by Chris James
“Absolutely,” Rory answered, hoping the interrogation would end soon.
Pip said: “We have to get rid of that hideous design flaw. We have to put legs in them so we can move about in them more freely. That restricted movement was nearly the end of me.”
Pettifer’s face tipped down and she murmured her understanding.
Rory drained his mug of tea and asked: “Is there anything else? Because I don’t know about the Private here, but I could really do with some rest.”
“Yes,” Pettifer said with no trace of sympathy. “Regarding the local population, how would you describe their morale?”
Rory closed his eyes and let out an expansive sigh, but he heard Pip put her mug of tea down on the table and say: “The people we met were scared but stoic. They worked out, sooner than us I think, that using any kind of tech is only going to bring a Spider down on their heads. The mountain villages we passed through were already abandoned and for the most part destroyed, and the survivors had taken shelter in old, disused mines. I want to stress again that despite their own disasters, they still took an injured comrade of ours in and operated on him.”
“Operated?” Pettifer queried in shock.
“No GenoFluid packs.”
“That is tough,” she said in a level tone. “Were there any reports of the enemy capturing local civilians?”
“Not that we heard,” Pip answered.
Rory said: “Seemed to me they’re going for straightforward annihilation.”
“Finally, did you witness or see anything to indicate that the enemy preferred some targets over others? Anything that suggested something outside normal military tactics?”
Rory shook his head and glanced at Pip to see her do the same.
“Very well,” Pettifer said. “Thank you both for your time. I’ll have a rating show you to your quarters.”
“Thanks,” Rory said in a tone which he hoped sounded neutral.
The door to the meeting room opened, and Pettifer stopped as she stepped through it. She turned back to them and said: “Listen, I don’t want to think about what the pair of you have been through, but it’s really bad for us up there, and London and NATO need every scrap of information they can get. Anything could be important and the enemy is starving us of intel.”
Rory said: “Just one thing: when do we go back to Blighty?”
The Chief Petty Officer shook her head and answered: “Not for a while. We’re stationed here to retrieve special-ops troops who haven’t turned up yet, and the way this war’s going, in a few weeks there may not be a Blighty to go back to.”
The door slid closed after her and Rory said: “Shit, Pip. And I was thinking of asking them if they could lend us a few people to try and get Crimble out.”
“Don’t think they’d do that no matter how well or badly the war was going, Corp. If survivors can get out to the sub, they’ll get picked up, like us. But if not, they’re stuck.”
“Do you think he survived the amputation?” Rory asked.
“No idea, but I hope so.”
“Me too.”
“Well, we’re stuck on this giant metal coffin now, for God knows how long,” Pip said with an impish grin.
“Better get some rest then,” Rory said, thanking whatever gods existed again for sparing both of them.
Chapter 29
06.47 Monday 27 February 2062
“THANK YOU, MAUREEN,” Terry Tidbury said to his wife as she placed a plate with two poached eggs on toast in front of him. He sat, lost in thought at the unremitting bad news. Operation Defensive Arc had fallen apart in the first twenty-four hours and now defence consisted only of NATO forces retreating at the slowest possible rate on all of the four fronts, each of which the enemy harried relentlessly.
He looked at the yolks on the plate in front of him as they wobbled in the whites. He took his knife and slit one so the liquid flowed out like yellow blood. The yolk sack collapsed and the liquid ran around the plate and soaked into the toast like blood soaks into clothes. He had never before realised the viscous similarity between runny egg yolk and blood.
He heard Maureen say: “Time’s getting on, Terry dear. Don’t eat if you’re not hungry.”
Still staring at the eggs on his plate, Terry replied: “Oh, I am hungry. You’re right, thank you.” He cut into the toast and ate.
Maureen sat down opposite him at the breakfast bar in the spacious kitchen and placed two mugs of steaming tea between them. He saw her look at him and sensed how she hid her concern.
“Things are bound to improve when we get more information,” he offered, wanting to reassure the love of his life.
She half-smiled and said: “Do you know how many times you have said to me we should always remember that we make our decisions based on the information we have to hand when we must make them? And that if it turns out we didn’t make the right decision only after new information comes to light, we have nothing to reproach ourselves for?”
Terry smiled and said: “Yes, but I’m not convinced that mantra can be applied to the current situation.” He put another large piece of egg and toast into his mouth and chewed, savouring the flavour.
“Why shouldn’t it be?” Maureen said, cutting into her own poached eggs and toast. “You have done what you could with the information you had available.”
Terry shook his head and said: “Too many choices, Maureen. It hasn’t been—and still isn’t—simply a question of not enough information, although we’re going to need a lot more if we’re ever to make any progress. It’s about the options we had, and about the options for the future—”
A soft chime from the screen in the wall next to the cooker interrupted him. The house’s super AI said: “Terry, your vehicle is relaying a message from the Ministry of Defence that has requested your presence on-site as soon as possible. Your vehicle notes more traffic than usual on the motorways into central London. As this may increase your journey time by up to four minutes, your vehicle requests that you take this into account. Thank you.”
Maureen let out a laugh and said: “Polite little bugger, isn’t it?”
