‘Fuck me,’ Ben mutters at seeing Harry rise with Alpha gripped by the throat. The strength in the man is staggering. The look on his face is crazed. Mad Harry Madden unleashed.
He twitches back to see Miri on the landing staring at her watch, her lips muttering silently. She surges up, grabs Bertie and pins him to the wall as Ben gains the sight on Charlie running at them. He fires, removing Charlie’s head with an instant kill.
‘Got him,’ he mutters. The sound lost in the chaos around him. He spots Delta, and although he knows he misses, he takes the shot. Time is not fixed. Not fixed at all. He still misses, but takes pleasure in the look of surprise on Delta’s face that buys time for Safa to kick him in the bollocks.
He tracks Harry running to the stairs. Covering the big man in the house while the big man covers him now.
Calm inside. Icy cold. His heart rate slow. His breathing easy. A soldier rises to stab at Harry on the stairs. Ben fires, and the high-powered round lifts the man from his feet and slams him back into the wall. He sights another and fires.
‘Seen me yet, bitch?’ Emily mutters, glancing up at the sky. She risks a pause to flick a middle finger, hoping the satellite feed sees it.
Mother glares at the screen. ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?’ she rages. Aides flinch at the pure fury in her voice. All eyes on the screen watching the four black-clad figures slaughtering soldiers in the grounds. She spots the face looking up and a middle finger. No. It can’t be. No way. ‘TANGO TWO, WHERE ARE YOU?’
‘Landing, middle floor.’ Alpha’s voice booms with a background noise of carnage.
Ben fires the Barrett. Sensing the power of the weapon and understanding why Miri insisted on using it. The noise is something else. The power of it. The message it sends. Miri said there are accounts of enemy soldiers running from US troops just from hearing a single shot from a Barrett.
Miri waits at the Blue. Casually smoking a cigarette while holding the rifle one-handed, braced in her shoulder.
Ben sees the sudden battle for the doorway on the landing as everyone runs for it. He fires again, but the single shots he can take are a pittance against the numbers they have in the house. It doesn’t matter. They are almost done. Weeks and weeks of solid drills and Safa was right, it’s almost an anti-climax. All they have to do is run to the back of the house, fire the missile launcher at the gunship, then this part of the mission is done.
Thirty-Nine
‘The US President, Prime Minister,’ the aide says, holding the secure phone out. The PM takes the handset as the aide flaps his hands to tell the many people in the emergency planning room to be quiet. A tense silence falls. The PM clears her throat and presses the button to make the connection live. ‘Hello, Sarah,’ the PM says calmly.
‘Veronica,’ the US President says. ‘I do hope you are in your bunker because your little country is about to be wiped off the face of the earth. Moscow and Beijing are both repositioning their missile systems.’
‘Is this a threat, Sarah? The British government does not give in to threats . . .’
‘Can it, Veronica. Do you have it or not? We’ll protect you if you have it, but I need to know.’
‘I cannot confirm . . .’
‘PM,’ an aide whispers from nearby, holding an identical handset. ‘Moscow on line two . . .’
‘I’m watching the damn feed, Veronica! We all are. Moscow is watching it. Beijing is watching it. This is too big for the UK to contain. You should have come to me first. Now do you have it or not because our special relationship will go out the damn window if you do not cooperate.’
The room bursts into frantic activity as aides and ministers rush to establish if the satellite uplink has been compromised.
The PM stares at the big screen on the wall. Cavendish Manor in the centre. Two gunships hovering overhead. Bodies scattered across the grounds to the front of the big house. She watches the four people at the edge of the undergrowth unleashing hell on the soldiers surrounding the house.
‘Sarah,’ the PM says. How her tone stays so calm is beyond everyone. ‘If you are watching the feed, then you will see this operation is unfolding as we speak. I cannot, at this stage, confirm or deny anything, but please be reassured that the UK seeks to work closely with the US in any and all matters of security.’
‘We come first,’ the US President states. ‘We are watching.’
Sarah Conway, second-term US President, cuts the line off and glowers round at the five-star generals, admirals and special advisors all flicking their eyes from her to the huge screen showing the satellite feed of Cavendish Manor. Sarah was honest enough to say they hacked the satellite feed, but she held back on saying they also hacked the radio network. The room listens to Mother screeching in ever-increasing panic that signifies a loss of control.
‘Be ready to launch.’ She utters the words. There is no choice. The rest of the world has to see the United States is prepared and ready. A time machine changes everything. No country other than the US can have such a thing.
In the same bunker under Downing Street that Safa Patel secured the then Prime Minister in nearly forty years ago, Veronica Smedley holds the handset out to one aide and takes the other while mouthing Who is it? The aide mouths back Moscow. ‘Veronica Smedley. To whom am I speaking?’
‘It’s Alexander. Do you have it?’
‘Alexander. May I first say that . . .’
‘We are watching it, Veronica,’ the Russian President cuts in, his accent holding only a trace of Russian – but then he was only a year ahead of Veronica at Oxford. ‘You must tell me. We can protect you. The UK is too small for this, Veronica. You cannot defend yourselves. Let us deal with Beijing and Washington. Work with us.’
‘Alexander, the operation is unfolding as we speak, but please be assured the UK seeks to work with Russia in any and all matters of security.’
‘Call me as soon as you know,’ Alexander asserts. ‘Russia will stand with you.’
‘PM, His Highness the King is still on line three. He’s demanding an explanation.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Veronica says, having severed the line to Russia. ‘He can wait. Get me Mother now . . .’
In a control room in a building in central London on the banks of the River Thames, Mother watches the satellite feed with wide eyes as the vein in her forehead bulges with pulsing fury.
‘WHERE IS TANGO TWO?’ she screams into the radio network, unaware of and indifferent to the fact that the US and now Russia are listening to every transmission. She looks again at the four figures outside. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth twitches. Frantic activity everywhere in the room. Phones ringing. Messages incoming. Hologram computer networks glowing. Voices speaking to process information. Two of the four were recognised instantly. Safa Patel and Ben Ryder. Mother allowed a second of shock at that recognition before screaming at everyone to get back to fucking work.
The big man is familiar. Harry? Harry? ‘WHO THE FUCK IS THAT ONE?’ she screeches, jabbing at the screen.