Invasion (43 page)

Travelling along the unlit motorway, the view was
unsettling. The other side of the road was choked with Arabian military
traffic, all streaming
out from Southampton
docks. Khan saw troop transports, towed artillery, tanks and jeeps all rumbling past in the darkness. As he neared the interchange for the road to London, Khan saw that that road, too, was solid with military traffic. He kept going east.

The enormity of the operation was staggering, the repercussions yet to be felt. The world had changed overnight. Everything Khan knew was gone now, and something dark had taken its place. He’d made the right decision, of that there was no doubt. But he wasn’t clear yet.

Thirty minutes later, Khan eased the Range Rover gently under a large stand of trees near Andrews Marina in Hamble. He parked on the western edge of the village, the nearby buildings silent and shrouded in darkness. The approach to the village had been quite tricky, the dark roads narrowing
as he headed towards the spit of land that Hamble nestled on.

Khan turned off his headlights, unwilling to broadcast his arrival as
he negotiated the tight country lanes. In one particularly heart-stopping moment, a car had careered past in the opposite direction, its headlights burning through the darkness. Khan had got a brief glimpse of the driver
;
young, male, the other occupants shouting and screaming
as it barely missed the side of the Range Rover. Joy riders, Khan assumed, making the most of the blackout. He hoped that that would be his only human encounter here.

He stepped out of the vehicle, closing the door with a soft click. He popped open the hood and retrieved the pistol, which he checked and shoved into his waistband. It was time to go shopping.

Back at the farm, he’d made a list of items he’d need for the long trip across the ocean. He’d secreted that list under the carpet of the Range Rover and now he studied it again by the light of a small torch. The list wasn’t long. If he was lucky, the boat he chose would have most of the items aboard. But first he had to find the right boat.

He walked beneath the trees until they gave way to an eight-foot high chain-link fence. Ahead, he could see the dark waters of the estuary that led out into the Solent, the moonlight dancing off its surface. He peered through the fence into the marina for several minutes. He didn’t spot any movement, but he could hear the soft slap of water on fibre-glass hulls, the unmistakable sound of yachts tied alongside jetties. A soft breeze moaned through the mastheads and, somewhere
across the estuary, a dog barked.

Khan lifted himself over the fence and dropped noiselessly to the grass on the other side. Ahead of him was a vast network of moorings that looked to be pretty full. He walked slowly across to the nearest jetty and began his search. If he was going to find a boat it would be here.

Khan took his time, walking slowly up and down the network of jetties and inspecting the myriad of different boats. Everything seemed to be moored here, from small dinghies and skiffs to luxury motor cruisers and–

The boat that grabbed his attention suddenly loomed out of the darkness in front of him. He stopped, turning slowly as he scanned the area around him. Still
nothing. Good. He turned back and walked towards the yacht, running a hand admiringly along her stainless steel rail. She was beautiful.

The Sunflower was an Oyster
68, a sleek, superbly appointed ocean-going yacht that had a solid reputation for strength and reliability. It was the type of boat he’d learned to sail on, although that was the much smaller model. The Sunflower was not that much different in terms of sailing, although she was probably designed to be handled by more than one person. But so far it was the only boat that Khan had seen that he felt immediately comfortable with. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. He checked the area once again and slipped quietly aboard.

On deck, the first thing he noticed was that all the ropes were where they should be, the right amount and length, all expertly tied-off. The boat was secured fore and aft and the fly-bridge situated amidships was sealed tightly with a waterproof cover. Except for one corner. Khan lifted up the flap and peered underneath. The cabin below was in complete darkness. He reached for his torch and flicked it on, waving it around the cabin area. Satisfied, he crouched under the flap and stepped down the short staircase below.

The blow caught him full in the face and he staggered backwards in the darkness, cracking his skull on something hard. He bit his tongue sharply and cried out in pain, ending up on his backside in the gloom, the pistol skittering across the cabin floor. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth and his lip was split. He scrabbled around for his weapon, then froze when he heard the distinct click-clack of a round being chambered. A light shone in his face and a male voice, full of menace, spoke quietly in the darkness.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing on this boat?’

Khan almost smiled. Just his luck to pick a boat that was occupied. Still, the man was hiding too, so maybe they had something in common. Instinct told him to tell the truth.

‘Well, I was planning to steal it. Looks like I’ll have to try elsewhere. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ He made an effort to get up, but the pistol was suddenly thrust in his face, the barrel an inch from his nose. He eased himself back down and leaned against the cabin wall.

‘Don’t be so bloody smart. And don’t think I don’t know how to use this.’ The man rattled the gun in the darkness. ‘Now, who are you and what the hell is going on?’

Khan was beginning to lose patience. In a few hours the sky would start to lighten in the east. His plan was to be on the water before dawn and to have cleared the Solent by the time the sun had fully risen. It wasn’t a journey he wanted to attempt in daylight, mindful of Arabian shipping. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth. With his other hand he felt the growing lump on the back of his head. Luckily the skin was unbroken. Khan
squinted, looking up into the light, his own pistol pointed at his chest. He was wasting time here.

‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m taking a long voyage and I need a deep-water vessel that’s up to the trip. This boat fitted the bill.’

‘Where are you headed?’ asked the voice behind the torch.

Khan squinted into the light. ‘The States.’ He was desperate to get going. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Don’t you realise what’s going on out there? Where have you been for the last thirty-odd hours? The country’s under attack, did you know that?’ Khan pushed himself to his knees and this time the voice didn’t object. ‘Look, I’m sorry about your boat, but if I don’t leave, then my life will be in danger. So either shoot me or let me go.’

