The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Permanent Joint Headquarters

London, United Kingdom

9^stth October 2004
The procedure for dealing with the invasion had been extensively war-gamed, time and time again; just to make certain that everyone knew what they were doing. Even as Lieutenant Mike Stinson and Captain Takao Takagi fought their brief hopeless battle in near-Earth orbit, the British military was going on full alert. Planetary Defence Centres, linked into the global command network, activated, their weapons tracking across the sky.
“The Prime Minister is heading for the bunker,” Colonel Jaffrey snapped. “The civil defence network is coming to full alertness.”
“Where’s Anderson?” General Mathews snapped. Anderson entered at a run, his AID already linking into the growing landline network that had been extended around Britain. “Tom, get working; where are they going to land?”
“All civil aircraft are heading for the nearest airport,” Colonel Jaffrey said, ignoring the byplay. Part of Mathews’ mind noted that without concern. “All civilian transmitters have gone down, as per the plan.”
“The BBC is reporting now,” the Press Liaison said. “They’re giving everyone the pre-recorded message, with a promise of more information as soon as we have it.”
“Good,” Mathews said. The live feed from Fleet appeared on the display; a number of glowing red icons were settling into orbit, spinning around the Earth. “Where are they going to land?”
“Unknown,” Anderson said. He seemed calm; perhaps the promotion to General had calmed his fears and vindicated him at last. “Previous experience suggests that they’ll take a few hours to decide.”
Mathews watched as one of the Space Falcons vanished from the display. “Fleet can’t take them out, can it?” He asked. “They’re going to land somewhere, aren’t they?”
“I’m afraid so,” Anderson said. “The Fleet will do the best it can, but…”
“They’re firing,” Admiral Bledspeth’s voice said, though the Internet. The Terrain System Fleet Commander – he had won the converted post through a complicated deal that would never have been believed in a thriller novel – sounded grim; a lot of his people were going to die in the next few days.
“Incoming fire, targeted on PDC-UK-1,” Colonel Johnston said. “Impact in ten seconds…PDC destroyed.”
“Fuck,” Mathews snarled. Nearly a third of their ground-to-space capability had just gone. He glanced at his watch; had it really been half an hour since the Posleen had arrived?
“Interesting target selection,” Anderson mused, watching the display. “They ignore the half-completed PDCs that don’t fire on them, but look at some of the other targets. They’ve hit the satellites, and some targets on the surface that…don’t make any sense at all.”
Mathews stared at the display. Satellites flickered and died as laser beams touched their fragile skeletons and vaporised them, causing the global communications network to crash. The landlines, laid at great expense, took over slowly, rebuilding the network and automatically prioritising military communications. The International Space Station was blasted into very tiny pieces by an antimatter missile. Countless pieces of space junk, objects of no military value, were wiped from the skies, and then the Posleen began to bombard Earth in earnest.
“Shit,” he breathed, as light kinetic energy weapons dropped towards the planet below. Anderson was right, he realised; the God Kings had a weird sense of priorities. Some cities were struck – he cursed as he realised that Aberdeen had absorbed a missile for no apparent reason – and more PDC units were hit. And then…the Posleen started hitting stranger targets; the Great Pyramids in Cairo and unknown targets in Central America.
“I wonder if those targets conform to Maya cities or something,” Anderson mused. “Do we have a landing projection yet?”
Mathews shook his head. “They’re here with more force than we expected,” he muttered. “Can we stop them?”
“We have what we need,” Anderson said. “If they land, we can hold them.”
“We need to annihilate them,” Mathews snapped, loud enough to surprise the staff. One of his aides passed him a telephone. “Yes, Prime Minister?” He asked. There was a pause. “No, we don’t have a projection yet, sir; we have to remain at full alert.”
He glared across at Captain Campton. “All regiments are reporting at Green Status, or Amber Status,” the army captain reported.
“All civilian air traffic is gone,” Colonel Jaffrey added. “They hit some planes in transit. They seem to ignore helicopters.”
“We still have to remain on alert,” Mathews said. He glared at the CNN footage, coming direct from the Pentagon. “Sir, we’ve already taken losses and we have five Posleen globes breathing down our necks.”
***

“This is Charlene Jackson, reporting directly from the Ministry of Defence Main Building,” Jackson said. Even in the twilight, flashes of light could be seen from the skies. “In this building, plans are being made to counter the arrival of the Posleen globes from deep space. Here is Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, who will brief us on the current situation.”

Her cameraman pointed the camera at the short stubby Brigadier, who was clearly sweating under his uniform. He wore a sidearm; nearly every military officer did these days. Jackson knew that there had been a major debate within the MOD, and Parliament, over how much the Press should have access to, but the Prime Minister had settled it firmly and decisively.
“We will have to get information out quickly,” he said, and settled the argument. The evidence from the two planets suggested that the Posleen, at least, didn’t listen to human transmissions; some of them had been in the clear. The BBC had set up several transmission towers near London, however; the Posleen knew enough to fire on the sources of any transmissions.
“Ah, good evening,” Lethbridge-Stewart said. He stared down at a PDA he was carrying. “So far, five Posleen globes have emerged from hyperspace and engaged the defences forces orbiting the Earth. Despite brave fighting, the Posleen have not been slowed by the defences and – we assume – have been picking their landing sites.”
He paused. “In addition, one of their weapons came down in Aberdeen, presumably targeted on the PDC nearby. Casualties are believed to be high; the Civil Defence Corps is currently handing the matter.”
Charlene couldn’t resist. “What is the exact death toll?”
“Unknown,” Lethbridge-Stewart said. “It could be very high indeed.” He paused to listen to a transmission through his earpiece. “We have tentative landing zones now,” he said. “One seems to be heading towards the Atlantic, another on the Pacific, a third on somewhere between Southeast Asia to India, one somewhere within Central Asia and one somewhere in Africa.”
Charlene stared at him. For the first time, she felt true horror. “The Atlantic one could land here,” she said. The skies flickered again; blasts of thunder could be almost heard in the sky.
“Yes, it could,” Lethbridge-Stewart said gently. “It could come down in London.”
Reflexively, Charlene glanced at the sky. The flickers and flashes had almost faded, replaced by an ominous quiet. “Is there any update?”
Lethbridge-Stewart shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. He looked up at the camera. “The government requests that all military personnel report to their units as quickly as possible,” he said. “All civilians in non-essential jobs are to remain in their homes, until the landing sites are known.”
Charlene sighed. “Won’t people start running?” She asked. “The cities might not be safe right now.”
***

“Bitch,” Colonel Jaffrey muttered. “That poor man has a job to do.”

“So do we,” Mathews snapped. His attention had focused in on the Atlantic Posleen globe; it seemed to be moving slightly west. As they watched, the projected landing zone slid past Berlin, past Paris…over the English Channel…and headed towards America. A sigh of relief echoed around the room.
“As you were,” Mathews snapped. They had watched for over an hour as the God Kings made up their minds where to land. Now…it seemed as if the Posleen would bypass Britain, and land in America. “Tom?”
Anderson studied the display. “Oh, shit,” he said. “They couldn’t have picked a more annoying place. They’re aimed at the target city, which looks like Fredericksburg, Virginia.”
All eyes switched to CNN. Bob Argent was talking down as the display closed in on Fredericksburg. The image began to flash a malignant red, glowing like an evil eye. Mathews waited, hoping that someone would say that it wasn’t so, but Argent didn’t oblige. He wasn’t a reporter who distorted the truth, something that had earned him both friends and enemies.
“The target,” Argent paused for a moment to compose himself. “The target, ladies and gentlemen, is Fredericksburg, Virginia.”