Free Gray Vengeance by Alan McDermott Page A

pylon carrying power lines into the capital; smaller wooden poles feeding electricity to towns in the suburbs; a water distribution pipe; cable TV junction boxes—the list went on and on.
    After twenty minutes, his initial targets had been destroyed or seriously damaged, and that left only the train. He checked the location and saw that it was nearing the halfway mark, its lowest point beneath the English Channel. He closed down the GPS app and returned to the phone menu, where the entry ‘Chunnel’ sat at the top of the queue.
    Roberts called the number, and after a few seconds was told that the number was unavailable. He switched back to the GPS app, and saw that the signal was no longer being fed from the Tunnel.
    With that phase of the operation over, he opened his email client and accessed a mail draft with video attachment that he’d created the day before. After sending it, he started the engine and pointed the van towards Westminster.
    By the time he got to Thames House, MI5 would have had time to watch the video and know what they were facing.

    The driver hit his hazard lights as he pulled onto the hard shoulder of the M27. The NATS centre—formerly the National Air Traffic Services—sat three hundred feet off to his left, and having staked out the area in the previous weeks, he knew this was as close as he was going to get. It would have been nice to have driven up to the building, but the only entrance was manned by security personnel, as would be expected of the company that provided air traffic control for the UK.
    He checked his watch and saw that he was three minutes early, and he knew it was going to be the longest three minutes of his life. If a police patrol happened by, he had a cover story prepared: his wife was due to give birth and had called his mobile, which was why he’d pulled over. As had been drilled into him again and again during his training, he’d paid cash for the van and insured it immediately, so there was no need for the police to pull him over for any traffic violations. Even if they came across him now, all they’d find in the back was a washing machine that he’d claim was being delivered to a repair shop in Southampton.
    The more immediate danger was that one of the big rigs heading along the south coast would plough into the back of him, a common enough scenario that would have him on edge for the remaining two and a bit minutes.
    He considered firing his weapon early, but instructions had been explicit: it must be twelve minutes past ten in the morning, not a minute earlier or later. Why, he didn’t know, but it had long been drilled into him to stick to the agenda.
    The seconds ticked agonisingly by, until his watch indicated that it was time. He already had the trigger ready, and he pressed the red button, keeping it depressed for ten seconds, as instructed.
    In the back of the van, the device sat in its makeshift housing , which made it look like any other washing machine. This o ne, howev er, was fitted with an electro-magnetic pulse weapon, which could send cone-shaped high-energy microwave bursts out to a range of five hundred feet.
    Despite the shielding that had been installed within his cab, the driver felt a strange tingling sensation as he held the button down, and briefly wondered if he’d ever father children after this was all over.
    When the time had elapsed, he put the van in gear and pulled back onto the motorway.
    One task completed and seven more to go before the morning was out.

    At the same time, another van managed to get a lot closer to the NATS centre in Prestwick, Ayrshire. It parked in a bay near t he sec urity barrier as the driver pretended to make a phone call, all the time keeping his finger on the button that sent the powerful waves towards the control centre.
    The security guard manning the booth was more concerned with his radio suddenly packing up than the van, and he was checking the plug when the Transit reversed and pulled away, its