Ark Royal 3: The Trafalgar Gambit Page 2

  Ted shuddered, remembering some of the disaster management plans he’d seen during his stint at the Admiralty, after his promotion. None of them had made encouraging reading – and, judging from the scene before him, they’d simply been swept away by the pressure of events. Some of the plans had even talked about triage, about allowing the elderly to die while lavishing what resources were left on the young men and women who would be required to rebuild the world. He couldn't help wondering if the system was no longer capable of even separating out the younger men and women and sending them out of danger.

  But there is nowhere safe these days, he thought, morbidly. The aliens could return at any moment to finish the job.

  The thought was a knife in his heart. Operation Nelson had been a success, tactically speaking. Ark Royal and her multinational task force had hammered the aliens, smashing dozens of alien starships and occupying – for a few long days – an alien world. It had been a tactical masterpiece. But they had returned home to discover that Earth had been attacked, millions of humans were dead and that the war might be on the verge of being lost. A second attack on Earth might prove disastrous.

  He frowned as the car turned into Downing Street, catching sight of the protestors at the far end of the road. Some of them waved banners demanding more food or supplies for the refugees, others preached genocide and demanded attacks on alien worlds. Ted understood what they were feeling; he had to admit, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that he shared the desire for revenge. But he also knew that mutual destruction would be pointless.

  But how can we come to terms, he asked himself, when they don’t even talk to us?

  The car came to a halt outside Ten Downing Street. Armed policemen, their faces grim and pale, checked their IDs again before allowing them to exit the car and run up the steps into the very heart of British Government. Inside, it felt curiously musty and abandoned, as if the vast army of civil servants who made the government work had been withdrawn. It was quite possible they had, Ted knew. The contingency plans had insisted on establishing a command and control centre some distance from the disaster zone, even if the Prime Minister and the Monarch remained in London, symbolically sharing the plight of their people. But it wasn't quite the same.

  “Admiral Smith,” a voice said. Ted looked up to see a man in an elegant black suit. “I’m Giles Footswitch. The Prime Minister is waiting for you.”

  Ted placed the name as they passed their coats to the equerry, then followed Giles Footswitch through a solid metal door and down a long flight of stairs into the secured bunker that served as the Prime Minister’s command and control centre. Cold air struck him as they reached the bottom of the stairs and passed another pair of armed guards. Inside, the conference room was nearly empty. The Prime Minister sat at one end of the table, staring down at the latest set of reports. His face was so pale that Ted couldn't help wondering just how long he’d been hiding out in the bunker.

  “Prime Minister,” he said, carefully.

  “Admiral Smith,” the Prime Minister said. He rose, then stepped slowly towards Ted. “I must apologise for the welcome or lack thereof.”

  “I understand,” Ted said. The normal ceremonies when an Admiral visited Downing Street had to be put to one side, under the circumstances. “I ...”

  “Take a seat,” the Prime Minister interrupted. He turned, then returned to his seat. “The others will be here soon, I think.”

  Ted obeyed, motioning for Janelle to take the seat next to him. The Prime Minister’s eyes rested on her for a long moment, then he looked away with a very visible shrug. Ted understood. Normally, the lover of Prince Henry would be a subject of considerable political importance, but now it hardly mattered. Millions were dead, millions more were missing ... there was no time to worry about the Prince’s former girlfriend. And the Prince himself was dead.

  “I wanted to thank you for your service,” the Prime Minister said, quietly. “It may have been overshadowed, but I still want to thank you.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister,” Ted said. “We did our duty.”

  “Others will disagree,” the Prime Minister said. His voice betrayed no trace of emotion, beyond a deadness that was more worrying than outright hatred. “You should be ready for it. Love can turn so quickly to hate.”

  Ted nodded. He’d been a complete unknown before the war. After the first battles, he’d become a household name all over Earth. His fame had been great enough for there to be no other prospective commanding officer for Operation Nelson, despite having a reputation as a drunkard. Indeed, he’d beaten alcohol’s grip on his mind. But now ... there was no hiding the fact he’d been hundreds of light years from Earth when the planet was attacked. It was quite possible that the men and women who had loved him before the start of Operation Nelson now hated him for not being there.

  He looked at the Prime Minister and sighed, inwardly. The man was utterly exhausted, sitting in a bunker, cut off from half of his staff and struggling to cope with a crisis that could bring Britain to her knees. That had already, in many ways, crippled the entire country. Ted was tempted to suggest that the Prime Minister took a nap, perhaps with a sedative pill, but he knew the Prime Minister wouldn't want to do anything of the sort. He was just far too aware of his role as elected leader of the country.

  “The bunker network was badly damaged by the flooding,” the Prime Minister said. It was such a total departure from the previous line of conversation that it made no sense. “We worried that the entire network would be flooded before realising that it was largely safe.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister,” Ted said.

