Darkest Hour 1: Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  He turned and faced his small Cabinet. And small it was. Many of the ministers who’d served Prime Minister Gabriel Burley – wherever the hell he was – were dead, or in hiding. It seemed unlikely that they would be able to remain undiscovered forever, but that was small comfort. He’d had to promote a handful of his cronies, a number of men who owed him favours, and the senior surviving police officer in London. Some of them followed him because they believed in him, others followed because of the dirt he had on them...and at least two were there because they had nowhere else to go. But that could change, Alan reminded himself, savagely. How long would it be before one of them realised that they could make their own deals with the aliens? And then how long would Alan last?

  “We have a problem,” he said, addressing his Media Officer. Catherine Stewart knew where the bodies were buried, sometimes literally. Alan had once heard a joke about how many people would attend the funeral of a world-famous columnist, just to make sure that the old bat with the poison pen was finally dead. It applied just as much to Catherine, whose blonde good looks concealed a razor-sharp mind and a complete absence of scruples. “The scrum who did this killed innocent Londoners. They have to be found. I want you to make sure that that party line gets out there right away, without any dissent. Try and prevent the internet from taking any other line.”

  Catherine nodded. It hadn't taken her more than a week to start building her own empire – but then, she was the only source of employment for countless spin doctors and muckrakers who no longer had anywhere else to go. They’d make damn sure that the media toed the line, or he’d have some of them shot to encourage the others. And he wasn’t joking either. Given enough time, he was sure that they could shut down most of the internet in Britain, but it seemed different to do without taking down what remained of the government communications network. The aliens had refused to allow them to use the alien network.

  “Of course, sir,” she said. “How do you wish us to proceed?”

  Alan’s temper boiled over. “I expect your fucking subordinates to do their jobs,” he snapped. “I want pictures of the dead and wounded – the younger and sexier the better. I want sob stories on who died and how much promise they had in front of them before they were assassinated by the wretched terrorists. I want total media coverage – interviews with the survivors and relatives, talking heads on how some people just cannot forget the past, and tearful interviews demanding that the legitimate government do something about them. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Catherine said. She lowered her eyes, but Alan wasn't fooled. There was nothing submissive in her nature. “I shall see to it personally.”

  “Now go do your damned job,” Alan snapped, and waited for her to leave the room. She was too smart for her own good, at least in a world he controlled – as long as he pleased the aliens, of course. Given time, he was sure that she would be the one to challenge him. The woman was just too ambitious for her own good. “Chief Constable – give me some good news, please.”

  Chief Constable Gerald Rivers hadn't been Chief Constable for very long. His predecessor and his deputy had been killed when the aliens took out Scotland Yard and Rivers’ only real qualification for the job was that he’d been the senior police officer to agree to serve the aliens and keep the peace. He was a short man, inclining towards stoutness, but there was a hard edge underneath him that Alan had no difficulty recognising. It was a shame that he genuinely believed that the only way to protect the public was to work with the aliens, rather than allowing ambition to drive him forward...Alan shrugged. One couldn't have everything and Rivers wasn't likely to try to unseat him.

  “We did manage to repair most of the CCTV network nodes over the last few days,” Rivers said. London had had the greatest number of CCTV cameras per person in the world – until the aliens had arrived and wrecked a few hundred when they’d taken out Central London. “I’ve had crews working on the footage – we did manage to trace the van back to its base. And we got some good pictures of the bomber himself, but we think he had at least one accomplice. The explosives used in the blast were military-grade.”

  Alan scowled. The Household Division had put up a vicious little fight in Central London – and the aliens had been certain that they hadn't rounded up all of the surviving soldiers. Some of them had been killed trying to get out of London, but others had clearly stayed inside the city – and had been planning to carry on the war against the aliens. He cursed them under his breath, even as he tossed a few ideas around in his head. Perhaps there was a way to escape blame for the disaster...no, the aliens wouldn't be interested in excuses. From what he’d heard, they were only interested in results.

  “I assume the bomber blew himself to fuck,” he said, flatly. The swearword felt good on his lips, even though he had been careful not to swear in public before allying himself with the aliens. The Leathernecks, as some were calling them. “What about his accomplice?”

  “I’m afraid his ally was too careful,” Rivers admitted. “Our CCTV coverage near Regents Park has never been what it should be – and whoever was behind the blast knew to stay out of the camera’s field of vision. The chances are good that we have some footage of the bomb-maker, but we don't know it. At least, not yet.”

  He shrugged. “The bomber himself, we believe, was Aashif Shahid,” he continued. “He does have a file – he came to our attention after a number of outspoken comments in the mosque about the need to wage war on the Great Satan – but MI5 took a look at him and decided that he was nothing more than a loudmouth. No real contacts with the radicals who could provide explosives or weapons – and no sign that he was trying to build his own. And as for why he decided to attack the aliens...?”

