Invasion (39 page)

Harry’s eyes roamed the expanse of the map. ‘Is there anything else we’ve missed?’

‘Probably,’ Bashford replied, ‘but
if you want to get the maximum amount of personnel out as quickly
as possible, this is the best way.’

Major Monroe stepped forward. Harry noticed he wore a chest rig like Gibson’s, the pockets filled with magazines, the brass of the bullets contained within gleaming beneath the overhead lights.

‘The helicopter
is ready to depart, sir.’

‘Thanks, Gerry. As soon as you’ve sealed the place, head north, yes?’

‘You’re staying behind?’ Harry asked incredulously.

‘Someone has to,’ Bashford said. ‘Tunnels
have to be sealed, equipment neutralised. We don’t want to give the Arabs all this on a plate.’

Harry understood, nodding silently. ‘Don’t hang around,’ he ordered Monroe.

‘The priority now is to get everyone
safely to Scotland. Everyone,’ he repeated.

‘I understand, Prime Minister.’

Bashford
signalled
to Gibson and Farrell, waiting patiently across the room.
‘Time to go, Harry. Go grab what you need and make your way out to the main entrance. I’ll see you there shortly.’

Harry took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I suppose there’s
nothing more we can do, is there?’

Bashford shook his head. ‘We’ve done as much as we can. It’s time to go, while we still can.’

Harry took one last look at the map, at the towns and villages that dotted the countryside around them. ‘God help us all,’ he muttered. Then he left the room.

On the defensive line, the new orders reached the relieved tank and armoured crews in direct line of the Arabian advance. The northern-most units reversed out of their prepared positions and headed for the Welsh border as quickly as they could. The heavy tank units further south abandoned their vehicles in place. There would be no facilities to load them on the waiting ships and it would take hours to reach the docks and the safety of the sea. The crews emptied their fuel tanks and redistributed it to other vehicles, then disabled their engines and spiked the gun barrels. Some crews even booby-trapped their equipment using grenades and explosive shells.

The remainder, the few who now held the line, quietly sweated inside their vehicles. Hidden along tree lines, concealed behind hedgerows and buildings and even parked innocuously in suburban streets, they watched and waited for the Arabian advance units to appear. From their concealed positions they overlooked the main roads, bridges and major junctions that the top brass had predicted the enemy would use to advance west.

For some, it would be their first taste of combat and they relished the challenge. Others were frightened, although they did their very best to disguise it in front of their crewmates. Many more were simply relieved, grateful they were nor being committed to an all-out fight. For the most part they were dug in, hull down and well-camouflaged. They would get two, at best three shots at the Arabians, then get the hell out.

Nearby, the jeeps waited, a driver at the wheel, ready to whisk the escaping crew to safety. Those in built-up areas were the most nervous. As time passed, the reckless, the foolhardy and the plain stupid began to drift out onto the streets, drawn by the sight of battle tanks and armoured fighting vehicles. And the anxious soldiers that manned them.

Jim Newman was one such soldier. An infantryman in the 4th Battalion, The Rifles, Newman’s unit in Aldershot had been shot up and scattered by a suicide attack inside the camp. He’d headed west on foot with several others, until the tank had roared up the road behind them and offered them a lift. The tank commander wanted to refuel and so he had set a course for Blandford in the
southwest
, where he knew he could find diesel for his vehicle. It was there that the Military Police had guided them to a marshalling area further west. Newman had decided to stay and help out the crew. One good turn deserved another after all and, besides, their regular driver had gone missing and they were a man short.

The final order had arrived by messenger a couple of hours ago. Newman was manning the jeep, ready to drive the tank crew to safety after their initial engagement. They’d headed north towards the town of Shaftesbury where the Challenger 2 battle tank took up position inside a large warehouse using the last of its reserve fuel. The warehouse
was part of a small industrial estate that overlooked the A30, one of the main routes west from the town of Salisbury.

The tank crew were quite happy with their location, Newman discovered. The industrial estate was on elevated ground, overlooking a shallow valley and the road to be defended. The warehouse walls were made of cinderblock and the half-raised metal shutter gave them a wide arc of fire with minimal exposure. The tank was parked deep inside the unlit warehouse and, as the sun began to set in the west, it lit up the ground in front of them perfectly. Anyone advancing up the A30 would have the sun in their eyes, smiled the commander.

