The Right of the Line Read online

  The Right of the Line

  (Ark Royal, Book XIV)

  Christopher G. Nuttall

  Book One: Ark Royal

  Book Two: The Nelson Touch

  Book Three: The Trafalgar Gambit

  Book Four: Warspite

  Book Five: A Savage War of Peace

  Book Six: A Small Colonial War

  Book Seven: Vanguard

  Book Eight: Fear God And Dread Naught

  Book Nine: We Lead

  Book Ten: The Longest Day

  Book Eleven: The Cruel Stars

  Book Twelve: Invincible

  Book Thirteen: Para Bellum

  Book Fourteen: The Right of the Line

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  Cover by Justin Adams

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  Cover Blurb

  The war is on the verge of being lost.

  The alien virus has begun its offensive, punching through the human defences and sending advance elements to threaten Earth itself. HMS Invincible and her crew, having barely returned from their last mission, are thrown into a desperate mission to strengthen the inner line of defences before the virus can smash them too and destroy the human race. The stakes have never been so high. Defeat means the end of everything.

  But when the virus continues its offensive, brushing through all opposition, Invincible must mount a desperate raid deep into enemy space to win time for the human race ...

  ... Or watch, helplessly, as humanity faces a fate worse than death ...

  Dear Reader

  There were a couple of times, over the last six months, that I was starting to wonder if this series was cursed. I start to write Para Bellum ... and, as you might recall, I ended up spending six weeks in hospital. I start to write this book, The Right of the Line, and ... well, the effects of radiotherapy stop me from writing for several weeks. In any case, this book has been delayed, for which I am truly sorry. I’m rather nervous to even start plotting the final trilogy of the overall series. .

  I’m hoping that things will get better, from now on, but I cannot guarantee it.

  Thanks for reading - and for your patience.

  Christopher G. Nuttall

  Edinburgh, 2019

  Prologue

  From: Admiral Tony Mulhouse, Strategic Planning Division

  To: Admiral Sir John Naiser, First Space Lord

  Classification: Top Secret, Eyes-Only FSL

  Admiral.

  I must confess that I was following the discussions concerning Amalgamation with a somewhat jaundiced eye. Any student of history knows that attempts to unite radically different countries is doomed to produce either an oppressive empire, or civil war and eventual fragmentation. The eventual downfall of the European Union - a well-meaning attempt to ensure peace, harmony and prosperity - stands as a warning to us all. We do not need to go far to see the remnants of the brutal ethnic conflicts that tore the continent apart and threatened to send us crashing back to a new Dark Age. I believed that Amalgamation will be utterly disastrous.

  And yet, I have been forced to change my opinion.

  My staff is still working on what little data we received from Second Falkirk before the flicker link went dead, but a number of issues have already become apparent. First and foremost, the virus is clearly not hampered by what we would call economic reality. We would love to be able to produce hundreds of thousands of long-range missiles, of course, but any proposal to do so would cause the Treasury to have a collective heart attack. They would say - and rightly so - that it would be a massive expenditure for very little immediate return, particularly given both their military limitations and the eternal political reality that health and education are generally regarded as more conductive to winning votes than defence. It was growing harder to secure the ring-fenced military budget before the new threat showed up and, sir, the simple truth is that too many MPs believe that we somehow provoked this conflict. They may understand that we cannot simply pick up our toys and go home - it only takes one to start a war, but two to end it - yet the discontent in Parliament will make it harder to secure an ever-growing military budget.

  Second, and perhaps more serious, we may be unable to out-produce the virus even if we were granted an unlimited military budget. Our most extreme plans for war mobilisation may not be enough to stave off defeat, even if we are lucky enough to avoid serious problems with both civilian and military morale. It hasn’t been that long since industrial action in a number of manufacturing nodes caused a major slowdown and we must be aware of the prospect of other strikes if ill-feeling should happen to spread. While strikes are technically illegal during wartime, the strikers may feel that they have nothing to lose - and that we cannot bring pressure to bear against them, as we would need them to go back to work as quickly as possible. A work slowdown would be harder to stop ... and, once they got into the habit of demanding and receiving concessions, would be easy to repeat.

  In short, we may have no choice but to push for a completely unprecedented Amalgamation.

  I cannot say how this will work out in practice. We have worked closely with the Americans and the French over the past hundred years - and exercised regularly with Russia, China and the lesser spacefaring powers - but there is a vast difference between working together and actually sharing starships, bases and secrets. At heart, we are different nations. Can we unite in the face of a common foe? Or will our half-baked stumbling towards Amalgamation sow the seeds for yet another conflict?

