Copyright © 2020 David John West
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For Jack
Contents
PREFACE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
EXTRACT
GLOSSARY
NOTES
PREFACE
Giki Galactic Encyclopaedia excerpt,
First Contact with Gayan Star People;
Professor Kitteridge,
Cambridge University, Planet Earth
I am certain that they are keeping me alive to suit their purposes. At least until their formal arrival on Earth. They want to use me as their advocate and in fairness I want to stay alive long enough to see if we can rise above our petty politics and embrace the opportunities of alien technology, especially interstellar travel. My body is well past its useful life and would have failed months ago but for their advanced medicine. Daniel is their medical resource and his skill and other worldly potions are keeping me going and for that at least I am grateful. They tell me that I will join with them when I do pass on and for the first time in my life I believe my soul will continue, set free from the wasting disease that made me a prisoner of this wheelchair for so long. I want to escape the bounds of my bodily prison and see the universe as they have promised me. Before all that I want to persist so that I can be there in person to greet our first official alien visitors.
ONE
David Harrier had waited seventeen years for this phone call. When it came it was no surprise, only perhaps that it had taken so long. He had been lulled by long years of preparations and protocols without action. Enthusiasm had dulled into routine. Routine had transformed readiness into dusty record-keeping. Despite this long duty he had always believed that there was a good chance his special skills would be needed at some point in his lifetime. When that time came his role would become one of the most important in human history. This had allowed him to press on with the research, training and planning he had put his elite units through in anticipation of this day.
“Brigadier Harrier? This is the Prime Minister calling.” Her voice was authoritative, yet querulous, too, shot through with brittle anxiety.
“Yes, Prime Minister, Brigadier David Harrier here,” he replied, reaching for an A4 pad and pen to make notes. This telephone call required clarity of understanding.
“Good,” the Prime Minister continued. “We have been contacted by a plausible source of some potentially momentous news. I have consulted the prime ministerial codes and your number came up for this kind of event.” David Harrier was aware of the codes an incoming prime minister was presented with in the event of national emergencies. Popular culture was aware of the launch codes for use of the Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles-equipped nuclear submarines in exceptional circumstances. The general population, however, did not know that the codes folder included additional pages with action plans for other kinds of national emergencies that had been prepared for, which could be activated by a call to other specified agencies, such as the one currently commanded by Brigadier David Harrier.
“I would be very pleased to assist, Prime Minister,” David said in measured, reassuring tones. He had rehearsed his approach to this call as part of the overall response plan. In most gaming scenarios this call was not a panic situation. If immediate action were required under his command then almost certainly much wider military action would be required. Eighty-three percent of activation plans were expected to begin in an orderly, controlled fashion like this real-world situation seemed to be. It would be unlikely to continue in this way for very long, however, so David had to step in rapidly and take over the detailed management of the incident as his team had prepared for over these many long years. “The first protocol is for us to meet in private, for you to explain the nature of your contact and for me to outline our role in managing whatever comes next.”
“That is good to know, Brigadier.” The prime minister let out a small sigh of relief. This was one situation she had never been prepared for and it was good to hear this reassuring voice. “This is one time where I shall be very grateful to be in the hands of experts, and to know that we had the foresight to handle this kind of situation before my time.”
“That is precisely what we are here for, Prime Minister,” David Harrier continued. “In the first instance I suggest we meet at your office as soon as possible. Are you in Downing Street and can you clear your diary?” The Prime Minister replied in the affirmative. “In that case I could be in your office in fifteen minutes if that is convenient for you?”
“That would be fine, Brigadier,” said the Prime Minister. “I will get a message to the Downing Street gate to expect you. See you in fifteen minutes then.”
“Yes indeed,” David said and replaced the receiver. No note-taking had been required. “Audrey,” he called to his assistant outside the open door to his office, “I shall be going out for the rest of the morning. Not sure when I will return so best not to expect me to return before you leave.”
“Will you be needing an official car?” Audrey called back through the doorway.
“No thank you, I think I will walk today,” David replied. He sat behind the large walnut desk in his antique captain’s chair. He looked across the spacious office to the coffee table at the far end, past the tall oblong window on the right with its sashes, each comprising four meticulously white-painted frames that allowed a sylvan view of tall trees dappled in sunlight and the park beyond, all right in the middle of the capital city. An auspicious start to the most important day of his life. He rose and stood by the window enjoying briefly the view across the parade ground two floors below to the lines of plane trees bounding Birdcage Walk from St James’s Park beyond. He would not be needing his coat and umbrella today. He straightened his guards tie and donned his blue suit jacket, pleased his shoes were shining flawlessly as always on this day that he would meet the Prime Minister for the first time and in his official military capacity.
