INVASION: UPRISING (Invasion Series Book 3)

by Dc Alden

  Frontier approaching.

  Helmets tilted towards the ceiling. A minute later, the yellow was replaced by a hellish red…

  Above them, the frontier itself.

  The train kept moving, banking left and right, the air rushing through the tunnel. The red lights stayed with them, a reminder they were now in a combat zone. The train slowed, the tunnel roof fell away, and Eddie found himself inside another vast terminal bathed in the glow of red overheads. More orange vests helped them out of the carriages, and Eddie stepped onto the platform, working the blood back into his legs. They formed back up into companies, and then they were moving again, towards a huge concrete wall 200 metres distant.

  At this end, the terminal roof was lower, and the concrete walls had a rough, unfinished look, Eddie noticed. Beneath his boots, mud squelched between the holes of the rubber matting. He passed medics gathered outside the inflatable tents of a mobile hospital unit, and orange vests swarming over mountains of supplies and equipment. He passed a long row of tracked M5 Ripsaws, Unmanned Fighting Vehicles armed with a mixture of 30-millimetre auto-cannons and Avenger hydraulic Gatling guns. He passed other specialist units too; drones and their operators, combat signals teams with their radio masts and satellite dishes, quartermasters loading dozens of six-wheeled Unmanned Ground Vehicles with ammunition and supplies.

  The tide of the Second Mass swept him along, then it slowed as the end of the tunnel loomed. The wall was made of the same rough concrete, the rectangular opening at least fifty metres wide and ten metres high. Beyond it, Eddie saw the glow of green chem lights and nothing else. Above the opening, a massive sign edged in black-and-yellow warning stripes read:

  YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A COMBAT ZONE!

  Eddie craned his neck and watched Alpha Company disappear inside. Bravo Company shuffled up towards the opening, and Charlie Company followed. A Logistics Corps sergeant walked past them, talking low, his Brummie accent strong.

  ‘Last chance, lads. You need anything, more ammo, grenades, first-aid gear, chem-sticks, batteries, speak now or forever hold your peace.’

  He kept moving. Mac turned to Three Section and said, ‘Radio and equipment check. Buddy up and get it done.’

  Steve grabbed Eddie and began a visual check of his gear and equipment. He spun him around, checked his assault pack, tac-vest, his exoskeleton mounts. He slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re good.’

  Eddie returned the favour and then there was nothing more to say, nothing to do but wait their turn. Eddie flexed his fingers to stop his hands from shaking. Some of it was fear, yes, but mostly it was adrenaline. Focus on the mission, he urged himself.

  Equipment-wise, he was in the best shape possible. His Advanced Combat Helmet was virtually indestructible, ballistic glasses shielded his eyes, and Kevlar plates protected his chest, back, and groin. He wore shoulder, elbow, knee, and shin pads, and he carried NVGs and a respirator. He wore combat gloves and waterproof boots, and his uniform was water-resistant and flame retardant. He was carrying 180-rounds of 5.56mm for his M27, plus flares and four frag grenades. He carried his SIG Sauer P226 pistol on his war belt, and the exoskeleton would make it all feel like nothing much at all. He wore his IR Velcro patches with his blood group and the coiled snake logo of the Second Mass, and he wore his Union Jack right there on his chest. He was good to go, as ready as he’d ever be.

  His chest rose and fell. He felt the adrenaline pumping, energising him, filling him with an unbridled urge to explode into action.

  ‘Charlie Company, move up!’

  The dark opening beckoned. Separated by two-minute intervals, the platoons disappeared inside. Finally, it was Nine Platoon’s turn. An orange vest staff-sergeant held them at the entrance.

  ‘Check your safeties, make sure they’re on. When I give the word, follow the green chem-lights. Green path only, understood?’ He checked his watch, then pointed into the opening. ‘Go.’

