The Fall of Night (14 page)

She turned to Langford.  “Lieutenant Aaron Sargon is one of my best analysts,” she said.  “Like me, technically, he’s on the reserve list…”

“And you’re more than a Captain,” Langford realised.  “What is your actual rank?”

“Major,” Erica said shortly.  “I have the pay and responsibilities of a Major; the rank and uniform of a Captain.  There aren’t enough Majors for one to vanish without exciting attention.”

Langford felt a sudden moment of sympathy for her, mounting her lonely vigil for years over London and the United Kingdom.  The door opened, revealing a vaguely oriental-looking young man, slightly overweight by army standards.  Headquarters staff officers normally were slightly out of shape.  He had short dark hair, a friendly face, but one that was creased with worry.

“General,” he said, saluting.  “I don’t have a proper briefing prepared…”

“Never mind the PowerPoint presentation,” Langford snapped.  In his opinion, PowerPoint and other programs like it were the worst thing that had ever happened to the military.  The security bugs could have been handled, but for sheer confident irritation, it was hard to beat PowerPoint and the other Microsoft products.  “Just give me the bad news.”

“We maintain a direct feed from MILNET – the PJHQ, the UKADR and so on – into here,” Sargon said.  “At roughly 1000, the MILNET links started to fail, starting with the European satellites that were supposed to provide us 24/7 coverage of Europe, and continuing with a handful of our own dedicated servers, which came under cyber attack.  At the last moment, some of them reported signs of multiple missile launches from home waters, but the system failed before a perfect response could be generated.  Ground-based radars, part of the UKADGE, attempted to engage the missiles, but absent the precise targeting details, it was impossible to generate an intercept solution in time.  Around – we don’t know for certain – three hundred missiles were launched in positions that suggested that we – Britain – were the targets.”

“Dear God,” Langford breathed.  “Who the hell is doing this to us?”

“It’s impossible to be certain as yet, but preliminary information suggests that it is the Russians,” Sargon said.  “They and the Americans are the only people who might have the capability to do this…and, from rather garbled transmissions from France, it seems that we weren’t the only ones hit.  As far as we know, sir, Ireland wasn't hit, but our communications links are badly fractured and we have only limited contact with our own bases…”

“God damn the EU,” Langford swore.  He – and almost every other commissioned officer in Europe – had argued against putting all of their eggs in one basket.  “That system was meant to be foolproof!”

“There are some very smart fools out there,” Sargon said, seriously.  He learned forwards.  “At least ten missiles came down in London, sir; two of them hit Ten Downing Street and devastated the area.  Westminster also appears to have been hit, along with Albany Street Barracks and Cavalry Barracks, where we had infantry soldiers based.  We should have a direct line here to Aldershot…and that, too, is gone.  We haven’t been able to locate the source of the jamming yet – we need to triangulate and our non-radio communications are in tatters – but the reports from Flying Officer Jackson suggest…that we are looking at a total loss.”

Langford felt his knees buckle.  “There was that session in Parliament today,” he breathed.  “The Whips were going around saying that they had to go to Parliament, even if they went on their deathbeds; illness wasn't an excuse.  They were going to debate the Falklands…”

“Yes, sir,” Erica said.  “It is quite possible that the Prime Minister and everyone in the line of succession is dead.”

Langford swore under his breath.  “And the PJHQ?”

“Hit,” Sargon said.  “Again, it was a bunker-busting weapon, from preliminary reports.  The building has certainly been rendered useless.”

Langford stood up and paced.  “What the hell do we do now?”

Erica looked at him.  “Under the emergency protocols, when the country is at war, command of the military and local government devolves upon the senior military officer alive,” she said, sternly.  The protocols were developed with nuclear war in mind, where the local garrison commanders would work under the local commissioners…something that has slipped since the end of the Cold War, but never mind…and they had never been revoked.  Democracy simply didn’t get a look in during the planning for total war.

“You, sir, are the senior surviving military officer…and, as such, the powers of government devolve upon you.”

Hitler expects to terrorise and cow the people of this mighty city… Little does he know the spirit of the British nation, or the tough fibre of the Londoners.

“There’s nothing at all on the bands,” Sergeant Harold Page said.  “Even the BBC seems to have gone off the air.”

“I see,” Briggs said.  “Stay here.”

He hopped out of the mobile command post and glanced around.  The scene was chaotic; policemen, bodyguards, a handful of survivors from the outskirts of Whitehall and soldiers were milling around, some of them carrying weapons and looking nervous.  No one seemed to be in command and, judging from the jamming on the airwaves, no one would have the slightest idea just what had happened.  If he hadn’t seen the missile, Briggs would have thought that there had been a bomb, or even a gas leak.

He unhooked the whistle from his belt and blew it, loudly.  Heads turned to him as he clambered up on a piece of debris; it looked as if it had come from Downing Street.  The thought depressed him, even as he saw the eyes of everyone turning to him, looking for instructions or advice.  People needed advice in an emergency zone, even soldiers; they needed someone to present a clear threat before training took over.

