Chapter One: The Battle of Belfast

Belfast, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom

July 4, 1996

UK Aerial Counter-attack, Operation: JOLLY ROGER

Above the Irish sea, a shadow of death crept forward.

The shadow darkened the waters beneath it, blotting out the sun. The sea was also shaken and chopped, disturbed and roiled in churning waves by the enormous gravity projected by the shadow's owner, while the earth shook wherever it moved.

Birds fled before it, letting off cries of danger as they flew off in great formations as far away as they could. Beneath the waves, schooling fish scattered in panic. Like every creature on this planet, they knew what was coming.

This vast shadow was cast by one of the massive craft that had come to be feared the world over. It was a single disc-shaped monolith, appearing smooth from afar save for the blocky tower and indentation at the prow. Yet up close one would have been able to see a multitude of launch bays, power lanes, hangars and other devices beyond human conception.

Every human on this planet, however, knew well the power of the weapon that lay in the bowels of the ship - a terrible device concealed by the armoured blast doors that made up the dome right in the eye of the central disc on the underside. When these doors opened again, the cascade beam would be unleashed once more - those beneath it would be bathed in yet another firestorm.

A city destroyer, travelling to the next massacre.

This particular ship had already left a trail of destruction in its wake across England - first London, then Birmingham and Liverpool had fallen to its beam of cleansing fire. Whatever had not been destroyed through that method had been seen to by the gnat-like swarms of attackers that poured from the giant vessel's launch bays; with clouds of these lethal little ships blotting out the sky and choking the land like a biblical plague.

The attackers had targeted everything from military bases to defenceless convoys of refugees from the cities; these had carried both civilian and soldier, wounded and healthy, young and old, all piled onto any vehicle they had been able to board. Any innocence that these refugees might have possessed counted for nothing - for the invaders showed no mercy as the destroyer cruised unchallenged across the British Isles.

Now it was headed for Ireland. The first target: Belfast, on the north-eastern coast.

Once more, resistance would be attempted in the face of the alien onslaught, though every previous attempt had failed; air strikes and conventional missile barrages, from ships, submarines and land-based batteries alike, had consistently failed to penetrate the alien shields.

The battles over Europe had been no exception to that of the rest of the world - in all cases they had ended in a one-sided rout of all human forces.

The RAF had suffered badly, along with the French and German air forces and all other militaries on the continent. NATO bases in Europe had been the first to be attacked en masse immediately after the first strike on the cities. The Paris city destroyer, following its destruction of the French capital, had remorselessly moved on to Brussels and incinerated the alliance's main headquarters. Meanwhile, attacker swarms had overwhelmed nearly all military bases in Western Europe.

Due to the density of the United Kingdom's population in such a small country - and the difficulty in evacuating that population - the British government had avoided any use of its own nuclear arsenal. The French government had followed suit and now the SSBNs (nuclear missile submarines) of both countries were hiding in the arctic circle, together with Russian and US Navy SSBNs in a vast nuclear wolf-pack, their warheads waiting to be unleashed only as a last resort.

This decision was made concrete by the news of the failed American nuclear attack on a City Destroyer over Houston, and the nuclear missile launches Russia and China had attempted against the alien threat. In all of those attempts, the ICBMs of those two great eastern powers had either detonated against the destroyers' shields with no effect, or had been shot out of the sky.

Following that, the aliens had traced the source of the launches and set about destroying the great missile silos in Siberia and Inner Mongolia, hamstringing the mighty nuclear arsenals of the two former communist superpowers. Both nations paid the price for failing to heed President Whitmore's warning not to use their nuclear weapons unless the Houston strike was successful.

Much of what remained of humanity's nuclear arsenal was now hidden beneath the waves aboard the missile submarines, all of which kept a low profile.

Thus the aliens continued their advance unchallenged across the British Isles. Having already unleashed three waves of fiery destruction, they now made ready for their fourth cleansing.

Yet on the human side, there was talk of a new plan. It was broadcast as little as possible, known only to a few. But the world's militaries were co-ordinating once more, gathering what was left of humanity's strength, ready to intercept the monstrous ships as they approached their next targets.

The final battle was approaching. Its outcome would decide the survival of the human race - and life on Earth itself.

It would be a battle fought across the world. Belfast would be just one battlefield among many.

The city made ready for war.

The city had known war before - but not like this.

Like the rest of the United Kingdom, Belfast had experienced the horrors of the Blitz during the Second World War - though the bombing had never been as intense as it had been over London, or other British cities such as Coventry or Liverpool. Still, after surviving that experience the city had endured another conflict - the roots of which ran much closer to home.

Throughout the height of the Troubles that lasted from the late 1960s to their sudden conclusion a mere two days ago, car bombs and running gun battles had been a fact of life for the people of Belfast. Life had continued on as normal as best it could. But the capital of Ulster, along with the rest of what had once been called Ireland's 'prosperity province' had been at the centre of the violence that had gripped Ireland and England for decades.

By the standards of global war, the Troubles had been a relatively low-level conflict. But people had still been killed and maimed - and as in all civil wars, many had been innocent and all parties involved had their hands stained in the process.

Many who lived through those times had lost all hope of an end to the bitter conflict. In spite of a gradual de-escalation and peace talks that had occurred in the years previous - sponsored by the young president of the United States of America - an end to the violence had still been elusive.

Thus, it was completely unexpected that all those who had been fighting each other on the streets of Belfast and in the Irish countryside were brought together by an even greater war - one on which the survival of all of humanity rested.

