The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Twenty-One: Scattered Showers

Dublin, Ireland

27^th March 2007
The Taoiseach of Ireland sat by the window, staring up at the skies. Flashes of light burst across the sky as the Posleen engaged the defences of Earth, hammering them down so that the Posleen could land on the planet. Time passed, and then the Irish Defence Minister, Angela Lawless, stepped into the room.
“Taoiseach?” She asked. The Taoiseach turned to study her; the red-haired girl who’d become one of the dominant forces within Irish politics. She was amazing, even to him, even though some people talked about her as a second Margaret Thatcher. Only thirty years old, she might be able to become Taoiseach herself, or serve as the kingmaker to one of her allies.
The Taoiseach smiled bitterly. That rather assumed that the Posleen left Ireland alone. If they won, Ireland would be a fading memory and Posleen digestive by-products. If they attacked and lost, Ireland would become a British dependency, ending their eighty years of independence at a stroke.
“The Posleen?” He asked. Only one thing could have made Angela disturb him. She’d been the loudest in calling for a major defence program, before the Posleen destroyed Washington, and the loudest in resisting help from the United Kingdom. Her Anglophobia was the greatest in the Dail – the Irish Parliament – and perhaps the most dangerous.
Angela nodded. “Yes, Taoiseach,” she said. “Only a small force of lander craft, heading from Britain.”
“They landed in Britain,” the Taoiseach said. It wasn’t a surprise to him. Ireland’s big and very annoying brother had always been an important country. “What’s happening there?”
“Four globes, which means something like sixteen million Posleen,” Angela said. Good nationalist though she was, even she couldn’t hide a shudder. “The problem is that some of the landers are coming our way, heading towards Cork.”
The Taoiseach blinked. “Why Cork?”
“It’s impossible to be certain,” Angela said, and he sensed her annoyance. “One possibility is that the Posleen force that landed in England, near Cardiff, is taking a beating and the God King has decided, in the vernacular, to pick on someone smaller.”
“I must remember to thank the Prime Minister,” the Taoiseach said dryly. “How many landers?”
“The British think around five to six,” Angela said. She checked her PDA. “We don’t have active radar on the mainland” – she meant Ireland itself – “but the British lost a frigate to them, attempting to get a look at them.”
“Brave men,” the Taoiseach said. Angela scowled. “How long do we have?”
“Three hours,” Angela said. “I request permission to put Case Zulu into action.”
The Taoiseach didn’t hesitate. “You’re confident that you and General Whitehouse can take out the entire Posleen force of” – he paused to do the maths – “around forty-eight thousand Posleen?”
Angela’s face twisted at the mention of the British general, but she nodded. “We have no choice,” she said. Despite considerable effort, the Irish were nowhere near ready for a long war. “We have to destroy the landers before they can expand into Cork.”
The Taoiseach scowled. The thought of fighting a battle through the streets of Cork didn’t please him, but what choice was there? There wasn’t one, as far as he could see. They’d built as many defences as they could, but they were too limited, too weak, to hold for long.
“Put Case Zulu into action,” he said. “Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” Angela said. “I’ll send the orders at once.”

