At least my family is safe, she thought. Tidal waves had battered Texas, but her family lived hundreds of miles inland. And they’re well, if wet.
It wasn't a pleasant thought. Her father hadn’t said much in his message, but she’d been able to read between the lines. The weather had changed, perhaps permanently. Texas would never be the same, any more than the rest of the world. The ranch might have to close if the downpour did permanent damage to the soil. God alone knew how bad it had been for the rest of the world. Japan and Australia had both taken heavy damage.
Williams sighed. “They did it on purpose,” he said. He picked up the terminal and passed it to her. “I’m sure of it.”
Ginny stuck out her tongue. “I think we should find a hotel somewhere else,” she said sardonically, as she checked the terminal. Armstrong City was probably out - a lot of refugees were being hosted there until their colonies were repaired - but Clarke Colony or Luna City still had listings. The residents were clearly trying to get the interplanetary tourist trade up and running again as fast as possible. “Or we could head to L5 or L4.”
“Perhaps,” Williams said. He still looked despondent. “But it won’t be the same.”
“Cheer up,” Ginny told him. “We won!”
“Yeah,” Williams said. It was strange to see him so down. The jokester who’d fought beside her was gone, replaced by a stranger. “But at what cost?”
“We won,” Ginny repeated. The cost had been high. She had a feeling that her squadron was going to be disbanded, sooner rather than later. With only two of the original pilots left, she doubted anyone would argue to keep it. She’d probably be reassigned to another squadron as the USN struggled to patch the holes in its formation. “We won.”
She rested a hand on his shoulder. “And that,” she added, “is all that matters.”
And she wondered, as he leaned in for a kiss, just how many times she had to say that before she believed it herself.
Chapter Forty
London, United Kingdom
“It was our longest day,” the Prime Minister said. His voice boomed over Hyde Park. “Our country - our planet - faced the gravest threat in our long history. And we rose to the occasion ...”
Police Constable Robin Mathews kept his face expressionless, somehow, as the Prime Minister droned on and on. Whoever had written the Prime Minister’s speech should be shot out of hand. He’d somehow dragged in quotes from Churchill, Wellington and a dozen other politicians, but failed to turn them into a coherent narrative. Indeed, as the droning went on, Robin was starting to think that shooting was too good for the speechwriter. Perhaps something lingering in boiling oil instead.
He sighed, inwardly, as he surveyed the crowd. There weren’t many people in Hyde Park, two weeks after the war. Central London had been completely evacuated, save for the government ministers and their staff. A ring of steel kept looters and stragglers away from the site, but he knew the government was jumpy. Someone had fired on the Deputy Prime Minister’s motorcade as he returned to Whitehall, yet somehow managed to escape detection and capture. The country was not pleased. If so many people hadn't been killed or displaced - or lost without trace - he would have expected a revolution.
And the PM probably doesn't have a hope of winning the next election, he thought. Whoever takes over will have to clear up the mess.
Sally nudged him. “How long can that man talk?”
“Too long,” Robin muttered. The reporters seemed willing to listen, if nothing else. But then, they’d probably expected a long speech. “It’ll be over soon.”
“It will not be easy to recover from this disaster, to rebuild what we have lost,” the Prime Minister said. His voice sounded confident, at least. “But I pledge to you that we will rebuild, we will recover. We will meet this challenge and we will overcome it.”
Robin resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. The Prime Minister was safe and well-fed, spending his nights in a warm and secure location somewhere within London. He could talk all he liked about overcoming challenges. The refugees, scattered over a thousand makeshift camps and clearing houses, were suffering. Robin had never seen anything like it. Food and drink were in short supply; the supply of homes, tents and bedding was even more limited. Getting refugees to work was a very short-term solution. It had its limits.
The Longest Day, he thought. Some idiot in the Prime Minister’s PR department had come up with the name. It would probably catch on, too. But the battle was over, while the scars remained. It will never come to an end.
The reporters clapped listlessly as the speech finally concluded. Robin wondered, absently, if the reporters intended to produce a honest version of the speech or not, then decided it probably didn't matter. The government had officers in each and every media outlet across the land. Bad news was ruthlessly played down, while every little scrap of good news was broadcast far and wide. Robin had no idea if it was good for morale or not, but hopefully it would keep the lid on for a while longer. Too many refugee camps had already collapsed into chaos.
His radio buzzed. “Escort the reporters back to their buses, then report back,” the dispatcher ordered. The skies were already darkening. The rainfall had lessened, over the last week, but it was still raining heavily. “You’ll be going east this afternoon.”
Robin sighed. There was no end to it. And there never would be.
