The Longest Day (Ark Royal X)

by Christopher Nuttall

  His steward met him at the command chair, holding out a mug of coffee. Jon took a swig absently, keeping his eyes on the display. Deliberately or otherwise, the Tadpoles had timed their invasion well. Two-thirds of humanity’s forces were out of position, finishing BRAVE DEFENDER. It would take time, time he didn't have, to concentrate his forces. He hoped that meant the enemy had the system under covert observation. If Lady Luck - or God - had deserted the human race to that extent ...

  “Two hours,” he mused. The display was already outdated, of course. A set of conical vectors showed where the aliens should be, unless they had somehow managed to improve their drive systems still further. “Or less, perhaps.”

  He looked at Hanson. “Do we have a ship count?”

  “Brezhnev reported fourteen fleet carriers and one hundred and seven smaller ships, as of the last update,” Hanson said. He took a breath. “Sir, she’s an old ship. Her sensors might have missed something. It was sheer luck she even spotted the bastards.”

  Jon nodded, curtly. Perhaps God hadn't abandoned humanity after all.

  “Send a planetary alert,” he ordered, putting the thought aside. There would be time to think about it later. “Inform the EDO that I am assuming command of all mobile forces and fixed defences, in line with the EDO Treaty. Make sure you copy the message to all planetary governments. They’ll have to start their civil defence procedures.”

  “Aye, sir,” Hanson said. “Two hours ... it’s not very long.”

  “It will have to do,” Jon said. The aliens hadn't landed on New Russia, according to the last set of updates. Earth was a bigger target. But the planet wasn't the main target. “Once that’s done, copy the message to every starship and fixed installation within the system. Make sure they understand that the EDO Treaty is now in effect.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hanson said.

  Jon sat down, thinking hard. Hopefully, there wouldn't be any real objections. The prospect of being hanged did tend to concentrate the mind wonderfully. But he knew it wasn't going to be easy. They’d assumed, even after New Russia, that they would have more warning, more time to work the kinks out of the system. That assumption had been a mistake. He couldn't help wondering just how many other mistakes they’d made.

  They timed it very well, he thought, sourly. If I don’t concentrate the fleet, they can defeat us piece by piece; if I do concentrate the fleet, I run the risk of letting them do a great deal of damage before they can be stopped. I might win a tactical victory and lose on a strategic scale.

  He felt his heart sink as he contemplated the possibilities. There was no way to be sure that the attack force Brezhnev had detected was the only attack force. Space, even interplanetary space, was vast beyond imagination. The Tadpoles could hide another invasion force within the interplanetary void, if they wished. And he wouldn't know until it reached its destination and opened fire.

  A human admiral wouldn't be keen on splitting his fleet, he reminded himself. But would the Tadpoles feel the same way?

  It wasn’t a pleasant thought. He’d assumed he’d be leading the navy into battle against the Russians or Chinese, if the diplomats didn't manage to smooth over whatever crisis had sparked the war. And they would have been human foes, their logic understandable ... their tactics predictable. But his true opponent were aliens, aliens who might have their own ideas about how to fight a war. They might consider splitting their fleet to be a smart move.

  Then we’ll teach them better, he told himself.

  He glanced at Hanson. “Any word from the ground?”

  “Nothing beyond a brief acknowledgement,” Hanson said. “But the world is going dark.”

  Jon nodded, shortly. That was planned, at least. One thing they’d learnt from New Russia was that the aliens had no hesitation in dropping KEWs on radio sources. Or light sources, perhaps. The civilians would howl if they were denied access to the datanet, but it might just keep them alive. Unless the aliens did intend to scorch the entire planet. America’s population was more dispersed than it had been for centuries, but he knew better than to think it would be enough to protect them. Rendering Earth uninhabitable shouldn't pose any serious problems to the Tadpoles. Their technological base was more than capable of producing the required weapons.

  He leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of the world - of the solar system - fall onto his shoulders. Years of extensive political micromanagement had led him to believe that that would never change, even though the EDO Treaty placed command authority firmly in his hands. And yet ... he pushed the thought out of his head. He couldn't go to his political superiors and beg them to share the responsibility. The buck stopped with him.

  Which won’t stop them from complaining, afterwards, he thought. A nasty thought struck him and he went cold. If there’s anyone left to complain.

  He cleared his throat. “Record for Admiral Robertson, Enterprise,” he said. Admiral Robertson had been in command of BRAVE DEFENDER. He waited for the nod, then went on. “Thaddeus, the system has been invaded. You are ordered to concentrate your forces at Point Asimov, along with other forces I will dispatch to you, and then advance against the enemy fleet. By that point, I imagine, they will have already attacked Earth.”

  The words caught in his throat. A human admiral would seek to bring the enemy fleet to battle ... he’d certainly want to bring the enemy fleet to battle, although he would also be aware of the importance of devastating the enemy’s industrial base. And yet, the mobile fleet couldn't be replaced in a hurry ... which way would the aliens jump? Admiral Robertson might find himself the target of concentrated alien malice.

