***
Saturday, February 18th, 2045 7:25am: Secret Government Bunker under Central London
She’d never met the prime minister before. Sophie and Ashley had walked in on him and his skeleton COBRA committee the evening before with their news—or, more accurately, someone else’s theory delivered as news. Sophie had to admit that whatever was happening was a complex play of interconnecting moves. They’d waited patiently as the call with the US Embassy turned into a conference call with American Secretary of State, Hilary Claiborne. But the result was far from promising and in some ways similar to the EU’s non-committal answer. The difference was that the US still had the ability to project its military power in a way the EU didn’t, if it ever could. An answer with whatever assistance they could muster was due before 1800 hours, Claiborne had promised Faraday. The barriers of isolationism may have risen around both countries, but there was still four centuries of overwhelmingly positive history between them.
***
In the bunker’s accommodation quarters, Sophie rinsed her face with water cupped into her hands then took a sip of the cold liquid. She pushed the stray stands of collar-length blonde hair behind her ears and looked at herself in the mirror. The harsh fluorescent lighting in the communal bunker bathroom did her no favours, accentuating the dark rings induced by a fitful night’s sleep in the bunk below the snoring Ashley. He wasn’t the only one snoring and disturbing her. The austere quarters dozens of metres below London had them packed in like sardines. Her face had already dried and it was a makeup-free zone, so she made her way out and along the twenty metres of concrete-lined corridor to the comms room.
The comms room was the size of a double garage and had workstations for ten operators. A policewoman sat at one seat talking into a headset and tapping and sweeping her display filled with what looked to Sophie like police unit icons. An air force NCO took another place and next to him a young man in army uniform. Ashley was waiting for her beside the corner workstation. She smiled more at the sight of the coffee he handed her than seeing the nighttime snorer himself.
After the first hit of caffeine she looked up, gave him a wan smile and said, “I needed that. Thanks, Ash.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled. “I was about to check in with Jian Yu again for the latest. No doubt what’s left of the COBRA committee will be wanting an update soon.”
“No doubt.” Such a nice bloke is Ash, she thought, not for the first time. Her thoughts turned to her on-off boyfriend, Tom. She’d not been able to get hold of him since the attacks started. The mobile network was patchy, but she did eventually get through only to find that all of his devices were seemingly off the network. She consoled herself by rationalising: he was a black belt jiu-jitsu instructor with only himself to look after. And where he lived, in Chelmsford, Essex, was probably not a hotspot of enemy insurgency. The only strategically important thing she could think of there was the Essex Police HQ—an almost certain target of whoever was doing this. From all of the intelligence she’d gleaned as an MI5 operative, everything pointed to targeted attacks with a single-minded end goal: a power grab, a blitzkrieg military coup. She—along with almost everyone else in the bunker and MI5—was now a firm believer that it was exactly that.
Now she hoped to hear some further details from the GCHQ whiz—Jian Yu—who’d shown them the first tentative evidence that perhaps it wasn’t the Russians behind it after all.
“So what did you make of Jian’s theory?” said Ashley.
“First off, it’s not Jian’s theory, it’s bloody well ours!” she said. “Granted, he has some evidence and we didn’t when we took it to Maison last April—”
“Yeah, but you have to admit, at the time we were a bit speculative when we said there was going to be a coup attempt…”
She nodded, “No, you are right. I mean who’d have believed Zane, Hardcastle and Becker were plotting a coup using these bloody robots for Christ’s sake! Even we thought it was bonkers later on!”
“Yeah, after Pardew and Green got hit by that sniper then the A1 ambush, it seemed pretty clear the Russians were plotting something after all.”
“But not anymore, Ash, perhaps ... maybe… Hey, what’s that flashing icon mean? Is that Jian calling in?”
“Yep, looks like it,” said Ashley, handing her a spare headset.
“Hey guys, Jian Yu here,” said the young, enthusiastic sounding man. “Working from home now … most of us are. GCHQ got attacked last night too … it’s under siege now. No one knows what’s happening … it’s chaos, guys!”
“So did you manage to track down our dubious trio or find out anything else?” asked Sophie.
“Right guys, so recap: last night I told you about the bot control traffic being concentrated in Wales. Well, we couldn’t find the origin of it—too well dispersed through the internet. But I did correlate an unusual traffic loading here… I’m sending a map now.”
A map of Wales appeared on the display with all manner of arrows of varying thicknesses joining nodes on the map.
“What you’re looking at,” he said, “are the data nodes in Wales with average data rates shown for both wired and wireless transmissions. The thicker the arrow the more data. Now take a look at this…”
The same map now showed a similar network of arrows but with one much thicker than before. Jian had circled it in red then drawn around a town name.
“You’ve circled Pen y Fan. Why the uptick in data from there?” asked Sophie.
“Ah, now that’s the interesting part,” he said. “Two days ago, the Second Battalion of the Parachute Regiment—2 PARA—made camp nearby and started on a week-long exercise. Any guesses on who’s CO of 2 PARA?”
“Becker?” said Ashley.
“Oh yes,” he said, “one Colonel Thomas Becker.”
