by Chris James
Squonk answered: “Lift off in twenty, nineteen—”
Rory said testily: “We don’t need a fucking countdown,” and Squonk stopped.
Another voice in Rory’s Squitch said: “This is our last ultra-Graphene ribbon, Corp.”
“Then let’s hope we have no more buckles then, eh?”
“Yup.”
“Right, who wants the drop on this? It’s Pip’s turn, isn’t it?”
A young female voice answered: “Sure, can do, Corp.”
Rory smiled at the sound of the youngest member of his team, Philippa Clarke. He turned around from the monitoring station to look behind him, just as the engines of the autonomous air vehicle reached their familiar take-off pitch. Three of the seats in the rear area were occupied. Pip sat foremost, an impish grin on her round face. Behind her sat Ian Pratt, known as Pratty, and Colin Wimble, referred to as Crimble. The AAV shuddered as it lifted off from their barracks in Ripon, Yorkshire, and began the one-hundred-and-forty kilometre journey to the part of the Humber river defences that had just been breached.
“Don’t want to sound like a bore, Corp.,” Crimble began, scratching at his moustache, “but tell us again what the point of going there now is?”
Rory replied: “Politics, dummy. Brass says we’ve gotta be seen to be doing something. Keeps the Civis happy.”
Crimble said: “I reckon they’ve more important things to worry about now.”
Pratty shook his bony head at all of them and said: “But we’ve got to hover for at least an hour until the water level will’ve gone down enough for one of us to load the ribbon. And this with the star bore of the squadron,” Pratty said with a nod to Crimble.
“Yeah, but then the media calls us ‘heroes’,” Crimble said, smiling at Pratty’s dig.
Rory was about to respond when the communications icon flashed in his eye. “Squad Delta Four-Two,” he said in acknowledgement.
“RT, now,” said a deep, urgent voice.
“No can do, Captain. We’re en-route to a ribbon buckle.”
“Shit, where?”
“Humber South.”
“So fix it ASAP and get back here, roger?”
Rory wanted to object, but realised that to do so would piss the Captain off more than usual. “Reason for RT urgency, please?”
“You’re getting re-tooled for deployment to the continent.”
Rory’s jaw dropped and he wanted to scream, but he bit down his emotions and replied: “Roger, will RT ASAP.”
“Corp.?” Pip enquired.
Rory turned to look at the other three members of his squad. “What do you want first: The great news or the really fan-fucking-tastic news?”
“Are we finally going to do some proper soldiering?” Crimble asked with sarcasm.
Pratty said, “Let me guess: the general’s arsehole has collapsed and we’ve got to build the scaffolding so he can start talking out of it again?”
“Nothing so complicated. All we’ve got to do is replace that ultra-Graphene ribbon and RT for re-tooling and deployment to the continent.”
Pratty’s prominent chin jutted further and he snarled, “About fucking time.”
Pip said: “We need an hour for the tide to go down enough.”
Rory shook his head, “We’ve got to do a wet replacement.”
Crimble said: “Seriously? The Captain can’t give us an hour?”
Rory shrugged. “I dunno. Squonk, what’s the hurry?”
“Redeployment schedules have been established and they require you to return to barracks by 09.00.”
All four members of the squad let out their preferred curses. The AAV flew on and fourteen minutes later it hovered twenty-five metres above the breach in the sea defences over Barrow Haven, a string of over one hundred construction replicators struggling to rebuild sea defences.
Rory said: “Right, Pip, off you go.”
Pip moved to the rear of the AAV’s cramped interior and unclipped a head unit from the left-hand side panel. She pulled it over her cropped brown hair, unhooked the handheld controllers, and a moment later said: “Squitch linked. Ready.”
Rory rolled along the control panels in his chair and activated the external cameras. He said: “Okay, Squonk. Release ultra-Graphene ribbon serial CRP-23.”
Squonk replied: “Released.”
Screens on the control panel showed a hatch on the underside of the AAV slide open and a tube emerge, suspended on a cable. Pip said: “Okay, let’s get this done and get back.”
