INVASION FRONTLINE: A War and Military Action Thriller

By DC Alden

The battle for Britain rages.

As the fighting sweeps across northern England, Eddie Novak and his friends infiltrate enemy lines to help a desperate comrade reach h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Double Tap Press
• Release date: Jun 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781739134891

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It took ten days to assemble the fleet, to fly the aircraft to their departure points, and to find pilots willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.

On day 11, from airfields across southern and central Norway, 78 planes took to the predawn skies and headed out over the North Sea. The fleet comprised of several aircraft types: F-16s and SAAB Gripens, F-35 Lightnings, Mirage 2000s, civilian Airbus 320s, and Boeing 737s. Despite their obvious differences, the planes had one thing in common; they were barely airworthy. Unserviceable engines, airframe damage, hydraulic and guidance systems problems; the list was a long one. Three miles off the rocky Norwegian coast, those problems manifested themselves.

The first to fall was a Mirage fighter jet. Crippled by engine failure, the plane nose-dived into the black waters, taking the pilot with it. His plane, like the others, had every unnecessary mechanical and electronic system stripped out, including the ejection seats. Weight and speed were primary mission considerations, and fuel tanks filled accordingly. Munitions were also in short supply. The military aircraft carried no bombs or missiles, except for the fighters with working weapons systems. Those planes each carried 500 twenty-millimetre armour-piercing rounds.

The aircraft pushed on across the sea, and the strong headwinds proved too much for a Scandinavian Airlines 737. As the pilots struggled to maintain their mission altitude of 60 meters, the Boeing’s starboard wing, riddled with stress fractures, suddenly sheared off, sending the aircraft into a twisting death-dive. It screamed out of the night sky and punched through the bow of a patrolling French La Fayette-class frigate below before exploding in a huge fireball. The impact lifted the stern of the ship out of the water, and the sea rushed into the void where the bow existed moments before. Both aircraft and ship sank beneath the surface in less than three minutes.

The planes continued onwards, the slower aircraft leading the way in wide V formations, thundering across the black waters beneath them, engines and airframes pushed to the limit. A dozen more succumbed to their faults and fell from the sky, and two mid-air collisions destroyed another five. When the front-runners reached dry land, crossing the English coast just north of Whitley Bay, 59 aircraft remained airborne, which was a huge achievement. Now they were feet dry and too close to fail.

The first wave approached the target, the Airbuses and 737s climbing for height, triggering the British air-defence systems that had detected ghost signals from out over the sea for the last 30 minutes. Swarms of missiles streaked into the night sky, and anti-aircraft cannons blasted the airspace surrounding Newcastle. The storm of fire claimed another dozen aircraft, but it was too little, too late.

The target was the city centre, the nest from where the kuffar had emerged like killer ants. The pilots muttered prayers before lining up their planes and jamming their yokes forward, and the thunderous roar of terminal descents echoed across a terrified city. Some aircraft broke apart under the strain of their final manoeuvres, while others plummeted to the ground in flames, shredded by anti-aircraft fire. They slammed into busy roads and backstreets, into the River Tyne itself, destroying homes and schools, bridges and office buildings. Hundreds of people died in that first wave.

The following formations pushed on towards Newcastle like flocks of migrating birds. The sky around their cockpits pulsed and flickered with white light and laser-like gunfire, the dark landscape ahead of them sprouting balls of flames as aircraft impacts rippled across the city. They banked and weaved and pointed their planes at the ground, their victorious screams consumed by the howl of jet engines.

The last wave to hit the city was the fighters, and they attacked from the north. Air defences thinned out their numbers, but not fast enough. Taking advantage of their superior manoeuvrability, the aircraft spread out in a wide formation, thundering 30 metres above the suburbs, dislodging roof tiles and rattling windows, the pilots deaf to the screams of terrified citizens below. Ahead of them, red strobes pulsed in the darkness, marking the target. They opened up with their cannon, expending thousands of rounds into the Royal Victoria Infirmary, packed with civilian and military personnel injured during the initial uprising. A storm of armour-piercing rounds ripped through the air, through glass and concrete, through cinderblock walls, flesh, and bone. Pushing their throttles to the stops, eight of the incoming fighters dipped their noses and ploughed into the hospital complex itself, the fireballs engulfing entire buildings and killing hundreds more.

