The Longest Day (Ark Royal X)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I know you’re sorry,” the woman said. “But does it make a difference?”

  She cleared her throat. “Go back to your office, Prime Minister,” she said. “Get us all the support we need. And understand that nothing will ever be the same again.”

  “I will,” Andrew said.

  “I doubt it,” the woman said. “This isn't something that can be fixed in a day. The country took one hell of a beating.”

  Andrew nodded, tersely. “How do you manage to cope with it?”

  “I deal with it, one problem at a time,” the woman said. She smiled, humourlessly. “You know, that's all you can do. Put one leg forward, then the other ... keep going until you get through, instead of getting bogged down. And brace yourself for the discovery that there is no perfect solution after all.”

  A helicopter clattered overhead, heading south. Andrew looked up, wondering if it was safe to fly now. Aircraft were still grounded over much of the countryside, but the SAR flights had to go on. He’d seen reports of SAR helicopters being blown out of the sky by freak winds and forced to ditch in the ocean. He hoped the helicopter crews made it out, but he didn’t give much for their chances.

  “I’ll go,” he said, quietly. “What’s your name?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the woman said, flatly. She waved a hand at the growing crowd of refugees. Lines were forming outside the buses as the soldiers struggled to keep track of who was going where. “Just get these people the help they need.”

  “I will,” Andrew promised. The woman should get a medal. But she probably didn't want one. He’d look up her name later, when he had time. She’d be listed in the emergency register. “And thank you.”

  The woman gave him a sharp look. “For what?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  London, United Kingdom

  “This isn't safe,” one of the men muttered. “You should get trained people to do it.”

  “And you’re all we’ve got,” Robin snapped. He’d never liked the idea of conscripting civilians for recovery work and this was why. They either didn't know what to do or they grumbled as they did it. “So do as you’re told.”

  He walked up to the storefront and opened the door. “You know what to look for,” he said, curtly. “Fill the shopping trolleys, then take them out onto the street and wait. Remember to put the alcohol and medical supplies in separate trolleys.”

  The store had already been looted, he noted as he paced the aisles. Someone - rather less intelligent than the average criminal - had been trying to force open the tills, while others had been stealing alcohol and cigarettes. Robin was privately relieved, although he was fairly sure the stolen alcohol would cause problems later. The civilian recovery workers were already grumbling about the shortage of anything to drink.

  But we need the alcohol to clean wounds, Robin thought. He wasn't sure just how effective cheap red wine would be at cleaning wounds, but medical supplies were already terrifyingly low. And we need to keep the refugees from getting drunk and starting fights.

  “Put the medicine in the medical trolleys,” he ordered, as he passed a young man removing boxes of painkillers from the shelf. “And make sure it’s covered. It won’t be long before it starts to rain again.”

  “Yes, boss,” the young man said. He pointed a finger at a red notice. “Should we be taking more than two?”

  Robin snorted. Legally, a person could only buy two packets of painkillers at a time. It was supposed to keep people from overdosing, he’d been told, but it was pointless. Anyone intent on buying a few hundred painkillers could walk down the street, buying a couple of packets in every shop. They’d have enough to kill a dozen people by the time they reached the end, all perfectly legal. Someone who wanted to commit suicide wouldn't have any problems with skirting the law.

  “Take them all,” he said. The painkillers were meant to deal with everything from headaches to menstrual cramps, not broken bones and starvation. But they would have to do. “And make sure you take the rest of the supplies as well.”

  He moved to the next aisle, where a team was rapidly stripping the store of baby food and supplies. The women and children were supposed to be be moved out of the city by early afternoon - he’d heard that buses were already arriving from depots outside London - but they’d need something to feed their children. Hardly anyone had thought to grab nappies when they fled their homes, let alone anything else. The baby food wasn't ideal - he’d always preferred home-cooked food when he’d been a child - but it would have to do. They were running out of other options.

  Sally joined him as he reached the bottom of the store. “Who do you think is going to pay for all this?”

  Robin shrugged. “I have no idea,” he said. Looting stores didn't sit well with him, even though it was perfectly legal. Martial law had been declared. “I doubt the insurance will pay for all the damage, let alone requisitioned goods.”

  “That might cause other problems,” Sally said. “What happens if the economy collapses into rubble?”

  “Right now, it’s the least of our problems,” Robin said. The government had closed the stock market and ordered the banks to limit withdrawals before the bombardment had begun, but now ... now people had more important things to worry about than trying to withdraw money from their bank. “We have to keep as many people alive as possible.”

  He peered past her, watching as the remaining wine shelves were emptied into trolleys. “And it won’t be easy,” he added. It didn't look as if the workers had helped themselves to a couple of small bottles, but it was hard to be sure. “Some of them will be fighting us all the way.”

  “Yeah,” Sally said.

  The radio crackled, loudly. “All units, be aware of gunfire on Salvation Road,” the dispatcher said. “Armed officers are on the way.”

