The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Stranglehold

Permanent Joint Headquarters

London, United Kingdom

5^thth April 2007
England was dying.
General Anderson blinked away sleep from his eyes and stared down at the map again. In the four days since Liverpool had fallen – or been reduced to radioactive debris, according to the few remaining in Opposition – the Posleen had expanded along the coastline, cutting the links to Wales. The Sub-Urbs were now thrown back on their stockpiled resources and fabricators, desperately hoping that the Posleen would run out of…well, Posleen, before they managed to force a breech.
And then, the Posleen had moved south. Most of the civilians from there had already been evacuated, both by ship to Ireland and Scotland, and even to London, using the trains to head north. Even so, the Posleen seemed to have shied away from confronting the defences of London, contenting themselves with capturing as many humans for food as they could.
They’re preparing a broad offensive again, he thought grimly, and shuddered. It was the same that they’d done at Liverpool, but on a much larger scale. They were learning to keep their landers moving, back and forwards, because several dozen had been wrecked by long-range shellfire, and it was making tracking them difficult. Some were heading down south, perhaps transporting troops around, others…were heading to Liverpool.
“Perhaps they mean to hit Ireland,” he muttered to himself, and scowled. The Irish had done well, they’d crippled the Posleen in Ireland and crushed them, but at a deadly cost. They would be defenceless if the landers hovered over the Irish Sea to land troops again, something that hadn’t been observed until the Posleen arrived on Earth.
He shook his head absently. That was a question for the politicians, and he was due to meet the Prime Minister later in the day. For the moment, he returned to checking through the SAS reports; the Posleen were digging in and sweeping the territory they held, looking for humans. There were so many of them that there were only a handful of places to hide, most of them well out of the way.
“Penny for your thoughts?” General Mathews asked. “There’s going to be a service for Amherst before the meeting.”
“There should be a service for everyone,” Anderson snapped. He tapped the map. “Do you see what’s about to happen?”
He watched as Mathews studied the map with interest. “They’re going to jump to Ireland?”
“It looks that way,” Anderson agreed. He indicated the skull-icons of the Posleen landing craft. “However, they’re also preparing for a major offensive into London.”
Mathews swore. “Are you certain?”
Anderson laughed bitterly. “As certain as I can be of anything,” he said. “The sensor network has been tracking anti-gravity emissions of landers moving all over the place, perhaps helping them to consolidate, but there are clearly more and more Posleen moving into their positions near Oxford – and digging in.”
“They’re scared of more radiation weapons,” Mathews muttered. “How does this translate into an attack on London?”
“All the refugees are going to London, from their point of view,” Anderson said. “Now they’ve occupied Manchester-Liverpool-Bath, they have to move against the largest remaining area in the south; London.”
Mathew’s voice was cold. “It takes less than a day to drive to London,” he said.
Anderson shook his head. “It’s not that bad,” he admitted. “There are nearly two million soldiers dug in around London, up as far as Oxford. The Posleen, however, are going to come at us in a single very broad frontal offensive, hammering us into the ground by sheer weight of numbers. From Oxford to Newbury to Southampton, they will come for us.”
Mathews hesitated. “Southampton hasn’t fallen yet,” he protested.
Anderson tapped the icons on the display; Posleen…units moving toward Southampton. “It will,” he said grimly. “Sir, is there any chance of getting authority to release nuclear warheads?”
Mathews shook his head. “Liverpool was a special case,” he said. “Parliament has its collective head in the ground.”
Anderson slammed his hand down on the table. “Fuck it,” he snapped. “Do they have any idea how many troops have lost their lives in this fucking war? One fucking week since the bastards landed and nearly a million soldiers dead!”
“Silence,” Mathews said. “They are the duly elected leaders of this nation.”
“My God,” Anderson said. “Do we even deserve to survive?”
“Don’t go there,” Mathews advised. “You’re the strategist; what do you suggest we do?”
Anderson glared at him, then returned his gaze to the map. There was a possible solution, but it was desperate. In fact, desperate was too mild a word for it, and the political leaders would hate it. It also needed total commitment…and depended upon a dangerous unknown.
He said as much. “I don’t think that Parliament will go for that,” Mathews said. “Let alone the Prime Minister.”
Anderson shook his head. “We have one million, more or less, killed in action,” he said. “That, by the way, includes units of modified tanks and APCs that will require several months, at best, to rebuild, and two hundred utterly irreplaceable armoured combat suits. In addition, we have around two million injured, which leaves us with an effective strength of four million, many of whom are second-line or third-line units.”
He took a breath. “The civilian death toll is estimated at four million, which I suspect is very conservative,” he continued. “Almost everyone within the Posleen occupied zone is dead meat, literally. That’s not counting Aberdeen, or the other deaths from orbital bombardment, or those who fell prey to human monsters on the retreat. When the Posleen come for London, sir, that toll will probably double; you know how many people are crammed into the city.”
“To the Posleen, it must look like a four-course banquet,” Mathews said.
“The population of Britain, before the war, was estimated at sixty million, more or less,” Anderson said. “The estimates ranged from fifty-four million, to sixty-one million. Of those, twenty million have been cramming into the Scottish Sub-Urbs, or have been training to take their place in the army. Another five million have gone into Wales, and, quite frankly, I’m not confident that the Sub-Urbs there can hold out.”
Mathews nodded. “There’s a nuclear demolition charge under the Sub-Urb,” he said. “If it falls, at least they won’t get the meat.”
“That means that there is still something like twenty-five million people running around,” Anderson said. “Some are in the army, but you know just what effect the Posleen have had. The communications network, which was supposed to be undetectable and indestructible, is reeling. The transport network is pretty much crippled…and the Posleen are advancing on London. Once London goes, that’s the end of the ball game for England.”
“You spent too long in America,” Mathews said. “I can’t make the decision you need; only the Prime Minister can do that.” He smiled. “So, let’s go see him, then.”
“Now?” Anderson asked in surprise. “What about the service?”
“This is more important,” Mathews said. “Come on.”