The Fall of Night

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Bastards,” he hissed. Two Russian helicopters, anti-armour and ground support units, he suspected, could be seen floating in the distance and coming towards his people. The Russians weren’t acting as if they knew that the EUROFOR troops were there, but it could have been a trick; he forced himself to remain calm, waiting for the first chance to hit the Russians a major blow. The line of Russian tanks seemed endless…and unstoppable. “Bastards!”

  He checked the gunner’s panel quickly. “Choose your targets,” he muttered. Little strands of laser light, connecting each of the tanks to one another, flickered out, designating targets. The Russians would probably detect a laser targeting system, but one wasn’t needed for the Eurotanks, not at this range. The Russians were still coming along, watching for trouble, but unaware of the presence of his tanks. “Stand by…”

  The image of the lead Russian tank grew in front of him. “Fire!”

  The Eurotank was the result of seventy years of armoured warfare experience, much of it British, American or German. It barely shuddered as it fired a main antitank shell towards the enemy tank, catching it completely by surprise. The gunner didn’t hesitate; even before the shell had struck its target, he was swinging the barrel of the main gun around to engage a second target and…

  Six Russian tanks exploded. The high-energy shell had been developed to defeat the latest armour; they punched right through the Russian tanks and exploded. He saw the turret of one of the Russian tanks exploding into the air, wrapped in a wreath of flame, and come crashing to the ground. The gunner fired a second shot, then a third…and then the Russians started to turn their own guns at terrifying speed.

  “Get us out of here,” Markus snapped. The driver didn’t need to be told twice; he hit the engine and the tank leapt backwards, heading as quickly as it could down the hill. The foliage seemed to explode as a hail of Russian fire cut through the woodlands that had hidden the tanks, but only one of Markus’ tanks was hit and destroyed. There were no survivors. “Move it!”

  A Russian tank crested the hill, its guns already searching for a new target; two of Markus’s tanks fired at it and disintegrated it. The passive sensors were blinking up alerts; the Russians were sending in their helicopters to cover their tanks, which would be moving around the hill, trying to outflank the Europeans. The driver kept them moving as fast as they could trying to get out of the firing range, while Russian infantry appeared, holding antitank weapons.

  “I think we made them mad,” the gunner remarked, as he fired at them with the tank’s machine guns. Russians fell under his fire or dived for cover, trying to escape the machine guns, as the Russian helicopters swooped down. The Eurotank’s sensors were working completely now; it fired an automatic missile at the first Russian helicopter, blowing it apart in a sheet of flame. The second helicopter fired a stream of rockets at the tanks and killed two of them, roasting their crews inside the flames. A Russian tank burst out of nowhere, narrowly missing Markus’s tank with a high-explosive shell; they destroyed it with a single shot. A second tank was hit in the treads and skidded to a halt, but he realised that its main gun was still working.

  “You’re telling me,” Markus said, as the tank reached the road. The driver gunned the engine and the tank drove rapidly away from the encounter, the crew knowing that they had only a limited amount of time before the Russians gave chase or called in a close-air support aircraft to finish the surviving two tanks off. “Get us to the next firing point!”

  He found himself very calm, even as the Russians stopped their pursuit; he’d faced his first major encounter with the enemy, and survived. Over half his force had died, but he had survived…and he promised himself that he would exact revenge for what the Russians had done to his crewmen. A shadow fell across the tank and the sensors screamed a warning…just as the Russian attack helicopter blew the Eurotank away.

  The road to Warsaw lay open.

  ***

  “Excellent work,” Shalenko murmured, as he watched from the command vehicles. The remains of 7th Panzer had dug themselves in well, but they had exposed themselves to his fire when they had engaged his lead units, and he had far more tanks than the European forces had. He didn’t understand it; the Europeans could have built thousands more Eurotanks for the sums of money they had spent upon their headquarters, but they had chosen to waste the money instead. He could only be grateful; the Germans had handled themselves well…as had the French, further north. If they had had more tanks, air cover, and advance warning, the attack would have bogged down.

  “General, the advance units are requesting permission to enter the city,” Captain Anna Ossipavo said. “They believe that resistance will be minimal.”

  Shalenko nodded. “Remind them that they are to use the minimum force consummate with the survival of their commands,” he said. He looked towards the burning city; smoke and flames were rising into the air. “The President wants Warsaw fairly intact.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six: A Stillness Upon the Sea

  There seems to be something wrong with our bloody ships today.

  David Beatty, 1st Earl Beatty

  HMS Churchill, Mediterranean Sea

  “Still nothing?”

  “No, sir,” the communications officer said. “There’s nothing from EUROFOR HQ, Marseilles or PJHQ.”

