The Hawk Is Dead

14

Monday 20 November 2023

Jon Gilhall, momentarily rooted to the spot despite all he had been trained for, tried to process what he was seeing.

The top half of Sir Peregrine Greaves’ head literally exploded in a pink cloud. The Queen’s clothing was splattered with blood and pale brown particles.

A shooter.

Where?

Then another crack, like a whip. Almost simultaneously splinters of concrete, just inches from The Queen, flew in the air around them.

Christ.

He threw himself at his boss, knocking her to the ground, murmuring, ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ while at the same time pulling out his Glock and looking all around through the gun sights. He yelled at the top of his voice to the driver. ‘Keep everyone down, don’t bring them up here.’ He was immediately joined by two more Protection Officers, who formed a barrier around The Principal.

The Queen tried to move.

‘Please, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Please stay still.’

He squinted desperately, trying to keep calm. He pointed the gun up. Around. Down. Where was the shooter? A long way off? His Glock would be useless against a rifle, but he pointed it anyway.

Where was the shooter?

When would the next shot come?

Frantically he shouted into his radio for more backup and for an ambulance.

The distant cacophony of sirens was still too far away. Moments later he heard the thwock-thwock-thwock sound of an approaching helicopter.

‘Jon, what the hell is happening?’

For once, he ignored his boss and looked up at the sky, listening to the sound of the rotor blades. At this moment it felt like the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

15

Monday 20 November 2023

A train derailment wasn’t Roy Grace’s jurisdiction — it was on railway property and he knew British Transport Police had primacy on that. But a senior royal in Sussex, regardless of what damned property they were on, very definitely was his jurisdiction. His absolute responsibility.

With the full support of the ACC, they were organizing a ring of steel around both entrances to the tunnel as fast as possible. The north entrance was easy, as it was close to the main road, but the southern portal was a lot less accessible, and from the Protection Officer’s report, it sounded as if that was the direction in which the royal party were headed. And by his calculation, The Queen and her entourage could be emerging at any moment, if they weren’t already out.

And highly vulnerable.

For the past fifteen minutes, since the Control Room operator had informed him of the derailment, Roy Grace had been on the phone. In addition to the cordons around both ends of Clayton Tunnel, he had directed Glenn Branson to request the Air Traffic Control centre at Swanwick and have them implement an immediate no-fly zone for civilian aircraft within a two-mile radius of the tunnel entrances.

Grace had liaised with his team, in turn, key personnel at British Transport Police, the Ambulance and Fire and Rescue services, the Armed Response Unit, the Royalty and Specialist Protection team, the Scotland Yard Counter Terrorism Unit, the NPAS helicopter, the police drone team and the Duty Inspector at Haywards Heath — the closest police station to Clayton Tunnel. And, finally, he had alerted the Media and Communications Department to prepare for a press and media shit storm.

No phone or radio contact had yet been established with anyone inside the tunnel — it was seemingly a complete dead zone for signals. The only positive so far was that all trains to and from the tunnel had been halted, preventing an even bigger catastrophe.

Was this just a freak accident? The current Royal Train had been in service for almost fifty years. Mechanical failure? Metal fatigue in one of the wheels? Or was it connected to what appeared to have been left on the track? Sabotage, terrorism?

The idea that someone could have deliberately derailed the Royal Train was unthinkable. Except, thinking the unthinkable was what he’d had to do throughout his career.

If it was deliberate, who was behind it? Protestors? Or a group a lot more sinister? A terrorist cell? The anti-monarchists had not, so far, demonstrated with any violence. Derailing the Royal Train was very unlikely to be their work. Which in his view left two options: a genuine accident, or The Queen and the royal party were in very serious danger.

His fists were clenched tight, he realized. As tight as his chest.

He could not recall a moment in his twenty-five-year career more serious on a national scale than this. If it was more than just a freak accident, then one half of the monarchy would likely depend on the actions he had put in place.

When he had joined the force he had sworn his allegiance to the now late Queen Elizabeth, and this applied just as much to King Charles and Queen Camilla. He could still remember the words.

I... do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that I will well and truly serve Our Sovereign Lady... without favour or affection, malice or ill will... and prevent all offences against the persons and properties of Her Majesty’s subjects...

His parents had been proud, ardent Royalists, and respect for the monarchy was part of his DNA, as it was for so much of the nation back then. His late father, Jack, had told him how he and his family had watched Queen Elizabeth’s coronation on a black and white television screen not much bigger than an iPad, and his late mother had told him how she had camped out with her two sisters in The Mall, in the pouring rain, to catch a glimpse.

One entire shelf of the Welsh dresser in their family kitchen had been full of 1953 Coronation souvenirs. Plates, coins, coasters, Wedgwood mugs and a gilded Coronation coach and horses. Roy Grace still had them all, boxed away among a ton of other memorabilia that he’d divided with his sister after their parents had died, which for sentimental reasons he’d never wanted to part with. They were up in the loft of their cottage. Clutter that Cleo had long urged him to sort out and get rid of what he didn’t want.

One day.

That rainy day so many people had in their mind, when they would get around to doing all that stuff they’d been planning to do. That rainy day, which was always, somehow, at least one day or more away. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Mañana.

He was about to call the Control Room for an update, when his phone rang. It was the operator Carol Walker again, her voice tight.

‘Sir,’ she said. ‘We’ve just had a report of a shooter by the south exit to the tunnel. One person is down.’

For an instant her words echoed like a ricochet in his brain.

One person is down.

‘Who?’ he asked, weakly, his voice constricted, as if for a moment he didn’t want to know the answer he feared. ‘Her Majesty?’

Please don’t tell me it is.

‘It is not The Principal, sir. It’s one of her entourage. Her Protection Officer has put out an urgent call for—’

Grace barely heard the rest of what she said. He ended the call, stabbing the speed dial for Glenn Branson as he grabbed his jacket and sprinted to the door.