Cobra Z (24 page)

“That dick head, Christ that’s the last thing I need,” the PM said. Croft looked at the man and could see he was close to losing it. Croft had never liked the man who the country had elected to lead them. He was a man of dubious character, and in his mind, not fit for office. He was not the kind of man the country needed in its present crisis.

“Prime Minister, let me tell you what’s going to happen,” Croft said. “I’ll tell you what I know, because I have seen versions of it happen with my own eyes in several of the delightful countries I have been sent to in the name of Queen and Country. You will start off thinking you can stop this. You will think that martial law, that curfews and bullets and troops and tanks will keep the infected at bay. But they won’t, because there are millions of people out there who are starting to panic. And many of those will be the people you are relying on to stop this. The police, the Army, most of them have families, and they will start dropping away in greater numbers to protect the people they love. If you don’t cut off social media, the news will spread like wildfire, and people will panic. If you do shut off social media, people will panic even more as the rumours run rampant. Within a day, every corner shop and every supermarket will be picked clean. And the streets in every single city will be ripped apart. You will be fighting on two fronts. You will be fighting an ever-growing army of infected, and you will be fighting the very people you are trying to protect. I regret to tell you that you will just become overwhelmed. You don’t have enough men, you don’t have enough guns, and you probably don’t have enough bullets. But more importantly, you don’t have enough time. Forget the ambassador; someone needs to talk to the US president.”

“We can’t just give up,” Claire Miles said, disgust dripping from her voice.

“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort, Home Secretary. I am merely stating the fact that we need to inject a dose of realism into this. We need a controlled retreat away from the infected zones, setting up areas of resistance where we can. I was employed by your predecessor for the task of making the difficult decisions in impossible situations. You all know what has to be done.”

“Noah,” Savage said softly, so softly that hardly anyone heard her.

“What was that, Captain?” asked General Marston.

“Noah, sir. Operation Noah.”

“Has it come to that?” said a shocked prime minister.

“Yes, sir.” She looked at Croft, who nodded his approval.

Operation Noah. Croft hadn’t written it, but he had read it. Written twenty-five years previously as a theory document, it outlined a plan to save the brightest and the best of the country in the event of a national emergency. It was originally written with the scenario of an invasion, pandemic or bio-weapon attack in mind, but this present scenario seemed to fit the document rather well. Save what could be saved, sacrifice the rest. The document actually went into significant detail, outlining who could and should be saved, what resources would need to be allocated and where.

Events since then had seen the theory document made real, and as secrets go, it was one of the best held. Money had actually been allocated, and a network had been established to allow the top-secret plan to be implemented. It was the reason Croft had the job he had, he and those like him. Part of Noah was stopping the unthinkable before they became reality. The question was, would those in the room instigate the plan?

“What do you think, General?” the prime minister asked Marston. Marston removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked at Croft, then at Savage, and then let his eyes rest on the TV screen. Shit, he was supposed to be retiring soon. He didn’t want to be here; he wanted to be with his wife far away in their country retreat in the South of France. She was there now, visiting relatives, and he thanked whatever gods there were for small mercies. Marston put his glasses back on and looked the prime minister dead in the eyes.

“Prime Minister, if we can’t get this under control in the next hour, I think it’s the only real choice we will have.”

Croft almost smiled. He knew Marston’s reputation. The man was a competent leader, a military genius, and a living contradiction to the often heard saying that the British Army was made up of Lions led by Donkeys. But the military didn’t run the country, civilians did, and it hadn’t been since Thatcher that the military had really held any regard for those who ran the country. Croft prayed the present incumbent of Number 10 would for once do the right thing. Just as that thought left his mind, there was a faint tremor that hit the room

10.29AM, 16
th
September 2015, New Scotland Yard, Broadway, London

Geoff felt a mixture of elation and fear as he reached his destination. His stomach churned with nervous acid, and he had an almost insatiable need to pee. The dirty black Ford Transit van came to a halt in the middle of the street outside New Scotland Yard, the heart of the Metropolitan Police. Inside, the overweight middle-aged man turned off the engine and pulled the keys from the ignition. His left hand shook with a noticeable tremor, a side effect of the inoperable brain tumour that was slowly growing within his skull. He remembered sitting in the consultant’s office, remembered being informed that the experimental treatment available in other countries wasn’t available to him because the NHS didn’t have the funds. Red tape and bureaucracy had signed his death warrant, and a slow and degrading death it was likely to be. He wasn’t willing to accept that.

A red sedan drove up behind the parked van, and the occupant began agitatedly beeping her horn at the obstruction that blocked her path. Already late for an expensive Pilates class, she was unaware that she presently had twenty seconds left to live. Geoff sat for a moment, for there was nothing really left for him to do. Part of him was scared, but that was buried deep down under the overriding knowledge that this was truly God’s work. Had Abraham not said as much? And was Abraham not God’s messenger on this fetid and corrupted planet?

