Invasion

by Chris James

  “It was horrible, Pip. No privacy at all.”

  The ATV moved off and left them standing in the parade square of their home barracks at Catterick Garrison in Yorkshire. Rory looked in front of them as, in the bright blue sky, small puffs of cloud floated over the large, rectangular Victorian redbrick building and sunlight glinted off its slate-grey roof. His spirit lifted; this was where he had become a Royal Engineer.

  He heard Pip say: “So, here we are again. I never expected us to come back via submarine, Corp.”

  Rory answered: “After what happened in Spain when the invasion began, I never expected to see this place again at all.” Images of recent events surged up from his memory, and he saw once more the Caliphate Spider racing towards him as fast as it could over the Spanish scrub. He felt the light recoil from his Pickup as he held his nerve, wondering whether he would be able to destroy the Spider before it killed him. He shivered.

  “You all right, Corp.?” Pip asked.

  “What? Yeah, of course,” Rory said. “Just strange to be back. Just the two of us, you know?”

  “Oh yeah, I know,” Pip said.

  “Come on,” Rory said, “better not keep the Colonel waiting.”

  They strode across the parade ground and entered the building. Although he knew the layout well, the lens in Rory’s eye navigated the route to the Colonel’s office for him, up the broad, elegant staircase and four doors along the left wing.

  They reached the office. Rory glanced at Pip and said: “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  Rory rapped his knuckles on the panelled door.

  “Come,” said a voice at once from the other side.

  Rory and Pip entered the expansive office. Colonel Doyle was already striding towards them, steely eyes shining out from a friendly face. He looked smaller than he had at the airbase in February, when he had addressed the whole regiment before their deployment.

  Rory closed the door and he and Pip stood to attention and saluted. The Colonel stopped, returned their salute, and said: “At ease.” He first shook Pip’s hand and then Rory’s. “Now we’ve got the formalities out of the way, come over here and sit down.”

  Rory and Pip followed their commanding officer over to his desk. Rory felt like declining the offer to sit in one of the chairs opposite the Colonel as it did not seem appropriate, but then considered after all that had happened in the last four months, he didn’t want to come across as churlish. He sat and saw, by the look on her face, that Pip had considered similar thoughts.

  The Colonel sat on the other side, stroked his full moustache with a thumb and forefinger, and said: “First things first: welcome home. How are you feeling after a couple of months on a submarine?”

  Rory said: “The captain and crew of the Spiteful looked after us well, but Colonel, Sir, I think Private Clarke and I would really like to know about the rest of the regiment.”

  “Of course you would,” the Colonel said, and clamped his hands together on his desk.

  The door opened and a young orderly came in carrying a tray. He sat the tray on the table and served the Colonel, Corporal and Private either tea or coffee. Rory felt the tension increase as time passed while the orderly did this and then left the room.

  When the door closed, the Colonel said: “You two are the only ones to have made it out of Spain from the regiment deployed in February. Now, I want to stress that we expect other troops have survived in theatre, but obviously we can’t get to them now.”

  “My god,” Rory breathed. He’d expected that might have been the case, but confirmation from the Colonel still shocked him. He glanced at Pip and saw the news have a similar effect on her.

  The Colonel sipped his tea and paused before continuing: “You should also bear in mind that the pair of you have become somewhat special.”

  Neither Rory nor Pip spoke.

  “You are two of a privileged handful of NATO troops who have engaged the enemy in battle and lived to tell the tale. Now, I’ve read the reports from your debriefs on board Spiteful, and my instant reaction was to ensure you both play a role in training in the future. We have thousands of new recruits—”

  “Thousands?” Rory interrupted, too shocked to stop himself.

  The Colonel said: “Yes, thousands. Since the invasion began, every week from five to ten thousand people have applied to join the British Army. Thankfully, Squonk has been more than up to the task of organising everything. And, by the way, your regiment is already back up to full strength. Anyway, I discussed your case with General Sir Terry Tidbury himself, and we reached an optional conclusion.”

