Onslaught

by Chris James

  He dabbed at the screen and replayed the data which the bot had collected before the burnout. “There must be a pattern...” he mumbled to himself as he scanned the numbers and maps and other data. He opened his mouth to ask the apartment block’s managing super AI to analyse the data and draw conclusions, until he realised that it would no longer answer him.

  A few moments later, he stood and walked to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and looked down the street. Few street lights shone through the darkness, but he could make out the endless rows of low-rise apartment blocks similar to the one in which he stood. In Usak, most buildings had up to ten floors, seldom more, and in this southern residential part of the city, their delicate pink and yellow exteriors were dulled by the weak light.

  He wondered how many of the thousands of other people would be aware of what was happening. He stood, shaking his head, but could not refute the conclusion to which the scarce data which he had gleaned pointed: a full-scale military invasion of his country had begun, without warning and in the middle of the night. His young, logical mind provided a further sequence of inescapable conclusions: millions of people would run before the advancing Caliphate forces; little help would be forthcoming; and the only option he had now was to escape the country.

  He glanced around the room, understanding that his life and the lives of millions of people had changed irrevocably in the last thirty minutes, although most of them did not yet realise this. He went to the small storage space in an enclosure above the narrow hall. He stood on a one-step stool, reached in and pulled out a large rucksack he used for summer climbing in the Western and Central Taurus Mountains.

  As he cleared detritus out from the last trip, he spoke to himself: “Right, think. All digital connections burned out, so nothing works. No super AI, no integrated systems management. No vehicles running anywhere, hospitals in the dark, airports too.”

  He returned to the desk and opened a bureau next to it. “Can’t contact anyone, so everyone’s on their own… Okay, where is it? Got you.” He took out an elegant, leather-bound desk journal which fitted easily into the rucksack. He rummaged through the rest of his possessions to take what practical things he could find, and blessed the course he’d chosen at university, in particular the map-reading module. He took out a detailed topographic atlas of Europe and leafed through the pages. He recalled how badly he and his fellow students had reacted on being presented with this appalling relic of a long-gone era, but the lecturer had insisted they spend an afternoon learning what the contours and other indicators meant. In addition, their course professor maintained that the old skills remained a key ability of any proper engineer. Berat shook his head at the memory of how he’d laughed then. He didn’t laugh now.

  Ten minutes later, he began his flight from danger. He left the apartment and padded down the three floors of concrete stairs, unsurprised that the super-AI-controlled lift no longer worked. He collected his bicycle from the secure area at the rear of the block, and after some rudimentary checks of its mechanical condition, he pedalled off in the direction of Izmir, two hundred kilometres distant and the best hope he had of getting a ship out of the country.

  Berat realised that no one outside Turkey would—or could—know of the disaster befalling his country. Unlike President Demir, Berat regarded the Caliphate’s secrecy with suspicion, and its public displays of the satisfaction, wealth and the happiness of its peoples to be manufactured. As he cycled through the darkness, scarf and bobble hat protecting his head but not stopping the numbing winter chill on his face, he wondered what would happen next. A voice inside him questioned this night-time flight and suggested that, perhaps, he should’ve simply gone back to bed and slept off the worry and bad thoughts. All would become plain in the bright, fresh light of the morning. But the failed attempt to contact his family and friends acted as the sledgehammer of realisation that the immense danger was all too real.

  He pedalled out of Usak with grim determination, armed with his journal and atlas, some biscuits and a bottle of water. The Caliphate would burn out all modern equipment, but the world would still know how it treated Turkey. By the time the sky paled, the sun rose, and the chill breeze on his face warmed slightly, a grim, granite determination had formed inside Berat Kartal, a determination that the Caliphate would not enjoy free rein as it overran his country.

  Chapter 11

  05.24 Tuesday 7 February 2062

  GENERAL SIR TERRY Tidbury stared at the impenetrable black night outside his kitchen window, his hands clenched around a mug of steaming tea. The pane reflected the harsh glare of the overhead light, but behind it, outside, there existed only blackness. To Terry, the news he’d been woken to receive took a similar outline: the sudden, painfully bright light with only an empty void beyond it. In the next few moments, hours, days and weeks, the veil of uncertainty, so abruptly thrown, would lift to reveal a future which in this instant remained unfathomable.

  He glanced at the screen to his left, in the wall next to the cooker, and read the text scrolling past. Some deeper level of consciousness inside him wondered if he’d slipped into an alternate reality, where—

  The screen chimed and broke his line of thought. “Yes,” he said.

  The broad African-American face of General Joseph E. Jones, Supreme Allied Commander Europe, resolved on the screen, the low-slung jaw set in a grimace. “Sorry to wake you, General.”

  Sir Terry shook his head in dismissal. “What news of the Arabian fleet?” he asked.

  “Also totally destroyed.”

  “No survivors?” Terry asked, sipping his tea.

  “None at all. We picked up two in the Mediterranean: an Able Seaman Tech from the Argent and an ordinance jack from the Ronald Reagan, but they’re both pretty beat up.”

  “How can I help you at this stage, Sir?”

