The fall
of
Union
© 2017 Niall McGrath. All rights reserved. Find out more at http://nmcg84.blogspot.co.uk and https://www.facebook.com/authorniallmcgrath/
I / Tsunami
“Flight UNI 1349 to Union City.” echoed from the tannoy, jarring Ryder from thoughts of throttling the airline worker with whom he’d just had a disagreement. As he grabbed his pack and made his way to the departure gate, he flashed the man the most insincere smile he could as he negotiated his way towards the jet bridge and onto the jet. Let me see your travel visa my arse, Ryder thought.
Finding his seat, he settled in adjusting his fatigues and considered ordering a drink. Probably not a good idea to be drinking when you’re in full military uniform and taking an unplanned trip to a new posting.
Instead, he shut his eyes as he felt the aircraft turning onto the runway and burning it’s engines for take-off speed. The aircraft began to rise from the ground as elegantly as any vehicle with over three hundred thousand pounds of thrust could manage.
The thought that post transfers weren’t the worst thing to deal with drifted across his mind as sleep claimed him.
He opened his eyes several hours later, feeling like he’d tried to squeeze his head into a helmet a few sizes too small. Not enough sleep, he thought, as he stretched and straightened in his seat.
He reached over to his jacket and pulled his SatNet Tab from its pocket, unrolling it and snapping it to size. He’d seen a few old cellphone style devices in use here and there with extensive updates and modifications but they were slow and unwieldy. It was hard to beat something you could roll up, fold and re-size at will
Clear plastic, bold colours and a permanent connection to the LMEO satellite networks gave him access to everything he needed, assuming it fell outside military jurisdiction. He pulled up his digital transfer papers. He’d read them several times, and reading them again brought a smile to his face.
“Doesn’t play well with others. Follows orders to the letter, but not a single letter further. Disrespects senior officers he doesn’t like. Could shoot the hairs off a flies’ arse at 400 meters with any rifle still in military service. Has a problem with drinking while off duty. Creative and inventive at leading his men.
Signed, Lt.Col. Xayne, 4th Regiment, United Earth Nations Peacekeeping Forces, Argentina."
Chuckling, he closed the transfer order and set his Tab to browse mode and opened the news. Best transfer report he’d ever managed to get - Xayne knew how to read people. Good soldier, he thought. tough upbringing. Pity he’s trapped in the shit storm happening in Argentina.
A story summarizing the tests of unmanned probes using something called an ‘Alcubierre-Thompson’ engine by the Union Nav. The image of an ascetic looking man in a white coat and sporting a great grey beard was superimposed over video.
He continued browsing, paying little attention to the images scrolling past until he spotted a news feed from home and brought it forward to watch. Senators from Greater Europe grousing over his countrymen’s behaviour. A nation of Classers, as the derogatory term went - second class citizens. Five years of military service or a healthy bank account were the only shortcuts out.
A stabbing at a popular club in their capital. One of his countrymen had objected (with help from a rather sharp knife) to a full citizen from the Indian sub-continent being too forward with his wife. “Stupid arse,” he muttered, “You’re a Classer. You’re looking at ten years hard labour."
The passengers in front of him moved to their windows, exchanging nervous glances and whispers. Opening his own window shutter, he could see the lights of Union City winking in the distance, the Australian desert dark below him and a faint glow starting to suffuse the eastern skies.
He narrowed his eyes. That’s...odd, he thought, Is that a storm front coming down over the city? Rain was rare, a cause for public holiday. Instead, half a dozen gargantuan moisture traps - indistinct shadows in the darkness situated on hills to the north of the city - met the city's need for water.
They made significant advances in solar power generation at the same time, after one scientist had remarked “Imagine if we covered the towers in solar cells?" So they had - and with new nano-engineered materials, they could generate enough electricity for over seven million homes.
Strings of lightning began to flicker between the clouds, glowing with an arctic malevolence in the darkness of dawn and the heavy clouds. Clouds expanding with unnatural speed, faster than should be physically possible. As he watched, a white glow began saturating the clouds until they shone and without warning, the skies flashed white.
He recoiled in his seat, the reactive glass of the window automatically darkening in a microsecond to protect him from the intense glare. He landed on his backside and cracked the back of his skull off the armrest of the seat in the opposite aisle.
“Godda…” he began, getting cut off as the aircraft dipped violently in the skies. He shot off in one direction with arms windmilling and feet kicking. His momentum piled him into the roof while his Tab flew out of his hands.
The aircraft's lights went out, flicking back to life red-shifted, casting the cabin in the demonic glow of emergency lighting. The engines seemed to cough and splutter, kicking back into life screaming and protesting as the pilot brought them level again.
He was again deposited on his backside in the aisle. “Don’t mind me,” he announced to no-one in particular as he noticed other passengers staring at him, “Just stretching my legs.”.
None of them had suffered his fate, all strapped into their seats. One of them pointed at the illuminated seatbelt icon on the cabin wall. No pleasing some people.