But Newman wasn’t concerned about the sun, or the Arabians for that matter. At that moment he was two hundred yards away from the warehouse, watching the crowd through the windshield of his Land Rover. They’d gathered a short while ago near the chain-link fence that separated the industrial estate from a sprawling community housing project, drawn by the sound of the tank’s twin diesels. For the most part they stood idle, smoking and chatting in small groups, but their sullen eyes kept wandering back to Newman’s jeep.

The soldier cast an eye over the nearby housing. It didn’t look very old, but he could see a couple of boarded-up properties, the metal grills daubed in graffiti, an abandoned car by the kerbside. Piles of black rubbish sacks had been dumped near the fence, many split open, the contents strewn everywhere. A couple of vicious-looking
dogs sniffed amongst the rubbish, tails wagging furiously, jaws snapping and chomping on God-knew-what. What had no doubt been a clean, tidy housing estate now resembled a Third-World slum. You just can’t help some people, thought Newman.

As the minutes passed the crowd had swollen, as more residents were drawn to the fence like moths to a flame. There were all sorts, Newman noticed; old people clothed in
dressing gowns and slippers,
cigarette-wielding mothers surrounded by wailing tots, pale-skinned teenagers in cheap sports clothes and hoods, swigging from cans of lager. He got the impression they weren’t a friendly bunch, nor did they look particularly concerned by events beyond the fence.

Newman remained seated in his Land Rover, fifty yards away, his M4 automatic rifle cradled across his lap. Despite the weapon he was
nervous. Crowds worried him, especially those intent on violence, and now there looked to be over a hundred people. As he watched, a ripple ran through the crowd. Men, maybe twenty or thirty of them, pushed their way through to the fence. They stared at the Land Rover and Newman could feel their eyes boring into him. His uniform represented authority and Newman figured these men didn’t much care for what that meant. Earlier he’d thought about warning them, to get off the streets, to stay in their homes. Now, after watching these new arrivals, their tattooed arms, the bats and sticks they carried in their hands, Newman didn’t think it was such a good idea. He was also thinking about reversing the jeep further away, when a shout echoed around the estate. Inside his chest his heart began to pound. Here we go.

‘Oi! You! What’s happening? What’s that tank doing round here, then?’ Newman ignored the man. It was hard to believe that people were still
unaware of what was going on. The fence rattled as some of the mob threaded their fingers through the chain link and shook it, testing its strength. Newman wasn’t that worried. The fence that separated them was high, topped with barbed wire and pretty
strong looking
. No doubt the businesses on the industrial estate also had a keen interest in keeping the locals out. A beer can sailed over the fence, hitting the ground near the jeep with a loud smack. The crowd began jeering, the younger kids laughing and pointing. Newman’s thumb toyed with the safety catch of his rifle, wishing they could get out of there while they still had the chance.

The last of the anti-aircraft crews behind the defensive line had finally received word and no-one questioned their new orders. They’d manoeuvred their SAM vehicles
as much as possible, but now their fuel tanks had run dry and they were immobile. Soon their positions would be plotted by the Arabians and the anti-radar missiles would home in on them. Within minutes, most of the crews were already aboard the waiting transports and heading either southwest towards Teignmouth or
northeast towards Gloucestershire. The
high-tech equipment inside the abandoned SAM vehicles continued to scan the skies to the east aggressively, their missile tubes and gun barrels ready to unleash their deadly projectiles.

For the Arabian technicians, the British anti-aircraft radar signatures were now distinct, their sweeps
regular, predictable. Far to the east, their positions were plotted and re-plotted, checked and double-checked for any evidence of a ruse, a ploy by the Infidels to lure in their fighter-bombers and swat them from the sky. They had to be sure. It took another fifteen minutes to confirm the information. When it was, a handset was lifted.

‘Get me General Mousa.’

Mousa watched
Major Karroubi heading towards him through the trees.
He
climbed out of the helicopter and met him halfway across the clearing.

‘Well?’

‘Enemy anti-aircraft units have been located and pinpointed.’ Karroubi handed over a slip of paper.