  Air whistled through Jones’s teeth, then: “The obvious, to begin with: talk to your people, get the politicians briefed and onside. We need to respond damn quick.”

  “Satellites report increasing jamming over Turkish airspace.”

  The American nodded, “Yup, we believe they’ve already invaded—”

  “Are we going to invoke Article Five immediately?”

  “Nope. Turkey left NATO two years ago, so she’s on her own.”

  “Christ, the Caliphate forces will steamroller right over the Turks.”

  Jones’s face creased in confusion. “Steamroller?”

  “Not important. How long do you think Turkey will be able to hold out?”

  “That depends what the Caliphate hits them with—”

  “Do we assume that the contents of that data-pod are accurate now?”

  The American stroked his chin. “I guess that’s the initial step, till we can get any more reliable data.”

  “Sir, I believe we should proceed on the assumption that tonight’s attack is the prelude to a full-scale invasion of Europe.”

  “I agree, although it’s too early to be certain. All war-game scenarios state that subjugation of Turkey would be a prelude to any invasion of a larger, more powerful state. I can’t wait to hear what that piece of shit in Tehran is gonna say about tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t expect him to admit his long-term plans in public, Sir. Not yet, at any rate. Turkey’s been drifting towards autocracy for a while now, and I wonder if Demir had planned acceding to the Caliphate all along.”

  “We need to formulate a response if Turkey asks for assistance.”

  “Indeed. What are the computers saying now, Sir?”

  A wry smile crossed Jones’s face. “Ample Annie is starting to sound like a goddamn politician with all the dumbass excuses she’s coming out with. She keeps reassessing probabilities and claiming she needs more data to decide if the next target—assuming there is a next target—is gonna be India or the Asian Caucuses.”

  “Very well. I’ll start making sure the right people understand what’s at stake. One important thing does worry me, Sir.”
<
br />   “What’s that?”

  “We’re talking about a part of the world which hasn’t experienced war for more than one hundred and twenty years. If the Caliphate’s main target is Europe, we’ll have a mountain to climb to raise sufficiently strong armies.”

  General Jones shook his head. “No, we don’t know that it’ll come to that, yet. This could be no more than an attempt to assimilate Turkey. Besides, nearly all conventional warfare is conducted by machine now. One step at a time, General. I want you at the NAC meeting we’re putting together for nine this morning CEE time, eight GMT. Patch in with your super AI.”

  “Sir.”

  The instant Jones’s face vanished, Sir Terry instructed: “Squonk, connect me with PM Napier.”

  As Sir Terry expected, the face that appeared in the screen belonged to Napier’s aide, Crispin Webb. He frowned and said: “Ah, Sir Terry. Are you up to date?”

  “Yes, is the PM?”

  Webb hesitated. “We are about to wake her and brief her, but we thought we’d wait for more data.”

  Sir Terry’s mouth fell open. “Half of His Majesty’s Royal Navy has been sent to the bottom of the sea this night and the Prime Minister of England and First Lord of the Treasury still hasn’t been told?”

  Webb paused and scratched his stubble before his familiar arrogance returned. “I decided it would not be appropriate to wake the PM until we can brief her properly regarding re—”

  “The fleet was sunk over two hours ago,” Sir Terry exclaimed.

  Webb’s red eyes narrowed, and Sir Terry took a sliver of pleasure from Webb’s own shock at the sudden turn of events. “Yes, but there’s no point waking her with incomplete information and a badly organised brief—”

  “And are you clever youngsters sufficiently organised to get transport from my house to Number Ten in fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes, of course. If you think you can help.”

  Sir Terry ordered: “Do it,” and ended the connection before Webb’s petulance riled him further. He drank a mouthful of hot, malty tea and heard footsteps padding closer behind him. He smiled when he felt the long, slender fingers of his wife Maureen caress his shoulder.

  “What’s happening, Terry?” she asked.

  He laid his fingers over hers and said: “I think these shocked youngsters need some help… And I’m going to show them that, today, I’m their best friend.”

  Chapter 12

  08.39 Tuesday 7 February 2062

  PRIME MINISTER DAHRA Napier tucked her auburn hair behind an ear, pulled her mauve cardigan closer around her, and said: “But what happens next? They can’t just sink our ships, kill thousands of our sailors, and expect to get away with it,” in a voice that managed to sound both plaintive and authoritative. Her tone unnerved Sir Terry as he sat opposite the kitchen table on the third floor of 10 Downing Street. Through the windows, the morning winter sky shone blue and fresh and cold.

  Sir Terry looked at Napier’s hazel eyes and saw the fear and concern in them, almost all authority stripped away, like acid strips paint, by an event which was proceeding to shatter everyone’s nerves. He tried to reassure her: “No, they can’t, PM. But the situation is very fluid, and we need—”

  “What we need,” Crispin Webb broke in, “is to hit these bastards as hard as we can as soon as we can. Show them we won’t accept this.”

  Sir Terry smiled and said: “With what?”

  “Our own ACAs, of course,” Webb spat as though Sir Terry didn’t know. “We should arm them with nuclear warheads and destroy the Caliphate.”

