Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Hold position,” the fighter controller ordered. “Let them come to us.”

  Philip scowled, darkly. All of the evidence from Washington suggested that nothing short of a tactical nuke would be even able to scratch the damn city-sized craft and yet the controllers wanted them to wait? What the hell were they waiting for? Someone to finish sipping their tea and order the attack? It wasn't as if the aliens could just ignore the RAF fighters for long ... but they could hold, just long enough to allow the humans to burn through their fuel. And then they could engage and trap the humans between two fires.

  “Hold your mouth,” he snapped at a pilot who was complaining too loudly. Whatever distinctions had been held between the different national squadrons had faded away under the tempo of near-constant fighting. Now, he commanded a mixed squadron of American, French and British aircraft. He would have been happier if he hadn't received the post because the last CO had been blown out of the air. “Let them come to us.”

  The alien fighters seemed to hesitate, as they always did when facing large numbers of humans, then twisted on their axis and shot towards the human fighters with a determination Philip could only admire. Brilliant streaks of blue-white light shot out ahead of them as they fired randomly, trying to wipe several human aircraft out of the sky before they could return fire. A brilliant explosion somewhere behind Philip testified to the success of their plan, even as the combined force started to fall into a series of random evasive patterns. The one human attempt to fight the aliens according to plan – over Saudi Arabia – had been a failure so horrific that everyone else had learned from the experience. There hadn't been any Saudi pilots left to try.

  Philip bit down a curse as he fired a missile towards the first alien craft, then flung the aircraft into an evasive pattern as the alien craft exploded in midair. It crossed his mind that he might have killed a secret rebel, then he pushed the thought aside bitterly. Everything they’d learned about the aliens suggested that if the rebel leaders were killed the remainder would just fall in line with the Rogue Leaders. They couldn't afford to hold back.

  Not that we are, he thought, as an alien craft zipped in front of him. He depressed the firing trigger, but the shells went wide of their target. It spun around with terrifying speed and charged right at him, playing chicken at supersonic speed. Philip felt a moment of absolute terror as he dived, catching sight of the alien craft’s hull as it missed him by bare millimetres and vanished somewhere behind him. He heard the Falcon’s airframe groan as he forced it into another evasive manoeuvre. The aliens had their own version of the Immelman turn, which involved literally reversing course and speed instantly. It wasn't unknown for a human pilot to think that he had a few minutes to evade, only to discover that the alien was right on his tail, out for blood.

  He scowled as he caught sight of the massive alien craft. It looked like a thunderous storm approaching their position, but it was far too solid to be so easily dismissed. How could anyone seek to challenge such power, it seemed to say; how could anything merely human even touch it? But humans had brought one such craft down before ...

  An alien craft appeared in front of him, corkscrewing through an elaborate manoeuvre that allowed it to spit fire in all directions ... and vanished. Philip blinked in surprise, unable to believe his eyes, then looked down at his scope. The massive alien craft was still there, dominating the skyline, but the smaller craft were gone. All of the smaller craft were gone.

  “All fighters, we assess that the diversionary operation has succeeded,” the fighter controller said. “Close and engage; I say again, close and engage.”

  Divisionary operations? Philip thought. What the hell had they done that had drawn away all of the alien fighters? They’d fled so rapidly that there was no sign of them left on the scopes, not even the live feed from the two remaining Sentry aircraft. But they would be back, as quickly as they left ... the RAF had to press the offensive now, or risk losing everything.

  “Form up on me,” he ordered. By now, their formations looked like bad jokes – and would have been bad jokes, if they hadn't been so necessary. The aliens were just too good at taking advantage of predictable flight paths. “And clear the way for the bombers.”

  The alien craft grew rapidly as the jet fighters closed in. It was surrounded by a faint haze that, according to the briefings, was the drive field that somehow kept it in the air. Philip realised, suddenly, that if they did manage to down it the craft was going to crash-land on Fife, but there was no choice. Besides, most of the civilian population had been evacuated.

