The Admiral nodded into the camera, his eyebrows rising in surprise. The intelligence officer stepped forward from behind the cameraman, his face contorting in deep concern, ‘Admiral, we need to move now! I am intervening and cutting the link…the enemy are breaking into the code and can possibly see us!’
Admiral Karladen looked into the camera at the remaining two leaders, raising his hand, ‘My apologies gentlemen, I wish this could have been a better time…’
The screen went blank, the British Prime Minister rising and running from the Cabinet Office room, virtually dragged by MI6 officers. His lead intelligence officer walking before them, ‘We are going to the Churchill bunker, Prime Minister!’
In Washington, the American President was running down the corridor from the Oval office, a military helicopter hovering to land on the Whitehouse lawn. Turning towards the doors to the garden, his aid grabbed his arm roughly, ‘Not the helicopter, Mr President! It’s a decoy! You are going through the tunnels!’
The reporter’s voice rose with excitement as he and the television crew began to hear the distant explosions and gunfire above them. The assembling television crews in the hotel car park next to Heathrow raised their cameras, showing the jet trails across the sky as jet fighters from Britain and France continued to desperately engage the enemy aircraft. The occasional explosion and bursts of tracer cannon whipped across television sets across the world, the terrified viewers grasping each other in fear or simply opening bottles of spirits in bleak morbid resignation.
One television reporter continued speaking to camera using the Trevakian craft on Heathrow’s runway as a backdrop. He occasionally ducked his head as he heard closer explosions, still far above him as the desperate dogfights continued. Glancing over his shoulder, the young Indian reporter smiled to camera, ‘It seems the new arrivals may have been chased across the galaxy or near space. With the arrival of hostile aircraft above the United Kingdom we must all pray that the ship behind us has some answers to provide some sort of explanation.’ He placed his hand to his ear as new instructions burst through his earpiece, ‘We are hearing from a reliable source that it appears the vessel behind us may be seeking refuge here after being chased through space.’ His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion as he saw the cameraman waving frantically for him to move to the side of his camera shot. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes opened wide, seeing the steam and smoke rising from the large grey craft. Staggering to the side as the camera crew filmed, the reporter attempted to maintain dialogue, ‘It-it appears something may be happening…steam and smoke…the vessel may be attempting to take off. Oh my god…are you getting this?’ His voice started shaking as the outline of the large battle cruiser seemed to shiver, then get fainter. ‘The ship seems to be suffering some…has it been hit?’ The outline of the dark grey craft shivered again then seemed to melt away, the rest of the ships outline slowly rising for the runway as it got fainter. Steam and smoke poured across the tarmac, the atmosphere reacting with the chemical response to the controls inside the ship.
The reporter backed away as the smoke enveloped the television crews, the smell of acrid burning hanging in the air. As the billowing cloud cleared, the reporter tried to regain the initiative, ‘The ship seems to have let off a smoke screen…perhaps to camouflage it from the fighters above………..’ He hesitated as the smoke began to disperse further, his view of the runway before them becoming clearer, ‘My god, the large craft has gone!’ He stared frantically upwards and around, seeing nothing, ‘Viewers, the spaceship has disappeared…’ He glanced to the cameraman, his voice rising, ‘Did you get that? Tell me you got that!’
Three Morgon craft skimmed over the end of the airport perimeter fence as they moved into attack the Skorpion battle cruiser, their mission to avoid the interceptor fighters and fly low over Reading and Slough to attack the vessel along the runway from the west. Their radios burbled as they saw the airfield ahead of them empty, the lead pilot swearing across at his wingmen. Flying low over the end of the runway, their fighters were filmed by the television crews as they approached, the fighter bombers momentarily uncertain what to do without their designated target.
The reporter started again, his voice almost at fever pitch, ‘As you can see, the three black craft approaching seem to be enemy alien fighters, their altitude only about a hundred metres from the runway…’ His voice tailed off as he saw the spurt of jet flame and exhaust at the end of the runway behind the fighter bombers looking for their target. The RAF fighter jet streaming towards the three craft as they shot past the television crews, the sonic boom drowning out the reporter as he tried to talk to camera, ‘It…it seems the RAF have………’
The first alien craft exploded as the missile was launched from the RAF fighter at almost three hundred metres. The stricken fighter rising into the air briefly then spinning and crashing into the car park at the end of the runway, broken and burning cars thrown into the air from the impact, a large explosion ensued, the smoke plume and flames rising dramatically into the air.
