Snapping off the tie, fastening my locker closed, I’m relieved to see my Sig lying where I left it and quickly pull of the fleece, hang it over the locker door and pull on the Sig’s holster. I rummage around in the locker, insert my knife into the holster, slide my belt back on, get my phone (which is dead) and get my other bits and pieces. At the bottom of the locker is my body armour and inside it, nestling in the inside pocket is a magazine for the Sig, which I must have ‘forgotten’ to surrender. Finally, I retrieve the Sig and push the magazine home, glancing over my shoulder as I do so to check no one is watching. It feels good to have the gun in my hand again but I slide it into its holster and quickly put the fleece back on and go.
As soon as I get to the dingy waiting area by the outer doors, I decide to get some fresh air in the remaining two minutes that are left until my pick-up is due at five.
Unfortunately, the air outside isn’t as fresh as I’d hoped; there is a definite whiff of smoke in the air, but it’ll do. The two young squaddies stationed outside in the dawn light are startled as I exit and quickly pull themselves together, to stand to attention.
“At ease,” I tell them, reminiscing back to my time on guard duty, which seems a lifetime ago now.
They both relax, and a cigarette appears in one of the lad’s hands as if from nowhere; that he must be well versed in hiding at a moment’s notice.
“Those things will kill you,” I half joke to the closer boy in a military uniform.
“If the Zombies don’t first, you mean,” he says, trying an unconvincing joke. The poor lad looks worried to death. They both do.
“The Zombies haven’t killed you yet, soldier, so do your jobs and watch each other’s backs, they haven’t won yet,” I tell them both, trying to instil some confidence.
They both look at each other, unsure of what to say.
I turn to look over at the dawn rising over Heathrow Airport, the banks of helicopters a short distance away looking almost like sleeping insects, still in shadow, waiting for the sunlight to hit them and bring them back to life. The airport isn’t as busy as it was last night, some ground staff are still around, the odd vehicle going in and out of the hangar to my right. And the air traffic is thinner, heavy transport planes still landing and taking off, but in smaller numbers.
Just as I am about to look at my watch to see if my pick-up is late, a pair of headlights appear down by the beginning of the hangars, I look at my watch anyway and see that it is three minutes late.
The Defender pulls up and the driver, a middle-aged man in an orange high-vis jacket, asks me if I am Captain Richards, through the open window. Hearing, ‘Captain,’ the two lads on guard duty quickly stand to attention again and salute as I get into the passenger seat.
“Stay alert,” I tell them as we pull off.
The drive only takes a few minutes and is uneventful. There is a bit of small talk with the driver, who I learn has worked at Heathrow for seventeen years and has no family to be worried about, but mostly I take in my surroundings as we drive.
The part of the airport I see is covered with military vehicles, various types of planes, helicopters, as well as banks of tanks and personnel carriers all around. Heathrow seems to have been taken over by the military entirely and my driver confirms that virtually the whole airport is.
As we pull up outside a nondescript back door to another large building, I take a few seconds to ‘burn’ the route back to the quarantine area into my brain, just in case.
We both get out of the Defender and walk up to the door where the driver picks up the lanyard hanging from his neck by his belly and swipes it through a slot sticking out to the side of the door; the door clicks and he pulls it open.
“This is where I leave you,” the driver tells me. “Straight up the stairs to the third floor, then go through the door and down the corridor to the right, and you will see a reception desk there, okay?
“Thanks, and good luck,” I reply.
Reaching the reception desk slightly out of breath from the stairs, I report in. As I do, a tall, handsome man in uniform gets up from a chair the other side of the reception desk and approaches, saluting as he reaches me.
“Captain Richards, I’m Lieutenant Winters. Please follow me; I will take you to the Colonel.”
We go past the reception desk towards tall glass windows that overlook the airport and one of the runways. We turn left and follow the windows for some distance. The sun is now up and I take the chance to look out over the packed airport as we go. I have to admit I am in awe of the view of the hardware assembled and I’m certain it will be on the move sooner rather than later.
We arrive at what seems to be a conference room, but the long glass-walled side has all the blinds closed so I can’t be sure. There are a few people milling around outside it, with more sitting down, the majority of whom are dressed in high-ranking uniforms. My guess would be that this is where any plans are being finalised and the briefings and orders are being