Cork, Ireland

27^th March 2007
The skies were cloudy, but flickering blasts of light could be seen, flicking through the clouds and spinning down towards Earth. Flashes of light glittered through the clouds, hinting at the storm that was about to break on Earth. From his position near Monkstown, Colonel Glen Finney shivered, watching the storm that was building…
“I heard that the BBC said that they’d landed in Britain,” Captain O’Neil said. “Colonel, this could mean freedom.”
Finney glared at him. “Idiot,” he said. “Do you think that the differences between England and Ireland matter any longer?”
“They did shove the problems up north onto us,” Captain O’Neil pointed out. “They just…left us with the problem of the IRA and the other bastards.”
Finney sighed. His regiment, the 3^rd Irish Artillery, had been armed with British weapons, the small heavy-pounding guns that had equipped British soldiers for the coming war. The entire force was commanded by a British general, one who knew what to do to face the coming threat. On the other hand, the IRA seemed unable to give up its little war – and he was certain that some British officers were laughing their heads off as they turned on the Irish Republic.
“We should never have accepted the terrorists into our ranks,” he said. Like many common men, he found it hard to care about principles like that. Whatever grievances the IRA might have had, it had lost any right to complain when it began killing innocent civilians.
O’Neil shrugged, just as the alarms began to ring. “Sir, that’s the air raid siren,” he snapped. “Are we under attack?”
Finney snorted. “It looks that way,” he said. O’Neil had been one of those who had believed that the Posleen were an illusion created by Ireland’s enemies, one designed to make them give up their way of life. “Get the men ready to repel attack.”
O’Neil saluted and ran towards the gun positions. Two hundred of the British weapons, armed with thousands of shells, and Finney had just realised that they might not be enough. He lifted his binoculars and peered over the sea; black shapes could just be made out, coming towards Ireland.
He lifted his radio. “This is Colonel Finney,” he snapped. “I have visual sighting of Posleen landers…”
***

“At least seven landers,” the voice on the radio said. General Whitehouse nodded; he’d expected that the Posleen would remain concentrated. He’d hoped that they would; he needed them to stay together to have any hope of defeating them quickly. The reports from Manchester and Liverpool, where the Royal Navy was already preparing to evacuate civilians, were not encouraging.

We should have built more underwater Sub-Urbs, he thought grimly. The British had begun construction of underwater bunkers up north, near Skye, but it was far more difficult than building them underground.
He tapped his radio, wishing that the Irish had invested in a proper command base, rather than the mobile command unit he’d had brought over from Britain. It wouldn’t be long until the Posleen started hammering terrestrial radio transmitters – and he had no Galactic transmitters.
Bastards should have bought ACS units, he thought, and scowled. The Irish Parliament had flatly refused to send forces off-world, which meant that they didn’t have much in the way of GalTech. The Irish would be fighting with what they had on hand – that, and the handful of special weapons that the British had sent them. He thought of the special weapon, prepared with considerable care, and shuddered.
“Hold fire until they land,” he ordered. “I repeat, hold fire until they land.”
***

Finney nodded as he received the order, taking a moment to confirm it. The Posleen landers had crossed the coast, firing randomly at coastal targets, while continuing towards Cork. They would overfly his position soon, unless…

“They’re slowing,” O’Neil muttered. Finney checked for himself, the Posleen were slowing, falling into a spinning pattern that was oddly hypnotic. “Sir…”
“I think they’re going to land,” Finney said grimly. “We open fire as soon as they land, understand?”
“They’re coming down on top of us,” the radio screamed. An explosion marked the death of a forward position, just south of the town. Finney swore as the Posleen landers came in to land – except one.
“Sir, one of the landers isn’t landing,” he said, into his radio. “Should we engage?”
“Yes,” the British general snapped. “As soon as you see Posleen, open fire. I’m moving one of the Chieftains forward now.”
O’Neil swore a very un-catholic curse as the Posleen opened fire, scorching the ground below them and frying thousands of Irishmen and women. The landers completed their descent, coming in to land…and then the Posleen emerged.
“Fire,” Finney snapped, and all of the guns went off at once. The Posleen didn’t flinch as the high-explosive anti-personnel shells detonated on top of their ranks, fired from seven different positions around Cork. They’d landed in one spot and they paid for the mistake, but they just kept coming and coming…
“Sir, the warheads are not damaging the landers,” O’Neil said grimly, as the Posleen expanded their perimeter, hacking their way through the few remaining defenders with ease. “They’re just bouncing off.”
Finney stared through his binoculars. O’Neil was right; the shells designed for anti-Posleen duties weren’t having any effect on the grounded landers, which were still spilling out Posleen. The enemy aliens were advancing towards their position, their own weapons hacking away at the defences. A missile landed too close to an ammunition store and the resulting explosion destroyed half of the brigade.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “I think we’d better start thinking about a coordinated withdrawal.”
“And there’s a lander coming out our way,” O’Neil snapped. “Suddenly I have this urge to flee in panic.”
“Me too,” Finney said. “Me too.”
***

“We’re now getting Posleen lift emissions,” the sensor tech reported. He’d been ‘stolen’ from Fleet, his shuttle to orbit having been grounded by the Posleen. “Sir, the landers are moving.”

