by Andy Farman
The fine product from Accuracy International was a thoroughbred, but its current task was akin to hitching a Derby winner to a plough. The barrel of the L96 was the hottest it had ever been, hot enough to raise blisters if touched, although it was not glowing red, as the barrel of the GPMG to the snipers immediate left was doing. He had already tossed his water to the gun group to cool the barrel, and so had Sgt Stephanski. The GPMG was misfiring, the rounds being set off by the heat before being fully seated in the breech. Big Stef was down and now lying motionless on Bill’s right but the sniper was unable to aid his friend.
From habit, Bill carried two full magazines of 7.62mm ammunition for the weapon, and a box of twenty, for a rainy day. Today was that day.
The Ghillie suited snipers had hitched a ride with 1 Platoon, and were now on the company’s right flank.
He aimed, fired, worked the bolt to eject the empty case and slid a single round into the chamber, closed the bolt, fired and repeated the movement. There was no time to recharge the ten round magazines and on firing the fortieth round he removed the rifles bolt and flung it as far away as he was able before rising to one knee. Bill drew one of his back-ups, a 9mm Glock 17, and began double tapping. Two magazine changes went smoothly before he dropped the Glock and drew his second, and last, back-up, a Model 36 Smith & Wesson revolver that was older than he was. Bill continued firing aimed shots at the endless mass of bayonet wielding Chinese infantry, but the revolver had but five chambers. A careful and thoughtful marksman, he had never failed to count his rounds and accordingly he had never suffered the embarrassment of having a hammer fall on an empty chamber. This morning however, he very deliberately allowed that to happen. The dead-man’s-click seemed somehow appropriate under the circumstances.
A second ordnance run was initially intended to deliver the CBUs to the still plentiful targets between the hill and the line of burning jellied kerosene, but the aviators switched to guns instead, strafing the Chinese infantry who had now reached the company of guardsmen, walking the rounds in as close as they dared, so close that empty 20mm cannon cases fell among attackers and defenders alike.
The third ordnance run was carried out by just two of Smackdown flight. They had all taken hits from ground fire but Zero Three waved off with an engine shut-down, turning back towards Albatross trailing smoke. CBUs had been dropped north of the fire line on the third run and now the 250lb retard bombs were delivered to the wooded hillside. There were still plenty of enemy down there, the enemy having swept over the right flank platoon in a killing frenzy of rising and falling bayonets, the morning sun reflecting off the steel. The F-14s last strafing run had broken the back of the attack on the remainder of 1 Company. Three of its IFVs were now burning but the rest of the battalion had come up, and the shell fire from warships off the coast was being added to that of the artillery and mortars.
The Tomcats, now with empty weapons stations, had remained until they had expended all of their cannon ammunition, and turned back to HMAAS Albatross.
Nikki’s taxiing exceeded the speed restrictions posted on the airbase and she did not shut down, opening the canopy and remaining strapped in as a hot rearm and refuelling took place. The infantry attack was losing steam and the last of the enemy aviators was floating down under canvas, but apparently the Chinese tanks were coming out to play. The battle still had a ways to go.
Reloading the Vulcan 20mm rotary cannon was the last task completed, and the ground marshal at first waved her forward, but abruptly ordered a halt on receipt of some message on his headset. With engines back at idle and the brakes set, the ground crew placed the ladder beside her aircraft and the crew of Zero Three, accompanied by the flight surgeon appeared.
Nikki was kind of testy as she watched ‘her’ Cat taxi away without her. Whatever was going on here had better have a damn good explanation. She rounded on the Flight Surgeon.
“Sir?”
“Not everyone in that aircraft is qualified to be there, Commander.”
“What?” she turned to look suspiciously at Johnson.
The flight surgeon smiled, which was something he had not managed to do for a while.
“Congratulations, your last toxicology test shows you to be one sober, pregnant, aviator.”
The fighting ended at last on the battlefield south of Pudding Mountain, but beyond it a tank battle raged. The Australian 1st and 2nd Armoured Regiments, 1 Royal Tank Regiment and the Kings Royal Hussars were outnumbered on the ground but not outmatched. To the chagrin of the Aussies equipped with recently delivered M1A1s, the aging Aussie Leopard 1’s rifled 105mm gun outranged them, and what was even worse the bloody pommy Challenger and Chieftain 120mm rifled guns were the kings of the battlefield.
With the A-10s now refueled and rearmed at Jervis after providing CAS over the infantry fight, they began fulfilling their original purpose by killing tanks too.
The Pearce Wing pounded Pudding Mountain’s wooded slopes, and other likely places a few thousand of the enemy could be waiting in ambush. Dropping high explosive and incendiaries until the woods burned.
As the killing of machines by machines grew more distant, the infantry gazed in shocked awe at that which had occurred closer to home, and far less impersonal. Not all the enemy infantry had perished, several thousand were surrendering and many more were wounded, but ten thousand lay dead.
Baz Cotter was one of those numbed by the noise of bugles, the masses of bayonets, and the hatred behind them. The slope before them was thick with the enemy dead and the crest held three and sometimes four deep.
