Invasion (47 page)

Your loving brother, Rahman

The Sunflower sliced noiselessly through calm blue waters as it headed towards the eastern seaboard of the United States at a steady six knots. She was still over forty nautical miles off the North Carolina coast, but her
recently issued
orders were to maintain a specific course and speed and the Sunflower was adhering rigidly to those instructions.

For Khan and Clarke, it was their fifty-third day at sea. Although the Sunflower had performed beautifully, they’d encountered a depression eighty miles east of Cape Verde and that, combined with the weight of their overcompensated supplies and spares, prevented them from going faster than four knots in frustratingly calm seas. The autopilot and rigging system problems caused further delays, forcing the journey across the Atlantic to take much longer than expected.

Despite the temptation on seeing the lush coastline of Barbados, the Sunflower had bypassed the Caribbean and steered north under blue skies and fair winds, both men unsure of the political situation that could easily have changed across the islands in light of the crisis in Europe. The US was their destination and they were stopping for no-one, avoiding the shipping lanes and steering clear of any distant
vessels. It was time-consuming
but safer, and safety had to be their main priority.

Three days earlier, with Bermuda far off their starboard bow, Clarke had
finally reached his family on the satellite phone, and the two men had celebrated that night with an extra ration of tinned chicken curry and a bottle of Merlot. Khan cooked the curry but stuck to orange juice and they enjoyed a pleasant evening, Clarke’s relief and excitement infecting them both. Later, Clarke had offered the phone to Khan, but he’d politely declined. There
was
no one
to call.

The plane had appeared the day before, a
rapidly approaching
dot on the northern horizon that had morphed into a low-flying US Navy surveillance aircraft. As it circled above them, Khan had answered the urgent radio enquiry with the necessary information:
boat name, registration, port of origin, crew details. The
interrogation lasted over ten minutes until the navy radioman sounded satisfied. Their last instructions were to change course and maintain their new heading unless instructed otherwise.

After the aircraft had disappeared over the horizon, Khan and Clarke had checked the charts and plotted their probable destination – Virginia. They had originally planned to make landfall further north but, when the US Navy issued orders, it seemed prudent to follow them.

Khan emerged from the galley below with two steaming mugs of coffee. Clarke was up on deck behind the wheel, his eye monitoring the boat’s systems.
He took the proffered mug in both hands. The dawn air held a chill that both men felt and they protected themselves against the elements with fleece-lined waterproof jackets, courtesy of the marina in Hamble.

‘Is it still there?’ enquired Khan.

Clarke pointed to the console. The radar echo had appeared during the night and had shadowed the Sunflower ever since, sailing somewhere
off their starboard bow. It was now moving towards an intercept point ahead, the courses slowly converging. There
was a ship out there, a large one, and it was heading their way.

Khan gazed out at the early-morning mist that shrouded the Sunflower. It had appeared at dawn and descended over them like a grey cloak, restricting their visibility to a couple of hundred yards. The blip on the screen was big, and it was drawing steadily closer. A collision would be disastrous. As Khan slopped the dregs of his coffee over the side, the radio crackled on the control panel. Clarke twisted the volume knob.

‘Sunflower, Sunflower, this is US Navy ship Denver requesting you heave-to immediately.’

‘Heaving-to now,’ replied Clarke. He glanced nervously at Khan. ‘Here we go, then.’

The Sunflower’s sails were
lowered, while her twin engines gave them steerage control only. After a couple of minutes, the sailboat was drifting with the current and riding the rhythmic swell of the Atlantic. The mist that enveloped them created an eerie backdrop to the tension of the moment, and the only sound they heard was the slap of water under the hull.

It started as
a quiet hiss that grew in volume until a sharp, battle-grey bow with huge white lettering on its hull knifed through the mist and drifted smoothly past them. Khan and Clarke held on tight as the wake of the battle-cruiser pitched the Sunflower from side to side. Along its rails, Marines
in full battle gear studied them with interest. Then the stern was past them and, once again, the ship was swallowed up by the mist. Silence descended on the Sunflower, broken only by the firm, southern twang of the voice behind them.

‘Hands on your heads, please, gentlemen.’

Khan and Clarke nearly jumped out of their skins. Spinning around, they found themselves confronted by four US Marines in black tactical gear spread across the deck, their weapons held low but ready. Khan saw the small assault boat just off the port stern, its pilot holding the vessel steady
as it bobbed up and down on the swell. Crafty bastards, admitted Khan. They had obviously used the battleship to disguise the smaller boat’s approach. Both men put their hands on their heads. They were quickly and expertly frisked and their identification documents confiscated. Then the Marines’ attentions focused on the Sunflower, which underwent a lengthy and thorough search.
Khan and Clarke sat on the deck and watched. The Marines hadn’t bound their hands, simply requesting that the two Brits sit down and keep out of the way, which they did. After an hour the boarding party officer approached them.

