The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Twenty-Three: Holding the Line

Manchester, United Kingdom

27^th March 2007
Sarfraz wanted to panic, he wanted to scream, and he wanted to charge into Manchester and save his wife. Ever since the Posleen had landed, he’d had one telephone call…that had broken off in the middle of the conversation, and then silence. He’d heard nothing from Brad, and only one email from Sameena, reassuring him that she was healthy.
He’d spent most of the evening praying in the room they’d given him when the 1^st ACS had moved to Oldham, wishing that he’d been able to find a mosque close enough not to break the strict command to stay near the armoured suits at all times. He had half-considered asking Colonel Yates for an exception, but Yates had more on his mind, coordinating the plans for a counter-attack on the morning.
Damn it, I want to go now, he thought. Yates had banned the use of sleep drugs – they might have had to move at any moment – and his night had been torn apart by nightmares. He’d tossed and turned on the ground, enough to disturb everyone, although many others were in the same state. The regiment had recruited from the Greater Manchester region, after all.
The bell rang and they jumped for their suits in a well-conditioned reflex, before they realised that it was the briefing bell. The regiment, the first platoon and the others, headed into the mess, which was also serving as the briefing room. The mess, which was large enough to hold all of the six hundred and fifty ACS troopers, had been set out with food.
“Eat as much as you can,” Sergeant Benton ordered. It was conventional wisdom that troops fought better with food in their bellies. “You don’t know when you’re going to be eating again.”
Sarfraz winced as he picked up a bowl of porridge, one of the few things he could eat. Fried bacon was haram, of course, and he’d never cared for fried eggs or potatoes. Sandwiches and other foods were there for the taking; he picked up several large cheese sandwiches and added them to his plate.
“We don’t want to sit too close to the front,” Derek muttered, as the rest of the 1^st platoon got their food. “We want to pretend that we never heard the orders.”
“Oh, shut up,” Sarfraz snapped. He understood the point, of course, but his sister, his wife, his soon-to-be brother-in-law, as well as the remains of his family, was in the trap. If they didn’t rescue them, the Posleen would have them for breakfast, if the Posleen ate breakfast.
He glanced at his watch. It was 0600. Outside, it was dark and silent, broken only by the occasional explosion as combat teams from the SAS encountered Posleen patrols, skirmishing with the enemy. The night flickered with little pulses of light as orbital wreckage fell into the Earth’s atmosphere.
“Attention,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “Silence for Colonel Yates, silence!”
Give him great honour, as he deserves, Sarfraz though wryly. The British Army often treated its senior officers like oriental despots, and most of them deserved it more than the so-called Muslims. He allowed himself a brief moment of contemplating the House of Saud being gobbled up by the Posleen – they had been utterly unwilling to arm and train their citizens – and grinned.
“Silence in the ranks,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “Ahmed, wipe that smile off your face!”
Several soldiers snickered at Sarfraz’s discomfiture, and embarrassment, and it broke the ice. There was still tension in the room – armed men who knew that they would be going into their first real test – but it was fading even now. Indeed, as Sarfraz dimly realised, that had been the point of his rebuke.
“At ease,” Colonel Yates said. The career officer seemed to have aged overnight. It was a feeling Sarfraz fully understood; he shared it himself. “Stand…at ease!”
As they were sitting down, it clearly being a breakfast briefing, there was little point to the command, but the entire regiment relaxed anyway. Colonel Yates held a small remote control in his hand; he pressed a button and the curtain on the wall lifted, revealing a computer screen. A second click of the button brought up a chart of Manchester.
Sarfraz cursed under his breath. A massive red circle encircled the city, revealing the Posleen forces, waiting patently for the humans to crack. Compared to the Posleen, their forces looked very weak indeed; only thirty to forty thousand humans and their vehicles. There were hundreds of the skull-sign used to designate the landers, dozens of them gathering…near Liverpool? The M62 seemed to be crawling with landers.
“Nearly two hundred SAS soldiers lost their lives gathering this information,” Colonel Yates said grimly. His voice was uncharacteristically grim. “The Posleen have trapped a large number of civilians within the city, and it is our task to free them.”
Or die trying, hung in the air. “The Posleen are massing for a drive on Liverpool,” Yates said grimly. We are going to hammer our way through the Posleen on the north-east side of the city, on the ring road, and then we’re going to head around the ring road in both directions, trying to hold as wide a corridor open as we can. The civilians are going to flee, and then we’ll retreat ourselves, probably under fire.”
Sarfraz took a bite of his sandwich. The Posleen would be tough opponents and very dangerous to advance against. As Yates spoke on, describing the tanks that would be supporting them, he knew that it was going to be difficult. She’s in there, he reminded himself, for he was convinced that his wife was inside the city.
“We move out in thirty minutes,” Colonel Yates said finally. “Eat as much as you can, then report to the staging post in full armour.”
***

