"North tower needs more ammunition!"
"Easter wall, probing assaul…"
"Reports from West end, Tripods have reached Covent Garden, weapons in range."
"Southbank batteries reporting rocket resupply, firing in 5 minutes."
"Hidden batteries reporting breach-blast in two guns, mortar teams report ranges fixed…"
"We've lost position in Latimer road, Shepherds Bush."
The situation room was a cacophony of noise, shouting, rushing troopers and scrambling guards. Beyond the walls the air was thrumming with the non-stop firing of rifles, electrical canons and distant artillery. And beyond that, the white noise of people screaming.
The assault had been a crystal moment of fear, terror distillent and dipped into the mind of every refugee in London. The tripods had slammed into the ground, collapsing buildings and sending shockwaves across the city. The sky had filled with descending rocket-monsters and white discs. Underground stations had exploded out as creatures from nightmare had tunnelled through walls and sliced into huddling refugees seeking shelter underground.
The monsters appeared set on slicing the city up, securing it and driving those civilians not already easily penned in towards the east of the city, to cause and sow as much chaos as possible.
Of course, that had been their intent - a lightning thrust, destroy everyone in perhaps a single hour.
But they hadn't counted on the fact that London had been preparing for an assault. Admittedly, these cunning creatures had bypassed the outer defences - a set of frankly embarrassingly large explosive stockpiles setup in the suburbs, intended to channel and destroy swathes of the enemy should they begin to break through at key roads or train tracks.
But they had other weapons.
The rockets Shen had been stockpiling; the extra artillery they'd jury-rigged or made themselves from scrap and cast offs; the bunkered militia and press-ganged police and civilians with any sort of firearm to hand. And even some without.
They'd spread the launch areas and batteries across London, hiding them in buildings or atop warehouses. Men had been garrisoned near the refugee centres, as both a police and guard force. They hadn't expected betrayal, but by dint of their natural caution, Smytheson's people hadn't been brought in on these preparations.
So, when the tripods had dropped, when the sky had swarmed with horrors, Anderson and Vahlen had scrambled to the command centre and belted out orders like it was going out of fashion.
The first Tripods on the ground had begun burning things in their line of sight, blasting the dome of St Pauls, igniting many buildings in the West end.
Until one of them had been smashed by twelve guns that had been rapidly retargeted. Every battery, despite their rather fixed points of aim, had a series of ranged calculations prepared, and there were plenty of artillery officers on hand to make the adjustments and dispatch them. All that time at Woolwich paying off.
The aliens had been slow to react, clearly thinking the assault was closer at hand, as the tripods had refocused on nearby buildings. This had, ironically, delayed their advance as this appeared to impede their own ground forces which were being ferried from the vast, grey vessel by hovering platforms. They were visible even from the tower.
They cottoned on when a stray shell knocked one of those platforms apart, sending twenty creatures of various shapes tumbling the five hundred feet to the ground below.
The enemy lost another two tripods, albeit one of those only seemed to be damaged, before the others hunkered down and began a strange swaying advance, using the buildings as cover. And they all seemed to have decided to head east.
That advance had been halted when the rockets were launched.
Five thousand missiles, from carefully plotted sites across the city, sent streaking through the air. Rockets were a lot easier to reposition than cannons, the latter of which were inside buildings and thus required a lot more in the way of manpower to reorient if, say, they were facing south.
A lot of the missiles exploded in the air, or were intercepted by the screeching horrors in the skies. But that, too, bought some time, as the aliens rained, wounded and dead, from the air.
The rockets themselves weren't especially powerful, but still blasted into buildings and down into the streets, spreading chaos among the invaders. Their targets were grouped, meaning the flight was concentrated and reports said another two walkers had been disabled. An observer from one of the balloons above reported several direct hits on another walker that appeared to have killed its pilot as the machine seemed to have stopped in Hammersmith, in a sort of half slump.
But it was still a knife edge.
At least twenty five walkers advancing across London. The machine in the sky had begun dropping them a good few miles away, meaning the damn things were spread into Acton, Ealing, and Kensington. If one got a decent line of sight on their position, then it would be able to cook the men on the ramparts, maybe even melt through the windows. The building was stone, so less likely to go up. But if they got in range to launch the black smoke, well… that was a whole other nightmare.
