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

by Andy Farman

  1CG's reputation, smeared by Danyella Foxten-Billings with the former PM’s blessing, and the assistance of the gutter press, was now cleared. Their portrayal as unworthy rebels in battle had only been corrected by becoming the ultimate of rebels in many eyes, and that was the final irony.

  A small core of Vormundberg veterans and their rescued wounded from prison cells were now working under RSM Probert to rebuild the regiments First Battalion back in the UK. Colin had declined the commission as he lacked the financial means to be a Guards Officer in peacetime and would have had to transfer out of the brigade.

  Pat ignored the press, the outreaching arms and the microphones they held. He had briefed his men to do likewise and some fairly inflammatory questions were shouted at the men in order to illicit a reaction. Despite his orders one of his senior NCOs was now having a squaring up to a well-known reporter who had, in frustration, grabbed the arm of a passing soldier.

  "I have a right to an answer, the people of Australia have a right to an answer and I am their voice!"

  "You have the right do you?"

  "Yes, I believe I do."

  "Were you at on the Wesernitz?"

  "No."

  "Were you on the Elbe?"

  "No."

  "Were you with the International Division at The Vormundberg?"

  "No."

  "Then you haven't earned the right to Jack-All, have you Hinney?" said CSM Osgood. "What's yer name by the way?"

  The internationally famous reporter told him the name that politicians and celebrities alike courted or stepped softly around.

  "Never heard of you."

  The battalion, and the rest of the Foot Guards, collected their equipment and moved off in Australian Army Unimogs along the Federal Highway to reinforce Woolongong and Port Kembla.

  Two hours later the 8th Infantry Brigade arrived at Canberra and headed off in a different direction, along Kings Highway towards a little coastal town. They would relieve the Australians there so that Bateman’s Bay defences could be beefed up.

  Sergeant ‘Baz’ Cotter was no longer an Acting Company Commander, he was getting the hang of the Platoon Sergeant’s role with No. 12 Platoon, D Company, of the amalgamated Wessex battalions. All the men, the rankers, were veterans but there were a few teething problems. Former 1 and 2 Wessex men still considered themselves members of their original companies. One example was in 2 Section where they were all ex-C (Royal Berkshire) Company men of 2 Wessex and still wore the Brandywine flash behind the Wyvern cap badge. The Platoon Commander had taken their reluctance to unpick the stitching of the red flashes, and their permanent removal, as something of a personal challenge to his authority. Mr Pottinger was not a veteran; he was the product of advanced officer training. Baz had been very respectful when he had suggested that Mr P use the situation to the platoon’s advantage, as in a means to foster healthy competition between the sections. This would of course have to be properly handled by the right leader, but the result could be the best fighting platoon in the battalion. The platoon commander had not responded well to the suggestion though, and at a platoon leadership meeting he had publically ordered Corporal ‘Dopey’ Hemp to remove the Brandywine from his beret before the meeting commenced. If Mr P had thought that he was earning support from the other two section commanders he was very much mistaken. Mr P had pointed at his epaulet, at the very low profile embroidered ‘pip’ that marked him as a commissioned officer, before telling them their fortunes as he saw them. The section commanders all had day jobs to go back to, even after serving sentences in ‘Colly’ if it came to that, and all were combat veterans who had been recommended for gallantry awards. As Corporal Dave Whyte of 2 Section succinctly put it, he had ‘done his bit’ and Mrs Whyte would be quite happy for him to sit out the next bit of Global unpleasantness in a nice safe prison cell, but who was going to run Mr P’s rifle sections for him, hmm?

  As a direct consequence of that meeting there was now an ‘Us and Him’ atmosphere within 12 Platoon which the CSM had quickly picked up on, and had directed the brand new Sergeant Cotter to deal with ASAP. Mr P however, would merely glare at his platoon sergeant and point at his epaulet whenever that subject came up, which was thrice daily, on good days.

