If we can, he reminded himself. I might not be allowed to stay.
He keyed the terminal, bringing up the email datanode. It should have given him access to his email account, but it failed midway through launching. Brian cursed under his breath, then tried to open it again. This time, the node didn't respond at all. He swore, openly this time, then accessed a public email datanode. It was about as secure as a politician’s mouth, but it would have to do. He wrote a brief report for his office back home - using a number of code words they’d planned for insecure communications - and then another one for Abigail’s parents. There was no way to be sure they’d see the email - spammers used public email datanodes, so filters often wiped those messages sight unseen - but there was no other way to send a message. He rather doubted he’d be allowed to use the colony’s link to the Luna Federation’s military datanet.
Undressing rapidly, he climbed into bed and closed his eyes.
It felt like no time at all had passed before his wristcom started to bleep. Brian forced himself to open his eyes and glare at the device, then check the timer. An hour ... he’d barely had an hour to sleep. He swallowed a number of curses as he keyed the wristcom, accepting the call. He’d have to keep his mouth firmly closed, just to keep from swearing at whoever had disturbed his sleep. The urge to commit a homicide gruesome enough to make the Britannia Serial Killer’s look like a rank amateur rose within him. He fought it down as the connection opened.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Wheeler, sir,” a male voice said. He sounded disgustingly fresh. “We have been in touch with Swansong Enterprises. They have dispatched a lunar shuttle to retrieve you and your charge. They’ll be here in thirty minutes.”
Once, Brian knew, he would have kicked up a fuss. Abigail’s parents were flouting all the rules and regulations, just to get their daughter home quickly. God alone knew how many parents were also missing their children ... he shook his head, telling himself that he should be grateful that they’d responded so quickly. He’d be able to hand Abigail over to them, then go back home or ... or what? He didn't even know what was waiting for him on Earth.
The voice cleared his throat. “Mr. Wheeler?”
“Thank you,” Brian managed. He forced himself to sit up. A shower, a shave ... he’d be something resembling human by the time the shuttle arrived. “Please inform us when the shuttle arrives.”
He stood, feeling his legs totter underneath him. Everything was catching up with him now, steadily wearing him down. He’d sleep on the shuttle, if he didn't collapse before then. He wasn't a young man any longer. And besides, even as a young man, he’d have had problems coping with an alien attack. He’d been luckier than he’d deserved.
“Please also inform Abigail,” he added. He needed the shower, desperately. “And then have coffee sent to the hotel room.”
“Yes, sir,” the voice said. “Good luck.”
Brian staggered into the shower and turned the water on, twisting and turning until he felt clean again. He said a silent prayer of thanks as he reached for a towel. Showers were something people didn't really appreciate until they had to live without them. Being unable to wash ... smelling was really the least of their concerns. Whoever had invented showers, back in the distant past, should be canonised. It was certainly a more important contribution to human life than many other achievements.
Get Abigail back to her parents, he thought, as he dried himself. And then get a few days of rest before ...
He shrugged. He’d worry about that when the time came. Now ... now, all he had to do was get her to the shuttle. After everything else, it should be a piece of cake.
And if it isn’t, he thought, as he felt his head begin to pound, I’ll deal with it anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Five
London, United Kingdom
“The thunderstorms are growing worse, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. “Right now, we have major floods developing everywhere in the south and south-east.”
Andrew nodded, feeling another wave of guilt. He’d eaten well - the bunker staff included a chef, of course - but the people on the surface were drowning. Rainstorms were moving further and further inland, threatening to wash out the entire country. Roads were rapidly becoming impassable as floods or landslides blocked vehicles from moving from place to place. The rail network wasn't in any better shape.
He looked up at the general. How could the man be so calm? Templeton hadn't seen the floods, had he? He’d seen satellite images and the live feed from the remaining CCTV cameras, but he hadn't gone to see them in person. To him, the dead and drowning in London were just numbers. Andrew had watched, helplessly, as people struggled to cope with a disaster on a scale beyond human imagination.
“The rainstorms will have to come to an end soon,” he said, plaintively. “Won’t they?”
Templeton frowned. “The latest update from the meteorologists suggests that the rains will come to an end in a few hours,” Templeton said. “There was so much water hurled into the upper atmosphere that it has to come down. But the weather patterns are likely to be unpredictable for days or weeks to come. We’re already seeing patches of sunlight in the rainstorms that come and go, seemingly at random.”
Andrew looked down at his hands. Very few people in Britain placed their faith in the meteorologists. Predicting the weather wasn't easy, even before the alien bombardment had thrown thousands of tons of water and dirt into the atmosphere. He supposed the rainstorms would have their limits - they'd eventually run out of water - but he had no idea how long it would take. He certainly wasn't sure he cared to trust any of the meteorologist’s predictions.
