INVASION DELIVERANCE: A War and Military Action Thriller

PROLOGUE

The pilot banked the aircraft hard over so his son, strapped into the co-pilot’s seat beside him, could see the remains of the village below. There wasn’t much to look at, the pilot observed. All the structures had collapsed, leaving behind ruined, grey stone walls choked with weeds. The single road that had once twisted its way up through the village was now fractured, its black tarmac teeth jutting through a beige carpet of wild grasses. Like many other centres of human habitation across this dark land, nature had waited until there was no one left to resist it before resuming its slow march of conquest.

‘There it is! There’s the church!’

The pilot smiled. His 10-year-old beamed beneath the rim of his flight helmet, his excited voice hissing through his own headset. ‘Well spotted, son. We’re landing. Standby.’ He banked the Explorer over the gaping roof of the church and set it down on a narrow stretch of open moor just above the western edge of the village. The pilot climbed out first, looping an automatic rifle over his helmet and chambering a shock round. The aircraft’s thermal imaging pods had detected nothing of any concern, but one couldn’t be too careful, not here, far beyond the borderlands. He walked around the nose of the aircraft and helped his son down onto the grass. The boy still wore his helmet, and his flight suit was a little too big for him, but he would soon grow into it. Another few years and he would pilot his own Explorer. How quickly time flies, the pilot thought. The boy who was still scared of the dark, who still doted on his father’s every word and looked up at him with wide, bright eyes, would soon break free of his childlike dependence and make his own way out into the world. The idea of it made him sad.

He put aside the cheerless thought and focussed on their security, sweeping the gun barrel across the village below as he squinted through the sight. The weapon registered no thermal returns, either amongst the ruins or along the overgrown road that snaked south towards the wooded valley below. He saw no movement at all, nothing other than a gentle breeze that stirred the distant pines, but the pilot knew that wouldn’t last.

‘Let’s go.’ He let the boy run a few meters ahead, conscious of the child’s need to explore, to discover this abandoned world, to build his confidence, and feed his inquisitive mind. That mind, young and impressionable though it was, had already formed intelligent thought and reasoning skills. The pilot and his wife had discussed the child’s future with the education board. There was talk of enrolment into the advanced preteen programs: engineering, physics, astronomy. All these subjects excited his son, and the pilot and his wife had decided that they wouldn’t stand in the educators’ way if they selected him for one of those curricula. That would mean the boy leaving home. That made him sad too.

He watched the boy now, clambering over the broken stone wall and wading through waist-high grasses. He saw his small hands plucking at flora and fauna, saw him filming the flight of frightened birds. As they headed deeper into the graveyard, the pilot closed the space between them, his own eyes probing a world of quiet shadows. His heart beat fast. Many years had passed since his last visit, and much had changed. The graves were barely visible now, but some memorials still rose above the grass and weeds, the angels and cherubs of an imagined heaven, their stone faces blighted by moss, the tilted Celtic crosses strangled by wild ivy, but still serving as signposts to the final resting place the pilot sought and the purpose of his trip across the ocean.

‘This way,’ the pilot said, taking the lead, and the boy followed him through the thick grass to a spot close to the wall of the church itself. The west tower had toppled over since his last visit, bringing down with it a transept wall and revealing the interior nave, its remaining pews almost lost beneath a thick carpet of vegetation and what remained of the collapsed roof. Thick weeds had taken root in the window frames, and insects flitted through bars of weak autumn sunlight.

‘Where is it, father?’

‘Here.’

The pilot looped the gun around his back and bent down. He yanked and trampled the tall grass and ferns until he’d revealed the faded headstone. It was a simple slab of concrete, bearing only the man’s name, rank, and the dates of his physical existence on this earth. The inscription had faded, as had the man’s memory, which made him a worthy subject for the boy’s history presentation. The pilot watched him now, using his tablet to capture footage of the grave itself, the overgrown burial ground, the crumbling church, the ancient stillness of the site. Pleased with his efforts, the boy wandered around the abandoned settlement, capturing the weather-beaten ruins, the broken, weed-choked road, and even a derelict car that sprouted thick ferns, until a primeval cry reached the pilot’s ears. His head snapped around and he raised his gun. Far below, something stirred in the wooded valley. He couldn’t see any thermal returns, but the sound was unmistakable.

‘What is it, father?’

‘A wolf. Do you have what you need?’

The boy held up his glass tablet. ‘Affirmative.’

‘Then we should go.’