  Up close, there was something eerily beautiful about the alien craft. Most of its hull was smooth, broken only by blisters that were the size of aircraft hangers. Philip heard the airwaves go silent as the pilots were struck dumb with awe; they’d flown off nuclear aircraft carriers in the past, but the largest carrier America had launched could easily have fitted into one of the alien craft. It struck him, suddenly, that the aliens could literally have abducted an entire carrier ...

  The alien hull glittered with light and he yanked the Falcon to one side, just as a spray of plasma bolts blazed through the air where he'd been. They hadn't left the craft entirely defenceless after all, he realised, as his targeting systems locked on. The massive ship was very capable of taking care of itself. He fell into formation with several other pilots and fired his second missile, watching grimly as it slammed into the alien craft’s drive field and exploded harmlessly, hundreds of metres from its hull.

  “Just like Independence Day,” someone said.

  “Shut up,” Philip snapped. He barked orders, clearing a pathway for the ground-based missile launchers and artillery. Offhand, he couldn't recall any pilot being accidentally shot down by long-range artillery, but there was always a first time. “Give the groundhogs a chance to engage.”

  The alien craft didn't seem to hesitate as the missiles and shells slammed into its drive field, although even they might have problems altering course quickly. No matter how capable the alien crafts were, surely they still had to worry about mass and suchlike ... didn't they? They weren't gods, Philip reminded himself, as the drive field glowed with deadly light. The aliens could do things humans couldn't do, but they were still mortal. They could be hurt.

  They can be killed, he thought, grimly.

  “Alpha flight is moving in,” the fighter controllers said. “All aircraft, move to cover them ...”

  Philip nodded, catching sight of a handful of RAF Tornadoes as they made their way towards the alien craft. They’d been briefed on Alpha Flight; they carried cruise missiles, each one tipped with a special warhead. It might well have been a tactical nuke, the pilots had decided afterwards, although the briefers hadn't specified. But it was hard to imagine what else might have damaged the alien craft ...

  Another streak of plasma shot past him, narrowly missing his cockpit. He swore out loud as he saw that some of the alien fighters had returned. They must have sensed the danger, he realised, as the craft raced towards the Tornados. Had they some kind of technology that allowed them to detect nuclear warheads?

  He pushed the thought aside as he opened fire on the alien craft with his guns, blowing one of them apart and forcing the other one to break off. Just for a moment, the Tornados broke into clear space and launched their missiles, directly at the giant alien craft. Philip smiled in delight, then yanked his aircraft to one side. If a nuclear warhead was about to detonate right on top of the alien craft, he didn't want to be anywhere near it.

  A brilliant white light flared out as one of the missiles struck its target. For a long chilling second, the light just seemed to hang in the drive field like a flare high over the battlefield, then the drive field flickered out of existence. Explosions billowed along the hull of the giant craft as it slowly started to fall out of the sky, gravity reasserting itself as the drive field’s effects faded away. Philip watched, no longer caring about the fight, as the craft slammed into the ground, brilliant fireballs flaring
up from where it had crashed. The earthquake would have been felt for miles around, he realised in horror. Edinburgh and Glasgow would probably be in ruins ...

  “They’re breaking off,” the fighter controller said. “Let them go.”

  Philip watched mutely as the alien fighters vanished into the distance, leaving the destroyed ship behind. It was burning merrily, the flames rising up into the sky; no doubt their ground forces would move in and do what they could for the surviving crewmen. If there were any survivors, he told himself. No matter how it had looked, the craft had to have hit the ground hard enough to kill everyone onboard.

  “All units, return to base,” the fighter controller ordered. “I say again ...”

  ***

  The bunker echoed with the sound of cheering as the first images of the crashed ship came in from the SAS recon patrols. Large parts of Fife might have been devastated – God alone knew what sort of pollutants might result from crashing the alien ship – but the aliens had taken a bloody nose. Their invasion of Britain would falter, he was sure, now they’d been hit so badly.

