Their Darkest Hour

Chapter Three

London

United Kingdom, Day 1

“What…?”

The emergency doors burst open as two men hurled themselves into the Prime Minister’s office. Gabriel had no time to react before they grabbed him bodily and carried him over to one of the office walls. It opened, revealing a hidden shaft leading down into the bunker below Ten Downing Street. He yelped in shock as they dropped him, feet first, down the shaft and towards what felt like certain death. Instead, the tube seemed to twitch around him and he found himself slowing and sliding out into the bunker. A man wearing a black uniform caught him by the arm and pulled him away from the tube, just before the first of his own assailants popped out of the tube. Gabriel’s mind finally caught up with the string of events and he realised that the Personal Protective Detail assigned to Ten Downing Street were doing their jobs. He’d been briefed on the emergency procedures — everything from terrorist gunmen to chemical or radioactive weapon being deployed against Whitehall — but he was ashamed to realise that he didn’t know their names.

One of the men — the leader, Gabriel assumed — tapped a key into a concrete wall. A hatch appeared out of nowhere, revealing a set of metal stairs that led down into the bunker. It was illuminated by flickering lights that seemed to be having trouble remaining alight, suggesting that the power supply to Ten Downing Street had been cut off. There was an emergency generator in the basement, Gabriel remembered, as well as a handful of other precautions, but as far as he could recall they’d never been tested. They certainly hadn’t held an emergency drill after he’d become Prime Minister. The oversight, he realised as he clambered down the stairs, might have cost lives.

Another doorway opened at the bottom of the shaft, revealing the Crisis Management Centre. Gabriel had been inside a handful of times, but he’d never grown to like the drab concrete walls and the effect of being cut off from the rest of the world. The only decoration was a painting of a cobra a previous Prime Minister’s child had produced, a reference to the COBRA Committee that served as Britain’s emergency council. No one had had the heart to take it down. The team leader pointed Gabriel to a seat and headed over to the bank of computers and communications equipment placed against one wall.

The ground shook, alarmingly. Gabriel glanced up as the light hanging over the conference table spun from side to side, proving that he hadn’t imagined the explosion. Something on the surface… was there anything left of Ten Downing Street? He silently thanked God that his wife hadn’t been in the building. She’d been on a visit to Edinburgh to meet with the First Minister of Scotland, carrying messages from Gabriel that he didn’t dare entrust to anyone else. Dear God — had Edinburgh been hit too?

Gabriel took a moment to calm himself, and then tried to sound professional. “What happened?”

The team leader glanced over at him. “I’ve not sure, Prime Minister,” he admitted. He looked a tough young man, but Gabriel had enough skill at reading people to know that he was nervous. “We picked up a FLASH warning from PJHQ warning that an attack was underway — we immediately grabbed you and got you into the bunker. But most of our communications lines appear to be down and…”

Gabriel stared at him. “Has Downing Street been destroyed?”

“No, Prime Minister,” the team leader said. He frowned, looking down at the console. “I can’t get through to anyone else — not PJHQ, not Edinburgh, not anyone. The radio network appears to be being jammed. I’m not sure… ah.”

He looked up as the main door to the conference room opened, revealing Major-General Sir Alan Robertson. Gabriel allowed himself a moment of relief. Robertson commanded the Household Division, the main body of troops in London. Among other duties — both operational and ceremonial — the Household Division was responsible for evacuating the Monarch, the Prime Minister and other government ministers from London in the event of an emergency. Robertson wore a combat uniform and carried a pistol on his belt. He was followed by three other soldiers, all carrying rifles and wearing combat uniforms.

“Prime Minister,” Robertson said, relieved. “Thank God you’re safe.”

“You too,” Gabriel said. A fourth soldier had arrived — but he looked more like a man dressing up rather than a real soldier. He had a pair of glasses and looked slightly overweight, carrying a small laptop under his arm than a weapon. “General… what the hell is going on?”

Robertson looked… worried. “Prime Minister,” he said, slowly, “we’re at war.”

“At war?” Gabriel repeated. “Who with?”

The fourth soldier looked up. “Aliens,” he said, flatly. “We’re at war with aliens from outer space.”

Gabriel stared at him, unsure if he should laugh or cry. “Aliens?” His Personal Protective Detail seemed to be having the same reaction. “Aliens? And I suppose that Doctor Who is going to come along any minute to tell them to piss off?”

“Please, Prime Minister,” Robertson said quietly. “Hear him out.”

The fourth soldier put his laptop on the conference table. “Fifteen minutes ago, the entire orbital communications network — ours, NATO’s, the Russians — went down,” he said. “Bare minutes later, we lost contact with the Deep Space Tracking Network — that’s a joint operation largely run by the Yanks, but there are stations on British soil and we have access to the live feed. The last report we had from RAF Fylingdales reported a number of incoming missiles that appeared to have come from orbit. One of their projected endpoints — their targets — was the base itself. The entire Ballistic Missile Early Warning System has been taken down.

