Invasion
Authors: Dc Alden
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #War, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thriller, #War & Military
INVASION
by
DC Alden
Copyright 201
2
DC Alden
First edition published 2011.
Revised edition published
2012.
The right of DC Alden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living
o
r dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is available in print at most online retailers
Chapter 1 - Western Arabian Desert: 4th June 2029
Chapter 2 - Crisis Management Centre: 11th June: 10.44 am
Chapter 3 - Morden, South London: 3.03 pm
Chapter 4 - 10 Downing Street, London: 4.33 pm
Chapter 5 - Hammersmith, West London: 5.15 pm
Chapter 6 - Clapham, South London: 5.31 pm
Chapter 7 - Chiswick, West London: 5.37 pm
Chapter 8 - Crisis Management Centre: 5.41 pm
Chapter 9 - The Foreign Secretary
Chapter 10 - Whitehall: 5.55 pm
Chapter 11 - Foreign and Commonwealth Office: 5.56 pm
Chapter 12 - Chiswick, West London: 5.57 pm
Chapter 13 - Europe: 5.58 pm GMT
Chapter 14 - Chiswick, West London: 5.59 pm
Chapter 15 - Whitehall: 6.00 pm
Chapter 16 - 10 Downing Street
Chapter 17 - Foreign and Commonwealth Office
Chapter 18 - 10 Downing Street
Chapter 20 - Stockwell, South London
Chapter 22 - Kastanies Border Crossing, Greece
Chapter 23 - European Air Space
Chapter 27 - Chiswick, West London
Chapter 28 - Southampton Docks, England
Chapter 31 - 10 Downing Street
Chapter 32 - Wandsworth, South London
Chapter 33 - Chiswick, West London
Chapter 34 - 10 Downing Street
Chapter 36 - 10 Downing Street
Chapter 37 - Battersea, South London
Chapter 38 - Somewhere beneath St. James’s Park
Chapter 40 - Battersea, South London
Chapter 41 - Somewhere beneath Euston Station
Chapter 42 - The Battle of Kew Bridge
Chapter 45 - Kensington Gardens, West London
Chapter 48 - Hampshire–Wiltshire Border
Chapter 52 - Grovely Wood, Wiltshire
Chapter 64 - NorthEast England
Chapter 65 - Camp David, Maryland
Chapter 69 - Battle Zone: 3.59 AM
“So, fight them till all opposition ends and the only religion is Islam.”
Qur’an 8:39
The streets were deserted. Not a breath of wind stirred the warm air that cloaked the city as it slept. From the inky blackness of a derelict building, two boys waited in silence, biding their time until long after midnight, when the roads and pavements would finally be emptied. They waited a while longer, then picked their way carefully through the empty house and moved silently out onto the street.
They kept out of the glare of the streetlights, seeking every shadow, every patch of gloom, every unlit side street. As they moved, their eyes scanned ahead, their ears alert to the sounds of the night. For these boys the hours of darkness held many dangers. Normally, their presence here would be tolerated, their movements checked, their actions monitored. Now, after the setting of the sun, their very presence within the city limits would result in immediate arrest. Or worse.
They were brothers by birth, in their late teens. They sported close-cropped haircuts and were dressed in the black, loose-fitting clothing and rough sandals of common Workers. As unbelievers, they were forbidden to enter the city between sunset and sunrise; instead, they were banished throughout the hours of darkness to the crumbling London suburbs along the southern banks of the Thames.
Their day had started like any other, boarding the transport trains at Clapham Junction where thousands thronged the dilapidated platforms to ride the open rail cars into the city. The sun was already up as they clattered past the wild sprawl of Battersea Park and across the rusting railway span that straddled the slow-moving river, crammed with hundreds of others inside the hot and noisy cars.
The train rattled on towards the end of the line, rusted carriage wheels squealing in protest as the train shunted to a halt inside the huge terminus at Victoria Station. Soon the platforms were filled with thousands of black-clad Workers and the boys moved with the throng,
funnelling
through the security turnstiles, their identity wrist bracelets scanned by scowling guards. They crossed the concourse, where ancient shops and store fronts lay abandoned, and moved down into the underground station, where they boarded the filthy subway trains that ferried them to their places of employment across the city. Only Workers used the subway, the air below ground stale and polluted, the infrastructure decayed, the accidents frequent and deadly. But not today.
The boys alighted from the subway at
Justice, climbing the lifeless
and poorly-lit escalators, passing the
faded
signs that read Westminster, Jubilee Line, District and Circle. An underground tunnel brought them up inside the basement of the Chambers of Justice itself, a beautiful
glass and marble complex where the highest court in the land was situated, where constitutional points of
law were argued and debated, where the most important cases were heard and ruled upon. It was a place of clerics, of lawmakers and justice ministers; a place where the Prosecutor General himself and his High Council ruled over this most westerly of Arabian territories.
