Ripping

Chapter One

Strategic Defence Command Europe.
Luxembourg, March 15^th, 2045. 15.33GMT.

Major Lorien leaned back in the comfortably padded commander’s chair and stretched his legs out under the console. He gazed at the three dimensional holographic image of the Earth that dominated the centre of the operations room. It was a mass of colour with deep blue oceans, brown land masses and white weather patterns that swam through the atmosphere. He sighed deeply; it looked like it was going to be another quiet afternoon shift.

From his position on the circular gantry that surrounded the globe Lorien could clearly see the position of each of the laser platforms that orbited above the image of the Earth. Different colours marked separate platforms, and cones of light spread from each position towards the Earth’s surface, showing the area of fire covered by the lasers sitting in geo-stationary orbit. Only the laser platforms in position above Europe were shown in detail on the hologram. Other areas of the globe such as the Pacific Basin or the Americas were controlled from other similar control rooms placed within their own spheres of operation.

Lorien often marveled at the technology that had created not just this, but all the OPCs (operation control rooms) that were part of the newly created United Nations Laser Defence Network. The concept of weapons in space that could fire at will upon any object on the planet below was nothing new. The United States attempted to convince the Soviet Union they were capable of such weapons back in the 1980’s. But it had taken giant leaps in technology and worldwide co-operation to produce the present network.

The old actor President Reagan had harboured the dream of space-born weapons that could shoot down incoming Soviet missiles at a time when the phrase ‘Super Power’ still had some meaning. However, politics and technology had moved beyond the former president’s dream. Now the technology for such a defence network existed, but the coverage of the ‘shield’ was global. Today, Lorien and his command crew were out to stop any aggression, of any kind, in any country. This was the basis upon which the World Defence Force (WDF) could work. If no other country could move its forces without being gunned down from space, then there could be no aggression. So it was Major Lorien’s job to sit in the semidarkness of the battle room, and watch the movements of all Europe’s and Western Russia’s military forces including satellites and space stations. Monitors on the control desk in front of Lorien allowed him to view any specific point within his area. A flick of a button could raise a view of the new European Alliance space station, a view of the Baltic home defence airfields, or any other point in orbit or on Earth within his area of operations. If he observed any unauthorised military activity he could use the digital communication links to make inquiries. If he believed it necessary, he could order the firing of the battle lasers. Then the huge platforms would realign their orbital positions, lock onto co-ordinates sent by the battle centre and fire the needle lasers that could take out aircraft, men and machinery regardless of weather conditions.

However it was rare for Lorien to be called upon to use any of the powerful hardware at his fingertips. The last time the adrenaline of action had surged through his veins was when Iran attempted to enter the Southern Muslim states of the Russian Commonwealth. Then the aggression had been stopped in its tracks within the first hour, but only after nine strike aircraft plus a column of tanks and personnel carriers had been destroyed. Since that time, the region had been quiet, with Iran claiming the attack had been organised by army extremists.

And so it was on that March afternoon that Lorien and his crew were less than fully attentive. It was a pleasant afternoon outside the bunker and they’d all eaten well.  Now they went through their schedules automatically, without really paying much attention to their equipment and all looking forward to a party organised for that evening. After all what was the point? Nothing ever happened, and if it did, the warning klaxons would sound anyway.

Had any of them been more observant they may have seen the strange image appearing on the video camera of laser platform 034. The object didn’t register on any of the sensors, but if they had been watching the video monitor closely they would have just been able to discern a dark silhouette move against the background of stars. Unfortunately it was only when platform 034 blinked off the holographic globe, warning lights lit up the control room monitors and the klaxons did sound that their attention was raised.

Damn! Lorien thought to himself, that’s the third time this week that the sensors on one of the platforms had failed. Now he would have to order a remote robot to initiate a check and repair program. Lorien hit the klaxon reset, stood and turned to one of his crew to give the order to send out a repair drone, but he hadn’t even opened his mouth when a second platform winked out, disappearing from it’s position above the hologram.

‘Sir,’ another crewman called out, ‘Platform 012 has gone off network. Sensors on the Orion satellite register a large energy release from that area. It looks like 012 blew up!’

It took a moment for what had been said to register with Lorien and when it did all thoughts of a quiet afternoon disappeared in an instant. He was fully attentive now.  ‘What do you mean blew up?’ he snapped at the crewman sitting before his panel, ‘Don’t be bloody stupid man! It can’t have just blown up! You must have misread the sensors!’

The crewman turned to face Lorien, a flush rising up his face from the rebuke, but sticking to his analysis nevertheless ‘Sir, I’m sorry but I am definitely reading a large energy release. Where the platform should be, there’s nothing but debris registering on the radar!’

Lorien moved to the station and quickly read the monitor readings. The man was right, damn it! ‘Well bugger me! What about 034? What happened there?’ he demanded.

The crewman quickly pulled up a different graphic and Lorien interpreted the information. Damn again! The same thing had happened to that platform as well!  Now he was worried. Platforms had gone out of commission for various reasons before, but they’d never exploded, and not just one but two of the buggers! What the hell was going on? It was inconceivable that they were under attack so it must be some sort of bizarre malfunction. They could observe any missiles launched from any spot on Earth and their scanners showed that there were no other objects in orbit within several hundred kilometres of their platforms. So just what the hell was happening? He sat back down at his desk and opened a secure line to the Group Commander’s office. It was time to pass the buck.

‘General, this is Major Lorien at the command centre, sir,’ Lorien spoke into his head mike, ‘We’ve lost two platforms in the past few minutes. It seems they just disintegrated... yes sir, I am sure of that. We’re down-loading the data to your tablet now... yes sir, we are registering energy releases in those areas, the Orion satellite is confirming that...hold on sir...holy shit!’

Lorien was watching the bank of monitors while he spoke to the general. As he watched another platform winked out, leaving a major gap in the defence network.

‘Sir, we have just lost a third platform; if you watch your monitors now, you can see the data. The same thing happened again. Unless I knew better sir, I would say that they’d all been taken out. No sir, radar has not shown any objects within their areas. But sir, we must be under attack! There’s no other reason for what’s happening, but from whom and from what I can’t say!’

Lorien finally noticed a dark silhouette moving against the stars on the video monitor of platform 016. ‘Hold on sir, something strange is happening. I’m looking at platform 016’s video monitor. There is a large unidentified object approaching the platform, there are no lights, it’s hard to judge the size, but I would estimate it to be at least 500 metres. Nothing is reading on the ECM sensors and there is no radar signature. Yes sir I confirm, there is no fault with the video monitor. There…’

Major Lorien was cut short and could only register a brief moment of disbelief before the fireball swept across  the command centre, the heat vaporising everything it touched, including the Major’s body. Above Luxembourg rose a huge mushroom shaped cloud.

United States Station 3, Earth Orbit. March 15^th, 2045. 15.35, GMT

Kowolski hated EVA. Sure, it was well paid, and when he returned home for shore leave he always had the credits for a wild time. Women and drugs aplenty, he’d enjoyed nearly all the fleshpots on Earth when not marooned in orbit. In fact it wasn’t the job so much. Working on the outside of the station on a multitude of tasks allowed him a view of heaven and Earth that other people would kill for. No, if he was honest, it was the smell he couldn’t stand. That mixture of sweat, canned air and electrical ozone all EVA suits had got right up his nose, literally. The problem was the last occupant.

The new suits were miniature space vehicles in their own right. Hard shells enclosed a self-contained propulsion and atmospheric conditioning unit. Long articulated arms, with touch sensitive servo-operated claws allowed the occupant to work in a shirt sleeve environment, without all the drama of putting on one of the antique space suits of the twentieth century. The only problem was the smell. Nobody had bothered to fit scrubbers that gave off the fresh smell of pine. Instead there was just that sickly sweet smell of the previous driver. As the station was always short of water, few personnel bothered with hygiene in the Earthside sense, so everybody stank. This was Kowolski’s big gripe.

However, he buried his misery under the pressure of work, and at this particular moment he needed all his concentration to control the movements of the loose infrared probe. As usual the last repair was a bodge job; less than six weeks after the last scheduled maintenance the whole housing and antenna unit needed replacing.  Privately Kowolski thought it was time the station was turned into meteorite fodder.  Built at the turn of the century, the place was showing its age. If they got rid of it, he might get transferred to one of the newer, more luxurious United Nation’s space stations.

Something caught Kowolski’s eye and he paused from his work to look up at the bright backdrop of stars. It was strange, he was sure he’d seen something move out of the corner of his eye, but now it was gone. No, hold on a moment, there it was again, in fact a whole patch of space seemed to be blanked out. Where once there were stars there was now only an empty darkness.

