The Longest Day (Ark Royal X)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Brace yourself,” the captain snapped. He sounded grim. “Screamers incoming!”

  Robin resisted an insane urge to drop his shockrod and cover his fragile ears as the screamers flew overhead. Strobe lights flared, his visor darkening automatically to block out the worst of it. The sound was terrible, even through his earpiece. He had to fight to keep from turning and fleeing like the rioters. There was something about the screamers that unmanned everyone unlucky enough to be caught without protection. Using them on a riot ... the captain had to be desperate. There would be hell to pay, afterwards. Questions would be asked in Parliament.

  Darkness fell like a hammer. Robin blinked hard as his visor cleared, swallowing hard as he saw the remains of the riot. Some of the rioters had managed to escape, but the remainder were lying on the ground, covering their ears or rubbing their eyes. Most of them looked to have been sick, or lost control of their bowels. Guilt stabbed at him, even though he knew the rioters had been on the verge of smashing the police line. He hadn't become a copper for this!

  “Anyone who wants to run, let them,” the captain said, over the intercom. “The remainder ... cuff them and get them in the vans.”

  It was hardly proper procedure, Robin knew, but no one seemed inclined to care. The majority of the rioters would run back home, where - hopefully - they’d stay until the crisis was over. If it was ever over. Robin was only a lowly constable, but he’d overheard a couple of senior officers discussing the possibilities in low voices. The entire planet was under attack and London, one of the most important cities in the world, might be among the first targets.

  I should have taken the post in Cardiff, he thought, as he removed a collection of zip-cuffs from his belt and walked forward. But I just had to go to London, didn't I?

  He reached the first rioter, a man who would have been intimidating if it wasn't clear he was wearing a pair of soiled pants. He’d probably been far too close to one of the screamers when it lit up. Robin checked his condition, just to be sure, then snapped on the cuffs. The man was burly, but offered no resistance. Robin wasn't too surprised. There was definitely something about the screamers that made it impossible to continue the fight. A handful of others moaned at him, but didn't resist. He allowed himself a sigh of relief as back-up finally arrived, carrying or dragging cuffed rioters to the vans.

  “This one is dead, sir,” Lieutenant Ryman reported. “Poor bitch had her head stamped on.”

  Robin looked, then swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. The girl’s head had been smashed like an eggshell. Someone - probably several someone’s - had crushed her during the riot. Her body was so heavily mutilated that he wouldn't have been sure she was female, if he hadn't been able to see breasts. She’d been young, he thought, probably in her early twenties. And now she was dead. He couldn’t help wondering what she was doing on the streets. Was she desperate for food or had she scented excitement and rushed to the scene?

  He pushed the thought out of his mind. There was nothing that could be done for her, even with modern medicine. She was just the first - one of the first - to die. If the aliens started raining rocks on Britain, she’d be the first of many. He muttered a brief update into his mouthpiece, then continued cuffing rioters too slow or too stunned to escape. Slowly, but surely, order was restored to the streets. The prisoners were handed over to the vans, who took them to a nearby stadium. It would serve as a detention centre until something better could be arranged.

  “They stole a lot of food and drink,” the captain said, as the police regrouped. A number of officers looked battered. Robin winced. The rioters had managed to get through the line in places, then. “And several of them stole more expensive shit too.”

  Robin wasn't surprised. There was always someone willing to take advantage of a crisis to enrich themselves. He was surprised there hadn't been more rioting, particularly in London proper. The capital never slept. Normally, hundreds of thousands of bright young things would be on the streets, drinking, dancing and trying to forget their lives for a few short hours. And yet ...

  He looked around, feeling a shiver running down his spine. The streets were eerily quiet. London normally never slept, but now ... the underground was still, the streets were closed and most of the population safely behind closed doors. The only vehicles on the street belonged to the police, the military and various government officials as they struggled to prepare for the impending invasion. A line of army lorries rumbled past them, carrying tough-looking soldiers from the nearby barracks. They headed onto the bridges, narrowly missing a pair of diplomatic outriders escorting a diplomat to Whitehall. Robin was surprised the foreigners hadn't hunkered down in their embassies. He'd pulled guard duty at the French embassy, a couple of years ago. The building looked as if it had come straight out of the Sun King’s France, but it was more heavily fortified than any of the police stations in London.

  Maybe they have plans for future cleverness, he thought, as he helped pick up the handful of bodies and bag them up. There was nothing that could be done for them until after the crisis was over, when they’d be identified and the next-of-kin informed. Or maybe they think they’ll be safer out of the city.

  It was a tempting thought, he had to admit. A number of policemen hadn't reported for duty when the alert had gone off, even though they should have done. The streets were closed, but a savvy person could grab a boat and head upriver if they wanted. Or drift down to the sea ... Robin would have been tempted himself, he admitted privately, if he hadn't believed firmly in his duty. And yet, the urge to grab his partners and just run from London was almost overwhelming. There were plenty of potential targets in and around London, but if he went further away he should be safe ...