“Quickly, one after the other, one, two, three, four of the armoured Martians appeared, far away over the little trees, across the flat meadows that stretched towards Chertsey, and striding hurriedly towards the river,” General Whitehouse muttered, quoting from a book that General Anderson had introduced him to. War of the Worlds had been required reading when the planning sessions were beginning for the Posleen War. “They’re coming towards us, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir,” the sensor tech said. “They’re Posleen, not Martians. Martins are green.”
General Whitehouse almost laughed. “Never mind,” he said. “Contact Allen Chance. Tell him…tell him to kill as many of them as he can.”
***

Captain Allen Chance scowled and swore as the small tank carefully manoeuvred itself into firing position. The five modified Chieftains, each one loaded with small antimatter warheads that would take out a Posleen lander – if they were lucky – were the only anti-lander units in Ireland, despite a brave production program. Three of them were positioned nearby, hastily moved in on the Irish rail network, committed to stopping the Posleen at all costs.

“Captain, we have the lander emissions close by,” Lieutenant Reilly said. He was a big black man, one of the most competent gunners in the force. “They’re coming over the ridge.”
“Driver, stand by to move us,” Chance snapped, as bursts of green light flashed overhead, heading for one of the Irish artillery positions. A massive series of explosions marked the deaths of the brave Irishmen who had stood their ground till the end. “Gunner, fire as soon as you see the black of their hulls.”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Reilly said. Chance, nodded, sensing more than seeing the Posleen landers as the vibration of their passage crept towards them. A dark shape appeared over the ridge, a B-Dec gliding towards Cork.
“Fire,” Chance snapped. Lieutenant Reilly had already fired, a shell that slammed into the lander, smashing it backwards. “Move us!”
The driver, Lieutenant Dwynn, didn’t bother to wait for orders. The Chieftain skidded backwards, even as the B-Dec exploded, slamming down on the other side of the ridge. The shockwave picked up the tank and tossed it around, but by some miracle they survived.
“Tank Seagoon is gone,” Chance said, as he realised that his companion tank had been destroyed. “Tank Bluebottle is damaged.”
“We’re alive,” Lieutenant Dwynn said.
“Not for much longer,” Lieutenant Reilly said, as the dark shape of another Posleen lander loomed over the ridge.
“Get firing,” Chance snapped. Lieutenant Reilly was already swinging the main gun around, but it was too late. A green burst of light blasted the tank and detonated the antimatter in its shells, destroying the three men and some of the advancing Posleen, before they ever realised what had happened to them.
***

Finney ran, ran as fast as he could, trying to reach the next defensive position. The Posleen were on hot pursuit, but they were moving slowly; the antimatter blast seemed to have taught them caution. The roar of the guns was still deafening; dimly, he realised that the Posleen God Kings were ordering them to seek out the gun positions, rather than chasing the survivors.

