Cobra Z (36 page)

If only he had some decent ordinance, he might be able to put it to good use. Whilst he knew it was unlikely the politicians would authorise the use of nukes any time soon, if at all, there were other options available. At least there would be if they had been back home in the US. His plane could carry a thermobaric bomb to any city in the UK and cut the infection off at the source. Otherwise called the Mother of All Bombs, the MOAB could kill everything within its significant blast radius. Of course, there were two problems with that. Firstly, there would be thousands of civilian deaths, and secondly, they didn’t have any MOAB’s in the UK. So his B52, designed to level cities and carpet bomb whole regions, was not being loaded with weapons of war. Instead, it was being loaded with vital equipment and people. His beloved plane was being turned into a glorified passenger jet. Major Potter could almost weep at how useless he felt.

11.48AM 16
th
September 2015, Horse Guard Parade, Whitehall, London

More tunnels. More steps. At the back of the pack again, armed now with a semi-automatic machine gun and a sidearm, he felt like a soldier again. To be honest, though, he had never stopped being a soldier in his heart. There was another mini tremor followed by a muffled explosion. Before they had abandoned PINDAR, he had heard General Marston authorising the use of air strikes on the city. Savage was by his side, because where else was there for her to be?

“Do you have family, Captain?” Croft asked as they walked at a brisk pace.

“My mother is in Newquay, well away from all this. I have no other close family worth speaking of. What about you?”

“No, no family to speak of.” He looked straight ahead, uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Croft wasn’t a man to let people into his private thoughts. Savage seemed to sense his unease.

“It won’t work, you know,” Savage said, changing the subject.

“What won’t?”

“The nukes, at least not in London. The infected in the tube network will be shielded, and the radiation won’t allow ground forces to mop up. Even if the radiation does kill them, there’s nothing to say they won’t reanimate. They will just come to the surface after the blast and attack the survivors. And the fallout from hitting so many cities will kill half the country. Not to mention the damage done when it spreads to the continent.”

“So it’s a lose-lose situation, no matter what we do,” Croft said, irritation in his voice.

“We’re fucked, Croft,” Savage said. The final door stood before them.

Then they were out in the open, the cool morning air refreshing. A light drizzle was falling, and Croft found himself walking onto Horse Guard Parade, helicopters waiting for them, more hovering above waiting to land and rescue as many people as possible. And in the distance, the incessant rattle of sustained and lethal gunfire.

Sergeant Smith stood far enough from the helicopter that the rotating blades were not a threat to him. Despite the noise and the bedlam around him, he felt strangely calm. Those around him thought they were containing the threat, thought they were buying time so that the country’s leaders could make their escape. But they didn’t see the greater threat. No, they just didn’t see it. Ordered to abandon his position guarding Downing Street, he ignored his redeployment orders and made his way to Horse Guard Parade where in the chaos he just became another uniform. Here he waited for the ruling elite to make their escape. This was where he was needed; this was where he was supposed to be.

There were three helicopters on the ground, and they waited patiently for their latest passengers, dust whipped up into a storm by their presence. The infected were in the park to the east of their position in large numbers now, and the soldiers, backed up by the SAS troop, formed a line of death to keep them at bay. Heavy machine gun fire and the shouts of men fighting for their lives could be heard. With police snipers on the surrounding buildings, their advance was being held back, but it wouldn’t be long before the position got overwhelmed. The infected had two major advantages: they spawned their soldiers from their enemy, and they were very difficult to kill.

There was a motion at the periphery of his vision, and Smith turned to see the prime minister and half the cabinet emerge from a guarded doorway. They were being escorted towards the helicopter next to where Smith stood. It was also the spot near to where Her Majesty the Queen would sit every year to watch the Trooping of the Colour … something that was unlikely ever to happen again. Smith withdrew the magazine, checking how many rounds he had in place, and slammed it back into his weapon.

The prime minister did not look well. As the man grew closer, Smith saw that he looked pale and ill.
So this is who we have to lead us in our time of crisis
, he thought, relieved that he had arrived here in time to do his duty. So this was the man the people elected to keep them safe, to keep their country safe. The home secretary looked more up to the task. She had that aura of resolute determination. That’s what a leader needed. It didn’t matter if your world was falling to shit. Those who followed you needed to see that you were the rock for them to depend on. You needed to be the example. Smith felt his finger move off the trigger guard and onto the trigger, and he moved to intercept the party, mindful of his job to protect those he served. The protection detail saw him and nodded. He nodded back, showing his mutual respect. Smith knew most of them, drank with some of them. He stood guard as they passed, his shoulder patted by several of the officers he knew personally. Even the home secretary gave him a look of thanks as she passed, although true to form, the prime minister didn’t even seem to see him. And as the prime minister passed, a mere five metres away from the welcoming safety of the helicopter, Smith knew that the time had come. He raised his semi-automatic machine gun and emptied the magazine into the party, the prime minister, chancellor of the exchequer and home secretary falling to fatal wounds. General Marston fell to the ground with a wound in his lower abdomen.

Smith killed five people, and his gun clicked empty before the shock of what he had done registered a response. The soldiers and the protection detail were so focussed on the external threat, the fact that one of their own had become the enemy was completely alien to them.

“The prime minister is down, the prime minister is down,” Smith heard over his own earpiece, and then he felt the impacts as bullets smacked into his Kevlar vest. Huge iron fists barrelled into him, one after the other in quick succession. One round entered just above his left knee sending him to the floor, and his last thoughts before a sniper round went through his skull was how honoured he felt to do God’s work. Brother Abraham had chosen wisely in his selection.

