by Chris James
Holloway stammered: “Yes, of course. You’re quite correct, Prime Minister. But these are not ordinary times. We face a mortal enemy—”
Napier’s hand slapped down on the table and her voice dripped with sarcasm: “Really? Well, what can I say, Chief Constable? How will we ever be able to thank you for pointing this out to us?”
Terry’s senses came alive at the abrupt realisation that Napier may have been pushed too far. But at once flickers of a deeper thought process resolved on the Prime Minister’s face. She exhaled, inhaled deeply and said: “Chief Constable Holloway, and the rest of you for that matter, we face something unprecedented in our lifetimes. For almost one hundred and twenty years, we have had peace in Europe. We have had problems, too, but for the most part, Europeans have been able to live the lives they wished to. Today, all that has gone. But as we choose how we best defend ourselves, we must not lose sight of what we are and what our country stands for.
“The people of England cannot be micromanaged in such a way as to deny them information to which they have a right. Besides which, any similar attack would likely cause thousands of casualties, so we need communities to help each other as much as possible. Certainly the Police and Fire Brigades will be overwhelmed.”
Holloway said with incredulity: “Have you seen the protests? How often do you get briefed—”
“Thank you, Chief,” Crispin Webb broke in with a sneer. “The PM is briefed regularly on current events—”
“That’s good to hear,” Holloway shot back. “Because ordinary people are frightened. They’re feeling threatened, exposed, and can’t believe that the authorities might not be able to protect them. In addition to the peace protests which we have sparking off every evening in numerous towns and cities, we’re also seeing alarming increases in crime, and I have anecdotal evidence that hospitals are noting more suicides than usual.”
Napier turned to Webb. “Crispin,” she asked, “how many people died in sea defence breaches around the coast of England last year?”
Webb’s eye twitched and he replied: “Three hundred and twenty-two confirmed drownings and disappearances; a further forty-three aggravated fatalities.”
“How many people died in domestic accidents?”
“Eighty-one.”
“And how many in road traffic accidents?”
“Nine.”
Napier turned and her look took in everyone in the room. “We don’t know how many perished in Athens and Rome, but we can be sure it runs to the tens of thousands. That’s a different kind of disaster, and it is ridiculous to pretend to the citizens of this country that their government and armed forces can somehow protect them from such an onslaught.”
“If and when it happens,” Holloway interjected.
“It already has,” Napier replied in exasperation. “We’ve all seen the pictures from those cities, from Turkey, and worst of all the wholesale slaughter in Israel. This is what the people of England will shortly have to endure.”
Holloway said: “One of the better suggestions I’ve received is to recreate the Civil Defence Corps.”
“What’s that?” Perkins asked.
“A volunteer force, mainly of civilians. It existed from 1949 to 1968, and although run under the direction of the Home Office, each county’s authority was pretty autonomous. Then, the Corps’ main duty was to be ready to respond to a nuclear attack. Given today’s technology, something like this would be very useful in the event of a massed Caliphate ACA attack like those on Athens and Rome. In fact, we’re already seeing local communities form unofficial virtual networks, detailing where the deepest cellars are located. Many are suggesting that in the event of an attack, local government super AIs should empty vehicle termini by sending all vehicles onto the roads so people can shelter in their underground parking areas.”
Napier said: “That’s an excellent idea, Holloway. Liaise with the Home Secretary and get the ball rolling on this. It’s important these local communities see central government stepping up to support where possible.”
Terry added: “These civil defence authorities could also coordinate the surveys for building shelters.”
Napier sat back, apparently satisfied, and said: “Good. Now I only need to get the Treasury on board.”
Chapter 45
22.15 Tuesday 14 February 2062
“MAUREEN IS STILL such a magnificent cook, Earl. I ain’t never had a Beef Wellington as good as that,” Studs Stevens said.
Terry smiled. “I think she appreciated your kind words, Suds. Shall we?” He opened the humidor and offered it to Stevens.
