A subordinate sat behind the wheel. Once they were out of the inner city, the line of vehicles would go autonomous until they were a dozen or so kilometers from their destination. Then their drivers would resume manual control in case any awkward maneuvering was required.
“What happens when we get there, wherever ‘there’ is?” Rosenthal asked.
“Central Hampshire.” Bevridge looked back at his expectant passengers. “Farming country, don’t you know. Very pretty, traditional old-English landscape—what you can see of it when the north winds blow the pollution back toward London. Cover like that could be advantageous for the day’s activities.” He smiled with satisfaction. “These fanatics likely chose such a rural, comparatively isolated spot in order to keep from drawing the attention of outsiders. That helps us a great deal, since we also want to avoid drawing attention.”
Lopé noted that only one of the trucks followed their car out of the garage. He expected as much. The others would follow in due course, at staged intervals to avoid attracting notice. They wouldn’t close formation until they were very near their destination. Care and caution were the watchwords of any such operation. Curiously, as they exited the garage, a dark blue car near the tail of the column abruptly veered away to vanish down an off-ramp. He thought about mentioning it to Bevridge, then decided against it. The security chief had the operation well in hand.
The farther they drove from Greater London, the better the air became, and as Bevridge had suggested, there was a brisk northwesterly wind that helped to push everything toward the Channel. The result was decent visibility, if not the atmosphere of ancient, fabled transparency. Sealed within their vehicles, the dozens of security personnel enjoyed air conditioned by a series of heavy-duty filters and scrubbers.
It wasn’t until the scattering of vehicles exited the M3.5 onto the A408 that they began to regroup. It was afternoon when they once again split up. Three trucks plus one command car embarked on a southerly route via a local road while three more and a car headed north. The remaining two cars—including the one with Lopé and Rosenthal, followed by half a dozen personnel-heavy trucks spaced well apart—continued west on the A408.
From time to time Bevridge would check in with the rest. His group would confront the Earthsavers head-on at their redoubt, while the other two security teams would cover any retreat to the east, west, and north. By the time anyone at the destination realized what was happening, they would be surrounded. Detailed satellite images showed only one access road leading onto and out of the property, but like any good tactician Bevridge was taking no chances. No one knew what kind of equipment the Earthsavers had access to. It might include off-road vehicles or two-wheeled machines.
“What about aircraft?” Lopé asked.
Bevridge looked back at him. “Our surveillance imagery is accurate down to individual milk cans. Nothing on the property resembles even a small hangar.” He smiled knowingly. “Those kinds of non-farming structures would attract too much attention from naturally curious rural folk. Ground-penetrating radar shows nothing subsurface, either. They might have individual flying gear on hand. If so, the drones can handle that.”
Lopé nodded. He’d seen some of the drones being loaded. Palm-sized, a few hundred of them would be deployed as the team made its final approach. They would form a dark cloud above the Earthsavers’ property. Hundreds of cameras, sensors, and other detectors would combine their data to generate a composite picture of everything and anything within the compound. A wasp wouldn’t be able to get through without setting off an alarm.
“Beautiful day.” Rosenthal gazed out through an armored window as they turned onto a winding country road. In one field of laboriously maintained verdure, several horses were cropping grass that had been genetically modified to withstand the intermittent pollution. One day the geneticists would run out of tricks and such fields would turn brown and barren. For now, the echo of old England still survived in a few places.
Their driver, who had long since retaken control of the vehicle, slowed as a sign appeared above a wooden gate on their right. As he did so, Lopé thought to glance toward the end of the line of vehicles. The car that had left the column back in London had not reappeared. He shrugged. Likely it had nothing to do with the operation. His gaze turned to the nearby sign.
“We’re here.” Bevridge was no longer smiling.
Seated on the right side of the car, Lopé lowered the window and squinted to peer past the sign. “All I see is grass and a dirt road.”
“The buildings are located up over that rise there.” The security chief pointed. Then he was addressing his comm unit, giving orders. Several moments later a humming sound grew audible, moving toward them. It faded but didn’t entirely disappear as the cloud of drones launched from the fourth truck in line. They formed a dark cloud that moved rapidly toward the low hill. Two similar clouds would be coming from two other directions, to merge with theirs.
They sat in silence for a while, until Bevridge muttered an order to the driver. Their vehicle started toward the gate.
“No reaction from the compound,” he informed his passengers. “They’ve chosen to ignore the drones. They can’t avoid seeing them.”
“It’s likely,” Rosenthal opined, “that our appearance has surprised them, and they’re trying to decide what to do next.”
Bevridge nodded. “We’ll give them a suggestion, what?”
The gate had a pair of digital locks, and their electronic disrupter remotely decoded the relevant password. The barrier swung open, providing just enough clearance for the trucks behind them to squeeze through. Eschewing patience now, they accelerated up the road. The inhabitants of the farm might choose to ignore the cloud of drones that had appeared above them. They could hardly miss the two cars and half-dozen trucks rumbling up the access road toward the compound.
As soon as they topped the low rise, the buildings of the complex came into view. In appearance they were unremarkable. There was nothing visible to persuade a casual visitor that he was looking at anything but a working country farm.
Slowing, then coming to a complete stop, the driver waved at a couple of controls on the dash. The front and center of the cab immediately filled with neatly spaced heads-up displays. From their middle seats Lopé and Rosenthal had an excellent view of the multiple readouts as the driver singled out bright spots on one display.
“Buried sensors here, here, and here,” he said, pointing. “Push conduits here and here.” He shoved a finger into one projection, distorting it slightly. “You can see clearly where the jumping mines are concealed. Our systems are already scrambling their internal controls.” He checked another readout. “Units two and three are engaged in similar pre-emptive procedures. In another minute or two everything that isn’t behind military grade shielding and relies on electronic controls in order to function will be shut down, right down to a toaster. As for the buried mines, they’ll be neutralized and we’ll be able to drive right over them.”
“Right then—mines.” Bevridge studied the multiple readouts. “Unless there’s been a truly bad mistake and we’ve accidentally arrived at the home of a seriously anti-social farmer, I’m going to take their presence as conclusive, on-site confirmation that we have the right location.” He eyed the driver. “What else?”
The man continued to study the numerous readouts. “Two mini-guns, left and right of this entry road, in flanking positions.” As he finished speaking, the automated weapons in question opened up. While Rosenthal flinched, Lopé didn’t twitch. Other than making a lot of noise, the slugs that struck all around them caused no more damage than a hail of ball bearings. Someone inside the complex must have seen as much, because the futile barrage soon stopped.