Invasion (29 page)

‘But we can’t just-’

‘We have to,’ interrupted Gibson. ‘I don’t like it any more than you, but that’s the situation and your safety is paramount.’

Farrell, scanning the surveillance
monitors, interrupted them. ‘All clear outside. We’re good to go.’

Gibson flicked off the lights in the room. He opened the heavy steel door, inviting a mild breeze that swirled around the room as their eyes adjusted to the dark undergrowth of Kensington Gardens.

‘Let’s go,’ he whispered. They filed out of the blockhouse, taking up position a few yards into the trees.

‘Which way are we headed?’ hissed Harry as Gibson scanned the dark, open spaces that sloped down towards Kensington High Street.

Gibson smiled in the darkness. ‘We’re going shopping. Let’s move.’

The party broke cover, Harry scampering after the dark shape ahead of him. Shopping? What the bloody hell did he mean? But Harry decided not to dwell too much on the soldier’s cryptic reply. He knew all his questions would be answered soon enough. Instead, he concentrated on keeping Gibson in sight as they headed south across Kensington
Gardens.

As they moved through the shadows, the first chirping notes began to echo around the park, the birds in the surrounding trees heralding the fast
approaching dawn.

On the roof of Barkers
department store on Kensington High Street, Flight Lieutenant Gavin Lucas sat in silence in the cockpit of his Boeing-Sikorsky Dark Eagle stealth helicopter and waited patiently for his passengers. It had been a long wait, almost three hours now, and they still hadn’t arrived, but the trip into Central London had been worth it purely for reconnaissance value, and his multi-million
dollar helicopter was just the bird for the job.

The Dark Eagle was an intelligence-gathering platform like no other. Its on-board flight systems were state-of-the-art and incorporated the latest advances in stealth technology. Its four-bladed rotor, always a detectable heat source on other helicopters, was cooled by a sealed liquid nitrogen system and the rotors spun on a revolutionary bearing arrangement, creating a magnetic field around the blade hub that literally sucked in sound waves. It made the Dark Eagle almost silent.

As a weapons platform, it boasted twin twenty-millimetre
electric cannons and two rocket pods, each holding thirty mini-rockets. The
angular nose, shaped to deflect airborne and ground radar, bristled with thermal, night-vision and low-light
optical equipment
as well as sideways look-down, telescopic and digital cameras that could track an object on the ground or in the air for 360 degrees. Its air-search radar and target-tracking
systems were second to none and its own radar signature was equivalent to that of a large bird. The Dark Eagle was American-built, of course, but the British Army had six on loan and Lucas was one of the lucky ones who got to fly this impressive machine.

Waiting in the silence of the cockpit, he reflected on the flight to London from Alternate One. As the aircraft glided low and fast across the dark English countryside, its on-board systems had recorded the huge columns of tanks and infantry moving up the M3 and A3 motorways towards London, confirming that England was well and truly in the grip of a massive invasion. As the Dark Eagle gathered data from all points of the compass, it was beamed back to Alternate One by a series of encrypted
microwave
burst signals that took less than a tenth of a second to transmit. Deep under the Mendip Hills, analysts were already crunching the volumes of data Dark Eagle was recording on its perilous journey into the capital.

Things had got pretty hairy when they reached London itself. Here, there were many more troops on the ground and someone in the Acton area of West London must have got a brief radar return, firing a surface-to-air missile in their general direction. There had been a few tense moments inside the aircraft, but the missile hadn’t achieved lock and had crashed to the ground somewhere to the northwest. Thankfully for the Dark Eagle, the rest of the journey remained uneventful and they landed quietly on the roof of the famous art deco building on Kensington High Street. Lucas had ordered all systems shut down and there they’d remained, an indistinct black mass on a dark rooftop.

