Invasion

by Chris James

  The Repulse Chronicles

  Book Two

  Invasion

  By

  Chris James

  www.chrisjamesauthor.com

  Also by Chris James

  Science fiction novels:

  Repulse: Europe at War 2062–2064

  Time Is the Only God

  Dystopia Descending

  The Repulse Chronicles, Book One: Onslaught

  Short story collections:

  Stories of Genesis, Vol. 1

  Stories of Genesis, Vol. 2

  Stories of Genesis, Vol. 3

  Available as Kindle e-books from Amazon and paperbacks from Lulu

  Copyright © Chris James, 2019. All rights reserved.

  Chris James asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are a figment of the author’s imagination.

  ISBN: 978-0-244-46543-8

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Coming from Chris James in 2020

  Chapter 1

  04.02 Sunday 19 February 2062

  CORPORAL RORY MOORE listened as the Spanish Cabo instructed: “Attention, all units. Numerous enemy ACAs are approaching. Advise the civilians to take any available cover and then return to base immediately. Confirm, please?”

  The English Corporal tensed in growing apprehension. An operator on the other side of the small, mobile command post reported: “Lead ACAs will engage in three minutes. Altitudes are ranging from fifty metres to sixty thousand metres.” Rory admired the operator’s impassive professionalism, as though this were merely another exercise. She leaned back and dabbed at panels above her station, saying: “Temperature fourteen, winds southwest at two, one-tenth cloud cover.”

  The Cabo addressed her: “Fine night for an invasion. But I don’t see any estimates on landing zones.”

  She replied without looking at him: “Our super-AI is assigning this attack a fluctuating probability of an invasion starting—”

  “Yes, between ninety-one and ninety-seven percent—”

  “One step at a time,” the female operator cautioned. “This could just be another softening-up raid like the attacks on Rome and Athens last weekend. If an actual invasion begins, the SkyWatchers will be the first to see.”

  Rory’s attention came back to the Cabo’s screens, which described the thousands of Caliphate autonomous combat aircraft hurtling in to attack them. His beloved Pip was out there, part of a larger, multinational patrol. He should have been with her and the rest of his regiment. But he’d been ordered on temporary secondment to the mobile command post thanks to NATO’s peacetime habit of integration. And now, because of it, as the attack began he could do nothing to help Pip.

  The Cabo muttered acknowledgements of responses as they came in, from squad leaders and corporals and captains reporting their return to their autonomous air transports for the journeys back to X Division’s main regional base at Cordoba. They mentioned distressed civilians asking if the soldiers would protect them. Rory wondered how the troops could reply. An entirely new kind of warfare was about to begin, and the troops could only tell the people to get to cover.

  “Many of the civilians are heading southeast into the valleys,” the Cabo noted.

  Rory said: “Probably as good as anywhere, maybe even better than being in a built-up area.”

  “There are many caves and disused mines in the area.”

  Rory wished he could leave the command post, but he would have to wait for the commanding officer, a stern and focused Spanish Lieutenant Colonel, to give permission.

  From a third station behind them, a masculine voice announced in accented English: “RIMs launched, converging in eighty seconds. Four waves of PeaceMakers following at ten-second intervals.”

  The Lieutenant Colonel ordered: “Tell the Battlefield Support Pulsars to light up.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The female operator said: “The waves of enemy ACAs are approaching almost flat, with only mild undulations. Their tactic appears to be a head-on attack.”

  Rory glanced over his shoulder at the central holographic display and saw a range of coloured lines splay out, representing the opposing forces’ armaments as they converged. The image looked familiar because it suggested yet another exercise, a charade that everyone involved pretended to take seriously, even though none of them would be obliged to suffer the slightest discomfort, let alone pain. A shiver ran up his spine and over his shoulder blades when he realised he stood in what had to be one of the enemy’s primary targets. The shudder passed and he steeled himself for whatever might happen, training and regimental pride supressing mere mortal fear.

  “Lead elements engaging now,” the female operator reported.

  Rory watched the central display in breathless fascination as the lines of light met: those representing the NATO ACAs disappeared; those representing the Caliphate machines continued on.

  The voice of the Spanish Army’s super AI announced something, and Rory caught the words, “minutos” and “segundos”.

  The Lieutenant Colonel’s thick, black eyebrows came together in a frown and he muttered: “How nice.”

  Rory glanced above the central display to see a countdown resolve over the battle space, reading four minutes and twenty seconds. He looked down at the Cabo, indicated the countdown, and asked: “Is that what I think it is?”

  The Cabo gave him a mirthless smile, nodded, and said: “Yes, that is how long until enemy forces destroy this command post.”

  “Sir,” the female operator called, “the Super AI is recalculating the threat constantly—”

  “Prepare to evacuate,” the Lieutenant Colonel announced.