  His earpiece buzzed. “Report to Alpha-Nine,” a voice said. It took Robin a moment to place the speaker. One of the emergency staff from New Scotland Yard ... the man who’d briefed them on the crisis. “Time is short. I say again, time is short.”

  Robin felt his blood run cold. The aliens were arriving. Their time was about to run out.

  And no time to run, he told himself. Whatever happens, we’ll be here for it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Near Earth/Earth Orbit

  The humans have established mass drivers on their satellite, the combat faction announced, bluntly. A ripple of unease ran through the Song. This must be handled promptly.

  The combat faction steadied itself as more and more data flowed into its nexus. Mass drivers were not unexpected. The humans had used them to great effect in some of the more significant engagements. Indeed, the real frustration was that the factions responsible for designing and producing weapons hadn't thought of them before it was too late. Programs were already underway to copy and hurry ship-mounted mass drivers into production, but it was quite possible that workable hardware wouldn't be deployed until after the war.

  They will have to be careful where they place their shots, tactical sub-factions noted. A projectile that strikes their planet will do considerable damage.

  There was a hum of consensus. The fleet was already altering its position randomly, making it harder for the humans to get a solid lock on its hulls. There was no way to keep the humans from firing into their general vicinity, of course, but they’d have problems actually scoring hits. Indeed, counterbattery weapons were already primed to intercept the projectiles when they came screaming into range. And the humans would have to be careful not to strike their own homeworld. Even a relatively small projectile would be disastrous, if it struck the planet at a respectable fraction of the speed of light.

  Redeploy formations to engage the lunar defences, the combat faction ordered. The closer they came to Earth, the greater the chance of the enemy scoring a lucky hit. And prepare to launch starfighters.

  The planet is heavily defended, another sub-faction stated. It is impossible to separate military installations from civilian.

  Another ripple of unease ran through the Song. Earth was surrounded by installati
ons, everything from asteroid habitats to industrial nodes and defensive stations. It was hellishly impressive, particularly as the humans hadn't been out in space for that long. The various sub-factions couldn't help agreeing that there would have been trouble, sooner or later, even if First Contact hadn't gone so badly wrong. Humanity ... was advancing into space at a terrifying speed.

  The fleet altered course again, detaching three squadrons to attend to the lunar defences. The remainder of the fleet continued on a direct route to Earth. So far, there seemed to be no reason to be concerned. The human fleet was a potential danger, but the humans were trying to concentrate their forces before making a move to take the offensive. There would be a window to engage the planet’s defences before their fleet entered the fray.

  Launch starfighters, the combat faction ordered. New orders raced through the command network. Prepare to engage the enemy.

  ***

  Captain Svetlana Zadornov hadn't dared leave the bridge since detecting the alien ships, even though part of her body cried out for rest. She’d already taken two stimulants, even though she knew from bitter experience that they weren’t always trustworthy. The production factors prized speed over efficiency, often diluting the drugs or replacing them with water just to meet their quotas. There was no way to be entirely sure what she was shooting into her bloodstream.

  I should have bought some of the American shit for myself, she thought, resisting the urge to rub her eyes. She didn't think her XO would try to relieve her in the middle of an engagement, but there was no point in taking chances. Showing weakness on the command deck was never a good idea, even for male officers. But they’d catch up with me later.

  “Captain,” the sensor officer said. “Two - no, three - enemy squadrons have detached themselves from the main body. They’re heading to the moon.”

  “Update Pournelle Base,” Svetlana said, automatically. Given how close they were to Earth, the enemy movement would be detected within minutes. They certainly wouldn't be able to materialise in the lunar skies and take the defenders by surprise. “Can you confirm their destination?”

  “They’re on a least-time course for the moon,” the sensor officer said. He paused. “They may be deploying ECM drones.”

  “And the rest of their force is still heading for Earth,” Zadornov commented. “Why aren't they moving to be out of Luna’s range?”

  Good question, Svetlana acknowledged. The Tadpoles were at the extreme edge of effective mass driver range, but it wouldn't be that hard to put Earth between their fleet and Luna. God knew the mass drivers couldn't shoot through the planet. Are they desperate to do as much damage as possible before Home Fleet intercepts them or are they prepared to soak up a number of casualties to continue with a pre-planned offensive?

  She contemplated the problem for a long moment. Mother Russia knew all about sacrificing vast numbers of soldiers to push through enemy defences and claim victory, even though all the old tactics had long since gone out of fashion. Russia simply couldn't afford, even now, to trade thousands of lives for relatively small gains. Besides, replacing damaged or destroyed starships took time. The British or Americans might be able to produce a fleet carrier in nine months, assuming there were no unpleasant surprises, but Russia couldn't do it in less than twenty-two. Even that was far too optimistic for her taste.

