GENERAL GEORGE PURCELL WAS ENJOYING the sunshine. He was sitting in the shade on the terrace of Brownley House, a Georgian mansion named after a local man of industry, that was his general headquarters, located in a village to the south of Banbury. He gazed across a manicured lawn at the Oxford Canal that, at this point, flowed almost in tandem with the River Cherwell. A large gin and tonic, served by Adams his batman, was on the table next to him. He wore combat fatigues with his tabs of rank and a black beret was on the table alongside the latest pages of his memoir that were held down by a swagger stick.
He knew his writings were prompted not by ego but a sense of destiny. His intention was to leave behind a new England: an Albion of strong and willing workers; an embryo nation that would, in time, expand to absorb within its boundaries all the lands of this island, before once again embarking upon a mission of empire. This was not foolish fantasy but a natural progression of reality.
The first part was in place. He had the only army in Great Britain. With that at his back and a captive workforce, the future was inevitable. Sacrifices would have to be made initially, but the long-term benefits were indisputable. Safety was in strength and first he would consolidate mainland Britain. Then he would look to continental Europe and, gradually, life would become easier for the people here in Redemption who had been with him from the start, because his conquering army would ensure that the vanquished of other lands would become the workforce, just as in days of empire. His people would then enjoy the better future that he had promised.
The naval base at Portsmouth was still operating. It would be necessary to coerce the Royal Navy into his scheme of things. So far, they had not responded to his calls for unity under Prince Harry but he was unperturbed. He would seek meetings, parleys and, if those failed, he would infiltrate and change the order of the naval command. He didn’t believe force of arms would be necessary. As he had done here, the removal of the occasional recalcitrant officer could work wonders. Other officers would see the sense of combining resources and it was only right that the potent force and threat of the vessels at Portsmouth should be held in responsible hands for the good of the nation he was building.
The federation of settlements based around Haven was another target. He intended that they benefit from his rule sooner rather than later. Reports suggested they had become an agrarian success in a very short time. He could use such expertise; he could use its stockpiles of food and its people. With proper encouragement, Haven would help supply the needs of Redemption’s citizens. Let his people see the benefits that were to come.
One or two minor problems needed removing first, such as the pair known as Reaper and the Angel of Death. Strange how people so quickly reverted to legend and fireside tales once they lost the panacea of television. A gun-happy duo survive a couple of skirmishes against rank amateurs and their names are whispered in the same terms as Robin Hood. Let them have their temporary glory. People tended to forget that, in history, the winners were the Sheriff of Nottingham and Prince John. And so it would be again.
He would also eventually take London. He had a steam train ready to take military units to Marylebone Station as the first part of a triumphal journey to the capital. Buckingham Palace and Downing Street were symbolic and would be better off in his hands.
In the meantime, there were his daily duties to perform to ensure the smooth running of Redemption. And his memoir to maintain for the benefit of posterity.
He sipped the gin and tonic and savoured the cool freshness. Down at the far end of the lawn, three camp workers swung scythes to ensure the grass was neat. They had petrol for mechanised mowing machines but he preferred the old-fashioned way. Wielding a scythe was skilful; the work kept the men in their place. They were stripped to the waist and their torsos gleamed with sweat. The sight was aesthetically pleasing and made the coldness of the gin taste all the sweeter. A guard stood beneath the shade of a tree, a sub-machinegun hanging from a strap. He held it at waist height. All was peaceful. All was as it should be. The birds sang in the trees and there was order in his world.
‘Have you heard?’
Colonel Barstow came through the French windows like a force of nature. He flopped into a chair. Behind him, the faithful Adams waited, a look of apology on his face that he had been unable to warn the General or divert his deputy.
‘The airman?’ said Purcell.
‘Damn right, the airman.’ Barstow raised a hand, the index finger upright. ‘Gin and tonic, Adams. You shouldn’t need telling.’
He was an unkempt officer, the very antithesis of his general, with a libertine’s taste for women and an alcoholic’s thirst. Purcell could smell the stale drink on the summer air. His clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them, and he probably had. He wore combat fatigues and a handgun in a holster strapped to his thigh. He had a navy blue jacket draped across his shoulders that was unadorned except for an enamel lapel badge that showed the distinctive winged dagger of the SAS. He shrugged the jacket off so that it lay trapped between his back and the chair. His black beret, which he didn’t remove, also carried a cap badge of the SAS.
Barstow claimed he had been a member of the 22 Special Air Service Regiment based at Hereford. It had been the elite special service unit of the British Army to which many applied but few were chosen. Purcell suspected his deputy had not actually been a member but he allowed him to wear the emblem. It gave him a degree of kudos that might be needed if they were ever confronted by a real threat of military might.
