Invasion

by Dc Alden

  Grovely Wood, Wiltshire

  Mousa tapped the heel of his boot impatiently as the Blackhawk helicopter skimmed low over the fields and treetops of the English countryside. He stared out of the window at the passing ground below, at the four Apache escort helicopters that flew in a loose box formation around his own aircraft. Mousa thought he might well need them. This wasn’t London, with thousands of Arabian troops pouring into the capital every hour. There, he was well protected. But out here, they were chasing the tail of the enemy and the information they’d received from the LARVE before it was destroyed made it clear that there were still significant numbers of British troops and equipment scattered around the countryside.

  The Blackhawk flared and banked hard, dropping towards a large clearing surrounded by thick forest. Karroubi had chosen well, Mousa admitted, giving his aide seated opposite an approving nod. Grovely Wood was a series of undulating hills that dominated the skyline to the west of the town of Salisbury, the command post near its centre well hidden, the surrounding forest guarded by Mousa’s paratroopers. All in all they should be relatively safe. For now.

  The helicopter settled in the clearing and Mousa leapt to the ground, followed closely by Karroubi. They strode into the trees, a small detachment of waiting paratroopers falling in around them. A short distance into the wood the ground sloped gently downhill to a wide, flat area beneath the tree canopy, where a large command bunker had been hastily constructed from felled trees. Even now, the massive logs that formed the roof were being covered with earth by scores of shovel-wielding troops. When they reached the bottom of the slope a combat engineer officer, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, saw the approaching party and threw up a salute.

  ‘General, the command bunker is ready and on-line. We’re just finishing the camouflage now.’

  ‘Good. Lead on.’

  They stamped down the roughly hewn log steps until they were below ground level, ducking under the low roof and into the command post. It was dark inside, only the bright electronic glow of the large command display screen lighting the gloomy interior. There were a dozen operators with headsets lined around the log walls, busily tapping into their computer terminals while, opposite them, army and aviation group commanders conferred around a large, map-strewn table. The commanders turned as one and snapped upright as Mousa entered.

  ‘Report!’ he barked to no one in particular.

  A senior army officer stepped forward. ‘General. The situation is thus; our forward scouts have moved west to this town here, Trowbridge.’ The commander tapped the town’s electronic marker on the command display and instantly a new window opened, showing a large-scale digital map of the town and its surrounding area. He pointed to a cluster of glowing green icons to the west of the built-up area. ‘These are our reconnaissance units. They’ve been ordered to hold their position until we can get them more support. Resistance was encountered seven kilometres southeast of the town centre on this road here, the A361.We lost two light-armoured vehicles to anti-tank fire.’

  ‘Where is this convoy going?’ growled Mousa. He was referring to the British convoy that the LARVE had detected earlier that morning. Its speed and course had been plotted on the screen with a list of possible destinations. The commander tapped the convoy icon and the black and white footage from the LARVE nose camera began looping in another mini-screen.

  ‘General, our concern is that the convoy is heading towards the coast in an effort to move against our southern flank. It may be prudent to shift our axis to the southwest in order to counter the threat.’

  ‘And where is the convoy now?’ demanded Mousa.

  The army commander circled an area on the display with his finger. ‘They could be anywhere in this area here. We haven’t been able to establish exactly where, yet.’

  ‘Why not?’ Without waiting for a reply, Mousa turned to a senior air force officer. ‘Where are my surveillance craft?’

  The officer paled before his withering gaze. ‘Unfortunately, the ship transporting the LARVE units encountered some rough weather crossing the Bay of Biscay, General Mousa. Sea water entered the cargo hold through an unsealed hatch and corroded the flight instrumentation packages. ‘The air force officer unconsciously twisted his hands together. Mousa noted the gesture, his eyes boring into the man’s sweating face. ‘However, I immediately despatched another shipment by transport aircraft to Heathrow,’ the officer continued quickly. ‘They will be landing in the next two hours.’

