Invasion (51 page)

The village of South Lockeridge had escaped detection for just over four months when the first Arabian troops appeared at the northern and southern barricades. Behind the bulldozers, armoured vehicles and trucks full of soldiers waited to advance towards the village. The deception was over, but for Alex and the others it wasn’t unexpected. A week before, Arabian helicopter gunships had flown over the village several times, proof that they’d finally been discovered.

A village meeting was quickly convened and their original strategy reiterated.

No
resistance. A delegation
was formed to greet the Arabian
troops on the village green. Alex stayed out of it, while Andy Metcalfe decided he would act as spokesman,
the remainder of the delegation consisting of his small clique and some of the older folk. Metcalfe reckoned any Arabian anger would be diffused by the sight of the old ’uns as he cajoled and bullied the pensioners to stand around the war memorial. As Alex waited with the other villagers across the green, he noticed Metcalfe and his boys burying themselves in the middle of the seniors.

He was reminded of the other gathering he attended a few weeks ago.

Wearing a borrowed suit, Alex had waited nervously at the altar of the village church as
Kirsty glided slowly up the aisle towards him, radiant in Helen’s flowing white wedding dress. The celebrations had lasted well into the night and Kirsty drove back to the farm with an extremely drunk, but very proud, new husband slurring his love for her.

Alex hadn’t intended to drink quite so much, but Kirsty’s refusal to touch alcohol at the reception and the village doctor’s visit the week before confirmed what Alex had begun to suspect. Their emotions had ranged from fear to joy and everything in between. What kind of world would their child grow up in? Was there a future for any of them? They’d decided that they would be positive about the baby and what life would bring. They would face it together,
as a family.

Still, the apprehension was almost palpable as the noise of the Arabian armour

rumbled along the lanes towards them. A couple of villagers bolted away but most held their ground, the men and women watching nervously, the younger children giggling with excitement. The lead Arabian vehicle roared into view, its wicked-looking machinegun sweeping
left and right. Several troop trucks followed, rolling around the village green and disgorging troops.

Initially there was a lot of shouting and Alex saw Metcalfe almost pleading
with a couple
of Arabian officers before being led away, but surprisingly the new arrivals didn’t seem overly concerned with the attempts to conceal the village. Similar tactics had been used in other parts of the country,
as they’d explained over loud hailers, but registration was necessary and there would be no exceptions.

The villagers gathered together for processing in the village hall, men, women and children, forming long queues that snaked towards the hastily arranged trestle tables beneath the stage, where the Arabian clerks waited behind a bank of computer screens. Alex and Kirsty queued patiently, chatting quietly with the other villagers and shuffling forward every few minutes. Alex was surprised by the mood in the hall. It wasn’t jovial, of course, but neither was it apprehensive. In fact, he sensed an undercurrent of relief in the room, a resigned acceptance of the circumstances and the probability that the Arabians would fill in their forms and leave, allowing life to return to some sort of normality. At least they wouldn’t have to hide any longer, thought Alex. With the onset of winter, trying to conceal the lights at night had been tough enough.

‘Next!’

Alex put a gentle hand in Kirsty’s back and guided her towards the stern-faced Arabian behind the trestle table.

‘Your name?’

‘Kirsty Taylor. Recently married,’ she smiled, glancing at Alex. He could see the relief in her eyes too, the hope that things might return to normal, that their son or daughter might be born in a clean, efficient hospital rather than a cramped farmhouse bedroom with only a midwife to oversee the daunting ordeal of childbirth. Kirsty handed over her driving licence to the Arabian clerk. Fingers hammered the computer keyboard.

‘Address?’

Kirsty gave the farmhouse address. Then followed the standard questions: age, date and place of birth, children’s ages. Kirsty beamed at the last one. She blinked as the camera flashed, then held out her hand for the shiny ID card spat from a small printer. Alex smiled at her, then stepped up to the silver duct tape line stuck to the wooden floor.

‘Name?’

‘Taylor. Alex Taylor.’ He produced a visa credit card.

