Four meals from anarchy...

How long would it take for the UK to crack if the lights went out?

(AP Photo/Lefteris Pitarakis)

I’m often asked where I get the ideas for my books from and how realistic they actually are. The broad answer is that I employ a combination of personal experiences and real world events. With over three decades in front-line counter terrorism and military operational experience, I’m rarely short of ideas or plots.

Take the title of this article for example. Four meals from anarchy. That term comes from an MI5 threat matrix carried out some years back and refers to the timeframe in which the UK would descend into anarchy after a comprehensive cyber attack taking out our power supply for an extended period. It took into account how reliant our nation is on electricity, digital communication platforms, and how little resilience is built into the system to cope with large-scale, prolonged outages. It also identified how fragile our food supply chain is and again, how even the smallest disruption to it would have a disproportionate effect. Think about Tesco and other major retailers ‘Just in Time’ model of supply. This is where the resupply to major supermarkets takes place just before stock is depleted to a certain level. It’s why and how Tesco et al can save money by not having massive storage sites at their locations. But it is extremely vulnerable to any transport or communications disruption.

The thing is, MI5 don’t have to imagine or attempt to predict the effects that such a cyber attack and power outage would have. They have had the opportunity to study several events where this very thing has happened. The biggest one obviously being when Russia carried out an operation of this type against Ukraine. Banks, food supply and storage, Internet, mobile phones, fuel supplies, traffic lights, air travel, train travel, trams, heating and hot water. It would take too long to list every element affected by the attack but it’s sobering to see the immediacy and depth of impact this type of hybrid warfare has.

And Ukraine was far more resilient than we in the UK would be. Ukraine as a country is accustomed to Russian attacks and intimidation and the Ukrainian people stoic and resolute in coping with the associated effects and hardships. We as a nation have not been exposed to the same misfortunes and suffering and consequently not invested in mitigation and coping strategies.

One of the largest increases in crime in the UK in the past year has been that of shoplifting, up 25% from the year before. 25%. By any measure, and for any crime, that’s an eye-watering statistic. And it’s not being carried out by poor people who can’t afford food. The type of offender ranges across the class spectrum as steaks, cheese, wine and other alcohol top the stolen items list. Organised criminal gangs have also jumped on the bandwagon, recognising the minimal possibility of arrest and prosecution as a very low risk/high reward criminal enterprise.

I bring this up to highlight the fact that this stealing of food is occurring when there is no threat to our food supply and availability. It takes very little imagination to picture the increase in stealing food on the second day our country has no power. Those who already steal carrying on as normal, the newcomers justifying their actions as self-preservation. The criminal gangs would expand the scope of their thefts to a wholesale level, stealing in bulk now to sell for maximum profit later as food supplies become more scarce. The competition for the securing of food also leading to increased violence at every level.

And that’s just food. Think about our reliance on petrol and diesel for transport and goods delivery and the impact of having none. No electricity for EVs. Ambulances, fire engines, police cars, all affected from the off. Rail and air travel stopped. The mobility we rely on every day for every aspect of our lives suddenly ended.

Communication blackouts, initially from cyber attack then from no power availability. No internet or phone connectivity. Isolation from family and friends as the situation deteriorates further. Information available only as rumour and speculation, the void of news reporting filled by conspiracy theories and fearmongering.

Water supply and sewage control. This was one of the key areas the Russian’s targeted in Ukraine as it has a twofold effect in terms of impact. When citizens lose their water supply it has immediate effects on health and hygiene. The secondary impact is on mental health and morale, a deep rooted panic setting in as it becomes apparent that things are getting far worse than could ever have been imagined.

When the Soviet Union, then Russia, employed their deep-cover ‘sleeper’ agents in countries abroad, attacks against key infrastructure were planned and rehearsed due to the immediate and very public effects they had on a nation. A government dealing with a population turning upon each other and their leaders has few remaining resources with which to combat the external threat.