  I don’t know, sir. But I know we must push forward now, before time runs out. We are facing an existential threat on an unimaginable scale. The long-term implications of Amalgamation will be of no concern if we don’t have a long-term. There is no way we can guarantee the survival of humanity, even if we surrender. We literally cannot surrender without giving up everything. There will be things that walk and talk and look human, but they will not be human. The aliens Invincible discovered on Alien-3 are stark proof of the fate awaiting us if we lose this war.

  I understand why so many people are opposed to Amalgamation. I would oppose it myself - I did oppose it myself. But right now, sir, those of us who are military men need to understand that our backs are firmly pressed against the wall. We have no choice but to proceed towards Amalgamation.

  Thankfully, our counterparts should have the same understanding.

  Tony.

  Prologue II

  Private Colin Shepherd rubbed his hands together as he stood in front of the gates, watching the steady stream of cars and buses as they passed through the outer security barrier and into the Permanent Joint Headquarters. He’d thought himself lucky to win the duty when Sergeant Rudbek had been handing out assignments, but he was starting to suspect it was a poisoned chalice. On one hand, all he really had to do was stand by the gates and look intimidating; on the other, it was cold, boring and hardly likely to look good on his resume. But then, he hadn’t joined the Home Guard because he’d wanted to be a hero.

  He allowed himself a tight smile as he swept his eyes over the cars. He’d barely scraped through school, ensuring he would almost certainly be conscripted into the army. The career counsellor had made it clear that the navy would probably not be interested in him, particularly as he didn’t have any real qualifications, and there was very little hope of winning a coveted place at a technical college. Colin had cursed his luck - he had no particular inclination to get his arse shot off for king and country - and volunteered for the Home Guard. It had been a surprise when he’d been accepted without question, but the Home Guard was
desperate for volunteers. They normally had to rely on conscription to fill the ranks.

  And it isn’t that bad being out here, he thought. The country had been on low-level alert since Invincible’s first return from Alien-One, but nothing had actually happened. Colin found it hard to believe some of the wilder stories, even if they had government imprimaturs. Everyone knew the government lied. There are some definite advantages to being in the Home Guard.

  He felt his smile grow wider as the line of cars slowly dwindled away. Guard duty on the outskirts of London was relatively safe, even if there was a war on. The bombardment was a thing of the past. Colin was entirely sure the Royal Navy would keep the new threat well away from the Solar System. He wouldn’t have a chance to prove himself a hero, but it hardly mattered. Colin didn’t want to be a hero. He just wanted to impress the girls with his uniform while waiting for his discharge. It was astonishing how many girls couldn’t tell the difference between a combat infantryman and a guardsman. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

  A low rumble echoed through the air as a giant garbage truck drove down the street, followed by a pair of vans. Colin blinked in surprise, puzzled and alarmed. He’d been on guard duty outside PJHQ long enough to know that the garbage men never came on a Monday, certainly not to the military base. They shouldn’t even have been allowed to get so close. The automated highways control system would have automatically barred any vehicle from entering the street unless it had permission ... ice ran down his spine as he realised that something was badly wrong. A drill? Or a real emergency? He raised his rifle, shouting for the driver to stop. Instead, the driver gunned the engine and drove straight at the gates. Colin fired twice, but the truck kept moving. Colin had to throw himself out of the way - and straight into a trench - before the truck could knock him down. A moment later, there was a thunderous sound. Colin rolled over, his ears ringing. He couldn’t hear anything.

  He forced himself to stand, cursing himself under his breath. His rifle was missing ... it took him a moment to realise that he must have dropped it when he’d dived into the trench. He drew his pistol from the holster as he forced himself to stand on wobbly legs, peering over the edge of the trench. The gates were gone, shattered beyond repair. And the other vans were moving forward, their doors already snapping open. Colin stared in horror, only slowly realising that this was no mere drill. PJHQ was under attack! His legs threatened to buckle as a stream of dogs, of all things, ran out of the vans and raced into the compound. Colin had only a moment to see the pouches the dogs were carrying before it was too late.

  Fuck, he thought, numbly.

  A man jumped out of the van, weapon already raised. Colin shot him twice, both bullets passing through the target’s head. The man staggered, but didn’t fall. Colin stared in disbelief. He’d hit the man twice! His brains were leaking out of his skull and yet he was still coming. Another man followed, then another ... weapons flashing fire. Colin felt a sharp pain in his chest, despite the body armour. He’d been shot ...

  He fell back, crashing to the bottom of the trench. His pistol clattered to the concrete floor. Dogs leapt over his head, moving with an eerie silence that horrified him. Colin realised, in horror, that the stories he’d heard hadn’t been exaggerated after all. It wasn’t just humans who could be infected by the virus. The dogs could carry bombs - or worse - into the compound. They’d do a great deal of damage before they were shot down.

