The Fall of Night

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Bank, bank,” he snapped, as the Europeans returned fire. They had to have been on a hair-trigger; they might even have fired first by microseconds. Their missiles were faster, too; a Backfire disintegrated in the air, then a second one was damaged and fell towards the sea, the pilots ejecting just in time before their aircraft smashed into the waves. “take us out of here!”

  Two more Backfires fell, but Sulkin was safe; his aircraft had been missed. The Backfires dropped flares and other countermeasures – the trade of ships for aircraft worked in their favour, but he would have preferred to have kept the aircraft himself – and evaded more return fire. They had succeeded in their mission; all they had to do was escape. That would be easy.

  The Europeans would have a far harder task.

  ***

  “My God,” the sensor officer snapped. “Sir, there’s over a hundred missiles coming towards the fleet.”

  “Clear to engage,” Ward snapped. “Get your head out of your arse and kill those missiles! Priority target; leave the aircraft to the air defence frigates!”

  The Churchill rocked as it fired counter-missiles into the air. Its CIWS opened fire as well, killing two missiles; he allowed himself a moment to hope that the fleet could beat off the attack with little loss. The air defence ships had been targeted first, he saw; a French frigate and an Italian destroyer were struck and blown out of the water before they could reprioritise their weapons. They had attempted to wipe out the attacking aircraft and paid the price. Two more ships were struck, even as a warhead exploded far too close to the Churchill for comfort; he realised that they hadn’t been the target. The Churchill was small beer compared to the bigger ships.

  The bridge fell silent as the fleet fought for life. The Principe de Asturias was the first to be hit, but the Charles de Gaulle and the Cavour rapidly followed her as the missiles hacked into the side of the ships and exploded. Smaller ships died, but the carriers burnt; they died slowly, in terrible pain. Ward could only watch as the merciless bombardment continued; the Standing Force, proud masters of the sea only half an hour again, was being torn apart.

  “The Admiral has been confirmed dead,” the communications officer said. The bombardment was ending, but only three ships remained undamaged…and seven more remained floating, but damaged. The remains of the Charles de Gaulle were still floating, but the carrier was a burning wreck; it wouldn’t be long before it sank. He wondered briefly what that would do to the environment, before realising that it hardly mattered; there were worse issues at hand.

  “Captain, we have more aircraft coming over the sea from Algeria,” the sensor officer said. His voice was rising with alarm. “I think they’re going to try to finish the job.”

  Ward made his decision. If they were at war with Russia, they would be hunted down if they remained in the Mediterranean; they would almost certainly be caught before they could make it to the Suez Canal and the American positions there…and if the Americans weren't in the war, they might intern the ships rather than let them go back to Britain. Escape through Gibraltar would be risky, but he could think of no better idea; if nothing else, they should be able to make contact with higher authority at the rock.

  “Weapons, engage anything that comes near us and looks like a threat,” he ordered. The ROE hadn’t been written with a full-scale sea battle with Algeria in mind. “Communications, inform the other ships that we are returning to the rock and ask them to come with us; if not, wish them the best.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the communications officer said. There was a long pause. “They’re scattering, Captain.”

  Idiots, Ward thought. But he understood; how could a Frenchman, or an Italian, leave the sea when they could make it back to their bases? “Helm, take us to Gibraltar, best possible speed,” he ordered. “Communications; I want strict communications silence, understand? From now on, we’re hunted animals.”

  To all intents and purposes, EUROFOR naval forces in the Mediterranean had ceased to exist.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Fall of Warsaw

  It is part of the traditional law of war that, in case of a siege, a city may have its food cut off and civilians attempting to escape may be fired upon, even killed, to drive them back to eat up the food. This is cruel to be sure, an "extreme measure" as the U.S. Army's manual on the subject admits.

  Tom Kratman

  Warsaw, Poland

  Shalenko watched dispassionately as the forces slowly invested the Polish city. Warsaw had once seen two brutal uprisings against the Germans, and the Polish forces had been trickling into Warsaw ever since the first blows had been struck in the war. It actually worked in his favour; the Poles would have thousands of their soldiers trapped neatly in a pocket, which he had surrounded before preparing to reduce it.

  Modern war hadn’t changed city-fighting much. The Americans had taken Baghdad easily; they had just been able to walk in with only a handful of causalities. Holding the city had been a different matter. The fight for Qom, in Iran, had rivalled Stalingrad; after the first nuke had detonated, neither side had been interested in showing quarter. Even today, Qom was still partly ruins.

  “Ensure that our broadcast continues to go out,” he ordered. The sound of fighting was getting louder; the last thing he wanted was more civilian deaths than he needed. “Inform Nikita that he can begin the offensive as soon as he is ready.”

  “Yes, sir,” Anna said.

  ***

  “Citizens of Poland, this is an emergency announcement,” the voice said, over the radio. “There is a military emergency in progress. Remain in your homes. Do not attempt to interfere. Do not use the telephones, radio transmitters or the Internet. If you require medical assistance, stay calm; help will come to you. Do not disobey this warning. Listen only on this channel for further instructions. There is a military emergency in progress.”