  Captain Adam Ward scowled. HMS Churchill, a Jean Monnet-class surface control destroyer, had been assigned to the Standing Force in the Mediterranean Sea, attempting to block the flow of immigrants to France, Italy and Spain. It seemed more like a public relations job than anything else; the Standing Force was more armed and equipped to fight a major sea battle, rather than blockade a coastline. They could have done it perfectly if they had been allowed to engage every target they saw and generally treat it as a war, but no, the European Union had to be civilised about it. That meant that every ship had to treat the enemy – and the crew referred to the immigrants as the enemy – with respect; Marines had to board their ships and turn them back, sometimes under gunfire.

  He scowled. It wasn’t a public relations job; it was a public relations disaster. When new immigrants were picked up and escorted to the camps in France and Spain, it was a disgraceful failure on the part of the French Admiral Bellemare Vadenboncoeur; when the fleet actually boarded a ship, it was a disgraceful display of French bullying – as if all the ships in the fleet were French. The Churchill had been designed for major-level combat, not for a blockade; it showed in the way the crew reacted to their mission. They would have preferred to have gone with the Falklands Task Force.

  The display flickered as a handful of aircraft appeared, heading out from Algeria. The Islamic Government in Algeria endlessly blamed the Standing Force for all Algeria’s woes, that and the French. The Algerians had driven the French out years ago, well before Ward had even been born, but the new government was fond of issuing threats against the fleet from time to time, just to remind them that they were there. The Algerians were encouraging people to flee their country, or so Intelligence said; it was amazing how many Muslims wanted to flee the Islamic paradise. Algerian Radio told of a day when they would rule all of Europe, but they had been saying that for so long that no one took it seriously.

  He looked back at the communications officer. “Has the Admiral issued any orders?”

  “No, sir,” the communications officer said. Admiral Bellemare Vadenboncoeur was a fairly competent, if uninspired, naval tactician, one of two Admirals who were considered to be Europe-rated. The other was German and in the Baltic Sea. Vadenboncoeur knew what he was doing, but didn’t have the Nelson Touch; he wouldn’t take risks with any of his large ships if he could avoid it. “There seems to be a great deal of confusion, but no real answers.”

  Ward grimaced. The European communications network was supposed to be perfect, but it had failed before; the fleet was used to that. What they were less used to was losing all communication with their base in France, or Spain and Italy. The Churchill had been trying to ra
ise Gibraltar – still British despite the best efforts of Spain and the European Commission, which had been in session for five years arguing – but they had had no luck either.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. “When are they going to get their heads out of their asses and tell us what to do?”

  It wasn’t the navy he had joined, not now; working with Europe was a confusing mass of rules and laws that rarely jibed together well. Twenty-seven heavy combat ships, forty smaller craft…all meshed together and expected to work as a team. To give Vadenboncoeur his due, he had immediately started a program of training and exercises, but their real mission seemed to eat up too much of their time. Ever since the Americans had moved the Sixth Fleet out of the region, the European Union had called itself the master of the seas…and that meant patrolling. From Grecian waters – Turkey wouldn’t even consider letting them into Turkish waters – to Gibraltar, the Standing Force patrolled and hoped that they would never have to face a real emergency.

  “Captain, we may have a problem,” he said. “There are nineteen aircraft, now heading out from Algeria towards us…and they’re bombers.”

  “Warn the flag,” Ward ordered automatically. Admiral Vadenboncoeur probably knew already, but standing orders were that all intelligence was to be shared as soon as it was developed, just in case it wasn't known to the commanding officers. “Do we have any ID?”

  The Algerians sent, from time to time, MIG-29s and other Russian-bought aircraft to harass the Standing Force; they always presented a possible threat. The Arabs were lousy pilots, but there was no questioning their bravery; they would sometimes do something so utterly brave and stupid that no one from the West would anticipate it. The fleet had orders to avoid a confrontation with the Algerians if possible; land-based air cover would provide protection if the fleet needed it. The three carriers had only a minimal air group loaded.

  “Flag acknowledges,” the communications officer said. “We are authorised to go active.”

  “Finally,” Ward said. He grinned across at the sensor officer. “Bring up the sensors and let rip.”

  The Churchill had the most advanced sensor suite in Europe. It was so powerful that it could cause problems for other ships who were too close, or worse. The radars started to sweep the skies, hunting for possible enemy aircraft; it was the loose equivalent of shouting ‘hey stupid’ at someone. The Algerians couldn’t miss it, even if they had their own sensors dialled down to nothing; it would literally shake their aircraft.

  “Captain, there are more aircraft in holding patterns in Algerian airspace,” the sensor officer said. “I think they’re up to something.”

  His voice broke in astonishment. “Jesus Christ!”

  Ward stared as the display suddenly exploded with icons. Missiles, some of them tactical cruise missiles launched from submarines, were being fired…and aimed directly into Europe! There were hundreds of them, some of them being fired from far too close to the fleet, and they were heading right for their targets. At such short range, with so little warning, they would almost certainly be impossible to intercept. The Algerians couldn’t do that, could they? They only had a handful of submarines the Russians had dumped on them and none of them carried cruise missiles.

