The Longest Day (Ark Royal X)

by Christopher Nuttall

  He glanced towards the darkened waters, carefully picking out the handful of boats moving covertly up and down the river. People trying to get out of the city, he guessed, even though the government had told everyone to stay put. There was no point in trying to stop them, not now. He just hoped they didn't get in the way of any military boats. The wet-navy had been sending troopships up and down the river all day. No doubt they’d been moving government personnel and paperwork out of the city too.

  A light flickered at the far end of the eastern bridge. Someone shouted. Robin glanced around, one hand dropping to the pistol on his belt. He had no intention of shooting looters if it could be avoided, but he did have legal authority to shoot if necessary. And anyone looting now, with the battle clearly visible high overhead, would be willing to shoot back. He looked at his comrades, then jumped as his radio hissed an alert. It was ...

  “The river,” Collins said. “Look!”

  Robin stared. The Thames was rising, rising with terrifying speed. For a moment, he honestly didn't believe what he was seeing. The darkened waters were rising so rapidly that it was already threatening to break over the embankment. In the distance, he could hear boats hooting their horns ... and a dull rumble of something that sounded like thunder. A flash of light, in the distance, caught his eye for a second. When he looked back, the river had burst its banks. Water was rushing rapidly towards them. There was no sign it was going to slow down.

  “Run,” he snapped.

  Collins grabbed his radio and babbled out a report as the policemen fled up the road towards Trafalgar Square. The water followed them, splashing and crashing its way through the parked cars and buses. Robin glanced from side to side, hearing alarms sounding from all directions. The row of expensive hotels probably wasn’t deserted, he thought. God knew the government had tried to keep things as normal as possible. There were probably hundreds of rich tourists in the city, caught by the curfew.

  They reached Trafalgar Square, nearly running into an army patrol. The waters raged towards them, constantly rising; Robin scrambled up the steps, hoping desperately that the flow would stop before it was too late. They weren't that close to the sea, not in Central London ... it dawned on him, suddenly, that it must be far worse downriver. The flood barriers had to have broken, shattered under the impact. What the hell had happened?

  The waters gurgled, slowly coming to a halt. Robin breathed a sigh of relief, which died when he heard the screams. The waters were still moving, pouring into drains and smashing into buildings and shops. A coffee shop on the near side of the square - he vaguely recalled it had a large basement - seemed to be attracting a great deal of water. He hoped - desperately - that there was no one inside. Did the staff live over the shop? It didn't seem likely.

  “There,” Collins said. He jabbed a finger back down the road. “Look!”

  Robin swore. Two youngsters - a boy and a girl - were caught in the waters. He kicked off his shoes and ran down to the water. It was bitterly cold, but he forced himself on anyway as the waters started to flow back to the sea. Pieces of debris - everything from leaves to sewage - drifted past him. Collins followed as he threw himself forward, splashing through the water. Hundreds of other people were staring out of windows or hurrying up to the rooftops.

  “I’ve got you,” he said, as he caught hold of the girl. Collins grabbed the boy a second later, yanking him towards a lamppost. “Hang on tight!”

  The waters picked up speed. Robin gripped the girl’s hand as tightly as he could as the water dragged him back towards the embankment. It was deeper than he'd realised, but that wouldn't last. Cold ice ran through him as he remembered the cars and buses that had been buried under the waves. There was a very good chance they’d hit something that would do them a serious injury ... or be dragged over the embankment and into the Thames. He doubted they’d have a hope of hell of surviving ...

  “Don’t let go,” he said, as they were dragged past a fence. “Keep hold of me.”

  He caught hold with one hand, holding the girl with the other. He heard her scream as the waters moved faster and faster, a deafening roar echoing in his ears as they plunged back into the river. He’d heard some of the river policemen talk about the river being a living thing, but he’d never really believed them until now. The water seemed to want to kill them both ...

  The level dropped, sharply. He lowered them down as quickly as he could before it was too late, landing on the wet pavement. The dark river rolled and seethed under his gaze, as if it was biding its time before raging back through London again. He looked west and shivered helplessly as he saw the darkened city. The lights illuminating the Houses of Parliament had vanished. The entire city seemed to have plunged into darkness.

  “Thank you,” the girl managed. She was freezing, her teeth chattering frantically. “I ...”

  “We’ll find you some dry clothes,” Robin promised. There would be something for her to wear in the hotels, wouldn't there? He didn't expect ambulances, let alone reinforcements, to show up in a hurry. The emergency services would have worse problems to the west. “And then ...”

  He sobered as he saw the body, lying by the side of the embankment. Whatever had happened, whatever had caused the flood, had been bad. And it was just the beginning ...

  “Come on,” he said. He shivered as a cold breeze struck him. It smelled of the sea. “Let’s find you something to wear.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Near Earth/Earth Orbit

  The human installations have been severely damaged, the analysis sub-faction declared, coldly. However, many installations remain.