  Alan shrugged. “Get a team out to the garage and see if you can pick up any clues that might lead to the bomb-maker,” he ordered. “And then draw up a list of his friends and family. I want them arrested and charged with harbouring a known terrorist...”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Rivers pointed out, “there is no evidence that anyone else knew about his plans...”

  “Do it anyway,” Alan ordered, sharply. He glanced over at the alien communicator on the table. God alone knew how it worked, but it was quite possible that the aliens were watching him at all times. Fear leaked into his voice as he spoke. “Do you want them to do it?”

  Rivers met his eyes in shared understanding, if for different reasons. The aliens could do it, all right, or they might bring in the heavy weapons. It was easy to imagine them calling down strikes on London, blasting entire buildings to rubble just to teach the imprudent humans a lesson. And then they’d be looking at thousands dead and God alone knew how many wounded. And it wouldn't give them a chance to track down the remainder of the resistance cell. And...

  “See to it,” Alan ordered, quietly. “We can't risk losing control now, or we might lose everything.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 15

  From a distance, the old garage looked harmless. Just another old business, struggling to stay afloat in the depression – and perhaps making questionable deals with criminals or terrorists to keep the money rolling in. But Sergeant Terry Graves knew better than to relax. CO19 – the Central Operations Specialist Firearms Command – had broken into terrorist bases before and, no matter how innocent they looked, they often had unpleasant surprises waiting for unwary armed police officers. The irony didn't amuse him as he beckoned the rest of the team forward, leaving two men behind to watch from a safe distance. They’d been sent into battle unarmed, at least without firearms. The alien ban on human firearms was still firmly in place.

  Terry cursed silently under his breath as they crept closer. In an ideal world, he and his team would be fighting the aliens – and they’d had time to conceal a small number of firearms around London in places they could reach them if the shit hit the fan. But for the moment, they had no choice, apart from collaboration. And if they fa
iled to catch the insurgents who had struck out at the aliens, the aliens would take steps of their own. Given their willingness to use indiscriminate weapons fire in the midst of the civilian population, he had no doubt just how bloody and violent their steps would be.

  He held up a hand as he inspected the garage’s door. It was quite possible, judging by the blast that had levelled an entire technical college, that they weren't dealing with would-be terrorists at all. The moron who’d driven the truck could have been told that he would have time to make his escape, or maybe he’d known that he was going to die. And the person behind him, far from being an international terrorist, might be someone trained and armed by the British Army. Terry had seen enough SAS troopers during their cross-training sessions to dread the possibility that one of them might have gone rogue.

  The thought made him snort. From what they’d been able to pick up from the internet, the remains of the British military had been ordered to carry on the fight for as long as possible. They weren't chasing a rogue, but someone intent on carrying out his orders and hurting the aliens until he was finally hunted down and killed. There might be an entire team of Regiment soldiers waiting for them, or perhaps they had already vanished, leaving no traces behind. Terry envied them their freedom of action. His own family had been moved to a place where they were being held – for their own good, of course. And if he turned against the aliens, they would kill his entire family.

  They seem to be getting an idea of what makes us tick, he thought, sourly. God knows how long they were watching us from space. They don’t seem to be particularly subtle at all – do as we want or we will kill you. And if you vanish, we will kill your family...

  The garage seemed deserted, but he clutched his baton tightly as he pushed at the door. There was a single click and then the door swung open, revealing a deserted interior. It looked as if someone had been busy – there were tools scattered everywhere – but they had clearly abandoned the building. Judging from the skill shown by the bomb-maker, he’d probably assumed that the suicide bomber would have been caught on camera and traced back to his base. Someone from the Regiment would have known just how the Met used the CCTV network to look backwards in time and try to localise a terrorist base. Or catch bad parkers, for that matter.

  He beckoned two other officers inside and they spread out, checking for traps while carefully not touching anything that might carry fingerprints or DNA evidence. The pit below where the van had rested was deeper than he expected, suggesting that the original owner of the garage must have been a very tall man. Or perhaps he’d just been an expert at scrambling out of pits. There was no sign of a ladder or any other way back to the ground floor.

  “In here,” one of the officers muttered. “I found papers.”

  Terry followed his gaze. The back of the garage was a small office, stinking of half-eaten kebabs and burgers. Judging from the smell, the food had to have been decomposing for several days, perhaps a week. London’s endless series of kebab houses had been shutting down as supplies from outside the city tapered off, leaving the population dependent upon the tasteless alien muck. It struck him as odd that an SAS soldier would leave contaminated food behind, but maybe it was intended to deter intruders. He certainly wouldn't have wanted to go into the office without a gas mask and perhaps a flamethrower. The forensic team were going to have to wear full NBC suits if they wanted to pull anything useful out of the room.