‘Gentlemen, thank you for your co-operation. Your ID checks out and the boat is clean, so you can continue on your journey. You are requested to head for the US naval base at Williamsburg, where you’ll be debriefed. I believe you have the GPS coordinates and the Denver will escort
you part of the way in.’

‘Debrief?’ Clarke looked worried.

‘Standard procedure now,’ the Marine informed them. ‘All our borders are closed. World’s gone to shit, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘We noticed all right,’ smiled Khan. ‘Why d’you think we’re here?’

‘Smart move,’ the Marine replied. ‘Well, that it. The Sunflower is cleared
to proceed.’ With that, the officer waved the assault boat alongside and the Marines climbed aboard. As it pushed off, the officer shouted to them. ‘You may want to get a shake on. We got some weather coming down from the north that could get ugly. Suggest you make all possible speed, gentlemen. You’ll be contacted again when you reach the outer buoy at Williamsburg.’

Khan and Clarke gave them a wave and got to work hoisting the sails. As they prepared the Sunflower for departure, the Marine officer cupped his hands around his mouth.

‘Oh, and by the way, welcome to the United States.’

The assault
boat accelerated away and disappeared
into the mist. For a moment, Khan and Clarke watched in silence
as the white foam of the wake dissipated across the glassy surface of the ocean. Then they turned to each other and embraced, smiling broadly. They’d made it.

For Khan, it was the end of a nightmare. He didn’t know what the future held for him, but at least he had one. He glanced over his shoulder, through the mist, towards the distant horizon they’d left behind, and his thoughts turned to Alex and Kirsty. He hoped they had one too.

Harry stepped down from the helicopter,
grumbling
as he worked the stiffness from his tired limbs. It had been a long week and he was glad to get back to McIntyre Castle. In spite of everything, he was beginning to regard the place as home. The accommodations were comfortable and the privacy and solitude had given Harry time to successfully traverse his personal minefield of emotions.

He felt a lot better now, much more so than when he first arrived over three months ago. Harry shook his head. Hard to believe it had been that long, but the many hours he’d spent walking the forest paths and along the shores of the Sound had regenerated him both physically and mentally, and the despair he’d felt in the early days was a now distant recollection. He’d come to terms with Anna’s death and, occasionally, he found himself smiling at a memory of her in happier times.

In the darkness, Harry and his SAS escort trudged towards the castle, their footsteps now finding the familiar route with ease. Later, after a shower and a light supper, Harry retired to his private drawing room where a fire crackled in the hearth. He settled himself down into an overstuffed armchair and sipped at a cup of tea. His eyes were drawn to the dancing flames that flickered beneath the granite fireplace and his thoughts turned to the events of the previous week.

The tour of the front line had taken six days, visiting the troops and inspecting the layered defences that stretched from coast to coast. General Bashford had warned against
the tour, declaring
it too dangerous, but Harry had insisted. Despite his love for McIntyre Castle and the daily video-link briefings with Lord Advocate Matheson and the military personnel at SCOTFOR, Harry had begun to feel rather like a fifth wheel. He’d even suggested a regular trip to Edinburgh to attend at least some of the briefings in person, but again Bashford had argued against it, explaining that the SCOTFOR base was a potential target for Arabian missiles, despite its underground location.

Harry had relented, resigning himself to dealing purely with the politics of the crisis. But the truth was, there was little to deal with. Negotiations of any kind still hadn’t materialised. Baghdad knew that a British government-in-exile was functioning north of the border yet the Arabians had made no effort to end hostilities. It was a very bad sign.

Determined to make himself useful, Harry had decided on the front line tour, even overruling Bashford and visiting SCOTFOR in Edinburgh, spending four productive days with Matheson’s fledgling administration and conducting face-to-face briefings with the military commanders. After his final night, spent
in a comfortable
safe house outside the city, Harry boarded the Dark Eagle and headed east towards the coast and the border with England.

They touched down outside the busy fishing port of Eyemouth, where Royal Navy frigates and submarines patrolled the coastal waters. The
surrounding
cliffs and bluffs were dotted with surface-to-surface missiles and anti-aircraft batteries, giving the land-based forces some protection against any potential threat from the sea. But would it be enough, Harry had asked the local commanders. In the long run, probably not, was the answer he feared.