  There was a long pause as the various sub-factions bickered, briefly, over how to proceed. The missiles had worked well, but there weren't enough of them left for a second barrage, not now the humans knew what they faced. It was ... frustrating. Several factions did not hesitate to state their opinions. The offensive should have been delayed several months, just to ensure enough missiles were available to inflict far greater damage. And yet ...

  The Combat Faction brushed aside the argument. The enemy starfighters are being worn down, it stated. We are pushing them hard.

  Another update flickered into their collective awareness. The enemy starfighters were rallying, moving out towards the carriers. More and more updates followed, tallying the enemy starfighters. Half of them were designed to take on capital ships. It was odd, but understandable. Human technology hadn’t reached the point where they could build multi-role starfighters, although that was already changing. A number of their starfighters were armed with plasma guns ...

  The Combat Faction hesitated, rapidly assessing its options. A third of its starfighters were deployed to cover the carriers, but the humans would have a numerical advantage. It might amount to nothing - the carriers themselves mounted plenty of point defence - yet it was a concern. But if they called back the other starfighters, the human defences would have a chance to rearm their starfighters and repair some of the damage. And yet ...

  Recall the starfighters, the Combat Faction ordered. It didn't dare risk losing too many carriers. The shock of losing several fleet carriers in quick succession had sparked a new flood of construction, but it would be months before the new ships were ready for deployment. Point defence, prepare to engage the enemy.

  ***

  “This is a death ride,” Lieutenant Bush Williams commented.

  “Be silent,” Captain Ginny Saito ordered, although she was tempted to agree with him. The hasty reorganisation had dumped three Chinese pilots and a lone Japanese into her squadron, although - thankfully - none of them seemed inclined to dispute her authority. She was much more concerned about their ability to work with her pilots. “Concentrate on your task.”

  She gritted her teeth as the alien carriers grew closer, their CSP forming up in front of the onrushing human squadrons. Her pre-war training insisted that the aliens were being stupid by giving the humans a chance to blow through them, but actual combat experie
nce told her that they knew what they were doing. Their carriers bristled with plasma guns ... she’d even heard a couple of analysts insisting that their carriers had the ability to shoot plasma from anywhere on their hull. The pilots had joked about the whole concept, but it was no laughing matter. It would be incredibly difficult to get into attack position without being blown out of space.

  “Your targets are the flattops,” the dispatcher said. “Ignore the smaller ships as much as possible.”

  Ginny nodded, tersely. She knew they were going to take a beating. The enemy’s cruisers and destroyers packed plenty of point defence themselves. They’d stop trying to hold something back to cover themselves once they realised they were being ignored, allowing them to devote everything to protecting the carriers. And yet, those carriers had to be taken out. They were the true danger threatening her homeworld.

  Their images grew sharper on her display as they flew closer. The alien ships didn't seem that different in concept from their human counterparts, but there was something oddly organic about their hulls - as if the ships had been melted slightly - that made them look very alien. And yet, they had an understated elegance to them that none of the human carriers could match. Ginny had served on Enterprise and Kennedy before being transferred to Pournelle Base. She’d liked both carriers, but she couldn't deny they were ugly as sin. Their boxy hulls were just .. crude.

  She pushed the thought aside as the alien starfighters loomed in front of her. “Break and attack,” she ordered, uncovering her firing key. “Cover the bombers as much as possible.”

  The aliens opened fire at the same moment, spitting streams of plasma towards her starfighters. They didn't look as though they wanted a dogfight, but they swiftly realised they had no choice. Holding a single position - even while moving in a randomised pattern - was asking for certain death. Ginny smiled as she vaporised an alien pilot, then took out two more in quick succession. This batch didn't seem to be quite so well trained.

  “Watch your rear,” the dispatcher warned. “They’re recalling the remainder of their starfighters.”

  Ginny nodded, grimly. The alien starfighters were fast, but it would take them several minutes to catch up with the human craft. Their pals would have to hold the line until then ... it wasn't going to be easy. An alien craft lunged at her, only to be blown away by one of her wingmen. The others reformed, then flashed towards the bombers. Ginny kicked her starfighter into high gear and gave chase. The bombers were already making their steady way into attack range.

  “Pournelle Base has authorised missile launch,” the dispatcher said. “Try not to fly into one of the missiles.”

  Asshole, Ginny thought. Of all the ways to go, dying by accidentally colliding with a missile - or another starfighter - would be amongst the most embarrassing. Normally, the odds would be against it, although now ... there were so many starfighters in a relatively small region of space that she supposed a collision might be possible. And ...

  She gritted her teeth, pushing the thought aside as the alien starfighters tried to engage the bombers. She couldn't fault their bravery, even though their training wasn't up to par. They didn't seem to have realised that their carriers were already spitting plasma bolts in all directions. The bombers were going to fly through a holocaust into firing range.

  Which is why the missile pods were finally allowed to open fire, she thought, as she killed another alien pilot. They wouldn't normally have a chance to punch through the enemy defences, but now ... they might just make it.