  “I stay here because of the danger,” the Prime Minister added. He sounded almost as if he were pleading for understanding, or forgiveness. “No one has ever presided over such a disaster, not ever.”

  Ted shared a long look with Janelle. The Prime Minister sounded as if he were losing the ability to think clearly under the pressure. It would be hard to blame him, Ted knew, but right now the country needed clear-sighted thinkers, not tired politicians. But there was no way he could say that out loud, not to the Prime Minister.

  “Prime Minister, the latest figures are in,” Giles Footswitch said. “I ...”

  “Leave them,” the Prime Minister ordered, quietly. There was no room for dispute in his tone. “We can go over them later.”

  Ted felt the silence grow until it felt truly awkward, but held his peace. The Prime Minister clearly agonised over each and every death, asking himself if there was something he could have done to prevent the slaughter. Even now, more men and women – British citizens – were dying, some though starvation, some through being caught looting. By contrast, Giles Footswitch didn't seem to understand that each of the figures had a name and story behind it, or maybe he’d just chosen not to think about it. At some point, the numbers became so high that they were just ... statistics. It was impossible to truly comprehend the sheer weight of the losses the country had suffered overnight. To try to understand was to court madness.

  He looked up as the door opened, revealing the First Space Lord and a man wearing a General’s uniform. Ted didn't recognise him. Both of the newcomers looked tired; the First Space Lord, in particular, wore an expression of numb shock. Ted couldn't help fearing for his life, once the immediate crisis had come to an end. It was the Royal Navy that was responsible for protecting Britain from attack and it had failed.

  “Gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said. “Please, be seated.”

  He sounded more in control of himself now, Ted noted, as a handful of other men and women entered the bunker. The Leader of the Opposition – Deputy Prime Minister, for as long as the War Cabinet remained in session – sat facing the Prime Minister, the others took whatever chairs were available. Janelle shifted uncomfortably beside him, clearly unhappy at being at the same table as so many high-ranking politicians and military officers. But there was no time to move her out of the room.

  “General Steward,” the Prime M
inister said. “You may begin.”

  Chapter Two

  “I’ve been in worse places,” Wing Commander Kurt Schneider said, just loudly enough to be heard. “Haven’t I?”

  “It sure isn't the Academy,” Rose pointed out. His lover looked visibly ill-at-ease, something she’d never shown before. “This is a foretaste of hell.”

  Rain crashed over the ATV as it crunched its way towards the refugee camp. The camp itself looked alarmingly like a POW camp, perhaps one of the detention centres that had been set up during the height of the troubles and used to house everyone the government of the time hadn’t liked. It was surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by armed soldiers, none of whom looked very pleased to be standing in the mud, rain dripping off their uniforms. And, behind the wire, there were a dozen prefabricated colonial buildings, providing emergency shelter for thousands of refugees.

  The ATV screeched to a halt, allowing Kurt to see the inside of the camp clearly. Hundreds of refugees milled around, almost all of them women, their faces bleak and hopeless. The only men in the camp, he saw, were very old men or very young boys. A news report they’d picked up on the way in had stated that men from twelve to fifty had been conscripted into the armies of labourers trying to help keep back the floodwaters. He said a silent prayer for his son as he stood up and made his way towards the hatch. Percy might have been doing well in the CCF, but he hadn't been remotely prepared for the greatest disaster to hit Britain in centuries.

  But then, none of them had been prepared for the alien attack.

  Outside, rain lashed down from high overhead, turning the ground into a sea of mud. Tiny rivers of water ran downhill, adding their weight to the floods growing in the valley, drowning human homes and farmland under an endless tide. He shuddered, recalling the farms that had once supplied his country with food. No one had been short of food since the Troubles, since the British Government had worked hard to ensure the island could feed itself, once again. But now there were food shortages everywhere. The emergency food supply had never been designed for a crisis of this magnitude.

  Rose scrambled out behind him, struggling to unfurl her umbrella as the rain intensified, drenching her uniform jacket. Kurt allowed her to cover him as they walked towards the gate, where four soldiers stood with loaded weapons. The reports had also warned that two refugee camps had been overwhelmed by looters, who’d killed and kidnapped girls as well as stealing food supplies and vanishing into the countryside. Kurt swallowed inwardly as the soldiers raised their weapons, clearly ready to shoot. The entire country was under martial law.

  “Identify yourself,” one of the soldiers snapped.

  “Wing Commander Kurt Schneider,” Kurt said. He held up his palm, allowing them to scan the implant inserted into his right hand. It contained both his naval ID and his travel authorisation, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit. He’d never needed authorisation to travel anywhere within Britain before the war. “I have an appointment.”

  The soldier relaxed, slightly. Kurt had never been a groundpounder, but he’d worked closely enough with both the army and the Royal Marines to recognise a soldier from the Territorial Army, probably someone – like Kurt himself – who had done his time and not expected to return to the uniform. But everyone with military experience had been called back to the colours after Vera Cruz, after humanity had realised it had a new and deadly enemy on its hands.