  Above the holographic display, Rory saw the predicted destruction of the command post drop from four minutes and ten seconds to one minute and five seconds.

  The Cabo abruptly announced: “SkyWatchers reporting new contacts, coming in behind the Caliphate ACAs—and these are huge.”

  The Lieutenant Colonel turned to the female operator and asked: “What are they?”

  “We’ve never seen them before.” She shook her head and frowned. “The super AI is giving a ninety-eight percent probability that they are troop transports. Sir, all RIMs have been destroyed for zero enemy losses. The PeaceMaker
s are outnumbered twenty to one, and—”

  “Very well everyone, let us evacuate now. Your Squitches will guide you to the transports to get you back to Cordoba. Good luck.”

  Rory hurried out of the command post, unwilling to wait while the Spanish followed standard NATO procedure and instigated self-destruct protocols for equipment that would in any case be destroyed in seconds. He emerged into the mild night air that carried the chill rolling off the recent snow on the nearby Sierra Nevada Mountains. His mouth fell open at the violence in the sky above him. Distant explosions and the sounds of grinding, screeching metal came to his ears. He stared, fascinated, at the orange balls of flame which erupted all around him, and a part of his mind marvelled at the staggering difference between real warfare and mere exercises.

  He reactivated his Squitch. At once, it lit up with numerous threats close by and urged him to find cover. The lens in his eye overlaid in his vision the multiple dangers and their distances, and lit the surrounding terrain in subdued brown and green hues, thermal imaging and night vision fluctuating as required between the darkness and bright explosions. The Squitch instructed: “Danger. Seek cover now.”

  “Bollocks,” Rory muttered, and hurried to the other side of the small command post to retrieve his personal weapons. He ordered the Squitch: “Locate Private Philippa Clarke, Private Ian Pratt, Private Colin Wimble—”

  The Squitch broke in: “Your unit is in transit returning to Regimental HQ in Grenada. You should seek cover now.”

  Rory paused to allow the armoury lock to scan his hand. He queried: “The CO mentioned Cordoba. I thought we were going there?”

  “Your seconded regiment remains at Grenada.”

  After a mechanical whirring, a hard metal panel slid open and his PKU–48 smart assault rifle emerged from the recess. He grasped his Pickup and then snatched the six magazines of ammunition resting on a recessed shelf behind it. He snapped one magazine into the Pickup and stuffed the rest into pockets on his tunic. He pulled out the Stiletto Z–50 single-shot smart missile and slung the metre-long tube over his shoulder, and then turned and hurried away from the command post.

  His Squitch told him that twenty-eight Caliphate Blackswans had approached to within a kilometre of his position, and the command post was certain to be attacked in seconds. Rory leapt down a stony, muddy incline among scattered scrub. Details of the ground in front of him resolved too slowly for his speed. “Enhance map!” he demanded, and the details of the terrain in Rory’s vision gained definition just in time for him to avoid a two-metre drop over a nest of rocks immediately in front of him. He sprang to his right, stumbled and skidded down a gentler incline of loose stones in dry dirt, kicking up dust before coming to a stop.

  He looked back at the ridge above him and the silhouette of the mobile command post disappeared in a cloud of smoke and a deep thud under the impact of a Spider, the Caliphate’s autonomous cylindrical bomb with eight articulated appendages. There came a screeching of metal and a whoosh of flames erupted into the night sky. A tremor ran through the ground around him and a few small stones rolled on, as though they too could sense the danger from above and wanted to get away to safety. Two more dull thuds followed. He waited to see if anyone from the command post followed him, but a sense of mild panic caused him to doubt the wisdom of remaining immobile.

  Rory turned and continued jumping and running along the flatter terrain. His Squitch spoke: “Multiple Spiders are in close range and seeking targets. You should take cover now.”

  “Show me… some cover… and I’ll take it,” Rory spat between gulping in breaths of air.

  “No cover is available in the immediate vicinity. Please head north for one-point—”

  “So stop telling me to take it, for fuck’s sake—”

  “Excessive profanity may be reported to your commanding officer.”

  “Where is the nearest NATO transport that can take me back to HQ?”

  “Insufficient data.”

  “So rescan, now.”

  Somewhere behind him, there came a piercing human shriek that terminated in the distant thud of another explosion, and his mind recalled the reports of the previous Caliphate attacks against civilians, especially the notorious image of a woman and her young child on a bridge in Istanbul, enveloped in a Spider’s dark embrace an instant before it exploded.

  The Squitch’s tone suddenly hardened: “Danger: Caliphate Spider approaching rapidly from the south. You are its target. Distance nine hundred metres, closing in a straight line. Take defensive action immediately.”