  Colin looked up as a shadow fell over him. A man stood there, levelling a weapon at Colin’s face. His expression was utterly blank, as if he had no feelings at all. Colin couldn’t shake the impression that he was looking at something inhuman. The force animating the body was very far from human.

  “No,” he whispered. “I ...”

  But it was already too late.

  Chapter One

  Captain Sir Stephen Shields felt out of place as he followed his brother into the COBRA conference room.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a conference that was, technically, well above his pay grade. He was the youngest scion of an important family, related - directly or indirectly - to a great many important people. The Old Boys Network had seen to it that his rise through the ranks to starship command was smooth, without any of the bumps and bruises that would have destroyed a lesser career. Everyone expected him to - eventually - take his place amongst the leaders of his country. People opened doors for him even when - on the face of it - he was far beneath them.

  But this ... this was different.

  He took his place amongst the wallflowers, the secretaries and aides who supported the cabinet ministers, and looked around the room. The bunker was miles below London, but it looked like a normal cabinet office, complete with a framed portrait of the king and his children hanging on the wooden walls. A small drinks cabinet sat in one corner, utterly untouched. The wallflowers were providing tea and coffee for their principals - Stephen was amused to note that he didn’t rate coffee - but no alcohol. Stephen wondered, as the Prime Minister strode into the room, if there genuinely was anything in the cabinet. The government officials should know better than to drink on the job.

  Although they’ve had a terrible shock, he thought, grimly. The first reports had arrived while they’d been driving to Whitehall. A few hours later, neither Stephen nor his brother would have been able to get through the streets without a police escort. And there’s little they can do but issue orders and wait for them to be carried out.

  He frowned, inwardly, as he met the First Space Lord’s eyes. Admiral Sir John Naiser didn’t look pleased to see Stephen, although the Admiral’s staff would presumably have informed him Stephen had been invited to accompany his brother. Naiser had worked his way up the ranks without having a powerful family, although - as a legitimate war hero - he hadn’t entirely been without assets of his own. Stephen wouldn’t have blamed the older man for resenting his presence. It was a grim reminder that class and accidents of birth still counted in society. Naiser would never be amongst the greatest of the great and he knew it.

  And he deserves better, Stephen thought. He led the navy to victory in the last interstellar war.

  The Prime Minister sat down at the head of the table. “Gentlemen, be seated,” he said. “This meeting is now in session.”

  Stephen took a breath. The Prime Minister looked to have aged twenty years in the space of a day. It was one thing to hear about disaster hundreds of light years away, but quite another to know that the war had come home with a vengeance. Bombings and shootings on the streets ... it sounded as if hell itself had come to Britain. Stephen had hoped that the first reports had been exaggerated - they always were, in his experience - but the grim look on the Prime Minister’s face suggested otherwise. The war had very definitely come home.

  “Chief Constable,” the Prime Minister said. “Please update us on the current ... situation.”

  The Chief Constable didn’t look pleased, Stephen noted. Andrew Middlebrow was a tall man, with a distinguished record, but he wouldn’t have reached the very highest levels without a number of political connections. It would be easy for the poor man’s patrons to drop him like a hot rock if they happened to need a scapegoat for the disaster. Middlebrow should be in his office, helping to coordinate the civil and military response, not briefing government officials deep under London. Stephen understood, though. A senior officer could issue orders, but he’d never be able to do anything for himself. All he could do was watch and wait while his subordinates dealt with the crisis on their own.

  No wonder so many higher officers turn into micromanagers, Stephen thought, with a flicker of empathy. It’s the only way they can feel in control.

  Middlebrow stood at parade rest, clasping his beefy hands behind his back. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said. His voice was under tight control, suggesting that he was more than a little agitated. Normally, the briefing would be given by a junior officer. “Over the last two hours, there have been a series of attacks on military, police
and government installations across the country. Preliminary reports from America and France suggest that they, too, have come under attack, although details are sparse. The attacks were closely-coordinated, almost all of them launched before our alert status could be raised.”

  He tapped a control, bringing up a holographic map of the country. Stephen leaned forward, feeling cold. A handful of red icons - mostly in or around London - glared at him. He knew very little about urban combat - he preferred to leave such operations to the groundpounders - but the display looked intimidating. London appeared to be surrounded by red icons. It was hard to recall that each of the attacks - individually - were nothing more than pinpricks. The country had barely been scratched.

  “In almost all cases, the attackers were caught and killed before they could inflict major damage,” Middlebrow said. “The most serious damage was done to a recruiting barracks in Slough, where a truck bomb was rammed through the gates and detonated on the parade ground. Other installations were barely damaged, although casualties were quite high. The attackers showed no concern for their own lives and managed to take out a number of defenders before they were killed. In some cases, they were reported as continuing to fight until they were literally shot to pieces.”