When hell freezes over, she thought, darkly. If I survive long enough to say no when they offer it to me.
She winced, inwardly, as she remembered her last ... chat ... with her parents. She’d come from a military family, but her father and grandfather had never quite reconciled to Ginny joining the military. She knew they meant well - she knew they didn't want to lose her - yet she still found it annoying. She’d joined the USN and worked her way through the hellishly tough starfighter training course. She’d earned her wings.
Although I also earned the chance to get my ass shot off, she reminded herself, wryly. And that might have been a mistake.
She didn't regret anything, really. And it wasn't as if she intended to remain single for the rest of her life. She’d have access to rejuvenation treatments when she retired, assuming she survived long enough to retire. There would be a husband, children ... her father would have grandchildren, eventually. He’d just have to be patient.
I just wish I could message him one more time, she thought. Just to say goodbye, just in case.
She shook her head. She’d fallen out of the habit when she’d enlisted, knowing her father would do his level best to convince her to leave the training program. Anyone else who left, she was sure, would be called a quitter ... at least by her father. Did he want his daughter to be a quitter? She smiled at the thought, although she knew it wasn't really funny. He’d find a way to rationalise it somehow, she was sure. Now ... she wasn't sure if he'd be proud of her or if he’d be terrified. Perhaps it would be better to call him after the battle.
And besides, I might not be able to get a message out, she thought grimly. The main communications network is down.
A low hooting echoed through the ready room. The pilots looked up, then grabbed and donned their helmets as they prepared themselves for action. Ginny put her maudlin thoughts aside and checked her own helmet, bracing herself. They’d be launching in ten minutes, perhaps less. And then ...
Williams cleared his throat. “Let all who go to don armour tomorrow,” he announced dramatically, “remember to go before they don armour tomorrow.”
Ginny face-palmed as the rest of the pilots snickered. “It was a mistake to let you watch that show, wasn't it?”
“I’m afraid there’s going to be a certain amount of ... violence,” Williams agreed. He put on a smarmy look that made Ginny want to hit him. “But at least we know it’s all in a good cause, don’t we?”
“Yeah,” Ginny said. She made a mental note to find whoever had introduced William to The Black Adder and do something thoroughly horrible to him. Something lingering in boiling oil, perhaps. “We do.”
***
Admiral Thaddeus Robertson had the uneasy sense that he was sitting on top of an unexploded bomb. It wasn't a sensation he liked - and he kept telling himself that he was being silly - but it refused to fade. USS Enterprise was the largest and most powerful carrier in human space ... or she had been, two years ago. Now, she might as well have been made of paper for all the protection she’d give her crew if the aliens caught them. The engineers had bolted on great slabs of armour when the USN had realised just how vulnerable the carrier was - slowing her effective speed more than he cared to think about - but he had no illusions. A concentrated attack would be lethal.
He sat in the CIC, watching as Home Fleet gathered around the flagship. It was the largest fleet humanity had ever assembled, consisting of every warship in the system, yet he knew - all too well - that it had its flaws. The starships hadn’t been designed to stand up to plasma fire, half his starfighters didn't have plasma cannons of their own and the crews just weren’t used to working together. Everyone spoke English - it was the standard language outside the upper atmosphere - but they simply didn't have much else in common. And the international rivalries ...
“The enemy squadron is approaching us,” Commodore Jack Warner reported. “They’ll be within engagement range in twenty minutes.”
Thaddeus shrugged. He would have been astonished if the enemy squadron actually attacked, although he knew from bitter experience that the damned aliens had quite a few surprises up their sleeves. If the politics had worked out, he would have been in command at New Russia ... and he knew, even if he didn't want to admit it, that it wouldn't have made a difference. The squadron approaching his ships might not be able to punch through his defences and inflict real harm before they were stopped, but it didn't matter. What did matter was that their presence would make it impossible to hide his movements.
“Order the fleet to engage stealth protocols,” he said. It probably wouldn't fool the aliens for long, if at all, but it might keep them guessing. He’d take anything he could get. “Time to full concentration?”
“Thirty minutes,” Warner said, slowly. He looked down at his datapad, then back at his commander. “Unless we wait for the Io detachment. That would add an extra twenty minutes to the wait.”
Thaddeus considered it, briefly. Humanity knew some of the alien tricks - now - but he didn't dare assume that they knew all of them. Concentrating his entire fleet was obviously a good idea, yet ... how long would it take? And how much damage would the aliens do to Earth in the meantime? There was enough firepower bearing down on the planet to give the combined fleet a very hard time. God alone knew just how many carriers and starfighters the aliens had. There was no way to tell just how badly they’d been hurt after each engagement.
“We’ll move without them,” he ordered, finally. It was a gamble, but the Io detachment wouldn't add that much to his firepower. “We cannot let them punch through to the high orbitals.”
“Yes, sir,” Warner said.