Terry said with a smile: “Such a long-winded way of telling me to get a bloody move on.” He put the last of the egg and toast in his mouth, swallowed, and gulped down some tea.
Five minutes later, Terry sat in the back of his Toyota Rive-All as it autonomously navigated the local residential streets. At the junction with the first main road, the vehicle paused for a few seconds before nipping into a gap among the continuous flow of traffic as the super AI governing the majority of England’s roads assumed control.
Terry took out his slate and spun it open to review the overnight situation reports when the vehicle interrupted him: “Sir Terry, Squonk is relaying a request from SHAPE. Would you prefer I send it to your slate or the screen?”
“On the screen for a change,” Terry answered, looking to his left and taking in the grey dawn outside, droplets of rain running horizontally along the side windows due to the vehicle’s speed.
General Joseph E. Jones’s saturnine face appeared on the screen in front of Terry’s seat. Terry had never seen his African American chief appear so serious yet miserable. Jones said: “Good morning, General. Thanks for taking this call on your way into the office.”
Terry found that he appreciated the General’s good manners more as the military situation worsened. Although an American, there was something British in Jones’s demeanour which engendered in Terry a sense of trust in his superior’s judgement. Terry said: “No problem, General. Is it something urgent, specific, or to do with current deployments?”
Jones sighed and said: “I think we’re in for another problematic Chiefs of Staff meeting this morning. Our resources continue to dwindle, General, and it makes the choices tougher… In addition, we have confirmation of what we suspected in theatre a few days ago.”
Terry tried not to look as disheartened as he felt. “The Lapwing?”
The Supreme Comm
ander of Allied Forces in Europe nodded and said: “Yes, the subjugated populations are now subjected to the same laser-equipped ACA the enemy used in Israel.”
“I think we should assume it’s been deployed in all theatres, not only West.”
“I guess we could’ve expected it, but I was kinda hoping for later rather than sooner. Anyway, I expect the news to cause a few ripples politically so I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Have you decided whether to inform the other European generals?”
Jones’s answer surprised Terry. He asked: “Would you?”
Terry responded at once: “Yes, Sir. Despite the current situation, I believe they have similar problems that I have regarding my political masters, so it would be fair to let them know that once the news breaks, we can expect increased political tension.”
Jones nodded and said: “Good.”
“Have the naming committee got back to us with the designation for the enemy’s main troop transport craft?”
“Not yet, but given the size of the damn thing I think we should just call it the ‘Big Bastard’,” Jones replied with a mirthless chuckle.
“I see the overnights mention reports from the subs. I thought the enemy’s jamming would’ve prevented that.”
Jones shook his head and said: “We got those reports thanks only to the vagaries of atmospheric fluctuations, General.”
“I was hoping they might have extracted some special-ops troops rather than just a pair of ordinary Royal Engineers by now. We could do with the intel.”
“Have you read what the two troops who did get out had to report?”
“Not yet.”
“You might wanna, it’s still useful, although the local civilians left there won’t have much of a chance if they’ve got Lapwings in addition to Blackswans hunting them. Another thing we need to discuss at the meeting, cos it’s also gonna cause political issues, are all the ships heading for Spain and Portugal to take refugees off.”
Terry said: “Is that going to have such an impact on ops?”
“Uh-huh. We got private individuals trying to take pleasure boats out into the Bay of Biscay like it’s another goddamn Dunkirk. Coastguards can barely cope, especially in this weather, and are pleading for us to mount recovery ops.”
Terry shook his head and said: “As if we didn’t have enough to deal with.”
“General, we can’t let what’s going on around the periphery distract us from the key issues.”
“Agreed,” Terry said with a shrug.
“Nothing’s gonna change till we get answers to two questions: one, what is the answer to the power of the shielding on their ACAs, and two: how do we cut through the enemy’s jamming and re-establish comms? Till then, we’re just managing a fire in a whorehouse. See you at the meeting, General.”
The screen went blank and Terry glanced out of the left-side window. The rain had stopped and the clouds parted to reveal the red and orange hues of a colourful dawn. As the vehicle sped to his central London destination, he tried to enjoy the view because he felt certain such luxury would not last much longer.
Chapter 30
13.21 Monday 27 February 2062
PROFESSOR DUNCAN SEEKINGS muttered to himself as he strode towards the Dog & Partridge public house in Salisbury town centre. Today was the first day he hadn’t gone to his laboratory and office at Porton Down military research establishment in over two weeks, on the insistence of one of the chief executives who’d visited him the previous day and dropped large, unmissable hints that he should take a day off.
“What was her name?” he spoke aloud. “Joanne? Jennifer? Juniper? Doesn’t matter. Best interests at heart, I expect. Just wanting to help, indeed. Get some fresh air, yes. In the pub. Great idea.”
He walked across the parking area and pushed open the small door to the public bar, ducking so as not to hit his head on the lintel. He tutted at being obliged to continue to keep his head down to avoid the original Elizabethan oak beams in the low ceiling.
At the bar, he addressed the young man who greeted him: “Good afternoon. I have a table booked upstairs in the name of Seekings.”
“Yes, sir, just a moment.” The young man’s eye flickered and he said: “Right-ho, table number three. Something to drink, sir?”
