Invasion

by Chris James

  “We appreciate the effort, although it likely won’t make much difference to the outcome. Are things as bad between Napier and Coll as I’ve heard?”

  “Depends on what you’ve heard. The US government is doing all it can diplomatically, but those squares don’t really get how difficult the situation is. You read any of Preston Grant’s books?”

  “The diplomat? No,” Terry answered, somehow grateful and yet irritated by this irrelevant distraction.

  “Most level-headed guy we had. I wish he were still here to tell these knuckleheads what they don’t wanna know.”

  Terry said: “Napier mentioned the other day about the emergency evacuation Coll has offered VIPs here if we want to take it.”

  “How did that go down?”

  Terry let out a mirthless chuckle and said: “Damn politicians looking for a way they could jump at it without looking like bloody cowards.”

  Silence settled between the two men. Terry could guess how Suds felt, safe as he was deep in the Nevada desert. The American airman offered: “Maybe it still won’t come to that.”

  “Not very likely, but in the meantime, we can’t get too many supplies from you guys, Suds. You think Coll will block any more aid to Europe?”

  Studs shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “She argues about our commitments but she usually signs off when she’s through bitching.”

  “I hope it stays that way for as long as possible.”

  “It will. Take care, Earl.”

  The screen went blank and Terry’s mind drifted to Napier’s unorthodox briefing the previous week. He drank deeply from the hot mug and concluded that the war may well move too quickly even for such emergency evacuations; after all, few of the leaders in southern Europe had managed to escape, and Terry suspected the same fate awaited most of them in northern Europe.

  Chapter 38

  06.57 Monday 13 March 2062

  THE ENGLISHMAN PACED around his apartment in the English embassy, part of the diplomatic compound in Beijing. He unscrewed the cap of the twelve-year-old single malt and poured himself another large measure. He slammed the bottle down on the table, lifted the glass, and announced to the empty apartment: “And the toast is… Fuck you, China.” He swallowed a gulp and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, thereby stopping any air reaching his throat to prevent the spirit from burning.

  The warmth spread from his stomach, across his chest, and up his spine to his head. His training back in London—more than two years ago, now—reasserted itself, reminding him that his apartment was not a secure place, that his hosts would know instantly of any indiscretion he should reveal. As he tried to focus on his reflection in the mirror above the ornate fireplace, he quietened the mischievous voice inside him which urged him to blurt out that he had been intimate with one of the Chinese military’s key commanders for months; that he could describe the extremely modest size of the man’s penis when erect and could list the recreational drugs Marshall Zhou preferred.

  Marshall Zhou, the clever little bastard who, the Englishman wondered as the whiskey took control of his faculties, might have bested him in ways the Englishman had not considered. Marshall Zhou, who would now not even talk to him. Marshall Zhou, whom the Englishman had held in the palm of his hand for months. Because of the Marshall, the Englishman had been able to send warnings to London, he had been able to help protect his home and therefore his family and friends.

  He had to report to London. He threw on a leather jacket as the temperature outside was only a few degrees above freezing. He left the block via the stairs and exited the compound into the cloudy morning. Ten minutes later, he strode quickly around one of the numerous small, landscaped parks in this part of the city, trying to compose his report. He came to a large pond enclosed by an ornate, Western-style wrought-iron fence. Two pairs of ducks hopped and fussed around the edge.

  He took a hip flask from his jacket pocket and swallowed a nip. Putting it back, he turned around full circle but did not see the figure watching him from a copse of mature oaks some distance away. The Englishman’s sixth sense tingled and he considered that perhaps he should ease up on the whiskey. He strode off, his long legs carrying him at speed. Several moments later, he came to an ornate bridge over a stream that joined two small lakes.

  He selected the appropriate options in his lens and spoke: “The Englishman reporting from Beijing. Time of report: 07.41, Monday 12 March 2062. Report begins: the Chinese government continues to keep the Caliphate’s invasion of Europe as much out of the country’s most popular media as possible. This extends to failing to report UN resolutions condemning the Caliphate’s brutality. The UN in any case carries nowhere near the weight that the Pan-Asian Confederation does, which of course has China as its most powerful member. For example, over the last fortnight, the most consistently reported and followed media event is the new trade pact between China and Japan. All Chinese media outlets and platforms are following every detail, including down to the size of the fucking rice cakes on the table at each negotiation meeting, if you’ll excuse the profanity.

  “At a more populist level, the actor Ying Yue Chu continues to be given publicity that far exceeds her talents. Over the last few days, the media has been speculating that she has undergone certain genital enhancements for a forthcoming film by one of China’s better known directors. The next most popular story is the on-going voting in a country-wide poll to find the most influential man or woman in Chinese history. After that, the last few days have seen a political storm growing over alleged bribes paid by construction firms to mid-level government officials to secure lucrative contracts. Finally, and also reported ahead of the violence in Europe, a young, newly married Chinese couple were reported to be delighted because, while on honeymoon in Fiji, the wife lost her wedding ring, which a local miraculously found on a coral reef and returned to them. Such trivia is the mainstay of the bulk of China’s population.

