Protect and Survive: A Timeline
- Thread starter Macragge1
- Start date
that would be swell!
(...constable, 50ish going on 90ish, half-blind, mutters to himself, "So, George, where did it all go wrong...")
Good luck on the exams!
Somehow I'm not worried whether or not they'll have an essay component or too, heh heh. (that's my way of saying, "Well, he's a good writer, so he'll be fine.)
Somehow I'm not worried whether or not they'll have an essay component or too, heh heh. (that's my way of saying, "Well, he's a good writer, so he'll be fine.)
Great timeline! But has the situation in Ulster been mentioned? Because I imagine that the IRA would take advantage of circumstances such as these to attempt (sucessfully or unsucessfully) a takeover of as much of the 6 counties(or perhaps even some border areas of the republic) as they could get. Unless of course Ulster was nuked into the stone age. In which case this point is moot. But I imagine that if the 6 counties were spared from nukes, a rising would follow as soon as it becomes apparent that the British Army forces stationed there have been cut off from supplies and reinforcements and therefore are longer the trump card they used to be for the RUC and loyalist dominated local government. Needless to say the consequences of this would be... interesting to say the least.
Falkenburg
Monthly Donor
Oh shit. Please don't direct Macragges' baleful eye towards Norn Iron.
I rather fear that in the circumstances the 'British' forces, military and paramilitary alike, will have taken drastic action to secure themselves once all hope of Mainland support was lost.
Expect to have seen pogroms and ethnic cleansing, across the North.
Even by the standards of TTL things would not have been pretty.
Falkenburg
I rather fear that in the circumstances the 'British' forces, military and paramilitary alike, will have taken drastic action to secure themselves once all hope of Mainland support was lost.
Expect to have seen pogroms and ethnic cleansing, across the North.
Even by the standards of TTL things would not have been pretty.
Falkenburg
Loyalist dominated government? This is the era of Direct Rule from Westminster remember.
Macragge1
Banned
Err.. had two history exams; one on Monday - 'Aspects of British History' and one today - 'Aspects of European history'; just finished a 1,500 word essay on whether biography is a valid form of history...buzzing... so I'm all done for the year now.
The 3rd is really late - hell, my exams end late by the standard of all my friend's unis - then again, got a mate at King's who's stuck there into June so it must just be a London thing.
On that note, thanks for the good luck wishes; now that I'm all done, the next update's very soon - if not this weekend, then very soon afterwards!
The 3rd is really late - hell, my exams end late by the standard of all my friend's unis - then again, got a mate at King's who's stuck there into June so it must just be a London thing.
On that note, thanks for the good luck wishes; now that I'm all done, the next update's very soon - if not this weekend, then very soon afterwards!
Falkenburg
Monthly Donor
"Loyalist dominated government? This is the era of Direct Rule from Westminster remember.
sorry!
Don't know what you're sorry for.
At this time "Local Government" could well be described as "Loyalist dominated".
Direct Rule was generally an additional layer of bureaocracy (to keep things 'honest', for a given value of 'honest') rather than any attempt at replacing existing structures.
Remove the shadow of Westminster and the balance of power shifts inevitably back to the 'Locals'.
Given the time and the fact they are participating in civil government they would be predominantly "Loyalist".
Admittedly there are shades of Loyalism but the point seems perfectly reasonable.
Or have I missed something?
Falkenburg
Considering the fact that a not too unimportant part of the loyalists wanted to break away from Britain to create their own little Rhodesia of Europe. I would expect the British Army to stamp hard on them as they would on any IRA cells left.
If a consequence of the war is the destruction of extremists on both sides, then as the saying says every cloud has a silver lining!
Falkenburg
Monthly Donor
It would be nice to think so but it seems unlikely to me.
The world has ended.
Cut off from Command and any hope of supplies or reinforcements does the GOC alienate the majority of the civillian population that identifies with the State he represents?(represented?)
Does he do this for the sake of a community historically hostile to all that he represents? (represented?)
Does he abandon his responsibility to his men by committing them to a slow death in a three-way fight?
I can't see it. Sadly.
Falkenburg
The world has ended.
Cut off from Command and any hope of supplies or reinforcements does the GOC alienate the majority of the civillian population that identifies with the State he represents?(represented?)
Does he do this for the sake of a community historically hostile to all that he represents? (represented?)
Does he abandon his responsibility to his men by committing them to a slow death in a three-way fight?
I can't see it. Sadly.
