A Dark Day for London

[Grant]

Farid stepped out of the halal takeaway, the warmth of the shop quickly replaced by the damp chill of the evening. The plastic bag in his hand swung lightly, its contents wrapped in paper, the aroma of seasoned chicken kebabs and freshly made falafel filling the air. He tucked his chin deeper into his jacket collar, glancing briefly at the faint glow of the takeaway sign flickering behind him before turning towards the estate.

The housing estate sprawled quietly through the London suburb. Rows of weathered council flats and stoic terraced houses stood beneath the dim, flickering glow of ageing streetlights. Farid’s footsteps echoed softly on the cracked pavement as he walked through the familiar, shadowed alleyways. The orange haze barely reached the edges of the narrow paths, leaving corners thick with darkness. The air was damp, mixing the scent of rain-soaked concrete with the lingering spices from his bag. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled faintly, its low hum blending with the occasional bark of a dog or the muffled thump of music from a flat overhead.

Farid turned off the street and approached a rusted gateway, the metal creaking loudly as he swung it open. The hinges' screech echoed into the night, cutting through the stillness before the gate clanged shut behind him. He walked towards the flat entrance, turned the handle, and entered the dim hallway. Though none of the lights were on, a warmth wrapped around him, a welcome contrast to the biting cold of the night air he'd just left behind. He shrugged off his coat and moved quickly through the hallway, his footsteps soft but hurried. At the end, he reached a door at a darkened landing. From the other side, he caught the faint hum of voices speaking in Dari—two men, their words flowing effortlessly in the quiet space between them.

Farid paused for a moment, listening. Then, he gently pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

"Salam Alaikum, Nasim. Salam Alaikum, Mahdi," he greeted them with a warm smile, his voice easy and familiar.

Both men looked up as he entered, their faces lighting up briefly before returning back to work. They were seated at a small table, surrounded by scattered electrical components, ball bearings, screws, and nails—each item being packed with meticulous care into small, organized bundles. The room carried the faint scent of metal and chemicals.

"As-salamu alaikum," Nasim replied with a brief nod. "I’m starving. Lay the food out on the table, Farid. We’ll be over shortly."

A few moments passed before Mahdi looked up from his work and raised his hand in greeting. "As-salamu alaikum. You’ve been gone for ages!"

Farid nodded at Nasim and flashed a grin towards Mahdi as he shuffled toward the table, following Nasim’s gesture. Gently, he set the food bag down with a soft rustle. "They were busy this evening, so they couldn’t get the order ready ahead of time. Don’t blame me—have a word with them if you aren't happy!". Farid opened the bag, and the rich aroma of seasoned chicken kebabs and falafel filled the room, cutting through the cluttered surroundings and offering a welcome distraction.

Moments later, Nasim and Mahdi joined Farid at the table, reaching for the food as they sat down. The small room, once heavy with the metallic scent was now filled with the rich aroma of their well-earned meal. Nasim called out into the hallway, muttering a few words in Dari. Within seconds, a woman appeared in the doorway, holding a baby in her arms. Nasim gently passed her a box of food, then quickly shooed her away, not wanting her to see or hear any more than necessary. He glanced around the table at the other two men, then leaned in, lowering his voice to a near whisper.

"My friends… it may be no surprise why I’ve called you here tonight and why we have been preparing our gear for the past few days. Tariq has informed us that we are being called upon. Our duty starts now. I have the targets and will share the details with you in the morning. For now, we must finish packing these bags and tie up our loose ends."

Farid and Mahdi fell silent, the weight of Nasim’s words sinking in. The reality of what they were about to do had settled into the pit of their stomachs. It had been years since their arrival in the United Kingdom as a sleeper cell, and for so long, their purpose had been buried beneath the routine of everyday life. The call had come, and everything they had trained for was about to become real. They both fell into deep contemplation, knowing that time was running out, pulling them into a quiet, shared reflection.