In reaction, the two other Morgon craft accelerated away, one twisting off towards the south as the RAF fighter launched a heat seeking missile towards it, the alien craft flying at full speed over the districts bordering the airport as the missile chased its prey across the sky.
The last fighter accelerated across the airport perimeter heading east towards Central London, the alien pilot transfixed at the warning messages flashing in his cockpit as the RAF plane swept after him. Dropping back down to one hundred metres or lower, the two aircraft swept across the neighbourhoods next to the airport. Windows on houses below them shattered in the backdraft as the two aircraft shot past, the RAF pilot limited with his firing due to the civilians on the ground.
As the alien craft swept over the houses and main road into central London, the pilot lined up with the six-lane thoroughfare and followed the A4 route beyond Hounslow towards Central London. The cars and lorries below skidding and crashing as they saw the low aircraft flying directly before and above them. The overhead lights on the carriageway shattering in the vibration from the fighters as they flew past, the glass shards showering the drivers and their vehicles below.
The RAF pilot bit his lip, his eyes determined, his voice deep on the radio, ‘Alien craft heading for central London…over A4 and traffic…window of opportunity closing…permission to engage over limited civilian collateral damage…’
The voice that sprung back at him at almost a shout was instant, the pilot surprised by the excited ferocity and lack of protocol, ‘Fuckin’ waste him! He is not, I repeat NOT…to get near Central London! Bring him down NOW!’
The pilot shrugged, noticing the alien pilot some five hundred metres ahead begin to deploy counter measures and extend the distance, a thick smoke trail coming from the aircraft as it shot towards Chiswick down the Brentford golden mile. The RAF pilot flipped the cover on his missile button and pressed down hard, hearing the computerised voice shout at him in his ear, ‘Missile Lock! Missile Lock!’
The jet of flame shot forward from the RAF fighter wing, the missile sweeping into the smoke. The alien craft deployed flares as a counter measure against the missile, but the delay of a fraction of a second was too late, the missile exploding into the back of the alien craft.
Sparks cracked off the RAF fighter as it flew through the debris from the aircraft ahead, the damaged alien craft losing control. The craft seemed to briefly hang in the air, rising slightly then ploughing onto the M4 motorway flyover, flipping cars and vans over the edges of the wide road as they burst into flames, a large explosion rising into the air. The RAF fighter swept through and between two tall office blocks, the pilot twisting the stick, the jet rolling in victory through the billowing smoke plume rising from the four laned carriageway.
The pilot clicked his microphone, his jet manoeuvre live across the world on Sky TV News from Gillette corner, ‘Enemy aircraft destroyed! Returning to RAF Northolt for fuel and more ammunition.’
The pilot gritted his teeth at the garbled frantic radio response, ‘Negative! Negative! Enemy fighters now strafing Northolt! Re-direct north east, Essex is clear!’
As the RAF fighter touched down at a military airbase in Essex, Russian MiGs and American jet fighters crossed the English Channel in unison.
Israeli jets began to land in Cyprus, coming to refuel next to Syrian and Iranian military planes en-route to England. The pilots staring in disbelief at each other as their governments bowed to American and Russian pressure and the threat of economic sanctions.
In China and North Korea, countries that combined could contribute the largest number of trained ground troops on earth, the western video message with Admiral Karladen and media footage was being replayed and studied in remote military bunkers. The leaders looking speechlessly at the world media pictures from London of air battles and alien craft.
A desperate air battle over south east England had just begun. It would continue for another four days.
Chapter Five: Skorpion Class
Dryden was leading the group into the armoury when the vessel shuddered slightly. The grey suited David Bland nervously grasped his elbow tightly in response, ‘What was that, have we been hit?’
