Universal Opera: Chapter 2

A sapping dread drained the energy from his body as he watched the video streams. He watched for half a day, periodically resupplied with fresh scotch by his batman, and at lunchtime with a plate of sandwiches. In England it was now almost six in the early summer evening. The sky should have been bright, although the early forecast had predicted a few light showers mid-afternoon. A typical summer’s day in London.

However the videos painted a different picture. London was hidden in the false dusk of swirling debris and smoke; from the latest video streams from a British Army tank he could see that the street lights blazed ineffectively. Haloed by suspended dust, the sodium yellow lamps coupled with the green night-vision of the tank’s camera cast a sickly glow upon the few figures that scampered through the gloom.

Earlier pictures had been from aerial drones. They had circled just outside the Stratford Olympic Stadium from a height of a few hundred feet, half-blinded by the smoke and dust. Nevertheless, the largest jagged sheets of glass and steel roofing were visible propped above jumbled brick walls; other huge shards of steel had speared cars and coaches in the adjoining car park.

Ambulances, police units and military Landrovers threaded their way amongst bewildered, directionless spectators and the prone human detritus of the maimed. There had been more than twenty thousand fans seated within the stadium at the time of the explosion. Figures of dead and injured from the London hospitals were sporadic and conflicting, but from what Swann could glean most of those inside the stadium had been killed. Worse, public news reports in the last two hours had leaked the intelligence assessment (already confidentially provided to Swann earlier that morning) that the site was extensively radioactive. Tanks and armoured personnel carriers in NBC Defence profile were now being used to close streets and herd the public away from the Stratford area.

Finally tired of the grainy images, Swann prodded the standby button on the controller, and sat staring at the blank screen in the welcome silence. Stevens, his batman, appeared without warning at his shoulder. Sometimes Swann was uncomfortable with the manner in which his batman cum body guard crept stealthily around the old house, but right now he was comforted by the young man’s calm presence.

“Sir?” Stevens began. ”Sir? Should I get the car round? You can’t stay in here all weekend, the Yanks will think you’ve gone soft.”

Swann tried to give his young friend a withering stare, but only managed a to convey a blank expression that caused Stevens to believe his boss needed further encouragement.

“Come on sir. Your clothes are ready upstairs, and I’ve run the bath. Don’t make me carry you up there.”

Swann smiled despite himself. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary Sergeant-Major.”

Gingerly Swann pushed himself up from his chair, knocking the sandwich plate off the arm as he did so. Stevens crouched and stretched simultaneously, snapping a hand out to catch the plate before it reached the tiled floor. Just marginally slower, Swann whipped one leg over the outstretched arm, rolling onto the floor as he did so, twisting the arm at the elbow. He came to a rest lying on his back in front of the television, with Stevens’ arm locked tight between his knees. Before he had time to enjoy his victory, Stevens rolled over on top of him, apparently ignoring the distension of his elbow. Now with the advantage, Stevens dragged his arm clear, and made a short stabbing motion towards Swann’s neck, stopping just short of his adam’s apple.

Swann laughed, raising his hands above his shoulders in mock surrender. His laugh was echoed by Stevens as he stood up.

“Not bad sir. Pretty soon you won’t need me at all.”

He held out a hand, offering to haul Swann to his feet. Accepting the palm, Swann eased himself to a stand, suddenly feeling much older than his forty-five years.

“I don’t think so, but thanks anyway. See that you call ahead and get us into the Bunker please. I’ll get ready.”

“Of course sir. I’ll be standing by.”

“Oh, I know Stevens!”

Swann released the man’s hand and headed out of the drawing room to the galleried hall, turning upstairs to his suite.


An hour later, they arrived at the NATO HQ SACT south entrance in Norfolk, Stevens swerving expertly around the concrete barriers before stopping at the first guardhouse. He pushed the window button in the arm of the door, dropping the dark armoured window several inches. He spoke through the gap to the armed soldier leaning into the car.

“Admiral Swann for the Bunker.”

The soldier took the identity cards Stevens pushed through the crack, and turned to the back door. Swann opened the window sufficiently for the soldier to make eye contact, and then closed it again when the soldier nodded and turned back to Stevens.

“We are at DEFCON 2. You wont be able to take the car to the garage. Please leave the vehicle at the next gate and they’ll take care of it for you.”

Stevens raised his eyebrows in surprise,
“DEFCON 2. Ok, understood.”

Recovering the cards, he closed the window and accelerated forwards beneath the raised steel-pole gate.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to walk sir. Yanks are edgy.”

“Not really surprising is it? Seems the Chinese may be behind the bombing.”

“Not really their style, but yeah, looks that way. Ok, here we are sir. I’ll get the door.”