The surviving planes pushed on, attacking other targets: the central railway station; the Sage Gateshead music venue, repurposed as a military vehicle park; and the A167 expressway that snaked through the city.

The pilot of the last plane pointed the nose of his F-16 at St Mary’s Cathedral just north of the train station and jammed his throttles to the stops. The screaming aircraft hit the historic building with a tremendous boom that echoed across the city, bringing the cathedral’s famous spire crashing down onto the street in an avalanche of dust and smoke.

The detonation rumbled and faded. Weapons systems fell silent. As the sky to the east paled, fires took hold across the wounded city. The largest conflagration was at the Royal Victoria Infirmary itself, burning across several shattered buildings. Those who were closest could hear the screams of the desperate and the dying, trapped by smoke and flame.

Thirty-four aircraft had hit the city of Newcastle, reminding its residents, and the thousands of soldiers transiting through its streets, that the war had not forgotten them. Despite the storm of combat that was moving to the south, despite the shifting lines on the maps, there could be no room for complacency. The attack was a wake-up call for those who believed that the conflict had passed them by.

A stark reminder that they were still on the frontline.

CHAPTER 1

VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED

They’d made it to the suburbs of Washington before abandoning the Nissan pickup.

They’d travelled less than three miles, and the rising sun had revealed the urban sprawl that lay between them and the open countryside beyond. Steve had tried to convince Mac that he knew a way through, that open country lay just beyond the distant rooftops, but the Scot refused to trust Steve’s judgement. That gave Eddie some comfort. What lay before them that first morning was unfamiliar territory and filled with potential dangers: enemy troops, surveillance drones, inquisitive collaborators, and blue-on-blue contacts. Any of them could spell the end of their unauthorised mission and see them all dead. So they’d dumped the Nissan on the edge of an industrial estate and skirted its border, losing themselves in a dense, rubbish-strewn copse of trees that overlooked the A194 motorway.

As the sun rose that first morning, so did the volume of enemy traffic. Haji attack helicopters chopped low overhead, travelling west towards the flash point at Birtley. The low rumble of mechanised thunder had continued all day, and the sound of battle had weighed heavily on them all. Mac in particular, Eddie had noticed. The man who’d sanctioned the quest to help his friend was struggling with indecision, his eyes and ears drawn to the distant battle, desperate to play his part. Steve had urged him to go back, to re-join the 2 nd Mass, but Mac had declined. He’d given his word. There was no going back.

It had taken them a further four days to cover the seventeen miles to the village of Embleton. By day they’d hidden in ditches and woods, in a scrap metal yard, and even inside a burned-out bus, waiting for darkness to descend. When it did, they moved as fast as possible, but the skies were alive with drones and manned aircraft, and the sound of battle didn’t fade until they reached the open countryside. Far from major roads and prying eyes, they’d made excellent progress those last few miles.

Nearing Embleton, they’d found an old shepherd’s hut half a mile from the western end of the village. Abandoned for years, the boys made camp amongst its collapsed roof and crumbling stone walls. The ruin sat just below the crest of the hill, a good spot, with commanding views over Embleton and the surrounding countryside. As the sun set, Steve was champing at the bit to get home, but Mac ordered them all to stay put. They’d bought themselves a breather, and they hadn’t seen a single Haji ground patrol for two days. They needed rest, all of them. Steve didn’t argue. He’d made it home.

Eddie woke in the dark and rolled out from under the civvy coat he’d been curled up in for the last – he checked his watch – eight hours and fifty minutes. That was a much-needed kip. In the shadows beneath their Bashas, the indistinguishable forms of Steve and Digger slept on, buried under their requisitioned coats. Eddie grabbed his M27 and ducked outside. Mac sat on the bank, scanning the town below with a spotter scope. In the wall’s lee, a mess tin of water bubbled on a cooking stove, vapour rising on the cold air.

‘Make yourself a brew,’ he said.

Eddie grabbed his mug and made a coffee. He leaned back against the hill, gun beside him, the warm cup between his hands. An early morning mist clung to the ground below, blanketing the woods and fields that reached towards the southern horizon. Closer, he could see the rooftops of the village. Between their hide and the settlement, the terrain was rough and open with lots of wild grass and rocky outcrops. There were no grazing animals, no obvious walls or fences. That was good, because that meant no humans. Eddie sipped his coffee. It was weak because he was only using a third of a sachet, but it was wet and warm. Good enough, given the circumstances.

‘What now?’

