Offshore, North East Scotland
Captain James Carmichael stared through binoculars across the rising and crashing surf, glimpsing several distant fishing vessels rising and falling on the swell, their skippers keen to return to the port of Peterhead as soon as possible. All had ignored or been blissfully unaware of government advice to remain in harbour, the temptation of a generous catch spurring them out in the early morning. Three Coast Guard vessels and two grey Royal Navy frigates were patrolling further out to sea, the heavy machine guns and missiles of the combat ships trained outwards, towards the distant oil rigs and platforms now controlled by a merciless enemy that recent reports had failed to provide detailed weaknesses on.
Shaking his head and lowering the glasses, he turned his bloodshot, salt sprayed eyes back towards the inner harbour, the soldiers of the Highlanders, 4th Battalion, Royal Regiment of Scotland erecting defensive stone and steel barricades along the waterfront walls, the captain grinning as he glimpsed several local youths and residents assisting. Several heavy machine guns and sandbagged positions were already evident, a number of high powered cannon muzzles and three anti-aircraft batteries situated at the end of side streets, the thoroughfares now blocked to traffic.
All along the North Sea coast, the actions had been repeated virtually all day, soldiers and cadets preparing makeshift defensive positions, reinforced with artillery and missile batteries, nervous officers staring through binoculars out to sea, watching fishing vessels and a few pleasure craft hurrying back to shore. The Royal Navy was warning the seafarers through loudspeakers of the ultimate danger that was now only a few miles away, servicemen scrutinising the waves in fear through high powered military glasses.
Seagulls cawed loudly above, their small white bodies buffeted in the rising breeze, the birds circling the harbour in anticipation of an incoming fresh catch and any discarded fish that were deemed inappropriate for sale to local processing plants and restaurants from the quayside…this afternoon was different, the scavengers would be disappointed.
The army unit had been surprised by the welcome on a chilly, grey mist filled morning, the people of Peterhead spilling out onto the streets as the green camouflaged column had entered the city, waving and cheering welcoming the bleary eyed soldiers in the back of lorries, many of the people on the pavements in their dressing gowns and pyjamas with jackets over their shoulders.
Upon parking the armoured cars and lorries in squares and side streets, the infantrymen had added netting for further concealment, unloading supplies and ammunition for the assigned troops that marched towards the harbour. Locals ventured out with numerous cups of tea and coffee, some even offering sandwiches and cakes for the working soldiers, the men stunned by the generosity provided.
Plates of food were still forthcoming in the harbour, but in greater abundance, the quayside public houses calling their chefs in early to prepare dishes for the soldiers, opening their bars for locals as many came to see the defensive preparations, patrons drinking pints of Tennent’s Lager and whisky outside in the early afternoon chill, their heavy jackets protecting them from a heavy cold North Sea breeze.
The captain smiled fondly as he realised a traditional spirit of community had probably returned, perhaps the lack of mobile internet, calls and social media adding to the open bonding he witnessed, people talking and chatting to each other, several still occasionally retrieving and studying their unresponsive mobile handsets briefly in dismay. His eyes moved to the rooftops, smoke snaking upwards from several chimneys before dispersing quickly in the wind as he glimpsed the positioned snipers, most in padded uniforms, the accompanying spotters straining their eyes behind binoculars out to sea.
The officer’s body jumped as two jets swept out low over the harbour, the loud deep sound waves of the engines engulfing the working figures, the captain’s eyes moving upwards as the grey planes banked hard to the north, the fighters promptly disappearing beyond an outcrop of high rock.
Turning to lean his elbows back against the outer harbour wall, he raised the binoculars once more, staring out towards the rising swell of the cold North Sea, large angry waves slapping against the concrete walls below as tiny specks of water splashed against the lenses, his eyes focussing on one of the Royal Navy frigates, the silhouettes of several figures braced against the light grey upper hull.
Skipper Angus MacGregor thrust the accelerator controls forward, the fishing trawler rising and falling dramatically against the ferocity of the turbulent churning cold water, salt water lashing against the small bridge’s windows as he shouted, ‘Just another two hours, we are alone now…there are fish to be caught…then we creep back under darkness.’
His employees could not hear in the wind, their drenched heavy plastic rubber yellow jackets and boots swaying with the ship through the windows as they hauled on the previous catches’ netting, perturbed by the small size if the haul. The skipper swallowed and licked his lips in relish as he heard the motors whine from below, another catch rising from deep in the sea, his anticipation escalating of a successful haul.
Far out in the North Sea, the vessel lurched to the side, a large wave crashing against the hull, water surging across the forward deck as the two crewmen strained against the force, each body tied round the waist and anchored with emergency lines from either side, the nylon ropes tied and bound to robust triple hooks.
Below deck, the fish began to pour from the retracting winding nets on either side, surging along a water drenched channel and falling into the hold below. Three crewmen worked feverishly to grasp the unsuitable gasping specimens, those too small or recognised as restricted and tossing them onto another resin passage to propel the fish back out into sea.
