The Fall of Night (15 page)

“I understand,” Briggs said.  Several more police officers had arrived, none of them outranking him.  London had to be in chaos; the streets were crowded at the best of times, and now it looked as if half the city was on fire.  People would be fleeing the city for the countryside, if they had anywhere to go, and looters would be coming out of their holes, intent on enriching themselves.  “I just wish I had more men.”

***

The Russian Embassy, like every other Embassy that felt itself to be under threat from terrorists, was much stronger than it appeared from the outside. 
Ambassador Konstantin Molotov – he had assumed the surname in honour of his private hero – knew that it could be held for at least an hour against a determined force, such as a Chechen resistance group.  The thought of what happened to Russians who fell into their hands would keep the guards – all of whom were far more dangerous than their resumes suggested – fighting well past all hope being gone.  Molotov also knew that the Embassy, like all embassies, was dependent upon the goodwill of the local population – or at least its government.

Molotov, like all diplomats, had been furious over the fate of the American embassies in Iran, Saudi Arabia and Indonesia.  He had been one of the people calling upon the President to support the American War in revenge for the decision of the
Jihadists
to move against the embassies, which were intended to be sanctuaries.  The discovery that the embassy was at the centre of Russian war plans hadn’t pleased him, not least because, as Ambassador, he could be made to pay the price for the actions of the FSB agents operating behind enemy lines.  The sealed orders had been clear; keep the jamming going as long as possible, then request safe passage out of Europe…

And so Molotov had heaved his bulk down to the gates.  “This is Russian territory,” he said, as calmly as he could.  The young man facing him didn’t look too steady; he was holding a weapon as if it was a deadly snake.  “You have no right to force admittance.”

“You have launched a war against us,” the British soldier said.  Molotov saw the blood trickling down his face and shuddered; it was a far cry from any world he was personally familiar with, nothing to do with the soft words and softer moves of diplomacy.  “You are engaged in hostile acts!”

“I deny all such accusations,” Molotov said.  He realised instantly that it was the wrong thing to say; the young man brought his weapon up and pointed it right at his chest.  “Threatening an Ambassador…”

“You’ve killed the fucking Prime Minister,” the British soldier said.  “Ambassador, you will open the embassy and order your men to surrender.”

The Russian soldiers lifted their own weapons.  Molotov waved at them frantically to lower them.  “And what happens if I refuse?”  He asked.  “Russia has a right to guard her territory…”

“If you refuse, my men will keep you trapped in here while a fighter-bomber drops a bomb on your head,” the British soldier said.  “The jamming will be shut down and you will all be killed.”  He ran a hand across his brow.  “Choose, Ambassador; I have no more time!”

Molotov took a breath.  “In that case, I will open the embassy,” he said.  The prospects of bullets flying anywhere near him terrified him.  “I must inform you that my government will protest in the fullest possible terms to your Prime Minister, or his replacement, the United Nations, the European Union and consider taking the strongest action against your personally.”

He paused for breath.  “Under international agreements, I must remind you that you have no right to harm any of my people and in fact must see to their reparation as quickly as possible through the graces of a neutral country,” he continued, hoping that the Englishman would let him finish.  “As diplomats, we have rights…”

“Put your weapons down and assume the position,” the British soldier said to the guards, cutting Molotov off in mid-lecture.  Resentfully, the guards obeyed; other British soldiers appeared and scooped up the weapons, guarding the Russians carefully as they were all herded into the grounds.  The embassy quickly emptied of staff; cooks, cleanings, a handful of girls who were officially typists, but were really there to be mistresses, all joined the soldiers on the ground.

“Now, Mr Ambassador,” the British soldier said.  “Lead me to the jamming system.”

Molotov obeyed. 

Never has America been more alone in spreading democracy's promise. [...] It is the last country with a mission, a mandate and a dream, as old as its founders. All of this may be dangerous, even delusional, but it is also unavoidable. It is impossible to think of America without these properties of self-belief.

“Mr Ambassador, there’s a fucking air raid coming in,” Captain Douglas McDonald shouted, bursting into the room.  “Get into the emergency escape shaft, now!”

Ambassador Andrew Luong didn’t hesitate; the access shaft was already unsealing as alarms started to sound inside the American Embassy.  He wondered if it was the President’s idea of a joke - he had once accused her of being on the rag when she had sent Special Forces into Central Asia to kill a warlord who had been only making anti-American proclamations – but dismissed the thought of a drill; McDonald had sounded far too serious…and even scared.

His assistant, Margery Wayne, was even more scared.  He ignored her questions as the training took over; he took a breath and jumped into the emergency shaft, falling down through several floors into the bomb shelter underneath the basement.  Though some miracle of science he didn’t even begin to understand, his fall was slowed somehow and he popped out of the end of the tube as if he had just jumped off a stool.  Moments later, a protesting Margery followed, her skirt bunched up around her waist by the air pressure in the tube, revealing her underwear to his eyes.  He grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the tube, seconds before McDonald followed, his voice grim.

“All right,” Luong said, “what the hell is going on?”