The common enemy that had united humanity, however, had simply never been expected.

Corporal Chris Stanton, of D Squadron SAS, certainly never expected any of what he'd seen these past few days, anymore than the rest of the planet. As he rode through the streets of Belfast in the clanking APC, he found himself again pondering everything that had happened, still pinching himself to check this wasn't all some sick dream.

He and the others of his troop had been on routine deployment in Northern Ireland when the first ships arrived. They'd listened to the news, first in wonder then in horror. They had gone through hell checking for news of loved ones after London was hit; Chris, an East Londoner himself, still had no news of his parents and sister.

Probably no use checking...they're gone, dead and burned...

No. None of that. Switch back on.

His mind cleared. Everyone around him had suffered losses of some form or another in the past couple days - no use dwelling on his own. Someone always had it worse.

Today, he wanted to make sure it was the bastards who'd burned his city and family were the ones who had it worse.

He saw that same determination in the eyes of all those around him. For everyone who would be fighting today, this was personal. He saw it in the eyes of Lance-Corporal Matt "Geordie" Sharp, his closest comrade in the troop sitting right next to him. His face was calm, but Chris knew his best mate well enough to know that right now, he was seething with rage, his eyes burning with it as they focused squarely on the cramped floor of the APC.

Geordie had just yesterday heard of the attack on Manchester. Though the City Destroyer had not unleashed its terrifying beam onto his hometown, the city had not escaped the attention of the plague-like attacker swarms. The whole Manchester area had been repeatedly strafed with their green plasma, wiping out almost all civilians who had failed to get out in time - or else had just stubbornly refused to leave their homes.

Geordie's family had being among them. The news he'd gotten had said it all - his parents, brothers and grandparents had all been consumed in the plasma fires.

All around him, he saw that same cold fury, that unforgiving desire for vengeance. He saw it in Private Duncan Baxter, the brawny Scot whose brother - an RAF ground crew mechanic - had perished during one of the many attacks on the airbases.

He saw it in Lance-Corporal Peter "Taff" Hughes, the doom-merchant of the troop, whose brother had gone down with HMS Ark Royal, flagship of the Royal Navy. The carrier had launched its Harrier compliment from the Channel against the aliens during the first counter-attack - but the same outcome seen across the world repeated itself in England. The Harriers had been massacred, before the attackers tracked down and strafed Ark Royal, along with her surface escorts. All hands were lost with her.

He saw it in Private Doug Hatton, who like Chris was an East Londoner. His whole family was likely also to be dead.

It was also there in Lance-Corporal Mark Warner, the troop's main Stinger operator and an Australian on secondment from his own country's SAS. He'd had relatives in Perth, which had been burned by a City Destroyer during the third wave. He still had no news on them, though Australia had suffered lightly from the aliens compared to the rest of the planet.

He could even see it in the eyes of Troop Sergeant Gary Holmes, a tough northerner from Lancashire. He'd definitely suffered the past couple days. He'd had friends in Birmingham. Manchester too. The north of England, like the rest of the country, had lived in fear of the Attacker swarms.

Make no mistake. If the alien shields could be brought down, then the scumbags hiding behind them would be made to pay for everything they'd done.

"Right lads, we're here!" That was the driver of the APC. "Out you get!"

The SAS men needed no encouragement. The rear doors opened and they piled out of the vehicle - an old Humber Pig, hastily procured from storage along with many other mothballed vehicles to provide the extensive logistics needed for the defence of Belfast. The Pig had been retired only a few years ago, but many other vehicles in the British Army had been expended, so whatever was available was used.

The Pig had been a common sight on the streets of Belfast in the past couple decades and its appearance - a stout, robust body with a protruding bonnet like an armoured snout - had become synonymous with the British Army in Northern Ireland during the worst of the Troubles. Chris remembered these carriers well from his previous tours in Ireland - and whenever he'd seen them had found himself thinking what it would be like to live here, with those things rumbling past your house and everything else going on.

Thus, there were more than enough in storage with both the British Army and Royal Ulster Constabulary to be put to good use.

Earlier versions had been designed as light vehicles - but the model that Chris and his comrades had been driven in was a Mark II, which had been up-armoured to counter the bullets and RPGs of the IRA. In addition, the front had been reinforced with heavy-duty steel 'bull bars', which enabled the Pig to ram through the barricades frequently erected on the streets of Londonderry and Belfast.

As a vehicle, it had been designed for the Troubles and was a symbol of that conflict - now this Pig was contributing to the defence of this city and all its people.

It was a clanking, noisy old wagon, and cramped too. Designed to fit only six passengers, the seven-man SAS team had been forced to make do and squeeze in. Chris wasn't sorry to get out of it.

They'd been dropped off at a warehouse in Holywood, a suburb located in the north-east of the city, directly facing Belfast Lough. The local commanders had calculated that this was an ideal location to set up a Stinger position. Chris's team was armed with two of the shoulder-mounted missile launchers, and would base themselves here.

They would not be alone. Already a Rapier missile battery was positioned on the roof of the warehouse, and Chris could see other Rapier positions around the area - in the open in the nearby car parks and football pitches, or tucked inside the clusters of detached and back-to-back houses in the suburb.

Nor would it just be the British Army helping out here. As Chris and his comrades stretched their legs from the ride in the Pig, an Alvis Saracen - another veteran APC from the troubles - pulled up at the same warehouse, together with a white van. This six-wheeled vehicle could carry nine passengers - more than the Pig - but it was not carrying British soldiers.