And i
t also housed the Inner Chamber.
Down in the basement, the boys gathered their cleaning materials and loaded the cart, pushing it towards t
he service lift. They trundled
past the supervisor in his office who cursed them loudly. Up on the ground floor, their security bracelets were scanned again and they went about their duties, navigating the lofty hallways in silence, polishing floors and buffing marble heads until they finally arrived at their most important assignment of the day: the Inner Chamber itself.
Inhabited by one hundred and thirty Area Clerics and presided over by the Prosecutor General and his High Council, the Inner Chamber was the nerve centre, the inner sanctum of the Arabian legal system. Situated directly beneath the building’s huge central dome, the Inner Chamber was made up of circular terraced marble seating that surrounded a raised podium, the smooth walls ringed by the statues of previous Prosecutor Generals.
Overhead, the giant rotunda was inlaid with display screens that depicted a moving montage of Arabian Jihadist victories throughout the ages, from the capture of Jerusalem in 638 AD through to the routing of the Chinese armies on the Mon
golian plain some thirty years earlier. New arrivals
were often distracted, staring in wonder at the digitally-rendered battle scenes that raged in silence above their heads. It was a truly imposing room, a sacred inner temple, and access to it was strictly regulated to members of the High Council – and the maintenance staff, of course.
The boys wheeled their cart to a stop outside the Inner Chamber’s huge oak doors. They were three metres high and adorned with the most intricate and beautiful carvings either of them had ever seen. Guarded by two ceremonial soldiers wearing traditional Arabic dress, the boys were ushered into an ante-room, where they removed their sandals and washed their feet in accordance with the law. The boys did so thoroughly, for they had been trained to be meticulous, to adhere to every rule, observe every detail. They could not, dare not, arouse any suspicion. Their mission depended on it.
They were ushered into the stillness of the Chamber. They were expected to work in complete silence and the single guard who joined them inside ensured they did just that. He took up his usual position against the wall and began inspecting his fingernails, while the boys rummaged around the cart for the correct cleaning materials. There was much to do.
The glass
dome was
always
cleaned first, before the sun rose too high and the heat became unbearable. Using special tools and working on a well-hidden platform, the boys circumnavigated the glass structure, ensuring that the surface was spotless and the inlaid screens were functioning correctly. When that laborious task was complete, they made their way down the curved banks of steep marble terracing, plumping the rows of silk cushions and polishing every surface to a high sheen. Down on the main floor, one boy concentrated on buffing the marble while the other one, the red-haired one, went to the podium.
The ornate lectern was the
centrepiece
of the hall. It stood on a platform that offered the speaker an acou
stically commanding
aspect of the Inner Chamber. The boy dusted every crevice of the podium, ensuring that t
he glass autocue was gleaming
like a mirror and the microphone cleansed with anti-bacterial wipes. He worked slowly, methodically, his eyes often flicking undetected toward the lazy guard against the wall.
An hour passed. Both boys stood by the doors, awaiting inspection by the supervisor. When he finally arrived, he examined their work carefully, grunted his satisfaction and dismissed them both with a curt wave. For the rest of the day, the boys joined the maintenance resource pool, performing a variety of menial tasks around the building and the manicured gardens outside.
At dusk, they returned to the station for the journey back across the river. Bracelets scanned, they ambled along the platform, lost amongst the thousands of other Workers who pushed and shoved aboard the waiting trains. Biding their time, the boys lingered until the last transport
of the day was ready to depart; they then cut through the throng, finding space on the last car as instructed. The platform soon emptied and, with a loud hiss and violent clanking of metal, the train shunted slowly out of the terminus. Now it was time.
In the crush of the carriage, their security tags were swiftly and expertly removed by unseen hands. Rubbing their wrists, the two boys forced their way to the side of the car as it rattled out of the city and across the river. To the west, the sun had dipped below the horizon and the clear blue sky had begun to darken, the first stars of the evening twinkling faintly overhead.
As the train cleared the bridge and slowed to negotiate an ancient set of points, angry shouts suddenly erupted on the other side of the carriage. Fists flew and people surged forward, craning their necks to see what was happening. In the diversion, the two boys slipped silently over the side and dropped to the ground, rolling away from the rusted steel wheels. They scuttled across the tracks, disappearing into a large clump of overgrown bushes as the shouting faded and the train picked up speed once again, accelerating into the distance. The boys
squatted in the undergrowth, breathing hard, neither daring to move a muscle. There they waited until night had fallen completely.
