The man turned back to the shop door. A slender diamond necklace glinted in the window, arranged on a black velvet cushion. ‘Give it a good blow here, down in the corner,’ said his friend. ‘They build them with a weak spot so the Fire Brigade can get in.’
His partner aimed the sledgehammer carefully, then whacked the window hard. It disintegrated in a shower of glass. The looters let out a whoop of joy and hurried in, their feet crunching on the glass.
Ben stumbled on. The water was almost up to the main road, and quite deep in the side streets. One block over, a Smartcar glided past in the water, swept along like a paper boat. It caught against a bollard with a metallic thud. Something was moving inside: behind the windscreen he could see a face, the mouth making an O of a scream. It was a little girl in pigtails and a pink shirt. She saw him and waved frantically. Then the car started moving again, the insistent current pulling it free, taking its helpless passenger with it.
He staggered back down the road: the man with the sledgehammer, he thought. If only he could find him, maybe he could smash open the window and let her out.
He stopped, realizing that it was too late — the car was gone now; they couldn’t reach it. He just had to let go, accept there was nothing he could do.
He turned round and set off again, but all he could think about was that child’s face, her pigtails shaking as she called out to him. She had seen him and thought he could help. Now what would happen to her? He felt responsible.
A little further along he saw a shape at the water’s edge; it was catching on the road and then pulling away again with the rhythm of the tide slapping on the tarmac. He ran across to it. If he couldn’t help the little girl in the Smartcar, maybe he could help here.
A cloud of seagulls rose as he approached. Seagulls, the new predators in this drowned city. Ben saw that it was the body of a dead man; the seagulls were checking it out as a source of food.
The body was wrapped in plain cotton material that clung to the skin. Underneath was a hospital gown. It was very still, like a lump of lard. Ben looked at it, puzzled. The eyes were closed and the face peaceful, as if the man had died in his sleep. On his arms were strips of tape, the loose ends floating on the water like seaweed, and tiny holes like needle marks. He had died in hospital, Ben realized. But how had he got out here? Had the river washed out the hospital mortuaries?
Ben backed away and the seagulls moved back in.
He stumbled on. He was so cold. Maybe it was because he was shocked. He kept thinking about the child in the Smartcar and the body in the sheet. Maybe he’d end up like that — a lump lying in the river surrounded by seagulls. He passed a man lying in a doorway, his teeth chattering like castanets, his body jerking violently. Maybe he should sit down for a while too, rest so that he could get his strength back.
No sooner had he thought it than he was on his knees in a shop doorway. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a minute. When he tried that, it felt so good. He wasn’t aware of the hard edge of the door frame behind his back. It just felt so great to stop …
‘Sir? There’s a call for you from the Admiralty in High Wycombe. Top priority.’ The controller at Hendon handed the satellite phone over to General Chambers.
The General took the phone to a quiet corner of the room. ‘Chambers here.’
The voice at the other end of the phone sounded furious, and as though it was barely keeping that fury in check. ‘General, make sure your men stick to communications protocols on the satellites.’
The General felt his hackles rise. ‘They have been.’
‘Well, someone’s used a restricted channel and blocked the routine signal. We’ve got a Vanguard submarine that’s missed its routine all-clear signal.’
The General went white. The buzz of the communications room around him disappeared for a moment as he took in what that meant. When he next spoke, his voice hissed quietly. ‘My men have not breached protocols. The mistake didn’t happen here.’
The voice at the other end didn’t even seem to hear him. ‘Just keep your men off the restricted channels. And tell Whitehall they’ve got a situation.’
The faces of the sub crew looked haggard in the red light. The helmsman spoke. ‘We’re on the surface, Captain.’
‘Radio mast is deployed and ready, sir,’ said the communications officer.
‘Very good,’ said the captain. ‘Communications officer, send your message.’
There had been no answer to the first message the sub had sent to Whitehall. Now they were repeating the procedure.
Once again, the communications officer watched the display. ‘Message has been successfully sent, sir.’
The captain nodded. ‘Helmsman, take us down.’
The helmsman was ready, his hands on the controls. ‘Diving now, sir.’ He watched the digital depth readout as the sub once again submerged.
The first officer voiced his concerns. ‘Captain, what do you think has really happened to London? This flood business is rather strange.’
The captain eased a crick in his neck. It had already been a long day. ‘You want the simplest explanation? For some reason the satellite wasn’t working — maybe because of the flood. But someone’s head needs to roll for that. Or maybe all this flood business is just a ploy by High Command to have an excuse to open fire. If it’s a SNAFU, there are safeguards in the system to stop it escalating. In the meantime, we have our orders and it’s our job to follow them. I’m going to talk to the crew.’
He unhooked the intercom. ‘Gentlemen, we have attempted to communicate with Whitehall for a second time, and once again have exposed our position. It is possible that we may encounter enemy action. It is the job of everyone to stay vigilant. This is not an exercise.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Puma had flown due west, skirting over the top arc of the M25 and out over Buckinghamshire. They were flying higher than before, and faster. At that height, Meena couldn’t make out the details she was used to seeing. The rusty-looking sprawl of London thinned out. The features of the landscape looked tiny, the different colour corduroy fields looking like a patchwork counterpane. But lakes of pale grey water still reflected in the sky and rivers showed up wide and swollen. Some houses were surrounded. Even out here, miles from the Thames, rivers had burst their banks and were trying to claim the land.
At least the traffic Meena saw was moving. Vehicle headlights trundled along the tiny lanes. But they were the only lights visible. There was not a single light in any of the buildings.
The Puma circled and hovered, then descended. Meena saw sprawling slate roofs with old-fashioned chimneys and windows. Tiny leaded panes of glass reflected the Puma’s glittering lights. Then trees got in the way and the Puma touched down on a large letter H painted on a stretch of tarmac. It looked like they had landed in an expensive country hotel.
The whine of the engine diminished and the rotors wound down. A military tanker painted dark green drove out to meet them.
Dorek took off his helmet. ‘Refuelling stop. No smoking.’
Meena and Phil unbuckled their harnesses and made to get out.
‘No time for that,’ said Dorek.
The refuelling crew was already starting work. Meena felt a couple of metallic bumps as the fuel cap was unscrewed, then a humming reverberated through the fuselage. She realized it was the tanker delivering fuel.
She looked out of the window in dismay, then back at Dorek. ‘You mean they’re refuelling with us on board?’
‘That’s nice,’ said Phil. ‘What if it catches fire while we’re in here?’