Falkenburg
The GOC NI is likely in the upper atmosphere along with everybody else based at Lisburn.
OT: hey JN1, why did you move the last war to members only? i can't read it anymore!
While some problems in Northern Ireland would exist its doubtfull that the IRA would have had the means to take over.There is the simple matter that loyalists are numerous regardless of the how many british army soldiers are still around.While it would be feasible to try an uprising if you have pretty much the whole population on your side,with a divided one you're only getting yourself in a long war of attrition.And in the meantime troops rag-tag or not can be sent from England to control things.Doesn't mean some uprising wouldn't be attempted,but it faces long odds.On the other hand IRA men would say this is their best chance to actually succeed even if only 2% its still better than the practically nil they had before the war.A similar thing would probably happen in the West Bank and Gaza strip with Israel in ruins the palestinians only now would have a theoretical chance of succes.
It wasn't my decision. The side admins had to do that after a massive hacking attack which followed regular spamming attacks which posted porn.
Macragge1
Banned
XX - Silent Hedges
The beautiful downgrade/ Going to hell again/ Going to hell again.
Following the Exchange, Britain found itself facing a new, silent threat - starvation. Indeed, the brutality of the authorities' response to the attacks stemmed largely from a fear of losing order and succumbing utterly to this threat. These fears were not unfounded; the British Isles are now on the verge of the worst famine since the fourteenth century.
In the weeks immediately following the end of the world, Britain has been rapidly depleting her central stockpiles of food. Under the control, nominally, of the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (Emergency Division) and, in reality, the British Army, these buffer depots - grey, nondescript buildings filling space on industrial estates - soon became the most important real estate in the country. From these centres shipments of corned beef, boiled sweets, sugar, butter, margarine and sundries (including some of the MAFF's 1.4 million plastic bowls) are moved to feeding centres across their region. It is perhaps telling that the movements of these essentials (in civilian vehicles manned by soldiers) are soon undertaken using the same Standard Operating Procedures drawn up for the pre-war transportation of nuclear weaponry. Those involved in each movement are given only thirty minutes' prior warning - there is no schedule to be followed. The route is changed each time (though, due to the damage to infrastructure, there are few variations available) and movements usually take place at night. Each convoy can expect an escort, when available, of up to one hundred soldiers preceding and following it in lorries or civilian buses. Those convoys seen to be passing through a more dangerous area - an area, for example, that has already seen attacks on food movements or the authorities in general, may be allocated light armoured support or, in exceedingly rare cases, a scout helicopter courtesy of the Air Despatch Wing.
The depot serving the North East Region is located in the once sleepy town of Wooler, deep in the wilds of Northern Northumberland. The warehouse, owned in theory by the Newcastle Warehousing Co. Ltd. , has the best part of a small battalion (around 400 men) assigned to defending the warehouse and any movement issued from it.
Here, and across the country, the warehouses are starting to look empty.
CHANTICLEER is becoming increasingly worried, not only by these dwindling stockpiles, but also by the immense difficulties that have been encountered in restarting agricultural activity. A good portion of Britain's arable land is poisoned - many of the military targets hit during the exchange (radar stations, airfields and the like) were located in the countryside. Within one year, estimates are that only 0.001% of initial radioactivity will persist. We do not have one year. Although farmers were supposed to get their livestock under cover once the air-attack warning was sounded, the obvious practical concerns meant that this didn't really happen anywhere. Therefore, in the blighted areas, poisoned sheep and cattle drank poisoned water until finally expiring in silence and pain.
In terms of grain storage, the 'best' time for a nuclear war would have been some time in October, just after the harvest had been taken in. At this point, there would have been some 12 million tons of grain in silos and stockpiles across the country. Unfortunately, with the war coming in February, supplies were just skimming around four million tons. Around a quarter of these vital stockpiles were immolated during the exchange.
