by Chris James
“What about survivors? Some must have escaped on boats.”
“Caliphate forces are being quite thorough; NATO Forces have extracted fewer than one thousand people.”
“Christ. And what about Turkey? How far—”
“Excuse me, Sir Terry. You have an incoming communication from General Joseph E. Jones, Supreme Allied Commander Europe.”
Terry stood. “On the screen,” he ordered. On an internal wall a large screen came to life with the round, Afro-American face of NATO’s most senior soldier in Europe. “Hello, General. Any news on the situation in Israel?” Terry asked.
Jones’s grim expression didn’t change. “The Caliphate has desisted from killing Israelis fleeing in boats, so at least we’re getting some survivors out. But I want to ask you if the British Army can help any more with strengthening our southern border.”
“We’ve got the bulk of our troops out of barracks on flood defence duty, and it’s taking time to ramp up our logistics as I’m insisting the super AIs are double-checked. You’ve deployed the Battlefield Support Lasers we sent over yesterday?”
“Sure, and the two wings of PeaceMakers from the RAF.”
“How many troops would you need?”
Jones let out a scoff. “More than we’ve got in the whole of Europe and probably the US, too. But I’ll settle for as many battalions as you can spare. We’re concentrating our strategy on the capitals—Athens, Rome, Madrid—as we expect those to be the centre of attention. Those countries are almost fully deployed, but they can’t have too much support.”
“Are we going to deploy Special Forces soon?”
Jones gave a humourless smile. “Nope, those guys are going to get the best job when the invasion comes, as they’ll go behind enemy lines.”
“How much notice do you think we’ll get?”
“We’ll be lucky to get a few minutes’. I can’t imagine it being anymore than that.”
Terry grunted his agreement and sipped his tea.
Jones went on: “Our Super AI is providing percentages on hundreds of variations of how they might attack, and all of them look like we’re gonna have to roll a hundred double-sixes to hold them off. One thing we have done is re-arm the PeaceMakers with Z50 Stilettos as they’ve got the strongest punch.”
“And we have the coherence-length variation advantage.”
Jones sighed. “I’m not sure that’s gonna make a whole lotta difference.”
“Because of the numbers?”
“Uh-huh. Athens has got nine BSLs to defend it, Rome the same, Madrid seven.”
“Do you think they’ll hit us with Blackswans, Lapwings, or a combination?”
“Depends on whether they’re aiming for assimilation or annihilation, and that’s politics so I can’t say, although if they hit us just with Lapwings like they did in Israel, I think it will be worse. If they’re aiming for assimilation and attack primarily with Blackswans, we might be able to hold them awhile. Have you seen the right-wingers in the States calling for a nuclear attack?”
Terry chuckled. “Yes, they stick to the line that the Caliphate has exhausted its resources, that the leaked data-pod is still planted evidence.”
“You’d almost think they were working for the enemy, wanting Europe to make the same mistake Israel made…” Jones’s glance drifted off along with his words. Then he said: “Strange times, General,” in a wistful voice.
“Indeed,” Terry replied, nonplussed.
Abruptly Jones came back to life: “Okay, that’s all for now. I know we’re round-the-clock on-call, but try to get some rest before the shooting starts.”
“You too, General.”
The screen went blank and air whistled through Terry’s teeth. He glanced over at his adjutant. “What do you think, Simms?”
“I think SACEUR gave sound advice.”
Terry smiled. “How long do you think we have before the Caliphate invades mainland Europe?”
“I would say a great deal depends on how much of a defence Turkey has left.”
“Which is where we were when SACEUR called.” Terry sipped his tea and said: “Squonk. What is the latest intel from Turkey? How far have Caliphate forces penetrated?”
The voice of the Ministry of Defence’s super AI replied: “Organised resistance has collapsed.”
Terry looked at Simms. “Then it’s going to be our turn soon.”
Chapter 29
04.47 Friday 10 February 2062
AS BERAT KARTAL neared the port city of Izmir, his doubts and fears grew stronger. He travelled towards his destination with the scantest knowledge of what lay there. His topographical atlas of Europe told him it was the third most populous city in Turkey. But his lens did not overlay directions to interesting sights to see, places to eat, or cheap hostels for the student travelling on a budget. This lack of real-time data compounded his fear of the disaster which afflicted his country.
His body ached from the constant cycling, lack of food, and the cold weather. Over the last two days, the stream of people on the road had swelled. In the places where he’d stopped, he’d fallen into conversation with some of them, all of which yielded only the same rumours: Caliphate ACAs were flying everywhere bombing and burning people; the Turkish Air Force and Army were destroyed and the remains scattered; and the state had completely broken down.
Twenty kilometres from the city, he’d finally been obliged to dismount from his bike because of the number of people on the road. He thought of them as people, but the word ‘refugee’ entered his head, and he spent some hours trudging towards his only potential escape considering the precise point at which a ‘person’ became a ‘refugee’. Was there some defining characteristic? Just a few days ago, he’d been a citizen of an acknowledged and secure, if authoritative, nation state. He had a home, he studied at a university, he had friends. So, because these things had changed, had he stopped being a person and become a refugee? Could the moment of change be identified? The only thing he was able to hope he had left were his family, somewhere in the chaos enveloping the country. He felt sure he’d lost his home, and he didn’t expect to return to his university. But he decided he would think of the people around him as people, because it didn’t seem right to think of them as some lesser persons which the label ‘refugee’ implied.