  ***

  The timing, the Combat Faction acknowledged, was unfortunate. Deliberately or otherwise, the humans had caught them with half of their starfighters out of position. Worse, a number of human missile pods had opened fire. The human missiles didn't have the sheer acceleration necessary to match the missiles the Combat Faction had deployed, but they had numbers and they had a distraction. Choosing to deal with one set of threats might easily lead to the other punching through their defences and inflicting real harm.

  More attention should have been paid to human installations, one of the sub-factions noted, grimly. We didn't realise what the missile pods were until it was too late.

  The Combat Faction signalled its agreement, then dismissed the matter. One way or another, the human missile pods no longer mattered. They’d expended their deadly cargo already, rendering them valueless. They could be broken down later, once the high orbitals were secured. Right now, there were other - more important - matters to attend to.

  Adjust point defence, the Combat Faction ordered, as the human missiles roared into their engagement envelope. They didn't seem to be capable of taking evasive action. Indeed, a handful were already burning out and going ballistic. Target the missiles ...

  And then it all went to hell. The human missiles multiplied rapidly, doubling and tripling the size of the barrage in seconds. For a long second, the Combat Faction was utterly dumbfounded. The Song itself fell silent. Consensus was gone. It was impossible ... it was obviously impossible. Those missiles couldn't be there, yet they were ... weren't they?

  Sensor ghosts, a sub-faction stated, coldly. New analysis updates flooded through their awareness. Some of those missiles are designed to mislead our sensors. Careful analysis will allow us to pick out the real missiles from the fakes.

  The Combat Faction had no time for careful analysis. Target all incoming missiles, it ordered, sharply. It didn't want to find out that a given missile was real when it slammed into a starship hull. And order the starfighters to engage the enemy bombers.

  ***

  Captain Jean-Paul Foch braced himself as he led his flight of bombers directly into the teeth of the alien point defence. The alien carriers were incredible, practically glowing with light as they spat fire in all directions. He couldn’t help a flicker of envy as he silently catalogued all the advantages the aliens held, even though the French Navy was duplicating them one by one. His bomber would have been far more deadly if he’d been given a set of plasma guns of his own.

  He threw his craft through a series of evasive manoeuvres as he prepared to launch his torpedoes. He’d trained for this - they’d all trained for this - and yet the aliens had managed to throw them a loop. The first engagements fought according to pre-war tactical doctrine had been failures so horrific that the tactical manuals had been discarded with almost indecent speed. Not that Jean-Paul cared much about that. He would sooner go back to the beginning and go through basic training again than get his ass blown off because he refused to adapt to the new reality.

  “Fall into attack pattern now,” he ordered. He flew straight for as long as he dared, around two and a half seconds. The alien carrier was already zeroing in on him and the rest of the squadron. Their computers would have no difficulty calculating his trajectory and putting a plasma bolt in his path. “And ... fire!”

  The bomber jerked as she launched both of her nuclear-tipped torpedoes at the nearest alien carrier. Jean-Paul yanked the bomber to one side as a plasma bolt shot through where he’d been, two seconds ago, then turned away from the alien carrier. The remainder of the squadron followed suit as the aliens refocused their attention on the torpedoes. Three more squadrons added their torpedoes to the barrage, giving the aliens hundreds of tiny targets to destroy. The alien carriers were tough, but nowhere near as tough as Ark Royal. A handful of hits would be enough to mess them up ...

  He watched, just for a second, as the first bomb-pumped laser detonated. A beam of ravening force stabbed deep into the alien hull. Three more followed in quick succession, knocking the alien carrier out of formation. For a second, he thought the carrier was going to survive, despite the atmosphere streaming from a dozen hull breaches. And then the giant craft exploded into a ball of plasma. Jean-Paul whooped in delight ...

  ... And never saw the alien starfighter that killed him.

  ***

  “Scratch one flattop,” a voice carolled. “Scratch two!”

  Ginny smiled, despite herself, a
s she blasted another alien starfighter. The dogfight had turned into a nightmare: the starfighters trying desperately to keep the aliens distracted while the bombers ran for home. But the aliens were mad, some of them practically ignoring the human starfighters and going after the bombers. She supposed there was a method in their madness - the human bombers were a real threat, if they had a chance to rearm - but it annoyed her. God knew the starfighters were threats too.

  Be glad of it, she told herself. Another alien starfighter flashed past her, but evaded the stream of plasma she fired in its direction. They might turn their attention to you soon.

  She broke into clear space and took a second to assess the situation. Two alien carriers were gone, two more were heavily damaged. A handful of smaller ships had also been destroyed or damaged. She was mildly surprised the alien commanders hadn’t ordered the damaged ships to retreat back to the tramlines, although Home Fleet was out there somewhere. Killing a crippled carrier might seem unfair, but it was practical. She didn't have any real objections to smashing a helpless ship that might come back to haunt her if she left it alone.