' The Longest Night ' & ' Crossing the Rubicon ': The Original Map Illustrated and Uncut Final Volume (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  Major Nunro had landed in a small clearing, landing with a thump that knocked the breath out of her. This had been her second parachute descent but this time it had not been the result of a shoot-down, technically anyway.

  On her escape and evasion course and subsequent refresher training, the instructors had all stressed the vital importance of burying the parachute, of denying a hunter team a start point. If it was that damned important though, she had always reasoned, then why were the aircrew provided with nothing more substantial than a survival knife with a blunt tip, to prevent the accidental puncturing of one’s life raft, always an important consideration in a forest.

  It had still been dark when she had dragged the parachute shrouds into the undergrowth inside the treeline, bundling them into some bushes and out of sight.

  Putting distance between herself and the area of a shoot-down had been the next step, if she had followed the drills, but she was not going anywhere without the Russian girl. She found a large and elderly oak tree on the edge of the clearing and sat under one of its great boughs, out of the rain and waited for the dawn, listening to the sound of battle over the horizon.

  As the sun had arisen the rain had tailed off, disappearing east with the cloud. Daylight revealed her surrounds, including the white shrouds of the bundled parachute. Being an X aircraft, an experimental testbed, it had not been necessary to install the green variety. Soggy, dead bracken that she added did not make a whole bunch of difference. If someone was looking for her from the air, they would see it.

  Her survival vest contained a SAR Beacon but she had it switched off. The majority of downed aircrew who are captured have used the device early on and still within the area of the shoot-down. Svetlana had no vest or beacon so she would find her and they would both beat feet before Caroline used hers to summon a rescue.

  She had no clue as to where Svetlana had landed, she had to assume they were not far apart as they had been sat with only feet separating them at the time of ejection, but walking in ever increasing circles about the clearing for two full hours had not reunited them.

  The distant gunfire tailed off over a period of perhaps thirty minutes, although the odd shot sounded here and there.

  The sound of metal upon metal brought her up short and she dropped to the ground, peering around a tree trunk for the source of the noise. She saw nothing at first, not until a mere twelve feet away a camouflage net was lift by a Soviet tanker in black coveralls, and behind him she glimpsed the unmistakeable track and drive wheels of an armoured fighting vehicle of some description. Shocked, she looked around and saw more of the nets and realised she had walked into a harbour area. Backing away she almost stumbled over two reposed figures behind a machine gun, quite obviously sentries but from their gaunt appearance they had fallen asleep at the switch through exhaustion. She had walked past them, into the area without even seeing them.

  Having crept away, looking frequently behind she relaxed, walked around the bole of a large tree and straight into the view of three uniformed KGB soldiers with a German Shepherd dog on a long lead. From their reactions they had apparently been tracking her.

  Fight or flight? She had her 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster but against three men with assault rifles it would be a short fight indeed. She turned and ran; the men shouted and released the dog.

  Limping from tree trunk to tree trunk for support, Svetlana had begun to wonder if she had in fact broken the small tailbone. The pain was almost enough to induce vomit.

  She kept the sun at her back and hobbled west, gritting her teeth and refusing to stop and rest as she did not know if she could find the strength to move again.

  It was after an hour that she saw something white in the undergrowth and discovered a badly camouflaged parachute, presumably Caroline’s. There was no sign of the pilot, no giveaway flash of blonde hair amongst the trees and so she continued on, heading west.

  The shouts of more than one man and the bark of a dog came to her through the trees an hour later, and then a scream, a loud cry of fear that she recognised as coming from the American. Vomit arose as she hurried toward the sound, but she spat out the bile without stopping.

  Caroline was face down on the forest floor, blood leaking from a scalp wound where she had been pistol whipped unconscious. A large dog, its teeth bared, stood beside her as three soldiers, KGB troops by their insignia, tugged down her G-suit down over her hips. The pilot had a boot pressed between her shoulder blades by the dog’s handler, holding her in place as his companions next undid their trousers. Quite obviously a gang rape, and probably a murder would follow if Svetlana took no action.

  The dog’s handler had Caroline’s Beretta stuck in his belt and his own AKM held loosely in his right hand. The other two had laid their own weapons against a tree. The dog handler was the greatest threat and Svetlana leant against a trunk, aimed and fired the automatic taken from the field policeman weeks before. Two quick aimed shots took him in the chest and throat, and then she moved her point of aim to the right, to the KGB trooper nearest the two AKMs. It was a miscalculation on her part for as the handler crumpled his dog leapt towards her. She swung back and fired again, hitting the animal in the chest as it launched itself at her throat. The dog slammed into her, and Svetlana fell back with a cry of agony but retained a grip on the handgun. Bile filled her mouth again having jarred the injury on landing. The troopers had reached their weapons but a voice barked out a command in accented Russian, ordering them to stand down. Svetlana could not see the newcomer but with arrogance typical of the KGB one spat deliberately, contemptuously at the speaker before raising his weapon in Svetlana’s direction. A shot rang out and blood spurted from the side of his head before he could fire and he dropped, still holding the assault rifle. Turning and aiming, the third trooper then hesitated, staring down the barrel of the gun that had killed his companion. The sound of pounding feet approaching was followed by more shouting of commands by several voices at once, in Hungarian this time, but the trooper got the message, dropping his weapon and raising his hands.