There was one tas
k to perform before he left to meet the Prime Minister. He crossed his office to sit at an antique-looking computer terminal. He fired up the power button on the 1990s-era square box personal computer and saw his Logistics Liaison logo pop onto the screen in green monochrome. This terminal was attached to a hardwired network that had never been connected to the internet and thereby avoided all the issues of hackers and computer security in the internet age. Between the terminal and the network was a small grey box that provided the only 51-bit encryption in the United Kingdom government network. He authenticated and then brought up the email function. No sign-on was required; he was the only user of this machine. He typed ‘Host of Eagles’ into the address field and then the message ‘Mantled Eagle’ into the subject field. No detailed message was necessary. He pressed send and the message was encrypted and sent to the commanders-in-chief of all the UK’s military forces and intelligence agencies.
The grey boxes in the offices of the most senior staff in the land received and decrypted the message. They instantly sent messages to the secure phones of the targets, which apprised them of a Logistics Liaison alert requiring their attention. In offices across Whitehall and headquarters large and small people of power returned to their desks to power up the clunky logistics terminals that sat gathering dust but never got updated and received their message. Uniformed commanders and civilian chiefs of staff alike collectively let out their breath in surprise at the ‘Mantled Eagle’ alert. This was the third-highest alert in the hierarchy that required them to go to a heightened state of readiness. The Mantled Eagle image depicted the eagle protecting its young with wings half spread and lowered, head alert to the side with one piercing eye peering out for threats. Only the Special Air and Boat Services would go to full action stations at this level as they may be called on for urgent and unpredictable missions. Beyond ‘Mantled Eagle’ were two higher alert levels. ‘Stooping Eagle’ level meant that the Logistics Liaison division would instigate military activity across all the armed forces without further explanation with maximum effect. Normal rules of warfare would not apply; Logistics Liaison missions were only called under extreme threat to the nation and all its people. ‘Blood Eagle’ level was the ultimate alert status and assumed the nation was under overwhelming attack by superior forces and each military agency should go into individual survival mode to attempt to protect themselves and what part of the population they could save with themselves. Blood Eagle was about protecting the survival of the human species in the face of an awesome and overwhelming invasion.
David Harrier shut down the terminal and decided against taking his old burgundy leather satchel containing his most pertinent records. This meeting would be about introductions; the Prime Minister would need to grasp the whole situation before he could lead her into the details. Instead he collected a light carrying bag containing his iPad and said, “Please hold the fort for me till I get back, Audrey.” He smiled at his assistant as he left his office, his mind clearly elsewhere, trying to reassure his secretary but failing. Audrey was aware that something important had caused David to change his plans for the day and he must be going to a meeting in the Westminster neighbourhood. She would not ask him questions he could not answer and she would be exercising her imagination to cover for his absence. She smiled and watched him head for the stairs, concerned, but in a non-specific way. His demeanour was professional and unreadable as always as he departed.
David stepped out from the covered portico of Wellington Barracks into warm sunshine and he crossed the parade ground to exit the black wrought-iron gates. He waved to the guardhouse on the way past and received a salute of recognition from the duty guard. The sun was midway up the thin blue sky over London as he crossed to the park-side pavement of Birdcage Walk. He had left his sunglasses in his satchel so tensed his eyelids against the light filtering through new leaves in the tall trees and walked east towards the mixed-architecture blocks of Westminster. His vision was suffused with mellow lemon light filtered through the lime of freshly growing leaves. The familiar buildings beyond were reduced to shadowy outlines of blue-grey. This Monet-style impression of Westminster in the morning sun somehow seemed appropriate on this day of days, for which he had prepared for so long.
There were gaggles of tourists at intervals wafting selfie sticks and performing antics for their social media audiences. David circumnavigated them politely like one of the businessmen striding more directly about their day. In this part of London most workers on the street at this time were high-level civil servants and workers from the private service businesses that supported them. He mixed in well with these others going about their matters of state, the ones lucky enough to have escaped their desks and be moving around and between the many military and government buildings in London’s SW1 postcode. David’s upright stance and meticulous gait earmarked him as senior military rather than civil service management.