Anderson leaned on the map table, glaring at the red markers spread across London. Small stacks of what looked like gambling chips were spread around, representing estimated collections of enemy forces. It'd been forty five minutes since the horrors had made their initial assault and they seemed to be content to just pummel away, clearly slightly disoriented by their artillery barrage. But they wouldn't be able to sustain it for long. They had, maybe another three volleys of missiles and he didn't want to saturate London with shelling unless they were sure of targets.
"Another balloon down, sir," came a despondent voice. Anderson heard Bradford swear.
"God dammit. They know we have observers. How?"
"Heat ray, some of the walkers are taking shots. Range seems to mitigate their effectiveness."
"Water content in the air, perhaps?" that was Vahlen. She hadn't returned to her lab, mainly because Anderson had flatly told her 'no'. And he'd made the point that if he wasn't allowed to do stupid heroic things in the name of this mission, then he was going to be thrice damned if she was.
She'd smiled at that, at least.
"Water?" he asked, looking up from the map. Moira nodded at him.
"Ja. Shen and I have surmised that the heat of the weapon can be focused and increased with more power draw. This has diminishing returns; you experienced this with how long the weapons take to charge if they fire too much of a concentrated burst. Also, the impact diminishes with range. We wondered at that, but it's simple physics. The beam of the weapon is impacted by all manner of things - heat blooming away through the air, power at the source, moisture. Try keeping a fire going when it's damp? Das gleiche."
He nodded, "Ok, so, what?"
"The balloons are high. It's colder up there, more moisture. The beams may lose their impact. But enough blasts will still burn through, like an ant under a magnifying glass."
Anderson shuddered, "I don't like the idea of being scrutinised, like things that swarm and multiply in a drop of water."
She nodded, "I do feel we are being toyed with."
Bradford joined them, "Yeah, what the hell is that damn ship doing? Don't it have weapons?"
"It may not yet be in a position to use them. Somehow, a ship the size of most of bloody Kensington is just bloody floating above London," Anderson ran a hand through his hair, "Any word from Shen?"
"Fighting on the south bank; some of Smytheson's boys trying a raid, but found that the locals don't take too kindly to interlopers," Bradford grinned, "And he says he needs ten more minutes."
"Can he sight anything from there?"
Bradford gestured at the sky, "Big damn target…."
Anderson chewed his lip, "And if it doesn't work,"
Bradford offered a shrug, "How much more pissed off can we make these guys? They've dropped a fuck tonne of troops here. This feels a bit hail mary, don't it?"
Anderson's smile was a snarl, "Then we make them bleed for it. Street by street. Lane by lane. We make. Them. Bleed."
Out on the ramparts, the world was going insane. Maxim guns had been set up in nests, surrounded by sandbags. Mortars were positioned in the grounds, thunking canisters into the streets beyond. Troops tramped along the stone walkways and into the wooden archery sheds atop the walls, taking shots at the enemy.
As soon as the ship had arrived, creatures had begun an assault on their fortress. A large disc, the size of a barge, had zipped down, setting down somewhere near Aldgate. That had resulted in fifteen Mutons and a good three score of the strange hybrid troops attempting an assault from the north.
They'd found that the ground was not in their favour: a slope into the castle moat, then solid stonework and no doorways. The firing positions and archery slits meant the defenders could take easy potshots and the enemy had found their ill advised assault left them open.
Ten Mutons and twenty five dead hybrids later, the attackers had withdrawn, circling through back streets, only to be ambushed by militia bunking in nearby buildings.
Most of the loyal troops were bunkering up in upper levels of hotels and stone buildings around the castle, offering another layer of defence. The order had gone out to harry only, to not draw attention, and then to provide fire support from the rear once the attacks hit the walls of the castle.
The refugees, unfortunately, were not helping. They had started as a trickle, but now there was a stream. Some were clearly just trying to get to the bridge, to head south, or to just push further east,
A few sprinted for the castle, trying the batter on the closed wooden doors, screaming for sanctuary. All the while, shots were traded with monsters hiding in the burnt out buildings opposite.