Thaddeus nodded, curtly. What would the aliens do? What were they planning? A smash and run raid, or an actual occupation? Did they even know themselves? A smart planner would have contingency plans for both, depending on how the battle went. For all he knew, they were planning to smash Earth to rubble and then spend the next few weeks hunting down every last settlement in the solar system. If that happened ...
We’ll just have to make sure it doesn't, he told himself, firmly. And get to Earth as quickly as possible.
He winced. His crews - all of his crews - would do everything in their power to get Home Fleet moving as quickly as possible. They were already cutting corners he knew they’d pay for, sooner or later. And yet, it would still take time to get the fleet on its way ... time Earth didn’t have. The aliens were already beginning their final approach.
And, until his fleet arrived, Earth would have to stand alone.
Chapter Ten
London, United Kingdom
“They’ll be within engagement range soon,” the First Space Lord said, quietly. “It’s out of our hands now.”
Prime Minister Andrew Davidson shot him a sharp look. “You can’t take command?”
“Admiral Winters is in command,” the First Space Lord said. He sat facing Andrew, his face calm and composed. “And I’m on the ground. Admiral Cathy Mountbatten has already moved to Nelson Base. She’ll take command if anything happens to Pournelle Base.”
Andrew looked down at his hands, feeling helpless. He’d never really understood just how Churchill, Thatcher and Hanover must have felt, not until now. Countless British spacers were going into battle and he could do nothing, but wait for the results. He could issue orders, if he wished, yet it would be pointless. The fate of Earth was about to be decided and he could do nothing.
“Understood,” he said, grimly. He looked at General Peter Templeton. “Are we ready for this?”
Templeton cleared his throat. “Almost certainly not, Prime Minister,” he said. He spoke - again - from memory. “Military bases are on alert - mobile infantry units have been dispersed, in case the enemy takes control of the high orbitals. Political figures are currently being scattered around the countryside, where they should be relatively safe unless the aliens intend to scorch the entire planet. The command and control network is up and running, allowing us to keep
in touch with our national units. If worse comes to worst, Prime Minister, our bases have orders to act on their own if they lose contact with London or Britain One.”
Andrew met his eyes. “And what will they do?”
“What they see fit,” Templeton said. “It’s never been tested in real life.”
“I know,” Andrew said.
He’d taken a moment to review some of the contingency plans, but none of them had been designed for alien invasion. An all-out Great Power war had seemed far more likely. None of those plans had made reassuring reading, either. The planners had warned that orbital and nuclear strikes would probably be directed against Britain, both to wear down the ground-based defences and cripple the government and military infrastructure. Their worst-case scenarios had been the stuff of nightmares.
He forced himself to think about something else. “And the general public?”
“There have been ... incidents,” Templeton said. He looked down at the table. “Panic-buying, a handful of riots ... we’ve deployed riot control units to deal with them, under the Security and Defence of the Realm Act. Several thousand rioters are now in a number of makeshift detention camps, awaiting processing. It’s sheer bloody good luck that this happened so late at night.”
Andrew nodded. The thought of hundreds of thousands of people trying to get home, blocking the roads and arguing with police officers, was chilling. It would have been an absolute nightmare. Hell, it was still going to be a nightmare. Far too many people probably had been caught away from home. Sorting out the mess would take weeks.
“Remind the policemen to be as gentle as possible,” he said, softly. “We’re not talking about insurgents or traitors here.”
Templeton frowned. “With all due respect, Prime Minister, keeping the motorways clear is an absolute priority. We have to be able to move men and equipment around the country as quickly as possible. And frankly, we don’t want looters on the streets. We’ll need to make sure that food is distributed as fairly as possible.”
Andrew scowled. “You mean, useful people get fed first.”
“Yes,” Templeton said. He didn't bother to try to deny it. “We will have to make hard decisions in the future.”
“I saw those plans too,” Andrew said, sharply. He wondered, briefly, if he counted as a useful person. Right now, his position seemed meaningless. “It won’t be easy, will it?”
“No, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. “But we do have matters under control, for the moment.”
“That won’t last,” the First Space Lord warned. “The aliens will engage Earth’s defences in the next ten minutes.”
Andrew looked at him. He knew he was clutching at straws, but he had to try. “Did you not attempt to communicate?”
“We tried,” the First Space Lord said. For a moment, he looked older - far older. “We planned for this, Prime Minister. We sent messages in everything from plain English to mathematical concepts. We know these bastards understand us; they’re just not interested in talking to us.”
“Some people need to be smacked around a bit before they pay attention,” Templeton said.
Andrew frowned. “Is that what they taught you at Catterick?”
“At Kendrick Borstal,” Templeton said. “I’d already mastered the art of listening when I went to Catterick.”
“Oh,” Andrew said.