It is clear, given these grim statistics, that more food must be produced as soon as possible. Perplexingly, no large-scale planning for this was undertaken pre-war, save for the proviso that Britain should 'promote a reorientation towards subsistence agriculture growing towards subsistence agriculture growing more food crops, particularly cereals'. There are several obstacles. British agriculture has long since relied not only on near -complete mechanisation, but also on complex mixes of pesticides and fertilisers in order to operate. With fuel now extremely scarce, and agricultural chemicals a very finite commodity (the vast majority of British agrochemicals were bought from West Germany), the country will regress to, at best, early Industrial methods of farming. Another problem is the huge demographic shift that has been occuring since the bombs came. With their food supplies having dwindled (even those who managed to overcome empty shelves and obtained the fourteen-day stockpile recommended by the Protect and Survive films) those in the countryside flocked towards the cities. This was common sense. All the work, and by extension, the food, was tied to the initial reconstruction efforts in urban areas. For the first time since the Black Death, whole villages - even some smaller market towns - became literal ghost towns. The experience, for those who found themselves travelling through, was akin to boarding the Marie Celeste. Most of these 'travellers' were small bands of looters, picking through freezing houses for what little had been left by the departed.
This phenomenon led to those remaining in rural settlements forming their own militia (the military had far too much on its plate to provide security to every hamlet and village in its area) in order to combat the threat from looters. Of course, these local defence organisations (often, without a shade of irony, termed the 'Neighbourhood Watch') are rarely above 'requisition' from other nearby villages, leading to a steady undercurrent of nasty little melees amid country pubs and award-winning village greens. The sky is far from the only grey area in the Britain of 1984.
From a thousand wounds/ Faults of civilisation/ Going to hell again
Once plans for the agricultural restart had been passed down by CHANTICLEER, it proved one of many logistical nightmares just to get 'volunteers' back to the countryside. Haphazard record keeping (combined with obfuscation from rural refugees who had no desire to leave the relative security of the cities) meant that it was near impossible to divine who to send back to the countryside. Thereby, 'volunteers' were simply chosen at random from the labour pool and given until the next morning to prepare to move. The mechanics of moving these at best sullen and, at worst, seditious citizens out into the wilderness proved another headache for the security forces. More than once, civilian coach drivers were overwhelmed as their passengers attempted to return to the cities. More than once, the soldiers assigned to the convoys were forced to shoot to kill. This included a particularly ugly incident near Truro where a dozen escapees were machine-gunned trying to wade a stream having bludgeoned the driver of their transport into a near-fatal coma.
Whilst their reaction was extreme, it is understandable that said refugees were reluctant to move. Without modern technology, emergency agriculture will bring new meaning to the term 'back breaking'. Tractors and the like are only brought out in order to tackle what can't be accomplished by hand. Traction engines make something of a comeback, where available, given the availability of coal as compared with petrol or diesel. Though this is slow, dirty, noisy work, it is a luxury compared with the norm. Even draught horses and such are rare, given the lack of feed - most working horses are being held back for breeding rather than risk them in the fields. As was the case during the Great War, a horses' life is now quite a bit more valuable than a human's.
Further afield, CHANTICLEER is distracted by some interesting developments in Scandinavia. Contact has been established with what purports to be the Swedish Government. Untouched besides a near-miss that wiped out the eastern half of her capital, the committed neutral claims to have two full Vulcan crews safely interred at an unnamed location. The location of the two aircraft, presumably damaged during the attack phase of the war, is not disclosed. The Swedish promise the safe return of the airmen in exchange for all available intelligence on the Baltic and Finland. Whitelaw tentatively...
*
'Thomas' and the rest of the control train are closing the distance, the noise swelling from a dull rumble to a roar. The Librarian remains focused, the scratched lens of her binoculars following the locomotive onto the bridge.
'Bang.'
Only it doesn't, and the train moves into the distance unhindered. For a moment, the Librarian is motionless, unable to process the failure. Then a lump of ice in her stomach. Weeks of planning, weeks of pain. Scheming and backstabbing and degradation in order to get the explosives. All for nothing. Nothing.
Still, it would have been really stupid not to come up with a Plan B, thinks the Librarian, as she wipes the twigs and dirt from her knees and elbows and picks up her rifle.
*
'Hello, Sultan, this is Saracen Three-One-Niner, are you recieving, over?'
The Canberra was screaming across the moonscape, occasionally jinking to avoid a hill or one of the few charred buildings that stuck out like smashed teeth.
'Saracen Three-One-Niner, this is Sultan...we are recieving you but the signal is bad...speak up...over'
'Err...Sultan, we've seen movement on the ground here, about...fifteen miles south of Hanover.'
'...'
'Sultan, are you still recieving, over'
'Saracen, what type of movement do you think you saw? Over'
'It was people. We saw some people'
'Saracen, this is Sultan. Say again your last, over'
'Sultan this is Saracen' - almost shouting down the radio - 'We saw people. Alive. Moving around. Search Area 'Chelsea'. Over'
'...'