‘This is confirmed?’

‘Absolutely,’ replied Karroubi. ‘I confirmed it myself.’

Mousa pushed past his subordinate and ran to the command bunker. His voice boomed around the hard-packed earth walls, startling those inside. ‘Engage the enemy SAM units! Order the assault force west and release the fighter-bombers as soon as the SAMs have been neutralised. And get the ground units moving. Now!’

As the stale air hummed with bellowed orders
and frantic radio traffic, Mousa’s eye was drawn to the battlefield display, where the transmitter icon in the Mendip Hills still glowed faintly. In the reflection of the
Perspex
, he saw Karroubi limping up behind him. Mousa turned. ‘Have my helicopter fuelled and ready to go, Major. We head west as soon as the way is clear.’

In the grounds of Windsor Great Park, twelve multiple-launch anti-radar rocket batteries waited for the order. The coordinates of the British SAM units had already been plotted and entered into the on-board computers, while sensitive instruments mounted on the roofs of the armoured vehicles continuously tracked wind speed, humidity and air temperature. That
data would be factored into the course and trajectory estimates of the missiles’ on-board targeting computers.

In the glowing confines of his command vehicle, the battery commander suddenly leapt to his feet as his comms
link warbled
in his ear. He listened intently for a moment, confirmed the order, then turned to his second-in-command.

‘All units! Execute launch order! Launch, launch, launch!’

The village hall was packed, the villagers themselves
eerily silent by the time Khan had finished his talk. ‘Briefing’ was a more accurate word, he decided,
as he scanned the worried faces around the stuffy hall. Outside, beyond the tall windows, the sun had begun its descent to the west, casting long shadows across the village green. A group of children played there, their laughter leaking through the windows
as they chased each other around the grey stone war memorial.

Khan squinted into the setting sun as it dipped, its fading yellow bars lancing across the room, illuminating a million tiny dust particles drifting
lazily on the stale air. Above the stage where Khan stood, a faded Union Jack hung limply from the rafters, framed by a pair of heavy, ruby-coloured
stage curtains. Around the walls, hand-made posters proclaimed a recent production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, a car boot sale near Swindon, and the Lockeridge Fete and Country
Show, scheduled to take place over the August bank holiday. Khan stared at the poster for a moment, guessing that that particular event would not be taking place this year. Maybe for the next few years, he speculated. He hoped he was wrong.

He looked down from the stage at the anxious faces before him and wondered again whether he was doing the right thing. It seemed like a good idea earlier, and Rob had been adamant, but the details of his escape from London had
shaken
them, had silenced the sceptics around the hall. Now, the pale and frightened faces that stared back at him caused Khan to question his own judgement, but he quickly dismissed those doubts. The villagers had a right to know what was happening in the wider world, in the towns and cities around them. Forewarned is forearmed, Khan had insisted. What he didn’t have, though, were answers.

As he took his seat alongside the men and women who made us the Parish Council, the villagers finally found their voice, and a storm of noise erupted from the floor. Seated next to Khan, Andy Metcalfe, a gruff, no-nonsense
scrap dealer in his late fifties, held his hands up for silence. When the hall finally settled down, he spoke in a deep, West Country twang.

‘You all know me. I’ll say what needs to be said and by the sounds of it we’re in serious trouble. Our main concern has to be what’s best for the village. We’re going to have to pull together, that’s the truth of it. ‘The hall was silent as Metcalfe spoke. It was obvious to Khan that the man had the respect of his community, but there was something
else there too – the slight bark to his voice, the challenging jut of his scarred chin, the cautious support of the other council members. How did Rob describe him? A ‘character’, he’d
said, a dealer in farm scrap who’d never served on the council or any other official body. Maybe Rob was jealous,
or maybe he was just being diplomatic. Either way, it was in times of crisis that the most unlikely candidates emerged to show leadership, and Metcalfe certainly seemed to fit the bill.

‘There are other considerations too,’ Metcalfe continued, ‘crop harvests, fuel rationing, that sort of stuff. It’s my view that the Parish Council takes the lead on this and they’ve kindly asked me to join them while this business goes on. We haven’t got time to hold elections, am I right?’
There were a few polite chuckles around the room, Khan noted, but not many. ‘Now, has anyone got any other suggestions for the short term? Make ’em useful or keep ’em to yourselves.’

