Karen understood. She’d felt a certain loyalty to Daisy, although that had faded after she’d joined the collaborator government and then vanished altogether when she’d realised just how far Daisy was prepared to go to maintain her power base. At least Jasmine had had some feelings for her, if they hadn't just been destroyed. There was no way to know.
“I will need to pass you more information,” Karen muttered, pulling Jasmine close. “What can you get out of the Green Zone?”
“USB sticks, or verbal messages,” Jasmine said, shortly. “Assuming I can get out. We’re supposed to have a day or two as holiday every two weeks, but we’re not always allowed to leave.”
Karen felt a twinge of guilt. The maids were effectively slaves, just one step up from the whores gathered in the comfort barracks for the Order Police. Maybe they did have an agreement that they would be allowed some holiday, but it was unlikely that it would ever be enforced. She couldn't think of any way to get around those problems ...
“I understand,” she said, as she allowed her hands to slip down until they were gently touching the space between Jasmine’s legs. “We’ll take what we can get.”
Jasmine twisted until she was facing Karen once again. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I just thought that ...”
Her voice trailed off. “It’s all right,” Karen said, although she wasn't sure of that. Jasmine might have seduced her under the impression that she was spying on Daisy Fairchild’s aide, rather than making love to a friend. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
Jasmine shuddered as Karen stroked her, then gasped as Karen lowered her mouth to meet hers. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded. “Just don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” Karen said. For the moment, they would take what comfort they could get from each other. It wouldn’t last, but it was a hint of normality in a world gone mad. “I promise.”
Afterwards, she held Jasmine close for a long time, before pushing her back out into the bedroom. She would have liked to keep her in the room – no one would have asked questions, not of Daisy’s aide – but it was a risk. They couldn't be seen to be drawing too close together, or so she told herself. If something happened to Jasmine, Karen would be at risk too.
And that might expose General Howery to the unblinking eyes of his former masters.
Chapter Twenty-Five
RAF Lossiemouth, United Kingdom
Day 229
“It’s bigger than I expected,” Philip muttered, as the helicopter headed down towards the Royal Air Force base. “And there are more aircraft on the grounds.”
His eyes narrowed. “They’re too close together,” he added. “What happens if they attack?”
Colonel Chatsworth, RAF, nodded. “The aliens insisted that we kept the planes somewhere visible,” he explained, grimly. “We’re planning to move them if war does break out over Britain.”
Philip scowled. The walk from the bunker to the coastline had been bad enough, but then there had been the underwater journey from America to Britain, where he’d been joined by thirty other USAF pilots who had survived the war and escaped being rounded up by the aliens after the occupation began. He, at least, hadn't had any real problems with the submarine, but several of the other pilots had been claustrophobic. They would never have been able to fly on the space shuttle.
There were dozens of planes scattered over the airbase. The British had called older Tornado, Harrier and Jaguar aircraft back into service, as well as some of the planes from the Ronald Reagan. He spied a number of Super Hornets sitting on the runway, as well as a pair of Hawkeyes for airborne early warning. From what he’d read in the briefing papers, the British had at least four Sentry aircraft up at any one time, watching for incoming alien threats, but no one expected them to last long when the aliens started their real offensive. Judging by their attack on both America and Israel, radars and radar-carrying aircraft would be priority targets.
Could be worse, he told himself. Our radar network let us down on 9/11.
The helicopter landed in front of a makeshift barracks, allowing him and the other pilots to scramble out of the aircraft and across into a briefing room. It was almost identical to the briefing rooms in America, he couldn't help noticing, apart from a portrait of the Queen that someone had stuck against the far wall. Large maps of Britain and the surrounding coastline, a handful showing aerial patrol routes and other important details, covered the other walls. A small table of coffee mugs was placed right next to the door.
“Help yourself,” Chatsworth said. “I understand that coffee has been scarce across the pond.”
“Tell me about it,” Philip said, as he poured himself a cup. The other pilots crowded round, intent on having some before it ran out. “The squadrons used to run on coffee.”
“Supplies are limited here too,” Chatsworth admitted, ruefully. “There’s almost bugger-all being shipped in from Turkey these days.”
A tough-looking man standing at the front of the room cleared his throat. “If you’re quite finished making small talk,” he said, in a thick Texan accent, “please take your seats and pay attention. We may not have much time.”
Philip took a seat near the front and waited for the speaker to continue.
“For those of you who don’t know me,” the speaker said, “my name is Frank Hardy – anyone who wants to make jokes can see me around the back afterwards. I was the CAG on Ronnie before we sailed into Southampton and pretended to be British prisoners. Right now, I’m in charge of you merry bastards.”
He scowled around the room. “Yes, I know; we have naval fliers, air farce crewmen and even a handful of army close-in support personnel,” he added. “If you feel inclined to pick fights with one another, get over it now. We’re not in a fit place to bicker when the aliens might come breathing down our necks at any moment. Dave?”
