Chapter Thirty-Four
London, United Kingdom
“It looks as though the aliens will be in position to engage the Jupiter installations within the next thirty minutes,” Admiral Cathy Mountbatten said. Her image fuzzed slightly, bearing mute testament to the battering the secure datanet had taken over the last twenty hours. “I believe that Admiral Winters and Admiral Robertson have already deployed the Io Detachment to delay the enemy.”
“You believe,” the French President said. He looked as exhausted as Andrew felt. The hologram wasn't hiding anything. “Are you not sure?”
“The time delay between Earth, Home Fleet and Jupiter is increasing,” Cathy said. Her voice was very calm. “It is impossible to follow operations with any degree of immediacy.”
“And the battle will be decided before we hear that it has fairly begun,” Andrew injected, sharply. “Can you update us on the orbital situation?”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Cathy said. “Tactical command, as planned, has devolved on Nelson Base. Local space appears to be clear, although we have not dropped our guard. Indeed, we are mounting continuous long-range starfighter patrols to ensure the aliens don't sneak up on us while we’re distracted. In the meantime, the remaining orbital and ground-based defences have been destroying pieces of debris on re-entry trajectories.”
She took a breath. “SAR teams have recovered all of the lifepods from the destroyed military and civilian installations, including Pournelle Base,” she added. “Not counting the damage to the various lunar stations, we’re prepared to go on the record and state that over two hundred thousand civilian and military personnel were killed during the battle.”
Andrew swore under his breath. He’d known it would be bad, but two hundred thousand? It was sheer luck that a number of installations had been evacuated, their personnel dispersed elsewhere, when war broke out. And yet, many of the destroyed installations had been economically important. The long-term effects were likely to be bad.
The American President frowned. “And the lunar stations?”
“We don’t have a precise headcount yet,” Cathy told him. “The Luna Federation has started full-scale disaster-recovery procedures, but their command-and-control network has been shot to hell. I’ve assigned a number of frigates to serve as signal relay stations until the ground-based relays can be repaired.”
“Ah,” the Russian President said. “And why did you think you had the authority to issue such orders?”
Andrew groaned. He’d expected some dispute over command, now that Admiral Winters was heading away from Earth on Enterprise, but he hadn't expected this. Politics, of course. Russia wasn't the Luna Federation’s strongest supporter, not after a number of Russian miners had escaped the Russian colonies and fled to Luna City. The Russians would want to extract a price from the Luna Federation for their help.
And they might just drag the rest of us along with them, Andrew thought. Britain wasn't too fond of the Luna Federation either. We might get stampeded into doing something we’ll regret later.
“I have authority as the current commander of Earth’s defences,” Cathy said, with frightening evenness. “And I believe, given that we are still in a state of alert, that rebuilding the lunar network should be given priority. Their mass drivers accounted for a number of alien starships.”
She went on before anyone could raise another objection. “So far, installations outside Earth-Luna have not been touched,” she added. “A state of high alert remains in being across the solar system. We won’t relax until the enemy fleet withdraws completely.”
“Very good,” Andrew said. “I believe there is nothing to be gained by trying to micromanage the fleet, is there?”
“No, Prime Minister,” Cathy said.
Andrew cleared his throat. “Then we thank you,” he said. “Dismissed.”
He watched Cathy’s image vanish, then turned his gaze to the other world leaders, silently trying to gauge which way they’d jump. The Great Powers hadn't needed each other for nearly a century, even though they’d been locked in a semi-alliance against the rest of the world. Now ... their power was truly threatened for the first time since the Age of Unrest.
“This cannot go on,” the American President said. “The cost in lives is appalling.”
Andrew nodded. The Americans had lost nearly their entire western coastline. Tidal waves had drowned San Francisco and battered a number of other cities. Others had struck all the way down to Peru, smashing the Panama Canal beyond easy repair and threatening the foundations of the orbital tower. He didn't want to think about how many Americans had been killed, but he had a nasty feeling that Britain had got off lightly compared to the United States. France and Russia had been battered too.
So has most of Europe, he thought. And they still haven’t found the Japanese Premier.
“Unless you want to surrender, there seems to be no way to convince the aliens to stop,” the Chinese President said. China had gotten off relatively lightly, according to the reports, but MI6 was already predicting civil unrest. “They don’t respond to any of our messages offering talks, even concessions.”
“You would surrender New Russia just to gain peace,” the Russian President snapped. The Sino-Russian alliance seemed to be a dead letter. “I think you would sing a different tune if one of your colonies was groaning under the alien jackboot.”
“Right now, we do not have the power to recover it,” the Chinese President countered, sharply. “We have one effective fleet carrier, just one. The others might as well be sitting ducks!”
“We have improved the armour on their hulls,” the American President said.
