“I still think it’s worth a try, Robbie.”
The man nodded and they both looked at Trevor, who then also nodded his agreement.
“Right, we need to pull together a plan.”
“When are you thinking, Bill?”
“Give it a week. We know where we can find a gas-powered forklift. We can use that to lug stuff out of the way.”
“Another tunnelling job, eh?” laughed Robbie.
“You sure you weren’t a miner rather than a fireman, Bill?”
Bill smiled. “We have problems lighting fires now, never mind putting them out. Anyway, I have a new trade now: scavenging.”
“Who do we take? We still need to defend this place and keep our foraging teams on the go, and protected.”
“I’m leaving you here, Robbie, to sort all that.”
“OK. So, who are you taking?”
“Trevor, the two TA lads, Ken, Reece and Kenny.”
“That twat Kenny? Are you sure?” exclaimed Robbie.
“Better I can see him,” countered Bill.
“If he gives any more trouble, we’ll sort him,” added Trevor.
“Need to watch his two boys though. Under twenty, but still seem nasty pieces of work.”
“I know. Right, we can go through the plans tomorrow, Trevor. I’m fucked. Join me for a nightcap though, eh?”
“Yes,” they both responded.
“On the way up to my place, Trevor, grab the TA lads. I want these weapons ready soonest. They’re no use to us like this.”
“Sure, Bill.”
“Let’s go then.”
Bill picked up one of the gas lamps, blew out the second, and led the way out, followed by his two key supporters. A quick drink, then he would get some sleep. There was so much to do if they were going to survive the next few days, let alone years.
CHAPTER 8
Glen could hear his breathing resonating in his ears as he moved along the concrete-lined corridor. It always made him smile when he wore his army respirator. It reminded him of his son saying he looked at sounded like Darth Vader when he had worn it for his son Jack, over a year ago. He very much doubted his son, along with his wife Jackie and daughter Louise were alive. They were in married quarters in Hereford, the location of the Special Air Service’s Regimental Headquarters, which had taken a direct hit from a 100-kiloton nuclear missile. The headquarters was now nothing but a giant crater. The houses around the town, out to a radius of at least three kilometres, had been destroyed and heavily contaminated. At five kilometres, most people exposed would have suffered third-degree burns at least, and many would have died of their injuries. Treatment would be almost non-existent. Even if his family had survived the blast, it was more than likely that the effects of a 500-rem burst of radiation would have finished them off. He had come to terms with it, but would investigate the area before he could put his mind at rest and start planning his future.
He arrived at the first of the steel doors, sensing Greg close behind him. He sucked in deeply through the filters of his mask as he prepared to open the steel, blast proof doors. The old and no longer used Regional Government Centre had provided them with the protection they needed to survive the nuclear onslaught, but the internal support facilities were all but non-existent. The generator had enough fuel to last a mere three days. After that, they had spent eighteen days in near darkness.
Using his torch, Glen located the lever he would need to pump in order to operate the hydraulically-controlled armoured door. Checking the lever was set for open, he pulled and pushed on the handle, pumping pressure into the system. After only twenty seconds, he heard the welcome groan as the heavyweight door shifted, a small gap slowly showing between its edge and the concrete-lined opening. A sigh of relief hissed through his mask, thankful that the door frames hadn’t been knocked out of alignment. He said a silent prayer for the engineers who had designed and built the bunker. He continued the action for another two minutes, changing with Greg behind him, swapping again later. Eventually, the door was fully open. He shone the torch through the gap, and then followed the corridor left, then right, the dogleg acting as a buffer should the main outer door be breached. At the outer door, Glen went through the same motions as before, but stopping when the gap was only half a metre wide. It was dark outside. The group had deliberately timed the opening of the door during hours of darkness. They had no idea what could be waiting outside for them.
Once the SAS troop had ensconced themselves within the depths of the RGC bunker, it was agreed that they would wait a full twenty-one days before they surfaced, allowing the heavily radiated ground and atmosphere to lose some of its lethality. The reduction in radiation levels would be at a relatively safe level after twenty-one days, but contaminated dust, animals and foodstuffs would still remain an issue for a long time to come. During their wait, they had discussed the options open to them.
“We need to check on your family, Glen.”
“Thanks, guys, but I can’t expect you to detour from your own plans.”
“What fucking plans,” Greg’s face broke into a smile. “A few beers, a good woman, and then a nightclub? I don’t think.”
The others laughed.
“Anyway, you’re not to be trusted on your own,” added Greg.
“What are their chances, do you reckon?” asked Roland.
With just a single lamp providing light, they couldn’t see the hurt in Glen’s eyes but could sense a slight tremble in his voice as he answered. “To be honest… nil. But I have to look all the same.”
“Why the bloody hell didn’t she move away then?” exclaimed Greg.
“Her damn mother,” scowled Glen. “Wouldn’t leave Hereford, so Jackie chose to stay with her, along with the kids. Anyway, we never ever believed it would come to this. What do we do after we’ve taken a look? That’s the million dollar question.”
“Everything could be OK out there,” suggested Roland, the youngest member of the troop.
“Don’t be a wanker. You heard it! And the last of the reports from the head shed warned us of multiple incoming.”
“Yeah, his last encouraging words were ‘wipe out’,” moaned Glen.
Plato, who had been relatively quiet until now, spoke up. He was deemed to be the brightest individual of the troop, forever reading about a range of differing subject matter, from the mating rituals of the sperm whale to the readings of the philosopher Aristotle — hence his nickname, the name of another well known philosopher. Plato, or Tyler, his real name, was considered to be the analyst within the troop, taking the lead in the planning of any operation they were involved in. The troop had been brought back from the Ukraine once hostilities had ceased, and the NATO and Soviet armies watched each other warily across no-man’s-land. As the politicians negotiated, while eating salmon and cucumber sandwiches and sipping on Pouilly-Fuissé wine, the troop had been tasked with rooting out some of the Spetsnaz sleeper cells that MI5 believed were still operating in the United Kingdom, waiting for orders to strike again at the country’s leaders and infrastructure.
Plato had meticulously planned the assault on one particular cell, hidden in a bunker deep in the heart of the Dovedale National Nature Reserve. It had resulted in six dead Spetsnaz operatives with no casualties within the troop. They had discovered food, communications equipment, maps and an arms cache, including one of the deadly nuclear suitcase bombs. Not that a half-kiloton device would have made much difference considering the UK had since been hit with at least 300 megatons. After that, and a quick celebration, the troop of eight men, the mountain troop of Two-Squadron, 22 SAS Regiment, had been split. Sergeant Glen Lewis and his three men were diverted to Wolverhampton while the rest went on to provide close protection for the Defence Secretary who was meeting with other NATO leaders. The peace talks with the Russians were going badly, and they were digging their heels in over any possibility of withdrawing their troops from eastern Ukraine.