by Dc Alden
Primary weapons were their Avenger 30-millimetre auto-cannons, a nose-mounted gun that fired 4,000 armour-piercing rounds a second. They also carried four GBU-42 precision-guided bombs, each with a 250-pound warhead. The Hog moved fast and low and carried a lethal punch. The flight of deadly aircraft from the 76th Fighter Squadron out of Moody AFB in Georgia were on their way to deliver that punch.
They thundered low across the frontier, banking toward the bright pulses of light that flared and faded in the skies south of Newcastle, where British troops desperately needed some serious close air support.
Zaki watched a man in blue overalls mopping the floor of the operations room, saw him sweeping the head back and forth beneath the console where most of the blood had spilt. There was also a reddish-brown streak that meandered all the way to the door and was being studiously ignored by others as they crisscrossed the room. He recalled the operator’s face, the slight turn of her head, the spark of alarm in her eyes as he’d aimed his pistol at the back of her head. Then the deafening bang, the cries of shock that were quickly stifled, then the stunned silence, broken only by the faint buzz of radio traffic.
Oh, how he’d enjoyed that moment. Not the shooting itself, although that came with its own distinct pleasure. No, it was the fear in the eyes of those around him, even in Mousa’s face. He knew the general didn’t respect him as a soldier, or as a leader, especially after the debacle in Ireland, although that wasn’t his fault. His officers had proven themselves to be incompetent cowards, but the stench of that failure still lingered. He could see it on the faces of his Ops Team, their noses wrinkling whenever he was with them as if he’d walked a dog turd into their presence. The same officers whom Mousa had urged him to consult. Zaki’s instinct was to bait them with veiled threats, but the voice told him to listen instead, to encourage them, and feed them enough rope to hang themselves if the failures of Ireland were repeated. That was the kind of practical advice that Zaki took heed of.
‘General Zaki?’
He blinked and refocussed. The room buzzed with feverish activity, and the man with the mop and bucket was now erasing the bloody path to the ops room door. An air force major stood a respectful distance away, his face a study of trepidation.
‘What?’
‘Sir, Alliance forces have established a significant beachhead on the Cumbrian coast, and enemy aircraft are running sorties into caliphate territory. There are reports of engagements all along the frontier.’ He paused, then said, ‘Sir, we need orders.’
Zaki tutted and got out of his chair, snapping his combat jacket tight and sweeping his shoulders back. He waved his hand. ‘Lead the way.’
He followed the major to the tactical display table. The Ops Team were grouped around it, pointing and debating, all of them senior officers from the caliphate’s land, sea, and air forces. They lapsed into silence as Zaki approached, quickly making room for him at the table. Zaki leaned over it, his hands gripping the rim, his eyes wandering across the digital map of northern Britain and its dizzying array of live-feed information. He looked at the faces gathered around him and spread his hands.
‘Is someone going to update me or do I have to guess what’s happening?’
‘The situation is fluid,’ blustered a white-haired colonel with sagging jowls.
How many times have I heard that phrase? ‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t know?’
The relic’s eyes flicked nervously to the pistol on Zaki’s belt. ’I’m saying there are many moving parts and more are coming into play as we speak. The Alliance is launching a full-scale invasion, of that there can be no doubt now. Scores of aircraft and ships are now heading towards northern Scotland, and the localised border skirmishes have escalated. We’re now looking at a major conflict.’
Zaki clapped his hands slowly. ‘Bravo, colonel. You clearly have a talent for stating the obvious. I take it we have battle plans for just such a scenario?’
The red-faced colonel nodded. ‘Of course, but the loss of Ireland was unexpected, and the enemy’s military build-up accelerated so rapidly we…er…’
Zaki’s eyes narrowed. Mentioning the Irish debacle in his presence was a risky game, as the colonel had just realised, but he decided to let it go. Put them at their ease, the voice counselled, gain their trust. Remember, patience is a bitter plant that bears sweet fruit.
‘So, the old plans are useless. Recommendations?’