  But they’d stopped most of the nukes, he saw. Only a handful of rockets had survived long enough to approach their targets – and the aliens were mad. If the other half of Operation Hammer failed ...

  “Prime Minister,” General Brentwood said, “the CO of the Scots Guard is requesting permission to launch probing attacks. We could push them back hard while they’re still stunned ...”

  The Prime Minister hesitated. Even if the aliens were short on air cover now that they’d lost their command ship, they were still formidable and the road network had been shot up badly over the last few days. Advancing tanks forward to engage the enemy might well result in them being picked off by alien fighters.

  But they had to keep pushing at the bastards, forcing them to respond to humanity.

  “Do it,” he ordered. They were still committed. “And is there any word from America?”

  “Nothing from Washington,” General Brentwood said. “But we know that the shit hit the fan ...”

  “Yes,” the Prime Minister said, tiredly. Had there ever been a Prime Minister who had come so close to losing the entire country? “We do.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Washington DC, USA/Guthrie Castle, UK

  Day 254

  The Green Zone was under heavy attack, Nicolas realised as he led half of his force out of the building and started to run towards the White House. There were mortar shells landing inside the complex, snipers taking shots at anyone who showed themselves along the walls; indeed, fratricide was a very real possibility. But there was no choice. The ground shook as another bomb detonated, right on top of the walls. They’d be coming over as soon as the breach was widened enough to allow them to advance.

  He glanced back at Karen, who was holding her pistol in shaking hands. If it was entirely up to him, he would have shoved her into a panic room where she could have remained until the fighting was over, but Howery had been right. There was too much danger of a resistance fighter, unaware of her true allegiances, gunning her down before she could escape. Or worse. There were some rumours about resistance groups that had made Joe’s band of criminals look nice and normal.

  A pair of alien fighter craft shot overhead, shooting blasts of light towards the ground. He winced as he saw the explosions billow up from the other side of the wall – they had to have targeted the mortars, he realised – and then smiled as a Stinger missile lanced up towards one of the craft, blasting it out of the sky. It came down somewhere in the city, exploding into a giant fireball that drifted upwards before fading away. The remaining craft drew back and vanished into the distance.

  The sound of shooting was growing louder as they approached the White House, weapons at the ready. A small group of alien warriors was standing outside, looking oddly disconcerted as they looked around for possible threats. It dawned on Nicolas that the rest of the plan had to have worked – every alien and collaborator garrison in the country was under attack – and that the aliens were aware that they were at the sharp end ... and unlikely to receive any help in a hurry. He had to smile, feeling a moment of kinship with the aliens. He’d felt the same way, more than once.

  One of the aliens turned ... and saw the advancing humans. Nicolas opened fire, scything them down with deadly accuracy. One of the aliens leapt forward, trying to cover the others, only to be shot down in seconds. Nicolas heard Karen being noisily sick behind him, but ignored her. They had to get into the White House before the aliens realised that there was a much closer threat than the insurgents besieging the walls. Five more aliens, worker drones, appeared in the entrance as they ran up, their cyborg arms extended as makeshift weapons. They would be intimidating, Nicolas knew, to someone who didn't know them, but he knew that they weren't as dangerous as the alien warriors. The soldiers shot them down and advanced into the building.

  Inside, it was as dark and silent as the grave. Nicolas snapped his NVGs over his eyes as he inched forward, searching for signs of life. The aliens had power in the White House, according to the report he’d heard from the British Ambassador; they had to have turned the lights off deliberately, hoping to make it harder for his force to pick their way through the building. He detailed a soldier to remain behind at the door, then led the remainder of the force upwards towards the Oval Office. The aliens really had done a remarkable job of reconstructing the building, he couldn't help realising. If they’d had a few more months to work, it might have been impossible to tell that it had ever been knocked down.