All eyes swivelled towards Khan as he stood up once more. ‘There’s one other thing you can do. As I mentioned, many lives were lost last night. The
first hours of a conflict are always the most dangerous. No clear battle lines, lots of confusion–’ The
windows suddenly rattled with the sound of distant thunder. The tremors lasted for several long moments then faded away. Khan traded a worried
look with Alex, standing down by the side of the stage.

‘Summer storm,’ Metcalfe announced, although no-one believed it. He looked up at Khan. ‘You were saying?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Khan turned to face his audience. ‘You need to hide the village.’ The suggestion was met with a deafening silence. Even Metcalfe looked baffled.

‘Sorry, my old mate, you’ve lost us there,’ the big man snorted, his thick arms folded across his chest. Mild laughter rippled around the hall.

‘Like I said, lives have been lost, possibly tens of thousands. Men, women... children too.’ The laughter around the hall died away. ‘Many would’ve
been killed
during the initial attacks, caught in the chaos on the streets, or victims of the sudden
lawlessness. I believe you need to isolate yourselves from those dangers, and the longer you avoid contact with the outside world, the better your chances of surviving this critical period of the invasion.’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Metcalfe.

Khan wheeled a
chalkboard
to the front of the stage and spun it around. On it was a rough diagram of the village and the surrounding roads. ‘You all know the area. There are only two roads that lead into this village
,
the one from the south and this one here, that runs
northeast
towards Lockeridge
itself. Now, what I suggest will require fast work, some earth-moving machinery and an eye for camouflage. Has anyone got a digger, something with a bucket scoop?’
Several hands in the crowd were raised. ‘Good,’ continued Khan. ‘One thing I’ve noticed around here is that all the country
lanes have high-sided
banks, correct?’ Almost everyone in the hall nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. My idea is this: take the diggers and block both roads to the village with earth walls. Make them the same height
as the existing banks and camouflage them with the same growth and vegetation
as the real ones. Even plant a couple of trees, bushes, stuff like that. Then
make sure any white lines or junction markers on the road are covered or painted over and, most importantly, remove any road signs that mention this village.’

Khan paused for a moment, but when he realised there were no objections, he carried on. ‘I suggest a group of you go farther afield, tell the other villages, remove any road signs you find. The more confusion you create, the better. Of course, the Arabians will have maps and aircraft, but I suspect rural communities are not their priority. The exercise here is to keep out of the way for as long as possible while events run their course. You’ve heard what a mess London is in, and Swindon too. If people can, they’ll try and leave the cities and spread out into the countryside. They’ll be scared, hungry, thirsty – and possibly armed. That’s why I think sealing off this village is important.’

Khan registered the suddenly frightened faces around the hall. He shrugged and attempted a reassuring smile. ‘It probably won’t come to that, but it’s best to err on the side of caution. Just in case.’

‘How do we get in and out if the roads are blocked?’ asked Metcalfe.

Khan tapped the chalkboard with a finger. ‘Use the bridle path through this wood here, just south of the village. It’s wide enough to drive a vehicle through and it’ll bring you out onto the main road here, outside the blockade. My advice is to stay put though, unless absolutely necessary.’

The hall remained silent. It was a lot for a community like this to take in, Khan knew, but it might protect them in the long run. And the possibility of marauding gangs had struck a particularly unnerving note. When the Arabians finally discovered the village, Khan doubted they’d
be too upset about the camouflage tactics. Self-preservation, that would be the agreed cover story. After that
,
well, the future for the villagers was anyone’s guess, but he doubted their way of life would be affected too much. People still needed to eat and farms were the lifeblood of any nation.

Metcalfe lumbered to his feet. ‘Sounds like a good idea. We don’t want no outsiders coming here, trying to take the food out of our mouths, right? Unless they’re family.’ A murmur of agreement rippled around the hall. ‘Let’s vote on it then. All those in favour, raise your hand.’

Almost every hand in the room shot into the air. ‘Unanimous,’ acknowledged Khan. ‘That’s it, then. But you must work fast. The Arabians could arrive any day now.’ He paused a moment, then nodded. ‘Good luck.’