In 2013, a series of power outages in the USA assessed to be a fault in the system, turned out to be something far more nefarious. When the outages were investigated, it was found that fibre-optic cables and electricity transformers had been targeted in what was described by investigators as ‘military level’ in planning and execution. Where the elements of the transformers had been disabled, it was found that they had been shot, from distance and with accuracy, indicating training and proficiency by whoever had carried it out. CCTV caught a puzzling series of small flashes away from the target area and this was later identified as signals which initiated and ended the attack. Again, an indication of complexity and coordination. On the shell casings found at the firing points, no prints or identifying forensic evidence was recovered, pointing to operational discipline and experience. And the thing is, this case has never been solved. A rehearsal by a Russian ‘sleeper’ team? Anti-government militia flexing their muscles?

In truth, the ‘who’ doesn’t really matter. The fact is that there is a group out there somewhere with the confidence, knowledge, capability, and who have now executed their concept successfully. Several counter terrorist investigators used the term ‘frightening’ when describing their assessment of the attack, referring to both the soft, relatively unguarded nature of the target and the coordinated element of the operation.

Just a few weeks ago, a Chinese vessel in the Baltic Sea dragged its anchor for over 20 miles along the seabed, rupturing communication and energy-provison cables that serve Finland. Absolutely impossible that it was an accident. And coincidence that it occurred at the same time refugees turning up at Finland’s border with Russia increased from 1 a day to over 1,000? Unlikely. A typical page from the playbook of overwhelming a country’s government while disrupting energy supplies and communications. There’s no doubt that this was a Russian retaliation for Finland joining NATO, the bigger surprise being the joint venture with China.

So, back to my initial point of ideas for books and stories. I keep a small log of interesting bits and pieces such as this one you are reading about now for future writing projects. The information I’ve mentioned in this piece for example, is being woven into a shorter work for my Patreon and paying subscribers.

But here’s something for you to think about:

Day One:

You wake up. Late, because your phone didn’t charge and ran out of power through the night. You get up, flick the bedroom light switch and frown when the light doesn’t work. You carry on into the kitchen and check the time on a battery operated clock and swear under your breath because you’re really late for work. You flick the light switch in the bathroom but nothing happens. You swear again but don’t stop as you need to get ready quickly. Pushing the button on the electric shower, you slap your forehead when you realise it won’t work in a power cut. Okay, bird bath it is. When you turn on the taps, the water sputters for a few seconds then nothing more comes out. You try this again and again, unable to fathom why water isn’t coming out. Mmm . . . better call your friend who lives a few streets away and ask if . . . but you’ve no power in your phone. You run to your laptop and give a ‘hah’ of victory as the screen comes to life and you note there’s still some battery power. But no internet. Because the power’s down, your router isn’t working, and you can’t hot-spot from your dead phone. You’re now running very late and decide deodorant, a brush through your hair, and a quick clean of your teeth will have to suffice. As you grab your keys and the last banana from the bowl on the table, your only concern is getting to work and not on how long what little food you have in your fridge will last without electricity. Slamming the door behind you, you rush down the communal stairway, darker than usual because the lights are out, and bustle your way out into the street.

The first thing that strikes you is the amount of people stabbing at the screens on their mobile phones in frustration, or holding the devices up in the air, deep frowns on their foreheads as they try to get a signal. As you arrive at the bus stop a woman informs you that she’s been waiting nearly an hour and none have turned up. You ask if the drivers are on strike again but the woman shakes her head and says she doesn’t know. A man beside her picks up his bag and announces he’s going home as he’s tried his best but can’t get into work. He doesn’t seem too displeased about this. The traffic on the road is static, nose to tail and every few yards a driver leans on his horn in frustration. You’ve never seen a traffic jam on this road and wonder what could be causing it. A commotion across the street catches everyone’s attention and you watch as a group of youths explode out of the convenience store, arms full of food and drink, laughing as the aged shopkeeper tries to chase them. You join those around you in condemnation of the youths’ actions with a chorus of tutting and shaking of heads. You decide to walk a few streets over to another bus stop as, even if the buses are running on this line, they won’t get through until the traffic clears on the road.

