Their Darkest Hour by Christopher Nuttall Page A

made a note to praise the body armour in his report.  If they hadn’t been so well-protected, they would have certainly had more injured, if not dead.
     
    “Advance,” he ordered, sharply.
     
    The force continued on its way, coordinating with other groups as they pressed out along the human roads.  It dawned on him suddenly that they weren’t really controlling the city at all, merely the main roads they intended to use for transporting supplies.  They simply didn’t have the numbers to maintain control over the entire city.  After a moment of thought, he kept that insight to himself.  His superior officers no doubt knew all about it and intended to deal with the humans in another manner.  Their city was dependent upon food supplies from outside, wasn’t it?  They could simply be starved to death if they refused to cooperate.
     
    He smiled darkly as the first assault drone hummed overhead, watching for further human ambushes.  The humans who had escaped the brief engagement – if he dignified the one-sided massacre by calling it an engagement – would spread the word.  Any attempts to slow the occupation force would not be tolerated.  Maybe the humans would learn quickly enough that the occupation force could relax.
     
    The drone reported what looked like another ambush up ahead.  He checked his weapon as the force moved carefully onwards, ready to deal with the ambush when it was triggered.  The humans would learn – or they would die.  In the end, he told himself firmly, Earth would belong to the State.  The only real question was how many humans would have to die before the rest realised that they had no choice, but to submit.

    Chapter Seven
     
    Long Stratton
    United Kingdom, Day 1
     
    “I saw you come down,” a voice called.  Alex barely heard him.  “Are you all right?”
     
    Alex shook her head.  Her entire body was shaking with post-combat stress.  She’d left RAF Coningsby expecting nothing more challenging than a routine patrol and an attempt to intercept one of the mysterious ‘ghosts.’  Well, the ghosts weren’t a mystery any more, were they?  They belonged to the bastards who had blown Davidson out of the sky and shot her down, whoever they were.  She’d practiced ejecting before, but she’d never had to eject from a Typhoon in the midst of a battle…she cursed her own weakness as she tried to stand up.  Her legs refused to cooperate and she stumbled before grasping the proffered hand gratefully.
     
    “I…thank you,” she managed.  Normally, a pilot bailing out of an aircraft would have been tracked by ground-based radar stations and a SAR helicopter dispatched from the nearest base.  Now, she had the unpleasant feeling that the rest of the RAF had more important things to worry about than a single Typhoon pilot.  The explosions she’d seen as she drifted down to the field suggested that the entire country was under attack.  “Do you have a mobile phone?”
     
    “I tried to call an ambulance when I saw your parachute,” the farmer said.  He looked older than her father, but there was a toughness around him that reminded her of the RAF Regiment soldiers who guarded the RAF’s airbases.  His face was tanned by the sun.  “There’s no signal at all.”
     
    Somehow, Alex wasn't surprised.  The unknowns – whoever they were – had to have taken out the communications satellites, as well as jamming ordinary radio frequencies.  There was no reason why they couldn't jam mobile phones as well.  She cursed under her breath as she realised that she wasn't entirely sure where she was, or how to report in to whatever remained of her unit.  The country was at war and she had enlisted to defend it.  She needed to return to the base.  And that might be impossible.
     
    “I can take you down to the farm,” the farmer offered.  He held out a calloused hand.  “My name’s Giles, Giles Smith.  I own the land about here.”
     
    “Alex,” Alex