‘Not useless—’
‘Proceed,’ Zaki snapped, wondering if those sweet fruits were worth the trouble. He listened as they unveiled a new defensive plan. The men around him spoke of multi-element deployments, of position strengthening, and the destruction of enemy naval forces in the Irish Sea. Zaki liked the sound of that one. A decisive victory would go some way to bolster his professional reputation. Uncle would be pleased, that was for sure, and his was the only approval that Zaki truly sought.
‘Where are these reinforcements?’ he demanded.
‘Four divisions are heading north from Leeds and Manchester as we speak, general. The lead elements will reach the combat zone in the next four hours.’
Zaki nodded. ‘Very good.’
The discussion continued, but after a short while, he lost focus. He was bored and tired. He silenced the tedious drone of voices in mid-flow.
‘If you need me, I’ll be in my quarters.’
He ignored their confused expressions and left the bunker. Up above ground, he headed back to his sizeable apartment, flanked by his bodyguards. The air was cool and still, and in the east, the horizon had paled a fraction. He needed time alone, to think and to sleep.
Inside his bedroom, he dropped his uniform to the floor and climbed into bed. He lay in the darkness, eyes open, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling as his mind began to drift. His eyes fluttered and closed. They snapped open as he felt the mattress dip by his feet. He lifted his head and saw the figure sitting at the end of his bed. He heard the shallow wheeze of its breath, the ancient voice that spoke his name.
‘Rest, Kalil. You will need your strength. War is upon us.’
Zaki’s eyes returned to the ceiling. He didn’t want to look, just in case the curtain shifted and the light fell upon the face that turned towards him. Something told him he didn’t want to see that.
‘Yes, war,’ he echoed. ‘One we must win. One that I must win.’
‘How far are you willing to go?’
Zaki thought about that as he stared at the ceiling. ‘To the gates of hell itself.’
The voice rattled in the darkness. ‘Then we shall travel there together.’
33
Hammer Time
‘Take your clothes off! All of you, now!’
Bertie stripped, tugging his t-shirt over his head, dropping his trousers and underwear at his feet. He cupped his privates with both hands, but it was so cold that one would’ve done the job. He did a quick head count and saw there were at least 20 of them standing in a long, naked, guilty line.
‘Take three paces back and turn to your left,’ the head screw yelled.
His voice boomed around the reception hall. Bertie did as he was told, stepping back and facing left, discarded clothes on one side, a mob of screws on the other, surly bastards in black combat trousers and fleeces, crossed swords emblazoned on the left breast. And they each carried a long club, not dangling from their belts but gripped in their hands, ready. They were more like bouncers than professional prison staff, Bertie observed, but that didn’t surprise him. Before the invasion, the men and women who now ran the prisons would’ve been banged up themselves.
The one doing all the shouting was called Durkin, a 40-something black man with a bald head and a thick beard, a man who clearly spent most of his downtime in the gym.
‘Left!’ Durkin screamed. ‘Left, left, you fucking moron!’
The target of Durkin’s rage was the man in front of Bertie. He was short, pale, and skinny, no more than 20 years old, and he trembl
ed like a terrified animal. He threw himself around, but Durkin was already on him. The head screw towered over him, arms and shoulders rippling as he berated his victim.
‘Don’t you know your left from your right?’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘You’re what? Stupid? A dumb fucking infidel?’
‘No, I—’
Durkin punched him, a short right hook that caught the kid square on the jaw. His knees gave way and he went down hard, unconscious before he hit the wooden floor. Durkin looked down at him as if he’d just spotted a turd.
‘Get this thing out of my reception hall.’
Two of the screws ran forward and grabbed the kid by his ankles, his limp body squeaking as they dragged him out of sight. Bertie kept his eyes front. Durkin stared at him, and for a second, Bertie thought he might have a crack at him too, but then he walked away and bellowed again, pointing to a door across the hall.
‘That way! Single file, eyes front, no talking! Move!’