In the corner of his eye, he noticed two armed police officers exit the front of the police headquarters and head towards him. He ignored them, and ignored the horn behind him as it blared again. Even if they realised what his intentions were, they were too late to stop him. Sat beside him on the passenger seat, the red LED countdown stood at nineteen seconds. The counter was connected to the two thousand kilograms of C-4 plastic explosive that resided in the back of the van. Geoff had activated the device just as he was turning onto Broadway, and now he sat with the inevitability of his fate, a weight removed from his shoulders. Fifteen seconds. Geoff began to pray, letting his hands fall into his lap

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me…”

The basic concept behind any explosive is very simple. It’s just something that creates a lot of heat and a lot of gas in a very short space of time. The gas expands outwards along with the heat, creating an explosive blast wave that does structural damage. The heat just goes along for the ride, incinerating whatever can be incinerated. Geoff didn’t feel the blast that killed him in a microsecond. One moment he was a thinking, breathing human being, the next he was reduced to ash. The truck itself, the casing for the bomb, simply disintegrated and turned into red hot shrapnel as the C-4 inside exploded. The blast wave spread out, slamming into the structures around where only a crater now stood. The red car behind the van was hurled into the air, its entire structure and contents incinerated. The iconic rotating sign outside New Scotland Yard vanished as it became part of the expanding shrapnel, and the two police officers who had come to investigate were ripped apart as their bodies were flung into the air. A micro-second later, the blast hit the Scotland Yard building itself. Although hardened against bomb attacks, no structure could withstand such an impact unscathed, and the whole front of the building was cratered inwards, the dozens of glass windows creating millions of tiny spears. In every direction, the blast wave hit buildings and people and pulverised them, decimating the built-up area for a hundred square metres. Within two seconds, over a thousand people were dead or injured.

The sound of the explosion followed behind the blast wave, and was heard for miles around. Some people realised what it was, others only realised when they were told by the news they were watching on their TV’s and their smartphones. The nerve centre for the Metropolitan police, the brain for London’s police force, had just been decapitated.

Moments later, there was a second such explosion on Milbank outside the MI5 building. Fortunately for those inside, it was a much stronger structure, and there were no buildings around it to contain the blast. Even so, the damage to the building was considerable, and the loss of life numbered into the hundreds. God’s wrath had many ways to strike at the heathen for he would not be denied his vengeance on those who had forsaken him.

10.30AM, 16
th
September 2015, PINDAR, Military of Defence, London

“What the hell was that?” the prime minister said in alarm. Dust was still falling from the ceiling, a result of the shock wave when a second tremor ran through the room. A piece of ceiling plaster fell bouncing off his shoulder, and he brushed the residue off, his hands displaying he was close to panic. He looked around imploringly at those assembled in the room and found that only one of them had an answer.

“That, Prime Minister, was the shock wave from at least one explosion, probably two,” said Croft. The door to the room suddenly opened, and a visibly distressed aide ran into the conference room and handed the home secretary a memo. She read it and her faced blanched. She passed it to the PM, who almost fainted when he read it.

“Someone has just blown up New Scotland Yard,” Claire Miles said. “And Thames House.”

“Good God,” said the Metropolitan police chief, “I was there this morning.”

“Then this is definitely coordinated,” Croft said. “Someone’s planned this down to the tiniest detail. There’s no denying that fact now. Prime Minister, it’s time to act.” Croft didn’t even try to hide the contempt in his voice now. Whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing.

“We need to get you and the cabinet to a safer location,” Marston said.

“I will not be seen to abandon my country in its gravest hour,” the prime minister protested, although Croft detected he didn’t really believe what he was saying.

“And you won’t be. But as fortified as this building is, we need to extract you whilst we can. Your name’s on Noah too, don’t forget,” Marston said, and he was insistent. He looked around the room for support. Most of those whose eyes he met nodded their agreement.

Croft leaned back against the wall. He listened as those in the room were formulating plans, watched as different people came and went, saw the frightened looks in their eyes as the rates of infection and violence continued to grow. It was at that moment he realised his government was probably no longer a viable employer.

10.31AM, 16
th
September 2015, University College Hospital, Euston Rd, London

“That definitely felt like an explosion,” Stan said. A small tremor had just rocked through the canteen where they now all stood looking at each other. Moments earlier, they had made the joint decision that it was time to try and get out of the hospital. There had been no new assaults on the door to the cafeteria. Brian tried his radio.

“233SO to Sierra Oscar control, come in, over.” All he got was static. He tried again, but still no response. “Looks like we are on our own for now,” he said to his partner. Brian picked up one of the two filled rucksacks and handed it to Holden.

“I’ll need you to carry that,” he said, and she reluctantly took the offering from him. The makeshift barricades had been cleared, and Holden realised they were really going to do this.

“Where will we go?” Holden asked.

“Anywhere but here,” Stan said. Brian stepped over to the lady whose name he still didn’t know, and gently put an arm on her elbow to encourage her to stand. She flinched away, clutching her baby too tightly.

“Ma’am, we need to go,” he said, but she shook her head vigorously from side to side. He looked back at Stan, exasperation visible on his face. Holden finished putting on the rucksack and stepped over to the woman.

“Come on, we have to go,” Holden said gently. The woman looked at her, looked down at her baby, and shook her head again. Holden pulled up a chair and sat next to her, putting an arm around her shoulder. “You can’t stay here. Sooner or later, one of those things will get in here and then there will be nothing you can do for your baby.” The woman looked at her, anger suddenly visible in her face.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” the woman almost screamed, leaping to her feet. Holden watched as she backed away into the furthest corner and sat down, trying to calm the baby that had just been awakened by its mother’s outburst. Holden stood to try and continue her persuasion, but she felt a hand gently grab her arm. She turned to see Brian shaking his head.