The men who piled out of the Saracen were mostly dressed in civilian attire, with the odd camo-jacket - though nearly all of them wore balaclavas. They were armed with a scattered variety of weapons - Kalashnikovs, hand-guns, Uzis, AR-15s - basically anything and everything the organisation they were affiliated with had been able to get their hands on in past years.

"Never thought we'd be fighting together with those bastards..." Taffy muttered.

Chris couldn't have imagined it either. But then, who would ever have imagined an alien invasion to begin with?

The leader of the armed men quick-stepped towards Sergeant Holmes, his face neutral. The Troop Sergeant's expression was just as unreadable.

"Eoin O'Shea," the man introduced himself curtly with a distinctive Ulster accent, "Provisional Irish Republican Army. Take it your lads are ready?"

Holmes replied with an equally curt nod. "You ought to know by now - my lads are always ready."

O'Shea smirked. "We've caught your lot when you're not ready often enough."

Chris saw Geordie bristle at this, but he touched his comrade's arm, restraining him. The Manchester lad had a short fuse - it was always a good idea to keep it in check.

Holmes took the IRA man's snark in stride.

"We've done the same to you often enough." He returned the smirk. "So let's call it even for today, eh?"

O'Shea nodded. "My lads'll take position on the south side of this warehouse here. You fine with the north?"

"You've got the MANPADS then?"

"Aye." O'Shea gestured to a couple of his men, who were busy unloading ordnance from the white van. This largely included what were unmistakably portable SAM launchers, along with the missiles they fired.

Chris recognised the type instantly. They were Russian-designed and produced Strela-2 man-portable SAM launchers (MANPADS), known better by their NATO reporting name - SA-7. Capable of launching anti-aircraft missiles with infra-red homing warheads, these weapons had been as heavily produced and widely exported by the former Soviet Union as the Kalashnikov rifle, serving in conflicts across the world.

The weapon itself had been in production since 1968 - production that continued after the fall of communism in Russia, as well as in China under license. Still, the lethality of the Strela was not to be underestimated. Chris knew that during the Gulf War a heavily armed US AC-130 Spectre gunship had been brought down by one such missile, during the fighting at Khafji.

Today, greater expectations would be place on the weapon. Expectations that had to be met.

There had been rumours circulating that the Provisional IRA had acquired SA-7s since the late '80s. Following the collapse of the USSR, the black market had become chock full of them, and the IRA had stepped up their procurement efforts. Shooting down one of the many army and police helicopters that roamed the skies of Ulster would have been a major coup for them.

Now, these weapons would be used together with the Stinger and Blowpipe MANPADs of the British Army. Chris's troop carried two examples of the former - and he and Mark were the troop's two stinger operators. Other Stinger-armed SAS teams were taking position across the city at that very moment.

"We're all set," O'Shea continued. "We'll cover the south side, you'll take the north. We should have the whole of this harbour covered - along with everyone else."

Holmes nodded. "Let's get to it then."

Thus the former adversaries deployed to their positions, each covering the other. Together, they would form a short-range SAM battery on this warehouse - one of many scattered throughout the city. Once O'Shea's men unloaded their own SAMs from the van, the SAS soon set about retrieving their own lethal Stinger missiles from the bowels of the same vehicle.

The MANPADS were key to the air defence of this city - so many of the heavier SAM launchers had been destroyed in running battles with the invaders these past two days. Chris considered it a miracle there were any left to support the shoulder-firing boys like himself, positioned across the city on rooftops, towers and concealed street corners.

Alongside the many MANPAD teams, additional Rapier missile batteries were also deployed across Belfast, the air defence specialists of the Royal Artillery and Royal Marines ready for action. As Chris and his comrades took position on the north roof of the warehouse, he looked out over the city to see dozens of Rapier batteries stationed on other rooftops, in street corners, and even on the decks of merchant ships still in the harbour. The current look of the Belfast skyline made him think of a giant rocket-pad from some old B-flick.

There were more advanced SAMs in Belfast that day, he knew. The Yanks who'd survived the attacks on their bases in the UK had been able to retrieve a few of their Patriot systems - these were mostly deployed in concealed positions throughout the outskirts. Together with the Rapiers, Chris could also see the barrels of anti-aircraft guns stationed across the other rooftops - mostly twin barrelled Oerlikons.

The city's air defence was not limited to land-based missile and gun batteries, either. Chris turned his gaze to the harbour, and the flotilla of navy warships gathered within the confines of Belfast Lough, as well as outside its vast mouth.

There was a Royal Navy Type 42 destroyer at the mouth of the Lough, with a Type 22 frigate trailing behind it. This formation - known as 'Type 64' - had been first deployed to great effect during the Falklands War. The Type 42's long-range Sea Dart missiles would be able to take down aerial targets further out, while the Type 22 would cover the destroyer against low-flying attackers at short-range, using its Sea Wolf point-defence missiles.

In addition, the systems and missiles of both of these ships had been upgraded since the war with Argentina in 1982. Now, their missiles were primed and ready for battle once more. Three such 'Type 64' pairs waited at the mouth of the Lough - though Chris could only see one.

In any case, as the outermost air defence vessels, the SAS trooper knew they would be sacrificial lambs - juicy targets to draw the aliens in. The same was true of the other warships in the Lough - though they had the luxury of being further within its protective havens.

These included other Type 22s as well as the more modern Type 23 frigates - their Sea Wolf launchers primed and ready. There was also the old Assault ship HMS Fearless - another Falklands veteran - that had been refitted with an array of flak guns, converted into a huge floating AA battery. Yet there were other warships not of the Royal Navy.

