Onslaught

by Chris James

  “Yeah, to take people’s minds off the real problems, like the failing sea defences, the worthless U-Bee, the—”

  “The U-Bee’s not worthless, Dad, come on,” Martin said.

  “It’s all Mark gets because he’s addicted to his gaming and won’t get a job. And I’ve told you before: a five-grand-a-month handout from the government is barely enough to keep him fed,” her father said.

  Maria knew that her brother’s constant immersion in online gaming worlds hurt their father. While she and Martin had jobs and bought in reasonable salaries, the middle child, Mark, had what they euphemistically referred to as ‘issues’ which saw him reject the real world for other artificial and very violent ones. The only money Mark bought in was the Universal Basic Income to which every citizen was entitled.

  She looked at her cards, picked up the pencil, and said: “Forecast Whist, first round, hearts are trumps. Your first call and lead, Dad.”

  Anthony replied: “I reckon I’ll get four.”

  Martin looked at her and said with certainty: “One.”

  “So, I can’t have two. Thanks a bunch, guys… I’ll have one, so we’ve got one spare. Your lead, Dad.”

  Anthony put down the king of spades as Martin said: “I read the government will put the U-Bee up by five percent in the next Budget.”

  “With inflation at eight percent, that’ll make all the difference,” Anthony replied as Martin laid the ten of spades.

  “First trick is yours, Dad,” Maria said, throwing down the six of spades.

  Anthony collected the trick and looked at the cards in his hand. “I remember when they introduced that, years ago. All of us thought it was the first step to some kind of utopia: everyone would be able to afford the basics because so many more things were being done by those new, clever robots. But if you knew anything about economics, you’d’ve known right off the bat that the U-Bee would be next to worthless as soon as it was paid out. All the prices would just go up, and they did. Right, let’s see the colour of your money.” Anthony threw down the six of hearts.

  His children groaned on seeing a trump card so soon, but each put down a lower trump so their father won the trick.

  He then laid the queen of hearts as Martin said: “You’re such a relic, Dad. The U-Bee is still the mark of an advanced society, even if it is worthless.” Martin nodded at the card, “That’s a beast,” he said, and threw down the jack of hearts.

  Maria said: “That’s yours as well, and it was my ‘one’,” as she put down the ten of hearts.

  Anthony laid the ace of clubs as Martin said to Maria: “Get ready, here comes the speech: ‘When I were a lad, you could go to a nice restaurant, see a play at the theatre, get a taxi home and still have change out of five hundred’.”

  Maria smiled: “And Dad remembers when the taxis were driven by real, actual people.”

  “Hey,” Anthony chided, “I ain’t that old, cheeky.”

  Maria looked at her father with warmth. “Dad, what I mean is that you shouldn’t be so cynical. The military are there to defend us, and if they say we should be concerned, I don’t think we should just dismiss it.”

  “But you have to look at the history of it, sweetheart. The Second Caliph kept his word for years and years. When I were—” Anthony broke off at the sound of a guffaw from Martin, before continuing with more precise enunciation: “When I was significantly younger, a lot of people thought it would be madness to allow the New Caliphate to be so isolated, and things got quite nerve-wracking a couple of times. But that old bastard stuck to his guns. He traded only with China and Russia, and he closed his domain off to everyone else. When you look at what had gone on before when it was called the Middle East, it really was the best for everyone. Now, we’ve had this Third Caliph for a few years and—”

  “And he’s a crook, Dad,” Martin broke in, as he followed Anthony’s ace of clubs with the seven, and Maria, shaking her head as the game progressed, tossed out the nine of diamonds.

  “Right,” Anthony said, “that’s my four tricks. Now I’ll show you how to lose the lead,” and he threw down the five of clubs.

  “Not unless Maz can help you, Dad,” Martin said with a smile as he tucked the three of clubs under his father’s card.

  Maria produced her sweetest smile and said: “Sorry, Daddy,” as she put down the five of diamonds.

  “You two kids, you’ve stitched me up again. What’s up? Do I look like a kipper to you?”

