Christopher Nuttall: Second Chance

Due to the difficulties of predicting the exact capabilities of the UK’s defence establishment from day to day, following a whole series of unwise political decisions, this book attempts to give the British armed forces a balanced capability, between the optimistic and the pessimistic possibilities. Certain future projects, the Eurofighter and the Type-45 destroyer, have been included, others, the future carrier, haven’t been included as their capabilities are unknown at this time.

My apologies for any confusion.

Permanent Joint Headquarters (PJHQ)

London, UK

6 thJuly 1940

It all happened very suddenly at midnight; one moment everything was normal, the next all of the satellite communications had cut off. Seconds passed while computer programs strove to discern the cause of the fault within the software, and then they alerted their masters. Even as the emergency signals were being sent to the monitoring stations, other emergency programs activated; several aircraft and ships had vanished from the displays. All of the satellite-based communications were down; the landlines outside the UK were gone as well.

Captain Stirling, the duty officer, hit the alarm button in a panic, before calming and turning to the computers. Working fast, he activated the emergency back-ups; the landlines that countless satellite technicians had sworn would never be needed. The computers made the calls through the dedicated broadband Internet system, noting as they did that many non-UK sites seemed to be down or not responding. Modems clicked and hummed as they rebuilt the defence establishment from scratch; many operators were trying to call PJHQ as well.

“Report,” an imperious voice demanded.

Stirling turned to see General Cunningham, the Chief of Joint Operations and PJHQ’s current commanding officer. The bluff general was a veteran of Iraq, Iran and several small wars the British public knew nothing about, but he looked shaken; Stirling had never seen him shaken. The entire global chart, the interactive display of the locations of British forces across the world, was blinking red. All contact had been lost.

“Sir, all satellite communications appear to be down,” Stirling said, saluting. An email from RAF Fylingdales appeared on his screen. “Sir, the satellites appear to be gone !”

Cunningham gaped. Only America and Russia had developed anti-satellite weapons and only in small quantities. “Have they been destroyed somehow?” He asked. “Are we at war?”

“The threat board is clear,” Stirling said, knowing how inadequate an answer it was. “Sir, Fylingdales cannot see any incoming attack.” He gazed down at his screen for a long moment. “In fact, we seem to have lost a number of French aircraft, and our own. Some of the eastern RAF radar stations, part of the UKADGE, were tracking French jet liners; the midnight flights. They’re not there any more.”

“So what’s happened?” Cunningham asked, almost pleadingly. The operations room was beginning to fill up as the duty staff arrived, summoned by a flurry of calls to the local barracks and living quarters. Other staff, those who lived inside the city itself, would be making their way in even now.

“I do not know,” Stirling said, hating the admittance. “We’ve lost all communication from outside forces; forces outside the UK. It’s like we’re suddenly alone in the world.”

Cunningham paused. Stirling didn’t envy him his decision. If he overacted, such as ordering missiles fired at Russia, he would be court-martialled, assuming that there was anyone alive to do the duty. If he didn’t act, he would be crucified, even if he’d been right.

“Has the Prime Minister been informed?” He asked finally. “Was Number 10 informed?”

“Yes, sir,” Stirling assured him. “They’re on the list of first-line contacts. He should be being woken now.”

Cunningham made a visible decision. “Contact the RAF bases,” he ordered. “I want all three bases to scramble the duty aircraft, and then RAF Waddington is to scramble one of the AWACS and place the others on launch-readiness. If this is a mistake of some kind… well, we’ll call it a training exercise.”

“Yes, sir,” Stirling said. “Sir, there’s no aerial traffic… except a contact heading in from North France.” He gazed at the screen. “Neatishead called in the contact, two minutes ago. It’s heading over the channel now, looks like it’ll cross over the land over Suffolk.”

“Contact RAF Coningsby and vector one of the Eurofighter in to investigate, armed,” Cunningham ordered. “Then contact the principles; I want a meeting in the situation room in one hour.”

“Yes, sir,” Stirling said. “RAF Coningsby confirms; Charlie-one will be launched in two minutes.”

Over Suffolk

United Kingdom

Flying Officer Victor Abernathy relaxed slightly, but only slightly, as his aircraft nosed its way into the sky. Behind him, RAF Coningsby was brightly lit; crewmen working hastily to prepare the aircraft of 633 Squadron for launch, arming them with the missiles that were kept carefully away from the aircraft during peacetime. The Eurofighter, the joint-project aircraft that had finally entered service only two years ago, buckled slightly as it encountered turbulence, and then settled as Abernathy aimed it on an interception course for the unknown aircraft.

What the hell had happened ? Ten minutes ago, just before midnight, the four pilots on Quick Reaction Alert in the ready room had been watching Sky One, which had cut off precisely at midnight. Before there had been much protest, the alarms had sounded and they’d raced for their planes.

“Charlie-one, heading for target,” he said, over the radio. “Charlie-two, are you there?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Flying Officer Sheila Dunbar asked. Even the extremely strict base commandant couldn’t keep her irrepressible nature down; in the air and on the ground, she was an incitement to riot. “I’m watching your back.”

“Stay away from me,” Abernathy said, only half in jest. Ever since a terrorist plane had exploded far too close to one of the old Tornado aircraft, the RAF had been careful about approaching too closely to an unidentified aircraft. Abernathy stared at his onboard radar; the target was still coming in, crossing over land as the Eurofighter streaked closer.

“Ground control, I confirm target acquisition, rules of engagement alpha delta three,” he said formally. Under alpha delta three, he was permitted to fire first if it was his considered opinion that the target was a threat to his plane or to civilian life. “I confirm target speed at 200mph; I confirm target height as… dropping.”

“I bet it’s a civil aircraft, some rich bugger,” Dunbar commented; from her position five miles behind Abernathy. “Out for kicks and we’re about to scare hell out of him.”

Abernathy ignored her, even though he was suspecting the same thing. That the target was lowing its height, and heading towards the brightly lit town of Bury St Edmunds, argued for a more sinister purpose. The complete loss of the satellites suggested that it was involved somehow, that it meant Britain harm.

“I’m going in for a look,” he said. “Cover me.”

Darkness swept over the Eurofighter as he closed in on the mystery target. The lights on the ground illuminated the sky; they could see the strange aircraft. He closed in from behind, staring; the target didn’t reassemble any aircraft with which he was familiar.