Proudly flying the star-spangled banner, a single Ticonderoga-class cruiser, the USS Bunker Hill, waited at her position in the Lough. Her RIM-67 surface-to-air missiles, fired from her eight-cell Mark 41 Vertical Launch System, would provide much-needed firepower to the Belfast air-defences. The vessel was thirteen years old - but Chris hoped the ship's weapons would be luckier than its age.

Alongside the mighty American cruiser was a single Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, USS Carney. By contrast, this ship was only a few months into its commission. Chris knew from experience that new equipment wasn't always reliable - especially if it hadn't been tried and tested. Still, both US Navy ships were fitted with the famed Aegis defence system - which hopefully would prove its worth.

Other foreign ships included the lone French frigate Cassard, armed with a license-built version of the Bunker Hill's air-defence missiles. There was also a Bremen-class frigate of the German Bundesmarine, armed with short-range Sea Sparrows - another sign of how the old conflicts were now so far away in the face of an alien threat.

There was one final foreign navy whose presence indicated this fact even more. Chris could never have imagined fighting alongside them just over a decade ago, when he'd been stationed as part of the NATO force in West Germany.

In the middle of the Lough lurked the largest of the warships present - a single nuclear-powered Kirov-class battlecruiser, Admiral Nakhimov of the Russian Navy. Alongside her was the only relatively smaller Slava-class missile cruiser, Marshal Ustinov; conventionally powered, though like her nuclear counterpart still heavily armed.

Both of these vessels had been on their way to a goodwill visit to the Portsmouth on July 2nd - and they had both been extremely lucky to make it to the safety of Belfast harbour. As the pride of the former Soviet Northern Fleet, these cruisers were both suitably impressive, and dominated the view of the Lough.

Chris knew that appearances were deceptive, however. The aftermath of the Soviet collapse had not been kind on their hulls and superstructure, which showed signs of degradation. The Russian Navy had been short of funds and spare parts for years - even before the invasion, it had required a great effort on their part to get these two Cold War-era leviathans ready for a goodwill tour.

When the Russian cruisers had finally arrived in Belfast after a herculean journey around devastated Britain, they had been barely capable of moving - they had to be towed into the Lough by tugs. The Nakhimov was now rendered motionless altogether - its reactor had been shut down and removed with considerable effort due to risk of detonation by enemy fire.

Still, motion would not matter in this battle. The Rear-Admiral who commanded both ships had agreed that they should serve as stationary SAM batteries.

In this, they were well equipped - the Nakhimov and Ustinov were both armed with S-300F long-range SAMs, a naval version of Russia's most powerful air defence system. The S-300 was also the longest-range AA missile in Belfast defences - a weapon that would prove crucial to the battle plan.

Taken all together, Beflast had been transformed into one huge flak trap; in its streets, in its buildings, in its harbour, in its Lough. Corporal Chris Stanton, his comrades and their two Stinger launchers were but one tiny part of this great trap.

It was a trap that had to work.

The City Destroyer cruised onward, towards the next nest of vermin to be burned away.

Within its fortified command centre, the Navigator oversaw all. One of many throughout the hive fleet, one each stationed aboard a Destroyer craft, all answering to the Master Navigator aboard the main hiveship. Beneath them were the commanders, those of the Protector caste. Beneath them, the multitudes of warriors and drones.

Yet all were one in the Swarm. The Navigators were no more rulers of this Hive Fleet than individual brain cells were rulers of a single body. The Hive Mind united them all, as one unstoppable army that had laid waste to worlds.

The Navigator hung from its position in the command centre - its massive head pulsated with psychic energy as it sent commands throughout the local hive mind.

The creature's shrivelled limbs twitched spastically as it hung in mid-air. Pairs of its tentacles cycled across the holographic controls of the command centre, while others remained plugged into the organic power sockets above, uniting the Navigator with the ship it commanded in near-permanent union. The single tiny pair of regressive eyes regarded the tactical displays, above a small, toothed mouth that opened periodically as its owner took rasping breaths,.

There was no real need for those eyes - they had regressed beyond practical use among the Navigator caste. The Navigator saw the world through its advanced psychic senses, and through the systems of the ship it was fused with. The cameras and surveillance drones gave the Navigator hundreds of artificial eyes, each giving so many views inside and outside the enormous craft.

For a time, it had seen nothing but boundless ocean. Now, it could see a green sliver of coastline on the horizon - and the distinct form of native buildings, clustered together in another of their sprawling cities, a foul grey nest vomited across an otherwise rich and green landscape, polluting and rotting what the Swarm needed like a fungus.

That nest needed to be burned, like all the others. The Swarm needed such rich, fertile land, with all the food and riches it held.

Secure within the great tower at the front of the vessel, the Navigator once more issued a minor course-correction, ensuring the shortest-possible route to the target - a sprawling nest located on the north-eastern edge of the western-most island in the pitiful archipelago that this Destroyer had ravaged over the past few rotations.

The Navigator of this vessel had begun the assault at the same time as the rest of the Swarm - with the destruction of the single largest nest in these islands, located on the larger eastern isle. That destruction had reduced the vermin population considerably in this area, but it was still not at the lowest levels deemed acceptable for colonisation to begin.

So two more cities had been burned. Now this one would follow.

According to intercepted native signals and the Destroyer's reconnaissance pickets, the next target had become a focal point of resistance, as the native vermin seemed to be gathering their forces in many different places across the planet. Clearly a final strike was being planned.