Stevens brought the car to a stop before the next barrier, and leaving the engine running hurried out of the driving seat and around to open the back door. Swann remembered his braided cap, and climbed out of the Audi. Another anonymous soldier saluted, then waited for Swann to don his cap and collect his briefcase from the boot.

“This way please sir. We’ll move the car.”

He strode away towards the main entrance; a steel and glass atrium cramped beneath the squat block which housed the offices and operations room of the NATO Supreme Allied Command. Swann followed, with Stevens a stride behind him.

Inside they were met by a stiff looking young man in a dark suit with a black tie and earpiece cable dangling down the side of his neck and disappearing beneath his jacket. He nodded curtly to their soldier escort, who saluted in return and wheeled about without another word, leaving the three men to make their own introductions.

Swann held out his hand,
“Admiral Geoffrey Swann, Her Majesty’s Royal Naval attache.”

The man accepted the handshake,
“Brad Wilkes, NSA Team Leader. The Secretary is already here. Please follow me.”

He ignored Stevens, and marched past the reception desk and between two armed soldiers at the entrance to one of several corridors leading away from the atrium and into the complex itself. Swann and Stevens followed close behind, sharing a look which confirmed their mutual early dislike for Wilkes and the explicit involvement of the NSA. The corridor eased downhill, through several card-accessed security doors, and on for two hundred metres of well lit blank white tunnel until blocked by a massive steel door and surrounding steel frame. It looked like a bank vault.

Stepping to one side, Wilkes opened an access panel and pressed his eyes against a fixed goggle-like interface. Nothing appeared to happen, but Wilkes moved back in front of the door, and within a few seconds the hiss of escaping air pre-empted the slow and silent movement of the vault hinging open.

Wilkes spoke over one shoulder,
“Since we are at DEFCON 2, the bunker will be repressurised after we enter. This is to prevent any external ingress of atmosphere. We will be unable to reopen the bunker for at least another two hours. Regulations.”

Stevens muttered just loudly enough for Swann to hear him,
“Well we wouldn’t want any atmosphere in there would we?”

Swann grinned at Wilkes’ back.
“That’s fine. We don’t have anywhere to be today.”

Without responding, Wilkes walked through the doorway as soon as the gap was sufficiently wide. Swann and Stevens followed.

They paused on the other side while Wilkes waited for the vault door to ease closed once more. They could feel the tightening in their throats as the air pressure squeezed higher. Satisfied, Wilkes turned towards the two marines standing by a desk that was set against the tunnel wall. A dim red light from the tunnel’s ceiling shadowed their features and danced off the oiled weapons held at their sides. One of the marines took a step forward, and Swann could feel Stevens tense automatically. The soldier saluted smartly to Admiral Swann, then turned to Stevens.

“All weapons are to be left here.”

Stevens reached inside his short leather jacket and unclipped the shoulder holster. With a flourish he drew and rotated the automatic before handing it grip first to the soldier. The marine looked nonplussed for a moment,
“All weapons please sir.”

Stevens smiled agreeably, ”Yes, that’s it. The other weapons don’t come off.”

The marine nodded almost imperceptibly and placed the gun on the table, where his colleague collected it, checked the chamber was empty and the safety on, and slid it into a drawer.

“Follow me please.” Without waiting to ensure that his charges were actually following, the marine wheeled and marched further into the reddened tunnel. Wilkes, Swann and Stevens stepped in line behind.

The tunnel continued in a slight left hand curve, though the darkness and red glow provided little sense of distance. After several minutes walk, Swann was given the impression of a deeper darkness just ahead. Another vault door materialised in front of them. A new marine guard met them, and swung the door open as they approached. Within, they could make out the brighter warmth of a large wall-screen, and the hushed hum of several voices. Wilkes ignored the marine, and ushered Swann and Stevens inside. The door was quickly closed behind them. Although still relatively dark, the cavernous room was noticeably brighter than the access corridor.

Swann recognised the room from several previous visits since he took up his post in May. By way of orientating himself he scanned left until he made out the lift doors which provided his usual entrance into the Operations Room. Today they were guarded by three armed marines. In front of him to the right was the huge wall-screen, flickering with multiple inset screens of scrolling data, real time video streams, graphics indicating DEFCON 2, public television channels and electronic maps.

Immediately in front of Swann was the large circular conference table, the so-called Round Table, and against the walls of the roughly oval Bunker sat dozens of uniformed men and women, their faces lit organically by the predominately blue computer screens in front of each. The Intelligence Positions, Conference Table and the vast overview provided by the wall-screen constituted the military command centre for NATO’s HQ ACT.

Today the Round Table was busy; Swann recognised at least a dozen senior NATO officers, and sitting facing the main wall was the US Secretary of State, surrounded by whispering officers, lawyers and secretarial staff at his shoulder. Sitting apparently ignored on the Secretary’s right was Luitenant-Admiraal Jos Kepler, Deputy Commander of SACT.

