Invasion (42 page)

Mousa felt the rumbling beneath his feet, despite being told that the main cavern was deep below him under thick rock.

The attack on the Infidel command post was going well, and Mousa had landed in the Mendip Hills a mere five minutes
after the area had been secured by his airborne troops. He paced around the helicopter on the ridge above while, far below, two SERTRAK units were fighting their way through the tunnels and caverns of the underground
facility. There was also contact nearby, in the town of Wells, where British soldiers were engaging his forces in house-to-house
fighting. Mousa smiled in the darkness. Not only did he enjoy a fight, but the ferocity displayed by the defenders meant that his quarry was close. It was only a matter of time now.

A short distance away, Karroubi
conferred
with Mousa’s signaller. The
General strode over and joined them.

‘Well?’

‘The SERTRAK commander reports that the enemy forces have been neutralised, General. There are several prisoners, military and civilian.’

‘Lead the way!’

A short while later, Mousa found himself in the main cavern of Alternate One. The huge chamber was littered with debris and bodies, and the air was thick with the smell of spent cartridges. In the centre of the cavern a small group of prisoners squatted miserably on the floor, their uniforms bloodied and filthy, surrounded by a large number of SERTRAK personnel. Mousa searched the terrified
faces of the civilians amongst them, but Beecham wasn’t there. He noticed a British officer amongst the huddle and had him hauled to his feet. The officer was bleeding from a head wound, and held a field dressing against his temple to stem the flow of blood.

‘Name?’

‘Monroe. Major Monroe.’

‘Where
is the criminal Beecham?’

Monroe stood a little straighter. ‘Under the provisions of the Geneva
Convention
I am only-’

Mousa slapped the Major so hard the sound echoed around the rocky walls. Only the smirking Afghans holding him prevented Monroe
from falling to the ground.

‘Last chance,’ warned Mousa. ‘Where
is Beecham?’

Monroe spat blood onto the floor, the field dressing dangling from his head. He straightened up, and Mousa recognised the spark of defiance in his eye.

‘Under the provisions of the Geneva convention I am only-’

Mousa pulled his pistol, jammed it into Monroe’s chest and shot him. The sound was deafening in the cavern and Monroe flopped, wide-eyed, to the floor. Mousa
stepped over the still-breathing body and approached the prisoners. Before
he could say a word
one of the civilians, a bald man in his fifties, scrambled to his feet.

‘He’s gone to Scotland,’ he blurted. ‘Left by helicopter some time ago. That’s all any of us know.’

Mousa stared at the man for several seconds, trying to control the rage that was beginning to boil inside him. ‘Where?’ he said slowly. ‘Where in Scotland?’

‘No one knows,’ the man stammered. ‘The orders were clear. All troops and equipment are to head for the border.’

The pistol shook in Mousa’s hand. How he wanted to shoot the man in the face, unload the magazine into his fat head until it was empty. But that would be foolish. There was more to discover here, of that he was sure. He turned to the SERTRAK team leader. ‘Interrogate them all, one by one, until you discover where the Infidel has fled. Use any means necessary.’

Back on the ridgeline, Mousa paced around his helicopter in the darkness. A cool night breeze gusted across the ridge top, tempering his anger. He’d failed. There weren’t many times in his career when he would freely admit to it, but this was one of those times. Not only that, but he’d disobeyed the Holy One, his insubordinate actions not only costing lives but also the loss of some very expensive military hardware. Mousa had never seen the Holy One angry before, but he had a feeling that that might change in the near future.

On the plus side, his forces had discovered a previously unknown military complex that could give his intelligence people some high-grade material, and there was also a spectacular attack on an enemy ship on the coast, so the news wasn’t all bad. But would it be enough to save his skin?

‘Let’s get back to London,’ he informed the loitering Karroubi. Moments later, the air filled with the whine of powerful turbine engines. The General climbed aboard the helicopter and strapped in, Karroubi jumping in beside him. The pilot immediately pulled up on his collective and the helicopter rose into the air, the escorting gunships falling into position on either side. Mousa watched from the window as the helicopter banked over and headed east.

