‘Yes Mr Barton. I am David Bland, Duty Manager in Terminal 3 this morning.’ The startled black haired, mid-thirties manager nodded, his shocked stare on the large grey vessel behind Daryl.
‘Good! Come with me!’ Daryl barked, ‘Let’s see what this craft is like! You are my comms…understand?’
The duty manager nodded nervously, jogging towards the dark grey vessel ahead of them, his tabard flowing behind him as pursued the running officers.
Two British fighter jets shot upwards as their pilots pulled back on their controls, their headphones filled with barked orders from a nervous RAF controller, ‘Investigate lights in sky, engage…I repeat…ENGAGE any signs of aggression!’
The lead pilot spoke determinedly into his microphone, ‘Roger control…weapons going hot! Proceeding as instructed!’
The jets streamed upwards in the sky, the plumes of vapour creating a trail across the clouded expanse as people all over London and Heathrow looked upwards, their breaths held.
The television reporter on the perimeter road on the edge of the airport spoke frantically into the camera lens, hearing other media crew vehicles screech into the large hotel car park behind him. A realisation his broadcast was probably now going live across the world as televisions were switched on in offices and homes, all channels now moving to the scenes at Heathrow. ‘There seems to be considerable movement across the airport, policemen and soldiers running towards the space vessel on the northern runway.’ A French military jet streamed past overhead just above the hotel the broadcast was coming from, drowning the reporter out as it shot upwards, the sonic boom breaking across the airport. He reporter looked upwards fearfully, ‘Military jets seem to be converging on Heathrow and heading skywards….something is occurring. There have been flashes far up in the sky. We understand from an airport official that the vessel that landed seems to have people that look like us inside.’
At Swanwich, the National Air Traffic Service operators stared at their screens as numerous dots began to appear at high altitude. RAF relay stations reporting multiple small radar readings high in the earth’s atmosphere. RAF command immediately went into emergency standing, the staff staring in disbelief at the numerous dots appearing on the high level radar screen transmitted across the front of the room.
The Civil Aviation Authority now increased its alert level, ordering all commercial and private air traffic to vacate UK airspace immediately, the sightings communicated frantically to the Federal Aviation Authority in the USA.
All across the south east of England military jets soared into the sky, their nervous pilots pushing their engines to maximum throttle to gain altitude, adrenalin levels matching the ascent of their charges. On the advice of the FAA, commercial aircraft across the world were ordered to land at the nearest available airport, worried passengers over oceans staring with fright at each other as their planes banked steeply, changing direction to the nearest destination immediately. A delayed British Airways jet over the Atlantic was advised to continue towards the British Isles, the pilot’s eyes widening in discomfort to hear the words ‘Good Luck’ added to the end of the message. They had insufficient fuel to return to an American or Icelandic runway.
The flashes in the far sky continued across the southern United Kingdom as the further military jets rose into the sky. In the COBRA room in Central London, a video link to the Kremlin, Berlin and Washington resulted in Russian MiG jets being scrambled, their destination a remote airfield in Norfolk for refuelling. American fighters at their bases in the Mediterranean and Germany also shot into the air with Stansted and Gatwick now expecting military landings, their resident commercial aircraft now being towed to remote stands. The UK Government instructing both airports of the new contingency until the exact situation was established.
As the soldiers, policemen and security staff climbed to the top of the metal steps, their boots clanking on the surfaces, they entered the darkness of the ship, their eyes squinting in the gloom. The steps slid away and the door rose silently behind them, the light inside weakening as the door closed with a whoosh of pressurisation.
Blue neon lighting surged through the vessel as the door closed, the visitors blinking in the immediate contrast. They looked in awe at the smooth silver and grey walls of the wide corridor they found themselves in, their group bordered either side by Trevakian Marines, their body armour transforming in the light to more subdued camouflage colourings from the blue and grey that had been apparent outside in the brighter light.
The first officer winked at the army major, ‘Welcome aboard Major, I am Sky Commander Petaski, commander of this vessel. I hope you find her to your liking.’ The officers blue uniform was immaculate, neatly creased on the trousers and shirt.
