“Get us moving, then,” Carolyn agreed. She ran a basic diagnostic on the Dalek, then relaxed as she realised that nothing vitally important had melted. They would have to keep an eye on it, but it seemed to be surviving its first trial. “We don’t know when they will be coming back.”
She glanced out of the window as the vehicle lurched into life. The aliens hadn't managed to bombard Lossiemouth too badly, thankfully, but parts of the base were still burning. A fire truck had taken a plasma bolt dead on and exploded into flames, scorching parts of the buildings. The runways, on the other hand, looked fine. No doubt the aliens would be back to finish the job, but for the moment she could take some hope from the sight. They were not invincible.
“Look at that,” Plummer muttered. There was raw envy in his voice, the envy of a man who had tried out to fly fast jets, only to discover that he was unsuitable. Instead, he’d been pushed into the RAF Regiment. “I want one of them.”
Carolyn followed his gaze. The alien craft had crashed on top of the fence protecting the base from unwanted guests, smashing it down effortlessly. Armed soldiers from the RAF Regiment surrounded it, probing the wreckage. Carolyn couldn't help wondering if the aliens would come stumbling out with their hands held high, before realising that was unlikely. All the reports from America said that no one had ever taken an alien alive.
The craft had been badly damaged, but it was still substantially intact. Plummer looked awed and Carolyn found it hard to blame him. Human jet aircraft were beautiful, in their own way, but there was a crudeness around them that made it hard to see them as truly elegant. The alien craft, on the other hand, seemed almost perfect. She couldn't help admiring the level of craftsmanship that had gone into building the vehicle, even as she cursed its designers for their attacks on Earth. What did they want from the human race?
They trundled to a halt in their next firing position. Plummer jumped outside to check that everything was secure, while Carolyn checked the display screen. So far, it was clear, but she knew that wouldn't last. The aliens had suffered a setback, yet it wouldn't be enough to stop them. They would be coming back.
Chapter Forty
Over Southern England, United Kingdom
Day 245
“That’s affirmative,” Ginny Lesage said. “We have incoming. I say again, we have incoming.”
The aliens seemed to be everywhere over Britain, sometimes slowing to engage the defenders, sometimes racing past them to attack targets on the ground. Their tactics were predictable, in a way, but also difficult to handle. There was no way to tell what sort of target the aliens considered too heavily defended to attack. But it was clear that whatever standards they used didn't rate the Sentry aircraft as worth avoiding.
“Nine alien craft on direct approach,” she added, as the screen focused in on the incoming craft, ignoring the overall picture. “They’re closing in ...”
The aircraft lurched, then dived for the ground. Ginny winced, feeling her stomach constrict as gravity seemed to shift around them. The massive jet needed to seek cover from ground-based defences while its escorts struggled to fend off the alien attack, but diving so hard always hurt. At least the pilots had done it many times before, they claimed. It was easy as long as one was careful. Ginny wasn't sure if they had been trying to reassure or impress her.
She fought to maintain her grip on events. The alien craft were firing on the RAF escorts now, forcing the mixed force of Typhoons and Tornadoes to evade their fire and giving them a chance to get into firing range of the Sentry. Two alien craft appeared to have vanished, both downed – she hoped – by the escorts. The alternative was that they’d hit whatever the aliens used for afterburners and vanished into the distance to escape human missiles.
The plane creaked violently as the pilot pulled it out of the dive, flying as low to the ground as he dared. Ginny swallowed the urge to be sick – a noise from behind her told her that not everyone had been so lucky – and looked at the display. The aliens were still coming after them, closing in rapidly. Maybe they weren't very good shots, she knew, but they only needed one hit to blow the Sentry to flaming debris. And they could fire as many shots as they liked ...
***
Flight Captain Jacob Gresham gritted his teeth as he pulled the Eurofighter out of his dive and hunted for the alien craft that had gone after the Sentry. The pilot of the bigger aircraft had nerve, he acknowledged, or maybe he was pretending to be Luke Skywalker flying down the Death Star’s trench. But the alien craft was closing in rapidly, spitting balls of blue-white fire towards a target that was not among the most agile of aircraft. One hit would be all it needed to take down the Sentry, damaging the RAF’s ability to coordinate its forces and defend British airspace.
“All right, you bastard,” he muttered, as his missiles locked on. “Die!”
The Eurofighter lurched as the missile lanced away from its wing, heading right towards the alien craft. For a moment, the alien pilot seemed torn between pressing his advantage and killing the Sentry or evading and saving himself, a human-like reaction that left him feeling an odd sense of kinship with the alien flyer. It almost reminded him of the time they’d met a flight of Russian pilots and found that they had more in common with the Russians than they did with the civilians and political leaders who had accompanied both sides. And then his missile struck home and the alien craft lurched to one side, then fell out of the sky and hit the ground.
He switched channels. “Cricket Two, this is Charlie One; I have a confirmed Fallen Angel,” he said, and gave the approximate location of the alien craft. “It looks fairly intact from up here.”