  “Shit,” Rory swore. He unslung his Stiletto and slid the catch on the side of the tube to ‘active’ as recollections of briefings about these machines flashed through his mind. The main conclusion had been to hope that a NATO ACA would be on hand to help. Despite being on secondment in a part of Europe that had been expected to be on or near the frontline, Rory hadn’t really believed he’d see combat so abruptly.

  The Squitch said: “Distance seven hundred metres and closing.”

  He hefted the metal tube onto his right shoulder and stabilised his stance, ready to fight without realising he was. The weapon linked automatically to his Squitch, and via the lens in his eye, Rory saw the aptly named Spider charging towards him with terrifying dexterity. Its eight ‘legs’ threw up clouds of dust that looked like green mist in his magnified night vision. He fought to control his breathing: the Spider would injure him if it detonated within fifty metres, and kill him if it detonated within thirty.

  He steadied his grip and pressed the trigger. With a searing hiss, the missile streaked from the weapon and raced the six hundred metres to its target, exploding in a bright orange pop when it hit the Spider. Before the missile had gone halfway, Rory threw the Stiletto away and swung his Pickup off his left shoulder. He raised the weapon as the explosion from the Stiletto dissipated.

  His Squitch announced: “Distance four hundred metres and closing.”

  He squeezed the trigger and bullets fired, reassuring him. Repeated green flashes from the Spider confirmed the hits. In seconds, he’d emptied the magazine. He ejected it, letting it fall into the dust at his feet, and then grabbed and snapped the next magazine into place.

  “Distance two hundred metres and closing.”

  He resumed firing. The green flashes when the bullets hit it ceased, and Rory realised the Spider’s shielding had gone. Six shots later, it blew up sixty-three metres from him. The change in air pressure threw him on his back and left him partially stunned. He heard a shower of dirt and stones rain down in front of him, and wondered how badly he might’ve been injured had he destroyed the Spider just a few seconds later.

  “Any further targets?” he asked, staring up at the black sky and realising that if the answer were affirmative, he would not be able to defeat them.

  “Enemy forces have saturated the battle space. However, you are not currently targeted.”

  “Yet,” Rory added as he pulled himself to his feet. “Summarise that engagement, please.” He staggered away, grasping his Pickup and stumbling on over rocks and through dusty scrub, forcing his legs to carry him onwards and away from the area. In the distance and from every direction, lights streaked through the sky, ordnance detonated, human voices shrieked faintly. His breathing became shallow and accelerated. His shoulders and arms began to shake. He jerked his head back and forth, unsure of from where the next danger might approach.

  Instead of giving him the facts of the engagement, the Squitch said: “Please note that you are starting to hyperventilate. Bring your breathing under control.”

  The strength in his legs deserted him. He collapsed to his knees and swore aloud. He repeated the curse half a dozen times, and this time, the Squitch didn’t attempt to censure his profanity. War was not supposed to be like this anymore. The new doctrine insisted that war meant the ACAs duking it out. Modern warfare meant the complete removal of flesh-and-blood soldiers from the battle space. He should not have had to fight a
n enemy ACA on his own. How much firepower had he needed to take that Spider out? The Stiletto and over seventy smart bullets? That was outrageous. He could shoot down four PeaceMakers with that amount of ammo. Panicked confusion swirled in his head at how any device so small could be defended by such formidable shielding. He clenched and relaxed his fists several times to dispel the shock and anxiety.

  He heaved in deeper breaths and understood he needed to concentrate if he were to survive this engagement. “How many more Spiders are there in this vicinity?”

  “Three minutes ago, there were approximately four thousand.”

  “Shit.”

  “Over half of these appeared to be forming a stationary, defensive perimeter around a predefined area.”

  “Where?”

  “Two-point-five kilometres to the south over a broadly level area of several hundred hectares.”

  Rory glanced in that direction, but low hills obscured his view. A dull, red glow lit the undulating ridges. “Why?”

  “Probably to establish and defend a secure zone.”

  “What for?”

  “The highest probability is a landing area for invading forces.”

  Rory’s breathing slowed. “Where are the NATO transports?”

  “Increased enemy jamming is preventing effective communications. However, a number have been destroyed and there is a high probability that many more failed to escape the battle space.”

  “Please try to contact the other members of my squad.”

  “Comms are not possible at this time.”

  “NATO defences?”

  “Non-operational at this time.”

  “So where do I go now?”

  “Insufficient data. According to the most recent data, you should seek cover and wait until friendly forces retake the battle sp—”

  “That’s not going to happen. Which way is Grenada, the Armilla base?”

  “Eleven-point-six kilometres northwest,” the Squitch replied, and directional data appeared in Rory’s field of view. It continued: “However, you are certain to meet enemy forces. You should seek cover and wait for friendly—”