It was while the four men were heading for Wolverhampton that they got the first warning of an impending nuclear strike. Diverting to Swynnerton, they had only been at that location for an hour when they received the ‘Black’ warning. Sealed up in the bunker, they had lost all contact with the outside world, but could hear, and feel, the rumbles of numerous powerful explosions. On one occasion, the bunker was shaken so violently they had expected it to collapse in on top of them. Fortunately, it held, and all were in agreement to hold out for a full twenty-one days.
“The way I see it, we have three options, providing, that is, we aren’t able to make contact with headquarters.” Plato listed them. “Head south-east, make our way to London, and suss out if the Pindar Bunker is occupied and operational. If the Joint Operations Centre is online then we can seek further orders. Number two: we find one of the larger Regional Government Centres, latch on to it, and see how it pans out. Finally, we find a base of our own. Come up with a plan for the future. God knows what that is likely to be. By the way, each one of those options is preceded by a trip to pick up Glen’s family.”
“Thanks, Plato. Right, guys, Chinese Parliament time. Which of those rocks your boat?” asked Glen.
Greg, always the most outspoken of the four men, was the first to respond. “I agree with Plato’s list, but they’re all shite options. Number one and three for me. Get to Pindar, suss out what command and control is like and, if it’s fucked, move on to plan three and look after ourselves. Suss out any nightclubs still up and running on the way,” he added with a laugh.
“I’m for joining an RGC, see if we can make ourselves useful,” opted Rolly, the youngest of the team. “They’ll probably need our help. Sorting out the communities has to be the priority. Get the country back on its feet.”
Greg leant forward in the dim light of the bunker, and he shuffled his padded seat closer to the group. “Don’t be a twat, Rolly. They’ll be in shit state. You remember the briefings we’ve had about nuclear warfare? Three quarters of the fucking population is going to be sick or dying, and the rest will be homeless and starving. Come under the command of some jumped-up local council official and work with some twatting reservists who’ve had a couple of bloody days’ training? Bollocks.”
“We now know where you stand,” responded Glen with a chuckle. “Still opt for an RGC, Rolly?”
A red tinge coloured Rolly’s cheeks. “Well, I… uh… see where Greg’s coming from. But shouldn’t we… help…?” His voice tailed off in the darkness.
Greg patted his shoulder. “Stick with us, mate, we’ll see you right. What about you, Glen?”
“Option one and three makes sense. Sorry, Rolly, but if we get sucked into working with one of the RGCs, it’ll be controlling a labour workforce, burying or burning the dead, or riot control. Some may survive, but you know people. When the food runs out, it’ll fall apart. Plato?”
“That’s the one that makes the most sense. Sorry, Rolly.”
“Nah, that’s fine. Troop decision, and I’m happy to go with it.” Inside, Rolly was relieved. He hadn’t been comfortable with what he thought was the right thing to do versus what he wanted to do.
“So, when twenty-one days are up, we head for the smoke. I’m for grub. What we got for tonight?”
Glen pulled down his night vision goggles, a green mist showing the corridor outside the outer steel blast door open to the sky that led to the perimeter of the site. It was unoccupied. Turning round, he tapped Greg’s arm, indicating the soldier could continue with the pumping, opening the door even further while he and the third man back, Plato, moved outside.
Glen unslung his HK G36 and, on getting a tap on his shoulder from Plato, moved down the corridor. The walls either side became lower as they moved further away from the door, the concrete bund being replaced by sloping banks of earth either side. On reaching the end of the access point, Glen went left, Plato went right, and Rolly, the fourth member of the team, stayed in the centre, with Greg keeping watch. Glen covered the left arc, scanning left and right, searching for any signs of life. Looking half-right, he could see an oblong building, showing up as a shimmering green shadow. There were no signs of life, nor any movement for that matter. About fifty metres away, alongside the building, he could see the shape of their Land Rover, still in situ, appearing unharmed and in one piece. They waited ten minutes before expanding their search radius. The cold started to ease its way through his clothing, and Glen shivered. The four men continued their search of the immediate area up as far as the two-metre-high fence line, and then regrouped.
Glen kicked off a quick O-group. “First signs looking good. Greg, I want you and Rolly to do a full circuit. Immediate area, then out to 150 metres.”
“Make sure you do a test for radiation while you’re out there.” Plato dropped his pack, removed the man-portable device and handed it over to Rolly.
“Meet back here in sixty. Got it?” added Glen.
“Yes, boss,” they all concurred.
The two men tasked with the patrol went out through the gate they had driven through twenty-one days earlier and completed their patrol, reporting back that all was clear. Radiation was detected, but the radiation readings were at a satisfactory level. While on patrol, their packs and other kit had been brought to the Land Rover, which was covered in a film of fine dust, by Glen and Plato, and once it was confirmed the vehicle would start, one of the few EMP protected vehicles in the army, the equipment was loaded on board. The majority of their kit was piled into the quarter-ton two-wheeled trailer. A tarp over the top, secured to the sides, ensured the items would stay in position should they encounter any rough terrain.
It was 0410. Dawn would be with them in less than an hour. They had agreed to stay in situ until full daylight, concerned about driving and stumbling around in the dark, not knowing the full outcome of the nuclear exchange.
When the time came, NVG goggles were removed, but respirators were pulled back on. Until they could assess the levels of dust in the air beyond the bunker complex, which would have to be done visually, they preferred the full protection afforded by their respirators and camouflaged NBC suits. Glen was also worried about dust being kicked up by the vehicle and finding its way inside. Better safe than sorry had been his mantra. Glen and Plato climbed into the front two seats, Plato driving, while Greg and Rolly positioned themselves in the very cramped rear of the long wheel-based vehicle. Even more supplies had been piled into the back of the canvas-topped Land Rover. They estimated they had at least two months’ worth of supplies, and plenty of ammunition, provided they used them sparingly. They left the RGC, heading south-west on a minor road, more of a lane to start with, avoiding the M6 motorway to the east, suspecting it would be clogged with abandoned vehicles as panic set in, people racing away from the major centres of population, or major military bases, seeking the relative safety of the countryside. Within twenty minutes, they had crossed Meece Brook, which ran north to south, and soon found themselves on the A519. Apart from the occasional abandoned car, smoke from a fire outside a roofless house, they came across no other signs of life.
“Just seen a sign for Newport,” Plato pointed out as he slowed down a little, the two nodding soldiers in the back stirring slightly, recognising the change in the engine’s rhythm. However, they kept their eyes closed and continued to doze.