A sergeant bellowed for men to clear the gates, some men argued about letting to civvies in.
"Where to, you nonce? To do what? Give 'em a rifle and have 'em join you on the wall? Or d'ya want a grateful lass for when you live through this?"
The men had been sent scrambling. A fight broke out near the door as a couple of men tried to be gallant. The first civvie through the partially open door shifted into an eight foot tall clay beast that tried to break the damn doors open. Admittedly, that sent most of the other immediate refugees scrambling away. And a series of close range blasts from five shotguns held by the gate defenders had reduced the horror to a bubbling pile.
The gate was resecured and the pale and chastened soldiers pushed to take up positions on the northern walls, well away from temptation.
And then the Chrysalids came. They were called that by Vahlen. The soldiers just called them Lobsters.
There must've been a hundred of the damn things; they boiled out of the sewer entries that led to the Thames, and out of shattered windows. Gunfire from the surrounding buildings showed they were also attempting to rout the garrisons.
The beasts just charged the wall, a roiling mass of chitin and claws. And what was worse was that, when they hit the wall, they went straight up it.
Soldiers were shouting all along the line, maxim guns sweeping through the throng, sending lines of tracers and lead into the swarm. Shotguns barked as creatures crested the ramparts. In places, men fell, entangled with horrors that stabbed and stabbed at them as they tumbled. Troops beyond the walls rushed to help, only to find their comrades staggering upright, lurching towards them.
"Kill the bloody bastards! They hatch more!"
The warning went round like wildfire, but it caused confusion - did the wounded count? Medics charged up dragging wounded away before uncertain comrades could do the aliens work for them.
A lightning gun fired from atop the keep, sending a rod out beyond the walls. An arc of electricity shot between the gun and its target, before it leapt out, striking through and spreading across a portion of the swarm. The creatures cooked in their shells.
Along the northern wall, men in the courtyard lined up and yelled for their comrades on the walls to duck. As they did, the line aimed and fired, felling a wave of creatures that crested the lip of the wall, sending them tumbling down and buying the wall-men time to lean out and fire down into the dwindling scramble.
"Fliers incoming!"
The insects still came, but their numbers were thinning. But they were reinforced by a swarm of the gurgling rocket-men. Maxim guns pivoted and lanced the sky. A lightning gun discharged the bolt lancing up without a target. But it connected to one flier, leapt to two more, before fading out to an after image. The creatures tumbled, the remainder scattering. They zipped in strange zig-zag patterns, firing wildly at the fort below. A couple plucked grenades and hovered, ready to throw.
One didn't get a chance as its head vanished into red mist from a sniper. The second managed to toss its ordinance before it twitched in the air, stitched by multiple rifles trained on it.
The grenade blasted a mortar to pieces, sending the men to the ground to lie motionless. Smoke filled the courtyard and walls, drifting all around as gunpowder burned and bullets roared.
A line of soldiers drew down and sent a volley into the swooping horrors, sending a half dozen into the Thames, where the creatures floundered and wailed, their own weight dragging them under.
A crackled of machine gun fire from across the water sent the fliers fleeing, as the crew of the Ironclad attempted to lend a hand.
Around the castle yellowish smoke burst as more mortars fired, delivering an unpleasant chemical payload. Anderson hadn't been a great fan, but this was distilled from a mixture of some of Shen's toxins, Vahlens experience with biology and the extracts from the strange, near-human snake-men.
The gas sent the hybrids to their knees, eyes bleeding and lungs coughing up chunks. The mutons in the buildings were less impacts, but were still disoriented. It allowed men to draw down with their new direct-mortar-petard launchers, blasting cover and building frontages apart. Which in turn allowed others to gun down the hulking monsters.
A set of the floating discs attempted to reinforce, unfolding into flying scorpions that stitched yellow blasts along the walls, sending men pinwheeling away or diving for cover. A steam gun tore one in twain, the blot embedding in the metal horror before detonating. The other two attempted to reposition, but one got an unpleasant shock as two maxim guns send a burst of modified rounds into it, augmented by alien alloys. The thing spun in mid air and exploded, which sent its companion, unfolded as it was, into a spin of its own, before concentrated rifle fire tore it apart.