“They’re still vulnerable,” the Chinese President said. “How long will it be before we can churn out an improved armoured fleet carrier?”
Andrew winced, inwardly. The Royal Navy had hastily redesigned two carriers in the pipeline for armoured hulls and plasma weapons - and then started work on an entirely new class of armoured carriers - but it would be at least a year before the first of the modified carriers came out of the shipyards. The newer designs would take even longer.
“Nine months,” the American President said. “And that assumes we don’t lose the war before then.”
“Longer than that for us,” Andrew said. Parliament had approved the military’s budget, back before the war, but no one had realised that Britain needed armoured carriers. In hindsight, that had been a serious mistake. “And bolting armour to the carrier hulls has its limits.”
The Russian President cleared his throat. “We have a proposal,” he said. “It should be possible to use the ... ah, the alien captives to produce a workable bioweapon.”
Andrew sucked in his breath. “A bioweapon.”
The French President was blunter. “Are you mad?”
“No,” the Russian President said. His voice was very calm. “Let us be blunt. None of us seriously expected to have to engage in a long war. We believed, not without reason, that any conflicts between us would be handled by the diplomats. There was a great deal to lose and very little to gain by fighting to the finish.”
He paused, dramatically. “Now, all of our cheerful assumptions have been up-ended. We are locked in a fight to the death with an alien power that refuses to talk to us, that refuses to even accept surrender. We don’t know what they want, we don’t know just how powerful they really are ... all we really know about them is that they launched an unprovoked invasion of our space after carefully making sure we wouldn't be able to offer real resistance. Their weapons were perfectly calibrated to beat our most advanced starships at minimal cost. I don’t think there can be any doubt that this was a pre-planned invasion.”
Andrew nodded, tersely. There was nothing new in what the Russian was saying. MI6 had said the same, following the Battle of New Russia. The Tadpoles had planned their invasion carefully. They weren't responding to a provocation, they weren't taking urgent action to push humans away from their worlds ... they’d c
old-bloodedly planned and carried out a full-scale invasion of human space. Whatever they wanted, it didn't include coming to terms with human governments. Their actions ever since the war had begun suggested a frightening lack of concern for human casualties.
“And now, we have our homeworld bombarded,” the Russian President said. “Millions of people are dead, or injured, or homeless. That is bad enough. But what is worse is the damage they have caused to our industrial base. My staff have yet to determine just how badly we have been hurt, but it was bad. Our very ability to continue the war lies in doubt.”
He took a breath. “I submit to you that survival should be our first priority,” he concluded, firmly. “And if the choice boils down to them or us, I suggest it should be us.”
“We made that choice before, during the Crazy Years,” the American President said.
“Yes, we did,” the Russian agreed. “And we survived.”
“At a price,” the American President said.
The Russian snorted, rudely. “You Americans! The only reason you get to beat yourselves up over stealing your homeland from its original owners is that you won the wars to get it and keep it! The only reason you get to feel guilty about driving out the infidels is because you drove out the infidels! Do you think they’d have been any kinder to you, if things had gone the other way?”
His image thumped the table. “We cannot keep fighting at our current level,” he said, sharply. “We cannot convince them to come to the negotiation table even if we offered to concede New Russia and all the other colony worlds. And we cannot even surrender to the bastards! I say to you that we need to use each and every weapon at our disposal, including a bioweapon!”
“Bioweapons have gotten out of control before,” the French President said, sharply. “What happens if this one gets out of control?”
The Russian President picked up a terminal. “I’ll send you a copy of the report from Biopreparat, but the principle point is simple. There is no way a virus designed for the Tadpoles will spread into the human population. They are not our brothers and sisters under the skin, but a whole new order of life. We could dust their worlds and watch their populations die without fear of losing our own people as well.”
“You’re talking about genocide,” Andrew said. He felt sick. “You’re talking about exterminating an entire race!”
“I’m talking about survival,” the Russian President snapped. “We have a duty to our populations - to Earth - that goes beyond any obligations we might have to them. No one will be happier than I if we manage to talk them into peace, but we have to assume the worst! Peace is not possible - and either we wipe them out or they wipe us out!”
“They haven’t moved to slaughter colonists on New Russia,” the French President said, coolly.
“They might be waiting until they actually win to proceed with the genocide,” the Russian President said.
The Chinese President cleared his throat. “Leaving aside the ... ah, morality of plotting the destruction of an entire sentient race, there are practical issues to consider. Infecting Earth with a horrendous bioweapon would not automatically wipe out the remaining colonies. The same might well be true of the Tadpoles. There would be no guarantee that infecting their homeworld, wherever it is, would infect the rest of their domain. We might slaughter billions, but the remainder would come after us with blood in their eyes.”