  “The only support Europe’s cause has had inside the country recently was a coordinated protest by several thousand Chinese students from a number of the most well-known universities, including all of the top universities in each region. The government suppressed the reporting of it, including using targeted Abscondam bots, and I only found out about it by chance. There may have been some greater—or perhaps I should say, less worse—progress in diplomatic circles of which the ambassador himself is better placed to inform you.”

  The Englishman stopped walking along the tarmac path and looked up at the bare branches that surrounded him. He concluded: “Finally, my primary contact has cooled recently and is not the source they used to be. It may take time for me to find someone in a similar position with similar appetites, so I will not report again unless and until something of some potential use comes up. Report ends.”

  With twitches of his eye muscle, the Englishman sent the message, all the while walking towards the exit, and all the time failing to see the figure that followed him.

  Chapter 39

  05.58 Wednesday 15 March 2062

  IN THE EIGHTEEN days since Polish Major Kate Fus nearly lost her legs when the mid-range Autonomous Air Transport evacuating her crashed in northern Serbia, she had grown used to the speed of the enemy’s inexorable advance. Her freshly healed limbs tingled in anticipation as she observed the readouts in her mobile command post. She drew her index finger across the top of her cleft palate and recalled the previous evening with her lover, General Pakla, and how alive he had made her feel.

  “Major,” the Polish Army’s super AI began, “all units are ready. I have detected a potential malfunction on Battlefield Support Laser GDR0776 in Sector West, as shown on the central panel.”

  Kate glanced at the data displayed and gave a wry smile when she saw a malfunction-probability figure of less than two percent. “Bolek,” she said, “all BSL crews have been relieved and those units will operate autonomously, yes?”

  “Yes, Major.”

  “Overlay the retreat r
outes for today’s engagement, please.” Lines appeared on the screen indicating how NATO troops would pull back when their meagre defences were overwhelmed, as they had during every engagement of this invasion. Kate sat in her mobile command vehicle in relative comfort. She felt a twinge of remorse at having run away from the refugees. All along the roads around Zagreb, tens of thousands of dishevelled people walked, trudged, shuffled and staggered onwards, desperate to avoid the approaching storm. Many fell, begged and gave up. Some died. The local emergency services had long since been unable to cope with more than a lucky fraction of the total casualties, and resentment was building between the civilians and NATO Forces because the latter could not spare the resources to aid the local populations. She’d instructed Bolek to take her vehicle into concealment in a managed forest close to the city but away from the roads and tracks the fleeing refugees used.

  She said: “Are there any changes to the estimated enemy deployments?”

  “Not at this time, Major.”

  “Bolek, when did the enemy’s Warrior Group East and the Turkish spearhead join together?”

  “Approximately fourteen hours and three minutes ago, at an estimated—”

  “I have told you before: do not use ‘approximately’ with precise periods of time, okay?”

  “Very well,” Bolek replied. “Just over fourteen hours ago. Forecasts give higher probabilities that the next attack will advance more rapidly than any before it.”

  “I think we all expect that.” She dabbed a green oblong on the central screen in front of her and announced: “Attention, all troops. We can expect the enemy to start misbehaving very soon. Do what you can to frustrate them, but no heroics. Remember your briefings: this is a fighting retreat, not a battle to hold ground. We can all see the civilians but we cannot help them any more than we have. Try to remember all of those who have already got out ahead of the enemy. Any questions?”

  She saw a request from a Czech unit under the command of a Captain Fiala. A young man’s reedy voice filled her mobile command vehicle: “Major, I am expecting my flank to be turned in less than five minutes. I put in a request for at least one more BSL but did not get it.”

  “I know,” Kate answered. “We are quite stretched, Captain Fiala. Please use your common sense and follow the advice of your super AI.”

  “And what about the civilians? To retreat, my unit cannot avoid having to cross a major evac route.”

  Kate’s brow furrowed as she asked: “Is this your first action, Captain?”

  “Yes, it is, Major. Why do you ask?” came the defiant reply.

  She smiled and said: “What do you think the civilians will do when the enemy begins raining death and destruction from the sky?”

  “Panic, I expect,” the Captain said.

  “No, Captain,” Kate replied, her patience straining. “They will seek shelter and hide. By the time your unit needs to evacuate, civilians will be the least of your worries.”

  “I see,” came the suspicious reply.

  “Any other questions?” This was greeted with silence so she said: “It’s coming up to eleven minutes past the hour, which is sunrise. We have low, broken cloud with a surface air temp of plus eight degrees Celsius. If the enemy maintain their pattern of attacks to date, then—” she broke off as the array of screens flashed with red icons. The overviews withdrew, increasing the amount of territory represented, and numerous lines of light appeared, all approaching the NATO positions. “And here they are,” Kate said, “right on time. Good luck, everyone.”

  Kate sat back and refastened her belts for the inevitable retreat. Anger and frustration tinged the anticipation of battle. Kate had learned to loathe this enemy for its brazen predictability: it attacked NATO positions when it pleased because it knew it would meet only minimal resistance. This enemy could discard old, out-dated tactical considerations, such as ensuring the element of surprise, due to its overwhelming numerical advantage. She tried to recall any war games or training where an opponent had bested NATO so comprehensively and could not.