‘A pilot would be useful,’ Barstow said. ‘Shoot a few rockets at anyone giving us a hard time and they’ll soon surrender. London. Haven. That place in Cornwall.’
‘He was flying a Cessna,’ Purcell said.
‘A plane is a plane. He can fly one, he can fly another.’
‘I don’t think it works like that.’
‘The principles must be the same.’
‘There is a great deal of difference between a Cessna and a Typhoon jet fighter.’
The batman appeared from inside the house and placed a large gin and tonic on the table next to Barstow.
‘Bring another,’ Barstow said. Then, to Purcell, ‘All right then, if you’re going to be so bloody pessimistic, I’ll go up with him in his Cessna and drop bombs from the bloody thing.’ He took a long drink. ‘The point is, it gives us another string to our bow.’
‘Precisely. Perfect for reconnaissance and impressing the natives of the north. Big metal bird in the sky. A potent symbol of power and technology. And, if necessary, you can drop a few bombs to make the point.’
‘When does he get here?’
‘Tonight. Solitary confinement. Let him sweat on his future for twenty-four hours. Then we’ll talk to him. Discover the extent of his abilities – who knows, he might be able to fly jets? Invite him to join us.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ said Barstow.
‘You may be a legend as a soldier,’ Purcell said carefully,
‘but you are not known for your subtlety, Brian.’ He rarely used Barstow’s first name and did so now to diffuse any argument before it started. ‘If my approach doesn’t work then, by all means, I will leave it to you to make him see sense.’
Barstow finished the first gin and tonic, ruminated a moment, and nodded his head.
He looked round to shout for Adams, but the batman was already at his shoulder with the second glass.
‘You do a very fine gin and tonic, Adams. Have I told you that before?’
‘Yes, sir. You have.’
‘Good. Well get me another.’
The man departed silently and Barstow looked around. The drink had mellowed him.
‘Where’s Harry?’
‘In his rooms. Miss Finlay is with him.’
‘No more problems?’
‘No more problems.’
‘Carrot and stick,’ said Barstow. ‘I can be subtle.’
‘Quite,’ said Purcell and stared across the lawn at the men sweating in the sunshine.
When Harry had continued to complain – about the confinement of the people, conditions in the work camps and his own role in the scheme of things – Barstow had brought him swiftly back to heel by suggesting that Miss Finlay might be better employed in the Pussy Shack, the brothel reserved for the Tans, who were not know for their gentility. Harry’s complaints had stopped.
‘Maybe I should go and visit her,’ Barstow said. ‘Reinforce the point.’
Judith Finlay was a good looking girl.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary. He got the message. Besides, I thought you had an inspection.’
‘The Tramways Work Camp. Two newcomers. They’re mouthing off, can’t take the hint. Either I make an example or send them to the mine.’
‘It’s your decision, of course, but we should be careful of manpower. People have stopped coming. Before long, we will have to go and find more, conquer fresh fields.’
‘About time.’
He finished the second gin and tonic as Adams arrived with the third. Barstow stood up, put his jacket on his shoulders without putting his arms in the sleeves, picked up the third glass and drained it.
‘Bloody good gin and tonic,’ he said, nodded to Purcell, and marched back through the French windows and through the house, followed by Adams.
Purcell breathed more easily and picked up his own glass and sipped.
Barstow might eventually become a problem that would have to be dealt with. But Purcell was not stupid. He realised his deputy might come to the same conclusion about himself. At some point, one of them would have to go. When that time came, it would be done with finesse, and he would need another officer ready to step into Barstow’s rank and be grateful for the promotion.
The chap in charge of the regular military would not do. He had already promoted Colonel Maidstone above his ability. He had been a captain in recruitment and was less than inspiring. But he had the right accent and he was safe and malleable. A duffer who would do until someone better came along. His thoughts touched on Reaper once more. There was a man with obvious ability, even though it may have been overstated. He had half a mind to attempt to recruit him to the cause. He seemed to combine ruthlessness with leadership abilities. If only he could make him the right offer, the road to Haven might open up without a shot being fired.
Command weighed heavily. Particularly as so few officers had survived the virus. This had been both a boon and a problem. He had been a major in the Adjutant General’s Corp, more specifically in Staff and Personnel Support. His was a career that had not gone according to plan after he had sneaked into Sandhurst with high hopes. His own sense of destiny had not been shared by his superior officers. Instead of glory he had been consistently shunted sideways into administrative work. Glory had been handed to other chaps. He suspected that in the final months before the virus took hold, he had been marked for the list of redundancies in an army that was being skimmed to the bones.
When the grip of the virus tightened, he was at the army base in Colchester. No one else had been available and he had been sent to help smooth over a potentially embarrassing scandal involving buggery among soldiers being detained at the Military Corrective Training Centre. A detention centre, not a prison, where inmates served up to two years or were kept on remand before being sent to a civilian prison. But these were the last days of normality and everything went very wrong, very quickly. His presence was hardly noted as officers and personnel started dying around him.