His bergen sat behind the shallow shell scrape he had managed to dig with an entrenching tool now bloodied at its edges, and hair adhered to that. The bergen was open, its content spilling out from where spare ammunition, grenades and a special forces version of the Claymore had been retrieved hurriedly. The SF mine had been smaller and lighter than standard, and acquired by illegal means, the rare item being won in a card game weeks before. As for the unpoliced bergan, well that would have earned him a few dozen push-ups at the top of Church Hill, the steep road with false summits that leads to the Sennybridge training area at Brecon, Powys.
Dopey came over and sat down heavily next to him, handing ID tags over.
The 2 i/c of his section, L/Cpl Roger Goldsmith, and the ‘old man’ of the platoon, Pte ‘Juanita’ Thomas, Spider Webbers replacement, and the only non ex C (Royal Berks) member of the section. Baz remembered running across a bridge in Germany with Pte Thomas, but it seemed a hundred years ago now.
“I never asked,” Dopey said to Baz “but why was his nickname ‘Juanita’?”
“He only had one tooth, one eater.” Baz replied. “He kept his false teeth in his pocket for safe keeping when we were out on the beer. Scared away all the crumpet too…silly old bastard.” He added both sadly and affectionately.
They sat for a while in silence before Dopey voiced an opinion.
“Thank fuck for Claymores.”
“And A-10’s.”
“And the matelots on HMS Whateveritscalled, which was bunging over shells like there was no tomorrow.”
“This incline, too.”
“And training, don’t forget the training.”
Major Llewellyn and Oz took it in turns to play medic, tending to each other’s wounds. The ex-coal miner had a deep wound in the fleshy part of the thigh that neither man had a dressing big enough for so the OC took Captain Regitt’s as he had no further use for it.
They had lost 1 Platoon and half of 2 and 3. Guardsman Stevenson, the company clerk, and Sgt Chamberlain were the only survivors of company headquarters, along with OZ and the OC.
Lt Col Innes-Wyse was joined by Pat Reed, the CO looking rather ashen at having lost the best part of half of the battalion. Pat knew how that felt and after a few minutes helping him dust himself off, figuratively speaking, he went over to where what remained of the men he had commanded in Germany, were doing the same.
On arrival there he found OZ pr
opping himself up by leaning against one of the Warriors, geeing on the crew to find more ammunition for the 30mm. All the IFVs had expended their entire stock of HE before also going through APSE, armour piercing special effects, the special effects being white phosphorous.
“Company Sarn’t Major Osgood?”
“Yes sir?”
“You are making the place look untidy, so be a good Coldstreamer and lie to attention on a stretcher somewhere until a proper medic deals with those wounds.”
It was saddening for Pat to see how few remained now, but he spoke to those familiar faces that could still answer and went to see for himself those who no longer could. Bill and Big Stef, their faces camouflaged more thoroughly than the riflemens, looked as though they were merely sleeping. He said a silent prayer for them all and moved on to the job he was paid for, running the brigade.
The Irish and Welsh Guards were also reorganising, but the 1st Guards Mechanised Brigade was no longer going to be spearheading the division, the Scots Guards and both battalions of the Grenadier Guards were passing through them to resume the advance to contact with whatever else the PLA’s 3rd Army’s 1st Corps had in store.
The ANZACs had also taken losses, although no one yet realised their commander was among the New Zealanders dead.
The ANZACs would not permit the British 8 Infantry Brigade to liberate the last occupied piece of Australia, not while they could still muster a single rifle section.
From the ANZAC ranks, four New Zealand and three Australian infantry companies had been overrun; the remainder sent the wounded to the rear, recharged their magazines, replaced the smoke and fragmentation grenades and wiped the gore off their bayonets before stepping off again, shaking out into spearhead formation once more.
“Target IFV.”
Che Tran peered through the sight, using the IR facility despite bright sunshine.
“Another cold one.” The Chinese fighting vehicle was yet another vehicle out of gas and abandoned in the streets of Port Kembla. The crews of these fighting vehicles had doubtless joined the ranks of the infantry for the last suicidal attack on the allies. Thousands had died in order for the PRC’s leadership to save face, to show the rest of the world it was still to be feared and respected. The prisoners the allies were now taking tended to be rear echelon types, but the Australian tanks and infantry moved tactically despite the evidence before their eyes.
SASR were carrying out a heliborne assault of 3rd Army’s 1st Corps HQ, fast roping onto the roof of the Woolongong City Council building, but they found only pen pushers and bean counters, all of whom were happy to surrender.
The Chinese armour that had attacked was now burning to the south of them and naval gunfire had malleted the last of the enemy artillery.
“Boss…skinny sailors at twelve o’clock!”
C Troop had arrived at a vast barbed wire enclosure where both Reg Hollis and Admiral Putchev came out to meet them, making the liberation of the town complete.
Australian National Flags began to appear on the roofs of buildings in Woolongong and Kembla, and hung from windows as it became clear that New South Wales was back in the hands of Australians.
Several hours later, as the operations officers for all the units in Australia began working on plans for the liberation of Singapore, Taiwan, Japan and the remainder of the Philippines, the Politburo finally bowed to the inevitable, replacing Premier Chan and calling for a ceasefire.
