The Gang of Four

  ‘Make it happen!’

  The Prime Minister slammed the phone down and rubbed his irritated eyes. It had been like this all night. Crisis management, and plenty of it, enough to share out, except the PM had absolutely no intention of doling out power and influence to anyone. This would be his gig! The PM at the sharp end: sleeves rolled up, banging the table and telling sundry underlings what to do.

  But why was he getting away with this? He had grown accustomed to politics working in a different fashion. Usually, by the time he’d managed to ask the question: “what should we do about this?” someone or some group was already quietly working on it, leaving the leader out of the loop: sleeves rolled up, banging the table in frustration and asking sundry underlings what was going on.

  But a lot had happened in the last twenty-four hours: most visibly, the meteorite strike on London, or, more accurately, the upper atmosphere above Thames Estuary. That was the principal global news story at the moment and dealing with foreign leaders and their ambassadors was certainly part of the PM’s work, but it didn’t seem that important. Ditto, the press; his MPs; the Civil Service. Even the emergency services. Whatever any of these groups, or power blocks, thought about any of this didn’t really matter. Naturally, he’d talk to them, reassure where possible, be statesmanlike – given the chance… but who was there to take this from him?

  That led the PM to ruminate over the other of yesterday’s big happenings: the peculiar trashing of a Whitehall building. The press were sniffing around that one but fast action on his part had effectively quarantined this story, at least for now. And that was another strange thing: mobilising Special Branch, MI6 and the army would usually result in phone calls from ministers or advisors explaining in urgent tones why the legal case for this-or-that simply could not be made. That was the aspect of his job he loathed the most: every action inevitably met by legal inaction. The most notable change was in the behaviour of the Civil Service. With Sir James Hampton-Staines among the confirmed Whitehall dead that behemoth organization seemed to have rediscovered its primary role – meeting his demands.

  The PM smiled at the novelty of all this but as he reflected on why the changes had occurred his features and mood darkened. He had been in that building just before it all kicked off. He couldn’t be sure who or what organization was behind the attack but it did appear to be aimed at aliens! Yes, aliens! In Whitehall!!?? How long had that been going on? He had no way of telling, but he did feel sure that these aliens, disgusting insect things, had been taken out, and, perhaps as a direct consequence of that, the Whitehall machine was now unclogged.

  The PM’s intercom buzzed. ‘Talk!’ The PM shouted.

  ‘Prime Minister, Sir Neville Stonehatch is waiting.’

  Good, the head of the security services. Time to find out what he really knows. ‘Yes, send him in immediately.’

  Sir Neville Stonehatch leisurely sauntered into the Prime Minister’s office languidly and ostentatiously gripping a manila folder between the ring and middle fingers of his left hand.

  ‘Some alacrity, Sir Neville, please. I don’t have time to watch you show off!’

  Sir Neville looked as though he’d just received an electric shock. His bearing suddenly stiffened and his pace quickened. That was more like it. ‘Prime Minister,’ he said with a slight bow as he reached the other side of the PM’s substantial desk. The PM reached forwards and shook his hand.

  ‘Take a seat, what have you got for me?’

  Sir Neville opened his file and began to huff and puff over the bullet-point contents page. The old ham, thought the PM, preparing to get angry, but the intelligence chief quickly hit his stride: ‘As widely reported in the media: at fifteen twenty-three UTC plus one an object believed to be a meteorite or comet fragment impacted upon the Earth’s atmosphere at an altitude of approximately 65 kilometres. This resulted in a megaton-scale explosion, or air-blast, centred just to the north of the Isle of Sheppey. The blast from this event has been responsible for the significant damage reported over a large swathe of mainly eastern London, the Thames Estuary region, and parts of Kent.’ Sir Neville paused and glanced up at the Prime Minister.

  ‘Yes, thank you, BBC. Most informative,’ replied the PM, and before the security chief could reply he asked pointedly: ‘And do you believe this?’

  ‘No,’ came the blunt reply.

  The PM was momentarily taken aback by this, but he was also relieved to hear the security chief being apparently honest with him.

  ‘Well!?’

  ‘The meteorite story does not square with the evidence and is actually one of our concoctions. For a meteorite explosion to match the blast characteristics the rock needed to be approximately eighty metres in diameter, and such a body should have been tracked as it approached the Earth. It should also have been known about before its approach. Most of the rogue asteroids in eccentric Earth-crossing orbits are continually tracked and their future paths are fully understood. Something like this could not have slipped through.’

  ‘Are you sure? What about a comet fragment?’

  ‘Even less likely, sir.’

  ‘I see, so nothing was tracked, not even when the data was rechecked afterwards?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Any visual observations of the explosion?’

  ‘The explosion itself, yes, but nothing from before.’

  ‘Hmm… The MOD tell me it was definitely not an atomic weapon.’

  ‘Yes, thankfully we can rule that out, sir – no radiation.’

  ‘How about a smaller rock, travelling faster?’

  ‘No, sir. None of the meteorite/comet scenarios fit. None of them can explain the large amounts of ash and pumice that fell over most of London, and surrounding areas. Estimates suggest that collectively this material amounts to several million metric tonnes.’

  ‘Christ! What would a meteorite that size do?’

