He'd seen enough and decided to go up a floor. This time he climbed the stairs and experienced the same frozen conditions, here and on Floors 2, 3 and 4. He summoned the lift whilst considering the top floor.
On this floor, the fourth, there were signs of snow ingress and it was much colder. By checking another office, he observed that snow was indeed up to the fifth floor at least. A quick calculation put it at forty feet-plus deep.
He decided that he would take the stairs.
He climbed slowly, and as he reached the landing, he discovered the reason for snow lying in the corridors below. The roof of the building had indeed collapsed under the weight of snow - and the destruction was comprehensive.
However, the good news was that he could see daylight and was able to breathe in lungfuls of crisp, fresh air. Sunlight was filtering through the carnage, and after closer study Stiles decided that escape to the surface was indeed possible, but probably inadvisable.
Consequently, he used his initiative and scrambled up and over the snow and roofing rubble until he stood on the outside, essentially on the top of the building.
The sight that met his eyes was astounding.
It consisted of a vast white landscape stretching out for miles in every direction. There were no buildings visible, no power lines, no trees. The only structure he could see was a church spire about three miles away – and another in the opposite direction. He had to don his sunglasses as the white out was complete, and Stiles was well aware of the dangers of snow blindness. He took several photos on his i-phone and returned to the lift.
Ten minutes later, he was de-briefing the Major.
‘Oh yes, we can get out, but it's bleak. I can't guarantee the stability of the surface, so without skis we are stymied. I wouldn't recommend an evacuation at this point. We've got a radio, let's use it. We can send a GPS of our exact permission, and just sit it out and wait for the cavalry.’
‘I tend to concur,’ agreed Lord, ‘thanks Neddy, I’ll brief the others at lunch.
***
Major Lord informed his team of his decision, including Dame Susan, at lunch. The decision was to stay put until further notice. Lord would contact Brussels at regular intervals for updates. He had already conducted one conversation that morning:
‘Apparently, the new Prime Minister is dead and Sir Ian James is taking over. I'm not sure if either of them were aware of this facility, but the snotty civil servant I spoke to certainly did. He expressed surprise that only one VIP had reached safety, and stated that rescue would not be before the ninth of January. Apparently, James is moving to Brussels to join some woman called Fletcher who has been coordinating disaster relief, and setting up a base for the new British government.’
Susan Macintyre’s head jerked up.
‘Who did you say is running the operation in Brussels, Major?’
He tried to recall the woman’s full title.
‘Oh, it's a Dame Ann Fletcher – apparently she was the French Ambassador when this all started, and was the senior bod on the scene. Apparently she has done a sterling job – or so the civil servant said.’
‘My God, Ann Fletcher,’ she whispered.
‘I take it you know her, ma'am?’ said Lord disinterestedly.
‘Oh yes, I know her, Major. I know her.’
***
The team continued to function as per SOPs – Standard Operating Procedures – and kept in daily contact with Brussels. Neddy Stiles made regular visits up top, and every day took one member of the team to take in the view.
The lift continued to work efficiently and climbing the stairs was unnecessary.
The ninth of January came and went and no rescue appeared. Lord harassed Brussels, and was ordered to keep patient and maintain strict radio silence until called.
Another week passed.
And almost another.
Spirits were dropping and they couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been picked up. They had seen helicopters on their recces to the roof, but none approached or even came close.
Major Lord eventually broke silence and called Brussels and was told, in no uncertain terms, that their rescue was absolutely the lowest priority. Clearly, they could survive for months, and that other less fortunate survivors were in the direst of straits, and were way ahead in the queue for rescue.
On the twentieth of January, Neddy Stiles ascended the stairs on his daily recce, checked the exterior status and was immediately concerned for the structural integrity of the building above. It had rained for several days and melting snow was now cascading down to the ground floor. Water was starting to pool and the lift was shaft was partially flooded.
He reported back to the Major and before he could make any recommendations, the fire alarm in the corridor exploded into life.
‘Shit,’ swore Stiles, ‘I thought this might happen. I bet it's our bloody lift. It's still powered.’
The duty fire crew donned their protective gear and stormed down the corridor, through the two airlocks, released the giant lead door, and approached the lift. The alarm continued to blast out and muffled all conversation.
Lord followed on behind the fire crew and decided that the outer lead door could stay open – they might need to return to the bunker in a hurry.
‘Check the lift, Jacqui,’ the Major called, but she misheard him, and thinking he said, ‘call the lift,’ stepped forward and, before anyone could stop her, pushed the lift call button.
‘Oh my God!’ shouted Neddy and pushed Robert Lord to the floor as the lift door opened and a huge flash-back of flame swept into the room, engulfing Jacqui and George.
Neddy rolled away from the conflagration, dragging a stunned Bob Lord with him.
There was nothing they could do for their two friends and colleagues. Both were swamped in flame and were screaming sickeningly in terror and pain. They never stood a chance.