They picked their way through the lava field of cracked tarmac, skirted the rusted corrugated shell of a prehistoric barn, and headed out onto open moorland. Every few seconds, the pilot would turn and peer through his sight, checking to see if they were being stalked, but he saw no movement. That wouldn’t last, he knew. Soon the sun would dip behind the mountains, and the wolves and bears and wild boar would venture forth from their hides to hunt and feed.

They headed uphill to the Explorer. The pilot helped his son inside and buckled him in. He ducked under the plexiglass nose of the aircraft and climbed aboard, securing the weapon behind his seat. He powered up the flight systems and moments later, the Explorer lifted off, hovering eight feet above the long grass that shimmered beneath the quiet hum of the power plant. The pilot checked his instrumentation and saw everything was in the green. Increasing power, he gained a little height before allowing the aircraft to drift above the uninhabited village. As he looked down, a sudden feeling struck him; he would never return to this place again. His intermittent pilgrimage had run its course, and the baton handed to his son. He banked around once more, circling the village above the sagging rooftops. He saw the church, and the exposed headstone, and said his own silent farewell. He levelled out and powered up, the aircraft humming through the darkening sky as he left the past far behind.

The landscape rose and fell beneath him, and after a flight lasting 20 minutes, the pilot set the Explorer down on one of several designated landing sites, a narrow plateau beneath a crooked granite mountain peak. There, protected from high winds and predators, they settled into the weather-beaten habitation pod and built a fire in the wood burner. The pilot prepared food, and they sat outside and ate, listening to the cries of eagles and watching the light die as darkness swallowed the eastern mountains. Later, they climbed into their sleeping bags and watched the fire, the thick curved walls of the pod warmed by its red glow. They lay side by side on their cots, and once again the pilot experienced a painful stab of emotion. The child he knew now, who was so full of curiosity, who still needed the love, support, and guidance of his parents, would soon leave. He watched him, the glass tablet held in his small hands as he scrolled back through the footage of the graveyard.

‘Who was he, father?’

The pilot propped himself up on an elbow. ‘Some said he was a great man, others a misguided one. Naive. Do you know what that means?’

The boy flipped the small pane of flexible glass around. Text scrolled across the screen: Naive: inexperienced, immature, raw.

‘That’s right, although I think history has judged him harshly.’

‘Did you meet him?’

The pilot shook his head. ‘No, but my great-great-grandfather did, years after the war. He was just a boy, but he remembered shaking his hand. And the men who gathered around him, he called them heroes. They were, in their own way.’

‘Will you tell me what happened?’

The pilot reached over and took the tablet from the boy’s hand. He didn’t want this recorded. ‘I can tell you about him. About the end, and what it was like for those who were there. Would you like to hear that story?’

His son nodded. The pilot turned towards the wood burner, his mind recalling the stories he’d heard, of the papers handed down through generations, first scattered, then lost. They told of shadowy rooms, where grey-haired men wearing dark coats and coloured ribbons would gather to remember the fallen. The firelight danced in the pilot’s eyes.

‘It was a time of war. A time of great suffering and great joy. And he was there, at the beginning, and at the very end…’

CHAPTER 1

KING’S SHILLING

Seventeen-year-old Devon Barclay stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted, ‘Mum! I’m away out!’

He heard the creak of floorboards above his head as his mother hurried to the landing. She appeared at the top of the stairs, a thin silhouette against the window behind her. She said nothing as she looked down at him, at his pressed chinos, his polished shoes, the shirt and tie beneath his navy blazer. Her narrow, lined face folded. Devon braced himself.

‘No, Devon. No!’

Devon smiled, his best smile, the one reserved only for his mum. ‘I’m going, Mum. Please don’t be mad.’

He watched her as she walked down towards him, stair treads creaking beneath her worn slippers. She stood in front of him, shorter and forty pounds lighter. She’d aged these last few years. They all had.

‘I don’t want you going down there. Please, Devon.’

Devon’s smile faded. They were going to butt heads. Again. ‘I can’t stay locked in here for the rest of my life, Mum. I’m not a kid anymore.’

‘You’re seventeen. I won’t sign the papers.’

‘It’s my birthday next month. After that, I won’t need your permission.’

Her tired eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t lose you and your father. I just can’t.’

‘You won’t lose me. Besides, it’s what I want, Mum.’

‘Your dad had that same look on his face when he left. Look where it got him.’

