“About a dozen, sir. They’re all being monitored.”

  “Good. Have call sign Golf-One get under cover, and assign two on foot to go with it.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Out to you. Hello, Two-Zero-Echo, you register that? Over.”

  Zero-Echo, based in the town, acknowledged. “Where do you want us, sir?”

  “Move to Zero-Charlie’s location. Come in from the south. The Tangoes are to the north of Charlie. But first let the civvy force know what’s happening. They’ll have no comms once you’ve left. Over.”

  “Understood. What if they get a bit flaky?”

  “Tell them their boss is on his way to take command. Out.”

  The Land Rover headed down Chicksgrove Road, passed Place Farm, almost coming back on themselves just before the water outlet from Fonthill Lake, and headed west on Chilmark Road, a trail of dust left in their wake. Alan totted up numbers. “We’ll have eight from Zero-Charlie, four from the town, and four from the RGC. And we have Delta.”

  “What about the Fox?”

  “Good point.” Alan contacted the patrol. “Two-Zero-Delta, move Golf-Two to Charlie’s location and join Golf-One. Over.”

  “Roger that.”

  “And make it quiet.”

  “Understood.”

  “You’re right there, sir. Thing makes a right racket, even with a Jag engine.”

  “Alan.”

  “Alan,” Scott responded with a smile. “It’s not as if we haven’t been expecting it.”

  “I know, but I would have preferred us recceing further out and finding them before they came to us.”

  “You think they’ll be a bother?”

  “They’re well armed and on the move. They’re either looking for some form of authority or a group to join or—”

  “Scavenging and not caring who or what,” finished Scott.

  The Land Rover swerved left as Scott nearly missed the turning into Mill Lane, the ground a lot rougher now. “Sorry about that.”

  “The plods don’t have speeding tickets, but I do value my life,” Alan laughed.

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Do we wait and see what they’re up to, or pay them a visit?”

  “They’re bound to pay a trip to Chilmark.”

  “That’s what bothers me. I can’t see the PO wanting to keep the workforce inactive. He’s set a precedent now and needs to maintain it.”

  “The lads are ready.”

  Ahead, as they approached the gated and fenced entrance to the RGC, Alan could see four of his soldiers hanging around a Land Rover near the entrance, talking to the brigadier. Scott pulled up alongside them, and Alan jumped out. He threw Brigadier Bannister a quick salute.

  “I’ve got Zero-Echo coming from the town, six of us here, the recce group and the eight men from the warehouse.”

  “That should be enough,” responded Bannister.

  The radio crackled in both Land Rovers, and Scott leant in through one of the open windows and picked up the handset. “Go ahead. Over.”

  Alan and the brigadier joined him. They could hardly hear the voice at the other end.

  “Who is it?” asked Alan.

  “Two-Zero-Delta.”

  “Have eyes on the Tangoes’ encampment. Seem to be settling down, setting up a temporary encampment. At least another four vehicles have joined them. A bus, would you believe it, one HGV, a civvy one, and two people carriers. At least an additional one-zero males. Over.”

  Alan took the handset off Scott. “Just use the Prestel to respond, understood? Over.”

  “Click… click.”

  “Are the new Tangoes armed?”

  “Click… click.”

  “Moving to Charlie. Will join you at your location soonest. Over.”

  “Click… click.”

  “Two-Zero out.”

  Once joined by Zero-Echo, commanded by the newly promoted Sergeant Thompson, the convoy of vehicles headed off towards the warehouse, Bennet moving from Two-Zero-Echo, taking over the driving from Company Sergeant Major Saunders. Two soldiers from the RGC itself had also boarded the OCs Land Rover. There were two warehouses under the control of the RGC. One was deep underground, secured and well hidden from prying eyes, which held the stocks that had been built up by the National Emergency Committee, at least when they were in existence before the nuclear strikes hit. Primarily stocked with raw sugar, sacks of flour, tins of corned beef, drums of oil and fat, it was key to the survival of the RGC and the people under its auspices. The location of this particular storage site, although critical to them, was unguarded, but checked discreetly twice a day. The second warehouse, the one they were heading for now, had been a civilian warehouse before the start of the war, owned and run by a civilian logistics company. It too had been stocked up prior to the missile and bomb strikes. Taken over by the Government, it had been stockpiled with provisions, but of the more traditional type like tins of beans and tomatoes — anything the Government could commandeer and stash away for use in the unlikely event of a major nuclear strike hitting the United Kingdom.

