The Last Bike Ride - Chapter 5/15

Chapter 5

The Pentagon had received two independent reports of unusual sightings now, each from the skies above the south-western Russian region.

Their usual Russian contacts hadn’t provided any more confirmation and they hadn’t been able to contact any of their sky-watching network in the Caucasus. There had been reports of explosions in Chechnya, but that was a regular occurrence, so did not register significantly in Washington.

The warlords in Chechnya were ‘Moscow’s problem, not ours’, the US Defence Secretary had decided some months earlier. But the Kremlin was unable to exert any influence at all now in the region even though it had hoped Ramzan Kadyrov would have brought some order to the country after it helped place him in power, through a less than open election process, following the assassination of his better-loved father, Akhmad.

Kadyrov senior had been a true rebel leader and had come close to achieving real independence for his country, but his son was transparently under the control of Moscow and now Chechnya was in the grip of civil war without it being officially recognised as such.

To the Western powers it was just another irritating former Soviet satellite, which Moscow could handle.

However, the Pentagon had developed its surveillance network there over the years, which had usually proved reliable. They had sometimes lost contact with one or two on occasions but now there seemed to be a more widespread problem with communications. Lieutenant Fenton, in charge of this network in the Pentagon, reported the loss of contact and it was assumed by his superiors that the Kremlin was responsible for blocking their scanning devices and had immobilised them.

Fenton knew this wasn’t possible – something else was going on. That something had been Vasily Potemkin’s unit that had systematically eliminated all known sky and airwave scanners around Kalinovskaya. Potemkin was confident that his unit had carried out a thorough operation and that all the operators and their equipment had been eliminated.

In the last hour everything had changed though, and Lieutenant Fenton was in demand from those above who wanted confirmation of the reported ballistic sightings. They weren’t about to accept that contact had been lost but they could shout and bang their desks all they liked, Fenton was certain that it had been.

In the White House General Cleaver was becoming more convinced that Moscow was covering something up by blocking the Chechnyan surveillance network.

“What the fuck are those Red bastards up to?! Do they think that they can stop us finding out where they fired the missile from by stopping a bunch of radio nerds in Chechnya contacting us?!” he yelled.

“Mr President, we’re going to lose most of our cities before we get a chance to hit back. How much evidence do you need?!”

“General, I’ll tell you again, just calm down. At the moment we’ve got no evidence at all, zero, zilch, do you understand?!”

Whether the General did or not was unclear as he sat smouldering in his chair.

“Time to talk to Krakov!”

President Fuller ordered a line to the Russian President, Stanislav Krakov.

“Richard, how are you, my friend?” Krakov eventually responded.

Krakov had taken the President’s diplomacy to be a show of friendship which couldn’t have been further from the truth, but for now he needed as much honesty and cooperation as he could get from the Russian. With generals like Cleaver around he needed to show them that the Kremlin had nothing to do with the attack on London.

“President Krakov, have you any information on who launched the strike on London?”

“Richard, call me Stan. We have no idea at all. It wasn’t us, of course, we’ve got much bigger targets!” he joked.

“Come on Krakov, this is not the time for words like that. Have you any weapons left in the old satellites capable of doing that sort of damage?”

”No, Mr Fuller, those that were left are now just harmless museum exhibits. I can assure you it wasn’t from here.”

“We’ve had reports of some odd ballistic activity over Chechnya. Have you heard the same? Our contacts have gone silent there. Can you help?” asked President Fuller.

“I’ve got everything on it as we speak. We heard those reports as well, and we want to know what’s going on, believe me. I’ll get back to you soon, Richard,” said Krakov, now sounding more like an ally.

“Look, Mr President, I blew my top earlier,” said General Cleaver, “I apologise for letting my personal feelings get in the way, but both my daughters are in London.”

“Shit, sorry Hank, I had no idea,” replied Fuller, “do you want to step aside for this one?”

“You are kidding aren’t you?” and without waiting for an answer from the President, carried on, “I know we’re without facts at the moment, but if that ballistic movement is confirmed then we will have one very big fact. As there are no ICBMs in any of the old satellites then it can have only come from one place, Russia, and Krakov will be responsible.”

“You’ve mirrored my thoughts, General. First we wait for that confirmation.”

“I’ll see what my Comms team are up to, right now!”