  She put her attention back on the screens as the data changed. From high above them, a mere ten SkyWatchers led the charge of sixty-four PeaceMakers, most of which were armed with Pulsar lasers. On the ground, four Battlefield Support Lasers waited in autonomous patience, one pair to the east of Zagreb, the other pair to the west.

  Kate felt her heart sink for the umpteenth time as, facing them, she watched lines of light converge on the NATO positions. A familiar pattern on the screen evolved as the number of enemy ACAs entering the battle space crept up to dwarf the NATO forces ranged against them. She stared at the digits that changed so quickly: the swarm of approaching enemy ACAs grew at a similar rate as their distance to the engagement closed.

  Kate muttered under her breath: “Captain Fiala will get his flank turned sooner than he thought.”

  Bolek announced: “Major, I have already instructed the forward units to retreat. The probability of a more greatly concentrated attack than before appears to be coming to pass.”

  “Is it because of the new inducer fitted to the PeaceMakers and BSLs? Do you think the enemy is deploying more ACAs to counter that development? Or is it that now two of their spearheads have joined up and can combine forces?”

  “It is highly probable that the enemy’s own super artificial intelligence would have anticipated the development of the inducer—”

  “But did the humans in charge take any notice?” Kate interrupted.

  “Insufficient data,” Bolek replied.

  Kate said nothing as the battle began in earnest, hundreds of Caliphate machines flying geometric circles around the defenders, swamping, smothering and eliminating them. She saw with depressing familiarity the inevitable beating NATO forces took, but she also saw novelty in the way the enemy dealt its blows. The ACAs from both combatants flew the most extreme contortions, seeking any sliver of advantage. She watched some enemy ACAs drop straight down from thousands of metres in the sky; their targets dipped, spun and dived to evade; the attackers matched these manoeuvres until exchanges of fire took place; fire was exchanged until destruction. Other ACAs came screaming in to attack as low as fifty metres from the ground. Squadrons undulated through the sky in the most graceful formations before opening fire. She tried to imagine how fast each super AI calculated its tactical decisions against its opponent.

  “You should retreat now, Major,” Bolek advised.

  “Very well,” Kate replied. “Give me clear sky in the roof; maintain other current displays.”

  Bolek carried out her instructions and among the patchy cloud, vapour trails and smudges of black smoke showed her how the battle progressed outside in the cold air, the reality of a confrontation she watched unfold on screens. She glanced back at her readouts to see Captain Fiala’s flank had been turned after less than three minutes. Her concern grew as the units of which she was in charge retreated. She ignored the bumping and shaking of her own mobile command vehicle as it made its way through the forest southwest of Zagreb.

  “Any signs of reinforcements?” she asked the super AI with more hope than expectation.

  “No,” Bolek replied. “Our remaining resources in this theatre are being managed to maximise a successful retreat of all NATO personnel.”

  “A successful retreat is an oxymoron,” Kate replied testily. She pointed to one of the displays and said: “The eastern flank held out the longest. Why?”

  “A combination of factors—”

  “Just give me a summary.”

  “One: unanticipated increases in humidity at various, highly localised altitudes. Two: the pattern of coherence-length variation in the Pulsars of two wings of PeaceMakers. Three: a variation of two centimetres in the attack vectors of twelve Blackswans.”

  “Hmm,” Kate mused, “if our other improvements have got us to a point where atmospheric variations can play a role, that would help.”

  “Major, you have a comms request from General Pakla,” Bolek s
aid.

  “Accept,” she said at once.

  The General’s low, gravelly voice filled the inside of the mobile command vehicle: “Major? I need to inform you of a diversion to your retreat.”

  Kate caught her breath at this unexpected news. “Go on,” she said.

  “We have VIPs struggling in the north of the city. As you can appreciate, AATs are out of the question now, so I have instructed the super AI to assign you and your units to pick the VIPs up and evac them. This is important and I need people on whom I can rely. Any questions?”

  Shock froze Kate’s jaw and disbelief paralysed her mind. She stammered an affirmative, which Pakla acknowledged, and then the comms ended.

  The vehicle lurched and altered direction. On her screens, Kate saw its course change from travelling north-westwards on the straightest route away from the enemy, to a north-easterly direction towards the centre of Zagreb.

  Bolek announced: “Route to new destination implemented. Major, the route is littered with debris; ETA is thirteen minutes.”

  Kate fought to regain her composure. Questions swirled through her mind: why her? The risk of the enemy’s advance overtaking them would be high—had her General assigned her to this for an ulterior motive? She refocused and identified the most important issues. “Bolek,” she said as she analysed the new objective on one of the screens, “who are the VIPs?”

  “We have a number of Croat politicians and some family members who have made the request.”

  “But Zagreb is finished. And we have known that for some days now. What are they still doing there?” she asked, although she could guess.

  “Several populist members of parliament decided to stay to offer moral support to the general population, whereas now they—”

  “That’s enough. What is the upper limit on our risk?”