  All three smiled, and Maria enjoyed the familial warmth around the table. “It’s your fault for being so hopelessly out of date,” she said with warm affection.

  Anthony shook his head, taking mock offence. “That’s what I admire in you youngsters: ambition. Now I’m going to put the both of you wrong.” He threw out the four of hearts.

  Martin began to play his card but his arm stopped in midair and he said: “Uh-oh,” while his gaze drifted into the middle distance.

  “Something happened?” Maria asked.

  “I dunno. Eye in the Sky just went dark.”

  “What? All of it?” Maria said, suddenly aghast.

  “Yup.”

  “Put your card down, lad,” Anthony instructed. “And what’s ‘Eye in the Sky’, anyway?”

  Maria answered, her eyes on her brother’s, as she watched him follow whatever his lens told him. “Dad, I showed you a couple of months ago, remember? You wanted to see cousin Bernie’s ship? I showed you how to use the feature so you could actually see HMS Argent out in the Atlantic.”

  “Ah, yeah, you’re right.”

  Martin placed the five of hearts down slowly while still staring into the middle distance.

  Maria said: “I’m out of trumps so that’s yours,” as she laid the seven of spades.

  “Come on, Martin, switch your damn lens off and concentrate on the game,” Anthony said.

  “Just a minute, Dad. I’m trying to find out what happened.”

  “Anything on the media?” Maria asked.

  “Difficult to be sure, Maz. The authorities are refusing to say what’s going on, but snitches say it’s that the Caliphate has sent up more ACAs than usual, again.”

  “So it’s nothing to worry about,” Anthony said. “Martin, your lead.”

  Martin twitched his eye and came back to the game. “Yeah, right,” he said, and laid the king of spades.

  “Sod it,” Maria said as she threw down the queen of spades, “that was also my ‘one’.”

  Anthony smiled as he put down the two of hearts to win the trick. “Said I’d put both of you wrong.” He looked at each of his children and smiled, “Now, have either of you kept the right suit?”

  “As long as I lose this, I’m going to get my bonus—” Martin stopped when he saw the two of diamonds his father threw down. “You’re joking,” he said as his own six of diamonds landed on top of it. He implored his younger sister: “Please tell me you’ve got a higher diamond.”

  Maria shrugged, “Sorry, all of my diamonds have gone, but I’ve got a little spade,” she said, and laid the four of spades.

  Anthony let out a light-hearted chuckle, collected the cards and shuffled them. He glanced at his eldest son, whose eyes once again had glazed over.

  “This is a precedent, really,” Martin said.

  “Oh yeah, how?” Anthony asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Eye in the Sky has never gone down, not in its twenty years of existence. It’s almost as if someone doesn’t want people to know what’s going on.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. Let’s keep fingers crossed it’ll be back soon,” Maria said.

  Anthony shook his head, smiling, and dealt each of them six cards. “Except for you kiddie-winkies beating your old Dad at Forecast Whist. There’ll never be a first time for that.”

  Chapter 9

  02.43 Tuesday 7 February 2062

  ABLE SEAMAN BERNARD Rowley stared at the screens in front of him and imagined once again how it must have been in the past,
when Royal Navy sailors could walk about the decks of an elegant, glorious battleship in the wind and spray and savour the brutality of the ocean and facing the enemy in the open. Now, all he and his shipmates had to look at were screens, banks and banks hung from the walls surrounding the central combat station, an island command table which projected three-dimensional holographs of the world outside. Apart from the air deck and the ‘garage’ at the rear of HMS Argent, the ship offered no other possibility to get outside, its hard yet sleek angles designed to defeat enemy detection. His best mate, Rigger, said that in another ten years, all military ships would be unmanned because people wouldn’t be needed anymore.

  “Sensor tolerances?” called the First Officer from the command table.

  “Minus-one acceptable, Sir,” Bernard replied, confirming that the systems for which he was responsible were behaving as expected.

  From behind Bernard, the Captain called out: “Navigation, adjust heading to bring us to within three thousand yards of Hyperion. How far is she from the Ronald Reagan?”

