Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

He waited, perhaps expecting Gabriel to say something, but there was nothing to say. “They also bombarded most — not all — of the army garrisons in the country,” he concluded. “Damage was very significant, but enough soldiers survived to allow us to begin preparations for underground war — if necessary. I’ve had teams of soldiers return to the damaged bases and remove as much equipment and weaponry as we can from storage — as well as rounding up soldiers, reservists, and anyone with military experience who is willing to volunteer. I suspect that the aliens won’t leave us alone here much longer — they have to know that we’re attempting to regroup.”

Gabriel shivered. “Brigadier… I need a honest answer,” he said. The Brigadier looked oddly insulted by the question. “Can we stop them if they come here?”

“Unlikely,” the Brigadier admitted, after a moment. He drew out a line on the map. “I have positioned our remaining armour — that’s Challenger II tanks, the best tanks in the world — in positions where they can give the aliens a bloody nose when they come westwards. They’re backed up by antiaircraft weapons, small antitank teams and a whole series of booby traps. We can and we will give them a bloody nose, Prime Minister, but we can’t stop them. They have complete air supremacy and the ability to drop rocks on us from space. A straight fight will be disastrous for us.”

“I never claimed to be a military man,” Gabriel said, slowly, “but why are you talking about fighting them if you can’t stop them?”

The Brigadier frowned. “Prime Minister… in recent years, we have had to operate on reduced logistics that have, quite frankly, cost lives. Normally, we would be able to draw ammunition, fuel and spare parts from our deports on the mainland, although we could never afford the stockpiles that we believed to be necessary for modern warfare. Military units burn through their supplies at terrifying speeds, even under the best of circumstances. Right now, our logistics train has effectively been destroyed. I imagine that we will become unable to operate the tanks within the next week. And, of course, they have eyes in the sky. They’d be able to detect us moving the tanks and blow them away from orbit.

“What that means is that our best chance for actually hurting them badly is now,” he added. “From what we’ve seen of their armour in London — we managed to get pictures from the battle — we should be able to give them a rough reception. Our tankers have been given orders to hit the enemy hard, then fall back and abandon their vehicles. We should be able to make them more careful about advancing into unsecured territory while we prepare our fallback option.”

Gabriel shook his head slowly. Yesterday, he’d been thinking about the economy. Now he was forced to think about war raging across England’s green and pleasant land. It should have been unthinkable. He rubbed the side of his head, feeling a headache pounding inside his skull. How could anyone come to grips with what was tearing the country — the world — apart?

He looked up at the military officer. “And what do we do after they’ve smashed our tanks?”

“The only thing we can do,” the Brigadier admitted. “We fight an underground war — an insurgency — until they decide that humans are too dangerous to keep as slaves.”

“But…” Gabriel stopped, unsure if he should believe his ears. The thought of waging an insurgency against the invaders was romantic in the abstract, but in the real world he knew it would be horrific. God alone knew how the invaders would react to insurgents — human history showed a wide range of possible alternatives. Hell, for all he knew the invaders had technology that would allow them to read human thoughts or track human soldiers by their scent. “Can we hope to win?”

“I don’t know,” the Brigadier said. “All I can say is that it seems to be the only alternative — unless we want to raise the white flag and surrender.”

Gabriel settled back into his chair, feeling the strength flowing out of his body. Surrender? Winston Churchill had rejected the very idea of surrender, insisting that Britain would fight on the beaches and fields and streets — but Churchill had known that invading Britain would be a monumental task for Adolf Hitler. Would his attitude have been different, Gabriel asked himself, if the Nazis had actually landed? Europe had seen bitter fighting in towns and cities, but Britain had been spared. But now… the aliens had succeeded where a long string of enemies had failed. They’d landed in England and the remains of the British military was on the run.

And yet… what did the aliens have in mind for humanity? He’d wracked his brains, but he hadn’t been able to come up with one solid reason for an advanced alien race to invade the Earth. All they could take from Earth was humans — and surely if they were advanced enough to cross the gulf between stars, they were advanced enough to make machines that would replace slaves. Maybe they were just mindless monsters, intent on exterminating all other races, but then they could have just dropped rocks from orbit. Or maybe there was something he was missing. If only he wasn’t so tired…

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. He cursed himself a moment later, for forgetting the one thing that should have been a priority. “What’s happening with the civilian population?”

The Brigadier’s expression hardened. “The aliens have come down in force around London, Manchester and a dozen other cities,” he said. “From the reports we’ve had, they’ve been refusing to allow anyone to leave and they’re backing up that refusal with live ammunition. Other parts of the country have seen riots and unrest — I think that they’re only going to get worse as people realise that the government has been crippled. We’re trying to get reservists out of the cities, but…”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse, Prime Minister,” he added. “It won’t be long before we see starvation. God alone knows how many people are going to die.”

Gabriel silently cursed his predecessors — and himself. Over the years, Britain had become increasingly dependent upon food imported from overseas — upwards of fifty percent of British food came from outside the country. And with the global trading network shot to hell by the aliens, there were likely to be shortages very quickly. The damage the aliens had inflicted on Britain’s road and rail networks wouldn’t make distributing what was left any easier. There had been calls to establish a national strategic food reserve that would allow the government to feed the people, if necessary, but successive governments had chosen to avoid the issue rather than pay for the necessary precautions.

“We never planned for this sort of global outrage,” he admitted. Perhaps, he added to himself, because the prospects were so horrifying. “What do we do about it?”

“I don’t think we can do much about it,” the Brigadier said. “I think that we will have to hope that the aliens choose to feed our population — we sure as hell can’t do it for ourselves.”

Gabriel tried to find some of Churchill’s determination within himself, but it seemed impossible to believe that there was any hope of victory — or even survival. His position as Prime Minister was meaningless…

“Have a rest,” the Brigadier advised. “I have teams working on our long-term plans — it’s possible that the aliens will give us enough time to lay the groundwork for a long-term insurgency.”

“Or they won’t,” Gabriel said. He pulled himself to his feet. The room seemed to be spinning around him and he was suddenly aware of the people covertly watching him. He had to be strong for them, he told himself firmly. It didn’t help. “If we can’t beat them, Brigadier, what’s the point of even fighting?”