It had got him hanged outside the local mall. Devon still had nightmares of his dad dangling from scaffolding outside the shopping centre, the rope around his neck creaking as his eyes bulged and his legs kicked and thrashed. And the noises he’d made, the choking and gurgling. Inhuman sounds. He remembered his mother screaming, collapsing to her knees, and being restrained by an angry, frightened crowd. There were other bodies dangling from that same scaffold, each of them with a hand-drawn sign around their necks that declared them to be thieves. Dad’s crime was trying to swipe food from a supermarket. The Barclay family had run out of money and supplies. They were starving. What was Dad supposed to do? Most days, Devon purged the memory from his mind. He needed to move on, move away. Start again. Today was the first step on that road.

But his mum wouldn’t hear of it. ‘I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you, Devon. You’re all I’ve got left. There could be others out there, targeting people like you. Like your dad.’

‘They didn’t kill him because he was black, Mum. He was trying to feed us, remember?’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

He reached down for her hand. She squeezed it tight, her eyes glassy. ‘We’re not in danger anymore, Mum. The Atlantic Alliance is in charge now. There are tanks and soldiers all over the place. They reckon they’ll recapture London soon. Then it’s all over.’

‘You’re too young to join the army.’

‘I’m joining the air force, remember? And once I’m settled, you can come and visit. Get out of this place.’

Tears ran down her face, but she smiled and held a warm hand against his cheek. ‘You’re my beautiful boy, always will be. I look at you and I see your dad. That same smile, same eyes. Gentle. But strong too.’ She dropped her hand. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Dunfold community centre.’

She smiled through her tears and fixed his tie. ‘Well, they’d be lucky to have you. Promise me you’ll be careful.’

Devon nodded. ‘I will.’

‘Go, before I change my mind.’

Devon beamed and wrapped his arms around her. He could feel her bones. ‘I love you, Mum.’

She slipped from his arms and trotted back upstairs. He heard the creak of the floorboards in the bedroom above, heard her quiet sobs. His resolve wavered. Maybe he should wait. The war wasn’t over yet. Then again, he didn’t want it to pass him by. Some of his friends had already joined up. It was his turn now.

He left the house, a modest two-up two-down on a terrace where the front doors emptied onto the pavement. There was no Internet, and the phone lines were still down, so the neighbours gathered in groups, chatting on doorsteps and street corners. He heard laughter too, which was good. No one had laughed much these last few years. He walked past a row of shops, where a long queue snaked towards the local chippy. Several people smiled and said hello because everyone knew what had happened to Devon’s dad.

He left his red-bricked neighbourhood and headed downhill towards the town centre. As he got closer, he passed looted shops and burned-out cars. He avoided the broken pavements and bubbling water mains on the high street, where men and women busied themselves, hammering, sawing, and sweeping. Maybe one day the town would look like it did before the war, but Devon wouldn’t stick around long enough to find out.

He heard a muted roar and looked up. Four planes were flying overhead, big fat grey ones. C-17 Globemasters, Devon knew, and he smiled. That was his dream, to be a pilot. He hadn’t decided what aircraft he wanted to fly, but one of his friends told him it depended on how well he tested. Despite the disruption to his education, Devon had continued to hit the books and complete his college coursework. He was also skilled in using Microsoft Flight Simulator. Maybe he would get the chance to show someone those skills and prove he was a viable candidate for flight school. Fat transports or sleek stealth jets, Devon Barclay didn’t care. He just wanted to fly.

‘Devon!’

He stopped and turned around. His friend Omar was waving as he hurried up behind him.

‘Hey, Omar. What’s happening?’

Omar was a year older than Devon and they’d both attended the same high school. However, whereas Devon was a bright kid and excelled, Omar struggled with learning difficulties. But he was funny and popular, and Devon had liked him from the start. He was also overweight, and he leaned against a lamppost as he caught his breath. A year ago, Devon had seen a naked woman hanging from the same lamppost.

‘Are you going where I think you’re going?’ Omar said, panting.

Devon studied his friend. He’d combed his thick black hair, and he wore a white shirt buttoned to the neck beneath his favourite winter coat, a double-breasted duffel. Trousers and shoes too, Devon noticed. ‘I’m going to the community centre. To sign up.’

‘Me too. What did your mum say?’

Devon shrugged. ‘She’s cool. But what about your dad? He’s pro-caliphate.’

‘Doesn’t matter. He’s gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘Belgium,’ Omar said. ‘He took my sister too.’

Devon’s eyebrows arched. ‘He left you on your own? Who’s going to take care of you?’

‘I’m nineteen,’ Omar said, standing a little straighter. ‘And I’m signing up, too. I want to be a driver. Think they’d let me drive a tank or something?’

‘They’ll let you do anything if you test well.’

‘And there’s a $100 signing-on bounty, right?’

Devon grinned. ‘Correct.’

