Christopher Nuttall: Their Darkest Hour

“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?