As he scrambled back into his seat, a dull rumble washed over the exterior of the aircraft, the after effect of whatever had caused the flash. He realised that while the clouds were still visible though the glow had faded, many of the lights in his field of view had vanished.
With a shiver of understanding, he realised why - an Electromagnetic pulse. Someone had detonated an EMP device of some sort in the clouds high above Union City, though whether it was deliberate or not he couldn’t hazard a guess.
From what he knew of the topic after basic electronic warfare training, anything that involved a potential danger to people - transport, infrastructure, military - tended have EM shielding. For most civilian devices and equipment, it was an unnecessary requirement that existed to drive up prices.
He looked towards the city which had, for the most part, just suffered an unexpected and total loss of electrical power to homes, residential areas & business.
Panic wouldn’t take long to set in, which meant full mobilisation of all peacekeeping troops in the vicinity. Which meant him - and that’s before they could work out who was responsible for the attack - or why the attack had happened - or if it was an attack at all.
As he got up to make his way to the cockpit to try to pry some information from the pilots - one of the few times the uniform might offer any benefit - “BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!” blared from the pilot's intercom as the aircraft lurched to starboard, throwing Ryder through the air like a ragdoll.
Disoriented, he lost the ability to follow what he saw as everything spun in sickening motion. the aircraft thrown so forcefully through the skies it would have been impossible for an observer to keep track of its passage. He felt an impact followed by a severe pain across the top of his skull and everything went dark.
II / Kerosene
He awoke with a start. The world felt like it was in constant motion, thoughts swirling inside his skull like water draining into a whirlpool. A hazy face looked
down at him. Gaunt, with a ghosting of greying stubble. A face that wouldn’t set romantic hearts racing. It came to him. His face.
The plane! He’d been in a plane and the world had went dark, shutting him down hard. He shouldn’t be breathing, yet here he was - contemplating his own comparative beauty. Attempting to sit up, his vision began to swim and he let moaned with the of effort. A concussion at least.
“Hold on there son, take it slow like." said a hoarse voice cracking with age, “You’re lucky you’re in one piece."
He felt a hand on his shoulder, the firm grip stopping him from rising. “Pulled you from the wreckage myself. Neighbours got the other passengers. Must ‘ave had one hell of a pilot getting that plane down out ‘ere in one piece. Pity we can’t ask ‘ow he managed it - there’s not much of ‘im left I reckon."
A face swam into view, ancient and lined by a life lived under a harsh sun and crowned by sparse white hairs. “You’re in better shape than most. Most of them ‘ave broken bones or worse. One older bloke looks likes ‘e ‘opped in a bath of ‘is own blood but doesn’t seem serious sayin as ‘ow he’s still walking an’ talking."
“As for you,” he continued, “must be that armor you’re wearing. Bump on your ‘ead the size of a road train though so take it easy.”
“Where am I?” Ryder asked. By everything decent, it hurt to speak. Even his teeth hurt.
“About six miles out from the Black Canyon military base, it’s another seven or so miles past to Union City. Going by those fancy blue rags you’re wearing, the military base would be where you want to get to. Got a ‘ospital n’all there I ‘ear.”
Ryder grunted his agreement. “Why am I lying under the open boot of a truck that looks at least forty years old? Could you not have at least put me in the truck bed... wait, do I smell kerosene? I thought they shut the refineries down years ago.”
The old man cackled. “‘Course they still make kerosene, do I look like I could afford those fancy ass things your type drives about with all the flashing lights and gadgets? Look worse than my late wife's fancy bag with all those shiny bits of glass, rest her soul."
He shook his head. “Right ‘bout now, she’d be giving me a stern going over for not showing you any manners. Names Foster. How about you give me yours, and I’ll see about getting you on your feet and over to that military base. If there’s anything you need to get, likely be a good time to try and find it."
“It’s Ryder. Luke Ryder, Sergeant, formerly of the 4th Senate Rifles, Argentina. Speaking of manners, thank you. It’s not every day someone pulls you from the burning wreck of an aircraft with nothing more than a bump on the head and a few bruises.”
He rose to his feet, using the truck’s tow bar for support. Foster slipped an arm under his own to help steady him, but his balance wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. He reached up and carefully touched the back of his head, feeling the lump caused by the crash. Bad, but no blood. Didn’t hurt that he was conscious, either. He doubted he’d have woken up at all if it was cracked. “Did you get everyone out of the wreck?"
“I reckon so. About a dozen passengers. 2 crew, both women dressed in some real fine clothes. Neighbours helped. They’ll sort out the others while you’re stuck with me for now. We couldn’t get into the cockpit. Too badly damaged. What in the name of the devil happened anyway? Me ‘n the neighbours were woke by a bang that shook the entire village and it was as bright as ‘igh noon in the middle of the night.”
“Shit. Shit! The city is under some kind of attack. I don’t know why the plane went down - it kept going after the pulse, the pilot had it under control. Shit! I need to get to that base as quickly as you can get this death trap going." He glanced at the rusted truck, a frown on his face.
