one ever discussed. When newcomers arrived and asked how the rig community started out, Mum always fluffed the question, and Walter usually said nothing.
That day was just over five years ago and Jacob was certain that all the bad men must be long gone by now - run out of things to steal and people to kill, and just faded away. What was left of the UK had to be safe now.
He looked out at the dark skyline. Bracton was just empty buildings, wild dogs and weeds. But London? That’s where the government, the Prime Minister and all the important men lived. He remembered listening to the BBC emergency broadcasts just after the crash mentioning the safe zones in and around the big cities. There were about twenty or so of them; big buildings guarded by soldiers and full of emergency supplies of food and water and taking in civilians who sought their protection.
Yes, some of the zones had gone wrong in the aftermath, he’d heard about that, too many people, too few troops. But surely not all of them? Right?
At least one or two of them must have muddled through, especially in London where there were several of the biggest zones. Surely, by now, they’d managed to get things up and running again; had powered up lights like they had on the rig, perhaps even had enough power to make hot water, to run some street lamps, perhaps even a few shops selling their wares once more. It was possible, wasn’t it?
He smiled in the dark.
It’s inevitable. You can’t keep a great country like Great Britain down. Called ‘great’ for a reason, right?
He knew he was right. He knew something else too. One day he was going to find out for himself.
Soon. One day soon.
Chapter 7
The Day of the Crash 10 a.m.
RAF Regiment, 2 Squadron mess hall, RAF Honington, Suffolk
Flight Lieutenant Adam Brooks sat in the corner of the mess hall, his eyes glued to the small television set, as were those of several dozen of the lads from 2 Squadron. The rest of the gunners were out on rotation manning the front gates and beating the airfield perimeter with the dogs. Security readiness at Honington had already been upped this morning, as a matter of precaution, from amber to red. Adam suspected it was almost a certainty that all leave and weekend passes were being revoked right now as they sat here watching the telly.
On the small screen BBC24 was covering the story - already somebody had managed to throw together some computer graphics to sex up the visuals. As if shaky mobile phone footage of columns of flames was not enough.
‘. . . and then there’s the Paraguana refinery in Venezuela which is the main processing facility in the country - in fact for all of South America - for their light crude. We have no details on how much damage has been done there and whether that’s going to have an effect on oil output from the region but . . .’
‘They’re all oil targets,’ grunted one of the men sitting next to Adam. It was Lance Corporal Sean ‘Bushey’ Davies. ‘Someone’s just hitting the oil!’
‘Jesus. Well spotted, Bushey, you stupid twat,’ someone a row back quipped.
‘Fuck off,’ he grunted over his shoulder.
Adam watched as the talking heads in the studio were replaced by a Google Earth map that panned silky-smooth across the screen. Slick explosion graphics were peppered across the Arab states, several more around the Caspian Sea. He counted two dozen. More were being added to the map as they spoke.
‘. . . Nigeria, the Kaduna refinery. That’s just come in. Again no idea of the size or damage or how many fatalities. So, the question being asked is just what is going on out there? Who’s doing this?’
‘It’s . . . uh . . . really too early to be putting the blame on any group in particular,’ replied a freshly scrubbed and suited industry expert. To Adam, the poor young man appeared to be an unprepared and none-too-willing participant, pulled without notice from some back office and thrown before the glare of studio lights. He cleared his shaking voice with a self-conscious cough and took a quick sip of water. ‘But this does appear to be an attempt to disrupt as much global oil production as possible.’
‘What about the earlier bombs in Saudi Arabia at Medina and near the Kaaba in Mecca? Neither one, apparently, to do with oil.’
The expert looked awkwardly