Across the sea, to the northeast, Norway was still functioning, but only just. Civil unrest, sparked by the huge numbers of immigrants that had flocked to the liberal state over the decades, had thrown the country into turmoil. To add to their problems, Russian forces were massing along the Finnish border. It was only a matter of time before Scandinavia fell. When the Russians reached the North Sea coast, then the British Isles would be directly threatened on two fronts. Militarily it would be an impossible situation. Despite repeated attempts through a variety of diplomatic channels across the world, neither the Arabians nor the Russians were talking. War in Scotland was inevitable.

Still, Harry was encouraged by the scale and complexity
of the border defences. The undulating countryside had been extensively criss-crossed with deep trench and bunker systems that ran almost the whole length of the border, and every observation point, every listening post and every command centre was linked by a telephone
system running on copper wire. It was primitive, Harry was informed, but virtually impossible to eavesdrop on and, therefore, an extremely effective way of communicating between the various sectors in clear speech. Even dispatch riders had been employed, able to travel over rough terrain on powerful motorbikes.

From a deep trench just outside of Soughtree, Harry had surveyed the gorse-covered no-man’s land to the south through powerful binoculars and had been instantly reminded of grainy First World War footage he’d often seen on television. Of course, it wasn’t
as pitted and shelled
as the landscape back then, but Harry wondered how long that would last when hostilities finally commenced.

A mile ahead of him, the highway had been dug up and blockaded with a pile of huge, reinforced concrete posts, each over twenty feet long and several yards in diameter. On either side of these massive obstructions, the roadside verges had been deeply excavated and the trenches flooded with water to drive enemy troops and armour onto soft, open ground, ground that had been liberally sown with anti-tank mines.

He’d visited the machinegun
nests and anti-tank batteries, had peered out through the camouflaged fire-slits of the logged trench walls, and had even spent a night in one of the accommodation bunkers, a gesture that endeared him to the soldiers but unnerved Harry as he struggled to sleep inside the
poorly lit
,
claustrophobic chamber. He was assured that the timber ceilings could withstand an artillery attack, but Harry wasn’t so sure.

Eventually he reached the west coast near the town of Eastriggs, overlooking the grey waters of the Solway Estuary. There, as darkness fell, he spoke informally to the troops, listening to their various contact reports, nodding in sympathy
as many recounted the loss of friends, family and loved ones. Others grinned in the failing light, relishing any opportunity to even the score a little and Harry felt humbled by their courage.

After a dinner of hot rations in a draughty tent, he delivered an impromptu speech, using the back of a truck as a temporary platform. Harry had assured the tired, dirt-streaked
faces gathered beneath the trees that he’d do all he could for them, that diplomatic efforts were still ongoing, that a truce could still be negotiated that would see families and friends reunited once again.

Clambering down from the truck, the handshakes and words of encouragement paving his route to the Dark Eagle, Harry had felt ashamed. He’d lied, of course. To tell them the cold truth would have broken their already fragile spirits. For now, they had hope. Their tired smiles and optimistic banter had told him that much and to extinguish that hope would have been criminal. Harry could have told them that the Russians were about to invade Scandinavia, that churches and synagogues had been boarded up, that there were rumours of deportations, that most of England had returned to a begrudging normality, but he didn’t. Far to the south, beyond the horizon, streetlights once again painted the sky with their orange glow. People had returned to work, the TV stations were broadcasting their censored schedules, the pubs remained closed, alcohol banned, and there was still a curfew in place. But life went on.

In stark contrast, the border was a black region, a dark stage set for war. All along the border British troops were dug in, ready to face the enemy whatever the outcome. And there could be only one outcome. Yes, Harry had lied to them, but only to spare them from the hopelessness that he’d begun to feel himself. Leaving the front line behind, Harry watched the dark ground pass below the helicopter and wondered, yet again, how many had died, and how many more would die until the fighting stopped. No, he decided, this wouldn’t end with more British deaths, lost in a futile attempt to stop the Arabian war machine. There had to be another way out, for all of them, and he had to find it quickly.

There was a soft knock on the door and Bill Kerr entered the drawing room, a thankful interruption to counter Harry’s darkening mood.

‘Anything else this evening, Prime Minister?’ the Scot enquired.

‘Nothing, thank you Bill. Early call tomorrow, please.’

Kerr nodded and retired from the room. The fire in the grate had diminished somewhat and Harry debated whether to place another log on top. He decided
not to, instead watching the blackened wood burn to a deep red. It was time to ask for some serious help. He wasn’t sure if he’d get it, but it was his duty to ask. They’d been called on before, many years ago, when another enemy had stood on England’s doorstep. As friends they had answered that call and, together, they’d been victorious.

This time, however, there would be no D-Day, nor even a VE day, when celebrating crowds would flock to Trafalgar Square to sing, dance and rejoice in the outbreak of peace. No, this time all they could do was attempt to escape the coming maelstrom that threatened to engulf them all and lay waste to a land that Harry had grown to love.