Thoughts of the world falling into anarchy had plagued his mind both in and outside of sleep after he’d seen what he’d seen last night. The human and alien fleets had engaged in a full-scale space battle, so it had seemed. The re-entry of what used to be destroyers and space stations, shuttles, and satellites had all stood as testament to that. Then there were the relentless beams of particle rays flashing across the horizon and the rumbling thunder with the aftermath it brought. The British Army base was on fire two kilometres away beyond the back garden. An orange glow lit up the night sky from far to the east – probably London or some other target of strategic value that the Aliens had seen fit to neutralise. He had even thought he’d seen a combat air patrol burned out of the sky in mid-flight through his binoculars last night. He was dearly hoping it wasn’t an airliner. He was pretty certain it wasn’t by the agility of the craft and the fact there were two explosions which seemed distinctly apart. Now that the Air Force used only drones in the fighter role there would be no loss of pilots’ lives. He feared the situation outside was not going to be pretty. Hart left the bunk bed and turned right, crossing into the storeroom-cum-lavatory. Shelving sat both sides and a chemical toilet opposite. He retrieved the old SA80 assault rifle from the top shelf. Next, he considered, and then dismissed, the night vision goggles – no need for those as sunrise was at 6:18am, over forty minutes ago. Just the assault rifle, the two-way radio and the binoculars. He flicked off the rifle’s safety and turned right, walking through the optimistically termed ‘family room’ and up the steps to the trap door. He unlocked the padlock then slid the door aside, followed by the deck, which covered it. He’d modified the small, ground-level deck to run on wheels, concealing the bunker entrance. He climbed out into the clear, crispness of the early morning, then immediately reinstated the trapdoor and deck. Super-safe, yes – but in his experience, cautiousness saved lives.
They’d sat around the radio listening to the Alien demands last night, which had been broadcast on all bands. That chilling, audacious ultimatum was hard to swallow. Worst of all, the Aliens were now, perversely, a lifeline to Earth. With the asteroid due to hit in a little under twelve months, only they had the space assets to divert it. It was called 375 Nemesis – the asteroid they had nudged towards a collision course with Earth in the first place. It was as if they were saying, ‘If we can't have it, no one can,’ thought Hart. It was pretty clear, to him at least, that they wanted to avoid a ground invasion, and the asteroid was their way of encouraging acquiescence. But no one knew for sure. Then what? The smart money was on them settling the Tropics and subjugating the remaining regions of Earth. Once they’d gotten a foothold they’d be hard to dislodge. Even if the World’s militaries could compete in the terrestrial battlespace, it’d mean little if the Aliens still held orbital dominance. Like the Ghettos the Nazis inflicted on the Jews in World War II, the Aliens would relentlessly squeeze the human territories into an increasingly smaller area, depriving them of resources as they did so. They’d halted the jamming to make the broadcast, then stopped it for good later in the night when Hart had got up to check. Maybe their work was done; the first phase of their heinous plan, anyway. How could they seriously expect an evacuation of the Tropics? If all hell hadn’t yet broken loose it would do so once the hundreds of millions of people there started migrating to higher latitudes.
Divide and rule was what they wanted, he was sure. Perhaps collaboration of the non-tropical countries trying to save their own skins. That would be shameful in his view. He knew the Aliens’ homeworld was hotter and more humid than Earth, at least the part he’d been to. He’d been to Gaia on their mission of destruction, during which they’d nuked the Alien base in an attempt to destroy the stolen Santa Maria probe and its vital FTL drive. It hadn’t worked, and he’d lost two good men during the mission. Memories of Crier and Fuzz came up in his mind anytime he had nothing else to fill it with. Brave men doing their duty, distracted for just a moment and wiped out in a millisecond by Alien plasma fire.
Back to the present…no time for mind-wandering now. He scanned for danger, rifle aloft. Nothing in the surrounding house windows, nothing in the springtime foliage or anywhere else. He smelt the smoke before he saw it. He could see several palls rising in the clear blue sky, the largest of which was from the nearby base beyond his back garden. He reflexively moved to put his back against the house wall. Cutting his exposure down to one-eighty gave the instinctive feeling of increased security that every soldier sought when unsure. He saw no particle beams or anything else lancing down from space. He wasn’t sure whether they’d be visible in daylight, but knew he’d feel and hear their effects if they landed anywhere within a wide area. He listened intently. He knew that sounds could tell him a lot about the situation on the ground. No gunshots: a positive sign. No shouting or other sounds of distress: another good thing. Birds singing their songs as if nothing had happened, blissfully ignorant of the weighty problems on human minds. Their familiar tweeting gave comfort. Another noise – tyres on tarmac and the quiet, high-pitched hum of an electric vehicle on some nearby street. No, several distinct vehicles, but only several. Normally at this time on a Monday morning there’d be a lot more. Quite understandably, people were staying in the relative safety of their homes. He scanned around his small back garden, once again examining the houses behind it and to the sides of his own. No damage. They’d likely concentrated on military and command targets his logic told him. When it came to residential housing stock they’d not bother to hit individual homes, unless it was collateral damage. They’d either leave them alone or wipe them out along with the rest of the city, and the latter had clearly not happened. As he looked around, it was almost as if last night was just a bad dream. But he knew that was wishful thinking.