Nasim’s voice broke the silence, soft yet firm, ensuring his words didn’t disrupt the moment of reflection. "We’ve sat idle for many years, dear friends. But now, we are finally able to fulfil our duty. Tonight, you must prepare yourselves and seek Allah’s strength and guidance for what comes in the next few hours. We'll meet at 6 am and go where we need to go. Tomorrow will be a dark day that London will never forget."

Jamie

 

[Grant]

Farid woke the following day feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. The weight of his task lingered in his mind throughout the restless night. His body ached from the stiffness of tossing and turning on the thin mattress, but he pushed himself upright anyway. As the dim light of dawn encroached through the small window, he knelt on the carpet and began his morning prayers, whispering each verse quietly. His voice was trembling slightly, though whether from fatigue or the enormity of the day ahead, he couldn’t tell.

When the prayers were complete, Farid sat still, staring at the floor. Finally, with a sharp breath, he stood and dressed himself. He pulled on a simple shirt and trousers and reached for the explosive harness laid out neatly in the room. His fingers lingered on the material for a moment, his mind flashing with fragments of memories—his family back home, his childhood, the ordinary life that he had been living for the last few years. But he shook the thoughts away, slipping the harness over his shoulders and securing it tightly against his chest. He adjusted the straps, ensuring the device was concealed beneath his thick winter coat. He zipped it up to his chin, glancing briefly at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the dresser. The man staring back at him looked the same as always, but he knew today would mark the end of everything he’d been pretending to be.

A van pulled up outside, its engine idling loudly in the early morning stillness. A series of sharp blasts from the horn shattered the quiet, drawing Farid’s attention. He moved to the window, pulling the thin curtain aside just enough to peer out. Below, Nasim sat behind the wheel, his face unreadable, while Mahdi lounged in the passenger seat, his expression tense but resolute. The sight of the van waiting for him sent a jolt through Farid's chest, the gravity of the day fully settling over him. Taking a deep breath, he let the curtain fall back into place and turned to walk outside.

Nasim drove the battered van through the streets, the faint glow of sunrise casting long shadows over the city. The air inside the vehicle was heavy with silence, broken only by the engine's hum and the occasional rustle of fabric as the men adjusted their coats. As they approached their first destination, Nasim glanced into the rearview mirror, his expression resolute. “Farid,” he said evenly, “Westfield Shopping Centre. It’s November so full of Christmas shoppers; the crowds will be dense, and the impact will be devastating. Wait until the shopping area is busy.” Farid nodded, his face pale but determined as Nasim slowed the van, letting him out near the sprawling complex.

The van pulled away quickly, the tyres crunching against the salt-gritted road as they headed toward the next target. “Mahdi,” Nasim said, his voice steady, “Kings Cross St. Pancras. The morning commuters will flood the platforms, packed like cattle. You know what to do.” Mahdi gave a solemn nod, gripping the edge of his coat as the van stopped near the station entrance. He stepped out without a word, disappearing into the sea of hurried travellers.

Nasim inhaled deeply, steadying himself as he guided the now-empty van toward his final destination. Quietly, he whispered a prayer for his brothers-in-arms, knowing he would never see them again. He eased the van into a secluded spot near his target, the bustling tourist district just beginning to stir with life. Cutting the engine, he sat momentarily, gripping the steering wheel as if drawing strength from its solidity. Finally, he slid out of the driver’s seat, the chill morning air biting his face. Locking the van and slipping the keys into his pocket, he took a moment to survey the street ahead before walking purposefully toward his target.

Jamie

 

[Grant]

---

Mahdi's Attack - Kings Cross St. Pancras - 07:33 GMT

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After leaving the van, Mahdi merged into the hurried flow of travellers bustling toward the station’s escalators. He kept his head low, his gaze flicking around the space in glances. The rush of the morning commuters provided ample cover, but he moved with care, blending seamlessly into the crowd. As he neared the ticket barriers, he reached into his pocket, fumbling briefly before pulling out his Oyster card.

