Carrick surveyed the area, his eyes darting from blackened feature to blackened feature. He had seen many scenes of destruction. In the Balkans he had found a burnt out village, charred and mutilated remains littering the entire area. But it had not affected him like this. No amount of training or experience could prepare you for viewing the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. He had been given many hours of NBC training, including watching hundreds of nuclear detonations, but not even those actually could be compared to the devastation that he saw here.
The closest thing he could compare it to was the Hiroshima blast. That had killed nearly one hundred thousand, but the bomb itself had only a fraction of the power of this weapon. He wondered how many people had died here. True, they had found a dozen or so survivors earlier on, but out of how many? Hundreds? Thousands? He didn't know, and he honestly didn't care. It wasn't that he was a sadist, or depressive, as people often thought, but it was through ten years of fighting, maiming and killing that had hardened his attitude to those who were not in his day-to-day life. There was none of this 'honour and glory' crap the PR division feed to the media and the masses. They, on the face of it, were trained killers. The only difference was that they were paid to kill, by the public who felt it their moral duty to 'protect the innocent and preserve freedom and democracy', by killing people who were just like them, who fought for the same reasons.
He did not think beyond the immediate 'kill-or-be-killed' mentality, as a soldier, he couldn't do anything else. These people probably deserved to die. He, deep down, hoped so, but he knew like everyone else there that they were probably fighting for something like they were. He remembered his time in Northern Ireland. The IRA, the UDF, and every other one of those terrorists planted those bombs because they believed that killing people was the only way to get things done, to fight for what they believed in, and that if innocent people had to die, then so be it. He hated violence beyond anything, but, ironically, it was this that gave him the motive to kill others, all in the name of peace. You can't have peace without war, and you can't have freedom without laws and restrictions. It was the greatest paradox of all, an undeniable truth that meant that he was almost continuously risking his and his unit's lives in some god forsaken country, fighting for values that seemed ludicrous in the situation, but kept the public at home happy, and his pay rolling in.
And yet. There was something here that moved such hardened veterans like him. It was the sense of powerlessness that filled a man when he saw what fellow men was capable of doing when he finally decides to find an ultimate way of ending the lives of others. He looked at the crater. It would have fitted several towns quite easily. He had received the exact measurements. Eight hundred and thirty four feet across, with a maximum depth of two hundred and twenty five feet. He watched as three Chinooks, the largest helicopters in the western world hovered above it like flies above a dead carcass. He looked around, taking another look at the landscape. Everything either looked as if it had been hit with a giant hammer, or torched with a hundred flame-throwers. Of course, with a blast of that magnitude, that was going to be expected. Nothing survives a nuclear blast. That is the whole reason behind these weapons. They are not warning shots. They are not specific, they are, as the government calls them, weapons of mass destruction, and they certainly earned their feared reputation.
A slight crunch broke his concentration. He looked at the thick-soled boot of his NBC suit. It looked like a burnt twig. But it wasn't. It was bone. Black, charcoaled bone. He wiped the ashes off his boot, and continued looking around. He kicked another stone out the way, and then walked another ten feet, and then something caught his eye. It was a burnt door. The fact that it was in a recognisable state was surprise enough, but not only the door, but its frame as well, was intact. He called some men over and began digging. It took nearly three hours, and involved them getting a helicopter to lift several large stones out of the way.
Then it dawned on them, it was a whole room, like a circular chocolate box, the stones holding it together standing firm, if slightly chipped and fried. The room actually was embedded at an angle into the ground, and despite being thrown nearly four hundred yards through the air, was still intact. Carrick looked around, and looked at the door again. He called another soldier down and the two of them looked at the door. It should have been blasted to smithereens, or at least burnt down in the ensuing fire. But it had remained intact. Carrick brushed the surface with his glove. To his amazement, once he had brushed a fine coating of ash away, he found a perfectly painted and varnished door, with only a few minor scratches here and there.
"Do an Infrared on this…thing." He ordered. A pause, then a soldier standing to their left shook his head.
"Sir, the IR cameras can't penetrate it"
"What?" Asked a puzzled Carrick. He knew the strike had been against wizards, but he never guessed that they could make something that would survive a nuclear blast, particularly with the rest of the building lying in ruins around it.
"Get me command" yelled Carrick, looking at a radio officer, who seemed just as bewildered as Carrick. Then a new thought entered Carrick's head. 'What if this is a wizard's version of a shelter? What if there are survivors inside?' He didn't know. He simply radioed the command centre in the Peak district, and leave it with them.
Mr and Mrs Granger had not been to sleep for nearly thirty-six hours. They had replaced the telephone, but it had not rung. The two sat together in the living room, the telly still on, and twenty or so empty mugs of coffee on the table in front of them. They watched another news program as it came up.
"The MOD
has revealed that two Tornado fighter aircraft have disappeared just outside of
the nuclear no-go zone. The RAF has revealed that both aircraft were flying routine
patrols when both suddenly disappeared in a thick bank of fog in the region. Another
pair of aircraft found their wreckage a few minutes later when investigating the
Tornado's disappearance.
The MOD has
confirmed that three of the aircrew are dead, whilst a fourth is being treated for
severe injuries at a Northern England airbase. The whole region is becoming an unlucky
place for aircraft, as another privately owned aircraft has also disappeared, this
time in the north of the region.
In an unrelated
incident, a US navy spokesperson has confirmed that the US Powell, a DDG51 class
destroyer, has sunk off the Scottish coast. Although no official statement actually
says why the 'Powell' was lost, some news leaked by the Pentagon indicates an accident
with the ships main weapons, Tomahawk cruise missiles, causing an explosion that
ripped the ship in the two. British Coastguard, Royal Navy and US Navy units in
the area are conducting the search for crewmembers, although some reports state
that there was a good possibility that there are few, if any, survivors, and everyone
in both countries are praying that this is not the case.
And finally,
British troops, wearing heavy protection gear have in the last few hours have actually
entered the blast area. Although officially, no survivors have been found, T.V
networks received several radio messages, indicating some survivors had been
picked up. The couple suddenly began staring at the telly. Although many
scientists ar saying the probability of somebody being alive are remote, and anyone
who did survive would have died anyway from acute radiation poisoning.
More news
as it comes in. Thank you and good evening."
The report finished, and the Grangers looked at each other through tired red eyes.
"Do you think she, oh George," whispered Mrs Granger, gazing straight into her husband's eyes. Before he could answer however. A low grumbling noise came from outside the house. It grew steadily, before stopping as the vehicle parked in front of the house. A door opening, followed by a knock on the their front door, spurred the Grangers into motion. They walked slowly up to the front door. They opened the door to reveal a man in a military police uniform, standing in front of two regular soldiers and a military-styled Landrover.
"Mr and Mrs Granger" asked the man, starring in between the couple he was addressing.
"Yes," answered the pair, Mr Granger firmly, Mrs Granger almost whispering timidly.
"Please come with me, you are required to come up to RAF Staxton. If you would please come with us."
"Is this about Hermione?" Asked Mr Granger, placing an arm around his wife's shoulder.
"I have not been told anything apart from to collect you."
"Now, wait a minute, I want to know what this is about?"
"I'm sorry sir, but it is required for you to come with us." The grangers looked at each other, shut their eyes momentarily, and then followed the soldier down the path and into the Landrover, which started again almost instantly, and drove off, down the little cul-de-sac, onto the main road for a minute, before joining the M1 and heading north into the unkown.