Plato put the vehicle into four-wheel drive, then applied power to the Land Rover, and it picked up speed, catching up with the two open-topped Land Rovers in front. What appeared to be two Territorial Army soldiers were in the back of the nearest one. The vehicle leading had an armed policeman and an individual in jeans and a combat jacket. The civilian was also armed with an SA-80. Within minutes, they were off the bridge, passing beneath an old iron bridge carrying a road and railway east.
“Crash barrier either side, observed Plato.”
“Wooden, but looks solid enough. Keep going.” Glen looked in the wing mirror, caught a glimpse of the Saxon about thirty metres back, a Regular soldier holding onto the pintle-mounted GPMG, ready to act if needed. The vehicles ahead slowed down as they approached a bend. A second flyover could be seen as Plato reduced his speed to ensure they maintained a reasonable distance from those in front. But, they would inevitably bunch up.
“Fucking fence has gone, but the trees are too dense,” warned Plato.
“Keep moving. Get ready in the back. Smoke first.”
“Roger that,” responded Greg as he lay side by side with Rolly on top of the paraphernalia of stores they carried in the back. Once they received the order, they would dip their heads beneath the rear canvas flap and prepare for a fire fight if needed. They passed beneath the flyover and the road straightened up.
“Barriers gone,” informed Plato. “We’re in a dip, banks either side of us.”
“Just be ready.”
“It’s flattening out.”
“Stand by,” warned Glen.
“Roger,” came the response from the back.
“Gap coming up,” informed Plato. “Ready, ready, ready… ”
“Now,” yelled Glen as Plato spun the wheel left, the body of the vehicle tipping right as they sped through the knee-high grass.
Whoompf… whoompf. Two smoke grenades exploded behind the Land Rover just as it came off the road, small clouds of smoke growing steadily bigger and denser, the breeze taking it across the road as they heard the chatter of machine-gun fire from the Saxon. But the gunner was firing blind, and the driver, swerved into the bank on the right, his vision impaired by the rapidly blooming smokescreen.
Crump… crump. Two grenades exploded, thrown by Greg and Rolly as the Land Rover smashed through the overgrown, little used gate that protected a field of crops. The gate was shattered, splinters smacking at the windscreen as Plato tried to maintain control of the careering vehicle, the trailer going haywire behind them.
“Smoke,” called Glen as Plato turned left again, forcing a trail through the crops as he steered in an arc, back towards the edge of the field. More smoke billowed up, engulfing the area behind them, acting as a shield, hiding them from view. They needn’t have worried. The Saxon was up against the bank on two wheels, and by the time the lead vehicles had cottoned on to what had happened and spun round to come back and investigate, the troop were well on their way. Guided by Glen with the map, and an element of common sense, the Land Rover clawed its way across field after field until they eventually made it to the B4363, continuing their journey south.
“Well, Rolly,” chided Greg, “that answers the question about joining one of the ragtag outfits.”
“What now, Glen?”
“Stay on this road, Plato. Cross the A456, then across the A44, and come at Hereford from the east. Give it half an hour. Then we’ll swap drivers.”
It took the troop six hours to complete the 100-kilometre journey, passing through Kinlet, Cleobury Mortimer, crossing the A456, then through Stanford Bridge. Once across the A44, it was a straight run down the A465 until they were able to turn eastward. They approached the town of Hereford from the east, along the A438. The sight that met them shook even these sturdy soldiers. The 500-kiloton burst had done its job well. The fireball had radiated out to nearly a kilometre, incinerating all in its path, generating a firestorm that raged through the town. The air blast that quickly followed, the overpressure expanding out to nearly two-kilometres, demolished most houses, blasting roofs off others, shattering windows, killing thousands. Those that were lucky enough to have escaped the devastation that struck had been radiated with a 500-rem radiation dose. Without speedy medical treatment, ninety per cent of the population would be dead within a matter of hours, or at the most a matter of weeks. Even those that, by some miracle, had survived in those first few moments in what was clearly hell on earth, thermal radiation, out to over ten-kilometres, inflicted third-degree burns on any survivors exposed to it. Some experienced fourth-degree burns: burns that went deep, extending through the fragile layers of skin and flesh, into the underlying fat, muscle and bone, harrowing but painless as the nerves were destroyed before they could register the horrific torture that should have been. All of the fourth-degree burn victims were dead.
In total, the town of Hereford, and the surrounding area out to a radius of some ten to twelve kilometres, had suffered over 35,000 deaths and 8,000 casualties, the fallout affecting even more people, reaching as far as Liverpool that, in turn, received two one-megaton bombs themselves. The houses either side of the road were houses no longer, but begrimed, roofless, windowless shells. A woman, her face covered with severe leather-like scarring as were her arms, shivered in the cold while clutching a small blackened form, partially wrapped in a grubby shawl, to her chest. Her dirty, hairless head turned to follow them, the missing ear on her left side replaced by a seared blob of shrivelled flesh.
“Shall we stop?” asked Plato.
“No, keep moving. There’s nothing we can do. And we risk getting caught up with the local administration again.”
“That’s if there is any in this godforsaken mess,” added Greg.
Greg, who was now driving, with Rolly in the front passenger seat, steered the Land Rover around the chunks of debris and avoided the abandoned and blackened cars sitting on their wheel hubs, tyres burnt off and the paintwork non-existent. The closer they got to the centre of the town, the worse it got. The debris turned into rubble, and the abandoned cars were often on their side or angled across the road, blown there by the force of the blast.
“Hang next right,” instructed Glen. “Let’s do a CTR of the hospital.”
The rail bridge ahead had collapsed, and Greg put the vehicle into four-wheel drive. It bounced across the rubble as Greg manoeuvred the Rover through the clearest sections, almost getting stuck at one point and tipping over the trailer the next. Eventually, they got across. Although the road was clearer, rubble still slowed their journey as they turned down Central Avenue, across the big roundabout, straight along St Guthlac Street before turning right onto Union Walk to complete their recce. The hospital was off to the right — what was left of it. Like most of the buildings, it had been burnt out and, being higher than the surrounding buildings, had taken the brunt of the blast wave. It was unlikely that it could ever be used as a hospital again.
Plato waved the radiation detector around. “Getting some pretty high readings around here. I suggest we don’t stop here too long, boss.”
“I have no intentions of staying any longer.”
“Shall we go for the married quarters?”
“No, there’s no point. We’re moving closer and closer towards Ground Zero, so by the time we get the married quarters… ” Glen didn’t need to continue. They all knew what he meant. “Turn her around, Greg. Let’s head south.”
CHAPTER 9