The Fall of Night

Chapter Eleven: Cry Havoc, and Let Slip the Dogs of War, Take Two

Edinburgh, Scotland

“There’s definitely no sign of pursuit,” Lieutenant Sergey Ossetia said, as the white van drove off the bypass and into Sighthill. It wasn’t Edinburgh’s most attractive area; drab oppressive housing blocks, unimaginative smaller houses and industrial estates dominated the landscape. There were few shops in the area; the owners had discovered the joys of being regularly looted and, in some cases, physically assaulted. The economic downturn had had its effects right in the heart of Scotland’s capital city; half of the buildings were boarded up and apparently closed for good. “I think we’re clear.”

Captain Rashid Ustinov nodded once. They had hired the white van from one of the companies that tended to the needs of immigrant workers, such as themselves. It was an old van, outdated; it said something about the state of the economy that there were plenty more like it, all utterly anonymous, on the streets. As far as the tracking device was concerned — it appeared that immigrants and the others who hired such vehicles were not trusted by the owners — they were somewhere on the other side of the city, Portobello. It made him smile; if he had been designing a car or a van that was intended to be impossible to steal, he would have made sure that the tracker was impossible to remove. A blind child could have removed the tracker that he had carefully removed and left the day before in a dustbin. It might well be found, or be destroyed by the refuse department, but by then it would be too late.

“Good,” he said. He had also taken the precaution of replacing the number plates and adding a design to the side of the van, but there was always the danger that the Police would notice something suspicious and pull them over. Both men were armed, of course, but a shootout with the local police wouldn’t serve the interests of Russia. If the Police saw the weapon they were transporting in the rear of the van, there was no way that they would believe that they were innocent immigrants. “Time to move on.”

They had scouted the entire city, looking for the ideal spot; it was amazing just how much information was on the Internet, waiting for them to access it and confirm it over the years. Moscow would have had a fit and sent anyone who committed such vast breaches of security to the Gulags, assuming that they weren’t just shot in the head to improve the breeding stock of the human race. It was harder to mount a serious terrorist operation than most people understood, but Ustinov was confident that Ossetia and himself could carry out the task. If they were lucky, they would even be able to escape before anyone realised what was happening.

An aircraft thundered overhead as they pulled into the small warehouse’s parking lot. They had checked it out carefully before ever setting foot near the place; it helped that the person who had designed the area had had no imagination. People were always getting lost, even with the most up-to-date SATNAV units; naturally, the van they had hired didn’t have one. They had prepared a cover story, but no one had questioned them; the warehouse had been abandoned, left open, and looted. No one had cared.

“Check out the area,” he muttered. Ossetia nodded and slipped off into the darkness of the warehouse; he had half-expected to see squatters within the warehouse, desperately hunting for a roof over their heads. He glanced back at the rear of the van, and then slipped out himself, stretching to indicate that it had been a long drive. They were both in the peak of heath, exercising regularly, but he was uncomfortably aware that they hadn’t been able to do anything more than limited practice runs. Another aircraft thundered overhead, heading further over the city, as Ossetia returned; judging from its flight path, it was in a holding pattern before coming in to land.

“It’s clear,” Ossetia said. His voice was starting to become a little excited. “Shall we proceed?”

Ustinov climbed back into the driver’s seat and drove the van up closer to the main entrance. It was locked and barricaded, but some looters had damaged the locks enough to allow them to enter, carrying the weapon under a white cloth. They were committed now; they had no choice, but to proceed with their mission. The warehouse was drab and empty inside; the only decoration was some graffiti of the anarchy symbol on the ground and a calendar from 2017. The images in it were banned in Russia; hardcore porn. Ustinov shrugged; the decadence of Europe had played midwife to radical Islam, the religion that had caused his mother such woe. They would pay for that.

The ladder up to the roof was half-broken, but he had been through worse in Spetsnaz training, some of which had involved building a ladder in sub-zero temperatures. That had been… well, he wouldn’t have called it fun, but it had certainly made life exciting. It was easy to scramble up the ladder onto the roof; Ossetia passed him the weapon quickly and followed him up, remaining low on the roof. They would probably be seen, but it would be too late by now. Something streaked across the sky from the east and headed into the centre of the city. He knew what that was.