Rory said: “Squonk, tell unit 67-D to open its ribbon hatch.”
The super AI replied: “Done.”
“You know,” Pip began manipulating the handgrips, “if these were modern units, this would all be automatic and we wouldn’t even be involved.”
“Are you kidding?” Crimble said. “I’ve got a pal in Germany where they’ve got the latest models, and he says the ribbons never buckle.”
“Okay, Pip,” Rory said staring at the monitors. “Just get the ribbon above the hatch.” He saw the large cylinder containing the ultra-Graphene ribbon swing back and forth above the waves as it dangled from their aircraft.
Squonk spoke: “Unit 67-D is not responding.”
Pip said: “I know… Over the hatch now.”
Rory said: “Shit, the unit isn’t ejecting the buckled ribbon. Squonk?”
Squonk replied: “Automatic ejection has failed.”
All four Royal Engineers swore aloud. Pip asked: “What’s the outside temperature?”
Squonk replied: “Plus eleven degrees centigrade.”
Pip let go of the handgrips, removed the headgear and looked at Crimble. “Keep control of the replacement, okay?”
“Sure,” he replied, scratching his moustache.
Rory said: “No.”
Pip looked at him. “What ‘no’?”
Rory said: “Pratty’s going to do the manual release.”
“Why?” Pip demanded.
“Because I said so,” Rory replied.
Pip said: “This better not be more of your macho bullshit, Corp. Just because I’m a girl, right?”
Pratty put a bony arm out and said: “Relax, Pip. A manual release in these conditions is not an easy—”
“Shut up,” Pip spat back. “You guys hate it that girls can do this shit just as well as you.”
Sweat prickled the back of Rory’s neck. He had to find another reason to keep Pip out of danger without simply pulling rank. He said: “Jesus, Pip. It’s got nothing to do with that boys or girls bullshit. There’s a serious risk in going out there to do a manu—”
Pip shouted: “Bollocks. I’m going out there, Corp., or when we get back I’ll file a complaint.”
Rory couldn’t bear the thought of Pip being in harm’s way unnecessarily, and had to reconcile himself with the risk of her filing a complaint with their commanding officer. Perhaps if he told her his true feelings, she might reconsider? But then if he did that and she didn’t feel the same way, she’d transfer to another unit and he’d never see her again. He looked at her beautiful face and said: “Pip, I really don’t want to pull rank—”
“Good,” she broke in, “then don’t. I’ll get harnessed and perform the manual release.”
Squonk said: “HQ is calling, Corporal Moore,” at the same moment as the notification icon flashed in his eye.
Still staring at Pip, Rory said: “Put it on the speaker.”
The deep, contemptuous voice of the unit’s captain boomed in the restricted space: “Squad Delta Four-Two? What the fuck are you monkeys doing out there, over?”
Rory replied: “We need to perform an external manual release to replace the buckled ribbon, Sir.”
“No, you do not. Abort the job and return to HQ for re-tooling and deployment, roger?”
“But what about the breach? Tonnes of water are pouring through that—”
“Not your problem, Corporal. RT now. And hurry the fuck up. HQ out.”
Rory said: “S
quonk, retract the ultra-Graphene ribbon and take us back to HQ.”
“Roger,” the super AI responded.
Rory sat back in relief. The other three members of his squad also sat down and buckled in for the return trip. Rory caught the steely look of resentment on Pip’s face and thought her pursed lips had never looked more beautiful. For the hundredth time, he asked himself if he should risk telling her how he felt.
Chapter 32
20.46 Friday 10 February 2062
TERRY TIDBURY’S TOYOTA Rive-All autonomous vehicle sped south along the M26 motorway, heading away from London. He folded his slate up, put it in his pocket, and looked at the distant lights outside, refracted and split and broken by the raindrops streaking along the window.
