Darkest Hour 1: Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  He waved a hand at Sergeant Gibbon as the Fijian soldier appeared from the concealed tanks. “Get a crew down to check out the French and get them under cover,” he barked, trusting the Sergeant to deal with the situation. A number of young soldiers looked badly shocked, holding their personal weapons as if they were unsure what to do with them. He silently blessed his own insistence on issuing loaded weapons to the men, even on training exercises. It had been intended to ensure that the tankers were used to carrying them, but he had a feeling that they might be needing them to fight. “And then send a runner to each of the garrisons. I need to know what we have left in the fight.”

  The tactical command vehicle was half-buried under a small mountain of earth. Gavin pulled at the hatch and it opened, revealing a cramped compartment with the latest in communications and coordinating gear. He hadn't been too impressed with the entire concept when he’d first heard of it – the command vehicle wasn’t even as well-protected as the wretched Snatch land rover – but it might have proved itself useful today. A pair of operators, both looking as if they were on the verge of panic, glanced up at him in relief.

  “Report,” he barked. “Who the hell hit us?”

  “Sir, I don't know, sir,” the lead operator said. He looked far too young and nerdy to serve with the army, but his skills at pulling information out of the ether were remarkable. “All of our communications links have gone down!”

  Gavin swore. They had a laser link to the British-owned satellite communications network and various NATO systems. If they were all gone, it meant that their unknown opponent had somehow taken them all out seconds before launching the attack on Salisbury Plain. It was simply impossible to jam a laser signal, or even detect it. He keyed the radio and cursed when a wash of static blasted from the speakers. They were being jammed. His unit – and every survivor from the garrisons – had been cut off from higher authority. They were on their own, unable to coordinate with PJHQ or the MOD in fighting off the attack on British soil. But who were they fighting?

  There was another screech of static, followed by a sudden shift into the BBC. “...Receiving reports of massive explosions in London,” a voice said. “We have been unable to reach...”

  The signal washed out of existence. For a moment, Gavin was sure that he could hear voices hidden in the static, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. The BBC had been unable to reach whom? The Government? He’d met the Prime Minister during a meeting at PJHQ and he hadn't been too impressed, but he was legal authority. And if they were at war...Dear God, just who the hell were they fighting?

  He jumped out of the command vehicle and sighted a number of soldiers being alternatively bullied or cajoled into work by Sergeant Gibbon. A handful of men wearing French uniforms were with them, some badly wounded. The French hadn’t been the only ones hit on the training area, he noted absently. It was easy to see which British units had been hit as well.

  “Sir,” a soldier yelled. It took Gavin a moment to place him as the commander of a Rapier missile launcher that had been deployed to provide some protection to the tankers. If they’d had armed weapons...but no one had expected an attack from nowhere. “Sir, we got some data before they hit us!”

  Gavin looked over at him. It was hardly the proper way to file a report, but under the circumstances he didn't care. The Rapier was supposed to be monitoring every aircraft flying over the range, including a handful that had been tasked to play enemy aircraft during the exercise. They should have picked up something...

  “Sir, the attackers came out of nowhere,” the soldier said. “But just before they started firing and we lost the network, the UKADR sounded an alert. So did the NATO network. Sir...some of those craft seemed to come from outer space.”

  “Aliens?” Gavin said, in frank disbelief. It was impossible. And yet it made a certain kind of sense. Who else would have the power to take out the satellites, drop bombs – kinetic strikes, perhaps - onto the garrisons and presumably hit London as well? It was impossible, but...he pushed his doubts aside. “Sergeant, pass the word. We’ll regroup at Point Alpha – get the military police to sort out who we have left alive and what equipment we have that still works.”

  “Sir,” Sergeant Gibbon said. There was a pause. “What about civilians, sir?”

  Gavin winced. Salisbury Plain was a designated place of natural beauty, which meant that civilians could and did get underfoot most of the time. The military was supposed to have jurisdiction over the Live Firing Range, but the word from higher up was to be gentle, if possible. Gavin shook his head. The civilians would have seen the explosions – hell, perhaps the little green men or whoever would have targeted the towns around Salisbury Plain as well.

  “Tell them to go back to their homes,” Gavin ordered, finally. They’d never prepared for alien invasion. The possibility had never even been considered. “And see if the civilian telecommunications network is still working. We need to know what’s left of our country.”

  ****

  The ground came up to meet Robin’s face before he quite realised what was going on. He hit the ground hard enough to stun him, his body armour taking most of the shock below the neck. Everything seemed to have gone absolutely quiet. Dazed, unsure of what had happened, he started to push himself upright. His jaw felt as if it had been struck by a glass bottle and...what the hell had happened? There hadn't been any warning that someone was behind him, yet what else could have sent him falling to the ground?