On all sides, the battle raged.
WARMIND Alpha
- Commander designates: REPORT:
COMMANDER DESIGNATES -
- Acknowledge receipt -
:: Observation indicates BOUNDARY BREACHED
:: Initial assault on BRITISH ARMY successful
:: Additional auxiliary forces identified
:: SAMPLES prevalent in Operational Area
:: Multiple locations for suppression identified - adjusting advance for SERVITOR PRESERVATION
:: Damage to SECTOPOD division. Assets SALVAGEABLE. Temporary DISRUPTION
:: Location designated BASTION resisting subjugation
:: Location designated DOCK assigned as secondary target
:: Location designated LABORATORY assigned as tertiary target
:: Request update on targets for SERVITORS
WARMIND Alpha
- Acknowledge receipt of REPORT
- Continue: assault BASTION - delay will result in increased SERVITOR ATTRITION
- Hold locations of: SAMPLES
- Secure perimeters
- Advance and annul - strategic targets and mapping in attached files / thought maps
- EXPEDIENCE - annul and secure. Annul. Secure.
- Focus Forces.
- OVERWHELM
- ANNUL
COMMANDER DESIGNATES
- Acknowledge receipt -
Anderson glared at the map again, "Movements?"
"Five tripods ahead of the rest, pushing our way. They're popping up where we fire a salvo, trying to zero in on the batteries. Got reports of black smoke launches into refugee areas the aliens don't control," Bradford's voice was calm, collected. Just.
"Any idea about areas they hold?"
"Secured, it seems. They're just holding the civvies. Maybe as hosts for those damn Chryssalids. Send another wave at us?"
"Dear lord, let's hope not. So, five walkers, we can barely take one. The advanced cannons?"
"We sent most off with the Support Tractors, but Shen insisted we keep eine kleine for emergencies. The prototype is on the roof, concealed, also one on the south bank. We have them both hooked to our own generators, so not much in the way of firepower beyond a couple of shots," Vahlen pursed her lips.
"Sir! We've got additional movement!"
Anderson raised his eyebrows at the young soldier who'd dashed up to the table, "Really?" he responded wearily, gesturing at the map.
"Sir, more air-craft. Two large vessels, moving from… high up?"
Anderson blinked and shook his head, "Show me…"
The trooper led him to the door. Outside was a madhouse, wreathed in white smoke from gunpowder discharge and the odd fire. The trooper pointed up. And there indeed two shapes descending, far to the west. They looked similar to the vast ship above the city currently, but somehow a little less imposing."
"What the devil."
He returned inside, face pale, "Reinforcements?" he looked at Vahlen, then Bradford, "What do we do if they dump another sixty tripods on us? Another fifty thousand monsters?"
Bradford slumped and shook his head. Vahlen licked her lips and gave a stiff shudder. Anderson balled his fists and growled. Another soldier jogged up, "Sir, recognise them."
Anderson arched an eyebrow, "What?"
"They're um.. . well, I was up in Liverpool, sir, just joined. Refugee. But, saw them ships before."
The man blanched as he realised that the three leaders of EXALT were now staring at him, "Go on," murmured Bradford.
"Uh, well, sir, they're transports."
"Shit."
"Well, maybe sir. But mainly they're for transporting… us."
The three fixed him with confused looks until Vahlen clapped her hands, "Jawohl, reports of people being loaded onto ships in the north. You think these are the same?"
The man nodded and the three leaders shared a glance. As one, they spoke, "The refugees…"
Bradford shook his head, "But they haven't secured the city… why not wait, kill us and do it?"
Anderson felt a slow grin stretch over his face, "They aren't sure they can…." he looked up at the other two, "We know they're an arrogant bunch, with how they send paltry numbers at us and then throw everything when that doesn't work. We've seen how they see us. But this… we haven't rolled over. They've got so many soldiers on the ground but they're still fighting. So, they want to grab what they can. If they do win, well, better safe than sorry. If they don't… they want something."
"How does this help us?" muttered Vahlen.
"It doesn't, immediately… but we know they'll be spending a lot of their troops loading up panicked, potentially violent civvies and focusing mostly on here," he gestured at the map, "Concentration of force. Keep us bottled up, get the refugees out, then squash us. That's probably why the big ship is holding back. They didn't expect artillery and missiles. We're in a stalemate."