The naked line rippled forward, and Bertie followed on as the last man. He heard the screws behind him, muttering, sniggering. He felt the sharp jab of a club in his spine, but Bertie didn’t react, he just kept moving, kept his mouth shut and his eyes front, just like Durkin had told them. It was all about being invisible now. About survival.
The hall was vast, with coloured lines on the wooden floor and iron girders high above, but there were no signs anywhere, not even for a fire escape or a toilet. Bertie had no idea where he was, but he knew it had taken almost two hours to get there. They’d passed through a few checkpoints on the way, and the sirens had wailed for most of the journey, but later they’d faded to nothing, which made Bertie think they were a long way out of London. North, south, east, or west, he had no clue.
He’d seen the bright lights of the perimeter fence, and he’d heard the rattle of the roller shutter as the van was driven into a courtyard of high, grey stone walls. Then they’d marched him straight into the hall where Durkin and the other prisoners waited. Bertie had been the last to arrive.
‘Hurry up! Move!’
Bertie felt the painful jab of a club up his arse. The screws sniggered again, and Bertie winced. It was common knowledge that the penal system in England and Wales now tolerated all kinds of abuse, and he wondered how long it would be before they came for him. When they did, he wouldn’t make it easy for them, but they’d get their way. And that was the irony; in a land where homosexuality was punishable by death, the authorities turned a blind eye to the wholesale rape and torture of its prisoners.
He passed through the double doors into a much smaller hall. A row of chairs waited for them, each with a smiling screw stood behind it. He watched his hair fall in clumps around his bare feet as they shaved his head, and then they were on the move once more, through another door and into a cold, dark corridor. Durkin bawled again as they lined up along the wall. There was a square of light up ahead.
A storeroom, Bertie realised, watching the men ahead of him stepping into orange overalls and dressing quickly. He shuffled along the wall until it was his turn. He stood in front of the half-door cum serving hatch. The grey-haired, tattooed screw standing behind the counter snarled at him.
‘Name?’
‘Payne. Albert Payne.’
He ran a stubby finger down a printed sheet, then ticked his name off with a pen. He reached underneath, then slapped a set of coveralls on the counter.
A yellow set.
‘What’s this?’ Bertie asked, and then his face exploded in pain as the screw slapped his face. Bertie reeled, then stood up straight and obedient before the others piled in.
‘My apologies, sir.’
‘You learn fast, Payne. Not gonna do you any good, mind.’ The screw laughed, a humourless bark that made Bertie’s skin crawl. Not the laughter, but the implication.
Durkin marched towards him. ‘Get fucking dressed!’ he bellowed.
Bertie did so, quickly. The garment was rough against his skin, and he still had no underwear or shoes, but it was a start. Another jab in the back and he was moving again, following the others. Shouts, threats, and curses chased them along the corridor until they spilt out into a large rotunda that rose for several stories to a glass roof. On the floors above, Bertie saw barred doors and unlit corridors that stretched away from the central core. A Victorian prison, Bertie knew from experience. He’d served his time in Pentonville, and this place looked similar.
It didn’t sound the same, though. There was no cat-calling, no doors slamming, no standard-issue boots squeaking on the floors above, no keys and chains rattling. This wasn’t the prison environment he knew of. This was something different. And that wasn’t all he noticed – he was the only one wearing yellow overalls.
‘You, step out,’ Durkin ordered, pointing at Bertie.
He obeyed, taking a pace forward. He could feel all eyes on him as two screws grabbed his arms and escorted him out of the rotunda and down a brightly-lit corridor. Grey steel doors lined the whitewashed walls. They dragged Bertie to a halt outside one of them. The door was unlocked, and he was shoved inside.
It wasn’t a cell. It was more like an interview room, with a metal table and two chairs on either side. It wasn’t until they forced Bertie into one of the chairs that he noticed the thick wire loops screwed to the tabletop. His hands were threaded through them and the loops drawn tight. Bertie couldn’t help himself.