He felt a pervading sense of melancholy at the day’s developments. He’d attended virtual conferences with all of the NATO countries’ military chiefs. Despite the strength of the forces ranged against them, generals from each European country discussed the situation in dry, military terms, with barely a shred of emotion, even from the Mediterranean states that had to be the first front-line in the Caliphate’s invasion plans. Each country’s armed forces were approaching full war-time readiness, with reservists called up and veterans recalled. Many thousands more citizens had made known their availability, which the leaders found reassuring.
In rare moments like these, when Terry was alone and could think clearly about the coming storm, he often caught a strange feeling of unreality. In his mind’s eye, he reviewed his years of soldiering, his promotions, the joint exercises, the disciplinary hearings of misbehaving subordinates. Face-offs with the Russian military had been NATO’s most strenuous business for many years, while providing support to stretched local civil defence authorities as the sea levels continued their slow but inexorable rise came a close second. He reflected on how much certainty his old life enjoyed. The sea-level rise data was well established, with flood modelling going back decades. All the Home Nations and European governments knew precisely where the flooding would be worst and which areas needed to be evacuated.
He considered the role complacency had played: how willing had European countries been to accept the Caliphate at face value? But he also knew he was no politician. He recalled events from years earlier, and how China and Russia took credit for the Caliphate’s creation as a final way to stop decades of bloodshed. He remembered the political leaders of the time had been critical, citing the Caliphate’s isolation as a cause for distrust. But as a Captain in the British Army with a young family to raise, Terry concentrated on his career and only took notice of political events that might or could have had an effect on that.
As the years went by, the Caliphate remained quiet and isolated. It bothered no one outside its borders, but took no prisoners of those who tried to find out what was happening inside it. Terry shuddered as he recalled the debacle four years earlier when, without his knowledge, a squad of four Special Forces troops had been sent into Caliphate territory, and had been caught and executed, their bodies displayed to the international media. While those troops lost their lives, in result several colonels and lieutenant generals had merely lost their careers.
The vehicle sensed Terry’s shudder and asked: “Are you cold, Sir Terry?”
“No, not at all. How much longer?”
“A little over six minutes.”
But now, in less than a week, the accepted global order had been turned on its head. Terry recalled the day’s other discussions and debates. He worried that the defences were ridiculously thin outside the cities, although he accepted that the defenders were obliged to concentrate on their capitals. Thus, the Greek Army deployed the bulk of its forces around Athens; the Italians around Rome, and the Spanish around Madrid. The French, Germans and Poles were deploying as fast as possible, although tactically the Caliphate was not expected to attack the more northerly countries until it had overrun the southern ones.
Terry sensed strongly that the result of the coming invasion was a foregone conclusion. The bald truth remained: NATO Forces were outnumbered and outgunned. In such situation, it would take an incredibly incompetent commander to lose any military action. And Terry felt sure everyone else in NATO realised that it could not happen because of super artificial intelligence. In addition, the Caliphate did not require especially talented individuals at corps and divisional levels because super AI could oversee the entire operation: the Caliphate’s ACAs and warriors would only have to go where and do what they were told, and then do battle. This level of involvement of artificial intelligence left little room for either side to make strategic or tactical errors of which the opposing side could take advantage.
Heavier rain lashed the windows outside the vehicle; hard, insistent, battering the impregnable glass. To Terry, the sound made him think of the thousands of Caliphate ACAs which threatened at any moment to begin their attack on Europe. In truth, he was surprised that he travelled home on this Friday evening. In the morning, he’d expected the day to see the invasion begin. But it had not.
Terry recognised the buildings the vehicle passed through the rain and realised he would arrive home soon, something of a surprise for his wife Maureen, because he’d told her in the morning that he could be very late. As his journey reached its end, he recalled his wife’s words: that every soldier hoped for one war in his or her lifetime. Terry said aloud: “Indeed, but it would’ve been nicer if we had even the slightest chance of winning it.”
Chapter 33
07.19 Saturday 11 February 2062
CAPTAIN RAPTIS OF the 12th Mechanised Infantry Division, IV Corps of the Hellenic Army, looked out at the red-flecked cirrocumulus above Athens and waited. The breeze tasted cool and fresh, as though it also awaited the day’s events with a keen curiosity. He’d readied his troops as much as possible: weapons checked, Squitches functioning. At the briefing the previous evening, there’d been enough strange looks among them as the tactics bordered on the suicidal. Doctrine insisted that only one’s own ACAs could defeat an attack by an enemy’s ACAs.
