Overlord

by Sedgwick, T. J.

  “Evening sir, Admiral William Shawcross, acting head of His Majesty’s armed forces.”

  “Acting head? Where’s Field Marshall Rose?”

  Shawcross looked down and shook his head. “Assassinated by a sniper’s bullet, sir. And he’s not the only one—”

  “What on Earth is going on?”

  Khan said, “Prime Minister, let’s get ourselves sat down and go through what we know so far.”

  “Yes, of course, Malik. Come on, let’s get started.”

  They sat around a more compact version of the briefing room they’d left earlier with Faraday chairing at the head of the table. Opposite him were just three built-in displays. The displays, chairs and everything else in the rarely used space looked dated and were covered with a thin layer of dust.

  “Let’s start with your report, James,” said Faraday to Douglas-Smith.

  “Yes, well, reports are numerous and we’ve had little time to compile them formally—”

  Faraday breathed out in exasperation. He was in no mood for formalities. “Just tell us what you know—it doesn’t need to be perfect.”

  “Right, ok. Well, a few key things we’ve learnt from the dozens of officers my team and I have spoken to. First, there’ve been numerous attacks all over London—the Cabinet Offices bombing was just one of many. We’ve had reports about bombings of the MoD, MI5, New Scotland Yard and many other government, police and military buildings including Parliament,” he said. The tension was palpable as all present hung on to his every word. “Second, the modes of attack seem to be threefold: bombings, snipers—suspected to be from precision weapons platforms—and, just in the last hour, further attacks using robots.”

  They talked over specifics and examples including the assassination of senior political figures. No one had evidence to contradict London’s top police officer. All leave had been cancelled and off-duty officers had been called in. Armed units were desperately thin on the ground—they’d never been set up to deal with a situation like this. Douglas-Smith told of a gun battle between armed police and a single Centurion that was trying to attack a police station in Islington. He had many other anecdotal but worrying tales, which combined to make a disturbing, but consistent, story.

  “Understandably, what we’ve heard from James is all about London,” said Faraday gravely. “There are a lot of actions we need to send down the chain of command and fast, but before we start taking decisions I want to hear about the rest of the country and further afield. What do we know?” He looked around, unsure of who had the best overview, and defaulted to Malik as his most senior and familiar colleague.

  “I have been in contact with several constabularies around the country,” he said. He looked down at a small notebook and reeled off instances of attacks on police stations, military bases and communications hubs. “This is all I’ve managed to gather so far.”

  Admiral Shawcross had been listening, taking notes on his scroll tab, but had said nothing while the others spoke. He looked up from his device and cleared his throat. Faraday nodded go ahead. “Prime Minister, this is the most serious situation the country has faced since World War Two. Of the fifty-two army, air force and naval bases we were able to contact, every single one of them had been attacked in one way or another. And that includes Faslane Naval Base.” His voice rose in volume and intensity. “I think we need to start facing up to the elephant in the room, chaps—that this is an attempted coup d’état.”

  Nods and murmurs filled the room as Faraday motioned his agreement. “Yes, Admiral, it is looking increasingly the case I’m afraid.” More body language of agreement greeted this as he continued, “But we still have no clear idea of who, do we?”

  “If I may, Prime Minister,” said Shawcross, “I’d like us to put aside the question of who for the time being and focus on what we can do to stop it.” The PM gestured for him to continue. “The normal response to a coordinated insurrection is to fight it by calling out the military. Unfortunately, our military can’t even hold on to its own facilities, let alone take back strategic buildings and infrastructure.” He paused for a moment, mentally refining his words before he said them. “It seems pretty clear to me: we’re in desperate need of outside help.”

  “By outside help who are we talking about here? Our old NATO allies?” said Faraday.

  “Well, for starters, yes. Chiefly the Americans and Europeans; although I don’t hold out much hope with the latter.”

  “Has it really come to that?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way... If we receive help and we end up not needing it then the worst that will happen is diplomatic embarrassment and some big favours owed,” said Shawcross. “If we don’t then whoever’s behind this violence might end up running the country.”

  They toed and froed, taking up valuable time in Faraday’s opinion. Eventually, he made an executive decision to first call the US ambassador in London. But before he could, a call was patched through from someone unexpected.

  Faraday’s personal secretary pressed the answer button on the old-style teleconference phone sitting in the middle of the table.

  “We have an authenticated call from Russian President Demenok on the line for the PM,” said the crisp voice of the male operator, sitting somewhere in the bunker complex.

  Faraday said, “Put him through,” to some raised eyebrows around the room. I wonder what the sly old fox is after? he thought, leaning forward in his seat, as if readying himself for a game of verbal chess.

  “Mr Faraday, good evening to you. I trust you are well,” he said in highly polished English, which betrayed only a hint of his Russian mother tongue. His tone sounded as though he was mildly amused, almost mocking.

  “I’ve had better days, Mr Demenok, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

  He chuckled a little before suppressing his obvious schadenfreude and said, “To business, Mr Faraday... We know what’s happening and I feel it’s important for you to hear the truth from ... what is it you say? Ah yes, from the horse’s mouth.”