“But hang on … the army doesn’t use the public networks you’re showing on the map,” said Sophie.
“Precisely!” said Jian. “They shouldn’t be … the army has its own fixed and satellite comms networks as well as in-field tactical systems. So why all the data traffic coming from there? It only makes sense if Becker is somehow controlling the robots.”
“But that’s crazy!” said Sophie. “Even if his entire battalion were in on it they wouldn’t be able to control the tens of thousands of bots involved!”
“Well, yes, I admit that is a part of the story I’ve not worked out yet.”
“Do we need to get over there and take a look then?” she said, a little naively.
“Get real, Soph!” said Ashley, shaking his head. “What are we going to do with no resources, through all the chaos then having to face a potentially hostile battalion of Paras?”
“I didn’t mean us,” she said. “I meant propose it to Shawcross and the—”
“Not necessary for the moment, guys … well, at least not for what I need,” said Jian. “I’ll keep working on it. See if I can refine the origin of all this extra data some more.”
They clicked off shortly after agreeing that they needed to prove the data was coming from Becker. The next step would be to try to decipher it, although Jian Yu admitted himself that the current encryption firmly had the upper hand against contemporary decryption.
***
Half an hour later, Sophie and Ashley joined the PM and COBRA team in the conference room. They gave the leaders a summary of their theory—that it was Becker along with Zane and Hardcastle behind the action. They told of how they’d initially suspected them almost a year ago and how their political views and close relationship had formed an inner circle of potential plotters.
Faraday said, “I’ve known John Hardcastle a long time. Yes, we’ve had our differences—one might even call it a falling out—but to suggest he’s somehow conspired with Victor Zane, one of our most successful CEOs, well, I find it hard to believe.”
Home Secretary Khan intervened. “I know John too … and Zane. It’s an interesting theory, but the evidence isn’t exactly compelling is i
t?” he said, looking at Ashley and Sophie for answers.
They said nothing.
Khan said, “A plot of this size would need a lot of people involved. For a start, with the assassinations and widespread violence, they’d need to fill the power vacuum with a leadership. Okay, perhaps that’s a limited number of politicians, military and other leaders … fine. But what about the cadre of … terrorists … needed for all the bombings, not to mention the literally thousands needed as robot operators. I’m afraid what you have is just a theory with little or no evidence.”
“So you believe it’s the Russians, do you?” asked Sophie, looking from Khan to Faraday and back again.
Faraday said, “I believe that is our most credible explanation at the moment, yes.” Sophie was about to reply when he continued. “Having said that, I feel we need to pursue this theory of yours. I do remember reading about this in a report from Maison last year and how it was dropped after the sniper shootings of your colleagues. So it was worthy of consideration at least and it’s even more pressing that it should be now in my view.”
Khan said, “I’m afraid I still disagree, but it’s your call, Prime Minister.”
With no other dissenting voices, Shawcross agreed to have 2 PARA contacted as a first step. The options after that were either to recall them, reconnoitre them or the drastic step of taking them out of play entirely. What they needed was evidence, and fast, but in all the chaos it was going to be a real challenge.
Martial law had been declared and nighttime curfews were in effect. Faraday and the team heard updates from numerous police, military and civilian sources. The three centres of robotics operations—Colchester, Aldershot and Catterick garrisons—had all fallen as had most RAF and naval bases. Many major airports, seaports, railway stations and motorway junctions had been seized. The channel tunnel had been blockaded. Almost all central government buildings had been taken or destroyed and it seemed all major police stations had been attacked. Many attacks were completed with just one or two Centurions. When a building was attacked, armed police or occasionally army might eventually turn up. But even when they did, their weapons could not take down the military-grade robots; only liberal use of grenades, large calibre rounds or heavy weapons could do that. GCHQ was still part-destroyed and under siege with hundreds of staff trapped inside. Only a few TV, radio and internet companies remained operational. All of this by up to quarter of a million centurions and eighteen thousand Sentinels.
All military reserves had been called up, but it was too little too late. They were having to assemble in fields or civilian buildings and lacked even the most basic equipment, let alone weapons and ammunition. With the fall of the military and the loss of its assets, there was nothing left to oppose the coup save for the handful of navy vessels still at sea. There were a number of destroyers and smaller vessels in the English Channel and North Sea. The rest of the fleet was further afield and would take weeks to sail home. The main hope—in the short-term at least—lay with HMS Intrepid, currently awaiting further orders somewhere in the North Sea. She was one of two Royal Navy ships fulfilling their role of amphibious assault ship and drone operations platform. The other one—HMS Orient—had been on exercise in the Far East when her recall order had come. These Intrepid-class ships were designed to support amphibious landing operations. HMS Intrepid was carrying close to two thousand Royal Marines—a fearsome fighting force. Her complement of sixty-five UAVs included multi-role rotary winged for anti-submarine, recon and SAR operations, and fixed wing VTOL drones for troop insertion, ground attack and air defence. But even with the potent force Intrepid represented it was hard for Faraday to see how they could turn things around.