‘Get some food inside you, then we’ll talk,’ Mac said.

Eddie rustled up the last of his powdered eggs. The smells of breakfast finally drew Steve and Digger out of hibernation.

‘Jesus,’ said Steve, stretching. ‘Didn’t realise how wiped I was.’

‘Digger, how’re you feeling?’

The youngster offered Mac a tired smile. ‘I’m alright.’

A large plaster stuck to Digger’s left temple had replaced the bloody field dressing. He wore a green North Face coat liberated from the farmhouse a few days ago. It dropped towards his knees and he looked lost in its bulk. He reminded Eddie of a child – except for the dark circles under his eyes and the AK-12 assault rifle cradled in his arms.

Below, the village remained hidden beneath a fine mist. Steve couldn’t keep the smile off his stubbled face, not until Mac snatched the scope from his hand and ordered them both to get themselves squared away.

After they’d eaten, after they’d packed away their cooking gear and taken care of business behind the rocks along the ridge, Mac called them together.

‘Alright, we made it, and we did it without firing a shot, which is a bonus because between the four of us we’ve got less than five hundred rounds and only a dozen grenades.’

‘Four smoke and eight HE,’ Eddie said. ‘We’ve also got the mini-drone, the scope, laser-spotters, and sidearms. Radios are good for personal comms, and we’ve got spare batteries for the TAC Tablets.’

‘Keep those switched off. Encrypted or not, they can pinpoint our grid reference. And leave your lids and skellys in the hide. We don’t need either right now.’

Eddie had already ditched his exoskeleton. The tactical support system had proved its worth under combat conditions, and while the system was light and flexible, it still felt good to be free of its constraints. Now they all wore civvy winter coats over their tactical gear and no helmets. Eddie looked around at his friends; their hands and faces were caked in cam cream and dirt, and no one had shaved in days. They looked more like some sort of rebel force than professional soldiers.

Mac handed Steve a notepad and pencil. ‘You’d better brief us on the layout down there.’

Steve drew a large letter T on the paper and used the pencil as a pointer. Eddie and the boys gathered round.

‘We’re here, above the west end of the village. The rooftops we can see form the crossbar of the T, and the vertical bar runs for about a quarter-mile to the south. It’s a big village, with a population of about 600 people at the last count. There’re shops, a couple of pubs, and a petrol station, plus several smaller roads and tracks that lead to surrounding houses and farms. This is where I live, right here.’ Steve made a cross on the paper, about halfway down the vertical bar. ‘It’s semi-detached, with a side alleyway and open fields to the rear. And it’s just me, Sarah, and Maddie. The garden backs on to those fields down there.’ He pointed to the south, towards the grey blanket of mist.

‘What about neighbours, friends, relatives? Anyone likely to pick up the phone if we come a-knocking?’

‘My mam and dad live further up the street. They pop in regular, like. Well, they used to.’ Steve frowned and said, ‘They’re no spring chickens.’

Mac stood up and took a few paces down the hill. He lifted the scope again, swept it across the terrain below. Then he turned and faced them.

‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do. The sun sets just after 6 pm. We wait for full darkness, then me, Steve, and Eddie will head due south—’

‘What about me?’

‘You’re staying here,’ Mac told Digger. ‘You need to rest up.’

‘Don’t baby me, Mac!’

‘Wind your fucking neck in. I need you here on overwatch. You’re our best shot, even with that thing.’ Mac nodded to the Russian-made weapon in Digger’s arms. ‘If we have to bug out in a hurry, I want someone up here who can lay down accurate cover fire, understood?’

‘I’m your man,’ Digger said, grinning.

‘Don’t make me explain myself again.’ As Digger’s smile faded, Mac looked at each of them. ‘We’re behind enemy lines, remember that. And if we get caught wearing civvy gear, we’re fucked. We’re talking torture and execution, so stay switched on, all of you, got it?’

Eddie and the others nodded.

‘Good. Okay, we’re gonna spend the rest of the day improving the hide, get it as watertight, windproof, and as invisible as possible. Then we clean and check weapons, eat, rest, and wait for nightfall.’

‘What about security?’ Eddie asked. ‘I mean, the locals must know about this place, right Steve?’

‘I’ve lived here all my life, never been up here once,’ Steve said. ‘Can’t speak for the summer, but right now I’d say it’s too cold and wet for anyone to venture up this far.’