‘Oi!’ he cried. ‘What the fuck is this all about?’
A screw slapped him around the head. ‘Keep your mouth shut.’
The other one knelt down and clamped his ankles to the chair that was bolted to the floor.
Not an interview room, he knew now. An interrogation room.
Fear churned his stomach. The screws left the room without another word. Bertie sat there in silence, his breathing shallow and rapid, his arms stretched across the table, his wrists and ankles bound to the chair. His body was frozen but his mind was racing.
You’ve just made a terrible mistake, Bertie. One you’ll live to regret. Of that, I’ll make certain.
This was her doing, of course it was. He was getting special treatment, the full package. Bertie was terrified, more frightened than he’d ever been in his life. And then the door opened, screeching on its rusted hinges, and he heard people enter the room behind him, maybe three or four. He couldn’t be sure because he wouldn’t turn around. He kept his eyes forward, facing the empty chair. A figure crowded his peripheral vision, and a man walked around the table and sat in the empty chair opposite. Bertie had no choice but to look.
Oh shit.
Not a screw, not one of his own, like Durkin and the others, traitors for sure, but at least there was an understanding between them. Screw or con, they all spoke the language of the street. The man who sat in front of him was not like that at all. He was Middle Eastern, and he wore a black suit with a gold, crossed-swords lapel pin and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. His beard was neatly trimmed and his unblinking eyes gave Bertie nowhere to go.
‘My name is Colonel Al-Huda.’
He left his name hanging in the air. Bertie didn’t know how to respond, so he kept his mouth shut.
‘The governor sends her best wishes.’
‘Who?’
‘Governor Spencer. Your former employer.’
‘Governor Spencer?’
‘There have been some administration changes. Nothing to concern yourself with.’ He inspected his fingernails for a moment, then looked at Bertie. ‘Your only priority now is helping me with my inquiries. There isn’t much time, you see.’
Bertie swallowed, his stomach bubbling like lava. ‘I know nothing about—’
He heard a rustle behind him, and then a man leaned over him and clamped his right forearm in an enormous hand. In the other, he held an ugly claw hammer. Bertie’s eyes widened as the man raised it over his head.
‘Wait, please—’
He brought it down, once, twice, a third time. Be
rtie screamed, long and loud as he felt the bones in his hand break. Tears of pain ran down his face as he watched the broken skin turning purple.
‘It will only get worse,’ Al-Huda told him. ‘Once they break your hands and feet, these men will take the nails from them. Then they’ll take the hammer to your testicles, and then your teeth. Doctor Chowdhury will ensure you remain alert and coherent throughout.’
Bertie glimpsed at the man through his tears, older, bald, with round glasses, standing against the wall to his right, a battered leather bag at his feet.
‘What is it you want?’ Bertie asked.
Al-Huda stood and placed his hands on the table. He leaned over Bertie, his voice cold, his eyes like a mantis about to devour its prey. Bertie shrivelled beneath that soulless, inhuman gaze.
‘I want to know everything, Albert Payne.’
He stepped back and folded his arms. The man with the hammer raised it again, high over his head.
Bertie screamed.
34
Fare Thee Well
The wind picked up, rustling through the hedgerow. Eddie was lying prone, tucked in close to the roots of the hedge, allowing the darkness to wrap itself around him. Steve was a few metres away to his right, Mac and Digger on his left, all of them just vague shadows in the dark. His rifle pointed out across the empty field. Nothing moved, nothing close anyway. To the south-west, white flashes lit up the sky, and the thunder of heavy combat rolled across the countryside.
‘That’s Birtley,’ Mac whispered. ‘The New Yorkers are getting stuck in.’
‘While we’re hiding in a hedge like a bunch of pussies,’ Digger sulked.
The blow to his head had done nothing for his attitude, Eddie noted. The wind gusted again, rattling along the hedge, and he swept the field with his scope. White-tailed rabbits bobbed across the hard, stubby tufts of some unknown winter crop.