative of a life spent outdoors. He was dressed
in civilian clothes, but Harry suspected that for most of his life he’d
worn a uniform of some sorts.

He looked around him, at his home for the foreseeable future. The large entrance hall was deserted, lit by a single oil lamp that cast a flickering glow across the grey stone walls, the smooth granite slabs underfoot,
the high vaulted ceiling above. Where the shadows were deepest Harry caught a m
ovement, then registered the armed soldier
who
lurked there, watching them. Kerr moved past him towards a wide staircase that wound its way up to the floors above.

‘If you follow me, Sir, I’ll show you to your rooms so you can freshen up.’

A whole
suite of rooms had been allocated to Harry, with Gibson and Farrell bunked immediately next door, the landing outside patrolled by more armed guards. It was the safest Harry had felt in quite a while. He took a hot shower and changed into the fresh clothes that
had been laid out on his bed. As he dressed he felt a quiet vibration in the air. He went to the window overlooking the grounds and saw another Dark Eagle settling on the wide lawn.

A short time later, Kerr escorted Harry to a well-appointed drawing room in one of the castle’s towers, where the windows were covered by heavy green drapes and a fire crackled in the stone hearth. The walls were decorated with heraldic shields and oil paintings of local wildlife, sympathetically
portrayed against traditional Highland backdrops. In front of the fire were arranged three large sofas, a thick oak coffee table between them.

General Bashford waited, as did Deputy PM Noonan and Admiral Hughes. They stood as Harry entered, but he waved them back into their seats. Two stewards appeared with trays of tea and coffee then silently retreated, closing the door behind them. Harry poured himself a cup of tea and slumped onto one of the sofas.

‘How are your quarters?’ Bashford enquired.

‘Fine,’ Harry replied, sipping his tea.

‘We’re completely
off the map here,’ the General explained. ‘Not a military base for fifty miles, so we shouldn’t draw any attention. All approach roads are under constant surveillance and the whole area is patrolled
by a very discreet security force. The cover story we’ve put out is that you’ve relocated to a Cold War command facility near Aberdeen. Planning and operations will continue to be run out of SCOTFOR, where the rest of my team are now based.’

Harry leaned forward and spooned sugar into his cup. ‘What’s the latest, with the evacuation?’

The question hung on the air. Harry glanced up, the crackling fire illuminating the troubled faces of the men around him. Noonan dropped his eyes to the floor and Harry felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. ‘Something’s happened. What is it? General
Bashford?’

The soldier took a deep breath and levelled his gaze at Harry. ‘I’m afraid one of the container ships was hit at Teignmouth. Details are sketchy at the moment, but it would appear that it was struck by a low-flying plane. We think it was a suicide mission. The
loss of life has been
, well,
considerable.’

Harry set his cup and saucer down, spilling the contents across the table.

‘How bad?’

‘Two thousand at least.’

The blood drained from Harry's face.
‘What?’

‘I’m afraid so
. T
he escort ship spent some time recovering survivors but, with the threat of another attack and the light gone, they’ve had to put out to sea.’

Harry’s eyes bored into the General’s. ‘Are you telling me people have been abandoned?’

Bashford nodded. ‘As I said, the threat-’

‘No!’ stormed Harry, banging his fist on the table, rattling the cups and spilling more tea. ‘We have to do something. We
just can’t leave people in the water to die.’ Admiral Hughes leaned forward, frustration and anger evident in his face.

‘And run the risk of losing another ship, Prime Minister? That escort frigate is overloaded, too. We can’t afford any more loss of life.’

‘But we-’

‘They had no choice. They had to pull out,’ the Admiral
stressed, ‘and you can be sure that the decision wasn’t taken lightly.’

Harry slumped back into his chair. Hughes was right, of course. The naval man was clearly feeling the loss more than most, yet the sheer horror of the event had affected them all, especially Harry. He felt hot, the air around him suddenly thicker, making it difficult to breathe. He ran a finger around the collar of his shirt and swallowed hard.