  Mousa looked at his own watch. Two hours until the new parts arrive, another three or four to mate them with the LARVE units; it would be dark by then and Beecham might have fled his rat-hole. He might not get the opportunity to capture the Englishman again.

  Right now, Mousa would have given his right arm for real-time satellite imagery, but the re-tasking of satellites would be brought to the attention of the Holy One and Mousa would be stopped in his tracks. Not only that, but disciplined too, and the punishment for insubordination would be harsh indeed. He looked around the room; if any of the sweating weasels before him discovered he was operating without the consent of the Cleric, a call would be made and that would be the end of it. It’s a fine line I have to tread here, Mousa realised. He had to move fast, achieve his objective, before the game was up.

  He balled his fists behind his back. The LARVEs would have given him a big advantage over the Infidel forces. With five of those in the air he could have located the British convoy’s position in less than an hour, ordering his air assets to advance west to obliterate it. But without the LARVEs he was relatively blind and he dare not commit any more forces in a full-scale attack. Frustrated, he turned away from the air force officer and studied the command display.

  ‘The loss of the LARVEs is unacceptable. You will give the details of the transport ship’s crew to Major Karroubi here. In the meantime, tell me about the British anti-aircraft threat.’

  In the muffled silence of the bunker, the air force officer retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and quickly mopped his brow. Mousa turned, noting the beads of sweat glistening on the man’s cheeks, the neutral expressions of his comrades as they studied the command display with unnatural attentiveness. Mousa took no satisfaction in the man’s distress. More often than not, Mousa’s presence had an adverse effect on the performance of his cadre and, right now, he needed these men onside. He decided to soften his tone as he watched the air force officer ball up his handkerchief and shove it into the pocket of his combat trousers.

  ‘General,’ the officer continued, ‘I have ordered the launch of another Big Eye. It is currently maintaining station well to the east of us. Bearing in mind what happened to the other aircraft, I thought it prudent to keep it out of harm’s way.’

  ‘A wise move. And what intelligence is it giving us?’

  ‘We’re picking up dozens of air-search radars on various low and high-level frequencies. However, a pattern is beginning to emerge. If I may, General?’

  Mousa stepped back and allowed the older man access to the command display. The officer tapped the keyboard and the system began displaying air assets that were already in flight, superimposing them over a map of southern England. To the right of the screen, Mousa noted the position of the Big Eye, its green aircraft-shaped icon moving in slow circles at an altitude of eight thousand metres. To the left of the screen was a multitude of yellow, cone-like radar washes that shimmered from dull to bright to dull again on the display. The officer pointed to them.

  ‘These are the electronic signatures of the enemy search radars, General Mousa. Their points of origin are changing constantly, but the computer has begun to predict the change. For example, this one,’ he said, indicating a glowing red icon. ‘This is an enemy SAM vehicle and its original position was plotted here. Soon it will shut down its radar and move position, normally just a few kilometres, and once there it will go active again. The same can be said of this unit here.’ Another icon close to the first was also highlighted and m
agnified on the screen. ‘When this one moves, the other stays in position and overlaps its search area. Then the roles are reversed. It’s a pattern, General; move, search, move, search. And their final positions are always in the same place, give or take a few hundred metres. This pattern is being repeated with nearly all of the enemy anti-aircraft units we have plotted.’

  The officer turned to Mousa, swallowed hard and said, ‘It is my belief that these units are working in small groups of two or three vehicles, attempting to trick us into thinking that they have a multi-layered air defence capability. I believe they have far fewer assets than we first thought.’

  A courageous statement, Mousa allowed, and yet the man was right. He could see the pattern emerging, even as he watched the time-lapse display. But he needed the data firmed up before he committed his air assets to the west.

  ‘Excellent. You have done well, Colonel…?’

  ‘Ahmed,’ beamed the officer, stiffening to attention.

  ‘Inform me as soon as you have positive plots on all enemy positions, Colonel Ahmed. The remainder of our forces are ready?’