  Zyta Konstancja hit the button hard enough to almost break her finger. The radio had been one of a set intended for transport to some third world hellhole or another; her sister had worked for Polish International Aid before the local government had evicted all western aid workers. Her sister had been upset, even before Zyta herself had gone to work for her own living; she had always wanted to aid people who had needed help. Melania Kazimiera hadn’t been put off by what had happened to some aid workers, but Zyta herself had been privately relieved when the workers had been sent home.

  Melania herself was older than Zyta, mother of two children, both born after she had returned. Zyta had, on impulse, gone to stay the night with her sister…and then the ‘military emergency’ had begun. The Polish television stations had gone off the air, along with most of the power lines to the city, but rumours spread fast; the Russians had invaded Poland. The news had spread quickly; Melania’s husband had gone off to join off with the rest of his army unit, wherever it was. Everyone, Zyta included, had been terrified when Russian aircraft had bombed the city; their precision weapons had taken out most of the government buildings. They hadn’t heard anything from her brother-in-law yet.

  Melania’s voice was very tired…and terrified. If it hadn’t been for her children, Zyta suspected her sister would be a nervous wreck, but she was trying to put on a brave front. There had been some riots in the streets – no one seemed to know whose voice it was on the radio – and the police had tried to contain them, but most people were trying to stay at home.

  “Zyta,” Melania asked, “when is this going to end?”

  Zyta glanced down at the television. It was supposed to be permanently linked into the global information systems; the modern media depended upon them to function. The builders were more than just a television company, no matter what its detractors said; it relied completely on the Internet and the developments in compressing and transmitting streams of data right across the world. Critics might have sneered that left or right-wingers could have their information adjusted to their personal bias, but anyone who subscribed could access a massive store of information. The global n
etwork was overloaded; the help service had been unable to regain anything beyond the single bland radio transmission.

  “I don’t know,” she said. The rumour mill had reported that the Russians had invaded and sacked Tallinn, in Estonia, only to report moments later that it had been a peaceful entry into the city. She didn’t think that it was possible for word of anything from that far away to spread so quickly; it might have been a mistake or a lie or…

  A distant rumble of gunfire echoed across the city. There had been noises in the distance all though the night, some of them carried by the wind, from explosions to heavier weapons. The power failure meant that most of the city’s support services had failed; after the first riots, most people remained indoors, out of sight. Zyta knew that that wouldn’t last either; she’d followed the advice of her sister and checked their food supplies. They had, if they were lucky, enough for a week; once that time had passed, they would have to venture out into the streets to find food.

  And hope that we can pay for it with money, she thought. Most citizens of Poland used credit or debit cards for larger sums of money, except the banking computers would have gone down along with the power supplies. She had a debit card, one that would be useable right across the world, but if there was no power, she might not be able to use it. If not…the thought of trading her body for food was disgusting, but she had her two nieces to support; if she had to do that, she wondered if she would. I think that…

  A scream echoed across the sky, followed by a series of explosions. They sounded far too close for comfort; the Russians seemed intent on scaring them to death. Someone was moving outside, running down the deserted streets; she’d heard some of the men in the apartment block talking about taking weapons and going to join the defenders. Few of them had placed any faith in NATO – or at least the Germans – and they had wanted to aid the defenders. She could only hope that they were only trying to appear tough; they might have been assholes who had kept eyeing her, but they didn’t deserve to die. More explosions followed, nasty sounds; Melania whimpered as the sun rose.

  “I’m going to the top,” Zyta said, suddenly. Her friends had advised them to find a bomb shelter if they could, or to remain inside, but there hadn’t been any shelters or basements anywhere nearby. She had been told to stay off the roof – it wasn’t safe at all – but she couldn’t stay in the apartment any longer. “Stay here.”

  She left the room before Melania could stop her, stepping into the apartment corridor and heading for the stairs. The elevator had been out ever since the power had failed; she could only hope that no one had been caught inside when it died. There were no lights, not even emergency lights; the only illumination came from the windows. One of them was broken, leaving glass scattered all over the floor; a faint smell of urine rose up from one corner. Wrinkling her nose, she walked quietly up the stairs; there could be any number of human animals around. She hadn’t seen a police officer in hours…and she hadn’t felt in so much danger since a nasty incident when she had been younger. The sense of threat was almost overwhelming; she almost stopped before pushing her way forwards up the final flight of stairs and bumping into the final door. It was locked.

  She almost broke down into giggles, then saw the opened padlock and removed it, before opening the door properly and stepping out into the open. The smell of smoke hit her first, almost before she saw anything; the smell was drifting right across the city. Smoke…and something else, something she was almost reluctant to place a name to; she sensed the body almost before she saw it. The landlady had kept a small garden on the roof of the apartment…and someone had shot her. Her body lay in the middle of the garden, stone dead. Zyta checked it, closing the eyes automatically, and stood up completely.