The Major was glancing around wide eyed, the Chief Inspector and airport managers stood nervously next to him, ‘Er…yes, thank you….’
Sky Commander Petaski smiled, ‘It’s a bit of a shock I know. I suggest I take you and the senior managers to the flight deck and get one of my officers to show your men and…’ He glanced back along the group before him, ‘…Ladies around our vessel. We will be moving soon to protect the ship, but this should not cause too much discomfort.’ He looked across the Major, Police Inspector and Airport Manager, his eyebrows raised.
Daryl Barton smiled, realising the officer was looking for a response, ‘Erm…yes, I think that will be acceptable. Have you the communication link to our ground command established then?’
Commander Petaski nodded grinning, ‘Yes, I don’t think they are aware yet though. Come with me gentlemen, I will show you.’ He indicated to a marine officer stood at ease before the assembled group in the corridor, ‘Show them around Dryden…that should take their minds off the shock of this morning.’ He paused, seeming to think, ‘Once we move we will open the transporter field to bring the wounded through from Alexion One. Ready three sections of marines to move back through to support the defenders and report back the situation once it is opened.’
The six foot tall lean officer dressed in combats and body armour snapped to attention, raising his right fist to the left side of his chest in salute, ‘Understood Sir.’ The soldier moved forward towards the assembled group as the three more senior men followed the commander to the side. Raising his hands, the visor on his helmet slipped upwards, revealing deep blue eyes and almost sharpened high cheek bones, his hair blonde, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please follow me and the other soldiers. We will show you around some of our ship. Do not be alarmed at any slight movement, it is quite safe. We are due to travel approximately five of your miles to move the ship to a safer location whilst cloaked. This will prevent the enemy from locating us with anything other than considerable ground forces whilst any battle rages overhead.’
Commander Petaski nodded his satisfaction and indicated for Daryl Barton and the other two senior commanders to follow him, walking along the immaculately clean grey metal corridor from the group of startled officers and soldiers.
David Bland watched his superior leave then stepped forward, his face concerned, ‘Battle? What is going on outside please?’
The soldier looked him up and down suspiciously, ‘What is your rank, Sir?’
The duty manager’s face flushed, swallowing hard, realising the staff behind him were listening, ‘I am a Terminal Manager at Heathrow.’
Dryden smiled warmly, ‘Very well Sir, though your current rank means nothing here…I will explain. The Morgons will be desperate to stop us giving our technology to you. They have broken through your atmosphere and I believe will be engaging with your fighter jets shortly if they have not done so already. We are a cruiser and therefore have no fighters we can send to assist, but will provide you with all our technology in order for you to join the war.’
A security officer behind the manager interrupted, ‘War! What the F….I have just come in on overtime, are you telling us we are now at war?’ There was a murmur of startled and frightened voices from the assembled crowd.
David Bland turned, his face reddening, raising his voice. ‘Be quiet! Let me understand what is going on here!’ The voices hushed slowly to a few whispers.
Dryden continued, now addressing the group, ‘We have protected your galaxy and our own for decades, but it seems the enemy is very determined and becoming stronger. Three days ago it was decided to land here and advise you of the situation so that you may prepare.’ His eyes narrowed as he hesitated, ‘We are sorry to bring you the news…but we are losing. It is only a matter of time now before they break through and attack your earth as they have attacked ours.’ His eyes flickered with emotion, ‘It is obvious to us that they would attack you next, but with your help we may stop them.’ He began to walk along the group slowly, the men and women now in stunned silence staring at him, ‘I am sorry to say, but it is likely the lives you now know…apologies…knew an hour ago are now at an end. Your new existence in now irrefutably linked to ours…in a war for survival.’ Gasps filled the corridor, the soldiers and policemen turning and trying to comfort some of the distressed security staff.
David Bland spluttered, ‘But…what will happen?’ His face aghast.