Sliding the card over the scanner, he watched as the light blinked green and the barrier gates parted with a mechanical click. Passing through, he veered away from the steady stream of passengers, stepping aside near a rubbish bin. His movements were deliberate as he discarded the card, ensuring it couldn’t be used to trace his movements once the bomb detonated.

Rejoining the flow, he descended the final escalator, the air growing warmer and thicker as he entered the sprawling network of tunnels below. The sound of footsteps and muffled announcements filled the space, and Mahdi paused momentarily, assessing the paths ahead. Watching the commuters, he quickly deduced which platform was drawing the largest crowd and began following the flow of bodies in that direction. As he rounded a corner, the platform came into view, teeming with hundreds of commuters stretching the length of the space. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, damp coats, and train brakes. Mahdi’s heart thudded in his chest as he stepped onto the platform, positioning himself amidst unsuspecting passengers.

Mahdi’s eyes flicked up to the screen, scanning it. The next train was due in two minutes. The platform buzzed with restless energy as commuters shuffled and checked their watches, oblivious to the storm brewing. He exhaled slowly, steadied himself, and slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers searching for his phone deep within.
Finding it, he wrapped his fingers tightly around the device, his grip firm despite the faint tremor in his hand. Pulling it out, he unlocked it and navigated to his phone book. His thumb hovered over the number tied to the detonator, the screen reflecting in his eyes as he prepared to make the call that would change everything.

His breathing grew more shallow as the seconds ticked by. The train’s arrival was imminent, its faint rumble growing louder with each passing moment. He looked up, scanning the dense crowd around him. Businessmen with briefcases, students with backpacks, commuters clutching coffee cups—none had the slightest inkling of the danger standing among them.

Then he saw the perfect opportunity: two businessmen standing near the platform's edge engrossed in conversation. Their laughter cut through the crowd's hum, their obliviousness almost mocking. A new thought took root in Mahdi’s mind—this wasn’t just about the bomb. He could add to the devastation, creating chaos even before the device detonated. Moving purposefully, he navigated through the sea of passengers, weaving closer to his targets. The men were unaware of his approach; their backs turned as they discussed something trivial. The train’s headlights appeared, the rumble now a deafening roar as it barreled down the tunnel, closing in fast.

Without hesitation, Mahdi surged forward. He shoved the two men forcefully from the platform's edge with both hands. Their startled cries were lost in the cacophony as they tumbled onto the tracks directly into the path of the oncoming train. Screams erupted from the crowd as panic surged through the platform. In the chaos, Mahdi stepped back, his hand trembling as he gripped his phone. His thumb pressed the screen, dialling the number tied to the bomb, the chaos around him swelling into a crescendo as he silently mouthed his final prayer.

The explosion tore through the platform with a thunderous roar, a blinding flash of light consuming everything in its path. The shockwave hit like a physical force, shattering the tiled walls lining the underground station and sending jagged shards of ceramic and concrete flying through the air. The oncoming train, already slowing as it approached the station, bore the brunt of the blast. The lead carriage crumpled under the pressure, its metal frame folding like paper as the force sent it skidding sideways. Sparks erupted violently as the derailed train screeched across the tracks, slamming into the platform's edge and ripping apart ground sections. Passengers inside screamed in terror as they were thrown violently against walls and seats, the carriages behind piling up in a chaotic mess of twisted steel and shattered glass.

Smoke and dust engulfed the platform, choking the air and plunging the space into a suffocating haze. Lights flickered wildly before going dark, leaving the underground in an eerie, smoke-filled silence broken only by the groans of collapsing structures and the distant wails of survivors. The once-bustling platform was now a scene of utter devastation, littered with debris, mangled bodies, and the remnants of the morning rush.

---

Farid's Attack - Westfields Shopping Centre - 10:04 GMT

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Farid sat quietly at a corner table in the bustling food court of Westfield Shopping Centre, the air around him alive with the hum of chatter, clinking cutlery, and the distant jingles of Christmas tunes from nearby shops. He kept his posture relaxed, his eyes occasionally sweeping across the growing crowd: families laden with shopping bags, groups of friends laughing together, and solo shoppers bustling about in search of last-minute deals—each person unknowingly playing their part in the chaos he planned to unleash.

