The new PM had obviously had his own ‘dream team’ in mind should he ever find himself in number ten, and he had quite obviously made some promises to those individuals. The unfortunate part was that whereas these academics could possibly have formed a fair to middling peacetime government, it wasn’t peacetime anymore.
The PMs intended candidate for the defence seat was a young woman with zero political or military experience but who made a lot of noise about women’s rights, in particular her objections to the ‘glass ceiling’ that prevented women being CEOs in industry or holding high office; this was someone who always forgot Margaret Thatcher. The young woman was to have been the PMs signal that he had no glass ceilings for talent as regards age or gender, however, it wasn’t lost on those in the know that the ‘young talent’s’ only obvious ability was in dropping her panties for powerful men who could open doors.
One insider had made the wry comment.
“Perhaps the PM thinks the Russian premier won’t nuke us… if he thinks she’d put out for him too?”
The minister was now enroute to Whale Island where the China operation was being run, but he had papers in his safe at his London house in Tooting Bec, papers that he had not expected to need until this post had suddenly become his.
His protection team rode in the Daimlers before and aft of his own, and although he had a police driver for his car, that man was dozing in the passenger seat after fourteen straight hours behind the wheel. Fuel shortages were staring to bite and local councils only ploughed and gritted one lane on essential routes, which, added to the state of the icy road network and blackouts, made their journey south long and tiring.
The minister assured the policeman that he himself drove a Daimler before insisting that they change over, after leaving the M25 motorway at junction 14. Aside from the assigned drivers, the protection officers were either ‘Response’ or ‘Basic’ class drivers; police regulations prevented them from driving vehicles over a certain horsepower whilst on duty, so the minister saw no other choice.
At the slow speeds they were forced by the conditions to hold to, the minister did not notice the differences between his own car and this one.
The journey from the motorway to the A3 dual carriageway was frustrating for the minister, and he was glad to see that the wide, straight surface of the A3 was slightly clearer courtesy of some grit on part of its lanes.
The long journey and tiredness made the minister irritated with the pace of the lead car, which he thought should have been taking advantage of the clear stretch, so putting his foot down he overtook it, forcing it to speed up. He did not switch off the radio when the speaker emitted a protest from his protection team, but he did turn it down.
On a gritted lane with an open road ahead of him, the minister relaxed a little and took notice of the darkened suburbs. Without the aid of lighting it was hard to recall where he was on a road he had driven on hundreds of times before. There were no street or route signs to assist the unfamiliar traveller, they had been removed in order that an invading force could not benefit from the directions they displayed. It was like suddenly becoming a stranger in your own hometown, he thought.
The clear road ceased as he approached the underpass below the Malden Road junction, a container lorry travelling a lot slower occupied the lane free of snow and ice. Grinding his teeth in irritation the minister brought his speed down and glanced at his watch, they were seriously behind time and he wanted to collect the papers and get back on the road to Portsmouth.
His frustration grew as the lorry slowed even more to negotiate the ramp out of the underpass, and with a quick glance in the side mirror he pulled to the right, having to fight the steering as the wheels went off gritted tarmac and onto the snow and ice. He was able to give the lorry a wide berth and regain the cleared lane, putting his foot down instinctively. Beyond the Morden Road junction is a long downhill stretch on the in-town route, and the cars speed grew quickly, as did the lorries behind them.
The lack of illumination and route signs almost made him miss the turn off for Tooting, in fact he was at the junction before realisation hit him and he steered sharply left onto the curving ramp which swept back and over the A3, to Bushey Road.
Bushey Road was not judged to be an essential route and after a few metres the road surface of the turn off was hard packed snow overlying a thick sheet of ice. Due to the harsh steering the minister had used getting on to the turn off, the Daimler was not yet balanced, there was still weight bearing on the rear offside wheel as the car encountered the snow, and it was travelling far too fast for the existing road conditions.
The Daimler he was driving differed greatly from production models, it was armoured for the protection of the principles it carried, and being far heavier its handling qualities were very different indeed.
As the back end started to slew on the ice, the minister under steered, not taking into account the cars extra weight. When that failed to do the trick he felt a spike of panic, and over steered, which sent the car sliding sideways across the road and through the crash barrier. The fall of forty feet, onto the dual carriageway they had only moments before left, caused mortal injuries to the minister and the policeman, but it was the impact of the container lorry, its brakes locked up and its trailer jack-knifing, that killed them.
The radio programmes in Russia churned out an almost constant stream of classical music, traditional folk songs (of the patriotic ilk, of course), with rather vague and repetitive news reports. The news reported heroic yet non-specific deeds, and great advances into Western Europe without actually mentioning place names. Svetlana, who loved music, was becoming desperate for some other audible stimuli, even the god-awful gangsta rap would have been a change at the very least. She was slouched sideways in an armchair, one leg hooked over an arm and the other outstretched as she starred broodily out of the window. The old man was chopping wood outside whilst he listened to a jazz CD on Svetlana’s Walkman, she was not able to make use of it whilst she listened to the couples old radio and he had been charmingly grateful of the loaner, bowing and kissing her hand.
Patricia was in the kitchen helping the old woman prepare a meal, and Caroline had found paper and a pencil from somewhere, with which she was sketching the living room where she and the Russian girl were. It was a talent Patricia was not aware her pilot possessed, but Caroline had modestly declined to let her see the results. The atmosphere in the house was hard to take, tedium and uncertainly, plus a tension in the air that Patricia could feel on her skin, almost. Essential maintenance had been carried out twice thus far on the Nighthawk; Patricia had escaped to the landing site every other day to do systems and maintenance checks, stopping overnight in the forest with the Green Berets tasked with guarding the site. The long journey there and back held little attraction, but it was more of a change of scenery than the Russian girl, confined for twelve hours a day in the room where the radio lived. Although was apparent to all that there was something important she was listening for, the Russian girl had offered no explanation of exactly what it was that commanded her presence by the ancient, yet trusty device.
Those breaks from the house had in some way had some effect, on her return the strain was not so palpable and Caroline, who seemed the worst effected of the two Americans, was a little more chilled out but that faded before the arrival of the evening.