“Show me,” he snapped, triggering the raid warning system. After two years of war, Britain was as prepared for missile attacks as it could be. “Bring the Patriot system online.”
The display flickered and zoomed in on the English Channel. “We have two hundred” – one vanished from the screen – “V2 missiles, some of which are failing in flight, and ten V3’s, heading to America,” Fisher said. She frowned. “And this one… I’m not sure what it’s doing.”
Barden scowled; the flight pattern was similar to the American satellite launch missiles. “They’re trying to put something in orbit,” he said grimly. “A satellite, a bomb, something else.”
“The computer agrees with you,” Fisher said, checking the projections. As she watched, the first stage separated from the rocket. “It’s either going into orbit, or it’s a serious accident.”
“Would it not be wonderful if the missile landed on their heads?” Barden asked absently. “How long until the missiles reach here?”
“About twenty minutes,” Fisher said. “Projected targets; London, Dover and Portsmouth.”
“I have friends there,” Barden snapped. His mind whirled grimly; he could shoot down most of the missiles with the Patriot batteries, but if they launched the missiles now they would have none left very soon. They might have no choice, but to grin and bear it.
“Some of the missiles are going to miss by a mile,” Fisher said. “Four of them… no, seven, are going to impact in the country.”
“That doesn’t help,” Barden snapped. The phone rang. “Barden,” he said. “Yes, Prime Minister?”
He listened to the instructions for a long moment. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said finally. “We’ll prioritise now.”
He put down the phone. “That was the Prime Minister,” he said, rather unnecessarily. “We’re to track the missiles and only target ones that are going to impact on priority targets.”
Fisher blinked. “That’s… a bit hard on the people,” she said.
“There isn’t a choice,” Barden said. “RAF strike aircraft will be heading in, just to take revenge.”
Redhill, London
2nd May 1942
Mariah Stevenson cursed as she stumbled home in the dark. Personally, she thought that the Mayor of London was taking the blackout rules too seriously; it wasn’t as if the Germans could send bombers over London. Far more alarming, particularly to a doctor like herself, was the sudden shortage of priceless medical equipment. The equipment that had been made in America, or Japan, had been cut off from its producers, which meant that even the NHS couldn’t get more of the designs.
She stumbled on a beer can and relieved her feelings by kicking it down the hill. She had to admit that the streets were a lot safer now, with most of the unemployed and unemployable young men in the army, but she didn’t like missing out on the medical equipment. The NHS had had its priorities slashed – there would be no free unnecessary operations – but it was still important. Her house and her husband weren’t far away and she quickened her pace up the hill. It was the only thing that saved her life.
She hesitated as she heard… something in the sky, rather like a whistle, and she turned to look. A streak of light fell out of the sky and slammed into the bottom of the hill, blasting an explosion into the nearest houses. A wall of fire marched up the hill, but subsided before it reached her, igniting the line of cars when their fuel tanks exploded. Mariah heard screams as she stared, but she didn’t move, she couldn’t move. The devastation was stunning and…
She came to on the ground. Only seconds had passed. She pulled herself to her feet and stared down at the burning district, taking only moments to notice that there were several other fires burning in London. The sound of fire engines was very close; she staggered down towards the fires, knowing that she could help someone.
The reporters arrived only minutes later. Charlene Molesworth had been amused to discover that the BBC did indeed have an ‘Incident Engine,’ similar to a fire engine, but armed with cameras instead of fire hoses. The reporters ignored the radio broadcasts for people to stay in their homes, driving towards the closest incident.
“This is Charlene Molesworth, reporting from Redhill,” she said, as the camera panned over the fires. “The scene of devastation from a German missile attack is horrifying and…”
“Get the fuck out of here,” a resident shouted. The medic beside him tried to calm him; his arm was broken and needed to be bound up for the time being. “Fucking reporters…”
A further stream of invective was ignored as the medic led him away to the ambulance. “Someone isn’t happy at the Germans,” Charlene said grimly. “They’ve killed hundreds of people alone in this one strike.”
A burly black man came up. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said. Charlene examined his uniform and deduced that he was a high-ranking fire officer. “We have to bring some fire engines around….”
“Can you give us a statement?” Charlene asked eagerly, turning the full force of her charm on the man. “What happened?”
He wasn’t impressed. “German missile attack,” he snapped. “Now get out of here before I have you all arrested!”
The loud noise from a fire engine’s bell convinced her to move and the term scrambled out of the way. Charlene saw an elderly woman standing on the steps, looking down at the fire and shaking her head sadly.
“Excuse me, madam,” she said. “Would you like to say a few words?”
“We should use our nukes on those sons of bitches,” she said. Charlene was so astonished at the language that she didn’t say anything. “Did my father die in the first time we fought this war for nothing?”
Charlene blinked. “He might still be alive now…”
The woman slapped her. It wasn’t really painful, but it was a shock. “I know he could be,” she snapped. “Get out of here!”
“I think you’d better leave,” a police officer said. “We’re going to have to evacuate the entire area. The bastards put something in the bomb; it’s very difficult to put out.”
Charlene rubbed her cheek and led her team out of the disaster site. “Local residents are very angry at the Germans,” she said. “This is Charlene Molesworth, signing off.”
RSF Hamilton
Earth Orbit
2nd May 1942
From space, borders didn’t matter. Looking down on the world from the observation pod, Victor Abernathy could see the world passing by underneath, unmarked by human activity. The beauties of jungle and desert alike passed by, hidden only by white flecks of cloud, open to the view of anyone on the space station.
Abernathy shook his head in awe. In the month he’d been on the station, he’d spent most of his time flying outside, using one of the tiny MSV units to glide around the station. It had been strange, like trying to fly underwater in some ways, but he’d gotten used to it eventually. The station itself was still expanding; they’d even set up a second space station, even though it was just an empty hulk so far. Five cylinders and a single docking point were all that there was of it, but Major Dashwood had spoken of big plans for the station.
“We’re going to rig it up like a bicycle,” he said, although the analogy only stretched so far. Thanks to the financial arrangements with the Americans, they could afford essentially unlimited numbers of the capsules that made up the main hull of the station, which meant that almost every day saw a new one being lifted to orbit.
Abernathy chuckled. He’d been manoeuvring one of the new tanks into a position on the outer edge of the second station, which hadn’t been named formally yet. Given time and effort, they would form a ring – or rather a hexagon – around the second station, which would then begin spinning in space. Once it was moving steadily, there would be some gravity in space.