  “Twenty thousand yards and closing,” a navigator on the opposite side of the bridge area answered.

  Another voice spoke with urgency: “Multiple contacts coming into range, Captain. Sig confirms hostile signatures.”

  Bernard scratched a sudden itch under his left ear as he monitored the readouts in front of him. Inside, he felt a new kind of thrill. They had drilled and trained so many times for this moment: a genuine attack by a real enemy. Now, it was down to the fleet commander, Captain Burgess on the USS Ronald Reagan, to decide whether all of the ships would go dark in an attempt to avoid detection, or whether they would stand and fight. Bernard sensed everyone else on the bridge holding their breaths in the silence.

  “Sig,” called an operator on the other side of the bridge. “The order is: light up.”

  At once, the Captain called: “Battle stations,” and a klaxon rang out in a two-tone blare which Bernard considered unnecessary. Throughout the frigate, the three-hundred crew members would be informed in numerous ways that the ship was now on a war footing, and the klaxon struck him as a needless nod to a bygone age.

  “Ops,” the captain called, “accept Horatio’s recommendations and switch to automatic targeting.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  The klaxon stopped. Bernard kept his eyes on his screens but listened as the Captain and First Officer talked.

  “How many d’you think they’ll field, Number One?”

  “A few hundred, I expect, Sir, certainly no more.”

  “Curious that they’ve decided to have a go now. So much for the Caliph’s years of peaceful intentions, eh?”

  “Perhaps it’s some kind of malfunction, or a rogue element within the Caliphate?”

  “Questions to be answered later, Number One.”

  The Operations Officer spoke: “Automatic targeting engaged. Horatio linked to other vessels.”

  “The computers are relaying the required course adjustments,” the Warfare Officer said. Bernard stole an insubordinate glance behind him, at the command console. On it, a forest of bright lights glowed as the hostile targets approached the image of the fleet at the centre.

  The Captain spoke in a tone which to Bernard differed little from a training exercise: “What does Horatio say about other threats? Have they deployed any submarines or surface vessels?”

  The Warfare Officer responded: “Improbable, Sir, at less than five percent.”

  “Shan’t be much of a fight if the Caliph is so slack as to have neglected to build a decent navy. But let’s keep our eyes sharp in any case. Weapons?”

  “All green, Captain.”

  “What the devil are those machines, anyway?”

  “Something we haven’t seen before, that much is certain,” the First Officer replied.

  In the holographic image above the command table, the lines of light denoting the approaching enemy machines gained on the fleet of fifteen NATO ships at the centre.

  The First Officer said dismissively: “There’s no way they’ll be able to breach our defences. This will make a good live training exercise for the crews,” and the Captain grunted his agreement.

  The Warfare Officer announced: “The Jarvis and Mississippi have engaged at ten thousand yards.”

  Bernard kept staring at his screens, monitoring the Argent’s power flows and diagnostics, but inside him an excited child’s voice cried out that this was the real thing, it was not an exercise or a drill.

  “The Ronald Reagan has also engaged… Hostiles within range, Captain.”

  The Captain ordered: “Weapons free. Fire to automatic.”

  Bernard’s heart-rate increased as he visualised the Sea Striker laser canons firing their invisible shots at the incoming enemy ACAs.

  Suddenly, the Warfare Officer muttered: “That can’t be right,” and the Captain asked him to explain. He replied: “Sir, the incoming enemy ACAs appear to have more resilient shielding than we anticipated.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that the Americans’ Pulsar Mk IIIs and RIMs are not performing as effectively as expected, and nor are our Sea Strikers.”

  The Captain scoffed. “And just how bad can it be? Horatio and all of the other computers told us that the Caliphate cannot have shielding any better than ours.”

  “I’m afraid theirs is, Sir.”

  In the holographic image, the enemy ACAs kept advancing towards the fleet. Suddenly, there came a bright flash in the display.

  “Finally,” muttered the Warfare Officer.

  “Analysis,” the Captain ordered, peering at the image with a more concentrated expression.

