The radio crackled, then a high pitched whine filled the vehicle from the set, the policemen covering their ears as the noise rose in intensity to unbearable levels. The driver shouted through the noise as he saw the remaining fighter seeming to shiver in the air, then begin to turn slowly, ‘They are jamming us! Bastards! They know we are trying to warn……’ His voice trailed off as the pointed front of the aircraft hovering over the Thames slowly turned towards them, ‘Get Out! Get….’
The explosion shook the tarmac as the Range Rover was blown from the road, the blast from the front guns of the fighter tearing the vehicle to pieces. The exploding car thrown upwards with the intensity of the blast as it disintegrated, flames shooting outwards and engulfing the nearby vehicles. Many drivers were stunned at the first sights, several jumping from their cars and running in panic onto the verges, away from the road. Debris from the exploding vehicle showered down over a radius of one hundred metres, damaging cars and severely injuring some of the fleeing drivers.
The fighter banked to the right, turning on its axis. Then its engines glowed as it swept forward along the Thames after the other vessels, the sonic boom behind shattering car and van windows as the river surged backwards against the current.
The RAF controller swallowed hard as the message flashed on the screen before her, her stomach turning as she realised she had no spare fighters over the city to engage the new menace. Opening the radio to all channels she stammered the message, ‘Enemy fighters heading due east along Thames towards Central London, have we any intercept please?’
Static filled the airwaves, then a muffled reply came, the controller straining her ears to listen, ‘Please repeat!’
The French accent surged across the airwaves, ‘Two French fighters in Thames Estuary, inbound to Central London. Intercept path set!’ As the French jets thrust forward, the planes streaming up the Thames Estuary towards the east end of London, the Morgon fighters and bombers streaked over the sharp river bend in Fulham, their targeting instruments pulsing as the craft neared their objective.
The RAF controller winced as the high pitched scream filled her headphones, the pain to her inner ear almost overpowering. Casting the equipment despondently onto the desk, she sat there as the tears formed in her eyes. RAF radio communications were now jammed across South East England.
As Big Ben struck three chimes across Westminster in Central London, the Prime Minister watched the latest news from several hastily prepared television screens in the Churchill bunker, the channels covering five major networks. The air battle over south east England was now at its height with fighters from several nations defending England against a determined enemy. Having called an emergency cabinet meeting and summoned the leaders of all opposition parties, the Prime Minister was awaiting their arrival before a full briefing and decisions on Britain’s response to the ongoing situation.
He looked across the large desk in front of him, the intelligence officers sifting through the many requests and offers of assistance from other nations, the miniature laptop keyboards tapping frantically as they summarised the many long e-mails for the Prime Minister’s forthcoming meeting. Looking up at the main computer display screen to his right, he saw the growing list of initial pending requests, all of which he had demanded be decided by himself and cabinet. Followed by a live television broadcast to world leaders.
Russia: Transport aircraft to land troops in Essex as support for the Trevakians. Current status: boarding in Moscow. Land or helicopter transport required to destination. Three transports per day estimated. Initial Task force request emergency access to Heathrow.
France: Marines requesting transport helicopter access to Osterley Park in support of Trevakian Empire. Currently assembled in Le Mans: Second Troupes de Marine.
Germany: Initial response: Military Medical personnel and supplies, request air access.
Poland: Medical Personnel offered, transport plane on stand-by.
South Korea: Military Support request. Require access to European and UK airspace. Fifteen Transport Aircraft and twenty fighters in escort and for deployment. Second Marine Division (Blue Dragon) to deploy to Trevakian vessel.
China: Military access to Trevakian intelligence officers required. Transport aircraft standing by. Two initial divisions for deployment. Current Status: Deploying for transport.
Ukraine: Military personnel offered. Advise requirement of initial response.
South Africa: Medical Assistance offered.