  Robin tensed. They were some distance from Salvation Road, but he’d been in the police long enough to know that trouble could move at terrifying speed. The radio network might be coming back up, yet it was far from perfect. He’d bitched and moaned about its weaknesses back before the bombardment, but now he would have sold his soul for the network he’d had yesterday. Had it really been less than a day since all hell had broken loose?

  Only nineteen hours, he thought, checking his watch. And the world is now a fucking mess.

  He touched his holster, silently reassuring himself that his pistol was still there. The thought of using it - of using it again - chilled him to the bone. And yet, he knew he might need it before too long. None of the workers looked as if they were going to turn violent, but that could change in a hurry too. People became dangerously unpredictable when they were in mobs.

  The skies were starting to darken again as he led the workers back outside, suggesting that it wouldn't be long before it started to rain again. Water was still running down the streets, bubbling up from sewer grates ... he wrinkled his nose as he saw pieces of rubbish and debris floating down towards the river. The stench of human waste was growing stronger, warning him that the sewer network was on the verge of collapse. He shuddered, helplessly. He’d seen the emergency toilets at the refugee centre. They were a breeding ground for diseases that hadn't been seen in over a hundred years.

  Not in Britain, he thought. There had been a time when everyone was vaccinated against everything, once vaccines had been developed and made safe. The threat of bio-terror had demanded the harshest measures to keep diseases from spreading. But now ... he sucked in his breath as he saw a dead cat, floating in the gutter. Now, far too many people lacked even the most basic protections against disease and tainted water. It won’t be long before people start to die.

  He pushed the thought out of his head as he shouted orders, leading the way up the road. The sight would have been surreal, once upon a time: a policeman, leading a dozen men pushing shopping trolleys ... shopping trolleys that had effectively been stolen. Now ... it was just another sign of desperation. Robin liked to think that the police had it under control, but he k
new that wasn't the case. There were entire sections of London that had effectively been abandoned altogether.

  Nineteen hours, he thought, numbly. That was all it took for the city to collapse.

  The wind blew stronger as he walked. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, careful to keep his pistol within easy reach. A helicopter clattered overhead, heading south. He wondered, absently, where it was going. It didn't look like a police helicopter or a military machine ... it looked more like a private corporate aircraft. Perhaps it had been pressed into service. Nothing civilian should be flying, certainly not near London. He’d heard rumours of hypersonic jets blown out of the air by sudden, shocking turbulence. The stories might be exaggerated - he knew they were exaggerated - but he was glad he wasn't flying. He hadn't missed the shortage of aircraft flying over the city.

  “The army’s arrived,” Sally said, as they approached the refugee camp. “They’re in force.”

  Robin nodded. A dozen commandeered buses were parked outside the camp, women and children being escorted inside by grim-faced squaddies. The soldiers looked nervous, half of them holding their weapons at the ready. Robin scowled at them - they were making the civilians nervous too - even though he understood their concern. London had turned into hostile territory, all of a sudden. They didn't know when or where they might be attacked.

  Particularly as martial law has been declared, he thought, grimly. The looters know they won’t get mercy if we catch them.

  He saluted Detective-Inspector Doyenne as he arrived. “Sir,” he said. “We found enough food to keep us going for a few hours.”

  Doyenne nodded, barely lifting his head from his terminal. “Put whatever you found in the stores, then report to the kitchen for some grub,” he said, absently. “You’ll be going back out soon.”

  Robin groaned, inwardly. He’d been awake for over a day. His body was insisting on reminding him that he wasn't a young man any longer. But there was nothing he could do about that, not now. He’d sleep when he was dead.

  “Follow me,” he ordered. “There’ll be some food afterwards.”

  The cooks had worked wonders, he discovered, as they joined the line for food and drink. They’d taken over a school kitchen, but somehow managed to produce edible food. It was a minor miracle, Robin decided, although he was hungry enough to eat reconstituted ration bars and drink tasteless water. The plates, cutlery and glasses were all plastic, probably taken from one of the nearby stores. It felt like attending a BBQ - a handful of disposable BBQs were cooking meat before it went off - but far grimmer. There just wasn't enough food and drink for everyone.

  He scowled as he caught sight of a handful of bureaucrats, making their way through the crowd. They were checking some of the refugees, making sure they were registered and matched to lost friends and relatives. But few of the working refugees looked happy to speak to them. They’d been working hard and now they needed a rest before they went out to search for more food. They were just lucky they weren't further to the east. Robin had heard that everyone who could carry a sandbag was being pressed into service to build barricades before the tide rose again.

  And there’s a cheerful thought, he told himself. Who knows what will happen here when the tide rises again?

  He reached for his pistol as he heard a handful of gunshots, not too far away. The crowd tensed, uneasy murmurs running from person to person as it sank in that the gunfire really hadn't been that far away. Robin glanced at Sally, then led her towards the edge of the refugee camp. The soldiers were already deploying, half of them taking up firing positions as if they expected to be attacked and overrun at any moment. The remainder were hurrying the rest of the evacuees into the buses.