  “Sir, the device absorbed nearly three times the expected number of laser shots before its shielding burned through, which is impossible. Or, rather, it should be impossible.”

  “We have to react. If they have so much stronger shielding than we expect—” the Captain broke off when more flashes erupted in the display. He watched this, then said: “Get me Captain Wexley.”

  “Aye, Sir,” the Comms Officer replied. A moment later, he nodded.

  The Captain said: “Mike, I think we’re going to need better tactical options. We should—”

  The voice of Wexley, Captain of HMS Hyperion and Commander of the Royal Navy fleet in the Mediterranean, broke in: “There’s no material threat at this time. We’ve got sixty hostiles inbound, and while they have far stronger shielding than they should have—wait, new data to all ships. Hold your station, for now.”

  The Argent’s Captain looked over to the other side of the bridge. “Weapons?” he called out.

  The Warfare Officer answered: “Port side all in, green. Fleet PeaceMaker launches in progress.”

  Bernard glanced at the readouts on his screens and adjusted the settings to see, among the array of data, a curious statistic: the first enemy machine the Hyperion had brought down required seventy-eight Sea Striker laser shots to burn through its shielding, and a further ten to destroy it. He knew that NATO ACAs were able to withstand no more than twenty-five laser shots, and everyone assumed it would be a few years at least before the next generation of ACAs would have stronger shielding. In addition, Bernard had researched the issue himself and had to agree with the Warfare Officer: current shielding tech, especially the way the shielding was generated, simply should not be able to withstand that much punishment from NATO’s lasers. The overlapping problems of shielding generation, ACA weight, firepower and manoeuvrability were well understood, and Bernard realised that these machines should not be able to perform to this level. He breathed a word of thanks that there were only sixty of them, all of which would shortly be destroyed.

  Then the Captain said, “Well, that’s interesting,” in a tone which sounded fatalistic.

  Bernard turned around in his chair to see what had made the Captain speak, and the First Officer noticed, glared at him, and spat: “Continue to man your station, Able Seaman Rowley.”

  Without thinking, Berna
rd spun back at once to face his own screen and almost shouted, “Yes, Sir!” before the idea entered his head that he’d be in serious trouble for such insubordination. His imagination began inventing excuses for his lapse, but the shock of seeing the strength of the enemy’s shielding, he hoped, would be sufficient at the hearing.

  “Multiple new contacts detected,” the officer at Comms said.

  “Tactical analysis,” the Captain ordered.

  “Sir,” the Warfare Officer began, his voice wavering, “Horatio is constantly reassessing the probabilities as more contacts are detected… Assuming surrender is not an option—”

  “Indeed it is not,” the Captain replied testily. “Time to contact?”

  “Four minutes for the first wave.”

  “Very well.” The Captain pressed a small light on the command table, and when he spoke his voice boomed throughout the Argent. “Attention, all hands. We are tracking hundreds of hostile ACAs emerging from Caliphate territory. From what we have learned thus far in this engagement, the next half an hour might be a little… tricky. Nevertheless, I have the utmost faith in the ability of this ship and her remarkable crew, with whom it has been a pleasure to serve. Let us do our great ship and our Senior Service proud.”

  A lump formed in Bernard’s throat. Since joining the Royal Navy four years earlier, he’d never doubted it was his role in life to be a mariner. He sensed his plans for the future recede as the hostile ACAs approached the ships. He’d hoped to get on a first officer or even a captain promotion track, if he could pass the exams. But now, with the Captain’s admission that they were suddenly outnumbered and outgunned, his memory threw up details of all the heroic naval stories he’d read as a boy, of the Repulse and the Prince of Wales in World War Two, of the Battle of Jutland, all the way back to Henry the VIII’s Mary Rose. He thought of the disasters like the Hood, which in 1941 sank in six minutes after a direct hit on her magazine, from which only three men escaped out of a crew of fourteen hundred, and all the other innumerable thousands whom the sea had swallowed. Bernard realised that he and his shipmates would shortly join them.