by Chris James
The American, either John or Dan, continued: “The Caliphate has been a closed political entity since its formation over twenty years ago.”
The Professor muttered: “Oh goody, let’s start with the bleeding obvious, shall we?”
“Until a few days ago, that was much more a political issue than a military one, and I’m sure I don’t need to give you folks a history lesson.”
“Might be history to you, young fella, but some of us lived through that and it seems like only yesterday,” the Professor said.
“If you look at this image behind me, you’ll see what we call the ‘Caliphate’s Nest’, a layered system of several tens of satellites which hold geostationary orbits over Caliphate territory.”
The Professor became intrigued and analysed the image. It showed the locations of more than seventy satellites in orbits ranging from one hundred and fifty kilometres to over ninety thousand kilometres.
“Now, this nest is constructed to do two things: to prevent anyone outside Caliphate territory seeing in, and to stop any Caliphate subject seeing out. However, that hasn’t stopped the USAF trying to breach this barrier. The problem is that our satellites can glean very little hard data before they go dark. For the last ten years or so, the information we’ve been getting has all pointed to a political entity which is stable and broadly peaceful, as its leaders claim.
“Over the last forty-eight hours, the USAF has mounted attacks on selected parts of the nest but to little avail. Our satellites are probably being taken out by more powerful lasers. It’s likely the Caliphate might have developed different tech to us. Nevertheless, the key issue here is that, to break through their cloak of electromagnetic darkness, we need to destroy those satellites.”
“Why are the attacks failing?” asked the German Chief of Staff.
“Er, excuse me?” the American stuttered.
“Why are the attacks failing?” the German repeated.
“As I said, we suspect that our satellites are probably—”
“Why do you always say ‘probably’ and ‘likely’? Do you not know anything?”
The Professor could see the American’s hold on his temper begin to slip. “I told you: we cannot be one hundred percent sure exactly how they are taking our satellites out.”
“Pah,” said the German dismissively, “it must be because they have more powerful lasers, which means they have much stronger power units.”
The American replied with anger: “Sure, that’s the easy route: just to assume you know what’s going on. But you need to look at the variables. Light, especially when it’s concentrated into a beam designed to burn something to destruction, behaves differently at different altitudes. Once you get to a certain height, you’re transitioning from an air environment to an airless environment. We’re attacking Caliphate satellites in broad elliptical orbits, which means the wavelengths—”
“Rubbish!” the German shouted. “Super AI should easily compensate for such variables and millions more besides—”
“Wait,” a new voice said. All heads spun to look at the speaker as he stood. Professor Seekings recognised the young, slender man as one of the authors of a recent paper he’d read on the application of fusion tech in deep undersea exploration. “Oh what’s his name? Louis something, from France… Ripper? Rayer? Reyer?” He looked at the attendance list to see the young man’s name highlighted because he now spoke.
Reyer glanced at the attendees with a placid face. The English he spoke carried a heavy French accent: “This is really very clear to anyone who has even a basic understanding of nuclear fusion.”
The German questioner said: “Would you care to enlighten us?”
Reyer replied: “It is the propulsion systems of their satellites which are the source of all our difficulties. And that is because they are built around a muon-based fusion reactor.”
The Professor scoffed and noted similar reactions from other attendees with a scientific background. He muttered: “And how do you think they’ve suffice—” but stopped when Reyer continued speaking.
“Their artificial intelligence must have truly found a needle in a haystack.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked one of the Americans, looking irked that his presentation had become an open debate.
The American received a Gallic shrug, and the Professor found himself obliged to admit a grudging admiration for the young French nuclear physicist. Reyer continued laconically: “There are a very great many atomic and subatomic particles which have numerous uses. In a fusion reaction, a muon particle, in general, has only a one percent chance of sticking to an alpha particle. What has happened here, as anyone with even a modest knowledge of physics will realise, is that the Caliphate’s computers have found a way to overcome this limitation on muon performance—”
“Oh yeah? How?” the American asked with a sneer.
Reyer’s left eyebrow rose in a look of mild indifference. “Is it not obvious? Oh, I suppose not to—”
“Yeah, yeah, just get on with it, Frenchy,” the American spat back.
Reyer’s expression didn’t change. He said: “My initial research suggests that in a certain type of high-pressured hydrogen-based containment field, it might be possible to generate substantially increased power. However, the parameters of this containment field are highly specific. What the Caliphate has achieved is several years ahead of where NATO is.”
“That absolutely cannot be the goddamn answer to why their kit outmatches ours in just about every goddamn depart—”
“And that is just where you are wrong, Mr Parsons. It answers everything. It answers how their satellite nest can be so impregnable; it answers why their ACA shielding is so much stronger than ours; it answers how they can mount a laser on an ACA and give it the lethality and dexterity of their Lapwing. And it leaves NATO, and in consequence our countries, very, very exposed.”
Even though he attended in a virtual capacity, Professor Seekings sensed the shock as it rippled around the conference room. Then the American gathered himself and spoke with hesitation: “And can you share that ‘initial research’?”
“It already is shared, automatically. Each NATO country’s and armed service’s artificial intelligence has access to it.”