A new position loomed up in front of him and he climbed into it gratefully. “Sir, Colonel Finney, reporting,” he said, to the commander of the defence. “We’re all that remains.”
The Colonel looked at the twenty-three men who were all that remained of the 3^rd Irish Artillery. “You don’t seem to have done badly,” he said. “We’re bringing up more guns now; you might have to serve them.”
“They’re coming,” Finney protested. “Who ordered more guns brought up?”
“I did,” a British aristocratic voice said. Finney turned and saw General Whitehouse. “We have an opportunity to stop them here and now, and I intend to take it.”
“They have landers coming our way,” Finney said. He found that he was shaking with shellshock. “Sir, they’re too powerful.”
“And yet, Cork is only a few miles north of them,” General Whitehouse said, with a terrifying scowl. “For the moment, the Posleen are concentrated. In the two hours since the fighting began, we’ve been moving up troops and supplies, along with reserves and bigger guns. That antimatter blast stunned them, stunned them badly enough to slow them down a little.”
“They’re hunting down the other gunners,” Finney said dully. “My men are gone.”
“Ah, that explains it,” General Whitehouse said. Finney glared angrily at him. “I don’t mean to disparage your losses, but we have them in a concentrated spot. I’d use a nuke, if I had one I could fit on a shell.”
“Me too,” Finney admitted. The Irish Parliament had flatly refused the offer of tactical nuclear missiles, which would have only been of limited effectiveness against the Posleen. The British had also offered a handful of nuclear shells for the artillery, but they hadn’t had many and the Irish had refused the ones they had been offered.
“We’re moving up the last two tanks now,” General Whitehouse said. “We now know that they can take out the Posleen landers, so advancing against the landers won’t be a problem.”
“Unless you lose the tanks,” Finney said. “Sir, when do we attack?”
“In around twenty minutes,” General Whitehouse said. He glanced down at his watch. “Jackson” – he waved at his assistant – “find these men some of the spare heavy guns, ok?”
“Yes, sir,” Jackson said. “Come on, sir; we’ll outfit you with more guns.”
“Here come the Posleen,” someone bellowed. General Whitehouse shouted orders as Finney turned to see the Posleen, charging across the field at them. The combat engineers had skilfully converted the terrain into a defensive position, but he knew how dangerous the Posleen were.
“Come on,” Jackson snapped. “We have to get you back into the battle.”
***

General Whitehouse scowled as the Posleen came forward, firing madly. Against any normal foe, the sheer horrendous death toll would stop them long before, but the Posleen were mad, charging the defences by sheer weight of numbers.

He stepped away from the Irishmen and picked up the field telephone. “It’s time for Stinker,” he said. “Fire when ready.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer on the other end said. General Whitehouse put the phone down and waited, even as the pounding of the guns grew louder and louder. The Posleen were still concentrated; Colonel Finney and his men had slowed them down from their usual dispersal. By his most optimistic estimate, there were still something like thirty thousand Posleen, packed into a five-mile wide area.
The sudden burst of light wasn’t a surprise to him. The Stinker, a special shell loaded with compressed antimatter, had been kept a careful secret from both the British and Irish Parliaments, who would have howled with rage at the thought of such weapons being used on their soil. The goggles that almost all of the men wore kept them from going blind, even as the blast destroyed much of the Posleen force.
They’ll think that that was a lander going up, he thought. The sole surviving Posleen lander seemed to have come to a stop, even though it was still pounding the defences. A shell from the sole surviving Chieftain destroyed it in midair, sending it slamming down into the ground.
“Stand by to advance,” he ordered, and felt part of his soul shrivel up and die. “Keep firing!”
***

Private Ruairi Heekin watched as the Posleen charge slowed and broke, the few surviving Posleen milling about before the machine guns tore them to shreds. The massive blast – nuclear, he was sure – had utterly broken them, sending a shockwave right over Ireland.

“Move, now,” his section leader shouted, and he jumped over the barricade, heading south. It was madness, part of his mind realised, but this was their opportunity to destroy the remaining Posleen before some God King managed to pull them back together again.
“Die,” he shouted, as a Posleen reared up in front of him. He fired once, the burst of bullets from his heavy machine gun slaughtering the monster. The Posleen howled and fell over backwards, even as the first Irish tank regiment advanced past them, finally allowed to engage the Posleen in their favoured way of war.
An explosion marked the death of the first tank as a group of Posleen opened fire with HVM launchers. His commander ducked sharply as the Posleen fired on the infantry, barking orders into his radio. Seconds later, a rain of shells landed on top of the Posleen, blasting them from Ireland. He ran forward, ducking and weaving, locating and killing individual Posleen.
“We’re winning,” someone shouted. The chant was taken up by the rest of the men, advancing into the space cleared by the blast. “We’re winning…”