“We just had a FLASH warning from NORAD,” McDonald said.  “Orbiting satellites have tracked the launch of over three thousand missiles in Europe, with at least two hundred of them aimed into British airspace.  We don’t have targeting indicators for them yet, but it’s a certainty that some of them are going to fall within London.  This place is a prime target.”

The Marine wasn't even breathing hard, Luong noticed, resentfully. “I see,” he said, between pants.  His heartbeat was racing so fast that he was surprised he hadn’t had a heart attack by now.  “What’s the hell happened?  Are the Europeans at war?”

“It looks that way,” McDonald said.  “I’m very much afraid that…”

“Targets identified, central London,” a Marine called, from the large console that controlled the emergency systems in the basement.  If a group of terrorists mounted an attack, standard procedure was to hole up in the bunker and wait for the English cops to arrest the terrorists, after which the Americans could escape.  Missiles, on the other hand…Luong knew that a bunker-busting missile would have no problems at all busting the embassy bunker.  “I think…Westminster and Whitehall; one fell in Northwood, explosion registered on NORAD’s satellites, non-nuke, I repeat, non-nuke.”

Luong closed his eyes.  His tenure as Ambassador to Great Britain had been a surprise to him, particularly after the infamous rag comment, but he had understood the importance of the President’s decision.  The United States needed allies, and even if NATO and all of the formal alliances had been dissolved, there was still a great deal of cooperation between the United States and its former allies.  It was true that the misnamed and over-exaggerated Embassies War had damaged reputations, but some elements within the various establishments were still willing to work privately with the Americans.

But even that had limitations.  If he had had the chance, Luong would have happily strangled Corporal Mike Collins himself; the young fool had cost America far too much.  No one, not Hitler, not Yamamoto, not even Osama bin Laden himself had wreaked so much havoc…and the worst of it all was that it had been unnecessary.  The British might have frowned on prostitutes, but there had been plenty of them near RAF Mildenhall. Collins had never needed to go find a young innocent girl, let alone rape and murder her.  The crime had shocked England…

Luong had seen the reports, the increasing war waged in Parliament, tearing apart a desperate attempt by the British Government to keep it all quiet until Collins could be extradited properly and sentenced to life imprisonment at His Majesty’s pleasure.  The American Government had cooperated…but the British media and even some media back in the States had treated it as if Collins had been flown out of the country to safety.  The British Government had been forced into retreat after retreat and finally…America had been asked to leave the country.  It had been the final act of that government; it had fallen a month afterwards.

Collins had died the same year, murdered in Leavenworth by a fellow inmate during a particularly nasty homosexual rape; as far as Luong was concerned, it wasn't anything like enough.  The storm had refused to abate; governments had fallen across Europe, and by the time the storm had started to fade, American forces had been evicted from almost every base in Europe.  Horror stories, many of them older than the Cold War, had been dug up and tossed at America; Americans were using Europe, Americans were fighting the war in Europe, Americans were intent on eternally controlling Europe…

The year afterwards, NATO had dissolved permanently.

Luong stared up at the console, saying nothing, as the missiles found their targets.  He had had hopes of repairing the relationship with Britain, at least, after he had been appointed to England.  It hadn’t been easy; the Prime Minister was a committed believer in Europe and had been inclined to allow matters of international concern to slip to Brussels.  The European Parliament, overwhelmingly elected by socialists and known anti-Americans, had found America-bashing to be a substitute for its own failed politics.  They had passed resolutions that condemned the rise of the American police state, border controls and harsh responses to terrorism, all the while ignoring the growing threat under their own noses.  Places like France, and Spain, and even London provided a haven for terrorists…and the European Parliament didn’t even care.  They had even welcomed in thousands of known terrorist fighters from Palestine…

A Marine looked up at McDonald, just as the ground shook.  “That was at least four impacts in quick succession,” he said.  “The missiles hit Downing Street and the Houses of Parliament; NORAD’s uplink is reporting multiple missile hits across the United Kingdom and several airliners going down in flames.  The main power seems to have failed completely, sir; the generator is all that’s keeping the embassy working.”

Luong took a breath, trying to act ambassadorial and failing.  America had warned the British that they were inviting trouble; they had warned the French and the Germans, but none of them had listened.  It was easy to blame America for Europe’s woes, from the endless trade disputes to the funding provided for terrorists from European Muslim groups.  Some Americans could never set foot in Europe without being arrested for war crimes; many more Europeans who had no loyalty at all to Europe would be arrested and charged with terrorism – which carried the death penalty – in America.  America had lost some of her innocence…and it showed.

He sighed.  “Do we have some idea of who’s actually launching the missiles?”

“I think its Russia,” a Marine said.  His face was very pale, but his eyes were bright.  “NORAD tracked at least a thousand missiles coming out of European Russia, others coming out of Serbia and Algeria, Russia’s closest allies.  Others were launched from submarines and aircraft and only we or the Russians have that kind of capability.”

Luong nodded.  The Chinese had tried to build it, but Chinese ambitions had firmly sunk after the attempt to seize Taiwan had failed so badly, destroying most of the People’s Liberation Army Navy.  Luong thought that it would have made the Chinese feel better if American ships and submarines had been directly involved; the proof that the Taiwanese were determined to avoid reunification had proven the downfall of the Communist Government.  The Chinese Civil War still raged on.

