He heard one approaching now. The controllers at Edinburgh Airport might not have figured out — yet — that the city was under attack. Once they did, all aircraft would be ordered away from the city, searching for a non-existent safety. The sound of the explosion of the missile drifted across his ears; he lifted the Yank to his shoulder and peered through the sensor towards the massive 747. The latest variant on the design could hold around five hundred people — all of whom were dead. They just didn’t know it yet.
The targeting sensor locked on. “Firing,” he said. Ossetia had already stepped well away from the back-blast of the rocket. The missile launcher grew warm in his hands as the rocket fired, heading up towards the passenger jet. By his rough calculations, it would come down somewhere in the heart of the city, perfectly placed to spread a little terror. “Time to run!”
Both of them had worn gloves, but he took a moment to set a charge by the side of the launcher anyway, just in case. The British Police were experts at tracking down people from the slightest clue, and even though they could have some other problems to keep them busy, he knew better than to take chances. If he and Ossetia had been detected earlier, without them knowing that they had been seen, they would lead the police right back to their base.
“There,” Ossetia said. Ustinov paused to look, just for a moment, as another explosion shattered the peace of the city. Even the birds had stopped singing. The aircraft was slowly spinning and falling, falling, towards the ground. “I think we succeeded.”
Ustinov nodded. The best pilot in the world wouldn’t have been able to save the passenger jet now. “Time to leave,” he snapped. They fled to their van, leaving the charge behind on a short time as the aircraft crashed into the city with a thunderous roar. As he put the van in gear and fled the area, he smiled; whatever happened, life in the city would never be the same again.
Silence fell.
Hazel had been walking through Princes Street Gardens, contemplating the news she had received from the doctor’s office. It was the best news she could have hoped for; only the fact that her husband had the right to know first had prevented her from calling her father on her mobile phone. She was happy, and content… and then an explosion had shattered the tranquillity of the city. She had spent long enough around the army to know that it was a real bomb that had detonated; as she turned to look, she could see smoke and flames rising from Hollywood, where the Scottish Parliament was in session.
A second noise split the air… and then she saw it. There had been an aircraft flying over the city, one of dozens that passed overhead every day, despite the chorus of complaints from the citizens. It took her a moment to understand as smoke and flame began to billow from the rear of the aircraft, and then it started to plummet out of the sky. She watched, her mouth a wide ‘O’ of shock, as the aircraft came down, lower and lower until it smashed into the New Town. On instinct, Hazel threw herself to the ground, covering her head as the shockwave blasted over her head, thanking God that she had some shelter in the Gardens. Others wouldn’t be so lucky; she could see chunks of buildings flying past overhead.
It was the screams that brought her back to herself; she realised that she had been in a mild state of shock. The entire face of Princes Street was on fire, flames licking up and consuming thousands of people who were trying to escape the carnage. There were thousands of people in the city for the shopping; what would happen to them in the fire? Hazel was sure that it wouldn’t be anything good. She placed one hand over her chest as a line of cars, illegally parked in defiance of the local government, detonated one after the other as the flames reached their fuel tanks; the wave of heat reached out towards her, almost hypnotising her as she stared.
“Get the hell out of the way, you stupid bitch,” a policeman shouted, as he pushed her back. The Police seemed to be just as disorganised as anyone else; the regular patrols of Princes Street, in the vain hope of cutting down street crime against the tourists, were utterly unsuited to the task of trying to put out the fires. She could hear fire engines in the distance, but the power seemed to be failing; the lights in the Old Town had failed. “The entire city is going to burn down!”
Hazel got the message and practically ran up the Mound, into the Old Town. The panic was everywhere, with teenagers and older people screaming as they poured onto the streets, trying to get away from the terribly hungry monster that had appeared in the middle of Edinburgh. A handful of soldiers — they were Royal Highland Fusiliers, she recalled from her husband’s grumbling about overpaid fancy dress soldiers — were coming down from the Castle, trying to help maintain order, but only adding to the chaos. No one seemed to be in control; she fled further away, towards the Meadows.
“Fucking Muslims,” someone was shouting, perhaps jumping to a conclusion that Hazel found impossible to dispute. Who else, but Islamic fanatics, would have done something like that to their beloved city? “Burn the Mosque!”
The younger elements of the crowd surged towards the Mosque; Hazel pushed and shoved and broke free of the mob, trying to escape towards Tollcross. She could hear the noise of fire engines now; she had never been so pleased to see the red fire engines as they made their way onto the bridge, trying to reach the site of the airplane crash. Water hissed as the firemen tried to use their hoses to disperse the crowd, the crowd blocking their passage to the fire. Hazel fled into the Meadows and tried, hard, to catch her breath.
A hand caught at her bra strap. “It’s the end of the world,” a voice said, drunkenly. He was a typical down-and-out; his breath almost made Hazel gag. “Wanna party?”
The drunkard’s hand was reaching into her bosom. The feeling brought her back to full awareness. “No,” she said, and brought her knee up hard. The drunkard bent over, gasping in pain, and she kicked him as hard as she could in the side, sending him crashing to the ground. He was a pathetic sight; the thought of him trying to force her legs open sent a wave of fury through her and she kicked him in the head. “Go fuck yourself!”
She fled back towards her home. The flames didn’t look as if they were going out quickly; the streets were packed with people trying to escape. She reached for her phone, to call her father, and… nothing. There was no signal at all. She had one of the Thande Phones, which had access to several different networks, but none of them seemed to be working. The shock almost brought her to her knees; it was all she could do to keep walking, step by step, until she was back home. As soon as she was home, she went into the shower to wash; she could still feel his touch.
Halfway through the shower, the water failed; moments later, so did most of the power.
Although the drivers of the two vans didn’t know it, their timing had been based on the timing of the first missile to enter visual range of Edinburgh. They wouldn’t have cared if they had known; they had planned the operation on the basis of sacrificing their own lives for the cause. Survival was not an issue; the drivers had been through years of training in the most brutal region of Russia to ensure that when the time came, they died for a reason. The vans made their way from where they had been waiting, in a Tesco car park, and headed into Colinton, towards the barracks. There were several minutes between the two vans; that, too, had been planned.