  Eddie followed Mac into the darkness. They were in single file now, and suddenly the tunnel walls were no longer smooth concrete but shored up with metal plates and huge timber braces. The ceiling was lower now, and the rubber flooring squelched beneath their feet as they snaked through the damp tunnel, following the trail of luminous green discs fixed along the rough walls. The air was stale and thick, and Eddie felt like he was in a mine shaft. Orange vests waited at intersections, guiding them onwards. Eddie slowed behind Mac as they entered a large, square concrete chamber. Tunnels headed off in several directions, round concrete tubes marked by yellow, green, red, blue, and purple chem lights. Rainwater fell from a rusted grate in the ceiling and ran beneath their feet. The warning signs here were smaller but no less urgent:

  NO TALKING! NO RUNNING! SAFETIES ON!

  Waiting soldiers checked their unit designations, then directed them onwards. The tunnel twisted to the left, and Eddie saw a red torchlight waving ahead. A wide ladder descended from the darkness above and Eddie followed Mac as he pulled himself up it. At the top, waiting soldiers manhandled them to one side. Eddie found himself in a sizeable basement room, with pipes running across the ceiling. The hole he’d just climbed out of was a jagged gash in the concrete floor, and he watched the rest of the section clambering out of the storm drains below.

  ‘Keep moving.’

  Eddie followed Mac out into the corridor and up a narrow flight of stairs. Then they were crossing a large, high-ceilinged corporate office space that looked like it had been mothballed since the invasion. The windows were boarded up, and the furniture piled against one wall was covered with dust sheets. Stacked in the centre of the room were hundreds of boxes of ammunition and crates of supplies. The OC held them until Nine Platoon had assembled, and then he sent them down another corridor towards a large, heavy door. They lined up along the wall and took a knee.

  ‘This is it,’ Steve whispered. ‘We stick together, okay?’

  ‘Zip it,’ Mac said over his shoulder.

  Eddie looked behind him, saw Digger wink beneath his helmet. He turned back, held his M27 a little tighter.

  The dark knot of soldiers gathered at the door were watching a small TV feed. After a few seconds, one of them broke away and waved Mac forward. Eddie was on his feet and moving right behind him.

  The door to the outside world was thrown open, and a cold, damp wind barrelled along the corridor. Eddie glimpsed a narrow alleyway, the rain falling between the dark, damp buildings. Mac ducked left into the rain. Eddie gave him a count of three and then he was moving too.

  The alleyway was long and dark, but there was enough ambient light from the street ahead to operate safely. He hurried to the end where Mac knelt in the shadows. Eddie saw shops across the street, the light poles shining brightly, the rain gusting through them, falling on a row of parked cars. Normality was his first impression of the scene. That was about to change.

  He heard more boots behind him, then Digger’s hand slapped his shoulder. Three Section were ready and waiting.

  Mac turned around, the rain dripping off his helmet, his painted face grinning.

  ‘Time to go to work,’ he whispered, and then he was up and running.

  Eddie followed, his heart beating fast, his eyes watching the road, the pavements, the windows above, praying that the thousands of British troops now moving quietly into position across the deserted streets of Newcastle city centre would pass unnoticed.

  20

  Knock on Wood

  Her private study was one of Edith’s favourite rooms in the Hampstead house. She loved her floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the brass lamps that threw warm pools of light across her antique desk and across the vivid watercolours that lined the wood-panelled walls, and she loved the tall windows, framed by heavy, wine-coloured drapes that overlooked the distant city. It was a quiet space, intimate, a room where one could reflect, a room where she’d made many important decisions throughout her career. And today was no exception.

  Edith had thought long and hard about her ne
xt move. She’d balanced the potential loss of a valuable asset against the vicious stab of betrayal and concluded that the sensible option would be to maintain the status quo, to keep the good ship Spencer on an even keel. But the waters ahead were troubled, and one had to navigate a careful course if she was to make port safely. It was why she’d asked Victor to join her, because, for one of the few occasions in her life, she’d sought counsel from a friend. And besides, Victor was a co-conspirator and just as keen to draw a line under the whole sordid affair.

  ‘He’ll be here in a moment,’ she told him.

  Across the desk, Victor occupied a chair positioned at a slight angle to the empty one directly facing her own.

  ‘I think you’re making the right decision,’ he told her. ‘Best to tie up loose ends. Especially now, considering the caliphate’s recent troubles.’