The Arabian studied it, turning it over in his fingers. ‘This is all you have?’ Alex shrugged. The man was a typical-looking bureaucrat: skinny, round
glasses, soft hands, receding hairline. And full of his own self-importance. The clerk continued with his questions and Kirsty, standing directly behind Alex, squeezed his hand when he enquired about children. Alex squeezed back.

‘Occupation?’

Alex frowned. The litany had been the same as they neared the line of tables, the questions never deviating from a seemingly prepared script. Until now.
‘Excuse me?’

The Arabian’s eyes remained fixed on his keyboard, his fingers poised above the keys. ‘Occupation?’ he repeated, an edge to his voice.

The murmur in the hall faded to silence. Heads swivelled towards Alex, glowering guards that lined the walls clutching automatic weapons.

‘I… I don’t understand,’ he stammered. He looked around the hall. Other faces caught his eye, villagers who’d laughed and sang and slapped him on the back only a few weeks before. Now they were strangers, their eyes turned away. At the far end of the room, Andy Metcalf was locked in deep conversation with a gaggle of Arabian officers.

‘Occupation?’ the voice barked.

‘Alex!’ Kirsty hissed.

Alex saw Metcalf watching him, saw the officers watching him too. ‘Farmer,’
he said loudly.

‘Liar!’ The Arabian pushed his chair back. There was shouting behind him, the sound of boots and curses. Suddenly Alex’s hand was snatched from Kirsty’s, his arms wrenched up behind his back.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he cried. The Arabian guards held him tight and dragged him towards the table. Kirsty was pushed back into the crowd of suddenly frightened villagers, now hemmed in by armed guards. The mood in the hall crackled with tension, the guards’ hands tightening around their weapons. The Arabian behind the desk pulled his arm back and slapped Alex hard across the face.

‘Liar!’ he repeated. ‘You
are a police officer. You have weapons, equipment. Speak!’ He slapped his face again, the sound echoing around the hall. Alex staggered under the blow, blood pouring from a cut lip. He struggled but his arms were bent behind him, secured by the guards’ strong hands. ‘I’m a farmer,’ he protested.

The Arabian shook his head, worryingly calm again. ‘It is unwise to lie. We have been informed of your true profession.’ He looked past Alex, to the villagers now pressed up against the back of the hall. ‘To lie is a crime,’ he bellowed. ‘Your help in rooting out such crimes and bringing them to the attention of the authorities will be rewarded. You have nothing to fear from us.’ He sat down again, using a handkerchief to wipe his knuckles. He pulled his chair in, flexed his fingers.

‘Take him away,’ he said, without looking up.

‘What? No!’ Alex dug his heels in as the guards swivelled around and frog-marched him across the hall. Kirsty screamed. She tried to rush the cordon but was held back.

‘Him and his mate had guns,’ he heard Metcalfe announce in his gruff voice.
‘Up at the B&B.’

The doors
were wrenched open and Alex blinked in the bright winter sunlight, feet dragging behind him. Nearby was an open
flatbed
truck, the driver casually smoking a cigarette in the cab, the tailgate hanging down. Beyond that, a small group of villagers had gathered on the green. They watched Alex with guilty eyes as he was dragged towards the truck and bundled aboard. It was clear to him now that a deal had been done, that Metcalfe had sacrificed Alex so any collective punishment
would be spared. He could see it in their faces, the
shame, the relief, as his hands were flexi-cuffed behind him and he was forced to sit down on the hard wooden bench.

Fear gripped him then, his mouth suddenly dry, his heart pounding in his chest. Then he noticed the two other men on board, cuffed in a similar fashion, their faces bruised and bleeding, shivering in the November chill. Alex recognised them, the brothers who’d escaped from Swindon and sought refuge with a relative here in the village. Now they were all just Metcalfe’s bargaining chips. The guards jumped down from the truck as Kirsty
burst from the hall, running across the grass
towards him. They closed ranks and she struggled against their arms.

‘Alex!’ she cried, tears streaking
her face. ‘Alex!’

‘Find out where they’re taking me!’ Alex shouted. ‘Then get back to the farm, tell Rob. Tell him Metcalfe’s sold us out. He’ll know what to do.’