In the Pentagon, Major George Armstrong Krunt was admiring the picture of his hero, General Custer, on his desk when Cleaver called.

“Krunt, this is General Cleaver,” Cleaver said, quite unnecessarily, as Major Krunt knew perfectly who it was, “what have you got for us?”

“Nothing yet, sir,”

“Well, what the fuck is going on?”

“We’re doing all we can, sir.”

“Do more, do you hear me?” shouted Cleaver, asking another unnecessary question as Krunt could probably of heard him from the other end of the office.

“Yes, sir!”

“Fenton! ….Fenton!” shouted Krunt, as if calling to a disobedient dog, “where are you?”

“Right behind you, sir!”

‘Probably your favourite position,’ thought Major Krunt, turning to face the Lieutenant.

“I’ve just had General Cleaver on the phone, and he wants to know what’s going on. So get your ass in gear and sort things out. Now!”

“Sir, it’s bottom.”

“What?” shouted Krunt.

“It’s bottom, sir, not ass. You can’t talk to me like that,” replied Fenton, with just enough sarcasm to make the Major livid.

“Just get the fuck on with it!”

“But …”

“No buts, Lieutenant, just get on with it,” demanded Krunt, his fist ready to smash into Fenton’s face if he dared to make any fancy play on the word ‘but’.

Krunt walked away from Fenton, muttering to himself,
‘What a faggot. This used to be an army of men. Custer would have known how to deal with him.’

He thought of how Fenton would have coped with Little Big Horn, but as he realised the ambiguity, he walked into a desk.

“Shit!” he shouted out.

- § -

Back on the M3 Steve’s spirits dropped as he saw that not only was the next junction open but that traffic was pouring on to the motorway and turning into three lanes of metal travelling at great speed. British drivers had always wanted motorway speed limits to mirror that of Germany’s, and that was what they had become. The problem was that they hadn’t the experience of driving like the Germans. He moved over towards the central reservation as he got closer to the junction and, as he did so, saw that there was hardly anything on the other side, and realised that it must have been like that for a while.

‘Why would anyone be heading towards London, after all?’

Steve lifted his bike over the barriers and made his way over to the hard shoulder on the wrong side of the motorway.

The speed of the traffic took him by surprise. He had stopped on hard shoulders before, but he could sense the panic of the drivers across the barrier. He wouldn’t have stood a chance over there on his bicycle.

Before he started cycling again, he thought he should have something to eat. He hadn’t felt like food up to this point, and hadn’t even thought about it, but now he had lost the early nerves and was thinking more rationally. Adrenalin wouldn’t be enough for his journey; he would need energy. His usual selection of fruit was in his rucksack and there were some energy bars, which he had been adding recently, for emergencies. He ate a banana and an apple, and took a drink of water.

He had now turned off his lights. His eyes were OK with the darkness, in fact it was surprising what he could see in the bright moonlight and nothing would be coming up from behind, he was sure of that. If anything did come towards him he could easily clamber over the barrier onto the embankment if necessary, but who would be interested in him on his bike, anyway?

He stayed off the hard shoulder lane as he knew there would be the odd pieces of glass or metal that could cause a puncture, so instead just kept the white line marking just to his right and tried to settle into a steady rhythm.

There was a long, straight, stretch of road now until Fleet services and his mind returned to his parents by thinking of the name ‘Fleet’ as his father had served in the Fleet Air Arm during World War 2.

Steve’s Grandad, Tim’s father, had broken down in tears in 1939 when war was declared again. He had looked after the horses of the Cavalry in the First World War just over twenty years earlier, a war which was claimed to end all wars. He had seen so much slaughter there, good men sent into suicidal positions by clueless commanders sitting in offices comfortably out of range. He didn’t want to see any more young lives lost in that way, particularly not those of his sons.

However, Tim had had a ‘good war’, but not in the usual sense of killing loads of German pilots from the cockpit of his Fairey Swordfish bi-plane. A rocket had brought his plane down one day, but it had been one of its own rockets. The Swordfish had been armed with a pair of rockets slung under the lower wing which were meant to fire simultaneously as they aimed for their practice target of a rock off the Cornish coast. But one fired just before the other, tipping the plane over and into the sea. Tim, the gunner, and his mate, the observer, were lucky enough to have been wearing flimsy safety harnesses which broke on impact, flinging them both to safety, but the pilot had a full harness on which trapped him inside and he drowned. Tim got away with a broken ankle.