He switched on his two-way radio and raised his friend and patrol leader, Captain Chris ‘Motor’ Buick. His house was only one kilometre away, so he would probably suggest a meet-up if the streets looked safe enough. Safety in numbers and a friend he could trust with his and his family’s lives.
“Motor, this is Chip, come in…”
Almost immediately came the reply. “Chip, this is Motor, how are you all faring?”
“We’re all good here. I’ve not checked for broadcasts yet. That’s next on my list. The attack seems to have stopped. Any idea what they hit? Looks like the base at least…”
“Yeah, it was pretty bad. Just swung by there...sit tight, we’re coming your way now. Be there in under a minute. I’m with General Hadley. There’s something on that we need you for. I’ll explain when I get there. Out.”
This is what Hart knew was coming: his call-to-duty. As a member of the elite Special Space Service with experience of the Aliens, he was always going to be near the top of the list for the next mission. He’d promised Zara that he’d be there for her and the boys. Duty or no duty, they would always come first for him. But the signs so far were promising, at least locally. It seemed that the societal collapse he’d feared had not come to pass. At least not yet.
***
Saying goodbye to Zara and the boys had been tough for Hart just before he’d gotten into the Army staff car with General Hadley and Motor. Things were anything but normal as far as the big picture was concerned. Everyday life would go on with a semblance of normality for the time being. Their stay in the bunker had been short lived, but he certainly wouldn't be filling it with concrete just yet. The Army and Police were out in force and the streets were much quieter than normal. The soldiers on patrol, keeping order and showing there was still an organising force at work, had no bases to return to. However, the Aliens had not targeted individual ground units yet – only naval vessels, military aircraft and space assets. But the electricity, radio, TV and internet were all back up and running in some form now that the jamming had stopped, although it was clear there’d been some disruption. Hart was sure the Aliens could have made it much worse had they so chosen. They needed the cooperation of the World’s authoriti
es if their presumed-plan to take over the Tropics worked. Only isolated incidents of looting and violence had occurred. Strictly enforced rationing of food with Police securing physical stores had mitigated hoarding. Things were far worse in some countries, according to news reports. His family would be safe enough with all the local Army friends and colleagues they had. Life would be subtly different and could become increasingly so as the tensions over the exodus from the Tropics. That, and anxieties over the asteroid, would start to change people’s thinking and behaviours.
At 10km wide, the 375 Nemesis asteroid was the same size as the one that wiped out the dinosaurs 65 million years ago. Assumptions about the future – plans, savings, children growing up, hopes and dreams – were all now called into serious question now that there might not even be a future. Who knew what that would do to human society in the next twelve months even if, as Hart hoped and expected, the Aliens diverted the killer rock?
Once away from Hart’s house, with Hadley and Buick in the staff car, the General briefed them on the Hereford Army base strike that Hart had seen from his back yard. It was bad: over two hundred dead and more than four hundred wounded. The Alien’s particle beam strike had killed some of Britain’s best Special Forces and many other fine soldiers, not to mention the loss of vital equipment and facilities. It seemed that no military base in the country had survived the attack, along with intelligence service facilities, GCHQ, military communications sites, research centres and government buildings. No one spoke for a short while. Hart looked out of the window as the car drove itself swiftly through the hamlet of Tarrington. There was no one about. No signs of social strife either. This appeared to be the case everywhere so far. Maybe it was true what he had heard in the news report before he left about the old ‘war time stoicism’ coming back. Whatever that was supposed to mean, he wasn't sure. Sometimes the talking heads were so full of shit, thought Hart, shaking his head. They were nearing the A40 highway, passing a deserted golf course on the right, before anyone got around to talking about the plan ahead.
“So what’s the mission, sir?” asked Sergeant Hart, known as ‘Chip’ to his SSS colleagues.
“No confirmed mission yet Chip, but the Government wants a patrol on standby. There are still Alien ships bearing down on us. They want to be able to send your team through the FTL gate to wherever you’re needed,” replied Hadley, looking tired and stressed. Unsurprising given that his Hereford base had just been wiped off the face of the map with the loss of hundreds of good servicemen and women.
“Where’s the FTL gate, sir?” asked Captain Chris ‘Motor’ Buick.
“London, obviously. In one of the Government’s underground bunkers. Getting there’s going to be interesting as all of the entrances were located inside buildings that have been hit by the Aliens. Plus, some of the shallower tunnels may have collapsed, so we’re told,” explained Hadley.
“What’s the situation on the ground in London, sir?” asked Chip.
