Prologue.
Present Day.
The North Sea off Dunnet's Head is as north as any sane person
would want to be in the winter.
Heavy seas made their final entrance by mightly crashing down on
the shoreline.
Early morning and a mist, commonly called a haar in Scotland, lay
along the area confusing the horizon; visibility from shore was no
more than 3 kilometres.
In the small town of Wick the duty coastguard officer sat in his
little office watching a never-ending green circle running
anti-clockwise on the screen. He sighed glancing at the clock, two
hours of his shift to go. Pushing his chair back he reached for
the Thermos filled with his favourite brand of coffee, sweet and
strong.
The radio's emergency channel crackled. “Blue Heather to
Coastguard. Come in.” the voice carried over the room.
Calum leaned forward. “ Go ahead, Blue Heather. You ok Charlie?”
“ Blue Heather. No I am not fucking all right Calum. I'm on a
heading for Peterhead with my catch but I am in the middle of a
fucking great navy, there has to be a least a dozen big warships.
They are flying the ….” the broadcast went dead, the link was
broken.
Calum checked his second monitor....no sign of any traffic to be
watched. He returned his attention to the main radar screen and
vigorously tapped it...stupid he knew but couldn't get out of the
habit going back to the neolithic days of computers. Suddenly the
coastguard noticed blips towards the top of the monitor, big
blips. One in front, three behind then suddenly four then another
four.
“What the ...” he shouted to himself. His voice echoed around the
room with no reply forthcoming.
Snatching the red phone phone he pressed the button three times
and was through to the Coastguard HQ in the Clyde estuary. “ Calum
here in Wick. Have you had any notification of large traffic
movement nor' west of me heading south?”
“Negative' came back the reply.
“Well I have seven large ships on my screen. They are bordering on
UK waters. One is breaking off and heading towards me, the others
seem to be fanning out as though heading to Inverness or Aberdeen.
I have also had a squelch on the emergency frequency from a
fishing boat.
As far as I could make out they are warships. Could you check with
military?”
“You know its Sunday morning. They will still be in bed.”
Calum chewed his bottom lip.” “Do me a favour and ring their
bells. My screens have gone blank I think I am being jammed.”
A sigh from the other end. “OK but it is probably a glitz.”
Things had been tense for the past few months and an early crew
were on duty at the airbase in Drenham. A Typhoon fighter was
quickly despatched and the aircraft headed for the coordinates
supplied by Calum.
RAF watchers now tuned into the area and watched as the blips
spread in a fan like shape. More had appeared, it looked like part
if not all of the Russian Northern Fleet.
The girl at the screen reached beneath her desk and pushed a
rather oversized button.
An intense pinging noise ran throughout the area, everyone stopped
what they were doing as the operator then pressed a key and the
satellite imaging came up on the large wall screen.
The duty officer stepped out of his office adjusting a mike and
earpiece rapping.
“Update please.”
A disembodied voice intoned. “Large convoy of ships heading due
south , twelve at last count in all . They are in process of
fanning out. Headings might be Wick, Inverness, Aberdeen and Forth
estuary . Visibility three kilometres. One Typhoon scrambled., now
accessing satellite imagery.
The duty officer quickly kicked it up the line. This seemed rather
serious.
“Full alert. bogies entering our garden.” His voice boomed
throughout the control room.
On the tiny apology for an island called Rhanaldsy a lone figure
looked out to sea. Jack had fled the city and was in hiding. He
kept blinking as ghostly mirages popped in and out of the haar. He
knew immediately it was a battle fleet inside UK territorial
waters. Wrestling with his parka he pulled a satphone from the
folds and twisted the aerial until he saw a green light.
“This is Jack Wilson. I know. I know you don't want to speak to me
but there is something you should know. The Russians are sailing
down east coast and it does not look like they are out for a
Sunday jaunt. Start ringing alarm bells, now.”
He turned away and headed to his bunker. He was going to wait this
one out.
Admiral Sergei Uganovich surveyed his electronic table maps on the
bridge of the brand new lead battleship “Motherland”.
Waving his left hand, his right having been lost in combat, he
addressed the junior officers around him. “Move our troop carriers
into position. One to the northern mainland,Wick. The second into
the estuary near Inverness. Third and fourth outside Aberdeen and
three more into the Forth basin. Troop carriers into the Forth as
far as the bridges. The third to sit off as backup. The rest will
head south towards England. Our intelligence informs us of no
Royal Navy, presence in our area.”“ Forgive me Admiral.” the
helmsman interrupted. “ We have a fishing vessel in the middle of
the fleet. We believe he attempting contact with mainland.”
“Block any signals”ordered the naval officer.”Dispose of it –
now.”
The nearest frigate opened up with its heavy calibre machine guns
making short work of the “Blue Heather. “ It quickly sank together
with crew and catch.
On the west coast of Scotland two Russian nuclear submarines had
been lying on the bottom of the deeps for over a week. They
surfaced moving towards the Gairloch , UK' s submarine HQ, opening
their warhead doors as they moved past the coastal town of
Greenock.