  The convoy sped along the A303, the cross-country tyres of the Land Rovers purring rhythmically, only interrupted when hitting the occasional rut in the road where vegetation, plant life that was able to grow under the austere conditions, had already started to force its way through tiny cracks in the less frequently used tarmac road. There were so few vehicles on the road now; it was inevitable that plants would quickly reclaim lost territory.

  Bennet turned the wheel of the Land Rover, avoiding the slalom of abandoned vehicles. The road was a dual carriageway, and a line of vehicles had been abandoned either side of the road after their drivers’ attempts to head west towards the M4 or M5 motorways had failed. Fortunately, two of the lanes, one in each direction, had been kept open for use by military and official vehicles during the short time before the first of the strikes hit. The entire network of major roads in the UK had become bogged down very quickly. Not only because of the sheer traffic congestion due to members of the public attempting to flee to somewhere they felt would be safer, or vehicles running out of fuel, but also because of the effects of the 300 nuclear strikes across the country. Most of the road networks in the United Kingdom went through or passed close to major cities and towns. These were natural targets of the Russian intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs) and bombers. The hurricane-like blast wave, one of the deadly outcomes of a nuclear explosion, from the nuclear bombs and missiles striking the towns and cities, or airports and military installations, caused havoc on the arterial lifelines of the UK. And if any transport routes survived that then the effects of the super-nuclear electro magnetic pulse (super-NEMP) finished them off, the vehicles grinding to a halt. At least three of these weapons had been exploded 400 kilometres above the UK, burning out the electrics of motor vehicles, disrupting communications, and even affecting the military. Although the military throughout the world had done their best to harden their combat vehicles and communication equipment against the EMP threat, the truth was that, apart from in the early sixties, no real tests had been completed, for obvious reasons, to test the effectiveness of such measures. A few of the older vehicles, less reliant on the modern computer chips that controlled the majority of engine-management systems, were of a metallic construction providing added protection over their cousins made of non-metallic materials. Even though some vehicles were unaffected, the result was still one of the largest traffic jams in the world.

  The driver of the Land Rover cursed as the front bumper clipped a large Range Rover, jarring the Land Rover’s occupants.

  “Take it easy, Bennet,” ordered Scott sitting in the rear with Kothari and Baxter. “Best we get there in one piece, eh?”

  “Yes, sir, just want to get there to support the lads.”

  “Me too,” added Alan, looking across at the driver. “But there’s no immediate threat.”

  The distance from the RGC to the warehouse was about thirty kilometres, and they soon approached Mere, the halfway point. This was the location of the RGC’s reserve stocks, which had remained relatively untouched but also unguarded so far. The convoy climbed Chaddenwick Hill, dropping down towards the outskirts of the small town. The Mere bypass skirted the northern edge of the town, the treeline along the edge of the dual carriageway obscuring their view of the town itself. Alan had considered diverting one of his vehicles to do a drive-past, checking out that the warehouse was secure, but decided against it. Better to keep the convoy together until they knew what they were up against.

  They raced through the southern edge of Nor Wood curving south between Zeals to the west and Wolverton to the east. The road then took them west, passing Bourton to the north. Most of the survivors of these communities, many suffering and dying from radiation sickness, starvation and dehydration, had been encouraged to make their way to the RGC encampment where they would receive minimal medical treatment and, eventually, food and water.

  “Five minutes out, sir.”

  “Keep your eyes peeled, lads,” added Scott.

  Weapons were held at the ready, Scott and Kothari covering out of the back of the canvas-topped Land Rover, the rear flap having been rolled up out of the way, even though it meant some dust made its way into the back. Alan slid back the front passenger window and he too prepared his weapon ready to repel an attack. They caught glimpses of Wincanton now as the convoy passed beneath Common Road. Bennet maintained a steady speed, having slowed down as they approached the built-up area. The vehicles crossed Moor Lane as they drew closer to the industrial estate off to the right.

