Ten men and two women patrolled up and down the line. Metre-long solid ash pick helves, to be used as batons if needed, swung from their hands, a white band with the letters CPS (Civilian Police Support) around their upper arm.
Captain Redfern watched them as they walked the line, scowling at some of the hungry refugees, using force of will to keep them in line. It reminded him of some of the films he had seen, about the Second World War and the Holocaust. Yes, Kapos, he thought: used by the German authorities to police the Jews as they were rounded up to be shipped to the concentration camps sprouting up all over Eastern Europe. Alan had protested about the use of civilians, but the PO and the colonel had overruled him. He could understand their reasons behind the decision, lack of manpower within the police force, but it still felt distasteful. Even though his unit had been joined by a further five soldiers and two police constables from the outlying districts, they only had thirty-two soldiers and thirteen civilian police officers to control a crowd of over 4,000 now. This was the survivor’s first meal that had been doled out by the RGC. It wasn’t much: a tin of luncheon meat, tin of soup, and a packet of dried biscuits. But, for some, it would be the first thing they would have eaten for perhaps up to a week. At the end of the line, a water tanker provided water, the survivors filling up tin cans, plastic bottles, jugs, bowls, basically anything they could lay their hands on. A small woman, clutching what looked to be a two-year-old child to her body, tripped over the blanket flapping around her feet, and a CPS officer standing close by grabbed her arm to prevent her crashing to the ground. She thanked the man, and he returned the thanks with a smile.
Alan relaxed a little, annoyed at himself for letting his imagination run away with him. He walked over to the Land Rover. Sergeant Saunders was in the driver’s seat, his gloved fingers drumming on the steering wheel, waiting. His helmet was off and the NBC hood pulled back, his short mousey brown hair matted to his head.
“We going back for the brief now, sir?”
“Yes. What’s your thoughts on this new CPS unit?”
“Bunch of misfits, but the best of the bunch. Health wise, that is. Not sure about anything else. So long as we don’t give them anything more than a pickaxe handle, they shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I suppose.”
“I’ll tell the boys to keep an eye on them.”
“Good call. Right, back to the RGC.”
“Let’s find out what’s going on then eh?”
“I hope so. It’s about time. I know we need to plan, but we also need some action as well.”
Sergeant Saunders started the engine, put the vehicle into gear, and headed north slowly but still kicking up a small amount of partially contaminated dust, that trailed behind them.
“We need some rain, sir.”
“Or a miracle.”
Although the L-shaped room was one of the biggest in the bunker, it was still crowded as the key members of the Regional Government Centre gathered for a major briefing. There was standing room only as the group, pushing steel-tubed desks and chairs back as far as the communication wires would allow to make room, gathered around a large map on the main wall. At the centre of the semi-circle were the top six men, given governmental authority prior to the nuclear strikes to take responsibility for the region. The senior man was Douglas Elliot, the principal officer. Then there was his deputy, Edward Cox, assistant PO, Chief Scientist Rupert Lowe, Superintendent Derek Collins, in charge of the police, Colonel Bannister, looking resplendent in his No. 2 dress, preferring it to combats, in command of the armed services, and finally Dylan Wright, the individual responsible for the Department of Employment, in baggy trousers sporting a dark blue blazer.
Elliot, a large barrel-chested man, his suit now hanging slightly loose on him after three weeks of rationed food, dominated the room. He scratched his balding head and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, perch on a chair or desk if you’re able. Get as comfortable as possible,” the PO suggested. “This may take a while.”
The attendees shuffled and made themselves as comfortable as possible. They were a mixed bunch, a representative from each of the main departments that were deemed necessary to put the region back on its feet. Both the colonel and the captain wondered what input some of them could possibly provide. There were representatives from the Departments of Transport, Energy, Employment, the Social Security Agency, Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, the Environment, army, police, scientists, finance, and the Office for Information. Other departments, not represented at the meeting but still within the building, consisted of British Telecom, housekeeping, communications and the Department of Trade and Industry.
“Colonel, an update on the security situation please?”
“Of course. I’ll provide an overview. Then I’ll hand over to Captain Redfern who can provide a more detailed update of our current position.”
Captain Redfern nodded his head, and the colonel continued. “There are four elements really. First, the control of the feeding station recently set up. It’s got off to a good start, just a few minor disruptions. The captain will fill you in on his thoughts and any concerns he may have. Secondly, the warehouse. As some of you know, days before the food station was set up, there was a major assault on the warehouse. The QRF, the quick reaction force, was able to respond in time, and they were beaten off. The most disturbing element of the attack was that some of the perpetrators were armed with automatic weapons.”
“Where could they have got them from?” asked the PO.
“Any number of sources. Perhaps they managed to find a military armoury somewhere. We know there are army deserters out there, or they may have taken the weapons off a soldier after killing him or her.”
“God help us,” groaned the PO. “Carry on, Colonel.”
“Our patrols are operating effectively enough and, with the additional manpower, including the CPS officers, I’m confident we can secure this compound, the warehouse, the feeding station, and out to a twenty-kilometre radius. Finally, we are ready to support Dylan as soon as the go-ahead is given for the labour force to be recruited.”
“Dylan will update us on that shortly,” informed the PO.
“Anything to add, Captain Redfern?” the colonel asked.
“Only regarding the recruitment of CPSs. I’m concerned that we’re pulling together an unofficial group that could potentially get out of control if not watched closely.”
“I disagree with the captain, by the way. But understand his concerns,” advised the colonel.
“I’m with the captain on this,” added Superintendent Collins, smartly dressed in his blue police uniform, despite the circumstances and the cramped conditions of the bunker. His cap tucked under his arm along with his brown leather gloves.
“If we’re to gather a big enough labour force, and control it, to start work on clearing the mess out there, we must have additional supervision.” Dylan Wright, head of the Department of Employment, jumped in.
“They will be your responsibility then?” responded Captain Redfern.
“I… ah… well… I suppose they will be.”
The PO interrupted. “Gentlemen, please. We will monitor the situation, Captain. But we do need a labour force, and once people realise that they will only get top rations when they work, and reduced rations for those that don’t, we could well have our hands full. And they are an official force sanctioned by the Government. Thank you, Colonel, Captain. Rupert, a science update, if you please.”
The chief scientist, with his matted but thinning hair sticking out above his ears, was almost the epitome of a mad professor. He was even wearing a white lab-coat, although not so white after spending three weeks in the bunker.