The troops were not impressed. After the briefing, he’d had private talks with some squad leaders. While complaints were vociferous and to a degree justified, on the other hand the majority of the men and women understood the imperative of throwing everything into the battle. They knew NATO would bring as many PeaceMakers to the fight as it could, but they also knew the Blackswans and Lapwings were far superior machines. That’s why the hills to the northeast and southeast of Athens now bristled with an array of the most powerful weapons NATO possessed. Battlefield Support Lasers protected key political and architectural sites, backed up by autonomous, unmanned Leopard tanks and over a hundred batteries of RIM 214 Standard surface-to-air missiles. The troops were each equipped with Z50 Stilettos, shoulder-fired smart missiles.
Raptis scanned the sky as the red hues on the cloud brightened to sheer gold and the dawn advanced. He questioned how long they would have to wait for the promised invasion. He reflected that the problem with adrenalin was that it seldom stayed in one’s blood for very long. While it was easy to become aggressive, the feeling soon waned, often leaving tiredness in its wake. Thus, it was impossible for anyone to stay at the highest level of alertness for a substantial length of time. Raptis asked himself if they would come today, tomorrow, or-
His thoughts were broken by a single word spoken in his Squitch: “Incoming.”
He felt relief: Corporal Drakos, who’d announced the contact, had maintained a professional indifference, as though he’d been informing the regiment of the arrival of an order of pizza.
Raptis strode the few steps back to the mobile command centre and entered the long, trailer-sized vehicle. Inside was a bustle of activity as monitors displayed lines of light denoting the approaching ACAs.
One of the signals troops manning the centre called out: “Tracking two hundred and fifty-six incoming signals. Signature is hostile.”
“Are they Blackswans or Lapwings?” Raptis
asked.
The trooper glanced at him and said: “They’re Blackswans, Sir. All of them.”
“Where are ours?”
“Locked-on, one minute out.”
With a twitch of an eye muscle, Raptis opened comms to his company of troops. “Attention, we’ve got incoming, people. Free the BSL and Leopards. Our PeaceMakers will launch their missiles, but they might not be very effective. The less-worse news is that these are Blackswans, not Lapwings, so keep your eyes sharp when they release their Spiders. Remember: we don’t know how strong the Spiders’ shielding is, so engage with caution. So far, we’ve got no movements of any types of vehicles which could carry an invasion force, but they may be on the way, or more likely ready to go. Good luck.”
He twitched his eye muscle again to close the transmission channel, told the troopers to evacuate if targeted, and went outside the command centre to witness the confrontation. He recalled the briefing and how the super AI at headquarters had hurriedly updated potential invasion scenarios based on an attack by Turkey. From his position on hill thirty-five, he looked south at the Acropolis and could see the Aegean Sea in the far distance. Below and all around him lay the thousands of homes, fifty-five hospitals, over a hundred schools, and dozens of government offices, small businesses, numerous kilometres of roads, and all of the other pieces which fitted together to make up a society. And it was now his job to help protect it.
He swallowed when he looked at the sky and saw rows of tiny black dots streak across it and then descend in undulating, geometric waves. In his ear, the Hellenic Army’s super AI announced: “Hostiles engaged; friendly missiles inbound.”
From behind him, he heard the repeated ‘click-clack’ of the Battlefield Support Laser. This sound was important because the laser pulses were invisible, and Raptis had learned to concentrate on that telltale click-clack to know that the device was in fact engaging the enemy.
He glanced behind him, and in the sky above the command centre hundreds of streaks of white lines rushed into the battle space above Athens. As he watched the NATO missiles and speeding ACAs converge, he recalled the image of the poor woman and her child in Istanbul, pictured in the instant a Spider embraced them in its claws a fraction of a second before detonating.