A British officer stood up. “Over the last two weeks,” he said, without preamble, “radar sets in the UK have been picking up alien probes of our defences, roughly comparable to alien probes through American airspace before they announced their presence openly. We believe that these are either unsubtle attempts at intimidation or preparations for an all-out assault on the mainland. With most of the world’s nuclear powers ... otherwise occupied, Britain is probably high on their list of remaining targets.”
Philip nodded, glumly. America and Israel were occupied, France was in ferment, China was fighting a civil war, India and Pakistan had destroyed one another ... there were very few nuclear powers left. Apart from Britain, Russia was the only other major nuclear power; he doubted the aliens felt particularly threatened by North Korea. Given that Russia was still a major conventional power, he had a feeling that the aliens might have decided to leave it for last.
“It is the decision of the Prime Minister and the Coalition Government that we will not surrender when – if – the aliens start making demands,” the intelligence officer continued. “We will fight.”
“But victory may be difficult,” Hardy said, with remarkable understatement. “Between us and the Brits, we’ve managed to round up a remarkable number of aircraft – but most of them are not as advanced as we might wish.” He snorted. “On the other hand, the F-22 Raptor was not as capable against the aliens as it might have seemed. We have made modifications to our missiles and other weapons in the hopes that they might prove more effective against the alien craft. However, as before, the defence of Britain will largely fall on the air force. And that, for the moment, includes us.
“We will be practicing from dawn to dusk,” he continued. “Enough fuel has been made available for hundreds of exercises – and when we’re not in the air, we’re going to be in the simulators. We know our enemy now; they may be advanced, but they do have weaknesses. And when they come, we’re going to give them hell.
“I know what some of you are thinking,” he added, glancing from pilot to pilot. “Our country is occupied. Our friends and families are at the mercy of inhuman creatures who are bent on con
verting us into slaves, quite literally. We’re all exiles from home, fighting to defend another country – risking our lives in defence of that country.
“All I can tell you is this; if we can hold the aliens off now, we may well be able to press them to abandon America,” he concluded. “And even if we don’t, we will show them that we will not surrender, that we will not go down into darkness without kicking and screaming all the way. This may be humanity’s last fight, but if it is, we will not go quietly. We will make them know that they’ve been kissed.”
He smiled. “And now there's someone here who wishes to meet you.”
Philip followed his gaze towards the door ... and automatically straightened to attention as soon as he saw the man standing there. The President looked ... greyer than he remembered, his hair fading to white, just like every other person who had inhabited the Oval Office in living memory. But his eyes were as sharp as ever ...
“Mr. President,” Hardy said. “Thank you for coming.”
***
The President had been surprised when the British had agreed to allow him to meet the pilots – both the pilots from the carrier and the ones who had been smuggled over from America – but it might have made a certain kind of sense. They would have needed reassurance that there was still something worth fighting for, that they were something better than mercenaries ... and meeting the President might provide it. These days, there was no danger that someone would upload a message to Twitter or Facebook to break security, not when what remained of the human military was effectively in hiding. And besides, the RAF base was as secure as anywhere else on the British mainland.
Perhaps more secure, the President thought, as he returned their salutes. The BBC was heavily censored these days, but he’d had access to governmental channels that had admitted that the situation was growing worse by the day. Britain just didn't have the manpower or space America had had to deal with problems – or, for that matter, a tradition of having an armed citizenry. Society was slowly breaking down, either into anarchy or fascism. No one quite seemed sure which one.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he said. How long had it been since he’d visited a military base? He’d tried to do it as often as possible – he’d missed the military life, even though political life was often as strongly regimented – but he’d never been able to visit since the aliens had reached Earth. He hadn't even been able to visit Area 52, where the first crashed alien ship had been hidden. “These are not easy days for our country.”
There was no point in using flowery words and phrases to soldiers, sailors and airmen. The President had been a soldier; he knew that they had unerring noses for bullshit, no matter how much cream politically-minded superiors might try to sprinkle on top. Instead, he chose to be blunt – and admit just how bad things were likely to become.
“We have been occupied by an outside force of overwhelming power,” he said. “Many of us are in exile, many more are alien prisoners – or dead. Resistance seems hopeless, utterly futile. And yet there is a chance for victory.”
He recognised Philip Carlson in the crowd and smiled, inwardly. Carlson had been warned not to discuss anything relating to the aliens with his fellows; thankfully, there had been no public announcement of the names and ranks of the crewmen captured on the ISS during the mothership’s arrival in orbit. Sending him to the UK was a risk, but less of one than keeping him in the US – or so he had been assured. Besides, Carlson had been a fighter pilot before becoming an astronaut and they needed every pilot they could get.
“This is our darkest hour,” he admitted. “But we have a chance. You will buy us that chance, when the aliens come knocking, hoping to defeat us completely before we’re ready to take the fight to them.
“It won’t be easy. Many of you will die, as will others, when the time comes. But we will do more than show the aliens that humanity will not die quietly. We will take advantage of what you offer us to win!”
Afterwards, he found himself wondering if the pilots had believed him. Some of them had had experience fighting the aliens before, during the first invasion of America. Others had heard stories or seen footage from Israel. They knew that the odds of humanity producing a victory were slim, to say the least. It was quite possible that they wondered if they were being sacrificed to win humanity better terms from its new masters.