The sight that had stayed most clearly with Tim from that time was the morning of June 6th 1944, the day of the D-day landings. His plane was over the English Channel on submarine patrol, the Swordfish’s low flight height and speed being ideal to spot a German U-boat. They saw the huge armada of ships below making its way round to join the invasion on the French coast.

His squadron finished the war on the Caribbean island of Trinidad where they had been part of an operation to protect a huge oil terminal. They returned home a year after the war ended, by which time they were experts on rum and, no doubt, other colourful aspects of island life.

Steve had seen his life played out in front of him twice before, both times as he nearly drowned. He was about ten years old the first time, when they were on holiday in Spain and Tim had only just reached him before he went under for the final time. The next near drowning experience, when he was about fourteen, was his Mum’s turn to save him in a swimming pool in a village where they had been staying about thirty miles from the French port of Boulogne – the village was called Dymchurch, actually across the Channel from France in Kent, but that had always sounded more romantic.

Unsurprisingly, he had been unable to be completely comfortable in water since then and one of his regrets was not having the confidence to do what he had wanted to with the girls’ swimming. At least they had a couple of enjoyable years together walking to the BIC, an event centre in Bournemouth, which had a pool with a wave machine. The girls had loved that wave machine. Sophie and Michelle and been too small to stand up in the waves and had hung around Steve’s neck while Florence and Nikki played in the artificial waves.

The town’s leaders, such competent people, completely in touch with the local population, decided that more conference space was needed. The pool, a very popular venue, was closed down.

Steve was still about half a mile from Fleet services but could tell something was different – the light ahead seemed brighter than normal.

He was about to pass another horrific scene. The petrol pumps had been turned off when the staff decided to make a run for it when the news of the bomb came through. This had been the first opportunity for fuel that drivers had since jumping into their vehicles. The lucky ones would have had almost full tanks before they left, but most wouldn’t, and now some were getting desperate for fuel.

The service area had soon become crowded with vehicles and their angry and frantic drivers. When one of them pulled out a gun and shot one of the petrol pumps the place became an inferno within seconds. Families who thought they had a chance to escape one terrifying end were now just melting inside their cars.

Steve could feel the heat as he passed by on the other side, and could see people running to escape. Where could they go, though? The walkway across the motorway along which people crossed from the south-bound services to the north-bound, the one with the McDonald’s ‘restaurant’, was now blocked with a panicking surge. One woman decided instead to try and run straight across the motorway. There was no slow-moving traffic of rubber-necking drivers tonight and she was quickly reduced to an assortment of body parts being scattered through the air, silhouetted by the bright flames of the blazing trees which a short while earlier had formed a screen between the traffic and the service area. Steve couldn’t avoid one of her arms which had flown across the central reservation and slid into his path. It was only the watch, still on her wrist and caught in the light of the flames or the moonlight, that had given him a split-second warning, and he only just managed to keep control and stay on his bike as he crunched over it.

A long downhill stretch after the services enabled Steve to get away from the scene and blank the image of the arm with the watch out of his head.

At the bottom of the hill, over on the other side, he passed what he had originally thought, when he had seen it the first time some years before, was an oddly-sited car dealers. When he found out that it was an on-line dealer it made more sense. He now wondered if any of these late-model cars would be found if ever Britain became inhabitable again and whether people would be able to get them going.

‘What would last better and have a chance of going again?’ he wondered, ‘one of these electronically-controlled BMWs or a classic like a Healey 3000?’

This train of thought helped take his mind of the carnage of Fleet services.

‘The BMWs with their sophisticated electronic systems would be a much bigger mystery than the simpler Healey 3000,’ he debated with himself, ‘but it’s irrelevant because there would be no fuel. The only use any of the cars would have in years to come, when survivors from somewhere in the world might end up in Britain, would be as horse-, or other animal-drawn carriages. How long would it take to establish fuel supplies? Very few would have a clue what to do, and very likely not any of the survivors would.’