Margery caught his arm.  She was terrified, he realised; she hadn’t signed up for being trapped in a bunker.  They weren’t trapped, it wasn’t as if they couldn’t get out onto the streets, but he knew that they were probably safer in the bunker until the situation on the ground clarified itself.  It shouldn’t take long; Britain might have been in the dumps, but it was far from a Third World country.

Her voice was thin and reedy.  “What do we do?”

“It’s a cliché, but we have no choice, but to wait,” Luong said.  He held her hand for a long moment until she calmed down.  “The Russians seem to have just ignored us completely.”

He wished he could say that he was surprised.  The Russians had been growing more and more powerful, ever since they had recovered from the post-Cold War depression and started to rebuild their country.  They had sold arms to everyone who was interested, much to American outrage; Russian weapons had killed Americans in Iran and the Middle East.  They had also sold weapons to Latin and South America – he remembered, his blood running cold, the British task force that had been dispatched to shore up the defences of the Falkland Islands – and, in defiance of the Monroe Doctrine, even started a long-term process of upgrading the Latin and Southern American militaries.  They had even invited the Central Asian states back to the fold…and many of them had actually rejoined the Russians.  They no longer trusted America either.

America hadn’t wanted to become involved in the Ukraine situation and had been more than happy to leave it to the Europeans; it was in their backyard, after all.  Luong had been more alarmed, however, by the rise in Russian preparations for outright violence; the Russians had said, quite clearly, ‘this far and no further.’  They had wanted to keep the Ukraine within their sphere of influence and that had meant, as far as they were concerned, no foreigners allowed.  They already dominated Belarus; the CIA had been privately warning that the Russians intended to support various factions in Ukraine to take control and evict the pesky Europeans.  It had surprised them that the Russians had even allowed a EUROFOR unit into the Ukraine…

Outright missile attacks across the United Kingdom?  Luong had a feeling that he knew what had happened to the European forces in the Ukraine.  The CIA had warned repeatedly about some of the methods the Russians were using to rebuild their country, including the use of forced labour and the genocide of thousands of Chechens.  The Russians had just started World War Three.

Luong sat down on a sofa and glanced around.  He hadn’t spent much time in the bunker and the drab utility of its design surprised him.  The embassy itself was very luxurious, but the bunker was cold, if not dark; a line of weapons were mounted against one wall, just in case a final last stand was required.  It was how he imagined a missile launch room in a nuclear silo to look; the pistols so that the crew could take their own lives, rather than die slowly under the rubble.

“I just heard from Vince, on the roof,” Rolf Lommerde said.  The CIA spook, the main intelligence operative for London, looked grim.  “He says that there’s fires everywhere and even some gunfire; no sign of an official reaction as yet.  There’s a great deal of jamming on the British military, police and civilian bands; it looks as if Britain just took one hell of a hammering.”

“I think I worked that out,” Luong snapped.  He didn’t like Lommerde; the man was just too slick, even if sending one of his people to the roof was actually a good idea.  He glared at the CIA officer with all the disdain a professional diplomat and former National Guardsman could muster.  The National Guard had a low opinion of the CIA after a unit had walked into a firefight where the CIA had absolutely, positively, sworn blind that there was no chance of an enemy presence.  “Was there any clue at all as to what was going to happen?”

“No, Mr Ambassador,” Lommerde said.  He sat down next to Luong without being asked.  “We tracked a lot of Russian military movement, but we believed that it was intended to convince the Poles that the Russians would act if they were to do anything stupid, such as calling for European intervention if the Ukraine actually boiled over into civil war.  Other movements were in the same field; one of the most active units was right on Ukraine’s eastern border, well out of range to threaten Poland or Europe.”

For a moment, the mask slipped and Luong saw the desperation under Lommerde’s glib tongue.  “He saw one of the places that are burning,” Lommerde said.  “It was the Regent’s Park Mosque, one of the places that we maintain some covert – very covert – surveillance on, nothing that the British would have to take official notice of and prevent us from carrying on.  The British Anti-Terrorist Unit knows about it and says nothing; we believe that the British Government knows nothing about it.”

He sighed, loudly.  “But…that place has always had cells of radicals nearby; the Mosque was taken over by radicals several times.  The British cleared them out, from time to time, but they always came back; Mustapha has been known to speak there and – God knows – we’ve actually tried to have him assassinated while he’s been in England.  It would be worth it, even if we failed to find a criminal to subcontract the job out to, to trade one of our people for him.”

Luong ground his teeth.  Mustapha was wanted in the United States for connections with the attack that had devastated Oakland.  The evidence against him, however, had been gained by ‘special means,’ or torture, as more-enlightened people called it.  The British Government might have let him be taken off the streets, but the Americans had made the mistake of asking the Prime Minister directly…and he had refused.  Mustapha continued to spread havoc through Europe…untouched, unmolested; Luong wasn't even sure if the British maintained their own surveillance on him.  He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Mustapha haven’t been watched at all.