Scotland. That would be where the real battle would take place. The British forces would reorganise, strengthen their positions, but they would be squeezed tight, with nowhere to run but north, where the sea would trap them. They would fight like cornered rats.

As the helicopter skimmed west towards the capital, Mousa prayed he would survive the wrath of the Holy One, allowing him the opportunity to take part in the inevitable campaign to the north. For a moment he forgot his mounting
troubles. He smiled in the darkness, relishing the thought of the bitter fight to come.

Khan finished packing the last of his things into a small rucksack. It wasn’t much

– a few clothes, some food and water, a couple of items kindly donated by the villagers. He hefted the rucksack over his shoulder, snapped off the light to his room and went downstairs.

Outside, the night was clear and bright, made brighter by the earlier flashes in the western sky, a sign that the war machine had finally outpaced them. All they could do now was avoid the danger
as best they could. For Khan, he was sticking his head back into the lion’s mouth, but that was preferable to hiding here in the village, hoping and praying that the outside world would pass them by. It wouldn’t, of that he was certain.

He climbed inside the Range Rover, stowing his gear on the back seat and
programming the
Satnav
for the forthcoming journey. He heard a chorus of protest from the geese, then the crunch of gravel. He looked through the windshield to see the others approaching. He switched off the ignition and climbed out to greet them.

‘We’ve come to see you off,’ Kirsty told him.

‘Thanks. Nice job with the blackout curtains,’ he told Helen, pointing at the darkened farmhouse.

‘You think?’ She glanced over her shoulder. When
she spoke again her voice shook with emotion. ‘The kids think it’s all a game. I wonder how long we can keep that up?’

‘I want to thank you,’ Khan said quickly, stepping forward. He held out his hand, saw the tears on Helen’s face glinting in the moonlight as she took his. Her grip was warm and firm. Then she snatched it away, turned on her heel and headed back the farmhouse. Rob watched her go.

‘She’s not coping too well,’ he admitted. ‘She’ll come around, though. She’s tougher than she looks.’ He shook Khan’s hand warmly. ‘Thanks for everything. You can always come back here, if things don’t work out. Whatever happens, I wish you all the best.’

‘Thanks, Rob. You too.’

Kirsty stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Danesh. Without you, we’d still be stuck on that riverbank.’

‘Nonsense,’ protested Khan.

‘She’s right,’ Alex said, snaking an arm around Kirsty’s shoulders. ‘We owe you. Thanks, mate.’

‘Let’s just call it a team effort, eh?’ smiled Khan. Then the smile faded. ‘Just
remember, you’ll be discovered eventually. Plan for that, and when it comes, don’t resist. Okay?’

‘Oh, wait,’ Kirsty exclaimed. She produced a cell phone from her jeans pocket and gave it to Rob. ‘Take our picture, please Rob. You know, two or three, just to be sure.’

He did as he was told and Kirsty flicked through the results, smiling as she did so. Then Khan realised she was upset too. ‘For posterity,’ she explained, trying to fight the tears and failing. ‘When you get to America you can e-mail us and I’ll send you a copy.’

Then she turned and headed for the house. ‘Jesus Christ,
I’ll be next,’ Alex joked. He slapped Khan on the back and headed towards the Range Rover.

‘C’mon, I’ll ride with you to the
roadblock
.’

The short drive was made on sidelights. On arrival they were surprised to see that the earth-bank was almost complete. It was being hastily camouflaged by a couple of dozen people, the only sound the low murmur of their voices, the stamp of their feet and the slap of shovels on the hard-packed earth. Metcalfe loomed out of the darkness to greet them.

‘Well? What do you think?’

‘Very impressive,’ Khan said. They all clambered to the top of the barrier. Here they were a good eight feet above the road, the barrier merging subtly with the banks on either side.

Khan noticed that some enterprising soul had painted over the junction markings on the road. Once the vegetation took hold it would be hard to spot another road behind it. It wasn’t
fool proof
, but it would do for now.

