Thirty-Nine
‘The US President, Prime Minister,’ the aide says, holding the secure phone out. The PM takes the handset as the aide flaps his hands to tell the many people in the emergency planning room to be quiet. A tense silence falls. The PM clears her throat and presses the button to make the connection live. ‘Hello, Sarah,’ the PM says calmly.
‘Veronica,’ the US President says. ‘I do hope you are in your bunker because your little country is about to be wiped off the face of the earth. Moscow and Beijing are both repositioning their missile systems.’
‘Is this a threat, Sarah? The British government does not give in to threats . . .’
‘Can it, Veronica. Do you have it or not? We’ll protect you if you have it, but I need to know.’
‘I cannot confirm . . .’
‘PM,’ an aide whispers from nearby, holding an identical handset. ‘Moscow on line two . . .’
‘I’m watching the damn feed, Veronica! We all are. Moscow is watching it. Beijing is watching it. This is too big for the UK to contain. You should have come to me first. Now do you have it or not because our special relationship will go out the damn window if you do not cooperate.’
The room bursts into frantic activity as aides and ministers rush to establish if the satellite uplink has been compromised.
The PM stares at the big screen on the wall. Cavendish Manor in the centre. Two gunships hovering overhead. Bodies scattered across the grounds to the front of the big house. She watches the four people at the edge of the undergrowth unleashing hell on the soldiers surrounding the house.
‘Sarah,’ the PM says. How her tone stays so calm is beyond everyone. ‘If you are watching the feed, then you will see this operation is unfolding as we speak. I cannot, at this stage, confirm or deny anything, but please be reassured that the UK seeks to work closely with the US in any and all matters of security.’
‘We come first,’ the US President states. ‘We are watching.’
Sarah Conway, second-term US President, cuts the line off and glowers round at the five-star generals, admirals and special advisors all flicking their eyes from her to the huge screen showing the satellite feed of Cavendish Manor. Sarah was honest enough to say they hacked the satellite feed, but she held back on saying they also hacked the radio network. The room listens to Mother screeching in ever-increasing panic that signifies a loss of control.
‘Be ready to launch.’ She utters the words. There is no choice. The rest of the world has to see the United States is prepared and ready. A time machine changes everything. No country other than the US can have such a thing.
In the same bunker under Downing Street that Safa Patel secured the then Prime Minister in nearly forty years ago, Veronica Smedley holds the handset out to one aide and takes the other while mouthing Who is it? The aide mouths back Moscow. ‘Veronica Smedley. To whom am I speaking?’
‘It’s Alexander. Do you have it?’
‘Alexander. May I first say that . . .’
‘We are watching it, Veronica,’ the Russian President cuts in, his accent holding only a trace of Russian – but then he was only a year ahead of Veronica at Oxford. ‘You must tell me. We can protect you. The UK is too small for this, Veronica. You cannot defend yourselves. Let us deal with Beijing and Washington. Work with us.’
‘Alexander, the operation is unfolding as we speak, but please be assured the UK seeks to work with Russia in any and all matters of security.’
‘Call me as soon as you know,’ Alexander asserts. ‘Russia will stand with you.’
‘PM, His Highness the King is still on line three. He’s demanding an explanation.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Veronica says, having severed the line to Russia. ‘He can wait. Get me Mother now . . .’
In a control room in a building in central London on the banks of the River Thames, Mother watches the satellite feed with wide eyes as the vein in her forehead bulges with pulsing fury.
‘WHERE IS TANGO TWO?’ she screams into the radio network, unaware of and indifferent to the fact that the US and now Russia are listening to every transmission. She looks again at the four figures outside. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth twitches. Frantic activity everywhere in the room. Phones ringing. Messages incoming. Hologram computer networks glowing. Voices speaking to process information. Two of the four were recognised instantly. Safa Patel and Ben Ryder. Mother allowed a second of shock at that recognition before screaming at everyone to get back to fucking work.
The big man is familiar. Harry? Harry? ‘WHO THE FUCK IS THAT ONE?’ she screeches, jabbing at the screen.
Aides flinch and mutter. One lifts a hand tentatively. ‘Harry Madden?’