As government ministers converged on the bunkers, the Prime Minister looked back down at the table, surveying the many further printed e-mails to be added and considering what had happened in the last four hours, hours that had changed life on earth permanently. After the brief conference call with the Trevakian Admiral, he had instructed the man be brought to the Churchill bunker for further information gathering and to coordinate efforts. Slightly surprised by the man’s dogged, almost stubborn determination and passion for his mission and people, the Prime Minister had immediately deployed considerable resources in initial assistance. Further to this, all mobile anti-aircraft batteries were now being rushed to the south east to protect London and the country’s infrastructure, the United Kingdom’s most immediate European allies flying additional equipment into Stansted. The Essex airport now designated as the main receiving airport for assistance provided from the nations across the world.
In the room next door, Admiral Karladen and his senior intelligence officer were collating the numbers of casualties and arranging medical advisors from their ship to be despatched to the neighbouring hospitals in West London. The commander awaiting the call to join the Prime Minister, to meet and brief his bewildered cabinet and the opposition leaders.
The Prime Minister turned sharply as several people entered the room, nodding a greeting at the ashen faced opposition leader and a couple of his Shadow Cabinet with Special Branch officers, ‘How are you guys holding up?’
The man smiled back weakly, ‘As good as can be expected I suppose. I thought we would have a good argument in the Commons this afternoon over your National Health Service strategy, but I guess that will have to wait now. What’s your intent?’
The Prime Minister smiled ironically, indicating to the screen on the wall, ‘Well we sort through these, have a joint broadcast to the nation and announce a consistent front I think.’ He glanced back at the civil servants typing furiously on their keyboards, ‘Shall we form emergency government and all join? I think the time is right.’
The opposition leader nodded grimly, ‘Yes…I think it’s for the best. It will give confidence to the people and we have no way of knowing where this will lead…or indeed end now!’ He extended his hand towards the Prime Minister slowly, ‘A time for consolidation and perhaps…well perhaps, prayer?’
The Prime Minister grasped his hand smiling, ‘Yes, let’s get through this and see where we are in a couple of months. What are your views…?’ Their eyes met and the apprehension passed between them as a muffled blast from above shook the bunker, dust falling from the ceiling. Another explosion followed, smaller than the first, then another, the bunker seeming to rock and shudder again, dust pouring from the ceiling onto the suited figures. Panicked shouts came from the corridors outside the room as the men’s hands dropped to their sides, their faces white in stunned shock. The Prime Minister swallowed hard, turning and shouting at the civil servants staring at him, ‘Find out what the hell is going on…are we being bombed now?’
A breathless MI6 agent ran into the room, his automatic pistol drawn and held aloft, ‘Prime Minister!’ He saw the dusty suited figure stood before him staring, ‘Thank god you are ok….it’s the Houses of Parliament Sir…’
The Prime Minister’s eyes narrowed, his voice becoming lower and determined, ‘Yes, what?’
The MI6 agent glanced across the other ministers and civil servants in the room desperately, his eyes wide with shock, ‘They’re gone! The Houses of Parliament have gone! Downing Str
eet too Sir…a direct hit…there is nothing left but rubble apparently!’
In the next room, Admiral Karladen leant towards his senior intelligence officer, his expression grim, voice hushed, ‘Get me a secure link to Commander Petaski…his ears only…it appears we have grossly overestimated this planet’s defensive capability.’
The thick clouds of billowing smoke rising from Westminster could be seen all across London. A message sent. Hundreds of people had been killed in the government buildings, the massive blasts reducing most of Whitehall, the United Kingdom’s government quarter, to rubble.
Sky News footage flashed across the world as the tower of Big Ben slowly crumbled and collapsed into the Thames River as belated screams of air raid sirens began sounding across the capital. A large cloud of smoke and dust hanging in the air over Westminster for days.
As the Morgon fighter bombers and escorts swept dramatically upwards into the London sky, below them a crippled French fighter lost control and exploded into Battersea High Street, the second damaged fighter crash landing in Hyde Park near the Serpentine.
