by Chris James
“Oh no,” Maria said, realising that now the family had all but lost Mark.
Mother and daughter hugged again, both close to tears, and Maria wondered how they could ever get Mark back.
Her mother sniffed, “You never think it’ll happen to you. You always think that’s the kind of thing that happens to other people, other families.”
“Mum, things are going to change soon, and Mark won’t be able to stay in those Universes. Do Dad and Martin know?”
“Not yet. Your father will go nuclear.”
“Only to start with… But I think we’re about to have much worse problems, Mum. And soon, too.”
“It’s going to be awful, dear. I just can’t imagine what it’s going to be like.”
Maria held her mother, gently kneading the thin flesh around the bony knuckles of her mother’s spine. Through the material of her mother’s cardigan, the flesh felt withered and old, and a new resolution took shape inside Maria. “I’ll tell Dad about Mark, don’t worry,” she whispered. Maria could feel time advancing and sensed the onrush of futurity. War was coming; a brutal and violent war the like of which Europe had not seen in generations, and it had to be faced without fear. Maria realised abruptly that the time to put aside childish things had arrived, and her parents’ generation were ill-equipped to face down the approaching storm.
Her embrace of her mother tightened, and she lied: “Try not to worry, Mum. I’ll make sure we’ll all be okay, one way or another.”
Chapter 50
09.11 Friday 17 February 2062
CORPORAL RORY MOORE looked at Squad Delta Four-Two and tried not to think too hard about what might await them when the invasion began. He brought up the rear on their patrol among the hills of a national park not far from the Spanish coast. In front of him bobbed the heads of Crimble, with the same moustache as Colonel Doyle, who’d seen them off with a rousing speech and smart salute four days earlier. Then came Pratty, with his insufferable indifference which he deliberately used to mask his loyalty to the regiment, and then, just in front of him, Philippa ‘Pip’ Clarke, who, he suspected, might be tougher than any of the men.
Their patrol was not especially draining. The Spanish commander of the forward base to which they’d been posted had struck Rory as being slightly unsure of what to do with the multinational force that NATO had bestowed on him, so training and patrol rotas had been organised and he and his squad were happy to be occupied.
Rory enjoyed the fresh, mild air and the views the Sierra Nevada Mountains offered. The sky above them shone bright blue and the rocky terrain made him feel as though they traversed the slopes of another planet.
From the front of the line, Crimble called back: “How the hell do we train to defend against an ACA attack anyway?”
Pip answered: “Get underground and stay there?”
“Nah, I’m serious. How, exactly, are we supposed to defend ourselves against those ACAs what the ragheads have got?”
Rory spoke: “Your ability not to pay attention during briefings is amazing, Crimble. We’re not here to fight the ACAs; we’ve got our own machines for that. We’re here to fight an invasion, if and when they invade.”
“Yeah, but look,” Crimble replied. “If those ACAs they’ve got are so much better than ours, then it’s fair to assume all their other kit is gonna be better too, right?”
“Let’s have a slurp on that outcrop. The view will be lovely. We can chin-wag up there. Off you go, Crimble,” Rory said.
Crimble’s gangly legs looked like two pistons going underneath his Bergan backpack. Rory twitched an eye muscle to raise the feed from Crimble’s Squitch into his own view.
“Getting this, Corp.?”
“Yup, looks nice. Anything else going on?”
“Squitch says: ‘Nope’.”
“Okay. Squad, let’s go.”
Rory let Pratty and Pip go ahead of him and followed them up to the outcrop. A few minutes later, all of them rested on or next to their packs, canteens in hand.
Crimble stroked his moustache with his thumb and forefinger, pointed and said: “Look, you can see the raghead’s lands over there.”
Rory joined the others to stare out at the vital landscape. The mountain fell away from the outcrop on which they perched, lower hills continued southwards and disappeared into the Mediterranean, and beyond the turquoise water a mass coloured Aztec gold shimmered distantly.