“Fuck,” he said, finally. “Is there anything we can do about it?”
“No, sir,” Templeton said. “Realistically speaking, all we can do is wait for the rainfall to stop.”
Andrew gritted his teeth. “Just how bad is it going to be?”
“Bad,” Templeton said. “We’ve already had to ground all flights, civilian and military, over a large swath of the countryside. The atmospheric disturbances are interfering with radio communications ... combined with damaged landlines, parts of the country are almost completely isolated from the rest. We’re working hard to help as many people as possible, but ...”
“But we can't save everyone,” Andrew said.
He’d taken the opportunity to review more of the emergency plans, but none of them had offered any encouragement. Even a single nuke, the planners had noted, would push British resources to the limit. If a city were to be destroyed, they’d argued, the former inhabitants might not be worth saving. The ones who were badly wounded - who couldn't be saved easily - would have to be left to die. Andrew understood the logic, but it was sickening. He didn’t know if he could give those orders ...
I might be about to find out, he thought, numbly. Despair gnawed at his heart. How many people will I have to kill to save the rest?
“We are opening temporary refugee camps to the north and south of the Thames,” Templeton told him. “We’re converting schools, stadiums and parks into camps. They’ll do for the next few weeks, once we get the roads reopened and food deliveries rushed into London. It should let us come to grips with the situation and start press-ganging young men into helping with the clean-up.”
“That will go down well,” Andrew observed, dryly.
“It will,” Templeton said. “The men who work for us - and their families - will be put on top of the list for food and medical aid. It’s harsh” - Andrew shot him a sharp look - “but it’s the only way to get them to work in a hurry. I’d prefer to use different methods myself, Prime Minister, yet ... I don’t see any alternatives.”
Andrew shook his head, slowly. “I know,” he said. The sense of futility, the sense they were battling against an unbeatable foe, was growing stronger. How did one fight rain and thunderstorms? The devastation had only just begun. “Can you get them to work effectively?”
“We can,” Templeton said. “I’ve got
Civil Affairs teams already en route. They’ll get the civvies working on everything from clearing roads to building flood barriers out of sandbags and whatever else comes to hand. We’re damn lucky it’s not winter, Prime Minister. I’ll tell you that for sure.”
“Because we’d have to worry about ice too,” Andrew said. He studied the weather chart for a long moment. “What else do we have to look forward to?”
“I don’t know,” Templeton said. “The weather predictions suggest that the rainfall will stop soon, as I said, but beyond that ... there are just too many variables. Adding so much water and dust to the atmosphere will probably have long-term effects ... we just don’t know what.”
“As long as the dust doesn't block out the sun,” Andrew said. He met the general’s eyes. “And the situation in space?”
“Unchanged,” Templeton said. “The aliens are continuing towards Jupiter. Home Fleet is in pursuit, keeping the range open enough to allow them to break off contact if necessary. I assume Admiral Winters has a plan, but he hasn’t shared it.”
He sighed. “Was there any word from the other world leaders?”
“No,” Andrew said. He’d spoken, briefly, to a number of his counterparts, but the conversations had been very limited. None of them were in any position to do anything, either about the battle or the endless series of disasters sweeping the globe. “The Irish President repeated his request for assistance, but I had to tell him that we had too many problems of our own.”
“I’m sorry, Prime Minister,” Templeton said.
Andrew nodded, feeling bone-weary. It wasn't a physical tiredness, but a mental tiredness ... something sapping at his very soul. He could go back to bed, if he wished - there was a bedroom for him - but it wouldn't help. There was nothing he could do about that too.
“It can’t be helped,” he said. He looked down at his hands. If he went to a refugee centre ... he shook his head, again. He’d have to go with armed guards and that would draw resources from the recovery effort. And besides, it was unlikely that any of the civilians would want to see him. “Just ... just keep me informed.”
“I will,” Templeton promised.
***
“Fuck,” Constable Sally Fletcher said. “Is this rain ever going to end?”
Robin shrugged as they patrolled the streets. The rain had been falling steadily for the last couple of hours, turning the streets into rivers. He was uneasily aware that the Thames was probably on the verge of breaking its banks again and perhaps flooding more of the city, although the cynical side of him rather suspected that no one would notice. London was already awash. Hyde Park, according to the last reports, was steadily turning into a muddy swamp.
“It doesn't matter,” he said. His waterproof jacket was waterlogged. He was tempted to make an official complaint about shoddy equipment, if things ever returned to normal. But then, London rarely saw quite so much rain. “We have to keep on alert.”
He peered down the darkened streets. It was morning, according to his watch, but it looked more like twilight. The dark clouds blocked out most of the sunlight, casting the whole city into shadow. Anything could be out there, lurking in the darkness, and he’d never know about it. The endless drumming of the rain was playing merry hell with his ears. He kept thinking he was hearing things. There was no way to tell if they were real.