Neddy dragged Lord to his feet, and pulled him through the heavy door and down to the first airlock. They didn’t have time to close the door behind them, as the fire was taking hold of the plasticized walls and thick, noxious fumes were drifting towards them.
‘Quickly, sir.’ Stiles screamed. ‘Into the airlock. There's nothing we can do for them. They're gone! If we can get back to the main lounge, we've got a chance. The airlocks might hold the flames for long enough for us to evacuate.’
Robert Lord was shocked and horrified at the loss of two of his team. Nonetheless, he had seven others to consider, so he let Neddy take control. He led them through the two airlocks, and then down the corridor to the main living area.
They were met by their six colleagues, who had dressed in fireproof clothing, carried smoke masks and were armed.
‘Where are Jacqui and George,’ asked Gordon Banks.
Neddy just shook his smoke blackened head.
‘The lift door opened and flames engulfed them before we could do anything. We only just got away ourselves,’ he spluttered.
The team were stunned.
Lord gathered his wits and took control as Neddy cracked the door to the corridor and peeked out.
‘The second airlock is going, sir. We'd better move.’
‘Move? Move where?’ shouted Suzi.
‘Don’t panic, ma'am. There's another way out.’
Suzi was staggered – and furious.
‘What do you fucking mean, Major? A way out? And we’ve been stuck in here since the fifth of fucking January!’
‘Calm down ma'am, please.’
‘Calm down, you idiot, calm down! We've been sitting here on our fat arses for two weeks, and you now have the fucking nerve to tell me that there is a way out!’
‘Yes ma'am, there is a way out, but it's not that simple.’
Neddy Stiles interrupted the exchange as the others looked on in amazement. They all knew of the alternate escape route.
‘Simple or not sir, we need to move now, or our fat arses are going to burn.’
Major Lord gave him a look of amu
sed acknowledgement and walked back into his office.
‘Where the hell are you going, Major? We need to leave here now!’ Suzi was apoplectic with rage.
‘All in good time, ma'am,’ retorted the Major calmly.
He entered his office and retrieved a secret file, a bunch of keys, and his combat jacket. When he was ready, he led the way to the kitchens followed by his team with Neddy Stiles bringing up the rear.
Somebody handed him a smoke mask.
Suzi was grumbling loudly to nobody in particular – and nobody in particular responded.
They walked through the kitchen, through the refrigerated area and up to a door in the wall. Lord opened it with a key from the bunch and shepherded the seven survivors through as an explosion reverberated from the main anteroom.
‘Just in time,’ he thought, as he stepped through and closed the door, which was reinforced and fireproof.
‘Let's go,’ he ordered.
Neddy Stiles led the way along a narrow corridor that opened up into a wider access track.
‘Supplies are brought in this way,’ he observed, aiming his remark at Suzi, who was now much calmer and mildly embarrassed by her fit of pique in the lounge.
The tunnel narrowed again and began to lead slightly uphill. They walked for about thirty minutes, and passed through two airlocks and a lead reinforced outer door similar to the one in the other corridor, until they came across a security checkpoint. There was a thick door, a guard post and several chairs were lined up against the wall, evidently for waiting escapees. Nobody was in attendance at the guard post.
Major Ford brought everyone together and made his views clear. Dame Susan was staring petulantly at her erstwhile lover:
‘Mainly for the benefit of Dame Susan, let me re-examine why I decided not to use this means of escape before. Behind that door is small room, which leads to another room, which in turn leads to the cellar and basement storerooms. From there we can take a stairwell into the main GCHQ building. Nobody is aware of this set up except myself and the Officer Commanding the other shift, Lt Colonel Murray.
Be under no illusion – behind that door will lie death.
We lost contact with the Grade 4 supervisor on the twenty-eighth of December. He related scenes of starvation, despair and violence. The reasons I avoided taking you out via this corridor are twofold.
Firstly, my orders specifically forbade it.
Secondly, I suspected that we would meet desperate, hostile and aggressive survivors who would have probably killed us to reach safety and sustenance. I could not take that risk. If there had been fifty VIP survivors in our care, the decision to stay put would have been much easier. In any case my decision was based on logic and reason, taking all of the circumstances into consideration.’
Dame Susan maintained silence.
‘Now, we are going into the main GCHQ ‘Doughnut’, and we should be prepared for the worst. You are all armed. Be prepared to use your weapons.’
The Major then turned and approached the connecting door and opened it with one of his keys. The team passed into the antechamber as he locked the door behind him. He then unlocked the door leading into the GCHQ basement and warned the team to standby. Captain Stiles was on one knee, with his rifle pointed at the gap. As the door opened, they were met with pitch-black darkness and Major Ford switched on his torch. He shone it around the cellar, and seeing nor hearing any potential danger, advanced into the room. The others followed gingerly, switching on their own torchlights, and followed him through the storeroom into another space fifty feet further on. From here they progressed steadily towards a staircase, which led up to the ground floor of GCHQ. Major Ford signalled to Stiles to cover him as he unlocked the door, using the last of the keys from the bunch. He opened the door very slowly and peered into the corridor beyond. It was silent and dark, but a sweet and sickly aroma pervaded the air. He knew exactly what it was - he was a doctor.