David soon reached Parliament Square with Big Ben straight ahead acting as sentry for Westminster Bridge to the left and the Houses of Parliament to the right. He knew that it was the great clock bell called Big Ben but he thought of the whole Elizabeth Tower as ‘Big Ben’ just the same as all the tourists using up the data storage on their phones taking pictures and videos. He took the left turn on to Whitehall past the Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs headquarters. He nodded briefly at the Cenotaph in soldier’s respect for ‘The Glorious Dead’ and decided to maintain his bowed head and shoulders to disguise his military bearing as he approached Downing Street. There were few people milling round the tall black-gloss iron railings at the entrance to Downing Street and thankfully no media presence as he produced his credentials for the gate guards, who were expecting his arrival. Downing Street was in mid-morning shade and the door to number ten was smaller than he had expected, painted a deep flawless black. He knocked and it was opened immediately to admit him with minimum fuss. He crossed into the spacious cool hallway where an aide in nondescript civilian clothes met him and ushered him along the chequerboard of marble tiles.
“The Prime Minister will meet you in the small drawing room, Brigadier Harrier,” the aide spoke over his right shoulder as they ascended stairs to the first floor. The walls were covered in photographs of past prime ministers and were a crash course in British political history en route to the meeting rooms of state. David was aware he was passing through to the rear of 10 Downing Street and was ushered into the small drawing room with windows overlooking the gardens on the north side of the building.
The aide waved towards one of two large armchairs with dark oak frames and ball and claw feet. The chairs were comfortably upholstered in white damask and faced each other across a small oval walnut table close to a formal fireplace. David was reminded of his own office at the barracks. They had a similar period feel but his surroundings were comfortable where Downing Street was opulent yet barren somehow. “Please take a seat, Brigadier. The Prime Minister will join you here presently. Can I organise tea for you?”
“Earl Grey please, if you have it?” David replied. Of course they had it. The aide smiled and nodded and backed from the room.
David sat awhile with open thoughts. He knew what the meeting was about but could not know what he would be asked to do. Once again this was part of his planning for this first meeting. It was the army way. Hurry up and wait.
The drinks arrived. English breakfast tea for the Prime Minister and Earl Grey for himself. There was a small side plate of biscuits for David; the Prime Minister would refrain. Almost immediately afterwards the Prime Minister strode through the door in navy blue suit and kitten heels. David sprang to his feet and took the demurely proffered hand as she approached.
“Good morning, Brigadier Harrier. Most pleased to meet you,” she said, still smiling as per her media training despite the privacy of their surroundings and the tension clear in her angular frame.
“Good morning, Prime Minister,” David replied.
“Pleas
e sit,” said the Prime Minister and she brushed her skirt under her to sit in the chair opposite, calves together and leaning to the left-hand side.
David sat a fraction later than the Prime Minister and waited for her to speak.
“These are very strange and weird circumstances for me, Brigadier. Just about everything that could happen to a political leader short of outright war has happened on my watch but this is one that I never even thought about. Let’s just say that a very authoritative source in our academic community has contacted my office and informed me that we have been contacted by an alien race – of human beings – and that we can expect actual visitation in the near future.” The Prime Minister was scrutinising David as she spoke and did not see the surprise there that she was expecting. “To be absolutely clear, I am talking of an alien race of human beings not of this world but from elsewhere in outer space.”
David knew that the Prime Minister would have little more to say helpfully at this stage so he started to explain his role. “And so I assume you referenced the emergency codes for your guidance in these kinds of extreme situations?”
The Prime Minister nodded, “Yes, I turned to the emergency procedures and to my surprise I found your number there for exactly this kind of event.”
“As I understand it, Prime Minister, emergency routines are prepared for many crises. My role is to advise you on the best course of action in the strange and remarkable circumstance of a potential alien contact. My role is to take operational responsibility on your behalf, should you wish it, of course. I will determine if the situation is real or fraudulent and then manage it for you as it develops. In the unlikely event it is for real than we can expect the position to develop rapidly and unpredictably. My department has considerable power and procedures that have been developed over many decades. I have the necessary military experience and authority to enact your will as potentially strange events shape themselves. My background is in the services and I am the third commander of an agency we call the Guards Logistics Liaison. I have been running the GLL for the past seventeen years. The GLL is a deliberately obscure title but if you were to replace the regimental title ‘Guards’ with the more accurate one ‘Alien’, then you would capture the essence of our mission: to be knowledgeable and prepared for alien encounters; to guard the nation and organise logistics across all our military agencies and allies to cope with such an encounter at any level of operations necessary.”
Edge of Revelation Page 1