“Death trap?” snorted Foster, the brevity of the situation dampening his mirth. “This ain’t no death trap, it’s the finest truck ever produced in Australia by the Kirova Motor Company. Do you ‘ave any 40 year old trucks still running where you’re from? Right, get in. You can tell me what the friggin ‘ell a ‘Pulse’ is on the way."
Ryder checked himself over. His service pistol in it’s holster, useless as it was without a single bullet. Biometric was likely undamaged in his left wrist. A few scratches and dents on the lightweight kinetic body armor, not that it would help much in a firefight anyway. It was rated to stop small caliber fire and, as he’d found out in Argentina, it was pretty good at stopping knives.
He paused, staring eastward. “All my gear was in the plane's hold." The aircraft was intact 200 yards away, fire beginning to spread from the port engine. “Tab’s gone, no weapons either."
As good as he could expect, given the situation he’d landed in. He smiled mirthlessly. Not a good time for bad puns.. He climbed into the passenger seat of the truck, the effort making him dizzy as Foster pulled himself through the driver's side door and lowered himself into his seat. “Have you got a Tab handy Foster?” Ryder queried. It wouldn’t hurt to see what he could find out was happening.
“In the glove there.” replied Foster, brows furrowed as he threw the truck into reverse, angling it towards the nearest hill.
The petrochemical stink of the engine reminded him of visits to his Grandfather's farm as a child, ancient tractors that drank in diesel. He reached into the glove and grabbed Fosters tab - an old model, but it would work fine.
The message ‘LMEO network down’ greeted him after powering on the tab. “Well that was no damn use.” he signed, tossing the Tab back. “Let’s get moving then, military should know more than the SatNet would anyway."
“Time to buckle up then” said Foster, turning the engine into gear and flooring the accelerator without waiting. The truck kicked into life, rear tyres tearing up the desert sand and kicking up a plume of dust. The acceleration forced Ryder deeper into his seat. “Next stop, Black Canyon!"
III / Everything counts
As they pulled away from the crash site, Ryder felt the truck's rear end drifting as they hit the main road. He finally got a good look at the starboard side of the plane he’d been in and his jaw dropped.
A substantial hole was punched clean through the starboard wing as neatly as a hole punch through a sheet of paper, two meters in diameter and just aft of the leading edges of the enclosed engine cowling. The edges glowed, the engine bisected like a school science project.
“The pilot landed that?” he exclaimed. “We’re lucky we survived at all." He gestured towards the plane with his bottle. “I can’t even imagine the kind of weapon could do that to an aircraft moving at supersonic speeds. Too neat even for a large calibre railgun like they fit to gunships and naval cruisers.”
“You’re askin’ me?” muttered Foster. “Less you’ve a question about repairing cars or running a store, I ain’t gonna be a lot of use to you beyond getting you up the side of this damned hill.”
“Have you any idea who or what is stationed at Black Canyon?” asked Ryder. His transfer was to Crown Alpha 1, a guard post that held 2 companies outside the gates to the senate grounds situated close to the City's best nightlife.
“The ‘Canyon holds training companies for most part far as I know. My eldest spent five years there to earn that blue card you lot love to wave about the place before moving off to New Perth to work with money or some such.” Foster replied. “Don’t see the appeal myself, stuck in a building 100 floors high all day wearing a suit. Guess it feeds the little’uns, not that they’re so little now. Probably not far off starting jobs there too, now.”
He thought back to his own time training after joining the U.E.N.P.F. under officers like Xayne, the Lt. Colonel and Californian native from the Pacific States of America he had served under in Argentina - and Captain Bernard, the French officer he’d reported to in Russia.
He was another story - neither competent or motivated and with a temper like a rabid wolverine. The man could fight like a bastard though, and knew when to listen to his NCO’s. He’d never seen someone who could put away the vodka lik
e Bernard could, either. They were kindred souls.
“Training companies? Great. That means a post commander who spends his days shouting at young people and scribble sarcastic comments on graduation and discharge papers. Won’t have seen the field in a long time."
Ryder glanced out the window as they wound their way up the side of the hills overlooking the valley the plane came down in, seeing nothing but a lucky escape and an endless expanse of sand. “I don’t have a citizenship card anyway. I’m Irish. We’re not exactly popular with the majority of the Union.”
Foster chuckled again, the sound reminding Ryder of a dying electric motor trying to start. “Officer types not much to your liking? ‘Sides, I wouldn’t have thought you were the Irish type. No accent. Placed you for one of them NorAm ones you see on the SatNet. Bit of old Irish blood myself, or so the family always said. Been in the service long?"
He thought back to his own past. He’d applied for a transfer to the Union Peacekeeping Forces when his unit disbanded, the remains of the national army turned into a glorified police force. By either sheer luck or a clerical error he had gotten in, both to his delight and surprise. Being a soldier agreed with him, much as he hadn’t expected that to be the case when he’d first signed up.
The fall of Union (Rise of the Union Book 1) Page 1