Under cover of darkness, they slipped back across the rail bridge, crouching
low against the parapet, freezing like statues
as an Arabian patrol boat cruised along the black waters of the Thames below, its bow cutting quietly through the river, searchlight playing across the southern shoreline. Once across the bridge they skirted the marshalling yards, avoiding the station that was bathed in the harsh glare of security lights.
They kept to the shadows, black veils covering their faces, pale hands thrust deep into their sleeves. T
hey picked their way carefully
across the tracks and sidings, making their way without incident to a row of deserted houses that backed on to the perimeter fence, ducking quietly beneath the rusted mesh fencing, forcing their way through deep foliage into one of the empty buildings. Inside, a cautious route was picked around the rotting timbers and piles of rubble to the front of the house. Crouching motionless in the darkness, they watched the street outside. If they were captured here, across the river after curfew, the very least they could expect was a long, painful spell in the damp cells of the Khali Detention Centre. Or they could simply be shot dead in the street. The boys understood
these risks and accepted them willingly.
Away from the patrols and the railway yards, the streets of London were quiet and peaceful. There seemed to be few people around and the boys saw only one vehicle, an electric tram that hummed quietly across a distant intersection. The streets were sparingly lit, and they kept to the shadows until they finally reached Warwick Square.
The houses here were large detached affairs, occupied by rich merchants and financiers, the wide frontages decorated with palms and giant ferns that spilled across the smooth pavements. They searched for one house in particular and spotted it almost immediately. One hundred metres ahead, on the north side of the square, was a magnificent six-storey dwelling, nestled between two others of similar opulence. In a top floor window, a single light shone through the slats of a wooden blind. It was the all-clear signal.
Adjacent to the house was an alleyway and the boys slipped into the dark passage undetected. They
felt their way along the wall until they passed through a wooden door, leaving the gloom of the alley for the exquisitely-landscaped rear garden of the property. Huge palm trees ringed the high walls and a rearing horse-shaped fountain dominated the manicured lawns, the water gurgling softly in the night air.
The boys made their way across the patio where a glass wall slid silently open to receive them. The summer room was decorated with tall plants and cane furniture, the cool air climate-controlled. As
their eyes grew accustomed to
the darkness, they noticed the portly silhouette of a man standing in a doorway across the room, beckoning them silently. They followed him along a tiled corridor to a large entrance hall that was lit by several huge, sweet-smelling candles and dominated by a magnificent
staircase that curved upwards to the floors above. The portly man waited until they had passed into the hallway, then closed and bolted the door behind them. They faced each other silently in the flickering light; then, as if on cue, the young boys bowed their heads.
‘Thank you, your Eminence, for your hospitality and your courage,’ they whispered together.
The man laid a chubby hand on each of their closely-cropped skulls. ‘Rise, my young friends. You have displayed much courage yourselves this night. Wait for me in the library. Ali will bring you food. I will join you later.’
He gestured to a set of double doors
across
the hall. The boys stepped timidly into a large, high-ceilinged
room, lit by more candles and ringed with bookshelves, all of which were stacked with thousands of gilt-edged volumes. The boys stared in wonder. Books were a rare sight across the river, both a commodity and a luxury enjoyed by those that possessed them. The boys were drawn towards the shelves, running curious fingers across the embossed titles and thick spines of the neatly arranged volumes. These were the works of their literary fathers – Shakespeare, Dickens, Betjeman and others. Forbidden, illegal words. On the opposite wall hung rich tapestries and an impressive oil painting that depicted several Bedouin warriors traversing a stunning desert vista.
The boys spun around as the door opened and the Emir’s manservant, Ali, entered, wheeling a serving trolley before him, laden with silverware and glasses. With a flourish, he removed plate covers in a cloud of steam.
‘With the Master’s compliments.
Please enjoy.’ He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The boys moved quickly, attacking the roasted chicken legs, the plates of steaming rice and fresh peppers, the bread rolls and butter, lest the opportunity was somehow snatched from them. On the lower shelf, frosted decanters
of chilled, clean water stood by, waiting to quench their thirsts. By the time they’d eaten their fill, the trolley had been reduced to a collection of empty plates and greasy bowls.
The boys flopped onto the sofas, reclining amongst the mounds of soft cushions. One
of them belched and the
other followed suit, producing a satisfied blast of air hey laughed long and loud, the tears streaming down their cheeks. After a while their amusement subsided and they sat quietly, watching the shadows of the candle flames dance lazily across the walls. Their journey tonight had been nerve-wracking, each moment a potential heartbeat away from discovery and arrest, torture and death. But they had made it this far.