He stumbled towards the protesters, intent on doing what he could to help, when he realised that Buckingham Palace hadn’t been the only target. Smoke and flames seemed to be rising into the air from all over London. He’d thought that it was a terrorist attack — even though he couldn’t understand how they’d managed to get a bomb into the Palace — but this was on a different scale altogether. There were at least seven different plumes of smoke… he rubbed at his ear, cursing the growing ringing. It was impossible to call for help if he couldn’t hear the reply. How could terrorists have pulled off such an attack?
The first protestor, a young girl barely old enough to drink, had been crippled by the blast. Robin did what he could for her, praying that the ambulances would be on their way. But if London had been hit several times… he’d been in enough crisis situations to know that it took time to get organised, time to throw off the shock and take control. How long would it be before someone took command and started funnelling help to the wounded? And what if the unknown attackers had taken out the Government? One of the plumes of smoke seemed to be coming from the direction of Whitehall.
And if they’d taken out the government… he shuddered, unable to face the implications. If they’d taken out the government, they’d committed an act of war.
But who were they?
Chapter Three
London
United Kingdom, Day 1
“What…?”
The emergency doors burst open as two men hurled themselves into the Prime Minister’s office. Gabriel had no time to react before they grabbed him bodily and carried him over to one of the office walls. It opened, revealing a hidden shaft leading down into the bunker below Ten Downing Street. He yelped in shock as they dropped him, feet first, down the shaft and towards what felt like certain death. Instead, the tube seemed to twitch around him and he found himself slowing and sliding out into the bunker. A man wearing a black uniform caught him by the arm and pulled him away from the tube, just before the first of his own assailants popped out of the tube. Gabriel’s mind finally caught up with the string of events and he realised that the Personal Protective Detail assigned to Ten Downing Street were doing their jobs. He’d been briefed on the emergency procedures — everything from terrorist gunmen to chemical or radioactive weapon being deployed against Whitehall — but he was ashamed to realise that he didn’t know their names.
One of the men — the leader, Gabriel assumed — tapped a key into a concrete wall. A hatch appeared out of nowhere, revealing a set of metal stairs that led down into the bunker. It was illuminated by flickering lights that seemed to be having trouble remaining alight, suggesting that the power supply to Ten Downing Street had been cut off. There was an emergency generator in the basement, Gabriel remembered, as well as a handful of other precautions, but as far as he could recall they’d never been tested. They certainly hadn’t held an emergency drill after he’d become Prime Minister. The oversight, he realised as he clambered down the stairs, might have cost lives.
Another doorway opened at the bottom of the shaft, revealing the Crisis Management Centre. Gabriel had been inside a handful of times, but he’d never grown to like the drab concrete walls and the effect of being cut off from the rest of the world. The only decoration was a painting of a cobra a previous Prime Minister’s child had produced, a reference to the COBRA Committee that served as Britain’s emergency council. No one had had the heart to take it down. The team leader pointed Gabriel to a seat and headed over to the bank of computers and communications equipment placed against one wall.
The ground shook, alarmingly. Gabriel glanced up as the light hanging over the conference table spun from side to side, proving that he hadn’t imagined the explosion. Something on the surface… was there anything left of Ten Downing Street? He silently thanked God that his wife hadn’t been in the building. She’d been on a visit to Edinburgh to meet with the First Minister of Scotland, carrying messages from Gabriel that he didn’t dare entrust to anyone else. Dear God — had Edinburgh been hit too?
Gabriel took a moment to calm himself, and then tried to sound professional. “What happened?”
The team leader glanced over at him. “I’ve not sure, Prime Minister,” he admitted. He looked a tough young man, but Gabriel had enough skill at reading people to know that he was nervous. “We picked up a FLASH warning from PJHQ warning that an attack was underway — we immediately grabbed you and got you into the bunker. But most of our communications lines appear to be down and…”
Gabriel stared at him. “Has Downing Street been destroyed?”
“No, Prime Minister,” the team leader said. He frowned, looking down at the console. “I can’t get through to anyone else — not PJHQ, not Edinburgh, not anyone. The radio network appears to be being jammed. I’m not sure… ah.”
He looked up as the main door to the conference room opened, revealing Major-General Sir Alan Robertson. Gabriel allowed himself a moment of relief. Robertson commanded the Household Division, the main body of troops in London. Among other duties — both operational and ceremonial — the Household Division was responsible for evacuating the Monarch, the Prime Minister and other government ministers from London in the event of an emergency. Robertson wore a combat uniform and carried a pistol on his belt. He was followed by three other soldiers, all carrying rifles and wearing combat uniforms.
“Prime Minister,” Robertson said, relieved. “Thank God you’re safe.”
“You too,” Gabriel said. A fourth soldier had arrived — but he looked more like a man dressing up rather than a real soldier. He had a pair of glasses and looked slightly overweight, carrying a small laptop under his arm than a weapon. “General… what the hell is going on?”
Robertson looked… worried. “Prime Minister,” he said, slowly, “we’re at war.”
“At war?” Gabriel repeated. “Who with?”
The fourth soldier looked up. “Aliens,” he said, flatly. “We’re at war with aliens from outer space.”
Gabriel stared at him, unsure if he should laugh or cry. “Aliens?” His Personal Protective Detail seemed to be having the same reaction. “Aliens? And I suppose that Doctor Who is going to come along any minute to tell them to piss off?”
“Please, Prime Minister,” Robertson said quietly. “Hear him out.”
The fourth soldier put his laptop on the conference table. “Fifteen minutes ago, the entire orbital communications network — ours, NATO’s, the Russians — went down,” he said. “Bare minutes later, we lost contact with the Deep Space Tracking Network — that’s a joint operation largely run by the Yanks, but there are stations on British soil and we have access to the live feed. The last report we had from RAF Fylingdales reported a number of incoming missiles that appeared to have come from orbit. One of their projected endpoints — their targets — was the base itself. The entire Ballistic Missile Early Warning System has been taken down.
“At roughly the same time, ground-based radar stations picked up a number of unknown aircraft breaching the UKADR — that’s the United Kingdom Air Defence Region,” he continued. “RAF aircraft on alert were vectored towards the intruders — we lost contact shortly afterwards with both the aircraft and their bases. It appears that we have been hit badly all across the country. We have lost contact with almost all military bases within the United Kingdom.”
“Which leaves us no choice,” Robertson injected, “but to assume that they’ve been destroyed.”