“This is impossible,” he muttered, too stunned to focus properly. The British Army taught skills like adapting quickly, but most of the time, soldiers had some idea of what was going on. Britain had been plunged into war… and he didn’t even know who they were fighting! Was there any resistance at all? A billowing explosion rose up from the rough direction of Regent’s Park and he cursed; were they in the grip of a mass insurgency? “I don’t know…”
He dived into the kitchen and opened a cabinet, carefully opening a second, secure cabinet inside the first one, removing a pistol, an assault rifle and several rounds of ammunition. The military insisted on soldiers having some weapons with them, or at least within easy reach; it was one of those precautions that never made the news under most circumstances. He chambered a round, and placed the pistol carefully in his holster; the assault rifle he slung across his back, before picking up the radio and activating it. The battery, much to his private relief, was full; it was a court-martial offence to allow it to slip below one-third power.
“Home One, this is Hercules Grytpype-Thynne,” he said, using the radio call sign that had been assigned to him when he took on the role of Chief of the Joint Staff. “Are you receiving me? Over.”
A screech of static answered his words. Jammed, he realised, feeling cold. The Americans might have developed powerful jamming equipment, but it had only a limited range; that meant that the unknown attackers had to have a base somewhere on English soil. Even if it was in France or the Netherlands, the range wouldn’t be enough to be effective… who the hell was it? He was sure, now, that his country was at war… and he didn’t know…
“No point in staying here,” he snapped, and headed out of the flat, locking it behind him. Some of the other residents saw his weapons and turned very pale, others demanded advice, or instructions. They had known who he was, or at least that he worked for the Army, but Langford didn’t even know what to tell himself, let alone them.
“Stay in your flats, lock the doors, and listen for broadcasts,” he snapped finally. He heard, in the distance, a rattle of gunfire; he didn’t recognise the precise weapon. “For God’s sake, stay off the streets!”
He ran up the stairs, trying to reach the top; the landlord had locked the door permanently after one of the resident’s daughters had been caught sunbathing in the nude. Langford hadn’t understood it, until he had seen the landlord’s wife; she would never have allowed her husband to spend his time ogling a teenage girl, even if she did look lovely in the nearly-altogether. A swift kick brought the door down and he burst through… to see a scene from hell.
London was burning. There were at least seven columns of smoke rising into the air, one of them clearly coming from the Docklands, where — if he recalled correctly — there had been a Russian LNG tanker stuck there while strikers fought over their rates of pay or something. He hadn’t been paying attention at the time… and he remembered, suddenly, what a bunch of Saudi terrorists had done to Oakland. An aircraft zoomed into view suddenly, one jet fighter, heading towards the south. There seemed to be no other aircraft in sight.
“That can’t be right,” he said, grimly. The scene was one of unimaginable horror. Whichever way he looked, he saw fires. There were normally at least a dozen aircraft stacked up over Heathrow and Gatwick; PJHQ had been becoming increasingly worried about the chances of an accident for years. The lone jet fighter up there might have a link into MILNET… or he or she might be trapped in the sky, unable to communicate with the ground. It looked as if there was nothing to do, but walk to the PJHQ, or at least the local police station and try to find out what was going on. “I wonder…”
He looked down at his mobile phone again, flicking through the different options. There should be an option… wait; had he seen a signal? Heart pounding, he flicked back… and saw it, a signal on the military network, very faint, but there. He lifted the phone and selected the emergency option; the call should be routed at once to the emergency control centre at PJHQ.
There was a long delay… and then a voice answered. Young, female, and terrified. “State your name, rank and identity number,” she said. The fear underlying her voice made her sound on edge. “I repeat…”
“Major-General Charles Langford, Chief of Joint Operations,” Langford said, and recited his serial number. “I request a situation brief.”
“One moment,” the girl said. He heard, very briefly, another voice in the background. Langford had good ears, but it was hard to pick out voices in the faint signals. “I need a voiceprint check; recite the standard rhyme.”
Something had to be really wrong, Langford realised. He forced himself to remember the normal choice of words. “ Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; a peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?”
He paused. The routine had always struck him as silly. “Now; identify yourself.”
“This is Captain Erica Yuppie,” a new voice said. She sounded a lot more assured than the first voice, and clearly was much more in control of the situation. “Sir, we need to arrange a pick-up for you; please can you give me your location?”
“Of course,” Langford said, and gave his address. There was another hail of gunfire, mercifully brief, over the city. It sounded as if there was a war going on out there. “What the hell is going on?”
“I have dispatched a helicopter to pick you up,” Erica said, without answering his question. “It should be there in five minutes.”
Langford scowled as the connection broke. Erica had sounded as if she had known what she was doing, but it was hard, looking out over the city, to feel any confidence at all in the future. A helicopter that close suggested that it would be coming from one of the barracks, or perhaps the emergency vehicles at Buckingham Palace; just for a moment, he wished for a pair of binoculars he could use to check to see if the Palace was still standing. He would have given his right arm to know if it was still standing, a reminder of happier times, or even…
In just under five minutes, a small helicopter — a generic civilian model used by rich kids mainly — hovered into view, hanging just above the roof and allowing Langford a moment to scramble onboard before it rose up above the city and headed north, away from London. Langford was so relieved to see the helicopter, proof that someone, somewhere, was responding to the… crisis that it took him a moment to realise and protest.
“Flying Officer,” he snapped, “where are we going?”
“We’re going to the command centre,” the pilot said. Langford looked back at the looming towers of smoke; London had millions of people living within the city, and all of them would be caught up in a nightmare. “The Major will brief you when we arrive.”
They passed the remainder of the flight in silence, waiting for the journey to end; finally, they came down over a small industrial estate. There was little remarkable about it, right on the edge of London’s outlying suburbs, but Langford noticed with some surprise that the entire estate looked as if it had been sealed up tight. It was dotted with antenna and satellite dishes, not unusual in a corporate paradise, but odd to see them in such numbers. The helipad itself was well-concealed; no one looking in with binoculars would be able to see them as they disembarked.