  “If they do so, you are to trap them against the planetary defences,” he ordered. “If they attempt to engage you, you are to evade them as long as possible and then fall back on Earth so you can be supported by the planetary defences. I expect you to use your own best judgment in deploying your forces against the enemy.”

  He took a long breath. The next set of orders ... he didn't want to issue them, but he had no choice. All contingencies had to be prepared for. “In the event of both Pournelle Base and Nelson Base being destroyed, you will assume command of the remaining military installations within the system. Give them hell.

  “Good luck.”

  He glanced at Hanson. “Send the message,” he ordered. “And then inform all mobile fleet units within the Earth-Luna region that they are to prepare to leave orbit within thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hanson said. He paused. “If we lose them, we’ll be dependent on our fixed defences.”

  “I know,” Jon said. He bit down the flash of annoyance. Hanson was doing his job, pointing out potential flaws with his superior’s orders. “But they don’t add that much to our firepower. Admiral Robertson is going to need them.”

  He leaned back in his chair. The orders had been given. His subordinates were rushing to their stations, preparing themselves for the prospect of a sudden and violent death in the next few hours. And yet ... all he could do was wait for the aliens. There was nothing he could do until they reached engagement range.

  The prospect of being hanged concentrates the mind wonderfully, he quoted mentally. He couldn't remember where the quote had come from, but it had struck him as important years ago. But it concentrates the mind on the fact that it is going to be hanged.

  It wasn't a very reassuring thought.

  Chapter Five

  Ten Downing Street, London, United Kingdom

  “I think we’re done here,” Prime Minister Andrew Davidson said. The Cabinet Office was feeling oddly oppressive as night fell slowly over London. “Unless there’s anything that should be raised now?”

  “Well, the economy is starting to fray,” the Secretary of State said. Anita Jordan was too much of a politician to be blunt. “Realistically, Prime Minister, there’s very little we can do about it.”

  Andrew nodded, impatiently. Late-night meetings were always bad. Everyone wanted to go to bed, but everyone also wanted to ma
ke sure they had the last word. It was frustrating as hell, particularly for him. His cabinet ministers wanted to ensure that they promoted their own careers as well as serving in his government, preparing themselves for the inevitable faction fight that would follow his resignation or his electoral defeat. And while he understood the importance of keeping them hungry, he couldn't help finding it irritating too.

  “Let us hope that things get better,” Andrew said, although he knew they wouldn't. The British economy was slowly shifting onto a war footing, causing massive dislocations throughout society. Thankfully, they’d managed to paper over the worst of the cracks in the system, but it had been too long since large sections of the population had been forced to sacrifice for victory. “And that the Opposition remains quiet.”

  His lips quirked in grim amusement. The Opposition had been relatively quiet since the war had begun, surprisingly. But then, the government had had a stroke of good luck when Ark Royal proved she could fight the Tadpoles on even terms. The Opposition politicians could merely gnash their teeth and wait for an opening they could use to criticize the government without facing a major backlash. Thankfully, they’d been too stunned to capitalise on the Battle of New Russia before Ark Royal had given the Tadpoles a bloody nose.

  “There have been some industrial disputes,” Neddy Young said. The Home Secretary looked tired and worn. “So far, mainly just grumbling ... but that will change.”

  “Probably,” Andrew said. He shook his head. “And I definitely think we’re done here. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

  He leaned back in his comfortable chair and watched as his cabinet rose and hurried out of the chamber. They’d be driven back to their apartments in the Secure Zone, where they would get a few hours of sleep before they would have to return to their desks. Andrew was too much of a cynic to believe that their presence was truly important to their departments - the cabinet ministers were all political appointees - but hopefully the general public would believe the government was on top of the situation. The last thing Britain needed was another round of unrest and ethnic conflict.

  There was a knock on the door. “Coffee, Prime Minister?”

  Andrew looked up. A young maid was standing there, looking uncertain of herself. Andrew didn't really blame her. The housekeeping staff were supposed to be neither seen nor heard, particularly by the politicians they served. He’d thought it was an archaic policy when he’d first heard of it, but he had to admit it did have a point. Too many government ministers had abused their positions before the Troubles.

  And they still do, he thought, crossly. It’s just that we’re better at dealing with it now.

  “No, thank you,” he said, rising. “I’ll go back to my office.”

  He walked past the girl and strode down the corridor. None of the other staff were in evidence, although it was clear that someone had swept the passageway in the last couple of hours. They’d have heard him coming and scattered to get out of his way ... he shook his head, silently promising himself that he’d do something about it. The housekeeping staff didn't have to run and hide like mice fleeing the cat, did they? But it was very much a minor issue, compared to the problems that were turning his hair grey. He didn't know if he’d ever have time to handle it.

