Invasion (37 page)

‘I know. I’ve been thinking about that.’

Alex was about to say something when Kirsty piped up. ‘Still leaving us then?’ She tapped the map on the hood of the Range Rover. Khan folded it away and tossed it back inside the Range Rover. ‘Does that mean you’re staying?’

‘That’s right,’ confirmed Alex. He looked away for a moment, struggling with the words. ‘I feel bad letting you go on your own, but my family’s here and
they’re going to need us. And sooner or later we’ll have to find Kirsty’s folks too.’ He gave her a comforting squeeze. ‘Sorry, mate.’

‘Nothing to apologise for,’ Khan assured him. ‘I’d made up my mind to head south long before we met. Besides,’ he smiled, kicking the empty jerry can at his feet, ‘if you’re really sorry then you can help me get some more fuel.’

‘We can do that,’ nodded Kirsty. She squeezed Alex’s hand. ‘Right, Alex?’

‘Sure. Anything you need.’

‘Thanks.’

Khan had hoped to persuade Alex to come with him. It would be tough going on his own, not impossible with the right vessel, but hard enough. Yet, since arriving at the farm it was obvious that Alex’s place was here, with his family, and now Kirsty was part of that equation too. They needed Alex as much as Khan did. Besides, Khan would have made the same decision if the tables were turned. So, he was on his own again.

‘Did Rob fill you in on our little trip to the village?’ Alex nodded. ‘He told you what the others said, about the riots in Swindon and Reading? About the families that turned up in the middle of the night?’

‘They were cousins of one of the villagers. They didn’t know where else to go.’

‘See, that’s the problem, right there,’ Khan said, rapping his knuckles on the hood of the Range Rover. ‘What if word spreads? That South Lockeridge
is some sort of safe haven? You could get swamped with refugees in a matter of days. Things could get seriously out of hand.’

‘I know,’ Alex muttered, squeezing
Kirsty’s hand. ‘Not much we can do about it though.’

Khan caught the gesture, saw Kirsty’s worried frown, the hand that gripped

Alex’s a little tighter. ‘Hey, Kirsty.’

‘Yes?’

He tapped the side of his head. ‘Don’t worry, okay? I’ve got a plan.’ She attempted a smile, but the fear lingered behind her eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Sure. Everything’ll
be alright, trust me.’ He turned to Alex. ‘You
know about the meeting tonight? In the village hall?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good. There’s a lot to go over. I’ll fill you in on the way down there.’ He leaned inside the Range Rover and took the key from the ignition. It was an unconscious gesture, but the time to leave was fast approaching and he didn’t want to run the risk of losing his escape vehicle. He swung the driver’s door closed, hit the alarm button – then froze. The sound of helicopters was unmistakable, rolling and fading on the warm summer air. All three of them stood motionless in the shadows of the shed, eyes shielded against the sun.

‘A long way off,’ Alex
presumed
, scanning the distant horizon. ‘South, I think.’ Already the sound was beginning to fade.

‘Ours?’ asked Khan.

‘God knows. Definitely more than one, though.’

The
sound faded
completely and birdsong once again filled the early-evening air.

‘Well, there’s no point in worrying about it now,’ Khan sighed. He turned to the others, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m starving,’ he declared, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any more grub on the go, is there?’ Alex cocked a thumb over his shoulder, his gaze still wandering the sky.

‘Helen’s making something
now.’

‘Good. We need to discuss a few things before the meeting tonight. I’ve got a couple of ideas that may be of interest.’

Alex raised a quizzical brow. ‘What ideas?’

‘About this place, the village. To keep you all safe.’
He squeezed Kirsty’s shoulder and she smiled, a little more relaxed this time. They headed towards the main house, skirting the huddle of geese that watched them from the grass island.

Mousa tapped the heel of his boot impatiently
as the Blackhawk helicopter skimmed low over the fields and treetops of the English countryside. He stared out of the window at the passing ground below, at the four Apache escort helicopters that flew in a loose box formation around his own aircraft. Mousa thought he might well need them. This wasn’t London, with thousands of Arabian troops pouring into the capital every hour. There, he was well protected. But out here, they were chasing the tail of the enemy and the information they’d received from the LARVE before it was destroyed made it clear that there were still significant numbers of British troops and equipment scattered around the countryside.