The throng passed between the hills which surrounded the city, and the density of people increased. A few hours later, as darkness fell, he found himself in the Bornova district, having obeyed the few policemen at road junctions who appeared to be making valiant efforts to stop the city from being completely overwhelmed.
The river of people eventually spilled into a large area which Kartal guessed to be municipal. He followed the flood to one extensive building on the right, and he overheard snippets of conversations which told him it was a hospital. Strings of white light emitters strung along cables hung from makeshift poles, which hued the bobbing heads a weak grey. At various places, the crowd opened out around bonfires which crackled in disused metal containers.
He pushed his bike to queue at a water bowser to refill his plastic bottles. In front of him a family of four also waited. The man turned back, eyed Kartal and his bike, and asked: “Hey, boy, you planning to use that bike to pedal across the sea?”
Kartal glanced at the man and saw anger and frustration on his hard face. Next to him huddled a thin, scared-looking woman with two children holding on to her skirt.
“Sorry,” was all Kartal could utter, unable to imagine the fear those with small children must be feeling.
The man stared at him and asked: “Where are you from?”
“Usak.”
“And you pedalled all the way here?”
“Yes.”
“I heard Usak has been flattened. The mayor decided to fight rather than surrender, and that was that... You alone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lucky, then. You should get down to the docks tonight.”
Kartal nodded, his eyes drawn
to the man’s young family. Kartal realised that the man must be feeling a certain regret: for his family, for this disaster striking now, when he and his wife had small children to protect, and how this stranger must have wished it were ten years earlier, when he had been like Kartal: young and fit and unencumbered.
“Thank you,” Kartal said.
At length, they refilled their bottles and Kartal watched the man and his family join the queue for the soup, which was much longer than the queue for water.
Instead of leaving the camp at once, he made his way through the crowd to a notice board with pieces of A4 paper pinned on it, claiming to be official government advice. He read them with mounting misery, as the sheets tried to represent a semblance of normality; that something more permanent existed when his country was being dismembered and readied for assimilation. The irony struck Berat keenly: pieces of paper giving advice which merely papered over the cracks of a disintegrating society.
He left the camp and followed his nose to the sea. He took the stranger’s advice and abandoned his bicycle among other rubbish under the main highway which lead to the docks. When he passed under the highway and turned back, he saw military vehicles on the road, and briefly entertained the idea of finding out what was going on, before changing his mind lest it cause him more difficulties.
After walking for what felt like kilometres, he realised he’d managed to work his way around some kind of holding area for potential escapees. He warmed to the idea of circumvention, and decided he would likely need some stealth if he were to find a berth on a ship. All the time his imagination questioned how long he and these other people really had. Berat knew that autonomous combat aircraft could travel at many times the speed of sound, and if his country had collapsed and the rumours were more than the result of the stress of the situation, then the machines could arrive at any minute.
Finally, he found some crumpled tarpaulin behind one of many rows of commercial shipping containers. He crouched down beside one and used his sleeping bag as a cushion. He pulled the tarpaulin over him, and despite his hunger and the chill night air, he extracted his paper journal, pen and small torch, and wrote down the day’s events.
He awoke the next morning after fitful sleep broken by bad thoughts. He dreamt he had a wife and two small children to protect and felt the burning shame of not being able to do so. His face, toes and fingers were numb from the cold and it took him several minutes of clenching and unclenching for his circulation to return them to feeling. With that, however, came other emotions, and he pushed the tarpaulin to one side, glanced at the massive avenue of metal containers, and set off to find a ship.
Four hours later, Berat ate the first warm food he’d had since leaving his apartment in Usak, a bowl of iskembe soup. He felt tears well in the corners of his eyes as he stood by a porthole in the cramped galley of the Hasköy, a small and overcrowded ferry. Berat had paid the last of his money to gain passage, and had only been allowed on board the already packed boat because he was alone.
Shuffling elderly people and crying children packed the ferry. His stomach growled as he ate the soup, and the flavours triggered distant memories and feelings of security which had now been lost. Through the porthole he could see the large concrete quay recede as the ferry crawled away from the port. Despite the fetid heat in the galley from the people squeezed inside it, Berat shivered at the prospects for those still ashore. At first, he thought he’d been fortunate to secure passage, but then he questioned if the Caliphate would stop at his country. What if the Third Caliph’s appetite had not yet been sated? Had the Caliphate already invaded Russia or India? Berat silently asked himself if he would be safe in Athens, or if he would regret fleeing his home.
Chapter 30
04.49 Friday 10 February 2062
THE ENGLISHMAN LAY on his side waiting for the Marshall to fall asleep. His thoughts returned to the danger in which Europe now lay. Images of violence and destruction invaded his peace, and his mind’s eye overlaid the terrible pictures of suffering he’d seen from Turkey and Israel onto his own country. If the Third Caliph really meant to ‘correct an historical wrong’, then that would have to include England and the other Home Nations.