“Pretty good. Orderly, so I’ve been told...which reminds me,” he said, passing the two Special Forces soldiers a 9mm semi-automatic handgun each. “Just a precaution, boys – you never know.”
“Hope we’re not going to bat against the Aliens with these!” exclaimed Chip, laughing a little.
“Ha-ha…No, we’ve managed to recover some more potent kit from Hereford and other bases. There’s an armoury in the bunker network too. All very James Bond, really,” replied Hadley, jovially.
***
One of the landmarks painted so beautifully on President Powell’s gift to the Outcasts was a 193-year-old complex of stately limestone buildings known the World over. The Palace of Westminster – home to the British Houses of Parliament, and arguably, world democracy – lay in ruins before their eyes as their autonomous car passed by. The Alien bastards respected neither human culture nor history. The fiercely patriotic Chip felt his eyes fill at the scene of one of the constant, reassuring symbols of stability lying in rubble. He looked back as they passed – the face of Big Ben was upright on the ground. The world famous clock no longer told the time. It was stuck at quarter-past-twelve – the time of the attack.
The car continued just two-hundred metres more before Hadley had to stop the driverless staff car.
“The only access that’s clear is from the St. James’ Park side of the main Ministry of Defence building on Horse Guards. It was hit but the entrance was exposed in the process,” revealed General Hadley as they approached the junction of Horse Guards Road with Birdcage walk. There was nowhere closer they could get to by car, such was the coverage of rubble from the many government buildings in that area of London.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said.
Chip and Motor followed Hadley out of the car on foot towards the ruined MoD.
A short detour off the street and through St. James’ Park revealed a few keen joggers, tourists and workers traversing the green space in defiance of the Alien threat. There were always some people that would ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ – a line from a 1939 poster in the run up to World War II. The Senate building of the old Information Ministry that had dreamt it up now lay destroyed two kilometres away. As did the Ministry of Defence building in front of their eyes.
Behind a semi-intact section of ground-level limestone wall, two armed soldiers in full battle dress uniform stood either side of an exposed staircase leading underground. They each held a fearsome looking battle rifle and had stony looks on their faces.
“Stop!” shouted the one on the right, both men placing hands on, but not raising, their weapons.
The shorter one on the left – a private – then noticed Hadley’s rank of Major-General and immediately stiffened his body, saluting the senior officer. The taller private followed suit, both returning their hands to their weapons.
“Identify yourselves, please. Just following orders,” said Short-Private, apologetically. The two young squaddies were clearly jumpy, but knew their foe was Alien. Nobody had yet mentioned shape-shifting abilities. Tall-Private lowered his visor – complete with augmented reality functionality – over his eyes and looked at the three visitors.
“I’m Major-General James Hadley, triple-S. These two are Captain Chris Buick and Sergeant Matthew Hart. The Secretary is expecting us, Private. The code word is Meadows.”
Tall-Private stared at each of them in turn to match their faces in the MoD database – the first, basic level of security. He seemed to relax slightly, raising his visor back on top of his helmet then nodding to his colleague.
“Got a match.”
“Call through,” instructed the shorter squaddie.
After a few minutes of getting the right person on his headset and verifying, the Tall-Private spoke. “Okay sir, you’re all cleared to enter. Captain Cresswell will be up to get you.”
Minutes later a pretty, blonde Captain wearing the red beret of the Parachute Regiment came jogging out from the darkness and up the steps to greet them. She stood to attention and saluted General Hadley and Captain Buick. All three visitors saluted her in return.
“Welcome, sir,” she said addressing Hadley, but having the courtesy to make eye contact with the more junior visitors. She was well spoken. From London or the Home Counties, and Chip got the impression from how she carried herself that she’d attended public school. And not too many years ago, came the follow-on thought, as he considered her youthfulness. “Please, come with me. Your hosts will be ready to see you shortly.”
***
“Welcome, gentlemen. Pleased you could make it after all the nastiness and disruption of late,” said the casually dressed, ruffled, Prime Minister, Michael Carlton. He shook each of their hands and moved quickly to business.
The three triple-S men sat around the conference room table in a deep part of the secret underground bunker network. They’d expected to meet with Secretary of State for Defence, Nick Howard, and Chief of the Defence Staff, Sir Archibald Dickson, but the Prime Minister’s presence was a surprise. A
lthough as fearless as anyone on the battlefield, Chip would have normally felt intimidated in the presence of such higher-ups. But with the current situation, and their foe being anything but human there was a strange sense of unity, even with the VIPs around the table. The Aliens’ menacing power seemed to be a great leveller of rank and status; a reminder of the simple humanity no matter what one’s station was in life. Only General Dickson looked as perfectly turned out as Chip had expected. Old school general, thought Chip.
“I understand we are here as observers, on standby until a mission is firmed up,” replied Hadley, looking at General Dickson. Dickson was the highest uniformed British officer in the land and the Western Global Alliance military, WESTFOR.
The Vassal World (The First Exoplanet Book 2) Page 3