  ‘That would be a full extinction event, sir.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘It means that the object, if indeed there was one, was travelling considerably slower – many orders of magnitude slower.’

  ‘I take it social media is having a field day with all this!’

  ‘It is, but the wider public are accepting the official line. We are trying to discredit the more plausible amateur pundits with our own misinformation programme.’

  The PM thought about this for a moment. ‘What about physical evidence? Is there anything apart from the ash?’ he asked.

  ‘There may be, sir. Some large fragments reportedly crashed and subsequently disintegrated into the English Channel. We’ve got some ships out there looking for anything anomalous.’

  ‘What about the press?’ asked the PM.

  ‘Not my area, sir, but from my experience they won’t go near this, unless it is to debunk.’

  ‘Hmm, that could change,’ said the PM half to himself.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Nothing. So what have we got on these fragments?’

  ‘Anything we collect will be sent to Porton Down for analysis.’

  ‘And you will inform me.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  The PM gazed at his security chief for a deliberately long time. ‘Sir Neville, You must inform me of anything Porton Down discover.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister. But we haven’t actually found anything “concrete” yet.’

  ‘I doubt this thing was made out of concrete, although it could explain the ash, I suppose.’

  ‘I just meant–’

  ‘Yes, I know what you meant, Sir Neville.’

  Satisfied, the PM delicately moved on to the incident that still disturbed him the most.

  ‘What have you got on the Whitehall… event?’

  Sir Neville looked uncomfortable. The laid-back indifference he’d projected at the start of this briefing was giving way to guardedness and also some stammering.

  ‘At fifteen twelve UTC plus one, a call was forwarded to Special Branch regarding a d
isturbance and possible terrorist attack at a Whitehall address corresponding to a Foreign Office annex…’

  The PM sat patiently while he heard the long version.

  ‘…as well as all CCTV footage pertaining to this matter. The building remains sealed and patrolled by the army, but it will take an estimated twenty-four hours before all biological contaminants have been bagged and removed.’

  ‘For transfer to Porton Down?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

  ‘And… has anyone handling this stuff become ill..?’

  ‘They wore full bio suits, Prime Minister, but early indications suggest the material is harmless.’

  The PM nodded on hearing this. ‘Thank God! Keep me informed on the analysis of this material as well, Sir Neville.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And apart from the bio-material, what else was found?’

  ‘The deceased remains of twenty-six office workers. Mostly very senior Civil Servants, including Sir James Hampton-Staines.’

  ‘Causes of death?’

  ‘Still with the coroner, sir.’

  The PM paused for a while as he considered how much of his own experiences regarding this matter he wished to disclose. The secret service chief had been most forthcoming so far; that did not mean he had to respond in kind. There was no need to reveal anything just yet, let’s just prise out what Sir Neville knows first…

  ‘You are aware, Sir Neville, that I was attending a security briefing in that building, at that time?’

  ‘I understood you were able to make your escape before the attack took place, sir.’

  The PM paused again as he recalled the shocking events of yesterday afternoon: After apparently jolting from a deep sleep he had found himself staring at a disintegrating and screaming man-sized bug. Then he saw that the room was full of intact versions of the insect-thing, and people. Next, the terrorist, or freedom fighter, whatever she was; that fearsome visage… and then the command to run: ‘get out of here!!’ And so he did. He ran for the metal security door, locked it behind him and ran back to Number Ten just as the booms and screams began.

  The PM shuddered and glanced over at Sir Neville. Yes, the insect aliens would remain his secret – at least for now, but he would give an accurate account of the rest.

  ‘Yes, Sir Neville, I was lucky. Before I escaped I clearly saw the perpetrator. Female, tall, err…’

  ‘Would you be prepared to sit with a photo-fit expert and perhaps flesh out that description, sir? I believe this to be of the utmost importance.’

  Was Sir Neville being impertinent? Well, he had a point. This woman needed to be tracked down.

  ‘Erm, yes, I would. Can you arrange that, Sir Neville?’

  Sir Neville nodded and reached for his phone before remembering he’d been required to relinquish it at the lobby of Number Ten. ‘Yes, Prime Minister, I will arrange this now. If I send a chap around here can you prioritize this?’

  ‘Yes I will… and, Sir Neville?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister?’

  ‘Assuming Porton Down discover anything that could be classed as an extraterrestrial smoking gun – I need to know!! The PM half expected the security chief to rubbish the notion of an ET connection but he plainly did not:

  ‘I can have a further briefing ready for you by noon, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Good, report back, asap.’

  ‘Yes, sir, will that be all?’ Sir Neville began to stand.

  ‘Just one last thing. If we are under threat from something – ET or otherwise – I’m sure you grasp the importance of clarity with regard to the chain of command.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ but the security chief looked hesitant.

  ‘You report to me. Not me and the men in suits, just me. I am the next link in your chain of command. Do not let anyone deflect you, or stonewall you. And if anyone does, tell them you are working under my direct orders, and if need be, call me and I’ll bang heads.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister!’ Sir Neville appeared to have been cheered and emboldened by that little speech. Everyone appreciated strong leadership. And that’s what they were going to get from now on.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Speak!’ shouted the PM, as he watched Sir Neville leave his office.

  ***