Kowolski thought he must be hallucinating, it wasn’t possible for the stars to disappear. Maybe that tab he’d swallowed before coming on shift was having more than the usual effect on him. Other than the station there wasn’t anything else in orbit for hundreds of kilometers. No shuttles were due, so that didn’t explain it. He must be working too hard. He looked again... no, there was definitely something there. What was it? Now he knew where to look, he could just make out a shape almost invisible against the backdrop of space. But whereas sunlight reflected off the metal of the station, this thing reflected no light at all. So what the hell was it...? It was definitely getting nearer!

He clicked open his comm channel to call control, but all that came out was a gasp of shock. A searing flash of light momentarily blinded him and when his vision returned the space station was beginning to tumble out of control, a plume of vapour erupting from a huge gash in the hull. Kowolski could only register brief disbelief, before the shock wave of a massive explosion sent his pod spinning helplessly into the void. Nobody heard his dying scream.

Above the Southern States of the Russian Federation. 15.35 GMT

Vladimar Kirchistki pushed the throttle of his new Sukhoi 45 to the gates, and the small interceptor leapt towards the darkness of the outer atmosphere.

By injecting hydrogen and oxygen into the Sukhoi’s hybrid engine, Valdimar could push his aircraft to the very verges of space itself, reaching hypersonic speeds. Indeed it had only been six minutes since take off and already the blue of the Earth’s atmosphere was fading to the black of outer space.

To anybody else the flight would have been an exhilarating experience, but for Valdimar it was a pain; quite literally, in his head. Unfortunately, his earlier hangover, caused by an over-indulgence of the local southern vodka, had not cleared sufficiently before the onset of G forces set his brain pounding. His mood was not improved by the fact that he was chasing yet another shadow across the local WDF monitors. In fact this was the third time this month he’d been scrambled to chase space junk that showed up on some idiot’s screen as an alien invasion!

Abruptly, the acceleration that forced his head into the padded seat ceased and the interceptor floated in low Earth orbit. The sun shone through the tinted canopy heating the tiny cockpit and making Valdimar sweat, until cooling units cut in to compensate. Despite the incredible view of Asia floating below a layer of broken clouds and the curve of the Earth contrasting sharply with the vastness of deep space, his mood didn’t improve dramatically. He was constantly aware that the only thing that kept his eyeballs from being sucked out his head was his flimsy pressure suit and the thin carbon-fiber walls and canopy of the cockpit. Even through his gloves, if he touched the perspex above him, he could feel the cold of outer space.

Well, he was in the right place and as to be expected here was nothing to see, except the curve of the planet below. Nothing reading on any of the sensors, nothing much anywhere at all. ‘Control, this is Delta Foxtrot 37, in the target area,’ Vladimar spoke into his mike. ‘Nothing to report. Sensors read nothing, over.”

‘Delta Foxtrot 37, this is control,’ came the reply. ‘Are you sure there is no sign of space junk on your monitors in the area? We definitely picked up a positive reading of something quite large. Over.” Vladimar lost his patience and snapped into his mike, ‘Look control, you want to get your balls squashed and launch up here to take a look? There’s nothing here. Nothing on any of my sensors. No infrared signature... No radar signature... Nothing... Bugger all!  And I can see bugger all except for a few billion stars! Over!’

‘Roger 37, copy that. Sorry, must be another glitch in the equipment. Come down for dinner. Over.’

‘Roger control. Glad you see it my way. Next re-entry window in fifteen minutes.Over.’

‘Okay 37. See you on the ground, have a good trip. Out.’

Arsehole, thought Vladimar. They ought to replace those damn antique units with some new Chinese kit. Those old radar and infrared monitors almost dated back to the old Soviet Union days.

Casually Vladimar rolled the interceptor in preparation for re-entry, a bumpy, noisy and unpleasant affair. As the stars above rolled past he noticed an area where they appeared to be missing, they simply did not shine. He halted the roll to look more closely. The blotted out area appeared to be getting larger. It was strange, if he looked carefully he could vaguely make out a shape even though there were no reflections, just a deep darkness.

Then the tiniest glint of light showed Vladimar a metallic form and in an instant he realised what he was looking at. Surely, it wasn’t possible, nothing that big existed!  Without warning a fireball of light shot towards his craft. He only had time to shout ‘Oh God No!’ into his mike, before his interceptor was turned into a flaming meteor falling to the Earth below.

World Defence Force Headquarters, Paris. 15.40 GMT

The situation room was in a state of disorganised panic. People in various uniforms ran around, wildly pointing at computer monitors and gesticulating frantically. No matter how many times they practiced crisis situations, when it came to the real thing, the first few crucial minutes always ended up in chaos.

In the midst of shouting people, flashing monitors and holograms, sat General Thompson, previously of the Canadian Air Force, now commander in Chief of the World Defence Force. Tall and lean, with a body like that of a marathon runner despite his 60 years, he sat like an immovable object in the command chair overlooking the whole crisis centre. For several minutes he had watched the incredulous reaction of his staff as the situation developed. Eventually he decided the panic had lasted long enough, stood to his full lean height and bellowed, ‘Everybody shut the hell up!’

Immediately the room became silent, bodies froze and faces turned expectantly to the General.

‘Now everybody sit down and wait their turn to give me a status report.  A couple of you continue to monitor traffic, the rest of you listen up! Schmitt, give me a brief resume of events.’

Schmitt, a short immaculately dressed German, remained standing as everybody else sheepishly sat down. In his hand he held a tablet computer from which he began to read.

‘Well sir,’ he began mumbling.

‘Speak up boy!’ bellowed the General.

‘Well sir,’ Schmitt began again, a little louder, ‘the first events took place at 15.29 GMT just over fifteen minutes ago when several tracking and surveillance stations worldwide reported unidentified shadows on their monitors. Usually we put these down to glitches in the equipment, however, the shadows bore some similarity to the signature of our own stealth aircraft, if more effective. So the matter was reported.

Then at 15.34 GMT our laser platforms started to go out of action, apparently from attacks on the platforms themselves. Our sentry sats showed large focused missile strikes against the platforms. Since then the entire laser defence network has been entirely destroyed outright or disabled. Currently, our satellite surveillance and comms network is also under attack. In fact, all the satellites are rapidly being taken out one by one, and that includes the commercial sats, not just our own. We can’t confirm what is hitting them, and without the laser platforms we have no defence against them.

At 15.35 GMT all five space stations, that is the three United Nation’s, one American and one Japanese, were destroyed. Again we’re getting readings of large energy dissipation and debris from their orbital positions. Only the Japanese station managed to send out an SOS before they went off air. The message was; “ Hostile manoeuvres by unidentified vessel. We are coming under attack. Station disintegrating. Massive missile strike. Lord have mercy...” there the message abruptly ended...’ Schmitt paused, sighed heavily as though he carried an enormous weight, then said sadly, ‘Worse of all, the cities of  Luxembourg, Perth, Singapore, Honolulu, Toronto and St Petersburg have all been hit by what appear to be nuclear strikes. There were WDF bases in or near each of these cities. Reports of casualties are still coming in, but I’m afraid they’ll run into tens, maybe hundreds of thousands.’ He looked up from his computer and studied the sad, frightened faces of the assembled men and women. He had to swallow a lump in his throat and quell his stomach before he concluded, ‘As yet we don’t have a fix on where the strikes originated or who the aggressors are. That is the situation at present, although new information is coming in all the time.’ Schmitt looked straight at General Thompson, fear in his eyes. ‘Basically, General, we’re under attack Worldwide, but as yet we don’t know who the enemy is!’

He sat down heavily, his face a picture of misery. Beyond the glass walls the operations room was still in a state of panic, but within the conference room it was deathly silent. General Thompson said nothing, simply sat and scowled for a moment before turning to another of his aides. ‘Jefferson, your report now,’ he snapped.

Jefferson stood at the other end of the conference room. He was short, academic looking and wore a pair of small round spectacles in preference to having his eyes surgically corrected. Absent-mindedly he adjusted his uniform jacket over his paunch before speaking. Nervously, he cleared his throat then said in an almost strangled voice, ‘Well sir, initial readings from Luxembourg and the other struck cities show an absence of radiation fallout. This would indicate a strike by some form of weapon other than nuclear. While the last readings from the destroyed laser platforms and space stations indicate some sort of missile strike...’