‘I’ve been up over the ridge behind us,’ Mac said. ‘Nothing but moorland for miles. That said, we take one-hour shifts, keep a close eye out. I’ll take the first one. You lot get stuck in on the hide.’

‘Got it, boss.’

‘And cam up, all of you. I don’t want to see an inch of pink skin.’

They took care of that first, making sure their hands and faces blended in with the surrounding shades and hues of nature. Then they dismantled their temporary hide, cleared out the collapsed timbers and fallen stones, and started again. When they’d finished, Eddie and the boys stood back and admired their efforts. They’d muddied the stone walls and used the scattered beams from the collapsed roof to create a large, windproof hide, lined with their Bashas and insulated with a carpet of ferns and grasses. With their sleeping mats laid on top, they would be out of the wind and rain and invisible even from a few metres away.

‘Hard to spot,’ Mac said when he inspected it. ‘Good job.’

They spent the rest of the daylight hours eating, cleaning weapons, and standing watch. Steve took a longer security shift, observing the village and making notes. As they ate their MREs by the dying light of the day, he briefed them on his observations.

‘The local farmers are a mixed bunch, dairy herders, meat suppliers, crops and grains. They’re an everyday sight in Embleton, with their trucks and tractors. It’s a busy time of year.’

‘Today’s the first day of spring,’ Mac said.

‘Which means it’ll get busier as time goes on.’

Digger frowned. ‘Is that a good thing or not?’

‘More people, vehicles, more distractions,’ Eddie said, shrugging. ‘Can’t hurt.’

‘More eyes. More nosy bastards.’

Mac gave Digger a look and turned back to Steve. ‘Anything else?’

‘I saw a car, a Range Rover, a white one with a black roof. It belongs to Pat Hogan, or used to. That was a while back.’

‘Who’s Hogan?’

‘He runs a scrap metal yard outside of Stockton, about eight miles away. Hogan’s a well-known face in these parts, always nosing around, buying up old vehicles and machinery, that sort of thing.’

‘You’re not a fan,’ Eddie observed.

‘He’s a nasty piece of work,’ Steve said, ‘him and his brothers. They glassed a bloke in one of the village pubs a few years ago. Stabbed another guy after that. Cops never touched them. People were too frightened to talk.’ Steve shrugged. ‘Anyway, that’s the only vehicle I recognised. I saw it pull into The Stag. That’s the pub down this end of the village. They always did a good breakfast in there. I guess some things don’t change.’

‘Right then,’ Mac said, getting to his feet. ‘Get your gear ready,’ he told Eddie and Steve. ‘We’re travelling light and quiet, so leave your vest plates here. A couple of mags each, nothing more. We may need to bug out fast, so lose anything you don’t need. We move out at twenty-hundred.’

Steve nodded and ducked inside the hide. Eddie watched him go. Steve’s earlier excitement had waned as the day had worn on, and now that night was fast approaching, Eddie could feel his friend’s apprehension. It’d been three long years with no contact with his wife and child, and Steve didn’t know what to expect. Eddie felt nervous too.

The sun set, and the sky darkened. Eddie shrugged on his tac vest, his civvy winter coat, and slung his M27. They assembled outside the hide. Below them, darkness wrapped itself around the village.

Mac gathered them together. When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper. ‘Digger, you keep your eye glued to that scope. You see anything moving anywhere near us, I want to know.’ He turned to Steve. ‘This is your territory, so you take point. We’re heading due south, down to the road. That’s our first RV. It’s a clear night, so we won’t need NVGs. When we move, keep your distance and watch your step. Questions?’

Eddie shook his head. Steve did the same. Mac took a step closer to him. ‘No matter what you see or hear down there, remember this is a tactical op and we’re deep behind enemy lines. Tonight is not just about you. Do I make myself clear?’

‘I won’t let you down.’

‘Don’t.’ He cocked his head. ‘Lead us off.’

Steve’s silhouette disappeared as he headed downhill. Before he could follow, Eddie felt Mac grab his arm, heard the whispered words in his ear.

‘If his old woman has moved on and the kid is calling some other bloke Dad, he could lose it. When we get close, watch him like a hawk. If he looks like blowing our cover, we yank him out of there sharpish, got it?’

‘Got it,’ Eddie said. The thought had crossed his mind too. Three years was a long time.

Mac followed Steve down the hill. Eddie looked over his shoulder and gave Digger a wink.