  “And you believe the enemy hasn’t considered that?”

  Webb blustered, “What? I don’t know, probably, but… We have to attack them—”

  Napier broke in: “Crispin, they would like nothing more than for us to do that, because then they could nuke us back.”

  “And what you don’t seem to realise, Mr Webb,” Sir Terry added, “is that they might stop our nuclear attack in its tracks with their overwhelming air superiority, while we would not be able to stop theirs.”

  “But, but,” Webb stuttered, “we have too many other things to deal with. There can’t be a war, now, surely? What about the flood defences? The army is wrapped up with that. What about the polls? The anti-gaming legislation is supposed to be the defining achievement of the PM’s premiership—”

  “Yes, well, it seems our priorities have changed somewhat in the last few hours, Crispin,” Napier said.

  “The press are going mad for a reaction. They won’t stop—”

  “So go and do your job,” the PM suddenly spat. “Go and write a press release for me, now.”

  Webb blinked in shock, and then mumbled his agreement and stalked out of the kitchen.

  When the door closed behind the aide, Napier looked at Sir Terry for a moment before admitting: “I have no idea what to do next, Sir Terry.”

  “Firstly, please drop the ‘Sir’. Secondly, you have hundreds of years of military experience at your disposal, PM. We’ve run simulations and war games and trained for potential confrontations—”

  “But this is different, isn’t it? They attacked our ships with many more ACAs than we thought they had, and do you know what’s happening in Turkey?”

  Terry wanted to show Napier the respect in which he held her, but he admitted to himself that he would’ve preferred to be dealing with another man. Women in positions of power performed well in times of peace, when measured restraint was required and the most significant threat to the status quo remained the relentless rise of the seas. Now, with an abruptness which defied belief, Europe faced a storm of violence the like of which its peoples had not seen in over a hundred years.

  He decided to be blunt: “Things are probably going to get a little worse before they get better,” he said.

  Napier let out a scoff, “A choice understatement, Terry. But what on earth happens next?”

  “Containment, PM. We absolutely cannot react offensively until we understand fully how better equipped they are than us.” Terry nodded to the door through which Webb had exited. “Reactions like that can’t be allowed to guide what we do in the coming days and weeks, or I think it could all be over for us very soon.”

  “Crispin is not suited—”

  “At the same time, we also need stability. People like him, I assume, know some history; they’re aware of the potential situations they could find themselves having to deal with.”

  “Perhaps, but this is unprecedented, it’s—”

  “Not so much, PM. It’s happened before and will likely happen again. What can catch us out now is the speed—” Terry stopped as the Prime Minister’s eye twitched and she glanced down.

  “Hello, Maddie,” she said with a tight smile, then: “Of course, but I have my military advisor here so I’ll put you on a screen.” Napier pulled her cardigan closer around her shoulders, got up and walked over to a wall on the far side of the spacious room. Terry followed, looking at the puffs of bright winter cloud through the high Edwardian windows and shuddering again at the prospect of what the future held.

  The screen came to life with the oval head of Madelyn Coll, President of the United States. The artificial light in the Oval Office shone down from overhead, accentuating the shadows under Coll’s eyes. The President squinted and said without preamble: “Obviously we’ve gone to DEFCON 1 now and we’ll submit a condemnation motion at the UN, but I’d like you to make your special forces available for immediate deployment—”

  Terry broke in: “I think we should wait for the emergency NAC meeting before we make any hard-and-fast military decis—”

  And was himself interrupted: “Dahra, we’re going to have to move against the Caliphate very soon, and all NATO allies need to be onboard.”

  Terry saw Napier’s chin jut: “We are, Maddie, but don’t you think—”

  Anger flashed across the President’s face: “I’ve got a military complex here straining at the leash. In the last few hours, the Third Cal
iph has wiped out two naval battle groups in an entirely unprovoked attack. It must be made to pay. We’re readying our PeaceMakers for a full-scale nuclear assault on Caliphate territory.”

  Terry and Napier swapped a glance and Terry saw the Prime Minister’s anxiety betrayed by a nervous lick of dry lips. “Maddie,” she pleaded, “please reconsider and wait, just a few hours. It seems reasonable to assume the Third Caliph would not have attacked in this manner without considering our response, and I believe a full nuclear attack is not only what he’s waiting for, but what he’s actually expecting. And that means it must be bound to fail.”

  President Coll’s eyes narrowed as she appeared to consider the point. She said: “Our super AI suggests there is a moderate probability that could be what might happen.”

  “So does ours,” Napier replied.

  “But after what they’ve done, totally unprovoked, emotions are running kinda high.”

  “It’s the same here, Maddie, but we can’t let ourselves be goaded into a trap.”

  The President leaned off to the left, and despite her lifting a hand to cover her mouth, Terry heard her query, “Goaded?” and a lightly spoken reply came from out of view, “Led into.”

  The President looked back into the screen. “Okay, we’ll wait for the NAC meeting and the official triggering of Article Five. But Ample Annie got it wrong big time, and I’ve a mind that she might be wrong again.”