‘I’m sorry, Admiral. This constant loss of life, I…’

‘Don’t apologise. This
is war,’ Hughes reminded him, ‘and the sooner we all get our heads around that reality, the better.’ He picked up his own cup, taking a moment to sip the hot beverage, easing the tension around the table. ‘Now, surviving personnel at Teignmouth will head north, as per the plan. With a little luck and decent transport they’ll start arriving at the border in the next twelve to twenty-four hours. We should have a clearer picture of what happened then.’ Harry nodded silently. They were getting hit from all sides and the casualty

list must be… well, he didn’t want to dwell on that. However, the mere thought of it made his stomach churn. He realised that the time to negotiate may come sooner rather than later, if only to end the chaos. If the Arabians were willing to negotiate, that is. The thought of dealing with those bastards made him feel
equally sick, but if it prevented any more loss of life then Harry would do it without question. It was the steady ticking of the antique clock above the fireplace that brought his focus back around the table.

‘Any word from the Arabians?’ he asked.

Noonan shook his head. ‘Not directly. Their Ambassador in Washington was summoned to the White House. Apparently, Baghdad is citing some sort of provocation. They have intelligence they say, some sort of European plot to destabilise North Africa and the Middle East. Like the Arab Spring back in twenty-eleven. They’re saying the invasion
is a pre-emptive defensive action.’

‘Defensive? Killing God knows how many people?’ Harry snarled. He turned to the General. ‘Can’t we hit back at the bastards? There must be something we can do.’

‘There is,’ Bashford nodded, ‘but right now we need to consolidate our forces, build up the intelligence picture, our strategic options. We’re in unchartered waters here, Prime Minister. There’s no model or war game scenario for this.’

‘One big missile, that’s all we need,’ Harry fumed, twisting his hands together.
‘Punch a bloody hole right in the middle of Baghdad.’

‘And kill Arabian civilians?’ tempered Noonan. ‘No Harry, we’d open the door to retaliatory attacks, reprisals against our own citizens. Let’s not forget international condemnation, too. It’s important we maintain the moral high ground.’

‘For God’s
sake, wake up,’ Harry snapped. ‘Didn’t you hear, Peter? We’re at war. To hell with the UN, we have to do something. ‘The anger was giving way to something
else now, an unfamiliar emotion that made his heart race and a sheen of perspiration form across his brow. He struggled to think rationally
as a sudden wave of panic flooded his thoughts. He took a deep breath, willing himself to relax.

He watched Bashford cross the room and retrieve a bottle and glasses from a drinks cabinet. Harry took the offered malt whiskey and belted the contents back in one. He held his glass out for a refill and the General obliged.

‘As painful as it is,’ Bashford
began, ‘our best course of action now is to consolidate our position. We have had some successes, but we can’t deliver a decisive blow without a strategic plan. For now, we think we may have some breathing space and I suggest we use that time to rest and recuperate. The Scottish border is not directly threatened, and the nearest Arabian forces have stopped just north of Leeds. We have two ASTOR aircraft – that’s Airborne Stand-Off Radar – operating sixty miles behind the Scottish front line, monitoring enemy air and ground movements to the south. If the Arabians start to move in our direction, we’ll know about it. In the meantime, we need to gather our strength.’

Harry rubbed his face, grateful for the
alcohol that had momentarily stemmed the rising panic. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical, it was emotional too, he realised. And it wasn’t just military expertise that would be required in the coming days. Diplomacy
was key, and if there were talks to be held, with
Baghdad, with Washington, he had to be on top of his game. Bashford was right. What he needed – what they all needed – was rest.

‘Look, there’s nothing much we can do here tonight,’ Bashford concluded.
‘SCOTFOR is monitoring the situation, so I suggest we all retire for the evening, try and get a good night’s sleep. We have some intelligence people coming in from Edinburgh in the morning for a briefing session and you’ll be able to speak to the Lord Advocate via telephone. Things will look a little clearer then.’ The General got to his feet and picked up a wall phone. Moments later there was a soft knock on the door and Bill Kerr entered the room.

‘Ah, Bill. Can you escort the Prime Minister back to his room and ensure that he is not to be disturbed? Breakfast at seven for everyone
else, if you please.’ Harry got to his feet, feeling too tired, too fragile to argue. His thoughts returned to Teignmouth, to the cold, dark waters of the English Channel
,
where he heard the cries for help, saw in his mind the oil-covered faces
bobbing in the sea, condemned to die by fate and circumstance. Harry paused by the door, slowly turning to face Bashford. When
he spoke he felt his voice tremble.

‘Somewhere down the line, those bastards are going to pay for what they’ve done. In blood. Do you understand, General?’

Without waiting for a reply, Harry left the room.