The torch clicked off, replaced by the warm glow of cabin lights. The man that stood before him appeared to be in his mid-forties, with short-cropped grey hair and sporting a couple of days’ worth of stubble. He wore a pair of khaki trousers and a blue, open-necked shirt. The gun was still in his hand, but the barrel was now pointed at the deck. He held out his other hand, which Khan took, and helped him to his feet.

‘Thanks,’ said Khan.

‘Sorry about your jaw. Couple of the boats here have been stolen since yesterday.’ The man opened an overhead cupboard, producing a large medical kit. ‘Here.’

Khan fished inside and dabbed his lip with a cotton ball and some antiseptic, wincing painfully. He looked around the cabin. It was magnificent, almost brand new he guessed, with teak decking and wall panelling, and a luxury raised seating area that looked out through forward-facing windows. There
was a well-appointed kitchen and all the other fineries that one might expect from a state-of-the-art boat. Khan was impressed.

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘She is. What’s your name?’

‘Danesh. Danesh Khan.’

‘Patrick Clarke. So, what’s going on out there? All I get on the radio is some bloody government message, some sort of national emergency or something. I heard there’d been rioting in Southampton. A lot of people here have packed up and gone.’

‘There is no government,’ Khan told him. ‘London is a war zone and you can forget Europe too.’ Khan spent the next few minutes explaining who he was and recounting the events of the last thirty-six
hours.

‘Jesus,’ was all Clarke could whisper when he’d finished. He flopped down at the chart table, the Glock still in his hand. ‘That explains the helicopters, the flashes on the horizon. No wonder it’s deserted
around here.’

‘It’s going
to get worse. Right now, the Arabian military is pouring equipment into the country. They’re using the docks at Southampton, probably others along the coast. The
clock’s ticking, Patrick. Pretty soon they’ll have everything locked down and we’ll be under martial law. That’s why I’m leaving. I think the only friends we have left are the Yanks, so I’m heading for the States.’

Clarke stared at the table, deep in thought. Then he looked up. ‘You’ve done that route before?’

‘No. Been as far as the Azores though, several times. I was planning to pick up the trade winds from there.’

‘Tricky this time of year,’ Clarke warned. ‘Almost hurricane season. Better to head further south, Cape Verde, then head westwards. What about your family?’

Khan shrugged. ‘I’m single. Parents are dead. You?’

‘Wife and sons are in Martha’s Vineyard. I’ve got a place out there. They left a week ago.’

‘Lucky.’

‘Right. I’m supposed to join them next week, but then all this kicked off. I was here in Hamble when it started. Came down to do a bit of work on the boat.’

Khan held out his hand. ‘Think I could have my weapon back?’

Clarke stared at him for a moment. ‘What?’ He looked at the gun in his hand. ‘
Oh. Yes,
of course.’

Khan took the gun and made it safe, tucking it back into his jeans. ‘Where did you learn to shoot?’

‘The States. I keep a gun on the property there.’

‘Very wise. How long do you intend to hide out down here?’

Clarke shook his head. ‘I’m not hiding.’

Khan frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’ve been watching the chandlery,’ Clarke explained, ‘but I fell asleep. Then you woke me up.’

‘The chandlery? What for?’

‘Supplies. Place has been closed since I got here. Obviously the owners have other priorities, but I need to get in there. I’ve got a very long shopping list.’ Clarke smiled.
‘
You’re not the only one with dishonest intentions around here.’

Khan raised an optimistic eyebrow. ‘What do you need supplies for?

‘You say you want to head for the States?’ Khan nodded. ‘Good, because that’s where my family is. I’ve done the crossing before and the Sunflower
is certainly up for the job, but I could really use a mate. Help me skipper her home, Danesh. You’d be doing us both a favour.’

Khan let out a long breath. He’d been lucky so far, but this bordered on
something else, a more divine hand at work. For the last few years he’d used his religion like a tool, a key to a door behind which lurked a shadowy world of terror cells, plots and conspiracies. He’d lost touch with the true meaning of faith, its purpose and strength. And its signs.

‘You’re on,’ he said, taking Clarke’s outstretched hand. ‘I’ll push the trolley, but let’s make it quick. The noose is already
tightening.’

They put to sea almost two hours
later. Under engine power, the Sunflower cruised quietly through the still waters of the Hamble River and out into the Solent, turning south towards Cowes on the Isle of Wight. Khan and Clarke stood behind the twin steering wheels as the boat made steady progress towards the open waters of the English Channel. Clarke suggested that they wait until they were out of the channel before unfurling the huge white sails that would be seen for miles.

The boat was indeed everything Khan thought it would be. Everything was automated, including the sail rigging
and the boat’s navigation systems, and the automatic pilot was on-line and functioning. The sophisticated radar told them that there were two large freighters steaming up from the south towards East Solent, but the Sunflower would pass well ahead of them. It turned out Clarke was a serious sailor, a hobby that had blossomed into a passion over the years, financially aided by the public floatation of his communications company. He recommended hugging the coastline until they were well clear of the major shipping lanes, before heading out into the Atlantic. Khan agreed.

As they reached Calshot Spit, Khan turned and looked back towards the eastern docks a few miles behind them. The horizon was dotted with powerful arc lights that blazed along the miles of dockside. The Arabians weren’t bothering with camouflage or light-discipline
drills, unconcerned by a British counter attack. That in itself spoke volumes. The
Sunflower continued onwards, rounding the point and heading
southwest
towards Hurst Spit. Beyond that, the open waters of the English Channel beckoned.

The helicopter came in unexpectedly from the north as the Sunflower glided past the Beaulieu Estuary at four knots. In a few seconds, the distant throbbing turned into a thunderous hammer-beat as an Arabian gunship headed straight for the sailboat from the darkness of the New Forest. Khan shoved Clarke below and ordered him to stay put.