Looking up as Swann entered, Kepler smiled and left his seat unnoticed by the Secretary. Swann stepped forward and saluted, then held out his hand, matching the Dutchman’s broad smile. They shook hands, ignoring the disapproving look from Wilkes.

“Hoe gaat het Jos?”

“Oh very good Swannie, you haven’t forgotten! Fijn, dank je. En jij?”

“Could be better,” Swann dropped his smile and pulled the other man gently nearer before releasing his grip, “What the hell is going on Jos? What are the Secretary and the NSA doing here?”

“Long story Swannie, but I fear our American friends are thinking of diplomacy first. There’s no response from the Chinese Ambassador though.

We’re about to have a SITREP in a few minutes. Come and sit next to me and listen in. The Secretary has asked me to remind you that you are here as an observer only.” Kepler winked, “but I figure without any other UK representation here, you’re as qualified as anyone.”

Turning around, Kepler led Swann back to the table and approached the Secretary of State, Ben Lamens, waving the gang of assistants away as he moved to stand behind the Secretary. Finally interrupted, the Secretary turned to scowl at the source of the disturbance before recognising Kepler and Swann just behind him. He was a diminuitive, straw haired man in his late sixties, with an almost stereotypically Texan accent. When he stood Swann had the impression of being addressed by a precocious child.

“Admiral Swann, thank you for joining us. First of all let me say how sorry I am. Have you got relatives out there?”

Swann accepted the limp handshake,
“Thank you for permitting me to attend. And no, I have no family in London. I come from the south coast, near South…”

“Ahh that’s good then,” the Secretary repaid the interruption, appearing to lose interest already, “well, we’re gonna get a SITREP shortly; please listen in.” He turned back to the table and took his seat, engrossed once more in the babble of advice around him.

Swann took his seat to the right of Kepler, and Stevens moved back into the shadows against the wall behind him. Further around the table, Swann could see Wilkes taking his place next to an older but similarly dressed individual. More NSA.

Kepler reached for the glass in front of him, knocking it against the neighbouring water bottle. The babble quickly reduced to a background murmur of voices coming from the Intelligence Positions around them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to get another SITREP. But first I would like to introduce my colleague and old friend Admiral Geoffrey Swann, the United Kingdom’s Naval attache to the US.” Swann returned the sympathetic nods of several of the heads around the table, “Admiral Swann is here as an observer, but as the sole representative of the UK government, we may also very well consider that we may make use of his experience and unique intelligence in these critical circumstances.
Ok. Captain Redding?”

A tall suave looking naval officer stood back from the table, and moved to the presentation podium just in front of the wall-screen.

“Thank you sir. Latest information at 1930, all times local London time.

At 1300 a very large conventional RDX explosive device, probably C4, was detonated more or less exactly in the centre of the Olympic Stadium in Stratford, London. Mass estimate is approximately 400 kilograms of explosive and maybe 100 kilograms of shrapnel; mainly 3 to 7 mm ball bearings. The whole device was concealed within the body of the Chinese electric drinks cart.

As you now know, it has also been confirmed that the device was salted with an unknown quantity of cobalt. Fortunately, there was very little wind, and it is believed that the fall-out is contained within approximately one half mile radius of the explosion.

Nevertheless, current estimates place the death toll at around fifteen thousand. Further deaths can be expected from the cobalt poisoning for months if not years.”

He lifted his eyes to Swann as he paused momentarily, “The UK government has declared a state of emergency, and has implicated the Chinese government in the attack.

As yet, there has been no official response from the Chinese, although the Ambassador to Britain left in the early hours of this morning on an unplanned flight to Bejing. The flight is currently enroute over Russia; the UK’s official request to the Russian government to intercept the flight has been refused.

The Deputy Prime Minister has assumed Prime Ministerial authority following the death of the Prime Minister and his entourage in the stadium. COBRA has been convened, and within the last hour they have officially requested support for emergency evacuation of the area. Further, a few minutes ago, the UK government declared that it considered that the explosion was a Chinese Act of War, and demands that NATO supports that declaration to the United Nations.”

Kepler leaned in close to Swann to whisper, “Not a chance. The US Chiefs of Staff are shit-scared.”

“As for NATO assets, Operation Pool has been suspended, and the Royal Navy is already on its way back from the Gulf of Guinea to British waters.

The German and Dutch contingents are also heading home, and the US task force, led by USS Reagan, is awaiting orders.” He stopped to glance apologetically at the Secretary, who pointedly ignored him. Redding continued.

“In the Middle East, the Gulf patrol has been handed back from the UK Task Force to the US. That fleet, too, is on its way home. The Royal Naval submarine fleet is due up for orders over the next six hours. The UK government is likely to reposition them for Chinese targets. Again, the UK has asked for the same from the US and French fleets. France is likely to agree.”