  The Colonel stopped, stared from Rory to Pip and back, and said: “Really, do please close your mouths; you look like my pet fish when I drop pellets of food into their pond.”

  “Sorry, Sir,” Rory mumbled through his shock.

  “Hmm,” the Colonel said, stroking his moustache with his thumb and forefinger again. “The General and I concluded that your futures will be subject to events. For as long as the current impasse lasts, you will be assigned to training. If, however, the enemy recommences his attack—which we believe to be a probability rather than a possibility—you will both return to combat duties. But before then, we have some other business to attend to.” The Colonel stood and cleared his throat.

  In response, Rory and Pip stood at once and came to attention. Rory heard the door behind him open and at least three pairs of feet shuffled into the office. He daren’t risk snatching a glance behind him and kept his eyes firmly on the windows behind his CO.

  The Colonel announced: “Corporal Rory Moore, you are hereby promoted to the rank of sergeant. As a non-commissioned officer, you will be expected to obey the orders of your superior officers, while at the same time, you can expect to be obeyed by those holding ranks lower than your own.” The Colonel waved a hand and the same man who had served the tea now approached and handed the Colonel a leather folder. The Colonel opened it, took out a single sheet of A4 paper, and handed it smartly to Rory. “To accept your promotion, please acknowledge and confirm the notification in your lens.”

  Through his shock, Rory stared at the sheet of paper he held in his hand, used purely for ceremonial purposes. The notification in his lens flashed patiently. With a twitch of an eye muscle, he accepted the promotion.

  “Thank you,” the Colonel said.

  Rory saluted the Colonel, who returned the salute.

  Then the Colonel turned to Pip. “Private Philippa Clarke, you are hereby promoted to the rank of corporal. As a non-commissioned officer, you will be expected to obey the orders of your superior officers, while at the same time, you can expect to be obeyed by those holding ranks lower than your own.” Another leather folder appeared in his hands and he repeated the same order to Pip.

  But Pip did not take the offered sheet of paper. Rory sensed Pip take in a breath—what she was waiting for?

  Pip said: “With gratitude for this promotion and the greatest respect, Colonel, I would like to apply for a commission.”

  The Colonel’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Pip confirmed.

  Rory’s spirit sank in despair. If Pip accepted her promotion to corporal and they were both assigned training duties, they would be together, either here in Catterick or down the motorway in Harrogate. But if she got a commission, she would be off somewhere far away, at least Warwick, and he might never see her again.

  Pip spoke, “Yes, Sir. It’s the direction I really want my career in the army to go.”

  The Colonel withdrew the sheet of paper and said: “Very well. Given your performance in the field to date, I am inclined to approve your request. How does your CO feel about it?” the Colonel asked, looking at Rory.

  Emotions clashed inside Rory. He thought of asking for his own commission, but even then, there would be no guarantee he and Pip would be assigned to the same officer training base. He could refuse her request, but what reason could he give? And in any case, who was he to
clip her or anyone else’s wings? Rory looked at the Colonel and said: “I approve Private Clarke’s request, Sir.”

  “Excellent,” the Colonel said, “that’s settled then. Squonk? Organise officer training for Private Clarke and Advanced Sergeant Training for Sergeant Moore, giving appropriate notifications to the concerned parties. Also, factor in twenty-four hours’ unplanned leave to commence now.”

  “Acknowledged,” Squonk’s disembodied voice replied.

  The Colonel smiled at his subordinates and said: “I can imagine you’d both like to get home and see your families after what you’ve come through. We will organise transport for you both.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Rory said.

  Pip echoed Rory’s thanks.

  The Colonel came around to the other side of the desk and guided the two junior ranks to the door. He lowered his voice and said: “You’ve both brought a great deal of credit on the regiment, and I’d like to extend my personal thanks. Well done, the pair of you.”