  “Let’s not complain,” she said. She wasn't blind to the dangers of hundreds of unguided projectiles racing through the enemy formation - passing far too close to her position - but there was nothing she could do about it. “Keep forwarding targeting data to Pournelle Base.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The tactical console bleeped an alert. “Captain, the enemy ships are launching starfighters,” the tactical officer reported. “They’re funnelling down towards Earth!”

  Svetlana sucked in her breath. Two years ago, she’d known that individual starfighters didn't pose much of a danger to her ship. Bombers were the real problem, back then. But now, plasma cannons had turned starfighters into serious threats. A single pass, cannons blazing, had been more than enough to take out an entire fleet carrier. She had no illusions about the outcome if a squadron of enemy starfighters came after her ship. She’d only be able to hope that she managed to kill a handful of them before they blew her to atoms.

  “Alert Pournelle Base,” she ordered. “And keep a careful eye on their CSP.”

  She settled back into her chair, watching the blood-red starfighter icons as they streamed towards Earth. The Tadpoles didn't seem to have deployed a CSP, but that wouldn't last. If they thought anything like humans, they’d probably decided to keep the CSP back until the human defenders mounted a counterattack. Their starfighters did seem to have more endurance than their human counterparts, but they couldn't be that superior. Or so she hoped.

  And if they come prowling up here, we’re dead, she thought. She had no illusions about that, either. But we’ll stay here as long as we can.

  ***

  “The enemy ships are launching starfighters,” Captain Mike Hanson reported. “They’re coming straight for us.”

  Jon nodded, tersely. “Do we have a solid count?”

  “No, sir,” Hanson said. “There are too many of them for us to get a solid count. At least five hundred, perhaps more.”

  “Probably,” Jon said.

  He would have been surprised if there were just five hundred starfighters bearing down on the defenders. There were fifteen alien fleet carriers approaching Earth. It was impossible to be sure, but post-battle analysis from New Russia suggested that an alien carrier could deploy at least a hundred starfighters. They had it easier in some respects, he admitted. Their starfighters had a uniformity he could only envy. They certainly didn't have to refit launch decks to handle both starfighters and bombers.

  And they can cram three extra squadrons into their hulls, he thought. It gives them some additional punch.

  “Order our starfighters to launch,” he said. He studied the display for a long moment, considering his options. “We’ll proceed with Deployment Beta.”

  “Aye, Admiral.”

  Jon couldn’t help feeling a flicker of relief, even though he knew it wasn't a good thing. The waiting was over. The engagement had finally begun. And yet, he knew he’d be glad to be bored again when it was all over. Far too many people were about to die.

  The display updated rapidly as green icons poured out of their launch platforms and into interplanetary space. Two-thirds fell into CSP mode, patrolling the orbitals; the remainder boosting out of orbit and heading directly for the alien swarm. New alerts flashed up in his display, warning him that the bombers were arming for an anti-shipping strike. They’d be dispatched as soon as possible, once the alien starfighters were engaged ...

  They’re going to take a hellish beating, Jon thought, numbly. The bombers were far too vulnerable to enemy point defence, even though humanity had come up with a few tactics that should deny the aliens some of their tricks. God help us.

  “Admiral, the Luna defences are requesting permission to engage the enemy,” Hanson said, looking up from his screen. “Should I clear them to fire?”

  “As long as there’s no real prospect of hitting Earth,” Jon ordered. The enemy was clearly already aware of the potential danger. Three of their squadrons were on a direct course for the moon. “Order them to fire at will.”

  He sighed, inwardly. The odds of scoring a direct hit were very low. Ark Royal had fired at much closer ranges, aiming at an enemy who didn't appear to have considered building mass drivers of their own. It would require a freakish stroke of luck to score even one hit. And yet, it wasn't as if the mass drivers were short of raw material. Even one hit might tip the balance in humanity’s favour.

  “Signal sent, sir,” Hanson said.

  Jon nodded. There was little left to do, now. His subordinates had their orders. They knew what to do. And all he could do was wait and pray.

  ***

  Captain Ginny Sait
o gritted her teeth as her starfighter was launched into space, keeping one eye on her defences. The cockpit was wide enough for her to see Earth as she spun the starfighter around, but she knew better than to waste time enjoying the view. Knife-range starfighter engagements were rare, although they’d become more common since the aliens had announced their presence. There was certainly no way she could steer her starfighter through visual input alone.

  “Form up on me,” she ordered, as she took in the situation. A swarm of alien starfighters - she could think of no other word that fitted - were racing directly towards Earth, bringing death in their wake. Her orders were to scatter the alien craft before they reached the high orbitals, a standard tactic she doubted would be wholly effective in this setting. The Tadpoles simply didn't deploy massed rows of bombers. “Prepare to engage the enemy.”