'Sultan?'
'Saracen...are you sure, over?'
'Sultan, we are flying at treetop height. Can make out license plates and street signs. We saw people. Over'
'...'
'Saracen, this is Sultan. Do you have film? Over'
'Sultan, this is Saracen. Half a reel, over''
A new voice
'Saracen One-Three-Niner, I need film of your survivors. Do you understand? Over'
'We understand, Sultan'
'Saracen One-Three-Niner, we are trying to get through to the French or Swiss, but they are not going to send men into somewhere that hot based on hearsay. Switch your cameras on. Over'
'Sultan, this is Saracen One-Three-Niner' - the old jet banks hard to port, back towards the sighting - 'we are returning to search area 'Chelsea', cameras are rolling. Saracen One-Three-Niner out'
*
Oblivious to the close call that it has avoided, the Mobile Control Train rattles through Morpeth. It was here that the planned stop was to take place, and a small army contingent, combined with local representatives were extremely surprised when 'Thomas' failed to stop. For security reasons, the train stopped instead down the line at Pegswood. More a platform and a couple of benches, the Controller is met here by the Lieutenant and the twenty men he came with a couple of days ago. For security reasons. Even the Controller isn't quite sure who he's trying to keep in the dark anymore.
*
After half an hour's drive, the Controller's contingent and the Lieutenant's men arrive back at Morpeth. The Mayor and the soldiers that had been waiting at the station, despite having been radioed about the change of plan (after the fact, of course) are doing surprisingly little to hide their terseness.
'Well, sir, the first item of business was to show you around the town itself. Of course, we'll have to skip this in order to stay on schedule, so we'll head straight out into the countryside and have a look at the agricultural efforts, shall we?'
'Whatever you say.' - the Controller is rising above the Mayor's peevish tone.
*
The Controller is thankful for his wellington boots as he steps out onto the muddy verge.
'As you can see, Controller, we're utilising as much land as is feasible' - the Mayor gestures over into a field busy with workers. It could be a scene from a thousand years ago, if one ignored the tracksuits and the plastic bags. Even further off in the distance, the Controller could make out a traction engine trundling through the brush.
'Where does one go about getting one of those?'
'An enthusiast, Controller. He...didn't have any need for it anymore',
'I see.' replies the Controller, regretting having asked.
The Mayor clears his throat - 'Ahem - shall we walk down to that farmhouse? Theres' a reception prepared.'
'Lead the way, Mr Mayor' - the Controller forces a smile.'
*
The Volunteer digs and furrows until he can dig no more. He takes his rest as soon as the mounted soldier directing this operation is well away in a distant field. He sits and sweats at the big back wheel of an equally exhausted traction engine. His eyes can't stop darting towards the filthy sports bag he keeps by his side.
He soon disappears into his own thoughts. He is jolted back onto Planet Earth when a woman in a tattered greatcoat sits at his side.
'What a waste of fucking time!'
'Hang on - it didn't work?'
'Did it fuck.'
The Volunteer takes a long, deep sigh.
'Wait a moment. That means he's here.'
'Suppose so.' replies the Librarian. They don't know who gave them all this intelligence - so many within the army in particular deeply resented the Controller, and most of Morpeth hated their Mayor.
'Right...right. Get the Neighbourhood Watch together. We'll do it in an hour'
'An hour!?'
'We're not going to get all of the bastards in one place again. This is a gift - we go in, we get them, we use them... it's a gift'
*
'And so if you'll step in here, you'll see that we've provided some refreshments...'
The Controller looks around the dining room and bites his tongue. There's more food here than he's seen since... since what seems like forever. Various roast animals, all the trimmings...pastries, - starters, for heaven's sake. There's cakes, jellies - even the Controller's been on army ration packs for the last two weeks. He is immediately uncomfortable. Other than him, the Mayor and a couple of other 'dignitaries', there's no-one else at this banquet.
'Well, this all looks...this is...'
'It's marvellous isn't it? Don't you know there's a war on? Sometimes I don't!' - the Mayor laughs heartily.
The Constable, the Lieutenant and a few police and soldiers file in and take positions around the room.
Both the Lieutenant and the Constable are well aware of the fact that they're scowling, but not massively inclined to do anything about it.
'Oh, Controller - there's rations for your boys in the barn'
The Controller is silent. He turns to the Lieutenant and shoots him an apologetic look.