The Blackhawk
flared and banked hard, dropping towards a large clearing surrounded by thick forest. Karroubi had chosen well, Mousa admitted, giving his aide seated opposite an approving nod. Grovely Wood was
a series of undulating hills that dominated the skyline to the west of the town of Salisbury, the command post near its centre well hidden, the surrounding forest guarded by Mousa’s paratroopers. All in all they should be relatively
safe
. For
now.

The helicopter settled in the clearing and Mousa leapt to the ground, followed closely by Karroubi. They strode into the trees, a small detachment of waiting paratroopers falling in around them. A short distance into the wood the ground sloped gently downhill to a wide, flat area beneath the tree canopy, where a large command bunker had been hastily constructed
from felled trees. Even now, the massive logs that formed the roof were being covered with earth by scores of shovel-wielding troops. When they reached the bottom of the slope a combat engineer officer, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, saw the approaching party and threw up a salute.

‘General, the command bunker is ready and on-line. We’re
just finishing the camouflage now.’

‘Good. Lead on.’

They stamped down the
roughly hewn
log steps until they were below ground level, ducking under the low roof and into the command post. It was dark inside, only the bright electronic glow of the large command
display screen lighting the gloomy interior. There were a dozen operators with headsets lined around the log walls, busily tapping into their computer terminals while, opposite them, army and aviation group commanders conferred around a large, map-strewn
table. The commanders turned as one and snapped upright as Mousa entered.

‘Report!’ he barked to
no one
in particular.

A senior army officer stepped forward. ‘General. The situation
is thus; our forward scouts have moved west to this town here, Trowbridge.’ The commander
tapped the town’s electronic marker on the command display and instantly a new window opened, showing a large-scale digital map of the town and its surrounding area. He pointed to a cluster of glowing green icons to the west of the built-up area. ‘These are our reconnaissance units. They’ve been ordered to hold their position until we can get them more support. Resistance was encountered seven kilometres southeast of the town centre on this road here, the A361.We lost two light-armoured
vehicles to anti-tank fire.’

‘Where is
this convoy going?’ growled Mousa. He was referring to the British convoy that the LARVE had detected earlier that morning. Its speed and course had been plotted on the screen with a list of possible destinations. The commander tapped the convoy icon and the black and white footage from the LARVE nose camera began looping in another mini-screen.

‘General, our concern is that the convoy is heading towards the coast in an effort to move against our southern flank. It may be prudent to shift our axis to the southwest in order to counter the threat.’

‘And where is the convoy now?’ demanded Mousa.

The army commander circled an area on the display with his finger. ‘They could be anywhere in this area here. We haven’t been able to establish exactly where, yet.’

‘Why not?’ Without waiting for a reply, Mousa turned to a senior air force officer. ‘Where are my surveillance craft?’

The officer paled before his withering gaze. ‘Unfortunately, the ship transporting the LARVE units encountered some rough weather crossing the Bay of Biscay, General Mousa. Sea water entered the cargo hold through an unsealed hatch and corroded the flight instrumentation packages. ‘The air force officer unconsciously twisted his hands together. Mousa noted the gesture, his eyes boring into the man’s sweating face. ‘However, I immediately despatched another shipment by transport aircraft to Heathrow,’ the officer continued quickly. ‘They will be landing in the next two hours.’

Mousa looked at his own watch. Two hours until the new parts arrive, another three or four to mate them with the LARVE units; it would be dark by then and Beecham might have fled his rat-hole. He might not get the opportunity to capture the Englishman again.

Right now, Mousa would have given his right arm for real-time satellite imagery, but the re-tasking of satellites would be brought to the attention of the Holy One and Mousa would be stopped in his tracks. Not only that, but disciplined too, and the punishment for insubordination would be harsh indeed. He looked around the room; if any of the sweating weasels before him discovered he was operating without the consent of the Cleric, a call would be made and that would be the end of it.
It’s a fine line I have to tread here,
Mousa realised. He had to move fast, achieve his objective, before the game was up.

He balled his fists behind his back. The LARVEs would have given him a big advantage over the Infidel forces. With five of those in the air he could have located the British convoy’s position in less than an hour, ordering his air assets to advance west to obliterate it. But without the LARVEs he was relatively blind and he dare not commit any more forces in a full-scale attack. Frustrated, he turned away from the air force officer and studied the command display.