‘Wait a minute,’ the General interrupted ‘you’re telling me that the nuke strikes were not in fact nuke strikes, and our laser defence network has been obliterated by some sort of other space-born attack system?’

Jefferson squirmed uncomfortably under the stare of the General. ‘That’s about right sir,’ he muttered.

‘So we’re under worldwide attack from somebody with more hardware than the combined countries of the WDF, being nuked by something other than nukes!’ General Thompson’s strained voiced rose several octaves. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Jefferson was at a loss for words. In a nutshell the General had summed up the contents of his report without even hearing it. He sat back down without saying another word. As he sat, a civilian, in a wrinkled suit slowly stood up and addressed Thompson. ‘Ah... General,’ he muttered.

‘Who the hell are you?!’ Thompson bellowed in exasperation.

‘Smith, Sir. Space observation team, Sir,’ Smith mumbled. General Thompson narrowed his eyes in suspicion at this nasty piece of slime out of uniform. ‘Well spit it out then Smith!’ he ordered.

‘The nuke strikes aren’t nuke strikes at all Sir. They’re asteroid strikes...’

‘Bullshit!’ blurted out an officer sitting nearby.

‘Um n...n...no, not quite,’ Smith stuttered ‘N...No, I’m afraid our observations show that several large asteroids are being dropped from high Earth orbit onto our cities, the effect being almost identical to a large nuclear strike. Whatever is attacking us is using stealth technology to cloak their movements. However, the falling rocks or asteroids are leaving easily readable radar signatures. Further, we’re receiving eye witness reports from survivors of these things falling onto our cities like comets. The trailing flames created by their entry into the atmosphere are easily visible even in bright daylight!’

Muttering broke out among the assembled team. General Thompson’s narrowed eyes bored into the eyes of the unfortunate man from the space observation team. The General was a man used to talking nuke strikes and the rapid deployment of mobile forces. Somehow being told you were being decimated by somebody hurling large boulders at you didn’t seem quite right.

‘I guess you’re about to tell me that this attack comes from an alien race?’ He said in a barely controlled voice.

Smith vainly tried to avoid the General’s stare. He instinctively knew the General was only a hair’s breadth from exploding in frustration and confusion, indeed he found his own conclusions hard to accept himself, so he wasn’t surprised by Thompson’s hostility. But he was determined to speak his mind, he knew there was only one conclusion to be drawn from the data coming in. When he did finally speak, his voice was nothing more than a whisper.

‘As there is no single nation on Earth with the hardware to utilise such large objects as projectiles, then that is unfortunately...the logical conclusion. It would take the construction of a huge vessel to tow large enough boulders out of the asteroid belt to Earth’s orbit. The ATELL shuttle constructed by the Pacific Union is the largest spacecraft on Earth, and certainly is nowhere near capable of moving such a huge payload. It would be impossible to keep the construction of such a craft secret, and we’ve had no such intelligence reports. We must accept the possibility that the attack is not human in origin.’

General Thompson simply sat and stared at Smith, his face expressionless. The seconds ticked by, sweat dripped off Smith’s brow, the tension visible on his face as he stood waiting for the inevitable onslaught. However, the outburst never came.  Without moving his stare from Smith, the General addressed Schmitt on the other side of the room.

‘Schmitt, what do you make of this Bullshit!’

‘Well,’ came the uneasy reply, ‘I’ve seen the information supplied by Smith and I believe he is correct about the asteroid strikes. That would explain the lack of radiation fallout. A space-born force using stealth technology would also explain the ghost shadows on our monitors. As to whether the attack is from an alien species...well I just don’t know, sir. But, what I do know is that whoever they are, they now have the upper hand. With complete control of the highest ground, so to speak, we are at a great disadvantage.’

These words seemed to pull General Thompson out of himself, much to the visible relief of Smith, who collapsed into a chair like a sack of potatoes and mopped his brow. The General pulled himself upright, adjusted his tunic and addressed the room.

‘Okay, so we may or may not be under attack from the little green men from Mars,’ he bellowed with authority. ‘That aside we must act now while we still have some satellite communications and some combat capability. Lockhart!’ a woman staff officer stood to attention, ‘Send out mobilisation orders to all WDF forces, even though most of them already have. General orders to all units to disperse from their main bases.  Let’s not make it easy for the enemy. Regional commanders to take command in the event of a communication breakdown. Worldwide alert. Civilians to stay indoors etc, etc. You know the drill. Keep the media in the dark for now, though God knows, they probably know more than we do. Oh yeah, send up those new interceptors to low Earth orbit, see if we can’t get a pot shot at the fuckers.’

‘We already have sir,’ Lockhart interrupted. ‘Six Russian Sukhoi’s are missing.’

‘Oh, bloody marvellous!’ the General cursed. ‘Okay forget that for now, let’s stick to limiting our losses. Get the United Nations’ President and his motley crew into the Switzerland Haven. And that applies to everybody here too. You’ve got ten minutes to send out the orders, then everybody boards the VTOL transports. General evacuation.  Okay move!’

The room erupted into activity as orders were snapped down the communication links and up to whatever comm-sats were still in operation. Those without anything more to do closed down their consoles and headed for the rooftop landing pad. ‘Oh crap...’ the General cursed to nobody in particular.

Polar Ridge WDF airfield, Greenland. 16.35 GMT.

The sweat trickled down Squadron Leader Jenson’s spine despite the freezing temperature of the Arctic air. He’d been sitting strapped into the cockpit of his McDonnell F3 Thunderball for over twenty minutes with the turbines ticking over on auxiliary. Now in the Arctic sun that warmed him through the perspex canopy he was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. The whole base had been placed on full alert since the general orders were sent from London some forty-five minutes ago. So the whole squadron had to sit in their cockpits waiting for the order to scramble. The only problem was that since the satellite link to command headquarters had been severed, nobody knew where to scramble to. Everyone knew of the reports of a worldwide attack by an unknown force, of nuke strikes on WDF bases, and the destruction of the star wars network. Unfortunately, with all incoming radio signals being crudely jammed by wide-band blocking, none of the reports had been confirmed. Nothing showed up on any of the sensors within the Arctic area. Until something did, they had to carry on waiting.

Jenson wasn’t the only person beginning to feel uncomfortable. Around the base perimeter he could just make out the missile emplacements of the airfield defence units, while scattered over a wide area, each partially hidden by their blast pens, sat the other Thunderballs of 511 Squadron. Jenson knew that everybody felt the pressure of waiting. Stomach muscles tensed, sometimes there was an overwhelming urge to relieve yourself, even though you’d been just ten minutes before. Everybody felt it, that strange feeling, waiting for combat, that fear. Of course it all disappeared in an instant once the action began. The surge of adrenaline made sure of that. But for the moment there was just that tightened gut feeling... fear. He’d been in the WDF Airforce since he left college more than ten years ago. As a kid he’d planned to join the Canadian Airforce, but when Canada joined the WDF and turned her forces over to their control, it seemed logical to join the new service instead. Now he commanded his own squadron, 511 Squadron. They’d spent the winter in Greenland on arctic warfare exercises and had been due to return to their home base near Montreal in a couple of weeks’ time. Right at this moment, Jenson wasn’t even sure that Montreal was still there! As he waited he fretted, how would his squadron perform? They were all hardened and highly trained after the long winter of exercises, but none of them had ever been in real combat. It wasn’t as if they knew what they were up against... just what the hell was happening out there? Was this all just another exercise? Another test dreamed up by North Atlantic Command? How could it be, with reports coming in from all over the place, including commercial television, of worldwide attacks? His stomach twisted into an even tighter knot of apprehension and fear. Fear not for his life, but of failure, of somehow not making the grade when it really mattered.

Jenson didn’t have to wait much longer. Without warning there was a loud explosion and a pall of smoke from the far end of the airfield. One of the Thunderball fighters blew apart. The gut feeling disappeared in an instant as the adrenaline surged through his body. My God! They were under attack and for bloody real! All his multiple radar and ECM (electronic counter measure) sensors were blank, read nothing, but they were definitely under attack, holy shit!

Further explosions and palls of smoke appeared all over the airfield. Without even waiting for control clearance he flicked his mike to the squadron channel and ordered in a frantic voice. ‘Squadron scramble, scramble! We’re under attack, all aircraft scramble! Clear the area! There’s nothing reading on any of the scanners, so ignore them. Keep your eyes peeled and clear the airfield! Get those engines fired up and get off the ground. Rendezvous at GPS reference three-seven-nine-alpha, height, angels four-five.’