  “If you shoot at me, my men will kill you.” A voice said in very halting English from beyond the tree she had been leaning against. However, she retained a grip on her handgun, raising it towards the sound of the voice.

  “You should be aware that the war, at least in Europe, is over.” The speaker added. “I think it would be a shame for us both to die after the fighting has finished, don’t you agree?”

  A soldier knelt beside Caroline and she altered her aim, pointing at him. He looked to his right, directly at her and then at the gun before ignoring them both and tending to Caroline. Clearly a medic was not going to be putting himself in harm’s way as part of a deception. Applying the safety catch she tossed her handgun away where the unseen speaker could see it.

  An older man appeared and made safe the handgun he was holding before assisting her to her feet.

  The surviving KGB trooper was escorted away, past the two dead men and one equally dead dog.

  “Thank you.” It was all she could think of saying at that time.

  “You are most welcome, young lady.” responded Colonel Leo Lužar.

  Arkansas Valley Nebraska, USA.

  When 4 Corps had arrived and removed the spear tip from 3rd Shock Army’s advance, the Red Army had found itself in a worse position than it had a week before. The banks of the Elbe and Saale were back in NATO hands, held by fresh troops and fully equipped units, unlike before.

  Their Premier was dead; the man who had designed and orchestrated the Third World War was now a bunch of irradiated atoms a mile underground with a man-made depression in the earth’s surface, a quarter miles across, as a grave marker.

  A new leader had emerged, apologising via video conferencing with the President for the hours it had taken to rein in the Red Army, Navy and Air Forces.

  The President sat in a darkened room, presumably to deny any possible clue as to its location. Premier Elena Torneski sat in front of a
flag of the Russian Federation, which served the same purpose, and for an hour they spoke, with the President extracting various assurances from her as to a withdrawal to pre-war lines.

  Torneski’s position was far from secure but international support could change that.

  As the conferencing link was ended the lights came up in the Presidents room to reveal that he had been far from alone.

  “Okay.” Said the President. “Thoughts and observations?”

  “Am I the only one who noticed that the brakes only came on after they lost the race for the autobahns?” said Ben Dupre, the FBI Director. “And what’s with that hair?”

  The President looked down at her file and the few photos that they had of this comparative unknown, and compared it with another photograph of a different Russian national.

  The President turned in his seat to look at Ben and nod emphatically in agreement.

  “Absolutely.” He stated before looking at his CIA Director “That would seem to be one for you psychoanalysts, Mr Jones.”

  Terry Jones did not take notes however. The CIA’s expertise in such matters was unsurpassed and already in hand regarding Premier Torneski. The organisations predecessor, the ambiguously names Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, employed the offices of one Walter C Langer to help them second guess a certain dictator. In 1943 Mr Langer, despite not holding a degree in psychiatry, duly submitted what became the benchmark for all future works in that field. The report entitled ‘The Mind of Adolf Hitler’ opened a window onto one sick puppy. Since then all world leaders, friend, foe and neutral alike have had dossiers that included psychoanalysis by the experts at Langley. The President himself would be somewhat put out to learn that such a report existed on Theodore Kirkland, the current POTUS, as is the case for all occupants of the Oval Office.

  “Just because dog owners seem to take on certain physical similarities to their pets does not necessarily make them bad people.” Joseph Levi, his Chief Science Advisor, observed.

  “It is the ‘necessarily’ bit that has me concerned” The President said with a frown, which gave over to a faint smile. “That’s why I don’t own a dog, Joseph.”

  Elena Torneski had dyed her blonde hair the colour of chestnut and now wore it in the fashion of their own principle intelligence asset on Operation Guillotine.

  “Now that we have agreed upon reopening diplomatic exchange via embassies and a return of pre-war media reporting norms, I can find out more about the new Premier but I cannot give any time frame for that data to be available.” Terry Jones put in. “I should, however, have a handle on why the order to the Red Army to cease hostilities took so long to implement.

  The President now had another conferencing call waiting with Perry Letteridge and Barry Forsyth, the Australian and New Zealand Prime Ministers. That call would be followed by yet another online conference with the European leaders, including those whose nerve had failed them. As tempting as it was to cut them out of any future exchanges their armies’ men and women had blithely ignored orders to stand down and as such it would be inappropriate to tar them with the same brush as the elected leaderships of their nations.

  The Axis partnership of the New Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China was dissolved, and NATO could now bring all its forces to bear on the remaining theatre of operations, the Pacific.

  “Ask General Shaw…” The President faltered, but then continued “I mean, General Carmine, to be ready for a full session on our situation in the Pacific, our surviving forces in Australia, next of kin notifications too for those who had been in Sydney, and his assessment on the condition of NATO’s European armies.” he instructed an aide before turning again to Terry Jones.

  “Any word on Henry?”

  The expression on Terry’s face was warning enough that no good news was coming on that front.

