“Naturally. Part of my task is to secure our area of responsibility. Are you in charge of this group?”
“Me in charge? No way. That’s Mr Russell.”
“Can we speak with him?”
“Er, sure. I don’t see why not. You’ll need to leave your vehicle and weapons here though.”
“Vehicle yes, weapons no.”
“Mr Russell won’t be happy about that.”
Alan indicated for Scott to join him. The CSM shouldered a man-pack radio, slung his SA80 over his shoulder, grabbed Alan’s SA80, and came round the vehicle and handed it to his OC.
“I would remind you that we are government officials, and martial law still applies.”
“Martial law?” The man spluttered a reply.
“Shall we go and see your boss then?” Alan indicated past the blue Land Rover.
“Sure, sure. Jack will watch over your vehicle for you.”
“Good, just make sure he doesn’t touch anything,” warned Scott.
“Yeah, yeah, right.” Dawson wandered over to his colleague, whispered in the man’s ear, then indicated for Alan and Scott to follow.
As they walked down the track, Scott keyed the handset of his radio. “Hello, Two-Zero-Delta, Two-Zero-Alpha. Over.”
The headset crackled as Scott held one of the earphones to his ear.
“Roger that. We have you and your transport under surveillance. Over.”
“Understood. Out.”
“Some more of you out there?”
Alan smiled. “Yes, we have patrols out all the time.”
“That’s why we know you’re here,” added Scott.
The rest of the 200-metre walk was in silence. They passed the car park. A small fuel bowser had joined a bus, a couple of camper vans and a Luton van.
“Diesel?” asked Scott.
“Er, yeah. Keep this lot running.” Dawson laughed uncomfortably. He was obviously concerned about answering the soldiers’ questions.
They approached a gap in the wall of vehicles that encircled the camp. The three men passed in between a Ford Transit and a Mitsubishi 4x4 just as the radio crackled again.
“Go ahead,” responded Scott.
“Two-Zero-Delta. The bozo is taking an interest in your vehicle. Over.”
“Roger that. Out. You need to talk to your buddy.”
Dawson raised his eyebrows.
“Tell him our Land Rover is out of bounds.”
“You have some guardian angels then.”
“Yes, so inform him now.” Alan reinforced his command.
“Peter,” Dawson called over to a young boy close by, probably no more than ten years old.
“Yes, Mr Dawson?”
“Run over to the checkpoint,” he indicated back towards the blue Land Rover and the parked army Land Rover, “and tell Jack to keep away from their Land Rover. Make it quick.”
“Yes, Mr Dawson.” With that, the boy ran off at sprint, eager to please.
They walked towards the tree line directly opposite the semi-circle of vehicles. Led by Dawson, the three men weaved around a mix of tents, some as small as two-man tents, others capable of homing a large family. One of the larger tents was set up on the treeline itself, a large brazier burning close to the entrance, a woman boiling water on it while a second woman was preparing some food. Both looked fairly healthy, perhaps a little skinny, but it was difficult to tell through the layers of clothing they were wearing to keep warm. Both were armed, pistols strapped around their waists. Next to the brazier was a collapsible camping table and half a dozen camping chairs. Beneath their feet, squares of rush matting had been laid over the ash and dust-covered grass. Alan wondered if the green of the English countryside would ever return.
“Sian, go tell Mr Russell that we have some visitors.”
The nearest of the two women left her pot to boil and ran into the tent, calling after who Alan assumed was their leader. Moments later, she was back at the entrance indicating with a wave of her hand that Dawson should enter the tent. The man disappeared inside.
Alan took the opportunity to take in the layout of the camp. It seemed to be well organised, and small fires burned outside most of the larger tents. People went about their business. Preparing a midday meal seemed to be the task most were involved in.
The tent flap was pushed back and held open by Dawson as a man in his late forties passed through the entrance: short, quite stocky, dark hair, apart from a few wisps of grey at his temples, and a trimmed goatee beard. He wore a pair of black mock-combat trousers, with a disruptive-pattern combat jacket, the type worn during the eighties and nineties before the current multi-terrain pattern (MTP) style was introduced. A 9mm Browning pistol was strapped around his waist.
He held out his hand. “Major. My apologies, but my colleague failed to remember your name.”
“Redfern. And your name is Russell.”
“It is. Excellent. Major Redfern and Sergeant Major…?”
“Saunders,” responded Scott.
“Please, take a seat. Where are my manners?” He turned to one of the women. “Sian,” he called across to the woman who had originally gone in to fetch him, “tea for these officers. You will join me?” He indicated to the camping chairs. “Take a seat.”
Alan sat on the nearest, resting his SA80 across his lap. Scott sat next to him after placing the radio on the floor in between their seats.
“You have working radios, I see.” Russell pulled a chair up opposite the two soldiers. “We had a couple working for a while, but keeping them working and the batteries charged was proving more trouble than they’re worth.”
“These, along with the rest of our kit, were well protected. We also have sufficient vehicles and power to keep the batteries fully charged,” responded Alan, confidently.
The man leant forward, his interest piqued. “You have generators?”
“Yes, at our headquarters.”
“Dawson tells me you represent the government. I didn’t think any meaningful administration had survived.”
“Where have you and your group come from?” asked Alan.
“We came down from Birmingham, travelling through Oxfordshire and Swindon. Is it a regional or national centre you’re from?”
The two way probing had started, thought Alan.
“We have an appointed regional governor, Principal Officer Elliot, and he is in turn supported by a large admin group and Brigadier Bannister. We’re also in contact with the national government,” Alan lied.
“Dawson here tells me the area is under martial law. Is that so?”
“The United Kingdom in its entirety is still under martial law. That was initiated prior to the nuclear strikes hitting the country and has not yet been revoked.”
The man scratched his beard, his brown eyes searching Alan’s face. This has all the makings of a poker game, thought Alan.
“I do remember. But since then, most of the country as we knew it has been obliterated, along with the bureaucratic chain of command.”
“That’s as maybe,” replied Alan, “but a regional structure was initiated to run the country after an event of this kind.”
“There’s nothing to govern, Major.”
“We have 4,000 people in this local area alone that need feeding, medical attention, shelter—”
“My people also need shelter and food.” Russell waved his arm in a circle indicating the encampment they were in. “I have provided them with that without any government assistance or interference.”
“What happens when food and supplies can no longer be scavenged?”
“Sergeant Major Saunders, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I have my thoughts.”
“Share them with us?” asked Alan.
“They’re not fully formed yet, so there would be little point. Four thousand people, you say? You’ll need a lot of supplies to feed that many people.”