  “There are rules,” the soldier said. He waved a hand towards a tiny building just inside the gate. It was no larger than a heavy-lift shuttle. “You may go no further into the camp than there, sir. Your family will be brought to you.”

  Kurt stared at him, puzzled and alarmed. “Why?”

  “We’ve had too many people trying to sneak in and abuse the refugees,” the soldier said, as he motioned for his mates to open the gates. “There were some quite nasty incidents until we sorted out the problem cases from the ones who could actually follow orders. Things will get worse before they get better.”

  He snorted, rudely. “And we had some MP come around a day or so ago to make a speech to the refugees,” he added. “Fucked if I know what he had in mind, sir. But the refugees almost lynched him after the third condescending promise to address their concerns as soon as possible.”

  Kurt swallowed. The thought of his daughter in a place like this was almost more than he could bear. Penny was sweet and young and innocent and ... trapped. Their home was gone, washed under by the tidal waves or floods. Kurt himself would be expected to return to Ark Royal within the day, where he would resume his duties. It all seemed so pointless if he couldn't look after his children. And his wife was gone.

  The thought gave him a pang as he stepped through the gates and looked around, taking in the handful of refugees who sat in the mud with listless expressions. It was painful to admit that Molly and he had been growing apart for years, even before he’d been recalled to duty, but it was something he had to face. Their last face-to-face meeting had been far from pleasant: Molly had once held social ambitions and she’d thought the award for Kurt’s role in capturing an alien starship would help her to achieve them. But the money had been running out long before the aliens had attacked Earth ...

  And he had no idea what had happened to his wife. There were countless millions missing, utterly unaccounted for; Molly could be dead in a ditch, her body buried under piles of mud, or she could be in one of the refugee camps, so completely out of it that she hadn't even been able to give her name. And why hadn't she been with the children when the shit had hit the fan? Where had she been when the first missile struck the water and sent tidal waves washing out in all directions.

  “Kurt,” Rose said softly, “do you want me to wait outside?”

  Kurt hesitated. He had no idea how he would introduce Rose to his daughter, let along what the two women would make of one another. To Penny, Rose would be the Other Woman, the person who had broken up her parents relationship. It wouldn't be true – not entirely true, he had to admit – but he doubted they would get along. And yet, he needed her support more than he cared to admit.

  “I think you’d better come in,” he said, as they reached the solid metal door. “But let me do the talking.”

  He hadn't been sure what to expect in the visiting chamber, but inside it was nothing more than a damp room with muddy trails on the floor. There were no chairs or tables, merely a sodden rug that someone had put on the floor and then used to try to wipe up the mud. Kurt looked around, hoping to see something that would make it look less like a prison cell, but saw nothing. In the end, he leaned against the metal wall – it felt like a starship’s bulkhead – and tried to relax. But it didn't take. He’d faced the aliens in combat without flinching, he’d chewed out the Heir to the Throne himself, yet part of him just wanted to run now. He didn't want to see what living in a refugee camp had done to his daughter.

  The door opened again, revealing two girls. Kurt started, then remembered that the babysitter – practically a live-in maid – had been trapped in the refugee camp too. Molly should have taken care of her children, the nasty part of his mind noted, before it was washed away by a sudden surge of love and pity. Penny looked ... old, as if she’d grown up way before her time. Beside her, Gayle Parkinson didn't look much better.

  Kurt was across the room and wrapping his arms around his daughter before his mind had quite realised what he was doing. Penny smelt ... unpleasant, as if she hadn't been able to wash for several days. The trousers and shirt she was wearing were two sizes too large for her, while her long blonde hair lay in unwashed strands. Her face was tired and worn, just like Gayle’s. And she clung to him as if he was her only hope.

  “Dad,” she said, finally. Tears were streaming down her face. “I ... I thought you would never come.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kurt whispered, cursing himself. He should have refused the call to return to duty, or simply deserted after it had become clear that Molly was neglecting the children. It might
have been possible to transfer to one of the squadrons defending Earth, if he couldn't leave the military altogether. “I’m so sorry.”

  He should have been with his children, he told himself. He should have been with them as they struggled to escape the tidal waves and find safety elsewhere. He should have escorted them deeper inland, perhaps to their grandparents home in the Scottish Highlands, well away from the floods. Or perhaps they should have moved to one of the asteroid settlements that were heading out of the system at STL speeds.

  Penny shuddered against him, then started to cry, a sound that tore at his heartstrings. She hadn't cried like that since the day she’d managed to get lost in the countryside, when she’d been a little girl. Beside her, Gayle flopped down and sat on the muddy floor, her torn shirt showing far too much of her breasts. Rose knelt down next to her, then started to chat to her gently. Kurt ignored them as best as he could. Penny was trying to speak.

  “The ground shook,” she said. “The water came so quickly we didn't have time to run. All we could do was get upstairs and pray. The house is ruined.”