‘The loss of the LARVEs is unacceptable. You will give the details of the transport ship’s crew to Major Karroubi here. In the meantime, tell me about the British anti-aircraft threat.’

In the muffled silence of the bunker, the air force officer retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and quickly mopped his brow. Mousa turned, noting the beads of sweat glistening on the man’s cheeks, the neutral expressions of his comrades as they studied the command display with unnatural attentiveness. Mousa took no satisfaction in the man’s distress. More often than not, Mousa’s presence
had an adverse effect on the performance of his cadre and, right now, he needed these men onside. He decided to soften his tone as he watched the air force officer ball up his handkerchief and shove it into the pocket of his combat trousers.

‘General,’ the officer continued, ‘I have ordered the launch of another Big Eye. It is currently
maintaining
station well to the east of us. Bearing in mind what happened to the other aircraft, I thought it prudent to keep it out of harm’s way.’

‘A wise move. And what intelligence
is it giving us?’

‘We’re picking up dozens of air-search radars on various low and high-level frequencies. However, a pattern is beginning
to emerge. If I may, General?’

Mousa stepped back and allowed the older man access to the command display. The officer tapped the keyboard and the system began displaying
air assets that were already in flight, superimposing them over a map of southern England. To the right of the screen, Mousa noted the position of the Big Eye, its green aircraft-shaped icon moving in slow circles at an altitude of eight thousand metres. To the left of the screen was a multitude of yellow, cone-like radar washes that shimmered from dull to bright to dull again on the display. The officer pointed to them.

‘These are the electronic signatures of the enemy search radars, General Mousa. Their points of origin are changing constantly, but the computer has begun to predict the change. For example, this one,’ he
said, indicating
a glowing red icon.
‘This is an enemy SAM vehicle and its original position was plotted here. Soon it will shut down its radar and move position, normally just a few kilometres, and once there it will go active again. The same can be said of this unit here.’ Another icon close to the first was also highlighted
and magnified on the screen. ‘When this one moves, the other stays in position and overlaps its search area. Then the roles are reversed.
It’s a pattern, General; move, search, move, search. And their
final positions are always in the same place, give or take a few hundred metres. This pattern is being repeated with nearly all of the enemy anti-aircraft units we have plotted.’

The officer turned to Mousa, swallowed hard and said, ‘It is my belief that these units are working in small groups of two or three vehicles, attempting to trick us into thinking that they have a multi-layered air defence capability. I believe they have far fewer assets than we first thought.’

A courageous statement, Mousa allowed, and yet the man was right. He could see the pattern emerging, even as he watched the time-lapse display. But he needed the data firmed up before he committed his air assets to the west.

‘Excellent. You have done well, Colonel…?’

‘Ahmed,’ beamed the officer, stiffening to attention.

‘Inform me as
soon as
you have positive plots on all enemy positions, Colonel Ahmed. The remainder of our forces are ready?’

‘We have two squadrons of ground-attack
aircraft on the tarmac at Heathrow,’ Ahmed declared loudly, bolstered with
newfound
confidence. ‘Your
assault troops are already in the air as
per your earlier instructions. They will head toward the Mendip Hills as soon as the anti-aircraft threat has been neutralised.’ Mousa nodded his satisfaction then addressed the room, keen to extend
his uncharacteristic praise amongst the remainder of Ahmed’s colleagues. ‘Good work, all of you. Ensure everyone understands the importance of this mission and what their objectives are. The success of the operation is vital to our campaign.’ He strode away before stopping abruptly, Karroubi nearly cannoning into the back of him. ‘That convoy, heading south,’ Mousa reminded them. ‘Let me know when you locate it. And keep a close eye on our southern flank.’

He marched outside, choosing a particularly stout pine against which to relieve his bladder. The pieces were all in place, and his assault troops would secure the Mendip command centre when the path to the west was clear. There, Mousa would find the Infidel, cowering in his hole. Yes, he reassured himself, it was only a matter of time before he had Beecham in custody.

He zipped up his combat trousers and began to pace beneath the trees, his boots
stamping
an impatient path around the bunker.
Time, Mousa pondered. Neither he nor the Englishman had much to spare.