“Understood,” he said. “We’re on our way.”
***
Admiral Jonathan Winters frowned as the small collection of reporters turned and headed as one towards the buses. He’d expected more, somehow. The services in Westminster Abbey had been far more dignified, even though it seemed that nearly everyone in Britain was mourning a family member who’d been killed in the bombardment. But the Prime Minister’s speech had been dull and depressing. The man had aged twenty years over the last two weeks.
But that is true of all of us, Jon thought, as the Prime Minister approached him. The President is already talking about not seeking re-election.
“Prime Minister,” he said. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk earlier.”
“My schedule is very busy,” the Prime Minister said. He nodded to the nearby car. “If you’d care to join me ...?”
Jon followed him into the car, shaking his head inwardly. Normally, any meeting between a senior American naval officer and a foreign leader would require weeks of preparation ... and all the real work would be done by subordinates. Now ... knocking down a few of the barricades between the people in question and actual work could hardly be a bad thing, even if the diplomats did worry about their superiors going off-message.
“I haven't had time to see the latest reports,” the Prime Minister said. “How bad is it?”
“Home Fleet is down to three effective carriers,” Jon said. “Two more will be repaired in the next month, if we have time, but that might not be on our side. We’ve recalled three carriers from the front, yet that will weaken our defences ...”
“And they might punch through the gap,” the Prime Minister said. “Do they know how badly they hurt us?”
“Their fleet will have a pretty accurate count,” Jon confirmed. “The forces they have facing us will be aware, sooner rather than later.”
“Which will give them incentive to attack,” the Prime Minister said. “Can we stop them?”
“I don’t know,” Jon said. He wondered, grimly, just what the British Admiralty had told the Prime Minister. Ark Royal had boosted their confidence, but the Battle of Earth had knocked it back down again. “We lack hard data on their true numbers.”
“They could be weak too,” the Prime Minister said. He sounded like a man grasping at straws. “We might be able to bring them to the bargaining table.”
“Or they might still be bringing their forces to bear against us,” Jon said. He hated to say it, but there was no choice. It was his duty to keep his superiors informed of such matters. “In that case, the odds will shift rapidly against u
s.”
The Prime Minister nodded. Jon eyed him, wondering if the Prime Minister was on the verge of zoning out completely. The Vice President had been hospitalised after a nervous breakdown, while the Speaker of the House had committed suicide. America hadn't been hurt so badly since the Civil War, well outside living memory. Britain hadn't been battered so badly ever. And far more of their population lived on the coast.
“Then we have no choice,” the Prime Minister mused. He sounded as though he was talking to himself. “We must find a way to end the war.”
His terminal bleeped. “Yes?”
“Ark Royal has returned to the solar system,” a voice said. Jon felt his heart leap, even though he knew it wasn't good news. Ark Royal was one ship. She couldn't have stopped the alien attack on her lonesome. “She’s sent a datapacket for your consumption.”
“Understood,” the Prime Minister said. “I’ll return to the bunker now.”
He looked at Jon. “You’ll be coming with me?”
“If I can,” Jon said. He wasn't due to return to orbit until evening. He’d planned to visit the Cenotaph to pay his respects, if the Brits could scrounge up an escort, but it wasn't set in stone. “I’m looking forward to hearing their report.”
And maybe we can send them out again, he thought, grimly. Hitting the aliens in the back may be the only way to win the war.
***
“So it’s confirmed,” Andrew said, two hours after he’d returned to the bunker. “There is a second alien faction.”
“Perhaps more than one,” the French President said. “But is it - are they - potential allies?”
Andrew peered down at the report. “They were fired on by the other aliens,” he said. Ark Royal had witnessed the whole affair, but she’d been too far away to intervene. “And they were trying to talk to us when they were destroyed.”
“It could be a trap,” the Russian President grunted. “Would we fire on one of our vessels in support of an alien power?”
“I like to think not,” the American President said.
Andrew kept his face expressionless. MI6 had run up a number of scenarios where the aliens made common cause with a human power, perhaps more than one, but he’d never found any of them particularly plausible. A human power would have to be insane to trust aliens, even if they hated and feared their fellow humans. There would be no way to predict what the aliens would do after the war was over.
He leaned forward. “Don’t you see? This is a chance to actually talk to them!”
“And perhaps sail right into a trap,” the Chinese Premier said. “The aliens might be baiting us, after smashing so much of Home Fleet here.”
“They don’t need to bait us,” the French President said. “Look at the timing. There is no way they could have known the outcome of the battle here when Ark Royal saw the ... the encounter. They couldn't have known. There is no reason to think that this isn’t a valid attempt to open communications.”