  ‘You seem remarkably unconcerned, Victor.’

  The white-haired judge advocate smiled. ‘France beckons, my dear.’

  ‘You’re retiring?’

  ‘Margaret and I have spoken at length. We feel it’s time.’

  Edith sat back, winded. Victor had always been a powerful ally, and like her, had embraced the Great Liberation while making the most of the opportunities that had presented themselves. A survivor, also like her.

  ‘Provence has never looked lovelier. Come and join us, Edith. I can talk to the local agent immobilier if you’d like.’

  ‘France,’ Edith echoed, her mind conjuring up visions of lavender fields, of rolling hills and endless summers. Perhaps Victor was right, perhaps the time was approaching. And she’d be safe there. The caliphate has always considered France to be a colony of itself. Wazir would never consider pulling out of that country. ‘It’s tempting,’ she had to agree, ‘but there’s work to be done here first.’

  ‘Yes, those loose ends.’ He turned towards the respectful tap on the door. ‘Ah, perfect timing.’

  Edith adjusted the brooch on the lapel of her black suit, a small crystal spider, and sat a little straighter in her leather chair. ‘Come.’

  Bertie entered the room and paused by the door. ‘You rang, Lady Edith?’

  She gestured towards the empty seat next to Victor. ‘Sit, please Bertie.’ She kept her voice even, her face neutral. She saw Bertie hesitate for just a moment, then he crossed the room and sat down. Victor smiled and nodded.

  ‘How are you, Bertie?’

  ‘I’m fine, Judge Hardy.’

  Edith folded her arms on her desk and studied her manservant before she spoke. ‘Do you like living here, Bertie?’

  ‘Of course, Lady Edith. It’s an honour.’

  ‘I’ve been good to you, no? Provided food and lodging, a decent wage. You’ve enjoyed the privileges and freedoms that have come with your employment, yes?’ Bertie nodded, and Edith’s eyes narrowed. ‘So why do you continue to deceive me?’

  ‘I don’t know what—’

  ‘Liar!’ she screeched, and Bertie flinched as if someone had slapped him. ‘You told me Timmy had passed away peacefully at home, but that’s not the truth, is it?’

  Victor wore a wicked smile on his face. ‘Think carefully before you answer, Mister Payne. The next words out of your mouth might well decide your fate.’

  She watched Bertie deflate. He hung his head and twisted his hands. Edith slapped her desk. ’Speak!’

  Her manservant flinched again, then the words tumbled from his mouth. ‘I’d only been in the flat two minutes when Al-Kaabi showed up. I tried to make my excuses and leave but Al-Kaabi pulled a gun. He forced me to tell him everything. Mr Gates was very upset.’

  Edith felt a flush of shame. Timmy had gone to his grave knowing that she’d betrayed him. ‘How did you end up in Buckinghamshire?’

  ‘Al-Kaabi made me drive him there. He said he had friends up that way. When we got there, he forced me out of the car. I thought he was going to kill me, so I lunged at him. We struggled…’

  He looked at Edith with pleading eyes, and he reminded her of the criminals who’d stood in her dock and expressed that same emotion. Desperation.

  ‘So, you killed them both.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice, ma’am. It was them or me.’

  ‘An unnerving ordeal, I’m sure. Who else knows of these adventures? Chef, perhaps?’

  Bertie shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, I’ve told no one. I swear.’

  She caught Victor’s eye across the table and saw the man was quietly fuming.

  ‘And what you’ve told me is the absolute truth, Bertie? You’ve left nothing out?’

  ‘No ma’am. That’s how it happened. There was no one else involved.’

  ‘I see.’ Edith took a breath and sighed. ‘Well, in that case, there’s no harm done. You can go, Bertie.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. Sir,’ he said, half bowing to both of them before scuttling from the room. Edith let him get to the door before she called him.

  ‘Make yourself available for the next few days, would you, Bertie? No trips into town, no leaving the house in fact.’

  She saw his face cloud. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Others may wish to talk to you. The authorities. Do you understand?’

  He stared at her for a moment, the blood draining from his face. ‘Yes, Lady Edith. I understand.’