Suddenly the truck’s engine rumbled into life. Commands were shouted, whistles blown, the tailgate raised and slammed home with a loud clang. The soldiers dispersed, some climbing onto another truck as it hissed to a stop outside the hall. Kirsty broke free and ran to the tailgate. Alex shuffled along the bench and leaned over. She reached up and held his face in her hands.

‘Alex, please,’ she whimpered.

He looked down at his wife and smiled, the fear suddenly gone. ‘Listen love, you’ve got to be brave. Take a deep breath then go and speak to one of the officers, find out where they’re taking us. It’ll probably be Swindon or Reading, one of the big towns. We’ll just be interviewed, that’s all. Trust me.’

The truck revved several times then crunched into gear. A soldier stepped forward and pulled Kirsty back.

‘Don’t leave me,’ she sobbed.

‘Just tell Rob!’ he yelled above the revving engine. ‘I’ll be back later, I promise!’ His voice was
lost as
the truck lurched forward. Kirsty ran after them, quickly falling behind as the vehicle accelerated around the village green. Then she stopped, sinking to her knees on the road, her hands clasped to her face. For the briefest of moments the roar of the truck faded to nothing. Their eyes locked and all they saw was each other, the fear, the love, the reality of what was
happening to them. And in that instant they both knew.

‘I love you,’ he mouthed
,
then the truck rounded a corner and Kirsty was gone.

With the evacuation almost complete, many urban areas across Scotland
were transformed into desolate, windswept ghost towns. Normally hectic city centres were devoid of life. No
pedestrians
bustled along the pavements, no music drifted from pub doorways, no conversation hummed from restaurants
and
coffee shops
; every business was boarded up and shuttered. Darkened buildings stood sentinel along lifeless streets, where traffic signals blinked robotically at empty road junctions.

In the surrounding suburbs things were much the same. Along endless rows of terraced housing, abandoned and ransacked homes lay open to the elements, the winter winds whipping curtains in and out of open windows. Litter scraped and tumbled along deserted streets, and here and there an unsecured door or window banged loudly in the icy gusts.

A lone fox, emboldened by the scarceness of human activity, sniffed the air warily outside an open front door, then disappeared inside, re-emerging several minutes later with the remnants of a garbage bag hanging from its jaws. There was no-one there to chase him away, no shouts of alarm or objects hurled in its direction. Everywhere had been abandoned. The fox rummaged amongst the garbage for a few moments, then loped off.

Halfway along the street, light flickered in the window of another empty house and the sound of music carried on the wind. This home had been vacated recently, and in a hurry. There had been no time to secure the windows or lock the front door, or even to turn off the television that hung on the living room wall.

Suddenly the music stopped and the screen went dark. A banner appeared. Important Announcement – Please Wait. The words remained frozen on the screen for several seconds, then a sudden flash of coloured
bars and the picture changed. Harry Beecham, wearing an open-necked shirt and pullover, sat in a wing-backed chair, a backdrop of grey stone behind his head. He looked off-camera briefly, nodded, then stared directly into the lens. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke his tone was measured, his gaze strong and resolute.

‘Citizens of Britain. This may be the last time that I address you as your Prime Minister here within these islands. There was much I had planned for our nation, so many shared goals that I believed could be accomplished, but it was not to be. My hopes and dreams, along with everybody
else’s, were shattered on the eleventh of June. Since then, our country has suffered great loss and hardship, a state of affairs we could barely have imagined six months ago. Yet, when all hope seemed lost, salvation came to us from across the ocean, offering
many of us the chance of a new life, a safe life, on the other side of the Atlantic. Many of us have taken that opportunity and we have become pilgrims once more, seeking a fresh start in the New World. It will be tough and it will be challenging, but we have the advantage of being British. There isn’t another nation on this planet that possesses such an indomitable
spirit as us. History
has proved that, and in the coming years we will rely heavily on that spirit to see us through the hard times.’