The American smiled at the sight of the four Montecristo number twos laying in an orderly row inside the box. He took one and ran it under his nose. Terry also took one and both men picked up their snifters. They strolled back to the chairs arranged in front of the panoramic windows that looked out over the English Channel a couple of hundred metres below.
They lit their cigars and Terry took in the familiar surroundings of the one indulgence in his home: the smoking room. The distant crash of waves washed off the windows and walls. Terry sipped his brandy and said: “I think the view is somehow better when it’s dark.”
“I agree,” Studs replied. “We can picture our future more easily.”
Terry grunted: “Easy for you to say. Tomorrow you get on an AAT and return to the US. And I’ve got a feeling you’re going to be as safe as you Americans always are over there when there’s a war in Europe.”
Studs smiled and then asked: “What do you think about the intel?”
“The way things have been going so far, I’ll take almost any intel at face value, Suds. I don’t understand why the enemy waits like this. If he does have so many warriors and ACAs all ready to go, why the terror attacks on Athens and Rome? Why not simply come right at us, before we’re even properly ready with the precious few defences we’ve got?”
“Looks like downright sadism to me.”
“What’s the mood across the pond, really, Suds? Napier and Coll aren’t getting on, and we’re going to need US help, like always.”
Stevens sipped his brandy and said: “Coll may be the Commander in Chief, but the US doesn’t go to war on the whim of any President. NATO has a pretty good image in Congress, Earl, and if she doesn’t authorise the support for our NATO obligations, she’ll have all kinds of problems. Anyways, she’s been giving the authorisations just fine up to now, so don’t worry.”
“I witnessed the last call she had with the PM. It was real stilettos-at-dawn stuff.”
Stevens chuckled. “I think Coll has the same problem as every leader of the European countries: twitchy populations who don’t know if they want peace, or if they want security, or revenge.”
“And hardly understanding that they won’t get any of those; that the choice has already been taken away from them.”
Stevens murmured his agreement and more spicy, woody cigar smoke wafted up to the ceiling. He asked: “How about your relationship with SACEUR?”
“Very good. I like General Jones.”
“Yeah, he’s one tough bastard.”
“Just what I thought.”
“How did today’s NAC meeting go?”
Terry paused before replying: “There’s a sense of unreality developing about them, Suds. Day after day we discuss deployments, strategies, and countermeasures. The computers run thousands of simulations based on hundreds of variables. But the numbers are hopeless. England, France, Germany and Poland will demand that their wings of PeaceMakers are needed for home defence, instead of pooling all our resources to make Defensive Arc as strong as possible. And you know the worst part?”
Stevens didn’t answer.
“The reason they allude to but don’t say out loud is because they think Defensive Arc is doomed from the outset.”
“Jesus,” Stevens breathed.
“Of course, when you look at what we’ve got and what we’re likely to be hit with, that is actually a reasonable deduc
tion. The damn computers are forecasting Europe’s complete collapse in a matter of weeks… I really hate those bloody things.”
Stevens let out another chuckle and said: “We sure rely on them far too much, Earl.”
“But the youngsters have never known a time without them. A quarter of a century ago, these things were aides, and suddenly they just seemed to take over without anyone actually wondering if it really was the right thing to do.”
“Ah, come on, that’s true with so many things. But super artificial intelligence was bound to be a game changer, and anyone would argue for the benefits—”
“I don’t have a problem with the benefits, Suds, but I’ve got to think of morale, for Christ’s sake. You remember the World War Two bomber pilots over Germany, yes? On each mission they had a one-in-twenty chance of being shot down, but a tour of duty was set at thirty missions, so on the balance of probabilities they realised they were not going to make it through one tour of duty. Now, we’ve got to convince troops to fight and these troops have access to data which tells them that—”
“Whoa, hold on a minute. Back in the Second World War, those airmen still flew, even though they knew the odds.”
“Yes, because they would’ve been thrown in prison otherwise. What are my captains, colonels and brigadiers supposed to do if troops refuse to fight?”