  “Mr President, Jacqueline Shaw suffered a stroke, a big one, shortly after learning that Matthew and Natalie had been in Sydney. She is at Bob Wilson in San Diego and Henry is at her side.” Terry Jones did not add that Henry was also nursing a bottle. The President had enough to deal with at the moment.

  “Prognosis?”

  “The ‘Golden Hour’ was long gone before she was found, apparently.”

  The Golden Hour was that small window in which doctors and surgeons could repair the damage without there being any lasting effects.

  The President closed his eyes for a moment, regretting the exchange that had soured his relationship with someone who had become an anchor of support.

  “Thank you Mr Jones, and now I think we need to press on with the Australian and New Zealand Premiers.”

  The Vormundberg.

  After watching the destruction of the Red Army’s two point divisions the first ground units of 4 Corps had rolled into the view of the Vormundberg defenders. Moving immediately into the attack, the armoured cavalry had destroyed the forces still west of the rivers, those too slow to run away or surrender. The Red Army itself did not stop fighting until the mid-morning.

  In the afternoon, the Supreme Allied Commander, Europe, General Pierre Allain, had arrived by helicopter accompanied by Alexander Baxter, the 4 Corps commander, and Major General David Hesher, commander of the ad hoc collection of units that had formed the last line of defence. They had landed on the top of the Vormundberg, on a freshly decontaminated acre where the still smoking wreckage of the final Soviet attack lay spread out before them. The Canadian summoned all the brigade and battalion level commanders, addressing them with little attempt at formality.

  “You will be gratified to learn that my headquarters has been working tirelessly on your behalf for the past seventy two hours.” Pierre Allain informed them in earnest tones. “The finest military minds in the world were set a single task and it has now born fruit.” Although they were suffering fatigue he could see he had their interest.

  “We have named you all ‘The International Division’.”

  It took a moment to sink in, but the tired, and in some cases nearly exhausted warriors in their filthy, stained chemical warfare protection suits had been able to laugh.

  “Gentlemen.” stated General Baxter on stepping forward to address Dave Hesher and his officers. “You are relieved.”

  It had of course not been a simple matter of just folding their tents and departing. There were the wounded to treat, the few that had not succumbed to chemical agents due to loss of their protective clothing’s integrity. There were the dead and the missing to list, and the living to marshal up and organise, and all within a contaminated environment.

  The dead were collected and gently laid out; their ID tags checked and double checked to confirm their identity in life, and their personal effects were then listed, bagged and tagged but not for onward transmission to next of kin. The bodies were bound for the final decontamination, a field crematorium, and the belongings to a furnace for closely supervised destruction, all having been exposed to the deadliest of chemical WMDs yet devised. Only their weapons and remaining ammunition were salvageable.

  Captain Timothy Gilchrest was eventually found amongst the dead of 8 Platoon, and he had not gone meekly into the night. Beside his body were those of six members of the 23rd MRR that he had sent on ahead, right before a grenade had ended resistance from his trench.

  Lance Corporal Steven Veneer and Guardsman Andy Troper joined the long line of those who had fought back desperately when 4 Company was being overrun. Shunned by the 82nd Paratroopers of that company in life, the Coldstreamers now joined them on the hillside, silently waiting processing before being slipped into body bags and removed. Their Stinger launcher would be decontaminated and eventually put on display in the Sergeants and Warrant Officers Mess at Wellington Barracks; although it would never be established which man had used it as a club once their ammunition ran out.

  Just three of the dead heroes amongst all the others, the remaining one thousand nine hundred and seven dead and forever missing of The International Division.<
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  Paderborn Garrison, Germany.

  Sunday 21st October, 0023hrs

  Jim Popham’s men were no longer his in name only. Promoted in the field by General Hesher, his surviving men would form the core of a new battalion, the 111th Airborne Infantry. They accompanied 1CG to Alanbrooke Barracks, Paderborn, arriving after midnight and slept where they could find space.

  Major Mark Venables led the last three serviceable vehicles of his squadron to the tank sheds where he and his crew fell asleep in their seats just minutes after shutting the engine down.

  Pat had become very quiet after the fighting had ended, almost morose. He wanted to grieve for his son but the right time for that would be once he was reunited with Annabelle, who would probably not yet have been informed of their son Julian’s death.

  Jim Popham found a bottle of scotch somewhere and sat with Pat in the first vacant bunk they found in the Officer’s Mess. His plan was to get Reed drunk and tie one on himself at the same time, but alcohol and exhaustion is not an ideal recipe for a drinking session and neither man was able to finish the first drink, sinking into a sound sleep instead.

  At 0600hrs a sergeant from Garrison Headquarters was searching the corridors and rooms of the Officer’s Mess for Pat Reed, his torch eventually illuminating the name tag on the CO’s combat smock. Pat had fallen asleep fully clothed atop the bed.

  Pat’s raised voice had awoken Jim Popham in the armchair where he had crashed, too tired to find anything more appropriate. He could have slept at the end of the runway at LAX and been as equally dead to the world. The Englishman’s fury though, had brought him to full wakefulness.

  Red eyed and beside himself, Pat he was verbally venting his anger on the messenger, in the absence of the messages originator, whom he would happily have disembowelled with a blunt spoon.