  He staggered to his feet and looked back at Buckingham Palace. It was gone. He was so dazed that it was several seconds before he realised that something was terribly wrong, and several more seconds before he realised what had happened. Buckingham Palace, the home of the British Monarchy, was a smouldering pile of rubble. Many of the protesters who’d been outside had been hit by flying debris and were badly injured – or dead. They seemed to be whispering, making shapes with their mouths that never became words, almost as if they were miming. He couldn't hear anything, apart from a faint ringing in his ears. It took him several moments to realise that he’d been deafened by a sound so loud that it hadn't really registered on him. He could only hope that it was temporary.

  Pulling his radio off his belt, he keyed the emergency switch. Every copper within five miles should start converging on his position, as if they wouldn't be on their way already. This was Buckingham Palace; surely, someone at Scotland Yard would have noticed the destruction of the King’s residence. They’d have the fire brigade, ambulances and entire regiments of policemen on their way right now. They might even get to the Palace before some fucking terrorist wannabe started singing their own praises on YouTube, claiming that it was another strike against the oppressive state. Who knew? Maybe the Government would be so angry that they’d take off the gloves and just hit back.

  He stumbled towards the protesters, intent on doing what he could to help, when he realised that Buckingham Palace hadn't been the only target. Smoke and flames seemed to be rising into the air from all over London. He’d thought that it was a terrorist attack – even though he couldn't understand how they’d managed to get a bomb into the Palace – but this was on a different scale altogether. There were at least seven different plumes of smoke...he rubbed at his ear, cursing the growing ringing. It was impossible to call for help if he couldn't hear the reply. How could terrorists have pulled off such an attack?

  The first protestor, a young girl barely old enough to drink, had been crippled by the blast. Robin did what he could for her, praying that the ambulances would be on their way. But if London had been hit several times...he’d been in enough crisis situations to know that it took time to get organised, time to throw off the shock and take control. How long would it be before someone took command and started funnelling help to the wounded? And what if the unknown attackers had taken out the Government? One of the plumes of smoke seemed to be coming from the direction of Whitehall.

  And if they’d taken out the government...he shuddered,
unable to face the implications. If they’d taken out the government, they’d committed an act of war.

  But who were they?

  Chapter Three

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 1

  “What...?”

  The emergency doors burst open as two men hurled themselves into the Prime Minister’s office. Gabriel had no time to react before they grabbed him bodily and carried him over to one of the office walls. It opened, revealing a hidden shaft leading down into the bunker below Ten Downing Street. He yelped in shock as they dropped him, feet first, down the shaft and towards what felt like certain death. Instead, the tube seemed to twitch around him and he found himself slowing and sliding out into the bunker. A man wearing a black uniform caught him by the arm and pulled him away from the tube, just before the first of his own assailants popped out of the tube. Gabriel’s mind finally caught up with the string of events and he realised that the Personal Protective Detail assigned to Ten Downing Street were doing their jobs. He’d been briefed on the emergency procedures – everything from terrorist gunmen to chemical or radioactive weapon being deployed against Whitehall – but he was ashamed to realise that he didn't know their names.

  One of the men – the leader, Gabriel assumed – tapped a key into a concrete wall. A hatch appeared out of nowhere, revealing a set of metal stairs that led down into the bunker. It was illuminated by flickering lights that seemed to be having trouble remaining alight, suggesting that the power supply to Ten Downing Street had been cut off. There was an emergency generator in the basement, Gabriel remembered, as well as a handful of other precautions, but as far as he could recall they’d never been tested. They certainly hadn't held an emergency drill after he’d become Prime Minister. The oversight, he realised as he clambered down the stairs, might have cost lives.

  Another doorway opened at the bottom of the shaft, revealing the Crisis Management Centre. Gabriel had been inside a handful of times, but he’d never grown to like the drab concrete walls and the effect of being cut off from the rest of the world. The only decoration was a painting of a cobra a previous Prime Minister’s child had produced, a reference to the COBRA Committee that served as Britain’s emergency council. No one had had the heart to take it down. The team leader pointed Gabriel to a seat and headed over to the bank of computers and communications equipment placed against one wall.

  The ground shook, alarmingly. Gabriel glanced up as the light hanging over the conference table spun from side to side, proving that he hadn't imagined the explosion. Something on the surface...was there anything left of Ten Downing Street? He silently thanked God that his wife hadn’t been in the building. She’d been on a visit to Edinburgh to meet with the First Minister of Scotland, carrying messages from Gabriel that he didn't dare entrust to anyone else. Dear God – had Edinburgh been hit too?

  Gabriel took a moment to calm himself, and then tried to sound professional. “What happened?”