‘WHAT? FUCKING WHAT?’
‘Looks like him,’ the aide says weakly.
‘FUCK FUCK FUCK.’ Mother stands straight, pushing her hands into her hair with utter despair. ‘WHO’S NEXT? BIGGLES?’
‘Mother, got the PM on line one . . .’
‘Tell her to fuck off . . .’
‘Um . . .’
‘Give me that phone . . . Veronica? I am really quite busy right now.’
‘What is happening?’ The voice is calm, controlled.
‘I don’t fucking know . . .’
‘Mother,’ another aide shouts. ‘We’re detecting more changes to missile positioning . . .’
‘Who?’ Mother demands. ‘Who the fuck is pointing missiles at us?’
‘Er, everyone is?’ the aide says, blinking rapidly at the information flowing into his system.
‘That is why I am calling you,’ the PM states, drawing Mother’s attention back to her. ‘I have received direct warnings.’
‘From who? Tell them to fuck off . . . WHERE IS TANGO TWO? Someone get Alpha on the line . . . What the fuck is happening? WHERE IS TANGO TWO? Is that Tango Two outside? What the fuck is she doing outside? Is she still inside? PM? Who threatened us?’
‘They all did. They all are . . . I need an update. Do we have it?’
‘Fuck,’ Mother mutters.
‘The US President is watching this feed,’ the PM says. ‘Moscow and Beijing too.’
‘WHAT? HOW? Hang on . . .’ She pulls the phone away for a second. ‘Is that Tango Two outside? WELL, FUCKING FIND OUT . . .’
‘They will launch at us if they even think we have it,’ the PM says into the phone. ‘We need to confirm or deny. We have no choice . . .’
‘It’s a live operation,’ Mother says, glaring round the chaos of her office. ‘If the US President is watching, she will see that.’
‘Now is not the time for semantics. We have US military aircraft in UK sovereign airspace. We have Russian military aircraft heading our way. Every missile facility in the world is currently pointing at us. I need answers. Confirm or deny.’
‘It’s her,’ someone shouts, pulling up the stock images of Tango Two to compare to Emily seen on the live feed. ‘Confirmed. That is Tango Two . . . real name Emily Rose.’
‘WHERE IS TANGO TWO?’ Mother screams into the radio as the PM holds the phone away from her ear with a wince, while her aides look on in varying states of fear.
A muffled voice amidst the chaos within the house. ‘WITH ME, TOP FLOOR . . .’
‘GUNSHIPS . . . TOP FLOOR . . . FIRE NOW, FIRE NOW . . .’ Mother screams.
‘Mother, be careful . . . If we are seen using heavy military equipment, it will send a signal that we are losing control,’ the PM says, trying her best to stay calm.
‘Fuck off,’ Mother snaps, throwing the phone across the room. She flips a switch to transmit on every channel deployed to the attack in Hampshire. ‘KILL TANGO TWO . . . KILL HER NOW! . . . GUNSHIPS . . . TOP FLOOR, FIRE NOW, FIRE NOW . . .’
Forty
Ria stares at the shimmering light with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands trembling. Her stomach in knots of fear, dread and abject pity. Her legs threaten to give way. They’ll kill her mum. She needs her mum. Her mum is in the house. She can get her out. Sh
e can do it. She needs seconds, that’s all.
She sobs as she takes the second tablet for the Red. She has to get her mum. She is pregnant. She doesn’t know what to do. It’s always about Bertie. Always about what he’s done. Her father didn’t care. He didn’t care before he committed suicide and he doesn’t care now. He ran off when they were being attacked in the house. He ran off and saved himself. He’s not even here now, but off hiding somewhere.
She has an assault rifle. She knows how to fire it. She’s watched the others enough times. She’s even put a magazine of live bullets in it.
Tears fall on the screen of the tablet. Panic surges up. Her breathing comes faster. She hyperventilates and smothers her own mouth with a hand to stop the noise carrying down the corridor to the doctor in his rooms.