“So I assume they can see us, then?” Pip said with irony. “Up there, in the sky, all their bloody satellites can see us quite clearly. What’s to stop them sending an ACA down to sort us out?”
Rory replied: “Because its approach would trigger a response from our own—”
“But ours are no good against theirs, Corp.,” Pratty said, scratching his ear. “That is one thing we do definitely, absolutely, comprehensively, fucking know.”
“But are you sure?” Crimble asked with a grin.
Rory said: “I have it on good authority that we are currently at no great risk.”
Pip whistled through her teeth and said: “Oh, where did you hear that?” She looked at the others. “Our Corporal must have been doing some serious brown-nosing.”
A wave of chuckles floated around the outcrop, and then Pratty nodded at Rory and asked: “What’s the inside info, Corp.? Do Brass know what’s going on, really?”
Crimble scoffed: “Since when have Brass ever known what’s going on?”
Rory decided it wouldn’t hurt to share what he knew with his squad: “There’s been some intel floating about, but it’s unverified so Brass won’t include it in briefings—”
“Yeah, and even if it was verified, they wouldn’t tell us just to keep us on our toes,” Pratty said with cynicism.
Rory went on: “They reckon the invasion will start Sunday morning.”
“How sure are they?” Pip asked without humour.
Rory shrugged, “I dunno for certain. I’ve heard that it’s being treated as pretty solid among the COs and Brass, and I don’t think we’d be out on patrols like this if they really thought the shit could kick-off at any minute.”
“Yeah,” Pratty said, “and we’ve noticed the absence of our heavy kit. Even if we wanted to be Engineers, it’s pretty difficult to engineer anything with all our construction replicators still back in Blighty.”
Pip grunted her agreement. “We’re out here to be infantry. Like I said, this is Operation Certain Death, guys.”
Rory nodded at the landscape and said: “So let’s enjoy the view while we still can, then.”
“You know what I don’t get?” Crimble asked, his forehead creasing in confusion.
Rory swapped amused glances with Pratty and Pip. Pip said: “Go on then, Crimble, what don’t you get?”
“How will we know when the invasion starts?”
Pratty said with open sarcasm: “Well, there might be a few clues. What do you think those clues might be, Crimble?”
Crimble thought for a moment and then said: “No, what I mean is, this must be one of the most one-sided face-offs in history. Look, we’ve always trained for war with the Russians, right?”
“Yeah,” Pratty broke in, “one hundred and thirty million alcoholics pretending to be a nation state. Some war that would be.”
“But we know what they’ve got. We know what ACAs they’d attack us with. We’d have a pretty good idea of their order of battle, of the tactics we could expect them to use against us. But now, today, we ain’t got no intel at all.”
“Crimble’s right,” Pip said, stretching her arms above her head.
Rory reminded himself not to glance at the swell of her breast under her uniform as she stretched.
Crimble went on: “Here we are without a clue, really. We’re preparing for an invasion by an enemy and we have absolutely no idea about them.”
“Apart from the fact that they’re a bunch of right vicious fuckers,” Pratty observed.
Rory took a long pull from his canteen and then said: �
��We can make educated guesses.”
“Like what, Corp.?” Crimble asked.
Rory was tempted to play on Crimble’s lack of intelligence for humour as he would if they were in the UK, but decided not to. “Look, so far they haven’t used any surface ships, right?”
Crimble frowned, “Right,” he said.
“So it’s likely they don’t have a navy, or if they do, they’re keeping it very secret.”
“They don’t need one with those bloody ACAs,” Pratty said, shaking his head. “Seriously, did you see what those bastard Lapwings did to Israel? How the hell can they get a battlefield-powerful laser on an ACA and fly it around like a fucking smart missile? Totally out-fucking-rageous.”
“Maybe they’ll keep hitting us only with ACAs, just to keep up the terror attacks like on Athens and Rome?” Pip suggested.
“That’s up to them,” Rory conceded. “But seeing as the Tosser of Tehran did announce that all Europe was going to be assimilated, I think an invasion is a certainty. And when it comes, I reckon they’ll be flying in.”