  Baz Cotter secretly wished that the Australians would leave wonderfully prepared positions requiring zero work by themselves, and the PLAN to continue to take its time before attempting a landing. After all the blood and snot, the snow and ice, followed by the rain and mud in Germany, perhaps some fun in the sun on the beaches was in order? Perhaps all that was needed was some fun-bonding to put things straight, a little surfing and a barbeque or two in quiet little Moruya?

  The Tasman Sea, east of Moruya, New South Wales.

  2100hrs Friday 26th October

  The captain of the Improved Kilo class diesel electric submarine Zheng He spared a quick glance around the control room to check all was in order before taking his seat. He groaned when he sat down, he was deathly tired and indicated to his steward that he required yet another coffee.

  Captain Aiguo Li had been in command of the Zheng He for less than a day, replacing the former commanding officer who had suffered a major stroke and cardiac arrest at sea. Prior to that, he had been in Cuba, in another ocean entirely.

  Following the failed attack upon the European Space Agency launch facility in French Guiana, Li had faced the fact that without logistical support his Juliett class diesel ‘Dai’ was not going to make it home on her remaining fuel. He had managed to stay one step ahead of the French Atlantique and the anti-submarine corvette, but things had become more complicated with the arrival of a British vessel, HMS Westminster, to make the hunt more interesting for the hunters. His orders were to ‘scuttle and evade’, but he had instead limped into Havana harbor in Cuba where they had been received as heroes.

  Anti-American and anti-all-things-Western feelings were running high. Food shortages, particularly fish, were having a bad effect on the civilian populations in the region. America had set of nuclear depth charges that had saved the convoys but had a dreadful effect on fish stocks, the weather and the harvests.

  The surprise arrival of the Chinese submarine, so far from home, had become a propaganda coup for the Cuban government. A French ASW corvette, the Commandant Blaison and the British ASW frigate HMS Westminster sat off the coast, demanding the surrender of the vessel and its crew. If the newspapers were to be believed, the entire US Navy was sat just over the horizon. Somehow the media in those parts had chosen to forget the two nations and two fleets that the PRC had used its nuclear weapons on without hesitation.

  Captain Li was feted as the David who had taken on the American Goliath, and when the Ambassador to Cuba from the People’s Republic of China showed Li into his office in the Embassy he did not leave a revolver and a single round upon the table and discretely withdraw. No mention was made of the mission’s failure to prevent further launches; instead it had somehow become a highly successful and daring commando raid to sink the ‘armed merchant freighter’ Fliterland at her moorings, thereby preventing her cargo from being used against the peoples of China.

  Li was tempted to explain to the Ambassador that the vessel had been unarmed, empty, and as good as abandoned but for a security guard in a gatehouse, but that would have been pointless.

  His family back home was safe, and he was still drawing breath, which was always a plus.

  Aiguo Li was now promoted to Da Xiao, Senior Captain, and put on a special flight home. His crew remained with the Dai, and the sunshine, and the extremely friendly Cuban girls. The Exec was now the Juliett’s skipper and Li had not the faintest clue as to what was in store for himself when they shook hands and said farewell.

  Li’s orders were for him to return to Beijing but instead his flight had been diverted, delivering him to Mactan in the Philippines, and a fresh set of orders.

  He read his these new orders as he descended the airstair of his comfortable Air China Boeing 747, with its moo
rishly luxurious1st Class seating, and he was rereading them as he continued across the tarmac and into a very functional Antonov that fetched and carried for the Mao.

  The journey had been a nightmare with violent storms along the way before he had his first, and hopefully last, carrier landing.

  Only torrential rain had been there to greet the ‘Hero of Kourou’ as he crossed the flight deck and into a Z-8KH helicopter for a rendevous with his current command. The winching down onto its deck with a sea running was also an experience he had no great enthusiasm for repeating.

  There had been considerable changes in his county’s, and fleets, fortunes. For the time being the PRC was no longer the possessor of a nuclear arsenal, and furthermore she stood alone now against the West.

  “So we had better win this one then.” He thought in reflection, considering China’s current circumstances.