Then he desperately waved with one hand for his ground crew to disconnect the umbilical connector, while closing the canopy and opening the throttles with his other hand. The turbines whined louder and louder until within a few seconds, the engines were giving off their enormous full thrust. As the ground crew rushed for shelter Jenson thumbed the vectored thrust control to vertical and the Thunderball literally leapt off the concrete and into the air.

Before he was even twenty metres off the ground there was another explosion, this time very nearby and the Thunderball felt as if it were about to collapse back onto the ground. However, the blast pen absorbed much of the impact and Jenson just managed to hold the bucking aircraft. As soon as he gained some measure of control, he thumbed the vector control towards horizontal and the full force of the turbines shoved the aircraft forward. Rapidly, the airspeed increased, and as the swept forward wings bit into the air, he pulled the Thunderball into a near ninety degree bank, and hauled it away from the airfield. Then he pulled the nose upwards and roared into the Arctic sky.

He continued to accelerate in a near vertical climb until he reached 15,000 metres. Then he throttled back and pushed the control stick forward so that the Thunderball was cruising away from the airfield, heading for the rendezvous point. While trying to calm his furiously beating heart, he scanned his controls. He seemed to have escaped unscathed and he could see two other Thunderballs forming up on his port and starboard wing tips. The numbers painted on their twin fins identified them as Sandpiper and Davies. Jenson tried his radio but only got an earful of screeching. He tried another channel, but got the same result. He punched the number for North Atlantic Control, but again he got nothing but an earful of screeching. Somebody nearby was crudely jamming all the frequencies with a transmitter so powerful his own was swamped. Off his starboard wing Sandpiper pointed to his helmet and shook his head, indicating that he too could hear nothing. Jenson nodded his head in acknowledgment and indicated with his hands for them to stay in formation. If all their frequencies were jammed, there was no way of knowing if any of the other Thunderballs had heard his call and got off the ground. He saw at least two take hits as he scrambled. For a moment he was almost gripped by panic at the thought that he may have lost nearly his whole squadron before they could even get airborne, but then his training took hold. There would be time for panic and fear later. He would just have to hope that some got away and were making for the main bases in Canada.  Right now there were three of them armed and airborne with an aggressor down there on the ground. At this point in time that was all that mattered. He ordered his on board computer to scan the surrounding area for hostiles of any nature and register them on the head-up display.

Much to his surprise, the computer replied that there were no hostiles, or other aircraft within a two hundred kilometre radius. This was worrying; unless the 360 degree pulse radar was being affected by the jamming it meant two things, neither of them good. Firstly it confirmed his worst fear that out of the squadron’s fifteen aircraft only the three of them managed to get away. Secondly it meant that whoever was instigating the attack was using only ground forces effectively ‘cloaked’ under some sort of stealth capability. Having said that, the wide-band jamming of the type being used was effective but hardly the latest in stealth technology. Jenson asked the onboard AI unit to locate the source of the jamming. He wasn’t surprised when it came back with the epicentre of the transmissions centred on the airfield itself. The WDF base was obviously the objective of the attack.  He could have sworn though, that the initial attack on the airfield was by shelling rather than ‘smart bombing’ or missile attack, which is what he would have expected. The fact that he got away, albeit by a very narrow margin and Sandpiper and Davies also managed to scramble clear, would support that theory. If he had lead such a surprise attack, nobody would have survived. Mind you, three aircraft out of fifteen wasn’t exactly getting away without losses. Then again it struck him like an ice pick to the heart that it was possible that they might be the only ones to get away. God, there were hundreds of men and women who worked on the base! What was happening to them! Whoever or whatever instigated the attack, Jenson was determined were about to get their arses kicked. The three of them had no choice but to return to the airfield and counter-attack. With that thought, he hauled his Thunderball into a tight bank, back towards the airfield, with Sandpiper and Davies keeping tight formation.

They dived towards the Earth until they were hugging the ground, flying at 500 knots only ten metres above the snow, following the undulating ground. With any luck, at this height and speed, and with the electronic interference going on, they should hit the attacking force without being seen until it was too late. The jamming worked both ways; they couldn’t get a resolution on the aggressors, but then they couldn’t see the three of them either. Jenson quickly glanced both sides to check his wing men were still with him as they rapidly approached the plain between the mountain ranges on which the airfield was built.

Ahead of them small clouds of black smoke appeared around their speeding Thunderballs. Well, that was the end to any thoughts of a surprise counterattack...Anti-aircraft units had obviously been placed on the ridge above the airfield. In an attempt to avoid the anti-aircraft fire all three aircraft started jigging wildly. Jenson tensed ready to pull full Gs at the first hint of a SAM (surface-to-air) missile. But after a while, when nothing happened and his threat indicators remained clear, he began to wonder why they were not being attacked by other aircraft or missiles. Obviously they were relying solely upon anti-aircraft fire, fast-firing Gatling guns were spewing explosive shells at them, but as the ECM threat indicators remained clear, it meant that none of it was radar guided...thank God! Still a shell could turn him into a fireball just as easily as a missile.

Jenson had to leave that particular train of thought as his computer AI attack unit warned him that the last ridge before the airfield was coming up. Rapidly he went round the cockpit checking his weapons systems and verbally ordering the computer to arm the ordinance. He was carrying three laser “smart warheads.” Four air-to-ground Blackstreak missiles, two Slipstream air-to-air missiles, and 3,000 rounds in the Gatling cannon. The three aircraft gained height slightly to clear the ridge then shot down into the valley. The Polar Ridge Airfield appeared below them. Jenson scanned the devastation with a professional eye, but certainly wasn’t prepared for what he saw.  Underneath his oxygen mask his jaw dropped in surprise and horror. Sitting astride two runways, the distance between each being more than half a kilometre, sat a huge metal vessel in the shape of a dome. A large black dome, a dome that seemed to absorb light. It sat in the middle of the airfield dwarfing nearby buildings and hangars.  At its highest point it must have been at least seven storeys high. Around the edges of the dome, the ground had turned black, scorched by intense heat. In fact Jenson could see the melted remains of several aircraft and personnel carriers. He just couldn’t take in the sheer size of the thing. The surface at first appeared to be seamless, but on second appraisal Jenson noticed several blisters spaced equally around the dome, and from the tracer fire emitting from them, he could only presume that they were some kind of gun emplacements. Whatever, or whoever, had attacked the airfield had arrived in that sphere, and they were now in the process of mopping up resistance. In one section of the field perimeter Jenson could make out a few WDF troops under attack from some sort of troop carriers.

Any further inspection was dramatically postponed when the dome’s guns turned on the rapidly approaching aircraft. This certainly focused Jenson’s attention on the job at hand and he began to weave madly, followed closely by Sandpiper and Davies in an attempt to avoid the worst of the renewed flak. There was loads of it, God it was like flying through a wall of fire! The Thunderball was rocked by nearby explosions and the sky was so thick with smoke and shrapnel you could almost get out and walk on it. The sound of shrapnel hitting the belly of the aircraft made him duck instinctively in the cockpit, even though it was a futile and pointless thing to do.  Damn! They didn’t need missiles with this much crap being thrown at them! While pulling hard Gs he spoke to his onboard computer, asking for a lock on the Dome. He could only curse when the reply came as “Target unidentified”. Well whatever jamming methods they employed, they were still working as his AI unit was also being affected.  He flicked the laser designator to manual and aimed his helmet monitor towards the target and ordered “lock-on”. Jenson could only hope that Sandpiper and Davies were doing the same. Quickly he checked the threat indicator ... no other aircraft or pulse scans on them. Part of his mind registered the fact that this was very strange, every force on Earth now relied heavily on electronic scanners to “lock” onto a target, but this bunch relied on crude manually aimed flak. Even so, the anti-aircraft fire being thrown up was getting closer every second. There would be only the one pass, so Jenson ordered the computer to direct the smart bombs to the sphere thing, while the air-to-ground missiles would launch against the enemy personnel carriers and tanks streaming out of the machine.

The computer acknowledged manual lock-on and started to count down from ten to release “pickle” point. This was the hard part ... Jenson would have to over fly the target and remain straight and level for the last five seconds. The computer counted, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five... Jenson straightened the Thunderball, behind him and Sandpiper and Davies did the same. The three jets roared towards the dome, low, fast and level. The computer registered “ordinance released and tracking”. Then everything happened at once, and to Jenson’s mind, in slow motion. He could feel the flak hitting the Thunderball somewhere in the belly, and immediately he felt the twin turbines scream in protest before dying. The controls went loose and the computer blasted into his ear, “Terminal damage... Eject. Eject!” Bolts exploded and the slipstream whipped the canopy away, while clamps automatically secured his arms and legs before hurling him and his attached seat two 200 metres into the air. Below him, the missiles and bombs of the three aircraft reached the targets with dramatic consequences.