His lover suddenly whispered: “You are worried for your home.”
The Englishman felt himself flinch at the unexpected sound. Zhou always fell asleep within a few minutes, and suddenly the Englishman sensed the Marshall’s attentiveness which may, in another life, have qualified as care. “Yes, I am,” the Englishman replied.
Zhou said: “There is much pressure from America and the other European countries for the Chinese government to make the Third Caliph stop… But you know that, because you are with the English diplomatic mission.”
In the darkness, he could not tell if Zhou was making an oblique reference that perhaps the Marshall had discovered his secondary role. He said: “Of course I’ve heard what’s happening, although my responsibility is about finding business contacts and representing English companies.”
Zhou didn’t reply at once, and the Englishman’s heart began to canter with the realisation that his lover might not be as enthralled as he thought. Initial infatuation would certainly wear off over time, but had anticipated at least a few months of relative safety before Zhou entered the remorse phase and, possibly, the sudden fear of the Englishman blackmailing him. The Englishman kept the blackmail option in mind only to be used in self-defence, however.
At length, Zhou replied: “I know. But this pressure irritates our diplomats.”
“Why?”
“Because, behind closed doors, they realise they share some of the responsibility. But they regard that part of the world as not so important compared to key places like Africa and South America.”
“Many people are dying, and many more will if the Third Caliph isn’t persuaded to stop.”
“I think you might find, my dear, that some peoples are more important than others, and in the eyes of the rest of the world, the countries of Europe are no longer the forces they once were. How many times in the past did a European country sit back and watch as an African or Asian country tore itself apart? This is how the situation now looks to us: just some unimportant part of the world going through an unfortunate but necessary upheaval.”
The Englishman wanted to add that the dammed Chinese would also lose too much of their precious ‘face’ to admit that they’d created the Caliphate and now they’d lost control of it, but instead he said: “But surely there’s a very strong humanitarian case for intervention, isn’t there?”
“There is always such a case, in every war or disaster or whatever. But there has to be the political will for such intervention, and for the Chinese government, in this case there is no such will.”
The Englishman said: “Is there a way it might be created?”
Marshall Zhou sighed and said: “I am tired and want to sleep now. I tell you only this: the Third Caliph agreed to let survivors from Israel escape and has stopped destroying the boats.”
“And Turkey?”
“Turkey is to be assimilated, not destroyed like Israel, so his position is more merciful there. Besides, those escaping Turkey will carry the stories of the Caliphate’s strengths to the rest of Europe, which will aid the terror that will cause those societies to collapse more quickly, for at length they will be assimilated as well.”
The Englishman exhaled as slowly as he could, desperate to seek confirmation as he knew that in London, the key issue was whether Europe would be assimilated or annihilated. He had the answer, but was it true, or did Marshall Zhou intend to send a falsehood through him to NATO? He knew London would aggregate all available data and have the super AI extrapolate the most probable outcome, but he also felt certain that he was London’s best and most reliable source here in the most important city in the world.
The Marshall turned towards him and rested a thick, heavy forearm on his thigh. As though reading his mind, Zhou whispered in his ear: “My dear, the
way the Caliph’s armies are behaving, there is little difference between assimilation and annihilation. What you and your shocked and terrified governments have failed to understand, is that the Caliph intends to show the rest of the world that a new military superpower has arrived. He wants India, Russia, Brazil and, yes, even China, to know how much power he has at his disposal. And Europe is to be his sacrificial lamb.”
The Marshall finished, quite unnecessarily in the Englishman’s opinion, with a gentle kiss behind his ear, and whispered: “Goodnight.”
Chapter 31
07.16 Friday 10 February 2062
CORPORAL RORY MOORE of 103 Squadron, 21 Engineer Regiment, Royal Engineers, looked at the screen in front of him in mounting dismay. “Shit, shit, shit. Don’t buckle, just don’t buckle. High tide’s in three minutes, so just don’t—”
Squonk, the British Army’s super AI, interrupted him: “Unit 67-D will buckle in five, four, three, two, one. Unit 67-D has buckled. Estimated volume of flood water—”
“I don’t need to know,” Rory shrieked at it in frustration. “Compensate, compensate,” he demanded, although he knew it wouldn’t matter.
“Compensation is not an available option due to the construction replicator’s age. Unit 67-D requires a replacement ultra-Graphene ribbon.”
“Jesus, can’t you rearrange the other units somehow?”
“Jesus isn’t here. And no, rearrangement is not an option. Unit 67-D requires a replace—”
“Hardy-fucking-ha, Squonk. Don’t try jokes, they don’t suit you. Inform HQ squad Delta Four-Two is outbound.”
Rory dabbed at panels along the control surface, cursed again, and opened the comms channel to his squad. “Okay, team. You heard what’s going on. Standby for take-off.” Behind him he heard the clatter of footsteps, and then a new voice said: “Everyone’s in, Corp.”
“Right, Squonk,” Rory said. “Power up and set course to Humber Southern Zone.”