On the screen, Harry paused and looked down. He seemed to struggle momentarily with some inner emotion, and then continued. ‘Even as I speak, there are many of you that have chosen to stay. Your reasons are numerous, not least for some a simple love of their country and the will to defend it against the advancing enemy. All along the border tonight our troops are dug in, ready to defend this land against the invaders. Like you, I am deeply humbled by their courage. And the civilians amongst you, you too have shown bravery not seen since the last century, when this nation of ours was threatened by another enemy, in another time and place. We could not be cowed then and nor will we-’

The picture flickered several times, Harry’s image scrolling across the screen before settling once more. ‘The opportunity to evacuate has now passed,’ he said gravely. ‘Even as I speak, the last transport plane has left Scottish airspace and is headed
for safety. All that remains now is to wait. As of midnight tonight, electrical power, gas and water supplies will be shut off for the duration of the coming conflict. I hope you’ve all taken the necessary precautions and gathered the requisite supplies. Head north if you can.’

Harry paused for a moment. When he began again his voice was heavy, his brow deeply furrowed. ‘Darkness will descend upon us tonight and it is uncertain when light will shine again
over
our green and pleasant land. I ask all of you to offer up your prayers for each other, for our troops on the front line and for those who have crossed the ocean to begin a new life. It is our friends and families that honour us most. Let us pray that we will always remember them and that they will never forget us. Good night and God be with us all.’

General Mousa scooped up the remote control and turned the TV set off. His face wore a smile of grim satisfaction. ‘I told you that bastard was still here. A nice speech though, for what little good it will do them. Everything
is ready?’

Colonel Karroubi, wearing body armour and full battledress, nodded curtly.
‘Everything, General.’

‘The LDDs?’

‘Fuelled, armed, and with their infantry complements ready to board.’

‘Excellent.’ Mousa glanced at his watch. Eleven hundred hours
;
seven hours to go. He stepped outside the armoured personnel carrier, closely followed by Karroubi. The command vehicle was dug into a wooded hillside near the village of Nether Denton, twenty-two kilometres south of the Scottish border. Nearby, his communications vehicles were similarly
dug in and camouflaged, and a company of infantry patrolled the woods around them.

Mousa walked a few metres away and looked down the hill towards the east, where the rolling landscape was blanketed in darkness. Out there, three hundred thousand Arabian troops waited, ready to advance north. This was it, the final stage of the European campaign, and Mousa offered up a silent prayer of gratitude. It was monumental what had been achieved and the General had been here to see it all. He turned to Karroubi.

‘Wake me at one. The attack will commence at four as planned.’

‘Yes, General
Mousa.’

For the British troops on the border, the night was a restless one. They knew that the Arabian assault was imminent. Reports were coming in of
fire fights
breaking out all along the border as Arabian Special Forces tried to penetrate the trench system. So far, they’d been unsuccessful.

The attack had to come by land and both the Arabians and the British knew it. With each flight into the country, the Americans had delivered dozens of Portable Anti-aircraft Defence Systems, a lightweight unit the size of a telephone booth that held a magazine of four surface-to-air missiles controlled
by a simple yet powerful fire-and-forget
air-search radar system. The PADS were deployed at regular intervals along the border and their radar envelopes washed the sky to the south. In addition to the PADS, the overhead shield was augmented
by standard ground-to-air defence systems, creating a formidable anti-air screen over southern Scotland. Until these systems were disabled, the Arabians would have to fight their way across the border without air support.

On the high ground of Northumberland’s
Cheviot Hills, British soldiers peered out over trench tops and squinted through their camouflaged gun slits into the darkness before them. According to intelligence reports, this was where the main axis of the Arabian attack would strike. Every few minutes a flare would pop high over the sloping ground below, bathing the
shallow valleys below in ghostly white light. A rolling sea of razor wire shimmered under the harsh glow of the flares until the light faded, once again plunging the landscape into blackness.

In the sky above, Arabian
UAV surveillance craft buzzed low across the British defences, mapping targets. It would start soon, of that there was no doubt. Every
soldier on the border that night could feel the tension rising as the minutes ticked by. At midnight, two-thirds of the troops were ordered into hardened shelters that would shield them from the worst of the artillery barrage that was sure to signal the start of the Arabian offensive. Those that remained on the line were mainly Royal Engineers and they had work to do.

