This United state

'Matey, four crabs approaching. Number five, coming up behind. Fast:'

Tweed refocused his glasses to see a low ridge on the marsh. Within a minute he saw four of the strange vehicles poking their snouts over the ridge. They came over it. They were advancing towards Sectors A. B and C. A frontal attack. Just like the Americans. Get up and go.

'Matey, count ten men in each crab. Number five a weirdo. Seems only to have the driver. No other men aboard it.'

Tweed frowned. He could see No. 5 now. Heading for the centre of the hedge. The first four crabs stopped suddenly. About one hundred feet from the hedge. Large men, uniformed, wearing helmets, jumped out from the four stationary crabs, spreading out, weapons gripped in their hands. No. 5 continued advancing, stopped no more than thirty feet from the hedge. What the devil was its purpose?

'Everyone in position?' Tweed asked into his mobile. 'Yes… Yes… Yes…'

The stream of replies continued. Paula's voice first, Mrs C.'s next, then a jumble as confirmations overlaid each other. Tweed was satisfied that everyone was where they should be. He spoke into his mobile.

'They've left their crabs. Forty men advancing. Objective appears to be Sectors A, B and C. Close in on those sectors.'

Any moment now, he thought. Would the invaders open fire? Or would they try to keep advancing through the hedge? He couldn't guess this one.

Sharon was driving the limo at manic speed. She had just left Ashford behind. She accelerated. The speedometer climbed. By her side Denise Chatel was petrified. She crouched back in her seat. Sharon sat very erect.

'Where are we going?' Denise asked.

'To check that a key installation has been destroyed.' 'What key installation?'

'Shut your stupid mouth.'

'But where are we going?' Denise repeated.

'If you want to gab, we'll gab. For starters, how did you get hold of that file I found you reading?'

'You sent me to fetch you a file. I must have picked up the wrong one.'

'Crap.'

'It was all about the investigation into my father's death in a so-called car crash in Virginia.'

'It was a red file.'

'I found it on your desk.'

`You're lying. Most of my files are green. The one I sent you to get was on my desk. You poked your nose into my filing cabinet. I'd forgotten to lock it. That red file was in front of the cabinet.'

'I don't know what you're talking about. And I did read some of that file, which reported doubts as to whether the so-called car crash was an accident.'

'You shut your mouth! If I didn't need both hands for the wheel I'd slap your idiotic face. And,' Sharon sneered, 'you've no idea how stupid you look in that riding outfit.'

'You wouldn't give me time to change. Look out!'

Sharon had swung off the highway where a signpost pointed to Ivychurch. Before leaving she had attached to the dashboard a map showing the route to the Bunker, a map radioed to her from Washington. Instead of a main road, she was now driving along a winding lane at speed. Denise had called out because as they rounded a bend a single light rushed towards them. The motorcyclist was only moving at thirty miles an hour. Before Sharon could brake the limo swept past, its side brushing the motorcycle. The machine toppled over, hurling the rider into a ditch. Denise just had time to stare back – to see the inert body in the ditch, the machine on its side, its wheels still revolving futilely.

'We may have killed him,' Denise gasped.

'Killed who?'

'That motorcyclist you hit.'

'What motorcyclist are you talking about? Must be your imagination. I haven't seen anyone.'

'You're dangerous.'

'Don't talk to me like that,' Sharon responded, her voice and her expression now very calm.

The eerie silence of the night on the Romney Marsh was broken only by a single eerie sound. The purring of the engines which had not been turned off, the engines of the motionless crabs. To Paula it sounded like the purring of some monstrous and evil cat. She was crouched down, as were all the others. She had no idea what was happening and the tension was growing.

It was broken by one powerful shout of one word. She thought the American accent was Texan.

'Barrage!'

The night came apart. A thunderous fusillade of gunfire coming from automatic weapons shot at the same moment caused her to press her head into the earth. The commander of the invading SEALs was a Texan. He was also not a man to take any chances – even though there was no sign of life from the invisible installation. It was the American way – equivalent to the battleships far out at sea which had once bombarded the Vietnam jungle, killing no one.

The fusillade had been aimed at the middle of the fields beyond the farmhouse. The rain of bullets spurted up tufts of grass, pellets of soil. The barrage, deafening, continued for a short time, then stopped as abruptly as it had started. The SEALs were reloading.

From his platform Tweed observed all this, realized that there had been no casualties among his own troops, who were too far forward. He spoke quickly into his mobile.

'Shoot any target you can see.'

Marler, stationed in Sector C, to Paula's right, aimed his Armalite. A heavily built SEAL, confident he could take on anybody, swaggered forward as he reloaded his automatic rifle. Marler's bullet hit him dead centre in the chest. The SEAL stopped, let out a strangled yell, dropped, lay still.

All aimed his automatic rifle at two SEALs standing too close together. He fired twice. Both men sank to the ground. Then a fresh fusillade was let loose, aimed at the same area as its predecessor. More grass tufts, more soil jumped into the air. Tweed spoke again.

'Wait till they've stopped…'

The Texan commander, who believed in barrages, as opposed to any individual shooting, waited for his men to reload. One six-foot SEAL had had enough. The guys should be breaking through the friggin' hedge. He had reloaded quickly. Now he ran forward, plunged into and across the hedge. His body fell onto the hedge, onto the concealed barbed wire. He screamed, then stopped moving.

Mrs C., close to Paula, saw an even taller, heavier SEAL rushing forward. He'd realized he could use the prone body as a bridge. Mrs C. hissed at Paula.

`Use your searchlight. Quick.'

A second SEAL followed the first, with the same idea in mind – they had a bridge. Paula swivelled the light, aimed it just above the prone body, now dripping blood. The incredibly powerful glare shone at the moment the first SEAL was treading on the body, standing upright. Mrs C. let rip with her machine-pistol. The SEAL remained upright briefly, his arms shot up, releasing his weapon, which curved in an arc, landing on the far side of the hedge. Mrs C. continued blasting, bullets thudded into the second SEAL. The first SEAL toppled over backwards as the SEAL behind him staggered, moved a few steps as though drunk, then sagged to the ground.

'Barrage!' roared the Texan.

'Cease fire for a moment,' Tweed ordered.

'Barrage!' shouted the Texan.

This new fusillade came closer, but it was still a dozen yards beyond where the defenders lay still. Three more SEALs, who had ignored their commander's order, rushed forward, guns blazing, to use the prone body as a bridge. Mrs C.'s machine-pistol chattered as they ran into the glare of Paula's searchlight. All three fell beyond the hedge, tumbling on top of each other.

On his platform, Tweed was intrigued by the motionless crab – No. 5. Then it struck him what it might contain. He spoke.

'Marler, bomb that forward crab. Everybody flatten yourselves.'

Paula glanced to her right as Marler glanced at her. While he felt in his holdall for a grenade with his right hand he saluted her with his left hand, grinning. She nodded her head, acknowledging. Then she wriggled herself a couple of yards closer to Mrs C. She was moving away from the glaring searchlight, an obvious target.