Dryden turned to face the airport manager, a reassuring smile crossing his face, ‘No Sir. That was the ship taking off. We should be landing shortly….it’s only a couple of your miles. A precautionary measure.’
David Bland turned to the startled group behind them, attempting to reassure the startled people. Clearing his throat officially, he addressed the crowd, ‘It appears we just took off, that was the shudder…very smooth I think. Now let’s see what these people have to show us shall we?’ He glanced at his supervisor and the security officer next to her, ‘Hardie, stay close to Riaz please…I don’t want a situation!’
Debra Hardie winked back at her manager, ‘No problem Mr Bland!’ She grinned, seeing the young Asian security officer grimace. Leaning towards him, she poked his shoulder, smiling, ‘You create these situations, not us!’ With brown hair and blue eyes, she had been a supervisor at Heathrow for seven years, her knowledge virtually unrivalled amongst her colleagues. Studying the evacuation and emergency procedures continuously, she had eventually been promoted to lead the training on incident management, her five feet six frame exaggerated by the responsibility and respect of her rank. Married with no children, she often viewed the staff under her supervision as special, priding herself on knowing their individual circumstances and family lives, enabling her to assist them when problems arose.
Riaz turned, his lips forming a word to her but not speaking, ‘Bollocks!’
She giggled, considering Riaz was not that bad, just unlucky when he did something wrong. His home life was anything but settled, with a now absent father, but he continued to take his role in security seriously and tried to understand the varying airport regulations. In her twelve years’ experience at the airport she had seen many like him, maybe not as unlucky though. They were bored and tired by the severe procedural restraints of airport rules…Riaz was perhaps a little special. Most wanted some excitement, something that invariably did not happen due to their vigilance and even if it did they rarely got to find out what their actions lead to afterwards. At thirty five years old she felt some historical affinity with the Asian man in his early twenties, high spirits, full of energy, means the right thing…but sometimes gets it wrong. She smiled ironically to herself, where had her enthusiastic energy gone? Did it eventually just fizzle out and a dulled frustration set in?
Dryden walked before them, entering a code into the keypad on the right of the door. ‘This is the uniform stores, ladies and gentlemen…beyond which is the armoury. This will give you an idea of the weapons we hope to share with your race in the war against the Morgons.’ He hesitated before punching in the last number, ‘Please do not touch anything in this room, I will provide a demonstration of some of our armour, but no firearms.’ He punched in the last digit and the door swept open to the side.
Walking through the doorway, Debra Hardie could see they were entering a wide room with shining metal lockers on either side. All the cabinets seemed locked as the group filed in, most glancing around in awe as the Trevakian officer opened one of the containers before them, revealing a set of body armour.
Dryden turned, his eye brows rising, ‘Can I have one or two volunteers please?’
Debra poked Riaz vigorously, the young man jumping forward in response, rubbing his back as he turned to glare at her.
Dryden continued, indicating to Riaz, ‘Good that’s one, now a female…’ He glanced at Debra and winked, ‘We always say, what is good for the soldier is also good for the commander.’ The Trevakian grinned, beckoning Debra Hardie forward.
Reaching into the first cabinet and retrieving a set of body armour, he indicated to Riaz to step forward, lifting the shoulder segment up over his head. Stepping back as he placed the armour around the security officer’s shoulders, he smiled in satisfaction, ‘Good.’ He turned to the audience, ‘Our body armour is light sensitive. It will change colour to suit your environment and provide the maximum camouflage it can. It is made of an aluminium and titanium alloy and is very strong, thus providing maximum protection.’ He looked at Riaz, grinning at the embarrassed look on the security officer’s face. ‘Ok then, now for the fun part. This will be Riaz’s armour now…’ He stared at the security officer, ‘I did hear the name right, yes?’ He turned as he saw the red faced Riaz nod solemnly, ‘…So we need to ensure it fits.’
Dryden picked up a control panel from the base of the cabinet, entering some details and then looking up at Riaz, ‘Tense your chest and shoulders please.’
Riaz’s eyebrows rose in apprehension, ‘What?’
Dryden smiled comfortingly, ‘The body armour will adjust to your shape, but if it does when you are not tensed then it will take longer to learn your body shape…go on…try it.’