“I am Inspector Dave Briggs,” he said, loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the fires.  A distant crackle of gunfire made them all jump; the passage of a jet fighter high overhead drew their eyes skyward.  The soldiers clutched their weapons more tightly; the policemen and civilians gave them uneasy looks.  Briggs remembered the loudspeaker on the mobile command post and checked his radio.  At such range, he could use it even through the jamming.  “In the absence of any contact with higher command” – ignoring the fact that they were standing on the ruins of the highest command in Britain – “I am assuming command of the disaster scene.”

The relief in their eyes was not reassuring.  “We have to tend to survivors, put out those fires, and work out just what in hell happened here,” he said.  It was a missile attack, but that meant that someone had had to fire the missile…and he didn’t think that terrorists could do that.  They were at war.  “Policemen, I want you to seal the area completely; move all civilians to Hyde Park or somewhere else out of the way; where is the nearest emergency store of fire-fighting equipment.”

One of the guards raised his hand, almost as if they were at school.  “There’s a set of hoses down near the river,” he said.  “It may have survived the blast.”

Briggs was improvising and knew it.  “Good,” he said.  He nodded to three Privates who were standing there, looking as if they were desperate for something to do.  “You three; go with him and find out what the status of the equipment is.”  He glanced over at the civilians.  “Is there anyone here with medical training?”

Several more hands were raised.  “Good,” Briggs said.  The trick was to look as if he knew what he was doing.  “I want you to tend to any injured that we bring out of the building.  There’s some medical supplies in the mobile command centre and there should be some ambulances and several fire engines along in a moment.”

He took a breath as the policemen headed off to carry out his orders.  “Who’s the senior military officer here?”

There was a muttered consultation and a wounded Sergeant stepped forward and saluted.  “I was at the barracks, sir,” he said.  “We were just going out of the building when we heard the missile and there was an explosion and we came here because the barracks were wrecked.  We’ve been trying to raise higher authorities and no one is answering.”

Briggs cursed under his breath.  “How many men are there here?”

“Forty, it seems,” the Sergeant said.  Briggs saw the trickle of blood running down his face and silently cursed; there was no time to spare the Sergeant’s presence.  “The Captain was trying to organise something at the barracks when the missile hit.”

“I see,” Briggs said.  “What’s your name?”

“Sergeant Christopher Roach, sir,” Roach said.  He started to recite his rank and serial number; Briggs held up a hand to stop him.  “As far as I know, I’m the senior survivor from the barracks.”

“I want you to send one of your men to the nearest hospital and tell them that we need some medical support out here,” Briggs said.  He was about to order fire engines as well, when the first of the big red vehicles pulled up, running terribly late.  Four more had also arrived; he couldn’t help, but notice the bullet holes in one of the vehicles windows.  “No; send two, both armed.  Deploy the others to cover relief efforts if needed.”

Roach didn’t argue.  “I understand,” he said, as he took in the sight.  Firemen were spilling out of the fire engine; many of them running towards the Thames with fire hoses, others checking the pressure in the water hydrants nearby.  Judging from the general devastation and the collapsed streets, Briggs suspected that the water mains would have been burst by the missile attack.  “I’ll see to it at once.”

He leaned forwards.  “You do know that we’re at war?”

“I saw the missile,” Briggs said, equally softly.  There was no time for a panic.  “We have to find the Prime Minister.”

Roach looked at the ruins.  “No chance, sir,” he said.  “None at all.”

The lead fireman came up to Briggs.  His nametag read SAM STEIN.  “Sir, I assume that you’re in command,” he said, his voice brisk and under control.  “I have to report terrorists near the fire station; one of the bastards took a shot at my people and wounded one.  What do you want us to do?”

Briggs gave him an incredulous look.  “Put out the fires,” he said, shortly.  “Have you any contact at all with higher authority?”

“None, sir,” Stein said.  Briggs felt his blood run cold.  “We didn’t even get the alert signal; we heard the explosions and then we had to go to the nearest pillar of smoke.”

Briggs stepped back as the fire crew went to work.  They knew their stuff, he saw; several of them had attached hoses to the fire engines, running towards the river and draining water from the Thames to attack the fires.  The fires roared through what remained of the MOD Main Building – he had a nasty thought about ammunition cooking off in there – and refused to be cowed; it fought back furiously.  Ambulances arrived under armed escort; doctors and nurses spilled out of them and started to work on the injured.  Briggs smiled; he had forgotten the heavy police escort given to the murderer in the nearest hospital, even if he had wanted the man to simply die when he had heard about the cost.

The silence worried him.  He should have been able to make contact with New Scotland Yard or one of the back-ups, but the nearest police station had been as isolated as the mobile command centre.  There were still occasional bursts of gunfire echoing out over the city and a whispered report of rioting in Regent’s Park, the heart of Londonistan.  Were they in the middle of an Islamic insurgency?  It hardly seemed creditable; sure, there were a few firebrands who openly preached violence, but the vast majority of Muslims wouldn’t join a war against the British state, would they?  If nothing else, it would put a permanent end to their benefits checks from the welfare state.