Redding looked across the table to the French seats. Swann was an old friend of Admiral Kristiaan Roule’s. The Admiral made eye contact with Swann before offering an apologetic nod and a sad smile.

“And the Deputy Prime Minister is on the ‘phone every few minutes awaiting an answer from the US.”

This time, the Secretary of State could not ignore Redding. Clearly angry, he pushed away his advisors and stood to interrupt the Captain.

“Alright Redding. That’ll do. Stop trying to get me pissed.” The background murmur died to a whisper. “The US will answer the ad-interim Prime Minister of the United Kingdom when its damn well good and ready. And that’s not yet.”

Despite Kepler’s restraining arm, Swann pushed himself to his feet, and turned away from the table, grabbing his suitcase as he rose. Stevens was already at his side.

“I’m sorry, are you leaving us, Admiral?” asked Lamen, not bothering to hide his irony.

“No. On the contrary, I fear that you have already left us.” Answered Swann, swinging around to face the Secretary. “I think I’ve heard enough. I need to speak to the Prime Minister myself.”

Kepler was still trying to hold Swann’s arm. He raised his voice, and was forced to relinquish his hold on Swann to ring the glass and bottle once again as the babble of voices rose in disquiet all around the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Please. Ladies and..” But the babble rose higher, joined by the squeak of chairs being pushed back from the table. He gave up, and looked behind him for Swann, but he had already walked across towards the lift doors. Several of the other original members of the table were joining him.

“God verdomme.” Swore Kepler to himself, and got up to approach the Secretary of State. But Wilke’s colleague had seen him coming, and stepped in front of the Deputy Commander SACT. The man was overweight, and sweating profusely.

“The Secretary is busy right now, Admiral.”

Kepler took stock, carefully maintaining an impassive expression.

“Get out of my way. This is intolerable!”

As the NSA agent began to repeat his stock phrase, Kepler could see that Swann and Stevens, together with several others, now seemed to be involved in some sort of altercation at the lift entrance. Forgetting the nervous man in front of him, Kepler pushed past and hurried towards his old friend.

The three guards and Wilkes stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking access to the elevator doors. Wilkes posed with his jacket undone, hands on his hips. His shoulder holster was clearly visible beneath his armpit, and small white creams of spittle were collecting in the corners of his mouth. Stevens stood inches in front of him, his jacket neatly buttoned, his arms at his side and his feet shoulder distance apart. Immediately behind him, Swann looked almost as angry as Wilkes, and the two men were arguing vociferously.

“Admiral. Return to your seat. The Bunker is now pressurised. You cannot leave for nearly two hours.”

“Step away from the doors, Wilkes. I don’t give a damn for the regulations. We’re leaving.”

Stevens appeared to take this as a cue. As Kepler watched, Stevens changed from static calm to a flurrying dervish of movement. He flat-handed Wilkes in the chest, leaving the man gasping on his knees, and within the same fluid motion clapped the biggest of the guards around the neck.

The guard fell heavily forward to lie motionless at Swann’s feet. The remaining two guards stuttered to respond, one of them launching a roundhouse at where Stevens’ head had been a second earlier. Stevens ducked, plucking the pistol from Wilkes holster as he rolled away.

Instantly spinning back to his feet, he returned to a calm upright just to one side of the second of the three guards. The muzzle of the weapon grazed the man’s temple.

“Sorry guys, but I’ve fucking well had enough of this shit. Open the fucking door or you’re going down. You.”

He waved the gun at the last guard, who had started towards him. “Stay still you muppet or I’ll shoot your mate in the knee.” As if to prove the point, he lowered his aim to the other man’s leg. Both guards lifted there hands above their heads, and Stevens scowled even more.

“Don’t be such pussies. We’re still vaguely on the same side. Put your bloody hands down and open the friggin’ lift.”

As Wilkes moaned quietly to himself, the second guard turned and pressed the lift call. The other backed away, ostensibly to help his prone comrade. The lift doors opened without a sound.

Stevens pulled Swann forward and into the car. He considered keeping the gun as a replacement for the one turned over at the marine post, but then reversed his grip and handed it back to the last of the guards before stepping inside himself. Several other officers stepped in alongside him.

“Tell them to let us out upstairs or I’ll be back.” Stevens promised. By now Kepler had reached the lift door. He nodded at Stevens and saved a smile for Swann. Then rounding on the nearest guard, he reared to his full height and bellowed at the soldier.

“Radio upstairs now, and give the order to let them out. Escort them out. Any more stupidity and I’ll have you all court-martialled.” He bent down towards Wilkes, and nudged him in the back. “You’re a disgrace, Wilkes. Get out of my Bunker.”

The doors closed on Swann and Stevens.


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