They climbed back down and assembled around the driver’s door of the

Range Rover. Metcalfe handed Khan a slip of paper.

‘I sent some lads out to chop down as many
signs as they could, so these are your directions. If you don’t balls them up they’ll get you into Hampshire. You’ll have to use a couple of major roads, mind. No choice.’

Khan took the slip and studied it carefully. He leaned inside the cab and entered the details into the Range Rover’s on-board
Satnav
system. Satisfied that the route reflected the one given to him by Metcalfe, Khan tore up the paper, stamping the fragments into the ground.

‘Thanks for all your help, Andy.’

‘See you, mate.’ Metcalfe slapped him on the shoulder and walked away. Urgent whispers carried on the night breeze warned everyone to stop talking.

They stood motionless
as the sound of distant helicopters clattered around the northern horizon. After a minute or so, the sound faded and the work continued.

Khan watched Metcalfe a short distance away, his bulky shoulders silhouetted against the night sky, his gruff voice still issuing orders.

‘Just keep an eye on Andy,’ he said to Alex. ‘It’s probably
just a rush of blood to the head, but he seems to be enjoying the role of leader right now. Make sure you don’t get
side-lined
.’

‘
Okay
.’

They shook hands, then embraced; for a moment Khan hesitated. It would be so easy to stay, to get lost in the English countryside. Compared to stealing a boat and sailing solo across the Atlantic, remaining on the farm seemed like the sensible option. But he put a lot of faith in instinct, and this time his gut feeling told him that staying wasn’t a healthy option.

He started the Range Rover and turned into the adjacent field, while Alex walked ahead with a torch. When they reached the bridle path at the bottom of the woods, Khan swung the vehicle through a gap in the hedgerow and out onto the road. He powered down the passenger window.

‘Take care of yourself,’ he said.

‘You too,’ Alex replied, his face bathed in the red wash of the Range Rover’s brake lights. Khan hit the accelerator and drove slowly down the lane, away from South Lockeridge. He glanced at the rear-view mirror but Alex was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

The initial thirty miles were uneventful. Khan eased the powerful Range Rover slowly along the country roads, paying close attention to the computerised female voice of the
Satnav
system. He drove on sidelights in an attempt to draw as little attention as possible, but he didn’t expect that to last. Sooner or later he would be stopped and challenged.

He was kitted out in the clothes that Rob had given him and the identity card he carried declared him to be the same man that had worshipped at the mosque in Morden. The ID card was real, as was the National Insurance number displayed upon it. His Security Services warrant card had been carefully hidden under the thick carpet in the rear passenger compartment. The automatic rifle he’d left behind, exchanged for Alex’s ten-millimetre Glock, hidden in the air filter compartment under the hood.

It was past midnight by the time Khan turned on to the A338 and headed south towards Tidworth. He flicked on his headlights. The wide road was empty in both directions, which Khan didn’t really expect but welcomed
all the same. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in a sea of cars all trying to escape the chaos.

The miles slipped slowly by. The only other sign of life were the bugs that flickered in and out of his headlights and a lone fox caught in the middle of the road just north of Tidworth. To the
southeast
the sky glowed red around the horizon. There were large fires somewhere
out there. Khan knew that Tidworth military garrison was in the general area and he assumed the fires were the aftermath of a terrorist attack. He increased speed, eager to clear the area.

At the junction with the A303, Khan negotiated an empty roundabout, then headed south on a quiet back road that would take him as far as Romsey in Hampshire. From there it was roughly ten miles to Southampton, but he intended to skirt the city and loop around the eastern side towards the village of Hamble. It was there that he’d learned to sail and he knew the area was littered with marinas, sea schools and boat yards, all potential
sites for finding the—

He slammed his foot on the brake as the Range Rover slewed across the narrow country lane. The
nearside
wing clipped a hedgerow, forcing Khan to swing back the other way. His chest snapped against the seat belt and he rocked back in his seat as the Range Rover came to rest six feet from the steel track of an Arabian battle tank that squatted menacingly across the road.