  Rory wondered if he might turn this imaginary debt to his advantage. They reached the door and Rory opened it. He said to the Colonel: “Thank you, Sir. Request permission to speak freely.”

  “Granted,” Doyle replied with an expression of curiosity on his face.

  “For most of the time I spent on board Spiteful, I never really expected there to be an England to return to. I see why the enemy stopped in March to consolidate his rapid gains, but the tactics he’s now using do not seem to make any sense to me. What are your feelings, Sir? Is consolidation the only reason for this length of delay in finishing the job off, or is there something else?”

  The Colonel appeared to consider Rory’s question. He said: “Well, Sergeant Moore, there may be an element of politics involved, it is difficult to say. Off the record, one thing I think we can all be certain of is that we cannot reinforce with anything like the munitions we have to stop his continued advance. No matter how many BSLs, PeaceMakers and tanks we can muster, we can be sure the enemy will have mustered the means to obliterate them, probably quite quickly. I think we can be clear on this: if and when the battle for Europe starts, it will be very brutal and over very quickly. And NATO will not be the victors.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Chapter 52

  05.57 Wednesday 17 May 2062

  GEOFF MORROW PUT his hand to his ear to keep the surrounding noise down as Lisa complained: “I worry and the bots know it. I’m producing too many stress hormones and the bots are struggling to manage them all.”

  “Lisa, I’ll be home in a few days, okay?” Confusion reigned inside Geoff. If he had to pick one word to describe Lisa, it would be ‘feisty’; but now, as the Tense Spring wore on, her approaching motherhood seemed to have blunted her sharp edges.

  “How long exactly? The baby is almost ready. The date for the birth is fixed for 2 June. I want you here with me. Will you be here?”

  “I should be,” Geoff said, trying to sound positive.

  “But you’re only in central France. What’s the delay?”

  “Try to stay calm, Lisa,” Geoff said at the increasing tone of complaint in Lisa’s voice. “It’s not like it used to be.”

  “God, from there, you could walk back to England between now and 2 June.”

  “You don’t know, Lisa. It’s really bad over here.”

  “I’ve seen it, but I thought your press clearance counted for someth—”

  “No, it doesn’t count for much when people are dying. It doesn’t entitle me to jump queues of starving and injured refugees. They’ve got bodies lying out on the streets here because the super AI is prioritising the needs of the living. It only sends an autonomous meat truck when it can assign one, and sometimes the bodies are really festering by then.”

  There came a pause and Geoff hoped his words had made an impact. He went on: “I don’t want to stress you any further, but I can’t lie either. Before Alan gave me this assignment, I’d only seen a handful of dead bodies. I’ve seen hundreds in just the last few days. I hope that mad bastard in Tehran watches the European media, although I expect he’ll keep using it to say Europe is bringing this on itself.”

  Heart-breaking scenes he’d witnessed in recent weeks suddenly came back to him in the sharpest clarity: a bar drenched in the blood of the victims of a local feud; the young female suicide draped over the smashed roof of an autonomous vehicle; the crowd of fifty or more apparently uninjured bodies that spilled out of emergency doors that had remained locked during a panicked stampede at a monorail station; the unexplained hundreds of bodies that collected together at a bend in the River Saêne just outside Chalon-sur-Saêne.

  Geoff’s spirit raged not only against the injustice, but also against the concept that history was being made and the details instantly forgotten. The hack reporter inside him reacted in fury to the knowledge that the people of Europe were enduring the most brutal punishment, many incidences of which—as he had witnessed—were going unrecorded. On the other hand, did it really matter? He asked himself silently how many other empires in history had been consumed in a whirlwind of violence, yet almost nothing had been handed down of the lives destroyed, of the appalling injustices never righted.

  “Geoff, just get back here as soon as you can, please,” Lisa pleaded.

  “Of course. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “Please, Geoff. You understand, don’t you?”