All she can see is the look on her mum’s face when she tried to defend Bertie. The utter terror and confusion in her eyes. Her mum is a good person. Loving and caring. She doesn’t deserve this. Ria needs her. Her mum needs to be here in the bunker or on the island with Bertie. Mum will love the island. Mum loves the heat and sunshine.
Rational thought vanishes. The need to have her mum back outweighs anything else. She convinces herself she can do this. She can go through and grab her mum to bring her back. She’s even timed it for when everyone else is on the top floor trying to rescue her bloody brother.
She fights to recover her breathing and stem the tears falling down her cheeks that mist her vision. She fights to gain composure and push the crippling fear away.
Miri smokes outside the Blue. Her mind running fast. The thrill inside is strong and beautiful. The same thrill she used to get when she executed missions, but this is better than all of them put together.
She looks at the cigarette. Dammit, she hates smoking. She loves smoking. It stinks so bad, but feels so good. A lingering glance to the blue light behind her. A twitch at the corners of her mouth, then she looks forward to the direction of the house.
Through the scope on the Barrett, Ben watches Echo lead the charge up the main stairs. He knows Echo will throw the flash-bang up. Miri and Bertie will be stunned. John will get them into the bedroom and the last bit will happen. Several operatives and soldiers remain on the middle-floor landing, but what they do is of no relevance now.
Ben lowers the weapon. Blinking as his eyes adjust from the sights to real vision.
Safa leads them on, running towards the corner of the house to complete a mission that has gone like clockwork. Better than clockwork. It’s been almost easy.
Miri smokes. Her eyes cold and fixed. A few feet behind her and a hundred million years in the past, Ria inhales deep and slow next to the inert Red. Her hand holding the tablet trembles as she keys the coordinates.
Ben, Safa, Harry and Emily run. Miri smokes. Ria summons courage and on the middle landing of Cavendish Manor, while everyone else fights on the top landing, Alpha drags a terrified woman by her hair across the ruined carpet. His face twisted in fury. Bravo with him.
Soldiers and operatives watch as Alpha slaps Susan Cavendish across the face several times. Each one a solid whack that snaps her head over. Blood spills from her nose. Her eyes already swelling. She cries out and spits blood from her mouth. Bravo draws his pistol to press the barrel into Susan’s forehead.
In the grip of terror, Susan looks up into the almost friendly face of Bravo smiling down at her. She has no idea what is happening or who these people are. She didn’t even know Bertie had built a time machine until her dead husband walked back into their house not a day older than when he left. She fainted when she saw him, and believed it to be a dream until she woke and saw him again.
Her family were reunited. It was glorious and wonderful and beyond anything she ever dreamt of. She was suddenly years older than her husband, but worked hard to recapture a youthful appearance. Ria took her shopping. She had cosmetic surgery, breast augmentation, nips and tucks.
All she knew was that Bertie had glimpsed something nasty in the future. Best I get that sorted for him. That’s all Roland said. She never questioned Roland about his business activities before he died, and was so caught up in having him back she never asked him again. Then he slowly reverted to how he was before. Self-involved. Focussed and cold. He kept saying it would only take a while to sort out, then they could go away somewhere. Somewhere special and amazing.
Now she is kneeling on the carpet on the middle floor of her home, battered and bleeding, with a warm, friendly face smiling at her while a gun is held to her head.
Bravo knows he has a friendly face and he plays it to the maximum now. Jarring her senses to increase the sense of confusion. Alpha hits her again, but Bravo tuts and shows disdain at her being hit, then shakes his head at Alpha, who takes a step back. They’ve done this same routine many times.
Bravo drops to a crouch, the pistol still held at her head. ‘Who are they, my dear?’
She whimpers, shaking her head slowly, unable to speak or form coherent thoughts.
‘Come now, do tell me, who are those people?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Susan mouths, but she cannot think to answer. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything. Only confusion and fear.
‘KILL TANGO TWO . . . KILL HER NOW! . . . GUNSHIPS . . . TOP FLOOR, FIRE NOW, FIRE NOW . . .’ Mother’s voice screeching through every radio. Noise overhead upstairs on the top floor. Alpha moves in closer and slides a knife from his belt.