  He was once more conducting an inshore covert operation but this time with none of the training and preparation that had preceded the previous mission.

  He had special forces aboard once more, and a submersible riding piggy back. All he needed now was for Captain Jie Huaiqing to arrive at his side equipped with some of the most random and bizarre details imaginable to make the experience complete.

  Alas the mercurial Jie Huaiqing had not made it back. Dead, captured or evading, he had no idea what had become of Jie or any of the special forces who had swum ashore off Devil’s Island.

  Aiguo Li had been picked because he was the Chinese navy’s most experienced captain in the business of inshore raiding and covert ops, but as Li was aware of no other living captains in that line of work it had kind of put that written compliment into perspective. Li’s job now was to carry out the plans that were supposed to guarantee a swift landing by the invasion fleet, and a back door to the Australian capital, Canberra.

  New South Wales offered some fairly impressive natural barriers to an invader trying to reach Canberra. Dense forests, rivers and mountains that barred the way to the capital, and the few routes through the mountains were all defended by the small Australian army, navy and air force, with assistance from other countries.

  The good news was that those defences were on the coastal plain waiting for the Chinese to roll up along the few roads that were available in an attempt to use the even scarcer passes through the mountains.

  The enemy was of course aware that the invaders were a long way from home and had relatively few helicopters, at least until such time as suitable airfields could be captured.

  The Chinese 3rd Army’s 1st Corps would land before dawn at several beaches, not just the one. It was logical to assume an invader needed a central beachhead and it was also logical that the beachhead would be where the defenders were barring the way to a Pass.

  Someone on the Chinese planning staff would beg to differ with that assumption.

  “Conn, Sonar…new contact bearing zero eight seven degrees, range ten thousand meters, speed twelve knots. Classify as civilian coastal traffic, Captain.” She was an old and noisy coastal freighter trying to go about her business under the cover of darkness. Their previous contact had been doing likewise, and that had been a small tanker.

  At some point in this war, thought Li ruefully, I may actually get to do what submariners are supposed to do, sink stuff.

  To his mind the empty and docked Fliterland did not count.

  Another half hour brought to the control room the state employed cut throat who commanded the special forces unit. He lacked the charm, wit and quiet wisdom of Jie Huaiqing; in fact he seemed devoid of humour completely. Li shook his hand and wished him luck. There would be no pick-up by this vessel, no need indeed for any further participation. The men would link up with the army once the landing had succeeded.

  The submersible would tow his men inshore at the northern end of the target beach, dropping them off as the teams targets drew close.

  The shoreline here was defended, but not to the same extent to which Port Kembla and Batemans Bay was. Kembla had the port facilities required as a base for future operations, as well as access to one of the few passes through the mountains to the west. Batemans Bay was linked to Canberra via the Kings Highway, Route 52, and it was just half the distance in comparison to taking the steeply winding road that zig-zagged up the escarpment of Mt Kembla to the Macquarie Pass.

  Zheng He put about and moved quietly away, back out into the deep waters that offered greater safety than the inshore shallows.

  Behind them, two pairs of swimmers who had already detached from the submersible and would next abandon their rebreathers in six feet of water. They crept ashore at Moruya

  Moruya 1

  North Beach, crawling slowly up out of the surf using the noisy runoff from a drainage culvert as cover.

  Soldiers of the 1st/19th Battalion of the Royal New South Wales Regiment were dug in inside the trees bordering the sandy beach. The citizen soldiers were well trained and alert, but unaware that the weakness in their defence had been spotted on a digital movie taken by a Chinese family on holiday two years before.

  Behind these defenders lay a small airports runway and behind that lay more alert Australians with guns, but the special forces troopers bypassed them all, crawling 439m through the culvert, beneath the runway to the saltwater stream that fed it. From there the troopers split up, heading for command posts.

  At the mouth of the Moruya River the next four kicked away from the submersible and swam for the cliffs at Moruya Head. The night climb was not the most difficult any of them had previously undertaken, and they too sought out the company CP for the defenders of Shelly Beach.