His gaze shifted to the televisions mounted high on the walls; each screen tuned to the breaking news. Bold headlines flashed across the bottom of the displays: "Explosion at Kings Cross St. Pancras: Casualties Reported." The footage looped through shaky videos of the devastated platform, the train wreckage, and panicked survivors being led out by emergency personnel.

Farid sipped from his drink, the rapidly cooling liquid masking the dryness in his throat. His fingers moved idly over his phone screen, pretending to scroll through social media, playing the role of a bored shopper blending into the crowd. But his heart beat faster with every update on the television, his mind alive with conflicting thoughts. He had known the plan, but seeing the destruction unfold on the screens felt surreal, a distant but chilling reminder of what lay ahead for him. Occasionally, he glanced at the festive decorations getting put up by the centre staff around the food court—glittering lights, oversized ornaments, and cheerful signs wishing "Merry Christmas." The contrast between the joyful atmosphere and the upcoming terror he was about to unleash was almost too much to bear.

Farid's gaze drifted again from his phone, drawn involuntarily to the table closest to him. A young mother sat there, her tired eyes scanning the bustling food court while her toddler happily babbled beside her. The small boy clutched a juice bottle in one hand, his other arm reaching for a bag of fruit snacks with a chubby, eager hand. A to-go cup of coffee and a half-eaten pastry sat on the table before her, but her attention was focused on the child as he excitedly talked about the upcoming Christmas Grotto.

The toddler’s voice rang out in innocent joy, his words so pure and hopeful as he told his mother he would ask Santa when his dad would come home. The mother smiled softly at him, her tired face lighting up momentarily as she wiped a stray crumb from the boy’s chin. Farid’s chest tightened at the sight. The joy in the boy’s voice, unaware of the fate that loomed over them, sent a ripple of doubt through him. His eyes lingered for a moment longer before he forced himself to look away, swallowing the unsettling feeling that had taken root in his stomach. It was just one more family and piece of the human cost that would be left behind.

It didn’t take long before his gaze settled on a sturdy white support beam descending from the abstract glass ceiling above. The strong metal helped hold up the entire food court mezzanine. The explosion's force could easily buckle the beam, sending the whole structure crashing down onto the main foyer below, causing chaos and damage far beyond what he could do alone.

His heart quickened as he realized this was the spot—the right place to maximize the damage.

Farid gently slid out of his seat without a second thought, leaving his drink on the table. He adjusted his coat, the weight of the explosive harness hidden beneath it pressing against his chest. He navigated the maze of chairs and tables with ease. He weaved through the crowd, his steps calculated to keep him inconspicuous. He positioned himself just beneath the beam, adjusting his stance to ensure it would do its job when the blast came. His eyes flicked upward briefly, noting the intricate web of steel and glass above him, a structure that now felt fragile, waiting for the inevitable.

Surrounded by lines of people waiting for their food, oblivious to his presence, he formed a buffer that kept him hidden in plain sight. As he stood among them, his fingers slipped into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up with a familiar image—his wife and their young children, their faces captured in a moment of peace. His heart tightened, a wave of guilt sweeping over him, but he quickly pushed it aside. With a steady breath, he swiped the screen and navigated to his contacts, his finger hovering over the number he needed to make the final call—the number that would detonate the bomb.

His other hand, almost involuntarily, slid down to his coat zipper. With deliberate care, he unzipped it, allowing the heavy fabric to fall open and reveal the explosive vest strapped tightly to his chest. The vest’s cold, unforgiving presence was a stark contrast to the warmth of the food court. He adjusted it slightly, ensuring it was positioned perfectly to do the most damage. A sudden rush of adrenaline hit him, a wave of emotion that surged violently beneath the calm exterior he’d maintained. His heart raced, and for a split second, the faces of his wife and children flashed in his mind. But then, everything blurred, and the mission—the purpose he had trained for—became the only reality. It was time.