But there was no alternative. If they could fight, they could give the aliens a bloody nose ...
He looked around as his minders – and Pepper – escorted him on a brief tour of the base, catching sight of a small array of F-16s that the British had dug up from somewhere. Judging by their markings, they came from Italy; he couldn't help wondering just how the British had managed to convince the Italians to send them to the UK. Perhaps there had been a deal concerning the disposition of the Royal Navy’s ships, he decided. There were so many refugees heading towards Europe from North Africa that the South European powers were quite overwhelmed. And F-16s wouldn't be much help against a tidal wave of refugees.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Pepper muttered, leaning in close. “And I forbid it.”
The President smiled, wryly. “And what do you think I'm thinking?”
“You're thinking that you’d like to fly one of the planes into battle yourself,” Pepper said, mischievously. “Be like the President from Independence Day and fire the fatal shot that brings down the city destroyer. Wouldn't it be so much simpler up in the air, where friends and enemies are so clear-cut?”
“I don’t know how to fly,” the President reminded her. There hadn't been much call for it in the 3rd Infantry Division. He knew how to drive a Humvee, a Bradley or an Abrams tank, or how to strip an M16 down while blindfolded. But they’d never taught him how to fly a fighter jet. “Clearly, a ghastly oversight in the list of qualifications to be President.”
“Good,” Pepper said. “Because you’re not going into battle, even if I have to handcuff you to a chair.”
The President snorted. Independence Day had been fun to watch – even if the crowd had cheered when the aliens blew up the White House – but it had sacrificed common sense for special effects and an extremely patriotic plot. But then, he could understand precisely why the movie’s President had wanted to climb into a cockpit and lead his forces into battle. He would have believed himself responsible for the failure to protect the American population, or to defeat the aliens when they first showed themselves.
A day after his election, the President-elect had sat in the Oval Office with the sitting President and talked, candidly, about life in the White House. His predecessor had told him that one of the hardest things to learn was that the most powerful man in the world, as the President was often called, was not all-powerful. There were limits, some clear, some subtle, to the President’s powers. No matter how hard he tried, there were some things he couldn't control, certainly not very quickly. And that simple fact wouldn't stop Congress, the Senate or the media from whining that the President wasn't doing his job.
It hadn't taken long for the President to realise that his predecessor had, if anything, understated the truth. Restraining North Korea alone was impossible and crippling Iran’s nuclear ambitions a dangerous gamble that could easily spread out of control. With outright military intervention not on the cards, the President had few cards he could play ... which, again, hadn't stopped the endless barrage of criticism. And none of his predecessors had had to face an alien invasion.
He’d told himself, time and time again, that the alien invasion hadn't been his fault, that the alien mothership had set off from its homeworld centuries ago ... hell, if Carlson was to be believed, they’d started to visit Earth in 1900! But it didn't stop him feeling if he were to blame, somehow. No wonder previous Presidents, no matter how bombastic they’d been when they’d been elected, quietened rapidly when they realised what it really meant to be President. There was often little they could do about the most important problems menacing the world.
“
I understand,” he muttered. The movie’s President might have been young and handsome and had a few dramatic lines, but in the final analysis he’d abdicated his duty. “I won’t need to be handcuffed, honestly.”
He ignored the smirks on the faces of his close-protection detail – SAS troopers, he’d been assured – as they walked into the control tower. A small army of fighter controllers, mostly British, sat in front of computers, babbling instructions into their headsets. The RAF had a large number of fighters in the air at any one time, the President had been told, just in case the aliens decided to launch an attack out of the blue. Given the speed their craft could reach, there was no reason why they couldn’t slip into formation over America and then be over Britain before radars had a chance to realise that they were there. The prospect of a repeat of the Six Days War, with Britain playing the role of the Arabs, had worried quite a few people in London.
“Mr. President,” a uniformed British officer said. “Welcome to our little home away from home.”
The President allowed himself a smile as he was shown into the next room, a small briefing compartment for senior officers and politicians. “I’m General Cunningham,” the officer explained. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” the President said, as he took his seat. “I noticed that you had huge supplies on the base.”
The General grinned. “When the alien mothership was first sighted, I sent a mob of junior officers to buy up anything useful from the local supermarket,” he said, mischievously. “They bought up most of the coffee in the county, as well as food, drink and other supplies. Caused quite a stir, I can tell you. Luckily, martial law was declared before insane coffee addicts stormed the base.”
The President chuckled. “We had similar problems back home,” he admitted. “But now I rather miss those problems.”
“I can understand that,” Cunningham said. He poured the President a mug of coffee, then looked at Pepper, who shook her head. “You’ll be pleased to know that we have made good progress in strengthening the air defence network around the UKADGE – that’s the United Kingdom Air Defence Ground Environment. Quite apart from the additional radars we pulled out of your ship, we have some ... other weapons too. Given time to practice, I’m sure that we can give the aliens a very bloody nose.”
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 24
