Cobra Z (33 page)

Jack suddenly realised he had never been in the man’s house. He looked at the older man with wild, excited eyes as he took the automatic pistol out of the box he had brought down from the attic moments earlier.

“A little souvenir from my time in the para’s, Jack,” Clive said, working the action. “I keep it oiled regularly.” Clive put the gun on the kitchen table the box sat on, and extracted three magazines from the same box, placing them alongside their future home.

Clive and Jack’s dad had served in the same parachute regiment, going through basic training together. As the only two black men in their company, they had formed an instant bond and became lifelong friends. They had fought off the racism they knew would be thrown at them to test their resolve, and had both broken jaws and arms in proving their worth. The bigots that shared their barracks soon learnt they were not to be fucked with. They had fought together in the Falklands at the Battle of Goose Green, earning medals and respect. Eventually, they had both left the services together. Although married, Clive hadn’t followed his friend’s example and hadn’t had any children, and his wife had died ten years ago through cancer. The death of Jack’s dad had hit Clive hard.

“Why do we need a gun?” Jack asked naively. Clive looked at him patiently and indicated for him to sit down. He turned behind him and switched on a TV set that was on the kitchen counter. Although the sound was off, the picture told a story of a thousand words. Clive pointed at the screen.

“That is why we need a gun, Jack. I’ve seen violence before; I know how it spreads. We need this for our protection. And we need this,” Clive said extracting several thick bundles of twenty-pound notes out of the box, “to get us on a flight out of here.”

“So we are definitely leaving the UK?”

“The shit you see on the screen is coming our way. We might just have time, but we have to move quickly.” Clive put the cash in his jacket inside pocket, and put the gun in the waistband of his trousers. Picking up a case he had also brought down from upstairs, he turned to walk out of the kitchen. “Time to go and pick up your mother.”

11.11AM, 16
th
September 2015, Baker Street, London

The crowd of infected moved. Their numbers had swelled, doubling, tripling whilst Holden spied on them. And then, as if called by some unseen force, they ran. Mere humans would have fallen and been trampled, but the infected moved with a coordination and a stamina that would have taken her kind years of training. Packed together, they moved south away from the junction that Holden’s vantage point overlooked.

“Looks like they have a mission,” Brian said. “We should wait till the road clears and then make our move.”

“Where to?” Stan asked.

“Well, they’re heading south, so let’s go in the opposite direction,” Brian responded. He looked again out of the window. Most of the crowd had left the street now, their numbers dwindling. His attention was drawn to a noise in the sky, and an attack helicopter came into view. It hovered above the street high above the buildings, and followed the crowd. Suddenly, its Gatling cannon erupted, strafing the hundreds of infected, who, pre-warned by the noise of its approach, had already begun to scatter before its onslaught hit them. Like ants, they disappeared into buildings, beneath cars, some falling as parts of them were blown apart by the high-explosive rounds. Holden watched mesmerised, amazed that this wasn’t a movie, amazed that this was real. The helicopter banked right and headed off to its next target. Holden looked and despaired. Its attack had seemed devastating, but in truth, its impact had been negligible. The infected paused and then the crowd reformed, the swell surging it south again. There was no way the three of them, here in this room, could survive against that. So yes, north was the only real way to go.

11.20AM, 16
th
September 2015, PINDAR, Ministry of Defence, London

General Marston and the prime minister were arguing.

“It is the only way to contain it, sir. If you act now, we can have the instructions relayed to the submarines and have the missiles flying within hours.”

“You want me to order our own forces to nuke our cities. I can’t do that – it will kill millions,” the prime minister protested.

“Millions are already going to die, Prime Minister,” Marston said. “You sacrifice the few to save the whole. At the very least, we need to inform the submarine captains of our situation. We don’t want to start a World War.” Croft new exactly what Marston was referring to. Every nuclear submarine captain had a personal letter from the prime minister in his cabin safe. These ‘Letters of Last Resort’ gave instructions if all contact was lost with the mainland. The last thing anybody needed was the UK nuclear deterrent being unleashed in the mistaken belief that the UK had been attacked.

“He’s right, David. We are losing the battle.” The PM turned to look at the home secretary who had just spoken. There were tears in her eyes. “Shit,” she said, “I can’t believe I just said that.” The prime minister looked around the room. Some people nodded their approval, others looked away, afraid to be seen as complicit in the contemplation of killing whole cities. Osbourne sat down, defeated. He put his head in his hands and said nothing for several seconds.

“I need time. I need time to think,” he said, almost sobbing.

“Time is something you don’t really have,” Croft said from the corner of the room.

“But what about the men and women out there fighting? We will be condemning them to certain death,” the PM pleaded.

“They are already dead, Prime Minister,” Croft said matter of factly. “Every one of them should have accepted that when they put on the uniform. They aren’t your concern. You need to decide whether you want cities to die, or an entire country.”

“Could you do it, Croft? Could you order the death of millions?” the prime minister shouted, hurling a folder at him. Croft looked at the man, who was close to breaking. He looked sideways at Savage, and then back at the prime minister.

“Yes,” Croft said. They were interrupted by someone entering. An officer walked over to General Marston and handed him a note. The general read it, nodding solemnly. The people in the room watched him. On the one hand, they wanted to know more, on the other part of them wanted to just run and hide. After about a minute, Marston looked at the officer standing next to him.

“Pull it up on the main screen,” Marston said, indicating the large TV that was presently playing CNN. The officer nodded and left the room. Within moments, the live news broadcast was replaced by a satellite live feed over the streets of London.

“What the hell’s this?” the prime minister asked.