With a fierce, guttural scream that tore from the depths of his chest, Farid’s voice rang out across the food court, cutting through the noise and the chatter like a sharp blade. “DEATH TO THE WEST! DIE YOU INFIDEL PIGS! ALLAHU AKBAR!”. The words left Farid’s lips in a ferocious shout, the intensity of the declaration filling the air around him. His voice echoed off the high walls of the food court, the shockwave of his announcement reverberating through the space for just a split second. People froze, their faces contorted with confusion, fear, and disbelief, all eyes drawn to him in the centre of the chaos.

His heart raced, pumping adrenaline through his veins as he pressed the button on his phone. The detonation was instantaneous, a violent, deafening roar reverberating throughout the area. The force of the blast sent a wave of pressure cascading outward, toppling tables and chairs and sending them flying through the air.
The support beam behind him took the brunt of the explosion, its metal groaning under the immense pressure. With a loud creak, it began to bend, unable to bear the weight of the collapsing mezzanine above. The floor above gave way, and the mezzanine came crashing down, sending a cascade of debris tumbling into the food court below. The impact caused a violent shockwave which shattered glass all around him.

The air filled with panicked screams as the food court crumbled into the main foyer. Frantic footsteps echoed through the halls as shoppers and workers scrambled to escape, pushing past each other desperately to reach any exit. The chaos was deafening, and the sound of rushing feet, panicked cries, and the groaning of the structures echoed through the space as the destruction unfolded.

---

Nasim's Attack - Hop on/Hop off Tourist Bus - 10:11 GMT

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Nasim stood waiting at Stop 4 of the hop-on/hop-off tourist bus on Queen Victoria Street. His phone buzzed sharply in his pocket, pulling his attention away from the task. He pulled it out quickly and saw the headline flash on the screen: Breaking News: A second bomb has detonated at the Westfield Shopping Center.

A cold shudder ran down Nasim’s spine. His brothers-in-arms had already executed their parts flawlessly. The mission was unfolding just as planned. And now, it was his turn. This final strike, his last contribution, would seal their collective effort—an attack to mark the day as one of the darkest in London’s history. The East and the West would remember it as a day of chaos and devastation that would echo through the years. He couldn’t help but wonder how many had already fallen to his comrades' bombs and how many more would perish with his own. The toll was rising, and Nasim felt the weight of it pressing on him. But there was no time to dwell on the aftermath—he had a mission.

The sound of the Citysightseeing bus approaching broke his thoughts. The large red vehicle pulled to the stop, emblazoned with brightly coloured images of London’s landmarks. "Soon, the only colour people will see is red," Nasim thought darkly, a fleeting smile curling at the corner of his mouth. Nasim made his way toward the bus, ticket in hand, and showed it to the controller before making his way to a seat at the back. He chose the seat above the engine—prime positioning for maximum casualties inside and outside the vehicle. With a sharp clunk and a hiss, the doors slammed shut, and the engine rattled to life. The bus lurched forward while trying to merge into the flow of London’s never-ending traffic.

Nasim’s gaze drifted to a brightly coloured poster on the bus’s advertising space, his mind already calculating the best spot for his final strike. This needed to be big, unforgettable—something that would leave a mark on the city and send shockwaves through the heart of it.

An automated announcement echoed the murmur of tourists pulling out their cameras, eager to snap pictures of the iconic city landmarks and the bustling crowds outside. A short while later, the bus pulled up to Stop 5—London Bridge. Nasim shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his coat starting to feel stifling as more people crowded onboard, taking the remaining seats. A young Chinese couple sat beside him, speaking in hushed tones as they studied a paper map. They were making plans for their day in London—plans that would be shattered in the next five minutes.