“Yes, thank you. A light and bitter and a pint of Guinness, please.”
The young man reached under the counter and retrieved a set of snooker balls in a tray. He said: “If you’d like to go up, I’ll bring your drinks.”
“Thank you,” Duncan said, taking the tray of balls. He kept his head down until he went through the door at the back of the bar. This led to a more modern annex at the back of the Dog & Partridge, built as recently as the Victorian era. He went up the staircase and into the snooker room. He was pleased to see that all of the four snooker tables were free, and that the barman had already switched on the light above table three.
“Jolly good,” he muttered, putting the tray on the table and picking each ball out of it. He set the balls up and then selected a cue from the dozen that stood in a rack by the wall. He looked down its length to ascertain if it was straight, and then tutted and put it back. On the fourth attempt, he muttered: “I suppose it will have to do.”
The door opened and a short, stocky man entered carrying a narrow, long case. “Good afternoon, Professor,” he called in a cheerful tone.
“One-thirty. You are exactly on time as usual, Graham,” Duncan said, standing his cue by the wall and shaking Graham’s hand.
“I can’t believe they let you out of the place,” Graham said, putting the case on the side of the snooker table. “What’s this? A day off for good behaviour?” The case clipped open under his thumbs and he took out two halves of a snooker cue, which he screwed together.
Duncan picked up his half-pint of bitter and the bottle of light ale, and poured the latter into the former. He said: “I think the situation is getting too hectic—dare I say, even a little too stressful—for those youngsters.”
Graham stood his cue by the wall and picked up his pint of Guinness. “Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers,” Duncan echoed. He watched his oldest friend look up at him and said: “Actually, I am glad to get away to somewhere outside, even if it is for just a few hours.”
“You’ll be going straight back after this?”
“Oh, yes. It’s all getting rather boring.”
“But the last time we spoke, you said you’d worked out what that bloody Caliphate had been up to. Shall I break?”
Duncan nodded. “Go ahead,” he said.
Graham picked his cue up and placed the white ball between the yellow and green balls. His jeans and shirt stretched as he leaned forward and broke the frame off. The fifteen reds in the pack at the other end of the table split open and the white ball rolled back up to the baulk area, close to where it had begun its journey.
Duncan said: “Good break, you’ve left me nothing to go at, as usual.” He walked around the table, choosing which red to aim for. He said: “Yes, we know roughly how the Caliphate has created its weapons, but the problem is that we will probably need years to develop better weapons.”
“Yes,” Graham said. “And our damnable computers are flapping almost as much as the politicians.”
Duncan leaned down at the table and played his shot: the cue ball glanced a red which rolled into a cushion before hitting another red, while the white ball kissed the blue and stopped in the middle of the table. “Damn,” he said at the result of his effort.
“Hmm, thanks,” Graham said, before getting down and smartly knocking a red into one of the middle pockets. “One,” he announced.
Duncan said: “The key problem, as far as my people see things, is replication. Its uses are still very limited in military affairs. Of course, our super AI can design improved weapons relatively quickly, but new ACAs would still have to be manufactured in physical production plants. Only a few components would be able to be replicated. Perhaps
we need some ideas?”
“My team assumes,” Graham said, lining up a shot on the blue, “the Caliphate, having stolen a march on us, has the advantage and could theoretically keep ahead of us.” He played the shot and the blue ball wobbled in the jaws of the pocket before falling. “Six,” he announced, retrieving the blue and replacing it on its spot.
“You can miss now, if you feel like it,” Duncan said testily. “Their advantage is one thing, but nowhere near the most important.”
“Oh? Are you in the same boat as me?” Graham said, lining up the next red.
“Yes, I do think so, don’t you? We must find ways to minimise or neutralise their blasted advantages now, not in twelve or eighteen or twenty-four months.”
“We’ve already found a couple,” Graham said, before knocking another red into a corner pocket. “Seven,” he said with a smile.
“Have you been practising without telling me, old chap?”
Duncan’s friend looked taken aback as he said: “As if I’d do such a thing. Offensive you should even suggest it, sir.” He smirked and lined up a shot on the brown ball.
Duncan rolled his eyes and said: “Spare me your mock offence. I know it’s a bit tedious, but I do think those in power expect us to come up with some answers very, very smartly.”
“At my place, we were quite impressed with the captain of the Hyperion. Did you see what he did before his ship sunk?” He played the shot and the brown ball hit the near jaw of a middle pocket and ran into some reds. “Damn. Well, seven’s a fair start I suppose.” Graham stood upright, went to the wall and moved a gold-coloured metal indicator on an antique scoring board.
Duncan scoffed: “That will be the highest break of the frame.” He leaned his long, thin arms over the table to try a red to a corner pocket. “No, I saw a brief summary of the engagement but events have been moving rather quickly.” He hit the red and it disappeared in the pocket. “One,” he announced.
“Good shot,” Graham said. “He and his ships varied the coherence length on the shots from their Sea Striker laser canons. It’s a feature the Yanks’ Mark Three Pulsars don’t have. It let those Royal Navy lads shoot down twice the number of enemy ACAs the Yanks did.”