Steve had often used the case of a simple pencil when talking about making things. He used to say that there is no person on the planet who has the knowledge, skills, or resources to make a pencil from scratch, especially a painted and printed one with a rubber on the end. There are people who know which trees to cut down for the right type of wood, and some of them might have the skills to cut it into shape. There would also be people who know where to find tin ore, and some of them might know how to get the tin from the ore, but they probably wouldn’t know how to make the machine to roll the tin into plate and then brass-plate it. And you can continue with producing the paint, the pencil lead, the rubber, and so on.

He followed the pencil production for some time until the scene from Fleet had left his mind.

- § -

The Royal family had taken a big hit and only two had survived. Most of them had been in London and, together with the government, and millions of their subjects, were now very much all in it together – their atomised bodies milling around together in the air above the capital before eventually settling back to the ground over the coming days and weeks.

The Queen had been at Balmoral in Scotland with her husband, but his frail heart had finally given up as the news of the attack came through. The other survivor, and now heir to the throne, was the Duke of York, who had been on a visit to the Army training college at Sandhurst with a Saudi prince and some senior Saudi military people.

The Duke was bundled into his car, together with, not his secretary, who should have gone with him, but with Princess Fellatia, the attractive daughter of the Saudi prince, who he insisted on taking. They were accompanied by the police driver and the senior officer, Harry Groves, who had been assigned to this VIP operation. The Range Rover back-up vehicle had been abandoned by the armed police unit, as had two of the four motorcycle out-riders, who had all decided to abandon their duties and attempt to get back to their families. They might have stayed to help the Queen, but not for this particular son of hers.

Groves was busy on his phone. The signal was poor, but it was quickly established that Farnborough, the nearby airport, was out of the question. There were planes there, but any pilots who had been around had made their escapes.

The commander phoned through to the secure bunker, hidden amongst the tank-training area on Salisbury Plain, to check the situation. They were ready there to accept the Prince into their safekeeping, so a route was selected. Groves knew that the M3 would be too risky, but other roads would be, too. He made a decision and got out of the car to talk to his out-riders, Peter Day and Dave Wrigley.

“OK, Pete, Dave, thanks for sticking around. I don’t know if we’ll be remembered for this, and maybe the others have been right to try and get home, but at least you can hold your heads up and your daughters, Pete, will be proud of you, so will Hattie.”

“We’re going to take a chance on the M3, but using the north-bound carriageway. If it’s not completely empty, there might be the odd vehicle which we can deal with if we keep alert. It’s going to be quick. Dave, you lead off. We’re heading for Pale Lane near Fleet services, and we’ll be able to get into the service road from there. We’ll be turning right into it, remember. I’ll call the route from the car. Good luck, fellas.”

“OK, sir,” they both replied.

Peter Day wished he had now gone with the others – Hattie had no doubt been busy with Susie’s after-school fifth birthday party earlier. But he felt good with himself as they set off. Dave was nervous having to take the lead. He had no one to go home to – he had preferred the single life and was dedicated to his job.

Groves directed them to Fleet services where Dave, at the head of the convoy, gingerly led them along the service road and on to the empty London-bound side of the M3.

The fire across the motorway, which Steve had seen earlier, was still raging.

- § -

Vladimir Petrov was starting to come round in his basement in Kalinovskaya. Given the codename Crimson 161 by Lieutenant Fenton’s team in the Pentagon, he was the longest-serving and most reliable scanner in that network. The ultimate nerd, who Benny Hill could have modelled his character Professor Peach on in the original The Italian Job, the one with proper Minis, he had stayed single for all his sixty-four years, and had been on his own since his mother had died five years earlier. His father had left after giving up on him when he was a teenager.

Petrov had been well paid by the Pentagon and had used the money, not on whisky, cigarettes, or wild, wild women, even if he knew what they were, but instead on his only love - he had created a near indestructible bunker in his basement and had filled it with the best equipment available. His information over the years had enabled the US to carry out precise strikes on many Chechnyan rebel groups. He had maintained his cover by working for local businesses dealing with their computer and other technical problems.

The explosives used by Potemkin’s unit would have destroyed most homes, but Petrov’s had survived, at least the basement had. Later he would find that he was now in both his basement and his penthouse. The blast had, though, thrown him across his room against a wall and knocked him out. He shakily got to his feet and began to re-boot any systems which had been affected. There was a message from Fenton’s team asking for information on any activity.

Within a few minutes he was able to confirm some definite activity but needed more time for the details.