***
Six hours later, they’d just finished lamenting the call they’d received a short time before. The EU Ambassador had kindly informed them that Brussels was now in deliberations over what assistance to provide. They were assessing “the British Coup”, as he called it. They would come back with their answer “in a few days.”
Faraday said, “Well, our hopes weren’t high… I doubt there’s anything they could do now if they tried.”
He sipped his now cold black coffee—his sixth that day so far. Even with all the caffeine, he felt his tiredness building inside his core. He rubbed his eyes and thought of his family. They were the lucky ones, safe in the bunker complex due to his position. At least the attacks hadn’t been on civilians, but the general breakdown in law and order were beginning to make the streets increasingly unsafe.
And then the conference phone rang. It was the Americans and Hilary Claiborne herself on the line.
“Prime Minister Faraday, I trust you are bearing up okay?” she asked sympathetically. They’d only met once before and did not know each other well. Bilateral relations weren’t what they used to be decades before, as both countries retreated into relative isolation.
“Yes, we’re fine … all things considered…”
“I would ask for a situation update from your side right now, but under the circumstances perhaps I should being giving you one if you agree.”
He knew the CIA probably had a better view than his own fragmented intelligence services now did, but her forthright approach still rankled his pride. They listened to a senior CIA officer say his piece—no doubt withholding anything deemed counterproductive to US national interests. All it did, in Faraday’s mind, was confirm what they already knew: the UK power structure was in deep trouble and would not survive the week without outside help. He wondered briefly what eventual price the Americans would levy, thinking back to the history books and lend-lease deal of World War II. Not as high as the Russians, he thought morosely.
Half an hour into the call, they got to the main act.
“So, as promised, we have an initial response on request for assistance,” she said. “The president and the National Security Council and many other stakeholders have been involved in the decision-making process. We’ve pulled out all the stops to help you here, Prime Minister. As you can imagine, it’s not been easy in such a short time span. So, at the moment, we can only offer limited assistance. But before I get on to that I want to make clear: this is an initial response and in the fullness of time we’ll see where it goes.”
“I understand,” said Faraday. “Any help you can give we value at this time of need.”
She said, “You need to understand that this intervention we’re proposing flies in the face of two decades of US foreign policy. Some call it isolationism. On the one hand, we have four centuries of history together and we feel we need to assist in your time of need. Britain is still our most important strategic ally and an important trading partner. But on the other hand we have those who want to avoid getting dragged into another foreign war like in times of old. The president and I have sympathy for both viewpoints, but on balance we believe the threat is unprecedented.”
“You’ll hear no arguments from us there, Madame Secretary.”
“I’ll hand over to General Ollington from the Joint Chiefs,” she said. “He will brief you on the force we propose. General…”
At that moment, an armed policeman burst into the room. Before he could speak, the rat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire was followed by a scream coming from the communications room. Then shouts and more gunfire.
“Get under the table!” shouted the bearded officer.
He ran out into the corridor while the other two police officers covered the meeting room door with their carbines. The bearded officer took a right and raised his weapon in the direction of the comms room. He passed out of Ashley’s view, but he could hear him running. He heard further exchanges of gunfire to the right to where the cop had run. Light pulsed on the corridor wall opposite the cop’s muzzle flashes.
There was a scream from outside, “Ah, I’m hit!” The cops in the room advanced on the door in aid of their fallen colleague. They opened up on the unseen enemy right outside of the door, spewing forth half a clip each within seconds.
/> “We need to get you out of here!” said Ashley to PM Faraday. Ashley felt for his service pistol strapped to his ankle holster. Not much, but better than nothing.
“Who else is armed other than Sophie and me?” he said.
No one else was.
“Ok… If you see a weapon, grab it,” he said. “Right… Just follow me! Come on; let’s go while we still can!”
As he rose from behind the conference table, he realised the Americans could hear everything, but he had more important things to worry about. He dashed to the door, his 9mm raised. The policemen were still holding back whoever or whatever was coming from the right. He didn’t know how long that would last as he waved Sophie, Faraday, Khan, Shawcross and Douglas-Smith out to the left. Four frightened looking aides—two men, two women—followed, running towards what they hoped was safety. Ashley hated to leave them there, but knew he needed the two cops to hold off the attackers while he took care of the VIPs. As far as he knew, these might be the last leaders left in the country and the enemy were moving in for the kill. Hell, they’d already learned of enough politicians’ and military officers’ assassinations. The king was safe on the continent and it was looking more and more likely that Faraday and the rest would need to find exile somewhere too if they wanted to live.
He backed away from the two cops and was about to turn and run when he saw what he feared: the metallic form of a Centurion, armed with just a handgun emerging from around the corner. He sprinted away in the opposite direction, towards the corner twenty metres away down the stark, concrete corridor. He kept checking back over his shoulder, somehow unable to resist. The cops hit the robot with a dozen rounds in the face and chest. It stalled for a moment, quickly realigning its head and aim. It fired once, hitting the left officer in the forehead, sending him slumping to the ground as the robot snapped the second shot into the exact same place on the other cop.
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