Ossetia put it into words. “That was a missile,” he said. “Sir…”

“Move,” Ustinov snapped. The weapon in his hands had a long and complicated designation, but terrorists everywhere called it the Yank, because it was the bane of American existence. The weapon had been designed by the Russians, sold to the Iranians, reverse-engineered, duplicated, and sent everywhere; it was one of the most dangerous antiaircraft missiles in existence. The Americans had countermeasures, of course, but they were almost useless on helicopters, particularly if the missile was fired at very short range. For a civilian aircraft…

He heard one approaching now. The controllers at Edinburgh Airport might not have figured out — yet — that the city was under attack. Once they did, all aircraft would be ordered away from the city, searching for a non-existent safety. The sound of the explosion of the missile drifted across his ears; he lifted the Yank to his shoulder and peered through the sensor towards the massive 747. The latest variant on the design could hold around five hundred people — all of whom were dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

The targeting sensor locked on. “Firing,” he said. Ossetia had already stepped well away from the back-blast of the rocket. The missile launcher grew warm in his hands as the rocket fired, heading up towards the passenger jet. By his rough calculations, it would come down somewhere in the heart of the city, perfectly placed to spread a little terror. “Time to run!”

Both of them had worn gloves, but he took a moment to set a charge by the side of the launcher anyway, just in case. The British Police were experts at tracking down people from the slightest clue, and even though they could have some other problems to keep them busy, he knew better than to take chances. If he and Ossetia had been detected earlier, without them knowing that they had been seen, they would lead the police right back to their base.

“There,” Ossetia said. Ustinov paused to look, just for a moment, as another explosion shattered the peace of the city. Even the birds had stopped singing. The aircraft was slowly spinning and falling, falling, towards the ground. “I think we succeeded.”

Ustinov nodded. The best pilot in the world wouldn’t have been able to save the passenger jet now. “Time to leave,” he snapped. They fled to their van, leaving the charge behind on a short time as the aircraft crashed into the city with a thunderous roar. As he put the van in gear and fled the area, he smiled; whatever happened, life in the city would never be the same again.

Silence fell.

Hazel had been walking through Princes Street Gardens, contemplating the news she had received from the doctor’s office. It was the best news she could have hoped for; only the fact that her husband had the right to know first had prevented her from calling her father on her mobile phone. She was happy, and content… and then an explosion had shattered the tranquillity of the city. She had spent long enough around the army to know that it was a real bomb that had detonated; as she turned to look, she could see smoke and flames rising from Hollywood, where the Scottish Parliament was in session.

A second noise split the air… and then she saw it. There had been an aircraft flying over the city, one of dozens that passed overhead every day, despite the chorus of complaints from the citizens. It took her a moment to understand as smoke and flame began to billow from the rear of the aircraft, and then it started to plummet out of the sky. She watched, her mouth a wide ‘O’ of shock, as the aircraft came down, lower and lower until it smashed into the New Town. On instinct, Hazel threw herself to the ground, covering her head as the shockwave blasted over her head, thanking God that she had some shelter in the Gardens. Others wouldn’t be so lucky; she could see chunks of buildings flying past overhead.

It was the screams that brought her back to herself; she realised that she had been in a mild state of shock. The entire face of Princes Street was on fire, flames licking up and consuming thousands of people who were trying to escape the carnage. There were thousands of people in the city for the shopping; what would happen to them in the fire? Hazel was sure that it wouldn’t be anything good. She placed one hand over her chest as a line of cars, illegally parked in defiance of the local government, detonated one after the other as the flames reached their fuel tanks; the wave of heat reached out towards her, almost hypnotising her as she stared.

“Get the hell out of the way, you stupid bitch,” a policeman shouted, as he pushed her back. The Police seemed to be just as disorganised as anyone else; the regular patrols of Princes Street, in the vain hope of cutting down street crime against the tourists, were utterly unsuited to the task of trying to put out the fires. She could hear fire engines in the distance, but the power seemed to be failing; the lights in the Old Town had failed. “The entire city is going to burn down!”

Hazel got the message and practically ran up the Mound, into the Old Town. The panic was everywhere, with teenagers and older people screaming as they poured onto the streets, trying to get away from the terribly hungry monster that had appeared in the middle of Edinburgh. A handful of soldiers — they were Royal Highland Fusiliers, she recalled from her husband’s grumbling about overpaid fancy dress soldiers — were coming down from the Castle, trying to help maintain order, but only adding to the chaos. No one seemed to be in control; she fled further away, towards the Meadows.

“Fucking Muslims,” someone was shouting, perhaps jumping to a conclusion that Hazel found impossible to dispute. Who else, but Islamic fanatics, would have done something like that to their beloved city? “Burn the Mosque!”

The younger elements of the crowd surged towards the Mosque; Hazel pushed and shoved and broke free of the mob, trying to escape towards Tollcross. She could hear the noise of fire engines now; she had never been so pleased to see the red fire engines as they made their way onto the bridge, trying to reach the site of the airplane crash. Water hissed as the firemen tried to use their hoses to disperse the crowd, the crowd blocking their passage to the fire. Hazel fled into the Meadows and tried, hard, to catch her breath.