  ‘Good. Tell Chef there’ll be two for dinner this evening, 8 pm sharp.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Bertie closed the door, and Edith leaned back in her chair. ‘Well, what d’you think?’

  ‘Guilty,’ Victor decided, snipping the end off a large cigar.

  ‘As sin,’ Edith agreed. ‘Come, let’s adjourn to the reception room. I think a large whiskey is in order.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Victor smiled, getting to his feet. ‘A shame, though. Good help is often hard to come by.’

  ‘Chef has recommended a replacement, a chap called Tucker. The driver-bodyguard type.’

  ‘Sounds like a solid chap.’

  ‘But you’re right, Victor, loyalty is a precious commodity, and I’m afraid Bertie has shown very little, despite everything I’ve done for him.’

  Victor held the door open. ‘Ungrateful bugger.’

  Edith smiled. ‘Indeed. And he shall rue the day he betrayed me.’

  Bertie closed his door and leaned against it. His heart hammered in his chest, and a ring of sweat stained the collar of his white shirt. She knows, he realised. Her anger had been visible, her parting words as cold as ice. Bertie was done, finished, just like Gates. It was just a matter of time before they came for him.

  But not tonight. He still had time. He had something else, too.

  A plan.

  Hope for the best and plan for the worst, that’s what his mum had often told him. Bertie had remembered that advice shortly after he’d moved into The Witch’s Hampstead residence, when he’d discovered how cruel she’d become. The invasion had brought out the worst in some people, and The Witch was no exception, embracing the opportunity for unbridled barbarity. The power of life and death had gone to the vicious old hag’s head. She was enjoying herself, Bertie had realised a long time ago. He’d also realised that eventually, it would all come on top.

  He crossed the room and removed a large sandwich of clothes from the cupboard. These were the clothes he never wore, the stack of underwear, vests, t-shirts, hiking trousers, and fleeces that were clean and sealed in a clear plastic bag. He yanked a black rucksack from beneath the bed and packed the clothes inside, adding two towels and a bag of toiletries. The pockets of the rucksack were already stuffed with camping essentials, and Bertie zipped it all up and stashed it back inside the wardrobe.

  Having a plan and taking physical action helped to calm his jangling nerves. The sound of clattering pans echoed along the corridor outside. Bertie checked his watch; Chef was starting preparations for dinner, which Bertie would serve at eight, as ordered. Afterwards, he’d wait for the vile old bitch to retire for the evening, and when the house was quiet, he would f
ill a bag full of food and drink, take it to the garage, and put it in the Toyota, along with his tent and sleeping bag.

  Then he would return to the house one last time. He would don an apron and a pair of rubber gloves and tread quietly up to The Witch’s chamber. Once inside, and with Chef’s favourite boning knife in his gloved hand, he would slice Edith Spencer’s shrivelled neck wide open.

  Afterwards, he would drive to Hertfordshire, where Bertie used to do a fair bit of fishing back in the day. He knew of two quiet spots, where the water was dark and deep, and that’s where the Toyota would go. Then he would make his way north on foot, up through Cambridgeshire, camping as he went, lying low, sticking to the woods and fields. And when he crossed the border into Lincolnshire, when he finally made it to his uncle’s farm – and if the old bugger was still alive – he would get his head down and wait. He would work the land, tend the animals, mend the fences, anything – until the sound of guns rumbled on the horizon and the Alliance forces finally liberated them. Then, and only then, would Bertie be free.

  That was the plan, all mapped out in his head a long time ago, a plan he never thought he’d have to put into play, and yet here he was, his bags packed, and living on borrowed time. The police would come for him, tomorrow probably. In Bertie’s experience, The Witch rarely put things off, so tonight would be a farewell dinner of sorts. Tomorrow was another story. Tomorrow, the vicious old cunt would be all business. Except she wouldn’t be, because she’d be lying dead in a pool of her own blood.

  And for the first time that afternoon, Bertie smiled.

  21

  Uprising

  The elevator doors rumbled open and Roz stepped out into the lobby, her head twisting left and right, her pistol raised, her ice-blue eyes behind the slit of her ski mask bright and alert.