  “They’ll have to watch their route out of the city,” Sally said. She was staring at the soldiers, her face unreadable. “I heard there’s a block on the road to Heathrow.”

  Robin shrugged as the sound of gunfire faded away. “They’re the lucky ones,” he said, as the buses roared to life. “They’ll get to sleep somewhere out of the city tonight.”

  “Unless they get attacked on the route,” Sally offered. “The soldiers might not be enough to save them.”

  Robin glanced at her. Handguns weren't uncommon in London - although there was a very strict set of requirements for anyone who wanted to own one - but assault rifles and antitank weapons were almost unknown. Offhand, he couldn't imagine anyone outside the military or private bodyguards who’d even have a shot at getting the licences. Shotguns and hunting rifles were very common in the country, but bringing them inside the city limits was a serious offence. The soldiers would almost certainly be better armed than anyone they might have a reasonable chance of encountering ...

  Unless an army unit goes rogue, he thought. Or someone starts improvising weapons.

  He scowled as the radio summoned him to the makeshift HQ, along with a handful of other officers. He’d watched historical documentaries about the Troubles, when policemen had faced screaming mobs, improvised weapons and horrific terror tactics. The streets had run red with blood, back then. There had been times when the army had been deployed to restore order, whatever the cost. But now ... this time, the problem couldn't be solved by mass deportations and heavy repression. Anyone who turned feral would have to be thrown into a detention camp until the crisis was finally solved.

  “We’ve identified a number of food stores that have yet to be looted,” Doyenne said. He sounded more alert now, although he was still keeping an eye on his terminal. Robin couldn't help wondering if his superior was having problems coming to grips with what had happened to his city. “You’ll take the lead in securing them. I’ll have work gangs dispatched to strip them within the next hour.”

  Robin groaned, inwardly. He wanted - he needed - a rest. But there was no choice.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  He checked the map. The food stores were several miles from the refugee centre, near Tottenham Court Road. He’d been there, in happier times. It was a shopping district, but it normally sold fashionable clothes, expensive pieces of crap and cheap junk for the tourists, not food. No wonder the food stores hadn't been looted. It wasn't where people normally went to buy food.

  Not that that will last forever, he thought, as the rain started to fall again. The looters will be getting more and more desperate.

  Water ran down the streets as they walked up through Soho, keeping a wary eye out for trouble. It was normally peaceful, but now ... now anything could happen. More helicopters buzzed over the city as they walked, barely visible against the increasing gloom. Robin peered down a side street, remembering when the street had teemed with life. The cheap Chinese buffets had once been good, if one didn't mind a lack of sophistication. Now, they were as dark and cold as the grave. The line of gay bars looked to have been looted. A handful of bodies lay on the street outside, already cool to the touch. Robin winced as he recognised one of the bartenders. He’d died defending his bar.

  He frowned as he saw a handful of soldiers on guard duty near the underground station, looking thoroughly drenched. They waved cheerfully to the policemen, then resumed their silent watch. Robin puzzled over it for a moment before remembering that they’d be watching the road south. The army would probably wind up using it for supply and evacuation convoys.

  “It’s been quiet up here,” the leader said. He was a lieutenant, if Robin read his stripes correctly. He looked far too young to shave, let alone be in command of five men. “We haven’t seen anyone for the last hour.”

  “Good for you,” Robin said. He glanced at the soldiers. It was hard to be sure, but he rather suspected they weren't impressed with their commander. “Can you ...?”

  He broke off as he heard the sound of breaking glass, coming from the nearby shop. He drew his pistol in one smooth movement, then led the policemen towards the building. The soldiers followed, weapons at the ready. Robin held up a hand as they reached the edge of the shop, then slipped forward and peered inside. A small
mob of young men was ransacking the place, stuffing hundreds of expensive watches into bags and baskets.

  “Armed Police,” he shouted, as he stepped into the light. “Put your hands ...”

  One of the looters drew a gun at terrifying speed. Robin jumped to one side a second before he fired, the bullet snapping through the air far too close to him for comfort. The soldiers rushed forward a second later, slamming into the looters and knocking them to the hard ground. Moments later, they were cuffed and helpless.

  “Get them up against the wall,” the army lieutenant ordered. He sounded pissed. Robin didn’t blame him. The looters had somehow slipped into the store without being noticed, which would be a black mark on the lieutenant’s record. Or it would be, if so much else hadn't gone wrong over the last twenty hours. The odds were good that no one would notice, as long as it wasn't brought to their attention. “Prepare to fire.”

  Robin stared at him. “Are you mad?”

  The lieutenant rounded on him. “I have authority to shoot looters,” he snapped. His face was red with fury. “These goddamned cockroaches ...”