“Earl, I understand you, I really do, but you need to look back a little further in history, at some of the truly heroic things our armies have done.”
Terry blew cigar smoke out in front of him and took a large sip of brandy which, he thought, might have looked to Stevens like a gulp. He would never reveal the depth of his fears to anyone other than Suds, but now, late in the evening after a salubrious meal among the laughter and warmth of trusted friends, Terry revealed his anxiety for what the future held.
Terry glanced into Suds’ weathered face, noting the progress of the scar above the airman’s right eye, incurred during an exercise twenty years previously. This scar had deepened into his flesh as the years rolled by. Terry said: “We’re heading for certain defeat, Suds. My boss, Dahra Napier, Prime Minister of England and First Lord of the Treasury, fears that she will be the last Prime Minister of England. What she does not seem to consider is that many of her subordinates share her despondency in their respective roles.”
Stevens’ faced hardened as he waved his half-spent Montecristo number two in Terry’s face and spat: “Don’t give me that goddamn mawkish bullshit, Earl. The reason you’re the most senior soldier in the British Armed Forces is because you’re the best they’ve got, you asshole. Yup, it sure looks like all of us are just about bent over the goddamn sty and the pig farmer is gonna stuff his dick up our asses, but that don’t give you the right to get all goddamn mawkish for yourself. You got that, dumbass?”
The smoke from Stevens’ cigar stung Terry’s eye, but he did not react, absorbing the trifling pain as a real soldier should. At length, Terry replied: “I know, but please, my friend, allow me the luxury of a moment’s despair for the lives I will cast into the furnace for no benefit. Grant me a measure of melancholy for the poor souls who will shortly be obliged to leave this Earth in the most excruciating physical pain imaginable—”
“Earl, you are really beginning to piss me off. You want me to start quoting Shakespeare at you? Which one of those plays was it where the king claimed that he was not responsible for his soldiers’ deaths, huh? Something about all the arms and legs rising up from the Thames or some goddamn bullshit?”
“That was Hen—”
“I don’t give a shit. That was then and this is now. Whatever you think, however you feel, Sir Terrance goddamn Tidbury, Knight of the Realm, His Majesty’s loyal servant, you gotta drop all that history. Just let it go, man. Do your job. We have been soldiers all our lives. Sure, we never expected this—”
“And that was our biggest mistake.”
“Horseshit. You know the history, Earl. Sure, much of what the Caliphate put out over the years was propaganda, but as long as it kept itself to itself, who really gave a shit? Just tell me: how could we have known? Name one single way we could’ve found out what was really going on, huh? Contact with the outside world has always been restricted to trade at its ports. No diplomats, no missions, no NGOs, no transport, no nothing. Just a flurry of drowned wannabe defectors washing up on European shores with hearts shredded by nano-bots.”
Terry’s forehead creased: “There must have been something we could’ve done.”
“They’ve had over twenty years to get their shit together. I’m willing to bet the Second Caliph was actually the least mad, but number three has really excelled himself.”
“Pity our clever computers didn’t see this coming, isn’t it?”
Stevens puffed out another cloud of blue smoke. “They did. They—and we—just didn’t give it any priority. They said the chances of something like this were so small,” he shrugged, “so we didn’t give it the attention it actually deserved. We took the average probabilities and defended ourselves according to those forecasts.”
“Suds, I’ve never had a problem risking troops for a fair tactical or strategic gain, but this invasion, when it comes, is going to be—”
“The defining moment of your career as a soldier, Earl. That’s what it’s gonna be because that’s what it’s gotta be. You know you’re not the first general to face what, on the surface, appears to be certain defeat. What NATO troops have to do is slow the invaders down. Once they’re outside Caliphate territory, we’ll only have to find and exploit their weaknesses, and there ain’t no invading army in history that ain’t had some weaknesses. Remember, we’ll have home advantage.”
Terry gave Stevens a rueful smile. “I hadn’t looked at it like that. Must be old age.”