The shock waves from the multiple impacts hit the ejector seat as it tumbled through the atmosphere, and Jenson blacked out as the air was squeezed from his lungs. It was some time before he became aware of his surroundings again, by which time the parachute canopy had opened and he found himself slowly sinking towards the ground. Towards the horizon he could just make out the dwindling shapes of the two remaining Thunderballs as they disappeared into the Arctic wasteland after successfully completing their attack. Silently, Jenson wished Sandpiper and Davies good luck. Hopefully they would find an unoccupied airfield in Canada before their fuel ran out. His attention moved to the scene of devastation below him. The smart bombs had obviously hit their target. There were several ragged holes in the surface of the large dome where the bombs had penetrated the skin, and smoke poured out of numerous orifices.The gun emplacements were silent; one of them appeared to have been blown from its mountings and hung like a discarded toy, while the remainder were blackened and unmoving. However, the blow hadn’t been fatal, Jenson could see troops and vehicles of some description swarming around the base of the dome, like ants evacuating an inflamed nest. They may have knocked a hole in the weird craft, but there were still plenty of enemy troops left.

The ground was approaching rapidly, so Jenson pulled on the control cords of his parachute canopy and turned into the wind. He was drifting towards the perimeter, where the Blackstreak missiles had taken out the enemy tanks and personnel carriers. All that remained of them were burning hulks while the CBU 34s (cluster bombs which release several hundred small anti-personnel bomblets ) dropped by Sandpiper and Davies had caused havoc among the unidentified attacking troops. Now he could actually see his own airfield troops dug into defence positions beyond the carnage and pulled the shroud cords to steer towards them.Then as he passed over the burning hulks and trenches, he bent his knees pulled the envelope cords hard and neatly landed on the compacted snow. He took the shock in his bent knees, collapsed and rolled, at the same time twisting and pulling on the canopy to collapse the silk. As the air spilled out of the chute, he hit the harness release and spotted the ejector seat lying in the snow some distance to his left. He would need the emergency provisions kept with the seat if he was to survive in the Arctic conditions. Either that or find his own side, otherwise he would have to surrender to the dome bunch and as he had just put a nasty hole in it, that option was not very appealing!

A shuffling noise behind him struck his heightened senses and he hit the snow, pulling out his automatic all in one fluid movement. Several troops were hurrying towards him, their white combat gear making them hard to distinguish against the snow. Only the crunching of combat boots on crisp snow gave them away. Much to Jenson’s relief he recognised the white smocks. They belonged to 511 Squadron field defence. He let out an audible sigh of relief and lowered his automatic.

‘Sir,’ the leading trooper waved and shouted to him, ‘if you’re unhurt please follow us, there’s no time to waste. We’re about to evacuate!’

Jenson waved in acknowledgment and trudged towards the four troops. When he got closer he recognised the corporal who was leading the group. His face was worn and smeared with blood, and he limped slightly, favouring his left leg, which had a bloody bandage around it.

‘Corporal Peters what the hell is going on here?!’ he demanded when he stood before them.

‘Glad to see you in one piece, skipper.’ The corporal replied. ‘Well sir, as you saw that saucer thing attacked and took out the rest of the squadron aircraft before they could get off the ground. Only you, Davies and Sandpiper got away. Then they landed and troops swarmed out from the inside of the thing. We didn’t stand a chance sir, there were so many of them. Our group was the last to resist, and we were doomed until you came along. You bought us time sir, but only that. They’re already regrouping for another attack. So Captain Black is using the confusion to withdraw.  We’ve got snowmobiles behind those drifts, and we’re to meet up with him as soon as possible sir!’

‘God, what a mess!’ Jenson exclaimed with feeling. He began to shiver from the cold and shock, and hugged himself tightly. ‘So where the hell does Black think we can run to? We’re over 800 kilometres from the nearest WDF base. The ridge airfield was meant to be the last post before the Arctic, not Piccadilly Circus!’

‘I don’t know sir, but I guess the Captain has got plans of some sort. All I know is we can’t stay here, we’re beaten.’

Jenson didn’t bother to reply and with that sober thought, they trudged over to the snowmobiles and headed towards the armoured vehicles, already beginning to move from their fortified positions, while there was a lull in the fighting. The remnants of the airfield defence force looked in bad shape. There were just three personnel carriers and two snow leopard tanks moving away from the airfield. Behind them was a scene of devastation. Smoke rose into the sky from numerous gutted tanks and APC's, bodies lay prone in the snow, their blood staining the virgin whiteness. But Jenson could see their defence was not entirely in vain, for there were even more bodies and wrecked vehicles in front of the trenches. The uniforms of these troops were black, and smoke poured from tanks of a design Jenson had never seen before. In the distance the dome still belched thick black smoke where their bombs had hit. For now there was no further fire from the gun emplacements, but it was only a matter of time before they came after the survivors of the WDF force.

The snowmobile pulled alongside a battle cruiser, a hatch opened on the turret and a weary face appeared. ‘Jenson, you’re a sight for sore eyes! Thank God you and the others came when you did. Our number was about to come up! Climb aboard!’ Black shouted. Jenson climbed off the snowmobile and clambered aboard the huge battle cruiser. The interior smelled of sweat and cordite but was deceptively spacious. Black led him to a jump seat at the rear of the cruiser and sat opposite.

‘You okay kid? You look a bit shaken.’

‘Yeah, I guess so. Just a bit cold.’

‘It’s the shock, it hits you like that after a while’.

‘You don’t look so good yourself, you know,’ Jenson managed to smile.

‘Cheers mate,’ come the reply. ‘Corporal! Get a medic over here. Check the Squadron Leader for ejection injuries!’ Black ordered.

Jenson became sombre, and while a medic checked him over he asked ‘So where we going? Are we all that’s left?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Black relied. ‘Your three aircraft were the only ones that got away. They took us completely by surprise. I mean we just couldn’t believe the size of that thing, it just appeared from nowhere. One minute it wasn’t there the next it was bombing and shelling us. No missiles or the like, mind you, just good old-fashioned high explosives.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Jenson interrupted. ‘We noticed the same thing. No SAM's or other aircraft. Just loads of Flak.’

‘Bad shit! It was only our relative distance from them that saved us. We had a chance to gather our wits. Everyone else got fried either by the dome’s landing blast or later artillery.’

‘God, what a frigging mess!’ Jenson said with feeling. ‘So as I said, where in hell are we going now?’

‘Got to head for the hills man while they’re still confused by your counterattack.  We’ve got some supplies hidden away in some caves a few clicks beyond the first ridge. We set them up a few months ago for Arctic survival training. There’s a plateau halfway up a mountain with a large cave we expanded and kitted out. That’s where we’ll hole up for now.’ Jenson simply nodded in agreement, too tired to reply. He’d heard of the caves used for arctic training and warfare exercises. It was as good a bolt hole as anywhere.

‘You just sit tight there and have a doze. I’ve got to organise the orderly retreat. God, what a joke!’ finished Black. Jenson sat and watched the retreating back of the captain as he climbed into the turret and began to issue orders. The cruiser lurched forward and Jenson’s stomach with it. The look in Black’s eyes said it all. They were defeated and on the run. It was time to head for the hills. He began to shiver uncontrollably. The small column sped across the snow and tundra, leaving behind the bodies of their friends to an unknown enemy.

WDF Retreat, Swiss Alps.
March 25^th 2045 0800GMT

General Thompson shuffled down the long granite corridor, the light panels casting deep shadows under his eyes. Shadows that had appeared since he had been at the retreat. His uniform, once crisp and starched, was now creased and sweat stained. He hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours, and he felt like death warmed up. Under his arm he carried the morning report on the war being played out on the surface several miles above his head. It was a depressing report to be read to the United Nations’ president Jean-Paul Ricard and his ministers. A bunch of bloody bureaucrats as useful as refrigeration to an Eskimo.

