“Right this way,” the pilot said, as he shut down the helicopter. He led the way into an empty warehouse, seemingly innocent, but Langford could see traces of oil on the floor and an open door up ahead, leading to stairs, which led down into the ground. “This is as far as Her Nibs will allow me to go.”
“Sorry, Landie, but you’re not cleared for the remainder of this,” a female voice said. “Major-General, welcome to the Classified Joint Headquarters.”
Langford shook her hand automatically. Captain Erica Yuppie — if that was who it was — reminded him of Tasha Yar; she was tall, had short blonde hair, and a body that looked deceitfully slight. Her handshake was firm and her blue eyes cold and hard, with only a hint of betraying grimness under the dispassion. Langford wanted to know more; something that could shake a lady like Erica Yuppie was obviously worrying.
“Thank you,” he said, automatically, as she led the way into a small conference room. “What is this place?”
To give Erica her due, she didn’t seem put out or surprised by the question. “This is the Classified Joint Headquarters,” she said. She altered her voice slightly; reciting from memory. “To provide emergency command and control for British forces in the event of a major outrage in the United Kingdom, generally expected to be the Big One; a terrorist nuclear attack. Crew; fifty, commanded by an officer on the reserve list. Status; permanently on stand-by, ready to take over if there is a major interruption of command and control for global military operations.”
She smiled, rather thinly. “Or at least that's the theory.”
Langford nodded. “How come I never heard about this place?”
“Security,” Erica said. “There are roughly sixty people who know about the existence of this place since it was set up in 2018; you may remember that there was a major nuclear threat at the time, from Pakistani nukes. One possible target was London and it occurred to the then Prime Minister that if London was taken out, there would need to be both a command centre nearby — that’s here — and another one somewhere out in the country. This place was set up later that year and has continued to run silently until now.”
“Very clever,” Langford said. “Captain… what the hell is going on?”
Erica’s face became grimmer. “I think that you need to hear it directly from the horse’s mouth,” she said. She picked up an internal phone and spoke without dialling a number. “Lieutenant Sargon, report to the main briefing room.”
She turned to Langford. “Lieutenant Aaron Sargon is one of my best analysts,” she said. “Like me, technically, he’s on the reserve list…”
“And you’re more than a Captain,” Langford realised. “What is your actual rank?”
“Major,” Erica said shortly. “I have the pay and responsibilities of a Major; the rank and uniform of a Captain. There aren’t enough Majors for one to vanish without exciting attention.”
Langford felt a sudden moment of sympathy for her, mounting her lonely vigil for years over London and the United Kingdom. The door opened, revealing a vaguely oriental-looking young man, slightly overweight by army standards. Headquarters staff officers normally were slightly out of shape. He had short dark hair, a friendly face, but one that was creased with worry.
“General,” he said, saluting. “I don’t have a proper briefing prepared…”
“Never mind the PowerPoint presentation,” Langford snapped. In his opinion, PowerPoint and other programs like it were the worst thing that had ever happened to the military. The security bugs could have been handled, but for sheer confident irritation, it was hard to beat PowerPoint and the other Microsoft products. “Just give me the bad news.”
“We maintain a direct feed from MILNET — the PJHQ, the UKADR and so on — into here,” Sargon said. “At roughly 1000, the MILNET links started to fail, starting with the European satellites that were supposed to provide us 24/7 coverage of Europe, and continuing with a handful of our own dedicated servers, which came under cyber attack. At the last moment, some of them reported signs of multiple missile launches from home waters, but the system failed before a perfect response could be generated. Ground-based radars, part of the UKADGE, attempted to engage the missiles, but absent the precise targeting details, it was impossible to generate an intercept solution in time. Around — we don’t know for certain — three hundred missiles were launched in positions that suggested that we — Britain — were the targets.”
“Dear God,” Langford breathed. “Who the hell is doing this to us?”
“It’s impossible to be certain as yet, but preliminary information suggests that it is the Russians,” Sargon said. “They and the Americans are the only people who might have the capability to do this… and, from rather garbled transmissions from France, it seems that we weren’t the only ones hit. As far as we know, sir, Ireland wasn't hit, but our communications links are badly fractured and we have only limited contact with our own bases…”
“God damn the EU,” Langford swore. He — and almost every other commissioned officer in Europe — had argued against putting all of their eggs in one basket. “That system was meant to be foolproof!”
“There are some very smart fools out there,” Sargon said, seriously. He learned forwards. “At least ten missiles came down in London, sir; two of them hit Ten Downing Street and devastated the area. Westminster also appears to have been hit, along with Albany Street Barracks and Cavalry Barracks, where we had infantry soldiers based. We should have a direct line here to Aldershot… and that, too, is gone. We haven’t been able to locate the source of the jamming yet — we need to triangulate and our non-radio communications are in tatters — but the reports from Flying Officer Jackson suggest… that we are looking at a total loss.”
Langford felt his knees buckle. “There was that session in Parliament today,” he breathed. “The Whips were going around saying that they had to go to Parliament, even if they went on their deathbeds; illness wasn't an excuse. They were going to debate the Falklands…”
“Yes, sir,” Erica said. “It is quite possible that the Prime Minister and everyone in the line of succession is dead.”
Langford swore under his breath. “And the PJHQ?”
“Hit,” Sargon said. “Again, it was a bunker-busting weapon, from preliminary reports. The building has certainly been rendered useless.”
Langford stood up and paced. “What the hell do we do now?”
Erica looked at him. “Under the emergency protocols, when the country is at war, command of the military and local government devolves upon the senior military officer alive,” she said, sternly. The protocols were developed with nuclear war in mind, where the local garrison commanders would work under the local commissioners… something that has slipped since the end of the Cold War, but never mind… and they had never been revoked. Democracy simply didn’t get a look in during the planning for total war.
“You, sir, are the senior surviving military officer… and, as such, the powers of government devolve upon you.”
Chapter Fourteen: Picking Up The Pieces, Take One
Hitler expects to terrorise and cow the people of this mighty city… Little does he know the spirit of the British nation, or the tough fibre of the Londoners.
London, England
“There’s nothing at all on the bands,” Sergeant Harold Page said. “Even the BBC seems to have gone off the air.”
“I see,” Briggs said. “Stay here.”
He hopped out of the mobile command post and glanced around. The scene was chaotic; policemen, bodyguards, a handful of survivors from the outskirts of Whitehall and soldiers were milling around, some of them carrying weapons and looking nervous. No one seemed to be in command and, judging from the jamming on the airwaves, no one would have the slightest idea just what had happened. If he hadn’t seen the missile, Briggs would have thought that there had been a bomb, or even a gas leak.