The Swarm would meet the strike. Then the Vermin would be beaten, having spent the last of their strength. There was no outcome in which this final strike could bring them victory.

Victory would belong to the Swarm alone.

The Navigator was assured of this - it had met many native counter-attacks. None had been able to penetrate the Destroyer's shields. All had failed - and the vermin attackers wiped out. The same was true for all Destroyers.

So there was no reason to believe that the coming action would be anything other than routine, as the Navigator calmly directed the vessel closer to final victory.

"Here the bastard comes!"

Geordie Sharp's words echoed across the rooftop. Chris just simply focused his eye into the big scope of the Stinger launcher, focusing on the approaching leviathan in the sky. His face was covered by a gas-mask, designed to protect him from the smoke and other effects of a Stinger launch.

The size of a large city and shaped like a manhole cover, the alien Destroyer craft maintained its course to Belfast. For anyone who saw it the first time, the sheer size was mind-boggling - how a leviathan like that could stay airborne seemed incomprehensible. The thing was a product of an intelligence beyond humanity, alien and unnatural. To Chris, it looked like a huge approaching storm cloud - an unstoppable force of nature.

He prayed he was wrong. The whole troop maintained their cool as best they could, priming the Stingers for combat. The City Destroyer cruised closer, until it entered the maximum range of the Nakhimov and Ustinov's missiles.

Any moment now, the first part of the battle plan would happen. It all depended on the signal from the Americans.

Everyone knew that signal had been received when from the middle of Belfast Lough, the Russian warships unleashed their long-range SAMs, the engines flaring like lanterns, leaving great clouds of smoke that drifted across the Lough.

The S-300F missiles rocketed through the sky like comets, leaving fiery trails behind them as they streaked towards the City Destroyer.

As the weapons neared their massive target, everyone prayed that the rumours were true - that a way had been found to lower the alien shields, that the mission to infiltrate the Mother Ship had succeeded, that the Americans were not making false claims.

As the warheads detonated against the unshielded hull, sending flaming, building sized chunks of hull-plate tumbling into the waters below, those prayers were answered.

The shields were down.

At the sight of the hits, Geordie yelled out like a maniac.

"GOT THE FUUCKERR!"

Chris fist-pumped even as he kept hold of the Stinger, letting out a cry of his own.

"HOT SHIT! RIGHT IN THE EYE!"

The rest of the troop let out their own woops, together with the IRA militia and artillerists manning the Rapier, before Troop Sergeant Holmes quelled them all.

"Pack it in! We've not won this yet!"

Following the Russian success, the USS Bunker Hill unleashed her Aegis guided SAMs. These were joined by the Sea Darts of the Type 42s, then the land-based Patriots. Soon the sky was filled with missile trails, rising up to strike the unshielded foe.

The giant saucer was wreathed with explosions. In positions across the city, more cheering could be heard, joining with the roars and hisses of the missiles, the echoing booms of warheads finding their mark. The great orchestra of sound was a herald for the storm to come.

The Battle of Belfast had begun.

The Navigator let out a hiss of irritation from its small, toothed mouth as it struggled to process the new information. The screens were still flickering through some form of distortion - a system error that had appeared only minutes ago.

All Navigators aboard all other Destroyers had reported the same error - it had been first dismissed as trivial but now it was becoming a serious problem. The crew under the Navigator's command confirmed the story through the Hive Mind - the shielding had been compromised across the whole Hive Fleet.

The natives had taken advantage of this - their weapons were for the first time causing damage, even if it was only superficial. The sound of their warheads detonating echoed and reverberated throughout the ship.

A few struck the outside of the control tower, lightly shaking the chamber and jolting the Navigator in its perch, snarling as it was riled.

This had to be dealt with until the shields could be restored. The Navigator again sent a message to the main Hiveship, co-ordinating with the Master of its kind aboard the greater vessel in orbit, as it cycled through the systems to locate the error.

Then, it sent a simple command across the local telepathic field, to the many warriors and striker pilots aboard the Destroyer.

Neutralise opposition in nest ahead.

As the command echoed through the hive, the Navigator inserted another tentacle into one of the many control sockets. Through this appendage, it sent another psychic command - and the great hangar doors of the destroyer opened.

On the many view screens, it saw the great clouds of attackers under its command issue from the hangars, ready for battle once more as they swarmed towards the narrow havens where the native missiles had been traced to.

They would not fail. They could not.

Chris suppressed a gulp as the locust-like clouds of Attackers drew closer to the Belfast Lough at incredible speed, swarming from the City Destroyer like enraged wasps from a shaken nest. They were coming in droves towards the city, ready to unleash hell.

It's all part of the plan, he kept telling himself. The attacker swarms needed to be lured into the Belfast flak trap, as far away from the City Destroyer as possible.

Of course, the generals always had their plans - and it was the soldiers who had to fight to survive.

The lightning-fast sting-ray Attackers swept over the Lough and then over the city port, the whines and whistles of their engines filling the air, their shrieking, high-pitched armament showering the ships and city below with green plasma.

The human warships in turn opened up with their closer-range weapons, along with the emplacements across the city. Hissing white contrails and black clouds of booming flak erupted across the great waterway and skyline.

"Now's the time boys!"

Sergeant Holmes' words weren't needed - Chris had already painted one of the oncoming Attackers in his Stinger-sight. Whatever propulsion the aliens used for their ships still wasn't known - but it emitted heat just like any human power source. The targeting systems read positive and locked on to the enemy heat signature.