“So I suppose the Spaniards have identified the most likely landing points?” Pratty asked.
Rory nodded.
“Maybe something’s changed in the meantime?” Crimble suggested.
“Like what?” Rory said.
“I dunno, maybe there’s been a coup? Maybe their forces are too stretched with assimilating Turkey?”
Rory noticed the surprised expressions on the others’ faces, along with his own, in reaction to the fact that Crimble should have developed such a grasp of the international dimension.
“Well done, Crimble,” Pratty said, giving Crimble a playful slap on the shoulder. “On the other hand, maybe the vicious bastard just wants to make us all sweat. You saw how many refugees are fleeing north to try and escape.”
“Yeah,” Crimble replied. “I read about it in the media. There was a good column by someone which said that maybe after all the loss of life in Turkey, Israel, Athens and Rome, they hadn’t invaded because there’d been a coup.”
Pip said: “I wouldn’t buy that, Crimble. I reckon the Caliphate is so controlled no one inside knows anything about what’s going on outside it, in exactly the same way—”
“The Terror of Tehran must have told his military, for sure. So some of those people know,” Rory said.
“Enough to lead to a coup? I doubt it,” Pip replied.
“Right,” Rory said, getting up. “That’s enough of a chinwag. Let’s push on for a couple of hours before heading back to barracks.”
Pratty said: “Right you are, Corp. Only can we move down to lower ground? You know, just in case there’s a bored raghead over there who’s seen us and fancies sending one of their bloody machines to fry us, you know, just for a giggle, and we don’t have a hundred PeaceMakers to take it out, okay?”
The squad heaved their Bergan packs on to their backs. Rory looked at the others, and then spoke to Pratty: “Private Ian Pratt. You make a very strong case for discretion in the face of a potential enemy attack. Your appraisal of our current situation is tactically sound, well done.”
A smile spread across Pratty’s face which revealed uneven teeth with gaps between most of them. “Why, thank you, Corp.”
“You’re welcome,” Rory said. “We’re going to stay on the high ground because I happen to enjoy the views. Now, shut the fuck up and let’s go.”
Chapter 51
16.28 Saturday 18 February 2062
TERRY TIDBURY’S ADJUTANT, John Simms, told the door to open and took a step back. “This, Sir Terry, is the new War Room.”
Terry strode through the doorway and into the spacious area full of grey steel and black screens. “Squonk,” he called. “What’s the layout?”
The gender-neutral voice of the Ministry of Defence’s super AI spoke in measured tones: “The layout is designed for maximum comms efficiency and takes into account the fundamental limitations of human physicality.”
Terry sighed and shook his head: “Let me do the jokes, Squonk,” he said.
Light from the ceiling increased over a green, table-height circular surface in the middle of the room. Squonk said: “This area will display the relevant battle space, expanded or retracted as required, in real time insofar as sufficient data is available.”
With a gentle hum, the light close to the walls of the room increased to give greater detail to the control stations with large screens above them. Squonk went on: “Each of these comms stations prioritises contact with various departments, branches and authorities.” The lights increased over specific stations as Squonk listed their function: “Here is Home Nations comms, including priority comms to civil defence units, national emergency services and hospitals throughout England and the Home Nations. This station is for British military comms, prioritising comms to army, navy and RAF units and HQs. The station here is Europe comms, for civil defence comms with all at-risk European countries. And here is NATO comms, prioritising comms with SACEUR and all European military command centres.”
Terry paced around the room, nodded in satisfaction and said to Simms: “No expense spared, eh?”
Simms replied: “Quite so, Sir Terry.”
“And how about the staff?”
Simms tilted his head in acknowledgement and left the room.
Half an hour later, Terry, Prime Minister Napier and her aide, Crispin Webb, and Defence Minister Phillip Gough stood behind the operator seated at the NATO comms station. The operator, a young woman with a low forehead that gave the impression of permanent concentration, announced: “We’re still waiting for a number of participants from—” she stopped as the face of General Joseph E. Jones filled the screen.