As you walk the ten minutes or so to the next route, you are approached three times by strangers asking if you have a phone they could use. You explain politely that it’s dead and they move on quickly. But this makes you uneasy. Something about so many strangers in such a short period of time desperate for a phone unsettles you. At the corner of the street you groan when you see the traffic here is as bad as the street you left and you sigh in resignation, turn around and begin walking home. On reflex, you reach into your pocket for your phone, intending to call in and let work know you won’t make it, but stop short of pulling the device out when you remember. You realise you are thirsty and could also do with a coffee so cross the road and head towards the new Costa at the next junction. As you push the door to enter the shop, it doesn’t budge and looking in, you see four or five of the staff sitting at a table. One of them catches your eye and points to the window further down from the door. Following the guidance, you notice the improvised sign, ‘Closed. No electricity.’ Okay, you’ll just pick up some water from the convenience store. When you arrive at the store, their door is also locked. You shake your head as you knock, guessing that it’s a security measure after the youths’ stealing spree earlier. The face of the shopkeeper appears and waves you away. You explain that you just want to buy some water and he shouts through the glass barrier that they sold out of water earlier. You knock again to stop him turning away and yell that you will take some juice instead. He regards you for a second and tells you it’s cash only. You reach for your phone to show him your Apple Pay and groan when you realise the futility of your actions. Determination kicks in and you remember there is a cash machine nearby. With a rather dramatic ‘I’ll be back’, you stride out the small distance to the ATM. Which isn’t working because, of course, there’s no power. That uneasy feeling you experienced earlier comes back with a bit more force as the cumulative effect of the morning’s events starts to take hold. You turn around and head straight for home, allowing yourself a small grin when you think about how foolish you’ll feel in a couple of hours when the power comes back on.

Except it doesn’t. That afternoon, after rebooting your laptop over and over trying to get the internet restored, you drained the battery. No Netflix, Amazon Prime Video or YouTube to relieve the boredom. You eventually resorted to reading a book, sitting in a chair by the window where there was enough light. As the light died, you decided to have something to eat and, upon looking at the meagre contents in the fridge, reached for your phone to access the JustEat App before remembering it had more use as a coaster in its current state. Fine. You grab your coat and head towards the door, stomach rumbling in anticipation of the fish and chips to come. A memory from this morning comes back and you realise you will probably need cash but you haven’t used cash for so long you have none at hand. You do have a debit card and put this into your pocket, lock the door behind you then pause as you enter the dark stairwell. In all your years living here you’ve never seen it so dark. You hurry out into the street and register how dark it is here also, with no streetlights pooling their sodium glow onto the pavements and no shops with any light showing whatsoever. There’s also very few people around and those that are seem to be hurrying along, heads down and determined not to make eye contact. The traffic on the street remains the same as earlier today and you realise with a start that the cars have been abandoned, the drivers clearly unable to progress any further. You walk another couple of minutes before it hits you that there’s no point heading for fish and chips, or any kind of takeaway food for that matter. Nothing’s open. Nothing’s working. You think about it for a moment and decide to walk the mile or so to your friend’s house, see if they know when the power will be coming back on. This seems like a good idea until you notice the three men further along the road, leaning against the wall. They are stopping everyone walking past them, moving in close and clearly taking things from them. Your adrenaline spikes and mouth goes dry as you witness your first robberies, the raised voices of the criminals and powerlessness of the victims striking a deep fear within you. You turn and run for home.

Day Two:

You sleep late again but waken suddenly, thirsty and a little confused. Your face feels cold and you realise the heating hasn’t kicked in which in turn reminds you that the power still hasn’t come back on. A loud noise outside catches your attention and you shuffle to the window, pulling the curtain aside and looking out. A group of individuals in hoods and face masks are attacking the convenience store with baseball bats and lengths of metal pipes, smashing the door and windows. You raise your hand to your mouth as the old shopkeeper comes out of the door with a bat of his own and is beaten to the pavement where he lies unmoving and ignored as his attackers enter the shop. Instinctively, you turn to grab your phone to call the police but remember you can’t. The hooded individuals leave the store after several minutes, arms laden with boxes and bags. Several people you recognise as your neighbours walk across the street and you feel a flush of shame that you aren’t among them, heading over to check on the old shopkeeper. You raise your eyebrows in surprise when you see them glance at the old man before stepping around him and entering the shop. One by one they exit the store, quicker than they entered, furtive glances up and down the street as they juggle the food and drink in their arms. Your stomach rumbles in reaction and a second thought hits you; should I be doing that? You begin mentally justifying such an alien action. You don’t know how long this will last. You’re practically starving. You drank the small amount of water left in the kettle and don’t have any more. And besides, you’ll make a note of everything you take and pay the shop back later - more or less an IOU. Another group of people arrive at the store, this lot not even bothering to glance at the prone figure on the pavement before rushing into the building. The next sensation you feel comes from a deeper, primordial place; fear. A fear of missing the opportunity for food and drink to sustain you. You’ve never done anything like this in your life before but find yourself throwing on your coat and rushing out the door, blood pounding in your ears as you take the stairs three at a time. As you enter the store you deliberately avoid looking down at the shopkeeper, straining your eyes to take in the details of the dim interior. People are stripping the shelves and fridges and you are shocked at how little stock is left. For a brief moment you second guess yourself, appalled at how you ended up here, but when your eyes alight on a can of tomato soup all doubts disappear. Stuffing cans of soup, beans, and tuna into your coat pockets, you scan the store for further items. A lone packet of bacon on the floor by the fridge prompts a saliva deluge in your mouth and you start towards it before you realise you can’t cook it. You turn your attention back to the cans. With pockets full, you look around you and spy an empty bag lying by the magazine rack. Bending to pick it up you glance outside and notice some men across the road looking over. Your heart beats faster when you recognise them as the robbers you saw last night. You’re up and out the door, heading away from the shop before the conscious thought to do so has even entered your head. Back in your flat you lock the door and dump the cans onto the table before rushing to the window and looking outside. The three men are standing outside the shop, one of them prodding the unconscious shopkeeper with his foot while the others stop people leaving the shop, taking the goods from them. The first few people hand over their looted items after only token arguments. A man in a football top carrying several bags however, chooses to stand his ground. The robbers are upon him with a speed and ferocity of violence that shocks you and in seconds, there are two unconscious people on the pavement. The three thugs collect their spoils and distribute them among the bags and boxes for ease of carriage before setting off. When you raise your hand to close the curtain, you notice the tremors in your fingers. Rumbling in your stomach reminds you that you need to eat and you return to the kitchen, ready for a bowl of cold soup. You're scared today. Really scared. You think a lot about your sister in Manchester and wonder if it’s the same there. Why has the power been off for so long? What’s happening? Why is nobody fixing this? Where are the police? It’s a long afternoon and night, boredom punctuated with small trips to the window, looking out on the world below as the shop gets emptier and the streets darker. Before bed, you head to the bathroom to relieve yourself and realise that it smells, there being no way to flush or dispose of the waste. When you climb into bed, the fear grows as you wonder what you are going to do tomorrow if the power is still not on. You need water; much more than you ever thought you would. You also need more food but from your observations today you know the shop has been stripped bare. So you’ll have to travel further afield, a prospect that fills you with dread as the memory of the robbers outside the shop and their swift, decisive application of violence returns. Pulling the duvet over your cold head, you do your best to sleep.

Day Three:

You wake to a raging thirst, trying to recall the crazy dreams you had through the night. It’s daylight and cold. Very cold. The sound of voices from the stairwell of your building motivates you to move and wrapping the duvet around you, you make your way to the door and place your ear against it. An authoritative voice is shouting and there is a lot of movement; doors opening and closing and people passing your flat. The booming voice repeats itself and the keywords spur you into action: Military. Water resupply. Bring containers. You haul open cupboard doors in a frenzy, determined to find the biggest receptacles you have but in the end all you can manage is a soup pot and several water bottles you pull from the recycling. Clothes donned and containers grabbed, you rush from the flat, almost colliding with the old man from the floor above as you run down the stairwell. When you burst into the street the noise hits you as you take in the scene around you. Several olive-green tankers are parked on the pavement across the road but there’s a densely packed crowd between you and the soldiers delivering the water. People are yelling. Some in fear, others in anger, most in frustration. A soldier with a loudhailer warns people not to push in, to hold back until it is their turn. You’re jostled and barged into as people try to get to the tankers and you realise if you don’t fight back you will never make it there yourself. Dropping your eyes, you drive yourself forward ignoring the angry responses as you gain ground, your maddening thirst fuelling your uncharacteristic aggression. After an hour or so, you reach the back of the queue, bruised, exhausted, and panting for breath. For the first time you can see the soldiers clearly and note how tense and frightened they look. And that they’re armed. Rifles at the ready. They control the queue from this point, cajoling and shepherding the mob into an orderly, snaking line that leads to the rear of the tankers where other soldiers are rationing out the water. As you progress, you see people begging for more water, arguing with the soldiers but being given short thrift. Those who don’t move on manhandled away from the tankers. When it comes to your turn, a soldier directs you to the second tanker where one soldier takes your pot and bottles as another activates the hose from the rear of the vehicle. For a brief instant, you fantasise about gulping down the entire pot of water and asking for a refill but you remember what happened to those who wouldn't move on when ordered. You stuff your bottles into your pockets, jam the lid on the pot and follow the soldiers’ indication to the exit point. All you want to do is drink but the mood of the crowd has turned and a group tries to rush the tanker you just left. Shouted warnings from the soldiers, screams from those being trampled in the crowd, then an authoritative command comes over the loudhailer. ‘Engage. Engage.’ Dull pops followed by howls of agony inform you that the army has fired some form of crowd control weapon. You have no idea that these are rubber bullets, relics from the distant Northern Ireland conflict and that one of the men hit will die from the trauma that the projectile caused when it struck his chest. Chaos ensues as people try in vain to flee, the wails of those being crushed and trampled mingling with the rage of those focussing their ire on the military. But you have other things to worry about. Well, one thing really: How to get back to your flat without spilling your precious water. An animal cunning kicks in and you head away from both the crowd and your flat, taking a long, circuitous route devoid of people that takes you to the back entrance of your building. The back door is open and you waste no time in climbing the stairs and entering your flat, heeling the door behind you and placing your precious cargo on the kitchen table. You immediately lock the door then jump back in fright as someone pounds on it from outside. Heart hammering in your chest, you listen as a woman begs for water, crying as she explains the army has gone and she didn’t get her share. Pleading for help as she has two small children. She pounds the door again and you clench your fists and screw your eyes shut. You want to help but you can’t. You need the water as much as she does. The woman continues with her plea for several minutes then there is a moment's quiet before she pounds on your neighbour's door and begins anew. You pick up one of the water bottles and take a long drink, moaning with pleasure as the cool liquid slakes your thirst. The water has a chlorinated taste but this doesn’t bother you in the slightest. While all you want to do is down the entire contents, you stop yourself, put the top back on the bottle and place it with the others on the table. You wander to the window and look out, shaking your head at the remnants of the crowd, the injured and lame clutching varying parts of their bodies. Some aren’t moving at all, either dead or unconscious. A yell goes up from further along the street and you crane your neck to see what the commotion there is all about. A big orange flame erupts from an overturned vehicle as a crowd cheers. You step back and sit on the edge of your bed, suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. A small nap, perhaps, would do you the world of good. It’s dark when you awaken, heart racing and blood pounding in your ears. A loud bang echoes around your flat and you realise someone is kicking your door. The boot is followed by a voice demanding you open the door. That they know you have water. That they only want a little from you. Your eyes are wide and hands shaking as you tiptoe into the dark kitchen where you stared at the door as it is booted again. It rattles in its frame but you can see it will hold. The voice shouts again, all pretence at reason now gone. Open the door or we’ll break it down and kill you. I’m warning you. You slide down the wall and sit on the cold floor, shivering and shaking until after another few minutes, there is silence and you hear pounding on your neighbour’s door followed by the shouts. Open up mate, we need you to share that water you got today. There’s people here really need it, women and kids and that. Open up now, we only need a little bit from everybody. Like before, the lack of response prompts an escalation in anger and threats from the unseen individuals until, once again, they move along and repeat their performance at the next door. Tears roll down your face as you realise that, unless something changes soon, these threats are going to become reality. You finally acknowledge the fact that you’re freezing and shuffle to your bed, cocooning yourself in the duvet for both warmth and retreat from grim reality.