Bradford shook his head, chuckling, "If only they knew… they could roll over us…"
"Something spooked them more than they'd like. Ich wunder mich," vahlen mused to herself.
Anderson punched his palm, "let's play this to our advantage. I want whatever garrisoned or bunkered troops we have spread out to push forward, half circle around those Tripods… and hit them from the rear. The other half, push into towards the refugee camps those bastards hold and break the bloody locks."
The other two stared at him, "But… the civilians could get caught in the crossfire."
Anderson hung his head, "Either we try to free them and risk some chaos… or we let those bastards up and take them. And we know what they'll do. The chaos will distract the bastards."
Bradford shifted, "Not exactly comfortable, sir."
Anderson nodded, "Duly noted. If you have other ideas, please express them. I want those troopers to try to open ways out that minimise casualties - blast a wall open, break through cellars, knock out as many guards as possible. But we're fighting in a city. We've got enemy everywhere."
Bradford chewed his lip and nodded slowly, "It's a shit pie. As long as you don't want us using them as human shields."
Anderson shook his head, "No. But we need to keep the aliens spread out. We can free those people closer to us, that'll split them as they try to corral. And then the guys can do some damage, bring some buildings down. Get on it Major."
"Sir," Bradford still looked troubled but nodded and headed to brief the telegraph operators and communications staff. Vahlen stepped up and frowned at Anderson, resting a hand gently on his shoulder.
"That was… a difficult decision, Commander…. William."
He looked up at her and offered a weak smile, "I know. I'm likely going to hell. It's ugly. Warfare shouldn't touch the common man as much as this. And now… now I see a throng of trapped people much as I would one of Shen's smoke grenades. A battlefield distraction," he hung his head and punched the table lightly, "I'm no better than Tasseter."
"Die mund halten. It's easy for people to judge from the outside, what they do not versteht. Understand. I have been there. The woman in science, mocked for trying to achieve things, derided. Told my ideas were foolish and that I did not understand the true challenges."
He looked up at her, meeting her eyes, "I bet you skinned them alive."
She managed a half smile, "Worse. I proved them wrong. Bradford will likely want to shout at you, but deep down he understands. And, really.. He's scared about what he would have to decide to do, were you not here, my liebchen."
He reached up and placed a hand over the one on his shoulder, "Hell will be bearable, with the memory of you face."
She gave a half smile, "Put it off as long as you can. I want you to meet my father first."
Anderson gave a mock shudder, "I'll take two tripods, please…"
They settled into silence, listening as orders went out, the battle continuing to rage outside. The whistle of more rockets in the distance and the ullulations of the aliens as they continued their push through the city.
"Another tripod down, artillery point blank from ambush site Paddington #3/"
"Mines detonated in Baker Street. Civilian casualties… high. Garrison forces in retreat, enemy holding for now."
"Reports they're crossing the river in Battersea. Militia harrying but three Tripods on advance."
"Black smoke reported in Fulham, Clapham, Mayfair and Brixton…. Communication with militia lost."
"Ammunition stocks running low at the following locations…"
"Reports of Chryssalid attacks in North London…"
"...aerial assaults in…"
"...fires spreading across…"
The noise surged as the map became a crowd of stacked chips and Tripod icons. A scant few of those were tipped on their sides, having been destroyed or disabled. Anderson glared at the dwindling stack of blue and green chips.
"Report from runners that two refugee stockades have been breached, enemy appears to be holding and re-evaluating."
A small cheer went around the room. It was cut short with another report, "First transport has landed, Ealing."
More reports as the room shook. Why hadn't they bombarded the fort with black smoke? Too many friendlies? Or did they want… something? Maybe they wanted to see what kind of creatures put up such staunch defence? Or did they want Smytheson back, the little weasel?
"Second transport ship now descending to Kensington."
Outside, the two new vessels were visible, one much further away and seemingly smaller as it vanished over the horizon. The closer one was just a long cuboid thing, more rectangle. It was… functional. A box. Anderson was, honestly, faintly disappointed. Where was the style?