“At roughly the same time, ground-based radar stations picked up a number of unknown aircraft breaching the UKADR — that’s the United Kingdom Air Defence Region,” he continued. “RAF aircraft on alert were vectored towards the intruders — we lost contact shortly afterwards with both the aircraft and their bases. It appears that we have been hit badly all across the country. We have lost contact with almost all military bases within the United Kingdom.”

“Which leaves us no choice,” Robertson injected, “but to assume that they’ve been destroyed.”

Gabriel felt… weak, unsure of himself. It seemed impossible, yet… if the unknowns, the aliens, had the capability to hit British military bases, there seemed no reason why they wouldn’t — if they were hostile. His thoughts ran in circles. Why would aliens be hostile? What did Earth have that would make them worthwhile targets? He’d always been taught that a civilisation advanced enough to master space travel would have outgrown the desire to fight purely for the sake of fighting…

“It gets worse,” the soldier said, softly. “We have confirmed that a number of strikes fell in London itself. The Permanent Joint Headquarters has been destroyed, along with a number of railway stations, road junctions, and — for reasons unclear — Buckingham Palace.”

“The King,” Gabriel said. “What happened to him?”

“He was in residence at the time, along with his wife, his eldest son and his wife,” Robertson said. “We’ve had no word. I send a small detachment to the Palace to see what they could find, but first reports say that the devastation was almost total. There is a very good chance that Prince Harry may be the next in line to the throne.”

Gabriel shook his head slowly, unable to quite believe his ears. Robertson was talking about the death of the Monarch — and the deaths of thousands of military and civilian personnel — as calmly as if he were ordering dinner. How could he be so dispassionate? Or was he trying to remain calm in the hope that Gabriel himself would remain calm? If they’d really been hit as badly as Robertson implied, the chances were that his position as Prime Minister was no longer viable. God alone knew what he would be able to do for his country.

“Contact,” one of the soldiers said, suddenly. “I got a link through to Salisbury Plain!”

“Excuse me,” Robertson said.

Gabriel nodded as the General slipped away, heading towards the bank of computers. How could he deal with an alien invasion? Had it only been an hour ago that he’d been battling with the economic crisis? What would happen if — when — the British population realised what had happened to their country? He looked over at Robertson and found himself envying the man’s calm. Maybe he should have gone into the military instead of politics. But then, he would have made a poor soldier.

“We managed to get in contact with Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart,” Robertson said. The name meant nothing to Gabriel. “He appears to be the senior officer left at Salisbury Plain; the preliminary reports say that the garrisons there have been hit badly. We managed to fill each other in on a few details, but we simply don’t know much of anything.”

He shook his head. “The Brigadier will be establishing defensive lines and preparing our counter-attack,” he said. “We need to get you to the command bunker under the training area. It appears to be intact, thankfully. The aliens don’t seem to know about its existence.”

“Or they would have hit it,” Gabriel said, slowly. “Can they hit it and… ah, destroy it?”

“They can drop rocks from orbit,” Robertson said. “If they knew about the bunker, they could have taken it out — we assume.” He seemed about to say more, when one of the consoles started to bleep an alarm. Robertson glanced at it and then swore aloud. “We’ve managed to set up a passive detection system outside, Prime Minister. It looks as if they’re sending in shuttles.”

Gabriel stared at him. “They’re coming here?”

“They’re coming to London,” Robertson said, grimly. “I have two rifle companies in the city, armed for dealing with terrorists rather than alien invaders. We can bleed them — I assume — but we probably can’t stop them from landing in the city. We have to get you out of here.”

He looked down at the table for a long moment. “Normally, we’d get you and your ministers out through the tunnel network, but parts of it seem to have caved in under the bombardment. I’m not sure if the aliens intended to trap you or if it was merely a fluke, yet we cannot risk using the network. We need to get you upriver as quickly as possible.” He raised his voice. “Butcher?”

One of the uniformed soldiers looked up. “Sir?”

“Check the boat and prepare it for immediate launch,” Robertson ordered. He looked back at Gabriel. “Butcher served four years in the SAS before being asked to serve as a Close Protection specialist. Hughie and Mother” — a thin man and a taller man who looked as if he had muscles on his muscles — “both came to us through the SBS. They’ll take care of you if anyone can, Prime Minister.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel said, quietly. “General… what are you going to do?”

“I have to get back to the surface and take control of my men,” Robertson said. “We have to assume that they’re carrying out a decapitation strike — an attempt to capture or kill you and the rest of Parliament. I intend to give them a bloody nose when they try.”

Gabriel hesitated. “Don’t get yourself killed, General,” he warned. “The country will need you.”

“We’ve barely been at war an hour,” Robertson said, “and already we’ve been hurt worse than Hitler or Napoleon ever managed. God alone knows what’s happening to the rest of the world. We never planned for alien invasion, Prime Minister. Hell, the last time we planned for a military invasion was back during the Cold War.”

