Christopher Nuttall: Their Darkest Hour

He waved a hand at Sergeant Gibbon as the Fijian soldier appeared from the concealed tanks. “Get a crew down to check out the French and get them under cover,” he barked, trusting the Sergeant to deal with the situation. A number of young soldiers looked badly shocked, holding their personal weapons as if they were unsure what to do with them. He silently blessed his own insistence on issuing loaded weapons to the men, even on training exercises. It had been intended to ensure that the tankers were used to carrying them, but he had a feeling that they might be needing them to fight. “And then send a runner to each of the garrisons. I need to know what we have left in the fight.”

The tactical command vehicle was half-buried under a small mountain of earth. Gavin pulled at the hatch and it opened, revealing a cramped compartment with the latest in communications and coordinating gear. He hadn’t been too impressed with the entire concept when he’d first heard of it — the command vehicle wasn’t even as well-protected as the wretched Snatch land rover — but it might have proved itself useful today. A pair of operators, both looking as if they were on the verge of panic, glanced up at him in relief.

“Report,” he barked. “Who the hell hit us?”

“Sir, I don’t know, sir,” the lead operator said. He looked far too young and nerdy to serve with the army, but his skills at pulling information out of the ether were remarkable. “All of our communications links have gone down!”

Gavin swore. They had a laser link to the British-owned satellite communications network and various NATO systems. If they were all gone, it meant that their unknown opponent had somehow taken them all out seconds before launching the attack on Salisbury Plain. It was simply impossible to jam a laser signal, or even detect it. He keyed the radio and cursed when a wash of static blasted from the speakers. They were being jammed. His unit — and every survivor from the garrisons — had been cut off from higher authority. They were on their own, unable to coordinate with PJHQ or the MOD in fighting off the attack on British soil. But who were they fighting?

There was another screech of static, followed by a sudden shift into the BBC. “…Receiving reports of massive explosions in London,” a voice said. “We have been unable to reach…”

The signal washed out of existence. For a moment, Gavin was sure that he could hear voices hidden in the static, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The BBC had been unable to reach whom? The Government? He’d met the Prime Minister during a meeting at PJHQ and he hadn’t been too impressed, but he was legal authority. And if they were at war… Dear God, just who the hell were they fighting?

He jumped out of the command vehicle and sighted a number of soldiers being alternatively bullied or cajoled into work by Sergeant Gibbon. A handful of men wearing French uniforms were with them, some badly wounded. The French hadn’t been the only ones hit on the training area, he noted absently. It was easy to see which British units had been hit as well.

“Sir,” a soldier yelled. It took Gavin a moment to place him as the commander of a Rapier missile launcher that had been deployed to provide some protection to the tankers. If they’d had armed weapons… but no one had expected an attack from nowhere. “Sir, we got some data before they hit us!”

Gavin looked over at him. It was hardly the proper way to file a report, but under the circumstances he didn’t care. The Rapier was supposed to be monitoring every aircraft flying over the range, including a handful that had been tasked to play enemy aircraft during the exercise. They should have picked up something…

“Sir, the attackers came out of nowhere,” the soldier said. “But just before they started firing and we lost the network, the UKADR sounded an alert. So did the NATO network. Sir… some of those craft seemed to come from outer space.”

“Aliens ?” Gavin said, in frank disbelief. It was impossible. And yet it made a certain kind of sense. Who else would have the power to take out the satellites, drop bombs — kinetic strikes, perhaps - onto the garrisons and presumably hit London as well? It was impossible, but… he pushed his doubts aside. “Sergeant, pass the word. We’ll regroup at Point Alpha — get the military police to sort out who we have left alive and what equipment we have that still works.”

“Sir,” Sergeant Gibbon said. There was a pause. “What about civilians, sir?”

Gavin winced. Salisbury Plain was a designated place of natural beauty, which meant that civilians could and did get underfoot most of the time. The military was supposed to have jurisdiction over the Live Firing Range, but the word from higher up was to be gentle, if possible. Gavin shook his head. The civilians would have seen the explosions — hell, perhaps the little green men or whoever would have targeted the towns around Salisbury Plain as well.

“Tell them to go back to their homes,” Gavin ordered, finally. They’d never prepared for alien invasion. The possibility had never even been considered. “And see if the civilian telecommunications network is still working. We need to know what’s left of our country.”

***

The ground came up to meet Robin’s face before he quite realised what was going on. He hit the ground hard enough to stun him, his body armour taking most of the shock below the neck. Everything seemed to have gone absolutely quiet. Dazed, unsure of what had happened, he started to push himself upright. His jaw felt as if it had been struck by a glass bottle and… what the hell had happened? There hadn’t been any warning that someone was behind him, yet what else could have sent him falling to the ground?

He staggered to his feet and looked back at Buckingham Palace. It was gone. He was so dazed that it was several seconds before he realised that something was terribly wrong, and several more seconds before he realised what had happened. Buckingham Palace, the home of the British Monarchy, was a smouldering pile of rubble. Many of the protesters who’d been outside had been hit by flying debris and were badly injured — or dead. They seemed to be whispering, making shapes with their mouths that never became words, almost as if they were miming. He couldn’t hear anything, apart from a faint ringing in his ears. It took him several moments to realise that he’d been deafened by a sound so loud that it hadn’t really registered on him. He could only hope that it was temporary.

Pulling his radio off his belt, he keyed the emergency switch. Every copper within five miles should start converging on his position, as if they wouldn’t be on their way already. This was Buckingham Palace; surely, someone at Scotland Yard would have noticed the destruction of the King’s residence. They’d have the fire brigade, ambulances and entire regiments of policemen on their way right now. They might even get to the Palace before some fucking terrorist wannabe started singing their own praises on YouTube, claiming that it was another strike against the oppressive state. Who knew? Maybe the Government would be so angry that they’d take off the gloves and just hit back.

He stumbled towards the protesters, intent on doing what he could to help, when he realised that Buckingham Palace hadn’t been the only target. Smoke and flames seemed to be rising into the air from all over London. He’d thought that it was a terrorist attack — even though he couldn’t understand how they’d managed to get a bomb into the Palace — but this was on a different scale altogether. There were at least seven different plumes of smoke… he rubbed at his ear, cursing the growing ringing. It was impossible to call for help if he couldn’t hear the reply. How could terrorists have pulled off such an attack?