The boys in green and blue file out. The Constable barely hides his opinion of the Mayor in a well-timed cough.
'So as you can see, Controller.' - the Mayor gestures around the lavish room - 'we're doing an excellent job up here. In fact, I think I shall be so bold as to propose a toast. To reconstruction!'
The Mayor holds up a glass of - inexplicably - champagne. As he holds it aloft, it starts to shake - little trembles at first. Now it's bouncing, and soon it's spilling out of the glass, which drops to the ground.
'What on Earth?'
Before the Controller can reply, the whole back wall of the living room dissapears in a roar of masonry and a whoosh of steam. Shouting.
The front half of a traction engine, wheezing as if in agony, replaces the wall. Through the entry wound, a dozen or so skinny, ragged figures train old, old weaponry on the stunned party guests.
'RIGHT YOU FUCKERS! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!'
Hesitation.
'NOW!' The Librarian fires a shot into the air, smashing a chandelier.
The Controller complies - one hand on his head, at least. Only the Mayor refuses.
'Now what the Hell do you think you are playing at?' - the Mayor, drunk on shock and champagne, prods his finger into the Volunteer's chest.
'PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!'
'Answer me! Who the hell do you think you are?'
'PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS UP! NOW!'
'-the nerve to come barging in here'
'GET YOUR FUCKING-' The Librarian raises her gun and blows the Mayor away - 'FUCK!' - The Volunteer turns round, face sprayed with blood.
'He was a spare.' Calmly, the Librarian brushes her hair back behind her ear and moves up towards the Controller.
'You're coming with us. Maybe you'll end up useful after all'
'Well...I mean...' the Controller spies shapes in a mirror that's somehow survived the ruckus - '...there's no need to be unreasonable - after all -'
The Controller dives onto the ground. Behind him, the policemen and soldiers open fire, cutting down one of the Neighbourhood Watch. The others sprint back out of the farmhouse, and begin firing from behind a nearby wall. Two policemen grab the Controller and pull him to safety as the rest of the group begin firing and maneuvering towards the retreating attackers.
The Lieutenant raises his SLR and fires a couple of rounds at the fleeing shapes. A window smashing above him forces his head down. The attackers are covering their own retreat. The sick feeling flashes through the Lieutenant's mind and throat - someone's training them; no doubt one of the Officer's men who couldn't stomach taking orders from the Controller. 'Goddamnit!' - he raises his rifle - BANG BANG BANG.
The Constable runs past the Lieutenant and fires his revolver towards the treeline. A couple of soldiers run past him. They hit the ground behind some bales of hay and start shooting towards the shifting shapes.
'Constable!' the Lieutenant shouts - ' Get to that trough! I'll cover you! Go!'
This is it, thinks the Constable as he vaults the wall...
The beautiful downgrade/ Going to hell again/ Going to hell again.
Following the Exchange, Britain found itself facing a new, silent threat - starvation. Indeed, the brutality of the authorities' response to the attacks stemmed largely from a fear of losing order and succumbing utterly to this threat. These fears were not unfounded; the British Isles are now on the verge of the worst famine since the fourteenth century.
In the weeks immediately following the end of the world, Britain has been rapidly depleting her central stockpiles of food. Under the control, nominally, of the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (Emergency Division) and, in reality, the British Army, these buffer depots - grey, nondescript buildings filling space on industrial estates - soon became the most important real estate in the country. From these centres shipments of corned beef, boiled sweets, sugar, butter, margarine and sundries (including some of the MAFF's 1.4 million plastic bowls) are moved to feeding centres across their region. It is perhaps telling that the movements of these essentials (in civilian vehicles manned by soldiers) are soon undertaken using the same Standard Operating Procedures drawn up for the pre-war transportation of nuclear weaponry. Those involved in each movement are given only thirty minutes' prior warning - there is no schedule to be followed. The route is changed each time (though, due to the damage to infrastructure, there are few variations available) and movements usually take place at night. Each convoy can expect an escort, when available, of up to one hundred soldiers preceding and following it in lorries or civilian buses. Those convoys seen to be passing through a more dangerous area - an area, for example, that has already seen attacks on food movements or the authorities in general, may be allocated light armoured support or, in exceedingly rare cases, a scout helicopter courtesy of the Air Despatch Wing.
The depot serving the North East Region is located in the once sleepy town of Wooler, deep in the wilds of Northern Northumberland. The warehouse, owned in theory by the Newcastle Warehousing Co. Ltd. , has the best part of a small battalion (around 400 men) assigned to defending the warehouse and any movement issued from it.