‘Don’t fall asleep.’

‘Don’t get killed,’ Digger replied, grinning.

Eddie turned away and followed Mac’s shadow as he disappeared into the darkness.

CHAPTER 2

BANGED UP

‘Oi, oi, Bertie boy!’

‘Bertie, Bertie, Bertie…’

‘Not long now, grass. The clock’s ticking.’

The threats and catcalls echoed around the grey stone walls of his cold, damp cell. Bertie drew himself tighter beneath the threadbare blanket and tried to ignore them. Never in his life had he felt so miserable, so desperate, and so utterly alone. He stared at his broken paws, the fingers of his right hand black and swollen like burnt sausages held together with filthy tape. His piano playing days were over, that was for sure. His left hand was in slightly better shape, only two fingers broken and bloated, strapped together with that same grimy tape. That’s how long his resistance to interrogation had lasted; two fingers, two blows with a hammer.

He didn’t have a chance with his right hand, but as soon as they’d gone to work on his left, Bertie had talked. He gave them names – of childhood friends, schoolmates, blokes he’d played football with – picturing their faces, the voices he hadn’t heard in years, recalling the houses and flats where they’d lived, addresses he hoped and prayed they’d left long ago. The rest he blocked out – people like George and the many acts of resistance, like rummaging through The Witch’s private office for intel. He’d banished all of that to the outer reaches of his consciousness. It was self-preservation, nothing more. Survival was a base instinct, and in that interrogation cell, Bertie had sung like a canary. He’d cried and pleaded, the tears genuine, and the cold-eyed reptile who’d questioned him, who’d recorded those names and addresses, who’d urged Bertie to be truthful for the sake of his teeth and testicles, must’ve believed him because he hadn’t been back since.

After his interrogation, they’d dragged him down into the bowels of the prison and left him lying on the icy floor of a narrow cell. Bertie had drifted into unconsciousness. He remembered the heavy iron door being flung open, remembered someone roughly disinfecting and strapping his broken, bloody hands and fingers, and then they’d left him alone. Bertie had crawled up onto the narrow bench and the thin plastic mattress and curled up beneath the paper-thin prison-issue blanket. He’d stayed like that for days, his only source of light the barred rectangle cut into the stone above his bed. That light lasted for only a few hours a day, and Bertie wondered what was outside that window. If he’d had the strength, if his hands were whole and healthy, he could probably jump up, grab those rusted bars and see what was outside. Instead, he trusted what his senses were telling him, that the narrow slit looked out into a chamber or a courtyard, that the sky was far above, and other cells, the ones that housed his tormentors, were close by.

The catcalls had started a few days ago and hadn’t let up. Sometimes it was several overlapping voices, their incoherent threats echoing around his damp tomb. At night it was often one voice and not always the same one. The voices would whisper, and Bertie guessed they were in the next cell, or maybe outside, just beneath the barred opening.

‘Bertie? Are you there? Can you hear me? Course you can. Tell you what you won’t hear, you won’t hear the blade going in, not the first time. You’ll feel it though. Makes you go all cold. Then the pain, you’ll feel that alright. When it happens, you’d better hope they cut an artery so you bleed out quick—’

‘I didn’t give ‘em anything.’

‘Sure you did. We know, Bertie.’

‘Just leave me alone.’

‘That’s not an option for you, traitor.’

‘Kiss my arse!’

Which would be a distinctly unpleasant experience for anyone, because Bertie hadn’t been able to wipe it since his interrogation. The crack of his arse squelched, and shit streaked the backside of his yellow coveralls. He stank, as did his cell, and he hadn’t emptied his slop bucket in days. He shifted on his muddy backside and thought back to the night he’d shot Gates and Al-Kaabi. Should’ve had a Plan B, he berated himself for the thousandth time. He should’ve headed north after the Yanks had kicked him to the curb, but he was too stupid to have thought that far ahead. He’d never make that mistake again. Not that he’d ever get the opportunity.

No, his life would end here, within the prison’s grim walls, at the hands of strangers who’d already decided his fate. Some of them were Resistance, who’d taken the fight to the invaders in the name of freedom, liberty, and justice, the same people who now whispered his guilt through the bars of his cell, who’d already condemned him to death without hearing Bertie’s version of events. Fucking hypocrites.

He wondered who was calling the shots, who was directing the threats and abuse. Not Durkin, the black, bearded bully who’d greeted Bertie’s intake with his fists and a club. No, Durkin and his collaborators had chosen their side. There were no bent screws here.