The Russian invasion of the UK had began.
1966.
“Well done.” the soft tones of her voice flowed over the space
between them like a length of silk.
“ …..and you are quite sure he does not suspect anything?”
The silvered haired man crossed and re-crossed his legs trying to
make himself comfortable in the ridiculously small chair. Looking
up to the ceiling he drew in a tonnage of tobacco smoke.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“We will make sure that they both have ample opportunity to be
with each other, that way any unforeseen occurrences can be
controlled.”
“ Yes….. though when the time comes to use him other agencies will
pop up like seedlings in early summer.”
“That is not your worry. To all intents he must believe he is
working for the home team.”
“He is pretty naïve…… but enthusiastic.”
She smiled at nothing in particular.
He began to be irritated slightly by her constant playing, almost
caressing the twenty centimetres high bronze statue of Pegasus on
the desk. She stood, then paced around the room as though on guard
duty. Well ‘brushed up’, tall, an anachronism, in as much as she
was Oriental but with an Irish accent.
“You have done really well this time.”
The man preened himself. “Thank y….”
The sentenced remained unfinished; it sat in midair; it would
never be finished. Behind him the blonde woman swung the bronze
statuette at the rear of his skull; a loud crunch as metal
splintered bone. Falling forward the front of his head hit the
corner of the wooden desk entering his eye socket; slowly he slid
to the floor. Twice more she brought the improvised club down on
his head. Breathing heavily from the exertion she stood and took
two paces back surveying her handiwork sighing with irritation as
she noticed some blood and brains had spattered the sleeve of her
white blouse, most had landed on her extremely high heels. She
retrieved a wet wipe from her Gucci handbag and cleaned up the
mess. The man’s lifeblood poured from the wounds. An eye,
separated from the head lay staring up at the woman. Kneeling she
felt for a pulse; there was none./
Taking a large gents handkerchief from the man’s jacket pocket she
began to wipe all traces of her presence from the room. Humming
tunelessly to herself she looked at the intricate design then
tossed Pegasus into the waste bin. Leaving the house she locked
the door. On the gate outside an estate agency ‘For Sale’ sign,
slightly worn and stained with bird droppings, swung in the
breeze. Taking a bunch of keys the blonde in the black trouser
suit threw them into the overgrown excuse for a garden. Walking up
the deserted street she disappeared into the black velvet night of
suburban London.
Chapter 1. (present day)
It rings and rings, the sharp noise burrowing through the house as
though it were a mosquito looking for a victim in every corner.
Jack keeps looking at the telephone on the table willing the
bedlam to go away. There have been a number of calls in the past
few days….. it rings, he answers, nobody there, number withheld.
Looking at the dust floating around the kitchen, the strong
searchlight shafts of golden sunlight picks up every particle
creating a holographic ballet of sparkling diamonds dancing around
and around and around in one never-ending movement. He debates if
he should use up the last of the instant coffee or search around
for some beans. “I think there are some from around three years
ago at the bottom of that cupboard.” he says out loud to himself.
The doorbell rings, there is a mental debate if it should be
answered. “OK, if it’s a debt collector I’ll just fence with him.”
Jack sniggers to the mirror.
Hitching up his once-was dressing gown he shoves his feet into a
pair of ancient slippers and heads for the door. Chain off, turn
the key in the two deadlocks. The bell rings again. Jack shouts.
“For Christ sake, hold your horses.”
Eventually managing to open the door he shuffles through the
vestibule to the high wooden storm doors. Standing in the entrance
a young woman in her late twenties, long black hair, skin with a
slight tanned appearance, leather bomber jacket and denims holding
a brown paper bag in her arm. “ If you are selling something, now
is not the time.” Jack growls.
Staring straight at him she pulls her hand from the bag and lifts
her arm to full extension; she is holding a Sig Hauer with a
silencer screwed into the end of the barrel. Jack is paralysed. A
strange smile flickers over her pretty face as though she was
savouring the moment. She murmurs, “no olvidemos nunca.”
Her long finger curls around the trigger. Jack’s reactions are
almost automatic as he slams closed the right hand storm door that
is propping him up. There is a pop and a bullet hurtles through
the wood, an oak splinter shards into his skull, He is stuck and
unable to get back inside. Taking a step to the right she fires
again. Jack feels a piercing hot sensation in his chest and drops
to the floor. Moving in she straddles him to present the coup de
grace to his head. “So this it.” Jack thinks to himself.
The gun just clicks and clicks and clicks. Lying on his side waves
of pain runs through him like an incoming tide. A strange angle to
look at the world. The stupidly weird thought runs through his
brain. “I should already be dead, now someone’s doing the job for
me.”
From the gate there is shout …”Hoi. What are you doin’?” God has
sent his rescuer in the guise of the Royal Mail. the only time it
has been on time this year. Whirling around the young woman runs
down the driveway pushing the man into the garden and jumps into a
waiting car.
It drives off, tyres screaming…….darkness.