Omar beamed. ‘Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.’

They headed off, past boarded-up shops and a bustling mini-supermarket. Their appearance and direction of travel prompted shouts of Good luck and God bless, and Devon felt ten feet tall as he strode past them. The only nagging doubt he had was his fitness. Since the rumours began about the Atlantic Alliance landing in Ireland, his mum had confined him to the house. The most exercise he’d had in the last few months was walking to the shops and kicking a ball around their tiny backyard. But once he signed on the dotted line, Mum wouldn’t be able to object to him going out running. He just had to convince her it was safe to do so. She had to see the regular patrols and the friendly aircraft that crisscrossed the skies. He would even point them out and tell her which ones he might be flying.

As they left the high street behind them, a steady rain began to fall. They hurried past a small park with a children’s playground and a single football pitch. Next to the park, behind a fence of black railings, stood the community centre. Devon’s heart beat faster. There was a JLTV parked outside on the road, painted in grey and blue, with huge black tyres and a big gun mounted on the roof. The driver saw Devon staring and waved. Devon waved back, flushed with excitement. Inside the gates, a Union Jack and the Stars & Stripes had replaced the black caliphate flag on the flagpole.

The people in the queue were mostly men and older than Devon and Omar, and he counted over 30 people standing in the rain. He saw other men and women leaving the building and heading back to the pavement, excited smiles on their faces. His stomach was alive with butterflies. If accepted, they would send him to America. Exactly where he didn’t know, but Devon was unconcerned. Anywhere else but Britain would suit him just fine.

‘Get your IDs ready,’ said a soldier standing by the glass-panelled front doors. He wore a camouflaged peaked cap on his head and a pistol on a belt around his waist. A Union Jack patch decorated the front of his ballistic vest and the one on his arm told Devon he was a member of the 216 th Pennsylvania battalion, British Volunteers.

‘How cool does he look?’ Devon whispered to his friend.

Omar spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Check out the gun. Think it’s loaded?’

‘Of course. Not much point of having it without bullets.’

‘My dad said they wouldn’t be expecting trouble.’

‘He shouldn’t have left you.’

‘He told me I had to be a man.’

‘That’s stupid,’ Devon said.

‘Next ten, inside,’ the soldier said, yanking the door open.

Devon grinned and nudged Omar as they followed the others through the lobby and into the main hall. It was busy, maybe a hundred people milling around, and the air buzzed with chatter. There were three groups of tables clustered around three walls, each with colourful banners that read: ARMY, NAVY, AIR FORCE. Behind the tables sat men and women from each branch of each service. Devon saw smiles and handshakes, and signatures being scrawled on dotted lines. He veered across to the Air Force table and queued up behind a line of men and women. He heard Omar whisper in his ear.

‘Is there still time to change my mind?’

Devon turned around. Omar’s mood had changed, his earlier enthusiasm replaced by doubt. Devon didn’t feel the same way. Walking into this hall was the right thing to do, of that he was certain. But he understood Omar’s sudden reluctance. This was a huge commitment, and not everyone would feel like Devon.

‘Look, the Air Force needs drivers too,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’ll send us to the same base. How slick would that be?’

‘Pretty slick,’ Omar echoed. He cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. ‘My dad said I would have doubts. Said it was natural.’

‘He’s right, even though he’s a shitbag for leaving you.’ Omar looked at him, his brow furrowed, then his face relaxed and he smiled.

‘Next.’

Devon spun around. There was no one between him and the lady behind the desk. He stepped forward and stood straight, his arms by his side, his eyes fixed on the wall where there were more flags and banners. A big sign hung above his head: ENLIST TODAY! Devon intended to do just that.

The lady in the blue Air Force uniform smiled. ‘To be clear, this is the air force recruitment desk. Are you interested in joining the Air Force, sir?’

The lady was dark and pretty, and he blushed. No one had ever called Devon Barclay sir. ‘I want to be a pilot,’ he declared, making his voice sound deeper than it was.

‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen next month.’

‘Good, because we always need pilots.’ She handed him a thick envelope. ‘That’s your information packet. Make sure you read it thoroughly. If you’re still interested, fill in the form and come back to us within seven days. At that point, your application will be processed, and we’ll pay you a bounty of $100. How does that sound?’

‘Sounds great,’ Devon said, hefting the envelope in his hand. He couldn’t smile any wider.

The recruiter’s fingers hovered over her keyboard. ‘Can I get your name, please? First and last, and any middle names.’

‘Devon Barclay. That’s it,’ he added.