It must be Gordon Tyndall. He knew Tyndall was in the prison somewhere, along with the Lovejoy brothers and Fairbanks, awaiting the date of their crucifixion. They were Resistance rock stars, heavy-hitters, real fighters. If Bertie could somehow speak to them, let them know he hadn’t grassed, then maybe they’d lift the death sentence hanging over him. Maybe.

Bertie’s fingers throbbed in agony, pulsing in pain-filled waves that swept up to his armpits. He moaned beneath his blanket, his eyes filled with tears of frustration. What did it matter anyway? If his faceless assassins didn’t get him, then gangrene probably would, or sepsis, or some other horrible fucking disease. How long before his fingers dropped off? Maybe they would have to amputate, an operation performed not in a sterile theatre but publicly, on a scaffold in front of the other inmates. Bertie had heard many rumours, none of them pleasant.

Now he heard something else. Footsteps, voices rising rapidly in the corridor outside. And something else, the squeak and slither of an object being dragged along the floor. Bertie sat up, the blanket falling around his waist. The footsteps stopped outside. He heard an indistinguishable mutter, then laughter that echoed around the walls. He heard a key in the lock, and Bertie’s heart rate soared. The door swung open. Three smiling screws loitered in the corridor outside. One of them, a big man with dirty-blond hair and a twisted nose, grimaced.

‘Jesus, it fucking stinks in ‘ere.’ Blondie’s smile faded. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

He stepped back, and Bertie scrambled to his feet. It was going to be the guards after all. Maybe Tyndall had paid them off. It didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore, but at least he’d die standing.

Another screw took Blondie’s place in the doorway, a thick fire hose held in his hands. Water dripped from its red nozzle.

Blondie smiled. ‘Bath time, Payne.’

The icy blast of water knocked Bertie to the floor.

CHAPTER 3

BIRD STRIKE

The city of Newcastle lay wounded beneath a ceiling of low grey cloud.

The slow-moving front had worked its way across the North Sea and headed inland, much like the attack of the previous evening, yet instead of panic and death, the cloud brought with it a fine rain, a salt-tinged balm that soothed the city’s open lesions, its devastated streets and houses, its shattered commercial centres and broken, historic heart. Destruction lay around every other corner, from one end of Newcastle to the other, and towers of black smoke towered into the leaden dawn sky.

Grim was one word Harry Beecham thought of to describe the new day. Yet standing amongst the ruins of the Royal Victoria Infirmary, it surprised him to discover that he felt nothing in particular. As he skirted the mountains of shattered brick and concrete, as he inspected the blackened shells that had recently housed wounded soldiers and civilians, as he absorbed the damage reports and casualty figures, Harry’s emotions remained muted. He felt spikes of anger, disgust, and sorrow, but his face remained impassive, his words few. Just two of his close-protection team, the hospital administrator and Harry’s chief-of-staff, Nina Shankar, accompanied him, and they wore the same uniform as the rescue parties – orange hi-vis vests and white hard-hats – rendering them indistinguishable amongst the hundreds of people clambering over and around the foothills of destruction. The soldiers hid short-barrelled weapons beneath their raincoats, and Nina had balled her long black hair under her hat and wore a dust mask over her nose and mouth. Harry also wore a disguise of sorts, the collar of his Columbia winter coat riding high over his chin, his distinctive grey hair hidden beneath an open-faced balaclava. Their visit was a covert one, for despite being freed, some Newcastle residents had proved hostile to its liberation. Shootings and suicide bombs across the city had killed many British soldiers and civilians. No one was safe, especially Harry, but having a target on his back was nothing new.

‘I’ve seen enough,’ Harry told the administrator. ‘Tell my people what you need and I’ll get it to you.’

No one shook hands, and no one spoke until they were back in the armoured MRAP parked a block away. It was one of three, six-wheeled, matte-black beasts that made up Harry’s convoy, and as he approached, the soldiers inside spilt out onto the pavement and across the road, gun sights sweeping the streets and overlooking windows. Harry climbed inside, helping Nina aboard, the rest of his CP team taking their seats around them. The engine roared, and the MRAP lurched after the lead vehicle. It took less than ten minutes to traverse the empty roads, detouring around the collapsed building on St Thomas’ Street, where timbers still smoked and a blackened Airbus tailplane lay across the melted asphalt, before driving beneath the Newcastle City Assembly building, now Task Force HQ of the King’s Continental Army. Harry thanked his escort and headed deeper into the bowels of the building, to a dusty, windowless room reserved for Harry’s private use. Nina joined him, and neither spoke until the door was closed. Harry hung their coats on a dated wooden stand. It was Nina who opened the conversation.