The seafaring men were proud and loyal to their skipper, his expensive alterations to the boat ensuring the maximum amount of unsuitable fish returned to the cold waters alive. All had ultimate respect for the fruits of the sea, not only for their livelihoods, but also an understanding of nature…all experiencing the wastage from other vessels, of dead fish thrown into the surging waves as the actual catch proved more important, the unsuitable specimens painfully sucking for air until their eyes clouded from asphyxia. The inevitable following of scavenging gulls around the vessel invariably benefited from the needless deaths, the floating small fish bodies unable to then mature and reducing future catches even more, the continuous perpetuating competition thus increasing further under strict restrictive fishing regulations.
Then the nets suddenly shuddered to a halt, the retracting motors whining and shunting the machine cogs back and forward, the engines rising in ferocity as the mechanisms jolted from side to side. One of the crew lunged for the struggling retraction motor, the other two grasping the nets on either side with thick gloves and tugging, used to the occasional obstruction…rocks or heavy debris from deep in the darkened waters sometimes dragging on the catch, preventing the fish from emerging into the vessel as the net swept underneath or worse still, rose upwards into the whirring propellers.
The two fishermen pulled on the thick rope, dragging the reinforced nylon cable a couple of inches before gasping as the net fell back, the outside load or obstruction too heavy to free. Then one stiffened, his ears straining as they heard clunks against the outside hull, the scraping and squealing of steel, their gloved hands yanking furiously on the nets once more, sweat glistening across their brows.
The motor suddenly cut out, the crewmate behind shouting desperately over the crashing waves, ‘Now we free it or the drag will turn the vessel in the waves…’ He turned, stepping towards his two friends, his vision focussing on their strained frames in curiosity, ‘What can it be? The motor was overheating…the net is too heavy…’
His eyes widened in shock as their hands dropped, both men staggering backwards as they all stared at the opening in the hull, the men used to the sights of fish slipping onto the conveyor, the glistening eyes and shimmering scales of freshly caught catch surging through the opening and casca
ding along the rusted edged steel with freshly pumped water, all destined for the frozen hold below to conserve freshness.
Salt water spray glistened across the edges of the opening, further droplets sweeping inside as the distant large waves outside rose and fell, the men stepping forward in unison as gulls cawed in anger and swept past their vision. Then the lower rim of the opening seemed to move, a renewed clanking on the steel hull resuming, the fishermen frantically wiping their bloodshot eyes and straining to see.
Then they stepped back in alarm as the screeching of metal against metal increased, a black dome seeming to rise into the opening, obscuring some of the shaft of light. The rising black resin dome glistened with water as it rose further, the light dimming, the steel encased bulbs of the lower deck flickering as the shaft of light became narrower, then almost disappeared.
One of the fishermen swallowed hard, glancing round in the dimming light, ‘W-What is it?’ Then he gasped, red eyes flickering, then glowing through the darkened opening, further loud clanking to either side and the screeching recommencing as large bulky items were dragged upwards. Suddenly an intense bright light filled the fish preparation area, the men shielding their eyes and virtually blinded as the glow swept across their bodies, scanning the motors and gutting knives around them, a loud high pitched shriek as they staggered backwards in fear.
Then the figure was gone, clambering upwards across the hull, magnetised gloves and boots assisting the ascent, the fishermen glancing at each other in breathless horror as the deep clanking spread to the other side of the boat, the hull seeming to throb from the sound.
On deck, the two fishermen were staggering against the afternoon swell, pulling the damaged net and battered buoys across the water swept steel plates, their hoods up as waves crashed against the sides of the vessel, the boat rising and falling in the violent swell. Staring down at the thick high density torn nylon rope, a gloved hand reached forward, grasping the severed strands in confusion, the man’s voice rising in nervous awe, ‘These were cut…and quickly…something very sharp. What the f…?’
Rising slowly from a crouched position, the fisherman steadied his shaking crewmate, both wiping sea spray from their eyes and gradually turning in alarm, one hissing pensively as the other shook his head, ‘We should tell the skipper. To hell with fishing…we need to get back to shore and quickly!’
Their bleary, blood shot eyes widened, the bridges windows streaked and splattered with blood, rain beginning to fall with the intense sea spray around them as the two men’s frames sagged in fear, their heads turning to either side slowly, tall and bulky black exoskeleton frames rising from each side of the boat, the fishermen turning in a virtual circle back to back in terror.
Six dripping black armoured Morgon figures stood around them, the red eyes glowing as twin bladed swords slipped from the backs of glistening armoured plate, muffled screams echoing from the deck below as their three crewmates were hunted mercilessly down.
One fisherman stared at the Morgon that stepped from the door of the bridge, the decapitated head of their skipper held aloft as a prize at the end of his crimson soaked sword in relish, sea droplets running across his shining armour.
The surrounding soldiers hissed and raised their sharpened steel before stepping forward, the blades sweeping downwards as a victorious shrieks rang out, the fishermen screaming in terror. The blood lusted slashing continued for a couple of minutes, bone cracking as sinew stretched and was twisted from the shredded corpses, the soaked deck eventually coated in bloodied pulp and mush.