“This is live from over Baker Street. GCHQ have re-routed a satellite to give us as much intel as possible. This is the latest swarm gathering.”

“But there’s hundreds of them,” the prime minister protested.

“Yes, Prime Minister. All civilian forces in that area have been overwhelmed. And according to GCHQ predictions, they are heading straight here.”

“You said swarm,” Croft said standing, looking briefly at Savage. She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, the brains at GCHQ have identified something. It seems the infected are working together, almost like insects. They move and attack in a combined fashion. Rarely do they act alone, and rarely do they kill outright.”

“So,” replied Savage, “they are growing their numbers. Creating an army big enough to overwhelm anything we have left.”

“So it would seem,” said Marston. He flung the paper he was holding onto the conference table in front of him. “And there are dozens of swarms like this now across the city.”

11.25AM, 16
th
September 2015, Westminster Bridge, London

So far, he hadn’t lost any men, which was a blessing, but he was running low on ammunition, especially for his heavy machine guns. And there was another problem, one that was clear and present in his mind. He saw no way to get his men out of this. The SAS, Grainger expected, could climb back into their helicopters, but he would have to get his men out via ground transport along streets that would be clogged with fleeing civilians and infected alike. He signalled his corporal to give him the radio handset.

“Patch me through to Colonel Bearder.” There was a pause, and Grainger’s superior officer came on the radio.

“I’m running out of ammunition, Colonel.”

“Everyone is, Captain,” the voice replied. All of a sudden, a huge explosion erupted north of their position. Although it was far enough away that he couldn’t see it, smoke began to rise into the air. He climbed to an elevated position, and from where he was, he saw several soldiers running up Victoria Embankment. Over his earpiece, he heard chatter from the conflict in other parts of the city.

“Colonel, I’m hearing that the infected are being engaged at Trafalgar Square. I need more air support. I need more men.” As he spoke into the radio, he noticed several more attack helicopters fly over his position. But they did not unload their ordinance on his immediate threat as he had hoped. Instead, they carried on north.

“Captain, there aren’t any more men. In fact, you need to prepare your men to head out. Get ready to abandon your position on my order. We are evacuating the capital.” Grainger let the knowledge sink in.

“How am I going to get my men out, Colonel?”

“By boat, Captain. Your ride will be with you shortly.”

Hudson and his men had headed north up Whitehall, and within minutes, had found themselves firing their weapons into a crowd of a dozen blood-soaked infected that had broken through the army lines. Some of those they shot were in army uniforms, which was not the news Hudson wanted to see. Despite this very recent engagement, it was now relatively peaceful in this part of the city, the distant gunfire muffled by the surrounding buildings. They reinforced the army position at the intersection of Whitehall Place and Whitehall, the last line of defence if the infected broke through from the north of the city. Around them, dozens of Grenadier Guards ran past them to the north, to reinforce the main defence closer to Trafalgar Square.

“Boss, do you see a way of getting out of this?” his sergeant, a man called O’Sullivan, asked.

“That’s what the helicopters are for, Sarge. They are ours after all,” he said with a grin. He put his hand up to his ear, raising a finger to his sergeant as he listened to a message being relayed to him. He walked out in front of his men to get their attention.

“Get ready to pack it up, lads. We’ve had new orders; we’ll be in the air in fifteen minutes. We are to reinforce Horse Guards Parade.”

“Bloody hell,” the sergeant said, “we’ve only just got here.” Hudson just shrugged. The SAS didn’t need telling twice.

11.29AM, 16
th
September 2015, PINDAR, Ministry of Defence, London

“General, Captain Grainger reports he will most likely be overrun. Forces are already in retreat from Charing Cross, and they are engaging the infected in Trafalgar Square. We are losing personnel at an alarming rate, sir,” Colonel Bearder said over the intercom. “Civilian forces are all but gone.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” He turned to his prime minister. “Prime Minister, we have to leave, and we have to leave now. This position is lost.”

“Yes, yes but how?” Osbourne asked.

“We have helicopters waiting at Horse Guards Parade. We will evacuate you and the cabinet first, and then as many other personnel as we can. We will travel under SAS escort to the evacuation zone.” The general turned to Croft. “Need a ride, Croft?”

“Why thank you, General. Awfully decent of you.” Croft watched as the general stormed out of the room, bellowing to someone in the control centre outside.

“Get me MI6 on conference call. We need to start this evacuation.”

11.35AM 16
th
September 2015, MI6, Albert Embankment, London

Normally, MI6 was not involved with operations on UK soil. That was the job of MI5 and the police. However, the decision had been made to change all that for one very simple reason. The MI6 building was a fortress. It was built to resist terrorist attack and was considered impregnable to anything but a hardened military assault. It could also be evacuated by helicopter, which would be required over the coming hours and days. Many of the candidates for Operation Noah had gathered here, as well as much of the surviving staff from the MI5 building, which had been abandoned after the bombing. Although nobody in MI6 could see it, the MI5 building still burned.

Throughout the building, the offices and hallways teemed with life. Deep in its basement, several of its subterranean holding cells were also occupied with recent acquisitions. Fabrice shifted uncomfortably in his bonds, saliva dribbling from his mouth which had been clamped open. They wanted this one alive, and restrained as he was, there was no way for him to commit suicide the way Brother Eli had. He had been stripped naked and examined from head to toe. Even his teeth were tested in case – like out of some bizarre spy novel – he had cyanide capsules secreted away in his mouth. Unfortunately for him, he had no such devices. Strapped to a metal table, the cold metal slowly warming to his body heat, he found that he was almost completely immobile.