  The submersible would enter the river and secure two bridges, killing the waiting Australian sappers before they could blow them, and directing precision shellfire onto a gun battery nearby.

  C Troop, D Squadron, 1st (AU) Armoured Regiment attached to B Company, 1st/19th Battalion, Royal New South Wales Regiment: Moruya North Beach, NSW.

  0412hrs Saturday 27th October.

  The shelling of the beach, and the Burrawang Forest behind it, came as something of an unpleasant surprise for the citizen/reservists and regulars alike for two reasons. Firstly, this was a heavily forested area that stretch twenty six miles inland. Only an idiot or a Chinaman who’d been sat in the sun too long would chose this spot to invade Australia, which at least had been the opinion of the soldiers up until an hour before. Secondly of course, they had been expecting to be relieved by a Pom infantry brigade.

  ‘Tango Four Three Charlie’, a German built Leopard 1 that was older than even the old man of the crew, Trooper ‘Bingo’ McCoy, the twenty eight year old driver, rocked on its tracks as a shell exploded in the trees nearby. The vicious splinters were little threat to the tank, but a deadly danger to the infantry who shared this ordeal by fire.

  The Australians had decided on replacing the old main battle tanks with American M1A1 Abrams, but the war had occurred before that process had begun.

  “This is just a diversion.” opined the tanks gunner, Che Tan, and not for the first time. “The real effort will be up the coast. I’m tellin’ yer, that’s how they’ll play it.”

  They were in a hull down position well to the rear of their fighting positions, beyond the boundary of Moruya Jockey Club, the race track north of the river of the same name. Che was Australian born and bred; his parents though had arrived as refugees from Vietnam. There was nothing inscrutably oriental about Trooper Tan; he said it as he saw it.

  “They’ll get bored and bugger off in a minute.”

  A near miss shook the vehicle, red hot steel splinters striking its armour.

  The rest of the crew in the turret stared accusingly at the gunner for tempting fate.

  “A minute?” asked the driver. “I’ve got five dollars if someone’s got a stopwatch and better odds.”

  They were suited and masked for NBC, three quarters of a mile from the beach, back from their forward fighting positions amongst two platoons worth of the
Royal New South Wales Regiment, along with a pair of ASLAV armoured recce vehicles of the 2nd/14th Light Horse. The racetrack, a coastal road, a copse and an airfield runway lay between their current position and where they would fight.

  Either side of C Troop’s current location, were the company headquarters of the infantry, occupying a dug-in CP, mortar pits and trenches. The infantrymen had no armoured fighting vehicles; just canvas topped Mercedes Unimogs in a harbour area further to the rear. The clerks and storemen huddled in the shelter bays praying that no direct hit would end them instantly, and no near-miss would collapse the trench upon them and end them slowly.

  “Seriously though,” Che said. “What are we doing here? It’s not tank country; there are rivers and billabongs all over the shop, and enough trees per acre to make a billion matchsticks.”

  “Colour, dash and daring, boy,” Chuck Waldek, the loader said. “Colour, dash and daring, ‘cod without us this would just be another mindless shitfight between their moron grunts and our cut-lunch-commandos” as he referred to volunteer reservists.

  The tanks crews had made good use of the aforementioned trees, cutting branches and foliage to strap to the turret and flanks with D10 telephone cable. By doing so they spared their cam nets and also took their cover with them whenever they moved.

  The barrage lifted, shifting to possible reinforcement routes, sealing off the Australians from help.

  “Hello all Tango callsigns, this is Tango Four Nine, ‘Wicked Lady’, over.”

  A and B Troops responded, and then it was their turn.

  “Tango Four Three Alpha, ‘Wicked Lady’, over!”

  “Tango Four Three Bravo, ‘Wicked Lady’, over!”

  “Tango Four Three Charlie, ‘Wicked Lady’ over!” Gary Burley, the tanks commander replied.

  “Tango Four Nine, ‘Wicked Lady’, out.”