He shook his head. “The lads will take care of you,” Prime Minister. “Linux” — he nodded at the soldier with the laptop — “will go with you. He’ll be needed at the bunker. Good luck.”

“And to you,” Gabriel said, automatically. He was struck by the sense that he would never see Robertson again. “General…”

Robertson saluted, and then left the room.

“Come on, Prime Minister,” Butcher said, two minutes later. “It’s time to go.”

Gabriel had never had the chance to explore the entire tunnel network. From what he recalled from briefing papers he’d never had a chance to read properly, the military had taken advantage of commercial tunnelling to add their own network for emergencies. Some tunnels linked government buildings together, allowing swift and silent evacuation; others led to hidden bunkers and archives that were never intended to see the light of day. Some information was in the public domain, he remembered, but the government had managed to keep a lid on most of the specifics. Or so they hoped. Gabriel had also been told that the Russians had gained access to far too much data on the tunnel network and emergency procedures.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but they seemed to be heading upwards — and the air seemed to be getting damper. A faint smell reached his nose, a stench that made him want to recoil, just before they turned into a chamber that held a large boat. Butcher held up a hand to halt Gabriel while he clambered up and into the boat, vanishing over the side. There was a moment’s pause, and then the engine roared to life. The soldier reappeared and held out a hand to help Gabriel climb up. He was ashamed to realise that Butcher had simply lifted him at the end.

A thought struck him. “Why Butcher?”

“Dad was a butcher,” Butcher said. “We don’t stand much on ceremony, Prime Minister. Once someone passes Selection, they’re one of us. The lucky ones get to choose their own handle. The unlucky ones get someone else picking it for them.”

He waved Gabriel to sit at the bottom of the boat. The sound of the engine grew louder as the other two soldiers climbed onboard and concealed their weapons and uniforms below blankets. It struck Gabriel suddenly that anyone who saw him would know that he was the Prime Minister, but it was already too late to express his doubts. The boat seemed to leap forwards — there was a terrifying glimpse of a grating ahead of them, followed by a smell that made him want to throw up — and then they were suddenly out in the open. He caught sight of the Houses of Parliament and stared, realising that flames were rising up in the distance, from the direction of the Palace.

The boat started to tilt madly to one side as Butcher pointed them upriver, towards the west. Gabriel struggled to remain calm, even though part of him was convinced that they were going to be thrown into the water at any moment. A handful of other boats seemed to be making their way downstream, clearly intent on getting out of London before something worse happened. He wondered, suddenly, just how much the civilians knew about the crisis. It had never occurred to him to ask… in the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens. The police were responding to the attacks, but did they know what they were facing? And if there really were aliens heading towards London?

It seemed like a bad science-fiction movie, but it was happening…

Twenty minutes later, just as they were leaving London, Hughie tapped him on the shoulder and passed him a pair of binoculars. Gabriel glanced at them in puzzlement, and then looked up into the sky. A flight of aircraft were heading down towards London from the west… but they looked odd. Gabriel pressed the binoculars against his eyes and gasped as he finally made sense of what he was seeing. The alien shuttles were larger than the largest jumbo jet the human race had ever produced and they were heading towards London. They’d escaped the city in the nick of time. He tried to estimate how many aliens could be on those aircraft before realising that it was impossible to produce anything like a reliable estimate. For all he knew, the aliens could be microscopic in size — or they could look like stone statues of weeping angels. And perhaps they wouldn’t even be humanoid.

“We’re still being jammed,” Hughie said, quietly. The SBS soldier had a faint Scottish accent that echoed through his voice. “We can’t warn the General or the troops in London.”

“But they know that they’re coming,” Gabriel pointed out, desperately. Suddenly, he felt ashamed for running. “They must know that they’re on their way.”

“Maybe,” Hughie said. “Or maybe the aliens have ways to avoid passive detectors. Any radar station that lights up is likely to get clobbered. I don’t know, sir. We just need to get you up to the command bunker, and perhaps then we can go back to the front lines.”

“Or the front lines will come to us,” Mother grunted. “Look.”

Gabriel followed his gaze. There were more alien shuttles now, hundreds of them, glowing red as they decelerated through Earth’s atmosphere. Just for a moment, he wondered how interstellar logistics could make an invasion possible, before dismissing the thought. There was no way to know how alien logistics worked. For all he knew, the aliens mass-cloned soldiers whenever they wanted to overrun another world.

He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for the men and women who were about to be caught up in a nightmare. General Robertson had been determined to fight — it crossed Gabriel’s mind that he should have ordered them out, but it was too late. All he could do now was pray for them — and pray that the aliens weren’t savages. An alien race could wipe out all life on Earth.

The sound of more explosions caught them as they headed onwards, echoing back from London. There was no way to know what was going on behind them either. All they could do was pray. And hope that, one day, they would be able to avenge themselves on the aliens.

Gabriel shook his head. An hour. An hour after the alien attack had begun and he was on the run. And to think that yesterday he’d been cursing problems he would have given his soul for today.