  “Junction coming up,” warned the driver.

  “Standby,” added Alan.

  Alan checked the wing mirror and could see Zero-Echo slowing down, increasing the gap between themselves and the lead vehicle should anything go wrong. Bennet swung the vehicle left onto the slip road, curving around until they climbed and crossed over the A303 they had just left. The road ahead was clear and, within seconds, they cut across the large roundabout, Morrison’s supermarket off to the right. It had been stripped of whatever was left by the men of his unit and added to the RGC stocks in the warehouse they were about to visit. There hadn’t been much left in the way of food and bottled liquids though as panic buying, setting in as the war went progressively from bad to worse, had depleted what stocks the supermarket chain and all the others, such as Tesco, Sainsbury’s and Asda, had. A major industrial estate was further east, but the one they were heading for was ahead and off to the left.

  They crawled down Dyke’s Way, the crew scanning the road ahead and the buildings around them. Passing smaller industrial units either side, the main warehouse, significantly larger than anything else in the area, just under 10,000 square metres, came into view. Turning left down Murray Way, their access was blocked by a chicane of broken down vehicles, dragged there intentionally, which they negotiated until they arrived at the sandbagged entrance guarded by two soldiers. The gates were open, ready, and they drove straight through, the other vehicle not far behind. They parked up and Alan jumped down, weapon in hand ready.

  A corporal came over and threw him a salute which he returned. He was impressed with his unit, how discipline had been maintained, considering the circumstances and the break down in law and order elsewhere. What Redfern didn’t know was that he and Scott were held in high regard by the soldiers, and they to a man, including two Women’s Royal Army Corp (WRACs) soldiers, recognised that if they were to survive they needed to hold together and follow this man’s leadership.

  “Corporal West, what’s the disposition of your men?”

  “There’s me and Laura watching the front, two round the back, and a two-man foot patrol poking around the perimeter. Two are off stag. Could be a long day, sir.”

  “I’ll leave Echo and the RGC lads here. You come with us when we’re ready to go and pay Delta a visit. Sar’nt Major, get Echo’s vehicle hidden round the back, and then all to report upstairs.”

  “Inside the warehouse?”

  “Yes, except ours. Park Echo and Charlie close to the back doors. If we need to move quickly, I don’t want our transport blocked in. Leave two additional men to cover them. Sarn’t Thompson, you take command of Charlie until we return.”

  “Doing a recce?”

  “Yes.”

  The CSM went to instruct the men while the major and Corporal West headed inside. The NCO took the lead, holding the door open for his OC. They passed through a small reception area, a long leather sofa with a sleeping bag lain along it: somewhere for the lads on stag at night to grab a couple of hours’ kip in the warm when it was their turn to stand down.

  Before going upstairs, Alan poked his head through the door into the main warehouse, an open area lined with large battery chargers for the forklift trucks off to the right. He acknowledged the civilians sitting in a group at the far side, chatting and drinking tea. Work had been suspended while the emergency was on, and no supplies would be moved to the RGC or feeding centre until further notice. There were enough supplies to last the feeding centre for at least two days. Beyond that, a decision would need to be made about restarting the supply convoy. Across from Redfern, row upon row of steel racking towered twelve metres high, holding up to 6,000 pallets of food, water and other essential supplies needed to keep the population the RCG had assumed responsibility for alive. The warehouse, 10,000 square metres in size, could hold nearly 4,000 tons of supplies. Beyond the lines of racking at the far end were the loading bays where the supplies were loaded onto an HGV to take the food and supplies to the camp.

  “Civvies OK?”

  “Yeah,” laughed the corporal. “Cushy number for them, sir. Sheltered, two good meals a day, beats pulling bodies out of houses or digging up fields.”

  “Sure,” responded Alan, pulling his head back inside the reception area and moving towards the stairs that would take them up into the office area on the second level. Two flights of stairs found them at the entrance to a corridor, passing between two partitioned offices. At the end was a wide open space where over a dozen quad desk units had been pushed back against the walls. To their left, a long window section overlooked the upper levels of the warehouse, palletised goods clearly visible on the upper levels of racking.