President Kirkland ended the call and looked up at the clock on the wall of the conference room and wondered if this was in fact the first time a war really had been ‘All over by Christmas.’ The time was 2359hrs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jamaica: Tuesday, 18th January.
Private yachts were not an unusual sight in the bay and the latest arrival was not even close to being as ostentatious as some of the vessels. They also had beautiful bikinied young things sunning themselves on their decks, but aboard the Krasivaya Dama the beautiful girl strolling about the decks wearing only mirrored aviator’s sunglasses and a captain’s uniform cap was the owner and not the owners ‘niece’. She stayed beneath the sun awnings generally, but when she sunbathed she was nude and did so at specific times, retreating back to the shade at the gentle chimes of a small travelling alarm clock.
She dined alone in the best restaurants, lovely, although aloof from the other diners.
A one night stand with a local boy who possessed a packed pair of speedos and an enviable physique, and again a week later with a nubile blonde French scuba diving instructress, were the acts of someone scratching an itch, not one who was reaching out for companionship. Despite these instances of waterbed gymnastics she remained rather lonely and one evening she accepted an invitation to a rather wild gathering at a shore side villa. She partied hard and fell asleep both sated and naked on a sun lounger beside its pool.
She was awoken next morning by a maid who was worried that the sun, already well above the horizon, would inflict a bad sun burn on the girls back, but 99 miles above their heads Kondor-138 had already passed by twice in an orbit that also included the Spratly Islands. Its recognition software was working as advertised.
Still in London, in the low rent bedsit, the specialist received a text message and immediately departed, returning the key to the landlady and took a cab ride to Bond Street. A gold credit card bought a first class seat on a flight to Kingston, Jamaica, new luggage and a new wardrobe.
USS John C Stennis: The Tasman Sea, 50 miles south east of Sydney, Australia. Wednesday, 19th January, 2359hrs.
Pennant number CVN-74, the USS John C Stennis, still marked with the scars of war was a fitting gathering place for the memorial service, held three months exactly from the moment the city had been destroyed. The President of the United States and the Australian Prime Minister cast wreaths upon the waters. The tide would carry the items the remaining way to shore, to the ruins of the city and the final resting place of so many.
General Henry Shaw attended, standing as close to the spot where his eldest children had last lived and breathed, as close as the experts would allow.
Once the midnight memorial service had ended the President was preparing to depart with Prime Minister Perry Letteridge, when he saw the lonely figure still stood at the edge of the flight deck staring into the night, towards the horizon.
The President and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had not spoken in three months, not since the night Sydney had died, with Matthew and Natalie Shaw aboard their ships in the harbour. Henry had made no move to alter that situation even now, and as rumour had it that he was about to resign from the service, Theodore Kirkland crossed the flight deck.
“Henry?”
General Shaw turned and the President could not but help notice the change in his top soldier in just three months.
“Mister President, sir?”
“I was sorry to hear of Jacqueline’s passing.”
He meant it genuinely, but it was as if there was now a wall between the President and his once closest advisor.
“We received the flowers, thank you sir.”
He caught the whiff of the peppermints Henry used constantly to cover the smell of bourbon, and the eyes confirmed it, and those eyes also held no spark of the amity they had once held.
“Is it true that you are leaving the service, General?”
Instead of answering, Henry asked a question of his own.
“Is it true that you are planning to bankrupt the UK and the other European countries that kicked the politicians out?”
The general may have been absent from the President’s side but he was well informed nonetheless.
“That is not technically correct, no.” But he knew that Henry saw it for the lie it was.
“And you are backing the Vietnamese in their claim on the Spratly Islands, instead of the Philippines, Mister President?”
He was indeed very well informed indeed, the President concluded.
One of the terms of the ceasef
ire was the withdrawal from the islands and relinquishment of any future claims upon it by the People’s Republic of China. Vietnam had occupied them upon the departure of the Chinese troops.
Various US oil companies had already brokered a deal with the Vietnamese.
“That is not yet something we have released to the public, but yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they have them, and possession is nine tenths of the law.”
“They didn’t fight Mister President, they waited until others had weakened China and then they sneaked in the back door. The Filipinos didn’t stop fighting, not even after they had been occupied.”
“It’s politics.”
“It’s disloyal, it is cowardly, it is dishonourable and as such it is unbefitting of the office…sir!”
The President looked at Henry, feeling his temper rise.
“I believe we had a similar discussion once, and as you couldn’t even grasp the realities back when you were sober, I see no point in continuing this any further.”
Mike and another agent had been stood a discrete distance from their principle, but they had taken two steps closer as the voices were raised.
“I wish you well with your retirement General.”
The President turned on his heel, and snapped an order at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs without deigning to look at him.
“Be sure that you make it happen, and soon!”
Theodore departed, boarding Marine One without another word or glance.
As the sound of the helicopters rotors faded Henry was still looking toward the horizon. He put a hand inside his uniform jacket and withdrew a slim hip flask, but his fingers had snagged another object along with it, a faded beer mat. Henry could not read the faint writing in the darkness but on replacing it inside his jacket he tossed the hipflask into the sea.