A hand caught at her bra strap. “It’s the end of the world,” a voice said, drunkenly. He was a typical down-and-out; his breath almost made Hazel gag. “Wanna party?”

The drunkard’s hand was reaching into her bosom. The feeling brought her back to full awareness. “No,” she said, and brought her knee up hard. The drunkard bent over, gasping in pain, and she kicked him as hard as she could in the side, sending him crashing to the ground. He was a pathetic sight; the thought of him trying to force her legs open sent a wave of fury through her and she kicked him in the head. “Go fuck yourself!”

She fled back towards her home. The flames didn’t look as if they were going out quickly; the streets were packed with people trying to escape. She reached for her phone, to call her father, and… nothing. There was no signal at all. She had one of the Thande Phones, which had access to several different networks, but none of them seemed to be working. The shock almost brought her to her knees; it was all she could do to keep walking, step by step, until she was back home. As soon as she was home, she went into the shower to wash; she could still feel his touch.

Halfway through the shower, the water failed; moments later, so did most of the power.

Although the drivers of the two vans didn’t know it, their timing had been based on the timing of the first missile to enter visual range of Edinburgh. They wouldn’t have cared if they had known; they had planned the operation on the basis of sacrificing their own lives for the cause. Survival was not an issue; the drivers had been through years of training in the most brutal region of Russia to ensure that when the time came, they died for a reason. The vans made their way from where they had been waiting, in a Tesco car park, and headed into Colinton, towards the barracks. There were several minutes between the two vans; that, too, had been planned.

Corporal Max Weinberg was feeling exposed in the guardhouse. He knew, of course, that there was a reaction team in the barracks themselves, but the threat of a terrorist attack against the barracks had been judged to be minimal. Despite public belief, many of Britain’s high value targets, such as nuclear power plants, were very well guarded; several would-be terrorists had been caught and arrested trying to break into them under the impression that a fake ID was enough. The barracks, full of armed and very dangerous men, could normally look after themselves.

The CO of the base had triggered the alarms as soon as the first missile had appeared over the city; Weinberg had thought it was a drill at first until the CO had warned everyone that someone had fired at least one missile into Edinburgh… and then the airliner had come down. Weinberg himself had been born in Glasgow and felt more than a little disdain for Edinburgh, particularly during football season, but he wanted to find the people who had shot down an airliner and do horrible things to them. His stepfather had beaten social responsibility into him, turning him from a teenaged tearaway to a young soldier with a promising career ahead of him; he would do anything rather than let the old man down. He had fought in the Gulf; Weinberg himself had never seen action.

It was strange; he could see soldiers being lined up for emergency dispatch to help the handful of soldiers based at Edinburgh Castle on the inside, and outside everything was proceeding as normal. Weapons and emergency kits were being issued on the inside; the cars and buses were running as normal on the outside. It was almost eerie, unreal; had anyone really expected to be attacked in Edinburgh? The city hadn’t even had a terrorist attack since the Scottish Liberation Army had managed to blow themselves up while trying to build a bomb. There was even a delivery van coming to make its regular delivery of supplies to the barracks.

Weinberg stepped forward as the van turned into the gate. The driver seemed different, more intent, but he put that down to nerves. It was a different man from normal, but the company kept rotating their staff to avoid having to pay any benefits; Weinberg sympathised with them. The British Army did the same thing; the Generals and other senior officers got fat bonuses, the common infantryman got peanuts. It just didn’t seem right.

“You can’t stop here today,” he called, as the driver looked at him. There was something in his expression that Weinberg really didn’t like. His senses were starting to warn him that there was trouble here; carefully, he prepared his rifle so that he could bring it up within seconds. “There’s been an accident.”

“Allah Ackbar,” the driver said. Weinberg felt his blood run cold. This wasn't just trouble, it was a suicide attack! He hit the emergency button on his radio as the driver leered at him. “Long live the Jihad!”

Weinberg was still bringing up his rifle when the bomb detonated. He was atomised instantly and the blast tossed hundreds of infantrymen into the air, killing or seriously wounding those unlucky enough to be caught in the open. The second van drove into the barracks and headed directly for the main building; this time, soldiers managed to open fire and kill the driver, unaware that there was a dead man’s switch on the bomb. Moments after the driver died, the bomb detonated and shattered the remains of the main building, killing and disorientating hundreds more young soldiers.

It was only the beginning.