  The team leader glanced over at him. “I’ve not sure, Prime Minister,” he admitted. He looked a tough young man, but Gabriel had enough skill at reading people to know that he was nervous. “We picked up a FLASH warning from PJHQ warning that an attack was underway – we immediately grabbed you and got you into the bunker. But most of our communications lines appear to be down and...”

  Gabriel stared at him. “Has Downing Street been destroyed?”

  “No, Prime Minister,” the team leader said. He frowned, looking down at the console. “I can't get through to anyone else – not PJHQ, not Edinburgh, not anyone. The radio network appears to be being jammed. I’m not sure...ah.”

  He looked up as the main door to the conference room opened, revealing Major-General Sir Alan Robertson. Gabriel allowed himself a moment of relief. Robertson commanded the Household Division, the main body of troops in London. Among other duties – both operational and ceremonial – the Household Division was responsible for evacuating the Monarch, the Prime Minister and other government ministers from London in the event of an emergency. Robertson wore a combat uniform and carried a pistol on his belt. He was followed by three other soldiers, all carrying rifles and wearing combat uniforms.

  “Prime Minister,” Robertson said, relieved. “Thank God you’re safe.”

  “You too,” Gabriel said. A fourth soldier had arrived – but he looked more like a man dressing up rather than a real soldier. He had a pair of glasses and looked slightly overweight, carrying a small laptop under his arm than a weapon. “General...what the hell is going on?”

  Robertson looked...worried. “Prime Minister,” he said, slowly, “we’re at war.”

  “At war?” Gabriel repeated. “Who with?”

  The fourth soldier looked up. “Aliens,” he said, flatly. “We’re at war with aliens from outer space.”

  Gabriel stared at him, unsure if he should laugh or cry. “Aliens?” His Personal Protective Detail seemed to be having the same reaction. “Aliens? And I suppose that Doctor Who is going to come along any minute to tell them to piss off?”

  “Please, Prime Minister,” Robertson said quietly. “Hear him out.”

  The fourth soldier put his laptop on the conference table. “Fifteen minutes ago, the entire orbital communications network – ours, NATO’s, the Russians – went down,” he said. “Bare minutes later, we lost contact with the Deep Space Tracking Network – that’s a joint operation largely run by the Yanks, but there are stations on British soil and we have access to the live feed. The last report we had from RAF Fylingdales reported a number of incoming missiles that appeared to have come from orbit. One of their projected endpoints – their targets – was the base itself. The entire Ballistic Missile Early Warning System has been taken down.

  “At roughly the same time, ground-based radar stations picked up a number of unknown aircraft breaching the UKADR – that’s the United Kingdom Air Defence Region,” he continued. “RAF aircraft on alert were vectored towards the intruders – we lost contact shortly afterwards with both the aircraft and their bases. It appears that we have been hit badly all across the country. We have lost contact with almost all military bases within the United Kingdom.”

  “Which leaves us no choice,” Robertson injected, “but to assume that they’ve been destroyed.”

  Gabriel felt...weak, unsure of himself. It seemed impossible, yet...if the unknowns, the aliens, had the capability to hit British military bases, there seemed no reason why they wouldn't – if they were hostile. His thoughts ran in circles. Why would aliens be hostile? What did Earth have that would make them worthwhile targets? He’d always been taught that a civilisation advanced enough to master space travel would have outgrown the desire to fight purely for the sake of fighting...

  “It gets worse,” the soldier said, softly. “We have confirmed that a number of strikes fell in London itself. The Permanent Joint Headquarters has been destroyed, along with a number of railway stations, road junctions, and – for reasons unclear – Buckingham Palace.”

  “The King,” Gabriel said. “What happened to him?”

  “He was in residence at the time, along with his wife, his eldest son and his wife,” Robertson said. “We’ve had no word. I send a small detachment to the Palace to see what they could find, but first reports say that the devastation was almost total. There is a very good chance that Prince Harry may be the next in line to the throne.”

  Gabriel shook his head slowly, unable to quite believe his ears. Robertson was talking about the death of the Monarch – and the deaths of thousands of military and civilian personnel – as calmly as if he were ordering dinner. How could he be so dispassionate? Or was he trying to remain calm in the hope that Gabriel himself would remain calm? If they’d really been hit as badly as Robertson implied, the chances were that his position as Prime Minister was no longer viable. God alone knew what he would be able to do for his country.

  “Contact,” one of the soldiers said, suddenly. “I got a link through to Salisbury Plain!”


  “Excuse me,” Robertson said.

  Gabriel nodded as the General slipped away, heading towards the bank of computers. How could he deal with an alien invasion? Had it only been an hour ago that he’d been battling with the economic crisis? What would happen if – when – the British population realised what had happened to their country? He looked over at Robertson and found himself envying the man’s calm. Maybe he should have gone into the military instead of politics. But then, he would have made a poor soldier.