Here, and across the country, the warehouses are starting to look empty.
CHANTICLEER is becoming increasingly worried, not only by these dwindling stockpiles, but also by the immense difficulties that have been encountered in restarting agricultural activity. A good portion of Britain's arable land is poisoned - many of the military targets hit during the exchange (radar stations, airfields and the like) were located in the countryside. Within one year, estimates are that only 0.001% of initial radioactivity will persist. We do not have one year. Although farmers were supposed to get their livestock under cover once the air-attack warning was sounded, the obvious practical concerns meant that this didn't really happen anywhere. Therefore, in the blighted areas, poisoned sheep and cattle drank poisoned water until finally expiring in silence and pain.
In terms of grain storage, the 'best' time for a nuclear war would have been some time in October, just after the harvest had been taken in. At this point, there would have been some 12 million tons of grain in silos and stockpiles across the country. Unfortunately, with the war coming in February, supplies were just skimming around four million tons. Around a quarter of these vital stockpiles were immolated during the exchange.
It is clear, given these grim statistics, that more food must be produced as soon as possible. Perplexingly, no large-scale planning for this was undertaken pre-war, save for the proviso that Britain should 'promote a reorientation towards subsistence agriculture growing towards subsistence agriculture growing more food crops, particularly cereals'. There are several obstacles. British agriculture has long since relied not only on near -complete mechanisation, but also on complex mixes of pesticides and fertilisers in order to operate. With fuel now extremely scarce, and agricultural chemicals a very finite commodity (the vast majority of British agrochemicals were bought from West Germany), the country will regress to, at best, early Industrial methods of farming. Another problem is the huge demographic shift that has been occuring since the bombs came. With their food supplies having dwindled (even those who managed to overcome empty shelves and obtained the fourteen-day stockpile recommended by the Protect and Survive films) those in the countryside flocked towards the cities. This was common sense. All the work, and by extension, the food, was tied to the initial reconstruction efforts in urban areas. For the first time since the Black Death, whole villages - even some smaller market towns - became literal ghost towns. The experience, for those who found themselves travelling through, was akin to boarding the Marie Celeste. Most of these 'travellers' were small bands of looters, picking through freezing houses for what little had been left by the departed.
This phenomenon led to those remaining in rural settlements forming their own militia (the military had far too much on its plate to provide security to every hamlet and village in its area) in order to combat the threat from looters. Of course, these local defence organisations (often, without a shade of irony, termed the 'Neighbourhood Watch') are rarely above 'requisition' from other nearby villages, leading to a steady undercurrent of nasty little melees amid country pubs and award-winning village greens. The sky is far from the only grey area in the Britain of 1984.
From a thousand wounds/ Faults of civilisation/ Going to hell again
Once plans for the agricultural restart had been passed down by CHANTICLEER, it proved one of many logistical nightmares just to get 'volunteers' back to the countryside. Haphazard record keeping (combined with obfuscation from rural refugees who had no desire to leave the relative security of the cities) meant that it was near impossible to divine who to send back to the countryside. Thereby, 'volunteers' were simply chosen at random from the labour pool and given until the next morning to prepare to move. The mechanics of moving these at best sullen and, at worst, seditious citizens out into the wilderness proved another headache for the security forces. More than once, civilian coach drivers were overwhelmed as their passengers attempted to return to the cities. More than once, the soldiers assigned to the convoys were forced to shoot to kill. This included a particularly ugly incident near Truro where a dozen escapees were machine-gunned trying to wade a stream having bludgeoned the driver of their transport into a near-fatal coma.
Whilst their reaction was extreme, it is understandable that said refugees were reluctant to move. Without modern technology, emergency agriculture will bring new meaning to the term 'back breaking'. Tractors and the like are only brought out in order to tackle what can't be accomplished by hand. Traction engines make something of a comeback, where available, given the availability of coal as compared with petrol or diesel. Though this is slow, dirty, noisy work, it is a luxury compared with the norm. Even draught horses and such are rare, given the lack of feed - most working horses are being held back for breeding rather than risk them in the fields. As was the case during the Great War, a horses' life is now quite a bit more valuable than a human's.