Day Four:

You wake, cold again and still tired but desperate for the toilet. The bathroom really stinks now and you realise you should have thought of another way of getting rid of your waste. As you head back to the bedroom, you stagger and grasp at the doorframe for support as a wave of lightheadedness assails you. When it passes you take a look out the window and see a thick pall of smoke further along the street. The car you saw alight the previous evening still smouldering in the street while another vehicle belches thick black smoke into the air. There are several bodies lying on the road where the water tankers had been yesterday and you don’t even register how detached you’ve become that this only prompts a mild curiosity in you. Some movement catches your eye and you watch as a family leaves one of the houses opposite, a man, a woman and two girls, each individual laden with bags and rucksacks. Their white, pinched faces showing the fear they feel as they hurry along the pavement and turn the corner, out of sight and mind to you. A brief moment later, some more movement catches your attention and a small group of individuals make their way to the door of the house the family has just left. One of them tries the handle but the door doesn’t open. Several of them take turns at kicking the door down but this doesn’t work either. Large stones are gathered from the side of the road and hurled through the window, glass shattering and an entry point gained. Sticks and lengths of pipe are used to sweep the shards of glass from the frames and the individuals climb into the house. After several minutes, the front door is opened from the inside and the intruders begin trooping out, arms laden with duvets, blankets, and anonymous, misshapen bundles. But no food or water. You notice that. Because you’re starving. You know you need to go out and find more food but the thought terrifies you. Where the hell is the military? Will they come back today? Surely if they're bringing water to people, they will bring food? Surely . . . Before you’re aware of it, you’ve been staring out the window for over an hour, staring but not seeing. There’s something familiar about the figures coming around the corner and you realise with a start it’s the family you saw leaving earlier that morning. But they look different. And there’s less of them. The man isn’t among them and the woman and girls no longer have any bags or rucksacks. They’ve been beaten and robbed of their coats, their clothing torn and dirty from whatever attack they’ve endured. The same stunned expression on their faces, they make their way to the home they vacated only hours earlier and stop, staring at the shattered window and open door. The woman collapses to her knees and drops her face in her hands as the two girls throw their arms around her and bury their faces into her shoulders. Any thoughts you have of venturing out to look for food now gone in wake of what you imagine this family to have experienced. Sounds in the stairwell draw your attention and you head to the door where you listen and interpret the noises. A door is forced open against the occupant’s will, screams then pleas for help. You vaguely recognise the voice but can’t put a face to it. The pleas are cut short and a silence, troubling in its immediacy and totality, ensues. You wonder if, like you, the rest of the block are listening at their doors, terrified to intervene and shameful in their gratitude at not being the victim. Yet . . . You jump as a loud voice yells up the stairwell that anybody who is caught not sharing their food and water will be punished harshly. For a moment you are confused. Was there some arrangement to do this that you were unaware of? And who are these people taking charge and punishing others? Your question remains unanswered when the voice orders all occupants to open their doors when asked to and allow their homes to be searched. Those who don’t comply will have their doors broken down and face harsh punishment. Again with that word; punishment. But you have no further time to dwell on this as the voice booms louder, fists thumping on your neighbour's door as they demand entry. You have no time because you’re next and these are not good people. Panic sets in as you try in desperation to think where you can hide what remaining water you have. How thorough will the search be? Should you just drink all of the water now because they’ll take it anyway? The clear sounds of violence and suffering next door leave you in no doubt that these people will stop at nothing to get what they want. When the first fist pounds on your door, your heart is hammering in your chest and adrenaline flooding your veins as you stand on shaking legs, starved of both energy and willpower after 4 days without enough food and water . . .

Okay. I’ve kept our protagonist here a very simple one. Single, lives alone, no dependents, no pets, town or small city dweller. I’ve also shied away from ‘Hollywood’ scenes of mass violence and rioting. At least early on in a crisis. In reality it is the incremental advance of suffering and hardship that takes time for people to realise just how bad a situation really is. So, put yourself in our protagonist’s situation. Have a think about where you live and how you live and try to imagine the chain of events over 4 days of no power or communication. Where and how would you source food and water? How would you communicate with loved ones? Would your community come together or splinter apart and how could you be sure? Would it be different for people living in rural areas? I love the process of the imaginary ‘what would I do?’ Putting myself into these scenarios and wondering what I would do or how I would cope.

So, with 4 dinners being the timeframe from how you live right now until the country descends into anarchy, what would you do?