Thankfully, it wasn't too close to a major population centre – several alien craft had come down in Washington, during the fighting over the United States – which would make it harder for civilians to get there before the police and the military. There were crash-recovery teams on standby all over the United Kingdom to handle the remains of any crashed alien craft.
“Understood, Charlie One,” the flight controller said. “Local authorities are being alerted now.”
She didn't go into details – no one knew who might be listening in to the radio exchange – but they’d been briefed on the plans for dealing with crashed ships. They would be surrounded, then searched ... and then taken elsewhere. Unlike fighting the Russians, studying alien craft might help produce more surprises ... Jacob, like most of his fellow pilots, had his suspicions about the origin of the Dalek weapon system. It just seemed to have come out of nowhere.
He grinned as the Eurofighter skimmed over a town, remembering all the people who had written in to the base to complain about low-flying pilots. According to the base’s PR officer, most of them had been shown their homes during the weekends, when there was little or no flying outside wartime, and hadn't realised what living near a base actually meant until the following morning, when they had been woken up by jet aircraft being put through their paces. There were times when Jacob wondered if the civilian-military divide had simply grown too wide for safety; without training, the pilots wouldn't know what to do if they were ever really tested. He’d spent a few weeks with a Royal Saudi Air Force squadron once and their training levels had been appallingly bad.
The Sentry had shut down its radar and was heading back towards its base, a handful of other fighters moving to escort it. Jacob had his doubts about the aliens losing track of it after it stopped sweeping the skies with powerful radars, but there was little else they could do. Besides, the aliens had learned to be wary of RAF bases after their first encounter with the Dalek. They might well let the Sentry go and concentrate on fighting elsewhere.
His radio buzzed. “Charlie One, radar has detected alien craft advancing towards London,” the flight controller said. “You are ordered to join the defence.”
Jacob winced. His family lived in London.
“Understood,” he said. Other planes and pilots would also be directed towards the capital city, hoping to fend off the aliens be
fore they could do real damage. “I’m on my way.”
***
The alarms went off in a single deafening howl, echoing through the MOD Building in Whitehall. Sergeant Glen Cheal, Royal Military Police, turned them down, then took the intercom for himself.
“Emergency evacuation, now,” he ordered, knowing that time was rapidly running out. They’d dispersed as much of the building’s functions as they could, but there were still hundreds of people working in the MOD – and the rest of Whitehall, for that matter. “This is not a drill. I say again, this is not a drill.”
He scowled. They’d held dozens of emergency drills in the years since 9/11, but there was no shortage of idiots who thought they could refuse to take them seriously because they were drills, rather than real emergencies Now, the staffers were almost running as they moved down the stairs, out of the building and headed for the emergency RV point in St. James Park. Glen had no idea if that was truly safe – the nuclear and other WMD training they’d done had suggested that it wasn’t – but at least it would get them out of the building. Everyone knew that the MOD had to be high on the list of alien targets.
The planners had studied the tactics the aliens had used against America carefully, looking for patterns that could be used against them. Glen had heard that the aliens had tried to weaken the United States by going after power plants, communications nodes, bridges and other places where a single hit or two might have a disproportionate impact. He’d done enough work moving troops over London in the wake of the declaration of martial law to understand just how difficult life would become if the aliens took out the bridges crossing the Thames. They might be able to cut one part of the city off from the other.
“This is Ron on Floor Nine,” a voice said. “All clear; I say again, all clear. I’m on my way down now.”
Glen allowed himself a sigh of relief. The floors were being checked, one by one, and anyone stupid enough to linger being pushed down towards the ground floor. Once the building was completely empty, the military police could lock up and then leave, hopefully before the alien attack began in earnest. He’d seen the mobile missile launchers moved into position near the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace, but he had little faith in their ability to force the aliens to withdraw. The grapevine had suggested that the launchers had been placed there for political reasons, rather than because the military believed they could actually serve a useful purpose.
“Caught these two snogging in a cupboard,” John said, as he came out of the stairwell dragging two staffers behind him. Both of them looked terrified at the thought of facing the military police. “God help us all if they have children.”
“Get them to the park,” Glen ordered. He gave the two staffers a grim look. “We’ll discuss your conduct during an alert later.”
Now that the building was empty, they could shut it down. And hope to God that they were in time.
***
Wendy perched on a rooftop and looked towards Whitehall, where hundreds of thousands of people were flowing out of the buildings and heading away from them as fast as they could. The reports had been right then, she told herself, the aliens were coming to London – and the fat oaf from the security services who had censored every news story the BBC had put on the airwaves was nowhere to be seen. Wendy wasn't too surprised; she’d been in dangerous places before, broadcasting live from riots, revolutions and terrorist attacks. The minder, like most of his ilk, had no nerves at all. He was probably halfway to France by now.
“Set up the camera,” she ordered. “And then link it into the network.”