Parsons looked at his colleague and shrugged his shoulders. The colleague stepped forward and said: “Well, folks, it looks like Mr… Excuse me, what’s your name, Sir?”
“Louis Reyer.”
“Thank you. It looks like Mr Reyer’s contribution today has changed the fundamental dynamics and has, er, kinda—”
The man stopped talking as Professor Seekings ripped the glasses from his head and thus left the conference. The Professor got off the couch and paced around the room. “Well, well, well, a proper little genius… And French, too. Will wonders never cease?” He went through to a small kitchenette at the rear and put the kettle on. “Tea,” he muttered. “Nothing can get solved without a decent cup of tea.” He grabbed a mug from the sink and threw a tea bag in it. “Squonk,” he barked, addressing the Ministry of Defence’s super AI, “Louis Reyer, French scientist. Access his research, please.”
The kettle boiled and the Professor made his tea. He spent the next two hours reviewing Reyer’s research, his respect for the young French scientist increasing throughout. At the end, he stared into the cold, empty tea mug and muttered: “The fellow’s right, of course. But it will take us years to catch up. And we’re due to be put to the sword any day now. Hmm, tricky.”
Chapter 43
07.42 Monday 13 February 2062
CORPORAL RORY MOORE of 103 Squadron, 21 Engineer Regiment, Royal Engineers, fidgeted in his seat and wondered when they would finally get going. To either side of him sat the other members of Squad Delta Four-Two: Crimble, Pratty, and his adored Pip. Around them, the rest of 103 Squadron itched, bantered, and blathered their way through the minutes until their Commanding Officer deigned to speak to them. Rory looked up at the ceiling of the ha
nger and then around him at the rows of hundreds of his fellow Engineers, and felt the intense heat from the small ball of regimental pride inside him, which burned as fiercely as any sun.
An elbow in his ribs from Crimble brought him back to the moment. “Where d’you reckon they’re sending us then, eh?”
“What?” Rory said in exasperation. “The Falkland Islands, I expect.”
Crimble’s eyes narrowed. “Really? You reckon?”
Rory despaired and replied: “No, not really.”
From beyond Crimble, Pip pushed her slim body forward and said to the men: “I’ve heard the real name of the mission is Operation Certain Death.”
“And that’s why they’ll get us to make a will before we embark,” announced Pratty, reclining on the other side of Rory with his legs sticking out, ready to trip an inattentive squaddie.
Pip began: “Have you guys got anything worth making a will for, apart from—” but stopped when the sergeants around the hanger barked out an order.
At once, eight hundred Royal Engineers stood to attention as their commanding officer, Colonel Doyle, entered the hanger. He and his aide strode to a raised podium in front of the soldiers. Rory couldn’t stop a wry smile forming on his face as he saw the Colonel’s moustache, an exact copy of which Crimble had grown.
The Colonel stared at his troops for a moment, nodding in apparent satisfaction with an encouraging half-smile on his face, and then he said: “As you were.” The soldiers sat back down and the Colonel went on: “I won’t keep you long. As you all know now, we expect an invasion of the European mainland by the New Persian Caliphate to begin at any moment. It is our job to make a major contribution to upsetting the Third Caliph and his outrageous plans.
“You are a vitally important part of the British Expeditionary Force. You are one of the first regiments to have the privilege of deploying to Southern Spain, and it is highly probable that you will play a key defensive role when the invasion begins. You will have all support with which the armed forces of NATO, working in unison, can provide you.
“I shan’t try to deceive you, troops. I have too much respect for you to do that. Operation Defensive Arc will see us outmatched and outgunned. However, I remain convinced that if NATO is to successfully defend the European mainland from this foe, which has so abruptly exploded upon us, you will find the resourcefulness to do so. Each of you, remember that you represent one thousand years of history of providing service to the British, now the English, crown. Take a moment to reflect on all that the Royal Engineers have achieved down the centuries, and understand that what you embark upon today is the next step in our on-going and illustrious history. Thank you.”
The Colonel took a step back. The sergeants barked and the soldiers stood to attention. The Colonel saluted them, and the eight hundred returned the salute. The Colonel and his aide strode off to Rory’s left. A sergeant walked up to the podium, scooped it up and wandered off in the opposite direction. Rory heard a deep thump and the vast hanger doors in front of them slid open. The bright morning sunlight revealed a runway beyond, on which sat the three Autonomous Air Transports which would take them and their equipment to Spain.
Crimble stroked his moustache with a thumb and forefinger, and said: “Oh, look. Boeing 818s. I wonder how old they are.”
“Any idea, Pratty?” Rory asked.
Pratty tutted and said: “Been in service twenty-one years, long-since superseded by the 828. Top speed Mach 6.5; maximum cargo weight—”
Pip broke in with a cheerful: “Maximum number of coffins that will fit inside it, Pratty?”
Crimble said: “You think Brass is going to have the time to put us in a coffin and bring us back?”
Rory said: “If they bring the Lapwings in, it’ll be a cremation with our ashes scattered over Spain.”