  “My God,” she breathed. The sight was overwhelming. Words threatened to fail her as she turned, trying to grasp the entire scene. “What is happening?”

  It was like a war zone – no, she corrected herself, it was a war zone. She couldn’t see any actual soldiers, but she could see smoke rising from the east, with aircraft flying high overhead. The aircraft were large, they seemed to be like jumbo jets, but very different in purpose; they were unloading weapons down onto the ground below. Zyta had very good eyesight; she could see one of the bombs, a massive black speck, falling towards the ground…and expiring in a thunderous explosion.

  Moments later a force of Russian jets thundered by, at very low level. A missile reached up to touch one…and it fell out of the sky, slamming into a building and exploding, the others retreated, launching their weapons down towards the source of the missile. Light flared up within the city; the force of the missile’s impact shattering buildings and killing hundreds underneath. The noise of an alarm echoed across the city, and then it died; she could hear shots from the battle outside.

  She stared, suddenly heedless of her own safety. The shooting seemed to be coming from right outside the city, far too close to her; she saw a force of helicopters diving down and firing at what she hoped was a defence line. Explosions flared up, time and time again; she hoped that it was better than it looked. It looked as if there would be no one left when the Russians had finished; flames were already spreading through some of the newer parts of the city. Sections built after Poland had become independent again were on fire; she wondered if the Russians had targeted them deliberately, just out of spite.

  The building shook. She fell to her knees as a missile detonated, far too close to her for comfort; a massive Russian aircraft had just blasted a building. She’d seen, very briefly, Polish soldiers on the roof; the Russians had flattened the entire block. She forced herself back to her feet, only to see that things had become much worse; Russian helicopters were moving over the city…and a massive cloud of smoke and fire was advancing into the city. The Russians were directly assaulting the city, she realised; the defenders had been forced back into the city, some of them breaking and running. Civilians were running as well; she could see them fleeing the fighting that had suddenly enveloped their lives, hundreds, thousands…perhaps more of them cut down in the streets in a haze of blood and gore. The Russian military machine had come to stay; she saw a helicopter flying low…and firing a spread of rockets into a building. She couldn’t hear as much fighting any longer; the shooting seemed to be dying down as the Russians brought up their heavy weapons and pounded the defenders…

  Silence fell.

  It was as if someone had turned off a switch. She could still hear Russian aircraft in the sky, see Russian helicopters hovering high overhead, but the shooting seemed to have stopped. She felt relieved, wondering if the war had suddenly come to an end, then felt cold. The shooting had stopped because there were no longer Polish soldiers to shoot at. Even Russians wouldn’t shoot bullets around at random; all Poles might maintain their distrust of Russians, but they weren’t stupid. How else had they gotten away with it for so long?

  …And perhaps they wouldn’t want to trigger off a rebellion in their rear. She clung to that hope with all the enthusiasm she could muster; the thought about how bad a Russian occupation could be was terrifying. She’d heard what some of the older people had said, talking about their childhoods when Stalin’s hordes had pushed one bad master out of Poland and replaced the Nazis with the Communists. The Russians had been fellow sufferers under the Nazi yoke, but they had shown no mercy to Poles. Polish women had been raped; Polish men had disappeared in the night or had been pressed into service, fighting for Stalin. She shuddered; there was no reason to expect the Russians to be good masters, not after the way they had acted last time.

  A new sound echoed through the streets. It was dull, a long engine rumble, mixed with metal and clinking notes. She wondered what it was, even as a long burst of gunfire echoed out and faded almost as quickly; had the fighting started again?

  “Tanks,” a voice said from behind her. She jumped and tried to pretend that she hadn’t jumped; she turned to see an older man standing behind her, looking into the distance. She felt a
spurt of fear; he was older, larger and probably stronger than her and Polish society seemed to have broken down completely. If he had evil intentions, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to do, but he seemed intent on watching the scene as it unfolded. “There are tanks coming our way…”

  She saw them, now; massive black machines, moving along in a single line, escorted by green-clad men holding assault rifles. The blocky tanks bristled with weapons, some of them armed with machine guns, others with the more familiar heavy weapons she knew; they advanced carefully, prepared for trouble. She tried to imagine that they were Polish tanks, but she couldn’t cling to the belief; there could be no mistaking the marking on the front of the lead tanks.

  They were Russians.

  “My God,” she said, as the next sight came into view. “What’s going to happen to them?”

  A line of men – and a handful of women - were marching behind the tanks; no, not marching, they were almost slouching. They looked beaten, defeated; they had their hands firmly cuffed behind their backs and were escorted by Russian soldiers. Some of them were injured, blood pouring from their wounds; others just kept their heads down and tried not to be noticed. Some wore Polish uniforms; others wore civilian dress. The civilians seemed to be the most brutally wounded, but there was no mercy; they all had to march. The women looked traumatised; had they been punished in the oldest way? Some of them had had their uniforms ripped and torn; they shuffled along, their eyes lowered. They looked terrible.