Bravo tuts sadly as he pulls the earpiece from his ear. ‘That is a shame, my dear. We’ll have to cut you open and feed your insides to your children.’
Susan’s head snaps up. Sharp focus in her eyes. Bravo smiles, wolfish and full of charm. ‘Who are they? Tell me or I will kill everyone you ever knew . . .’
Miri lights the second cigarette. The first one crushed under her boot. Footsteps coming. She lifts the rifle, aiming with two hands with the cigarette wedged between her lips. He’s young. Eighteen? Nineteen at the most. Fresh out of basic. He looks terrified. Consumed with panic and not watching ahead, only the sides. Running from the heavy machine gun and the sound of the Barrett.
‘Stop,’ she says dully. He crashes to a standstill. Eyes wide. His assault rifle held lowered. ‘Don’t do it,’ Miri says calmly. ‘Just drop it . . . Go on now . . . Drop it and live, or raise it and die.’
He drops it instantly. Gasping for air. His chest rising and falling. His face blotchy with red spots.
‘How old are you, kid?’
‘Ei . . . eight . . .’ He swallows. ‘Eighteen,’ he finally blurts.
‘Lie down, hands on your head. I won’t shoot you. Go on now. You stay still and quiet, and you’ll be fine.’
He nods. Believing. Hoping. He drops to his knees, then lies flat on the ground with his hands interlocked on the back of his head.
She adjusts position to cover him with the rifle held one-handed while she carries on smoking. ‘You ever smoke?’
‘No,’ he whimpers. ‘Once . . . couple of times . . .’
‘Stinks, don’t do it.’ She glances back to the Blue, then once again across towards the house.
It’s too much. Susan’s mind starts shutting down to protect her from the horror of the situation. She can feel the knife going in and she can feel the man with the friendly face gripping her chin, but it’s not her body anymore. She becomes detached from reality. Bravo spots the glaze stealing across her face and slaps her hard. She comes surging back to the now and the pain searing in her stomach. She tries to scream, but his hand smothers her mouth and suddenly his face is not so friendly. The knife sinks deeper. The pistol presses harder into her head. Bravo shouts louder. Demanding to know who they are. Telling her he will kill everyone. A red light. Shimmering and beautiful. She looks past Bravo to see every colour in the spectrum seemingly gliding over the gateway to hell.
Safa spots it. A flash of red light coming on inside the house as they run past the front. A shade of red unlike any other. Shining, shimmering and iridescent as
it glows from the landing on the second floor.
‘BEN!’
‘What?’ Ben snaps round to see Safa staring inside the house. Emily and Harry cover, aiming and firing back towards the grounds. Ben spots it instantly. Knowing instantly what it is. Knowing instantly what is happening.
Ria stares at the Red. Her whole body trembling. Her knuckles white from gripping the assault rifle. She has to go now. Right now. Her mum is out there. Tears stream down her face. Her eyes puffy and red. Silence, save for her own gasps. Determination rises. Wild determination. Courage summoned from delusion and panic brought on by the shock of everything. She has to save her mum.
The chain guns of the attack helicopters come to life. Over six thousand large-calibre rounds per minute. A deafening searing noise of bullets slamming into brick and plaster, and through windows and wood. The walls vibrate, sending shockwaves through the floorboards to make the whole house seemingly quake from the onslaught. Missiles launch and hit. Detonations. Guns firing. Explosions.
As the world around them gives way to noise and sensation, so the middle landing of Cavendish Manor bathes in red light. Twenty armed men snap heads over to the shimmering iridescence glowing and pulsing with ripples of every colour on the surface.
Miri smokes with a strange smile etched on her face as she stands close to the young soldier lying on the ground.
Mother watches the gunships lay waste to the house. The PM stares at the screen with an almost resigned air. The US President grim-faced. The Russian President the same. In China. In Israel. In India. In Pakistan. In France. In North Korea. Every government of every country that could hack the satellite feed watches and prepares to strike, counter-strike, defend and attack as Ria plucks the final shred of maddened courage to go through, while Miri’s eyes twinkle as she reaches down to take the radio from the soldier.
Extracted Trilogy (Book 2): Executed Page 34