The Attacker he'd targeted was the nearest, headed straight for his troop's warehouse. Chris wasn't going to let him get any closer. He pulled the trigger.

The heat-seeking missile left the launcher with a cough, followed by the roar of the rocket-engine. Smoke swept over Chris and Geordie as this happened, but both were protected by their gas-masks.

Through the scope, Chris had gotten a good view of the attacker - included the dome of its cockpit.

He was now lucky enough to see that cockpit shattered as his missile struck it right in the face.

He grinned. The Attackers had lost their shields too.

"That's for Greenwich, motherfuckers!" He yelled as the Attacker spiralled downward in a ball of fire, proudly screaming the area of his birth.

Not invincible. Not immortal. They could be killed like any human aircraft or soldier - once they had no energy shields to hide behind.

For a brief, terrifying moment his celebration turned to panic as the Attacker spiralled down in flames towards his position.

But instead of crashing into the warehouse it barrelled overhead, dangerously low above the troop, before crashing and burning somewhere further into the city. The roaring of collapsing masonry and shattering concrete marked the crash - it must have destroyed a building somewhere.

At the same time, Mark had fired his own Stinger launcher, sending another Attacker plunging into the Lough. The militants in turn fired their SA-7s, scoring kills of their own. They were joined by Doug Hatton, who'd taken one of their spare SA-7 launchers.

The Rapier battery on the roof had also been firing, and Chris could hear so many other weapons opening up across the city, from heavy machine-guns to Patriot missiles - but he wasn't able to see the result of every single missile launch, or every flak burst. There was too much smoke from all the missiles that had been fired on this roof - not to mention the sound of the battle around him, so loud it felt like having needles pushed into his ears.

He couldn't possibly keep track of it all in the heat of battle, not while he had a job to do. All he could focus on was his own position, on this warehouse roof - so he was riveted on helping Geordie re-load the launcher so he could fire it again.

When the launcher was finally reloaded, Chris painted another, more distant ship in his scope - and fired again, hitting the bastard right in his engines.

The stricken Attacker screamed downward in a comet-tail of fire, crashing into the stern of one of the civilian container ships.

That cargo ship somehow survived - but Chris could see others hadn't. An orange mushroom cloud was still rising from somewhere at the mouth of the Lough - that had to be at least one of the Royal Navy destroyers. Even without their shields, the alien craft were still lethal. Immediately after his second launch, Chris was looked just in time to witness an even more catastrophic loss.

Several salvos of plasma struck the Admiral Nakhimov as a cluster of alien fighters swept over her, just at the bow below the main launchers - Chris knew that was where the bloody ammo magazines must be. There still had to be tons of missiles and shells aboard the cruiser.

He was proved right.

A great pillar of roaring fire erupted from the bow section of the huge cruiser - the ship shuddered and let out deep structural groans before being engulfed by an even greater explosion which tore her clean in half, bow and aft ripped apart.

The SAS troop turned in shock from what they were doing as the sight of the explosion captured them. They were struck instantly by the deafening sound and resulting shockwave, sending even the burly Sergeant Holmes off his feet. The flash was blinding, like a new star being born.

As he and his comrades picked-themselves and looked on in open-mouthed horror, their ears ringing in pain, Chris thought of the fate of HMS Hood at the hands of the Bismarck during World War Two.

The same horrific scene was replayed now as the Nakhimov's stern and bow projected upwards, as the two halves quickly sank. Fires raged across the water as oil and ammunition ignited.

Chris only turned away when he saw what could only be the crewmembers, writhing in flames and hurling themselves into the water from the sinking ship.

He didn't want to think about how many had perished. He had to get back into action. He roared out an order, even though he couldn't hear himself over his ringing, damaged ears.

"C'mon Geordie, get that bloody thing loaded!"

He pulled his comrade to his feet, gesturing wildly at the launcher. But before they could do anything, another explosion, this one on the roof itself, knocked him right on his backside, his head thudding onto the concrete.

Seconds later, Holmes barrelled in over him, roaring at the top of his lungs and wildly gesturing in another direction.

The smoke clouds from the roof explosion and the Nakhimov's demise swept over them. Chris choked and coughed on the cordite fumes and oily smoke. But then the ringing stopped - with a rush of air and sound, his hearing returned.

"You heard me, you fucking piss-heads - get off the bloody roof! Let's go! GO!"

Chris could now hear the Sarge's words loud and clear, and wasn't about to argue. Mark, the loud-mouthed Australian, backed him up as he grabbed his own launcher and ran.

"You heard the Sarge, mates! Now would be a very good time to leave!"

The SAS troopers sprinted towards the nearest fire-escape stairs, taking their Stinger launchers with them, their combat boots clanking on the metal. Close behind them were the IRA men - and Chris noticed that a few of them, including O'Shea, weren't following. They'd definitely had it.

He looked back over his shoulder, seeing the source of the explosion on the roof. The rapier launcher had taken a direct hit - now it was nothing but twisted molten metal, it's crew vaporised in the plasma strike. The missiles had also detonated when the plasma struck, though fortunately most of them had been fired off beforehand.

Chris knew that he and his mates were lucky to be alive.

Once they had all reached street-level, it was clear to Chris that they had to get away from the warehouse as soon as possible - the building was in flames, spewing noxious black smoke. More to the point, the aliens were sending more of their attack craft this way.

"This way! Get to the bikes!"

The shout came from one of the IRA men. They'd brought a small fleet of motorbikes, some of which had been loaded into the white van that came with them, while others had already been pre-stocked in the warehouse.