The woman’s fingers were a blur. She handed him a plastic disc with a number on it and pointed to the other side of the room. ‘Take that to the desk marked administration. Thank you, Devon, and good luck.’ She smiled and looked past him. ‘Next.’

Devon took a few paces and waited for Omar. He wanted to be close in case his friend needed a little support. Omar still looked a little unsure as he stood in front of the pretty air force sergeant.

‘You want to join the Air Force, yes?’

Omar nodded and licked his lips. ‘That’s right. I’m nineteen,’ he said.

She pushed an information packet across the table. Omar didn’t pick it up. The recruiter looked at the envelope and then at Omar. Devon thought she’d read his mind.

‘You don’t have to decide today,’ she told him, smiling. ‘Just read and digest. Take your time. Okay?’

Omar bobbed his head. ‘Okay.’

‘What’s your name?’

Omar cleared his throat. ‘Allah.’

‘Excuse me?’

Devon frowned. He wanted to hiss at his friend, tell him to stop messing about. This was no time to play the fool.

Omar giggled. ‘My dad told me to say that.’

The recruiter cocked her head. ‘Say what?’

‘Allah Akbar.’

He showed her the small silver tube with the red button in his hand. The woman screamed something that Devon didn’t understand, and suddenly he was frightened. Everyone was looking at them. Soldiers were piling into the hall, shouting. Omar looked at him and smiled.

‘Close your eyes, Devon.’

Instead, Devon turned to run. His friend laughed and blew everyone to pieces.

CHAPTER 2

BEANO

The passengers’ spirits remained high as the luxury coach turned off the M3 motorway at Lightwater and headed south into the Surrey countryside. One of them had hooked up a phone to the vehicle’s media system, and a playlist of old tunes had kept them all entertained for much of the journey. Alcohol was still being consumed as the coach turned onto a dark country road.

A small, dapper man in his late fifties got to his feet and swayed towards the front of the coach. He powered up a microphone, tapping it several times. Ed Sheeran’s recollections of a hilltop castle faded, and curious eyes peered over headrests. Leo Daly, ruler of the Eastern Territories and a National Assembly member, cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for just a moment …’

Daly’s audience responded with audible groans and some good-natured banter.

‘He’s not going to sing, is he?’

‘Put the music back on!’

‘Stand up if you’re going to speak!’

That drew a laugh, and a fake smile from his wife Lucy, who stood four inches taller than the diminutive ruler of Essex and Suffolk, even without her obligatory heels. Daly took the teasing as he always did, with good humour and a mental note of who said what.

‘Apologies to the Ed Sheeran fans.’

‘Get on with it!’

Daly waved his hand. ‘Okay, settle down, this won’t take long.’ He took a moment to look around the coach as he waited for silence. The lights were low and most of the 56 faces that swayed with the motion of the vehicle were lost in shadow, but Daly didn’t need to see them. It was his words that were important.

‘Most of you have known me for some time. Over the previous two days at Hatfield, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the rest of our assembly colleagues, especially you brave ladies and gents from the northern territories. Sadly, there were absentees, some killed in terror attacks, others captured by the so-called liberators, but the rest of us have been lucky. I can only speak for myself here, but I feel privileged to be part of this assembly and honoured to have met you all.’

There was a murmur of appreciation, and a few Hear hear’s. Daly cleared his throat and carried on.

‘As you know, I’ve arranged transport to France. A plane waits on the tarmac at Farnborough Airport, and soon we’ll all be enjoying new lives on the continent. You heard Governor Spencer’s speech back at Hatfield: we are important cogs in the machine and will be treated as such once we’re all settled in France. Or I should say, once you’re settled in France.’

He saw the puzzled frowns and raised eyebrows amongst the seats.

‘You’re not coming?’ a voice asked.

‘That’s right.’ He puffed up his narrow chest. ‘Governor Spencer has made me an offer I can’t refuse. In fact, she’s asked me to move to London, where Lucy and I will be moving into our new house, the governor’s residence in Hampstead.’

Another voice said, ‘What’s going on, Leo?’

‘Important business,’ he told them, relishing his own self-importance. Not even Lucy knew that the old bird hadn’t offered him anything concrete, but she’d given her word that he was valuable to her, and she’d look after them both. But those were details his colleagues – former colleagues – didn’t need to know. ‘I can’t go into specifics, only that I will bid you all farewell at Farnborough. Lucy?’

Daly’s wife got to her high heels and tottered along the aisle in a tight red dress. She handed him a flute of champagne, her smile wide and proud. Daly raised his glass and waited for Lucy to retake her seat, and for the men to refocus their attention on him.