As the bus pulled from the stop, the tourists released audible gasps of awe, their faces lighting up as they crossed London Bridge. Nasim, however, remained unmoved, his eyes vacant as the London skyline passed by. He didn’t care about the muddy waters beneath or the boats drifting lazily along the Thames. Rising in the distance, Tower Bridge caught his eye, but instead of admiration, a cold, calculating contempt filled him. That was it—his target. This landmark would be the final symbol of the day’s destruction. A small, twisted smile tugged at the corner of Nasim’s mouth as he hummed softly, “London Bridge is falling down.”


After what felt like an eternity, the bus made its final turn. Tower Bridge loomed ahead, its blue metal arches and towering sandy spires cutting through the grey sky, symbolising the city’s strength. This was it, Nasim thought. Just a few more moments, and they would be at the centre of the bridge. His fingers twitched with anticipation, eager to reach for his phone and make the call that would cement this as the darkest day London had ever seen.

The passengers excitedly chattered as the bus rolled onto the bridge, oblivious to the looming disaster. Cameras flashed, and couples posed for pictures, their smiles wide as they stood under the towering structure. Nasim exhaled slowly, watching the scene unfold around him. His hand slid to his pocket, his phone waiting for the command. When they reached the middle of the bridge, he knew it would be time.

His heart pounded as his thumb found the number in his phonebook, dialling it without hesitation.

The explosion tore through the air with a deafening roar, a massive fireball consuming the bus instantly. The blast obliterated the engine and fuel tank, sending a shockwave of destruction through the surrounding vehicles and nearby structures. Debris hurtled through the air, scattering in all directions, while the explosion's force shook the bridge's very foundations. Flames erupted from the bus and began spreading to nearby cars. The air was thick with heat and smoke as the fire raged on, its crackling roar overwhelming all other sounds, leaving nothing but chaos and devastation in its wake.

As the inferno blazed, traffic in the area began to grind to a halt. Vehicles came to a standstill, their drivers unable to move in the thick cloud of smoke and debris. Both lanes of the bridge were blocked, and the surrounding roads quickly backed up with cars, buses, and trucks. Hundreds of vehicles were stuck in the bottleneck as the city’s lifeblood—its traffic—seized up in the wake of the disaster. The once-bustling area was now a scene of utter chaos, with the flames from the explosion casting an eerie glow over the stranded motorists and helpless pedestrians trapped in the aftermath.

The bus's passengers—once alive, smiling, unaware—were gone in a heartbeat, their existence erased by the explosion. All that remained was the devastation, a testament to Al Qaeda's final act of the day.

---

Jamie

 

[Jamie]

Kings Cross St. Pancras
Within seconds of the explosion ripping through the platform at King's Cross St. Pancras, the control room of the London Fire Brigade was quickly inundated with phone calls. 'There's been an explosion at King's Cross--' 'I saw someone from the opposite platform; I think it was a terrorist attack!' 'There's been a train crash at King's Cross,' call after call came in, each offering a different piece of the puzzle. Some were completely wrong, while others contained accurate information that couldn't immediately be verified. Several reports mentioned the possibility of a suicide bombing. Despite the likelihood of these claims being incorrect, they were escalated quickly to rule out the threat of terrorism. Watch Managers made the Security Services aware whilst controllers focused on the tasking of assets and sharing information across other agencies to ensure a valid response.

Meanwhile, local fire stations echoed 'Mobilize, Mobilize' as they were tasked with responding to the incident. The nearest, Euston Fire Station, saw a full deployment, with its Pump Ladder and Fire Rescue Unit leaving on blue lights and arriving within three minutes. An additional eight pumps were responding from neighbouring stations, including a Command & Control Unit, two aerial ladder platforms, and an Incident Response Unit. In conjunction, information was relayed to the London Ambulance Service and the Metropolitan Police, who responded in turn. Despite much of the information provided by 999 callers being incorrect, one truth was established: there had been an explosion in an extremely busy station. To avoid the risk of delays, the Hazardous Area Response Team (HART) was requested, in addition to the Incident Command Unit and six ambulances, accompanied by various first responder vehicles, all racing through early morning traffic. Police response units were also attending in force, but most importantly, armed response units were present. The misinformation meant that nothing could be ruled out at this point, so the initial response was understandably overwhelming.