Ambulances screamed through the Osterley Park gates, their sirens wailing. Major incident vehicles were now en-route from each hospital in West London as the sheer scale of the incoming casualties was beginning to become apparent. West Middlesex, Ealing, Hillingdon, Hammersmith, Charing Cross and Chelsea and Westminster Hospitals were placed on full alert, their protocols for dealing with major incidents initiated. The remaining London hospitals were treating and awaiting casualties from the air war and an increasing number of accidents and injuries from the ground.
In the park, several large tents and marquees were hastily being erected, the Royal Marines and members of the local Territorial Army being rushed through the traffic with equipment to prepare collection areas for the arriving wounded. St John’s Ambulance Service was deploying its West London incident vehicles.
Several other covered Bedford Lorries then sped into the park, their motorcycle police escort stopping at the gates, the police officers now desperately required elsewhere. The Lorries smashed through the fences at the sides of the wide road and screeched to a halt in the adjacent field, their tailgates dropping. Soldiers dressing in black fatigues and balaclava masks jumped for the rear of the Lorries, their commander stepping down from the passenger seat of the lead vehicle. Straightening, he jogged towards the blue uniformed soldier stood with several policemen in front of the vehicles, the man raising his fist to his chest as the British Officer approached.
The Officer raised his hand sharply to his forehead, his face solemn, barking his arrival, ‘Twenty Second Special Air Service Regiment, A and B squadrons reporting!’
The blue clad Trevakian nodded his approval, seeing the soldiers lumbering towards them carrying heavy kit, ‘Have you any more men?’
The British Officer’s eyes widened briefly, his face darkening, ‘This is reconnaissance to determine the situation. C and D squadrons are to follow. Our reserves are being called up as we speak!’
The Trevakian Officer nodded, ‘Thank you captain. Please direct your men across the field towards the trees.’ He turned and pointed into the distance, ‘Our entrance is there. It will only open for a short time, so please be ready to move.’
The British officer indicated to a tent further to their left, ‘Is that not the entrance…’ He hesitated, swallowing, ‘…Sir?’
The Trevakian Officer nodded, ‘That is the evacuation point for the wounded. We have set it under the trees and provided additional camouflage through jamming and projection in other areas. It will be confused if your men enter there, the Ambulances will collect the casualties from Triage at that point.’
The captain saluted officially, ‘Understood Sir…may I ask, where is the ship?’
The Trevakian Officer smiled faintly, ‘It is one hundred of your metres behind me captain…cloaked.’ His lips quivered as he saw the look of confusion on the captain’s face as he stared past him, straining his eyes, ‘You won’t see it…follow the ground markers exactly or your men may become contaminated in the cloak, understand?’
The captain stiffened, ‘Yes Sir!’ He saluted again, turning and indicating to his men, raising his voice, ‘Follow the ground markers…stop in the trees over there.’ He indicated with his hand, ‘We will embark at that point!’
As the soldiers began to jog past him, he looked the Trevakian in the eyes, ‘Are our weapons suitable, Sir?’ Glancing over his shoulder as he heard further Lorries skidding in the grass next to his own, he smiled grimly, recognising the unit.
The officer shook his head slowly, ‘We will issue you with new weapons and armour if required when you get on board.’ He hesitated, then leant closer to the captain, ‘It is likely your men will see action before this day is out Captain, but that will be a long way from this planet!’ Looking past the captain, he nodded a greeting to the other officer approaching, the man dressed in a camouflage combat uniform.
The SAS captain’s eyes widened slightly, then he nodded grimly, ‘Very well Sir, we will report back to the United Kingdom government after our reconnaissance is complete!’ He stole a glance to his left as the other captain stopped next to them, the new arrival saluting formally.
The Trevakian Officer raised his fist to his left chest in response, ‘Thank you for coming captain, I have just been advising your countryman here of the procedure.’
The camouflage uniformed soldier grinned, ‘Captain James Myers reporting…not sure if he will remember the details, but we will follow him if we may?’ His voice adopting a sarcastic tone.