‘A toast if you will.’ Along the length of the coach, glasses raised above the headrests. ‘To our friendship, and to our good fortune. Long may they both continue.’

‘Hear, hear!’ someone shouted.

Daly sipped his champagne and then he slopped it over the floor as the coach braked hard. He dropped the microphone and braced a hand against the driver’s seat. The coach stopped with a loud hiss of air brakes. Through the windscreen, Daly saw a Humvee blocking the road ahead. A man in uniform was waving a red wand.

‘It’s alright, everyone. It’s just a checkpoint. Can’t be too careful these days, eh?’ Daly remained standing. They’d stopped on a quiet stretch of road, dark and wooded. He saw a figure walking towards the coach. The driver yanked a handle, and the door hissed open. The man stepped aboard, dressed in a dark coat, his head shaved. He had a hard face and hard eyes, and Daly thought he looked familiar. Then it came to him like a bolt from the blue. He snapped his fingers.

‘You’re Governor Spencer’s man.’

The new arrival smiled. ‘Good of you to remember, sir.’

‘What’s going on?’ a voice shouted from the back. It was Bertie who answered.

‘There’s been an incident up the road. Nothing serious, but you’ll have to wait for a few minutes. Sorry for the inconvenience.’

‘Hurry up,’ another voice said.

‘Of course.’ He turned to Daly. ‘Would you step off the coach, sir?’

Before he could reply, the manservant had exited the vehicle. Daly followed him and was grateful for the fresh air. The last couple of days had been boozy affairs, with most of the assembly members getting pissed day and night. No one knew exactly what was waiting for them in France, so they were all making the most of it. Daly didn’t blame them.

Bertie smiled in the darkness. ‘I need your luggage, sir. I’ll be taking it to the house in Hampstead.’

Daly looked around him. They were in the middle of nowhere. ‘Now?’

The gopher stepped a little closer and spoke in a low voice. ‘Governor Spencer is waiting at Farnborough to bid the assembly a personal farewell. A surprise, you understand. She’s arranged for a limousine to take you and your good lady back to the London house. She told me to collect your luggage and have it waiting for you when you get home, sir.’

Daly felt his cheeks flush. ‘That’s bloody decent of her.’

The gopher pointed to the luggage compartments. ‘Your bags, please.’

Daly and the driver yanked out half a dozen suitcases and a large trunk. The gopher whistled, and four black-clad militia trotted out of the darkness and wheeled the luggage towards a dark-coloured van parked by the side of the road, a Mercedes Vito if Daly wasn’t mistaken. ‘Be careful with those,’ he snapped, watching the militia load the cases on board the van.

The gopher smiled. ‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll take good care of them. And remember, the governor wants it to be a surprise.’

‘Fine,’ Daly said, still watching the van. His life was in those cases.

‘See you back at the house, sir. I’ll have a nightcap waiting.’

Daly refocused. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Bertie, sir.’

‘Right.’ He watched the gopher climb into the Mercedes, swing it around in a tight circle and drive off. Daly got back on the coach and slammed the door shut. He held up his hands for silence.

‘Listen, everyone.’ All heads turned towards him. ‘Governor Spencer is waiting at Farnborough for us. She wants to surprise us, wish us bon voyage, so no more booze, okay? She might have company, the kind that frowns upon alcohol, so break out the mints and the bottled water and let’s not embarrass ourselves, okay?’

He took his seat. Next to him, Lucy squirmed in her skin-tight dress. Daly told her about the luggage.

‘Why didn’t we go with him?’

Daly spluttered. ‘In a van? Turning up in Hampstead like a couple of pikeys? I don’t think so, love.’

‘I’m tired and my feet hurt. I need a bath.’

‘I’ll get the servants to run you one as soon as we get back.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘This is the start of a new chapter, Luce. You’ll see.’

The door opened again, and a blast of cool night air wafted around the coach. Daly heard footsteps and craned his neck. A man in a camouflaged uniform boarded the coach and stood in the aisle, his hands behind his back. He saw the microphone, picked it up and blew into it. He smiled as he heard the sound amplified around the coach. The soldier began to sing. Badly.

‘Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention …’

He laughed at his own joke. Sinatra would be rolling in his grave, Daly thought. But there was something about this man he didn’t like. It was insolence. A lack of respect.

‘My name is Aziz,’ the soldier said. ‘Remain in your seats, and you’ll be on your way shortly. Understood?’

Daly opened his mouth to speak, and Lucy elbowed him in the ribs, hard enough that Daly felt a flash of anger. He glared at her, and she shook her head, her eyes boring into his. Maybe she was right. Some of these caliphate soldiers could be twitchy at the best of times.

