Chris James [James - Invasion

04.02 Sunday 19 February 2062

CORPORAL RORY MOORE listened as the Spanish Cabo instructed: Attention, all units. Numerous enemy ACAs are approaching. Advise the civilians to take any available cover and then return to base immediately. Confirm, please?

The English Corporal tensed in growing apprehension. An operator on the other side of the small, mobile command post reported: Lead ACAs will engage in three minutes. Altitudes are ranging from fifty metres to sixty thousand metres. Rory admired the operators impassive professionalism, as though this were merely another exercise. She leaned back and dabbed at panels above her station, saying: Temperature fourteen, winds southwest at two, one-tenth cloud cover.

The Cabo addressed her: Fine night for an invasion. But I dont see any estimates on landing zones.

She replied without looking at him: Our super-AI is assigning this attack a fluctuating probability of an invasion starting

Yes, between ninety-one and ninety-seven percent

One step at a time, the female operator cautioned. This could just be another softening-up raid like the attacks on Rome and Athens last weekend. If an actual invasion begins, the SkyWatchers will be the first to see.

Rorys attention came back to the Cabo s screens, which described the thousands of Caliphate autonomous combat aircraft hurtling in to attack them. His beloved Pip was out there, part of a larger, multinational patrol. He should have been with her and the rest of his regiment. But hed been ordered on temporary secondment to the mobile command post thanks to NATOs peacetime habit of integration. And now, because of it, as the attack began he could do nothing to help Pip.

The Cabo muttered acknowledgements of responses as they came in, from squad leaders and corporals and captains reporting their return to their autonomous air transports for the journeys back to X Divisions main regional base at Cordoba. They mentioned distressed civilians asking if the soldiers would protect them. Rory wondered how the troops could reply. An entirely new kind of warfare was about to begin, and the troops could only tell the people to get to cover.

Many of the civilians are heading southeast into the valleys, the Cabo noted.

Rory said: Probably as good as anywhere, maybe even better than being in a built-up area.

There are many caves and disused mines in the area.

Rory wished he could leave the command post, but he would have to wait for the commanding officer, a stern and focused Spanish Lieutenant Colonel, to give permission.

From a third station behind them, a masculine voice announced in accented English: RIMs launched, converging in eighty seconds. Four waves of PeaceMakers following at ten-second intervals.

The Lieutenant Colonel ordered: Tell the Battlefield Support Pulsars to light up.

Yes, Sir.

The female operator said: The waves of enemy ACAs are approaching almost flat, with only mild undulations. Their tactic appears to be a head-on attack.

Rory glanced over his shoulder at the central holographic display and saw a range of coloured lines splay out, representing the opposing forces armaments as they converged. The image looked familiar because it suggested yet another exercise, a charade that everyone involved pretended to take seriously, even though none of them would be obliged to suffer the slightest discomfort, let alone pain. A shiver ran up his spine and over his shoulder blades when he realised he stood in what had to be one of the enemys primary targets. The shudder passed and he steeled himself for whatever might happen, training and regimental pride supressing mere mortal fear.

Lead elements engaging now, the female operator reported.

Rory watched the central display in breathless fascination as the lines of light met: those representing the NATO ACAs disappeared; those representing the Caliphate machines continued on.

The voice of the Spanish Armys super AI announced something, and Rory caught the words, minutos and segundos .

The Lieutenant Colonels thick, black eyebrows came together in a frown and he muttered: How nice.

Rory glanced above the central display to see a countdown resolve over the battle space, reading four minutes and twenty seconds. He looked down at the Cabo , indicated the countdown, and asked: Is that what I think it is?

The Cabo gave him a mirthless smile, nodded, and said: Yes, that is how long until enemy forces destroy this command post.

Sir, the female operator called, the Super AI is recalculating the threat constantly

Prepare to evacuate, the Lieutenant Colonel announced.

Above the holographic display, Rory saw the predicted destruction of the command post drop from four minutes and ten seconds to one minute and five seconds.

The Cabo abruptly announced: SkyWatchers reporting new contacts, coming in behind the Caliphate ACAsand these are huge.

The Lieutenant Colonel turned to the female operator and asked: What are they?

Weve never seen them before. She shook her head and frowned. The super AI is giving a ninety-eight percent probability that they are troop transports. Sir, all RIMs have been destroyed for zero enemy losses. The PeaceMakers are outnumbered twenty to one, and

Very well everyone, let us evacuate now. Your Squitches will guide you to the transports to get you back to Cordoba. Good luck.

Rory hurried out of the command post, unwilling to wait while the Spanish followed standard NATO procedure and instigated self-destruct protocols for equipment that would in any case be destroyed in seconds. He emerged into the mild night air that carried the chill rolling off the recent snow on the nearby Sierra Nevada Mountains. His mouth fell open at the violence in the sky above him. Distant explosions and the sounds of grinding, screeching metal came to his ears. He stared, fascinated, at the orange balls of flame which erupted all around him, and a part of his mind marvelled at the staggering difference between real warfare and mere exercises.

He reactivated his Squitch. At once, it lit up with numerous threats close by and urged him to find cover. The lens in his eye overlaid in his vision the multiple dangers and their distances, and lit the surrounding terrain in subdued brown and green hues, thermal imaging and night vision fluctuating as required between the darkness and bright explosions. The Squitch instructed: Danger. Seek cover now.

Bollocks, Rory muttered, and hurried to the other side of the small command post to retrieve his personal weapons. He ordered the Squitch: Locate Private Philippa Clarke, Private Ian Pratt, Private Colin Wimble

The Squitch broke in: Your unit is in transit returning to Regimental HQ in Grenada. You should seek cover now.

Rory paused to allow the armoury lock to scan his hand. He queried: The CO mentioned Cordoba. I thought we were going there?

Your seconded regiment remains at Grenada.