General Amherst stared down at the display and shuddered. The Posleen had probed the city all night, seemingly undeterred by the darkness, slaughtering a few humans here, a few humans there. As a race, the Posleen seemed unwilling to probe deep inside the city, but Amherst was confident that they would attack again in the morning.

“We have started massing the refugees,” Colonel Darter said. Amherst frowned; his father was the head of MI5, but he was a skilled infantry officer. “We’ve also got some of our own units covering their retreat.”
“We’ll make it,” Amherst said. He was in strategic command, but it would have been foolish for him to claim tactical command. Brigadier Chapman, in Oldham, held that position; it was not a responsibility that Amherst envied him.
“Yes, of course we will,” Colonel Darter said. He looked up into the lightening sky. “It won’t be long now.”
***

Anisa woke up suddenly, woken by the feeling of a hand gently squeezing her buttocks. She almost relaxed into the feeling, and then her memory caught up and she opened her eyes. A grossly fat man was kneeling beside her, his hands feeling their way through her baggy trousers.

“Get away,” she snapped, wishing that she’d brought a weapon of some kind. The would-be rapist squawked and ran, tripping over several other people on the floor, before fleeing out the door into the city. There was a sound of a shot, but no scream, no suggestion that the bullet had found a target.
“Are you all right, love?” An older woman asked. She had a kind face, one that was shaped by laugh-lines. “What did the bastard do?”
“Groped me,” Anisa said, her shock rapidly being replaced by anger. “Where did he go?”
“Back into the city,” the policeman said. “I tried to shoot him, but I missed.”
Anisa shook her head, wishing that her father were better. Perhaps he’d reacted badly to the hostel; he’d been unwell in the night and then he’d been sleeping. Suddenly alarmed, she checked his pulse; it was weak, but still there.
Prayers, she thought, and then laughed at herself. How could she pray in a room where there were no clean spaces, hardly big enough to hold all of the movements, let alone one stinking of urine? Women could pray later if they needed to; it was their only real advantage over men.
“If I could have your attention please?” An army officer asked. His nametag read SINGH. “The army is about to launch an offensive intended to get us out of here.”
“It’s about time,” the fat man shouted. Several sharp warnings from the policeman hadn’t convinced him to keep his fat mouth shut. “When do we leave?”
“We’re going to pack ourselves into buses now,” Singh said. “Some of us will be leaving through tunnels, but the majority will be in buses. Would you please troop outside and get into the buses now, please.”
“Come on, dad,” Anisa whispered. She half-dragged, half-carried, her father through the door, wishing that she was stronger. A young man, with a wife and two children, helped her to carry him. She smiled her thanks and was rewarded with a grin.
“In here, now,” their driver shouted. The buses were lined up; she could count nearly a hundred within sight. Manchester United buses, ones she’d used to go to university, so long ago, and more common buses. Armed soldiers were everywhere, guarding the civilians and keeping the peace.
“It’s raining,” she muttered in surprise. Dirty rain was starting to fall from the heavens, cold enough to freeze her soul. She remembered how the weather had been messed up during the first invasion, three years ago, and she shivered. The Posleen had hit Earth far harder this time.
“When are we going to get out of here?” The fat man demanded, and, for once, no one ordered him to shut up. The sound of explosions echoed across the air…and she shivered. Sarfraz was in the middle of that, she was certain.
***

