“Of course, sir,” she said. “How do you wish us to proceed?”
Alan’s temper boiled over. “I expect your fucking subordinates to do their jobs,” he snapped. “I want pictures of the dead and wounded — the younger and sexier the better. I want sob stories on who died and how much promise they had in front of them before they were assassinated by the wretched terrorists. I want total media coverage — interviews with the survivors and relatives, talking heads on how some people just cannot forget the past, and tearful interviews demanding that the legitimate government do something about them. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Catherine said. She lowered her eyes, but Alan wasn’t fooled. There was nothing submissive in her nature. “I shall see to it personally.”
“Now go do your damned job,” Alan snapped, and waited for her to leave the room. She was too smart for her own good, at least in a world he controlled — as long as he pleased the aliens, of course. Given time, he was sure that she would be the one to challenge him. The woman was just too ambitious for her own good. “Chief Constable — give me some good news, please.”
Chief Constable Gerald Rivers hadn’t been Chief Constable for very long. His predecessor and his deputy had been killed when the aliens took out Scotland Yard and Rivers’ only real qualification for the job was that he’d been the senior police officer to agree to serve the aliens and keep the peace. He was a short man, inclining towards stoutness, but there was a hard edge underneath him that Alan had no difficulty recognising. It was a shame that he genuinely believed that the only way to protect the public was to work with the aliens, rather than allowing ambition to drive him forward… Alan shrugged. One couldn’t have everything and Rivers wasn’t likely to try to unseat him.
“We did manage to repair most of the CCTV network nodes over the last few days,” Rivers said. London had had the greatest number of CCTV cameras per person in the world — until the aliens had arrived and wrecked a few hundred when they’d taken out Central London. “I’ve had crews working on the footage — we did manage to trace the van back to its base. And we got some good pictures of the bomber himself, but we think he had at least one accomplice. The explosives used in the blast were military-grade.”
Alan scowled. The Household Division had put up a vicious little fight in Central London — and the aliens had been certain that they hadn’t rounded up all of the surviving soldiers. Some of them had been killed trying to get out of London, but others had clearly stayed inside the city — and had been planning to carry on the war against the aliens. He cursed them under his breath, even as he tossed a few ideas around in his head. Perhaps there was a way to escape blame for the disaster… no, the aliens wouldn’t be interested in excuses. From what he’d heard, they were only interested in results.
“I assume the bomber blew himself to fuck,” he said, flatly. The swearword felt good on his lips, even though he had been careful not to swear in public before allying himself with the aliens. The Leathernecks, as some were calling them. “What about his accomplice?”
“I’m afraid his ally was too careful,” Rivers admitted. “Our CCTV coverage near Regents Park has never been what it should be — and whoever was behind the blast knew to stay out of the camera’s field of vision. The chances are good that we have some footage of the bomb-maker, but we don’t know it. At least, not yet.”
He shrugged. “The bomber himself, we believe, was Aashif Shahid,” he continued. “He does have a file — he came to our attention after a number of outspoken comments in the mosque about the need to wage war on the Great Satan — but MI5 took a look at him and decided that he was nothing more than a loudmouth. No real contacts with the radicals who could provide explosives or weapons — and no sign that he was trying to build his own. And as for why he decided to attack the aliens…?”
Alan shrugged. “Get a team out to the garage and see if you can pick up any clues that might lead to the bomb-maker,” he ordered. “And then draw up a list of his friends and family. I want them arrested and charged with harbouring a known terrorist…”
“With all due respect, sir,” Rivers pointed out, “there is no evidence that anyone else knew about his plans…”
“Do it anyway,” Alan ordered, sharply. He glanced over at the alien communicator on the table. God alone knew how it worked, but it was quite possible that the aliens were watching him at all times. Fear leaked into his voice as he spoke. “Do you want them to do it?”
Rivers met his eyes in shared understanding, if for different reasons. The aliens could do it, all right, or they might bring in the heavy weapons. It was easy to imagine them calling down strikes on London, blasting entire buildings to rubble just to teach the imprudent humans a lesson. And then they’d be looking at thousands dead and God alone knew how many wounded. And it wouldn’t give them a chance to track down the remainder of the resistance cell. And…
“See to it,” Alan ordered, quietly. “We can’t risk losing control now, or we might lose everything.”
Chapter Nineteen
London
United Kingdom, Day 15
From a distance, the old garage looked harmless. Just another old business, struggling to stay afloat in the depression — and perhaps making questionable deals with criminals or terrorists to keep the money rolling in. But Sergeant Terry Graves knew better than to relax. CO19 — the Central Operations Specialist Firearms Command — had broken into terrorist bases before and, no matter how innocent they looked, they often had unpleasant surprises waiting for unwary armed police officers. The irony didn’t amuse him as he beckoned the rest of the team forward, leaving two men behind to watch from a safe distance. They’d been sent into battle unarmed, at least without firearms. The alien ban on human firearms was still firmly in place.
Terry cursed silently under his breath as they crept closer. In an ideal world, he and his team would be fighting the aliens — and they’d had time to conceal a small number of firearms around London in places they could reach them if the shit hit the fan. But for the moment, they had no choice, apart from collaboration. And if they failed to catch the insurgents who had struck out at the aliens, the aliens would take steps of their own. Given their willingness to use indiscriminate weapons fire in the midst of the civilian population, he had no doubt just how bloody and violent their steps would be.
He held up a hand as he inspected the garage’s door. It was quite possible, judging by the blast that had levelled an entire technical college, that they weren’t dealing with would-be terrorists at all. The moron who’d driven the truck could have been told that he would have time to make his escape, or maybe he’d known that he was going to die. And the person behind him, far from being an international terrorist, might be someone trained and armed by the British Army. Terry had seen enough SAS troopers during their cross-training sessions to dread the possibility that one of them might have gone rogue.
The thought made him snort. From what they’d been able to pick up from the internet, the remains of the British military had been ordered to carry on the fight for as long as possible. They weren’t chasing a rogue, but someone intent on carrying out his orders and hurting the aliens until he was finally hunted down and killed. There might be an entire team of Regiment soldiers waiting for them, or perhaps they had already vanished, leaving no traces behind. Terry envied them their freedom of action. His own family had been moved to a place where they were being held — for their own good, of course. And if he turned against the aliens, they would kill his entire family.