Aziz dropped the microphone onto the driver’s seat and stepped off the coach, slamming the door behind him. The gesture troubled Daly. They were all important people, for God’s sake. Didn’t this Aziz bloke realise that?

The coach hummed with a low, impatient murmur. Daly thought about getting to his feet again and calling for order, but Lucy had her hand firmly entwined in his and she wasn’t letting go.

‘What are those militia blokes up to?’

‘Looks like trouble,’ someone else said.

Daly looked past Lucy and saw the militia lining up along the edge of the woods, barely visible in the darkness. ‘It’s a security cordon,’ he told them.

‘He’s coming back,’ someone up front said.

The door opened with a hiss. Aziz stepped aboard, but this time he didn’t come all the way up the stairs. Instead, he threw something along the aisle, and Daly heard a metallic zing. The door slammed, and someone shouted in alarm. The object rolled along the floor, only stopping as it came to rest against Daly’s patent leather shoe. He looked down and knew what it was. He sobbed, just once.

It was all the time he had left.

Watching from further up the road, Bertie saw the flash of the grenade. He knew it was coming, but the bang still startled him. He saw the windows of the coach blow out, and then he heard screaming and shouting, all mixed into one bone-chilling cacophony of noise. Then the militia guns opened up, their deafening chatter stitching hundreds of holes along the length of the coach. The storm lasted for maybe 20 seconds, then stopped, the thunder rolling away through the woods. Bertie heard more screaming, and the pleading and moaning of the wounded. He saw the distant figure of Aziz climb aboard, heard the hollow pop of his pistol …

‘I think we’re done here,’ said the tall, black woman with the shaved head who stood by Bertie’s van. She wore a black leather coat, skin-tight black trousers, and knee-length boots. Her name was Clarke, and if it wasn’t for the crossed swords lapel pin, Bertie thought she could pass for a civil rights activist. Or a hooker.

‘Give the governor my regards.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Bertie climbed inside the van. He slipped the Mercedes into gear and drove away, keeping the lights off until he was some distance away. He felt no remorse for his part in the ambush. The traitors had sent countless people to their deaths and had got everything they deserved. What bothered Bertie was his own continued presence in England. He should’ve been in France by now, unpacking The Witch’s belongings, setting up home for him and Cheryl, but all travel for non-caliphate citizens was now prohibited. Even The Witch couldn’t pull her usual strings. So, they had to wait, and with every day that passed, the mood on the streets was becoming more apprehensive. Birmingham had been wiped off the map. Hundreds of thousands of refugees were heading south, clogging the roads, ports, and airports. Air raid sirens wailed over London. Things were going to get desperate soon, and when that happened, all bets would be off. They may never get out of the country, and that was bad news as far as Bertie was concerned. Because it was all about survival now. His, Cheryl’s, and if he had anything to do with it, Judge Hardy’s too.

Dead or alive, the day was coming. The day of Britain’s liberation.

‘Deliver us, oh Lord, from every evil,’ Bertie whispered. He put his foot down, and the Mercedes sped up into the darkness.

CHAPTER 3

FROZEN OUT

When Harry squinted his eyes, it wasn’t hard to imagine he was standing on a desolate planet on the far side of the universe. The air was crisp and cold, the surrounding landscape rocky and inhospitable, the nearby habitation domes resembling a high-tech moon base that stretched towards a black sea dotted with towering ice floes. On a nearby granite outcrop, a cluster of futuristic radar arrays jutted into a pale blue sky. A few short hours ago, that same sky had unveiled the Milky Way in all its breathtaking wonder. Its beauty had humbled Harry, made him feel small. It was a feeling that still lingered.

But he wasn’t standing on some alien world. He stood on the concrete apron of Thule Air Force Base, home to the 12 th Space Warning Squadron amongst others and the remotest place that Harry had ever visited. Located on the north-eastern coast of Greenland, the US Space Force installation was 750 miles north of the Arctic Circle and just under 1000 miles shy of the North Pole. A remnant of the Cold War era, the Mitchell administration had ordered a complete renovation of the base, its missile defence systems, and its massive radar complex that could track multiple ‘high interest’ objects in space and around earth’s upper atmosphere. He’d learned all of that from the base commander’s dime tour, but the man elaborated no further. Harry had found himself piqued by his mild air of disdain, as if Harry’s presence at the base was something to be tolerated and nothing more. Or was he imagining it? His chief of staff had tried to reassure him, but Harry was unconvinced.

