At an economic 420mph the large missiles, more than 8 feet longer than a US Tomahawk, with their terrain following radars pulsing three times a second they flew westwards at an average 100 feet above the ground.
Some of the missiles flew toward terminus points only programmed into the memories within the last hour. Some had shared targets but none flew identical courses. The courses were designed to give NATO the least possible time to prepare a defence, should they be able to track all or some of the missiles. The long missiles followed meandering tracks that had in cases sometimes almost backtracked on themselves, but on reaching the coast all further subterfuge was pointless and they accelerated to 570mph, 20 feet above the waves, toward the distant English coastline.
Staying awake in a warm office after a bad night was not a problem for Janet because concerns over fuel shortages had brought about energy saving measures nationwide. She had on a thick cardigan, a present from Colin one Christmas, without which she would have felt the chill in the air. She did have several others, some more stylish and expensive, but she felt the need to feel close to him this day. She paused what she was doing, updating her bosses electronic appointments, and picked up a silver framed photograph off of her desk. It had been taken on their last holiday together, camping in the South of France. Colin looked so relaxed, tanned and healthy in shorts and tee shirt. She wondered how he looked now and then swiftly dismissed the thought as an image of a line of combat booted feet, protruding from beneath grey army blankets that covered the rest of their prostrate owners filled her mind.
She started as the telephone rang.
“Stellen, Barrett and McAlexander, Mr Coltaines office?”
“Hello Janet, its Annabelle Reed.”
Although there was little chance that she would not have received a call today, Janet still felt her stomach sink.
“Janet, is it all right for you to finish work early today as discussed?”
Mr Coltaine was a good and understanding man. He had agreed weeks ago to his PAs absences when required by the rota and she had already spoken with him today. By prior arrangement one of the other PAs would cover for her whilst she was out of the office.
“Yes, I can leave in about five minutes.”
“Do you know the coffee shop on the High Road near Junes?”
Janet did know it, one of a well-known American chain. “Yes?”
“I will be there with the Padre and Captain Deacon in one hour; we will have a staff car.”
“Why don’t we just meet at June’s.” she asked. “She is still on the rota for today isn’t she?”
There was a slight pause, not quite long enough for Janet to pick up on.
“I am afraid June’s Quarter will be our first stop… RSM Stone was killed in action this morning.”
She almost dropped the ‘phone.
Barry Stone, a giant of a man with the physique of a 6’ 6” Prop Forward was dead? The RSMs place was to the rear of the rifle companies in battalion headquarters, so if he was not safe there then…
Janet shook herself to dismiss the thought.
“I will meet you there then, bye.”
Replacing the receiver she gathered her things she knocked on her bosses door and opened it. He was on the telephone and on looking up and seeing her with coat over her arm he smiled kindly, placing a hand over the mouthpiece.
“I take it you have had a call, Janet?”
“Celia is covering for me, Mr Coltaine.” She liked this man who was one of the nicest and most genuine people you could hope to meet. “I really am grateful for your indulgence.”
“I imagine it must be quite harrowing dealing with all that grief? You look tired Janet and as we are rather quiet at the moment I will not expect to see you tomorrow.” He waved her away and resumed his conversation. She gave a faint smile of gratitude and closed the door, walking toward the reception desk for the company offices.
Outside the snow still fell, not as heavily, but the wind still whipped the flakes about like speckled dervishes. The glass and steel of the skyscraper had shrugged off the squally assaults of the weather with barely a rattle but as she reached reception a dull boom sounded throughout as the glass panes along the east side recoiled like the skin of a drum from some monster gust. Conversations ceased in mid flow and Janet halted, looking over her shoulder toward that side of the building but there was no recurrence and both work and talk resumed. With words of encouragement and good wishes following her steps from other co-workers, Janet left the office.
The journey down to the ground floor was swift in the high-speed elevators. Leaving the lift she smiled and gave the security guards at the main door a friendly nod as she exited the building. The cold hit her immediately, cutting through the newly donned coat, scarf and gloves.
The fifty floors of glass, concrete and steel at 1 Canada Square towered over seven hundred and seventy feet above her as she hurried away through the snow toward Heron Quay DLR station.
She trembled with the cold as she emerged from the limited protection provided from the wind by the buildings and onto the bridge leading to the Docklands Light Railway. Teeth clamped shut and eyes slitted in reaction to minute icy specks that pebbled dashed her face.
She was alone on the bridge, squinting ahead and hurrying on toward the shelter of the station and aware only of the sound of the wind drowning out all else.
She was midway along when the dull howl was eclipsed by the mournful undulating moan of the wharf air raid siren. It had been put in place weeks ago and sounded only in practice, and during a half dozen false alarms since that time. Janet froze as the memory of the shaken windows of minutes before came back to her, hairs on the back of neck raised as a sixth sense told her this was no false alarm. The sirens wail was joined by others and her mouth went dry as she realised her position, stuck on a bridge and far from cover.
The high pitch shriek of a jet engine designed without heed to noise pollution legislation, passed overhead. It hurt her ears and instinct borne of self-preservation made her drop to her knees, gloved hands pressed to her ears. The jet engine was followed by another, and another, and yet several more. She glanced up fearfully to see not Backfire bombers but what appeared to be small, fast moving mini aircraft streaking past, barely fifty feet above her head.
Sixty-five years before, the German Luftwaffe had used the river Thames as a guide to navigation for its Air Fleets. Today the cruise missiles employed it as a route to approach the British capitol so low as to become one with the radar ground clutter.
The first warning had come from the newly commissioned Type 45 Destroyer, HMS Exeter, in the English Channel enroute to working up exercises. She briefly picked up one of the missiles at extreme range and believing it to be part of an anti-shipping strike put out a ‘Vampire’ alert. The warships air defence system was un-calibrated and therefore she did not launch on the missile. RAF Hawks based at RNAS Yeovilton on air defence picket scrambled, but they went looking for an airborne shooter off the French coast, not cruise missiles approaching the English one.
The first pair of Granat missiles entered the Thames Estuary and hugged the banks of the Essex side of the river until reaching a point two miles from their targets. Popping up to a thousand feet they released submunitions before looping and diving into the largest metallic object in the target area that they detected.
The Thames Haven fuel refinery was seriously damaged with major fires in a dozen areas, but that was dwarfed by the results of the second missiles attack two miles away at Canvey Island.