The first crews arrived to chaos: hundreds of people evacuating the station with smoke billowing from the roof. Immediately donning their breathing apparatus, fire crews worked to set up hoses and begin primary searches. All information gathered—whether by the crews themselves, the police, or the ambulance service—was immediately fed back to the command and control vehicles to piece everything together. Triage areas were established, and the entire area was completely cordoned off by the police as news teams desperately sought to report on the explosion. Within around 20 minutes, hundreds of emergency service workers were now at the scene—hoses rapidly deployed and connected to established water sources. Police carried out inquiries, maintained the cordons, and armed response units provided guard. Ambulance crews identified casualties and handled them in the appropriate way. HART teams, suited in their own breathing apparatus, entered with entry teams from the London Fire Brigade to work the problem. The imminent objective was to save lives and get everyone and anyone out and to the designated triage areas. Second teams focused on extinguishing the fire and making the scene safe. This would no doubt go on for hours upon hours but unknown to the control rooms handling the incident, it was going to take a nasty turn.

​

Westfields Shopping Centre
Two and a half hours later, while work continued at St. Pancras, those at Westfield Shopping Centre had already indulged in the news channels reporting the "BREAKING NEWS" of an explosion, but carried on with their day. It was a month before Christmas, so those who could were making sure to get in their Christmas shopping. Not dissimilar to the calls in St. Pancras, 999 control rooms received a new wave of continuous calls about an explosion at Westfield Shopping Centre. "Sir, another explosion. Westfield Shopping Centre. Initial reports suggest the explosion originated from nothing? Nothing notable to have instigated it," shouted one of the controllers. The Watch Manager’s eyes widened. "Except a person, a suicide bomb?" he thought. Two incidents of a similar magnitude—could it be a coincidence? Authorities were still to figure that out. Meanwhile... 'Mobilize, Mobilize.' Resources from all three major emergency services committed their responses with a further Make Pumps 12. On top of managing more routine incidents, that took 22 appliances off the run as they focused on their efforts at the respective incidents.

Taskings began to roll out in the control room, and updates were still maintained for other ongoing incidents. The Watch Manager picked up the phone and contacted the Security Services to raise concerns. In the seven minutes that followed, responders arrived en-masse at Westfield to carry out their primary searches, followed by securing the area. New triage points were established, and armed police made their mark. It definitely wasn't a slow news day.

"Hi, yes, good morning, it's Alex from London Fire Brigade Control Room Alpha. I'm calling in relation to the incident at St Pancras this morning. We've just had reports of another explosion at Westfield within the last couple of minutes. I'm concerned about a pattern; it's almost identical—"

He was interrupted by a controller.

"Sir, another one... Queen Victoria Street, a tourist bus."

Alex continued to explain the situation and elaborated further on Victoria Street. London was under attack.

London Bridge
Many, if not all, around London Bridge were becoming aware of the explosion at St. Pancras, with some just hearing news of the incident at Westfield. You could almost cut the tension with a knife. Two incidents of such magnitude were enough to spark caution, but it didn’t deter many from carrying on with their daily business. Surely there couldn’t be a third explosion? That was, until it happened. The explosion that ripped through the bus sparked mass panic, as crowds quickly dispersed from the bridge, screaming and shouting, while those close to the blast radius were severely injured or killed instantly. It felt almost like déjà vu as emergency services rushed to the scene. At this point, the reallocation of other assets was being decided upon to ensure a sufficient response for any additional incidents that might arise. It wasn’t yet known whether there were more to come.

Work continued throughout the morning and well into the afternoon to manage all three incidents, on top of the regular day-to-day calls. An unofficial death toll of 94 had been established, though this had yet to be confirmed by the authorities. Meanwhile, footage had begun to surface online of people in the areas of all three attacks—no doubt of great importance to the security services.

