The Longest Day (Ark Royal X)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I see,” Brian said. “Thank you.”

  He watched Littleton jump down to the lunar surface, then meet his friend and walk back towards the APC. Braidburn Colony was only three or four hours away, depending on which route they took, but getting there might be difficult. A moving target was far more likely to be detected, if there were prowling aliens up there. And even if they did get there, getting the rest of the way to Clarke might be impossible. The inter-colony rail network was probably shut down for the duration of the emergency.

  “We could start driving to Clarke,” Abigail said. “It isn't that far.”

  Brian snorted. It wasn't that long a trip ... in a railway car or on a spacecraft. But for the van, it would take at least five or six weeks to reach Clarke Colony. And all the problems about being a moving target would still apply.

  “We’ll do as he suggested and find a place to hide,” Brian said. He started the engine, studying the map for possible hiding places. “And we’ll listen for updates.”

  Abigail stared at him. “We can't just stay in the van!”

  “There’s no choice,” Brian said. “Unless you can think of a way to get to Clarke Colony that doesn't run the risk of being detected by the aliens?”

  “You don’t know the aliens are up there,” Abigail said. “They didn't kill us when we left Sin City.”

  “Point,” Brian agreed. “But they might not be paying attention.”

  He shook his head as he put the van into gear. He didn't really blame Abigail for being frantic. There was no way anyone would want to spend a week or two in the van with a complete stranger, certainly not when there was a war on. But there was no alternative. He checked the map again, just to be sure, but he couldn't find anywhere that would provide a reasonable level of security that would probably also have escaped destruction. Going to Braidburn might work, yet without an update there was no way to be sure.

  “And what do we do when we start running out of air?” Abigail asked. “Choke to death on our own flatulence?”

  “We’ll give it a few days,” Brian said, patiently. He doubted choking to death was a possibility unless the air recyclers failed completely. If that happened, they were dead anyway. “And if we don’t hear an update, we’ll decide what to do then.”

  Abigail made a sarcastic sound, but said nothing as Brian drove the van away from the defence station. Brian kept his thoughts to himself too, concentrating on finding a good hiding place. He didn't want to be too far from the developed regions, but being too close might attract attention ... thankfully, large swathes of the lunar surface were still completely undeveloped. As long as they were careful where they drove, they should have no trouble remaining out of sight.

  Unless they take the high orbitals for good, Brian thought. He wished that he knew just what was happening in space, even if it was the worst case scenario. At least he’d know. If they then start firing on everything that moves, we’re dead.

  He found a suitable space and parked the van, then stood and walked to the rear. The sleeping compartment was clearly designed to introduce intimacy, although personally Brian would have suspected it was only for one full-grown adult. He’d have trouble sleeping in it alone, let alone sharing with his last girlfriend. Perhaps tourists weren't meant to sleep together in the van. It certainly seemed the most likely possibility.

  “You can have the bunk,” he called back. He checked the water supply, then nodded to himself. They had enough to keep them going for several weeks. “And you can have a shower too.”

  Abigail rose. “You mean I can finally get out of this suit?”

  “You may as well,” Brian said, after a moment. The suit wouldn't provide any protection against a KEW. “Just don’t waste the water.”

  “I suppose you think I’m terribly spoilt,” Abigail said. “Or a little brat.”

  “I think you’re ignorant,” Brian said. He wasn't about to tell her that he’d gone off the idea of having kids himself. “Ignorance isn't a sin, but it can be a capital offence. I thought lunar dwellers had that drilled into them at school.”

  Abigail flushed. “That’s different.”

  “No, it isn't,” Brian said. He walked past her. He’d kip in the driver’s seat, far away enough to give her some privacy but close enough to respond to any problems. He hoped she wouldn't have a nightmare or two. “Ignorance can kill. You didn't know what you were getting into ... and you were damn lucky to get out alive.”

  “But my parents could have taught me better,” Abigail said, innocently. “They wanted me to remain ignorant.”

  Brian pointed a finger at her. “And now you know what you lack,” he said. He understood why parents wanted to be protective, but there were limits. “Are you going to use this opportunity or waste it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  London, United Kingdom

  “Prime Minister?”

  Andrew opened his eyes. He’d dozed off ... when had he dozed off? It took several moments for his memory to return, reminding him that the solar system was under attack. He’d slept ... how long had he slept? He wasn't sure of anything any longer.

  He looked up. A pale-skinned girl was looking down at him, holding a mug of coffee. He forced himself to sit up, even though his body was aching painfully. Sleeping at the table hadn't been a good idea, it seemed. He took the coffee and sipped it gratefully, then glanced at his watch. It was 0500. He'd slept for nearly four hours.

