The Hawk Is Dead

16

Monday 20 November 2023

Jon Gilhall was being blasted by the downdraught from the rotor blades of the black and yellow police helicopter hovering overhead, flattening the grass and weeds all around them. Apologizing yet again to The Queen, three Protection Officers kept their arms folded around her head and body, ready to absorb another bullet from the shooter, should it come.

Happily married, with two children he adored, Gilhall had long reconciled himself to the fact that, in the job he did, the day might come when he would have to put his own life on the line to protect his boss. But, although he had trained rigorously for that day, he’d never seriously imagined it would actually happen.

Now it had. And all his training had kicked in, as if it were muscle memory. The pilot had already overflown the area and the information that they had was that the sniper was likely to have left quickly. Bringing in the helicopter was of course a risk, but to safeguard The Queen it was felt a risk worth taking.

He watched the Eurocopter set down a short distance from them, pleased to see it was between them and where he estimated was the most likely direction of the shooter. NPAS-15, the helicopter shared by Sussex, Kent and Surrey Police, was manned by a crew of three, the pilot, a paramedic and a police officer. The door opened and the police officer jumped down. Head ducked to avoid any risk of contact with the still swirling blades, he sprinted towards them. The paramedic followed and raced over to the body of Sir Peregrine Greaves.

‘Is Her Majesty OK?’ the officer asked.

‘We need to get her to safety, immediately,’ Gilhall responded. ‘There’s a shooter out there somewhere. I’m informed a room’s being prepared for her at HQ.’

‘What about all the rest of my team?’ The Queen asked suddenly.

‘They’ll follow by road, Ma’am,’ Gilhall replied. ‘There’s a fleet of minibuses on the way. My immediate priority is to get you out of here.’ He turned to the officer. ‘Did you see anyone up on the hill as you came in? Anyone with a gun?’

‘Just a lady dog walker, no one else. We will be flying off in a different direction when we leave to reduce any risk.’

The Protection Officers stood, shielding The Queen from the only other direction the shooter could have fired from. Gilhall then knelt and said, ‘Ma’am, let me help you up.’

‘I may be old, Jon, but I’m not decrepit. Thank you.’ She clambered, agilely, to her feet, as he moved quickly around her, to continue shielding her, for her own safety and to save her from what she might see. But she had already frozen in shock as she looked down at the motionless figure of the Private Secretary.

‘Oh God,’ she said. Her hand went to her mouth and Gilhall took her arm, afraid she would stumble. ‘Oh my God.’

Peregrine Greaves lay on his back, his arms and legs spread out awkwardly. He no longer had a face, it was gone. In its place was a hideous, unrecognizable, misshapen ball of different hues of crimson, blood running from all around it. A couple of teeth were up where his right eye socket should have been. His skull was split open, bone sticking up through his bloodstained white hair, and some of his brain was visible. The paramedic, in green scrubs and orange high-vis jacket, knelt beside him feeling, futilely, for a pulse.

‘Oh my God,’ The Queen said again. She stumbled and Gilhall caught her. Shielding her all the way, walking backwards, then sideways, the officers escorted her to the helicopter and, thankfully, into the interior, taking the seat next to her and helping her with her harness.

‘Go!’ he yelled at the pilot. ‘Go!’

The Queen’s face was pale with shock. ‘Perry. Poor Perry. What... why...?’

‘What happened, Ma’am?’ Gilhall said, supplying the word she was too shaken to say, then offering her a headset, which she declined. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and, apologetically, dabbed several tiny bloody spots on her jacket. ‘I’m afraid someone’s taken a shot at you, Ma’am.’

‘And hit Peregrine?’

The police officer who had jumped out of the helicopter and come over to them, now joined them inside and shut the door. Moments later the pilot turned his head and raised his headset off his ears. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’

She nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said politely and clearly in a state of shock.

He opened the throttle and they rose a few feet off the ground, Gilhall desperately, silently, willing the pilot to get them clear. The pilot went into a vertical climb to clear any obstacles, then dipped the nose of the helicopter and they accelerated away.

Jon Gilhall watched the ground drop rapidly away beneath them, anxiously scouring the hilly, grassy landscape below them for any sign of a moving figure, someone furtive. A killer. A hired assassin. Hit man?

Hired to kill The Queen?

And had botched it?

Which meant he might try again.