His two crew members, one co-pilot and a Flight Sergeant, had taken up positions away from the aircraft. The co-pilot was on the roof itself, patrolling the perimeter of the building and watching the street below. The Flight Sergeant had made his way down the darkened fire escape to the staff entrance
in Young Street. There he waited, deep in the shadows, until their ‘package’ arrived. Lucas didn’t know who the package was, but he presumed it was a senior member of the Cabinet or high-ranking military officer. He hadn’t been told, for operational reasons of course, but it was a fair bet they wouldn’t risk the Dark Eagle and its crew for the Secretary for Sport and Culture.

They’d waited in virtual silence until, a few moments earlier, the Dark Eagle received an encrypted move order. The package was in the immediate area and en route. About
bloody time, breathed Lucas, starting his pre-flight checks. He keyed the transmit switch of his microphone, ordering his co-pilot back to the helicopter and instructing his Flight-Sergeant to hold position at the staff entrance
to await the arrival of their passenger. A moment later, the co-pilot climbed into the aircraft and Lucas glanced over his shoulder towards the sky in the east. Whoever it was had better hurry; they had less than an hour of darkness left.

As Gibson took cover beneath a towering oak, watching the Prime Minster puffing towards him, he fretted about what lay ahead. The good news was they had transport. On the roof of a nearby department store lay their salvation: a helicopter. But before they broke out the champagne, they had to cross two hundred yards of open parkland, a main arterial road that may or may not have enemy traffic operating on it, then get up onto the roof of the building in question using the staff entrance that was located on a road they couldn’t see and didn’t have time to recce. Still, it was their best chance of getting out of the city.

Gibson grabbed the sleeve of Harry’s jacket as he ducked under the low-hanging branches and pulled him behind the thick trunk. He gestured to Farrell.

‘You first. Call us when you’re across the street.’

Farrell nodded and took off across the park. They watched him until he was lost in the gloom. Gibson scanned the area around them. The overhead canopy made it hard to see, so he moved out from under the tree’s leafy skirt and crouched down on the damp grass, looking to the east. The black horizon was being quickly replaced by varying shades of deep blue and-Oh shit!

He ducked back under the canopy and dragged Harry to his feet. ‘Military convoy! Let’s go!’
As he ran he shouted into his radio. ‘Stevie, convoy approaching from the east. How’s our route looking?’
Farrell’s voice hissed in his ear. Gibson shouted over his shoulder
as Harry panted behind him. ‘We’ve got to get across the road before they reach the park.’ The Arabians must be headed towards Kensington Palace, realised Gibson.

The two men reached the black bars
of Palace Gate and ran out into Kensington
High Street, dodging between the scores
of abandoned cars
that littered the road. There didn’t seem to be much damage here, although there were one or two bodies lying on the opposite pavement, and it seemed that nearly every shop window had been smashed. Glass crunched underfoot with every step.

Gibson dragged Harry towards the dark mass of the Barkers building. Behind him, he could hear the increasing roar of vehicle engines on the pre-dawn air.

‘Where are you, Stevie?’ he hissed into his radio. Across the road, a red-filtered torchlight blinked out of the dark shadows of a store front. Gibson shoved Harry forward. ‘Run towards the light. Quickly!’

Gibson pushed him
forward and turned
back towards the
oncoming headlights, whose high beams suddenly washed over the road. He ducked into a shop doorway and watched as the trucks roared closer. Just when he thought that they would bypass the park, the leading armoured vehicle turned sharply to the right and crashed through the iron gates, knocking them both to the ground with an ear-splitting clang.

The
vehicle continued on
without stopping, accelerating up the wide Broadwalk path to the Palace itself. Gibson counted a total of four trucks, three APCs and two Humvee jeeps, all loaded with troops. The rear vehicle, an armoured type with a wicked-looking cannon mounted on its turret, screeched to a halt at the gates and took up position covering the road.

Gibson’s heart sank. He was roughly a hundred yards away from the nearest Arabian vehicle, but it was at least another hundred to the corner of the Barkers building and, for some of it, he would be exposed. He looked eastwards along Kensington Gore. Another convoy was on its way. The Arabians were throwing everything at finding them now. Gibson watched the dismounting Arabian troops carefully, waiting for the right moment to make his move.