  Geoff felt his eyes well with frustration, futility, and longing. He whispered: “Yes, I understand. And I promise you that when we are together—all three of us—I will do everything I can do to protect you and our child.”

  Chapter 53

  22.02 Wednesday 24 May 2062

  MAJOR KATE FUS relaxed back into the soft couch and watched the General—her General—pour two glasses of wine. His quarters were small but well furnished. The candlelight cast long shadows from the pictures on the wall opposite her, shadows that flickered and juddered when the slightest movement of air disturbed one of the small flames.

  She ran her index finger along the lip over her cleft palate and then smiled when he returned, handed her a glass, and sat next to her. “Tell me your schedule?” she asked.

  He sat next to her and said: “From tomorrow, I will go to the troops on each front and inspect their readiness. I have agreed with Gunther and Lars that each of us will continue on rotation to keep the armies sharp. The problem is with the interminable delay.”

  “What about the English General and SACEUR?”

  “Tidbury and Jones?” Pakla shook his head and said: “Both of them have too much else to deal with. Jones will need a new HQ and the British Isles will be quickly overrun with refugees if the attack resumes.”

  “But yes, I have noticed similar feelings among my own troops. I have to explain to some of the keener ones why we cannot attempt to drive the enemy back.”

  “I find many of them are quite stoic about the deficiencies in our weapons compared to the enemy’s,” he said with an ironic chuckle.

  “What will you say?”

  “For our troops, the Poles, it will be easy. I will of course invoke past glories: Vienna in 1683, the Miracle on the Vistula in 1920, the Battle of Britain, the Uprising in 1944. Europe is in the greatest peril today and it has fallen to Poland—yet again—to save it. For the other NATO Forces, I need to be more circumspect. You know, my sweet Katy, the Germans, French and British have never had their countries wiped from the map like Poland, and I think the prospect scares them far more that it would frighten any Pole.”

  “I know you will say the right thing, my General.”

  “Perhaps, but it is also a question of repetition. The troops see us, and hopefully we can inspire them a little, but the stress of waiting is an evil in itself. The enemy’s delay has a great deal to be said for it as a tactic. All of us remain trapped in a kind of limbo. From one week to the next, nothing changes. We build up our munitions, the enemy builds up his—”

  “Do you think t
here might be a way to any kind of peaceful resolution?”

  Candlelight reflected in Pakla’s thoughtful eyes. He sipped his wine and said: “Never. Everyone knows it is the enemy’s ruse to keep as much of global public opinion on his side as possible.”

  “So he will resume his attack, sooner or later?”

  The General nodded his head and answered: “Doubtlessly. It is only a question of when; perhaps the next moment, next week, next month. Only he knows.”

  “Then you and I need to keep treating every opportunity we can steal as though it might be our last time together.” She saw his gaze change and sensed his care for her come to the fore.

  He said: “You know, it is still not too late for me to transf—”

  “Do not say it,” she said, putting her hand on his arm to stop him. “We agreed, remember?”

  “But when the attack comes, you will be in the greatest danger. Look what happened in Zagreb. I had no choice but to approve your selection to try to evacuate those VIPs; all I could do was insist you had support. In this coming battle for Europe, my sweet Katy, the odds are the worst for us Poles and all Europeans than they have ever been, worse even than Vienna in 1683.”

  “I told you I would never use our relationship to protect myself if war ever came. But three months ago, a computer decided to allow my subordinates to be killed so that I would live, and I still have nightmares about that injustice. Besides, I suppose there remains a slim chance the attack might never come.”

  “You do not really think that, do you?”

  She looked into his narrow eyes, so full of self-assuredness, and warmth spread downwards from her chest to make the rest of her body tingle. She sipped her wine, her thoughts moving ahead to how complete he would make her feel in a few moments. “Perhaps not, but what are we without hope, my General?”

  He took her glass from her and placed both on the occasional table next to the couch. He turned, stroked her smooth hair, and kissed her deformed mouth with a lover’s desire.