It was the smell of death.
He summoned up the team, found an unoccupied office and instructed everyone except Stiles to remain hidden and quiet.
‘Cohen, you are in charge. We won't be long.’
Stiles and Ford left the team waiting in the room as they began their systematic search of the GCHQ building. It was dark, cold and wet. The floor was about six inches deep in slushy water, which contained all sorts of office type detritus. They ignored it all and continued with their search.
It didn’t take long to find the source of the smell.
As they reached the cafeteria on the ground floor, the stench grew even stronger and they soon discovered why.
Strewn across the floor of the café were dozens of bodies in various states of decomposition. This must have been their mortuary.
Lord decided to find out if anyone was alive.
He signalled to Stiles to stand by, and shouted:
‘Hallo, is there anybody in the building?’
There was silence except for the faint echo of his voice.
He repeated the call.
‘Hallo. This is Major Ford, RAMC, is anybody in need of assistance?’
Nothing.
The pair continued their search, looking into offices, shouting and scanning toilets and cupboards. Every now and then, they came across a dead body – but nobody appeared to be alive.
They made their way completely around the doughnut until they reached their companions again. This time, they all went walkabout.
Over the next two hours, they searched the entire building and found no survivors. The psychiatrist made a body count and came up with forty-four – exactly the number trapped when the snow began.
All dead.
The roof had stood up remarkably well. The snow had slid off the top surfaces, and clearly the £330 million spent on the design had paid dividends. Obviously, some water had invaded the building, but that could have been burst pipes during the thaw.
Lord turned to his team and made a decision.
‘We need to exit the building and attract some attention. Capt Stiles and Lt Cohen, you are to attempt to find an exit and report back in one hour, successful or not. We shall make ourselves as comfortable as possible.’
Stiles and Cohen scuttled away and the remaining six entered an office on the fifth floor and awaited developments. Susan Macintyre sidled up to Lord.
‘Robert, I apologise unreservedly. I was wrong to question your judgement and I hope that you can forgive me for challenging your authority in front of your subordinates.’
‘Don’t take it so hard, Susan. I could have kept you better informed – but no hard feelings on my part – except in one region that is.’
Susan gave him a smirk, which strongly inferred that another session between the sheets might well be on the menu, if and when they were rescued.
Just then, Stiles came jogging down the corridor.
‘Major, we spotted a small chopper and attracted its attention. It landed on the roof, and has called forward a larger Merlin transport. It will be here in twenty minutes. Can you all follow me to the roof at once?’
The small group rose to their feet and traipsed after Captain Stiles as he led them upstairs. Thirty minutes later all eight of the GCHQ survivors lifted off into the afternoon sky. They flew directly to Brussels, where cars were waiting to convey them to debrief and medical examinations. Robert Lord spoke to them briefly before they parted.
‘I suspect that we may never meet again, so I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you all sincerely for your professionalism, hard work, loyalty and friendship over the past eighteen months. We've done a difficult job very well and I desperately regret the loss of Ray Wilson and Jacqui Charlton. Good luck to you all and God bless.’
He shook their hands as they departed. He also noticed that Neddy Stiles sloped off into a separate vehicle – probably with his SAS mates. Major Lord and Dame Susan drove away in the same vehicle and after completing the processing procedures, were transported to the same accommodation centre.<
br />
Robert Lord certainly received his apology – in full.
***
Dame Susan spent the next two days – the twenty-first and the twenty-second of January – reintegrating herself into civilised Brussels society.
She read every edition of GB News and backdated foreign newspapers, spoke to senior personnel at the UKRA and telephoned political and security contacts, whose numbers were freely supplied due to her elevated status.
By the end of the day, she had re-oriented herself and felt fully briefed on the current situation. That evening she dined at the CSC and chatted to off-duty UKRA staff, whose alcohol-loosened tongues supplied more ‘unofficial’ information than was openly available.
The general opinion was that the United Kingdom was finished as a nation. It could take up to fifty years to re-establish any sort of cohesive, financially independent or viable infrastructure. Britain was now reliant on hand-outs from the rest of the world, and that source of income was rapidly drying up.
UKRA was fighting a rear-guard action, relocating – some called it ‘dumping’ - its people in any country that would take them. Once that job was complete – and it should be before the next winter set in, there would be little for the UKRA to do.
Until the snow had thawed, the flooding had subsided and the millions of bodies disposed of, access to the UK mainland would be impracticable at best.
The country was a desert.
Uninhabitable, with virulent disease lying in wait for the innocent abroad.
Admittance to the UK was strictly forbidden – which still didn’t stop speculators and looters from trying their luck. There was a tremendous amount of jewellery waiting to be liberated from amongst the rubble and to be stolen from bodies. The armed forces would have its work cut out for many years dealing with this issue alone.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 96