Further afield, CHANTICLEER is distracted by some interesting developments in Scandinavia. Contact has been established with what purports to be the Swedish Government. Untouched besides a near-miss that wiped out the eastern half of her capital, the committed neutral claims to have two full Vulcan crews safely interred at an unnamed location. The location of the two aircraft, presumably damaged during the attack phase of the war, is not disclosed. The Swedish promise the safe return of the airmen in exchange for all available intelligence on the Baltic and Finland. Whitelaw tentatively...
*
'Thomas' and the rest of the control train are closing the distance, the noise swelling from a dull rumble to a roar. The Librarian remains focused, the scratched lens of her binoculars following the locomotive onto the bridge.
'Bang.'
Only it doesn't, and the train moves into the distance unhindered. For a moment, the Librarian is motionless, unable to process the failure. Then a lump of ice in her stomach. Weeks of planning, weeks of pain. Scheming and backstabbing and degradation in order to get the explosives. All for nothing. Nothing.
Still, it would have been really stupid not to come up with a Plan B, thinks the Librarian, as she wipes the twigs and dirt from her knees and elbows and picks up her rifle.
*
'Hello, Sultan, this is Saracen Three-One-Niner, are you recieving, over?'
The Canberra was screaming across the moonscape, occasionally jinking to avoid a hill or one of the few charred buildings that stuck out like smashed teeth.
'Saracen Three-One-Niner, this is Sultan...we are recieving you but the signal is bad...speak up...over'
'Err...Sultan, we've seen movement on the ground here, about...fifteen miles south of Hanover.'
'...'
'Sultan, are you still recieving, over'
'Saracen, what type of movement do you think you saw? Over'
'It was people. We saw some people'
'Saracen, this is Sultan. Say again your last, over'
'Sultan this is Saracen' - almost shouting down the radio - 'We saw people. Alive. Moving around. Search Area 'Chelsea'. Over'
'...'
'Sultan?'
'Saracen...are you sure, over?'
'Sultan, we are flying at treetop height. Can make out license plates and street signs. We saw people. Over'
'...'
'Saracen, this is Sultan. Do you have film? Over'
'Sultan, this is Saracen. Half a reel, over''
A new voice
'Saracen One-Three-Niner, I need film of your survivors. Do you understand? Over'
'We understand, Sultan'
'Saracen One-Three-Niner, we are trying to get through to the French or Swiss, but they are not going to send men into somewhere that hot based on hearsay. Switch your cameras on. Over'
'Sultan, this is Saracen One-Three-Niner' - the old jet banks hard to port, back towards the sighting - 'we are returning to search area 'Chelsea', cameras are rolling. Saracen One-Three-Niner out'
*
Oblivious to the close call that it has avoided, the Mobile Control Train rattles through Morpeth. It was here that the planned stop was to take place, and a small army contingent, combined with local representatives were extremely surprised when 'Thomas' failed to stop. For security reasons, the train stopped instead down the line at Pegswood. More a platform and a couple of benches, the Controller is met here by the Lieutenant and the twenty men he came with a couple of days ago. For security reasons. Even the Controller isn't quite sure who he's trying to keep in the dark anymore.
*
After half an hour's drive, the Controller's contingent and the Lieutenant's men arrive back at Morpeth. The Mayor and the soldiers that had been waiting at the station, despite having been radioed about the change of plan (after the fact, of course) are doing surprisingly little to hide their terseness.
'Well, sir, the first item of business was to show you around the town itself. Of course, we'll have to skip this in order to stay on schedule, so we'll head straight out into the countryside and have a look at the agricultural efforts, shall we?'
'Whatever you say.' - the Controller is rising above the Mayor's peevish tone.
*
The Controller is thankful for his wellington boots as he steps out onto the muddy verge.
'As you can see, Controller, we're utilising as much land as is feasible' - the Mayor gestures over into a field busy with workers. It could be a scene from a thousand years ago, if one ignored the tracksuits and the plastic bags. Even further off in the distance, the Controller could make out a traction engine trundling through the brush.
'Where does one go about getting one of those?'
'An enthusiast, Controller. He...didn't have any need for it anymore',
'I see.' replies the Controller, regretting having asked.
The Mayor clears his throat - 'Ahem - shall we walk down to that farmhouse? Theres' a reception prepared.'
'Lead the way, Mr Mayor' - the Controller forces a smile.'
*
The Volunteer digs and furrows until he can dig no more. He takes his rest as soon as the mounted soldier directing this operation is well away in a distant field. He sits and sweats at the big back wheel of an equally exhausted traction engine. His eyes can't stop darting towards the filthy sports bag he keeps by his side.