  ‘We have two squadrons of ground-attack aircraft on the tarmac at Heathrow,’ Ahmed declared loudly, bolstered with newfound confidence. ‘Your assault troops are already in the air as per your earlier instructions. They will head toward the Mendip Hills as soon as the anti-aircraft threat has been neutralised.’ Mousa nodded his satisfaction then addressed the room, keen to extend his uncharacteristic praise amongst the remainder of Ahmed’s colleagues. ‘Good work, all of you. Ensure everyone understands the importance of this mission and what their objectives are. The success of the operation is vital to our campaign.’ He strode away before stopping abruptly, Karroubi nearly cannoning into the back of him. ‘That convoy, heading south,’ Mousa reminded them. ‘Let me know when you locate it. And keep a close eye on our southern flank.’

  He marched outside, choosing a particularly stout pine against which to relieve his bladder. The pieces were all in place, and his assault troops would secure the Mendip command centre when the path to the west was clear. There, Mousa would find the Infidel, cowering in his hole. Yes, he reassured himself, it was only a matter of time before he had Beecham in custody.

  He zipped up his combat trousers and began to pace beneath the trees, his boots stamping an impatient path around the bunker. Time, Mousa pondered. Neither he nor the Englishman had much to spare.

  Alternate One

  ‘Wake up, boss!’

  Harry cracked an eyelid then sat up sharply, throwing off the bed covers. Gibson and Farrell were framed in the doorway of his private quarters, the light flooding in from the corridor behind them. He was confused. Both men were now wearing civilian clothes, tshirts and cargo pants, but still had their fearsome-looking weapons slung across their chests.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded groggily.

  Gibson snapped the light on and marched into the room. He grabbed Harry’s trousers and shirt from the wardrobe and thrust them towards him.

  ‘Plan’s changed. Time to leave.’

  ‘Now?’ Harry rubbed his face, fingering the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘General Bashford’s orders. Departure time has been brought forward. Everyone’s leaving.’

  ‘Why?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I thought we weren’t moving until later?’ Gibson ignored the comment. He stepped into the bathroom and turned

  the shower on. ‘No time for chitchat, boss. The General’s waiting for us.’

  Harry did as he was told. Showered and dressed, they navigated the tunnels until they arrived at the operations room. The corridor outside was busy with troops, yet there was none of the squaddie banter that Harry would normally expect to hear. Instead, the soldiers worked in silence, their arms laden with supplies and equipment, urged on by senior NCOs whose hushed voices remained calm and assured.

  Harry didn’t feel very calm. The tunnel was hot, the air stale and heavy, the abnormal silence of the men around him unnerving. He stayed close behind Gibson, who carved his way through the throng and into the operations room. Harry cuffed a fine sheen of sweat from his forehead, glad to have escaped the claustrophobic corridor.

  The first thing he noticed was the conference table, the chairs that ringed it empty, its surface covered with boxes filled with buff-coloured files and computer equipment. The space around the walls was the same, lined with packing crates and more cardboard boxes, while a crocodile of troops filed in and out of the room, grabbing what they could.

  Harry felt a hand on his arm and Farrell eased him to one side, out of the way of the busy soldiers. He caught the eye of one man – well, more like a boy, Harry realised, his thin arms straining beneath the weight of a large wooden box stuffed with manuals and rolled-up maps. Harry had a mind to help him but, as he moved to do so, the boy gave him a wink, then filed silently out into the corridor with the others. Harry shook his head. Cheeky bastard, he smiled, admiring the kid’s impertinence, the absence of fear despite the threat that faced them. Looking around, Harry saw that same expression on all their faces – a steady resolve, a youthful disregard for the dangers ahead. Brave lads, he admitted, all of them. Braver than him, anyway.

  General Bashford was at the far end of the room, flanked by Major Monroe and a handful of senior officers in a cluster of camouflage uniforms. They were gathered around a single radio operator, listening to the traffic that squawked and crackled from a wall-mounted speaker. All the other operators were gone, the row of computer screens that lined the wall dark and lifeless. Bashford turned as Harry approached.