The hall erupted in a cacophony of voices and scraping chairs. Metcalfe’s was the loudest of all, as he began barking orders and corralling
villagers into work groups. Khan stepped down off the stage where Alex was waiting.

‘It’s good advice, Dan. When are you leaving?’

‘After dark. I need to get back to Rob’s place, get organised.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You hear those rumbles earlier?’

Alex nodded. ‘Planes, maybe. Or artillery. Sounded like a long way away.’

‘Not
far
enough,’
replied Khan, shaking his head. ‘Damn, I
should’ve mentioned lookouts. You’ll need them.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Alex assured him.

Khan watched the hustle and bustle around him for a moment. A
large group of women had converged at the back of
the hall while up on the stage
Metcalfe had gathered the more able-bodied men around the chalkboard. Through the window the small road that circled the village green was now aglow with brake lights
as a dozen vehicles navigated the narrow lanes away from the centre of the village.

Khan’s eye caught the Parish Council members, huddled together at the side of the stage. They were mostly elderly, a mixture of men and women, nervously gathered around the local vicar who was mouthing his own words of comfort. Occasionally, one or two of them would glance in Metcalfe’s direction as he held strident court nearby. South Lockeridge had undergone its own power shift, Khan realised.

‘You know this guy Metcalfe?’

Alex shrugged. ‘Not really. Bit of
a loudmouth in the village pub
by all accounts. I hear he sails a bit close to the w
ind, business-wise. Scrap metal
and all that.’

‘Well, he’s certainly risen to the challenge,’ Khan observed. ‘Just be careful he doesn’t dominate the decision-making process. These people will look to you too, you being a police officer.’

‘He’s alright,’ Alex replied. ‘We’ll sort it out, don’t worry.’

Outside, the village green was now deserted, the shadows deepening as night crept towards them. Alex climbed into the Range Rover and Khan fired up the engine, watching the needle climb just above the full mark. The villagers had come through with the fuel, as Rob had promised him. Just
as well, he thought; since the briefing, people around here might be a little less inclined to share, especially with a stranger. He slipped the vehicle in gear, hit the lights, then slowly circumnavigated the green.

‘Seal this place tight,’ Khan warned. ‘The Arabians will find you sooner or later. When they do, don’t resist. Make sure everybody knows that.’

‘Sure,’ Alex muttered. ‘We’ll be alright. I doubt they’ll stay long.’

Khan heard the uncertainty in Alex’s voice, saw the tense smile that barely creased his face. Khan felt the tension too. They’d enjoyed a brief interlude from the chaos of the invasion, the peace of the countryside seducing them both, but the Arabian war machine waited over the rumbling horizon, moving ever closer. He contemplated
pressing Alex again, to try and persuade him to head for the coast, then decided against it. He’d made his cho
ice, the only one he
could
make
given the circumstances. So he said nothing, instead easing the Range Rover through the narrow lanes and back towards the farm.

Forty-eight kilometres to
the
south, General Mousa ducked beneath the thunderous roar of the helicopter rotor blades and strapped himself into his seat. He placed a headset over his ears as the pilot indicated imminent lift-off. Beside him, Major Karroubi did the same and the aircraft leapt into the air, banking to the north as it cleared the treetops of Grovely Wood.

‘Over ninety-four per cent of enemy anti-aircraft units confirmed destroyed,’ Karroubi yelled above the noise as
Mousa watched the ground through the open door. ‘Ground forces and helicopter
assault teams are on the move.’

Mousa turned away from the fields below, from the back gardens and streets where tiny, pale figures stared up at them in the gathering dusk. It all depended on speed now. All he had to do was punch a corridor through to the Mendips, then get out, quick and clean, before the Cleric became aware of the operation. Beecham, paraded before him in chains, would soothe the ire of the Holy One.

‘Send in the bombers,’ he barked.

Far to the east, eight fighter-bombers of the Arabian air force turned into their new heading and went to full afterburner, rocketing low across the English countryside. Their wings were heavy with ordinance as their infrared
and thermal imaging equipment scanned the ground ahead for military targets. In each plane, the two-man crews flipped down their anti-glare
visors as they thundered into the setting sun.