“Okay, let’s get started, we won’t wait for the others. They’ll have to catch up when they join.”
Terry and Napier swapped curious glances.
Jones continued: “Latest intel shows that the hostile situation remains unchanged. According to diplomatic sources in Beijing, among the higher echelons of politicians and their military, it is accepted as common knowledge that the Caliphate will invade Europe in the early hours of tomorrow morning. Despite the most intense diplomatic efforts by all countries, to give a soldier’s opinion, I believe the rest of the world has pretty much shrugged its shoulders. They might care, but not enough to actually do anything.
“Ample Annie and the super artificial intelligence computers of our alliance partners have been running as many simulations as possible, and have come up with probability figures extrapolated from millions of potential attack scenarios. The mostly likely shape any invasion would have, would take place on at least three or four fronts, which I’ll show you now.”
The image of the General withdrew into a thumbnail in the top left-hand corner of the screen to reveal a map of the Mediterranean basin, with the European countries to the north and Caliphate territory to the south. The General went on: “Ample Annie suggests that the invasion will begin with a massed aerial attack, potentially along the entire southern coast of Europe.”
Terry heard a number of gasps from the station operators in the room.
“There’s even a high probability that the enemy may be able to deploy many more ACAs than we’ve seen so far. Now, once the enemy has control of the battle space above the target area, he will then deploy troops to take physical possession of the territory. Here, the highest probability suggests massive airdrops of troops. This is based on two key factors: one, the enemy has not yet deployed a navy, so the probability that he will is low; and two, our research into the power units in the enemy’s ACAs suggests there may be a tonne of other applications, especially in air transportation.
“However, what we cannot disregard entirely are other potential scenarios. The enemy’s actual invasion could take any of a number of variations on this multi-point incursion. He could invade at one, two or more points, and might also choose different landing locations. These probabilities are based on assessments of the topography
of the target countries, and which areas offer the maximum gain and/or would be the least difficult to secure.”
The General reached for something out of view, retrieved what transpired to be a glass of water, and look a long sip.
Terry saw Crispin lean and whisper in Napier’s ear. She turned and looked back at him in mild shock, giving him a dismissive shake of her head.
“Now,” the General continued, “ranged against them we have deployed the following units and formations.”
Several indicators appeared in the European countries in varied colours denoting different countries of origin and their regimental and unit specialisation. The General went on: “In each country the bulk of the deployments are made up of that member’s armed forces, but you will see here the extent of our multinational effort. For example, we’ve British and French units in Spain, French and German units in Italy, and Polish and Czech units in Greece, in addition to the comprehensively multinational force that has deployed to Bulgaria, among many others. And I’d like to salute all of our members, both soldiers and support people, who’ve done such a great job getting us all as prepared as we can be. Now, before I conclude this briefing, any questions?”
One thumbnail in the row of images along the bottom of the screen shimmered and doubled in size. Terry recognised the round, bullish face of Polish General Pakla. In moderately accented English, he asked: “Precisely what are our frontline deployments of SkyWatchers and PeaceMakers?”
General Jones’s face remained impassive: “Over two hundred armed SkyWatchers are patrolling at higher altitudes, on rotation from bases in France, Germany and Poland. Each anticipated front will have from seven to nine hundred PeaceMakers available to repel invasion forces. In addition, each front will deploy from ten to fifteen battlefield-support lasers, along with several batteries of RIM 214 Standard surface-to-air smart missiles.”
Silence greeted these numbers. Terry waited and wondered if some of the more passionate military people at the briefing would react, but after a few seconds, all he could sense was the depth of the shock. Terry hoped that for the sake of morale, no one would point out the clearly enfeebled response NATO would be able to mount against the forecast strength of the Caliphate’s invasion. The shock on General Pakla’s face seemed to stand for the feelings of everyone present, but even the passionate Pole held his counsel.