  A blinding flash of light from the shadows caught one of his men, throwing him backwards. Nicolas unhooked a grenade from his belt and hurled it towards the hidden alien, then jumped in as soon as the grenade detonated, blasting the alien to bloody chunks. An ambush, he realised, as he scanned down the corridor. If the alien had waited a few seconds longer, he might have wiped out half the team on his own.

  There was no one outside the Oval Office. An eerie feeling of unreality ran down his spine as he paused outside the door and waited for the rest of the team to catch up, then kicked down the door and advanced into the room itself. Even with the goggles, it was hard to see the alien seated – seated? – behind the President’s desk. But the wretched creature could see perfectly in the darkness ...

  He pulled the flashlight from his belt and flicked it on. Several of his team, the ones who hadn't seen alien leaders before, gasped in surprise. The alien’s massive dark eyes stared back at them; if it was disturbed by the sudden change in lighting, it showed no sign of it. Indeed, it’s body was so still that it was easy to wonder if the alien was just a dummy, left behind while the real alien made its escape. And then the alien tilted its head, very slightly.

  “This will avail you nothing,” it said. Instead of the atonal voice he'd heard aliens use before, there was something deeply ... reassuring in his voice. “Your war against us is already lost.”

  Nicolas found himself lowering his rifle before his mind quite realised what was going on. He wanted to trust the alien, he wanted to obey the alien ... all of a sudden, he understood just how easily the Rogue Leaders had dominated the rest of their race. And why their fellows were so terrified of the mere possibility of something like the Rogue Leaders coming into existence. If the aliens could influence a human so easily, the rest of their own race had to be completely vulnerable to them ...

  “No,” he said, somehow catching hold of himself. Now he realised what was going on, the alien sounded more like a slimy politician or a used car salesman, one who specialised in making someone feel good about themselves while they were robbed blind. “You are our prisoner.”

  “Think about it,” the alien oozed. The pressure in his head grew stronger. “We hold your country in the palm of our hands ...”

  Nicolas lifted the rifle, realising to his horror that his hands were shaking. Had he ever had shaky hands when he’d held a weapon before? He couldn't remember, but he was sure that he woul
dn't have survived his first week in the military if he had. The alien’s head tilted again as dark eyes met his, somehow daring him to fire. For a moment, Nicolas had a vision of the future, of what would happen if the Rogue Leaders won outright. Resistance would be utterly impossible to even imagine, let alone get off the ground.

  “You can't shoot,” the alien said. “You won’t ...”

  The trigger seemed to be solid, but somehow Nicolas managed to pull it, just enough to fire. There was a loud noise and the alien’s head exploded, scattering green flesh all over the office. The pressure in his head vanished at the exact moment the alien died, suggesting that there was more to their influence than just their voice. Behind him, he heard a moan; almost everyone, it seemed, had been just as badly affected. Karen seemed to have held up better than some of the men.

  “The gates have fallen,” Dudley said. He looked over towards the flames burning through the Green Zone. “The Green Zone is ours!”

  ***

  Dave keyed a switch as the Green Zone’s defenders crumbled under the resistance attack. Between his orders and the general level of absolute confusion caused by the inside attack, the defenders hadn't really stood a chance. Now, a handful of them were trying to surrender while others were sneaking out into Washington, hoping to hide somewhere in the streets. He privately doubted that many of them would be taken prisoner, even though the resistance needed them for interrogation. Too much hatred had built up over the long occupation for a peaceful end.

  “I’m still monitoring their tracking network,” he said. By now, the aliens would have realised that he’d been liberated from their control – somehow. None of the Walking Dead would be trusted any longer. Dave had no idea if they would simply kill them all or order them to stay out of the fighting, but it hardly mattered. The alien grip on America was crumbling and they would have to take drastic action to save it. “They’re rerouting the other giant ship towards Washington.”