Thompson had suffered the agony of split loyalties many times over the past ten days since the beginning of the invasion. His job was to organise resistance from the security of the “retreat” a large underground complex hidden deep below the Swiss Alps. It was the last bolt hole for world leaders, the irony of which never escaped him.  Here they all were buried under a Swiss mountain, an impenetrable fortress, trying to win a war against an unidentified enemy. Nearly all the world’s leaders had fled their countries and arrived here at the retreat, their tails between their legs. They could see the writing on the wall, the way the war was going, soon there wouldn’t be anywhere left for them to rule. He despised the cowardice of them all, for while brave young men and women fought desperate battles, the politicians wined and dined, waiting for the day when they could pick up the pieces. Like Nero, they fiddled while Rome burned. How he longed to be on the surface, giving orders from the front, wherever that may be, suffering as his troops suffered, fighting the enemy face to face. Alas he was doomed to this underground prison.

He stopped before the large double doors of the main conference room. Two armed troops carefully checked his palm prints in the computer memory before opening the doors. Taking a deep breath he absent-mindedly adjusted his uniform and entered the room. He paused at the threshold surprised to find the room empty, except for a small solitary figure, slouched at the end of the long conference table. His hair was disheveled and stubble darkened his face while his once fashionable suit was creased and stained by sweat.

President Jean-Paul Ricard looked up and nodded to him. ‘Oh it’s you General,’ he said in a small high voice. ‘Please come and join me.’

Thompson stepped to the table feeling a little confused ... this was meant to be a full ministerial meeting and briefing. ‘I believed this was meant to be a full briefing Mr. President. Where is everybody?’ he asked.

‘I sent them all away’ the President replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, ‘The time for talk is over, now I have to make a decision. A decision only you can help me with. It is pointless asking those spineless fools for their advice, they have none.’

Ricard tapped his fingers on the table and stared into the middle distance. ‘Do you know that in one hour I have a meeting with the general assembly? I have to decide what to advise them, and only you are in a position to give me the information I need. That, General, is why we are having this meeting alone.’ He turned and looked at the general expectantly.

Thompson paused, unsure of what to do or say next. Jean-Paul Ricard was famous for never making decisions alone. He always had a flock of advisers in tow, even when he went to the can. He wondered if perhaps the pressure had taken its toll on the diminutive President. He wouldn’t be the first to crack. Already several politicians, after seeing their towns and cities mercilessly destroyed, had crossed that fine line between sanity and madness.

‘It’s okay General, I haven’t lost my mind, yet,’ said the President reading Thompson’s face. He motioned for him to take a chair. ‘There’s plenty of time for that later, but not now. Please come and sit next to me. I need you to see this video, received by micro-net earlier this morning.’

Somewhat cautiously, Thompson sat in a chair opposite the President and faced the monitor. He was still unsure of what to make of this strange behaviour, but he moved his attention to the holographic monitor as the president clicked on the video link. A three-dimensional image of one of the strange enemy spheres appeared on the screen, floating above the Earth. Beside it could be seen the wreckage of space station alpha, it’s twisted and blackened structure deformed almost beyond recognition. Thompson had to remind himself that over two thousand personnel had inhabited that station. They were all dead now, incinerated in the explosion, or floating lifelessly in orbit.

‘This video is for the attention of President Jean-Paul Ricard of the United Nations of Earth,’ began a voice in perfect English, over the image of the Dome. ‘President Ricard, I am authorised by the council of Dyason, to offer your people conditions for surrender’.

On the screen the space scene faded to be replaced by a close-up of a face. A human face. A male, about fifty years old by Thompson’s reckoning, with the deepest green eyes and strange red hair. He tried to place the man’s origins but couldn’t. His features seemed to be a mix of Anglo Saxon, Mongolian and Oriental. In fact, despite meeting all the world’s shapes and sizes at the UN, he simply couldn’t figure out where the guy came from.

‘Who the hell is that?’ he exclaimed. ‘What is this, some kind of hoax. You’re paying attention to somebody with a sick sense of humour who claims to speak on behalf of a bunch called the Dyason!’

President Ricard turned and looked with annoyance at the General. ‘Be quiet, Thompson! This is no hoax. The message was received by micro-net transmission from a known Dome position. The message could not have come from anywhere else, nor could it have been received by anybody else,’ the president snapped. On screen, the voice continued unabated. ‘President Ricard, may I introduce myself. I am Admiral Tirpolz, commander of the invasion fleet of Dyason. My battle vessels now surround your planet, while destroyers and cruisers hold key cities and military installations. You are urged to order your defence forces to surrender their arms. Your position is hopeless. We have already destroyed many areas of population with asteroid strikes. If necessary we shall continue to destroy more if you do not surrender. The council of Dyason offer reasonable terms for surrender. Earth will become a member of Imperial Dyason and an active colony under these terms. To save any further loss of life, I ask that you consider your position most carefully. I expect a reply by 1200hours GMT.’

The image pulled back from the facial close-up to show the admiral as a man of about Thompson’s height, dressed in a starched heavily gilded uniform. He was surrounded by equipment, which looked surprisingly similar to the innards of an old German “U” boat. The interior was dimly lit, with pipes, conduits and visibly huge controls of some sort. There was an overwhelming impression of a lack of space, and in the background could be seen other men standing shoulder to shoulder at strange work-stations. The hologram then faded and died. Thompson sat dumbfounded, staring at the blank screen. President Ricard observed him carefully.

‘Well, General, what do you make of that?’ he said after a while.

‘I don’t know what to think Mr President. Are you sure this is no hoax?’ Thompson replied shaking his head.

‘It is no hoax General. That was the first thing we checked for. The location of the transmission was a particularly large Dome in geo-stationary orbit above the Pacific.’

‘So who the hell are the Dyason?’

‘I don’t know General. All we know is what you have seen on the tape and information from our intelligence services.’

Thompson’s mind raced. There had been reports of enemy troops with unusual features, and certainly the technology behind the Domes and their weapons was unfamiliar to the WDF.  The few prisoners they had taken all spoke the same unidentified language. The only word the interrogators did understand was the name they called themselves ... Dyason.  However, he still found it hard to grasp the concept of an invasion from “outer space”. The scientists had been hinting at this scenario for several days now, but he had always dismissed the idea as too far fetched. Without their nav comm satellites, and WDF forces in full retreat, hard information was almost impossible to gather. So it was difficult to confirm or deny any diagnosis. Even so, it was a bitter pill to swallow, besides they were obviously human. Weren’t aliens supposed to be bug-eyed monsters?  Ricard watched him, studying his face, trying to gauge his reaction.

‘General I can see you are having difficulty accepting the information given in the message. I agree it is difficult to believe. However, the fact remains that these people are in a position to hit any centre of population on the planet apparently at will. Our military forces are powerless to prevent these asteroid strikes. Soon there will be nothing left for them to destroy. Already there are signs that the dust and debris thrown into the upper atmosphere is having adverse effects on weather patterns. Not only do we face genocide, we also face ecological disaster on a scale unknown to mankind. We must find some way to stop these attacks. Not in the next few days or hours, but now! Earth and the people on it can not take much more General! Now tell me truthfully, what is our military position?! Is there a military solution?’

Surprised by this outburst from the President, Thompson pulled out his tablet and cast it’s information to the monitor. He tried to rally his thoughts into some sort of coherent pattern then he cleared his throat and began.

‘Well Mr President, I’m afraid the picture is no better than at last night’s briefing. The United States and Canada are now almost totally in the control of the enemy. Except for small pockets of resistance in the desert and mountains, all urban areas have either capitulated or been destroyed completely. What WDF forces remain are retreating to South America. There it is hoped the topography may help to hamper the enemy.’ On the monitor images flicked past of defeated and exhausted troops leaving aircraft and helicopters somewhere in South America. Graphical charts showed the number of casualties and direction of retreat.

‘New York has been hit by an asteroid strike, we have no word on casualties at present, but I’m afraid they’ll be high. The worst news is that a direct hit on the San Andreas Fault set off a major earthquake which has devastated the whole area from San Francisco down to Los Angeles. We’ve lost contact with California and I fear casualties in the civilian population will be extremely high.’

The President placed his head in his hands and gave out a low groan. ‘How many General?’ he murmured.

‘Over a million, Mr President.’

‘Oh God, is there no hope?’ he pleaded.

Thompson fidgeted uncomfortably, embarrassed by the President’s dismay, a dismay he felt himself. But he had to give the man some hope, he had to throw a lifeline to a drowning man.

‘Well we have had some success Mr President,’ he carried on. ‘We’ve managed to repulse an attack on New Zealand, and hold our base there. In Europe we still hold mountainous areas such as the Alps, Pyrenees and much of Scotland and Ireland.’

‘And what of our cities General? What of Moscow, Paris, London, Tokyo, and all the other world centres?’ demanded the President.