The silence…

A gunshot rang out, far too close for comfort; moments later, there was a second shot, and then silence.  “That was young Omar,” Roach said, checking his radio.  The military radios worked at short range, jamming or no jamming.  “He just shot back at a sniper and killed him; Omar is a great sharpshooter, best in the unit.”  He paused.  “Not that I would ever tell him that, of course.”

“Of course,” Briggs agreed.  He could see more fires now, spreading up over London, one very nasty fire rising up from the Docklands.  “Do you have any knowledge at all of where we might find more authority?”

Roach shook his head.  “You’re it,” he said.  There were far too many civilians around, many of them tourists and all on the verge of panic.  The London Eye seemed to have jammed; Briggs could see people in the bubbles and knew that they, too, would be panicking.  “I only had the barracks and the police stations…”

“I’ve got something,” Page shouted.  Briggs was there almost before he realised that his feet were moving.  “It’s faint, but it’s there, on one of the military mobile telephone bands.”

The voice was faint.  “This is command,” it said.  “Please identify yourself.”

“This is Inspector David Briggs,” Briggs said.  The voice sounded oddly familiar.  “I’m at Downing Street and we need help.”

“This is Major-General Langford,” the voice said.  It became much clearer within moments as both units strove to boost the signal and beat the jamming.  Briggs remembered a tall thin man from the PJHQ; he had been wondering what had happened to Northwood, even to the point of considering sending one of the soldiers there to find out.  “Please report on your situation.”

“Bloody desperate,” Briggs said.  The fact that they had made any sort of contact was a massive boost to his morale.  Judging from Roach’s face, the same thought had occurred to him; he was smiling openly.  “It seems as if we’re in the middle of a fucking war.”

“We are,” Langford said flatly.  “I need to know; what’s happening there?”

“We have the fires more or less halted now,” Briggs said.  It had only taken a couple of hours to bring them under some form of control.  “The entire areas a wreck; we only pulled out a few dozen survivors and they were all on the edge of the impact area.  None of them are important people, sir; the Houses of Parliament have been utterly destroyed.”

There was a long pause.  “There’s no hope?”  Langford asked finally.  “None at all?”

“No,” Briggs said.  He closed his eyes.  “Sir, just who is in charge of the country?”

“Me, it seems,” Langford said.  Briggs heard the bitterness in his voice and shuddered.  “For the moment, you have been confirmed commander of all of the police and other emergency services in London; New Scotland Yard appears to be gone, along with the PJHQ.  We’ll sort out seniority later.  Is there a military officer there?”

“Yes,” Briggs said.  He passed the microphone to Roach.  “You’d better tell him about the sniper as well.”

Briggs reported in clear and concise terms, sparing nothing, from the details of the missile impact at the barracks to the snipers and gunfire that burst out from time to time over the city.  Briggs had studied the snipers that had cropped up in America; a single man with a high-powered rifle and no sense of morals could bring an entire city to a halt for hours.  How many were loose within London?

“I see,” Langford said finally.  “can you get a bearing on the source of the jamming?”

Briggs looked at Page.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  He tapped commands into the system and recited a bearing.  “That’s the rough bearing.”

There was a pause.  “The Russian Embassy,” Langford said, after a long moment.  Briggs realised that Langford must have taken a bearing from somewhere else and used it to triangulate the source of the jamming.  “It figures.”

Briggs rubbed his bald head.  “Sir, do you think that the Russians are behind all of this?”

“I think that they’re the ones doing the jamming,” Langford said.  “That may not be damning, but any court of law would consider it highly suspicious behaviour at the best of times.  Sergeant Roach?”

Roach straightened, as if they were face to face.  “Yes, sir?”

Langford sounded too tired to be stern.  “Sergeant, how many men do you have now who are armed?”

“Fifty-seven,” Roach said.  They had been trickling in from the remains of the other barracks; most of them had been helpful, both in providing security and in caring for the injured.  Some of them had been veterans of actual fighting; they had understood some things that civilians would never grasp.  “I don’t have a complete unit, just dribs and drabs.”

“It’ll have to do,” Langford said.  “Take thirty men and take the Russian Embassy; shut the jamming down, any means necessary.  Tell them that we will try to treat them with the standard respect for diplomatic representatives, sneak attack notwithstanding, but if they don’t shut down the transmitter and surrender, we’ll bomb the embassy.”

“Understood, sir,” Roach said.  “I won’t let you down.”

He marched out of the mobile command centre, shouting orders to his men.  “General, we need support out here,” Briggs said.  “Just what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Langford admitted.  “Most of the command network has been shattered; what reports we are receiving are frequently confusing and contradictory.  Once the jamming has been removed, we can hopefully start finding out just what is going on, and then somehow take whatever action we need to take.”