Within seconds his door was wrenched open and Khan was dragged out of the vehicle. He stumbled and sat down heavily on his backside. Two soldiers pulled him roughly to his feet. The tank lit up a searchlight mounted on its turret, washing the scene in harsh white light. Khan looked up, shielding his eyes with a hand. The tank was parked broadside across the narrow lane, forming a giant
roadblock
. Its massive gun barrel was pointed out over an adjacent field, but a fifty-calibre heavy machine gun was aimed directly at the Range Rover.

There were three or four other soldiers on the tank and one of them jumped down to the ground. He strode slowly up to Khan, studying him as one would study an insect caught in a spider’s web. Khan saw the officer’s
shoulder boards
and lowered his eyes in submission, a gesture not without meaning in the Middle East.

‘Who are you? Where are you going?’ barked the man in
heavily accented
English. The other soldiers remained silent, watching
the exchange carefully. He felt the grip on his arms tighten. Khan had the impression that this was the first contact with a British person that this crew had experienced.

‘I have ID. In my pocket,’ Khan replied.

The officer nodded and the soldier to Khan’s
left quickly emptied his pockets, dumping the contents on the hood of the Range Rover. The officer held up each item carefully, examining them in the glare of the tank’s searchlight. He noticed the name on the ID card.

‘Fawad? You are Pakistani?’ he asked, switching to Urdu.

‘By blood. I am a British citizen,’ replied Khan in the same tongue.

‘You are Muslim, no?’

Khan nodded, holding his breath. The officer studied the fake ID card a moment longer, then began picking through the other items, finally unfolding a drug prescription. He peered inside Khan’s vehicle. Seeing a brown paper bag on the passenger seat, he retrieved it and spilled the contents on the hood. He picked up one of the pill bottles and read the label carefully.
‘What are you doing on this road?’

Khan pointed to the prescription, to the drugs supplied by the village pharmacist in a fictitious name.

‘For my nephew, to treat the child’s epilepsy. He’s only six years old.’

‘You’re a doctor?’

‘Medical student,’ Khan lied, ‘at the hospital in Swindon. I haven’t heard from my brother in Southampton. I’m worried about the boy.’

The officer eyed Khan for several moments, then waved his hand. The soldiers suddenly released him from their grip. He jerked a thumb at the Range Rover.

‘Expensive vehicle.’

‘A friend’s,’ Khan explained.

The officer turned back to the tank and made a signal. The turret searchlight was extinguished
and its powerful twin diesels roared into life in a cloud of exhaust smoke. The tank jerked into gear and surged forward into the adjacent field, clearing the road. Behind it were parked two Humvee jeeps.

‘Things are about to change here, my friend, but good Muslims have nothing to fear. ‘The officer reached into his pocket. ‘Take this.’

Khan took a laminated card from the officer’s outstretched hand. He studied it for a moment and then looked quizzically at the officer. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘A temporary movement
pass. You may travel freely for the next twenty-four hours. You must carry it with you at all times and present it when ordered. Your business
is urgent, I can see that. When you have tended to it, remain indoors and listen for information broadcasts on your radio. Do you understand?’

Khan turned the card over between his fingers. ‘Thank you. May Allah bless you for your kindness.’

‘On your way,’ the officer ordered.

Khan jumped into the Range Rover and started the engine, edging the vehicle past the Humvees. In his rear-view mirror he saw the tank reverse back across the road. Once again the
roadblock
was lost in the darkness. He powered down the window and let the cool
night
air wash
over
him.
Close one, he thought to himself. But the cover story held up and, as a benefit, he’d been issued some sort of movement order. He reprogrammed the
Satnav
to find a quicker route.

When he reached the M27 coastal motorway some time later, his movement order was checked again by another Arabian patrol. He was asked a couple of questions
and w
aved
down the ramp and onto the motorway. He was ordered to keep to the left-hand lane and out of the way of military traffic.