‘You were quiet up there.’

‘Sometimes it pays to listen.’

‘You looked disengaged.’

Harry couldn’t smother his tone. ‘We’re not on the campaign trail, Nina. No babies to kiss. They’re all dead.’ He grimaced, and said, ‘I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.’

‘So, what is it? Stress?’

Harry shook his head. ‘It’s not that. I think I’m becoming immune. To all the death and misery.’

‘That’s understandable. You’re a wartime leader now.’ Nina smiled. ‘And they tend to be voted out of office in subsequent elections.’

‘God, I hope so.’

He felt Nina watching him, appraising him. He’d recruited her back in the States, where she was serving as chief of staff to the deputy head of mission in Washington DC. Smart and capable, with first-class honours degrees from Oxford in History and Politics, and Middle Eastern Languages. She was no shrinking wallflower either. Since they’d landed in Scotland, Nina had witnessed her fair share of death and destruction too, but she’d stayed by Harry’s side, determined to serve both him and the country. She was an invaluable member of his team, his rock, and he was grateful she was there. Or is it something more?

‘Let’s get to Ops.’

The Operations Room was at the other end of a long basement corridor, where looping data cables ran along its faded green walls in thick multicoloured looms. HQ staff hurried back and forth, pressing themselves against the wall and standing to attention as Harry, Nina, and his CP team passed by. Harry glanced into the other rooms along the corridor, the branches and cells that made up a military task force HQ: Intel and Security; Current and Future Operations; Logistics; Planning; Comms; and IT. Inside those rooms, Harry glimpsed men and women hunched over computers and map tables, talking on telephones, conferencing in hushed groups. There were no raised voices, no panic-driven urgency, and after what he’d just seen up on the street, that gave Harry some comfort.

On seeing the Prime Minister enter the Ops Room, Task Force Commander Lieutenant-General Norton led Harry into a soundproofed meeting room. Other key players filed inside: officers from Intelligence and Operations, and senior civil servants from Policy, Legal, and Cultural. Harry shook several hands and Norton opened the discussion.

‘How does it look up there?’

‘Not good,’ Harry said. ‘What happened?’

‘Point of origin was Norway, multiple aircraft from multiple airfields. They came in low over the sea, less than 200 feet, which is why we didn’t see them coming until the last minute. It was a low-tech strike, of little strategic value, and designed to inflict maximum terror.’

‘The attack on the infirmary was a different matter,’ Nina pointed out.

An intelligence staff-officer, a plump female with a short red bob and dressed in tight-fitting camouflage, cleared her throat. ‘That’s correct, ma’am. It was the target for several enemy fighters, which were the only aircraft equipped with munitions. There are several reports of lasers being used to target-mark hospital buildings.’

‘The boots on the ground are having trouble adjusting to this new reality,’ Norton remarked. ‘Half of them believed they’d be marching through streets packed with cheering crowds.’

‘Well, they’d better get their heads around it and fast.’ Harry pointed to the digital wall map. ‘What’s the latest?’

Norton waved a laser pointer across the display. ‘The frontier breaches continue to be expanded and strengthened, and the last of four combat divisions is now moving towards the forward edge of the battle area.’ He traced the red dot along the Welsh coastline. ‘The Americans have taken everything from Whitehaven to Barrow-in-Furness, and Alliance forces have encircled much of the Lake District. They’re now pushing south along the M6 corridor. IS troops still hold Kendal, but it’s becoming a bit of a choke point for them. There’s a lot of chaos and confusion in their ranks.’

‘Good. Are there plans to hit them?’ Harry asked.

Norton shook his head. ‘Not yet. Many of those troops are evacuees from Ireland. It’s better if they link up with their comrades in England, spread a little doubt and fear.’

Nina spoke next. ‘What about the nuclear plant at Sellafield?’

‘It’s secure,’ Norton said, much to Harry’s relief. The task force commander pointed to the map. ‘The US Navy now controls the Irish Sea, and we own the airspace between here and the eastern seaboard. An