He was proud to say he wasn’t scared. He just didn’t believe he would succumb. He visited officers and men in makeshift wards that became morgues, without the facemask that many were wearing. He felt invincible. He felt destiny calling. This was what he had been born for: to survive and to lead.
But as a major from Staff and Personnel Support?
There were plenty of uniforms. He chose one without regimental distinction and attached the crown of a lieutenant general. He added campaign ribbons that denoted an active career in Iraq and Afghanistan, a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross and a Military Cross. He took a black beret that had belonged to an American soldier who, for some unknown reason, had been at the camp. The beret was a distinctive touch. Black was only worn by the Royal Tank Regiment although it was standard issue in the US Army. Black would be the colour.
Look the part and others will follow. He had seen it happen throughout his career. And, after all, he was invincible. His first recruits were from the detention blocks. He carried no weapon apart from a swagger stick. He released all surviving inmates. Some were ill and destined for death but two had the arrogance of the immune. One of them was the Beast.
He never knew precisely what Brian Barstow had done but he suspected he was capable of just about anything. Each acknowledged the worth of the other. They would be a lesser force on their own but together they could do great things and they entered into an unspoken collaboration. They recruited the other detainee and three regular soldiers. They piled weapons in a truck but, before they left, Barstow disappeared for thirty minutes. When he returned, he was wearing a navy blue military jacket over his combats, with the flying dagger of the SAS on the lapel. There had been a brief argument.
‘This unit will have no regimental badges or flashes. This unit will be the Black Berets,’ insisted Purcell. ‘Besides, you were never a member of the SAS.’
‘Listen,’ Barstow said and held up a combat knife with blood on its blade. ‘I’ve killed for this badge. I’m the biggest fucking hooligan that ever came out of Hereford. Remember that… General.’
Purcell had remembered. And perhaps Barstow had served with the Regiment. He smiled to himself. At least his claim was as valid as Purcell’s assumed rank and decorations.
They had stopped in the town of Colchester for bonding, as Barstow had put it. The men had got drunk, found women, and sated their appetites. They recruited two more to their ranks and also found an Army and Navy store. They kitted their new recruits in combat fatigues and found a box of black berets. It was the start of his army.
By the time they reached Chelsea, Purcell and the Beast had twelve men, all of proven violent disposition and adept with weapons. It was in Chelsea they found Prince Harry. London was too wild with gang warfare to be the birthplace of his new nation. They were left alone because they had a discipline imposed by Barstow. They were merciless bastards and they wore uniforms. Look the part and others believed. But London was the wrong place at the wrong time. They recruited half a dozen more men to the Black Berets but Purcell knew it was best to leave the capital for the present. He resolved to return when the idiots had stopped killing each other. He picked Windsor for the next stage of his grand design.
Windsor had been a good idea. The home of the monarch, the cradle of British history. The plan had lasted only a short time before they had to leave because of the consequences of the madness of the Beast. Leaving had been the easiest way, the only way. Leave the secret behind before it became knowledge among the people.
At that time, keeping his plans on track had been a fine balancing act. Encouraging civilians to believe they had found organisation and safety after the chaos that reigned across the land, while attracting groups of military personnel to build his army. Gradually, the roles had eased themselves into place. The soldiers had first been protectors against the threats that lurked in the wilds of the outer reaches. Then they became the guards that kept the population under control and within the boundaries of his grandiose strategy.
Along the way, some had fallen. Those officers and soldiers who had been outspoken against his regime had, without fuss or threat, been moved to other duties, usually in the work camps. As inmates. The rest had been compliant, as soldiers were under strong leadership. They understood discipline and they wanted to believe. They had himself as general, an officer without blemish, they had an SAS hero they nicknamed the Beast and, to sweeten the cake, they had Prince Harry as Commander in Chief.
The Black Berets had become his elite. They had become known as the Tans, not a name of which Purcell approved but one that had made Barstow smile when he had explained its implications. It suited his rag tag stormtroopers perfectly, he said, for the men he recruited were not the finest soldiers. He preferred the ruthless, the arrogant, those easily led and swift to obey orders, no matter what those orders were. Many had never served in the military but had been chosen from the ranks of the gangs they had encountered as they had made their way to Windsor.
Now Barstow had eighty Tans of varying quality, plus a captain, four lieutenants, four sergeants and eight corporals. Purcell’s regular army of combined services numbered 1,150. Officers and NCOs had been in short supply, particularly after those removed to other duties, but the right promotions, he believed, had consolidated its loyalty.
The future was bright. And next on his agenda were Haven, the naval base of Portsmouth and then a glorious return to the capital in triumph.