Riaz nodded suspiciously, hearing a giggle go round the group as he shrugged, ‘Ok.’ He tensed his shoulder and chest, his eyes opening in astonishment as Dryden touched two buttons on the console, ‘It moved! The body armour moved!’ Riaz’s face was grinning widely, ‘Wow! That’s Cool! The armour moved around me, it’s like being hugged!’ He looked round, the group grinning in awe.
Dryden stepped forward, ‘Ok so its Riaz…do you want to join the Trevakian Marines?’
Riaz spun round, the wide grin still on his face, ‘Sure, what’s gonna happen now?’
Dryden waved his hand to calm the younger Asian man, ‘It’s just to get your ID Number. The Armour is programmed to issue the next available number for this ship if I ask it to, is that ok?’ He indicated to Riaz to answer.
The security officer smiled, bemused, ‘Sure, this is amazing!’
Dryden glanced down at the keypad, ‘I will assign you a new unit for recognition purposes?’ He grinned as Riaz nodded eagerly, running his finger across several buttons on the panel, a slight wisp of smoke rising from the shoulders and back of the armour in response.
Debra Hardie stepped forward, her eyes widening as she read the lettering that appeared on the shoulder and back of the armour in small military letters, ‘Wow! Now you are Riaz 47823, Heathrow Battalion!’
Riaz glanced at the markings on the armoured shoulders, looking back up at Dryden, ‘This is good stuff, mate! What else is there?’
Dryden smiled, ‘Well…there is your helmet with flash visor, gloves, boots and combat uniform which has items set in it, is that enough?’
Riaz nodded, admiring the body armour as it was handed to him, his hand running across the light metal and material. Dryden indicated to the cubicle at the back of the room, ‘Perhaps you might want to try it on in there? It all synchs with the shoulder armour once you are fully dressed. Remember to put the shoulder armour on over the uniform.’
Riaz nodded gleefully, heading towards the cubicle, his hands full of uniform. Dryden turned towards
the crowd, then hesitated raising his hand to his ear, ‘It appears we are about to land, there may be a small jolt, but otherwise nothing. Please be prepared.’ He stepped back, turning to the female supervisor, ‘So, let’s get your armour on, then a couple of others.’ The Trevakian indicated to the group behind her.
David Bland stepped forward, lowering his voice, ‘So…where are we now?’
Dryden smiled again at the terminal manager, indicating to his earpiece, ‘I believe we are in your Osterley Park. There is quite a battle going on in the sky above it seems, perhaps decisive to buying us time I hope.’ He ushered the terminal manager to the side slowly, lowering his voice, concern spreading across his face, ‘The reason for the tour is to distract your people from the sights of one of our key priorities this morning. We are about to open the transporter to the far edge of a nearby galaxy, targeting one of our space stations, Alexion One. It is in orbit above one of our planets, Zaxon B. A dark planet mostly used for mining and exploration, but there are some civilian outposts there and heavy fighting. Wounded will come through the transporter and we will send back fit marines…I do not want your people to see the injuries if possible, not until our medics have made the soldiers comfortable at least.’
David Bland nodded, ‘I see…so what can I…or we do to help?’
Dryden patted him on the shoulder, surprise on his face, ‘Thank you…I had not intended for you to help, but if necessary you can talk to the staff if I am called to assist?’
The terminal manager nodded nervously, a brief smile crossing his face, ‘Will be my pleasure. Just one thing though…erm…do I get some body armour?’
Dryden grinned again at the manager’s obvious excitement, ‘Yes of course.’ He turned with the terminal manager, addressing the group, ‘It will take about fifteen of your minutes to redirect and generate the power to feed our transporter, so I will quickly show you the medical bay and the technology there…please follow me.’ He nodded to one of the Trevakian soldiers at the back of the group, ‘Can you ensure our friends here are equipped with armour as I send them back?’ He indicated to the cubicle, David Bland and Debra Hardie, ‘Let them choose a couple of colleagues, then I will come back with the rest of the group.’
The Last Marine in the Galaxy (Galaxies Collide Book 1) Page 5