Croft was in the third group that left the exit to Horse Guard Parade. He saw the prime minister pass the policeman, saw the officer raise his weapon, saw him fire a full magazine into the country’s leader and his entourage. But was too far away to do anything to intervene. All he could do was stand and stare and bear witness to the traitorous act. There was no defence against that. There was no way to defend the leaders of a country when those tasked to defend them were the very assassins one feared.

11.49AM, 16
th
September 2015, Swiss Cottage, London

They were encountering people now. Refugees fleeing the slaughter. Holden had the urge to stop and try and help those that she saw were wounded. But this was about survival now, and besides, many of the wounds she saw looked like bites. How long after being bitten did people turn – was that even how the infection spread?

“We need to keep moving,” Brian said. “This still isn’t safe.”

“Some of them are bitten,” Holden said, indicating the people around them.

“I know. And I know you want to help, but we all know what that means.” She nodded, and she looked at Stan.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself.

“Officers, can you help us?” a voice said. Brian shook his head in despair, knowing it was the right thing to do. But the voice came from an elderly lady who was helping an equally elderly gentleman navigate the pavement.

“Sorry, can’t,” Stan said and they picked up the pace. He looked at Holden hoping not to see disapproval. He didn’t. She just nodded to him, and they made their way further up the road.

“If we carry on up the Finchley Road, we can be at the M1 in about an hour. I suspect there will be military there,” Brian said.

“Then what happens?” Holden asked.

“Then, doctor, you will most likely be drafted to help with any wounded, and we will most likely be drafted to help kill these things.”

“But first we’ve got to make it there alive,” said Stan. “And whilst I hate to say it, the more people we put between ourselves and those things, the more chance we have of making it.” He looked at the two of them and then reproached himself. “Shit, I’m sorry, that sounded harsh.”

“You don’t have to outrun the bear,” Holden said, more to herself than anyone.

“What’s that, doc?”

“Something I heard once. If your camp gets attacked by a bear, you don’t have to be faster than the bear. You just have to be able to run faster than the other campers.”

11.52AM, 16
th
September 2015, Victoria Embankment, London

“Colour Sergeant,” Captain Grainger shouted over to his subordinate. Standing at the back of his fortification, he could see how hopeless his position was now. The sergeant – a big, burly man with a handlebar moustache – was probably one of the most respected men in the regiment. He ran over to Grainger, seemingly oblivious to the noise and the mayhem around him.

“Sir,” Colour Sergeant Vorne said coming to his commander’s side. He didn’t salute.

“We are retreating to the Westminster Pier. Form the men into three lines for fire and movement with the vehicles leading the way. I want their heavies laying down covering fire as we make out retreat.”

“I’m on it,” the colour sergeant said and moved off. Grainger motioned to the corporal who was crouched by his side.

“Corporal, all units are to retreat towards the Westminster Pier. Make sure the snipers on the roofs have already left their positions as per my previous orders.” His corporal nodded and began to shout into the radio he was carrying on his back. Grainger stood, momentarily mesmerised by it all. He had walked down this river embankment several days earlier. It had been a peaceful Sunday night, a cloudless sky, the stars vibrant in the cool air. He had felt safe, walking the streets of what was still one of the world’s most powerful countries, and the crisp air had invigorated him. And now everything was blood and smoke. The cordite fumes from the thousands of rounds being fired drifted across the battle, and the howls of the undead spilled out across the city.

He quick marched it over to the river and looked over the wall that stopped the Thames flooding the city. With no way for them to climb out due to the steepness of the artificial river walls on this part of the Thames, the infected thrashed and bobbed in the water. There were hundreds of them, fighting against the current, searching for a way to escape so they could sink their teeth into the living. The captain looked to the south to the proposed escape route for his men, the Westminster River Pier, right by the Westminster Bridge. Two Apache attack helicopters hovered over the pier, laying withering minigun fire into the river and onto the bridge itself. Below them, several boats bobbed almost gracefully, awaiting owners that would never again return for them. They would stay there until nature reclaimed them, their wood eventually rotting and submitting to the power of the river. Grainger hated the water. His father, a marine, had been almost devastated when he had learnt his son was joining the Army. He had half-joked that it had almost felt like betrayal. Across the river, the city burned.

Further up the embankment to the north, the infected massed. Their initial surges had been stopped, and the railway bridge infrastructure had partially collapsed due to mortar and tank rounds. But the contaminated were coming from all directions now. His air drones showed thousands descending on their position from all over the city. The grenadiers were retreating on all fronts, and in some areas, were even being overrun. There just weren’t enough troops available at such short notice, and with a disarmed population, the viral spread just couldn’t be contained. Word had reached him moments earlier that Captain Walker had been killed when his retreating forces had been outflanked. Where Grainger stood was part of the last defensive position, and with less than a hundred men, there was no way to hold out. His colour sergeant came over to him.

“Sir, the men are ready to get the fuck out of here.” Just as he said that, there was a roar from the enemy’s position, and they began to charge. Fifty metres away, they moved with frightening speed, even with heavy machine gun fire being laid into them.

“Very good, Sergeant. Fire and move.” Vorne nodded to him and turned to face the backs of his men, who were now in three lines. He spoke into his helmet microphone. “Fire and move to the pier, lads. I repeat, fire and move.”

The front line of men crouched and fired off full magazines into the surging mass of infected and undead. Magazines depleted, they retreated, running between the two lines behind them, putting the second row in front, forming a new line ten metres behind. Each man at the new front fired off five rounds and followed their fellow soldiers, taking up fresh positions. This way they could do a leapfrog retreat whilst still maintaining suppressing fire and, more importantly, discipline. Grainger knew if the line broke, the infected would be upon them.