Sameena had been given a place on one of the buses leaving the city. It had been the only thing that had convinced Brad that it was worthwhile splitting up with her – spending the last night in a cold shelter, holding each other – and continuing his duty. The pumping station, a massive brick building, was connected to an entire series of sewers all over Greater Manchester, leading as far as Bolton – eventually.

“Blasted stink,” he commented. Sergeant Kendrick had ordered the small team into the sewers, just to ensure that they were intact under the ground after the Posleen attack. He stared through the darkness, wishing that some of the lights they’d strung up had remained in the midst of the bombardment.
“Aha,” Theodore Ware, an American tourist who’d chosen to remain in Britain, said. He clicked together a broken wire, clipping together two threads, and the lights came on. The tunnels stretched away in front of them, massive brick constructions deep under the earth, a massive waterway boarded by a walking side. He scowled; with the sewage, people could only walk two abreast.
“We should have had them emptied,” he muttered. A thought struck him. “Is there any point in using boats in here?”
The question was bounced along to Sergeant Kendrick, through the landline. “No point,” Kendrick said. “How would we get them through the filters?”
“Sorry,” Brad said. He didn’t mean to snap, he was just worried. “Might there be crocodiles in here?”
“Shut up,” Kendrick said shortly. “The tunnel seems to be clear, so come on.”
Brad nodded and headed back to the start of the tunnel. The CDC had used a strict separation method in deciding who could use the tunnels; no one disabled, no one who might be a danger to the others. Kendrick issued orders calmly to a group of people who were nervous, and with good reason. At any moment the tunnel might collapse and seal them in.
“All right,” he said. “Move in slowly and calmly. If you fall in, climb out at once. There’s nothing harmful in the water, but you don’t want to drink it.”
Brad concealed a smile. The green filth that made up Manchester’s sewage wouldn’t be safe to drink under any circumstances. “Brad, you will lead,” Kendrick said. “Keep on in the lighted tunnels; radio me once you reach the end, two miles away.” The crowd rustled. “Don’t worry, it won’t take that long.”
“I knew you hated me,” Brad muttered. He climbed back down into the main sewer, sensing the reaction as people stared down the lightened sewers. “All right, everyone,” he called. “Two abreast; keep quiet and disciplined, and we’ll get out of this no bother at all.”
He paused for a second. “And, for God’s sake, don’t smoke in here.”
“And why not?” A woman demanded. “What’s wrong with a fag or two?”
“You’ll cost us some air,” Brad said. There was only a breeze from the air pumps. “Don’t smoke if you value your life.”
***

The massive Challenger-III tank had been modified for the Posleen. Quite apart from having a more powerful anti-lander main gun, it carried four heavy machine guns for the Posleen infantry, and some Galactic power crystals for the engine. While the government had established vast reservoirs of oil and petrol, no one was eager to waste it all on the preliminary battles.

