He unhooked the whistle from his belt and blew it, loudly. Heads turned to him as he clambered up on a piece of debris; it looked as if it had come from Downing Street. The thought depressed him, even as he saw the eyes of everyone turning to him, looking for instructions or advice. People needed advice in an emergency zone, even soldiers; they needed someone to present a clear threat before training took over.
“I am Inspector Dave Briggs,” he said, loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the fires. A distant crackle of gunfire made them all jump; the passage of a jet fighter high overhead drew their eyes skyward. The soldiers clutched their weapons more tightly; the policemen and civilians gave them uneasy looks. Briggs remembered the loudspeaker on the mobile command post and checked his radio. At such range, he could use it even through the jamming. “In the absence of any contact with higher command” — ignoring the fact that they were standing on the ruins of the highest command in Britain — “I am assuming command of the disaster scene.”
The relief in their eyes was not reassuring. “We have to tend to survivors, put out those fires, and work out just what in hell happened here,” he said. It was a missile attack, but that meant that someone had had to fire the missile… and he didn’t think that terrorists could do that. They were at war. “Policemen, I want you to seal the area completely; move all civilians to Hyde Park or somewhere else out of the way; where is the nearest emergency store of fire-fighting equipment.”
One of the guards raised his hand, almost as if they were at school. “There’s a set of hoses down near the river,” he said. “It may have survived the blast.”
Briggs was improvising and knew it. “Good,” he said. He nodded to three Privates who were standing there, looking as if they were desperate for something to do. “You three; go with him and find out what the status of the equipment is.” He glanced over at the civilians. “Is there anyone here with medical training?”
Several more hands were raised. “Good,” Briggs said. The trick was to look as if he knew what he was doing. “I want you to tend to any injured that we bring out of the building. There’s some medical supplies in the mobile command centre and there should be some ambulances and several fire engines along in a moment.”
He took a breath as the policemen headed off to carry out his orders. “Who’s the senior military officer here?”
There was a muttered consultation and a wounded Sergeant stepped forward and saluted. “I was at the barracks, sir,” he said. “We were just going out of the building when we heard the missile and there was an explosion and we came here because the barracks were wrecked. We’ve been trying to raise higher authorities and no one is answering.”
Briggs cursed under his breath. “How many men are there here?”
“Forty, it seems,” the Sergeant said. Briggs saw the trickle of blood running down his face and silently cursed; there was no time to spare the Sergeant’s presence. “The Captain was trying to organise something at the barracks when the missile hit.”
“I see,” Briggs said. “What’s your name?”
“Sergeant Christopher Roach, sir,” Roach said. He started to recite his rank and serial number; Briggs held up a hand to stop him. “As far as I know, I’m the senior survivor from the barracks.”
“I want you to send one of your men to the nearest hospital and tell them that we need some medical support out here,” Briggs said. He was about to order fire engines as well, when the first of the big red vehicles pulled up, running terribly late. Four more had also arrived; he couldn’t help, but notice the bullet holes in one of the vehicles windows. “No; send two, both armed. Deploy the others to cover relief efforts if needed.”
Roach didn’t argue. “I understand,” he said, as he took in the sight. Firemen were spilling out of the fire engine; many of them running towards the Thames with fire hoses, others checking the pressure in the water hydrants nearby. Judging from the general devastation and the collapsed streets, Briggs suspected that the water mains would have been burst by the missile attack. “I’ll see to it at once.”
He leaned forwards. “You do know that we’re at war?”
“I saw the missile,” Briggs said, equally softly. There was no time for a panic. “We have to find the Prime Minister.”
Roach looked at the ruins. “No chance, sir,” he said. “None at all.”
The lead fireman came up to Briggs. His nametag read SAM STEIN. “Sir, I assume that you’re in command,” he said, his voice brisk and under control. “I have to report terrorists near the fire station; one of the bastards took a shot at my people and wounded one. What do you want us to do?”
Briggs gave him an incredulous look. “Put out the fires,” he said, shortly. “Have you any contact at all with higher authority?”
“None, sir,” Stein said. Briggs felt his blood run cold. “We didn’t even get the alert signal; we heard the explosions and then we had to go to the nearest pillar of smoke.”
Briggs stepped back as the fire crew went to work. They knew their stuff, he saw; several of them had attached hoses to the fire engines, running towards the river and draining water from the Thames to attack the fires. The fires roared through what remained of the MOD Main Building — he had a nasty thought about ammunition cooking off in there — and refused to be cowed; it fought back furiously. Ambulances arrived under armed escort; doctors and nurses spilled out of them and started to work on the injured. Briggs smiled; he had forgotten the heavy police escort given to the murderer in the nearest hospital, even if he had wanted the man to simply die when he had heard about the cost.
The silence worried him. He should have been able to make contact with New Scotland Yard or one of the back-ups, but the nearest police station had been as isolated as the mobile command centre. There were still occasional bursts of gunfire echoing out over the city and a whispered report of rioting in Regent’s Park, the heart of Londonistan. Were they in the middle of an Islamic insurgency? It hardly seemed creditable; sure, there were a few firebrands who openly preached violence, but the vast majority of Muslims wouldn’t join a war against the British state, would they? If nothing else, it would put a permanent end to their benefits checks from the welfare state.
The silence…
A gunshot rang out, far too close for comfort; moments later, there was a second shot, and then silence. “That was young Omar,” Roach said, checking his radio. The military radios worked at short range, jamming or no jamming. “He just shot back at a sniper and killed him; Omar is a great sharpshooter, best in the unit.” He paused. “Not that I would ever tell him that, of course.”
“Of course,” Briggs agreed. He could see more fires now, spreading up over London, one very nasty fire rising up from the Docklands. “Do you have any knowledge at all of where we might find more authority?”
Roach shook his head. “You’re it,” he said. There were far too many civilians around, many of them tourists and all on the verge of panic. The London Eye seemed to have jammed; Briggs could see people in the bubbles and knew that they, too, would be panicking. “I only had the barracks and the police stations…”
“I’ve got something,” Page shouted. Briggs was there almost before he realised that his feet were moving. “It’s faint, but it’s there, on one of the military mobile telephone bands.”