  And there are people out there who haven't had any sleep at all, he told himself, as he remembered the last reports. An endless liturgy of disaster: floods, riots, panic ... troops and police on the streets, trying to contain the chaos. All hell has broken loose and I can do nothing.

  “General Templeton suggested that you should have a shower and a change of clothes,” the girl said. She pointed to a side door. “You’ll find everything you need in there.”

  Andrew looked down at his rumpled suit. “Including clothes in my size?”

  “We pride ourselves on being thorough, Prime Minister,” the girl said. She gave him a shy smile. “There’s something stored here for everyone.”

  “Thank you,” Andrew said. He finished the coffee, then rose. “Can you bring me some more coffee while I shower?”

  “Of course, Prime Minister,” the girl said. “It’ll be on your table when you come out.”

  Andrew nodded and walked through the door. The washroom was smaller than he’d expected, but laid out with military precision. He undressed quickly and stepped into the shower, sighing in relief as warm water flooded down and drove the last traces of sleep from his mind. He was tempted to stay in the shower forever - or at least for hours - but he knew he didn't have time. He turned off the water, dried himself quickly and then found a set of clothes. Someone had definitely been very through. The shirt and trousers were practically perfect.

  They’d look bad in front of the television, he thought, wryly. But otherwise they’re perfect.

  General Peter Templeton was waiting when Andrew stepped out of the washroom, looking grim. Andrew cursed, inwardly. The last thing he recalled was that the aliens had been pressing the offensive against Earth, but that had been hours ago. Now ... he didn't know what to expect. He supposed the aliens hadn't hailed Earth and demanded surrender - he’d have been woken for that - but what else had happened?

  “Home Fleet forced them to retreat,” Templeton said, bluntly. “But they’re now en route to Jupiter.”

  “I see,” Andrew said. He knew he should be concerned about that, but the battle in space was out of his hands. “And the situation on the ground?”

  “It’s bad, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. He ran his hands through his hair. It dawned on Andrew, suddenly, that Templeton hadn't had any sleep at all. “We were spared any major direct impacts - unlike Russia - but tidal waves have been pounding our coastlines for the last few hours. We’ve lost dozens of seaside towns on the west and south coasts, Prime Minister; it was sheer luck that the east coast di
dn't take such a beating.”

  Andrew sucked in his breath. “How many dead?”

  “We don’t know ...”

  “How many dead?” Andrew repeated.

  He caught himself. Templeton wouldn't know. Of course he wouldn't know. The national infrastructure that had been so painstakingly built over the last few centuries was completely overwhelmed. There was no way to know how many people might have been caught along the coastline, let alone what had happened to them. The records would be woefully inaccurate for generations to come.

  “I'm sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Templeton said. “Preliminary reports ...”

  He spoke rapidly, but his words started to blur together into a constant drone. Andrew couldn't begin to grasp what had happened, couldn't even come to terms with the scale of the disaster. Nothing he’d ever expected matched what had happened. Hundreds of thousands - perhaps millions - dead? He couldn't even begin ... it was just numbers! There was no way he could put a name and a face to all of the dead.

  “I want to see it,” he said.

  Templeton blinked. “Sir?”

  “I want to see it,” Andrew said. He had to see it. He needed to understand just what had happened. He had presided over Britain’s single greatest disaster, in war or peace. Nothing, not even the Troubles, came close to it. “Get me a helicopter. There should be one on standby at all times.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. He rose, his disapproval evident. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  He strode out of the room, leaving Andrew alone. Templeton hadn't been pleased ... Andrew understood, all too well. The Prime Minister had to remain alive. He certainly shouldn't be placing himself at risk. But Andrew knew he had to see what had happened with his own eyes. He wouldn't be able to grasp it if he couldn't. The Deputy Prime Minister would take over if something happened to Andrew during the flight.

  Templeton returned. “We’ve called in a stealth helicopter from RAF Northholt,” he said, firmly. “It’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Andrew said.

  “We’ll have to go to the roof to get onboard,” Templeton said. He glanced at his watch. “I suggest you get something to eat. You’ll need it.”

  Andrew nodded. “I will,” he said. He couldn't bear the thought of eating anything, but he knew Templeton was right. “And thank you, once again.”

  “You’re welcome,” Templeton said. He looked down, just for a second. “I need to see it too.”

  The helicopter landed on top of the MOD building, rather than Ten Downing Street. Andrew hurried up the passageway from the bunker, then up a deserted flight of stairs. His escorts, a trio of burly SAS officers, insisted on going first, even though the building had been evacuated before the battle began. Andrew told himself, as he reached the top and clambered into the helicopter, that he shouldn't take it personally. The streets of London were no longer safe.