  Faraday put the phone on mute and said, “Truth! There’s a first time for everything.” He unmuted the phone, continuing to shake his head at the bravado of the old enemy.

  “As we’ve already told you, the SVR agents you have implicated in the theft of two of your robots were rogue. I’m sure you know already, but Zhanna Zykina and Pavel Dasayev are currently in custody here in Moscow. Well their bodies are in custody any way. We have reason to believe our agents’ implanted computers were manipulated. How or by whom, we do not yet know. We don’t expect you to believe us, of course, and now you have bigger problems on your hands. No doubt, you are looking for a culprit. No doubt, Mr Faraday, we are at the top of your list, are we not?” He paused, waiting for a response that never came. “Very well, let’s assume that is your assessment. Of course, I cannot prove a negative, but only appeal to your sense of reason at this stage. Just keep an open mind Mr Faraday. Once we’ve retrieved the rogue agents’ implants and conducted our investigation we’ll share what we know.”

  “That’d be a first. So, since you haven’t given us that evidence yet, can you just get to the point? We’re busy people you—”

  Demenok interrupted and said, his voice hardening, “It’s simply not in Russia’s interest to see Britain destabilised like this. Remember, we still have over a hundred billion dollars’ worth of trade between us and, besides, without the UK to fight who’ll compel our IC friends to buy the latest Russian weapons? Now that is a trillion dollar trade partnership. I’m rounding the numbers of course,” he chuckled.

  Faraday shook his head vigorously, flushing red.

  Demenok continued, “As I said, we know what’s happening on your little island—we can share satellite data with you if you so wish—”

  “No, that won’t be necessary: we’re quite capable of using our own.”

  “Fine,” said Demenok, “but you are facing an unprecedented situation and, with most of your army bases under siege,
you need help and soon. We can provide that help, Mr Faraday. We’re reaching out in the name of friendship … no strings attached. We have two airborne divisions ready to go at a moment’s notice…”

  Looks of incredulity and shakes of heads rounded the table. Faraday laughed sardonically and said, “Mr Demenok, that is a very kind offer. We’ll take it into consideration, but we’re quite capable of handling our own internal affairs. Besides, once here, your troops might like it so much they won’t want to leave.”

  “Well, your answer is clear, but our offer stands,” he said. “Just thought you might like to accept while you still have some bargaining power left.”

  “Very well, Mr Demenok, but we have some calls of our own to make. So, with that, I’ll bid you good day.”

  “Ok, Prime Minister Faraday. Enjoy your appointment while you still can … that is unless you win the election, which I’m sure you’ll be holding on schedule in April.”

  The line clicked off. Faraday looked at Khan, then to Shawcross. For several seconds no one said a thing.

  “Well, that was … interesting,” said Khan, a little lost for words.

  “Sounded like a thinly-veiled threat to me, sir,” said Shawcross.

  They talked about how the call from Demenok had underlined just how vulnerable Britain had become. Like a vulture circling a wounded animal, the old enemy was watching and waiting. Any dissenting voices over the need for outside help had been dispelled for good.

  With little in the way of military links anymore and with no formal defence treaties, they called the EU ambassador to London. Dutch technocrat, Ambassador Roland De Mik, reported no attacks on the EU embassy, despite the on-going violence he’d witnessed around it. Whoever was behind the attacks clearly didn’t want to draw foreign powers into the conflict. De Mik promised to escalate the request “through the correct channels.” They tried, but he would not budge and would only do things per procedure.

  They clicked off and Faraday said, “It’ll all be over before Brussels makes its mind up.” His faced flushed at the unhelpful response of their former allies. Bitterness over the British exit still ran deep.

  Shawcross returned to the conference room. He’d been getting status updates on the Royal Navy’s ships, which had been recalled to Britain. He heard the outcome of the EU call and said, “Well, realistically they’re only just about equipped to defend their own borders and that’s being kind.”

  Faraday said, “What’s the status of HMS Intrepid and the rest?” HMS Intrepid was one of only two amphibious assault ships and she had been returning to Devonport from the northern North Sea. She was carrying close to two thousand Royal Marines and an air wing comprised of a powerful array of aircraft.

  “Departed Shetland six hours ago,” said Shawcross. “She’s steaming south and awaiting any orders for redeployment. Once we decide how to use her that is…”

  Next, they called the US Ambassador.

  As the phone started ringing, a stocky black man and a good-looking blonde entered the room. It was MI5’s Dean Ashley and Sophie Walsh and they had news that was soon to change everything.

  ***

  Saturday, February 18th, 2045 6:45pm: Colchester Garrison, Essex, England

  Dyer had arrived back home to find his wife packing and his two little ones crying at the violence that had erupted nearby. He was glad she’d had the initiative to do the right thing. He’d helped her pack and get the kids in the car and hotshotted them to her mother’s cottage in the Essex countryside, fifteen kilometres to the west.