A shout from the communications bench pulled him back into the room, "Sir! Dock is under concerted assault. Reports of mutons… and something bigger. It's… punching everything."
Anderson growled, "Berserkers. Why there?"
Vahlen frowned, "Maybe honing in on our foundries? They do understand logistics…"
"True. And maybe the captives. These things are… psychic or whatever. Can they track them?"
The Doctor shrugged, her face worried, "We have crowns on them, we have them isolated. But who knows how they monitor and track things."
"Sir, the new ships are descending faster, making lines for Ealing and Kensington at current projected angles," that was an artillery officer, near one of the cork boards. Another soldier turned from a field telephone.
"Main enemy vessel is beginning to turn. Seems they finished off loading their troops."
Anderson swore, "So maybe now they'll start using the big guns. I have a feeling that thing is a warship. Which means… broadsides maybe? Anything we can do?"
The artilleryman shook his head, "We could re-angle the remaining rockets, it's a bit far though sir. Reports indicate the rocket batteries we had close to have been cleaned out, either from running out or enemy action. And our main guns may not have the range."
The damn thing was too high in the sky and too far away. Of all the blasted luck.
"Sir, Shen reports the enemy have broken into the dock, making for the Ironclad."
"Maybe they recognise the ship type. They know we've used those to get rid of tripods before… taking no chances."
Anderson walked to the door again and plucked a set of Binoculars from a nearby trooper, sighting through them across the water to where the ironclad was laid up near the Hays Wharf.
He could make out red figures brawling through crates, followed by a few green-armoured mutons. Those damnable hybrids were just visible jogging between stacked crates. The Ironclad was still draped in several tarpaulins, an attempt to hide most of its shape, but the thing was so massive.
Bradford came up behind him, "Jesus sir, what are we going to do."
"Sir! Shen reports he's activati-"
Across the water, something flashed. And the air around the ironclad turned to steam. The thames roiled as waved flashed across its surface, rushing in to replace the flash heated and displaced water. Anderson groaned and blinked his eyes where a line was superimposed onto his vision.
A distant boom echoed across the city and Anderson turned his view to the West. He stared.
The vast vessel was listing slightly, explosions blossoming across part of its midsection. Detonations rippled through parts of it as systems inside seemed to be going into meltdown.
Beyond, the transport ship was also listing. It had been behind the enemy vessel and the shot had seemed to lance straight through the battleship to hit the smaller transport vessel. As he watched, the descending transport spun slowly, lazily and crunched into the side of the battleship, sending more explosions echoing out. The transport clipped under the battleship, which seemed to be rising up and, even from here, Anderson could see sparks showering and debris raining down as the two ship tore chunks from one another as they screeched past.
The transport trailed smoke and Anderson though he could spy a blast hole in its flank. The rear engines on the thing were sputtering intermittently. It spun, so slowly, as if weighed nothing. Drifting to the ground deceptively slowly.
Foghorn noises blared from the battleship as it ascended. Lances of green spat out at random, blasting columns of smoke across London. Lances of white light spat out, carving away at buildings, as the thing lashed out like a child with a tantrum. But it wasn't an attack.
No, the vessel was pulling away, trying to get distance.
Were they afraid they'd get hit again?
Anderson had to crouch as the transport ship hit the ground in Kensington. All around men staggered and fell, the shockwave rattling windows and blasting a cloud of dust high into the air. The shockwave of the impact roared over them and windows shattered. The smoke was blasted away and more explosions echoed city.
Anderson made it to his feet and looked through the binoculars across the water to the ironclad.
The front of the vessel was a mess of melted metal. The Thames was a maelstrom of roiling water and shockwaves, the vessel bobbing in the rocking water. The tarpaulins had most burnt away revealing that most of the ship seemed intact. The two forward turrets were a mess, though. A tangle of new superstructure and what looked like cranes overlaid the massive cannons, which seemed to mainly be housings for what now seemed to be slag.
All around the ship Anderson could see prone forms, all smoking. The mutons that had been attacking the ship, along with their hybrid allies. Now all boiled alive, it seemed.
In the distances, fires lit the sky. It was as if the world held its breath.
UUULLLAALLAAAAAAA!