“I’ll take a drive to the hospital later and check on them.”
“Take Sergeant Saunders and a second Land Rover with you. It’s getting pretty hairy out there.”
“What do the boffins next door say, sir?”
“There will be an update tomorrow. Not just on the status of the fallout, but also on their interpretation of what it all means for us. In the meantime, let’s grab the principal officer and update him on this morning’s events.”
The captain looked at his watch. “If I’m not mistaken, there’ll be a fresh urn of tea on upstairs.”
The colonel laughed. “You read my mind, Alan. I’ll get the PO. You and Sergeant Saunders meet us in the canteen.”
“Sir.”
Captain Redfern rotated on his heel, turned left, then left again, and headed back up the steps. At the top, he turned back on himself, then turned right, the common room, sickbay and male and female washrooms on his left. Opposite the sickroom, he pushed the door to the L-shaped canteen open and joined the half a dozen already in there. He acknowledged most of them: two from the communications centre on the lower level, three from the Department of Transport, Energy and Environment. Round the corner sat a member of the fire service along with a uniformed policeman. The civilian members of the Regional Government Centre looked at him suspiciously, recognising where, perhaps, the true power of the new post-apocalyptic organisation might lie — although Captain Redfern and Colonel Bannister had never given them cause to feel threatened.
Captain Redfern dragged one of the tubular steel chairs out and sat at a table of the same ilk just as one of the housekeeping staff wheeled a trolley across with a large tea urn perched on top, surrounded by a stacked array of white china cups.
“Morning, Alison.”
“Morning, Captain,” responded the head of housekeeping. At twenty-nine years old, she was three years younger than the army officer and responsible for a team of five who cooked, cleaned and dealt with the laundry for the sixty-two occupants of this seat of government for the region of Gloucestershire. She smiled. “I guessed you’d be in.”
“Apart from you, Alison, it’s the attraction of the biscuits that always come with a sound cup of tea.”
“Flattery always works, Captain Redfern, ” she answered with a beaming smile, brushing her honey-blond hair behind her left ear.
Before he could respond, the door opened behind him and, followed by other members of the RGC, the PO, led by Colonel Bannister, accompanied by Sergeant Saunders, entered, the three of them joining Captain Redfern at the table.
“Morning, Alison,” boomed the PO. “Treats today?”
“Of course, Mr Elliot.”
The sergeant dragged over two additional chairs, one a bright blue plastic bucket seat, the other a tubular steel chair with a thin padded seat.
“Thank you,” responded the PO, sitting himself down at the square Formica-topped table, unbuttoning his jacket, then gently smoothing into place his wispy grey hair.
They passed pleasantries with Alison as she served them a cup of tea each, two Hobnob biscuits tucked onto the saucer.
“Thank you,” they all chimed, and she wheeled the trolley to serve the next group in the rapidly filling canteen.
Captain Redfern savoured his tea and crunched on a biscuit, not without a small amount of guilt thinking on the incident he had left only moments before.
“Getting ugly outside, Captain Redfern?” asked Elliot, the principal officer, dunking one of his biscuits.
“Yes, and they’re getting braver each time. It won’t be long before they make a concerted effort to try and overrun the site.”
“They’ll be sorely disappointed,” added Colonel Bannister. “There’s very little food here.”
“Have they been targeting the warehouse, Colonel?”
“Yes, PO, but only in small numbers. With no transport, it’s difficult for the crowd to make the journey.”
“Somebody will stir them up. Then we’ll see them in much larger numbers. What’s the latest count?” Sergeant Saunders asked.
The PO pulled a folded sheet of paper from his now grubby suit jacket and studied its content. “The latest count is in the region of three to four thousand. But most are in a sorry state. Superintendent Collins has increased the frequency of patrols, but with only eleven constables they have to tread warily. It’s only possible when they’re accompanied by one of your patrols, Colonel. What are your current numbers?”
Captain Redfern answered on the colonel’s behalf. “Twenty-eight, sir. I have assigned eight to the warehouse, which allows four on duty at all times. They also have a Scimitar reconnaissance tank, but it won’t help very much if they’re mobbed. But it’s a good visible deterrent. I have ten men here, four more supporting the police, and six patrolling the general area, directing refugees to the camp and ready to respond to an incident wherever. They have a Land Rover and a Fox scout car. And, of course, Sergeant Saunders and myself.”
“But two of the soldiers based here have just gone down with the sickness,” added the sergeant.
“And the hospital has been swamped,” the PO reminded them.
“When will a feeding programme begin?” the colonel asked.
The PO waited while Alison topped up their drinks, a special smile for the captain as she refilled his cup.
“Three days.”
“Why so long, sir?” asked Sergeant Saunders.
“The straightforward answer, Sergeant, is that they should have their own stockpiles of food. It’s imperative that we force them to use those up first. Also, we will have to use food as payment for any work parties that need to be assembled. And there’s another factor we have to consider.” He dunked his second biscuit. “Many will die of radiation sickness. If we feed those people, who will no doubt be dead within the week, we will have wasted valuable resources.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Saunders responded.
“The PO is correct, Sergeant Saunders,” Colonel Bannister said in support. “We have limited resources which have to be husbanded carefully.”
“When will MAFF start their operations?” enquired Captain Redfern.
The PO pushed his empty cup aside and kept silent as Alison gathered up the crockery. “Thank you, Alison. What delights have we got for dinner tonight?”
“Corned beef hash again I’m afraid, Mr Elliot.”
“Ah, but the last one you did was superb. I shall look forward to it.”
Alison beamed at the compliment and pushed her trolley away. They continued their conversation in their huddle.
“Thank God she’s an excellent cook,” added the colonel. “We must have thousands of tins of the stuff.”
“To answer your question, Colonel, the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food will start their survey in about a week. The radiation levels are still too high to send people out unprotected for extended periods of time. And,” he continued, turning towards Captain Redfern, “they’ll require some protection, which your men will have to provide. So, until we are assured of the security of this Regional Government Centre and our food warehouse, they will have to stay put.”
“Any contact with the other regions, sir?”