  The robots, enemy, insurgents or whatever they were seemed to be steering well clear of civilian targets. Military targets were another matter and they’d now all but taken the garrison. The last squadron of tanks was making its last stand around the armoury in the southwest corner of the base when Dyer approached between the military prison to his north and the indoor range to his south. Adjoining it to its south was the armoury and Dyer knew he was risking his neck just being there. He almost wanted to release the stockade of its prisoners to help join the fight, but thought better of it. What are a bunch of unarmed convicts going to do against the seething army of robots trying to get tooled up? He’d heard from fleeing civilian staff that the entire complement of Centurions and Sentinels now seemed to be active. He’d also learned via his headset that the ROCC had fallen and was half-destroyed. Now—so the theory from the radio chatter went— the thousands of unarmed robots were just waiting to get their hands on weapons from the armoury. He’d heard reports of robots picking up weapons from fallen soldiers and in one case even commandeering the heavy calibre cannon of an IFV. But I still don’t get who the hell is controlling these bots, he thought. They’re not AI so it must be someone! No, not someone, more like thousands of people, one per robot. It just didn’t make sense.

  It was starting to get light, the sun just twenty minutes below the horizon on that clear, chilly morning. He dared not get any closer or round the corner of the prison—the firefight was too fierce for any unprotected human to get near. The near-constant din of the Challenger IIIs’ .50-cal raked a number of Centurions. They’d emerged opposite, from cover behind Shed #3 and the motor pool building in what looked like a semi-coordinated charge. The big, lead slugs made short work of them but still left hundreds more robots to wait for their chance, hiding behind cover. The battle seemed to alternate between stalemate and probing advances from the robot forces. The six main battle tanks were arranged in an arc defending the single level armoury building to the east and south. A seventh tank sat around the back facing west and south, covering the flank. An eighth stood sentry at the northwest corner of the shooting range guarding the other flank. For now, the tanks were holding fire, but sporadic gunfire could be heard from all over the expansive base.

  Dyer wondered where the air force was. Perhaps their bases have been overrun too, he thought. He had no doubt the garrison’s small complement of drones had been. He dialled into the command post voice channel and checked in with the colonel who seemed to be in charge.

  The only order he got was, “Stay out of the way, unless you can get your hands on an anti-tank weapon or a heavy MG…”

  He stayed on the voice channel and listened in as they called in an airstrike. The command post had eyes on targets from distant drones high above. Dyer decided the CP probably wasn’t even on the base due to the fact it was still operating.

  Five minutes later, he heard the dull roar of turbofan engines on the northern horizon. Four low-flying black dots quickly grew into the delta-wing shape of ground-attack drones. Each released one, then two, then a third missile from its open launch bay and then peeled off—two to the east, two over Dyer’s head to the west. The missiles had already struck home by the time he looked around as the flash of heat and explosion reached his senses. Where the robot storage sheds had once stood was now a burning inferno of half destroyed steel warehousing. It was anyone’s guess how many droids were still in there, but, for the first time in a while, Dyer raised a brief smile. It didn’t last long as four Sentinels strode forwards from the flames—seemingly undamaged. It was the first time he’d seen the heavy bipedal robots in the battle and the sight was fearsome. Where the thousands of others were was puzzling, but if they weren’t on the base it meant they were off-base widening the attacks to the surrounding region. Armed with a Gatling gun on one arm and a missile launcher on the other, these units could tip the balance of power. Although not as well armoured as a Challenger III tank ,they could survive a serious battering.

  They advanced on the stationary picket of tanks, immediately opening fire with both Gatling gun and rockets. At the same time, the tanks returned fire with their main gun. Two Sentinels were hit—one right in the centre of mass blowing it to pieces, the other taking a glancing blow to its left leg, ripping it clean off and sending the machine toppling over. The remaining two Sentinels drew fire as four more approached from the south. Definitely coordinated, thought Dyer, who was now backing away arou
nd the corner of the prison and into a recessed doorway for safety. In the meantime the drones had circled back around and were lining up for a second run. They closed with frightening speed and strafed the Sentinels from the south, destroying one more. Another wave of eight Sentinels emerged from behind the motor pool joining the battle with the tanks. At the same time, a MANPAD rocket rose from somewhere to the base’s northeast and chased after the nearest drone, gaining rapidly. It seemed to explode next to the aircraft, sending hot fragments into it. Smoke trailed from it as its airframe failed, the right wing flying off, leaving the descending body to plough into a suburban home.

  Dyer had experienced enough of the sights and sounds of war and of the increasingly desperate radio chatter. As the colonel had implied, he wasn’t much use without some sort of heavy weapon. If this was what they were telling the troops then it was only a matter of time until they ordered a withdrawal and regroup somewhere in the Essex countryside. This thing was feeling bigger with every passing hour. He could no longer resist the overwhelming urge to protect his family. He’d slip into the Essex countryside, but to his mother-in-law’s cottage where he hoped they’d be safe from the onslaught.