Captain Bertha Demimonde smiled evilly as the four tanks advanced carefully down the road, moving towards the Posleen. The enemy had placed most of their landers on the opposite side of the city, allowing them to take up their positions without interference or getting swamped by the enemy.
“Captain, we have antigravity emissions, just ahead,” Lieutenant Tamara Shull reported. “At least two landers.”
“Gunner, load anti-lander rounds,” Demimonde ordered. “Stand by to attack.”
The road opened suddenly ahead of them, revealing the horde of Posleen ahead of them, with two landers hovering overhead. “Fire,” Demimonde snapped. “Gunners, load anti-personnel rounds; open fire!”
“Here they come,” Corporal Buckley said, as the horde of Posleen charged the tanks. “Transmitting contact reports to artillery command now.”
“Firing,” Lieutenant Shull snapped, as the machine guns started to chatter. An explosion within the Posleen mass revealed that the artillery guns, thousands of guns moved into position overnight, had begun to fire, hammering great chunks of the Posleen mass. Blood and gore flew everywhere, but the Posleen kept coming, ignoring their growing death toll.
“Incoming,” Corporal Buckley said, as some Posleen began to engage with their HVM missiles. Two Challengers blew up in quick succession. “I report that armour was not as effective as we expected.”
“Duly noted,” Demimonde snapped. “Guns, take those fucking Posleen out!”
“Firing,” Lieutenant Shull reported. A blast from the machine guns hosed across the Posleen, slaughtering them. “I wonder if any of their weapons are worth anything.”
“The landers are worth lots,” Corporal Buckley said. “Captain, there are more landers inbound.”
Demimonde scowled. “Are they flying over the city?”
“No,” Buckley reported. “They seem to be reluctant to confront the anti-lander guns in the city itself.”
The anti-lander guns that are running out of rounds, Demimonde thought coldly, and scowled. As soon as a God King got desperate enough to try to swarm the defences, all hell would be out for noon. “Keep shooting,” she snapped, glancing out of the tank. Explosions all across Manchester marked the landing points of shells that were targeted – she hoped – on the Posleen. The SAS were risking their lives time and time again, against a foe that knew nothing of the Geneva Convention, knowing that every transmission might be detected and lead to their deaths.
“The infantry is moving up,” Colonel Goddard snapped, over the radio. “Cover them.”
“Load anti-lander,” Demimonde ordered, as three more landers appeared, hovering around the city to open fire on the humans attacking the Posleen. “Fire!”
“Firing,” Lieutenant Shull snapped. “Two targets destroyed.”
An explosion rocked the tank. “I think we have a problem,” Corporal Buckley said. He shuddered. “Captain, I think that’s a Posleen defence line.”
Demimonde snapped orders to engage, and then studied the Posleen line. It wasn’t as competent as a human line, such as the one inside the city that had tossed the Posleen out, but it was capable. Even as she watched, a series of HVMs made mincemeat out of three Challengers.
“Driver, pull us back,” she snapped. “Gunner, hammer those bastards!”
“Insufficient effect,” Lieutenant Shull reported. “They’re falling into their dug-in positions.”
“How did they build them so quickly?” Demimonde asked, then realised the answer. The Posleen, in a rare fit of cunning, had taken over the human defence lines. The God King controlling the Posleen had clearly given orders not to pursue the humans.
“Now what the hell do we do?” Lieutenant Shull asked. No one answered her. No one could answer her.
***

General Amherst cursed as the sheer scope of the disaster became clear. With the Posleen successfully blocking the offensive – just like Stalingrad, a part of his mind whispered – the forces that were even now moving in from the direction of Liverpool, moving under heavy human shellfire, would trap the human soldiers and kill them.

We could peel them back if we could break through the defensive line, he thought, and considered. The Posleen were too stupid to know that what they were doing was suicidal in the long run, but his forces were blocked themselves from counterattacking. Unless…
“Contact Brigadier Chapman,” he ordered, picking up the telephone. The concept flowed from his mind like water onto the planning screen of the computer. A sign of pure genius, perhaps…or desperation. “Tell him that its time for the ACS to earn their pay.”
There was a long pause. “Yes,” he said. “I know that those units were supposed to be husbanded. Brigadier Chapman, if you don’t send them in now, the entire offensive has failed.”
His bluntness got a result. “I’ll order them sent in now,” Brigadier Chapman said finally. Amherst scowled. Safe in Oldham, Brigadier Chapman could afford to make the hard decisions. “The ACS regiment will punch through the Posleen defensive line, or die trying.”