  The two soldiers turned right, passing other offices, the toilet area and kitchen, where one of the civilians cooked for the soldiers and the workers downstairs. The offices were now used as quarters for those soldiers off duty. Two of the men would be asleep somewhere now. In the corner was a larger office, now the small unit’s HQ, with a double-aspect view, windows looking out over the front and sides of the entrance, and to the left, on the other side of two more partition offices, was a long conference room, their destination. Both entered, and Alan laid his SA80 on the long conference table and looked through the windows that ran the entire length of that end of the warehouse. Once the soldiers returned from their foot patrol, one would position themselves in the HQ where they would have an excellent view, north and east, and a second soldier would place himself in the conference room. Alan looked out onto the front car park where he spotted the foot patrol moving down the road out at the front. He looked further, beyond the small building across the road, his view out to the fields to the north-east and west.

  The door clattered open behind them, and CSM Saunders, followed by Sergeant Thompson, made his way into the conference room. “All set, sir. Ready to go see?”

  Alan moved away from the window, satisfied all was well within the warehouse, picked up his SA80, and headed for the door. “Yes, let’s go and see what all the fuss is about. We’ll leave Charlie in your capable hands.”

  “It’ll be in one piece when you get back sir,” responded Sergeant Thompson.

  The three men headed downstairs, reunited with their Land Rover, and headed north to where Zero-Delta were holed up, observing the movements of the intruders. They arrived after a thirty-minute drive, taking it easy in case they came across one of their visitors scouring the area.

  * * *

  Corporal West guided the two men through the trees, leading them to a piece of high ground where a listening post had been set up and they connected with the NCO in command, Lance Corporal Brodie. West stayed with Jon Belmore, who was off stag, while Alan and Scott went forward for a recce. On a signal from Corporal Brodie, Alan and the CSM dropped down onto the ground, followed by an uncomfortable leopard crawl, their assault rifles resting in the crook of their arms, towards a point where they could get a good view of the interlopers.

  Scott grunted. “I’m too old for this.”

  “Quiet,” hissed Redfern.

  They were soon alongside Jordan and Kirby who were on stag.

  “Two on, two off?” the captain whispered to Corporal Brodie.

  “Yes, sir. Don’t know how long we’ll be here for, so best they get some sleep.”

  They edged further over the ridge where they were met by a number of flickering lights below, out to about 200 metres, surrounded by vehicles on three sides.

  “Looks like something out of a Western, circling of the wagons,” hissed Scott, looking at the encampment cordoned off with at least half a dozen vehicles on three sides.

  “Seems well organised,” responded Alan. “What’s their routine?” he asked Corporal Brodie.

  “Pretty much just sitting around the camp fires in small groups. They have at least two doing a circuit of the camp, armed naturally.”

  “Constant?”

  “Yes, sir. Always two, and they change every hour on the hour.”

  Alan laid his SA80 on the grass in front of him and extracted his binoculars from their case. It was still light enough that he could see the colour of the grass through the layer of ash that his elbows had disturbed. He readjusted his surgical face mask. A dank smell permeated his nostrils. He was immediately conscious that they were probably kicking up invisible particles that were more than likely still contaminated. They were all having to live with this new state of affairs. He held the binos up to his eyes and zoomed in to the camp. It was set up on the edge of a copse, with the vehicles forming a semi-circle around it, the treeline as the base. To the far right, he could see a blue civilian Land Rover parked across a hard-packed lane, guarding the entry and exit to the camp. Further east, the lane met up with a minor road, which in turn linked up to the main road. Two armed civilians, a man and a woman, both in their mid-thirties, stood guard. He watched as two more armed Tangoes came into view approaching the blue Land Rover, and stopping and conversing with the sentries before continuing the circuit of the camp, out to around a hundred metres. There was a car park area next to the entrance where the road sentries could keep watch over the rest of the group’s vehicles. Well organised, thought Alan. There was the bus, a couple of campers and the Luton van. The rest of the assorted transport had been used to coral the groups sitting round their camp fires.

 

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