​

Hereford, 10:29 GMT
Eyes across the United Kingdom were glued to the news as word spread of three explosions, but the most important eyes were in Hereford. Focused intently on the TV screens, they were quickly interrupted.

"C'mon, boys, we're rolling!" came a deep voice, followed by an abrupt silence. Not a word was spoken—the only sound was the chairs moving and the shuffle of boots as the group exited the room. They were already kitted up: completely black attire, MP5s slung over their shoulders, and gas masks hoisted on their armoured chests.

Twelve of them left the barracks and headed straight for the awaiting vehicles, which immediately departed and took a route around to the opposite side of the base. During the commute, the silence was suddenly broken by the sharp slap of blades— a Boeing Chinook HC2 from No. 7 Squadron arrived, landing with no time to waste. The Special Air Service had been called to London.

It was too early to say whether more attacks were imminent, but it was clear that the focus was on London. Once onboard, the Chinook took off and began its journey. It would be landing and operating from London City Airport, ready to respond to any developments.

Thames House, 10:34
All branches of the Security Services received new orders. Their focus? Determine exactly what had happened. Who had carried out the attack? Where had they originated from? Were there other associates still at large? What group, if any, claimed responsibility? The questions were numerous, and the clock was ticking. Investigations began immediately, even as the emergency services continued to manage the chaos at the three attack sites. The attacks had paralyzed much of central London, but the intelligence apparatus couldn’t afford to be static. Requests for CCTV footage flooded the control rooms of the Metropolitan Police, Transport for London, and nearby businesses. Every available analyst was reassigned to reviewing hours of footage, frame by frame, searching for suspicious movements, abandoned packages, or persons of interest. The smallest detail—a nervous gesture, an out-of-place individual—could prove pivotal.

Inside MI5’s Thames House headquarters, tension was palpable. The bombings represented a catastrophic failure in intelligence. Somewhere in the network of leads, surveillance targets, and counter-terrorism units, something had been missed. Someone would have to answer for that failure. But accountability could wait. For now, the focus was clear: deliver the Prime Minister what he needed most. Information.

The Aftermath
12 hours later and London had started coming to terms with what had happened. A normal day, a month before Christmas and three explosions had completely shattered the lives of many. The three sites completely cordoned off, emergency workers populating it and staff from MI5 were working the evidence-gathering operation was methodical. Bomb fragments were carefully bagged and sent to forensics. DNA swabs were taken from the crime scenes, hoping to link the perpetrators to any known databases. Police cordons held back growing crowds of onlookers and media crews, eager for answers but unaware of the monumental task underway behind the scenes.

​

Prime Minister Address

"Afternoon," begun Lawrence, a typical black suit but solemn facial expression. His tone of voice casual but with a flair of anger "Today, our nation has endured a terrible tragedy. Approximately half-seven this morning, a bomb detonated at Kings Cross St. Pancras. Only a couple hours later, a second bomb at Westfield Shopping Centre exploded. Only seven minutes later, a third on London Bridge. These were deliberate, coordinated attacks designed to spread fear and take innocent lives. As of this moment, we can confirm that 104 people have lost their lives and many more are injured. Some critical. My heart breaks for the victims, their families and everyone affected by this appalling act of violence. This is a dark day not just for London, but for the entire country.

We would like to take a moment to commend the brave response of our emergency services who worked tirelessly to save lives. Their dedication gives us hope in the face of such tragic attacks. we hear of extraordinary courage from ordinary citizens who just happened to be there and contributed. Offering comfort to complete strangers, helping those who couldn't help themselves and offering assistance in any way possible. You are the embodiment of the United Kingdom. Tonight, we hold the victims and their families in our hearts. Flags across the country will be flown at half-mast in their memory."

A short pause occurred, it was almost out of character for Lawrence and the usual tone of his speeches. He continued, this time as 'I' rather than 'We'. It was more than a speech, it was a promise.

"To those responsible for these cowardly attacks, I am coming for you."​