He soon disappears into his own thoughts. He is jolted back onto Planet Earth when a woman in a tattered greatcoat sits at his side.
'What a waste of fucking time!'
'Hang on - it didn't work?'
'Did it fuck.'
The Volunteer takes a long, deep sigh.
'Wait a moment. That means he's here.'
'Suppose so.' replies the Librarian. They don't know who gave them all this intelligence - so many within the army in particular deeply resented the Controller, and most of Morpeth hated their Mayor.
'Right...right. Get the Neighbourhood Watch together. We'll do it in an hour'
'An hour!?'
'We're not going to get all of the bastards in one place again. This is a gift - we go in, we get them, we use them... it's a gift'
*
'And so if you'll step in here, you'll see that we've provided some refreshments...'
The Controller looks around the dining room and bites his tongue. There's more food here than he's seen since... since what seems like forever. Various roast animals, all the trimmings...pastries, - starters, for heaven's sake. There's cakes, jellies - even the Controller's been on army ration packs for the last two weeks. He is immediately uncomfortable. Other than him, the Mayor and a couple of other 'dignitaries', there's no-one else at this banquet.
'Well, this all looks...this is...'
'It's marvellous isn't it? Don't you know there's a war on? Sometimes I don't!' - the Mayor laughs heartily.
The Constable, the Lieutenant and a few police and soldiers file in and take positions around the room.
Both the Lieutenant and the Constable are well aware of the fact that they're scowling, but not massively inclined to do anything about it.
'Oh, Controller - there's rations for your boys in the barn'
The Controller is silent. He turns to the Lieutenant and shoots him an apologetic look.
The boys in green and blue file out. The Constable barely hides his opinion of the Mayor in a well-timed cough.
'So as you can see, Controller.' - the Mayor gestures around the lavish room - 'we're doing an excellent job up here. In fact, I think I shall be so bold as to propose a toast. To reconstruction!'
The Mayor holds up a glass of - inexplicably - champagne. As he holds it aloft, it starts to shake - little trembles at first. Now it's bouncing, and soon it's spilling out of the glass, which drops to the ground.
'What on Earth?'
Before the Controller can reply, the whole back wall of the living room dissapears in a roar of masonry and a whoosh of steam. Shouting.
The front half of a traction engine, wheezing as if in agony, replaces the wall. Through the entry wound, a dozen or so skinny, ragged figures train old, old weaponry on the stunned party guests.
'RIGHT YOU FUCKERS! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!'
Hesitation.
'NOW!' The Librarian fires a shot into the air, smashing a chandelier.
The Controller complies - one hand on his head, at least. Only the Mayor refuses.
'Now what the Hell do you think you are playing at?' - the Mayor, drunk on shock and champagne, prods his finger into the Volunteer's chest.
'PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!'
'Answer me! Who the hell do you think you are?'
'PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS UP! NOW!'
'-the nerve to come barging in here'
'GET YOUR FUCKING-' The Librarian raises her gun and blows the Mayor away - 'FUCK!' - The Volunteer turns round, face sprayed with blood.
'He was a spare.' Calmly, the Librarian brushes her hair back behind her ear and moves up towards the Controller.
'You're coming with us. Maybe you'll end up useful after all'
'Well...I mean...' the Controller spies shapes in a mirror that's somehow survived the ruckus - '...there's no need to be unreasonable - after all -'
The Controller dives onto the ground. Behind him, the policemen and soldiers open fire, cutting down one of the Neighbourhood Watch. The others sprint back out of the farmhouse, and begin firing from behind a nearby wall. Two policemen grab the Controller and pull him to safety as the rest of the group begin firing and maneuvering towards the retreating attackers.
The Lieutenant raises his SLR and fires a couple of rounds at the fleeing shapes. A window smashing above him forces his head down. The attackers are covering their own retreat. The sick feeling flashes through the Lieutenant's mind and throat - someone's training them; no doubt one of the Officer's men who couldn't stomach taking orders from the Controller. 'Goddamnit!' - he raises his rifle - BANG BANG BANG.
The Constable runs past the Lieutenant and fires his revolver towards the treeline. A couple of soldiers run past him. They hit the ground behind some bales of hay and start shooting towards the shifting shapes.
'Constable!' the Lieutenant shouts - ' Get to that trough! I'll cover you! Go!'
This is it, thinks the Constable as he vaults the wall...