‘I’m afraid they’ve all fallen, Mr. President. Our cities have been the target of the enemy’s major offensive. We’ve been forced either to withdraw our forces, or risk an asteroid strike, as at Luxembourg, New York, San Francisco and a dozen other places.’

In an uncharacteristic display of anger, the president ripped the computer file out of the monitor, which blanked out and hurled the unit against the wall. Angrily he turned on Thompson and shouted, ‘Damn it man, we’ve lost millions of lives already, civilians and military, right across the globe! What are our real chances of winning this? Do we have any way of stopping these asteroid attacks? Unless we can halt those, everything else is pointless! You know that as well as I, General. The situation is the same as the nuclear holocaust scenarios of the last century, only we have no means of lobbing nukes back at them!’

Thompson sat silent while Ricard ranted. His mind raced trying to think what to say, but the truth could not be avoided.

‘Mr President, without control of space, and with the enemy’s ability to target asteroids at us, we can only retreat at present. We can hold certain less populated areas, but that is all. We must conserve our forces and hope to find a way to regain control of the higher ground,’ he said, standing rigidly to attention, eyes focused on the wall above the Presidents head. ‘Without our space laser platforms, comm sats and nav sats we are fighting blindfolded with one arm behind our back. Communications beyond a few hundred miles are near impossible due to the atmospheric debris and the jamming still being used by these mothers. However, our intelligence indicates that the technology used by the Dyason is nowhere near as advanced as that of the WDF. They’re relying on crude ballistic weapons compared to our missiles and although they have some beam technology, it is clumsy and inefficient compared to our own. They’re relying on sheer transmitter power to jam our equipment. What I’m saying, Mr President, is that these bastards aren’t invincible, not by a long way. At present they have the advantage, but eventually they will all have to come down from space. They won’t have the fuel or provisions to stay there for ever. When they do, that will be our time to take them out. A few nuke strikes and those leach sucking mothers are history!’

‘That’s what I thought,’ came the whispered reply. ‘What you’re really saying is that we have no current defence against these-space born attacks?’

Thompson shuffled his feet embarrassed, and looked away. Christ, what did he bloody expect? Ever since the economic crash countries across the globe had been cutting defence expenditure to the point where there was barely anything left. How the blazes was he supposed to hold off a global invasion with a force a fraction of the size of the armies facing each other across the Cold War frontiers of the 1980s. They were meant to be a rapid deployment policing force, not the bloody seventh cavalry! He said none of this. There was no point so finally he muttered, ‘Yes I guess I am Mr President.’

The President seemed to shrink into himself, almost visibly collapse. He buried his head into his hands for a moment before looking up at Thompson again. ‘Thank you, General. That will be all. Only history can judge me now.’ And with that he gave Thompson a dismissive wave.

With some measure of relief Thompson went to the door and opened it. As he stepped through and quietly closed it behind him, he could just hear the President weeping.  Despite everything he thought of politicians, Thompson felt sorry for Ricard. He was close to weeping himself. He moved off down the corridor and was halfway back to the operations room when the full meaning of the President’s words hit him. ‘My God’, he thought, ‘the stupid sod’s going to surrender!’

Somewhere in the Arctic.
April 3^rd 2045 1200 GMT.

Jenson stood on the balcony overlooking the cavern. Below him sat three Thunderball fighters all that remained of 511 Squadron. Figures swarmed over them carrying out numerous tasks under the glare of the halogen lights suspended from the hard rock roof.

It was amazing what had been achieved in such a short space of time. They’d arrived at the series of caverns some seven hours after they’d left the ridge airfield. First carved out of an Arctic cliff face by gold miners back in the early twentieth century, the original tunnels extended in a network that reached back nearly a kilometre into the hard granite rock and connected a series of large natural caverns. A few years ago the WDF had enlarged the original tunnels and turned the mine into an Arctic survival and warfare base. Food and equipment were brought in from the Ridge airfield and the tunnels made large enough to move aircraft and machinery into the caverns which made excellent natural hangars. When the remnants of Blacks squad arrived in the surviving APC's they thankfully found the bolt-hole still well stocked with food, arms and equipment. Hanson Sandpiper and Mary Davies had figured the survivors would make for the caverns, so much to his delight, they were waiting with their aircraft when they arrived.

Since then, every one of them had toiled day and night to turn the caverns into a secure base of operations. The work had kept them all occupied and kept their minds off the terrible events that were happening across the globe. Black had ordered that the WDF wavelengths be monitored and they’d made an attempt at communication with the northern Atlantic headquarters. But they’d received no reply to their transmissions. In fact they were unable to contact anybody. The relatively low powered transmitters at the caverns were unable to break through the broad-band jamming and they suspected the comm-satellites had been destroyed.

Desperate for information, Black and Jenson had carried out a recce of the ridge airfield two nights before. They had taken one of the vehicles to within a kilometre of the ridge overlooking the airfield then carefully walked to a vantage point where they could use their infrared scopes. The strange Dome still sat in the centre of the airfield, and work crews were busy welding patches onto the hull, making repairs to the damage caused by Jenson’s earlier attack. The perimeter around the strange craft was well guarded with troops and armoured vehicles, but the airfield itself seemed to be virtually deserted. Jenson guessed they simply didn’t have sufficient manpower to patrol the airfield as well and believed their position to be secure anyhow. Taking advantage of this lapse in security the two men had elected to take a closer look and slipped undetected through the perimeter fence. They headed for the cover of the hangars where, to their delight, they found a serviceable Thunderball fighter, with half full fuel tanks and three more APC's. 

Black began to load up one of the APC’s with stores and equipment from the hangar, while Jenson took a look at the other hangars and engineering blocks. He came back half an hour later with fifteen men and women. They’d been the only other survivors of the attack and were kept under a light guard in the blockhouse which he’d quickly dispatched. Together they had all loaded up the remaining APC's then Jenson had climbed into the Thunderball while Black and the freed aircrew climbed into the vehicles. When the coast was clear they fired up the machines. The Thunderball taxied out of the hangar and launched straight into the arctic night, while the APC's gunned their engines, broke through the perimeter fence and sped off into the darkness. They were gone before the troops around the Dome knew what was happening and not a shot was fired after them. The surprise raid raised the morale of everyone, the enemy may have been successful in the first attack, but they’d proved they were far from invincible. Since then, despite several half hearted patrols by the enemy troops in strange tanks and personnel carriers the survivors of 511squadron had managed to keep their new base hidden.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to find Davies standing beside him. Her brow was furrowed in a frown. ‘Hello Mary, what’s up?’ Jenson asked.

‘You’d better come and look for yourself. We’ve received a message from the WDF retreat.’

‘I thought we couldn’t get through to Switzerland because of the jamming?’ he queried.

‘Not any more. This came through loud and clear. I’m afraid it’s not good news. I think you’d better come and see it for yourself Paul.’

With that Davies turned and headed back to the communications room. Jenson followed. Inside he found Sandpiper and Black, together with a group of airmen, all gathered around a holo-monitor.

‘Skipper,’ Black called, ‘Come over here and take a look at this.’

Jenson moved over to where they were all grouped talking in hushed tones.

‘What’s going on guys? What’s the panic?’ he asked.

‘We’ve received a message from General Thompson at the WDF retreat in Switzerland,’ the marine captain explained with a grim face. ‘The message came by wide channel, which means that anybody with a receiver can pick it up. What’s more, during the time of its transmission, all global jamming ceased. However, the codes given at the start of the message match the last known WDF codes. I’m afraid it looks like the broadcast was transmitted with the agreement of the bastards who are attacking us. I can’t think of any other reason why the jamming should completely clear, and the broadcast is being repeated on a continuous loop. I think you’d better prepare yourself for the worst Paul.’

Jenson’s heart sank. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what the gist of the message would be. Even though he’d been expecting it, now that the time had come he still found it very hard to grasp the concept of defeat. Black turned and switched on the monitor. On the screen appeared the image of General Thompson, with the retreat control room visible in the background. His face was worn and tired, and Jenson could see him visibly hold back his emotions. He’d once met the General on a training exercise in northern Canada and knew the man to be a hard-arsed son of a bitch who until now, never even recognised the meaning of the word defeat ... it simply wasn’t part of his vocabulary. However, it looked like he would have to recognise its meaning now. Christ, Jenson thought to himself, the guy must be torn to shreds inside. It was as though Thompson represented the WDF itself. Up until ten days ago he was supremely confident, sure of the equipment and personnel that made up the WDF. Now he had that hunted and haunted look, as the very foundations of his existence were being destroyed before his eyes.