“Except for the simple fact that they’ve had plenty of opportunities to talk to us,” the Russian President snapped. “And they only do it now?”
“We don’t know they had plenty of opportunities,” the American President pointed out. “For all we know, this was their first chance to speak to us.”
“But we don’t know,” the Russian President said. “We should work on deploying the bioweapon immediately.”
Andrew held up a hand. “There is a certain level of risk in attempting to open communications,” he said. “But I thought it was agreed that we could not hope for the bioweapon to infect all of their worlds before it went active. There is no way we could be sure of a clean sweep.”
“We’d hurt them,” the Russian President said.
“Perhaps,” the American President said. His voice was very calm. “And perhaps we would just make them really mad.”
“Yes,” Andrew said. He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Let us try to open communications. And if it fails, we can move ahead with the bioweapon.”
“Agreed,” the French President said.
Andrew leaned back in his chair as the vote was taken. He’d never really expected to have to deploy a weapon of mass destruction, let alone a bioweapon. And yet ... Britain was on the edge. Earth was on the edge. Victory - even a compromise peace - seemed less and less plausible with every passing day. A second alien thrust, aimed directly at Earth, would be decisive. It would end the war.
All in favour, he thought, numbly. God help us.
The discussion ended. Andrew watched the four images vanishing, wondering just what they were thinking. They’d agreed, in confidence, to sentence a sentient race - the only other one known to exist - to death. And they’d made the decision for everyone, without consulting with the rest of their governments. Andrew understood the logic - there was no way he could discuss it with his Cabinet, let alone the Houses of Parliament - but he hated it. The decision wasn't one he wanted to make on his own.
And yet, I have no choice, he thought.
He picked up his datapad. The records lay open in front of him, mocking him. Over two million confirmed deaths, with a further six million unaccounted for; millions of injuries, millions of pieces of property damage ... and an economy that had slumped badly. It was the greatest disaster in British history. There was no way to sugar-coat it. Nor was there any way to make it just ... go away.
And if they invade a second time, he reminded himself, we will lose the war.
“God help us,” he said, quietly.
The End
The Earth-Tadpole War Concludes In:
The Trafalgar Gambit
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Appendix: Glossary of UK Terms and Slang
[Author’s Note: I’ve tried to define every incident of specifically UK slang in this glossary, but I can’t promise to have spotted everything. If you spot something I’ve missed, please let me know and it will be included.]
Aggro - slang term for aggression or trouble, as in ‘I don’t want any aggro.’
Beasting/Beasted - military slang for anything from a chewing out by one’s commander to outright corporal punishment or hazing. The latter two are now officially banned.
Binned - SAS slang for a prospective recruit being kicked from the course, then returned to unit (RTU).
Boffin - Scientist
Bootnecks - slang for Royal Marines. Loosely comparable to ‘Jarhead.’
Bottle - slang for nerve, as in ‘lost his bottle.’
Borstal - a school/prison for young offenders.
Compo - British army slang for improvised stews and suchlike made from rations and sauces.
Donkey Wallopers - slang for the Royal Horse Artillery.
Fortnight - two weeks. (Hence the terrible pun, courtesy of the Goon Show, that Fort Knight cannot possibly last three weeks.)
‘Get stuck into’ - ‘start fighting.’
‘I should coco’ - ‘you’re damned right.’
King’s Shilling - Army Pay. ‘Taking the King’s Shilling’ means joining the army.
Kip - sleep.
Levies - native troops. The Ghurkhas are the last remnants of native troops from British India.
Lifts - elevators
Lorries - trucks.
MOD - Ministry of Defence. (The UK’s Pentagon.)
Order of the Garter - the highest order of chivalry (knighthood) and the third most prestigious honour (inferior only to the Victoria Cross and George Cross) in the United Kingdom. By law, there can be only twenty-four non-royal members of the order at any single time.
Panda Cola - Coke as supplied by the British Army to the troops.
RFA - Royal Fleet Auxiliary
Rumbled - discovered/spotted.
SAS - Special Air Service.
SBS - Special Boat Service
Spotted Dick - a traditional fruity sponge pudding with suet, citrus zest and currants served in thick slices with hot custard. The name always caused a snigger.
Squaddies - slang
for British soldiers.
Stag - guard duty.
STUFT - ‘Ships Taken Up From Trade,’ civilian ships requisitioned for government use.
TAB (tab/tabbing) - Tactical Advance to Battle.
Tearaway - boisterous/badly behaved child, normally a teenager.
The Longest Day (Ark Royal X) Page 40