They might be, he thought, numbly. But I don’t know.
A gust of cold air blew against him, making him shiver. His clothes were damp ... he wished, suddenly, that they’d had a chance to change into something a little more watertight. He hadn't joined the River Police, after all ... not that anyone would notice, after today. He’d heard that the River Police were boating through London’s eastern streets, rescuing people from rooftops before the floodwaters dragged them to their graves. It certainly sounded plausible.
He looked up as a rumble of thunder split the air. Lightning flashed - for a moment, it looked as though the lightning was frozen in mid-air before it vanished - followed rapidly by more thunder. The sound echoed off the buildings, sending more shivers down his spine. He could hear lapping water in the distance, perhaps the first sign that the Thames was about to break its banks again. The wind was picking up, blowing against their exposed hands and faces. It felt like the end of the world.
His radio crackled. He keyed it, automatically. “Go ahead.”
There was a screech of static, then nothing. He exchanged looks with Sally, silently cursing the procurement division under his breath. They could have issued the police with military-grade radios, couldn't they? God knew a handful of terrorists had managed to fuck around with police radios during the Troubles. But the more charitable side of his mind pointed out that no one had expected so much thunder and lightning. The military radios might be disrupted as well.
Sally coughed. “Do you think we should go back?”
Robin frowned. There was no reason to think there was anyone left in their sector. The first flood had been enough to convince everyone - shopkeepers and hotel guests alike - that they needed to seek higher ground in a hurry. But his superiors were adamant that the sector needed to be patrolled. The Met had learned harsh lessons about surrendering control of the streets, even if - technically - there was no one to surrender to. His superiors had no intention of leaving the streets unmonitored if it could be avoided.
“I think we should complete our route down to the river,” he said. If nothing else, his superiors needed to know if the Thames was on the verge of breaking its banks. “And then we can walk back to the station.”
He tapped his radio again, but there was nothing. He’d been told that the radios were supposed to be hardened against ... well, everything. Clearly, there had been a failure of imagination somewhere in Scotland Yard. They’d expected everything from EMP attack to virus infections, but not giant thunderstorms. They ...
Glass smashed, not too far away.
“Shit,” Sally muttered. She drew her pistol. “Can you get anyone?”
“No,” Robin said. He reached into his pocket and removed the emergency beacon, carefully opening the cover and placing his finger over the button. Normally, activating it would bring every copper within five miles hurrying towards him - as well as armed tactical response teams - but now ... now it was anyone’s guess if the signal would be heard, let alone summon reinforcements. “We have to move in slowly.”
He forced himself to think as he drew his pistol and inched down the street. There was a fancy store - a whole set of fancy stores - that normally catered for tourists. He’d never been in them, even when he’d been off duty. The prices had been so far above his usual range that there was no point. Now ... he felt his heart starting to pound as he kept low, ducking from ruined car to ruined car. A small group of men were standing in front of the plate-glass windows, filling their rucksacks with expensive watches. Robin couldn’t help a flicker of contempt. The watches were probably worthless at the moment. Coming to think of it, money was probably worthless too.
The beacon clicked as he pushed the button, then dropped it under a car. Hopefully, reinforcements would be on the way. Until then ... he sucked in his breath as he heard someone cry out. The gang had a hostage or a prisoner or ... he glanced at Sally, keeping his face low. He would have stayed back, if only watches were at risk, but a life ...
He put his whistle in his mouth, then rose and blew as hard as he could. “Armed Police,” he shouted. His voice echoed through the rain. “Put your hands in the air, now!”
The gangsters stared at him. A couple dropped to the ground, several more ran ... and one produced a gun. Robin shot him instinctively. There was no way to know just how practiced the gangster was at using his gun, but a loaded weapon made things far too dangerous. The gangster dropped like a stone, his body hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. Robin moved forward as the runners rounded the corner and vanished, fleeing for their lives. There was nothing he could do about them, unless he shot them in the back. He had a nas
ty feeling that some of his superiors would probably rather he did precisely that, just to make sure the looters didn't try to loot anywhere else.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” he ordered. The two gangsters on the ground were trembling. They didn't look very dangerous, but that meant nothing. Robin had seen enough suspects move from cooperative to violent in a split-second to know just how unpleasant things could become. “Cover them.”
Sally nodded, wordlessly. Robin nodded in approval as he removed his plastic ties from his belt and hastily secured the first captive. Too many macho young fools believed that a female copper couldn't fight as well as a male for him to be entirely comfortable letting them know her gender. If they were stupid enough to think it was actually two-on-one rather than two-on-two ... the gangsters didn't offer any resistance. Robin studied them for a long moment, then picked up and checked the fallen weapon. It was loaded.
The Longest Day (Ark Royal X) Page 25