He heard laughter and saw the base commander sharing a joke with the Russian delegation. An icy wind snatched away their merriment, and Harry was glad of it. Although they’d exchanged handshakes and smiles the previous day, Harry knew he was playing second fiddle to the Russian party as they ingratiated themselves with their star-spangled hosts. Standing next to him, Wilde’s impatient boot-stamping was doing nothing to improve Harry’s mood.

‘How much longer?’ his chief of staff whispered from behind his fur-lined hood.

‘Any moment now. And stop stamping your bloody feet. It’s not that cold. Thank your lucky stars we didn’t come in January. Then you’d have something to complain about.’

‘It’s four degrees.’

‘Better than minus 20.’

Wilde glanced over Harry’s shoulder towards the Russians, dressed in their green parkas and black Ushanka fur hats. ‘Orlov’s not made much of an effort to communicate.’

‘Why would he?’

‘Protocol. You’re Prime Minister of Great Britain after all.’

‘That might’ve meant something a few years ago. Not anymore.’

Wilde’s eyes flicked back to his boss. ‘You’ve been in a strange mood for weeks, Harry, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed it. What’s wrong?’

‘Now’s not the time, Lee.’

A metallic voice blared across the permafrost. ‘Air Force One is inbound, approaching from the west. ETA, 30 seconds. All photography is prohibited.’

Excitement rippled through the small crowd waiting on the concrete apron. Presidents avoided these barren outposts, but this meeting with the Russians was extraordinary. Harry was out of the loop on this one, even though Mitchell had asked him to be present, and once again he felt a stab of paranoia. He had better things to do than freeze his backside off in Greenland. England was still in the grip of war, and its second-largest city had been wiped from the map. Harry needed to be back home.

‘Here they come!’ a voice declared.

Harry looked out towards the wide bay. Above the berg-dotted sea, a white object was inbound towards the runway, barely visible against the powder blue sky. It swept in over the shoreline and Harry failed to recognise the aircraft. It looked like a plane, but its stubby delta wings looked too small to give the craft sufficient lift, and it had military-style twin fins at its rear. It was approaching the runway low and fast.

‘He’s going to overshoot,’ Wilde said, and Harry was about to concur when the plane decelerated with a blast of air and its landing gear deployed. Not wheels, Harry noticed, but ski-like plates on thick black legs. It settled on the ground a hundred yards away, with a grace reserved for figure skaters. There was another short blast of air and a gentle wave of tiny ice-crystals rolled over the now-silent crowd. The aircraft was larger than a private jet but smaller than a 777, and what impressed Harry – and no doubt those around him – was the lack of any significant noise. There were no visible engines, but the air beneath the tail fins rippled as if heated, although Harry could see no exhaust ports.

‘Remarkable,’ Wilde said, his voice a pitch higher than normal.

Harry was about to answer him, but then the fuselage appeared to shimmer, and the skin of the aircraft changed to the familiar livery of Air Force One. Despite himself, Harry joined in with the spontaneous applause.

‘It’s like a Las Vegas magic show,’ Wilde said, gloved hands pumping together.

Harry cocked his head at the Russians. ‘Not for our benefit.’

President Mitchell stepped down a ramp at the rear of the aircraft and headed towards them. He wore a thick winter parka and aviator sunglasses and was flanked by Zack Radanovich and Eliot Bird. The small reception crowd was still clapping, still beaming behind their sunglasses. Mitchell shook hands with Orlov first, then the other Russians, and finally the base commander. He saw Harry and smiled.

‘Prime Minister. Thank you for coming.’

‘That’s quite a ride you have there,’ Harry said.

‘She’s something, isn’t she?’

He pumped a few more hands and then they were moving inside, into the warmth of the terminal building. As Harry shed his coat, he looked out of a triple glazed window and saw the strange aircraft take off again, rising vertically before banking over the building.

Enlisted staff disappeared, leaving the politicians alone. The base commander led them down a staircase to a tunnel below ground. At its end was a conference room. Harry unzipped the neck of his fleece as he took his seat around the table. Despite being constructed of poured concrete, the room was dry and warm. Harry wasn’t expecting that, not in a space buried several feet beneath the permafrost.

Refreshments were wheeled inside, and Wilde did the honours, handing a coffee to Harry. Everyone settled around the table. Mitchell was at the head, flanked by Chief of Staff Radanovich and Bird, his national security advisor. Despite his creeping paranoia, Harry felt intrigued by the prospect of this meeting and had speculated with Wilde during their journey to the top of the world. Now all was about to be revealed.