Behind the front line, in towns, villages and forests along the border, every tank and armoured fighting vehicle the British could muster waited nervously in their pre-battle positions, engines shut down and heavily camouflaged. Ten miles behind the armour, artillery units were redeployed in a deadly game of hide-and-seek, constantly changing their firing positions in an attempt to fool the Arabian rocket batteries that were no doubt attempting to target them.

Further north, the remnants of the Royal Air Force were ready for the coming attack. Scattered across several military and civilian airfields, scores of planes lined up along runways ready for the signal to commence operations, their wing mounts and gun pods filled with imported US munitions. Already in the air, Combat Air Patrols flew racetrack patterns, topping off their fuel tanks from several USAF KC-135 tankers that flew in support. In all, the British had managed to assemble a total of eighty-seven aircraft, forty-eight
of which were fighter-bombers. The remaining
aircraft were a mixture of air-to-air fighters
and electronic warfare platforms, and all waited nervously for the order to fly south into battle.

Inside British military headquarters, now relocated from Edinburgh to an underground command post just outside Fort William in the Highlands, General Bashford and his remaining
staff watched and waited for the impending attack. Every man and woman in the command post, and those along the border, had volunteered to stay and fight. Their numbers were woefully inadequate, but they had a few tricks up their sleeve that they hoped would give the Arabians pause for thought.

The plan was to save
as many lives as possible. The war was already
lost, and the forces that were about to be hurled at them would guarantee that the forthcoming battle would be lost too. Their only hope was to ensure that as many people survived the coming
conflict as possible. The plans were in place and, in the command post, operations
staff talked in hushed tones as they pored over maps and computer consoles. Everyone watched the clock as the minutes ticked slowly by. It wouldn’t be long now. The attack would come before first light.

In the darkness, Harry Beecham trudged across the courtyard of McIntyre Castle, an overnight bag in his hand. There was no moon, only the reflected light of a recent dusting of snow, and a cold wind sighed through the surrounding forest.
He stopped short of the small party that waited for him, veering off towards a single figure dressed in full combat gear who stood quietly to one side. Harry set his bag down and thrust his hands inside his coat pockets, the man before him barely recognisable, his body festooned with equipment and weaponry, his face streaked with dark camouflage cream.

‘Where’s Farrell?’

Gibson jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Already on the transport, Boss. He doesn’t like goodbyes.’

‘I see. Well, this is it then,’ Harry sighed. He studied his shoes for several moments, unsure of his words. ‘You know Mike, for the first time in my career I’m actually speechless. Saying thanks just doesn’t seem enough. I owe you my life, everything.’

Gibson shrugged and smiled. ‘Don’t mention it.’

They shook hands, Harry closing both of his over Gibson’s. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way,’ he said. ‘I could order you to accompany me north, get you both out of this God-awful mess.’

Gibson shook his head in the darkness, his breath fogging on the cold air.
‘Tempting, but we’d have to decline. The
lads would never forgive us.’

Harry nodded. It was worth a try, but he knew that every man was needed on the border, particularly the men of the Special Forces. To be allowed to sit it out, to avoid the fight while others faced the full brunt of the enemy attack, was anathema to men like Mike Gibson. Harry understood.

‘Then take good care of yourselves,’ he urged, ‘and try not to do anything too brave or too stupid. You know the radio frequencies, yes?’ Gibson nodded.
‘We’ll be monitoring those frequencies from Iceland. If you can, make contact. Transport arrangements will follow. Get as many
out as you can, Mike.’

‘I’ll do my best, Boss.’

‘I know,’ Harry smiled. ‘Good luck, then. And God speed.’ He
patted
Gibson’s arm, then quickly turned away. Ahead of him shadowy figures waited patiently, feet stamping on the snowy ground. On the far lawn the Dark Eagle idled, its ultra-quiet rotors spinning
noiselessly as it prepared for imminent departure.

The group closed in around Harry as he approached. Two of them were soldiers, a
newly appointed
close-protection team to take the place of Gibson and Farrell. The other two were Deputy Prime Minister Noonan and a military liaison officer whom Harry had only just met. Bill Kerr stood to one side as the liaison officer reached for Harry’s holdall.