Fenton sent this latest information straight to the White House, bypassing Major Krunt, where General Cleaver slammed his fist on the table and shouted,

“We’ve got the bastards now! What more proof do you want, Mr President?”

Richard Fuller felt his options draining away but he wasn’t convinced, and before he was to take the decision that would probably wipe the world out, he needed to make a couple of calls.

His first was to the Kremlin.

“President Krakov, we’ve now got proof that the bomb came from your region.”

“My region, Richard? Do you mean Russia, or somewhere near?”

“It doesn’t matter, Krakov, if you control all the weapons now, then it has come from your region. We’re going to pass this on to the British right now and they’ll get our full backing. Am I making myself clear?”

“I can assure you that we had nothing to do with this. You had better check your information before you kill us all.”

With that President Krakov put the phone down.

‘CAPTAIN MORTIMER, CAN WE SPEAK OVER THE RADIO?’

John Mortimer checked if it was safe to surface and within minutes was ready to speak directly with the US President, with his commander, Admiral Walker-Gray listening in, ready to give his orders.

“This is Captain Mortimer, Mr President.”

“John, please call me Richard, it just makes it easier.”

“If you insist, Richard. Do you have any more info for us?”

“Yes we do. One of our surveillance team, based in Chechnya, has verified the earlier reports that the bomb originated in that region. All weapons there are controlled from the Kremlin. You know where you can target your response now, John. It’s your call, of course, but if London was their first target they must have others in line in your country and ours. My recommendation is that you take out Moscow.”

“You heard the President, Captain Mortimer, prepare to launch,” chipped in the Admiral.

“Do we have any proof though, sir?” responded Captain Mortimer.

“Look, Captain, the US proof is good enough for us. If you’re not prepared to act then I’ll get Captain Marston to take over. He’s also patched in to this call, and he’ll obey orders,” replied the Admiral.

“How do I know that you or the President hasn’t gone insane?”

There was silence on every line after that.

This had always been the dilemma for those holding the nuclear triggers in launch silos or in the subs. ‘Had the ultimate order been given by a President or Prime Minister who had become deranged with the stress of the situation and, therefore, am I sure there is justification for me to kill millions of people?’

The silence was broken by an incandescent President Fuller,

“Captain!” he exploded, “do I sound insane?”

“Sir, we have never spoken before, so I don’t know if you sound sane or insane,” reasoned Captain Mortimer.

Now Admiral Walker-Gray stepped in.

“Captain Mortimer, you are relieved of your duty, immediately!”

“Captain Marston, you’re now in command and I hope you won’t disobey any orders!”

“Sir, Captain Mortimer has the authority which can’t be changed by you or anyone else. I consider myself to be operating under Captain Mortimer,” replied James Marston, who had remained as calm and aware of the situation as John Mortimer had, and who now thanked his fellow Captain on the Illustrious.

“Sir, we might have company soon!” called out someone in the Victorius control room.

“Admiral, Mr President, gentlemen. I have to take the boat down now. If you’re intent on destroying the world could I suggest that you give President Krakov an ultimatum, but with time to find those responsible.”

And with that Captain Mortimer gave the order to dive to safety.

In the White House, President Fuller had regained his composure and called the Kremlin again. He had realised that John Mortimer’s suggestion was the only viable option.

‘I wish we had some people in the military like that Captain Mortimer,’ thought President Fuller, ‘they would be able to control Cleaver and the other red-necks.’

“President Krakov, if you weren’t responsible for the attack on London, then someone in your region was. I’m giving you until 10pm our time, that’s 03.00 GMT, to provide evidence of who it was. If you don’t then the British will be allowed to respond accordingly. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, President Fuller, of course that’s clear, but you’re wrong if you think we had anything to do with it.”

President Krakov had, in fact, ordered a search of the Caucusus some time before President Fuller’s call. The Kremlin had also picked up on the same unusual activity as the Pentagon had been told about, and had ordered several Vympel teams to prepare for urgent action.

Vympel teams were the most feared military units in Russia and had been deployed many times against rebel groups in some of the former Soviet states and elsewhere around the world. They were just as deadly and efficient killing units as the US Seal teams, or the British SAS. In fact, all three had worked together in Afghanistan in recent years. It would surprise people that they occasionally shared common enemies.