  ‘Ah, Prime Minister. Good.’

  Harry could see the man was tired, the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, the unshaven cheeks, the dishevelled uniform. The other officers looked the same, exhausted both physically and mentally. A dangerous combination in a crisis, Harry knew. ‘What’s happened, General?’

  ‘A few hours ago an Arabian UAV was shot out of the sky by one of our air defence teams. Seems it was taking an unhealthy interest in Alternate One. We must assume we’ve been discovered.’ The general picked up a file from the conference table marked Confidential and began emptying its contents into a large shredder nearby. It whirred angrily, the plastic sack beneath bulging with paper spaghetti.

  ‘I see,’ replied Harry, unsure of how to respond.

  ‘It was only a matter of time, anyway. Since then, signals units have been picking up coded Arabian transmissions all afternoon and the volume of messages is increasing. The intelligence suggests an imminent assault.’

  Harry paled in the harsh light on the operations room. ‘Jesus. How long have we got?’

  ‘Hard to say, but I suspect time is short. I’ve ordered a wholesale withdrawal and the ships at Teignmouth are to be filled as soon as possible. The Deputy PM and several other senior civilian staff have already departed on my orders. We’ll rendezvous again in Scotland, once we’re settled. Our own helicopter will leave in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Right,’ Harry mumbled, trying to keep up. Like the others he was tired, exhausted actually, despite the couple of hours sleep. He noticed a large urn and a tower of paper cups on a nearby table and headed towards it. Coffee. Perfect. He poured himself a cup, left it black, and heaped in a couple of sugars. He sipped at the dark brew as Bashford emptied the last of his papers into the shredder.

  ‘We need to move fast,’ the general warned. ‘So far the evacuation has gone smoothly, hardly any civilian traffic on the roads at all. That will change, of course, when the Arabians start advancing towards us. It’s imperative we get our forces clear before panic sets in.’

  Harry pulled a chair from the conference table and slumped into it. ‘Running away,’ he grumbled, ‘that’s the truth of it. Quite frankly, I’m ashamed to call myself Prime Minister.’

  ‘We have no choice,’ Bashford reminded him. ‘You know that.’

  The general was right, but now evacuation had started, the reality of leaving the civilian population to an
uncertain fate left Harry feeling nauseous with guilt. The simple fact was England was lost. She’d been invaded before, many times over many centuries, but it was different now. There would be no secret mustering of an army, no forging of arms by village blacksmiths, their hammers ringing out a message of defiance across feudal England. No, this was the twenty-first century, and history would no doubt reveal that the battle had been fought and won by the Arabians long before a single shot had been fired, that Europe had been conquered by stealth and guile, by agitators, appeasers and fifth columnists. And, like the government itself, the British army had also been ambushed, its forces scattered and in disarray, leaving a frightened population undefended.

  Harry could taste the bitterness of personal defeat in his mouth, his ambitions, his vision for the country’s future prosperity, all now consigned to the waste bin of history. After the dust had settled, when everything was said and done, he would only be remembered as the man in charge when it all went wrong. Harry grimaced. If that was the case, then so be it. All he was left with now was the urge to contribute, to do something positive, something that would help save time, or lives. Something. Anything.

  He sipped his coffee, feeling the caffeine slowly energising his system, his eye drawn to the huge map of Britain on the wall. He was lost in thought for several minutes, the germ of an idea slowly taking root in his mind. After another minute or so he drained his cup and stood. ‘General, how many troops do we have in place to slow the enemy?’ Enemy. Strangely, the word didn’t feel unnatural when he said it.

  ‘Right now, about four thousand, most of them dotted along the predicted routes of advance.’

  ‘And we’ve no chance of stopping the Arabians?’ Bashford shook his head. ‘Short of tactical nukes, none.’

  ‘Then let’s get them out.’

  ‘Excuse me?’