“There’s one other thing,”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve got millions of refugees on the move, and one of our jobs is gonna be making sure as many of them can escape as possible.”
Terry lifted his snifter up and toasted: “To the invasion, then.”
Stevens eyed his comrade and repeated the toast.
Chapter 46
08.19 Wednesday 15 February 2062
BERAT KARTAL’S FEET hurt. He felt as though he’d been walking all night, but he’d woken only an hour or so earlier. Since the attack on Athens the previous Saturday, he’d pushed on. He understood now he was truly a refugee: he had no money and he relied on the charity of others. A part of his brain told him he should seek some casual labour to get money to eat properly and perhaps buy a bike, but he chastised himself for old thinking. The rationality of his life up until a week earlier made no more sense than behaving as though the moon really were made of cheese. Now, rationality served only a single purpose: survival.
On his right, the early sun of the new day rose higher and its light flashed off the surrounding hills and low mountains as he kept trudging on the endless road. His feet hurt because of the blisters on his soles. Since Saturday, he calculated he’d walked over one hundred kilometres. He kept records of time and distances in his paper journal, so appreciated his figures could be inaccurate, but the absence of modern tech forced him to utilise his academic abilities to the maximum.
On the road that headed north-eastwards, the occasional autonomous vehicle crept past him and the other refugees, packed full of people. Often, they were obliged to travel at less speed than even a bike due to the refugees moving on foot. Those lucky enough to have secured a place aboard a vehicle cast disapproving glares down at the more unfortunate people who had to walk. Without those walkers getting in the way, the autonomous vehicles would be able to increase their speed, but he sensed that few of the refugees on foot felt any sympathy for those in the vehicles. Berat reflected that none of them knew if or when an invasion would begin; the one thing they had in common was the desire to remove themselves from the potential battlefields.
Berat looked at the hills and low scrub mountains whic
h surrounded him and thought how pleasant it would be to climb them. He sighed in resignation at yet another clash of the rationality of yesterday with the brutal reality of today. The stinging pain from his soles made him want to rest again, but he knew he must push on for another two hours at least before the sun rose high and the heat increased.
He’d wanted very much to try to gain a seat on an official government autonomous transport leaving the area, but he could not justify any entitlement to such convenience. He was a fit young man of twenty-three years—how could he plead for charity and take a place from which a child or a disabled or elderly person could benefit? Given his youth and physical fitness, no matter how much rationality screamed at him to claw any advantage he could to escape the coming storm as quickly as possible, an overwhelming sense of justice forced him to take the harder path, on the chance that someone less fortunate than him may find a place and have an opportunity to escape.
He trudged on, experimenting with each footfall how he might minimise the pain, landing his foot on the left edge, then the right, then the heel. The most painful blisters were on the ball and around the edges. For a few steps he gave up and accepted the agony, and then tried again to find a less painful way to land his feet on the ground.
He overtook other refugees frequently, for they were often families struggling with small children or elderly relatives. From time to time he heard the Turkish language, but his reticence kept his own mouth closed. In any case, he suspected no one fleeing Athens would have any knowledge of his home country. He sensed most of the other people fought against their own fears; more than a few men had over the last three days opinionated loudly in their groups, but Berat could not understand them. The sounds of the wailing children and quietly sobbing grandmothers required no translation.
Berat heard a commotion begin in the distance behind him and grow louder as it neared. He stopped and turned around. Other people further back waved and some gave little cheers at something travelling in the field next to the road, throwing up a cloud of dust behind it. For the first time in days, he smiled in joyful shock as an old tractor went trundling past the line of refugees. Its driver, a middle-aged man with dark, leathered skin, stared ahead with a look of grim determination. Around him clung a woman and five children of various ages. Berat’s smile broadened as the tractor continued, and marvelled at the farmer’s ingenuity: the machine was decades old and probably hadn’t been used in years, and the farmer must have stockpiled the special fuel for it because it was almost impossible to purchase.