“They broke though the final defence line, sir,” Major Foster reported. The tiny command post had been carefully hidden, but his deputy’s command post had been equally well-hidden — and the aliens had dropped a missile on their heads. “Colonel Bannerman is requesting permission to start Exodus.”
Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart hesitated. His instincts told him to keep fighting, to keep bleeding the aliens — and they had bled the aliens. It was difficult to be sure, but he was certain that they’d killed upwards of a thousand of the oversized bastards, perhaps more. They’d certainly adapted their tactics, he acknowledged. After several tries at engaging British troops in house-to-house combat, they’d pulled back and dropped rocks on the fighting positions. It was clear, no matter how much he wanted to hide it, that further open conflict was no longer an option.
The thought was a bitter pill to swallow. Ever since the development of modern communications, British commanders had been in control of their forces at all times — sometimes to excess. After all, performance in the field was rarely improved by having a distant superior with an imperfect grasp of the tactical scene issuing orders that were impossible to obey. But now the British Army — what was left of it — was going to fragment into a thousand tiny partisan groups, each one operating with minimal oversight from higher authority. God alone knew how it would work out. Outside of the Special Forces — the SAS, the SBS, the SRR and a handful of other units that were still highly classified — they’d never planned for insurgency warfare. The possibility of having to fight one in Britain itself had never been envisaged.
Clearly our imagination was somewhat limited, he thought, sourly. It would be very difficult to produce weapons, or bring in supplies from overseas. God knew that many civilians were already starving, unable to feed themselves or their families. Far too many of them would start collaborating with the aliens if it was the only way to keep their families alive. How could he blame them, let alone start issuing orders for the cold-blooded murder of collaborators…?
“Pass the order,” he said. “All units are to execute Exodus immediately. And tell them I wished them good luck.”
The field support team was already stripping down the mobile command post, removing all the sensitive equipment and preparing it for transfer to hiding places in the north. They’d have to abandon the vehicles themselves — there was no way to hide them from prowling alien aircraft — but at least they could leave a few surprises behind for the alien soldiers. A handful of grenades had already been set aside for improvised IEDs.
“Brigadier,” Lieutenant-Colonel Jean-Luc Baptiste said. Gavin hadn’t even noticed the Frenchman until he spoke, if only because he was lost in thought. There was no longer any point in giving orders. They’d have to rely on their own men in the field. “I think it’s probably time for us to go.”
Gavin frowned. He wanted to tell them to stay, but he understood their position. France had been invaded too, and they wanted to join the French Resistance — if there was a French resistance. They’d barely been able to make contact with isolated French units before the aliens had started their push west. Baptiste and his men would be risking their lives walking to Dover — being careful to give London a wide berth — and then trying to find a boat to take them across the Channel. And after that…? Baptiste had been honest enough to admit that he didn’t know. France had been hammered just as hard — perhaps harder — than Britain. It was quite possible that no political authority had survived the Battle of Paris.
“If we can’t convince you to stay,” he said, and held out a hand. Baptiste took it and they shook hands firmly. “Travel with one of our detachments heading towards London, at least at first. They’ll give you some cover if you need it.”
“We’d be better on our own,” Baptiste disagreed. Gavin didn’t really blame him. He’d had to detach a number of Londoners to try to slip into the city in hopes of producing up-to-date information, but he knew that the odds were stacked against them. Every man was a volunteer, yet that didn’t make it any easier. He’d never had to order men into a position where he expected they would die before now, before the world had turned upside down. “We’ll meet again after all this is over.”
“I hope you’re right,” Gavin said. The last French Resistance had been aided by Britain — and it had never come close to forcing the Germans to leave France alone. Now… Britain was invaded too, as was America and the rest of the world. How long could they keep an insurgency going when there were no outside sources of supply? “I wish you the very best of luck.”
“Time to pull out, lads,” the burly Royal Marine Sergeant said. No one argued with him. They’d expected nearly a hundred soldiers, but only thirty-seven had made it to the RV point. Some of the brief stories they’d exchanged in whispers had been horrifying. No one was really surprised that higher command had finally ordered them to leave. “Let’s go.”
Chris marched with the others, hearing the sound of thunder in the distance as the aliens continued their advance. If they were lucky, they’d escape the aliens and reach a place where they could build shelters and hide from the advance. And then they’d return to the fight.
Chapter Fourteen
London
United Kingdom, Day 6
“You have to give the bastard credit,” Constable Richardson muttered to Robin. “How many people does he have here, do you think?”
Robin scanned the school’s assembly hall and frowned. Someone had definitely been busy; a set of tables had been lined up, with chairs, laptop computers and a handful of coffee machines bubbling merrily away in one corner. The men behind the desks were civil servants, the epitome of evil to most British citizens — which probably explained why so many had agreed to serve the aliens. Their families would be starving if they refused, Robin knew, but the cynic in him wondered if the civil servants cared. They certainly spent most of their time creating red tape for the harassed coppers on the beat.
“Twenty here,” he said. They’d opened dozens of makeshift registration halls, converting schools, gyms and warehouses into places for their collaborators to work. Robin had spent a few minutes puzzling over why they’d only used large buildings before realising that the aliens would have problems in smaller human dwellings. But then, they’d certainly shown no reluctance to remodel human buildings with high explosive. London had spent six days shivering on the edge of anarchy and only fear of the aliens had kept it in check. “There could be thousands in London alone.”
The thought was a chilling one. Hundreds of thousands of people had worked for the British Government. Many would have been killed in the fighting or the chaos that had gripped parts of the city, but many more would have survived — and grown hungry. The aliens were offering them food and drink and Robin couldn’t blame many of them for agreeing to serve the aliens in any way. Their families would have starved otherwise. The thought kept mocking him. His wife might starve if he refused to serve the aliens. And yet… where did collaboration end?
There were thirty policemen in the building with orders to keep order — and use whatever force was necessary to remove trouble-makers. The aliens had converted London’s stadiums into makeshift detention camps and — according to rumour — they’d established much larger holding centres outside the cities. Anyone who caused trouble was to be removed to the detention camps and no one knew what would happen to them afterwards. The aliens had caused so much damage to London that Robin suspected that one of the jobs assigned to prisoners would be clearing up the debris and clearing blocked roadways of ruined cars.