Chapter Four: Central Sector, Russia and the Ukraine
A World in Peril
South of St Petersburg: North West Russia
A lone flare pulsed and glowed across the undulating snow caked landscape, plumes of black smoke rising from burning cars and lorries, several shells of smouldering wrecks sitting alongside the main motorway from the northern most Russian city. On the horizon, the northernmost historical holiday city of Russian czars situated on the banks of Lake Lagoda glowed across the pitch black sky, the domes of St Petersburg burning in the distance across the deep night darkness, infernos raging out of control in several of the suburbs, tracers rising slowly into the sky as the bitter fighting continued.
The shadows and silhouettes of many isolated corpses lay across the snow on either side of the motorway, several huddled together in frozen lifeless embrace, exposure to the harsh and merciless elements overwhelming many of the fleeing walkers before the ultimate horrors of war caught up with stragglers. Small pools of smouldering acid gurgled and scorched the frozen earth beneath, a number of the half consumed charred bodies contorted in the final positions of excruciating agony as the splattered putrid liquid seared through organs and bone to end their existences.
Two short lines of white camouflaged soldiers trudged reluctantly towards the glow on the horizon, the rumble of gunfire and artillery sweeping across the snow bound terrain in waves, the sound distorted in the cold air. Clouds of exhaled breath hung in the frozen air between the figures, many of the hunched grim men avoiding glancing into the burning vehicles and at morbid sights around them, the flickering flames illuminating their figures as their boots crunched through the snow. The stench of roasted and smouldering flesh filled their nostrils, charcoaled lifeless bodies slumped in and around the burnt out and shattered vehicles, the steel roofs torn by laser and heavy machine gun fire.
Morgon fighters had targeted the fleeing civilians to block the roads or motorways leading to and from the city, preventing effective deployment of the Russian reserves and spreading mass panic, the numerous sorties over the last two days terrorising and slaughtering the fleeing residents of St Petersburg. Many of the stranded survivors simply succumbed to the sub-zero elements as their engines stalled or cars bogged down attempting to slip past the disabled or burning vehicles. Many more were shattered by the merciless fire from above, acid and fragmentation devices dropped in large numbers as the black fighters strafed the motorway continuously throughout daylight.
The main motorway was now known as the ‘highway of death’ amongst despondent advancing soldiers, most stepping towards a shattered city from which they would not return. They had heard the rumours and stories…of half eaten residents and wounded that had been put to the sword, many gritting their teeth in distain as the Morgon ceremonial twin bladed weapon had been described in gruesome detail.
Fading rumours of hope were still circulating…of specialist Spetsnaz (Russian Special Forces) units that were driving the vicious invaders back, that airborne troops had cut off the alien invaders further north and that the fighting was bitter, but that the shores and northern border of Finland were once again in Russian hands. All were false…within the three and a half days since the Morgon shock troops had emerged from the frozen water, the Russian forces had been driven back street by street and across the many river contributories, units that were once strong now reduced to just a handful of men fighting in isolated buildings and small groups, the cohesion breaking down.
The Russian Air Force had been driven from the skies, now only able to fly low level during the hours of darkness for protection, the Morgon fighter strength growing in number as a vast underwater ship settled deep in the Baltic Sea, reinforcing the initial landings.
During darkness, the few surviving wounded soldiers stared down grimly from evacuation helicopters as they returned from the burning city, the sights of flickering fires and the silhouettes of bodies strewn across the freezing white expanse below lining the motorway for miles. The land for hundreds of metres on either side of the ‘highway of death’ was corrupted and showered in booby trap devices.
Several areas were even marked under the suspicion of nano-drops, the belief that small predatory droids were buried under the snow, programmed to patiently wait for unsuspecting victims that stepped overhead terrifying even the most hardened military veterans. A medical unit had already fallen as victims to the hidden enemy, innocently setting
up a temporary forward shelter and treatment area in a small forest for retreating soldiers and civilians alike.
An advancing unit had found the shredded bodies the following day, internal organs torn and limbs severed, pierced skulls and vacant eye sockets providing evidence of the most horrific injuries that had occurred internally, and whilst the victims were still alive. Numerous tiny blood trails provided evidence of a mechanised adversary the soldiers had never experienced or even comprehended before, the tracks promptly disappearing beneath the frozen earth nearby, many of the men backing away as collective realisation began to spread through the two forward platoons.
The unit had hastily withdrawn to a tarmacked road nearby, many of the troops straining their eyes and kicking out at the snow beneath their boots in fear as the commander attempted to re-establish calm and discipline, the overwhelming psychological strain of combat and terror beginning to affect several deeply.
Reports of the new traps were circulated rapidly, the Russians now believing the nano-droids moved after specific time intervals, laying in ambush for the next passing victims, but as yet remaining away from tarmacked surface…the reason unclear.
Lower St Petersburg suburb:
Juri Medvedev’s eyes flickered open, dust falling across his dried face from the cracked ceiling above, the young Russian officer rolling over and coughing, his croaked voice shaking as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees wearily, spitting phlegm onto the blood smeared and grime caked carpet beneath.
Planet Genocide II: Galaxies Collide 5: Onslaught Page 5