  Ten Downing Street had been severely damaged during the Troubles, he reminded himself as he walked past a long line of portraits. A truck bomb had exploded in Whitehall, killing hundreds of government officials and wounding hundreds more. The building had been rebuilt with increased security - the government wouldn't have left the area in ruins, even though some people had wanted a more flamboyant centre of government - but Andrew couldn't help wondering if something had been lost. Some of the faces looking down on him - Prime Ministers through the ages - would not have approved of modern-day Britain. Others would have thought it a dream come true.

  We do the best we can, he thought. And sometimes we just force ourselves to keep going until the problem goes away.

  He sucked in his breath as his eyes moved from face to face. Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, Tony Blair, Charles Hanover ... he’d read hundreds of books discussing their strengths and weaknesses, trying to see if there was an ideal. But there wasn't, as far as he could tell. Even Churchill had had to play to the backbenchers. Only Hanover had had a considerable degree of freedom and he was perhaps the most controversial figure in British history. A saint or a sinner ... no one really knew for sure. There were no balanced biographies of him, as far as Andrew knew. His death had either been a tragedy for his country or a very lucky escape.

  We’ll never know, Andrew thought, walking into his office. And perhaps we should be glad of it.

  He sat down at his desk, eying the pile of folders that had somehow materialised on the table while he’d been gone. He’d delegated as much as he could to his staff, but there were still far too many issues that required the Prime Minister’s personal attention. The Civil Service could and did carry out orders, shaping governmental intentions into something practical, yet they didn't run the country. Andrew knew, all too well, that the buck stopped with him.

  Damn it, he thought. I ...

  An alarm rang. Andrew froze in his seat, shocked. He’d never heard that alarm outside drills, drills they’d only just restarted. An attack ... Ten Downing Street was under attack? It had to be a drill. No one could have sneaked through the ring of steel protecting the centre of London, no one ...

  He jerked to his feet as two burly men crashed through the door and into his office. One of them grabbed him, yanking him away from the desk; the other opened a hidden door, revealing a gravity chute. Andrew had no time to protest before the first man hurled him down the chute, then jumped after him. It felt like forever before he hit the antigravity field at the bottom of the chute and stopped. A hand grabbed him and pulled him out of the field, holding him steady. Andrew’s stomach heaved, as if he were going to be sick. He swallowed hard, reminding himself that he’d taken the chute before. But he’d had plenty of time to prepare himself, last time.

  “Prime Minister,” a calm voice said. “Welcome to the bunker.”

  Andrew brushed dust off his sleeves, taking the opportunity to concentrate his mind. His stomach was still churning. And yet ... he looked up at the speaker, forcing himself to match the name to the face. General Peter Templeton, one of the duty officers who rotated through the Whitehall Bunker. Andrew didn't know him that well - he hadn't had time to meet and greet everyone who worked in Whitehall - but Templeton would be competent. He wouldn't be manning the bunker if he weren’t.

  “Thank you,” he said. “What happened?”

  Templeton looked grim. “The orbital defences sounded the alert, Prime Minister,” he said, as he motioned for Andrew to follow him into the bunker. “An enemy fleet is heading directly for Earth.”

  Andrew felt his blood run cold. He’d assumed, despite himself, that Ten Downing Street had become the target of a terrorist attack. There hadn't been a major terrorist attack in over a hundred years, but that proved nothing. The security services had made it clear to him, when he’d moved into Downing Street, that the odds of preventing terrorist attacks completely were very low. There were more guns on the streets, these days, than there had been before the Troubles. And obtaining explosive materials wasn't that difficult.

  He shuddered. A terrorist attack might have been preferable. Security officers were trained to assume the worst and get the principals to safety as soon as possible, rather than hoping for the best. Throwing him down the chute had been unpleasant, but necessary. He understood that too.

  “Crap,” he said. “How long do we have?”

  “Assuming the enemy’s speed remains constant, somewhere around two hours,” Templeton said. He led the way into the bunker. “They’re moving at a pretty fair clip, Prime Minister, but they will have to slow down before they reach Earth.”

  Andrew nodded as he studied the central hologram, wishing he could understand it. He’d visite
d the Whitehall Bunker twice, shortly after his election, but he hadn't bothered to bring himself up to speed on the installation. The bunker was fully staffed, ready to take command of Britain’s military and security forces if the shit hit the fan. He’d thought he hadn't needed to know much more, back then. In hindsight, that might have been a mistake. He hoped Templeton and his staff wouldn't hold it against him.

  “So far, the enemy appears to believe that they remain undetected,” Templeton said, nodding to the display. “We believe they’ll drop their sensor masks at some point within the next hour or so. They would be fools to assume they’ll remain undetected until they enter weapons range.”

  Andrew nodded. Earth was protected by more fixed defences - and sensor nodes - than any other planet in the human sphere. The sheer multitude of defence systems alone would make spoofing them very difficult, although he knew better than to think that was a certainty. He supposed it didn't matter, in any case. The aliens would realise, sooner rather than later, that the human defenders were reacting to something ...