  “Maybe they left something behind to tell us where they were going,” the officer said. Terry doubted it. It was rather more likely that the garage’s owner had left the papers behind, wherever he was now. Teams of researchers were already looking through the records to see what had happened to him – maybe he’d registered with the aliens – but Terry wasn't too hopeful that they would lead the Met to the bomb-maker. It was far more likely that it would be nothing more than a wild goose chase. “Or perhaps...”

  He opened one of the drawers, a second before Terry could shout out a warning. There was a second click, followed by a wave of fire that blasted out and into the garage. Terry yelled in pain as his skin burned, even as he stumbled backwards trying to find the way out. The flames were spreading with terrifying speed, suggesting that the entire garage had been rigged to catch fire quickly and efficiently. He felt as if he’d caught fire himself...somehow, gasping for breath, he managed to find his way out without falling into the repair pit. Another officer wasn't so lucky; Terry watched in horror as he fell, just before the flames roared into the pit. They seemed to be almost crawling across the ground towards the policemen. He heard a scream that cut off seconds later.

  Outside, he could hear the sounds of fire engines already on their way. It was far too late. The flames had consumed much of the evidence, if there had ever been any evidence at all – it was, he realised grimly, a trap intended to kill a number of policemen as well as wipe the slate clean. It was clear that the bomb-maker had a nasty sense of humour.

  His skin still burning, he found a place to sit and waited for the fire brigade. Somehow, he was sure that they wouldn't find anything in the ruins of the garage. The bomber had gotten clean away.

  ***

  Robin glanced up at his small force of policemen. They were all wearing riot-control gear, which should provide some protection if the situation turned violent. And it might well turn violent – Londoners weren't used to seeing hundreds of people torn from their homes and transferred to detention camps, even during the terrifying days after suicide bombers had struck the London Underground. People might resist – and if they did, it was likely to get bloody. And they’d still been denied firearms. The aliens had promised that they would have a force on standby to help out the police if necessary, but Robin was determined not to call on them. They’d kill civilians indiscriminately in the name of restoring order.

  The vans pulled up outside the house and halted. Robin opened the doors and led the way out and up to the door, pressing down hard on the buzzer. A second team had been deployed to the back of the house, where it would snatch up anyone trying to climb out the rear window. There was a brief pause, and then a middle-aged Asian woman opened the door, her dark eyes clearly armed. The police weren't very popular in this part of London, despite attempts to recruit more officers from ethnic minorities. And they were about to become a great deal less popular...

  Robin grabbed her, frisked her with casual efficiency, and then spun her around and slapped on the cuffs. She let out a yelp of shock that became a scream when he shoved her into the arms of another policeman, who would put her out in the garden until they’d rounded up everyone in the house. Her yelp brought two teenage boys out to see what was going on; Robin barked at them to keep their hands where he could see them, just before taking advantage of their shock to handcuff the lead youth. The second tried to swing a punch at Robin, only to be sent falling to his knees when Robin slammed his baton into his chest. He vomited, but Robin had no time to see to his health. As soon as the cuffs were on, he crashed onwards, into the next room. Two younger girls were cooking something that smelt hot and spicy; he gave them a moment to turn off the gas before cuffing both of them and pushing them outside.

  Five other policemen had clumped up the stairs, finding three middle-aged gentlemen and an elderly lady who looked old enough to be Robin’s great-grandmother. Her ID card claimed that she was sixty. The policemen cuffed her anyway, shouting at the men to keep them subdued as they were hauled downstairs. Robin kicked his way into the suicide bomber’s room, but saw little of interest apart from some pamphlets produced by radical fundamentalists calling on the Muslim community to rise up and slaughter the infidel. He picked a new-looking booklet up and glanced at it, realising that the fundamentalist arseholes had demoted America from Great Satan to Middle Satan. The aliens seemed to be the new Great Satan, although he wasn't sure why. He’d heard that some fundamentalists were claiming that the aliens had bombed Mecca, but as far as he’d been able to tell they’d largely ignored the Middle E
ast. The region was sinking into chaos after they’d smashed the military bases and left the rest of the region to sink or swim on its own.

  Outside, a crowd was already gathering. The policemen ignored them as the next set of vans pulled up, ready to take the prisoners to the detention camp. Robin shuddered as the prisoners set off an awful racket, yelling and screaming for help from their fellow Muslims – and everyone else in the area. He felt sick at what he was doing – the Nazis had done the same to the Jews, as well as everyone else who’d incurred their hatred – but there was no choice. The looks some of the civilians were giving him suggested that they wouldn’t accept his excuses, or his self-justifications. They saw him as a monster serving an inhuman enemy.

  But we’ve no choice, he wanted to shout. They can kill the entire human race.