The bikes had been concealed around the back of the warehouse in a side alley, and would now serve as getaway vehicles. There were eight in total - both civilian and military issue - more than enough to get the survivors out.

Chris immediately started for one of the bikes, along with Geordie.

"Give us some room Chris!" The Mancunian barked. "You know I'm the better driver!"

"Up yours..." Chris retorted. Nonetheless, Geordie got the driver's seat, while Chris was happy to take the passenger seat behind him. He made sure his Stinger launcher was secure on his back, before strapping himself in.

They wasted no time. Sergeant Holmes mounted one of the bikes, an IRA man with an RPG riding shotgun behind him.

The motorbike engines started with a roar. With the Sarge in the lead, they sped away, one by one, from the warehouse and out of the alley.

Geordie revved up his bike's engine with a furious whine, gunning like mad, while behind him Chris hung on for dear life.

At this point, he didn't even care that he wasn't wearing a crash helmet.

With a roar and whine of his engine and tyres, Geordie skidded the bike in a sharp turn out of the alley. He and the other bikers winded like mad through the side streets, until they finally broke out of the small cluster of warehouses. Soon they found themselves on the broad, open route of one of the city's main roads - the A2, also called Belfast Road.

The highway was practically empty of traffic, save for small convoys that continued to make much-needed supply runs to troops scattered throughout the city. Their bravery in the face of overwhelming enemy air power was incredible - the convoy vehicles dashed along the roads, defying all odds to deliver much-needed ammunition and equipment.

Across this road lay the parish of Holywood proper - with its rows of suburban houses, ancient churches and priories. It was also the site of many other missile batteries and anti-aircraft gun emplacements, fortified for attack.

As such, the whole area was a prime target - the alien attackers were swarming the parish, strafing it repeatedly. The whole of Holywood seemed to be in flames, marked with violent explosions as plasma met the SAM batteries and their ammunition stores.

In short, it was not where the SAS troop and their allies wanted to be. They continued to speed along the main road, further towards the city centre.

Of course, the A2 was not a good place to be either. Chris felt the howling wind rush over him, tearing at his fatigues and forcing his head down, clinging on to the bike and Geordie's backside as they screamed down the motorway at full speed.

Just then, he caught the sight of one of the supply convoys going the other way, on the opposite carriageway. Four small military trucks, and two commandeered civilian vans.

They must have been carrying ammunition - there was no other way they could have exploded so violently as two alien Attackers strafed the convoy with plasma, scoring direct hits on the convoy.

The trucks were thrown into the air like toys - one somersaulted twice over the centre of the road, before crashing onto the carriageway the soldiers' motorcycles were using in a mess of flaming wreckage, right in front of Chris and Geordie's bike.

Geordie violently swerved the motorcycle out of the way just in time, the tyres and engine screeching as a piece of red-hot metal narrowly missed Chris's head.

As the troop sped on, the supply convoy was completely obliterated behind them - the sound of the explosions assaulted their ears, the smell of explosive was in the air, while the heat from the roaring fireballs washed over SAS trooper and IRA militant alike.

Chris swore at the top of his lungs. Making sure he was still strapped on, he un-shouldered his 203 rifle. Aiming as best he could, he fired at the nearest Attacker that swept over their heads.

There was not a chance in hell that he would bring it down - but his comrades might join in firing on his target, causing more damage. Besides, he'd be damned if he didn't at least scratch the bastard's paint.

"We gotta get out of this shit lads!" the Sarge bellowed over the radio, as the Attackers swept back for another pass. "The city airport's the nearest rally point - let's go!"

Belfast had two airports; the larger Belfast International which was located in the west of the city, and Belfast City. The latter, a smaller single runway airport, mostly dealt with UK and Republic of Ireland national flights.

In this battle, however, it was a key strong point, located just south-west of where the SAS troop's first position had been in Holywood. Many SAM and Triple-A batteries were set up there, along with plenty of troops defending them. Chris knew it made sense that his troop would be pulled back to that airport.

If this had been peaceful times, the bikers would have proceeded along the A2 further to the south-west, until taking a turn right of the main road into the car park at the airport entrance. That day on July 4th, 1996, however, was anything but peaceful. Even now, the alien Attackers were making their next strafing run along the main road, throwing up columns of fire, shrapnel, dust and asphalt.

Chris knew they had to get the hell off the A2 as soon as possible - that meant taking the first junction they came too to the left, which in turn would take them across a bridge over the main road. They would then pass through a retail park of shopping centres, until they reached the very foot of the runway at Belfast City Airport, at the very edge of the airport grounds.

The bikes gunned it to that junction, Sergeant Holmes in the lead. Yet another Attacker made a pass over the impromptu bike squadron, spitting green energy. Chris saw the IRA gunman on the back of Holmes' bike raise the RPG-7 he was toting. Taking a hasty aim, he fired at the oncoming alien ship.

The RPG round, against all odds, managed to strike the Attacker on its starboard pincer. This would never have been enough to bring the craft down, but it was clearly damaged. It broke off, deterred by the unexpected retaliation.

The bikes dashed into the junction on the left, just near a local health club. Swinging around with the U-turn in the road, they then dashed across the small bridge that spanned the A2. By a miracle, all of the bikes made it to the other side before two more Attackers raked the bridge with plasma, causing it to collapse across the motorway in a roaring shower of metal and concrete.

Chris glanced over his shoulder at the destruction behind him, wheezing in shock. How none of his troop had been killed on this damned A-road, God only knew. The bikes were small targets, but there were still a lot of those manta-like Attackers in the air.