He looked up at the display. Hundreds of starfighters were already visible, settling into formation as the alien starships made their final approach. Behind them, the planetary defences were preparing to fire. A handful of smaller displays simulated the battle, showing everything from a costly victory to a total defeat. Andrew knew better than to believe the simulations - long experience had told him that they couldn't be trusted - but one thing was clear. It was going to be a long and bloody engagement.
And there was nothing he could do.
He could go to bed, he knew. The Prime Minister did have a suite of rooms in the underground bunker. Indeed, it might be the best thing he could do. He’d be needed after the battle, although he had no idea - yet - if he’d have to offer surrender or start reconstruction. But he couldn't just go to bed, even though he was tired. He eyed the empty coffee mug balefully, wondering if he was on the verge of caffeine poisoning. Whoever had stocked the bunker had gone for potency over taste.
“Tell me something,” he said, quietly. He wasn't sure which one he was addressing. “How did you cope? When you sent young men out to die?”
“It never gets any easier,” the First Space Lord said, equally quietly. “You just learn to compartmentalise your feelings until afterwards. And then you deal with them in private.”
Stiff upper lip and all that, Andrew thought. His tutors had believed, firmly, that all the troubles Britain had faced over the last two hundred years had come from a lack of stiff upper lip. They might have been right, he conceded privately, although he hadn't forgiven some of them for how they’d treated the students in their care. Better a boy dies like a hero instead of living like a coward.
He pushed the thought aside. “Do whatever you need to do,” he said, quietly. “I’ll be here.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” the First Space Lord said.
Andrew watched them go, then keyed his terminal. The BBC was broadcasting a series of updates, all carefully bland and stripped of any useful data. But then, there were censors in the broadcasting offices now, making sure that nothing leaked out that might cause panic on the streets. Andrew had his doubts - the public was unlikely to believe bland reports once they saw lights in the sky - but there was no choice. A real panic would be utterly disastrous.
He looked around the conference room, feeling ... old. The bunker was safe, unless the enemy knew where to find it and were prepared to drop heavy weapons on London. He was safe, while his people were suffering. Or would be suffering, once the aliens started dropping bombs on the planet. He’d pay a price for that, during the next election. If, of course, there was a next election. He doubted the Tadpoles cared one whit for democracy.
They can't be attacking us for nothing, he thought, desperately. What do they want?
He shook his head. There was no answer. And there was no choice, but to fight.
***
“RETURN TO YOUR HOMES! I SAY AGAIN, RETURN TO YOUR HOMES!”
Police Constable Robin Mathews braced himself as the police line formed at the end of the road. Hundreds of men and women were gathered outside the shops, forcing open the doors and windows as they tried - desperately - to stock up on food. None of them seemed to be paying any attention to the policemen, even though more and more police vehicles were arriving at any moment. They were too concerned about grabbing enough food to stay alive.
Stupid idiots should have stocked up while they could, he thought, darkly. The police line grew stronger by the minute, but he wasn't looking forward to wading into the crowd. They really should have bought the damn food when they were told to buy it.
He shook his head inside his helmet. He’d stocked up on food - his partners and he had shared the cost - but not everyone could afford it. And far too many people didn't really believe in the aliens. Who would have believed in them? The war had been hundreds of light years away. They didn't really want to believe it could come to Earth.
His earpiece buzzed. “We’re going to have to clear them,” the captain said. “Get your shockrods ready.”
Robin muttered a curse under his breath as he drew his shockrod from his belt and activated it. The device glowed blue, something he’d been told was intended to intimidate anyone who wanted to pick a fight with the police. He had to admit it worked, but ... he wasn't too keen on it. The police might have been armed for the last two hundred years, yet it wasn't something they liked. He’d always felt that there were times when it was better to keep the weapons out of sight.
And not to attack people who are scared, he told himself, curtly. All hell is about to break loose.
“THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNIN
G,” the captain said, over the megaphone. “DISPERSE NOW AND RETURN TO YOUR HOMES. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER WARNING.”
Robin braced himself. Mobs were always dangerous. People were smart, but a mob was a dangerous beast. His eyes moved from person to person, silently noting the ones who were trying to slip away and contrasting them to the idiots who were urging the others on. Once the mob reached a certain level, it wouldn't need any encouragement any longer. Everyone would be swept up in the violence until they were shocked out of it.
“Shit,” someone muttered, as the first beer bottle flew through the air and smashed on a riot shield. “Someone’s been drinking.”
“Here they come,” someone else said.
The mob lunged at the police line, shouting and screaming. Robin held up his shockrod as the mass approached, then started striking people when they got too close to him. But the mob was too strong. The police line wavered as the rioters slammed into their shields, forcing some of the policemen backwards. Robin felt sweat trickling down his back as the shouting grew louder. He’d shocked a dozen rioters, perhaps more, but the rest of them just kept coming, shoving their stunned comrades up against the shields. Some of them were going to be seriously injured or worse. He’d seen rioters trample their former comrades during rugby matches.
The Longest Day (Ark Royal X) Page 10