Dryden swallowed, his chiselled face darkening, ‘My apologies for telling you all this so suddenly, but it will all become apparent in the coming hours.’ His face becoming more determined again, ‘Now if you will all follow me, I will show you some of the ship and our facilities. We will shortly be moving wounded here, so may require your assistance.’ He hesitated, turning to the airport manager, ‘Assistance I am sure you will provide once your leaders have seen the data we are carrying.’ He turned and walked through the shocked crowd and down the corridor to the end, looking back, seeming surprised at the shocked audience staring at him, ‘Shall we go now?’
Chapter Three: The Second Battle of Britain commences
The RAF pilot pushed gently down on the stick, the jet fighter beginning to level out at high altitude. Straining his eyes, he glanced around through the glass cockpit, then looked down at his radar screen. The small red flashing dots seemed to be directly in front of him, but he had no visual contact, puzzling him and causing uneasiness. He pressed talk on his radio microphone, his voice sounding uneasy to his wingman flying some two hundred metres behind him, ‘Do you have any visual, Number Two?’
The static crackled in his ears, the volume rising then a garbled response, ‘Negative Number One, no visual. They should surely be in sight now according to our radar?’ The wingman sounded apprehensive, straining his eyes into the distance, his thumb moving to the edge of the cannon firing button on his stick.
Bright flashes in the air before them caused the pilots to blink, the intense light filling their cockpits as they instinctively banked their aircraft, the jets sweeping off to either sides of the spectacle. Steam shot out from the lights, the crackle of electricity charging the air and flashing as the streaks of static joined, exploding in fire as the ferocity rose.
The radio waves erupted again in static as the pilot shouted into his microphone, ground controllers pulling their headpieces from their ears with the painful intensity. The voice screamed through the raging distortion, ‘Fighters appearing from nowhere! Literally out of thin air!’ The static rose in intensity, drowning out the voice, then fell, ‘…in pursuit!’ The jet screamed across the sky, darkened arrowed objects chasing the fighter as steam and sparks flew from the back of the black fighters.
The voice cut through the static again, ‘Gaining…the on-board computer screaming across the cockpit and airwaves, ‘Missile Lock! Missile Lock!’ The radio waves went silent, the occasional crackle as the controllers listened intently, the sounds transmitted to the room’s speakers. Then a loud hum filled the room…radio jamming had commenced.
The fighter spiralled downwards, flames pouring from its engines as the damaged fuselage leaked fuel. The pilot shook his head frantically, the force of the spinning forcing his senses to dim…a mind blacking out. Half conscious, his hand fell to the handle beneath his seat. Using all his remaining strength, he yanked at the metal grip, the canopy shooting open as he was thrust down into his seat, his body flying upwards as the force of ejection from the stricken plane threw him out of the burning aircraft.
His mind numbed, the cold upper air engulfing his body as he fell downwards towards earth, the parachute tugging at him, jerking his body from side to side as it automatically deployed, the seat falling away below him.
The pilot hung half-conscious as gravity slowly pulled him downwards, towards the lower altitudes. His eyes opened slowly, blood coming from his nose and ears as the downwards motion and air currents buffeted his body.
Then he looked up sharply, his mind clearing as intense pain swept through his body, the shock at what had happened shaking his consciousness. He glanced around frantically, seeing a burning fighter turn in the air in the distance before exploding. Floating downwards, he saw the black aircraft in the distance firing at more fighters as they rose through the sky to investigate. Two exploded, the others veering away as the black fighters swept after them, bright lights flashing from their forward guns.
More flashes in the sky above him as other black fighters emerged from their cloaked hiding places. Then he swallowed hard as he saw one peel away from the others, the black fighter levelling as it accelerated towards him. His voice rising to a scream as the black fighter deliberately lined up and flew through him at over five hundred miles an hour. His body simply disintegrated under the force of impact, blood splattering across the sides of the alien craft as a macabre trophy, the fighter flying on as it sped towards two more RAF aircraft.
People on the ground initially looked up excitedly as they saw the flashes, their intrigue overcoming any initial doubts. As explosions and tracer fire filled the sky above them, their expressions changed to first concern, then collective fear and alarm. Most fled indoors, staring nervously up from windows as vapour and smoke trails from many aircraft began to fill the sky above them.