It was risky, she had to admit; technically, she was in violation of the new regulations the government had laid down under martial law, but it would put her name in front of the public once again. They were so fickle! The BBC was censored, foreign news was hardly worth a damn and yet the public seemed more interested in the latest version of Big Brother than in the slow collapse of the freedom of the press. Honestly! Who cared if two of the girls went to bed with the same guy at the same time when important freedoms were at stake? She glared over towards Ten Downing Street, wondering vaguely which of the Prime Minister’s flunkies had come up with the idea of using porn to distract the population. It worked like a charm.
“The camera is ready,” her cameraman said. He hesitated. “This is our last chance to ...”
“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket,” she said, sharply. Her cameraman wasn't the one at risk of arrest and permanent detention if they were caught. No, that would be her – and she knew better than to think that her bosses at the BBC would stick their necks out for her if they were caught. “Start filming in ten seconds.”
She struck a pose, running one hand through her long dark hair. Generations of marketing research had told the BBC that the public wanted their serious reporters to look serious, so she’d worn a simple business suit rather than the military uniforms affected by some of her fellows. No one was fooled; besides, a reporter in a military uniform merely looked silly. A red light glowed on the camera and she smiled, counting down the final seconds. The problem with live reporting, she knew, was that there was no time to edit one’s words.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “We are currently near Whitehall, where reports of a rumoured alien attack have caused the workers to scatter and ...”
The camera dipped suddenly. Wendy bit down the sharp response that came to mind, realising that the cameraman was looking at something behind her. Wendy turned and saw four dark objects racing over the city, seeming to head right towards her. She had enough experience with military aircraft to know that they weren't human ...
“Those reports have now been confirmed,” she said, fighting to keep a tremor out of her voice. In the distance, she saw rockets being launched up towards the alien craft, which evaded them with practiced ease. “There are at least four alien craft over London ...”
***
Jacob cursed as he saw the alien craft closing in on Whitehall, already firing down towards the ground. If he fired on the alien craft with his remaining missiles, he ran the risk of bringing one of them down in London and doing more damage to the city than a precise strike on Whitehall. But he couldn't just leave the aliens alone to keep wreaking havoc ... they had to be stopped before they could retreat.
One of the alien craft turned and advanced towards him, spitting deadly fire. The others continued blasting ground targets, ignoring the handful of missiles hurled up from the ground. Jacob noted flames rising from the direction of Buckingham Palace and wondered why the aliens had decided to target it, before pushing the thought aside. One of the alien craft was trying to kill him.
He launched a missile directly towards it and threw the Eurofighter to one side, avoiding a burst of deadly light that came within millimetres of wiping him out of existence. The alien craft turned – to his eyes, it seemed to flicker, altering position in a blink – before the missile slammed home into its drive field. There was a brilliant flare of light around the alien craft, before it tilted and plunged to one side, heading right for Tower Bridge. Jacob watched in horror as the craft slammed into the bridge, smashing it into rubble. Somehow, the main body of the craft survived the experience.
The instant of distraction almost killed him. An alien blast slammed into the rear of his Typhoon, sending it spinning out of control. Jacob reached for the ejector handle and pulled it hard, praying desperately that he wouldn't be slammed out towards the ground. There was a thunderous roar as his cockpit disintegrated around him, blasting him free. Moments later, the parachute deployed and he stopped, hanging in midair. He was just in time to see the remains of his aircraft slamming down into the London Eye. The giant Ferris Wheel folded over and collapsed into the river.
For a long chilling moment, he was convinced that the alien craft were going to blast him and his parachute out of the air. They seemed to be hovering nearby, heedless of whatever other RAF aircraft were on their way ... and then they vanished, so quickly that it
was a moment before he saw them disappearing into the distance. Tearing his gaze away from where they’d been, he stared down at London. Whitehall had been devastated.
“My God,” he muttered, unable to believe his eyes. “And this was just the first day of war?”
Ten Downing Street and most of the surrounding area was nothing more than burning ruins, flames spreading rapidly to destroy whatever was left of the buildings. More flames were rising up from Buckingham Palace and a dozen other locations over London – the military garrisons, he suspected, and perhaps some of the bridges. He looked back towards the ruins of Tower Bridge and saw a boatload of policemen trying to see into the crashed alien craft. No doubt the aliens were dead already, but he hoped that the policemen were armed, just in case. Crowds of sightseers would descend on the alien craft as soon as they realised what it was.
The river came up below him and he braced himself. Water landings were never fun at the best of times and this was the first time he’d done it outside the tank on the airbase, where they’d practiced and practiced until they were sure they knew what they were doing. And this was a river ...
***
Wendy found herself speechless as the alien craft faded into the distance, leaving behind nothing but burning ruins. The RAF’s lone aircraft – and where, she asked herself, were the others – had been unable to prevent the destruction of London’s centre of government. It was unlikely that the PM was dead – he was at a secure location, according to the minder – but morale would take a glancing blow. All the jokes about the country running smoother and having more money without the government, or at least the civil service, suddenly seemed much less amusing.
Her cameraman had filmed it all, live. A quick glance at her BBC-issued tablet had confirmed that the broadcast had gone out all over the country. The government’s measures to prevent news from spreading had failed ... normally, she would have been delighted. But now?
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 38