Of course, that meant that command's plan was working - enough of the attackers had been drawn away from the City Destroyer. But that didn't make Chris's life easier.

The troop sped on, roaring through the retail district. To their right, Chris could see a vast open car park of a Sainsbury's supermarket; there were radar-directed, automated twin-barrelled Oerlikon GDF anti-aircraft guns in both the car park and on the roof of the supermarket.

These guns were firing away, filling the sky with flak. One of the alien craft flew right into the flak bursts, which sent it plunging down in flames. Confident that the guns would cover them, the troop passed through the car park.

This turned out to be a bad move - the Attackers could shoot back. A trio of the manta-ray craft dive-bombed the Sainsbury's area, strafing as they went. Chris and Geordie were just riding past the petrol station attached to the supermarket when the first plasma struck.

The petrol station blew up instantly with a great thunderclap in a violent fireball, consuming the supermarket with it as that building was also blown apart by more plasma raining down.

"FUCK!"

Geordie swore at the top of his voice, revving the engine like mad as he and Chris both feeling the searing heat wash over them, flaming petrol raining down around them. Chris's fatigues were on fire several places, and he swatted to put himself out.

"My bloody eyebrows!"

Fortunately, they suffered no other harm. But as the bikes sped away, Chris saw that not everyone had been lucky.

Trooper Doug Hatton had been riding shotgun with one of the IRA men - now his bike was nowhere to be seen, lost in the flames. As the rest of the troop assembled safely, on the green at the foot of the runway, they all knew he wouldn't be joining them.

There was no time to mourn - they had to reach friendly headquarters near the airport control tower and terminal buildings as soon as possible. That meant riding all the way down the runway, right out in the open.

Even as they set off for that final, desperate dash, Chris could hear the damned whines of the attackers as they closed in on their prey, like hornets swarming in the air.

They knew they had little chance - there was no cover on the tarmac of the runway, save for the scattered remains of destroyed, burning airliners further down the field. Until then, it was open ground.

The attackers would have a field day. Chris saw two of them directly in the sky ahead, swooping down towards the humans on their puny transports like falcons diving on mice.

This was where he would die.

As Trooper Chris Stanton closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable, he was jarred by a sudden explosion.

It wasn't on the ground. And there was more than one blast.

He looked up to see twin fireballs where the two Attackers had been, flaming fragments and wreckage raining down onto the runway. The bikers swerved violently to avoid it all.

Chris looked up - he'd thought the aliens had been brought down by another SAM or flak burst. Instead, he was rewarded by the sight of two Harriers - Sea Harrier FA2s, or FRS1s, he couldn't be sure - screaming over their heads, fresh from their kills.

Empty slots on their wings marked the Sidewinder missiles they had just fired, blasting the invaders from the sky.

Chris pumped his fist.

"Hot shit!" Geordie bellowed in triumph with him.

As he turned his head to see the whole of the sky - and saw the vast armada of jets of all types - Harriers, Hawks, Jaguars, Tornadoes, Canberras. Most incredible of all, Chris could see, right in the rear-centre of the formation, a flight of four delta-winged Avro Vulcans, their Rolls-Royce Olympus engines roaring in the sky, like a mighty god of war letting out a call to battle.

They flew together with Handley Page Victors - like the Vulcan, former nuclear bombers of V-force, Britain's primary nuclear deterrent during the Cold War until missile submarines took over. Both aircraft were now ancient, retired years ago. Yet enough airframes had survived to be brought out of storage, restored and flown into this, the great battle for human survival, for planet Earth itself.

Besides these, there was a host of foreign aircraft - French Mirages and Super Etendards, Swedish Drakens, German Dornier Alpha Jets and so many others Chris could not identify. It was an armada of British and foreign jets alike, headed straight for the City Destroyer that was still advancing on the city.

As Trooper Chris Stanton watched them all, a grin swallowing his masked and balaclava-clad face, he knew that the plan had worked.

The alien quick fighters had been diverted, lured into attacking the ground positions throughout Belfast, as well as the ships in the Lough. They had lost a good deal of their number in the process, leaving their mother craft virtually unprotected in pursuing the distraction. The RAF, Fleet Air Arm and the other allied air forces now had a clear shot at the Destroyer, thanks to the Belfast flak trap.

Thanks to the men of Chris's troop, and so many others.

The alien Attackers had realised the distraction too late. The human aircraft were high in the sky - and caught between the ground positions and the oncoming air threat, for a moment they almost didn't seem to know which way to turn.

The cluster of Attackers closest to the airport, the same ones that had chased the SAS troop across the A2 to the airport, made their decision. They attempted to pursue the two Harriers which were now rejoining the attack on the Destroyer - but they were knocked out of the sky in quick succession by Rapier missiles and flak shells. Their hulls crashed to the ground, broken, burning and defeated.

However, not all would easy for the flyboys. More attackers were breaking off from the assault on Belfast, zooming up into the sky to confront the aerial armada of the insolent humans who had dared to outwit them.

The troop rode on, making full speed to the terminal. They passed armed soldiers of the British and Irish Army alike, marching along the runway area towards defensive positions at the main airport buildings.

There was no doubt they had been forced to fall back here too.

As he heard the cheers of these Allied troops for the SAS as they sped by, Chris felt something he hadn't in the past few days.

Hope. Hope that they could hurt these aliens, and hurt them good. That he and his fellow soldiers could prevail. That they could now fight.

That they could win.

Author's note: Part one of the Battle of Belfast. Part two will follow.