The SAS captain rolled his eyes, ‘Another Royal Marine with ideas above his station.’ He smiled grimly, ‘Come on then, Mr Myers! Let’s see if you navy boys can keep up!’ He turned abruptly and started to run after his men.
The Royal Marine officer grinned widely at the retort, ‘Bloody secret squirrel black-shirts!’ His face becoming instantly solemn as he saw the perplexed look on the Trevakian officer’s face, ‘Just some inter-unit rivalry, Sir!’ He moved after the SAS captain, indicating to his men to follow.
The Trevakian officer shook his head in exasperation, shouting after the two soldiers, ‘Be careful, learn the enemy before you try and engage. They are like nothing you may have experienced before.’
The SAS captain raised his hand in acknowledgement, jogging after his men, his voice a whisper, ‘We will see how they fare against the SAS and the Royal Marines commandoes!’
Chapter Eight: Your Time is Now
Debra Hardie gasped, her body bent double as he stretched out for the handrail, her body convulsing as she tried to breath. Falling to her knees, tears clouded her vision as she sucked in air frantically, her body reacting violently to the third trip through the transporter. As the wounded were half carried or dragged past her and into the intense light, she felt her stomach turn, then a hand grab underneath her shoulder.
Dryden grasped her arm, pulling her upwards, ‘Some people take a while to become accustomed to the leap through space…others never get used to it.’ She nodded weakly in response, her chest heaving as she struggled to suck oxygen though constricted passageways to her lungs, the stress of the transporter causing involuntary internal muscle contractions.
As they half slid down the ramp from the transporter, the portal lights flashing behind them, the room before them began to be bathed in red light as the warning system engaged. The computerised female voice activated across the speaker system, ‘Attention! Attention! Morgon fighter squadron inbound on Alexion One! Laser Shield deployment activating! Transporter link commencing power down!’ The message began to repeat, the red lights eerily flashing across the faces of the wounded and helpers alike as they attempted to hurry towards the lights in the tunnel. The computerised voice hesitated, then began a new link, ‘Transporter shutdown two minutes! Power to Laser Shield engaging! Battle Stations! Battle Stations!’ A warning tone commenced, the pulsing noise filling the two rooms.
Dryden gent
ly leant Debra against the wall, seeing the urgency to load the wounded. Approaching him, David Bland was struggling to support the weight of a wounded marine, a blood trail from the man’s bandaged stomach wound leading back into the room before the transporter. Dryden grasped the man’s shoulder, avoiding his broken arm and together they moved forward towards the lights, the severely wounded soldier grimacing as his body adjusted.
As they climbed the ramp, black uniformed soldiers started to come through the lights either side of them, their bodies shaking as they coughed and fought for air. Pushing past them, Dryden pulled the wounded man and David through the lights, a line of wounded and their helpers forming behind them in the rush to get to safety.
Shino and Riaz were supporting the weight of two wounded and helping them directly towards the transporter from the doors opposite, Sam moving behind them supporting a soldier with a broken leg, both casualties moaning loudly. As the room began to clear towards the lights beyond, the last few soldiers were brought forward, the blood trails and spillages on the shiny floor sticking to the boots of the helpers and wounded alike.
As the bedraggled group of injured were assisted through the transporter, more soldiers came through in the opposite direction, their camouflaged uniformed bodies struggling against the reactions the trip had caused. Shino realised they were British troops, the uniforms only supplemented by newly issued shoulder armour in the rush to use the transporter on earth.
Riaz turned to one of the Trevakian Medics as he moved back from the transporter, ‘What is the Laser Shield?’
The medic indicated for him to walk alongside as he headed for a limping soldier struggling across the wide room next door, ‘Small droids are deployed into space around the station, they are linked by powerful lasers destroying or disrupting any incoming fire. Very effective as long as they are fully powered, hence the shutdown of the transporter.’ He grasped the wounded man’s shoulder and turned to walk him back through the room.
The Last Marine in the Galaxy (Galaxies Collide Book 1) Page 8