“And so Operation Certain Death gets underway,” Pip said with her impish grin that made Rory’s affection for her burn a little more fiercely.
Abruptly his Squitch indicated in his eyesight which AAT he and his squad should board. “Okay, guys, you got that?”
The other three mumbled their confirmations, and all four joined the other two hundred and fifty Royal Engineers who trudged towards the foremost aircraft, as the rest split to board the other aircraft. Rory swallowed his affection for Pip back down yet again as he had so many times. They were heading into what would soon become a warzone, and the gallows’ humour became as good a protection as their weapons would likely be when the invasion began.
Chapter 44
09.13 Tuesday 14 February 2062
TERRY GLANCED AT the attendees at the COBRA meeting and noted how the composition changed depending on what was on the agenda. Several people attended each meeting: the PM and her aide, the Head of MI5, David Perkins, and either other cabinet ministers or top civil servants. Junior ministers sometimes appeared, and today the conference table was crowded with three Chief Constables and two Fire Brigade Chiefs.
Perkins prodded the screen in the desk in front of him and announced. “The new intel is clear: the invasion will not begin until this Sunday, 19 February. Our forces have five days to prepare.”
“What about the source?” Terry asked.
“The same source as the data-pod which we all thought was planted evidence.”
“Speak for yourself,” Terry said. “How sure can you be that the source is still reliable?”
“We have in place a protocol if the source is compromised. The source claims they have good leverage over the contact that provides the intel.”
“Can you tell us anything about the contact?” Terry asked.
“Only that it’s very good.”
“I should hope so,” Terry said.
Perkins shot Terry a reproachful glance, and then said: “I’ve shared this intel with our allies, but I think this is a major breakthrough, frankly speaking.”
Terry saw Napier smile ruefully. She said: “It is very useful, Mr Perkins, and I thank you for sharing it with our allies, but for us to regard new intelligence as a ‘major breakthrough’, it would have to involve a revelation which might offer us a slight chance of avoiding the bleak fate our computers tell us is a certainty.”
Terry glanced at the civilians around the table and recalled the first COBRA meeting which the Head of MI5 had attended just over two weeks before. Terry remembered how they’d dismissed his request to make extra funding available for increasing ACA production, and then Perkins had questioned his judgement. The assumed threat of an attack by the Caliphate then had been eight percent. Now it was ninety-eight-point-seven percent. With melancholy he thought of all the lives that had been lost in the intervening time, and all those yet to die. A voice inside reminded him of his duty and his job.
He spoke to Perkins: “Is there any way at all we could get corroboration from other sources?”
Perkins replied: “We’re working hard, especially with the Americans. The CIA has some strong contacts in the Chinese conglomerates in Africa. If we do get corroboration, I will disseminate it at once.”
“If we accept this intel as accurate, it should allow logistics to improve,” Terry said. “But I don’t think we should let the ground troops know.”
Napier looked at him. “Can that be stopped? If we’ve already shared this with our allies, I’d imagine it will become common knowledge among the lower ranks quite soon.”
“I have another North Atlantic Council meeting at eleven, and in any case I’ll raise it with SACEUR before then.”
“Very well. Now I’d like to bring in Chief Constable Holloway of the Surrey Constabulary. One of the strongest concerns, not only according to media outlets but also among the general population, is the threat of terror attacks on England and the Home Nations similar to those endured by Athens and Rome at the weekend. Chief Constable Holloway has been nominated to head a committee to establish the likelihood of such attacks and draw up recommendations regarding what can be done to ensure citizens’ safety.”
The Chief Constable, a dark-skinned middle-aged man whose flat nose and rounded jaw spoke of Slavic roots, cleared his throat and said: “The Civil Defence Committee has established some basic tenets. Firstly, according to the latest research, there is no question regarding whether the Caliphate’s ACAs can reach the British Isles. According to our scientists, depending on how their power availability is utilised, they could have a range of up to one thousand kilometres.”
Terry groaned inside. Holloway seemed to be one of those speakers for whom addressing any kind of audience or making an announcement led to a reliance on filler words. In addition, Holloway had a low monotone delivery which Terry was certain would put half the room to sleep in moments, and the rest not long afterwards.
The Chief Constable went on: “Second, should an attack on the Home Nations be launched, the security services would have no more than a few moments of warning. Unfortunately, it would be difficult to keep knowledge of an approaching attack from the general population—”
“But why ever should we want to?” Napier broke in.
Holloway looked surprised: “Panic, Prime Minister. We wouldn’t want to cause unnecessary panic in the civilian population.”
“So what do you propose?” she asked, incredulous.
“It would be helpful if we could put in place a system to limit citizens’ ability to communicate. Built around key ‘trigger’ words, we would be able to—”
Napier erupted: “Absolutely out of the question. England is a free country. No matter the threat, I will not drag us back to the days of monitoring citizens to a level which all but obliterates their privacy. I can remember as a girl how those governments used to monitor everyone’s mobile phones and their emails and completely destroyed any pretence that the general population had any privacy. And I swore then that, if I were ever in my life in a position to influence the issue, I would give ordinary citizens back their privacy.”