“We can use the weapon to demonstrate that we can wipe them out,” the American President said. “It might bring them to the negotiation table.”
“And surrender any chance of surprise,” the Russian sneered. “I for one don’t think we should waste this chance. The entire human race depends on us finding a way to win.”
Andrew leaned forward. “Do we actually have a working bioweapon?”
“Biopreparat is working on it,” the Russian President said. “They think they can put together a working model within four months, perhaps less.”
“Shit,” the American President said.
Andrew felt cold. Bioweapons had always terrified him. They’d been deployed enough, during the Age of Unrest, for humanity to have a deep-seated fear of weaponised disease. The idea of being infected with a targeted bioweapon, one designed to kill people for having the wrong skin or hair or eye colour, was utterly terrifying. He’d read enough reports, when he'd been elected into office, to know that such terror weapons were only the tip of the iceberg. The government had worked hard to keep some of the really dangerous concepts out of the public imagination, knowing there would be utter panic if the truth ever got out ...
And yet, he couldn't deny the truth behind the Russian President’s words. Humanity was losing the war. The Tadpoles had inflicted a mortal wound, one that might win them the war ... one that would win the war, if humanity couldn't find a way to force them to stop. The thought of using a bioweapon disgusted him. And yet, he knew there might be no choice.
“Four months,” the Chinese President said. “We might be able to deploy it before the end of the year.”
“No,” the American President said. “We’re talking about genocide!”
“Us or them,” the Russian President said. “Whose side are you on?”
He smiled, coldly. “Why don’t you ask the citizens of San Francisco which way they’d vote, if they were offered the choice.”
“I understand the opportunity,” the French President said. “But I also understand the dangers. How could we guarantee the infection of every last colony, space station and starship? We could slaughter them in their billions and still lose the war!”
“Doing nothing guarantees that we will lose the war,” the Russian President said. “Russia has been invaded before. We understand that we cannot avoid war. We understand, even if you do not, that victory comes with a heavy price. And right now, we understand that we are locked in mortal combat with an enemy we cannot even surrender to!”
He paused. “I will not allow your morality to keep me from deploying every weapon in my arsenal to fight the foe,” he added. “Do not misunderstand me. Russia is committed to the alliance, but - beyond that - Russia is committed to survival! And so are all of you!”
“I understand your position,” the French President said. “However ...”
Andrew cut him off. “I think we have time to consider the issue later, before the weapon is ready,” he said. He’d have to have a long chat with the experts from Porton Down. If nothing else, he needed to know if there was a realistic chance of producing a bioweapon or if the Russians were just blowing smoke. Either way, it was going to be bad. “Right now, tempers are flying too high for us to have any serious discussions.”
“Right now, our people are dying,” the Russian President said. “I can't forget that. Can you?”
“No,” Andrew said. He looked from face to face. “I suggest we revisit the issue after the battle is over. By then, we may have a better idea of just how bad things have become.”
“Agreed,” the American President said. “I’m expected to address the nation in an hour.”
Andrew nodded as, one by one, the images vanished. He had to address the nation too, although he was damned if he knew what he’d say. What could he say to a population facing the greatest disaster in British history? He certainly couldn't tell them that they’d been one of the luckier nations. God knew that wouldn't go down very well.
He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. The bioweapon was tempting - as horrifying as it was, he had to admit it was tempting - but it was also a nightmare. He couldn’t believe that all the Tadpoles would be infected, not unless the disease took years to move from infectious to deadly. The survivors would want revenge, of course. They could render humanity’s worlds just as lifeless as their own if they wished. It wouldn't be that hard.
And we don’t even know if it will work, he thought, numbly. He’d heard too many promises from the boffins, great ideas that had somehow never panned out in the real world. The Russians probably had the same
problem. What if it doesn't work?
And yet, his thoughts asked, what if it does?
He’d always considered himself a good man. He’d always promised himself that he wouldn't abuse the power of his office. God knew, there were enough checks and balances written into the British constitution to make it difficult for any Prime Minister to go off the rails, although Sir Charles Hanover had been on the verge of madness. But now ... the humanist side of him insisted that a bioweapon was neither a practical nor moral solution to the war, while the practical side wondered if it could be gotten to work. Britain was on the edge of defeat ...
Humanity is on the edge of defeat, he corrected himself. This wasn't just a British war. And what will we do to stave it off?
It was a chilling thought, one he didn't want to face. But he’d seen refugees on the streets of Britain, men and women driven from their homes by the war. Nothing like it had been seen for over a hundred and fifty years. Even if the war ended tomorrow, it would take years to repair the damage, years to rebuild the nation. And the war would not end tomorrow. He had no doubt it would continue until one side broke under the strain.
The Longest Day (Ark Royal X) Page 34