General Al-Bitruji took the message slip from his communications
officer and considered his next move. Whatever it was, it had better be quick. And decisive. Mousa was
busy studying the command screen as
various units raced into Kensington Gardens. He had no idea that one of Al-Bitruji’s loyal communications officers was filtering
communications from Major Karroubi, that his precious paratroopers had discovered that the tunnel was a dead end, or that there could be no platform beneath Kensington
Palace. Below ground, his crippled lackey
was desperately trying to raise Mousa and tell him the news, but Al-Bitruji’s man was steadfastly blocking direct transmissions. A message would be passed, the exasperated Karroubi was informed.

Al-Bitruji watched carefully
as the minutes ticked by. With each passing second the British Prime Minister was getting further away. It was clear Mousa was starting to sweat and Al-Bitruji was enjoying every moment. He saw Mousa’s hand go up to his ear. Perhaps he had finally heard something on the command net, something that may suggest that there was a communication problem? It wouldn’t do to overplay his hand. It was time to act.

Al-Bitruji stepped forward, the message slip in his hand and a blank look on his face. ‘I have a communication from your man in the tunnels.’

Mousa snatched the note and quickly scanned the message. ‘When did you receive
this?’ he barked.

‘A moment ago.’

Mousa keyed his radio repeatedly but to no effect. He wrenched the device from his tunic and hurled it against the wall, smashing it into pieces. He turned to Al-Bitruji.

‘Get me Major Karroubi on the line this instant, or else I will have every man in this room shot.’

Al-Bitruji turned away and repeated the order. He found another radio and gave it to Mousa. The General was quickly patched through to his subordinate.

‘Karroubi, where the devil are you?’ Mousa was silent as
he listened to Karroubi’s report. ‘Start searching the park,’ he ordered. ‘They must be close.’ Al-Bitruji watched Mousa break the connection and walk away. Maybe he was mistaken, but he thought he heard a slight trace of panic in the General’s voice.

Farrell led the way, Harry scuttling behind him. When they arrived at the junction of Young Street, Farrell stopped, peering around the side of the building. With a whisper he ordered Harry to hold his position, then ducked into the side street.

Harry watched him as he disappeared into the darkness beneath the wide canopy of Barkers. He experienced a momentary feeling of panic, his armed escort gone, abandoning him to the dark and dangerous streets of West London. He was scared, of course he was, but his fear was tempered by the thoughts of others out there, the old and the very young, trapped in their homes or caught out on the streets amongst the carnage. Many would be injured, some dying, alone, in the dark. Harry had a chance of escape, whereas the public were at the mercy of the gods. Shame suffocated his fear, but there was nothing he could do until he got to Alternate One. That had to be his priority now.

A movement caught his eye and he saw Farrell race back across the street towards him. He reached Harry and pointed back over his shoulder.

‘Other side of the road, fifty yards, a set of glass doors. There’s
a Flight

Sergeant on the other side. He’ll take you up to the roof to the chopper.’ Harry’s shoulders sagged in relief. ‘Thank God,’ he whispered.

‘Let’s save the prayers until we’re away. Mike’s got bad guys right on his arse. I’ll see if he needs a hand.’

As the soldier turned to leave, Harry gripped his arm. ‘Hurry back, both of you. I’m not leaving you behind.’ He ran across the street as quickly
as he could. One of the glass doors swung inwards as he approached. Behind it waited a man in a flight helmet and black jumpsuit. He also carried an automatic rifle.

‘Flight-Sergeant Hopkins, Sir. Follow me.’

Without waiting, Hopkins turned and made for the stairs with Harry close behind.

With practised rhythm, Flight Lieutenant Lucas brought the Dark Eagle’s systems on line. Next to him, his co-pilot had strapped in and was going through the same pre-flight checks. They both had hundreds of hours in the Dark Eagle, but they always carried out the checks
as if it were their maiden flight. Both men were satisfied to see the status board indicate a solid block of green lights. They were ready.