  “Sound general quarters,” he snapped. The who and why were unimportant at the moment; the only certainty was that they were at war. Someone had just launched a massive pre-emptive strike on Europe…and it didn’t take much imagination to realise who it had to be. The Russians; who else could it be? He forced the thoughts down and turned to his display. “Clear for action; link us into the other ships and get moving!”

  “Captain, the Algerian aircraft are closing,” the sensor officer reported. “I'm picking up limited targeting emissions, Russian-spec; they’re coming to attack us!”

  It was almost unbelievable.

  “The flag is warning them off,” the communications officer said.

  Ward cursed; Admiral Vadenboncoeur wouldn’t have the stones to order the fleet to open fire unless there was a clear threat…as if hundreds of cruise missiles didn’t present a threat. They were spread out and vulnerable – damned politicians – and the best they could do was hold off the attack. His ship was coming to life around him as it prepared to enter its first combat operation, but he knew that it was too late. The enemy would almost certainly get in the first blows.

  ***

  Admiral Daniel Sulkin was having similar thoughts. His aircraft had been sold to Algeria only a year ago; a handful of the latest version of the old Backfire bomber, an aircraft that had worried NATO badly back in the days of the Cold War. The Algerians had been keen to arm themselves to the teeth, fearful of American intervention into their Islamic paradise, and the Russians had been keen to give them whatever they wanted; they’d had plans brewing for Algeria. The Algerians couldn’t fly the aircraft without assistance, but the Russians had trained their own naval strike groups on Backfires…and, when the time came, the Algerians had been more than happy to allow the Russians the honour of flying them.

  His unit had arrived in Algeria two months ago, something that had relieved him when he had seen the condition of the aircraft; it seemed that Arabs still cared nothing for more than basic maintenance. The Russians had sold them thousands of older tanks; half of them were unserviceable after a year, while three of the Backfires had had to be written off and cannibalised to get the others working. The Algerians hadn’t even understood the problem; as far as they were concerned, the aircraft were fine. Sulkin had known better; they would have only one chance to get the major blow in before the Europeans could react.

  “That’s the enemy fleet,” his coordinator said. “The main ships have been targeted now with heavy weapons and missiles; the submarines will move in afterwards.”

  Sulkin nodded. His command mainly consisted of submarines and aircraft; the heavy ships had remained in the Black Sea. The Turks hadn’t commented at how many submarines had passed through their waters; Sulkin hoped that that meant that the Turks were onboard, or at least neutral in Russia’s favour. The Europeans had been quite rude to them, shattering their dreams after the Turks had bent backwards to honour their obligations; they owed no love for Europe. They would never fully trust the Russians either, but the Russians, at least, weren’t hypocrites.

  “Good,” he said. “Prepare to attack.”

  The enemy fleet was lighting up; sensors activating and powerful radars starting to sweep the skies for his aircraft. They would see them, of course; the anti-radar foam that had been coated over the Backfire was far from perfect, even without the other aircraft around and the disturbances they were creating in the air. The only question was simple; would the Europeans fire first? If not, he would have the chance to get into firing position and engage them from ideal range; if they did, he would have to launch at once, even though success was still fairly certain. Sulkin was a perfectionist; he would be satisfied with nothing less than the destruction or scattering of the European Fleet.

  He also knew about the second stage of the grand plan. The Algerians had to be successful…but not too successful. If they were too successful, the Russians would end up engaging their own allies, just to prevent them from compromising the objectives of Operation Stalin. In the long run, Sulkin knew that the Algerians were likely to suffer the same fate as the Chechens, but that would have to wait; for the moment, they were useful.

  “Two minutes to ideal engagement range,” the coordinator said. They were approaching at Mach Two; the European radars had locked on. The odds were that they were within European engagement range as well; his aircraft were far more vulnerable to European missiles than their ships were to his missiles, even if they were newer antiship missiles capable of damaging an American carrier. They had been tested in Iran; the Iranians had actually managed to damage an American carrier with one of them. They were tricky targets to hit. “The enemy is hailing us.”

  Sulkin pulled down a set of headphones. “…is your last warning,”
a voice crackled, in English. It was more or less the official language of the seafarers around the world. “If you do not break off your attack, we will open fire; this is your last warning.”

  “Too late,” Sulkin said. He smiled grimly as the final seconds ticked down. “Fire!”

  The aircraft buckled in the air as it launched its first missile, then its second, then its third, all heading towards their targets. The European ECM wasn’t online; even if it were, it wouldn’t have made much difference. The sensors in the missiles were far more capable than the Europeans could have guessed, particularly if they still thought they were facing Algerians. The Russian-maintained Backfires could have fired all of their weapons at once, but he had thought it best to ripple-fire from the Algerian-maintained aircraft; a single mistake and the aircraft would have exploded in the air. His other aircraft were firing as well; thirty aircraft, each launching four missiles…there were one hundred and twenty missiles heading towards the European fleet.