  Dawn was glimmering over the horizon as the helicopter jumped into the sky. Andrew recalled, vaguely, that the pilots had been trained to get the Prime Minister - and other government officials - out of London at speed, on the assumption that any hostiles prowling the streets would have MANPAD weapons. He didn't think it had ever happened - certainly not in the last century - but he understood the need to be careful. His guards remained quiet as Andrew leaned forward, peering down. London ...

  He stared, unsure - just for a moment - if he really was looking at London. The skyline was different ... no, it was just missing a number of buildings. They seemed to have vanished. He looked down and spotted the Houses of Parliament, with Ten Downing Street and Trafalgar Square nearby. But there were great pools of water everywhere. The Thames had broken her banks. Further to the south-east, he could see flooding ...

  “My God,” he breathed. How many people lived there? The water would have driven them from their homes ... or drowned them, if they hadn't fled in time. He swallowed, hard, as he tried to comprehend the scale of the disaster. “How many people are down there?”

  No one answered as the helicopter drifted slowly east. Hundreds of people were walking south, as if they expected to find help and succour there. Andrew prayed, silently, that they would find something, although he had no idea what. Fires were burning out of control in a dozen places, the flames threatening to spread rapidly despite the flooded streets. The fire brigade couldn't get to them, Andrew guessed. Piles of rubble marked the spot where tall buildings had stood, before they’d been knocked down by the flood. He felt a pang of guilt as he recalled how the motion to replace those cheap buildings had been tabled, time and time again. How many people had died because the government had thought it had too many other problems that needed attention?

  The helicopter rose still higher, jerking as gusts of wind battered the hull. Floods were everywhere, shimmering brightly under the early morning sun. Even the sunlight looked odd, as if it was diffused through an invisible cloud. The clouds seemed to be moving north, thickening rapidly. It looked like a scene from hell.

  My God, Andrew thought, numbly. How do we cope with this? Where do we even start?

  “We have strict orders not to fly too far from London, Prime Minister,” the pilot said. “Where do you want to go?”

  Andrew shrugged. He had no idea. He’d hoped he could grasp the disaster, once he saw it with his own eyes, but it was still beyond him. Britain hadn't had anything this bad for centuries, if at all. The Troubles, the Blitz ... he had to look as far back as the Black Death before he could think of anything that might have had the same impact. He’d seen the plans for coping with a nuclear attack - there was always a fear that a terrorist group might one day obtain a nuke - but that would have remained confined to a single city. This was national in scope. He didn't even know where to begin ...

  The helicopter jerked, again. “We’ve got a sudden shift in the weather,” the pilot said, sharply. “I’m going to have to put this baby back on the roof.”

  “Take us back,” Andrew said. He fought despair as the helicopter turned and clattered back up the river. No matter what he did, hundreds of thousands - perhaps millions - of people were going to die. And there was nothing he could do about it. “I ...”

  He shook his head. Words seemed so ... inadequate, somehow. The greatest disaster in living memory, perhaps the greatest disaster in Britain’s long history ... the thought kept rattling around and around his head. There was nothing he could do to save the people who’d elected him into office. He couldn't save anyone.

  The helicopter landed. His escorts checked the rooftop, then led the way back down to the bunker. Andrew couldn't help thinking he smelled death in the air as he followed them into the building. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but ... he shook his head, again. Death was in the air. And there was nothing he could do about that too.

  Templeton met him when he entered the command chamber. “General Richardson has assumed command of the London District,” he said. “He’s requesting permission to burn bodies.”

  Andrew blinked. “Burn bodies?”

  “A dead body will become a source of disease, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. “And there are thousands of them out there, poisoning our water supplies ...”

  “Do it,” Andrew said. “What else do you intend to do?”

  “Set up refugee camps, then start pressing civilians into service,” Templeton said. “We do have plans for something like this, Prime Minister, just ...”

  “Just not on such a scale,” Andrew said. He sagged into his chair, feeling helpless. “I don’t suppose there’s any hope of international aid?”

  “I doubt it, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. “Anyone who might have been inclined to help has their own problems. The Yanks have lost San Francisco and several other cities along their west coast, the French have lost their south coast ... there’ll be a security nightmare too, depending on the situation in North Africa.”

  Andrew sighed. Normally, unauthorised
ships trying to cross the Mediterranean were sunk without warning. The Age of Unrest had left scars deep within Europe’s politics. But now, the naval patrols and orbiting laser satellites were gone. North Africa would be in a mess too, he was sure - the warlords had never been able to rebuild the long-gone states of Egypt, Libya and Algeria - but they might recover quicker. Who knew what would happen then?

  Templeton sighed. “The Irish have already asked for our help,” he added. “Their coastlines were battered too.”

  “Send them what we can spare,” Andrew ordered. There was no one else who could help Ireland ... no one else had either the motivation or the ability. “If we can spare anything ...”

  “We don’t have enough for ourselves, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. His voice was politely regretful. “I’m sorry.”