‘To all WDF forces, land, sea and air, across the globe; this message is for you,’ the General began. ‘At 1100 hours GMT, today the 3^rd of April 2045, President Ricard of the United Nations formally signed a ceasefire with the Dyason race. The ceasefire was signed at the Vatican in Rome, in the presence of all surviving world leaders. At 1200 hours GMT, all hostilities are to cease. WDF forces are to return to their home ports or bases. All weapons are to be handed over to Dyason units. WDF unit commanders are ordered to cease any action against the Imperial Dyason Forces.’

The General paused again, swallowing hard as a single tear welled in his eye and fell down his cheek. ‘I would like to take this opportunity to say how proud I am of the resistance all you men and women have put up against the forces which invade our home,’ he croaked. ‘We have all lost friends and loved ones in this short but most brutal battle in the history of mankind. However, I must urge you all to comply with the terms of the ceasefire.’

‘The Dyason race, who come from a star system similar to our own,  control large asteroids poised in orbit, ready to impact on all our major cities. New York, Luxembourg, San Francisco, St Petersburg and many others centres of population across the globe have already been devastated by this means of attack. Casualties run into the millions. Unless we all abide by the ceasefire, the Dyason will destroy our remaining cities.’ The General paused again, pulled his shoulders back and stared into the camera. ‘I’m sorry everybody, but we’ve lost this battle. We must conserve our civilisation as best we can. Mankind will rise again. It is the view of the strategists that for so long as these Dyason hold the higher ground in orbit around the Earth they can take out our centres of population largely at will. They have already destroyed all our space defence systems, communications and navigation satellites. This message is being relayed around the globe by the Dyason themselves. Further, our scientists tell us that unless there is a halt to these asteroid strikes, the atmosphere will suffer irreparable damage and within a few short months cease to be able to support life. Already the dust and debris in the atmosphere will cause the whole planet to suffer from a type of nuclear winter where the sun’s rays can’t reach the surface. How long this global winter will go on for, nobody can be sure.

‘For these reasons we have had to sue for peace. I ask that you all give yourself up to the nearest Dyason garrison who are waiting for your weapons to be surrendered.  There will follow after this transmission the necessary demilitarisation codes and a complete list of the Imperial Dyason demands and conditions for surrender. Once again, I am sorry to do this to you all. There can be no doubt that you all fought with courage and tenacity against an overwhelmingly superior force. My thanks go out to you all.’ Then Thompson looked straight into the camera and with a tear coursing down his check said. ‘I’m proud of you mothers! In the annals of history people will always remember the WDF personnel as being the bravest troops that walked the planet. None of you deserve this, but we are talking about the salvation of what is left of mankind and life on our planet.’

‘This is the end of the final orders to the World Defence Forces from your Commander in Chief, President Ricard of the United Nations. I’m General Thompson, senior commander of the WDF. Good luck and God save us all.’

The screen went blank. For a while the room was silent. Everybody was lost in their own thoughts. Davies broke in tears and sobbed quietly. Sandpiper put his arm around her, his own face a picture of gloom. Jenson collapsed into a chair, devastated. It was too much for him to take in. He’d seen the alien Dome for himself, but the concept of the whole Earth being taken over by a race of human-like aliens was something he could barely manage to grasp. How could they be defeated? How could the WDF, a force that was made up of  troops and equipment from just about every nation on Earth, capitulate? It just didn’t seem possible!

Finally, after several minutes, Jenson asked Black, ‘There’s no doubt that that’s the General is there? He hasn’t been caught and forced to give the codes has he? This isn’t some kind of sick hoax?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Black answered ‘News vids of Ricard signing the surrender at the Vatican have been broadcast on all the social media channels, which just happened to come back on the air.’

‘I guess it’s no real surprise,’ Sandpiper offered. ‘After all, what little information we have been able to gather on UHF and long wave, points to the WDF being pretty well licked everywhere. I mean, with them having the high ground, and being able to hurl rocks at anything that moves, makes organised resistance almost impossible. But this thing of an alien invasion seems unreal. Shit, we can’t be defeated! This can’t be the end of it. We’ve seen them, they look as human as you and I. We can’t just give up!  How can the bastards hand over the whole sodding planet like that!’ Sandpiper’s voice was catching in his throat, the grief and anger he felt clearly audible.

‘I know how you feel,’ Black said, ‘but what the hell can we do? We’re stuck here in the middle of nowhere, with the aliens sitting on our airfield less than a 150 klicks away. There’s fewer than a hundred of us, with three battle-scarred planes and ten worn-out APC's. The politicians have thrown in the towel, leaving us poor bastards out on a limb. Aliens or not, they’re out there with the fire-power and all we’ve got is a few peashooters!’

Jenson could see the situation was getting out of control, his friends were on the verge of despair. Unless he could find some straw of hope to cling on to they would soon all withdraw into a bottomless pit of despondency. But the truth was, what could they do? They all had families; his were in Vancouver. Hanson Sandpiper had parents and a sister in England, and Peter Black was engaged to a beautiful young woman from Paris. Who knew when they would see any of them again? That is if any of them were still alive. Jenson could feel the first tendrils of despair gripping his own heart, but he fought to keep a clear mind. Straightening his back he addressed the group.

‘Listen to me!’ he commanded, ‘Yes you’re right, the politicians have thrown in the towel, but that doesn’t mean we’re defeated! We’ve seen that these aliens or whatever they are, aren’t invincible. We gave them a bloody nose only two nights ago. Or have you forgotten that!’

‘But Skipper,’ said Mary Davies, wiping her tears away with the corner of her jump-suit sleeve, ‘What can we do here on our own, when the whole world has given in?’

‘Has the whole world given in?’ Jenson asked. From somewhere in the depths of his heart came a will, a desire not to give in. Sod it, he could understand why the UN leader signed the armistice, but surely he didn’t believe that mankind would just sit back and accept mass slavery and genocide. There had to be some hope. He’d be damned if he was going to jack it all in. There may not be many of them now, but how many others felt as he did? It would take time, but if they could get in touch with others who felt the same, then they could resist, regardless of what the UN said or did!

‘How many others are in a position like ourselves?’ he said to the others, his despair turning to anger, ‘others who survived the Dyason blitzkrieg. Now they’re holed up somewhere, trying to figure out what to do. Do you think they’ll give up? No they won’t! Across the world there must be thousands like us. At first they’ll lie low, then in time they’ll resist. They’ll be like a thorn in the side of the occupiers, stabbing them in the side, then slipping away. Then the day will come when everybody rises up to defeat them. People have always resisted tyranny, and democracy always wins out in the end!’

‘We’re in a good position here, this site is easy to defend, and once winter arrives it will be almost impossible for the Dyason to find us. We can carry out more raids, gather more equipment, and eventually destroy the already damaged Dome at the Ridge. Then, with more equipment, we can make raids on Canada and so on. These creatures have shown themselves not to have any value for life. They’ve already slaughtered millions and they’ll do it again. Are we just going to give up and let mankind slip into slavery? Or are we going to join those other groups and resist, no matter what the personal costs?!’

The room lapsed into silence as each man and woman thought about what had been said. It was quite a speech and struck a cord in them all. They knew that Jenson had said this not just to raise their morale, he genuinely believed in what he was saying and if he believed they could fight on, well that was good enough for them. Eventually Sandpiper stood up and said, ‘I would rather fight and die, than become a slave. I’m with you boss!’

‘And me!’ cried Mary Davies. Jenson could feel the atmosphere in the room change as defeat and despondency were replaced by anger and a desperate desire to carry on, to keep fighting no matter what the odds. They weren’t fighting for any one nation or for a political cause. They wanted to fight on to keep the human race from the shackles of global slavery! All their anger and frustration finally had a focus. One by one voices were added to a chant that began as a whisper until all the caverns reverberated to the sound of a hundred voices all calling out the call sign of 511 squadron.  ‘Arctic Fox! Arctic Fox!’

‘Well Paul!’ Black said, clapping his friend on the shoulder, ‘That was one hell of a speech! I’m behind you all the way, but I have to say I think you’ve just signed our death warrants!’

Jenson looked at Black with an expressionless face and said, ‘You’re probably right Peter, but what choice do we have? If we don’t resist and show the rest of humanity that we haven’t thrown in the towel - that there’s still hope no matter how desperate things may be, who will? We can’t expect anyone else to fight on our behalf, when we didn’t have the guts to do it ourselves!’

‘Oh fuck it!’ Black replied his eyes welling up. The two men embraced, knowing their futures seemed almost impossibly bleak.