RAF controllers screamed into their microphones as pilots were chased across the sky, desperately attempting to escape the alien fighters. Within an hour, the picture was becoming clearer, the RAF had lost sixteen fighters, at the declaration of one unconfirmed kill. The order was given to retreat to lower altitudes, anti-aircraft missile batteries across Southern England being instructed to engage all enemy aircraft to reinforce the RAF fighter presence.
Three French fighters joined the fray, their jet engines whining as they swept upwards towards several black alien craft, their proud French pilots smiling grimly as they opened fire. The high velocity rounds sparked across the black hulls as the fighters swept past, the pilots open mouthed as they realised they had caused little or no damage. As the black fighters banked sharply in response, their stricken RAF prey burning as the pilot desperately tried to control his crippled aircraft, the plane descending rapidly as he tried to escape his attackers.
The French pilots pushed their sticks forward, desperately sweeping to lower altitudes as they flew high over High Wycombe, north-west of London, the black fighters screeching after their prey. Terror filled their eyes and bodies as they realised their planes were no match for the chasing enemy, the black aircraft gaining on them. The French airmen used every manoeuvre they had, spiralling and spinning their fighters, deploying flares and flying low across the countryside attempting to entangle their pursuers in overhead cabling. One by one they were shot down, their planes exploding as the high powered rounds sliced through them. The last remaining fighter flew on, the terrified pilot heading for a large bridge between two high rock faces, his intent to fly through it and bank hard.
The enemy fighters shot after him, the jet black planes gaining on their victim as the fighter swept underneath the bridge, the structure shaking. The drivers and passengers in the cars above screaming as their vehicles shook, the side windows exploding from the jet’s after-burn. The pilot banked hard, the jet engine coughing as one of the cannon rounds fired penetr
ated the outer fuselage, his mouth opening in a horrified scream as the French jet spun from the impact, clipping the rocks and exploding in a fireball. The burning aircraft slewed through the nearby housing district at over four hundred miles an hour, tossing cars into the air and incinerating pedestrians. The debris ploughed through the houses, destroying buildings and apartments in a long fireball before the remains came to rest, a large plume of blackened smoke curling and billowing into the air.
Two black alien fighters swept underneath the bridge, the people above staring down in horror as the sleek aircraft shot upwards into the sky, vapour trails following in their wake.
Michael Johnston sat with his wife in 30J and K of the delayed British Airways Boeing jet, their holiday to see their daughter in America now at an end. Sipping from his plastic glass of red wine, he turned to his elderly wife, ‘It was good to see she is doing well with her career. I am not too sure about the man in her life though, but it is her decision…she really seems to like him.’
His wife, Dorothy, smiled and patted his thigh gently, ‘You are always so suspicious of her boyfriends, just let it be. He has a good career and car and his family seem really nice. She is thirty five now!’
Michael leant forward, placing his glass on the drop down table, ‘Oh, very well…you always…’ His voice tailed off as the plane suddenly began to slowly descend, a mechanical beep indicating the pilot was about to address the passengers.
The deep voice burst over the intercom system, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. You may be aware we are currently descending to a lower flight path. Please do not be alarmed…we have been instructed to proceed towards the Irish coast at a lower altitude and land as soon as practicable.’ There was a brief pause as the pilot considered what to say next, his co-pilot staring at him as he held the microphone button depressed. The pilot looked through the cockpit windows, seeing the cloud begin to fill their vision, the autopilot set for five hundred metres above sea level. He straightened in his seat, realising he would have to say something to alleviate concern amongst his two hundred and fifty passengers and cabin crew when they descended further. Determining to provide more detail, he started to cautiously speak again, ‘There has been radio traffic to indicate there is something happening above us that may be unsightly, so we are descending as a precaution only. We will adopt a very low flight path to ensure safety and I can assure you the aircraft is in no danger and functioning normally.’ The mechanical beep sounded again to indicate the end of the message, the co-pilot switching the radio back to the instructions from the nearest control tower in Ireland.
The Last Marine in the Galaxy (Galaxies Collide Book 1) Page 3